Editorial - Anurag Sharma

Dear readers,

Exactly a month ago, when I presented the debut issue of Setu Bilingual, I wasn't expecting the overwhelming response we got from our readers. Within a week of the launch of Setu, we had twelve thousand readers visiting our brand new site. I want to thank the Setu editorial board and the contributing authors for quality content. We proved our name in becoming a bridge by connecting the extreme ends of the words, written and spoken across the globe.

Just like earlier issue, we have poetry, fiction, interviews, translation and photo features. With all famous names in this issue, we are also introducing a new feature with an intention to bring forward a new and upcoming author. A short story by Sucheta Chaurasia is the first one to find a place in this issue.

As I mentioned last month, Setu appreciates your candid feedback. We are eagerly waiting for your comments and opinion to make Setu more meaningful for you. Please feel free to write to us. Shoot your email to setuedit@gmail.com.

Second (July 2016) issue of Setu is available HERE. If you want to write for Setu, please check our Submission Guidelines.


Yours sincerely,
Anurag Sharma

• Introducing Setu
• प्रथमांक दो शब्द ‍‍- अनुराग शर्मा

July 2016 Table of Contents

A Bridge Between Two Worlds Interview

Mandala artist  Marlene Lee (K'iali) interviews mandala artist Sandra Joran (Sheba Blitz)

Sandra Joran is a mandala artist, creating hand-painted mandalas in mixed media in Real Life (RL). She also exhibits mandalas in the virtual world called Second Life (SL), here her avatar name is Sheba Blitz. Recently another SL artist K’iali  did a short interview with Sheba which is reprinted below. The images associated with the questions and answers are all screen shots of Sheba’s SL creations, the mandalas on the SL gallery walls are imported (uploaded) from scans of her original RL mandalas. The hanging Dream Catchers are created in SL with the original mandala texture applied to them. These rotate slowly and engagingly in the dynamic SL environment.

Sandra – Sheba finds the RL mixed-media mandala painting process  and the virtual computer world of SL mutually complementary, a setu which she crosses daily with ease. Each creative world has satisfying aspects which the other does not offer.


Sheba Blitz is an Australian artist who creates mandalas. In the smallest room of Gallery 24 Sheba explains that  "A mandala is an ancient and sacred symbol of the universe. Classically in the form of a circle (the Cosmos) enclosing a square (Earthbound matter) . . ."

Following is an interview with Sheba and how she develops her mandala art.

Sheba: What kind of artist are you? and what medium do you work in?

Sandra: I am a Mandala Artist. I work in mixed media on canvas and paper. I paint my mandalas with gouache, acrylics and metallic paints.

Sheba: What is your process? Do you work from photos? Do you work from life? How do you approach your art?

Sandra: I get ideas from music, books, astrology and tarot symbolism or whatever I'm into at the time. I sketch the idea out in my art diary first and when I'm happy with the result I draw it accurately onto my final surface. I then begin to paint and just let it happen.

Sheba: Did you have any formal training in art? If so, what university? If not did you take workshops or learned from books?

Sandra: Yes I did a Drafting Course at a college in Sydney Australia, when I left school. I then did a Commercial Art Course and a Diploma of Arts from Melbourne, Australia.

Sheba: What is your earliest experience with art that you remembered that mark your path into becoming an artist?

Sandra: Colouring in the Sunday papers when I was 10 years old. Then winning first prize at school for a design I did, the prize was a book about Picasso.

Sheba: Who influenced you to be an artist? A family member, a teacher?

Sandra: No one I remember. I just always enjoyed being creative, painting and making art, much more than anything else.

Sheba: What is your reason to exhibit in Second Life? and what is your experience had been? Any positive or negative. And has exhibiting in SL affected your RL art?

Sandra: I didn't come into SL to exhibit my artworks as I didn't know much about virtual worlds and what could be accomplished inworld. But being an artist in RL it was a natural path to follow and to seek out fellow artists in the virtual. I started going to exhibitions and art openings and buying artworks from artists from around the world. It was fantastic! I was then asked to exhibit my own work, which I did. My experience has been wonderful, and I love being part of the art world in SL.

The images below are of Sandra’s RL one-off hand-painted mandalas.

 Fig.1 Indian Rhythms Mandala

 Fig. 2 Buddhist Lotus Mandala

Fig. 3 Lila Mandala

Fig. 4 Sri Yantra Mandala

Fig. 5 Journey Mandala

Fig. 6 Medieval Mandala

July 2016 Table of Contents

Iluka Place By The Sea

by Rob Harle

Iluka is a tiny fishing village on the north coast of NSW, Australia. It is a haven for recreational fishermen, holiday makers, whale & dolphin watching, and home to a dwindling commercial fishing fleet.

Iluka is an indigenous Australian phrase meaning “place near the sea”, extensive rainforest to the north of Iluka Bay is known as the Bundjalung National Park. This is a world heritage listed littoral rainforest. One of the last remaining littoral rainforests in the Southern Hemisphere. Littoral means part of the zone adjacent to the sea. It contains many different plant species ranging from coastal dune species to tropical rainforest species. The Iluka rainforest has a vast range of native animal species ranging from wallabies and kangaroos to wombats and echidnas. Iluka is famous for the extremely rare coastal emu.

Fig. 1 shows the “bar” which allows entry from the Pacific Ocean, it is relatively safe for yachts and boats to cross in most weather, this provides a safe haven in the calm protected waters of the Clarence River. Across the river is the town of Yamba. Fig. 10 looking south from Iluka shows the lighthouse at Yamba.

I tried with these photos to show the unspoilt natural beauty of the Iluka Bay side of the river together with it’s “laid back” atmosphere, a million miles from the “fast lane”. I go there often to be inspired and to talk to the dolphins and mermaids.

Fig. 1 Looking out to sea from Moriarty’s Beach showing the breakwater and bar.

Fig. 2 Some of the fishing trawlers safely asleep in the bay of the Clarence River Fisherman’s Co-op.

Fig. 3 The Mirigini ferry goes many times a day across to Yamba, a really “laid back” way to travel over to the hustle and bustle of Yamba.

Fig. 4 The mysterious Iluka mermaid shields her eyes from the sun looking out to sea in anticipation for the return of a fisherman?

Fig 5. The mermaid again searching the entry to the Co-op’s safe harbour.

Fig. 6 Just love this symbolic navigational sign-buoy, ”Idle Speed Only” says it all about the pace of life at Iluka.

