dusunAugust/September 2012

Ridiculously Free

8e-Journal of Asian Arts

balbir krishanpaul gnanaselvam

ignatius yeojose vargheseantonio lopez

pei yeou bradleymartin bradley

angkor...............or what?

angkor...............or what?

the artist - pei yeou bradley in angkor wat

buy this e-book on Amazon

cont

ents

page 6 editorial

page 8 balbir krishan paintings from india

page 18 paul gnanaselvam the machine of paradox - short story

page 23 Perchs Cie Chabatz Dentrar french circus

page 32 ignatius yeo sketches from singapore

page 40 jose varghese silent woman - short story from india

page 50 angkor wat - photo essay from cambodia

page 62 angkor wat - another view sketches by teachers and students of colors of cambodia

page 68 antonio lopez chinese ink paintings

page 76 1malaysia contemporary arts tourism festival 2012 - review

page 80 the shalini ganendra fine arts gallery gallery review

page 90 martin bradley dhamma baby - poem

page 96 pei yeou bradley latest works

cover balbir krishan

editor martin a bradley

email martinabradley@gmail.com

Dusun TM

dusun is a not for profit publication

august/september 2012

editorialDear Reader

Another two months have rushed by.

Dusun grows with popularity and now covers a much wider range of Asian, as well as South East Asian Art and Literature.

In this ground breaking issue Dusun features a writer and a painter from the Indian subcontinent, sketches from Singapore, photos, a story, a poem and artworks from Malaysia as well as French circus (in Malaysia) and photos and drawings from Cambodia. We are slowly becoming international in our scope - who would have guessed when we started.

It is with many heartfelt thanks to all our supporters over the world, that we continue to bring Dusun to you. And thanks to our contributors and readers too - you all make Dusun into the stunning e-magazine it is becoming.

Now read on...........................................

d

We are over the moon to have raised the full

amount of sponsorship to print the charity book

- A Story of Colors of Cambodia - this book will continue to raise

funds for the children of Cambodia

balbir krishan

Balbir Krishan was born in 1973, in a village called Bijrol in Baghpat district of Uttar Pradesh. India. He graduated in 1997 with an M.A. in Fine Art from Dr. B.R.A. University Agra and, in 2000, achieved a NET (Visual Art) from U.G.C., New Delhi. Later (2003) he received an M.Phil. (Fine Art) from Dr. B.R.A. University, Agra.

Balbir Krishan has won many awards and held group and solo exhibitions across India.

the bonding of spirituality-viii

insulted angels-xvi

this is not dark life

this is not dark life

this is not dark life-i

this is not dark life

yugal

yugal

the bonding of spirituality

the bonding of spirituality

by paul gnanaselvam

the machine of paradox

Two friends congregated at the old rustic bus stop that faced the busy expressway, under the canopy of an old angsana tree that had shaded them for three blooming seasons. There, under the azure sky they would wait, spending twenty grueling minutes every morning for the college bus that picked them to their workplace. It is during these times that the two friends would share their issues of anything- under- the- sky together. They would talk about their families, work, students and their colleagues, politics, economy and anything that affected their lives in general. Like children at the swings, they celebrated their friendship and took to looking at everything so innocently from where there dared to put the world in order. One day, in the droning noise of the passing traffic, Tall friend said to the Short friend, how much having a car would make a difference in their lives right now. Both shook their heads in want at that point. Oh, how nice it would be, they both sighed, of the luxury that a car offered, its convenience, and the status that it boosted. No more dust on our lips, commented Short friend.No more black smoke shocking our lungs so early in the morning, said Tall friend, concerned. Eventually, ever since the topic of cars had surfaced, they recoiled from matters that were routine. They compared. One day they spoke of car models. Or, it was about the colors. Accessories.

short story

Bank lending rates. Then, it was the budget and the down payment.If the budget was tight, they switched to a different model, different colour, different accessories and finally, numerology- auspicious numbers that they should secure on the car plates to gain luck and negative numbers that should be avoided. Their conversations from then on became covetous of the cars that other people they saw driving by, and veritably, they began to speak and behave like car owners. Some people were nice to offer them lifts, and some were courteous to ferry them to places out of town. These they appreciated. However, they too began to become a little remorseful over those who didnt. They were the ones who spoke to them at college but drove on, ignoring them at the bus stop, passing by, and looking straight. There were also others who blared their honks and waved a benign smile, but still, drove on, inconsiderately, as Short friend put it. They would make their bodies wrench and giggle at the slightest Dont bang the door, or Wipe your shoes before coming in and Talk louder, the music is too loud. Being petered out, after many days, they resigned with the idea that owning a car would end their brooding. They waited for their time.Wait till I buy a car, said the Tall friend again, this time, assuredly. I will never leave you here, under the hot sun, we would travel together. After all, you live only one block away, he said.

