2014 | Chitra Soundar

My joy for the Umbrella

Posted on October 14, 2014February 28, 2018 By csoundar

brolly1 I like umbrellas. No scratch that. I like the concept of the umbrella. I never owned one until two days ago.

I always find them impractical – they are suitable for light rain – but for rains with wind takeone s and stormy weather, they are practically useless. Then you have to stand near the doors of buildings, trying to push them through sticky transparent plastic in an effort not to drip – but you have already dripped all over the place.If Health & Safety goes more mad, all umbrella-touting people should wear a fluorescent vest that says “Person Carrying Wet and Dripping Umbrella, Pass with Caution.”

I came from a sea-side city in the country of the monsoon. We didn’t get drizzles and rains. We had downpours, low pressure in the bay and dark and stormy nights where it bucketed the skies for hours on end. I grew up with storms where fishermen were warned not to leave for fishing or reports of fishermen missing came through the wires. So the umbrella was just a concept.

But for me as a little girl, mind a girl who had never seen Mary Poppins in any form or shape until she was 30 years old, thought an umbrella was a magical concept. It could help you fly.

I was very thin growing up. People called me the grass-girl or pencil-girl or sometimes wire-frame girl. Or if they are funny (they thought they were), they called me the strong girl who would be tripped by a grass – it is easier to say this in Tamil, trust me. For a thin girl like me, flying away holding on to an umbrella was magical. poppins1 Didn’t know it had already been perfected by Mary Poppins and I could borrow her magic and her manual.

I imagined flying over Chennai, over the oceans, over the islands and far away. I always wanted to meet interesting people, see things I had never seen before and just be off. Didn’t matter where I went – I just wanted to be off.

The only thing was my Dad’s umbrella was black. My mum’s was black. I wanted a colourful one – with intricate design of things I liked. With lots of colours. I had always imagined my umbrella to be a big one with buttons that would open them up and display the cloud of colours, colours that could change as I flew over different places. Designs that could reflect the places I’d been too.

And then I came to live here in Britain. The first thing I fell in love with – the brolly. What a fantastic word for the umbrella. The brolly. That works even in plural better than the plural for umbrella – is it umbrellas or umbrellae ? Brollies – I have scribbled down a thousand ideas for brollies and adventures.

Every time I step out into the rain without one and see people carrying brollies, I check the colours, the size, the patterns, the new designs. I always wonder why brollies are so expensive – rain has been perpectual on this earth (let’s hope it stays that way). So why hasn’t he invented something better than a brolly for the windy days? Why do we always struggle with the brolly in the street as it folds upwards? Why do we find abandoned brollies (that’s a crime), by bins because their spines were broken? Why are the brollies so expensive?

Then I realized because brollies are magical. You need to activate their magic, believe in them. An umbrella is a magical thing. You can’t uninvent it. It won’t go away quietly in the annals of inventions like the cassette tape. People like carrying an umbrella than wearing plastic ponchos. (Although that gives me an idea about a plastic ponchos for my next story).

So anyway, I knuckled down and bought an expensive umbrella from Boots over the weekend. It set me back by 18 pounds. But it is colourful, playful and has a button to open and shut it. The last two days I’ve been using it, I have been flying over the Thames, knocking on windows at the Shard at the top where only elves live, and visiting the pigeons on top of St. Paul’s.

My joy for the umbrella is only matched by my joy for the balloon – the ones with a basket that would take you over fields. The Phileas balloon1 Fogg adventure – I have it on my bedroom wall. That’s still one of my achievable dreams – however I am holding back paying the 99 quid for it to go up in one, lest it should shatter my dreams and fantasies and just be like a tram ride.

Although tram rides are brilliant – aren’t they? Not the ones that take you to Ikea – I mean the ones you can get on to go into Santa’s workshop or when you get on one in Switzerland and see the cuckoo clocks?

My first story workshop at Blue Anchor

Posted on September 6, 2014February 28, 2018 By csoundar

I volunteered recently with Southwark Libraries to do some creative writing and story workshops at the Blue Anchor Library.

Blue Anchor Library is small and cosy and not far from where I live. It has a newly refurbished building and staff who are committed to literacy and reading. For a library this size, it has an array of events that are suitable for the community they serve.

Today was the first workshop and as an ode to the Mythical Monsters Summer Reading Challenge, my story wor anansi kshop was to help the kids write an Anansi story of their own.

Not sure lot of parents were thinking about workshops for this week as it was term start – but the valiant librarians encouraged the children reading and finishing up homework (new term after all) to come and participate.