Fig. 7 “Notorious”, a replica of a 16th century Caravel pirate ship, no it’s not “The Black Pearl”. Built in Melbourne by a man and his wife then they sailed north on their unfolding extensive adventure. Restfully lying at anchor in Iluka Bay.

Fig. 8 One of the more annoying aspects of modern life, no where is immune from capitalist greed, the hideous ambiguous sign reads:
“Warning
Jumping or diving
from this jetty
could cause injury
or death
And is prohibited”

Fig. 9 But then this lone seagull, searching for a  feed doesn’t
know anything about that!

Fig. 10 Looking south from Moriarty’s Beach towards Yamba and it’s lighthouse.

July 2016 Table of Contents

Daddy - Short Story

by Anurag Sharma

Mom is struggling with the kitchen sink; the tap has started leaking again. Irrespective of the size of the house or the status of the homeowner, everyone faces these problems in this country. I am sure that the tap broke earlier too, but we had never noticed it. When dad was here, mom never had to worry about anything, inside or outside of the house. In fact, back then, we didn't even know that these things do break.

Times were different then. Dad would read a newspaper after his morning exercises and shower, both before mom and I even woke up. He used to drive me to school, and we would talk about a lot of different things. He used to pick me up from school in the afternoon and leave me at home with mom before going back to work.
***

I didn't know what he did for living. Did he work for a steel mill, or in a hospital? I didn't know anything about his profession at all. And I didn't care. We could call him home whenever we wanted, except when he was travelling for work, which was often. He used to go to faraway places in foreign countries and I used to miss him for weeks together. His tours were always unplanned. He could leave all of a sudden and come back any moment without advance information. We would only know about the places he went after he returned home to us.

Once, when I was five or six years old, I was sitting on the window seat playing with my dolls when I remembered my dad, who was in Europe then. I imagined dad as lord Buddha of our home. Quiet and knowledgeable. While I thought about dad being the incarnation of Buddha, something rather magical happened – he entered the house. I jumped with joy when he picked me up. I smiled and said, "Dad, you are Buddha! The only difference is that Buddha is too wise. You can never be so wise as him."

"Very good" Dad said before kissing me on forehead. Within moments, he started taking out all the gifts he bought for me and mom from his trip. Mom was smiling yet she didn't look happy. There was something strange in our home which was difficult for me to fathom. Probably, mom didn't like dad's job. She wanted dad to have a job without travel, just like other men in the neighborhood.
***

Dad's room was always locked from inside whenever he attended a work related call. It was an exciting experience to visit his room any other time. His room was mysterious. The cabinets and drawers in his room were always locked. Sometimes I used to enter his room quietly as a seasoned detective and he would pick me up and set me down on his lap, abandoning his work.

Onc day, when he was away on a tour, I missed him so much that I kept crying for long time. I didn't want dad to know about my crying but mom told him about it when he came back.  "I too miss you both a lot when I am away" he said smilingly, "but whenever I think of you, I feel so good that I start smiling automatically ..."

“Memory should make us happy, not sad.”

“Yes dad!”

His statement about memory is the key principle of my life now. Whenever I think of him, I start feeling good instantaneously.
***

Another day, when I went to his room, he was looking at something inside a big cardboard box. As I got closer, I saw something glimmering inside the box. I asked him to show what was inside and he started showing the stuff to me. The box was full of coins, scores of coins. Some gold, others silver. There were medals too. Everything was beautifully shrink wrapped or packed in transparent cases, just like opulent jewelry. I played with those coins, medals, note bills, postage stamps and ribbons for almost an hour till mom called us for dinner. Dad felt so cool for the first time that day.

While we had dinner, dad received a call. Leaving food behind, he locked himself into his mysterious room. When he came back, I was about to go to my bedroom after finishing my dinner. Dad lifted me in his lap and took me to my bed. He told me that he was going abroad next day and kissed me goodnight. Lying in my bed, I heard mom sobbing. Before I could understand a thing, I was asleep that night.
***

Mom is still fighting a battle with the sink. She is not saying anything, but tears are flowing from her eyes. Looking at her, I also started sobbing. I know that none of us is crying about the sink. Our eyes are wet for the person who never let a tap leak in this house, and never let a tear roll down our faces in his presence. As long as he was here, this house was our dearest home.

Dad, you are Buddha, as wise as him. You certainly know how much we miss you. Our eyes are wet, but we are not sad. I feel good when I remember you, exactly as you told me that day. Remember the club house, you made for me? I planted a rose there in your memory. I know that you can't come out of your picture. I also know that you are sending your love for us from inside the frame, through your divine smile. With mom's permission, I took out your ribbons and the medals from the coin box and put them in the curio cabinet. There is a new medal which you got posthumously.

I am proud of you dad!

[Translation from Hindi by author]

Setu, July 2016

Said or Unsaid Story by Sucheta

She tried to make the wish as visually attractive as possible. So she added a few more more smileys, balloons and gift emojis. She meticulously chose the smileys including the one with tiny hearts in eye's place, wishing if he could understand her untold feelings. She could have called him but did not, fearing that her voice would falter. Confronting him, even though not in person, made her go numb.

Then she, who would never compromise on her 7-hour sleep, painstakingly stood awake until midnight to be the first one to wish him a Happy Birthday. Exactly at 12:00 a.m., she sent the message. She expected quite a reply, a fairly long one. Few minutes passed; no reply yet. He had not even come online yet, still she longed for an immediate reply. She tried to withhold her eyes from blinking. " I can do at least this much for him", she encouraged herself. The wait was too long a wait for that impatient girl, especially because it was something regarded to 'him'. " Must be busy swotting even on his birthday," she reasoned.

And then she dozed away, only to wake up at 6:30 a.m. She frenziedly checked her phone. He had not

come online since! School hours made her restless. She, a discipline-loving child, for the first time, wished to have brought her phone to school surreptitiously. The only pacifying moment was the ringing of bell announcing the home-time.

She quickly went home and checked her phone. And there it was- a message, from him. "Thanks", the message read. She let out a smile. "The same old him, " she thought, "could not hide his shyness even through a message!" Then a phantasmagoria struck her mind. Memories of him and her together plundered her mind. She effusively recalled all that.

