TheBanyanTrees March Issue

The Colors Of A Woman Celebrating Women's History Month

She is a Friend,

She is your lady love

She is a mother

She is a home maker

She heals the sick

She creates magic in the kitchen

She teaches the children of tomorrow

She governs a country

And yet, She makes sure you sleep well tonight

SHE is a woman

Letter from the Editor

In celebration of Women's’ History month and

Women's’ day, we here at “The BanyanTrees”

have come up with an issue that has put to-

gether stories, poems, columns and artwork

celebrating 'the many faces of women' .

I’m sure somewhere along the line, when you

read through this issue you will come across a

character, one of the faces of a woman who may

have touched you at some point in your lives.

Hope you guys enjoy reading through this issue

as much as we have enjoyed putting it together.

Thanks

Editor

Who is this gorgeous girl?

Sophia Camalin

Full Circle

Ajay Ramachandran

An Ode to Eve Sirpy Jayaprakasam

Candle, Flame, Her

Anuradha Chandrasekaran

Book Review

Nivethitha Kumar

Creative Workshop

Anuradha Chandrasekaran

Dude Where is my coffee?

(25 Cents)

Dreamvendor

Contents

Masks

Nivethitha Kumar

Epithet of Feminism

Swathi B

Behind the harbor of traf-

ficking

Rushda Rafeek

Mother

Raja Jaikrishnan

Draupadi

Manasa

Winter Olympics

Saurabh Ganeriwal

Most memorable Fictitious

Women(books) Public opinion, edited by Dhivya

Meghna,Aditi and Meera of

Indian Cinema Aditya Srikrishna

Rendezvous with the Modern

Woman Dhivya Arasappan

Most memorable Fictitious

Women(movies) Dhivya Arasappan

I look at her, every time she throws a whimsical charm her capricious ash-brown hazel orbs, never fails to make my heart throb and a face that's half naked between her disheveled tousle dark and wavy her locks cascading her kiss curls streaks of auburn in between alluringly extra special naughty-naughty her looks baffling her gazes mischievous her deeds impish her actions she stares like a child that just lost a balloon, with pouted lips, trying to smile magnetic that smile takes me an extra mile raspberry those lips, her talks like wafers crisp soft and shiny her skin makes me go insane squashy caresses her touch she takes my heart in a pouch the attitude she shows my spirit and heaven, it blows who is this gorgeous girl? I wonder and discovered I was standing in front of the mirror

Who is this gorgeous girl?

Sophia Camalin

Candle, Flame, Her - Anuradha Chandrasekaran

She burns eternally, showering mankind with light and warmth

Evening is the whole day

A Book review by Nivethitha Kumar

Evening is the whole day is a novel by Preeta

Samarasan. The author has lived in more than a

few countries and it is reflected in her writing

style. The book takes us through a particular

phase in a powerful Indian family settled in Ma-

laysia. The events happen at a time when the

country is plagued by political anarchy and dis-

crimination against immigrants. The plot focuses

on all the women in the family, from the vicious

grandmother, to the nice turned cynical mother,

the bright eldest daughter and the youngest and

troubled sister.

Preeta introduces the ending in the beginning of

the book and then unravels the plot through the

rest of the pages. While it is interesting, it also

tests the reader's patience at times because for a

major chunk of the book, she takes us through

each character's story, in excruciating detail

which does not have much relevance to the plot.

Preeta's writing is rich and evocable, to the ex-

tent of being verbose at places. She reminds of

you of Arundati Roy at times, especially at the

end.

All in all Evening is the Whole day is a good

read, exposes you to the political scene in Malay-

sia and the troubles a family had to cope with

both internally and outside. Pick up a copy at

your local library!

The Creative Workshop

- Anuradha Chandrasekaran

The topic given was "If you were to become one of

these characters which one would you be and why?

1. Harry Potter

2. Neo from Matrix

3. Avatar

4. Batman

5. Rancho from 3 Idiots

The children were very enthusiastic to write. Of course

most of the write-ups did say that they wanted to be

"Harry Potter". I guess it’s triggered by the innate inter-

est that human beings have in "magic”. Most write-ups

further substantiated their claim by saying that "every

problem in the world can be solved by MAGIC". What

amazed me was the maturity I found in certain essays in

talking about global as well as national issues and figur-

ing out a way to solve them. It almost made me feel that

they did not need a superhero; they had such innova-

tive ideas all hidden in themselves.

On the whole, I’m really glad I got this opportunity

through this magazine to interact with the future super-

heroes of the country :-)

Look out for the prize winning entries from this work-

shop in our next edition!!

The thought sparked into life when we as representatives

of The Banyan Trees wanted to give something back to the

society in terms of literature. The end result was the plan

to find educational institutions and conduct creative work-

shops. To this end, when I was in India I visited "Jawahar

Vidyalaya Sr Sec School" located in Ashok Nagar, Chen-

nai. The school is my alma matter as well as Nivi's. I have

studied for nearly 12 years in this school and it’s almost

been my second home. I was really excited to go back and

be able to motivate and encourage the children to write.

The objective of this assignment, for all of us involved

with the magazine, was mainly to give the children a plat-

form to express themselves and hopefully we have taken a

step towards that.

I'm really happy and thankful to the principal of the

school and the language teachers who were absolutely sup-

portive about this venture. The children were curious, in-

quisitive and excited all at the same time. They had ques-

tions about the vision of the magazine, its purpose, the

kind of audience it caters to and even about its goals for

the future.

I gave them a topic to write about and told them that prizes

would be distributed to the best ones.

Dude where is my coffee?

25 cents

- DreamVendor

It was one of those beautiful summer days in Manhat-

tan. I stepped out of work on a not-so-hectic Friday to

grab lunch and to take a walk down the Fifth avenue.

I began to walk down Madison avenue towards 52nd

street with my ear plugs on and my ipod shuffling

songs accentuating the mood for a perfect walk. One

could easily be distracted by so many things around

when you walk down these avenues in Midtown. I

decided to grab my pizza, people-watch at Fifth ave-

nue and head back to work, which, of course, was lot

better than a siesta for me. Even on a regular working

day, the city painted a picture of a carnival -tourists,

working people, street performers, homeless people,

NYPD, street vendors, food carts, florists, and me. It

was a perfect day.

As I was approaching 52nd street, I saw an old lady in

the distance. She wore red boots, a black dress, and a

very pretty hat. She must have been in her late 60s. I

usually don't look at people in their eyes in a strange

land, but in New York, nobody would really care, be-

cause most of them didn’t have the time to look back

at you in your eyes. I had a feeling that the old lady in

red was looking at me as I was approaching the street.