Two girls who came early and sat and read the Anansi books that the librarian had put out for the event. Then two sisters who had done their homework wanted to join. Then another boy who came to the event seeing the poster. So we had a good group to start us off.

We started off with an Anansi story – I told the story of How Anansi got the box of Stories and realized many visitors were keenly listening to it too. I could see parents hovering by the video section that was closest to the workshop space and listening.

A boy who was doing homework took off his headphones and turned around, but he was too shy to come down and actually participate.

After I told the story, we analysed it. We figured out jointly the structure of an Anansi story. Then I read them a story that I had written a few years ago at Jane Yolen’s workshop – an original trickster tale about Anansi, not from Anansi’s box of stories.

The kids then analysed the story I had written and matched the structure. Now they were ready to create their own. By this time, we had lost two of the participants as their ride had come early.

But the other three were undeterred. They had three different plots and we discussed each plot. By the end of the plotting, we jointly decided one plot wasn’t going to work. Then the children started writing their own stories with it.

I could see the enthusiasm in their eyes. They weren’t shouting and jumping about with joy – but they were seriously working on their stories. I had three converts on my hands – kids who wanted to write stories and read more.

The parents were absolutely thrilled that the kids had sat down and written a story. Other parents came to ask if there was another session. So all in all a good workshop. I always think – if I can I instill the joy of stories and writing in one kid – that’s reward enough for each event I do.

Next week I am in Dulwich, at Rosendale Primary School with Peagreen Boat Books at their Mini Hay Festival telling stories to Reception and Year 1 kids all day long. I can’t wait.

My adventures with Series Fiction – Just Starting

Posted on August 30, 2014February 28, 2018 By csoundar

I have been working on a series-fiction character for two years now. I have rewritten the story many times and each time I start I think about the approach- should I do in-depth character studies? Should I write it as it happens and figure out as I go?

I always thought preparing for a long time, interviewing my characters and writing about their features and likes and dislikes will take away the pleasure of discovering it. I always get put off by the lists, the interview questions, the forms that are available on the Internet to do character studies.

But this time I had to do it. My writing mentor Tony Bradman at Golden Egg Academy, said I need to know my characters in depth and I should spend time on the preparation so the writing is more focused. My groan must have echoed through the city if not muffled by the constant noise of engineering works on the tracks near my flat.

So how does one plan a character for a series fiction for children? Most character trait charts and interview questions were aimed at fiction for adults. Some were genre specific like world building for science fiction and fantasy. I decided to start with the hint that Tony had given me – think about why sitcoms like “Malcolm in the Middle” and “Big Bang Theory” work? They are comedies, they are situational, but are heavily character based.

So that’s where I started. I trawled through episode guides of my favourite character-sitcom – Big Bang Theory. I studied the tropes that feature in popular sitcoms. That gave me the basics of how characters should be structured and why these characters have to be exaggerated.

Then I studied the basics of writing a character based sitcom. What goes into? Why is the character important and why does everything has to centre around the character traits.

That gave me the basics. But I still needed to know more about my characters. So, firstly, I decided what I wanted to know about each characters. I trawled through many character study charts and synthesized what I wanted for a young fiction. I created my own character chart (which you can see here). But again, I was bored filling in a chart with traits. I didn’t think it would wake up my creative spirit. I wanted something playful, something fun and something I could enjoy doing.

After a lot of pondering, trials of form-filling and trying out various things, I decided I liked to brainstorm about my characters using the questions. The questions are the guide but the responses won’t be in the form. I would reflect the character’s personality in my character study notebook.

Oh yes, I needed a chance to buy new drawing notebooks. I can’t draw at all – but this exercise made me so adventurous – I started using colours, speech bubbles and all sorts of drawing and pictures. Some I tried to draw using websites that showed me how to draw and some I cut and pasted in my notebook.

I had discovered my most productive form of creating characters. I was able to have fun, confuse the person sitting next to me in the pub and use all the stationery I had in the house.

So there was one notebook for the main character, another for the kids who are part of the main character’s life and then the adults in a separate notebook. What fun!

Then when I thought I had reached my personal heaven, guilt crept up on me. I wasn’t writing. I was playing. Is that good? Am I wasting time? Is this all going to be of any help when I write? I hadn’t written for 4 weeks, working on 6-7 characters, plot ideas, research on background, dogs, cats and all sorts of related things.

Oh and I listened to loads of youtube songs figuring out what songs my characters would like, watched cartoons and worked out what my adventure holiday camp would entail. It was loads of fun!

