Author Archives: Rohini Sunderam

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About Rohini Sunderam

Semi-retired copywriter, writer, poet and occasional blogger

Conversion of our Ancestors

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Written by Mrs. Pritilata Singha in 1995 on a visit to Halifax, NS, Canada

This was an article written by my mother for the St. Peter’s Church Birch Cove newsletter. This is our church in Halifax. Most of our congregation found this very interesting and fascinating. I’m placing it here for my family – immediate and extended as a story about their background and inheritance.

To understand conversion in India, I feel one must have a basic knowledge of the social, economic and religious structure of our great country.

The East has always been religious and most or almost all religions have sprung up from Asia and the Middle East. Some have been born in India. Man has dominated Man by superiority of intellect, economic power or sheer physical strength.

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Mystery Lady’s Poems in an old Bible

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I had in my possession an old family Bible, given to me for safekeeping almost twenty years ago. On the flyleaf is an inscription in almost fading black ink, its flowing cursive lines are testimony to an age when penmanship was considered of great importance. It is a simple dedication made out to my maternal grandmother from her aunt and dated June 26th 1913.

To be honest I had never really looked at the Bible much – I have one of my own of more recent vintage – and what’s more it was tied in an old handkerchief that has grown a pale yellow although it has retained its resilience. I thought it was time to pass it on to a family member who still carries my mother’s family name.

However, before I sent the Bible on to the next generation, I decided to look inside and within its secret pages I found some sheets from an old exercise book on which were written nine – I CORRECT MYSELF THERE WERE TEN – perfect little poems. Two of the pages have been eaten by time and so some of the words are lost. The handwriting is not familiar, it doesn’t belong to my mother and nor do I believe the pages are old enough to belong to my grandmother. Inside the Bible was also an Easter card addressed to my mother from my paternal grandaunt, who had never married. However, the handwriting in the poems doesn’t look as though it’s my grandaunt’s either.

So who wrote these poems? Are they verses written by some other poets and merely copied by the writer onto the exercise book sheets? Or were they written by some unsung unheard of poet in my family’s past, on either my mother’s or my father’s side.

I plan to list some of these poems here, so if anyone in the world – who visits this site and recognises the lines as belonging to another poet – do please leave a comment. If not, I think it’s time the Anonymous Poet of the 1913 Bible gets some appreciation.

 The Poems found in an old family Bible

The little things

Be careful of the little things you do

For often times they echo back to you

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The Pen & The Sword

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A conceit 

In an electronic world is one permitted to muse upon the future of expressions such as ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’? Today, can we say, ‘the (computer) key is mightier than the sword? Or, more appropriately, the ‘chip is mightier than the missile’? Then too, with the integration of computers/electronics and warheads/missiles does a comparison exist? After all neither one can be mightier than the other when they are, in fact, the same. Or, should we, in musing, revert to what the expression originally meant, ‘that an idea expressed in words can effect more change faster and sooner and with further reaching implications than a single, short, swift death’?

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Halifax Streets

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From a place called Leeds Street

You can see the ocean

Behind an institute of technology

That spawned engineers and builders

The kind that mauled the hillsides with roads

And marshalled the trees

Into soldierly rows

Gouging out in a mere two centuries

What Nature had husbanded

Soil on rock, soil on soil, layer upon layer

Too thin a soil belt to hold a redwood tree

It bravely sustained pines and hemlock,

Birch, maple, elm and cedar

Too few to people the hills with now

They have become mere street names.

Memories of Nova Scotia – Cape Bretonese

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Cape Bretonese! The article below has been recovered from an old copy circa 2002 of The Chronicle-Herald, the renowned daily newspaper that has delivered news of the world, Canada and Nova Scotia to the people of the province since 1875.  I am proud to say that I worked there as an advertising copywriter from 1994 to 2003.

It is now several years since I left the Herald – as I moved to the Kingdom of Bahrain – but I still feel that I belong to that great community known affectionately as the Herald Family.  In addition, as any Bluenose Nova Scotian will tell you, once you become a Nova Scotian you’ll always be a Nova Scotian no matter where you go… or as they like to say “you can take the Nova Scotian out of Nova Scotia, but you can’t … (take Nova Scotia out of the Nova Scotian)”.

I dedicate this section of the blog to the memory of that most beautiful part of the world where the friendly warmth of the people can dispel even the coldest winter day.

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A Nova Scotia summer in the country

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A bunch of lupines, bending in the sun

Holding their sides and laughing just for fun

Too hysterical from giggling at Life and Lunacy

To stop and share their little joke with me.

A crowd of lupines, gathered in a field

Gossiping in knots of purple, pink and green

Smiling at the clouds, chatting on their knees

Unmindful of the weather and the sudden chilling breeze.

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Growing Away

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“Hello,” he said, “I’m Amar.”

“Hello. I’m alone.”

Amar laughed. “Do you always have these opening lines?”

“Not always. I never do anything always. But then I don’t always say never to anything, so perhaps I do.”

“What a complicated person you are,” said Amar.

“Do you always make snap judgements?”

And that was how we met.

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Welcome to Fictionpals

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This is a place where I hope to publish some of my writings as well as contributions from visitors like you! Naturally, I will decide what should appear and may edit and adjust your works as I see fit. Please send in whatever genre you’d like: from prose and essays to stories – both factual and fictional, from verse that rhymes or flows wherever your muse takes you to funny tales. All I ask is that you remember that this is a general site and no adult piece should appear here. Thank you. All genres welcome – poetry, prose, prose poems, stories, dramatic pieces, essays up to 1500 words are welcome. Just remember this is a general viewer site. If I deem a piece of writing unsuitable it will not be published.

I’m an Owl not a Lark!

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I had a fractured sleep last night

No splints or plasters

Could knit it together

Thereafter the pain of it

Has left me yawning … all morning

I’m an owl not a lark

As the day proceeds

I can feel my body’s rhythms

As they pick up speed

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