Touched, Short friend offered to share the petrol costs. We shouldnt be like the others continued Tall friend, pursing his lips to one corner, you know, you were not here yesterday, I saw Mohan stopping to offer a lift to Albert, but did not even look at me, in spite of us working in the same department. Dont worry, I think, people have become like that, car- owners- syndrome, all that materialism and selfishness is becoming boundless in their attitudes, its the end of times, exuberated Short friend, convinced. Well, we know we wont be like that, dont we? He questioned Tall friend who was already shaking his head left and right, empathetically. Then, the time came. I bought a car, a second- hand, conveyed the phone call. Short friend jumped with delight, for now, at least the long wait at the bus stops were an ending peril. Short friend patiently waited and wondered, under the same tree, the same bus stop, unperturbed by the sea of yellow flowers that fell on his head. Soon, weeks became a month, and the dark clouds of the monsoon began to gather. They kept the remaining days of the year darker and stark. Still, there was no sight of the rusted blue, second- hand Toyota G.L. Agitated, Short friend crushed a moving snail under his leather shoes as he started off to work. He heard the shell crack but walked on; mindful of the slime that was pulling his shoe to the road. Yesterday, Tall friend had

flamboyantly walked up to him, draped his arms around his shoulders, like old times, and asked ceremoniously, Why dont I see you at all nowadays? How have you been doing? I hardly see you. He laughed, even before the curt reply came, Busy. The cool morning began to absorb the warmth of the gentle sun when Short friend had reached the bus stop. The hard road began to pick up the reflections cast by its golden rays. Short friend walked on them. He smiled, remembering that the sun shone on everyone alike. As he sat down, the bus stop and the angsana tree faithfully stood their grounds, watching with him the frivolous traffic. Straining to hear, they stood in silence, as he took a conciliatory stand, I will not be like that, one day! Under the aloof sky. The clouds of the past year did not turn up on time as they had promised. The scorching heat had escalated this year. The sun seemed to have gone on a warpath, showing its supremacy on anything and everything that was left uncovered. By now, the angsana is protesting to let its soft and tender flowers to bloom, for they would wither and drop before it could boast its elegance. It waited, for the treacherous rain to pelt out from the sky and secure its comfort. Short friend waited at corner of the little road before turn into the main road. He looked to the left and to the right. Every morning it has became his routine, and every day, he did not forget to take one last look at his pretty tree before he left for work.

It stood by the tides, he would remember. Strangely, the tree, that was already looking gaunt, looked double today. Wait a minute, he slowed himself before turning left. He knew his tree. He took a closer look for inspection. Squirming his eyes, he discovered that it was familiarity, which was sticking to the trees silhouette, and it, was none other than Tall friend. Tempted to drive away, he remembered the angsana and the bus stop; he surely cant be selfish, can he? They were looking at him, werent they? After all, didnt Gandhi say, You must be the change you wish to see in the world? He checked himself and the indicator, blinked right. Tall friend was looking up and away when Short friend stopped his brand new metallic black car at the shoulder of the little bend by the roadside. He lowered the power windows. Hop in; its going to pour now, he shouted out to Tall friend. Tall friend half smiled, his eyes rotating in their sockets. He stood still, scrutinized the driver and the car before mechanically rolling the textbook that he was carrying into his armpit. Grappling the handle somewhat carelessly, he sat. Nice car, he complimented. As Short friend drove away, he saw from the rear mirror that the angsana was smiling, putting out for the first time, its pale green buds, and the bench on the bus stop gaping its mouth wide, shouting to him the unheard Congrats!

Paul Gnanaselvam has published short stories in theanthologies Write Out Loud and Urban Odysseys and ASIATICa literary journal.He currently teaches in the Department of Modern Languagesand Linguistics at Universiti Tunku Abdul Rahman (UTAR),Kampar, Perak, Malaysia

Perchs Cie Chabatz Dentrar

Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre (KLPAC)

A permanent search for equilibrium. This French contemporary circus troupe presents a playful and perilous world where circus meets theatre of objects. Its a story of a man and a woman, one in the air and the other on the ground. Two worlds, two completely different views of the world. A show that invites its audience to be in the stars.

Une recherche permanente de lquilibre. Cette com-pagnie franaise de cirque contemporain nous propose la vision dun monde la fois prilleux et tout en jeu et mou-vement, o le thtre rencontre lobjet. Cest lhistoire dun homme et dune femme, lui dans les airs, elle par terre. Deux univers, deux visions totalement diffrentes du monde. Un spectacle qui vous invite dans les toiles.

Production / Chabatz dentrar

Co-production / La Mgisserie, Ple Culturel de Saint-Jun-ien ; le Sirque, Ple Cirque de Nexon ; le Thtre de Cusset, scne conventionne Cirque ; La Batoude, Centre des arts du Cirque de Beauvais ; La Cascade, Maison des Arts du Clown et du Cirque de Bourg-Saint-Andol ; Le Moulin de lEtang, Billom ; le centre cul-turel Yves Furet, La Souterraine ; le Service Culturel de la Ville de Riom ; SHEMSY Ecole Nationale des Arts du Cirque du Maroc ; lInstitut Franais de Rabat, Kenitra et Sal ; le Service Culturel de la ville Tremblay-en-France, la DRAC Limousin ; le Conseil Rgional du Limousin ; Le Fond Leader Chtaigneraie Limousine.

'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar - given to us by Alliance Franaise and the French Art and Film Festival 2012, is what the French are good at simple stories, well told and with a slightly surreal edge to them. Last night, after wending a long way into the velvet and sparkling city of Kuala Lumpur, and beyond, from my suburban home - we eventually discovered Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre (KLPAC). That home for all things performance based was secreted within a park at Sentul, almost hidden amongst the verdant foliage and ponds of robust Koi carp. As we waited to shuffle our way to the theatre hall we were becoming increasingly bethronged by the usual kissy, kissy, lovey, lovey wet-cheeked crowd who generally turn out for such city theatre performances. I could not help but notice that in this multicultural, multi- ethnic equatorial city of Kuala Lumpur there was a large (ish) crowd of pale Europeans and a much smaller crowd of locals. It could have been the expat French contingent flocking to support their motherlands endeavour, or simply a lack of interest on behalf of the more local inhabitants of our emerald city, but the disparity was noticeable. It was a fine performance, spoilt only by an irritatingly rude blonde woman who was objecting to my camera clicking, and brusquely demanding that I cease. No amount of explaining would suffice that harpy who then proceeded to chitter-chatter her way through the entire performance hence making more noise than my few camera clicks could ever have made. Nevertheless, and despite aforementioned harpy, those few short minutes being enthralled by 'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar will live on in my memory long after that spell-weaving troupe has packed up and returned back to the land Libert, galit, fraternit. The story of 'Perchs' - Cie Chabatz D'Entrar, was a far from straightforward romance. In its own unique way that story of enduring love and equilibrium was reminiscent of Antoine de Saint-Exupry and his engaging tale of the Little Prince blended, perhaps, with all the charm of Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amlie Poulain (Amlie) and the beguiling