It was a strange feeling. As I got closer, her smile

widened. It was as if she had been waiting for me.

The feeling got eerie as I approached her. Her

makeup was just perfect, nothing flashy nothing less.

It was just right. Her lips glistened in the summer

sun. Dark red lipstick did the trick. The wrinkles on

her face and hand would just mean one thing - a lady

who carried a lot of stories.

Strangers smile at you in this city but nobody stops

to talk to you. Keeping up with the city’s strange

demeanor, I returned my smile but did not stop. As I

was about to walk past her, I knew she said some-

thing but I couldn’t hear as the music had kept me

oblivious to the city's commotion. I pulled out the

ear plug from my left ear and said, "What is that?".

"Son, do you have a quarter?" I wasn't expecting that

and I stood there dumbfounded. "Err.. I'm sorry, I

have to rush," I said and started walking away. "No

problem, have a nice day," I heard her say as those

words fell into my ears before I put my left ear plug

on.

The wrinkles on her

face and hand would

just mean one thing -

a lady who carried a

lot of stories.

Dude where is my coffee?

25 cents

- DreamVendor

I thought about the lady all evening. She was a well

-dressed woman and she had a very pleasing and

kind face. She was in the streets, homeless and beg-

ging for quarters. I have seen so many homeless

people in the city and my idea of them had always

been stereotypical. I remember this man with a

huge beard, who always sat outside the AMC thea-

ter at Times square. He always held a placard

which read "Buy me a beer!". I haven't seen any

one buy him beer ever, but his hat had quarters and

dollars. I had forgotten about the old lady in red

boots after that day.

The week after that, I walked down the same street

to the same pizza shop. I was surprised to see her

again. This time she was dressed in blue but her

makeup was still prominent. She flashed the same

smile at me as I was approaching her. She, of

course did not recognize me. As I got closer she

was distracted by someone calling at her. A car

stopped by and the old man rolled down his win-

dow to give the lady some change. She stepped

down the pavement and got the change from him.

As I walked past her place I looked at the things

around her and I was convinced that she was home-

less and that could have been her abode. I saw a

shopping cart filled with clothes and a blanket.

There were other things bundled in plastic bags and

wrapped in clothes. I walked further observing all

those around her. I walked back towards her. She

was searching something in her cart and looked up

at me. She did not smile this time but her face had a

defensive look.

"I just wanted to give you this," I said and gave her

a dollar bill. She got it from me, but did not smile.

She continued searching her cart. I did not wait,

although I wanted to see her smile. I did not put my

ear plug on, hoping she would say something. She

didn't and I walked away not looking behind. Cou-

ple of weeks later I walked down the same avenue

and street, this time not to get my pizza, but to see

the old lady and give her a dollar. She wasn't there

and her things were gone. Maybe she had moved to

a different location. Maybe she found a place for

herself. Maybe I was just dreaming. I missed that

smile on a bright summer day.

It has been more than 6 months since I saw that old

lady and the image of her still haunts me. Every

time I look at a shabby homeless person, I'm re-

minded of the old lady, who looked like a diva but

still begged for quarters. That was something that I

never understood.

I will go back there time and again, whenever I can

and maybe one day I will see her again in the same

place. Maybe I will give her more money or buy

her a meal and I will sure ask her - if she can be my

muse for a story. I'm sure her cart and bags are full

of them. Maybe an immigrant rant. Maybe an old

age betrayal. Maybe it was something else. But I

want to know. The story of the old lady in red

boots.

1 Lullabies buried in her lip corners, scrawny anemic mother in palid light rocked me round the clock. She tore me off from embrace gum and packed me to the front. In trench at midnight light beam looks for you in no man’s land. Getting pricked by wild grasses, my bums ask moon about you at the spinning wheel. Moon: “She spins yarns for blankets to plug holes of pain. 2 Eager to see medals, colors On sons broad shoulders, A widow paces cold floor, crossed a while ago by black cat chasing a rat . She says rosary to swear desert storms on safety of her son turned soldier returning from a short war . 3 I sit for dinner with beef salami, bite into it with yellow teeth, wash it down with coffee. In the Mother’s picture hanging overhead sari palu frays, smudges her vermilion parting; Henna seeps out of her anemic hands. She catches my glimpses in potato peels, wash tub bubbles. With sleeping tablets she gulps down Papa’s jibes. She adds to her wrinkles by fussing about unpaid bills. Carrying the pain of my birth in her bones. She watches me step on the just-mopped floor. Leaves her knitting to

save me from a slip. I burst into a cry. She pulls me to mat ties me to her apron strings. Milk curdles in her breasts. zari sari wraps her scrawny self. paces up and down with flour ball for abandoned cow. Papa breaks years of silence Laying her on pyre for final rest. The mantras ride on leaping flames Of his small eyes, oblong shoulders. 4

In a town razed by fire and fright, older than yesterday, a mother

removes last night’s food bits

from creaky dining table.

Unsure of next breath, She counsels her man for 30 years

On food ,health and faith;

while he peers into stale newspaper. Sipping tea with shaking hand, she

resumes fretting about next EMI. He drowns her drone in TV news.

The newsreader, sporting bloodline

On parting of hair dyed black, reads

Out their son’s name among the dead

In blast that turned valley’s hair gray.

Inclined to his dourness he waits beside

Mother, widow and orphans

In front of the window, full of dust, for the body to be brought home.

Mother’s rustling silk sari folds mingle

With piled up incense soot in corridor

Arthritic limbs strike a goddess’ pose;

Make-up flakes rain blessings on son.

Mother

By Raja Jaikrishnan

Art by Nivethitha Kumar (iPhone Art )

The indie film revolution in Mumbai is not news anymore. It's well alive and kicking, producing movies in different genres or more often than not, an amalgamation of genres. There is more subtlety in place of melodrama and more under-played characters in place of boisterous perfor-mances. A bigger development is always a result of smaller successes, and one of them is the por-trayal of women in what has now been classified as multiplex films.

The fact remains that our society had to go through these changes too. We needed a Raja Ram Mohan Roy to abolish practices like sati. A few parts of our country are still fighting female infanticide. There are still families that fatten up, literally or otherwise, the daughter only to be married off to a more wealthy-and chauvinistic- familyfamily as soon as the girl attains the marriageable age. Sometimes, cruelly, much before that. Dowry is still rampant albeit under the table with by products like domestic violence have grown in numbers.

