AahsomeTheme FREEDOMISSUE #1

Cover art by Sveta Kuznetsova

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INTRO

K.A.Anand is the founder of Aahsome magazine. He is a User Experience Designer by profession and blogs about design and everything else here: http://rega.in

The main reason this magazine was started was twofold, to give

readers a chance to explore outside their usual boundaries. And

to give artists, writers and people with opinions, 10 minutes in

front of a larger audience.

The site for Aahsome was started on 15th August, and that would be

the primary reason for choosing Freedom as the theme for the first issue.

By freedom we meant not just freedom from a foreign power, but free-

dom in all meanings of the word.

Freedom always brings thoughts of Gandhiji or our colonial past, since

not being free as a country for so long has brought that aspect of freedom

to the foremost. What we don’t realize is that being free doesn’t necessar-

ily mean free from outside power. In fact we knowingly give away our free-

dom each day of our life. We loose our freedom to not buy, by watching

advertisements and getting emotionally affected into taking our wallets

out. We loose our freedom to think for ourselves when we start believing

in generally accepted notions of truth, without examining the logic our-

selves. We loose our freedom to act by choosing not to act. Most of these

losses are not because somebody came and took it by force, but we chose

to let our freedom go to rot. The notion of freedom is much more inside

each of us, and acts against freedom are much more rampant inside us,

than the ones that are shown in the daily news.

Freedom to me is best summarized by what Morpheus says to Neo, in

the movie Matrix, “I’m trying to free your mind, Neo. But I can only show

you the door. You’re the one that has to walk through it.” The final step

towards freedom has to be our own.

— K.A. Anand

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FEATURE

A humble idea that started out with a few enthusiastic people, is growing

to be a bigger, better project.

The wall project started with a blank white compound wall, with an

intense burning feeling of “something has to be done to it”. Set in an old

East Indian village in Bandra, colourful with people of many talents, all hid-

den in their tiny abodes.

It was an initiative to add visual elements of colour, form and texture to

a space, to make the area more alive and generate a feeling among people

who pass by it daily. Inviting more people, not just artists to come paint,

and to hunt for interesting locations to paint.

We hope the pictures in the following pages would inspire you!

D for

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There are more such events planned in other cities. Connect with The Wall Project on Facebook to stay in the loop.

Photos: The Wall Project and ht tp: //www.flickr.com/ photos/magiceye

FEATURE

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SARCASM

To the Honourable Members of the Chamber of Deputies

A PETITION from the manufacturers of candles, tapers, lanterns, sticks, street lamps, snuffers, and extinguishers, and from producers of tallow, oil, resin, alcohol,

and generally of everything connected with lighting.

Gentlemen, you are on the right track.

You reject abstract theories and little

regard for abundance and low prices.

You concern yourselves mainly with the fate of

the producer. You wish to free him from foreign

competition, that is, to reserve the domestic

market for domestic industry.

We come to offer you a wonderful opportunity

for your — what shall we call it? Your theory?

No, nothing is more deceptive than theory. Your

doctrine? Your system? Your principle? But you

dislike doctrines, you have a horror of systems,

as for principles, you deny that there are any in

political economy; therefore we shall call it your

practice — your practice without theory and

without principle.

We are suffering from the ruinous competition

of a rival who apparently works under conditions

so far superior to our own for the production of

light that he is flooding the domestic market

with it at an incredibly low price; for the moment

he appears, our sales cease, all the consumers

turn to him, and a branch of French industry

whose ramifications are innumerable is all at

once reduced to complete stagnation. This rival,

which is none other than the sun, is waging war

on us so mercilessly we suspect he is being stirred

up against us by perfidious Albion (excellent

diplomacy nowadays!), particularly because he

has for that haughty island a respect that he

does not show for us.

We ask you to be so good as to pass a law

requiring the closing of all windows, dormers,

skylights, inside and outside shutters, curtains,

casements, bull’s-eyes, deadlights, and blinds

— in short, all openings, holes, chinks, and

fissures through which the light of the sun is

wont to enter houses, to the detriment of the

fair industries with which, we are proud to say,

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SARCASM

we have endowed the country, a country that

cannot, without betraying ingratitude, abandon

us today to so unequal a combat.

Be good enough, honourable deputies, to

take our request seriously, and do not reject it

without at least hearing the reasons that we

have to advance in its support.

First, if you shut off as much as possible all ac-

cess to natural light, and thereby create a need

for artificial light, what industry in France will

not ultimately be encouraged?

