Two Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

A Rage Most Sublime

She dances with Shiva –
a controlled frenzy
taken to the furthest edge
of a precarious precipice,
laughing with thunder,
alive with electric chaos
pulsing through each
burning tendril, tantalizing,
reaching out to touch
the distance we cannot fathom…

She screams with a nuclear reaction –
a crazed momentum
careening past the urge to cease,
giving way to fervent temptations,
stretching out to taste the Beast,
seized by silent surrender,
and Revelation is
a sacrifice to the gods of war
who want more, more, more,
demanding blood at the altar…

She is the dripping chalice –
a chosen huntress
roaring with the scales of judgment,
passing righteous verdicts
rendered nightly from the moon
as waves crash, cancelling
the holy tide; the truth survives
in shards, splintered, sent off
through refracted realms of darkness
with promises of resurrection come the dawn…

No Cheek Left to Turn

It is a moral stance
to never initiate force

But it would be suicidal
to not fight back in self defense

Table of Contents, August 2016

Literature for Literature through Literature - Avdhesh S. Jha

India’s Two Literary Journals, ‘Phenomenal Literature’ & ‘VerbalArt’ 

Review by Dr Avdhesh  Jha

The literary journals, ‘VerbalArt’ and ‘Phenomenal Literature’ are the successful endeavours of team of editors comprised of Dr. Vivekanand Jha, Dr. Rajnish Mishra and Dr Chandra Shekhar Dubey, and published by AuthorsPress, New Delhi, India. In this century of technology where mobile users have developed their own ecofrelang - the language which is free of grammar, spelling mistakes as well easy to write as we speak; these two literary arts put up their effort to spearhead the movement for development of language and literature.  VerbalArt is all about poetry and it is dedicated to reach a worldwide audience with a diverse array of the best contemporary poetry and literary criticism, interviews, and essays. True to its name and subtitle (A Global Journal Devoted to Poets and Poetry) VerbalArt aims to expand the audience interested in literature in general and poetry in particular, and to provide authors, poets and writers with a far-reaching forum in an artistic way to present their work in the world of literature. Phenomenal Literature again in the same line embodies its subtitle, ‘A Global Journal devoted to Language and Literature’ and it is a brave attempt to understand the world as it is with a wide but creative spectrum of both fiction and non-fiction.

Going through the contents of some of the issues published so far; tone, temperament and motif of both the journals can easily be fathomed. The tranquil quality of the poems with the feelings of the people all across the world in both the creative journals clearly envisages us that the feelings and emotions felt by all human across the world is same and thus proves the equality of human beings with respect to feelings and emotions in an inimitable style of literature. The minimalism in words and phrases of the poems turns it as the friendliest literary excursion. There are a number of poems which are delightful for sheer appalling cleverness. They are full of boisterous energy and seem to have been written with great gusto. They are lush but clean, emotional but evenly wrought, engaging a diversity of styles over its sections but with a voice that feels continuous and familiar. These are the sorts of poems one can fall into a deep absorption with. That is not to say that these are intellectually easy rather it is the subtle peculiarities and soft surprises we find throughout that really propel us forward through these pages, and I can't help but think that these would be an interesting artistic books because it is so unassuming.

The subjects are as common as they come mostly, wonder at nature, gratitude for our loved ones, on relations, life and so on that bind the material world with a direct kind of emotional meaning. The description of joy with all the things green, sorrow, magic, love and fantasy is indeed realistic and full of emotions. The poetry with rhymes and without rhymes, the sonnet etc. reveals the variety in poems. Whereas, the simile, metaphor, apostrophe, personification adds to the poem and depicts the passion of poets for the poetry, the humour and irony, and the sarcastic writing reveals in depth touch of the authors and poets about the situation.

The contents seem to include all and any situation of life from birth to death including the hope, joy, cheer, darkness, passion, sorrow which narrates the glimpse of the true feelings and experiences of different process during the life. The write-ups are simple and clear for the readers either may be a layman or an expert of literature which is essential, especially today, when literature is about to die. The expressions are designed to represent the art and individual artist as if the reader could feel like there's a voice behind the literary presentation in the journals which is directly addressing them. This all comes back to the idea that we are not a monolith anymore and that we are entering a world in which individuality and individual voices can be heard which is pretty cool. The stuffs of both journals are sufficed to pour the feeling of love, affection, and care for fellow human beings as well all organisms on the earth and nature. The aphorism insists one to think of himself and adds to courage, adjustment and character building in simple and lucid language which is easy to understand for all readers.

The articles include comparison, criticism, review with the essence and spice of life. The art of a few write-ups is worth appreciating when one can take different ideas for the same write-up as per their need, situation and perception. These artistic presentations include all the beautiful things on the earth leaving behind for the readers to think as per their requirement. Whereas some biography and travelogue presents the essence of life - some describe it as strength and some as weakness with blending of love and praise in an uncomplicated language.

Both the journals are worth compelling and artistic collections, an absolutely fun way to read and a food for mental health which invites us into the shower of literature. These creative writings are the occurrence of the everlasting moments in the chronological world and they are carefully personalized towards multi-directional beauty that calms the readers. The simplicity, quality publication, the collection of poems, short stories, biography, travelogue, memoir, play, essays and articles are about all such conventional elements which we often take for granted. Both journals are full of good, interesting and lively assonance offering selection simultaneously.  It is sense of understanding that makes them a thoroughly enjoyable and the free flowing style urges the reader to feel the emotion, evoke about.  With good and light weight creamy pages and attractive covers both the works seem to be purely artistic. Indeed these are the peerless literary journals with the writers from across the globe which enforces us to pat the team of editors and their supporting staffs for their vision and starting a movement of Literature for Literature through Literature. There are very few literary journals not only in the Indian subcontinent but also around the world which may be global in nature and releasing print and electronic version together. Timely publication and qualitative selection of the creative pieces work as a motivating force to the authors, poets and writers. Whereas VerbalArt is full of artistic literary conviction; Phenomenal Literature comes out as phenomena for understanding ourself and the world.

Table of Contents, August 2016

English Translation of Two Hindi Poems

Let it be

(Translation by Sunil Sharma)

Let me remain alone
for few days more

do not say anything
nor allow me to utter anything

I have borne the things
 for so long and patiently

for the rest of the remaining days
allow me to suffer obstinately

for a couple of days more
let me live like that only---
alone.

The Autumn

(Translation by Sunil Sharma)

Cruel cold nights black
oozing wounds
nights that make you cry

flowers and leafs
things of the past
empty hearts n nights

re-union separation---false
truth---the nights that haunt

shrunk and faded body-soul
fact is the nightmare called night

some memories torn and old
nights unfurling them
like a patched quilt

dry leaves
desolate branches
The autumnal nights
that torment.

Sunil Sharma सुनील शर्मा

रहने दो

(अनुराग शर्मा Anurag Sharma)

कुछेक दिन और
यूँ ही मुझे
अकेले रहने दो

न तुम कुछ कहो
और न मुझे ही
कुछ कहने दो

इतनी मुद्दत तक
अकेले ही सब कुछ
सहा है मैंने

बचे दो चार दिन भी
ढीठ बनकर
मुझे ही सहने दो

कुछेक दिन और
यूँ ही मुझे
अकेले रहने दो

Anurag Sharma अनुराग शर्मा

पतझड़

(अनुराग शर्मा Anurag Sharma)

निष्ठुर ठंडी काली रातें
रिसते घाव रुलाती रातें।

फूल पात सब बीती बातें
सूने दिन और रीती रातें।

मुरझाया कुम्हलाया तन-मन
उजड़ी सेज कंटीली रातें।

मिलन बिछोहा सब झूठा था
सच हैं यही डराती रातें।

फटी पुरानी यादें लाकर
पैबन्दों को बिछाती रातें।

सूखे पत्ते सूनी शाखें
पतझड़ में सताती रातें।

Table of Contents, August 2016

Three Poems by Marianne Szlyk

Evening Walk in East Rockville

After Kenny Barron’s Clouds

Marianne Szlyk

This evening I am walking
towards the thunderheads as full
as oaks on the horizon.
Before sunset, the light thickens
to the yellow of juice
from ripe peaches.  The color
stains not only towering clouds
but also trees and lawns.
Smoke blurs the air as
men grill flank steaks behind
clipped hedges.  The backyard stereo
is thumping Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina.”

