march-april, 2016

march-april, 2016

i.

Sananta Tanty                                                                                                         4 poems (Assamese)

translated by Dibyajyoti Sarma

Myself like you

I’ll break you

Breaking, I will enter you

Will measure your mass

Your length and breath

Breaking the limits of your consciousness

Will walk inside you 

Will find out if after being broken

You remain there or not

I’ll break you

Your shape, your shadow

Your dance and your song

Even your pride

Will break everything and see

If after broken

You remain there or not

In wind and storm, I will break your memories

Or in the destruction of your heart,

I will find out even after everything is broken

How remain your remains

I’ll break you

To build myself

Like you

File photograph

A few file photographs of my sorrows I am sending you for publication

Likes the tables and chairs of my house inundated in the last flood

To save these when I could not think of anyone else, without delay

I have posted them to you.

I trust to arouse democracy

And to poke people at their smooth appearances

To make blank the apparently beautiful colour of freedom

And finally, to awake the entire country from sleep

To stir the driving force called time by throwing sharp swords constantly

You can use the file photographs of my sorrows.

Cannot help explain that in the file photographs sent to you

There are tableaux of war of people exasperated with hunger every day

Cries of dominated and tortured women

Scenes of the eyes of children who die every day

Above all the riot created by the notorious murderer called communism.

A long time after keeping these pictures of my sorrows

Neatly arranged deep inside my heart, suddenly when I remembered your

Trusted face, I sent them to you without delay.

I trust making a connection of these pictures with current affairs

You will inspire people to have a dialogue with themselves.

Would you be able to wage war with yourself?

Would you be able to wage war with yourself?

Be able to touch your heart with war

To enter your heart to visit your conscience

And tell it: I am with you

I live with you, with you I respond

To my emotions

Walking ahead of your conscience would you

Be able to fly the flag of conscience

Suppose your reply is plain and simple

Suppose to answer my question, you did not really think through

Or to offer a positive answer to my query

You did not even take a moment

Then let's come to the next question

Do sometimes I make you think of the sad eyes of

The poor, helpless, scared to death people affected by flood

The sigh and breath of the sleeping children next

To the flowing water of the embankment destroyed by the river?

The look of those children who have thinned down

Spending sleepless nights in hunger and thirst?

Do these scenes reflect on your heart?

Do the tides of pain and sorrow surge up in your heart?

Sometimes unknowingly, do tear drops fall from your eyes?

Do you accept the condolence for 10-year-old,

Jonali Kalita, who died from

A simple fever and malnutrition?

Do you mourn for 10 days?

Jonali too was innocent like your daughter

Like your child even on her eyes floated dreams

Her lips were smeared with the colour of freedom

The feet eager to dance

On her thin hands were long fingers to draw pictures of dream

To receive some love even her heart was desirous.

Yet like your child, she wasn’t lucky

To live in a dream

Now, my third and last question to you

Directly –

Would you be able to make your conscience agree?

To the scenes of

Thousands of Govinda Kalitas who with their wives

And children, had not eaten for a month take

Shelter on the roofs of their houses fighting

With death incessantly, or

The lives of tea garden labourers

Dinanath Rauris, who walk towards death turning

Into a profit-making machine for the garden owner

If you cannot, then come, protest against the

Disparity in the social system, to join the people’s movement

We respond to our conscience.

    

Warrior

After a few days of training, now he’s an expert in firing

Guns. He can now pin the heart with a bullet. From one

Ear to another, can propel words. From any difficult

Place can garner hundred percent success.

If needed, he can defunct each organs of his enemies

One by one to make them suffer. Aware of each word he

Now plants in his blood the seed of an assault.

He is now a dependable warrior in my troop.

ii.

Shirin Bismillah                                                                                              2 poems

Untouched by Blood

She who had come in, jostling, at the end

Of the performance—only eighteen years old—

Was yet to experience a confusion of soaps

And bottles of lavender water! “Zooni, never

Reach out for that house in the suburbs!”

But let us row ourselves, through the bygone

Stardust of that lost soul. Let us forever submerge

And leave. The Night of Joy had pushed him visit

The ‘city of suspense’. Yellow ceiling exposed

A roasted appearance, when he waited and she

Came. A red flash ruddied her forehead in doubt.

“Am I to vanish? Or survive?” When the parrot

Died, she left the balcony opened on a brisk night

And the railing gave them a cool feeling of living

Flesh. (Cool limbs of Eileen). “Come now, he wants

To kiss you”. Excited in a shameful misery, he is

Full of three women’s indelicacy. She

Would prefer to wait, and rinse out the basins –

Poisoned with musk. A boy, meanwhile, was trying

To spool his tapes in the crowded lane.

His father—the pastry cook—had given the

Mother a whole week of love and blows.

A monster breathes in every warm cave. “Are

You lonesome tonight? Will you miss me tonight?

They went on pretending for long. He would fast-

Forward the times, she would rewind the dreams.

Some ruthless words lurked in dark spaces,

Where promises were discussed. (Oh, you are

Still here). A rose stands, dried, for the set of two.

There is a palpable forgotten mound. The staircase cast

Shadows of shawls on the wall. The ‘city of suspense’

Had long gone, ate them up. Rewind to zero!

Fused Thoughts

From Moscow to New Delhi—we attempted

To paint the flakes of cloud, intruding in the

Unknown territories, reading Kafka.

Sparrows who had a crisp morning dialogue,

For the last twenty years—had been looking for

An empty branch and some action in Sheikh Sarai.

From the trains of night Zafar had come,

And my five-foot frame shook with mirth.

The birds were now looking for a home-exile.

We fell and called each other by all dear names;

Yet his temple burned in sadness. The smoke of a dry cigar

Scented the air. A stranger coughed his burning throat.

“You were the aqua in my thirst”, said he.

We wanted to forget the moment of

Remoteness but could not cry, even across the oceans.

Pain was love’s foremost thirst. The children

Here had quickly made us smile and entered

Our lost cell. (They left). We could not speak a little more.

When the call to prayer reaches us—following silence—

We hear our fishmonger calling again.

“Rahima is a mother of one.” He knew we would

Return no answer to him. Now each night at

Kremlin we look at each other, without a word.

He was alive—he gave signs, but I lit a candle

To zoom into his emptiness every night.

Tears careen down, my smile fades away when I say,

“Why are you still steeped in past?”

I rewind to happier times, the years of

Jewels and monsoons, ancient and recent.

We still watch the seasons, and centuries pass.

iii.

Amrita Dutta                                                                                                 poem

Tranquillity

I close my eyes in wait.

I’m waiting.
Waiting

Waiting for the hurt to give way to understanding

Waiting for dismay to give way to hope

Waiting for light to penetrate the dark

Waiting for gloom to pave way for glee

I’m still waiting.

I’m trying.

Trying not to feel. Not to think.

Trying to numb the pain that numbs my senses.

Trying to keep going. Believing. Loving.

Trying to overcome the contradictions that challenge everything I put my trust in.

Yes, I’m trying.

And then you come along.

Stare me in the eye, assuring.

You calm me, soothe, promise of a better land.

I believe you.

I feel no need to try any more.

There’s no more waiting.

Who said death isn’t beautiful?

iv.