Her golden period, it was. Maybe his too.Their parents were friends. She was five and he six. They used to live in different corners of the city but met often as their parents visited each other's house. It started with a formal friendship. As they met more and more, they became informal friends; then nice friends; then close friends; then true friends; then friends for life. Both were shy. At every meet, they first took time to open up, but having opened up, there was no stopping. They found solace in each others company only. Their pointless rants, friendly bantering, mimicry of each other, found no end. Both were talented too. She used to write, he used to sketch. Chess was their favorite game. Yes chess! Even a monotonous game like chess became eventful when it got their company.
This went on even when they entered their teen-hood. By and by, she started falling for him. Maybe he too, for her. But she never let it out, thinking it would spoil their friendship. Every time they met, their mere 'friendship' deepened.

As years passed by, a time came when she had to leave the city for good. She felt monstrously bad. Maybe he felt the same. She thought of telling him her feelings. Maybe he thought the same. But she never let it out. Now, it has been 4 years since their depart. Still their friendship is still afresh in her mind. Probably in his mind too.

One day, she got the news of his coming to her city for taking an exam. Her family invited him to put up at her house. She could not have been happier. He came to his house the other day. Both were silent for a while, taking their own sweet time to open up. Nothing happened. So she brought in chess, their favorite game. Both were mum as they played. Gradually, their conversation picked up pace. In just the other moment, both were rolling on the bed, laughing uncontrollably. Oh! How much had she missed it! Maybe he had missed it too. Seeing them two laugh together was a sight to behold! A silly thought occurred to her mind-"Tell him your feelings". "No," another thought upbraided the first one, "What about your friendship!" Perplexed, she conformed to the latter one.

The game was still on. Chess had never been so fascinating! Together, they  recalled their golden period. They recalled their playing hide and seek; their playing cricket, or rather bat and ball as it just required only a bowler and a batsman.

They recalled telling each other dirty jokes in a corner. Each evocative memory made her long to go back in that time. Maybe he longed for it too. She was teary- eyed but still managed to fake a smile.
"Ahem ... which exam do you have?", she asked out of nowhere.

" S.A.T. exam. I am planning to go abroad for my undergraduation."

She was dumbfounded. "He will be leaving the country. The country!", she thought.

Next day he took the exam.

Time flew by in no time!

It was now time for him to return to his city. She wanted to tell him how she felt. Maybe he too. But she let go. She wanted to cry which she did unbrokenly after he was gone. If her wrath was transpired to the oceans, its waves would have touched the sky; and if to the winds, everything in its way would have been debilitated.

Two months later, she texted him, " How is everything?"

But he didn't reply. She checked her phone again and again. For a while, she did not mind. After some time, there was still no reply but she did not mind . A lot of time passed. She minded it now.
She tried withholding herself from checking her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about 6 days now. She constantly checked his 'last seen'. She hated to do this yet couldn't stop herself. This lonesome feeling of having no answer from him made her restless.

The very next moment her phone vibrated and there it was a message, from him. But when he read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She wondered if he was joking, trying to be his usual self.
 
"I am coming." said the message. Her heart pounded again.

"What? When?" she replied.

"I am leaving for the USA in two weeks ..." was his irrelevant reply. She went blank. Her jaw dropped. She wrote a poem for him that night, venting out all her long-buried emotions. She cried all through while writing it and ended the poem with the lines:

ALL MY LIFE,
I LONGED FOR YOU ...
IF ONLY I COULD TELL YOU
HOW TRUE
MY LOVE IS FOR YOU.

He came the other day, in the afternoon. Her parents were dazed to see an unexpected visitor. Saddened by his leaving the country, she had forgotten to tell her parents about his coming.
Having had the dinner, he asked her to come on the terrace with him. She did that. Both were silent. She apprehended the worst. "Maybe he would call off our friendship right here. Long distance relationships never work," she tried to predict what he would say.

After hesitating a bit, he procured a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. She unfolded it. It was a sketch. Yes he had sketched something for her! It showed a girl and a boy, together, holding hands, under a starry sky.

"What could this mean, " she conjectured.

Suddenly she remembered her poem. Asking him to wait, she ran downstairs to fetch it. It was written in bad writing. She never ever thought of showing it to him originally. But she gave the poem to him. He read it. He gave a baffled expression complemented with a smile.
Both stood facing each other, under the star-lit sky, with the papers in hand, trying to deduce their meanings.

"I love you," he said the unsaid, out of the blue and gasped a deep sigh as if the dam of his chronic hesitation had just been collapsed.

" What do you do?" she exclaimed, disbelieving what her ears had just heard, totally zapped out.
He cleared his throat hesitantly-

"I, the most idiotic person on the earth; love, which is the strongest emotion of affection; you, the most beautiful girl on earth."

She stood there, absolutely mum and motionless, totally astonished. She could not believe that she just heard the prettiest word ever.

She said, " So do I. I love you from the day I used to blow my nose in your shirt and you used to take all the blame of my mischief on yourself." Tears welled up her already moist eyes. He took her hand into his, just as was in the sketch.

Both stood gazing lovingly in each other's eyes, letting their silent speeches do all the talking.

She broke the silence, "Why did you not tell me?"

"I feared that it would spoil our friendship"

"How much do we think alike," she thought

He continued,"I loved you whenever you beat me when I teased you. I loved you for all your smiles and your talks. Above all I love you because you are you. I have loved you since always and will love you till eternity and beyond."

For a while, she had forgotten that he would be in a different country two weeks from now. A different country! She complained, "You seldom reply. Why? How will I spend my days without hearing anything from you?"

"I tried to avoid you but could not. I could not help but fall for you all over again whenever I thought of you. I realised I am made for you. And now that I know you are for me too, I'll be there for you, always. Always and forever. Through and through. I will write for you. Talk to you. Make you sketches" he justified sweetly.

"Pinky promise," he said further, proving his childlike innocence.

Tears streamed down her eyes. Her nose, too, became runny. Seeing this, he offered a sleeve of his shirt to her to wipe her nose with. And they both burst out into an uncontrollable laughter.

"I want to die laughing with you,"  she said under her breath, but he heard. Then they both embraced each other.

Above, the stars beamed at them, the crescent smiled and the leaves rustled, all as if approving the newly signed bond of love.

July 2016 Table of Contents

The Word short story

by John Thieme

In the 1960s, Marshall McLuhan discovered the global village; in the 1980s, David Lodge invented the small world; in the year 2000, ushering in the new Millennium with just a little help from his friends, Eugenius Growpe created The Word. And in the beginning the Word looked pretty good. Not that it was known as “The Word” to start with. Initially it was called “The Afro-Caucasian Dracula Society”.