I walk to Maryvale Park
to see shadow colored turtles
paddling underwater, or bees hovering
above the Joe Pye Weed.
I wait for Red-wing Blackbirds
to dart through the cattails
and over the pocket-sized pond.
I listen for Northern Mockingbirds
imitating the flute flowing through
open windows. I watch for
blackening clouds, shrinking blue sky,
or the darkness after sunset,
whichever comes first.  

Eugene in the Fourth Year of the Drought

At first, at fairs and festivals,
we basked in sun.
Clothes dried out fully, without mold.
Cotton skirts twirled as we walked.

Grass turned to straw.  It
often did.  Fires blazed further inland.
Streams dried up.  We hoped
for snow in the mountains.

Now in the fourth year,
we wander, unwashed, skirts stiff.
No winter rain will be
enough.

 

Blue Green and Brown (Rothko 1952)

She wonders what is intimate
about an enormous canvas hung
up on a museum wall.
Museums are silent except for
garbled conversations, docents’ lectures, spills
of sound from someone’s device.
Nothing is intimate, not even
silence, the pristine space between
each person in a public place.

She sits at home with
the image on her screen,
all other lights off.  In
twilight, blue, green, and brown
envelop her, keeping her company
in this humidity.  Cicadas call
outdoors.  Indoor and outdoor sounds
blend : buses’ wheeze, the washer’s
slosh.  She feels the space
between her and them dissolve.

Setu, August 2016

Poems by Chandra Shekhar Dubey

Chandra Shekhar Dubey

EYES

Eyes shout in silence
Screams in lonely nooks of attic
Like a lacerated lotus in a lake of tears,
Defying the gleams of hope, flames of flickering shadows
Of being what shapes the worldly notions
Of your beauty, seductive dalliance
In erotic silence and sublimity.
And   paint you like an object
Put in an illusive glass case in a shopping mall.
Where have you lost the fire of Kanagi ,
That burnt the city of Madurai with flames of fury ?
Fire that flamed the eyes of Durga and Kali
To end the diabolic saddles of blood and rancour.
Reincarnate yourself, igniting the fossilised fire
To raze the unbridled devilish madness
Let loose in the insanity of the world.

MOMENT

A moment slipped stealthily
Out of twig of time and suddenly lurched
in the silvery beach.
Girdling  around  the erupting blue womb.
The frenzy wave measured its fragility
Out of vagarant ripples of eternity
Summoned to the grandeur  of poise.
The flickering moment whispered:
I am eternal, invisible fed on the flame of eternity.
Often I decode divergent signatures on sandy mounds.
Of embroidery carved on my sandy face
Weave them on the canvas, unaware
Of the cool breeze and emerald waves.
Which get lost in those  outstretched arms.
I don’t know, how those shapes sink
in the granules of oblivion.
And take the shape of sandy sculpture.
On the bed of time.
               

CHILD LABOUR

You tiny wonder of the world
What disparity haunts your infinitesimal entity,
When children of your demeanour feed on fairy tales,
Games  and soulful songs of mysterious harmony.
What a dark world awaits your destiny in streets.
Roadside dhabas , gloomy factories
and loosely hanging harbours,
Doing  odd jobs as domestic help in voluptuous homes.
When children of your age play thrilling games;
Of killing a dragon or catching a Pokemon,
Sing chorus in school.
You get to work with ash smeared body,
stained , small palms and staggering steps
Hiding in your sleeve the burden of worries.
Stifled sighs melted into heavy heart
get suffused with morbid sensations of convulsive jaws.
When you needed toys and books.
They overburdened you
With bricks, stones  and  sickle.
And forced you in the soulless world
of brooding  indulgence.
Where you lost your innocence
to heartless, monstrous trap.

Old Mariner

You breathe
into  the sensations of  feelings
which can be felt
like millions of intangible granules,
pulsating with volcanic eruptions
in some  dark cavity.
You are like thrust of wild wind
which would get lost
in some dreary desert,
touching my lonely  heart.
You are like mad torrents,
soaking the heat of my body,
Which would flow into
some ferocious crevices.
You are a book of untold stories,
as I try to browse through it,
I get lost in the riddles
of  words and mazes of lunatic tonality.
You are a story buried deep
in the caverns of a closed chamber,
which has neither a biginning nor an end.
Are you a fragile thread or a bond untied
floating into some vermillion lake?
Or some cursed self like old mariner
condemned to tell your story
to every rippling wave of sailor?

Table of Contents, August 2016

Poetry by Lopa Banerjee

Lopa Banerjee

Lunar Eclipse

The pale moon ushers,
Freckled with dim scars.
The dark night, shrouded by a frosted sheath,
Readies for an earthly carnival.
Under the ashen sky, cars honk,
Bodies huddled together, bemused, waiting
Ensnared by the night’s girth.
Was it the twinkle of the faint star,
Or the eclipsed moonbeam,
Waxing and waning, taking in their mismatched steps
Their sugar-coated small talks?
We have long recycled our fairy tales,
The city beeps in customized ringtones.
Somewhere, from the night’s dark trenches,
Pixie dust gathers around the bodies, on the cars
Getting ready to roll down the streets.
The pixie dust, dotting our eyes,
Lingering on our lips, swirling, surrendering.

Author's Note: Written on September 27, 2015, while witnessing the marvels of a lunar eclipse in a local state park in Omaha, Nebraska. An event that took place after more than three decades and turned us to awed spectators for a brief moment or two.

The Destitute Verse

Acknowledgements: Mandakranta Sen (poet, novelist)

The heart, my dear, a truant, spitfire girl.
The fire burns, trembling, flickering, grueling embers.
The words lay, scrunched, shards of shattered glass.
dance daintily, prance and preen in the mind’s monochrome pastures.
Let them drift apart, and collide sometimes, rummaged,
unpacked, let them be freed of their planned lines, carefully carved chapters.
I wake up to their cacophony; all I can muster is refusal.
I refuse to pick up, chew on the cuds of commonplace stories,
lapped up by all others. I refuse to be the articulate novel, licked,
sucked, chewed, consumed to bone and marrow.
I refuse to be one more clone of the authors spinning around, in multi-colored masks,
Head to toe, crackling with vain, twisted praise, and sycophancy.
I refuse to be that succulent drink reveling on yet another habitual book release,
The decked up, charming whore of the artsy, snooty intellectual.
In my night sky, I dance alone, my sacred bits and pieces,
The slivers of my shattered glasses, my dying, indomitable embers,
the spoonfuls of my stained blood, the fragile chunks of my words,
my battered womanly pride.
The heart, a truant, spitfire girl,
and its unruly words will live on,
Let the birth pangs and the eager tears rise, and explode.

Table of Contents, August 2016

Excerpt: An Alien Among Flesh Eaters - Anurag Sharma

PREDICTION

- Anurag Sharma

This was an average Monday morning. Not any different from any other weekday. After getting ready for work, I opened the door and got hit by a statue which was standing right in front of me. I got scared and stopped. It took a moment for me to recover from the shock and realize that it was not a statue but a person. It was Ruby, our neighbor. What is she doing here? I tried to put a smile on my face and politely asked, “How can I help you?”

“Is your wife home? I need to speak to her?” she pointed towards my hand which was still holding the door.
“Of course, Rita is inside.” I opened the door for her and moved out of her way towards the elevator.