Poornima Laxmeshwar                                                                                    3 poems 

      At the dusk

I have always loved you Karna

Even more than Krishna

I like your other names Angad

Or even Radheya more

For a matter of fact

You are a true warrior, a loyal friend,

An unfailing son

A man any woman can wish for

A man who can stand by his values and words

One who offered his kavacha and kundala

To those who wanted to bring you down

With pure deceit

You knew it all

Tell me Radheya

How did you feel

When Kunti came to you

To reveal your identity

Was it hatred or love

That you felt for her

Learning that she gave birth to you

How did you feel when you were cursed

By your master

For protecting him

For not being a Brahmin

Was it guilt that haunted you

What did you feel in the battlefield

When you knew your time has come

That you will be killed

With bent and broken rules

Was it pride

Were you still able to forgive

Because you always have been forgiving

A dark blanket

The sickle like a half moon

Is soaking in the faint night light

Smiling back at the ogling moon

Awaiting a murderous tomorrow

*

Under a starry canopy

The newly wed couple

Taste the first bitterness

Of marriage

*

The night embraces silence again

It is only the flowing river

The uneasy crickets, your snores

Which seem disturbing

*

The moths are engaged

They are indulged in distances

In search of some light

*

How the emerald belt

Slowly disappeared

Into black

Expectations

From that picture

I see you looking through

My dark circled eyes

Questioning about my life’s

Unclaimed achievements

I whisper into the thin air

That I am waiting

For the awakening

While all your life

You fought for the trees and animals

Who could never vouch

For your selfless acts

Fought for the green Ghats

Which could not even keep your home safe

From the fire that failed

To ashen your will

Don’t expect any of that from me

I am happy to live

In this valley of concrete

There is at least a home

I can always come back to . . .

v.

Paul C. Blake                                                                                                          critique
Pastoral Concert
Playing with the Muses

        

Pastoral Concert by Giorgione is a depiction of a group of young people gathered in a lush landscape to make music where a shepherd tends his flock in a nearby pasture.  Most puzzling are the nude women, one of whom is about to play a recorder while another pours water into a well.  “One proposal identifies them as the muses, ancient female divinities who inspire the arts”—in this case, presiding over music (Davies 584).  Without definite literary account, the painting seems to elude a historical narrative.  

 While considering this proposal that the women are muses, with seemingly little intent for intimacy, much could be gathered from the configuration of the assembly. The two men fully dressed seem to be conferring about the music they are about to play as one attends to his peer’s fingering on the fret of the stringed instrument. One woman sits in the company of the two men holding her recorder apparently waiting for them to get the tune together. Is she merely waiting for them to get it together, or could it be that she is the tuner cluing them to start on the right pitch? Either way, she is engaged in the concert to the music, however impertinent she might appear to the men whose ignorance is alluded to in their shadowy faces.

The artist, Giorgione, has recalled the shifting posture of Classical Greece in his figures with more naturalism while discarding the frontal stance in the archaic types. In reflection of the Greek’s revolving posture, life seems to enter the figure when the body assumes a slight twist suggesting an active and more relaxed stance. According to E.H. Gombrich, “Archaic art starts from the schema, the symmetrical frontal figure conceived for one aspect only, and the conquest of naturalism may be described as the gradual accumulation of corrections due to the observation of reality” (118). The standing female figure appears revolving in her posture as she reaches to draw water from a well, slightly turning her back on the group.  Therefore, her nudity is less distracting to the trio in concert than she is to us the viewers. She seduces us as she leans on the side of the well with her fallen apparel to expose her right thigh.  Even more seductive is the way she guards her sex by the crossing of her thighs and her active arm—all captured in the movement toward pouring water into the well. In her advances and departing roles, she is a kind of antithesis to her counterpart, the other figure in the nude sitting to the left of her.

The purpose of the seated muse appears to be a mediator between us and the conferring men in the duet. In her revolving posture, she draws our attention to the music with her extended left leg as she connects her engaged right leg with the protruding leg of a musician. As the tuner, she not only draws the attention of the viewer but sets the pitch for the musicians. She, no doubt, has become a key component in the musical triad. However, the concert has the blessings of the good shepherd who looks over from a distance.

The artist’s intention, to create a pastoral concert, is best served as he blurs the line between nature and culture to set the mood for this special concert. In a psychological way, he has used his creative eye to pitch a harmonious concert between man and nature. How he engages the muses in the nude to frame the music is quite remarkable. In the case for visual perception, Arnheim has recalled, “To the physicist, balance is the state in which the forces acting upon a body compensate one another. In its simplest form, balance is achieved by two forces of equal strength that pull in opposite directions. The definition is applicable to visual balance” (19).  The artist has perceived balance, one of the important principles of art in a very dynamic and unusual way. “In a painting, a physically unrelated object, such as a curtain in the background, may counterbalance the asymmetrical position of a human figure” (Arnheim 20). In Pastoral Concert, an asymmetrical balance is achieved by the posture of the standing figure on the left in relation to the seated figure on the right whose body is extended upward by a tree in the distant background. The divergent oblique nature including the luminous bodies of the nudes is the dynamic symmetry. “The tension created by obliqueness is a principal impulse toward depth perception. Under certain conditions the tension can be diminished by an escape into the third dimension, which straightens out the obliqueness to some degree” (Arnheim 426). The breadth of the distant horizon is the check and balance in the oblique variables of line and form along shadowy grounds.   

Instead of telling a story, the painting seems designed to evoke a mood—one that is mysteriously lyrical and poetic at the same time. A soft crackling light along the horizon and its dubbing shimmer elsewhere mark the ebb and flow between the clouds, along slopes, and in nearby fields next to the cast shadows of trees. The mood set to this haunting melody translates the scene in equal proportion to the concert taking place.  The light music in nature is all pervasive and deeply perpetual as the soft harmonious rhythmic tones of light and shadow play notes in crescendos and decrescendos along the periphery of meandering mindscapes. In this soft and tonal treatment, the artist has rendered the scene as a unified whole. “A judicious distribution of light serves to give unity and order not only to the shape of single objects, but equally to that of the whole setting” (Arnheim 313). Forms, once rendered in a soft chiaroscuro technique, provoke intriguing thoughts about such inexplicable appearances. Here and there, the landscape seems to flicker in reflections of light sometimes far and near, however greater the luminosity emanating from the nudes. 

The muses in our being now conduct a melody between nature and culture in reference to the unparalleled nakedness in our once primal past. In the more recent experience of the pastoral, we begin to sense our roles in earthly devotional activities. Here, all apparels are fallen to the ground to tease out visions sometimes blurred in the cultured eye. The concert between culture and nature strums a note in time, as the wonder sparked by the sensuous in the divine contrapposto of muses allures us to their charge—to consult with the other muses in our spiritual being. This warm tonal hue is the adagio of musical notes in sensuous experience reflecting on the primal past. “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, /So long lives this, and this gives life to thee” (Shakespeare 3). 

2/18/2014© 

Works Cited

Arnheim, Rudolf. Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the Creative Eye. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974. Print.

            Davies, Penelope J.E., et al, eds. Janson’s History of Art: The Western Tradition 8^th Edition. Upper Saddle River: Prentice Hall, 2011. Print.

            Gombrich, E.H. Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1969. Print.

            Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet XV111.” The Pelican Shakespeare: The Sonnets. Ed.  Alfred Harbage. New York: Viking Penguin Inc., 1970. Print.

vi.

Gulam yazu                                                                                                                poem                                                         

The Dawn

The dawn is shrouded
with the fog of loneliness
I try to open
my eyes
but I am afraid to
step out
in these mournful days
No one comes here
to knock my door
I just wait for someone
sitting on my veranda floor
But the noon passes
then
dusk arises and goes down
Yet, no one arrives
Then in a tragic tune
my moonless night cries
Don't know what dawn
is coming next
But I won't give up
I will just keep trying
Till I get
a joyful dawn
blooming next

vii.

Meher Pestonji                                                                                                    4 poems 

The Philanthropist 

He’s come to feed the pigeons . . .

but today

goats grab gram shells

scattering the birds

into suspended

foam drops.

The philanthropist

stones the goats.

