1

A secret haven resides in me It lets me imagine It lets me breathe I stay uneasy I stay alive I return to it innocent and naive Its beauty is subtle, it lets me be A space so boundless, it sets me free The story of Xanadu began with the wish to bring out a department magazine. The decision was motivated by a desire - honest and simple. A desire to create a place where we all share, learn and unlearn. But most importantly, it was realized that a magazine, as it goes on to become representative of an institution, its values and ethos, not only leads to greater interaction between the students but it also strengthens the relation between the institution and its members. On a lighter note, it was felt that it will be a good accompaniment to academic writing which will definitely keep the energy going and spirits high! With the decision made, work followed- pleasant and unpleasant! Meetings, debates, basic decisions, letters, notices, but most importantly, brain storming sessions to arrive at the name of the magazine, which was indeed the last decision made! And after many, many suggestions we unanimously agreed on Xanadu, the mag nificent place described in Coleridges poem Kubla Khan. Xanadu, the magazine of the department of Sociology aims to be that splendid space of different ideas and imagination where creativity is not just acknowledged but celebrated. It seeks to be the platform where varied rivers of thoughts are expressed which may not always be in agreement but merge nevertheless in this ocean, enriching it drop by drop. Another crucial decision was to keep the magazine multilingual. With Xanadu being reflective of a free space, the medium of the magazine (in context of write-ups) had to be free, and hence the motto of language no bar was adopted. Finally, what could have been more befitting than to have the theme of the first issue as Freedom. We wanted people to freely interpret freedom in their own ways, give it direction and explore any dimension of it. The contributions, reflecting the above intent are definitely diverse and that is precisely what makes Xanadu a wonderful space - A spectrum of different colours where the colours are discreet yet in continuum! We proudly launch Xanadu - the magazine of the department of Sociology, Delhi School of Economics. A Xanadu resides in each one of us. Lets try to create a common one. -Editorial Team 2

Contents
REVISITING TAGORE Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P) .................................................................................................................... 5 GETTING EMOTIONAL OVER A MAD MAN' Varun Patil, M. A. (F) ............................................................................................................................... 7 (Pratidhwani) Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P) ....................................................................................................................... 9 SWEET FREEDOM Aarushie Sharma, M.A. (P) ..................................................................................................................... 10 ME AND MY FREEDOM Arif Hayat, M.A. (P) ................................................................................................................................ 11 REVERIE Sanjive Rai, M.A. (P)............................................................................................................................... 13 Vliegveld (Airport) Kim Van Kastel, M.A. Exchange Student ................................................................................................. 14 THE HOSTEL GATES Avipsha Das, M.A. (P) ............................................................................................................................ 16 BEYOND THE UNSPOKEN Sanjana Arya M.A. (Final)....................................................................................................................... 17 ""?? (Napaye) Rituparna Patgiri, M.A. (P) ..................................................................................................................... 18 HARD TIMES Devleena Chatterjee, M.A. (F) ................................................................................................................ 19 THE PURPLE SUN Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P) .................................................................................................................. 20 THE FREEDOM OF SPEECH AND EXPRESSION Dinesh Meena, M.A. (P) ......................................................................................................................... 21 MUUUUURRRKKKKAH! Neha Rachel Abraham, M.A. (P) ............................................................................................................. 22

IN A CONSTANT STRUGGLE Rashmi Kumari, M.A. (P) ........................................................................................................................ 26 CONSENT AND MUTUAL CONSENT Eveleen Sidana, M.A. (F) ........................................................................................................................ 27 AARTI AUNTYS FREEDOM Aarushie Sharma, M.A ........................................................................................................................... 29 EPOS OF A STRUMPET Maitrayee Patar, M.A.(P) ....................................................................................................................... 30 FREEDOM FROM LIFE OR FREEDOM TO LIVE Elena Heisnam, M.A. (P) ........................................................................................................................ 31 POEM BY AN UNKNOWN PAKISTANI CITIZEN Varun Patil, M. A. (F) ............................................................................................................................. 32 HUNGER Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P) ...................................................................................................................... 33 ILIUM, TONIGHT Arnav Das Sharma, M.A. (P) ................................................................................................................... 35 A few articles are awaited

-Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P) Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. -Tagore

REVISITING TAGORE

This was the vision of a free India as conceived at the time of independence. I heard these words every Friday for fourteen years in the school assembly. And most of us really did believe this is the country we were moving towards. But four years into the real world, and another image seems to have replaced this one. So, I take up the pen to revisit Tagore

Fearful minds, voices too scared to rise Heads hanging down in shame, dignity lost Knowledge bought and sold, educators becoming vendors Splintered world, fortified and armed Brothers thirsty for each others blood Falsities and lies, masks and veiled women and men Turning away from verity Exhausted society, too tired to move Blackened waters, fast running dry Stagnant, rotting thoughts, the pungent odor spreading The father in deep sleep, the nation living nightmares. -Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P)

GETTING EMOTIONAL OVER A MAD MAN

-Varun Patil, M. A. (F)

What do you mean he just left? Did he say where to? Didnt anyone try to look for him? I yelled across to my friends. Taken aback at my sudden outburst, my friends looked at me as though I had gone mad. One friend replied sarcastically Maybe after a ll these years he finally felt the need to take a vacation. Another one added What are you getting so needlessly emotional for? He was just a Mad man. I went back to my house and stood in the balcony. I knew they would not understand my outburst. I looked down to the road. From here, in the balcony, I often saw the mad man pass by with his faithful mongrels closely following him. I was sure he would soon turn up. I thought of what my friends had said about him. True he was just a mad man; a man I had not even spoken to, in my entire life. So was I getting needlessly emotional? I wondered. Growing up as a kid in the cantonment area of Bangalore, my neighbourhood was the entire universe to me. I treasured every part of it be it animate or inanimate. In the mornings one used to derive strange thrill watching the milkman milk his cow. After the morning walk I loved to sit under the popular gulmohar tree in the local park, where senior citizens sat reminiscing about the good old times. In the evenings I sat in the balcony watching the clan of parrots residing in my neighbours tree. I even loved the old abandoned Mitsubishi truck in our street which served as the four- boundary for our daily game of galli cricket. Then there was the local grocery store run by a bunch of enterprising Malyalis, who sold everything from pulses to greeting cards. It was the jaan of the locality where people came as much to socialize, as to buy. A place where aunties could share the recipes and the latest neighbourhood gossips with each other. It also was the only hangout zone for the kids till CCDs and Baristas began their invasion into our sleepy neighbourhood. But most of all what I cherished most about the old neighbourhood was the mad man. No one really knew who he was or why he had gone mad. All they knew was that he had lived in the neighbourhood as long as they could remember. The entire neighbourhood just referred to him as The mad man. And why shouldnt they have?