But times they are a-changing. Meera Pundit restores art and frescoes for a living in Love Aaj Kal. And she is even ready to break a relationship in pursuit of that passion.. Aisha is the more responsible and career oriented individual who is ultimately the reason for the slacker Sid's epiphany in Wake Up Sid. Rhea, in Kabhi Alvida NaNa Kehna, proclaims to her unsuccessful hus-

band how she couldn't be a mother because she had to be the father in more ways than one. And a cheerful applause wouldn't have been inappropriate when Meghna, in Gautham Vasudev Menon's Vaaranam Aay-iram, insists that her grad studies in Berkley are more important than the besotted Surya in her lilife at that point of time. In fact it harks back to Kiran Vairale in Pallavi Anu Pallavi, Mani Ratnam's debut film, when she goes away leav-ing Anil Kapoor to study MS in Biotechnology. It was 1983. And more recently, we had the sparkling Vidya Balan playing the femme fatale with every bit charm of a neo-noire siren in Ishqiya.

Even in the roles that are drawn in considerable broad strokes, without any hint of the indepen-dence of today's Indian women, they are made to be endearing in a way never known to main-stream cinema before. Reena Joseph (Minnale) and Geet (Jab We Met) remind us of the kind of women most of us would fall for- a city bred, simplistic and affable woman who probably exists only in fairytales. Or films. The more real-istic of these modern women was probably Meera from Aayitha Ezhuthu. Though the Hindi film industry has grown leaps and bounds with respect to female roles, other languages like Tamil/Telugu still continue practicing old habitshabits of caricaturing women in either of the extremes.

Meghna, Aditi and Meera of Indian Cinema

- Adithya ShriKrisha

The mainstream masala potboiler from the south is still dominated by men. Leaving out a few noteworthy established directors, there is an alarming trend of hypocrisy that refuses to leave these parts of the country. The morally upright hero has to bring in line the immoral heroine wearing skimpy tops and miniskirts. The tried andand tested recipe always includes the diatribe the hero has to deliver to the heroine so that she acts according to his will and fancy hereon.But nevertheless, the song picturizations demand that the cinematographer spend more time on the heroine's navel and other objects of interest without which it is believed to be impossible for the mthe movie to rake in the collections.

The heroine is no more than eye candy, strut-ting in and out of scenes that demand both her goodness and innocence to be sufficiently showcased if she plays a village belle, or her brazen slatternliness conveyed if she plays an ego maniacal bitch from the city.

It would take a while for the herd to realize that the path taken by the classy few is a more holis-tic approach. The fact remains that they know what they are doing, which probably makes the issue all the more delicate. Until then, we have to feel content and liberated with the Sakthis(Alai Payuthey) and Mayas(Khaaka KKhaaka) of the world.

The mainstream masala potboiler from the south is still dominated by men. Leaving out a few noteworthy established directors, there is an alarming trend of hypocrisy that refuses to leave these parts of the country. The morally upright hero has to bring in line the immoral heroine wearing skimpy tops and miniskirts. The tried and

The heroine is no more than eye candy, strut-ting in and out of scenes that demand both her goodness and innocence to be sufficiently showcased if she plays a village belle, or her brazen slatternliness conveyed if she plays an ego maniacal bitch from the city.

EPHITET OF FEMINISM - Swathi B

I ain’t any standard for liberationyet a pinch of lady in me disgorgeseverytime I have tosubjugate and swallow chauvinism.

I ain’t any prototype for delicacyyet a pinch of lady in me is gratifiedeven with the trivial crediteven with the trivial creditin the assertive swarm of gentlemen.

I ain’t any voice for docilityyet a pinch of lady in me emberswhen I contemplate dissociatingmyself from the middle-of-the-road.

I ain’t any illustration for eleganceyet a pinch of lady in me resonatesyet a pinch of lady in me resonatesin ecstasy and elation athis assuring and gentle stroke.

RENDEZ-VOUS WITH THE MODERN WOMAN --Dhivya Arasappan

FFor the March issue, The Banyan Trees interviewed women who seem to have and do it all, women who apart from family and career, do something more- the modern, well-rounded woman. Aditi A. Tendulkar is one such woman. Aditi is married and has a demanding full-time job as a Systems Engineer. But in the time she has left, she works to help underprivileged children in India through a Non-profit Organization called Vibha (www.vibha.org). She also trains in classical music and loves to cook.

1. Please tell us a little bit about Vibha and how you are involved with the Organization?

Vibha is a non-profit organization working towards the uplifting of underprivileged kids. I have been volunteering since 2004. While doing my Masters, a bunch of friends and I volunteered during the Vibha fundraiser run/walk and that’s how I got introduced to the Organization. Last year, I was one of the action center coordinators of Dallas Vibha. I was in charge of event planning, management and execution. I am also Project lead for one of the Vibha supported projects in India -- Children Toy Foundation (http://childrentoyfoundation.org).

2. 2. What drew you to volunteering and how does it make you feel?

The fact that my time is directly impacting the life’s of so many needy kids and is helping them get education, shelter and such basic needs drove me towards volunteering. It makes me feel like I am making use of my time well. It really feels good and gives me a great sense of satisfaction.

3.3. Do you think that women need to involve themselves in other areas, apart from work and family? Though many women would like to, they sometimes feel they may end up stretching themselves too thin. What advice would you give for women who want to do it all?

WWell, I think it is passion that drives you to get involved in anything other than your day-to-day life. Singing is my passion and volunteering makes me feel really good. So really speaking, it’s an individual’s preference of where to draw a line between you want to do and what you have time to do. For me, now I don’t see it as something other than my daily life. I think it helps you bring out the real you. For me, I think my passions define me. Now I cannot imagine a life without singing and volunteering. So frankly my advice would be, if you want to, please go for it. The satisfaction and happiness you get by following your passion is truly worth it.

The Banyan Trees thanks Aditi for her time and wishes her the very best with everythin

Countless meetings and calls later, Nina got back to her

office to handle the daily vagaries of her ever important

job. It wasn’t easy, handling the pressures of work and a

family.

Minutes masqueraded as hours and hours as days.

She looked up to the picture at her desk and wondered

how her heart still skipped a beat when she saw his

smile.

The girl in her knew why.

Masks

Nivethitha Kumar

Picture Credit : http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/

It took me a while to realize that the voice I heard

was mine.

I had cried out involuntarily and now it was too late

to swallow my words. My brother looked at me,

with a dull, heavy expression on his face. He had not

expected me to speak out thus.

Karna still held the bow aloft, while Duryodhana’s

eyes flashed in anger. I was not sure what to say, but

my voice completed it for me. I was amazed by its

coolness.