Renewal 1

Burning Love Notes

Charred  black but smouldering

                        then a bleak grey

Ash!

No more letters

Ash!

No more sentiments

Ash!

Burnt out and shapeless

Ash

       crumbling

                        ash-links

ash

tear-drenched and trembling

ash

soaking soft soil

ash

sprouting leaf

ash

      breathing

                      ash-life

Everything ends.

Sooner or later everything ends.

Even the climb up the mountain

ends when you descend

to the base of

another

ascent.

In a graveyard

corpses

have barely six feet

stretch-space

on either side.

So they lie

facing the sky.

Renewal 2

When a house crumbles don’t wait

for termites to bring down

grain by grain

Use a hammer

so you can build again

Grass

that bows

beneath your feet

springs back to life

as you pass

At mid-day

the sun is

almost always

boring

but sunsets

match the softness

of a sunrise

Wave follows wave

Moment by moment

Tides take

Twelve hours

To turn

The wave that licks the shore

caressingly

will recede

and return

in varied combinations
of sand, salt, shell, wind and water

Trees

Trees tease

dancing ripe mangoes in the breeze

at high extremities

with branches too thin

to reach them.

Flaming gulmohurs

defy the heat

to burst blossoms

when sun parches grass

to dry dust.

The trees we planted

one hundred months ago

stand upright tonight

weathering storms

and summers both

Now they don’t need watering

to make them grow.

When you toil in midsummer sunshine,

a rest

in the shade

of a banyan tree

makes sunlight seem softer

When a great tree falls

it brings fruit closer

to the people.

Of the five trees we planted

one died

but three thrived

and grew to give flame flowers

One, stunted by a rocky bed

struggled to stay alive

but survived

when transplanted

in soft soil.

Now they live

at different heights.

viii.

Rani D.                                                                                                            fiction
The Corner House                                                

I read it again. It’s been several years since I started reading the diary and over the years, the corner house has become an inextricable part of my life. My father’s story, my mother’s pain and loss has made me go over and ruminate over those stories. The corner house, the narrative of which never seems to end, our family which separated still finds itself mirrored in that house’s walls, floors and silences. I have never set foot in that house, but its my dream to buy that house and to bring the family together. The corner house… the saga which will end only, when everybody will recount their narratives or… will it?

Why do I need to tell the story now? What good will come off it? And to whom should my story be addressed? Oh! There are many questions and no ready answers. More than that, from where should I begin my story? Who should be my narrator? Or, there should be several narrators? Whose point of view should reign supreme? And, where am I, where do I figure in this story of love, suffering, laughter, anger, jealousy and endings- both death and separation? The story has not ended… cannot end either as long as I stand there, at the corner of the street.

         I think so it should be better if I start from the very beginning, from the year 1942, when that family came from all the way from Benares to stay where I stood magnificently, at the corner of the street (I should not tell you the street name). Standing tall in 10,000 hectares of land, I can veritably be termed as a mini-palace to say the least. There were three Venetian pillars, carved with the minutest engravings of Renaissance paintings (who did build that house?). I am that three-storey house with a history that partook both the traumatic despair borne of Partition, and the optimism that arose out of Independence. Amazingly, that family never owned me, they rented me, but my name is forever etched in history, as the corner house belonging to that family. Why so?

          Its been a long time, some memories have changed, taken on a different sheen and hue, few faces I have forgotten, after they left, many other families came to live there but none I accepted. Which family was that, that came to live after the younger son left (I don’t know what to make of him, shall talk about him later)… ah, the Mathur family, they died in a span of two months, and then the Saxenas, they literally escaped after half their family wiped out. Why did I not accept them? Was it because they were not so educated, or because they did not wish to intervene in the processes of history (big sounding words, acting pompous or partial? Well, time will tell) Why was my name attached only to that family?

             On second thoughts, I don’t need to start from the beginning - I shall come to it later. So many stories, narratives, actions, but those actors have died, have forgotten me,… probably no, even on their deathbeds they remembered me. But there was one who hated me… it was the very beautiful wife of the youngest son. She was just 21, slim, petite, with very beautiful eyes, who did not speak much. She was doing her graduation in psychology, belonging to an illustrious family of Calcutta (forgive me I still speak of the city with its old name). Why did she hate me? Well, for one she came from a house with a different feel and ambience. Her family owned about half the property of North Calcutta (again!), which of course over the years was squandered (as one can very well expect of large families) and only a portion of it remained. Belonging to a writer’s family (this is one of the banes of both the families, everything they wrote led to protests), she was articulate, mature and balanced, unlike her husband, the youngest son. He was handsome, and unlike the other members of the family was more into sports than studying and of course, he was the neighbourhood hero. He still figures in those maiden’s imaginations, I would like to believe (though few of them are dead, few old), they could never forgive his beautiful wife for frisking him away from them and their desires.

          It would seem that I am partial towards this youngest wife or choto bauma, as she was fondly? called, in spite of her hating me. No, but probably she understood me the most. Her marriage to this youngest son was nothing short of a fairy tale romance, but then again… it was her entry to my portals that announced my end and the narrative of power to be ripped open, to be laid bare. Chosen by the wife of the eldest son in the family, she was also rejected by her, because bodo baudi (the wife of the eldest son), realized she would not be able to manipulate her, also the fact that she was very beautiful. Ah!... I am going off in a tangent, but she was the outsider, who though part of the family was never accepted. Why? Was it because she dared to question and dared to change. Perhaps its time she should tell you her story, story that saw my end. I shall let Choto bauma to begin the story of my end…

     I got married on a Sunday, it was the hottest month of the year. Why did I have to fall in love with him, she hated me that old crone… oh God! I shouldn’t be speaking like that. To put it plainly, I did not get along with bodo boudi. Baba said they were a respectable family, and that he (my husband) loved me and I would be very happy”.

I still remember that day, when he came to meet me at bodo boudi’s maternal family home. He was bored with all the family members and was waiting to say no, to reject me. But then, he saw me, I guess it was love at first sight (still confused about whether it was love at first sight for me as well) and boy! did he not fight tooth and nails against bodo boudi’s dictum. It does seem paradoxical, that the women who had chosen me after having heard of me from her family members rejected me outright after having met me…

“She is good… but she will not do for Raju…” she screamed (this was told to me by Raju after marriage). “She is too liberal, too modern, how will she run our family”, this by the way she kept on saying after we got married. As per I know or remember, each and every friends and family member, that knew me, thought of me as intelligent and liberal but also as one who did believe in the concept of family, love and tradition. Then, why did she criticize me like that?  Unlike my husband, I was the eldest in a family of 15 odd brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews… I was supposed to carry the burden of my family tradition. I loved being amongst people, loved discussions or addas as we called it in Calcutta, loved to play the mediator, and loved troubleshooting problems. I was always a very quiet person but baba used to say I was very strong from inside (does that mean I was a cold person?). I never really understood what he meant, but when I married and came to live in that miserable corner house, I realized what he meant.

             My husband wooed me with letters, stories, songs (he was/is a brilliant singer), I still have some of his stories, which I have changed somewhat (now, why did I do that?) After that fateful day, when I messed up with the tea, bodo boudi scolded me, “tumi chao o banate janona”? (you don’t even know how to make tea?), my future husband came to meet me every day, under some pretext or another. We started exchanging letters, and then I came to know about few of the absent members of the family who were in America or England or Timbuctoo (again the resentment! Or was it jealousy?) and that “corner house”. It was embarrassing when in front of my baba he proposed to me (why was/is he so silly in romance?). I looked at my baba, saw him both amused and confused. Before I could answer Baba asked, “what will your bodo boudi say”? As always, he said, “I am my own master, I want to marry your daughter. You don’t need to worry, apart from her everyone loves your daughter”. Baba came round and so did everyone else in Raju’s family… well, almost everyone.