Unlike most of its residents who lived in 100 x 100 bungalows The mad man laughed at the very idea of private property, preferring the whole world to be his home. He was almost archaic as seen by his use of foot for mode of transportation rather than relying on Toyotas or Chevys. His friend circle was a very modest one consisting of mostly abandoned dogs. Rather than following tweets of his fellow famous Homo sapiens the mad man choose to follow the tweets of ordinary two- winged creatures. In this age of globalization where Thomas L Friedman was the anointed guru, he chose to follow the philosophy of frugal and simple living given by a much forgotten guru called Gandhi. No wonder the locals referred to him as the mad man! As I grew up, I was finally confronted with the old adage that change was the only unchangeable thing. Soon I began to realize that my neighbourhood would never be the same. Things I cherished about the neighbourhood began to disappear one after another. The parrot clan was the first to go; they migrated elsewhere after heavy monsoon rains virtually destroyed the neighbours tree. Next to go was the much loved gulmohar tree in the park which was axed to give way to an ugly musical fountain which spewed out the latest item numbers. One fine morning I saw the cow turn up without its master. Later I found out that he was murdered in a minor property dispute. Our boundary-the Mitsubishi was finally sold to a scrap dealer. Worst of all the local grocery store was replaced by a corporate retail giant. Now buying had become a highly impersonal affair. Only one thing still remained. The Mad man was still there. Then the famous IT boom happened. The garden city morphed into the Silicon Valley. Demography of the neighbourhood began to change as rich migrants began to pour into the neighbourhood. Families who had stayed here for generations moved out as they could no longer afford the high rents. Many offices sprang up in the locality; it was no longer the sleepy neighbourhood we had grown up in. The Mad man was still holding on. I began to jokingly refer to him as the last man standing. I left for Delhi to pursue my higher education and after completion, returned home to take up a job. As I went around for a walk with my friends in the old neighbourhood, I had a feeling that something was amiss. The mad man was not there. I enquired around and was told that no one had seen him for some time now. I waited for days, he did not turn up. I was distraught. I knew that he would disappear one day from the neighbourhood. Only that I never anticipated it to happen in my lifetime. I stood in the balcony for a long time. It was already dark and there was no sign of him. I was disappointed. As I went to bed I began to wonder, maybe as my friend had suggested, he really might have felt the need to take a vacation. Then I asked myself who am I kidding, he was gone and that was all. So, was I getting needlessly emotional? I dont know. All I know is that life in my neighbourhood will never be the same. -Varun Patil, M. A. (F) 8


Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P)

, .. ..
This poem is about how dreams have lost their serenity/softness in the harshness of time. Our humanity has transformed into a snail with a shell to hide itself. No more do we bother to look around to feel the flowers blooming, the seasons playing their magic or love igniting the desires in an innocent heart. Man has cocooned himself inside his own world of self-interest from which s/he is unable to react or is blind to the facts/emotions/feelings of the outside world. A stone in the pond sometimes attempts to awaken her/his humanity but s/he is often reluctant to come out of the shell and humanity echoes itself to death.

- Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P)

Aarushie Sharma, M.A. (P)

SWEET FREEDOM

Freedom is sweet. Isnt it? Those who have tasted it, sing nostalgia of the days it was sweeter. Those who havent, sing fantasies of the way it will be the sweetest. But there is this side of freedom which started affecting me a while ago or rather when I turned towards it to acknowledge it existed. Two years back, I was walking out of an eatery on a busy food street when we friends heard some noises. Seeing a crowded group, I was quick to judge it as a film shooting. It wasnt one. Unfortunately. Getting closer, I realized the sounds werent pleasant. The sight was neither. There was a broken car in the background on which rested an injured young adult. Facing him was this macho man who was the cause of the noise. The noise was the audible effort of energy he was putting in to get his arm in free full swing to punch the already much punched fellow. The poor fellow, having realized his physical strength was no match to the man facing him, stood obediently, getting beaten up dutifully. I remember feeling paralyzed by the ugly sight just when we heard even more noises. I was preparing myself to witness the associated fight going on behind this one but my friends pulled me out and ordered we leave immediately, realizing the second one was uglier. How I wished it was the reel. It wasnt one. Unfortunately. I was silent on the rickshaw. I remained silent for quite some time, trying to find a sense of meaning from whatever was going on. My mind quickly arranged a flashback of all such similar events I had witnessed in the past, of less intensity though. Road rage is a common sight in a city like Delhi. I remember feeling uncomfortable seeing a man coming out of his car, pulling out the apologetic fellow who had banged his car into the formers expensive inv estment and slapping him in the middle of the road. I clearly recall a man beating up an auto driver, while the latter with folded hands pleaded to be left. He couldnt have been. He was less rich, less powerful and his vehicle had a wheel less. I was on a bus and the moment I got off, I called the Delhi Police. They responded very swiftly but by the time they reached the venue, the fight was off and the traffic ran as normal. It had to. We are a fast city. I questioned for days the spontaneity and convenience with which a fellow being can be beaten up, humiliated and molested. Physical strength, class, money, political power all could be reasons to justify these acts. But the gravity runs deeper... much deeper. I havent yet found the meaning I set out to s eek but something that struck me in all these cases is the boundless freedom. Freedom which knows no tolerance. Freedom which is dark. Freedom which is dangerous. Freedom which even in silence makes noises. Freedom which jettisons others freedom. Freedom which is not scared. Freedom to express. Freedom to hit. Freedom to hurt. Freedom which freely asserts - Freedom. Freedom which is without self-rule. Azaadi bin swaraj. All freedom is sweet. I doubt. -Aarushie Sharma, M.A. (P)

10

ME AND MY FREEDOM
Arif Hayat, M.A. (P)