humour of Jacques Tatis Monsieur Hulot. The performance was a delightful, charming, balance between theatre and circus, referencing both while maintaining uniqueness unquestionably French. There was a fine matureness in the story (and performance) seldom seen in these equatorial lands, unfortunately. With the long legged movements of the only two characters/actors on that stage at KL PAC, as they were strapped onto their stilts, I was, at once, reminded of two things. One was of the French philosopher Jean-Paul Satre and his theses on balance, equilibrium - and the other, of certain memorable works by the Spanish painter Salvador Dali. Dali, if you remember, had flirted with the French Surrealists, and painted Sur ralit in his Paranoid Critical method. As I watched Anne-Karine Keller and Olivier Lger perform, those be-stilted figures reminded me of Dalis elephants. There was a grace and elegance to those elongated, spindly, legs which brought to mind Dalis Temptation of St. Anthony. That revelation brought home the weight - physical and metaphorical, that those stilts carried on that KL PAC stage floor, and the nuanced layers of meaning spinning like plates before us. The short love story we were presented with, was in itself simple. Middle-class lovers play in circus inspired choreography. Theirs is the perfect life. They play, they tease, but the darker side appears as their societal position does not allow them to bend and pick up the caste away spoons/saucers which have been scattered - littering the stage. Tragedy arises in mans fall; there is the pain of separation, realisation of sacrifice and the joy of reuniting amidst all the bathos and pathos of a remarkable performance, minimalist stage set, and music which both brings to life the actions on stage as well as audibly perfuming the theatre. The disappointment, if disappointment it was only in the entire length of the performance.

Perchs Creative TeamAuthor/Interpreter: Anne-Karine Keller, Ol-ivier Lger Light engineer/ scenographer: Silvre Berthoux

images supplied by Alliance Francais Malaysia French Art & Film Festival 2012

ignatius yeo....is a mortgage specialist and a sketcher with a passion for capturing landscapes and citycapes. Many of his works are about his home - Singapore, and other countries. He has had exhibitions in Singapore and Manila, Philippines. His works are included in the book Urban Sketchers Singapore Volume 1 co-published by the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) and the Urban Sketches Singapore; and a book - solely about his art, is in the works.

fruit stall atTelok Blangah Mall

exhaust duct @ Little India 2

kampung

mysterious place

tg pinang

bukit mertajam.

I dont remember the kind of girl I used to be before my awakening tosilence. I am sure though that I was never the kind who thought there wasa need to express myself in some way, or to tell my side of the story toothers. The silence that came in search of me must have uprooted anytrace of such a desire. But when my twenty-nine-year-old son was recentlystruggling to describe me to one of his new colleagues, I felt it was hightime I found my own way of interfering. It is easy to defend yourself when others describe you the wrong way,but its much tougher to explain what you really are, especially in the caseof a person like me. In a way, whatever my son said was true, but therewere certain things which he couldnt talk about. I thought I had only onechoice leftto transform myself into a story and leave it to those whowere willing to accept it. And then there was this question about the lengthof the story I wanted to become. I can only talk about what is left betweenthe wordsthe fragments that could fill up an imaginative mind thatleads to something which is full of missing portions. When all that is saidmakes a fragment in itself, what is not said can only add just a little more.So, it will not be an epic by any standards. Well, she was not well. mentally, you know. Not that she had todepend on us for everything.she could look after herself quite well anddo all the household chores. Butyou know, she had these spells attimes and it was never a good idea to leave her alone near waternear awell, river, or sea My son and his friend pretended soon afterwards that they hadforgotten about my disturbing presence and started talking about otherthingsmainly about what they were reading and writing recently. I toopretended not to listen to their talk about post-colonial identities andcultural representations of nationality. I knew what they were talkingabout, and I didnt care. I had the freedom to linger on like a pampered catin my sons room or the verandah when he talked with his wife, little son,friends, or father. I had gained a level of invisibility that people usuallyattributed to animals which cant comprehend in full, or respond to,human conversation. I was even better than a cat, because I never made any noise or sought

short story

silent womanby jose varghese

previously published in Postcolonial Text, Vol 6, No 4 (2011)