“I will not marry a man who has no roots. Isn’t it

true that this man was adopted and he knows noth-

ing about his parentage?”

Years later, I would understand a fundamental truth

about all people, and about myself. Every person has

a weak spot, a kind of soft cartilage; their deepest

insecurity that they, at all costs, try to protect. They

do this instinctively, because they know it is their

weakest spot. All of the rest of their personality –

the bluster and the blemishes, are to hide this one

crucial fact. And if someone found this secret and

hurt him there, it meant terrible things. Vulnerabil-

ity, and power and sway over a person.

I had a special talent, something of a curse even. I

knew instinctively what a man’s weak spot was.

Yudhistra’s was lack of order in the world. He was a

dreamer, preferring to live in a world where every-

thing was right and orderly. To jostle him, you just

had to open his eyes to the filth and muck of the

world around him for a fleeting second.

Arjuna’s was a fundamental insecurity in the point

of his abilities. Once, he told me that every time he

strung an arrow to a bow, that one crucial second

before pulling the string, he would not be sure where

to aim or how to aim or why he should aim shafts of

wood and metal at random things. “Archery is point-

less,” he said with a wearied philosophical look. “I

do it only because I can’t do anything else and it

gets me stuff. No other reason.”

My father’s was his lameness. He walked the same

as everybody else, with specially made artificial

feet, and always wore long robes to cover it. But he

could never mount a chariot, he could never straddle

a horse.

Karna’s was simple. He did not know his

mother. He did not know his father. He craved an

affectionate heart. That was all. And, I had spoken,

in the middle of the fighting ground where all the

princes and kings known and unknown were assem-

bled. I had taken his secret and exposed it to the

world. Men started murmuring. After all, they knew

about his extraordinary ability. He was sure to win

me if he was only allowed to shoot. Angry bickering

broke out in some parts. Duryodhana’s face was as

black as thunder. Karna was looking at me, hatred

written all over his face. At least he did not have that

superior expression of confidence anymore.

My father finally decided. “My daughter’s right.

Karna, you must have to go.”

His decision was swayed by the fact that Drona

lived with Duryodhana’s family. He could not attack

the royal teacher of his son-in-law’s people, had I

married Karna.

Picture Credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/vaticanus/

Draupadi by Manasa I could see Duryodhana and Karna talk among them-

selves, throwing dark looks at me. I averted my gaze.

Now I was feeling slightly sorry, because I saw the

bow where Karna had flung it down. He had actually

managed to lift it!

Now there were other princes coming forward who

tried their might to move the bow, let alone lift it. As

morning became high noon and the sun sank lower on

the western sky and the garlands in the tray next to me

started wilting, I thought that at this rate maybe I

would never get married. Where was Arjuna? Was he

really dead? Because there was no one else around

who seemed equal t the task. Why did my father want

to get me married anyway? What was with Kanhaa,

always hanging around here, telling me stories of Ar-

juna.Arjuna this, Arjuna that, when that good man

would probably not bother to even show up.

As the sun started to set slowly, bringing the easterly

winds with in, Duryodhana stood up to exclaim, "So it

looks like none of your fine bred princes could lift the

bow. And here’s an able man that your good princess

rejected for the want of family.”

At that moment, a knot of men in a corner, an anony-

mous invisible group among a group of Brahmans,

quietly spoke. “Kind Drupad, if you will allow it,

could my brother try? It is not like we lack family.”

A knot of five tall and quiet men, with patience and

valor writ side by side on their faces. Of course. How

could I have not known.

My father nodded. He seemed to have realized the

same fact too.

Duryodhana said, “Ah, yes. You would let a Brahman

participate, but not my dearest friend. No better man

would you find for you daughter, believe me.”

Karna, meanwhile, put a hand on Duryodhan’s shoul-

der trying to calm him down. I was so interested in

this little drama that I did not notice the goings-on in

the field. A huge roar from the crowd brought me to

earth, and I saw the fish on the ground, an arrow in its

eye, and a man holding a bow standing next to it.

Arjuna, of course! Who else could it be?

My brother escorted me to the man with the bow and

put my hand into his. I placed the slightly withered

garland around his gaunt neck, my knuckles lightly

brushing his cheek.

Around us, there was a commotion. Duryodhana’s

friends questioning the validity of the match. This

man – my husband’s friends answering back. There

were small fights erupting all around us. The man in

front of me stood dazed, looking at me, not like a

hero, but like a knight pledged to service.

“Arjuna,” I said his name.

He smiled back at me, and grasped my wrist. “Come.

It’s not safe here. We should go.”

And I, who had never left my father’s palace in all my

years of existence, was running along madly with a

gaunt man with flying hair, still clutching a bow in

one hand. It was a short ride. Arjuna, and his brother,

the big, beefy, good natured Bhima were on the char-

iot. Bhim directed good natured insults at Arjun and

grinned at me as he held the reins of one sickly horse.

We burst into laughter over nothing from time to

time; Arjun, spurred on by his marvelous feat, I, be-

cause I was free from my father and brother now and

had Arjun by my side, and Bhima, because he was

Bhima. It was an orange tinged sky and the night

closed on us as the open chariot slowly made its way

to where the boys lived with their mother. You may

have heard of the Pandavas as brave warriors, so it is

easy to imagine them as full grown men, with curling

mustaches and rippling muscles. When I married Ar-

juna, I was sixteen, and Arjuna was twenty.

Bhima was a year older, twenty-one, and the twins

were only a year older than I. We were adolescents.

The boys could fight like barbarians, but they were

boys all the same.

Bhima and Arjuna were animatedly discussing Ar-

juna’s feat.

“You buckled once, just one,” said Bhima.

“Yes, I was balancing the bow on my forearm. I had

to propel the weight to my shoulder. Once it got there

– twang! It was simple.”(It was not. Later, Arjuna told

me that he had thought he could not do the task. That

was why he had hesitated so long before trying out.)

I was content to listen to their chatter and look out at

the countryside, feeling my veil blow in the wind. “I

hope your brothers are OK,” I told Arjuna.

―Yeah, they’ll be fine. They don’t need our help now that you are not there. Yud, Nakul and Dev are smooth talkers. I noticed that your fa-ther was fine with me carrying you away like this. Krishna must have told him.‖

―Told him what?‖

―That we would be there in disguise. I’m sure Duryodhana guessed. We are in hiding, did you know that?‖

―Oh my god. Are you in danger now?‖

Bhima chipped in. ―We have probably been in danger since we were born. Our cousins and their father don’t like us, you see. They tried to burn us alive.‖

And Bhima told me the whole story – of the wicked plan to burn them in a guest house and how they had escaped by digging a hole in the ground and burrowing their way out. The five boys and their mother had journeyed through forests alone, making sure they were not caught by Duryodhana’s spies. Bhima re-counted their adventures, and what tales they were! I listened in rapt attention.