For reasons now known to me, when I hear the word freedom the image that I get in my mind is not one of white doves flying peacefully in a vibrant blue sky. Rather it is a very violent image filled with the sounds of trotting army boots, gun shots and the deafening silence that engulfed our lives after sunset. I remember me and my cousins used to play a game of identifying the type of gun by listening to the sound of the shots being fired; single shots with a piercing sound: pistol; a volley of bullets: AK-47; so on and so forth. I had my personal games as well where I would sit on the terrace and predict whether there would be gunfire today or not and I felt so proud of my foretelling abilities when it turned out to be true every single time. I might be painting a gloomy picture but thats a part of growing up in Kashmir. The slogans of ham kya chahte, aazaadi, jiss Kashmir ko khoon se seencha woh Kashmir hamaara hai and several others become a part of our socialization. Very early in life you realize that you are not children of peaceful times but the unfortunate children of conflict brought up in a culture of gunshots. Perhaps most people of my generation, who were born after the first half of the 80s was over, will have only this image of freedom because we never witnessed freedom. We are quite unknown to the conception of freedom. In fact our ideas of freedom are not even close to what normal children would think of. What we got when we were kids were mainly two readymade versions of freedom- one was a radical Islamist version and the other a concessional version of the Indian government. There was no other choice and it was mandatory to choose. You couldnt do otherwise as you cant be neutral in conflict, you have to take sides. If you dont do it consciously, the situations will make you choose. So, they are not really choices in that sense. Even if the former is seen as a choice to a certain extent but the free space created by the concessions of the Indian state was always superimposed and used as an intoxication by the state to maintain a superficial sense of peace and calm. But as Michel Foucault says in his book History of Sexuality that under any superficial layer of peace there lays a continuous and 11

omnipresent state of war, similarly in Kashmir there has been a state of war under the pseudopeace established through the brokerage of concessions. It is this condition of pseudo-peace that is broken down when we hear about the incidents of resistance which the state chooses to call violence. What these two readymade choices of freedom did was a murder of the Kashmiri sense of freedom embedded in Kashmiriyat, which was full of song and dance and a perfect blend of the local faiths and Sufism. Kashmir had never adopted the textual version of Islam. A testimony to this is the presence of so many dargahs across Kashmir, which celebrates the lives of the sufi saints. If the religious leaders, who are quite prompt in issuing fatwas against people like Salman Rushdie, listen to the popular jokes, particularly in the rural areas of Kashmir, I think they would be scandalized by the sheer extent of the humour. One or two might have a heart attack as well. It is the death of this freedom, which my grandparents said they witnessed, that I cry for. I think both India and Pakistan should be tried in an international court of justice, not the UN one which is an instrument for legitimizing Americas attempts at distributing freed om and democracy, but some other court which is actually just, may be in the court of a secular and a rational God, if there is any. -Arif Hayat, M.A. (P)

12

Sanjive Rai, M.A. (P) Gone are the years, when life was joy and moments bliss; No worries, No duties; eat, play, sleep was all one desired and did; A carefree and boundless activity filled days; Oh time! How swiftly you flew and took it all away.

REVERIE

With each passing day as I grew; Bounded and tangled with everything new; Nothing seemed more satisfying or real; Where all appear a sheer desire and an ordeal;

Compete, struggle, achieve; Is all thats become a task and a deal; In such pursuit often do I find myself missing; And I ask myself, Is this life worth living?

Time and again I wonder, what is this life I am living? Where limits and boundaries seems always constraining; Where I feel lost in the midst of everything; Moments, when I feel like quitting.

Oh childhood! Where have you gone? I long and search for you from dawn till sundown; Come back and engulf me in your affectionate wings; Where I can repose and relive my unending memories.

13

How dearly I wish I were a bird, a river or the breeze; And wander, undisturbed, in my never ending journey; Where lifes a joy and moments bliss; No worries, No duties; eat, play, sleep is all one desire and did. - Sanjive Rai, M.A. (P)

Source: http://500px.com/jackhope

Kim Van Kastel, M.A. Exchange Student Dit is het punt tot waar ze met me mee kunnen lopen. Langzaam ontlaad ik mezelf van alles wat ik mee gaat nemen. Ze willen ieder een moment met me alleen. Even een omhelzing, even nog een kus. Ik zie jezelf in de betraande ogen van mijn moeder. Ik zie mezelf in die van haar moeder. Achter de schittering van hun verdriet, schuilt trots en begrip voor mijn keuze. In al hun emoties, sta ik, en ik kijk er alleen maar naar. Hoewel ik wist dat dit moment zou komen. Veel van wat aanvankelijk alleen in de verbeelding bestond, wordt nu werkelijkheid. Eenmaal opgeladen aan hun liefde en gelukswensen, pak ik mijn tas op van de grond. Niemand zegt dat me dat ik kan gaan, dus ik neem zelf de eerste de stap. Plotseling word ik me bewust van mijn lichaam dat zich van hen vandaan beweegt. Bij de balie geef ik mijn paspoort op voor controle aan een jonge, vriendelijke man. Hij gebaart me door te lopen. Nog eenmaal werp ik een blik achterom voordat ik besluit de hoek om te gaan. Ik gun ze mijn meest gracieuze glimlach in de hoop dat het zoiets zal zeggen als; 'bedankt voor het vertrouwen.' Ze zwaaien, ze huilen en in minder dan een paar seconden verdwijn ik uit hun gezichtsveld. De stappen die hierop volgen, voelen werkelijk alsof ik zweef, hoewel het vliegtuig nog gestandig gegrond is. Alles waar ik aan ga beginnen, zal ik doen op basis van mijn eigen keuze en is gebouwd met mijn eigen kracht. Ik berust in een prachtig en alomvattend besef. In dit leven is het niet belangrijk om fysiek sterk te zijn, maar wel om je sterk te voelen. De kracht die wel hebben in onszelf maakt vrij!

Vliegveld (Airport)

14

Airport
In fact this is a personal anecdote. The first couple of lines illustrate the strange mixture of feelings I had when saying goodbye to my loved ones in the Netherlands. Partly it was an experience of gratitude for the fact that although it hurt and frightened them that I was leaving them, they trusted the rightness of my choice and they respected it. Other than that this was also an experience of growing consciousness of my bodily movements and the exact physical distance I held from each one of them in that moment. Then I move on to describe the subtle sense of agency that entered my mind after letting go of their hands, hugs and teary gazes. I realised I was doing something out of my own will and build on mainly on my own strength. I looked back only once and left them with the most gracious smile I could possibly offer them. In the very few steps that I took after that point, a sensation of ultimate freedom came to me. Every step distanced me more from them, and I felt no doubt. It almost felt that I was flying already, though the airplane was still on the ground. I conclude the short anecdote with an enlightening thought I had in those very steps when I was walking alone towards the gate of departure. -That it is not important in life to be physically strong, but rather to feel strong. Inner strength is the ultimate source of freedom!