If France consumes more tallow, there will

have to be more cattle and sheep, and, conse-

quently, we shall see an increase in cleared fields,

meat, wool, leather, and especially manure, the

basis of all agricultural wealth.

If France consumes more oil, we shall see

an expansion in the cultivation of the poppy,

the olive, and rapeseed. These rich yet soil-

exhausting plants will come at just the right

time to enable us to put to profitable use the

increased fertility that the breeding of cattle will

impart to the land. Our moors will be covered

with resinous trees. Numerous swarms of bees

will gather from our mountains the perfumed

treasures that today waste their fragrance, like

the flowers from which they emanate. Thus,

there is not one branch of agriculture that would

not undergo a great expansion.

The same holds true of shipping. Thousands

of vessels will engage in whaling, and in a short

time we shall have a fleet capable of upholding

the honour of France and of gratifying the patri-

otic aspirations of the undersigned petitioners,

chandlers, etc.

But what shall we say of the specialities of

Parisian manufacture? Henceforth you will behold

gilding, bronze, and crystal in candlesticks, in

lamps, in chandeliers, in candelabra sparkling in

spacious emporia compared with which those

of today are but stalls. There is no needy resin-

collector on the heights of his sand dunes, no

poor miner in the depths of his black pit, who

will not receive higher wages and enjoy increased

prosperity.

It needs but a little reflection, gentlemen,

to be convinced that there is perhaps not one

Frenchman, from the wealthy stockholder of

the Anzin Company to the humblest vendor

of matches, whose condition would not be im-

proved by the success of our petition.

Claude Frédéric Bastiat (30 June 1801 – 24 December 1850) was a French classical liberal theorist, political economist, and member of the French assembly.

Bastiat was the author of many works on economics and political economy, generally characterized by their clear organization, forceful argumentation and acerbic wit. Among his better known works is Economic Sophisms, which contains many strongly-worded attacks on statist policies. Bastiat wrote it while living in England to advise the shapers of the French Republic on pitfalls to avoid.

Bastiat’s argument cleverly highlights basic flaws in protectionism by demonstrating its absurdity through logical extremes.

Cla

claas

Bgaw

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We anticipate your objections, gentlemen,

but there is not a single one of them that you

have not picked up from the musty old books of

the advocates of free trade. We defy you to utter

a word against us that will not instantly rebound

against yourselves and the principle behind all

your policy.

Will you tell us that, though we may gain by

this protection, France will not gain at all, be-

cause the consumer will bear the expense?

We have our answer ready: you no longer

have the right to invoke the interests of the con-

sumer. You have sacrificed him whenever you

have found his interests opposed to those of the

producer. You have done so in order to encour-

age industry and to increase employment. For

the same reason you ought to do so this time too.

Indeed, you yourselves have anticipated this

objection. When told that the consumer has

a stake in the free entry of iron, coal, sesame,

wheat, and textiles, “Yes,” you reply, “but the

producer has a stake in their exclusion.” Very

well, surely if consumers have a stake in the ad-

mission of natural light, producers have a stake

in its interdiction.

“But, you may still say, the producer and the

consumer are one and the same person. If the

manufacturer profits by protection, he will make

the farmer prosperous. Contrariwise, if agricul-

ture is prosperous, it will open markets for man-

ufactured goods.’’ Very well, If you grant us a

monopoly over the production of lighting during

the day, first of all we shall buy large amounts

of tallow, charcoal, oil, resin, wax, alcohol, silver,

iron, bronze, and crystal, to supply our industry

and, moreover, we and our numerous suppliers,

having become rich, will consume a great deal

and spread prosperity into all areas of domestic

industry.

Will you say that the light of the sun is a

gratuitous gift of Nature, and that to reject such

gifts would be to reject wealth itself under the

pretext of encouraging the means of acquiring

it? But if you take this position, you strike a

mortal blow at your own policy; remember

that up to now you have always excluded

foreign goods because and in proportion as

they approximate gratuitous gifts. You have

only half as good a reason for complying with

the demands of other monopolists as you have

for granting our petition, which is in complete

accord with your established policy; and to

reject our demands precisely because they

are better founded than anyone else’s would

be tantamount to accepting the equation:

+ × + = -

In other words, it would be to heap absurdity

upon absurdity. Labour and Nature collaborate

in varying proportions, depending upon the

country and the climate, in the production of a

commodity. The part that Nature contributes is

always free of charge; it is the part contributed

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SARCASM

by human labour that constitutes value and is

paid for.