attention from them. Actually I thought they were relieved as long as Istayed indoors and did the things I was good atcooking food for them,cleaning, washing, and staying silent all the time unless someone askedme something. I had the freedom to answer them in monosyllables,meaningless nods, and also to say things which were not really intelligible,because I was not well, you know, mentally. I knew they would return to the topic of me sooner or later, becauseof the recent incidents which made me a character fit for the role of aprotagonist in some strange story. The first time I jumped into the well was five years ago. But I wasrescued by a man who worked in the nearby rubber plantation. It was earlymorning, and he heard the loud thud and splash before I started flowingdown the cold water. He knew it was the crazy woman who fell in thewell because he caught a glimpse of my white sari. A few moments ago, I was looking at the water deep down whichlooked dark green from above. As I dived into it, the overgrown ferns benttheir fragile leaves to brush me momentarily and left white powderystreaks on my bare arms and face. Or I imagined so. The thud and coldshocked me for a second. But then I was flowing down. I heard sea waves roaring and wondered whether the well containedthe sea beneath it. And then, the voices cameno, not the meaninglessvoices that come to schizophrenics. The voices that came to me were theones stored in my consciousness, in whatever levels or layers that yourpsychotherapists will describe for you. I heard clearly the first lessons ofCarnatic music I learnt as a child, in the definite, husky voice of myteacher in her late forties and in the shrill, shaky voice of the five-year oldme. And also the slokas from the nearby temple, that had become a part ofmy early morning essence. Maybe that was one voice which came fromoutside the water, not from my consciousnessI am not sure. Also, thehighly contrived musical notes from the bansuri of Hariprasad Chaurasiawhich came from the dilapidated tape recorder of my son, whenever hewas feeling low (which was quite often). And that music I couldnt name The music from a movie my son watched with a friend, and I wasallowed to watch in my cat-self. A movie by the Polish director KrzysztofKieslowsky, about the blue colour of human mind. There were movies byhim about the White and Red of human mind too, but I liked Blue morethan them. It had a lot of music, loss, melancholy and authentic innervoices. And water too, which I loved. There is a sad woman in it who triesto kill the music in her. The music of losses, of a husband and a child whodied in an accident. My own losses were different, of a more abstractnature, but I knew what she felt like. Among the many strange things shedid was an attempt to drown the music in a swimming pool. But it keepscoming back, in full voice when she has to pop her head out of the water,and in muffled persistence when she tries to hide her face underneath.They re-played it a few times, talking about diegetic and non-diegetic

sounds in the movie. I didnt get all that, but was fascinated to see it againand again. You may not believe it, but she used to read a lot all kinds of booksfrom everywhere. She was educated in a convent school, and learntEnglish when she was very young. A bright student loved beyond religiousboundaries by the nuns, as my grandmother used to remember. But whenshe started falling in love with Jesus and his Virgin Mother, and startedcarrying a rosary in her bag, the Brahmin community decided enough wasenough. She was just sixteen years old then, and was quickly married offto the government clerk my father was. No one knew what was happeningin her mind because she was strangely silent most of the time. You need to be silent to know the music that comes to you. Thereshould be silence around you too, but they did not let me know my musicthat day. There were voicesreal voicesabove me, and they thought Iwas drowning, and a man came down in a rope and pulled me up by myhair from the water, to meaningless voices which did not know what theywere doing. I felt so sad to see the shame on my sons face, and wished I thoughtof him earlier. But all sane people will agree with me that there aremoments when you fail to control yourself, when you are in a spell, whenthe silence in you leads you to water. Did I care for anything else? No. It was my son who kept waking meup from my spells. It was not that I was a doting mother. I felt no specialpride in being a mother. I gave birth to a daughter first, who died soonafter she was born. Everyone was afraid that I would have a nervousbreakdown. But I didnt care, and I was already the crazy woman anyway.She just looked like a worm to meI never saw her open her eyes. It wasgood that she never heard anything, other than the roaring of the sea inme. It was good that her thoughts died before they were born. But it wasmy son who made me sad. He opened his eyes, cried faintly, and stayed inthis world. It was a tragedy. I always felt pity for him, the kind of pity outof which love of the purest kind emerges. His friends were all losers like him. They believed they could changethe world, like the European youngsters of the 1960s. But they were notable to explore the freedom of the Sixties, to have the fun, as they say.They were in the wrong time at the wrong place, with mothers who werecrazy or fighting for independence; and fathers who were drunkards orlosers like them, or dead and gone; and some had siblings who openedtheir eyes and managed to cry louder than them. And all the people aroundthem were buying things which should not have been boughtlove,family, dignity, education, jobs. My son and his friends had drowsy eyes. They were all the timereading and thinking, and fighting to find a place for themselves in aworld which had lost any notion of justiceeven the kind that exists inthe wilderness. No wonder they were all losers. Education, intelligence,honesty, sincerityall these were no more the kind of commodities that

were in demand. They were the elitist idiots who would be misfitsanywhere they went. I felt pity for all of them. And I loved them all, andgave them the best tea and snacks I could make. And I got books in returnfrom all the libraries in which they were members. When you read so much, people expect you to talk about it. But Iwanted to be silent, like Sister Miriam in the convent. It was she who usedto supply me books, some covered clandestinely in brown paper. No onereally had any idea what those books were about or where they camefrom. She didnt talk much to anyone else but me. She was studying forher Masters in English Literature in the university in a big city where shestayed in another convent, and came to stay in a room next to mine only inthe weekends. She had to convince the Mother in our convent thatwhatever she was reading and doing during her studies did not result in theloss of even a fragment of her faith. One day she came to my room, all intears: I knew this dear, Mother Clara will not allow me to do mydissertation on Sons and Lovers. I need to tell Father Paul about this. I willnot get good grades if I cant do my dissertation on something I like. Ilooked at her for a moment and said: But Sister, I feel Paul never finds iteasy to choose between Miriam and Clara. This made her stop crying,and we laughed together and read new books the whole night. We had silent meditations in the convent during which no one was toutter a word, usually for a week or so. I was very happy to be silent, butwhen Sister Miriam was around, we made it a point to talk secretly. Once,she told me how she embarrassed a handsome young priest during thesilent meditation in the hall which stood between the seminary and theconvent. It was soon after the lunch in the meditation hall, and shefollowed the priest to where he went to wash his hands. She stood behindhim and murmered In the beginning was the word, and what was that for, Father? What? He turned around awkwardly and found her smile peacefully at him,as if nothing had happened. Once we watched a few movies at home. One of my friends who wasdoing a Film Studies course came with a lot of DVDs of movies made inIsrael, Latin America, Spain, Sweden, Poland, Austria, France, Germany,Iran, Koreayou name it . We hired a TV and a DVD player. The worldcame to our village, in bits and pieces. She loved to watch all thosemoviesaround twenty of them. We did not take any break and watchedfive movies everyday, to save the rent. She would just sit cross-legged onthe floor with her eyes glued to the TV screen, and would hurry up tomake tea and food during the breaks when we changed the DVDs. Wewaited for her to return before we played anything. I found her veryattentive and contented throughout, except for once. There was a moviecalled Sacrifice by Tarkovskyoh, you know about that? You mayremember a silent child in the movie, referred to as Little Man. A veryintense movie where Little Mans intellectually inclined father sacrifices