―Bhima even managed to find himself a wife,‖ interjected Arjuna at one point.

―Really?‖ I turned to Bhima and smiled at him. Truth be told, I was not aware of this piece of information. I thought I was the first daughter-in-law of this house. Also, if you had asked me to pick out one man amongst the five who would be likely to be married before the others, I would have naturally picked Arjun. Bhima seemed too much happy-go-lucky for the bind-ing ties of marriage.

―Who is she? How does she look? Can I meet her? What’s her name?‖

For some strange reason, Bhima averted his eyes. I decided not to question any further, but Bhima spoke, with more dignity than I had seen from him so far.

―Her name is Hidimbi. She is a forest woman, a wild tribal girl. We fell in love while I was in the forest and I married her. We must even have a son by now. Unfortunately, we had to move from that spot, and mother advised me to leave her there. Taking a forest woman along with us would attract attention. I sup-pose she was right. She can fend for herself in the forest better, I guess.‖

To marry a woman, give her a child and leave her destitute in the forest! This man cared for her, it was obvious. But circumstances had forced him to abandon her, or that’s what he said. I was not sure who to feel sorry for – the poor girl, all alone in the forest with child, or this boy, muscled and tanned, with strength enough to crush mountains but not enough to rout the circumstances and his mother’s will.

At that point, I did not stop to think whether what Bhima had done was right or wrong. I only felt his loss keenly. Spontaneously, reach-ing a hand out, I stroked his riotous curls.

Bhima looked at me, like a calf looks at its mother. Arjuna smiled at us and patted his brother on the back, a brotherly gesture of af-fection. Silently, with a hundred questions run-ning through my mind, we went ahead to meet the matriarch. Mother Kunti. (To be continued ….)

Half the audience were in tears. Not in laughter,

but in plain emotion. Though either were

equally probable.

10 months before the play:

My brother wanted to shift school after his 10th

standard. He insisted that the reasons were

purely academic and that it had nothing to do

with the fact that the school he was joining was

a co-ed school. I tried messing around with my

parents, using my half-baked, medieval notions

of distraction and hormonal overtones but they

conveniently trashed it. I brooded for some time

but my brother swore on his 10th standard

books, which he had pored over for so much

that they carried imprints of his drool, that he

would introduce me to at least two females. I

agreed and let go. He didn't. And we sold the

10th standard books at floor rates in the second-

hand market.

Anyway, my parents in their euphoria over my

brother's marks decided to go for it. It was a bad

trade, let me tell you. My brother told me I was

just being jealous.

Finally, my brother entered paradise; a paradise he had been denied for the lousier part of his 15 years of life. Ten days and he had the whole fe-male population of his class calling him on vari-ous doubts. My mom was proud, my dad was cynical and I was rather pissed. I played the fox and forced myself to believe that either the other guys were too dumb or the females looked like ogres. Neither made me feel any bet-ter.

An Ode to Eve Sirpy Jayaprakasam

Days weathered into hours, hours into minutes, min-utes into seconds and seconds into something in-sanely smaller My brother had started going steady with a girl named Shruthi. At least he liked to think so He started telling me his fantasies which were quite lucid and completely boring. Imagine teenage one-sided love fetishes—they would deteriorate the entire foundation on which Harlequin manages to sell its books.

My brother was not exactly the kind of hero who is

described in a Mills & Boon project - on the contrary

he was - the direct opposite. He was short, not ex-

actly dark, wears spectacles thrice his muscle power

and walks like a girl. He has to get evolved at least

twenty five generations before his nose even, faintly

resembles Patrick Dempsey. But he had the heart and

the determination of a buffalo, eating sugarcane in

addition to an excellent memory.

That was what made it worse. But I knew my time

would come and it did. Quite appropriately.

7 days before the play:

The Annual Day was nearing and rhetorically, there

was a play. After much useless deliberation, the Eng-

lish professor decided on 'Romeo and Juliet'. My

brother was so excited when he told me this that I

thought he was going to go Archimedes. I barely

managed to prevent him from doing anything dras-

tic. He sat up all night, ingesting lines and lines of

ridiculously verbose dialogues. He told me that

Shruthi would be his inspiration when was going in

for the audition. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and

went about muttering to myself about the youngsters

of this generation. I felt old.

The next evening our hero came back home. Dejec-

tion was writ largely on his face. I nonchalantly en-

quired what happened. He told me in two sentences.

"I did not get the part. Shruthi got Juliet's part" and

then proceeded to weep on my shoulder. Let me tell

you, I am not completely devoid of brotherly love

even though I might have grinned inwardly. I con-

soled him as best as I could. Bad move. The Coovum

embankment broke.

An hour or so later, I was able to infer from all the

testosterone/estrogen induced gabble-gooble that

something like this happened. Apparently, they re-

jected him outright because he was a teeny bit too

short and a weeny bit too fair, to play the tall, dark,

handsome Romeo. The role went to his arch nemesis

- Rakesh. Shruthi obviously got the part of Juliet. It

all does sound a bit too reminiscent of many a Tamil

movie plot, but my brother insists that’s what hap-

pened. I felt a plan materializing. I sat him up and

rubbed away his tears, quite dramatically. I stood up,

struck the pose of an army general and started,

"Listen, my stupid brother. There ain't no such thing

as an unexplained enigma or hickey. Don’t ask me

now, what that means. You simply cannot let the

mother of your children and my sister-in-law, be

somebody else's... err... mother or sister-in-law.

Rakesh and Shruthi will spend time; rehearsing por-

tions, portions that are sneaky, clever and fiendishly

plotted. DO NOT LET THEM BE ALONE. Even for a

moment. Follow her, memorize her dialogues; act as

if helping her. Be the jealous lover that you are. Are

you? (paused for more dramatic effect, he looked at

me appallingly) You must be. Now go. And get the

girl!"

He stood up and saluted. Actually he did not. He

simply said "Ok," and went inside the house. I felt

stupid but I was elated. My plan was in place. Soon

Shruthi was going to detest him.

2 days before the play:

I was sitting outside the house, ostentatiously solving

complex differential problems when my brother

came back from school. He just said, "Shruthi is sick".

He went into the house without a word. His behavior

was puzzling but I was too lazy and disinterested to

know what was troubling him. One tear-snot stained

shirt is enough for one week.