If an orange from Lisbon sells for half the

price of an orange from Paris, it is because the

natural heat of the sun, which is, of course, free

of charge, does for the former what the latter

owes to artificial heating, which necessarily has

to be paid for in the market.

Thus, when an orange reaches us from

Portugal, one can say that it is given to us half

free of charge, or, in other words, at half price as

compared with those from Paris.

Now, it is precisely on the basis of its being

semigratuitous (pardon the word) that you

maintain it should be barred. You ask: “How

can French labour withstand the competition

of foreign labour when the former has to do all

the work, whereas the latter has to do only half,

the sun taking care of the rest?” But if the fact

that a product is half free of charge leads you to

exclude it from competition, how can its being

totally free of charge induce you to admit it

into competition? Either you are not consistent,

or you should, after excluding what is half free

of charge as harmful to our domestic industry,

exclude what is totally gratuitous with all the

more reason and with twice the zeal.

To take another example: When a product,

coal, iron, wheat, or textiles comes to us from

abroad, and when we can acquire it for less

labour than if we produced it ourselves, the

difference is a gratuitous gift that is conferred

up on us. The size of this gift is proportionate to

the extent of this difference. It is a quarter, a half,

or three-quarters of the value of the product

if the foreigner asks of us only three-quarters,

one-half, or one-quarter as high a price. It is as

complete as it can be when the donor, like the

sun in providing us with light, asks nothing from

us. The question, and we pose it formally, is

whether what you desire for France is the benefit

of consumption free of charge or the alleged

advantages of onerous production. Make your

choice, but be logical; for as long as you ban, as

you do, foreign coal, iron, wheat, and textiles, in

proportion as their price approaches zero, how

inconsistent it would be to admit the light of the

sun, whose price is zero all day long!

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ART

“dillitown” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paperLimited edition

Meera Sethi

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Meera Sethi

ART

“Heaven on Earth” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paper

Limited edition

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Meera Sethi

ART

“Sadho, sabd sadhana kijai” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paperLimited edition

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Meera Sethi

ART

“Lahori” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paper

Limited edition

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Meera Sethi

ART

“pindi” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paperLimited edition

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Meera Sethi“Tat Tvam Asi” 2008-09 From the series “Word.”Giclee on archival paper

Limited edition

ART

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ART

Meera Sethi is a visual artist working in the mediums of painting, drawing, graphic design, and photography. Her artwork addresses the joys and challenges of living in a third space where two distinct cultures collide creating ruptures, fissures and hybrid ways of being and doing. This experience finds expression in the references to Indian and North American popular culture, textiles and patterns, contemporary fashion, clothing and religious and cultural identities found in her work. Meera’s aesthetic is full of minute detail, lush colour, geometric abstractions and minimalist clarity.

View some of Meera’s work at www.meerasethi.com.

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STORY

She picked up the photo frame of her niece

from the desk and looked at it for a mo-

ment. It was the first to go into the brown

cardboard box that the office had provided.

Next, she picked out the blue fiber tip pens from

the pen holder along with just one pink high-

lighter. The much-used Thesaurus was wrapped

with newspaper and tucked in a corner of the

box. It had been her travelling companion as

she’d navigated her way up the corporate ladder.

She sighed when she pulled out the magazines

that she’d been saving to read some day. Some

of them were two years old. Without another

thought, she tossed them in the bin.

She noticed a colleague looking at her from

the corner of his eye. He quickly averted his

gaze and started clicking his mouse furiously as

though a deadline loomed over his shoulder. She

also heard a few whispers behind her but didn’t

bother to turn. She guessed they would be talk-

ing about her. The office boy came straight to

her table with her favourite frothy cup of coffee

and placed it carefully amid the growing debris

on her desk. He muttered something under his

breath which she didn’t catch, and he walked

away, shaking his head.

As she sipped the hot liquid, she felt the

lump in her throat slowly melt, and she stole a

The Last Dayby Leela Alvares

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look at the half folded letter on the desk. The

words ‘economic downturn’ and ‘regrettably’

came in sharp focus, followed by ‘terminate’. A

short laugh almost escaped her lips, which she

converted into a cough. There was hysterical

laughter bubbling under the surface, she knew,

and the last thing she wanted was to make

a fool of herself. No, it wouldn’t do at all. She

arranged her features into an emotionless mask

and continued filling the box.