everything that he values, including his intelligence in exchange for abetter world. And he burns down his house. Yes, exactlyit has thatlegendary long shot towards the end where he is chased by people fromthe asylum and taken away in an ambulance, as the house burns down inthe background. Little Man is seen afterwards speaking his first words:In the beginning was the word, why is that papa? She started laughing loudly when he said thiswhich was, you know,totally out of place, awkward. She looked maniacal. This left us a lotdisturbed, not to talk about the confusion and agony caused already by themovie. It was Sister Miriam who first told me in her hushed voice about thehidden pleasures of reading a book, and also about the need to be silentWhen you contain so many books inside you, your connection withthe world is on an altogether different trajectory. The mundane affairs oflife bore you as much as your bookish thoughts bore those who dont getany of it. That is why you should learn to be silent, and to carry on aneternal, imaginary conversation with interesting people from those books.Whom do you want to speak to today, Miss Alice in Conventland? GregorSamsa, Lady with the Pet Dog, or Zorba the Greek?I told Sister Miriam that there were some in the convent who thoughtshe was crazy. They are right. I am crazy the way the Virgin Mary and Jesus werecrazy. But I dont want to be worshipped later. Because I have committedmany sinslike reading Lolita, Lady Chatterleys Lover and The LastTemptation of Christ; and I even made a bright, young, innocent studentlike you read them too, ruling out any possibility of a religiousconversion. And we started giggling. I told her that I loved the blue robes of Jesusand Mary, and also the blue beads in the rosary Mother Clara gave me.She told me blue was a colour that made many people gloomy, but it wasa beautiful colour, beautiful like gloominess itself. She said she used topaint once, and was fond of the different shades of blue. She said shestopped painting because she knew what she held in her mind would comeout through her painting, and everyone would be shocked. I asked herwhether it was a good idea to stop doing what one likes to do, and she toldme that it was alright; that refusing to do what one was good at was somekind of a protest; that silence had a lot of power, and that it was thestrongest weapon in the world. I was not totally convinced then.Her silence was annoying at times, but we got used to it. For her mywife and son never existed. I dont know about her feelings towards me,but there used to be some sort of communication between me and her,from the very beginning. I dont know when she stopped talking to myfatherseems it could have been from the day they got married. Hecarried her like an unavoidable burden, as long as the marriage wasfunctional and she didnt complain about the housework. It was only once that some really evil young men came to our house,

pretending to be my sons friends. They came early in the evening, and Iasked them to wait for my son. He was travelling long distance for hiswork. It took him two and a half hours bumpy ride by bus to reach backfrom his work place. They started talking ill of my son right in front of me, as if I was ananimal who had no idea about human language. It didnt upset me thatthey underestimated me so much, but the things they said did really upsetme. They said my son was an idiot who knew nothing about the world;that those who think too much of the right and wrong of life will end upbeing eternal losers; that they havent even read a fraction of books hekept in his small book shelf (which was nothing, because he did not havemoney to buy many books, and got his books from the library); that theywere smart to play the right cardsof religion, politics and bribeswhileidiots like my son were trying to educate the new generation about humanand animal values; that they were in the system and my son will never beanywhere near it; that they compensated for the bribes they paid for theirjobs with their wives who came with money that was enough to buyluxury cars, build multi-storied houses, and live the life which suits it; thatthey were here in this lowly fossilized house of idiots who belonged to theonce highest caste only because they had to borrow some books andadvice from him, though it was shameful for college professors to borrowsuch things from a school teacher; that they had no other choice than toregister for a PhD now, or they will not get the promotion; that they willhave to find someone who will write their theses for a handsome fee; thatmy son was so stupid and incapable to make some money at least thisway; that they feel glad anyway because the teachers pet in all classes hasmade it only so far in life while they had it all I felt like spitting on their faces and kicking them out of the house.But thats what supposedly normal people do. I decided to play themadness card. I made some really strong tea and added two mightyspoonfuls of salt, instead of sugar, in each cup and took it to them on anice tray. Then I went quickly to the kitchen and came back with a bigknife and sat down on the floor next to their chairs, and asked them howthe tea was. They had started to sip it, and I could see that none of themreally liked it. But since they were the kind who were in the system, theydid not dare to speak out the truth and said that it tasted really good. I gotup and locked the front door and told them that our neighbors dog wasfond of the tea I made and it would come and bite them if they didnt giveit their tea. They had to drink it as fast as possible to avoid this. I saw howsilent and scared they all looked now, as if I were the dog. I sat down onthe floor again and pretended to shape my toenails with the big knife andlooked at their direction occasionally. I smiled at them and encouragedthem to drink the tea. All the smart, rich, successful idiots sat there anddrank the tea, excused themselves before my son came, got into their a/ccars and fled, never to come back.