At work, I was too busy and completely forgot about the morning. The day passed and at the evening, when I came back home, I found Rita in tears.

“What happened?”

“Ruby came here this morning.”

“I know. I met her at the door this morning. I was surprised too. She never acknowledges our presence. What brought her here?”

“She’s in deep trouble”

“What happened?”

“She’s being evicted from the apartment. Where will she go?”

“Why?”

After listening to Rita, I realized the seriousness of the issue. Our neighbor Dr. Ruby Gupta was out of work for almost a year. Like many immigrant scholars, her H1B visa was sponsored by her employer, the university where she did stem cell research. As an immigrant, she was out of legal status, the moment her job ended. According to immigration law she had two options, one: find another job to sponsor her stay, or two: leave the country in 30 days. The downside was that Ruby defaulted on the rent payment for last six months. She also ignored the notices from the apartment management and now the management had sent her the final eviction notice.

“She has to vacate the apartment this month. She came here to call the cab company; her phone has been disconnected due to non-payment.

“No job, no phone, no apartment! Where does she need the cab for? Where would she go in a foreign land? Did she tell you anything?”

“No, she was completely lost. I assured her that we can find a solution to her problem …” Rita paused, “… Please talk to the apartment management. They will listen to you. I stopped Ruby from calling the cab. We will not let her become homeless.”

“We can try. But she should have left for India when her job ended. Why did she overstay?”

“There’s no point in worrying about the spilled milk. We should work to resolve the problem now.

She was too arrogant to ever talk to us. She hardly responded to our greetings whenever we had a chance encounter. But this was not the time to get even with her. I thought for a moment and said, “OK, I’ll speak to the manager. In fact, let us review her situation and ensure that she gets all the help she needs.”

We both chatted for long time that night. We reviewed her situation and discussed various options. One option was to request the management to let her stay for some more time so that she gets time to find a new job. Other option was to help Ruby buy tickets to return to her hometown in India. We had no problem in paying her airfare to India. Rita was fine in supporting her while I was at work.

Next day, around 7:00 PM, Rita and I went to meet her. We knocked at her door and waited for some time for response before knocking again. The door opened with strong odor. Ruby stood there in a disheveled state. I could see the sun setting behind her through the bare bay-window of her seventh floor apartment. She stood there blocking the door without inviting us. Reacting to her questioning look, I mumbled, “Good evening, we just came to say Hi.”

We stepped inside the unkempt apartment without waiting for an answer. Clothes were lying everywhere in the studio apartment. There was a sleeping bag in a corner. Another corner was full of books and papers. Landline phone was still hooked. Rita invited her for dinner.

“What’s special today? You never invited me for dinner earlier.”

“As your neighbor and fellow countrymen, it is our responsibility to help you in time of need” I could hardly complete my sentence.

“Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”  Rita added calmly.

“Everything is fine. I always knew it.” She was rude.

“What did you know?”

“That you were coming here to talk to me.”

“Really? How?”

“I was talking to Lord Krishna. He was standing right here. He told me that you both are coming.”

I didn’t like the sarcasm. I had second thought about our approach of helping her, “What else did Lord Krishna tell you? Please try to understand the gravity of the situation. You are out of status and can be deported anytime.” I tried to explain the obvious.

“Nothing will happen to me. See, they didn’t put me in jail yet.” She sounded unaffected.

“Yes, you are safe so far. It is in your best interest to go back home before you are caught in legal net.” I was genuinely concerned, “Don’t worry about the expense; we can make arrangements for your ticket.”

“What did I do wrong? Am I your enemy? Do you want to kill me?” she shouted.

“Enemy? Killing? What are you talking? The fact is that you don’t have money to stay here or to go back. We just want to help you. We’ll buy you the tickets.” I tried to explain.

She looked at me as if I was the most stupid person on earth and acted as if she was going to disclose a secret, “God told me that I will be alive only as long as I am in the USA. I will die as soon as I am in Indian Standard Time zone. Anyone talking about sending me to India is my killer.”

“Sorry, I didn’t understand. Could you elaborate?” I was confused.

An Alien Among Flesh Eaters

“Remember, you saw me in the gym, and I have seen you in the pool also...”

Her reference to the gym and the swimming pool reminded me how she used to turn her face away whenever I saw her.

“… Termination of my job was not  normal. It was sabotage. My accident was a part of the scheme to kill me. I survived it because I was in Eastern Time zone. I started physiotherapy, yoga, swimming and all kind of exercise. I did everything to get back to work.” She explained.

“OK.”

“In spite of all my efforts, the pain did not end. I cannot work anymore. Lord took care of my job and told me to stay in this apartment. He said, I will die the moment I reenter into India time zone.

“How did the Lord tell you so? Did he call you over phone?”

“Lord Krishna comes before me to talk …” she was full of confidence, “same way as you are talking to me.”

“I see.” I decided to beat her in her own game, “But today Lord Krishna told me that, at times you don’t understand his language. That’s why he wanted us to come here and help you.”  

“No, he didn’t tell it to me.”

“He told you, but you didn’t understand. He told you that you should go home on expiry of your visa. In fact, he was instrumental for your job situation and now he asked the management to send eviction notice so that you can go back to your family, your home. Lord doesn’t want you to be homeless. He wants you to be in your own home in your own homeland.”

“You are wrong. Management sent me the notice so that the Lord can come and pick me up.”

Her confidence scared me. I wanted to make sure that she was not trying to do any harm to herself. I wanted to know if she needed immediate help. So I continued the conversation, “How is he going to pick you up?”

“From there.” She pointed towards the window.

“What?” I was scared. Jumping from that window meant nothing but death. I followed her closely when she moved towards the window.

“Yes.” She pointed towards a spot in the parking lot and mentioned that Lord Krishna will come there to pick her, “His chariot will come there. Didn’t he tell you? Didn’t you say that he talks to you too?”

“Of course he mentioned it to me. But he also mentioned an alternative plan which he will reveal next week.”

“I also didn’t understand him well …” She paused and said with a little hesitation, “Although I am an MD, PhD, I am not very smart. Sometimes I cannot understand a simple statement.”

“I see. Which medical school did you go?”

It took almost 20 minutes for me to gather all relevant information about her except details about her family. She did her PhD in France but coincidentally she went to the same medical college in India where my close friend Ronit studied.  First thing I did after coming back was to call Ronit and see if he knew anything about her family.

According to Ronit, Ruby was a hopeless case. She was well-known for her mental instability in entire college. The management and the faculty just wanted to get rid of her by handing over her degree as soon as possible. Ronit promised to dig deeper to check about Ruby’s family.

Ronit called me on Tuesday and told that Ruby’s parents had died in a train accident long ago. She had a sister. When Ronit called her sister, she got aggravated just by hearing Ruby’s name and threatened to call police if Ronit ever called her again.

The road to help her was not easy. I decided to talk to her again about accepting the airfare from me and going back to her home. Rita and I went to her apartment again on next day. She was more receptive this time but still not willing to talk about looking for a job or going back to India.

On Wednesday, Rita texted me at work, “Come home ASAP, they have come to take Ruby.” Rita told that there was a team of 4-5 people accompanied by police officers in Ruby’s apartment.

“I wasn’t feeling well that time. After hearing this twist in the story, I left for home. When I arrived at the apartment complex, I saw Ruby coming out of the building with an African-American police officer. I approached them to inquire about the situation. The officer assured me that everything was fine. He politely explained that he was assigned the responsibility of taking Ruby to local Women’s Welfare Center. The place is safe with free lodging and food. The center has a team of legal experts to help her get a new job and to claim unemployment compensation till she lands up in new job. Rita also came out of the building with two women. These women escorted Ruby to a marked van parked nearby. The officer wished her well and removed his hat to bid us good bye. The curls on his smooth black head somehow reminded me of the life size picture of Lord Krishna as installed in our ancestral home in Bareilly.