A hand pressed gently on her shoulder, and

she stiffened. It was her closest friend at work,

and she prayed that he wouldn’t say a word.

She could feel the waves of sympathy and pity,

even though no one would meet her eye. And

the tightly reined emotions were sure to give

way. So she didn’t acknowledge the hand on

the shoulder and merely gestured to the papers

that lay on the desk. He understood and started

gathering them for her.

When her desk had been stripped of all signs

of her, she stepped back and took a deep breath.

This was easier than expected, she thought sud-

denly. There was a strange feeling growing amid

the maelstrom of emotions within, and she

wasn’t sure if she could trust it yet.

“This is it… guys,” she said aloud, her voice

unnaturally calm. She lifted her chin and looked

around, her eyes radiating a confidence she

didn’t completely feel yet.

“It’s been a pleasure…” she continued, “well,

most of the time, at least.”

Her colleagues chuckled and came forward to

shake her hand and wish her luck, but without

looking her in the eye for long. Was it guilt, she

wondered? Guilt for the relief they felt that it

was her and not them.

She turned around and found her friend had

already picked up her box. She smiled at him and

walked ahead, lifting her head high. It finally

came to her, the feeling that she’d been trying to

give a name to. The feeling amid the shock of be-

ing terminated and the fear of being without a

job, even if it was a job she’d outgrown long ago.

It was relief, she realized. Relief at no longer

having to let a part of her die every day she came

to her mundane job. Relief at being finally able

to free the muzzled voice which sought expres-

sion in writing, in poetry, in song and art. Relief

at being finally able to see the sun and feel its

warmth on her face, rather than the dull glow of

a computer monitor.

Thank you, she whispered, tears flowing

freely now. Thank you, she said.

Leela Alvares is a copywriter from Bombay, now in Dubai. When she’s not extolling the virtues of brands, she writes articles, stories and bad poetry. If you’re patient, you’ll find her suddenly and magically on her blog absoluteleela.blogspot.com.

STORY

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COMICS

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COMICS

Contributed by Nitin Vetukar of

lafcomics.wordpress.com.

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FICTION

It was not just another winter morning in Tariq’s

life. Several people including him had waited for

this day to come — his father, friends and his

old time sweetheart — Neena. While his car sped

on the ring road, he could see the horizons of

Delhi, spires partially bathed in orange sun

and partially shining with shades of morn-

ing blue. When the car would leave the

highway and merge with the service road,

as every day, they were to get trapped in

the traffic; meaning it was still an hour

from his office. He started imagining the

outside scenery smelling of the Berry Patch

aroma that emerged from his car freshener

and pretended as if it was New York City,

the city of his dreams!

He had been to the US several times

before; on short term news reporting assignments. Six times

to New York City, once in a diplomatic dele-

gation with the Commerce minister of

India. In fact, his first trip abroad

was to New York too. The Ferry

to Staten Island, Bright LED

Digital Signage at Times

Square and the Malaysian

restaurants in China Town…

every bit of the city enam-

ored him. “The city has a sex

appeal”, he would tell Neena

over phone, “and I will marry

it before I marry you”. Neena

would smile and curiously start

asking about the Path ride be-

tween Jersey City and Manhattan.

The news house that Tariq had been

working with for years had a nominal

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representative office in New York City,

handled by one Ramesh Patel, an NRI who

actually worked as an independent columnist

for Wall Street Journal. Tariq’s writing style,

a mixture of news analysis blended with a

common man’s romanticism and down-to-

earth perspectives, had always appealed

to the masses. His weekly column of the

newspaper was gaining unprecedented

popularity with every passing year. That was

why in spite of several multinational news

agencies venturing into India, Tariq remained

with the same employer. Not that he never

thought for a change; but every time he did,

the Editor-in-Chief would come up with a

tempting salary hike. “Buddy, would you like

to fly to New York? We again need to cover

the Indian Entrepreneur summit there”, he

would say; and escort him to an instantly-

planned five-star dinner.

And yes, it was a trip to the same city when

he lost his mother. The reporting assignment

was too important to miss. Her sudden death

was a shock to him; but he could not have

flown back even if he could know about her

heart-attack three days before she died. The

only son in the family, Tariq could not even

come for the funeral ceremony. Two years

ago when Neena fractured her leg in a traffic

accident, Tariq was flying to Seattle the same

day for a reporting assignment. When he

learnt about the accident, Neena was in the

hospital and he on his way to the airport.