I was sitting on the floor in my flat in Singapore, dreaming of England and playing Monopoly with my young son, when the fax arrived from Whitby: “Come immediately. Inaugural meeting of Afro-Caucasian Dracula Society. Whitby tomorrow. World domination of field likely. Everyone will be there. Your turn to bring garlic. Felicitations, Growpe.” Loftily disdainful of the world of cellphones, Growpe knows nothing of texting, but never wastes words. His genius has been to use the language of the telegram in the age of the e-mail.

When Growpe calls, I obey. I abandoned dreams of putting hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair – to be candid, I was losing badly – and rang for a taxi. A cab, a plane, a pair of trains and I was there. The smell of Whitby, a subject on which I can wax lyrical for hours. Earth has not anything …. But I digress. Suffice it to say, I arrived and everyone was there, “every known superstition in the world … gathered into the horseshoe” of the little hall that would house our momentous meeting. We chatted animatedly about the impact of the new physics on the North Yorks Moors Railway. Opinion was divided. Or, to be more exact, opinion was all over the place. There were those who believed that the time-table ceased to exist in the distance between the eye and the page; those who philosophized about the distance between steam and the trains of today; and those who bemoaned the distance between the seats they had occupied and the toilets at the ends of their carriages. Meanwhile we awaited Growpe.

But everyone else was there. Margaret Motherill with her violet eyebrows, previously only glimpsed across a smoky room in Montana in the third triennial meeting of the Rocky Mountain Consortium of the Living Dead, was there; the legendary Eustace R. Likely, Founder President of the Finnish Association for Vampiric Enquiry, popularly believed to have been dead for many years (and still believed to be so by some, though he had appeared, hanging from the rafters, at the 1991 Pan-Antipodean Bat Symposium in Perth) was there; and the Sri Lankan string quartet that had serenaded us at the opening session of the second Japanese Dracula Noh Theatre Convention was there – complete with fangs. Everyone was there: acolytes came with their gurus; new blood was transfused into the old. Those of us who were veterans of many such meetings marvelled at Growpe’s powers of attraction and exchanged reminiscences of outrageous papers heard in Rio in 1978, scandals in the igloos we occupied during the first Inuit Dracula meeting; and most recently Growpe’s spectacular coup in bringing the Transylvanian Dracula Circus to Portsmouth (UK not NH), reputedly its first performance west of the Carpathians. And, we reflected, the work goes on. Ars longa, but when art is good to one it can be very good indeed.

At last Growpe arrived. A descent from a corner stairway. Almost invisible beneath the glow exuded by his phosphorescent cloak. A hand in the air to call the meeting to order. “Let us begin.” And we began. An agenda distributed. Simple enough in appearance. Who could have anticipated the debate that was to follow?

Items 1 and 2 passed me by. I was still glancing around the room, awestruck at the crowd Growpe had brought together at such short notice and basking in the reflected glory one achieved simply by being present at such an occasion. I began to take an interest when we came to Item 3: “Finance.” Finance always fascinates me, both in the abstract and when it finds its way into my grubby little hands. Here it was in the abstract. In fact it was very, very abstract. It was so abstract that it could not be seen at all and yet one knew that, however insubstantial, it had a reality, lurking somewhere beneath the meeting’s surface of agendas, motions and minutes. Our Chairman, a portly Franciscan monk whom I had not met before but was immediately impressed by, thanked Growpe – on behalf of Yorkshire, Britain and the E.U. – for bringing the Afro-Caucasian Dracula Society into being. It was, he said, difficult to account for earlier neglect of this aspect of the field, with its important linkage of Caribbean vodun vampirism and its “better-known” European manifestations. At this point the monk was interrupted. A figure, invisible to me, but with a voice to move mountains, boomed out that Haitian religious rites had nothing to do with vampirism and that this was a popular Western misconstruction. History was in the making, but I had not come prepared to take notes. I missed much of the specialist evidence he cited in support of his argument, while trying with my right hand to wrest a pencil free from an entanglement with loose threads in my left inside jacket pocket. But I have preserved some of his bon mots for posterity, among them “Atlantocentrism”, “dismissappropriation”, “Dennis Wheatley hegemonies”, “Fourteen-ninety-two-ophilia” and “yoghurt”. Would that I had recorded more, but then, like deconstructed vampirologists, we reconstructed doyens of the discipline love lacunae.

For a moment it seemed that the whole evening would be engulfed by the booming voice, but fortunately our admirable Chairman, properly concerned that we should return to the main business before us, namely money, suggested that we could rectify any possibly unfortunate associations in the Society’s name simply by dispensing with the “Afro-“ element. A vote was taken. In a trice the “Afro-” was gone, nem. con. I have always been impressed by the alacrity with which we settle these matters, whatever the circumstances under which we are meeting. But more was to follow. Hilda Slingsby, a redoubtable veteran of the early Dracula Convention Wars, rose to her feet, sighed the sigh of those eternally condemned to live in déjà-vu nether-worlds, and delivered one of the great modern vampire polemics. My pencil broke at this point, but I re-sharpened it in time to record her concluding words: “… and I for one do not wish to be a member of the Caucasian [the word was pronounced with a monstrously impressive theatrical sneer] Dracula Society.” Another motion. Another vote. Another nem. con. It would have been unanimous, but Growpe never descends to the vulgarity of voting. “Caucasian” was dropped. Out Chairman was about to steer us back towards “Finance” when the distinguished Athenian vampire librarian, Konstantinos Panayiotis, pointed out that, while he had been pleased to see us divest ourselves of first “Afro-“and then “Caucasian,” we now faced a situation where, as “The Dracula Society,” we would be confused with seventy-three other leading organizations in the field, at least eleven of which (to his certain knowledge) bore exactly the same name. How I admire the bibliographic mind! At this point Bertrand Reek, mysteriously afflicted with amnesia since the 1985 Waikiki Undead Surfing Regatta, was heard to say “The Word” (though perhaps I should interpolate here that those of us near him thought that what he actually said was “the turd”). In any case, Growpe nodded and the matter was decided. It was not the first time I had seen this all-powerful alliance carry the day. Reek proposes, Growpe disposes. We became “The Word”. Surely, I reflected, nothing could deflect us from finances any longer.