-Kim Van Kastel, M.A. Exchange Student

15

THE HOSTEL GATES

Avipsha Das, M.A. (P) The gatekeeper bhaiya is the master, at the brink of two worlds - which they call unsafe and safe. His tough uniform, his bold moustache is all that he needs to keep together what he works for - the security of women. Not a gun, not a lathi, hardly ever sometimes a torch- but just registers, big old thick yellow registers which read names, unnecessary details which you are not supposed to play around with, some columns for time, a pen tied to a thread across the window and his mobile charging - is all he has to transform that space as safe. He will not shy away from challenging you how unsafe it is right outside the gate at the entrance, right after 7:29 PM (If you are in your under graduation and 9:55 PM if you are doing your Masters, M.Phil or whatever). His deconstruction is quite very simple. He mercilessly divides the two worlds, emphasizing his role as the gatekeeper. The problem here is, in one of these worlds I exercise what could if tangibly be realized- freedom, and the other world is yes, some other world. It is funny. It is seriously funny. He is happy for me, when I sign on time. So are my parents glad, and feel secure about the virgin from home. The hostel authorities, parents, the University rules all work on stereotypical events of what could possibly happen with this body of women. The University, then, invents new laws of time and space for women. In the transaction is sanctioned those few night - outs' and Late nights. I then, surrender my freedom to a probability. Dark night, a group of men, tall and dark, well built - you cant fight them alone, they might want your money and mobile but meanwhile harm you, touch you at wrong places, worse -rape you, murder you,- Dilli is very unsafe. It will be so disturbing, so harassing. So to avoid all the above eventful, all I need to do is sacrifice my right, my little freedom - my short summer night. So I contribute my part every single night, being locked inside, to keep up the name of the city - the Dilli unsafe, the Dilli at night, the Dilli outside. My hostel gates politically stand for this fact. This ridiculous rationalization of my safety not only questions the intentions of my esteemed institution, but also thoroughly baffles my understanding of freedom, me being myself. It brilliantly takes away my confidence, my right to take risks. This patriarchy is truly a dark force. It needs street-lights and not locks and gates. My road not taken is the road at night. If that is freedom, great! I dont have it! Somebody PLEASE give me back the night. -Avipsha Das, M.A. (P)

16

BEYOND THE UNSPOKEN

Sanjana Arya M.A. (Final) I see them at a distance not so far away As dry as the desert As wet as the sea Conveying a story as deep as an ocean Those eyes seek comfort in the commotion of thee They smile at once, at once they weep As I try hard to fathom the grief they keep as a secret beneath. As I try to concentrate, They give me a look, blank and decide not to speak. They speak not, yet tell a thousand tales Showing a common story just with different shapes. Rested on a fruitless tree, Those are also the eyes on one side of the road holding that small pinky. Trapped in the web hidden under the cloak of invisibility Freedom is what they seek. At one end they break stones on the road, At another, they toil hard within the four walls. Caught in a fork of dictated pathways All they desire is a new way. Pink is the color, doll is the toy, They are told - we allowed you to see the light How dare you try a different stroke? Enjoyment is a burden Leisure, a dream Trapped they are they say, like a fish in the waterless sea! Freedom is a tangible reality only while dreaming, Trying hard to survive through bargaining. Little of bargain you will get, born that way...What else do you expect?! They go door to door, seek help Realizing little the doors they knock on are helpless themselves I decide to now cover the gap A closer look at them leaves me spellbound As beneath the pain they reveal, There lies a spark waiting to be found Deep inside they show faith, reflect honesty in the efforts made The immense strength they exhale leaves me transformed Stay, look & make an attempt to fathom & you too will experience this cathartic change. -Sanjana Arya M.A. (Final)

17

 Rituparna Patgiri, M.A. (P)

" "??

l l - l l l ! - " - l" '' l '' l l l , l - - l l l -" ?" l l l l -" l"- l , l l l l - l - l ? ? ( ? - , - , !) ? , l , - - - l - ? ? l l l l ? ? ( l l)

The piece is a collection of personal anecdotes which look at the some of the you should not do it moments of my life. I did not understand what the problem was if I played tennis, went to a temple if I had not taken a bath, laughed loudly, married a Punjabi person or went to a bar. Was all these problematic because I am a girl? It is not that I have figured out the answers to these questions. But now I have at least realized that these are problems that need to be raised. I am still searching for freedom meanwhile. - Rituparna Patgiri, M.A. (P)

18

Devleena Chatterjee, M.A. (F)

HARD TIMES

Education is not experience Eight years of college and achieving a PhD Is no longer experience in these hard times Of unreported unemployed voices Of ignored college graduates Of desperate youth As well as desperate old In these times Education is overlooked Pale profit wins over strong ethics Our youths get pushed further Further away from their hard earned achievements Further away from their intricate dreams In these times Fresh bread rots in wait for someone to reach out Experience overtakes knowledge Education becomes an expensive burden The educated are the punished When they should be awarded Education is no longer counted as experience Our interactions with one another Is no longer experience Experience flows by the documentation of a paycheck they say To be qualified We must be paid to interact with each other We must be paid to develop our skills When in reality We pay for our education ourselves And in our education in which we pay We interact and learn from others without demanding to be paid In the eyes of the employer What employers dont realize is Education is a full-time job A full time job that we do not get paid for Education doesnt employ us We employ education for ourselves Yet, education is still not experience When will they open their eyes and enlighten their minds? Education should never have to come last But should always come first No wonder we are behind. -Devleena Chatterjee, M.A. (F) 19

Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P)