       We got married, didi (the eldest member of the family) was there, so was dada and bodo boudi, so were there many nieces and nephews. Most of them were studying, there was their friends as well. My husband introduced me to all of them, his favourite being his middle brother’s son who was merely eight years younger to my husband and two years, younger to me, but I liked unfortunately, bodo boudi’s son, who was three years younger to me. Anyways the marriage rituals went off well, only problem was my husband’s impatience with the rituals brouhaha.

    And on Monday afternoon I came to live in that corner house. I hated it at the first sight, there was loss and pain written on it everywhere. I spoke of this to Didi, she looked at me surprised and thoroughly frightened. I asked her “ki holo, aami ki kuchu bhul bolechi” (Have I spoken something wrong?). Didi said, this is what her mother used to say of the corner house, to hear it from you after so many years, makes me fearful. I said “why fearful”? Didi said her mother used to warn that the house will take everything from them, there shall only be pain and silences.

         “Why am I being criticized”? Always me, the ‘corner house’ who is the villain.” I must tell you, that my landlord, the one who rented me to this family, felt there was a ghostly presence. Anyways this said mother, who first experienced this eerie feeling, was a woman who was extremely well-read, and a no-nonsense person. She was a strict authoritarian who even during the pre-Independence era, believed in the emancipation of women and against all odds in the 1930s when many women were not even allowed to move outside their homes, she permitted her elder daughter (Didi) to study under the tutelage of Rabindranath Tagore at Shantiniketan. The instant she saw me, the mother exclaimed: “eta kothai niye escheich amake?” (Where have you brought me?).

“Did she like choto bouma, realized that I never let go. Whoever I loved, their lives shall forever be entwined with me. Anyways let choto bouma ramble on, I shall have the last laugh….”

I asked Didi that why haven’t they thought of shifting, why do they need to stay in that house with 30 rooms. Many of the family members are not even there, wouldn’t it be a better idea to shift into a smaller place? Didi laughed and said, “taa hobe naa. Ei baari amader rokto moton amader bhetur dukhe geiche, ei baari amader praan. Tumi kichu din thaako, eita tomar moner mordein, ho ghar korbe” (This cannot happen. This house is like the blood flowing in our bodies, this house is our heart and soul. Stay for a few days and this house shall plant itself in your heart.) I said I would try, but knew that this would not be possible.

            Dada and bodoboudi, his two sisters used to visit regularly and so did all the nieces and the two respective nephews, one favourite of Raju and the other favourite of mine. Bodo boudi realized I was getting along very well with her son and what did she do? She dismissed all the servants and that meant I was supposed to clean up the whole house all by myself. Since early morning I had to do all housework, including cooking. She didn’t realize that both my husband and her own son used to help me in various ways. It was fun, …fun to play hide and seek. After a month or so, my husband’s sisters revealed that they (my husband and his nephew) were helping me with the housework to bodo boudi. That was the beginning of the end.

         Every evening I used to go out with my husband for a small dinner or even for a rock and roll party (I thoroughly enjoyed them and even used to teach her own son). Where did the house figure in all this drama? It waited patiently, for this honeymoon to come to an end. It did, my favourite friend and my husband’s nephew was asked to go (he was so much like my brother), with a warning to not to keep in touch with me. However, he did keep in touch by sending books, music through my husband. I guess that really did hit her hard… dada used to like me as his own daughter, so did didi and jamaibabu (Didi’s husband). Inevitable had to happen, I was asked by her to open the closed door of a room (challenged by her, in fact).

         From that time onwards it was a battle between me and not bodo boudi, but the corner house. I completed my studies amidst that huge, rambling place of 29 rooms. But as I mentioned earlier, this was a house of 30 rooms… one room belonged to my father-in-law, which after his death was always kept closed. It was I who opened it… my first argument with my husband occurred over this. I said I wanted to clean it… he who was not scared of anything, was trembling and said his father lives on there, the father who had been dead for almost a decade. I scoffed at the idea of a ghost and asked him “whence did you start believing in ghosts, he said no, it is not ghost, it is something else.” He said nothing more, but made me promise not to open the door again. Before I closed the door, I realized the house was a constant living presence in the minds and hearts of the members of my husband’s family, Raju’s sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews and Raju himself.

        What was in that room that I saw? Well nothing spectacular, but I felt, heard voices, spectral presences of long time ago. I heard clashing off scissors (there is a story), and lathis, loud screams, and unmitigated laughter. I was scared, scared that ‘past’ here was never dead or buried but alive, very much alive. That room changed everything for me, every impression and sensations flowed, merged to create a feeling where I was being submerged. I couldn’t resist asking bodo boudi what was it all about? And she told me, “I have been married for approximately twenty years and this house now resonates in every fibre of my being. I hate it, but my husband loves it. I promised to myself I will make him come out of it.” For once I agreed with her and asked, “was it always like this?” She said it was “worse, much worse. The house throws up another image of yourself as if asking you to interrogate yourself.”

           I went to Raju and asked him what his opinion about this house was? He said with passion and I felt even resentment, “I love it more than I shall ever do you.” I was stumped, angry and lost. “A house more than me and my love.” Yes, now 35 years later, with my children grown up and more than15000 kilometres away from that wretched house, I can say it with conviction my husband never let go off his love for that corner house.

          The opening of the door to that room was like opening to a raging storm, the door unlocked the secrets of the house, or did it just try to suck me deep within? From that time onwards, I knew something was definitely wrong in that house, some memories which needed cleaning or simply wiping off. Every evening, after the lights were switched off, I could sense so many things, so many voices in conflict, as if some tempest was constantly sucking me in. I started maintaining a diary to record my daily impressions of that house as the tension and the nervous sensation was unbearable. Every day without fail I recorded everything, but again a surge of self-pitying tendency used to bog me down. I lost my father, after I wrote about this house in a letter addressed to my Baba, he died leaving me all alone. The house was now my constant companion, please believe me when I say that it was not a ghostly presence but a ball of memories knotted and tangled together which I used to face everyday.

              My husband and I used to love each other but there were moments when he seemed so much remote from me. He realised my suspicions about this house was in fact making me question the very existence of his life. I asked him about his father and also to the other members of his family , in particular Didi and Dada, who was supposed to be very close to my late father-in-law. But both of them clamped up and I did not find them as willing to speak up about their father. It was a romanticized picture that they had drawn up, of a man entertaining  the leaders who were struggling for Independence like Subhas Chandra Bose in that same very house, as well as recount how most of  the academics used to frequent our house during his time, the regularity of which had dipped but did continue at least monthly. That my father-in-law was an extremely well-read man was a known fact, but what much less known was that he was an avid hunter, one of the best horse riders and swimmer of that time (my husband and his favourite nephew, Bobby can now compete for that title). He owned several estates in Orissa, Benares and Calcutta, but what happened to those lands no one knew. I gleaned knowledge of my father-in-law as a taciturn, not given to an overt display of emotions and an extremely egoistic man. My husband’s account of him was of an individual in awe of that person, and I did not find it very reliable. What I did notice was that Dada and Didi refused to say anything intimate about their father. I tackled another person, Mejda (my husband’s middle brother), here, another account was shown to me of a man motivated by personal whims and fancies. Mejda hated his father but was very close to his mother. I asked him about his mother and he passionately exclaimed “baba amaar ma ke bishun kosto diye chilon” (“Baba had given lots of trouble to my mother”). When I asked what kind of trouble, he replied laughing, “tumi to dedh maas teke oi baadi te achcho, bujhte padhle na?” (you have been staying in that house for about one and a half months, you haven’t realized it yet?”)