My instinct was correct. At this point a trim Icelandic stranger – strange not only to me, but also to all the longstanding aficionados among us and, in fact pretty strange by anybody’s standards, and I hasten to add unlike any other Icelander I have met before, during or since that fateful day in Whitby – rose languidly to his feet, waving copies of a document aloft. He explained that it had been intimated to him that we were to discuss finance and so, “on the spur of the eleventh hour” and “without wishing to rush in where the devils feared to smoke” and much more in that vein, he had prepared a discussion paper. I was riveted, spellbound, agog with … whatever one becomes agog with. Our meetings have never lacked drama, but I had the sense that a coup de théatre which would surpass even the Tooth-Fairy song at the 1983 Nairobi gathering was imminent. We old-stagers have a nose for this kind of thing. I was not to be disappointed.

“There are those,” the Icelander waved a magnanimously vague hand in the air to suggest he did not know exactly who or what they were or exactly where they were to be found but they definitely were and they definitely were somewhere all the same, “ – those who do not have the best interests of the cause at heart.”

A voice from the audience, which made me feel that its utterance might be an orchestrated part of the performance we were witnessing, muttered “Scarborough.”

The Icelander continued in measured tones, “And so we must take all measures to see that the administration remains in the best possible pockets. Should funding, whether it be from the city, the county, the country, the union or the world, fall into the wrong hands, all will be down the drainhole and beyond explanation, reclamation or inclination.”

“The union, the union. Down with Scarborough,” intoned my suspected “plant” in the audience.

The Icelander’s languor began to desert him, an affectation that could not, it seemed, be sustained as his speech accelerated towards its climax: “Fellow devotees, there is only one man who can stop this creeping paralysis of the organisms, this threat to everything we hold dear” – he was now talking at a gallop – “and I propose that we elect Eugenius Growpe our Treasurer, as well as our President, and charge him with disbursing our …”

“Seconded!” screamed a closed-eyed Bertrand Reek. An utterance from the spirit-world, the cry of a man far beyond mortality. It pre-empted any further debate. Another vote; another nem. con.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I call upon Eugenius Growpe to address us,” said the now misty-eyed Icelandic stranger. I was never to discover his identity. Only Growpe appeared to know him. Growpe moves in mysterious worlds as well as mysterious ways.

Growpe strode to the front of the hall, thanked us profusely and expressed his gratitude for the honour that had been accorded him, particularly since it meant he now had sole responsibility for the administration of a sum of three million euros. “Rest assured,” he told us, “that, whatever causes this grant serves, they will be Whitby-based. Eager though I am to cooperate with the Scarborough chapter and respectful though I am of the sterling work they have undertaken, no infiltrators will be allowed into our inner circle.”

At this point, my friend Andrea Mundelstripe, who was sitting next to me, said she needed fresh air and I left with her. So, like a lieutenant vacating the scene of a battle half won, a famous victory imminent, I missed the rest of the proceedings. Andrea and I strolled through the lanes of Whitby. Like me, she was impressed by everything we had witnessed, but she asked me to explain exactly what we had seen and heard. I, though, was far away, intoxicated by the odours of Whitby on a balmy autumn evening. Could I have “explained,” had I wished to? Never answer speculative questions.

Climbing a steep ascent towards the abbey, Andrea reminded me that Whitby had been one of the first towns to have street-lights, fuelled by whale-blubber. And tonight illumination was everywhere. A poster outside a small hall announced another convention: the annual meeting of the British Lighthouse Movie Society. We wandered into the unreality of a film-screening: The Day of the Triffids. So far removed from the politics of our own magnificent society. And, sitting there amid those whose fantasies are served by celluloid lighthouses, I pondered the existence of alternative worlds. We achieve greatness in one field, but are not even novices in another. I had wriggled masochistically through disaster movies, incarcerated myself in prison movies, stolen moments in heist movies, howled at animal movies and raced out of chase movies, but I knew nothing of lighthouse movies. In my specialist field I remain unsurpassed. I can recite the entire credits of every Hammer Horror film ever made. But this, I am sure, watery memories of an undergraduate encounter with Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Ramsay and Lily Briscoe notwithstanding, was my first lighthouse movie. Since then I have seen Lighthouse Keeping, Lighthouse Mouse, Lighthouse Love and – once seen, never forgotten – Rin Tin Tin in The Lighthouse by the Sea, but this to my shame was my first lighthouse movie. We live in parallel universes. Minutes before, the Word had seemed everywhere, but now we were outside the Word.

July 2016 Table of Contents

Hello Goodbye - A Short Story

by Mark Cornell

Tim could do a whole range of brum, brum sounds long before he learnt to talk. He loves anything to do with engines. Once when he was playing with his Matchbox Cars on the floor, our friend Margaret exclaimed, ‘ Oh listen to him, he’s even changing gears.’ Tim heard an engine down the street while I read to him. We decide to go out and investigate after his last story.

          ‘I reckon it could be a big lawn mower or a digger. What do you reckon mate ? ’ I ambled down the street holding Tim’s hand while he nursed his furry possum puppet to his chest. Walking slow was one of the first lessons my son taught me now I was no longer part of the rat race.

          ‘Hmm…’ Tim’s blue eyes were lost in thought. ‘ I reckon it could be that bobcat we saw the other day.’ He stopped at a waxy green bush on the corner and knelt down to study some soldier beetles.

          ‘Dad, why are they stuck together like that ? ’ Tim placed his hand on the footpath and encouraged two enjoined beetles on to his little fingers.

          ‘I’m not sure mate. Maybe they’re making babies like what you saw in your dinosaur video. ’ Another lesson Tim had taught me; be open about things. This had taken some time, because I’d spent a decade in a crowded office where in order to survive the last thing you did was reveal your innermost thoughts. Tim and I watched the little black and red beetles go about their business. I used to fly around this corner every morning to catch the train into the city.

          Some of the people I worked with laughed when I said I was going on Family Leave to stay home and look after my son. One colleague stated, “ I knew a bloke down the road who did that and he ended up turning into an alcoholic.” My director tittered, “ You’ll be ringing up in a few weeks time begging me to come back.” Well, she may be a director of work but she’s a lousy observer of life, because here I am two years later still looking after my little man.

          The engine sound whirred as we crossed the road and made our way to the railway station. Tim jumped up and down and pointed to the other side of the track at an orange bobcat preparing the ground for a footpath. I shook my head and smiled back at him. We sat down on a platform seat to chat about the bobcat. The driver smiled and waved when he saw us. Tim and I laughed and waved back. The little boy in the man, who drives big machines, surfaces when he notices a child watching him. He always gets a happy gleam in his eye.