“Sweetheart, I am postponing my flight-

ticket; and coming straight to your hospital”,

he called up from his car. “No, please fly; else

you will miss this event the day after…lets

meet three weeks later when you are back…

I shall be OK”, Neena had said. Realizing

the importance of his assignment, Tariq was

helpless not to press much.

Things were a bit different last Friday

when he arrived at his office. Everyone

started clapping when he passed the lobby

and his cabin’s glass door was covered with

a huge “Congratulations” card. Before he

would open the door of his cabin, his assis-

tant reporter stuffed his mouth with a pas-

try. “You did it Tariq”, she said. Anxious, he

hurled towards the greeting card. It read-

‘Congratulations sir, on your promotion as

the Chief of brand new New York Bureau’.

Mr. Sengupta, the chief managing editor

rushed towards him, shook hands and said

“So, the board decided Tariq, who else than

you could be the right person to start our

news-reporting operations in New York; that

city is all yours now”, he continued, “…and

that comes with another great news: the In-

stitute of International Humane Journalism

(IIHJ) has decided to award you with their

annual title this year. We thought of club-

bing the awarding ceremony with our formal

public announcement of our New York Op-

erations”. Tariq felt elated.

In fact, Mr. Sengupta was one of the con-

tenders for the New York position. Tariq’s

extensive reporting experience in New York

City and his public appeal forced him to take

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up the second option: Europe. Mr. Sengupta

did not resist for two reasons: first, Europe

was a larger portfolio to handle; and second-

ly, he knew that New York project had been

Tariq’s dream.

The venue for the felicitation ceremony

was close to Tariq’s office. His publication

house had spent heavily on publicizing the

New York operations. IIHJ office was located

close-by too. They were a group of senior

journalists from the National Capital Area

who had been nationally acclaimed some

time. “Locally spread, internationally inte-

grated” was how their tagline read below

the logo. IIHJ came up with strategic level

openings several times. Tariq wanted to work

with them. He had been a big fan of the fa-

mous columnist- Mr. Sahani who was the

president of IIHJ. Joining the Institute would

have given him the opportunity to work so

closely with Mr. Sahani. But his intent to join

IIHJ was always contested by his friends: “Will

you really leave your big company to join this

non-profit??? They do not have any foreign

trips to offer; not even a proper HR system in

place. Are you nuts, Tariq?...” Definitely, his

present job was too good to give up. Tariq

decided that he would passively work with

IIHJ whenever he is relieved a bit from his

role at work. That never happened.

His office room was artistic. Beautiful

brass artifacts, glass furniture and an

impressionistic oil-painting of a Manhattan

street covered with thick copper border. The

border had real patina on it that resembled

the real color of Statue of Liberty. The brass

miniature sculptures reminded him of his

childhood days that he spent in a tiny shack

in Moradabad that pretended to be a house.

His father worked in an exporter’s factory,

chiseling brass sculptures. Tariq would often

come with him to the factory on Sundays and

do his homework in the factory’s resting area.

His father worked overtime to feed his family

of three; and also save for Tariq’s education.

The shop-owner traveled the world to sell his

products, many a times to New York. That is,

perhaps, how Tariq’s passion for the city had

developed.

Tariq’s father, an avid sculptor had start-

ed creating miniature statues of liberty with

molded copper. Impressed by what his fa-

ther did, Tariq often came up with this idea

expressed vehemently, “Abbu, I want to be

a sculptor like you”. His father would reply

“No, you little rascal! You should probably do

the business of sculptures rather than being

a sculptor…”, he continued “you see, son, ap-

preciating the art is one thing; and becom-

ing an artist another… earning your liveli-

hood in spite of being a great artist is not

that easy. I think you should study, and be

a business man. Your school master told me

about emm-bee-aye thing; and you must get

that degree”. And he would invariably add

“…but stay back in your country, stay close

to the soil… we are born here; and must die

here…” Perhaps he was completely disillu-

sioned by his own employer’s frequent busi-

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ness trips abroad. How these trips ruined his

family life and how materialistic he had be-

come were some things that Abbu was never

tired of describing.

When Tariq grew older, he chose a journal-

ism school instead of business. Several of his

near and dear ones thought it was a wastage

of his father’s hard-earned savings until he

got hired by this company with a handsome

salary package; directly from the college.

Within two years, his Abbu stopped working

in the factory; and set up his own with the

money Tariq sent to him.