12 hours before the play:

My Mom reminded me that I had to come back early

today as we were attending the Annual Day function.

I walked to my bike thinking about all the gorgeous

girls would be falling head-over-tennis shoes in love

with me. I made a mental note to wear my Ray Ban

and then decided against it. It would be rather imbe-

cilic to sit inside a closed auditorium wearing shades.

In the evening, we reached the place much before the

allotted time; I made sure we did. It was swarming

with parents and teachers. To my chagrin, all the

11th and 12th standard students were behind the

stage, getting it ready for the function.

The function started off a devotional song. Soon after

the death of a few crows from multiple auditory

hemorrhages, the principal gave a rather boring lec-

ture on the importance of education, probably lifted

off from Scribd. The chief guest encored the perform-

ance. Finally, it was time for the play. My brother

was nowhere to be seen.

I could see Shruthi, sitting two rows from the stage

with her parents. Curiously, she did not look that ill.

Thunderous music played to thunderous applause as

the screen opened to reveal the backdrop. The ap-

plause rose a notch as Romeo/Rakesh walked in and

started his monologue. Seconds later, Juliet walked

in. My parents gasped. The audience stopped clap-

ping, gasped and started laughing. I could barely

control my laughter. It was my brother.

The reasoning was quite straightforward. After

Shruthi hit pyrexia, there was no one who knew the

dialogues that well. There was unfortunately no time

either. So there he was, standing in front of the guf-

fawing crowd, me included. He gingerly started his

monologue. Everybody stopped instantly. It was mi-

raculous. My kid brother literally rode the play like

an Arabian horse, absorbing the character and al-

most becoming one with it. Every aspect, every in-

stance, every move that a woman could possibly at-

tribute to possessing the copyright, he showcased. At

the end of it, the audience gave a 2-minute long,

standing ovation. My parents were damned proud as

my dad punched me in the arm and told me to be

more like him. I smiled nauseatingly.

As the cast bowed to rousing applause, I realized

something poignant and deep that second. The audi-

ence were not enraptured by my squeaky brother.

They were just taken up by the role - the role of a

woman. My brother was just the medium who made

us understand that there is a woman hidden in all of

us. The complete inner meaning encapsulating the

calm, cool exterior of how she bears the pain and suf-

fering in everyday life is just there to realize, empa-

thize and respect. I was sure every man sitting there

got that in good measure. It was wonderful.

5 minutes after the play:

I walked to the green room to congratulate my

brother. Shruthi was not in her place. As I was about

to enter the room, the door flung open and my

brother came running out, clad in a sweat-soaked

vest screaming, "I passed the test!! She kissed me!!"

and hugged me. My "Eh??!" got itself brain stuck as

he ran away somewhere into the parking lot still

screaming with all his marbles lost.

It took me ten whole minutes to translate the whole

situation. It was so simple and oh so clever. Shruthi

did not fall sick involuntarily. She fell sick on pur-

pose. She made sure the guy she selected to be with,

had the temerity to overcome his fears, made a fool

out of a whole audience and invariably rubbed my

plan in my face with charcoal and cow dung. All in

one go.

Women are not poignant and deep. They are di-

abolique. That is why there is just one day dedicated

to them and the rest to men. They do not want to at-

tract too much attention, but just enough to make

sure we understand who the boss is.

I turned to see my Mom who smiled.

Respect.

Picture Credit : http://www.flickr.com/photos/shadowgate/

It was on one of those dull Saturday afternoons when there is no sports on TV and you can’t go outside as it is freezing (and your wife is at her mother’s) that he decided to take the plunge. But before that, the stage had to be set up. He picked up his glistening i-Pod and poured a mouthful of Glenfiddich on the rocks before he officially un-dertook the task. She had prepared the batter f r o m s c r a t c h . “Give me three dollars and I can get you better batter” she had said to his pre-marital bought-in-the-store-dosa-mix days. They were getting to know each other during that time. He owned up not to have as much stepped into the kitchen more than half-a-dozen times thanks to his room-mate, a compulsive cook who looked at you as if you had crashed his Bimmer on to a fig tree whenever someone came inside his comfort zone, aka, the kitchen. “You know Bhima was an awesome cook” he had told her, leaning against the wall when she was making crisp, geometrically circular dosas. “So your assertion that men can’t cook is inaccu-rate. Even the cook at our wedding was a man. The only thing your dad did a good job on.” She threatened him with the hot handle and stopped. The dosa’s dorsal face was blackening. If there was something which he detested, it was the sight of a perfectly cooked dosa going waste.

He had always been a dosa man. You see, there are dosa folks and there are idli folks. Both came from the same parent, but had chiefly different character-istics. The dosa types were flamboyant, confident and earthy while the idli people were simple yet ef-fective and smart. And nine times out of ten, you can tell what sort of person one is by asking this simplest of questions, “Do you like idli or dosa?” He gave in. “I think you know me well now that whatever I say must not be taken with just a grain of salt, but with a ton of it.” He had thus eked out every time there was a threat. And today was the day he chose to tick off one of his to-do things before he turned thirty. There were still others left like learning how to whistle and trying to eat with chopsticks, but it is always best to take one step at a time. Did she already put salt? Let’s test it out. The pan was engaged in foreplay and he waited for it to get on to the act. Assured of the temperature, he poured the white frothy stuff on the pan. He spread the mixture to a circle but already there appeared some cracks. First time, he shrugged, poured oil and tried to turn the thing over. He was halfway through the turning over process when it broke out. It did not look like the dosas he knew. In a sense. In essence. He had to take it out. The amorphous thing tasted okay and he cleaned the surface with determination before he poured the next one. Three minutes passed and the result was far worse. It was a yeasty jelly that was unpalatable. Shall I call her? But he imagined her teasing and that hardened his resolve. Shall I Google it or use You-Tube? NO. Go for broke. All in. I won’t cower down. The show will go on. The show went on and curses flew like the unruly winds outside. He did some disaster management. His aim now was re-set to making an edible thing out of the thick flour. Size didn't matter. Shape didn't matter. And hey, I created a new thing. So that’s a good thing. So it was eaten such, kinda mashed, much like upma. A passing thought cried to him, “You could have made idli and still had a good meal”. You know, simple yet effective. Hmmm. No. His gastric juices hadn’t yet the mental strength to accept such a com-promise. There’s always the next time. His life would become a circle then through his dosas.