School kids trickled on to the platform across the other side. I stared up at the swollen grey clouds sailing towards the Dandenongs and took a deep breath. Winter’s on her way. You pay more attention to Mother Nature when you’re away from work. One of my favourite pastimes these days is making a fire in our hearth, grabbing a drink and having Tim on my lap. We watch the flames and he tells me of worlds where dragon’s blow mists and spit red stars up at the sky. My son claps and dances whenever I tell him I’m going to make a fire.

          A tall skinny man, with long grey hair and a shaggy silver beard marched towards us. As he got closer I noticed he had a huge glob of snot hanging down from his nostril to his chin. His wrinkled face looked wild. Don’t sit down next to me, I said under my breath. But he did and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his crumpled brown suit top.

          ‘The next bloody train’s an express which means it’s not gonna stop at my station ! I live in Auburn, hardly any train stops there these days ! ’ He lit up a cigarette and shot me an angry look. Christ what do I say back to this bloke ? I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Uh Oh ! ’ Tim jumped off the seat and pointed to a teenager who’d jumped down on to the rails to retrieve his yellow footy. ‘ He shouldn’t do that should he Dad ? ’ Tim shook his head.

‘No mate it’s dangerous.’ I scratched my beard.

‘He doesn’t miss a trick does he?’ The man smiled and nodded towards Tim.

          ‘He’s an intelligent little monkey all right.’ I replied, relieved that the ice had been broken.

          ‘How old is he?’ The man tapped his ash on to the ground.

          ‘ Six months ! ’ Tim declared as he climbed back next to me.

          ‘ You’re four mate, remember ? ’ I chuckled and leant towards him to count four on my fingers. My son followed with his eyes and lips.

The sign said the Flinders St train was due in fifteen minutes.

          Tim smiled shyly as he stretched over my lap and held his possum up to the man.

          ‘ I was wondering what that was. I thought it was a flaming cat.’ The man raised his eyebrows and roared out a laugh. Tim responded with a similar laugh then made a series of guttural possum sounds. Some of the school kids on the other side appeared puzzled by the man’s booming laughter.

‘Why’s he got a possum ? Most kid’s have teddies.’ The man wiped his moist eyes.

          ‘Tim loves possums we’ve got a family that visits us every night to knock off our food scraps. He loves hand feeding them.’

‘I feed them toblerone chocolate in Fitzroy Gardens. Some of the little buggers run right up to me and rip it right out of my hand. Do you guys live around here ? ’ He butted out his cigarette and lit another. He spent more time holding them in a claw like grip rather than smoking them.

          ‘Just round the corner in Viviani Crescent.’

          ‘I’ve spent the day with my sister…She lives in Great Ryrie. I can’t get over your little man. The possum sounds he makes are spot on.

He’s smart all right. That takes lots of observation.’

          ‘When they first put him in my arms he stared right through me. He’d only been on this planet for a few seconds but he knew me already. The nurses used to tell me that while all the other baby’s cried or slept in

the hospital, Tim was quiet and watched everything going on around him.’ I fended Tim off from attacking my face with his possum.

          ‘ That’s a bit rough isn’t it?’ The man grinned and took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘ I’m a paranoid schizophrenic on the pension. I barely get enough money to eat and pay the rent. It’s even harder to do the simple things of life like having a few beers with my mates now and

then. My sister nagged me all bloody day about going on a budget, but I find something like that bloody impractical.’

‘ I reckon a budget’s the first nail in the coffin.’ I recalled how my wife had recently suggested the same thing and I told her I just couldn’t think that way. The man’s grey eyes widened.

The sign said the Flinders St train was due in ten minutes.

‘ The rich are getting richer. Everyone’s out for themselves these

days. All everyone seems to care about is money, what about ethics eh ?

It’s pathetic they way people display their material possessions to each other. One of the first things you’re supposed to learn as a kid is not show off. ’ He snorted as he pulled a dirty hanky out of his tracksuit pants to wipe away the snot. Another blob soon dripped down his whiskers.

          ‘ I’ve never had a job you know.’ He gazed down at his sandals.

 ‘ That’s all right, you’re not missing much, most jobs are pretty boring anyway. I’ve got more out of life by staying home and looking after Tim than I’ll ever get from years of work. ’

‘ Take a look at those kids over there. They’re all brimming with energy and life. Look at them laughing, chatting and playing games with each other. Yet once they enter the workforce they shuffle around the streets like zombies. All their joy’s gone. Everywhere I go I see people

walking around with miserable looks on their faces. They spend all day working for a boss and doing things they really don’t want to do.’ The man threw his half-smoked cigarette on to the track and lit another.

 ‘You’re not wrong. I’m so glad to be away from all that garbage.’ Tim jumped on to my lap and I rubbed his back. The platform opposite us was now jammed packed with school kids. The bobcat driver turned his engine off and we waved goodbye to each other as he leapt into his van.

The man stood up to take another look at the sign.

‘ God ten minutes is too bloody long to wait for a bloody train,

everything in life is stacked against me, that’s why I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.’ He sat down and laughed again. I found this man’s

thunderous laughter infectious and couldn’t help warming to him. I asked him his name.

          ‘Frank.’

‘G’day Frank I’m Keith and this is Tim.’ I shook his hand and asked Tim to say hello.

‘Hello. Uh-Oh ! He shouldn’t do that should he Dad ? ’ Tim pointed to the teenager who now stood on the roof of the train station rescuing his yellow footy.

          ‘ Yep you’re right mate.’ The teenager kicked his ball down to his friends. ‘ He’s a big kinder boy now Frank.’ Tim’s eyes lit up.

‘ My mother never sent me to kinder. She said they were “ enclaves of socialism.”

          ‘ Ah well…there’s nothing wrong with an enclave of socialism is there Tim ? The world needs more of them. ’  My son beamed as Frank and I laughed.

‘ My Mum was a Mick and she raised me as a Catholic. As a little boy I was forced to think about some pretty heavy things I tell you. That’s why I probably ended up being a paranoid schizophrenic.’

          ‘ I’m a half-caste. My Mum’s a Catholic my Dad’s a heathen. She wanted to raise me as a Mik but Dad put his foot down.’

‘ That was probably a good thing. My personality and morality were paralyzed by the church. As a kid I was shit scared by the idea of God up in the sky watching over everything I did.’ Frank sniffed and pulled out his hanky again. He threw his cigarette on to the tracks then lit up another. The smoke wafted over us. A bright eyed Tim poked his finger into it and sang, ‘ Whew ! Whew ! Whew ! ’ Frank and I laughed when Tim said there’s a bellbird down the track smoking a cigarette. The kids directly across from us raised their frowning heads to stare at Frank.  