          “Why did all the trouble began only when they entered that house?” I asked innocently. It was at this point Didi entered the room, and stopped all conversation. But something snapped that day and I realized that from this time onwards I would be an unwelcome visitor to their lives. Was there a mystery which remains undisclosed and locked in those rooms of the corner house? Amazingly, after all these exchanges and stories, I came to feel as if I was being watched, the house took on a macabre shape and seem to follow me everywhere. That there was pain, and some untold story I was very sure but unable to find out.

     Around this time, Bodo boudi and Dada left the house and never came back. We were alone and I became nervous, suspicious - which my daughter believes started from this time because of my loneliness. In those 29 rooms, I had no one to speak to, to converse, to share my pain. My husband missed everyone and believed I was responsible for his family breaking up. It was not I … why doesn’t he believe me? My diary became the witness of my daily struggle to cope with the silences and the ghostly presences of the past. Did my mother-in-law who had died when my husband was merely five years old, suffer also like this? Who was she? What kind of a relationship did my father and mother-in-law share? The house never gave me any answers but I used to feel as if the house was less a building and more a storehouse of past secrets, silences which were breaking at the seams, the cracks that needed to be filled up?

         We have lived together for about 40 years, but the togetherness seems to be lost or vanished? He doesn’t sing songs anymore… we left the corner house after one year of Dada’s leaving the house. I was happy, felt relaxed but my husband continues to remain in the past, in that house, in that terrace where he recited so many of his stories. The mystery remained unlocked and the corner house is unfazed with all unfolding drama. I remain alone… I believe my daughter has read my diary several times, I am not sure.

            I am going tomorrow to buy that house for my mom and dad, for my family whom I have hardly met. The corner house, now belongs truly to us and … dadu’s (paternal grandfather) room will be opened after 28 years (nobody managed to open the room during our family’s absence). It’s the youth in the family who have come together to unravel the secrets of that house. Let the journey begin…

              Ah! After several years choto bouma, Raju is coming back and I am eager…. I shall wait. This time the secret shall be unlocked.

ix.

Nandini Mazumder                                                                                                2 poems                                                                                                                 

Dilli                                                                                                                                                     

Dilli

The monster city.

The monstrosity.

Little truth.

A lot Myth.

Then what is it really?

A city,

Of traditions, of history,

Of change, of modernity.

Of crumbling walls of Siri.

Glaring lights of the hoardings.

The sprawling Mehrauli,

Of the lone tombs of Lodhi,

The stones of Tughlaq that gave way to Lutyen's Delhi,

Ghalib's poetry,

Shahjahan's crumbling old city,

Power corridor, home to the mighty

Dilli

The immigrant colonies

A city of refugees

Of malls and markets,

Mixed colours, a cacophony

Loaded with money,

Yet living in deep poverty.

Poverty of the mind and soul,

Competing with hunger and homelessness.

Too loud for a song,

Yet here we are, singing its name,

Dilli.

A mad man's muse,

A cynic's nightmare.

The pursuit of many.

Often alive,

Dead with every horror story.

Never alone,

Yet unique.

Dilli

15 January, 2013

Abandoned City

I have lived many an eternity.

Yet I wait patiently, I call you silently.

Most can never hear me,

Yet the few who did, came and lost themselves to me.

I am the abandoned city.

I invite you to explore me.

Carved from red sandstones,

I am the dream that came to reality.

I welcome you and yet I remain the enigma.

In my fanciful fit, I might reveal my secrets to you.

Yet for most, I remain the eternal mystery.

I am the abandoned city.

Once the home to kings and queens,

Lit and bejewelled, today my fate lay in ruins.

Yet you come from far just to see my remaining glory.

My abandoned, faded walls,

Tell-tale signs of my ancient story.

Proud of the abandoned courtyards, crumbling walls and barren palaces,

What must have been the sound of celebration is now an ordinary silence.

My royal afternoons left me long ago.

Now I make peace with the birds that fly over, the cattle that come grazing and the people who still visit me.

People, mostly without any interest and some merely out of curiosity.

Yet I wait for the rare one that has heard my call and have lost themselves to me.

For I am the eternally lone, abandoned city.

29 December, 2012

x.

Vasu K.                                                                                                   poem                                                                                                           

Emily: The Story Untold 

Amidst the muffled cries, and a snubbed voice,
There was a soul that cried without a noise.
During the beatings and the sudden outrage,
There was a fight fought without the courage.
During the sufferings and alongside pain,
It was just the tears which shed as rain.
With the blood and that arm shattering,
It was the bruises, the flowers from the spring.
The suffering was endless and the pain no limit,
The poor child shattered after every hit.
It was someone he thought it was own,
He was hurt when the real face was shown.
the child did cry and it did sob,
for this was when it was laughed at by the mob.
People didn't know what it had been through,
they thought this to be fun when its feelings they brewed
people didnt notice the tears it shed,
they took it for a toy and played instead.
The times went wrong, its mind went blank,
the abuse got physical and they called it a prank.
It was all but a happy time
for it was greeted with crime
the kid grew old its fears unfold
its life took a turn and became "the story untold”.
Things went worse as it grew up a girl
the life turned along a sadder turn
it was all chaos once she was raped
she was a victim and was left without her drapes
She ran scared and with blood she was flushed
There was a constant voice, very gently it hushed
She had had enough and turned to her family
She recognized the voice as it screamed “EMILY”
The voice was familiar but not soothing anymore
It was her uncle who had left her smeared before
She was assaulted and made part of a sin
He pinned her down and left a scar along her chin
The scar though small had an impact in her mind
The trauma it gave was irreparable beyond time
She lived in a fear of being assaulted again
All the efforts for living she made but in vain
She finally got strength and stood against all
She became her voice like the poet of a fall
The voice travelled far and was heard loud
The girl was right and the truth exposed to the crowd
Her stand was firm and her view was clear
She faced the society without any fear
She led a battle she fought it herself
She had a broader mind and didn’t think of self
She took along the likes the suppressed and abused
Bravely she fought and the exploiters were appalled
Her voice grew loud and her motive got the strength
She spread the wisdom far across the lengths
For the voice was simple the voice was heard
Stop child abuse, they too are a part of the world.

xi.

  

Prantik Banerjee                                                                                    3 poems 

Mappings     

I’ll map the places

Draw those lines

Intemperate

That distance even dreams.

For when you travel

Further than meridians,

I’ll bring down the sail

Drop anchor, and rest

Myself, a little

On the edge of time.

Back in school, I remember

Bartholomew’s Atlas

Had made continents

Drift across fingers!

Remember how

We used to put together

The world in pieces,

Making itineraries

That put Marco Polo,

Vasco da Gama to shame.

Now, in your transit

At airports, tubes

You leave me behind,

The newspaper rolled

Under your arm, the phone

Charged with a missed call.

I feel adjunct

To you by so many miles.

I try to mate

Your moves in time-zones –

The differences

Lurch me in my tracks;

I worry if you are up

Not knowing about

Not finding around –

The long habits of love

Home-bound, run astray.

The souvenirs

You shall bring

Will mean the world:

Their touch

A feel of places where

You slept, ate, walked.

You’ll bring memories,

Stonehenge, Stratford,

A district full of lakes

A theatre of life.

I keep turning yellow pages –

Dog-eared, spit-licked.

Home

Is a country removed

A map discoloured.

Mrs Shakespeare 

So you looked for her

Favouring the “second best bed”

Wondering if Will did ‘hate away’

The linen soft, downy

Frayed at the edges though.

Perhaps you stood bemused

To find a seamy affair, a handfast marriage –

Ah! Those loose tongues, willy-nilly

Making her making out

With a lad a cougar of vice. 