]In fact, frequent foreign trips also helped

Tariq find the international markets for his

father’s art work. That business flourished

to an extent that his father had to employ

a Manager for the factory and another for

the outlet. When they needed loan to buy

automatic molding equipments from Germa-

ny; Tariq guaranteed it; and the bank readily

agreed to release the amount, partly because

they were impressed by Tariq’s job and partly

because they were awed by the powers of a

newspaper.

On weekends, Tariq would typically drive

down to his father’s place in Moradabad

and spent most of his time in the factory.

Especially after his mother died, his father

preferred to spend his weekends in the

factory too. They had a small “art room”

in the factory. Its setup resembled their old

house. No elaborate furniture; but a clean,

bamboo mat and a large ply-wood board

lying in the center of the room. That was his

father’s canvas to draw newer designs for

the sculptures. Tariq enjoyed watching his

father designing. By the by, over the cups

of tea they also discussed their perspectives

on the world. Abbu was not educated; but

his insights about life were impeccable.

Tariq drew most of the basic ideas for his

upcoming stories from Abbu’s talks. In short,

his Abbu’s factory was the place where

creativity spawned in varying manifestations.

With time, visits to Moradabad had become

a pattern for Tariq’s creative process.

One fine weekend afternoon, when it

started raining in Moradabad, Tariq and

his dad sat in the balcony chatting over the

sips of hot cardamom latte tea. Enjoying the

faint splashes of the drizzles, Abbu asked him

“Tariq, is the snow fall in New York as beau-

tiful as these rains in our neighborhood?”

Tariq looked around from the balcony. All he

could see was houses and their terraces with

patches of trees wherever an open piece

of land was left available. Across the street

downstairs was the cart of the tea vendor

which could barely balance itself on the four

spoke-wheels surrounded by thick mud. The

neighbor’s rooftop was flooded with a black

fluid caused effortlessly by the old tire bleed-

ing due to water flowing through it. Not too

far from the site was Yadav’s dairy with a

semi-open yard for cows and buffaloes. The

cowdung leaked through the weeping walls

and the smell could sporadically be felt from

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Tariq’s factory. In all, there was little that

could be cited as a “pleasant site” if one was

to compare it to the view of Ellis Island from

a Manhattan hotel, especially when it was

snowing. Tariq did not know how to answer

this question. He took a deep breath and

the smell of soil and exposed bricks absorb-

ing the rains passed through his nostrils. He

found himself lost in trance; and it suddenly

felt like days of childhood to him…how he

and his band of friends ran in the rain in spite

of mothers shouting at them; and how the

catch-me game would soon turn into a pleas-

ant mud-race… “No Abbu, these rains are

the most beautiful things on earth” he said.

His father gazed at him with amazement.

“Do you want me to park the car at our

office first; or should drive directly to the

IIHJ auditorium, sahib?” This was Tariq’s driv-

er. They were close to the office now. “IIHJ,

please”, was Tariq’s short answer to him. He

wanted to steal a few moments more and

remain in the memories of his past. Thanks

to Tariq’s collection, many of his childhood

pals had seen the photos of New York City-

the lady with a torch, tall sky-scrappers that

touched the sky, the KingKong at a building’s

spire. “Tariq, you must go to this city when

you grow up. You are meant for it”, his best

friend Raju would say. Raju was almost an or-

phan adopted by a distant uncle who made

him work hard in his grocery shop. Tariq’s

clout in the band, which was due to his aca-

demic standing at school, motivated Raju to

finish his college. After that, he joined an

adult-literacy NGO of Moradabad as a local

fund-raising officer. Later, Raju was able to

convince his organization to start a subsid-

iary in their neighborhood to help orphaned

kids. Raju became the head of that wing.

They ran playschools for orphaned children

and collected public and private money to

ensure a minimum of high-school education

for the children they pledged for each year.

This particular initiative was recognized by

the federal government as an ideal model;

and the scheme was awarded annual govern-

ment funds. Statutorily, they needed a Board

of Directors to prepare annual strategies for

the NGO. Tariq was the first person Raju re-

quested for the Directorship. “We shall pay

you honorarium for your work, please join

us, friend”, Raju had written to Tariq. Tariq’s

reply was obvious-“Raju, my friend, who else

than I would be more interested in this job?