    

The sign said the Flinder’s St train was due in five minutes.

‘ Where are you guys headed for ? ’ Frank cradled another cigarette.

          ‘ We’re going home to cook tea and listen to The Beatles. Tim loves getting out his ukulele and strumming along to their music. ’

‘ Two of them are dead now. ’ Frank sighed. ‘God how I loved The Beatles. Their music was so positive and uplifting ! Those were the days when giants walked amongst us.’

          ‘ What other sort of music do you like Tim ? ’ I took a water bottle out of my coat pocket and offered it to him.

‘ The Moody Blues.’ Tim held his bottle up like a trumpet player and gulped.

‘ The Moody Blues ! ’ Frank’s face flushed. ‘ I love the Moody Blues. I’m an old hippie I smoked too much dope and that’s why I ended up being a paranoid schizophrenic too.’

 ‘ I love Night’s in White Satin and Mull of Kintyre.’ Tim gasped after draining his bottle.

‘ What other song’s do you love mate ? ’ I patted his head.

‘ Hello Goodbye and Get Back.’ Tim flicked my hand away.

 ‘ I bloody love those songs too.’ Frank sang Hello Goodbye to a grinning Tim. I sang along with him.

The sign said the Flinder’s St train was due in one minute.

Frank stared at a young mother who walked by pushing a pram. He stomped on his cigarette and lit up another.

            ‘ This world’s got a sick sense of priorities. We idolize rich idiots, anyone can be a successful rich idiot, all you have to do is behave like a spoilt brat and demand that everything goes your way. Yet that woman over there is doing the most important job in the world. A job that’s overlooked and taken for granted. Time and time again a mother sacrifices herself for her child, that takes a lot of courage. Women are stronger than men.’ Frank held his cigarette on his lap like he was burning a stick of incense. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but the city train suddenly zoomed below the bridge towards us.

          ‘ We’ll probably never meet again.’ Frank stood and ruffled Tim’s hair. ‘ It’s been wonderful meeting you little fella.’

 ‘ Goodbye mate take good care of yourself.’ I shook his hand. As Frank slowly made his way to the carriage he turned back to stare at Tim waving goodbye with his possum.

I felt sad watching Frank’s train disappear down the line. I pictured him sitting in the carriage with snot trickling down his beard getting disgusted looks from other passengers. I wish I there to tell them to mind their own bloody business ! I recalled the joyful way Frank responded to Tim and saw him in the pub laughing away with his mates. Poor old Frank, he was probably one of the sanest persons I’d ever met. Yet he’s an outsider. The Belgrave train arrived to pick up the school kids.

          I was annoyed with myself over the judgement I first made when Frank stormed towards us. Well; Tim had taught me another lesson, be generous to strangers. I shivered as I watched the Dandenongs dissolve below the rain clouds. The sky changes regardless of how we act. I held my son’s warm hand and made a detour to the bottle shop on our way back home to The Beatles.

July 2016 Table of Contents

Interview of Vinita Agrawal by Nalini Priyadarshni

Nalini Priyadarshni

Nalini- Thank you so much Vinita for taking time to answer questions that I always wanted to ask you ever since I started reading your poems. Please tell us something about your early years. How did you become interested in Poetry?

Vinita- I lived and studied in many places as a child. I was born in Bikaner and raised in Gujarat for the first nine years of my life. After that we moved to Kolkata and I studied in St. Joseph's Convent in Kalimpong as a boarder. Later I returned to Kolkata and studied there till my twelfth. So you could hear me chatter in English, Hindi, Nepali and Bengali with equal ease in those days.

My interest in poetry started when I was really young. I wrote my first poem when I was five. It was about my doll. It was in English. I wrote constantly during my growing up years and had a pile of secret diaries.

Nalini- No wonder all those languages picked up and places you stayed in infused your poetry with a vitality that is unique. Your poems are marked with most fascinating use of language, unusual images and delicate feelings. In the practice of writing, of poem-making – can you say something about your relationship with poesies, language and imagination?

Vinita -Well, thank you! What sets a poem apart from another poem is not its subject or content. You'll notice that most poems are about similar topics. But what makes a piece stand out is the manner in which the content is conveyed. I try my best to engage with my readers using gentle language and vivid imagery. My love for words gives me newer ways to express myself. I enjoy using varied expressions. Imagination must marry the language in which it sprouts in order to be articulated well. I guess these things come naturally to a poet.

Vinita Agrawal

Ripe Red Fig

The wounds took me there

...into a red landscape of seeds
millet-white at the mouth
like the inside of a ripe fig
torn into half at its meridian.

Asymptote - why would anybody invent a word like that?

Was he staring at railway tracks?
Or at the sky ripped apart from the earth?
Or at the borders between hearts...yours and mine?

I finally got rid of the mole on my neck.

You'd held it in your eyes for so long
that it clung to me like a legacy you'd left behind.
Cryotherapy took care of it. Liquid nitrogen has its uses.

Beautiful roses in the garden today.

Mild sunlight, mild breeze, mild pink roses.
If I could, I'd pack all this into a card
and send it to you like a farewell gift.

And I know you'd stow it in that box of yours

where life gleams in moments and dies in years, where silence grows like a crack
and expands to a line between your lips and mine - asymptote.
Where soft tissues crumble to oat-like flakes beneath cardboard lids.

But of course I can't pack away a garden.

Like I can't pack away a beginning that didn't really begin
Like I can't pack away the sight of a ripe fig
gaping open like a fresh red wound, lying askance in spaces between us.

Nalini- Despite being multilingual, you chose to write in English. Many of us do that for whatever reason. However, to you personally, what does it mean to be an Indian writer in English? Is there a certain expectation or responsibility attached to it?

Vinita -Though many Indians write in English as opposed to their mother tongues, they represent a distinct, unified cultural ethos before the world. This ethos is essentially Indian. It exhibits Indian values, Indian sensibilities and Indian perceptions.

Look at Kamala Das's famous introduction poem for example:

I don't know politics but I know the names

Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born inMalabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre.

I guess she speaks for many of us when she defends her right to write in English. She certainly speaks for me! The challenge, I guess, is to write poetry at par with international quality, un compromised by your use of language and yet allow your work to reflect where you belong.