No one knew when she fell into the well the second time. She was notat home when I came back from school, and we started searching for her.There was no sign that she went near the well, and it was impossible tosearch in it since it was more than sixty feet deep and almost one third ofit filled with water. We called the fire force. They came, and asked uswhether we were sure that she was in it. How could we be sure? If you arenot sure, we cant search, they said. They had rules, which could be bentby a bribe. I decided to pay a bribe for the first time in my life, but when Iheard how big an amount they needed, I abandoned the idea. I didnt havethat much money with me. When you lead your inner life to the full and close the doors andwindows that let thoughts in and out, you are in a state of bliss. You donthave to spend all your life behaving like actors, trying to convince othersthat what you show comes directly from inside you. You may have to livewith some tagsthe crazy woman, the strangely silent creature, the onewhose screws got a bit loose after reading all that bullshitbut you arebasically free in your world. You are not as mad as those who project falseselves one after the other, and when they look into the mirror, wontrecognize the one they see there. People dont expect much from an insanewoman, and will be grateful for the simple things you are able to do.Those who live with you curse their fate, but so do all who have to livewith someone. The worst part of it is that you have limited freedom in the physicalworld. You are not allowed to travel, to go near the sea, or even to the wellwhich is so close to your house. You have to be satisfied with the waterthat flows down coldly from the taps in the kitchen, in the bathroom. Andthe best part of it is that no one sees the sea that roars in you, all day.I have always wanted to travel in a train, but could never do that. Myfather used to take me in a crowded bus to and from the convent school,once in a month or so. That was all I saw outside the village where I grewup. Once we went for a picnic from the school. That was the first and lasttime I saw the sea. There were so many girls like me there, in our schooluniforms, and the nuns kept an eye on us. They observed that I wasunusually active and unafraid of the waves. I never got enough of the sea.All my nights after that were filled with images of the sea. Its indeedstrange that what I saw and experienced some thirty years ago remains sofresh in my mind even now. I feel like a writer or film director whochooses certain characters and incidents from the big messy world and letsthem be experienced by others. Its not that other things didnt matter, butthese made a special impact on them. Trains might have made an impact on me. When I read about peopletravelling in trains or watch movies that feature train journeys, I ammesmerized. I have no clear idea how one feels sitting near a window andwatching the world move backwards, but I am sure I will like that. Youcan pretend to be in a world where no one really exists or open your eyesand study the faces of others. I imagine there will be a sea of emotions

floating in a train. For a person like me the experiences from books and real life have nodifference. In that sense, I have experienced everything in life, in all theplaces of the world, in all possible times. Its much more than anyonecould experience from indulging in what they take for real. They restrictlife to what happens between birth and death, all that falsity whichaccompanies each breath. But I never got enough of the sea, the water, the blue, the trainThere were local people who offered to search for her in the well, butit was a risky affair, and many reminded me that I will be responsible forit if someone elses life was put in danger. We decided to wait. Wesearched in the bus station, train station and the beach. We filed acomplaint in the police station, spent two sleepless nights. And on thethird day, her body was found floating in the well, all bloatedThe policecame. They wanted to take it for post-mortem to the medical college,which was four hours away. My father was upset. So were all ourrelatives. They were concerned about the religious rituals. The policewere nice. They asked me whether I had a complaint to register, or hadany suspicion. I said no. None of the people in the village did create anyproblem. They were all being nice to her, to us, at last. The fact that shewas strange saved us some of the ignominy. The police said there was noneed for a post-mortem and gave the body to us for the funeral rites. Wewere lucky, you see. My grandson looks exactly the way my son used to look when he wasa boy. Poor kid, I never accepted him. Or his mother, for that matter. Itwas deliberate. I didnt want to take more people into my world. I tried mybest to shake off my son from my script of the world, but he kept comingback, breaking my spells. My husband deserved pity, but I was afraid togive him that, fearing the untimely emergence of love. I left Sister Miriamand Mother Clara in the convent, never to meet them again. Sister Miriamgave me a goodbye kiss and asked me to remain strong. Sister Claralooked intently at the rosary with blue beads given back to her by myfather. He told her that we had nothing against them, and were thankful forthe good education they gave me. He just had to think about hiscommunity. I let in my sons friends to my world, but they never tried to break mefrom my spells. They were just nice people for whom you could makenice tea and snacks. I could have made some very good tea for this newfriend whose eyes look so harmless. He is lost in my story, and I can hearthe sea in his deep voice. He doesnt ask what my name was. He doesntask anything at all. Just supplies filler words to let my son get it out of hissystem. Yes, the system! I wonder why a harmless woman had to die this way. I dont believeshe wanted to end her life. She was not suicidal. Just a bit fascinated bywater. Did she differentiate life from death? I dont know. Either she wasmad, or much more intelligent than all of us to face the world with silence.