As it will be part time and in-absentia, I can

easily manage. I come to Moradabad every

week, anyway; l and we could schedule the

Board’s meeting every weekend. I cannot

tell you how much passionate I am to be a

part of this. Maybe, soon, I can work full time

with the NGO. I’ll talk to my boss tomorrow

as a formality, and let you know…” When

he did discuss the matter with his employers;

and his boss’s reply was simple-“Tariq, you

are a man of very high potentials. Leave such

jobs to people who aspire far less than what

you deserve. Moreover, our organization’s

policy will not let you work simultaneously

FICTION

32www.aahsome.com

for two employers”. Raju kept modifying

and re-modifying the proposed assignment

of directorship to suit Tariq’s employer poli-

cies, everytime to be rejected. Later, Raju had

to hire a professor from Delhi University for

this job. Yesterday, when Raju learnt about

Tariq’s New York assignment, he immediate-

ly called him up and said, “Tariq, now that

you have achieved a bigger thing in life, you

can easily forget the smaller ones you lost in

past…congratulations”. Happiness evinced in

each word he said.

As the car moved towards the IIHJ audi-

torium, which was visible now, right on the

middle of the terminating straight road in

the front, Tariq’s feeling that his dream was

realizing was growing stronger. Neena was

driving down to the venue directly from Mo-

radabad. In her last phone call she told that

she was bringing a surprise gift for him. Tariq

bought her a present almost every time they

met. This time was no exception. By the time

they arrived the parking lot, the function

had started inside. Tariq got out of his car

and stared around looking for Nina. She has

just arrived the venue too. They hugged, and

hurriedly exchanged gifts. Tariq ran towards

the dais and lost vision of Neena who had

found herself a seat among the audience. It

was a huge auditorium, almost full. The first

row had colleagues, journalists and some

white-clad leaders. People clapped when

Tariq climbed the steps and was escorted by

a host to his designated chair. A large ban-

ner on the backstage said: “the Annual IIHJ

award ceremony”. Tariq’s press was named as

the lead sponsor.

Neena could not wait any further to see

her surprise gift. She unwrapped the packet;

it was an envelope tied with a ribbon around

it. Beneath it was a greeting card with these

lines handwritten: “I decided to not take up

the New York assignment. I am resigning

from my job to join Raju’s NGO. I have also

decided to work on Abbu’s sculpture busi-

ness. Attached is an envelope with air tickets

to New York; for you and me. New York is

a beautiful tourist spot; and that is what it

shall remain to be for us!”

By then, Tariq had spotted Neena in the

crowd. He had un-wrapped his gift-packet

too. The gift for him was an aerial photo-

graph of the Statue of Liberty. “Freedom”,

he murmured and looked at Neena with a

smile. She shook her head, as if none of the

two was surprised.

Prashant Kumar Das is the Editor of India China America Institute Newsletter and is pursuing Doctoral Fellowship in Business from Georgia State University. He acquired a

bachelor’s degree in architecture from IIT Roorkee and has worked with several multinationals and non-profits thereafter. He is fond of sketching, short-stories, ghazals, “South Park” animated sitcom, computer AI games and cooking among several other things. He lives with his wife Minu in Atlanta. More about him at www.prashant-das.com.

FICTION

www.aahsome.com 33

ART

Svetlana

Kuznetsova

www.aahsome.com 34

ART

Svetlana

Kuznetsova

www.aahsome.com 35

Svetlana

Kuznetsova

ART

www.aahsome.com 36

ART

Svetlana Kuznetsova is an Illustrator based in St. Petersburg, while she is not travelling. She is an indophile who was in India for 9 months and had to leave when her visa expired. She posts her art work on flickr:

http://flickr.com/photos/totokumi

37www.aahsome.com

POETRY

a person wishes few things

affection, love and freedom

fame, money and happiness

with affection and love

relationships evolve

relationships evoke bonding

and in all this bonding

freedom is lost

money begets fame

fame begets pride

money begets greed for more money

and in all this greed and pride

happiness is lost

and then the person longs for,

freedom and happiness

manukh chahunda hai chand cheezan

apnatt, piaar te aazadi

shohrat, paisa te khushi

apnatt te piaar ton bande ne

rishte

rishtiaan ton bande ne bandhan

te bandhanan vich guach jaandi hai

aazadi

paise ton mildee hai shohrat

te shohrat ton aonda hai ahinkaar

paise ton aundi hai , hor paise dee laalsa

ahinkaar te laalsaanva vich guaach jandi hai

khushi

te pher manukh hamesha labhda rehnda hai

khushi te aazadi

Manukh, khushi te azadi

transliteration in Roman characters

Jasdeep Singh works as a Web Developer in New Delhi. He runs a Pubjabi poetry blog parchanve.wordpress.com. He scribbles at times too.