Rita told me everything she heard from the Women’s Center authorities. The center was going to help her get the unemployment arrears for entire year. They also made a deal with the apartment management to waive off her rent and utility bills.

I was glad that everything went well, in fact, it was far better than my expectations.

“O my God, did you notice it?” Rita was surprised, “Do you see where we are standing?”    

“We are in the parking lot, where else?”

“Look carefully. This is the same spot which Ruby pointed to while mentioning about the lord’s vehicle.”

Rita was absolutely right. The vehicles had left but we were still standing at the same spot marked by Ruby as the place for Lord’s arrival to pick her up.

I was confused about entire sequence of events, the parking spot, and looks of the police officer. But I was happy that she didn’t go back to India.

Setu, August 2016

Surging ahead! Editorial by Sunil Sharma

Dear readers,

Third issue of Setu is here.
Indeed! Building bridges.
Cultural. Pictorial. Verbal.
Gateways to new experiences.

What a pleasure! Co-ordinating with some fine talents devoted to the arts, redefining perceptions!
Very discourse undergoes a qualitative change by the experts.

Serving the readers through this bilingual endeavour is also humbling. You come to appreciate how arts make a difference to the prosaic texture of commercial reality.
Arts make us human and regain sanity.
They make us look at the world in a fresh manner.
Arts are the last depositories of spiritual truths untouched by the surrounding madness of heavy consumption and superficial relationships.

This issue, we are pleased to introduce Anurag Sharma-- the editor-in-chief---as an English writer of substance. When I read the draft of his novel An Alien among Flesh Eaters, I was stupefied and instantly realized it was a major find of another obscure masterpiece! When told about the breathless discovery, the low-visibility writer Anurag in characteristic modesty, dismissed the wide-angle view of the book, with a soft laugh, so endearing for his innumerable fans. on insistence, he reluctantly agreed for an excerpt. Real writers do that! This novel heralds the arrival of a major voice of the diasporic writing. It records the clash of two cultures and the struggle of an immigrant in the mainstream America, resisting  stereotypes.

We have some other wonderful stuff!
Hope you enjoy it and continue to patronize the journal in coming months.
Feel free to write in. Do send something for us.

Another important announcement. Setu is planning to start soon Setu Publications from USA. Anurag is the CEO of this project that wants to publish quality at a reasonable rate. Golden opportunity for writers to get published through a rigorous process of edit selection.
Interested? Pitch in. Send proposals. All forms welcome. Poetry---first priority. Talk to Anurag Sharma.

Happy reading!
Sunil Sharma,
Mumbai,
India

Table of Contents, August 2016

Quiet, No More! Fiction

- Shweta Tiwari

The stealthily approaching darkness made the clouds look like a blotchy canvas of some amateur artist. As the stars began to glimmer in the lap of the dusk-laden sky, the towering buildings surrounding her house seemed in a state of drunken stupor. Clad in a negligently-pleated, pink saree, Debrati quietly stood in her plush villa and vacantly gazed outside the window. Her countenance vouched for her mind being filled with umpteen disparate thoughts. Subodh’s coming late from office was not unusual anymore but somehow it made her anxious, every evening. This day too would be like any other she thought but she waited for him earnestly.

The train of her thoughts was interrupted by the blare of Subodh’s car on the main gate. Nakul opened the gate, creating ample space for the car to glide in. After five minutes, Subodh entered the living area and sprawled on the squashy leather chair placed adjacent to the antique teak table. He carelessly dropped his office-bag on the floor and heaved a sigh of relief. Debrati offered him a glass of water but not without noticing his disheveled hair and crumpled white shirt. He immediately followed the first rule of the daily routine by refusing to drink it. The second being his abruptly rising up from the seat and heading towards the bedroom. “Shall I lay the dinner?” Debrati asked, having already prepared herself for a negative response. “I have eaten in the office. I am too tired to talk. Good night.” Subodh said as he strode towards the room. Tiny blobs of tear surfaced in her eyes but she immediately wiped them. Debrati put back the glass in the kitchen and tiptoed to the chamber which always managed to give solace to her distressed soul. She opened the door of the magic room, switched on the light and a faint smile escaped her lips. A colossal bookcase stationed in the extreme right corner of her home library, greeted Debrati. She affectionately ran her hand on the books which transported her back in time, when she was not married to Subodh.

Debrati was the only child of the Banerjee couple who despite being middle class professionals pandered to all the needs of their daughter. A docile child and an obedient daughter, Debrati willingly complied with all the decisions that her parents made for her. As she grew up, she developed a great liking for literature and even her parents created no obstruction in letting her peruse a course in English. An immaculate academic record in graduation fetched her scholarship adequate enough, to continue her post-graduation and M.A. was shortly followed by an Mphil degree. Her parents’ jubilation knew no bounds when she got a teaching job in the University of Delhi. For the first time, Debrati had felt self-sufficient. She had extensively read about the importance of being independent but its implication had been understood only after procuring a job. Debrati was not one of those English graduates who oscillate between Feminism and Marxism. She was an ordinary girl who simply wished to relish every moment of her life.

Apart from being happy for their daughter, her parents also feared her swiftly fleeting youth that lead to a paucity of eligible suitors. “It’s high time that you get serious about marriage, dear.” Mrs. Banerjee said to Debrati who was deeply engrossed in typing an email on her laptop screen. She beamed a comforting smile at her mother, “Why do you worry Ma? Things will happen when the right time comes.” The right time finally arrived when Indraneel Bagchi, her father’s best friend proposed his son’s match for her. The son was none other than Subodh. A formal meeting was fixed between the two families. Among the exchange of sweets, occasional glances that Debrati-Subodh stole at each other and a few dim-humored jokes of their parents, the date of their marriage was sealed. Even before Debrati could process what was happening around her, she found herself sitting next to Subodh in a festooned car, bidding adieu to her parents. After a week of their marriage, Subodh’s parents too returned back to their ancestral house in Kolkata, leaving them behind in Delhi.

The marriage trailed smoothly for about six months but soon both Debrati and Subodh discovered that there was a broad chasm between their personalities. Debrati was an accommodating wife, lacking an individual opinion. She reluctantly yielded to Subodh’s urging her to quit her job. “I am a senior manager who can very well afford all the whims of his wife. Why do you need to do menial jobs here and there? I feel demeaned.” He had said to her. On the other hand, Subodh was an astute executive who was very competitive in life. Initially, the moments of discord between them were tackled in the bed, but all explored and done, Subodh gradually became incurious. She blamed his unresponsiveness on his excruciating workload but soon his irritable temper stated the contrary. Subodh began to stay in the office even after the working hours. Evading eye contact and avoiding a conversation with her, became a part of his habit. On her persisting to confide in her, the reason behind his changed behavior, he unsympathetically told her one day, “We are very different Debrati. I don’t see in you, the partner I was looking for.” Mustering all the courage, she asked him, “Where did I go wrong?” “Well, forget it. You can stay in the house but in my heart, I am not sure.” replied the man. Since then, Debrati was bearing her vicissitude with silent martyrdom. Often, she used to mull over the probable reasons of his losing interest in her. After all she spoke, ate, dressed and lived exactly as he liked. Sometimes doubts of him having an extra-marital affair unsettled her but she use to quickly gather her sunken spirits and console herself, “Oh this stupid mind thinks too much. He loves me. We are just going through a rough phase.”

Debrati was jolted out of her reverie, as the clock struck twelve. She locked the door of the room and went to bed like a vanquished soldier.

Next morning, a series of clamorous sound woke her up. She slightly lifted her head and saw Subodh packing his clothes and other items in a valise.

“Are you going somewhere?” Debrati sat up with a start.