I just wish I tried to understand her morethis woman, my motherWhy did someone have to save so many words in a lifetime? Perhapsto deconstruct the means and meanings of communication. In a worldwhere so many voices go unnoticed, what does silence achieve in the end?Nothing. It just adds to the meaninglessness that surrounds us.A woman, a Brahmin woman, Savitriwife of Krishnamurthy,mother of Ishvar, mother in law of Lakshmi and grandmother of dreamyeyedVinayak the three-year-oldthats what she was. She should haveremained the same, her existence made significant only through the pale,underfed people to whom she was related, if her silence was acoincidence. She found me, caught me unawares and followed me till here. Hersilence had some power. Her thoughts resonate with me, with the world,even beyond the six minutes of consciousness after she drowned hertemporal self. What else did she have to drown? I can only speak from theclues I got from Ishvar, fill the gaps in his narration. I shouldnt drown herfully in clichd identities of religion, gender or inner longings.I would like to imagine that she would have loved to be in a train likethis. Did she ever get a chance to travel in a train? Fat chance. But now itseems I am travelling with her. Why was she so fascinated by water? Hadshe ever been to a beach? If yes, what could she have done there?Ishvar said that she loved to make tea for his friends, and got books inreturn. The name Ishvar means God. He knows a lot, but not everything.So heavily talented, does he realize what he inherited from his mother? Itwould be a disaster if he gets silenced at some stage in his life; or perhapsit wouldnt be. If she was still alive, I could have offered to take her on a short tripon a train or for an evening on the beach. No, Ishvar might not haveallowed that. He kept repeating that she was not well. I should just haveended up giving her all my hundred and seventy two poems which have notakers poor voiceless creatures. She should have finished reading themin a couple of days, the fast reader she was. What could her silence havemade of it? No one will ever know.

Jose Varghese is Assistant Professor of English Language and Literature at Sacred Heart College in Kochi, India. His PhD is in Post-Colonial Fiction (select novels of Salman Rushdie, Shashi Tharoor and Rohin-ton Mistry) and he is currently working on a research project on the works of Hanif Kureishi. His collection of poems 'Silver Painted Gandhi and Other Poems' was listed in Grace Cavalieri's Best Reading for Fall 2009, in Montserrat Review. He plans to publish a collection of short stories soon, and facilitates monthly creative writing contests at: http://heart-bytes.blogspot.com/2011/11/writers-forum-contests.html

A Story of Colors of Cambodiabook launch

14th October 2012

At Only World Group (OWG)No.10, Jalan Pelukis U1/46, Glenmari, Shah Alam, Selangor, Malaysia

Charity Hi -Tea vouchers available from

cofcthebook@gmail.com https://www.facebook.com/groups/138402846288849/

http://colorsofcambodia.org/

photo essay

angkor wat

pei yeou bradley

A small trickle runs down the fissure in the stone slabs. Slowly, without rushing, it finds its way into the dry antique tank..

There was a time when that tank was full. It was a time of kings. A time of water so

precious yet so plentiful. They would come to bathe,

pray, clear their minds.

It was a time of peace, love, and joy, before the wars, before life became meaningless. It was a time when Garudas flew in

imaginations.

Water would drip, wash cloth clad forms, vie with Pali intonations, chants, peace.

Stone were hauled to build the temple. Time hewn stones, lowered back to back, side to side creating the great Wat.

At Angkor.

d

d

d

d

lim willett

lim willett

sean throw

sean throw

sean throw

sean throw

pei yeou bradley

angkor - another viewSketches by the advanced students and teachers of the

Colors of Cambodia (charity) Gallery in Siem Reap, Cambodia

morm maram

morm maram

morm maram

diep kiri

yon bouch

morm maram

Antonio Lopez is a 49 year old Malaysian, and a Product Development Manager at a packaging printing company. He left school and started working as a print graphic de-signer with no formal training in a small print shop doing

typesetting and paste-up art for off-set printing.

He always had an interest in art and found Chinese Ink painting, and his first solo exhibition was in August 2005. He exhibited more than 50 pieces, most of which were

sold.

Antonio Lopez

Admittedly I was a little surprised, and somewhat excited, to be invited to the launch of the 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012. I was puzzled and quietly expectant too when I read the programme of events for that day. The events included a speech by YB Minister for Tourism Malaysia and the launch of an arts competition entitled 1Malaysia The Futurists. I was more than a little curious to see that The (Italian) Futurists were alive and well and encamped within this particular neck of the equator. That afternoon, there was the usual speechifying by the government minister the hand shaking and back slapping. Smiles fairly beamed from the stage at the Kuala Lumpur Convention Centre, lighting those examples of Malaysian art displayed for the purpose of the festival - adorning one side

a different future

launch review

a review of the 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012 launch

of that quite spacious hall, on level three. At one point in the proceedings a gigantic replica eye like something out of a Dali film or Redon pastel, was lit and revolved revealing well, very little actually. It was all a little bizarre. My view of the stage was constantly obstructed by a female photographer. She just would not take no for an answer - not even when asked to back off by the slightly miffed YB minister herself, so I apologize in advance if I missed the reference to The Futurists, but I am not conscious of having heard any reference to that bright band of Italian artists who had created their particular world view during the early years of the 20th century. There were no manifestos manifesting themselves, no painterly references to the future, speed, technology, youth, cars, air planes or

industrial cities. No Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Umberto Boccioni, or Carlo Carr either - I was somewhat befuddled. It seems that it was yet another of those cultural misunderstandings that I have been having so frequently - since I decided to lay my hat on a metaphorical hat peg, within my miniscule apartment on the fringes of the main Malaysian metropolis. The Italian Futurists and their love of machines, movement, and fascism were obviously not the focus of an arts competition. The term The Futurists had been high jacked by possibly well meaning, but perhaps a tad confused, committee attending to the day to day affairs of the aforementioned 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012 and paid no heed to the previous art movement of the very same name.. Having been kept on tender hooks for practically the whole event, I had no choice but to shuffle down in my seat, ignore the annoying photographer (and the gentleman with the mop of silvery hair immediately before me), and get on with enjoying the show. And there was much to enjoy too. Ramli Ibrahim and the Sutra Foundation dancers were stunning. The whole ensemble dancers, Ramli himself - the lighting and music gave us more than our moneys worth. OK, yes I was a VIP guest so it was free, but you know what I mean. It was superb. The dance theme appeared to be spirit