Human happiness and freedom

loose translation in English

�� � ���� � ��� ������ �� � �������������� ���� �� �� � ������ ��� ��� � � � �

������� �������� � ����� ��� ����� �

��������� � ����� ��� ������� ������ �� ���! ����� �� ��

�� �� �

� � ��� � ����"��� �� � ���� ��� � ����� � ���#��� ��� �$�

� � ��� � ���#�� �� ��� ���� � ��� ��""��� �$��� ��""� � � ���! ����� �� ��

� � � � �

� ��% ����� � ���� �� ��"�&���� ��� � � � � ��� ���� �� �

�� � ���� � � � ��� ���� �� �

38www.aahsome.com

QUOTE

������������������������ ������������������������������������������������������������������� ���������������������������� ������������ ���� ��������� ��������� ��������������� ����������������� ������������������������������� ���������� ������������� ��������������������������������������� ������������������������������������������ ����������������� �������������������������� ��������������������� ������� �������� ������������ �������� ����������������������������� ������ ������������� � ���� ���������� ��������������������� ���������� � ������������������������������� ���!

���������

Quote suggested by Anjana. Messy photo collage by Arun. Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/duncan/835323 http://www.flickr.com/photos/assbach/430685233 http://www.flickr.com/photos/adriana-lukas/2562762750 and http://www.flickr.com/photos/jose_zaragoza/1174993785

39

It’s freedom that drives the life inside a shell to hatch and move out of it. Its freedom that then

leads the little bird to start walking and then desire to fly, to be on its own. The little bird craves

to experience the outward movement of wings and take off into the open infinite sky. The want

to move where it’s heart leads. The excitement of not being bound, the enthusiasm to move

without a path, the will to be surprised and enjoy all the different situations and environments it

encounters. To experience all the colors and fragrances and move through all of them with ease

and decide the one which makes it feel the fulfillment life has to offer. It’s this freedom that we

all long for. The feeling of being able to leave all our inhibitions and fears behind, to move into

the open sky and discover different environments and realize what comes closest to our dreams,

what fills the space we all carry.

Freedom

Phhotttto ooo credit: hthttptp:/://ww/wwwwwwww.fl.flickrr.ccomom/p/phohoh tototoss/tott chchisis/3/3333989898988767667 7777777828282829/9//p pp

Aditi Agarwal is a student who likes writing poetry occasionally and also keeps a journal.

www.aahsome.com 40

LAST WORD

“I heard Al-Qaeda is hiring, they offer good salary packages for dhadi walas”, said my friend

Gopi, trying to be funny while commenting on a Facebook picture.

“You look like you’re on drugs man”, said JK. Pat came the reply, “You’re just jealous of my beard man”.

Alok had to take a jab, “Dude put this pic on your website next to the link to free weed”. “Dude the shit

ain’t free and no, I’m not selling it.”

A few others said “Cool look bro!”. The silly shit that one has to deal with while growing a beard can get

insane. Some folks even try to look for reasons why you’re sporting a beard. Reasons. I put the question

back to them. Why should a man not embrace his beard? It is a defining male characteristic, just as

breasts are to women. Society has its set of mighty stupid ‘rules’ that most people take for granted,

unquestioned (you’ll find the most stupidest of all in big company policy books). We are so used to

accepting and believing this that we don’t take a moment to question it. Advertisements, political

systems, school systems, organized religions, corporate policies are all really good at one thing —

pounding bull shit into peoples’ heads with skillful suaveness. Actors, business men, politicians and the

like represent this with clean shaven faces, demonstrating standards that the typical middle class society

expects us to maintain. These people sow seeds that grow to make a man shun his own masculinity,

adopting a persona that isn’t true to his inner self.

Beards were a sign of masculinity and virility. They still are in many societies. But yet we are moving

towards androgyny and giving up the simplest freedom to sport a beard. We give in to society’s ‘rules’

that alienate us from our own facial hair.

I chose to keep my beard, I chose freedom.

George Carlin loved his beard.

Beards are aahsome!

J. Arun is the co-founder of Aahsome and a designer of sorts at SlideShare by profession. He loves sipping Nilgiris tea, mountain biking in foggy weather while listening to Aerosmith and Bon Jovi. You’ll find him dabbling in art, sketching and typography. He’s on Twitter at twitter.com/SimplyArun

www.aahsome.com

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Theme: Beauty

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Submissions could be traditional art, digital art, poetry, short-stories, opinions or photographs.

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