“Yes, I have a meeting with a few clients in Bangalore. I forgot to inform you yesterday.” He said, simultaneously putting essential toiletries in a kit.

“What if I would need something?” her throat chocked again.

“Why have we hired Nakul? He will take care of it.” Subodh looked at her, explicitly indicating that he wasn’t keen on answering any more trivial questions.

“Are you going alone?”

“Obviously, what else do you think?” Subodh picked up the luggage and said goodbye to her.

After Subodh left, she got up apathetically and began to attend to the domestic chores. “Do you need any assistance ma’am?” Debrati was making breakfast for herself when Nakul’s voice gripped her attention. Nakul was a slender young man in his early twenties, employed by Subodh as house-help. He looked after everything, ranging from purchasing vegetables from the market to bank work of Subodh. Owing to the deplorable financial condition of his family, he worked for Subodh’s household for five thousand rupees a month. With Subodh’s help, he was also perusing a diploma in professional accounting. Whenever the pangs of loneliness stressed Debrati beyond measures, Nakul’s company came to her rescue. He used to keep her engaged by talking endlessly about the rising price of onion, home remedies for a better digestion, his village in Shobhabazar and so forth. “No I will manage it but I would need your help in tidying the study today.” Debrati replied with a smile. After sometime, both of them were in the study room, dusting and rearranging the books.

“Sir is very lucky to have you as his wife. You are not only pretty but highly educated also. I too want to marry someone like you ma’am.” Nakul naively retorted. “I wish Subodh thought so too.” Debrati muttered under her breath. As Nakul was cleaning the shelf he came across a thick stack of sheets, he read the title page “The Joy of Living”. Not sure of what to do with it he asked, “What is this? May I throw it?” It was Debrati’s first creative venture that she had dreamt of getting published someday. She controlled her indomitable urge to tear it into shreds and said “It’s an impotent piece of writing which at some point of my life, I thought, was a novel.” “Who decided that? Did you approach any publisher?” Nakul asked. Nakul’s question benumbed Debrati. She stood motionless and thought that two years of her married life had been spent only in assuring domestic tranquility and that she had completely forgotten her own aspirations. Subodh trivialized them but they mattered to her. Why had she become blind towards them? Why had she not considered the option of sharing her script with a publisher? Why had she quit her job for a man who is not even affected by her presence? Why had she lost her self-confidence? “What should I do with it?” Nakul’s shrill voice penetrated her ears once again. “Give it to me.” she plucked it from his hands hastily.

Three days had passed since Subodh had gone. In these three days he had called her only once.
Debrati upbraided herself for forgetting to ask Subodh when he was returning back home. She called him but he disconnected the call. Assuming that he might be busy, she decided to call on his office’s landline number.

“Good afternoon. Matrix Power Limited.” An effervescent female voice answered the call.

“Hello! I am Subodh Bagchi’s wife. He is off to Bangalore. Could you please tell me when is his return scheduled?”

“Let me check ma’am. Please be on the line.” The receptionist replied and played a flute solo.

“Ma’am it’s not an official trip. Mr.Bagchi has taken a week’s off for some personal work.”

Debrati was stunned. She disconnected the call without saying anything further to the lady. The question “Why did he lie?” reverberated in her mind a million times. “Is he actually…” Debrati shuddered at the thought of Subodh having an illicit relationship outside marriage. Subodh returned after a week and seemed normal as ever. “How was the meeting with your client?” Debrati’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fine” Subodh said shrugging his shoulders. She wanted to tell him about the conversation she had with the receptionist but she chose to keep quiet. As days rolled into months, the antagonism between the two swelled more and more. That day, Debrati’s asking him about the frequent withdrawals of money from their joint account infuriated Subodh to an extent that he delivered a resounding slap on her face. “It’s my money. I will do whatever I want.” he said in an aggressive tone while Debrati stood bewildered, tears dribbling out of her eyes.

Everyone adhered to same old routine on the next day. “Also note down one kg sugar in the list.” Debrati dictated to Nakul, the items, she needed for the kitchen. “I will get all the grocery but only if you let me keep the change ma’am.” Nakul protested. Debrati laughed and nodded her head. He returned back from the supermarket after two hours. Though there were two humongous bags in his hands yet his face scintillated with excitement. “What happened Nakul? You look very happy.” Debrati asked out of curiosity. “Of course I am. I was coming out of the supermarket when sir’s car crossed my way. Ashima madam was also there. I waved at him but he did not notice.” Nakul enthusiasm went down. Debrati went close to him and asked “Who is Ashima?” Nakul who was putting vegetables in the refrigerator offered a quick reply, “She is sir’s friend. She used to pay him a visit almost every day before he got married to you. I don’t know why doesn’t she come now?” Nakul said giving a dramatic twist to his hand. Debrati drank several cups to tea to ward off her headache or to be precise to dispel a series of doubts erupting in her mind. She did not talk much to Subodh that day and almost a month passed since this incident.

One night when both Debrati and Subodh were sleeping, his phone vibrated. He picked it up from the bedside table, glared at the number and went out in the balcony. Debrati’s sleep too had been interfered by the rumble of Subodh’s phone. She got up and covertly followed him. “I have told you not to call at odd hours Ashima. What is it?” Subodh murmured but the exasperation in his voice was indisputable. He paused for a while to listen and then said, “We have had a discussion about this innumerable times. I can’t divorce her. Can we please talk about it tomorrow?” Debrati who had heard Subodh’s words, scurried back to the bed and pretended to be sleeping.

The next morning after Subodh left for work, she made a cup of tea for herself, sunk in an armchair and reflected on whatever she had overheard, the last night. An acute pain accumulated in the pit of her stomach, making its way through her chest and finally eyes. She wanted to cry till she splintered into bits. Debrati had acquiescently accepted Subodh’s domination not because she was ignorant but due to her love for him. She obliterated her own happiness, so that he does not label her as an anarchic wife. All she had demanded in return was fidelity. “He has been committing adultery. I can’t sit passively, crying like a schoolgirl. I will have to talk to him.” Debrati said to herself, feeling imbued with an unprecedented energy. However, the next minute her determination receded. What would she do if he apologized for his mistake? Debrati pondered and nervously shifted in the chair. “Forgive him.” Answered her heart, “Penalize him.” counter-argued the brain. In both the cases one thing was certain that despite being cheated upon, she wasn’t planning to abandon him. Subodh came back from office and looked at Debrati who did not dash to the kitchen to get water for him today.

“I am thirsty.” a streak of irritation played on his stolid face.

“Drink water then.” Debrati replied reclining more comfortably in the armchair.

“Get it for me.” He ordered.

“My importance in your life is limited only to pouring water for you, cooking for you, managing your house and yearning for your attention.”

“What do you mean?” Subodh was dumbfounded as Debrati had never spoken to him in an impertinent manner in the two years that he had known her. He failed to comprehend the reason behind her vexation. He frowned and asked her to state the cause of her annoyance clearly.

“We need talk about a few things that concern both of us equally.” She massaged her forehead and continued, “A single woman becomes a daunting threat to her family after a particular age. What better arrangement than marriage can be, to bridle her! She joins a new family hoping to be treated with care, so did I. I wish you probed my soul just like you felt this body of mine. You got so bored of me that I was nothing more than a piece of furniture to you. Subodh, your impassiveness destroyed me but still I tried to win you back. I spoke, dressed and lived as per your demand but I think that was my greatest mistake. To quit my job and modify myself for an uncaring man like you was nothing but a waste of time. Will you have an answer if I ask you what had I done to be jilted like this? You deliberately remained oblivious to my fears, sufferings and inner disintegration. You are a coward who imposed his follies and insecurities on his wife by saying that she wasn’t the life partner he was looking for. Which woman in the world would want to have a husband like you? Wasn’t I still trying? You were always secretive about both your past and present while I was an open book. Did nothing I say and do affect you? Before I question you about certain things, it would be better that you confess them yourself.” Debrati looked at Subodh to check for any sign of remorse or guilt but there was none.