THE PURPLE SUN

He sat cross legged on the floor. The white sheets of drawing book seemed inviting. Beside it was his new crayon box. 48 shades. Slowly he removed the cover and took a whiff. Oh, the beautiful fragrance of crayons! After much contemplation, he drew a big sun at the centre of the drawing sheet. He tilted his head left and right in serious thought and then, with a stroke of brilliance, coloured it a bright purple. Looking at the finished work, his face widened into a bright smile at his own genius. You silly boy! the teacher said. You cant even draw a sun properly. Then, raising the drawing book to the entire class, she sniggered, Has anyone ever seen a purple sun? The class roared with laughter, and feeling quite stupid, he walked back to his bench, head hung down. As he grew older, his drawing grew better, his lines more defined. He learnt all the correct shapes and colours. He now knew the sun was supposed to be yellow and even learnt to shade it with some orange. His art had more shades of greys and browns and tans. And once he learnt pencil shading, there was no more need of colours at all. His work began to be more and more appreciated at school. Then one day he had stopped drawing and painting. The tiny girl pulled out a sketch from one of the boxes in the store room, when her mother was on a cleaning spree. But this is really bad! she exclaimed. Let me take it to my room and see if I can make it better. Her mother smiled not even glancing at the sketch, happy to have her out of her way. He saw her sitting on the floor of her room, bent over the drawing sheet. The sketch of a sad and thoughtful looking woman. This had been his best appreciated work at school. They had even called it his own Mona Lisa. She had drawn a large butterfly on it and filled it with all the colours possible. Next, she picked up a bright green crayon and started to colour the womans hair. He was about to stop her when she turned to the door and saw him. She gave a wide grin and said Look papa, Ive made your drawi ng so much prettier. He looked at her, then at the drawing sheet. Slowly he walked into the room and sat beside her. The crayon box was open. He picked up one and examined it.

20

She pinned the drawing on the wall. Stepping back she said, Now, it looks nice! And both of them stood there admiring the butterfly, the green- haired woman and the bright purple sun on the corner of the sheet. As a kid I had once drawn a purple sun, because my father had happened to tell me sunlight has several colours. He still keeps the drawing. This short story is to thank him for never telling me the sun was actually yellow.

-Pratichi Majumdar, M.A. (P)

THE FREEDOM OF SPEECH AND EXPRESSION

Dinesh Meena, M.A. (P)

For a layman the right to freedom of expression and speech stands for the ability of an individual to express his views or opinion on any issue. He has the right to air his opinion by speaking, writing, through a work of art or by other means. The right to freedom of speech and expression is enshrined as a fundamental right under article 19(1) (a) of the Constitution of India. Freedom of expression means the right to express ones opinion by words of mouth, writing, printing, film or in any other manner. Such is the significance of this right in a democracy that without this right, the attempt to achieve principles of democracy would only be a hollow formality. Although this right has wide amplitude, our Constitution mandates that when seeking to uphold the larger interest of society the rights of an individual must give way to collective rights. It is for this purpose that Article 19 is qualified by reasonable restrictions under clause 19(2) of the Constitution. However, to preserve the essence of democracy and the state from exercising its will arbitrarily, it is required that such restrictions must only be imposed with a great amount of care and caution. In this article, I want to focus on two events which were in the news in January, 2013. First, Vishwaroopam joined a long list of films (including Aarakshan, Ore Oru Gramathile, Dam 999, Da Vinci Code and more) whose screenings were banned by the state. The social issue raised by them was seemingly understood as being bold or uncomfortable and seemed to clash with the interests of certain sections of society. The second event was Ashish Nandys controversial statement at Jaipur literature festival. He is reported to have said that most people caught for corruption are from the backward classes. This statement was interpreted as anti -dalit or antibackward classes by certain sections or groups and it resulted in a FIR that was lodged against him. These developments once again raised the question regarding the Indian nations truly coming of age. The issue in question was whether the freedom to express is subservient to the subjective satisfaction of the state. In Vishwaroopams case, the state banned the movie anticipating violence and chaos in the country. Whereas in Ashish Nandys case, some groups lodged the FIR against him as they interpreted his statement regarding corruption to be anti-dalit. In both cases it could be said that the individuals opinion clashed with that of society, as individuals opinion was not in line with the interest of the larger society. So, state had to interfere in ord er to maintain law and order and to ensure that

21

chaotic events of violence did not occur. The state's decision was also aimed at ensuring the interests of the larger society which should not be endangered by the interest of individuals. Thus, when we talk about the freedom of speech and expression of individuals, one has to keep the specificities of context in mind. The state exercises its power to limit this freedom by anticipating danger. Anticipated danger should not be remote, conjectural, or far-fetched. It should have a proximate and direct nexus with the expression. The expression of thought should not be intrinsically dangerous to public interest. There does not seem to be a formula regarding the appropriate or desirable exercise of the right and als o with regard to its reasonable regulation by the state. In my view, a case to case based approach seems to be an option worth thinking about.

-Dinesh Meena, M.A. (P)

Neha Rachel Abraham, M.A. (P)

MUUUUURRRKKKKAH!

There was one point on which the Party and the people, including me, were in full agreement: life was always easier with a song. A song would not feed you when you were hungry, get you out of prison, or deflect a bullet in the war, but it made things a little more bearable.... In the midst of poverty, hunger, winter cold, drab clothes, cramped lodgings, worry, and homework, they were cherished by me and my friends, and we would sing them together, or defiantly solo under our breath trudging to school through a snow blizzard. - Zygmunt Frankel, Siberian Diary, (describing conditions faced by the thousands of families deported from Eastern Poland to Siberia in 1940) Blatnaya pesnia or criminal song was a genre based on criminal folklore that wittily celebrated the underworld, hugely popular during the Communist Era (1917-1989) of the Soviet Union. These songs were perceived as crass and vulgar, a distinctly working class phenomenon and those who listened to this music often did have connections with the underworld, ties which had become crucial in the midst of scarcity and oppression. Po blatu meant through the necessary connections, underground networks that were romanticised in blatnaya pesnia or blatnyak. Murka was one song that was, and continues to be particularly well liked, ...the reigning queen of all the underground songs and characters writes Frankel. If you can be a little in love with someone who had either never existed or had been dead for a long time, then all of us, I think, were in love with Murka, and, no police files and photographs being available, each of us was free to imagine her as he pleased. My own Murka was almost my own height on high heels, blond, with a sexy slightly plump body and a melodious low voice; usually cool and composed, and a good shot with her revolver, she would grow soft and breathless when I held her tight.