Full Circle

Ajay Ramachandran

http://www.flickr.com/photos/shadowgate/ - Picture Credit

Behind the harbor of trafficking

sowmya arasappan

-- Rushda Rafeek

Unless you are trying to imitate the life of a person on Lost, it must have been tough to not hear about the Winter Olympics over the last few weeks. Personally, this was the first time I warmed up to the Winter Olympics. Firstly, the Winter Olympics have always been the neglected step child of the Olympics, or toto be politically correct, the Summer Olym-pics. They never had that aura of pride, glamor and awe around them that the Summer Olympics had. It did not help that India never won a medal in the Winter Games. I can also bet that not even a1000 in 1 billion Indians even know that we have a contingent in the Winter Olympics; in fact the Indian Luger is considered ahemong the top 10 in the world. Perhaps, our most meaning-ful contribution came this year when the medal winning US Figure Skating team de-cided to groove on some bollywood num-bers as part of their skating program.

My second gripe with the Winter Olympics has been with its events. How can someone take it seriously as a sporting event, when one of its most intriguing events is called 'ice dancing.' It took me some time (and embar-rassing moments at the ice ring in Walnut Creek downtown) to adjust to the fact that iice skating is a unique blend of art and ath-leticism. But then there is curling. With due

respect to all the curlers around the world - hmm, actually I have to take that back- I have absolutely no respect for them. As an avid squash player, it pains me deeply to see them getting a chance at an Olympic gold when my fellow squashers have to wait for yet another 12 years to see their belbeloved sport in the Olympics.

I think the biggest turnaround for me has been the Olympics coverage on NBC. Yes, you read it right. NBC has had its share of problems with the late night program-ming debacle, lagging ratings, etc. But this time they aced it. Or at least, this format worked for me. First, the events wwere not shown live in the Pacific Time Zone. We got to see the delayed record-ings, which started at the most conve-nient time of 8:00pm. It was a little bit ironical as the Olympics themselves were happening at Vancouver in Pacific Stan-dard Time. So in case you are like me, and do not scavenge though facebook, twit-ter, news, etc. for results, this would have worked for you. Secondly, NBC took into account the average Winter Olympics knowledge quotient of the audience. Each event was preceded by a short pro-gram detailing the rules and history of the sport. This provided enough information

WARMING UP TO THE WINTER OLYMPICS -- SAURABH GANERIWAL

I was able to actually make sense of terms like quad, double axel and giant slalom. I even learned the rules of curling! Commercial breaks were supplemented with a small feature on the key participants that allowed you to enjoy the drama and the tension. I could also very well imagine the frustrations of a few people because ofof this very format. Imagine NBC showing a delayed Wimbledon final between Federer and Nadal and then in between the games explaining the history of tennis and their rivalry. That would be a nightmare for me! As luck would have it, a lot of Americans did agree with me and TV ratings for these Olympics were at an all time high.high.

Just like any other big event, these Winter Olym-pics had several intriguing storylines. It started with the tragic death of the German Luger during practice. We saw the rise and downfall of two of the most celebrated American skiers - Miller and Vonn, within the span of two weeks. Both of them started big with winning multiple medals inin the first week, but then failed to even com-plete any events in the second week. There was trash-talking, although unexpectedly from the members of the same American women skiing team. Then came the feel good victory of Chinese figure skating pair - Shen Xue and Zhao Hongbo, who successfully came out of retirement to take aa shot at Olympic Gold. This was followed by the usual winning, corrupt judge accusations and a little fall from grace of the great Russian figure skating champion Yevgeny Plushenko when he lost to American Evan Lysacek. Whole of Canada went into mourning when their beloved hockey team lost to the US in the group stages. Very few getget the opportunity to avenge their defeat in the same tournament and the Canadian hockey team made the best use of theirs by defeating the US team in the finals. The darling pair of

Canada, Virtue Tessa and Moir Scott created the most beautiful moments on the ice skating ring on their way to gold. Apolo Anton Ohno became the most celebrated US Winter Olym-pian by taking his total tally to eight Olympic medals. Women ice skating saw the queen of South Korea, Kim Yu-Na, showcase her magical taletalent at the biggest stage and a cindrella story unfold for the Canadian Rochette, for whom these Winter Olympics would mark both as the utmost personal achievement (winning Bronze) and tragedy (loss of her mother and biggest fan just 2 days before the event). Final medal tally put Americans on the top with a rrecord number of medals. Canadians can take pride in setting the record for the gold count and especially winning the gold in both men's and women's hockey. You also have to admire Norway who stood fourth, but given how small the country is, they led the per capita medal count by several magnitudes. Russians lost mostmost of the ground, but will be hoping to turn the tables in 2014 when the show moves over to Sochi, Russia.

These Winter Olympics also saw the introduc-tion of a new event, Skicross. It is in the same realm of X games such as halfpipe, the one which is literally owned by Shawn White. I per-sonally loved it; just watching it gave me a total adrenaline rush. The most fun I had was while watching speed skating, especially the relay. The poise, calm and coordination needed is just fascinating. If you have not already, try to catch it on youtube. You will simply love it! Overall, hats off to Canada for organizing the spectacle on ice in the most grand manner possible. And now begins the grueling wait of 4 years to the next Winter Olympics. Definitely wworth the wait, my friends.

Elizabeth Bennett (Pride and Prejudice) had ideals that were way above the aristo-cratic ideals of the typical English in that period. She was witty, intelligent, idealis-tic and at that the same time, judgemental and adamant. This combination, I think, is irresistable.

-- Prathap Chandran

II admire Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary. Both these women gave priority to the self rather than society. They had the courage to be, to throw caution to the wind and burn like a candle –from both ends. These women were possessed by their feelings for their lovers. They didn’t pause a while to ascertain what their lovers felt for them. They wanted to embalm love in youth. They literally fell in love for they failed toto understand the transience of feelings. These characters asserted that a woman can scale the walls of institutions, if she so desires. It is patriarchal to call such acts sin. -- Raja Jaikrishan

MEMORABLE

MOST

BOOK

HEROINES

Who is the most selfish, egoistic and manipulative fictional character you have read about? At the same time, who can command respect and has enough sheer determination to alleviate any dire circumstance without losing an ounce of pride? If no one comes to your mind, it is time you read Gone with the wind. I have known few people to not like the vivacious and audacious Scarlett O'Hara, the protagonist of Margaret Mitchell's classic. She is portrayed as an atypical South-erner who indulged in herself immensely. Any good that she might have done would have been to appease herself and for her survival than for the greater good. Yet, the intensity with which she hhated and loved, her "never say die" attitude and shrewd mind highlights her dynamic personal-ity. I have never ceased to hate this vain, self conceited lady while harboring perpetual admira-tion for her. She who taught me "After all, tomorrow is another day" continues to inspire me to this day.