Subodh’s fury was aggravated beyond words. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands, “What a splendid speech Debrati but I am more eager to know from where did you acquire the audacity to talk to your husband like that? I think I know. Has somebody been keeping you warm in my absence? Wait, let me frame the question more coherently. Have you been sharing your so called peeves and tribulations with some other man who has given you this fiery nerve? Speak up, you unvirtuous woman. You have an extra-marital affair. Don’t you?” Subodh yelled at her.

Debrati looked aghast at Subodh but instead of crying or offering a defense, she wiped her tears. She went to the study room without uttering a single word to Subodh and came out pressing her script, close to her bosom. She began to walk towards the main door. “Where are you going?” Subodh demanded. “I don’t know. To find myself, maybe.” Debrati replied. “Come back here, I say.” His lips quivered in anger. “I can’t. It’s too late now.” she said taking another step. “Debrati, if you cross the threshold of this house, remember, I will never take you back.” Subodh stuck to the last resort of threatening her. Debrati stopped and turned back, “Don’t treat Ashima like you treated me, Subodh.” Subodh went frigid and stared at her in disbelief. He stood like an incapacitated patient. His face had turned pallid. With breaths that were coming out in gasps, he called her name but she had already disappeared out of his sight by then.

August 2016 Table of Contents

Sinking into Decrepitude - short story

by Anoucheka Gangabissoon

Jesse ran his hands through his hair and sighed with regret.  If only he had listened to his wife, Sara.  The latter had warned him several times not to trust that money lender.  Now, he needed more money and he did not know from where to find it.  From across the room, he could hear his two month old baby girl, Rina, coughing.  The latter was sick.  Doctors did not know yet what was ailing her but they had prescribed so many medicines for her.

“Such a tiny thing,” thought Jesse.  “And so much medications!”

Sara tended to Rina while Jesse sat at the kitchen table and wondered about what he would do now.  Rina was vomiting, again.

“Jesse, could you help me with the cleaning up?” called out Sara.

Jesse pretended not to hear, he just closed his eyes and swallowed his tears.  This was not his idea of the perfect family.  This was not what he has pictured when he had married Sara.  This was not what he had pictured when his baby girl had come to Earth.

But he was a man, he had to act as such.  He gruffly stood up, pushed the chair away and said in a very rude manner,

“You do what you have to.  I am going to see my Boss.”

As he left, Sara watched him, feeling more and more helpless.  She did not want to lose her child.  She could be cured.  She was sure of that.  The only problem was that they lacked money.

“Please Sir,” Jesse said to his boss.  “It’s just a small loan that I’m asking from you.  I will repay it back within a year.”

Daren, for that was his name, finished his lunch, gulped down his white sparkling wine and called out to his dog, to feed him the leftovers.  Jesse’s belly growled.  He was embarrassed, he hoped Daren did not hear it.  As it is, he hasn’t eaten properly since three weeks ago, since Rina had started vomiting.  Daren was a fully built man, he was tall and muscular.  He had a great body and he was in a great shape.  His clothes were so neat that they looked as if they had just been bought from the shop.  He looked like a well-cared man.

“Jesse,” said Daren calmly.  “I understand your problem.  But your wages are not given by me.  It’s given by a whole corporation.  If I have to give you a loan, I will have to seek for their approval.  It could be that they agree to it, it could be that they do not.  Anyhow, you will have to wait.”

“For how long?”

“For nearly two weeks.”

“That long?  But my baby is sick.”

“I know, I know.  Calm down.  You see, our company’s director is not in Mauritius.  He is abroad for a deal.  He will be back next Saturday.  And the management team will have a meeting only Monday next.  You will have to wait, I will not be able to help you before that.”

“What if I work overtime for you Sir? Or what if I do anything for you around the house?  Maybe you could help me then.”

“Jesse, we already have workers at home.  You do a great job as our company’s security guard.  And as for working overtime, well it amounts to the same thing.  I won’t be able to take any decision on my own.”

“So there is no way out for me then?”

“Your  baby will be fine, relax, don’t worry.”

“But she needs medication.  And I don’t have the money for it.  Without those syrups, her health will deteriorate.”

“I am sure you will find the solution while waiting throughout those two weeks.”

Just then, Daren’s seven year old daughter came sauntering over to him.  She was a gorgeous little thing, with short curly hair and big blue eyes, same as her father’s.  She wore a little flowery pinkish summer dress and matching sandals.

“Dad,” she pouted.  “Mum said you would take me to the park today.”

“I will darling.  Just give Daddy some time.”

“But I am all set.”

“I will see you in ten minutes.  Is Mum ready?”

“Yes.  She is.”

“Then tell her I’ve asked her to get in the car and wait.  You wait for me as well.  I’m just coming.”

The girl happily sauntered away and Jesse felt his heart wrench.  He wondered if he would ever get to see his daughter playing around at the age of seven.

“Well,” said Daren.  “I have to go now.  Are you working tonight?”

“Yes I am.  Sir, can’t you even give me some money just like that?”

“Well I have to see to my family now.  Go away!”

“Sir, please….”

“Rob!” called out Daren.  “I need you here.”

Just then, a huge man walked over to Jesse and ordered him away in a very stern manner.  Jesse was pushed out of the yard and the gate closed itself.  Some minutes later, it was opened again as the majestic range rover of Daren just whisked by.

Jesse felt helpless.  He even felt worthless.  He was a man, a working man and he was not being able to do anything for his family.  Whereas Daren, a working man too, but one with loads of money, was doing so much for his family.  Jesse walked around aimlessly.  He looked at his surroundings, he lived in the village of Terre-Noire.  He looked at the people walking around, some of them whom he was acquainted to, some of whom he knew as being his family friends and felt disgusted at their selfishness.  Those people would talk to him, invite him over for a drink, laugh and share jokes with him.  But now that word had spread that his baby girl was sick, they were all avoiding him.  Some of them pretended to be absorbed in their conversations as he walked by.  Some others had their noses stuck in their newspapers.  Whichever, he was now invisible.

Jesse remembered how he had helped his neighbor, Ram, when the latter lost his job.  For three months, Ram and his family had been given food, three times a day.  He remembered how he was always ready to help in his company, how he would never ever refuse any work.  But, now, everyone was turning their backs on him and that hurt like hell.

Jesse came home late that evening.  He had wandered around town, feeling hopeless.  He had thought of begging for money on the sidewalk but his pride had not allowed him to.  He no longer cared for work.  By that time, he should have been at work already.  But nothing mattered now, nothing at all.  He would let things go the way they feel like going.  He opened the kitchen door and was surprised to find the house all dark.

“Sara?” he called out gruffly.

“Am here,” said a frail voice.

Jesse walked around the house and switched on the light in each room.  Finally, he saw Sara, sitting in a corner in the living room.  She had been sitting in the dark and she held Rina in her arms.

“Have you prepared dinner?” he asked.

Sara looked at him and her eyes told him what he needed to know.  He looked at the still baby in her arms and went out again.  He called to his neighbors to help Rina.  The weight of everything crashed down on him but, he was a man.  He needed to act like one.  He would have to be strong, and tough too.

“I need a transport,” he said to Ram.  “I have to take the lifeless body of my child to the hospital.”

“I will see to that,” said a shocked Ram.

The baby was taken for an autopsy.  The cause of her death would be determined later on.  Sara had become so blank.  Jesse left them all sitting dejectedly at the hospital and walked out.  He needed an escape.  He needed to bury his inner rage.  He needed to let off all the steam he had amassed in him.  He could hear people calling him, urging him to stay as the doctors would require his thumb print on the authorization papers.  But, they all seemed to be part of a haze.  He walked out and let the chill air engulf his senses.