22

This ballad is about a moll, slang for prostitute... Decent girls who had been named Maria at birth might later be known as Marusya, Manya, or Masha. An even more caressing diminutive made them Marusyenka, Manyushka, or Mashenka To be known as Murka, you had to be something else, with sharp teeth and claws. Our chief she is a looker, goes by the name of Murka/ Crafty and audacious as a guy/ Even the toughest bosser knows better than to cross her/ While we rob and steal and eye her on the sly She turns informant to the Cheka, giving out details on the operations of the gang, eventually shot for selling out. Now, my darling Murka, now, you little shirker/ You've been such a mistress of disguise/You have plowed us under, it's your final blunder/ Here's a bullet right between your eyes. The quintessentially Russian slang does not find counterparts in English. But for an outsider to really appreciate the humour, the context in which they were written is telling. Most blatnaya pesnii were associated with Odessa, a port city which is renowned as the humour capital of the Soviet Union. A meeting point for Russian and Yiddish culture, the humour itself writes Robert Rothstein is said to have a Jewish sensibility; Odessans for instance are caricaturised as misusing cases which is often seen as a Yiddish influence. This is interesting in light of the strong anti-Semitic sentiment in the USSR. Odessa had been one of the few places where the Jews were free to settle, outside of the Pale of Settlement created by Catherine the Great in 1791. Here one found a liberal freedom (this would change with the anti-Jewish pogroms), which was modern and cosmopolitan and there was a sense of pride that Odessans felt; they were Odessans first and Russian or Ukrainian second. I was born in Odessa. You think I'm bragging? But it's really true. Many people would like to have been born in Odessa, but not everyone manages to Jazzman Leonid Utesov who popularised blatnyak, on the first page of his autobiography. Blatnyak was all about betrayal, love, and separation through imprisonment and the tunes were simple yet catchy. A performers ability to improvise, with a guttural tone and a liberal use of slang was his mark of ingenuity, which is why Magnitizdat or live recordings circulated underground, became prized possessions that were carefully collected by enthusiasts for intonatsia could not be captured through transcription. Recordings were smuggled outside the country with a number of songs also coming in from the Soviet Diaspora. Many variants of these ballads, all reflective of prison life eventually crept into the mainstream as Russian Chanson, with the end of the Communist period in the 1990s. In the initial quote Zygmunt Frankel writes of untold hardships. These songs may have been amusing, but they spoke of a way of life the existence of which the regime was determined to conceal. Even listening to this music was a risk for almost anything could be construed as counter-revolutionary and one had to be perpetually mindful of invisible 23

informants, lurking in the vicinity. In the face of an imposingly powerful state, humming these tunes was an act of defiance, a tiny window of escape when people freely chose to ignore harsh realities. May, as they say, the earth lie lightly upon you, Murka. Had we met, I am not sure you would have looked at me twice, thin, skinny, hungry, Jewish, and without money or gun in my pocket; and if you did, my mother would not have approved of you. This little wreath of little black printed letters [lies] on your grave, Murka, wherever it might be. Sweet dreams. - Zygmunt Frankel, Siberian Diary. This is a link to a translation of the entire song: http://mudcat.org/Detail.CFM?messages__Message_ID=2209492 Note Here the word Urkagani is plural for Urkagan which means cutthroat. As sung by Arcadiy Severny http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=19BT4X4YMpw Performed by VulgarGrad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCKfZcPObKE
Arcadiy Severny, leading prison bard of the 1960s and 70s. The pseudonym Severny meant North, since most convicts were sent up North. In between his songs would repeat: "In Odessa-" "Back when I was in Odessa-" and so forth. Because of his put on Odessan manner, many believed that the singer was from Odessa.

Source: www.russia-ic.com

Leonid Utesov performed Blatnyak pieces with his orchestra. He even sang at the Kremlin, at the request of Stalin himself. Source: http://ceintsdebakelite.com

24

Popular band since 1990, Lesopoval which means timber-felling, named after a brutal form of forced labor in the camps. Source: www.xlyrics.de

Melbourne based VulgarGrad, which is a collaboration of specialist underground ethnic musicians, who perform Blatnyak. Source: vulgargrad.com

Neha Rachel Abraham, M.A. (P)

25

Rashmi Kumari, M.A. (P) The idea of freedom... freedom of what!! Often this question arises in my head and I end up thinking what is it that I want freedom from? Do I want freedom from myself! The self which has been construed in this imperfect world? The self which is in constant contradiction with the free soul? A part of that self was created in the womb of a woman. I remember my mother's eyes which did not want to believe that her child was a girl - again! There were instances where I would here my parents arguing over issues of family planning. It sometime left me in the impression that my mother never wanted me and my sisters (though I don't want to believe it). I grew up and another part of me was shaped in one of the most sophisticated manufacturing units of the modern world where 'education' is produced. Everyday, in the school diary I read the proud motto of my school which said you give me your child and I will give you a 'better' citizen. What is it that needed to be bettered? I further grew up and another part of the self was molded. I was told by other similar older selves that I was a girl and I should not be playing outside with boys, I should not be wearing knee exposing skirts, I should not be laughing loud or talk back when others are advising. I abode with it though a bit of rebellion was accommodated. I thought I was lucky for the opportunity that I got to go out of a village to a cosmopolitan city. I boosted about it to my girlfriends. I was told now that you will get freedom, dont misuse it. I went to study from a girls high school to a women's college... I remember the year I got admission, a new rule had been passed that the girls should not wear jeans below the waistline, they should not wear tops below the neckline, no backless blouses, no skirts above the knee and etc. Now I had all the 'freedom' to buy salwars instead. Oh I was lucky again. I got a job and thought now I will finally get my freedom. In the workplace I was in a team comprised only of women. It was often commented that I was very different because I did not wear long 'Westside' Kurtas, I made male friends from other teams. I was further asked questions by my team members Dont know what you do after work... Saw you with those men in the cafeteria. I smiled that off. I was the luckiest girl. My boyfriend was from the same caste. But now it was time for the redressal of that self. The self which was spoilt by too much freedom. I was told to remember my ground, to remember that it was not me who decides whom to marry. And here I went against patriarchy to marry the man I had chosen. I am married now, to another culture, another city, another language, but the self-molding process continues. And now I am often advised that I should not ask my husband to help me in the kitchen. I am frowned at when I discuss his work, criticize him or get cozy openly. Amidst all this the question of freedom remains at the back of my mind. How do I solve this contradiction between this socially trained self and the soul? Do I want to be free of that self or be in the denial of the soul? -Rashmi Kumari, M.A. (P)

IN A CONSTANT STRUGGLE...