You reckoned

History had made

The unkindest cut –

A woman turned into a shrew

Vilified by a man’s plot

And his purple patch.

You looked but found her little;

The Man doth strode like a colossus

Looming over the chimneys,

The timber frame, the acreage

Barn, forest and hearth

Earth, sky and water

And where else she may have been.

If only (you wished)

She had a room with a view.

The cottage now has a touristy look

With his elements mixed so well

In stone, statues and slab.

Well might you have exclaimed,

“Was this the Woman?”

Such stuff, facts stranger than

Dreams are made on.

The cottage

Did burn down once  –

An accident of history, perhaps?

But she survived.

The crowds come

To its admiring steps,

Paved by Falstaff’s mirth

Brutus’s frown, and Lear’s snarl.

Somewhere inerasable

Last a handful of words

“Where there was Will

There hath a way”.

Grammar of Love

Your ‘him’ and my ‘her’

Always are in accusative

Cased in third person.

They seem so lonely  –

Plural in our thoughts

Yet agree not with any verbs.

Their forms are so possessive

When they trap us in ‘mines’.

How funny it is then

That we make perfect

Concord in sentences

Serving a life time  –

In first person

Singular, but together.

 xii.

Swati Chawla                                                                                                       2 poems 

The Wedding Cipher

I am her mirror. Painted in Warli.

I become her.

I

Sometimes I become her youth.

Doused in pinks of her mother’s gardens

and the color of laburnums.

I return immediately but,

to her anointed forehead,

A monochromatic vermilion

Of deep red.

II

Sometimes I become a girl young.

Interweaving locks of hair

with home-made barrettes that she’d brung.

I return immediately but,

to a rag of cotton

piling into heaps

over her sagging bosoms.

III

Sometimes I become the charmer

that she thought she’d espoused

for a love that was to be her armor.

I return immediately but,

to the grey in her hair

a protracted neglect

traded for embellished cookware.

IV

Sometimes she trades me

with a tall, radiant stallion

of hope and desire

that gaits steadfastly across heath lands,

unto maddened.

This is when I become her conscience.

A spattered history of truisms.

It is the wedding cipher that

she must embrace

resile from want, desire and anger.

That’s how she becomes me,

and I, her face.

Tonight

She comes to him as the supple sonority,

That thuds aloud in a bedlam underground

when the Merpeople unclasp their wings

to the silent sea..

Today, when the moonless sky

Lit as her brown reef eyes,

And thunder struck, at the stretch of dusk,

She housed those daring lips

Around the fragments of nakedness that lay bare

Of his beaded sweater!

With the unfamiliarity of a child,

He jostled for forgiveness of the crowd.

But the sky was moonless still,

And his eyes held bountiful innuendoes till

The moonless sky gave away its thunder,

And the rain, its petrichor..

But the moonless sky and the thunder

Had come together tonight,

To unclasp her, of her wings

And as the merpeople, she let the thud of her heart
Grow louder still.

xiii.

Debarun Sarkar                                                                                                      2 poems

the museum storeroom 1

[...]

a day of worn legacy after a day of labor

resonated

with his yesteryears

he

    a quiet citizen, of this nation-state

    which validated itself in his body, so he was told

    lambasted the yesteryears’ actions

had he not charted his journey

across the borders, his plight of recklessness

would have been reduced to a story

of immense glory

he wondered, he imagined, and desired

for glory, that he situated in the blunders of yesteryears

had he not moved across the borders

constantly, one step here, one step there

trading

adventuring

he wondered the alternate possibilities

his youth of recklessness

was written about by critical theorists of academia

self-posturing their radicalness of transnationality

and discoursing, migration,

of border crossing, of transgressing

yet theorizing the inability to transgress

his youth was filmed

by documentary artists, archiving ‘his’ oral history

today

his day of labor included

begging for some work to transport goods

from one part of the city to another

[...]

the museum storeroom 2

The fossils were numerically arranged in an ascending order

sorted, enumerated behind the museum glasses

They were carbon dated, and the dates

were written on tags kept in front of the the artefacts

A head was reconstructed of hominids, neanderthals

and there was moisture in the air, an eerie sense of

artificial weather control to balance the dryness

inside the airtight glass displays

On a nearby table was a book on display, the

book of Jehovah, nearby the Constitution, on the

next display a manuscript with a map of

the town describing the land of 1776

in a storeroom behind the real museum

xiv.                                                                                                                    4 poems

Yuan Changming

idiomatic english: do not burn the midnight oil

You see, Elvis has left the building

And you may be glad to see the back of

A hot potato

Jumping on the bandwagon

But once in a blue moon

You will hear it on the grapevine

Rather than straight from the horse’s mouth

Which is a far cry

From the best thing since sliced bread

Something you can see eye to eye

While cutting the mustard

By drawing all the best of both worlds

To make a long story short

Now if you feel a bit under the weather

Why not just let the cat out of the bag

Or you might just sit on the fence

Give it the benefit of doubt

And then hit the sack

Even in this heat of the moment

at the threshold

From the darkest moment

Of last winter to the heaviest fog

Of this summer, I fumbled all my way

To this spot, where I stood, hesitating

As I tried to pull the structure

(Actually meant to be pushed?)

And push it while might mean

To be pulled. Confused and

Confounded, I slid it, folded it

Turned it, tampered with it

Through trial and error, but still

Failed to move the blockade

Sesame, open! –

Am I facing a fake door

Or just bad design?

the meditation master takes a nap

As he began to cross his legs on each other, his mind

Was wandering nowhere between here and there; he

Withdrew his vision from the skyline of the city

To the cool fire burning in his belly; listening

To the whistling and whishing of traffic, he heard only

His own pulse. With the breeze came the odor of garlic

But he held his breath, while leaving all his inner doors

And windows ajar, letting his sensations travel freely

He believed in Qi, which was circulating with his blood

And his feeling and his thought. The light dimmed

A baby crow was flapping by. He found himself totally

Lost in a temple among puti trees within his yellowish

Skin. That was all the harmony of yin and yang he knows.

to your cup

Whatever contains h2o, the origin of life, could

Be contained in it, always ready for another fill

Whether it is bubbling with heat, or

Chilled with sandy juice, it can hold

Any fluid with all the calmness that will push down

Impurities into the bottom as unwanted sediments

Most tolerant, and most receptive: green tea

Black coffee, red wine, fresh blood, sour milk

You are jealous of it, a container ready to hold even

The heaviest water, and would love to be more like it

In spirit, as you take it to your lips, closer to your heart

Like these words that are trying to contain your spirit

xv.

Gayatri Majumdar                                                                                                  poem
Pondicherry Series                                                                                                                                                   

Mother and Child - Rabindranath

1. The sea is my mother.

Empty shells, white waterlines and baubles stretch the horizon
into noisier shorelines. I could hear the Rabindrasangeets inside your head 

curled up on a black rock nursing this emptiness;
how would I have known you were waiting for me all that time?
And all that I was waiting for, was you.

The sea whispers nothing; waters on waters.

The sea is my best friend.

Fluorescent snails crack open the winter sun
and herons mate. Some look for the occasional fish or a flower.

You sat there all day, a melancholy ship waiting to unload;
anchored to nothing but a red string
that is now tied around my waist and a little faded.
Then you abruptly left beyond into the horizon somewhere.

Isn’t the waiting all? Surely, there is no arriving.
No returning to sea its restlessness—building stories
and gargoyle cities along the water’s edge.

Waiting here with the slow watering, crossing borders and continents
and other realms where I am not equipped to reach yet—diagonally across
the park, running up the grandfather steps—chipped and gray—where you used to await our arrivals.