I went to Facebook SCBWI group for help. I fretted that I was going to squander away my part-time life. That’s when it hit me and was also advised of the same thing in the Facebook poll – write vignettes, write short essays about the characters. Yes, that would work. That would help me focus on the writing, allow me to experiment with voice and also with tense.

But what should I write? That’s when WritingMaps came to my rescue. I had bought a whole pack of them a few months ago and one of the maps was about characters.

So on a train to Lille in Paris, at 7 in the morning, I unfolded the map in the train and started to write character episodes for my characters.

That definitely made me feel better- but something else happened. I discovered more things about my characters than I had known before.

This could become a habit – the avoiding of writing doing character studies and vignettes and colouring and drawing and doodling. That’s kind of what David Almond said in a recent masterclass I went to – have fun, doodle, scribble – don’t worry about having fun!

Soon the writing will start and I will report back on how I used the character studies and all the brainstorming I did.

The Part-time Life

Posted on July 13, 2014February 28, 2018 By csoundar

I’m not used to the term part-timer simply because I give 100% to everything I do. But when you do a lot of things, it is 100% to one thing at one time. I worked in Information Technology (computers as others call it) for many years in India and then moved to do the same in Singapore and then in the UK. I worked in a bank during the financial crisis and worked 16-18 hour shifts and was proud of holding the fort.

I never gave up on writing. I wrote in the mornings and nights, on trains and bus-stops and all weekends. I used to get up at 4 am in the morning when I was in a demanding and stressful relationship to ensure I get my writing done irrespective of how the day turned out to be.

Then early this year, I spent some time evaluating life. The mortgage was paid off, there is no husband or kids to look after, just me, the laundry, the dishes and what I wanted.

What did I want to do with life?

I was working regular hours, but to write I was giving up my evenings and weekends, and precious time with my nephew growing up.

I was giving up on experiencing life so that I could work and write. My life experiences with spreadsheets and conference calls weren’t going to feed my muse to write stories for children. Writing comes from inside me and inside me was underfed with richness and tired with office politics.

Could I have both? I didn’t want to be at home full-time. I’m a natural loner might end up finding my haven inside instead of exploring the world. I would need to keep my mind sharp and my day job was very good at doing that. So maybe I could step off the pedal and not worry about whether I had a powerful and high-paying job but find my work-writing-life balance.

After a lot of chats with my sister and my parents, I decided to float the idea to my bosses. My family was supportive of my plans – albeit my Dad a bit worried about leaving a permanent job.

Oddly enough and pleasantly surprising my bosses were supportive of my decision as well. My divisional manager was keen to keep me onboard and allow me the time to write. So I went in with a resignation so I could find contract jobs that would give me freedom, I came back with a part-time offer with job security and time away to write, to go into schools and pursue storytelling.

It’s been six weeks now and it has been fantastic. I was thinking if I could have done it sooner and realized not really. I had taken advantage of the first opportunity to scale back one part of my life and create a bigger pie for other things.

I have been into many libraries telling stories. I’ve done storytelling in summer fetes and community gatherings. I’ve been part of CWISL’s first ShoutWest event and I’ve been writing more.

I now work three days at the bank and have the rest of the week to write and have fun. I see more of my nephew, I have found myself a writing mentor with the Golden Egg Academy and I’ve met some interesting people going on walks discovering the heritage of London.

I’m asked if going into work for the three days is difficult. It is actually fun. I feel less guilty about going into corporate work at the cost of life or writing. I’ve wanted to do something for myself, I didn’t go out and buy a Ferrari, (in my case it would be the Fiat 500)

– but I thought about what I wanted and bargained life for what it’s worth and I have more time to spend the money I make.

In a way, I am the husband and wife at t i_m_getting_married_____to_myself__by_veeutiful-d5vyhf1 he same time in my own life- the bank employee me makes the money and the writer me, spends the money on notebooks, books, stationery, going to events and such!

I’m more productive as a writer – I’ve time for experiments, I can now write and put it away because time is not that scarce. It is still precious, but I have no plan to waste it.

Who said lounging in the park watching cloud shapes is wasting time? That’s research, that’s observation, that’s fodder for the writing. Who said walking my story by the riverside is a waste of time? It is a gift that only I could give myself.

Some people tell me I’m brave to step off the ladder, or off the treadmill or the accelerator whatever you call it. People in my position at my work are now furiously looking for the next big promotion.

But I am free from all that stress and it has liberated me at work. Not that I was one of those people led by a chief whip – I had opinions of my own and never kept it to myself. But I’ve now given myself permission just to enjoy the work. I think I now understand more the maxim that is in the Bhagavad Gita that I gita-war-to-begin always believed in – “Do your duty and do not expect a benefit from it.”