-- Archana Kannan

I admire Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary. Both these women gave priority to the self rather than society. They had the courage to be, to throw caution to the wind and burn like a candle –from both ends. These women were possessed by their feelings for their lovers. They didn’t pause a while to ascertain what their lovers felt for them. They wanted to embalm love in youth. They literally fell in love for they failed toto understand the transience of feelings. These characters asserted that a woman can scale the walls of institutions, if she so desires. It is patriarchal to call such acts sin. -- Raja Jaikrishan

Mariam (Thousand splendid suns) Maybe it is because of the poignancy of the character.It is a pity that her whole life is shrouded by grief.Just like a mirage in the desert, all the male characters offer her hope, just to fail in time.TThe briefest possible moments of hope are ones with Laila’s children, which we savor along with her.And her braveness in the face of death, or tears while facing it, leave you with a lump in your throat. -- Harish Narayanan Sara (A Little Princess)

Doing the right thing is hard enough for adults, but for a 11 year old girl to 'act like a lady' in the truest sense of the world was inspiring and humbling. -- Suchitra Ramachandran

Sally Hope (Malory Towers)

GGrowing up, Malory towers was my favorite series. It prob-ably still ranks very high up in my list of favorite books. Though Darrel Rivers is the protagonist, its the level headed and ever trustworthy SSally Hope who stole my heart. Its the amazing calm with which Sally handles situ-ations that makes her awe-some. Being quiet and patient is a hard trait, especially for a teenager. Though I have many favorite heroines, Sally Hope was my first.

--Nivethitha Kumar

-- DHIVYA ARASAPPAN

MOST MEMORABLE MOVIE HEROINES

Avenging Angels

TTarantino’s women have always kicked ass but two, in particular, stand out: The Bride from Kill Bill and Shosanna Dreyfus from Inglourious Basterds. The Bride (Uma Thurman) is a professionally trained killer, who upon waking from her coma, goes on a violent rampage to take revenge on those who tried to kill her. Shosanna (Melanie Laurent) is, however, more of a femme-fatale. SheShe is a young Jewish woman, living in France during World War II. Having watched her family be murdered by the Nazis, she plans to destroy the entire Third Reich leadership when they attend an event at her cinema. Both women are sexy and powerful, but they are also emotional and tragic. This makes them more human and this juxtaposition makes them memorable.

Ex-Karate kid becomes champion boxer

MMaggie Fitzgerald, the protagonist of Million Dollar Baby (played by Hillary Swank) is a strong-willed 30-something waitress whose only dream is to become a Professional Boxer. She comes out of a poverty-stricken life to Los Angeles and convinces the curmudgeon Frankie Dunn to train her. With his help, she begins winning championships until she is left paralyzed from a boxing accident. If there were ever a character with a never give-up spirit, it is Maggie. Whether in the ring or on the hospital bed, she amazed us with her strength and courage. Through all her ups and downs, this is one woman who we always rooted for.

The little nun that could

LLong before Whoopi Goldberg's Sister Mary Clarence came along, another good-natured nun stole our hearts. She broke apart all our stereotypes about nuns- she was playful and mischievous; clumsy and troublesome. In the Sound of Music, Julie Andrews played Maria, a young nun-in training, who is employed as governess to the seven children of Captain von Trapp. As Maria sang her way into the hearts of the von Trapp family, she found her way into ours as well. Admittedly, the character was often too saccharine sweet, but who among us could resist Maria's charm, as sheshe happily went about, making clothes out of curtains and singing about her favorite things? Her child-like honesty and generosity of spirit won us over and made her one of our all-time favorite feel-good characters.

Forever a Lady

IIn Finding Neverland, Sylvia Davies is a widow and mother of 4 boys, who befriend and later inspire the famous author of Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie. When Barrie befriends the boys, he finds an unlikely friend in Sylvia as well and when Sylvia discovers that she is gravely ill, the bondbond between the family and the play-wright thickens. Sylvia (Kate Winslet) is a wonderful mother, flying kites and setting off on pirate adventures with her boys. She is strong but soft-spoken – a true lady. What makes her special is this restraint - things aren’t always said out loud, they are just understood. She deals with her diffi-culties with incredible grace and leaves us more moved than any long melodramatic mother-on-deathbed speech ever has.

contributors

Short writing: Ode to Eve: Sirpy Jayaprakasam Full Circle: Ajay Ramachandran Masks - Nivethitha Kumar Most memorable fictitious characters(books) – contributions by readers, edited by Dhivya Book Review— Nivethitha Kumar Most Memorable Female Characters in Movies—Dhivya Arasappan

Cover page photo - Chandrika Srinivasan Interview with the Modern Woman—Dhivya Arasappan

Poetry Mother – Raja JaiKrishnan

Who is this gorgeous girl? – Sophia Carmalin

Epithet of Feminism—Swathi B

Behind the harbor of trafficking. : Rushda Rafeek

Columns Winter Olympics– Saurabh Ganeriwal Dude where is my Coffee – Dream vendor

Draupadi – Manasa

Meghna,Aditi and Meera of Indian Cinema – Aditya SriKrishna

Magazine Design Anuradha Chandrasekaran Dhivya Arasappan Nivethitha Kumar Editorial Team Anuradha Chandrasekaran Dhivya Arasappan Nivethitha Kumar Webiste design Nivethitha Kumar

Mail us your feedback and contributions to [email protected]

Picture Credits

Draupadi: http://www.flickr.com/photos/vaticanus/

Ode to Eve: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shadowgate/

Masks: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/

Full Circle: http://www.tarladalal.com/RecipeImages/dosa.jpg

Mother : iPhone Art by Nivethitha Kumar

Time Wasted Capsule : http://www.flickr.com/photos/ifraud/2795281745/

Epithet of Feminism : http://www.flickr.com/photos/

kervintran/3638875893/

Warming up to the Winter Olympics :

http://www.flickr.com/photos sagamiono/4399710106/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/iwona_kellie/4384542843/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/iwona_kellie/4384542843/

Behind the Harbor of Trafficking : Artwork by Sowmya Arasappan

Letter from Editor http://www.flickr.com/photos/12937196@N02/3387771518/

Who is this Gorgeous girl http://www.flickr.com/photos/dskciado/1426606140/sizes/o/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dskciado/1429816695/in/photostream/

Book review http://www.flickr.com/photos/foolstopzanet/151936713/sizes/o/

Dude where is my coffee

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kacey/2316780584/sizes/s/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/proimos/4219703164/sizes/o/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kobayashi_keisuke/3501913657/in/set-

72157619487373391/ -

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