Mother
when you left
my first thought was—how would she find her way?
She, whose life depended on a song?
You want to know how it is to not have you around.
Was the light blinding enough for you to locate your Chand,
which you loved so much?

The way
strangely lit with pink and turquoise and other fantasia
(just like in your dreams that kept you awake)
is the bed of the sea: The same luminosity which you lit my heart with
in that dark room from which the red traffic lights faded into fables, incense, and honking.

The sea birthed me to shore
a land of miracles and wise council

As I wait for a final glimpse or word—
of departures, arrivals—
forgetting the waiting is all—has always been so.
As matter spins and roars in a cosmic game,
there is little choice left but to wait

Remain grounded, apart, erase distances
to come out and play with you
in your lulling garden of frolic and half-remembrances

And so the sea . . .

Is my mother

And the waiting to catch a glimpse of her sweet smile is all there is to it.

23 February, 2016

book news

xvi.

Bishnupada Ray
Tribute to Rabindranath
                                                                                                                     book review

This small collection of poems (only10 and 10 wonderful paintings by Kazi Anirban) on Rabindranath can be taken as an epitome of a tribute, for the poet is quite assured that Rabindranath is space-less and time-less, and no matter if it is 10 or 100 poems Rabindranath will remain a vast ocean to grasp on any canvas. Indeed Rabindranath has grown into an ageless Banyan tree supported by an ever-active industry (unlike other poets of his time, Rabindranath is institutionalized by way of Biswa-Varati, Rabindravarati and organized professionals) so that the tree has grown with more roots and beards to touch numberless pilgrim souls of humanity. The subcontinent’s cultural life is incomplete without Rabindranath, so pervasive the contribution of the seer has remained over the years. It is not astonishing that countless admirers sing in praise of him, draw inspiration, solace and succour from him and are healed and sustained by this eternal source of sweetness and light. Ishita Bhaduri’s Rabindranath is an apt homage and tribute to this cultural hero of our nation.

It's natural that such a collection must exude a glowing eulogy for the hero in superlative terms, for the poet must measure the three-dimensional space that her hero occupies vis-à-vis our two-dimensional existence, with all the expertise that she can muster and also with the best of her ability. Surprisingly however, Ishita Bhaduri is a poet of simple touches and outlines with which she draws her picture of Rabindranath. Simplicity, brevity and an unassuming air mark her poetry, so there is neither cloying sentimentality nor any feeling of a bad taste in the mouth while reading her poetry. (This is also due to the quality translation of Bhaduri’s Bengali poems by Soma Roy). Bhaduri is definitely a good poet on this count. I give a few examples:

You are still a vast ocean even a century later

You drift me away from shore to shore

You are moonlit glow after a century

You immerse me from soul to soul. (‘Kabiguru’)

Or,

This cloud-burst rain

And the dazzling flash of lighting

That you have given me . . .

This silver of the skies with

Rows of trees in between

That you have given me . . .

What can I give you?

This vast expanse of fields

And twilight-toned flaming skies

That you have given me . . . (‘Rabindranath’)

The imagery is striking, dynamically presented with colours and music so that the vast expanse of nature is filled with dancing and singing.

However, the collection should have contained some insight into the being of Rabindranath as a tormented soul in his relationship with women and how dearly he felt the necessity of true love, a love that would have stood parallel to a genius and the faltering quest that he made in his life for this true love. It is all the more required since the collection contains poems such as ‘Chitrangada’, ‘Dark angel, Krishnakoli’ and ‘Letter from a Wife’. It goes without saying that poetry enriches our quest for meaning when it contains truth-revealing insights into our seriously funny business of conducting life or existence. Otherwise this collection stands as a product of good taste and culture.

Rabindranath by Ishita Bhaduri, Kolkata, Sristsukh Prokashan, 2014

xvii.                                                                                                                                        

Architecture of Flesh                                                                          new releases
Ra Sh

A collection of N. Ravi Shanker's (Ra Sh) poems titled Architecture of Flesh was published by PoetyWala, Mumbai, in the December, 2015. 

In a review Madhumita Ghosh writes, "With unusual imagery woven in to explicate passion, emotion, lust and love, Ravi’s poetry is very metaphysical in a way.  The physical transcends the physique to explore deeper human emotions to compel the reader to internalise, pondering and reflecting within. The body never becomes bawdy. The theme of the physique never becomes erotica in his hand, while the physicality yet being a throbbing vibrant presence throughout."

The book is available online here.

Architecture of Flesh

Ra Sh (N. Ravi Shanker)

Poetrywala 2015

INR 225

xviii.

Beyond Milestones
A Journey Through Life
Surinder Rametra and Akash Vasil

In Beyond Milestones, the essential message that Surinder Rametra wants to share with his 16-year-old grandson Akash Vasil and others of his age is, ‘Life itself is a journey. At each cross-section, new people join the journey and a few may drop out; but the journey continues.’

Among other online stores, Beyond Milestone is also available at amazon.in or you can write to browncritique@gmail.com for further queries.

xix.

soulscapes

Awakening

Enter the sublime world of digital wall art, home decor, accessories and paper products at Soulscapes -- created by Vivechana. 

Soulscapes is inspired from an exploration of the spirit inherent in every object, uncovering the inner aspect of beauty that is the true face of every form. Our attempt is to bring out the deeper aspect of symbols that are the building blocks of manifestation. Much of the work is the result of a deep study of ancient sacred geometry principles, wisdom of ancient Indian spiritual texts and spiritual masters.The design philosophy behind the products at Soulscapes is based on beauty, universal ancient symbology, inspirational words of the Masters with an intention to manifest beauty and light in daily living.

xx.

Light of Lights
An Anthology of Spiritual Poetry

Strange Journey 
Harindranath Chattopadhyaya

Shaper Shaped

In days gone by I used to be
a potter who would feel
His fingers mould the yielding clay
To patterns on his wheel;
But now, through wisdom lately won,
That pride has died away,
I have ceased to be the potter
And have learned to be the clay.

In bygone times I used to be
A poet through whose pen
Innumerable songs would come
To win the hearts of men;
But now, through new-got knowledge,
Which I hadn’t had so long,
I have ceased to be the poet
And have learned to be the song.

I was a fashioner of swords
In days that are now gone,
Which in a hundred battlefields
glittered and gleamed and shone;
But now that I am brimming with
The silence of the Lord,
I have ceased to be sword-maker
And learned to be the sword.

In other days I used to be
A dreamer who would hurl
On every side an insolence
Of emerald and pearl;
But now I am kneeling
At the feet of the Supreme
I have ceased to be the dreamer
And have learned to be the dream.

Nightingale 
Romen

I heard in a dream
A silver nightingale
Singing from woods of silence,
A remote pearl-throated wail.

You came to be
In this silver hush of night
Breaking the wordless peace
With your spell of delight.

O bird of paradise
Flying over my seas –
Far splendor of the west
Carried by the breeze

With wings of shadow
And body of gold
You flew back to dawn’s azure
Dense-aureoled.

Now you have departed

On a breath of wings
Above my woods of dream,
Over voice-enchanted things;

Across my life’s darkened seas
Emptiness pale . . .
All my mind is haunted by dream
Of a nightingale.