Nalini -I think the extract from your poem The Way A Photo Speaks, is an excellent example of what you just said. It has such universal appeal that no matter what part of the world the readers belongs to they get the pathos these lines evoke.

I don't know why I have the picture on my wall

Don't know the woman's name
But I know she has sons out there
in the military junta
Every night she lights butter lamps for their return
begs the earth to yield not beans and asparagus
but peace, peace, peace.

Nalini -Though road to success for women writers anywhere in the world is not easy, we can’t deny that Indian writers often find themselves confronted with social and cultural challenges that are unique to Indian Subcontinent. Under the circumstances, how important is being an Indian woman in your own writings? Any challenges or epiphanies you'd like to share.

Vinita -Poetry is a transparent thread that connects me to my experiences. My poems represent my perceptions of life. They trace experiences of loss and grief, pride and joy, betrayal and pain, living and dying from a universal perspective. Over the years and it's many bitter sweet experiences, I have discovered that pain though acute has a penumbra of numbness attached to it and sooner or later, we veer towards this numbness. My poetry defines this invisible fine shift towards a state of stillness. Endurance, in any form, is at the core of my writing. My work engages with the spirituality lying dormant within us. My poems go to many places as they probe the delicate balance between the surface of worldly materialism and deep down humaneness. I derive all these perspectives from being Indian, from the way my parents brought me up and from the society in which I live.

In this context, I'd like to share one of my poems written in October 2014, here:

Immersing The Deity of Language

Could you listen to your language like an outsider?

As if it were not your own...
Filter sounds from words
like fragrance from soil
like aura from face?

Sense illumination from beneath closed eyelids.

Watch lips tamp out words in a dialect you follow
yet not understand a word of what was being said.

Could you...          not comprehend

the words your mother blew into your baby ears like kisses
and allow only silence to bob in your larynx instead,
a silence golden with the harvest of meanings.

If you could, you'd read to perfection

the hunger in your lover's eyes beyond the gibberish of speech
the padded seductive language of fingertips drumming between hard phalanges
the unscarred territory of silence not broken even by a sigh

You'd know the bliss

of forgetting the way your tongue curls around your nationality.
The bliss of bringing on the Great Deluge of quietude
- uniting people with their minds.

The bliss of immersing the deity of language

into a pond of blankness and floating ashore with its soul.

Nalini -Here I would like to share an excerpt from one of my favorite poems from you, Girl to Woman.  It speaks to me as eloquently as it does to women world over. 

girl to woman
is a knock on hell's door
all things tender dissipating

the world's harshness
listening to your growing up
like the inner meat of a still tree

listening to leaves sprouting
like a caustic ,cruel wind
listening to soft buds blooming

preparing to wilt crush uproot.

And from the poem Breaking :
My scars run deep between faith and God
Right now, I don't even know how to love myself
I opiate between me and my distances
If you can, do only this for me;
Absolve me of being born a woman.


Nalini- Now a little about your creative process, how does a poem begin for you- with an idea, an image or a form? Let’s just say, what triggers a poem?

Vinita- With a word!

Ok...jokes apart, there's no set pattern to how a poem begins for me. There are many triggers. Sometimes it's an idea or an emotion, sometimes it's a phrase, other times it's inspired from something that I've read. Each poem is born differently.

Nalini -I am constantly amazed by the superlative poems you share on facebook. They are a source of delight as well as inspiration. One thing that I always want to ask all prolific writers and poets, is, do you get writer’s block or poetry drought? If you then, how do you deal with that?

Vinita -Yes. Very often. Sometimes I burn myself out by writing too much. Sometimes I feel drained of literary energy...nothing inspires me to write. Whenever I feel such a block, I just stop writing and wait for myself to back into gear again. Also, I've discovered that when you're unable to write then just sit back and read the works of your favorite poets. Sooner or later epiphany will strike and you'll be picking up your pen again.

Nalini- What’s your writing process like – an organic discovery or a methodical construction?

Vinita- To be honest, I've tried my hand at both. But only because I was curious about the end result from each approach. I have immense faith in the power of spontaneous poetry - in words that come straight from the heart. Of course every poem needs to be edited and revised but even so, spontaneous poetry is a joy to read and write.

The second approach, i.e. methodical construction is more relevant when writing structured poetry like a villanelle or a sonnet or a ghazal. It has tremendous power of form. That too is immensely enjoyable.

Out of the two, I personally prefer the organic approach. You just don't know how the poem is going to turn out. When it's finished, sometimes the end result surprises even yourself!

Nalini -I know writers who type out their poems as a facebook status and post it. And then there are others like me who keep chiseling for days sometime. How much time do you spend in revising or polishing?

Vinita -Well, I look at the end result closely for grammatical or tense mistakes, spelling errors etc. I believe in revising and polishing. My experience tells me that a good poem, after it is composed, is finally the result of the nitty-gritty revisions that occur at the last moment just before submission.

Nalini -Talking of facebook, facebook poetry groups are ubiquitous. I keep removing myself but still I must be in a million groups. Though I must admit they are great places to read, share ones poetry and interact with other creative minds. Poetry group, The Woman Inc Poetry that you run is one of my favorite for the powerful poetry it shares. How do you think internet and social media contribute towards well-being of the poetry?

Vinita -You know I've been asked this question a lot. I think that the internet and social media like Facebook and Twitter have played a strange role vis-a-vis poetry. On the one hand they have made almost everyone a poet because it's so easy to reach an audience using social media and on the other hand it has trapped us in mediocrity because with superficial Likes. Sometimes even an average poem gains the credibility it does not deserve. So, one needs to be watchful of the social media and not get carried away by its accolades. But used wisely, the social media is a viable platform to promote one's work. The important thing is to stay grounded at all times.

Nalini -And now a question that all those who write poetry ask themselves at some point of time- What does it mean to be a poet?

Vinita -I've never been asked that before! Thank you for asking. To be a poet means to express yourself through words. It means that you can actually indulge in self expression. I often tell myself that if it weren't for my poetry I'd feel terribly stifled at every stage of my life. Being a poet gives me the freedom to live creatively, it hones my perceptions and it gives me license to dream. I truly enjoy being a poet and consider it a luxury because unfortunately it's next to impossible to be able to make a living through poetry.

Nalini -What is your advice to budding writers?

Vinita -Keep writing. Don't be daunted by rejections. Write in your own voice. Your uniqueness will move your poetry forward.

July 2016 Table of Contents