26

CONSENT AND MUTUAL CONSENT

Eveleen Sidana, M.A. (F)

The binary between rape and marriage nucleating around one persons consent is worthy of being questioned Our society needs to recognize that women have a right over their bodies. In the times we live, unfortunately, rapes are explained and explained away in consent because it is difficult to establish whether one party in our case the woman - consented or not. Why is it difficult to establish the womans consent? Or let me put it another way. Why is the question of consent only relevant in the case of a woman? What about the mans consent? What about mutual consent? Mans consent Mans consent does not matter. He is always a willing party. The onus lies on the woman. For a man, the question is of access. Access to what? Access to the body of another person. There are connotations for a woman who access mans body outside the permission granted by the norm. It is considered amoral, unethical and must be brought back into the fold of the social norm. Masculinity and femininity The aim of raising the question of mans consent is raising a question on sexuality both male and female. What would be the factors which contribute to a sexuality based on access to other bodies, such that even desire is constituted within the ambit of this access, not mutuality, attraction or interest? There are many kinds of desires. Desire constituted in mutuality, but also desire to possess and achieve, etc. Relationships among people co-move, they are mutually vectored towards consent hence mutual consent. But the discourse on access to another persons body narrows the question of consent to one person the woman. If she consents it is marriage, or love. If she does not it is rape. The binary between rape and marriage nucleating around one persons consent is worthy of being questioned. The mans sexuality built around access, the womans around consent. Can we talk about a womans desire without talking about what makes the woman, a woman? Sacrifice, emotionality, endurance

27

and suffering sprinkled with guilt in case the woman indulges in herself, works in her own interest, are the qualities described, respected, valued as feminine. So femininity is built around selfnegation. Masculinity around honour in possessing, femininity around honour in sacrificing. The next step cannot be mutual consent. Rather it leads to the womans consent to a mans permission of access to her body. The social has already ordained on the man, the access to the womans body. Asking the woman is just gentlemanly, just a formality, a particularity, while the universal is taken care of. Law as an institution is not outside the social, it derives its co-ordinates from the same context it addresses. Hence the law also raises questions or tries to give agency to the woman based on her consent. It is not equipped to further the change not in this case. Mutual Consent We need to raise the bar. Lets talk about association between men and women as mutual consent. This should not disturb the Indian family system because marriage presumes consent. It, however, will raise practical difficulties because it is not just a question of law, of implementation. It is a question of our capacity to create new values. It requires a different education of both men and women a change in the interactions which both men and women become part of and decide where they agree and disagree. They need to be treated equally without instilling in one fear of the other.

-Eveleen Sidana, M.A. (F)

28

Source: www.thehindubusinessline.com

AARTI AUNTYS FREEDOM

Aarushie Sharma, M.A She was small and timid but had a long and bold thick black plait. Her neatly tied plait was the most striking feature about her. Its length would definitely catch ones attention as it would sway to and fro, synchronizing its movements with her rhythmic sincere walks. I dont remember when Aarti Aunty started working at our place. She used to wash dishes at a couple of houses in the society and one fine day, she started working at our place too. She would work for an hour in the morning and after completing her cycle of work in different households, she would start her evening routine of washing dishes of half an- hour. The tiny break she would get between the morning-afternoon and evening shifts was consumed in a quick lunch and setting her own house in order. It was the evening half - hour which I used to get to talk to aunty. She was shy initially but once she shed her inhibitions, she chatted freely. I would always ask her about her hair and she would advice proudly. The fact that she would always be smiling, made me really fond of her. But the days she didnt, made me concerned. Aarti Aunty used to stay with her husband who was a rickshaw puller for primary school children. His employer was so happy with him, that he refused to let him go or change jobs. Their two children stayed back in a village in West Bengal with the other family members. The couples main motivation of staying independently in the city and working meagerly was to collect as much cash as possible for the childrens future. The days Aarti aunty didnt smile were the days she would miss her children immensely. Her smiles would return when she would hopefully come some evenings to announce that she would be going on a chhutti to be with her kids. Her smiles would struggle when some of her employers would question her about the duration, purpose and frequency of her chhuttis. Her smiles would shorten when her salary cuts were deliberately calculated and announced in front of her and her smiles would subside when she was told of the possibility of losing her job if she didnt return on time. But her smiles would absolutely drop the day she would come back, comprehending the long wait before she gets to see her kids again. Their life was an irony. The husband carried others children to school while his waited a decent school education and the wife made houses function while her home waited to be made. I

29

remember the days when aunty would be sick but would still go to work to save her holidays to be well spent. Her birthdays and anniversaries were no special occasions. She had no sunday off. She couldnt afford to fall ill often. She had to make peace with the boiling water of summers and the freezing floors of winters. She was immune to dirt. She had to be. The money she earned was not spent on her. The work she did seldom qualified as work. She was hardly praised. The sight of clean dishes was normalized in every household. But one unclean utensil would land her the same words that would make her smile struggle. One day Aarti aunty left the city with her husband to be with her kids. I was sad and happy. Happy to assume that she was finally free. But I wonder if she really was. She must have found some work nearby which would have bargained her physical capacity, calculated the amount of her tolerance power and caged her again. Its difficult to ascertain if one can ever be absolutely free. Whether one is relatively free can still be asked. I wonder if Aarti aunty is relatively freer now. But these answers would not reside in black and white. They love the grey, the color Aarti auntys hair never knew. The color I hope she herself never knew.