As he walked, he came across Daren’s house.  The seeds of evil, already in him, bloomed into a horrible, foul smelling monster and Jesse broke into the house.  He managed to get in by climbing over a wall, without letting Rob know of his presence.  The house was empty.  They were all probably still having fun at the park, or, somewhere else.  Jesse took a knife from the kitchen and hid himself in the cellar.  While waiting, he had more than a few bottles of wine.  He felt so powerful.  What he was about to do seemed so right.  Daren could have helped in curing Rina.  All he needed was money.  Jesse waited, patiently, as a tiger would wait for its prey.  He waited and when the time was right, he struck.

Everyone talked about that gruesome family murder for months.  Everyone talked of how a poor watchman, frustrated and depressed over the death of his own baby girl, had killed his boss and his wife and daughter.  They had all been found in their beds, each had suffered more than ten blows.  The killer had been found unconscious in the yard.  It turned out that he could not remember anything about the previous night.  But the police was sure it was him.  The knife was still with him when they found him.

Table of Contents, August 2016

Art-talk with Rob Harle: A Long Literary Interview

by Sunil Sharma

Art-talk with Rob Harle:  Leading Australian artist-thinker-philosopher Rob Harle, much toasted these days by the Indian literati, gives his take on contemporary global cultural scene in this long literary interview.

Q: Rob Harle, a work in progress. Its essential aspects, please?

I am a writer, artist and academic reviewer. Writing work includes poetry, short fiction, academic essays and reviews of scholarly books and papers. This work is published in journals, anthologies, online reviews, books and I have two volumes of my own poetry published – Scratches & Deeper Wounds (1996) and Mechanisms of Desire (2012). Recent poetry has been published in Rupkatha Journal (Kolkata), Nimbin Good Times (Nimbin), Beyond The Rainbow (Nimbin), Poetic Connections Anthology (2013) and Indo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry (2013). My art practice currently involves digital-computer art both for the web and print. The giclée images have been exhibited widely.

I am especially interested in promoting the inclusion of visual art in academic and scientific journals. Formal studies include Comparative Religion, Philosophy, Architecture, Literature and Psychotherapy, my thesis concerned Freud's notion of the subconscious and its relationship with Surrealist poetry. My main concern is to explore and document the radical changes technology is bringing about. I coined the term techno-metamorphosis to describe this. I am currently an active member of the Leonardo Review Panel, Editorial reviewer for the Journal of Virtual World Research and an Advising Editor for the Journal of Trans-technology Research.

Rather than take up a lot of space here, I would ask those interested to look at my website as I have arranged this, so as to show factually what I have done: my sculpture, my digital artwork, my literary and other publications, my reviews and my academic studies and peer reviewed publications. www.robharle.com

Q: Rob Harle in 100 words for those who do not trust blurbs.

Rob Harle is a gullible, easy going, long suffering decent human being. I dream of a world with no wars, no locks on doors, sustainability practices, no poverty and healthy competition to bring out the best in people. I don't suffer fools easily, I have a very short fuse and I'm always in a hurry, my mantra, “I'm late, I'm late for a very important date!”  This is partly to do with being ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) and strangely dyslexic all my life. They didn't have special schools when I was kid – that would have been wonderful. I have achieved a huge amount in my 65 years against some very difficult odds which I'm not going to discuss, and this has happened with little or no help from anyone except from my poor long suffering wife. Very recently Leonardo, especially Michael Punt, and a few Indian friends and associates have believed I have something to offer, for which I am very, very grateful, if this sounds egotistical its not my intention but it is a fact.

Q: Your definition of book covers?

Book covers can be uninspired adequate works of graphic art or they can really capture the essence of the contents and enhance it. I try in the book covers I do to make a work of fine art that is attractive to buyers but also adds to the books subject matter and is a delight as a stand-alone artwork.

Q: Why this sudden rage in India for your book covers?

I don't really know, perhaps because of what I said above comes through to India writers and they like the unique non-standard approach I use. One person commented on Ratan Bhattacharjee's cover, very unusual, much different to other book covers, wonderful!

Q: A lot of writers are falling in love with you. Reasons?

This is a bit embarrassing for a recluse, hiding in the forest and hills of Nimbin. Perhaps I'm honest; I call a spade a spade. My work, art and writing, is not a clone of someone else’s, perhaps they find a refreshing originality in it. I'm a radical, forward thinker breaking new ground in certain areas. Also I'm an easy going friendly person, (with no racial, sexist etc. hang-ups) until someone tries to manipulate me or tell me what to do. Perhaps this comes through?

Q: Art-exhibitions are circuses according to you. Circuses at least provide some wholesome entertainment by low-paid but dedicated artists. This is not so in these exhibitions. What repels you in such a tamasha?

Slight correction here - I refer to the whole art scene as a circus not specifically exhibitions. Yes the visitors to a circus or art exhibition get some value, entertainment and cultural enhancement. I use the term art circus and also literary circus in the most derogatory colloquial sense of a pathetic freak show. This includes the attempt to commodify art/poetry/fiction writing by the crass art dealers who in my opinion occupy the lowest rung of the food chain, even lower than used-car sales people and politicians. Gallery owners tell artists what colours are “in” this season – so, go home and change your paintings then come back and I might condescend to hang them but I do take 60% commission. Ever notice how art dealers all drive the latest prestige cars and artists drive old bombs! One of these art dealers, with a latest model Mercedes Benz sports car, after reluctantly praising a 2.5 metre high sandstone sculpture I had just finished said, “I much prefer dealing with dead artists than you live artists.” People have been shot dead on the spot for less disgusting statements than this!

Q: What is more appealing: Poetry or painting for you?

Both equally. I'm concentrating on writing poetry now, I've actually overcome the stigma that is held by most Australians towards poets which I've endured since a child. To some not familiar with the cultural Wasteland of Australia this probably sounds farfetched, it's not! It's always been the same, only last night I was reading in Donald Friend's Diaries about the dismal art scene in Australia in the late 70s. The exodus of Australian artists overseas earlier than this doesn't need expanding. The point is that one can't just keep stacking paintings under the bed, apart from the cost of producing them it is very depressing. So at least with poetry one can write thousands of poems without much material costs to satisfy the creative obsession.

Q: Your take on poetry?

Poetry is a special form of using words, not at all like other writing, if a poem reads like a newspaper article it's an abject failure. As Charles Simic says, may I quote? “This is what haunts, a world where magic is possible, where chance reigns, where metaphors have their supreme logic, where imagination is free and truthful.”

Q: Your take on painting?

Painting is more difficult to talk about briefly. It runs the whole gamut from minimalist abstraction to photo realist maximalist works. For me the essence of good painting is that there must be a palpable sense of the artist in the paint so to speak, to the sensitive eye this is very obvious, some paintings are good but lack the sort of  kinetic energy that exudes from great paintings.

Q: What is a review? An art? Or, a medium to promote mediocre friends?

Good question. Both! Some reviews are purely sycophantic tripe. Probably effective, useful promotional material but non-critical and sycophantic none the less. Other reviews can be divided into two types - basic reviews and critical reviews.  Many book reviews I do for Leonardo are basic reviews, they describe the book accurately, talk about the author's intentions, point out ways the book could be better with brief critical comments. The idea is to give the prospective buyer a true accurate description of the book as opposed to the nepotistic blurb on the back cover, these reviews usually run to 1000 words. Critical reviews describe the book as above but then go on to discuss the actual content of the book in a scholarly, critical way these reviews are generally longer perhaps 2 -3,000 words. A good review of either type is an art form. I have colleagues who sprout about a formula for writing a review most of their reviews are boring and inadequate.