Next Future – Edited by Vijay; Published by Sri Aurobindo Society, 1985

Contributors

Sananta Tanty was born in Kalinagar Tea Estate, Karimganj District, Assam, into a tea plantation worker family. A popular and influential poet in the modern Asomiya language, he has more than 10 collections of poems to his credit. Critic Ananda Bormudoi writes in a piece in The Telegraph: "In the seventies a new group of young poets began to raise voices of protest. They were Samir Tanti, Sananta Tanty, Gyan Pujari, Jatindra Kumar Borgohain and a few others, (who). . . were careful about the technique of writing poetry. To a great extent their technique was also an extension of symbolism and imagism but they read progressive poetry of different countries of the world. They no longer made Eliot, Pound or Baudelaire their ideal. Corruption in public life, unemployment, poverty, hunger and frustrations became themes of poetry and the poets, especially Samir and Sananta expressed anger and protest. . . . The new poets of the eighties and nineties have added to the variety in Assamese poetry by picking up symbols and images from the mosaic of ethnic cultures. Samir and Sananta Tanty have articulated the misery of tea tribes with a force that draws attention . . ..” (Selected from the collection, ‘Apuni apunar hotey juddhya karibo paribone’, 'Would You Be Able To Wage War With Yourself'? 2008).

Dibyajyoti Sarma is the author of two volumes of poems, Glimpses of a Personal History (Writer’s Workshop, Kolkata, 2004) and Pages from an Unfinished Autobiography (i write imprint, New Delhi, 2014), and co-editor (with Dr R Raj Rao) of the book Whistling in the Dark: Twenty-one Queer Interviews (Sage, 2009). By day, he is a PhD scholar, who has published papers on Indian Writing in English and Queer Theory; by evening he is the senior copy editor with a national daily, and by night, he is a creative writer, who has published short stories and poems in various journals. Originally from Guwahati, Assam, and having a life in Pune, Maharashtra for the last 14 years, he now struggles in Delhi.

Shirin Bismillah recently completed her Masters in English Literature from University of Delhi and formerly Bachelors, in the aforementioned stream, from Jamia Millia University, New Delhi, India. Currently, she is pursuing a course in 'Translation Proficiency in English' from Jamia University and also working with Central Square Foundation as a Translator. Recently, she has translated two short stories of Abdul Bismillah from Hindi to English and poems of Agha Shahid Ali and Sudeep Sen from English to Hindi. Shirin has also written two short stories that are being considered for publication.

Amrita Dutta, is a grade 12 student in Hyderabad, India. She loves to write and have started experimenting with various writing styles recently.
Poornima Laxmeshwar has authored a small poetry collection Anything but Poetry published by Writers Workshop. Her poems have been published in Kritya, Muse India, Northeast and in anthologies Dance of the Peacock and Suvarnarekha. Her haikus have also been published in several magazines.
Paul C. Blake: I grew up in the Bronx where I attended De Witt Clinton High School, after migrating to the United States with
my parents from the island of Jamaica in 1975. After high school, I attended City College of the City University of New York.   Upon graduating as an art education major, I received the following awards in the art department—the 1983 Grumbacher Silver Medallion in art and the 1984 Department Silver Medal of the Royal Society of Arts England. In the Fall of 1984, I studied painting and printmaking as a graduate student at Columbia University. Then, in 1989 I began post graduate work in painting through the NYU/Venice study a broad program. In 1996, I graduated from New York University with a Doctor of Arts degree in painting, and received the honor to become a member of Phi Delta Kappa. I was an exhibiting artist member at Viridian Artists Inc. where I had several selected solo art exhibits—1992-2001. Besides Viridian, I was also included in several selected group shows. Some of the more significant shows were the following:

1986 6th Annual Artists in the Marketplace Exhibit at The Bronx Museum of the Arts.                                         1987 Krasdale Food Satellite Gallery                                                     

1994 Krasdale Art Gallery /White Plains NY          

1999 Stamford Museum & Nature Center                                                 

(New Art Annual) CT.                                                                        

A highlight in my career as a visual artist came when I received two important art reviews inThe New York Times / WC by the art critic William Zimmer on July 12, 1987 then on September 11, 1994.  Fourteen years later, my dream to be a writer was realized when my first novel, A String of Knots, was published. Now, twenty-eight years in public and private education, I still enjoy teaching. Besides teaching, painting and creative writing, my other special interests are creating residential garden designs and gardening as I am also a freelance Landscape Designer and Gardener. When I am not teaching art, I divide my time between writing and painting or gardening and family.

Gulam Yazu is an undergraduate student of science (but his soul is weaved of lit . . .). "I live in a little town named Kishanganj in the state of Bihar. I stepped into poetry when I was in 8th grade, but couldn't continue. Now I'm totally into it, actively writing for past 3 years. I think it's enough."
Meher Pestonji is a well-known  Mumbai-based journalist, novelist and playwright
Rani D. (indrani Das Gupta) is currently pursing M.Phil in English Literature from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. Fascinated and spellbound by the way words weave music, she aspires to become a writer. She lives in Delhi-NCR region and can be contacted at ranid66@ymail.com.

Originally from Calcutta Nandini Mazumder came to New Delhi in 2006 to pursue a Masters in Sociology in Jawaharlal Nehru University. Following which she joined the development sector and specialized in issues affecting women and children - she worked on human trafficking with Sanlaap, Calcutta, on alternate forms of education and life-skills building in children from disadvantaged backgrounds with the Kutumb Foundation, New Delhi and now on improving sexual and reproductive health for Sex Workers through HIV/AIDS Alliance, New Delhi. Nandini started writing poetry in school and continued to write poems as an expression of how she perceived the world inside and outside. Emotions and feelings are a driving force for her poems whether these emotions stem from personal experiences or larger world events that cause great personal emotions to build-up. Nandini constantly strives to write and share her poetry with a larger audience. So far she has been published on Indian websites like Youth Ki Awaaz and Parallel Post. mki.

Vasu K is a 20-year-old Engineering student from VIT Vellore and a poet by choice. "I have a dream to become an executive and have a zest for writing poetry as i always find it relaxing and also it calms me down."
Prantik Banerjee  teaches English in Nagpur, Maharashtra. His first book, A Postscript on Missing Keys, was published by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. His poems were also shortlisted 3 times in the All India Poetry Competition held by British Council. They have appeared in Sahitya Akademi’s Indian Literature, Kavya Bharti, The Journal of Indian Poetry, Femina, PEN, The Brown Critique, and several international anthologies. 
Swati Chawla is a New Delhi-based Political Scientist/Researcher with a law firm. She has worked with various governmental/non-governmental organizations in the past. An ardent lover of philosophy, like Socrates’ Theia Mania, she too believes in the gift of madness; of sanity in the insane. She scribbles poetry in her free time and can gaze endlessly at institutions/monuments that are of historic nature.
Debarun Sarkar supposedly wrote the above texts. He sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, labors and occasionally writes and submits them.
Yuan Changming, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of 4 chapbooks (including Mindscaping [2014]), is the world's most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes in English. A PhD holder, Yuan grew up in a remote village, started to learn English at 19 and published several monographs before leaving China. Currently he tutors and co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. His poetry appears in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Cincinnati Review, Threepenny Review and 969 others across 31 countries. Do check out Poetry Pacific at poetrypacific.blogspot.ca and get in touch with editors.pp@gmail.com.
Gayatri Majumdar is Founder, Editor and Publisher of brown critique. Currently, she lives and volunteers in the research section of a not-for-profit spiritual-based organization in Puducherry (formerly Pondicherry). Her first novel A Song for Bela is ready for publication.Bishnupada Ray is an Associate Professor of English at the University of North Bengal. An Indian English poet and his latest book of poetry Winter Sky and Selected Poems was published by Brown Critique in 2013.

This issue of brown critique is dedicated to the memory of Gayatri and Bhaskar's parents — Sunil and Gouri Majumdar — who were both ardent and huge supporters of the magazine ever since it was launched 20 years ago.
“You would not cry if you knew that by looking deeply into the rain you would still see the cloud.” ― Hanh Nhat Thich