ramli ibrahim

and the emancipation of women, but I could be wrong. It was a sheer delight and continues to occupy my thoughts some hours now from the actual event. The anklung musician was a surprise as well. Despite having been resident in Malaysia for some eight years, I had not heard one of these bamboo instruments played until the launch of 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012. Perhaps I should explain - the anklung is an instrument made from hollow bamboo. It resonates when struck and generally is comprised of two bamboo resonators tuned to complimentary notes. The instrument is shaken to produce its unique note. But - joy upon joy, there was not just a solo artist - but eventually a whole orchestra admittedly of school children, but an orchestra nevertheless, who played beautifully as my wife and I hastened off as work beckoned at that point. All in all the 1Malaysia Contemporary Arts Tourism Festival 2012 was an interesting experience but no Futurists. I idly wonder what that art tourism concerned committee might come up with next year Post-Impressionist painters who paint indentations made by posts or Dadaist creatives who only make images of their fathers, perhaps. It therefore should be most interesting - when the future finally arrives.

anklung

anklung orchestra

The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art Gallery sits in a cul-de-sac hidden somewhere in the far reaches of Section 16, Petaling Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia. You do need a map to get there, but once there the gallery opens itself up like a welcoming mistress and seduces the visitor with her evident charms. There is a slight confusion about the exterior area surrounding the gallery is it a car park, a bar be que area, or a sculpture park awaiting sculptures I chose to believe the latter, trying to seem positive. Like most Malaysia art galleries it was empty of visitors on the weekday my wife and I visited. The gallery halls rang with a slight desolation but nothing too untoward, and in a way it was good not to have intruding noise as we bathed in the milieus ambience. That day, as we entered, there were two stunning quasi-erotic ceramic pieces (from Jasmine Koks Sensuality exhibition at the Galeri Chandan) - lying on a smartly appointed long table. It was sad that we had missed her

gallery review

The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art Gallery

one-woman exhibition at Galeri Chandan, and those two artworks of hers made me even sadder. I wanted to rush over and take my fill of their ceramic beauty, but we were interrupted by the new gallery minder and offered chilled water. We drank our respective glasses of soothing, chilled, water - not wanting to appear impolite, and signed the visitors book. It was only then, after scribbling our names in the book reserved for such purposes, that we were free to wander at will through the two floors of The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art gallery. Braving the suburban traffic on that flirtatiously hot day, and praying that parking might be available close by, we had actually gone to the gallery to see the works of the Sri Lankan painter - Josephine Balakrishnan. After finally witnessing that artists striking works face to canvas, it comes as no surprise to learn that Josephine Balakrishnan

flowering

Josephine Balakrishnan

bounty

sunshine sparkle

butterfly

our protectors

garden

cont: grew up in California. Her work seems to leak West Coast, and to have a distinct Hockneyesque feel about it - bathed as they are in bright California colours, warm hues and alluring tints, but no greater splashes, naked or semi-naked bathers to ogle. There was a Matisse feel about Balakrishnans art. Perhaps it was the line work, the colours, or the sheer painterly bravado but, whichever it was, those works were a joy to see. Though, truth to tell, I had expected more. But isnt that what we are always being told - always leave them wanting more. Those bright and vibrant paintings shared gallery space with the oversized creations of Zac Lee. There was an incongruity present. The aggressive works of Zac Lee perhaps the product of some strange coupling between Francis Bacon and Georgia OKeeffe, did not sit well with the energetic paintings from Josephine Balakrishnan, or with the two gently sexual ceramic pieces by Jasmine Kok. It may simply have been a shortage of space, yet the two displays side by side, seemed to detracted - one from the other. There was a further thought - after strolling the short corridor towards the stairs which nagged - just why was one of Zac Lees digital works relegated to the kitchen food

zac lee

for thought. Upstairs, past the quarters for artists in residence, Chin Kon Yits marvellous watercolours shone in his one man exhibition. Kon Yit previously featured in Dusun, has been sketching Malaysia for some time. The upstairs gallery at The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art gallery was displaying some fine examples of this masters work. Kon Yit, for the uninitiated, draws painstaking sketches of architecture in minute detail right down to the pencilled expressions on street vendors faces. It is unsurprising then that Kon Yits illustrations adorn many a book about Malaysias towns and cities. The Shalini Ganendra Fine Art gallery is a little out of the way, but well worth a visit for that gallery is responsible for some excellent exhibitions and thought provoking art talks too.SHALINI GANENDRA FINE ART @ Gallery Residence

No. 8 Lorong 16/7B, Section 16, 46350 Petaling Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia

Tel: +603 7960 4740

Hours: Tues Sat: 11am 7pm

www.shaliniganendra.com

facebook: SGFA

josephine balakrishnan jasmine kok

dhamma babyby martin bradley

sleep my dhamma babylet the lotus guide your

dreamsand may the eightfold path

steady your footsteps and give you mindfulness

sleep my dhamma babyand in your dreams, restmay it bring you peacejoy and love to lighten

your busy life

sleep my dhamma babyand in the morning awaken

with fresh eyes and an easy heart

may a smile brighten your day

as you brighten mine

sleep my dhamma babythe whole world is yours

the sun and the moon shinemountains rise and seas

flowjust for you

may this day be the day of your dreams

when all your wishes are granted

and your heart is glad

sleep my dhamma baby

and upon awakeningrest easy in

my loveand the

sweet breathof the

sunshine

pei yeou bradley

new beginning

seeds of nuturing

somewhere is my dream

remembering whiteness & other poems

by martin bradley

downloadable as a free pdffrom

http://correspondences-martin.blogspot.com/2012/04/open-publication-free-publishing-more.html