Q: In many cases, reviewers fail to see an avant-garde piece and often pan the writers for being bold iconoclast. History proves them wrong?

Reviewers are subject to the same ego-inflation and pseudo-superiority as everyone else, they should learn to curb this subjective approach and become more objective but many don't. Today’s avant-garde is tomorrow’s standard museum piece. Very few have escaped this fate, even the Dadaists and surrealists. Certain highly anti-art art on the net may escape this fate, but some galleries/museums are now developing ways of suburbanising even this. Also some reviewers/critics are failed artists/writers themselves and so are highly jealous that others are standing tall (tall poppies) so because of their position of power try to bring them down to size.

Q: Why fantasy in West being promoted in such a big way, especially in USA and UK?

Don't know much about fantasy so all I can say is humans have always wanted to escape from this wretched reality and now media-driven-hopelessness so escape into fantasy film, writing or art is a way of psychological survival.

Q: Why Aussies, like us Indians, hate poets?

Because poets see further and deeper into the nature of existence than the average person. Aussies don't so much hate poets but think they are a bad joke and they should do something worthwhile like chasing a little ball around a paddock (golf, cricket, soccer, football, baseball). I thought that Indian culture generally respected their poets and artists, from my experience they do much more than Australians. An interesting quote may help, “The people live in an abyss, the poet lives on the mountain top – to the people there is no mystery of colour. The poet ever strives to save the people, the people ever strive to destroy the poet.” (Anon)

Q: Short fiction, does it excite you?

No! I very rarely read a short fiction story that “bends me out of shape”. I feel the whole idea of short fiction needs an overhaul. Some young writers in my area are doing this by combining multi-media into the story - images, audio, writing, mash-ups and so on - go the younger generation. Even my own shorts, some of which are good examples of short story writing are basically – yawn, yawn!

Q: Your favourite music?

Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison (1985 on)

Q: Favourite food?

Fresh seafood, especially oysters and prawns. Indian and Malaysian dishes.

Q: Favourite writer?

Jean Paul Sartre

Q: What does the Nimbin Valley mean to you?

It is a relatively peaceful place to live in idyllic surrounds; it is not like other Australian regional towns as it is amazingly cosmopolitan. And dare I say an avant-garde social experiment. But I'm getting tired of the “bush” and may soon move back to the coast i in a quiet little fishing style village. The sea really inspires me!

Q: Can future be created by a neglected artist?

Obviously if they stay neglected both in life and after death no. But eventuality most artists that are serious get their work seen and then there is the possibility of influencing the future in a small way.

Q: Why our measuring standards fail in assessing writers who are consistently good, yet not in news and not awarded for being perpetual outsiders?

The bell curve, 66%, are the backbone of society, the ones that work hard and maintain a stable society, the acceptance of outsiders, radicals and futuristic thinkers threatens the status quo, so they pan them, exclude them, but the only chance of change and therefore avoiding stagnation and death of a society is when these outsider's ideas become mainstream. This is the price one pays for being a fringe dweller, I am one of those and the price is NOT worth it, but in a sense I don't have any choice if I wish to remain authentic to myself in an Existential way.

Q: Those who get all the Bookers, are they the only good writers? Others should be banished?

I have a sculptor friend that gets almost every public sculpture commission in a capital city, because she is an expert at the art of Grantsmanship. Yes she is a good sculptor but no better that many others that live in poverty and remain unseen. The same applies to writers, those that play by the obscene rules of the literary game get the prizes. I have never and never will enter my books poetry etc. in prizes. I have even exhibited artwork in juried shows and explicitly stated  “this piece not to be judged in the show”, it turns art/poetry into something like a prize cow in an agricultural show.

Q: Are not these awards hyped?

Totally hyped, a fix for those playing the writing game. Nothing to do with great literature, though occasionally some great work as opposed to average work comes from them.

Q: Why art is becoming means of shameless self-promotion?

This is the i society, i, me, mine - almost everything is crassly commodified, not simply for sale at reasonable prices.

Q: If Shakespeare were re-born as Shakespeare to-day, will the Bard get such prizes that increase your sales?

If he had a good manager and a secretary who could play the grants-man-ship game absolutely. Just think of the recent phenomenon of Rodriguez, some say a better singer songwriter than Bob Dylan yet totally neglected by USA but unknown to him he influenced a generation who brought down apartheid in South Africa.

Q: Your view on the iconic Harry Potter series, the Hunger Games and Twilight series?

I love Harry Potter, does this come under fantasy? Haven't heard of the other two. I don't watch TV nor do I watch many movies, especially the Hollywood garbage.

Q: On Fifty Shades of Grey?

Just goes to show that sex does sell books. This book surpassed even Harry Potter's sales. Maybe I'll write some erotic, BDSM style poetry, get arrested, banned, then it will be a best seller and I'll be famous – hmmm!

Q: Tell us something about your grandma who wrote poetry.

Yes, my great-grandma actually. She was a middle-to-upper class woman, living in Britain in the late 1880s. Married to a genius doctor, inventor and scientist. I only recently found out that she wrote poetry and painted (like Monet and I think equally as good but not as inventive). Some of her poetry is astonishingly radical for the time, an activist against poverty and English pretentiousness. A woman of her time for sure but one of her poems is so similar to one I recently wrote about environmental destruction. Very uncanny granny!

Q: Your view of Indian Writing in English? Are Indians heard in Australia?

Indians are to my knowledge very rarely read in Australia. Indian writing in English has a (surprising) Indian feel, a gentleness, a respectfulness and of course much is imbued with spiritual/religious/devotional characteristics, which incidentally I personally find refreshing.

Q:Some notable gains made by India Writing. 

Just recently the publication of a major anthology The Dance of The Peacock, 150 poets / 515 pages, published in English by a Canadian publisher. Indo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry another important anthology of both Australian & Indian poets published by an Indian publisher. Support of Indian writing and poetry by UWA, especially the Westerly Centre & Prof. Dennis Haskell

Q: Impressions of your encounter with some happening --- but not awarded-yet ---writers. Any promise in them of making it to global lists?

There are a couple of exceptionally good writers who should be getting publishing contracts and fame and fortune. Christine Strelan (arguably as good as T.S. Eliot), Peter Nicholson and Max Ryan.

Q: How can the bilateral engagement between India and Australia be further expanded? Cannot some fests arranged via local support? Or, some common online initiatives, showcasing the best of both the nations?

This question I can't really answer as I'm a creative writer and artist, not a promoter or entrepreneur, I'm trying to stick with the things I do reasonably well and encourage others to do the things they do best. I have been a hopeless promoter of my own work in the past and I'm not much better now, so I'll just keep on creating. Also I'm becoming sick of the rudeness and lack of interest, especially by Australian Institutions. I contacted the Indian-Australian Association at the University of Melbourne regarding exactly what you are suggesting and they didn't even have the decency or good manners to reply.

Q: Thanks for tolerating the interrogation.

Thanks for being interested and in listening to my ideas.

(Content courtesy: boloji.com)

Table of Contents, August 2016

Bridges of Pittsburgh पिट्सबर्ग के सेतु

Photo Feature चित्र संकलन

Pittsburgh is the city of rivers. And the rivers have Setu (another name for bridges). This city is bursting with bridges. Here are a few photographs of Pittsburgh bridges of various kind, clicked by Anurag Sharma. You may click on a photo to see a larger image. 

दो नदियों का संगम, एक नदी का उद्गम और उनपर ढेरों सेतु। सेतु के इस अंक में अनुराग शर्मा द्वारा खींचे गये 18 चित्रों के रूप में "पिट्सबर्ग के पुल" प्रस्तुत हैं। प्रत्येक चित्र को क्लिक करके उसके बड़े रूप का अवलोकन किया जा सकता है।   

Table of Contents, August 2016

अनुक्रमणिका, अगस्त 2016