My HR contact will check in with me after 3 months, and I hope I’ll be able to say “Can I stay forever part-time please?”

RIP Kanaka Auntie

Posted on July 6, 2014February 28, 2018 By csoundar

[Mum in Orange Saree and Auntie in Green]

My mum was in no way orthodox or deeply religious when we were young, or for that matter now. She is spiritual and devoted to her religion – but she is also a product of her time.

Most of my Mum’s friends were local women who were brought together in social work and she didn’t really mix much with the neighbours. Don’t get me wrong, we were in a colony of bank employees, we all liked each other and the kids like me hung out with other colony kids, but my Mum was not the “Best friend” type. Oh I just realized why I’m like that.

Anyway, this was the time of the Srilankan Civil War at its worst. The Tamils were not only fighting the federal Sinhala government , but were also fighting amongst themselves. Refugees came into India in droves, especially to South India where the political climate was favourable.

We had new neigbours two doors down. We lived in the first floor and someone moved into the first floor flat two doors down. The house in the middle didn’t have a first floor – so I could watch the comings and goings of the new neighbours. Opposite to the new neighbor’s flat was our usual hangout – another bank employee’s house and we sat in their terrace and watched them unpack and move in.

Everyone speculated including us, the kids. Their accent wasn’t local. Were they from Kerala, the south-west of India. They sounded different, dressed different. They were new to this part of the world. And then an old lady with just one arm came out of the car. That was big news and we speculated more.

The next thing that was different, was this bunch was friendly. Not in a “I’m new to your neighbourhood” way. In a genuine way. They invited us to their place and they wanted to talk to us. And this was not the health and safety, don’t talk to strangers time – this was more in the early 80s when we walked around in our pajamas on the streets. (Well, I did and I was sure was being laughed at).

I was drawn to their smiles. It reached their eyes. People tell me I do that too. Maybe I got it from them. Anyway, I digress. I made friends first. I went in to their home and talked to them. Gleaned information. They were from Sri Lanka, my mum still says Ceylon. They were refugees. But not regular refugees – they were political refugees. Because one of the brothers (who wasn’t with them) was a liberation leader. The old lady was shot at by the army. The older brother was in jail for many years for not revealing his brother’s whereabouts. My imagination was ignited. Their Tamil cause was mine too.

But the most important thing that happened was that my Mum was drawn to them too. Slowly the family became friends. My mum and Kanaka Auntie (we never called her that, we called her Ceylon Aunty and my Mum called her Ceylonee) started doing things together – the temples first and then for coffee and then a meal. They talked hours on end and they got on like fire and petrol. They both had irreverent humour and they loved making fun of stuck-up people. My mum was impressed with auntie’s knowledge and experience – she understood what it took to leave behind a homestead, a farm and a big house and having to flee for life.

[They must have been making fun of someone else or each other.]

Their kids were friendly and genuinely nice. My mum had a friend for life. Well, she thought she did. We were family – we had broken barriers mentally to be recognized with people who were different from us in more ways than one. My Mum managed to get Auntie approved amongst her sisters and in-laws. Everyone knew Mum’s best friend was Ceylon Auntie. And she in turn became the advisor and listener to many of Mum’s relatives and friends.

When I went home this April. Auntie couldn’t come to see me. She was ill. The first time she hadn’t turned up the day I went home. She called and sent her “freedom-fighter” husband with some home-made rice noodles. I insisted I wanted to visit. They lived a few streets away now. We went for a visit and we had an hour talking about this and that. Auntie was ill – but her husband was talking to my Mum about her recent bout of illness and giving her advice. Every one in their family have always been generous with their warmth, their smiles and their attitude. They had so little, yet they shared. They worked hard and they smiled a lot. No wonder my Mum loved to be part of that fold.

Ceylon Auntie, passed away yesterday, after a month of hospitalization. A coma she wouldn’t come out of. She had braved the Sinhala Army and a foreign country. She had braved her husband’s jail term and her mother-in-laws escape across the fields, being shot at by the army. But she finally gave up.

My mum and Dad have been talking about her for weeks now. They were so worried. My Dad couldn’t contemplate not having her in our lives. He wasn’t normally very involved in things like hospitals and family functions. But he went to the hospital every other day to see her and be with her husband.

Our family has lost a friend, my Mum has lost a sister and we are all somehow a little less than we were yesterday. But the only way I know how to carry on, is be like her –be generous even when you have nothing to give and be happy even if life has not given you reason to.