-Aarushie Sharma, M.A. (P)

EPOS OF A STRUMPET
Maitrayee Patar, M.A.(P)

Every night I kill my own shadow With all the paleness of the streetlights The hungry nights follow me. Lamp, darkness and lamp... Friends of my serenity! They say I am ugly, but Who does not know Of how many unsatisfied souls Am I the night-queen! Nights tear my flesh Loneliness sucks my blood Darkness stabs my soul Stranger to me is the shadow of my own... Yet, like a phoenix I rise At the death of each night, To light the lamp of my hut For another thousand nights...
-Maitrayee Patar, M.A.(P)

30

FREEDOM FROM LIFE OR FREEDOM TO LIVE

Elena Heisnam, M.A. (P) Freedom! We all talk about it, we all think we know about it and yes, we never stop arguing about it. Some say freedom is to live, some say freedom is to have dignity, some say it is to express ourselves, some say it is to live without fear and so on. In whatever form and whatever definition we may know it, it has something to do with satisfaction and happiness. But one definition that troubled me was when people said "freedom is death." I was stunned with this definition. I definitely wanted some explanation. And the explanation was "Freedom implies freeing oneself from all the sorrows and happiness that binds one in this life. As long as you live you are chained and constantly bothered by these two things. The only way to liberate yourself is when you die. Thus, freedom means the ultimate end, that is, death. I was not quite happy with this explanation. I had always wanted to experience freedom, the freedom for which generations have cried for and died for. Freedom I should say is not when you are liberated from slavery but when you do not have a means to feed yourself or a home to stay. Freedom is not when you have many mouths to feed while your nation is celebrating independence. Freedom is not when you constantly face discrimination within your country, community, your state. Freedom is not when you are blamed for a crime done against you because you move out at night just because you are a woman. Freedom means equality, justice, enough for all, respect for other beings and also respect for oneself. Freedom means peace with others and with oneself. If freedom means death, then why have so many wars been fought and blood been shed just to attain "freedom? Why can't one just kill oneself instead of going out to the streets in protest or battlefield for war. -Elena Heisnam, M.A. (P)

31

POEM BY AN UNKNOWN PAKISTANI CITIZEN:

Varun Patil, M. A. (F)

As imagined by an Indian
I know you people hate me and my nation I dont blame you; its been mired in controversy since its creation! I know you have already made up your mind But you seem to forget, we too face the same problems affecting mankind! Thousands are being killed here for fighting a war we did not ask Thousands are being raped here for challenging the feudal structure Thousands are being victimized here for practicing a different faith Thousands are being jailed here asking for Democracy I know you hate me and my nation I dont blame you; its been mired in controversy since its creation! I know you have already made up your mind But you seem to forget, we too face the same problems affecting mankind! - Varun Patil, M. A. (F)

32

Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P)

HUNGER

At a certain point of life, every human being begins to nourish the hidden desire of attaining all the riches. With all the hardships, one is reminded at least once in life that money determines to a great extent ones value. A tiny drop fell on Aparnas nose. While raising her dreamy eyes towards her old umbrella, a sad smile of familiarity touched Aparnas dry lips, one more hole, this time at the top.... The market chaos is usually at its peak around the evening. But today it seems her grapes will not be sold. Though she could easily see through the holes of her umbrella, yet Aparna lifted it a little to look at the sky. One more round of heavy rain hidden behind the dark clouds was about to pour. A stream of cold wind sent shivers down her body. She looked at the grapes No, she should not be hungry by now. Trying to ignore the grumbles in her stomach, she closed her eyes and a series of snaps formed a train before her closed eyes, her hut, Ma, little Punakon, their hungry faces... And at last the jacket. Aparna did not spend another moment to open her eyes. Her hand automatically went inside her pouchRs. 150... 30 rupees for saaul (rice) and potatoes Aparna had left school last year. She counted... 80 rupees more and she can buy the beautiful red jacket that she had seen in the market the other day. The bright colour of the jacket became the beautiful rainbow amidst the rain. Aparna felt warm. Yesterday night she dreamt of attending the Sunday prayers wearing the jacket. Everything was so bright; every object seemed to have attained charm with her colours. Robin was also there. She had noticed the admiration in his eyesit was so warm! Robins face...the jacketshe wants to dream that dream forever..!! How much are you giving the grapes for? A rude voice interrupted her day -dream. Aparna looked up. The lady, an aristocrat in her charms was frowning at Aparna. With her eyes adapted to such familiar voices of snobbery, Aparna responded casually. Her luck seemed to be favouring her today! The lady bought all the grapes! And here our heroine was with Rs. 250 in the pocket and a dazzling red jacket in her dreams! Suddenly she felt very rich! Happiness and hope are such beautiful feelings! They create anything from nowhere and the captivated mind just dances to their tunes. Aparna did not waste any more time. Closing her little sky-terraced shop she hurried to the shop. Her lips started humming an old song which she had heard Robin singing, often during the lunch breaks in school, days before. She tried to tame the smile that just peeped in with the song. She felt like a bird, singing Robins song. The next moment she saw herself in the church, in the red jacket, and Robin admiring her from the door. Hustle of the market interrupted her thoughts. She had already reached the clothe shop. Aparna stood still for a moment, hesitating. For the first time she was so close to her long cherished dreamUncle, that jacket.. ,she murmured. 33

Mumma, I want that red jacket. Its so beautiful! Suddenly a young girl rushed into that shop. The lady following her did not bargain. Pack that for my princess! The dream value of Rs. 500 walked away to disappear in the crowds. It was already dark. Aparna looked up at the sky. It had started raining slowly. Ma and Punakon must be very hungry. Aparna frowned at herself for being so irresponsible. Ma will be very angry with her for investing time in useless stuff. Robins face gradually disappeared in the dark. Dreams are too expensive to be realwhat took her so long to understand this!? -Maitrayee Patar, M.A. (P)

34

Arnav Das Sharma, M.A. (P)

ILIUM, TONIGHT

Tonight you begin your ceremonial cleansing after your indenture as a galley slave. The droopy eyes of your freckled ghost hangs below, tired after a long hard labor, as it catches its reflection on the mirrored streets after a sleety rain. It tugs at your elbow. A drowsy gnaw escapes from its lips in drools of cotton smoke. It knows that suffering is a padlock fastened to your freedom. That love began with her apple and shall end with your dust. Tonight the galley will be closed for the freedom to shine through. But the stony ramparts of your mind are sealed and you run towards the No Exit. You run towards him that walked on water and now stands on your parking lot. The word dribbles from his hand and melts. You search in vain for it in the grains of sand or among the jetsam of your childhood dreams. Your ghost knows that truth alone is not enough. And that faith is a beautiful visitor who seldom stays. Tonight you will burn in the cauldron of your love with her face as the oil. It was your prize to see her naked in her tower of atonement. She tore your mothers mourning cloak. She breached your walls and cut your throat. And she made you sit on the altars of immortality. You now stand near the gates of your Ilium, poisoned by your freedom. The proud forts have all fallen and the stars have crumbled to dust. You only hear a dirge-like whisper playing upon his harp. O you children of liberty, to suffer is to be free. -Arnav Das Sharma, M.A. (P)

35

36