Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Without Bounds…(Prose)

One summer morning, Mahima's adventurous spirit led her to explore the steep slopes and rugged terrain of Gokarna, a laid-back coastal town, adorned with pristine beaches.  Losing the trail on a desolate beach, she found herself walking deeper into the foreboding woods.

Tall trees stood like sentinels as sunlight crept through the canopy. The sound of her boots was perturbing in the dense foliage— a dull, definite thud.  A whispering wind stirred the leaves, then a powerful gust swept through, sounding almost like a roar. She heard the chatter of monkeys in the distance. 

And that's when the ‘savage’ appeared. She froze and was about to scream when he gestured for her to stop.  Introducing himself as Rolf, he offered her water, which she took reluctantly, eyeing him with fear and suspicion. His long beard and deep vacant eyes unnerved her.

What have I landed myself into?

Her heart hammered louder from within her blouse; perhaps Rolf heard it too.

Come! You’re not safe here.

A shiver ran down her spine. Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire?

Riddled with misgiving, she plodded on behind him, hoping they’d reach a village soon where she could seek help. She had always lived up to her name's meaning—possessing moral greatness and inner strength, though not external power or aggression. Now, she was powerless and had no choice but to follow the savage in good faith.

Prayer after prayer appeared on her lips.

Rolf moved with a natural grace, stepping over gnarled roots and decayed vegetation with agility, in stark contrast to her clumsy trudge over the unfamiliar terrain.

The price of her defiance was evident.

Just then, Rolf suggested they rest for a while. Opening his backpack, he offered her a water bottle made from a bottle gourd.  It had cool water.  Then, he gave her a handful of jamuns; he ate a few and sat comfortably on a makeshift stool that he brought out from his backpack. He handed her his gun and sat in silence.  Standing behind him, she remained a mix of unease and calm; her backpack still hung over her shoulders.

She thought of the escape routes she could take once they reached a village. Someone there would be her beacon of hope and would help her find her way back to the concrete jungle, with its pitfalls and uncertainties.

The hilly terrain and the cave-like structures no longer seemed friendly; she was on the verge of a meltdown.

After what seemed like eternity, Rolf got up and, in his harsh voice, said: Let’s go!

As a meek child, she walked behind, lagging. She noticed he turned to check on her, waiting patiently until she drew near; then, he proceeded quietly. 

Despite his savage looks, he has some gentleness…

As they walked towards less dense vegetation,  a deafening crash made her scream; her hat flew from her head.

 An axe came flying through the air;  its shiny blade landed into a large log of wood that lay across their path.

A few men emerged from their hiding spots in the tall trees ahead. 

Spotting  Rolf, they let out sheepish smiles.

In a language alien to her, he communicated with the stocky, scantily dressed men.  They bowed and led the way. 

Seeing signs of inhabitation, Mahima let out a sigh of relief.

A dark-faced lady came out of a dwelling.  At Rolf’s bidding, she led Mahima inside.

Over her shoulder, Mahima heard Rolf – Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall guide you back to your world.  I caution you not to speak about any of us.  Forget this encounter as a dream, get back, as quietly as you entered…

Mahima slept soundly; a rescued damsel, her valiant prince was around…

 

The axe will fall…(Poem)

 

He sat, relaxed in his chair, with his long legs

crossed, one over the other.

His long boots protected him from the ants swarming on the earth

The large umbrella shielded him from the summer glare.

 

She, dressed in oversized clothes, was drenched in sweat.

The weight of the long gun made her fume and fret.

In front of them was a large wooden log; a gleaming

axe lay embedded within.

 

This was the proverbial axe that would not just

clear deadwood; it symbolized change – free people

from their limited beliefs and negative thoughts.

How much longer? she wondered.

 

The shabbily dressed cameraman screeched –

Ah, at last! This is the best shot. The axe will soon fall…

 

Unable to bear it longer, she grumbled and muttered.

Just then, he, cool as a cucumber, flicked his wrist.

The axe fell…she let out an

earth-shattering scream and swooned.

***

 

Bio: Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), event organizer, and independent researcher.

Her poems, short stories, travelogues, and articles have been featured in reputed international journals.   Her name is featured among the ten shortlisted poets in the inaugural “Asian Prize for Poetry, 2025.”

She is the author of Joie De Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings Again, Everyday English, and Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3.

She is a freelancer for IELTS, Communicative English & Soft Skills.  

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Setu, August 2025