Book Review by Vinita Agrawal

The Renaissance Man

Rob Harle

A Study Of His Artistic Universe

Edited by Sunil Sharma & Sangeeta Sharma

Published by AuthorsPress, New Delhi. 2015

pp.209. $20 USD; Rs 395 

www.authorspressbooks.com

ISBN No: 978-93-5207-014-5

Multi-Dimensional Forays Of One Man Into The Universe Of Art

“... within the matrix that forms this planet there are many hidden equations breathlessly waiting to have their unrequited genius discovered by a humanity that has been led to believe it is powerless in its imagination to make a difference”.
                                                                                           Tonia  Haynes in The Renaissance Man

Rob Harle is that genius, that man described in the quote above - a phenomena - an artist to whom the universe speaks a special language through the voice of his soul. The Renaissance Man seeks to capture Rob's unique talents and align them in its pages - like assembling all the geniuses of the world under one roof, only, in Rob's case, the geniuses are all within one man. He is that one entity who approaches art from many dimensions and displays inordinate levels of accomplishment at whatever he does. The book is essentially a compilation of Rob Harle's work from the viewpoint of editors, writers, poets and critics - each focusing on one aspect of his art.

The writers are intimately familiar with his work and provide a global perspective on the depth of his art. The book, in that sense, rises above being a Indo Australian venture and becomes relevant to any individual across the globe.

Vivekananda Jha, in his essay on the multi faceted personality of Rob Harle, says:

"...his distinctiveness is expressed in the form of .... a draftsman, designer, electrician, artist, philosopher, psychotherapist, poet and author...ardent reviewer for print books and documentary films.... In his work, society, history, art, culture, philosophy, religion, myth, ideology, sociobiology, artificial as well as natural intellect homogeneously hone making his work an organic whole." (p.121i)                                                                                                                                                    

Vinita Agrawal

A handful of talents, by any standards! Anyone who knows Rob or any one who reads the book and learns about him knows that every single word of Jha's assessment is true. Rob truly is a man of multi-pronged artistic talents.

The book is divided into chapters penned by a plethora of experienced writers. The essays are followed by a review of Building Bridges - the Indo-Australian anthology he has compiled followed by nano appreciation verses in praise of his sculptures, poetry and digital artwork. Towards the end, the editors, Sunil and Sangeeta Sharma pay a befitting tribute to the Rob via a poem inspired by one of his breathtaking digital art piece and long literary interview and a tongue-in-cheek round of rapid fire questions.

In his piece on Rob's poetry, Aju Mukhopadhyay writes,

"Rob has written very few poems out of temporary passion and passing notion. He writes with full conviction about the subject matter of his poems... the outcomes of his philosophic mind ..." (p. 35)

There's something compelling about reading the words of a writer who's come face to face with his consciousness- or perhaps the essence of consciousness underlying all of mankind. Which is why, Elizabeth McCardell writes of Rob

"...how he works, reflects how he thinks and how he thinks reflects in how he works. It is in this that his genius lies. He produces work that enfleshes his basic philosophy."(p.37)                                                                                                                                                    

A little further she says

"Rob in exploring his own consciousness... is contributing to his own psycho-physiological healing." She quotes Rob from one of his academic papers titled Biobehavioural Basis Of Art (2008), saying - "With cultural dynamics and our very biology we create ourselves as we create art." A rather provocative thought that takes us back to the age old pantheism that we are our own Gods. That God manifests through us...and more startlingly, that perhaps there is no line of distinction between man and God. That we are the masters of our own destiny. Because, Rob's art manifests itself in various fine arts, McCardell rightly describes him as a  transdciplinary thinker". (p. 38)

In an attempt to understand Rob's verses. Gopal Lahiri, states

"Rob has turned space... into poetic opportunity. ... his poems showcase a world that struggles with cohesion and unity." (p. 54) He quotes Rob's own words:

What is it to be human?

Merely a silhouette of love and hate?

And, further

Our primitiveness is challenged daily,

by an insidious digital invasion.

Rob is an abashed, self-labeled futurist. Gopal Lahiri drives home the point that Rob has been essaying for a long time - that what is gratifying is also terrifying. In Rob's own words - we are "terrified of an unending future, yet horrified by the finite blackness of the past."

Jaydeep Sarangi, a poet, academician and critic from Kolkata, also pens his thoughts on Rob's poetry. He tries to summarize Rob's poetry published in two books - Scratches and Deeper Wounds and Mechanisms Of Desire. Sarangi focuses on the enigmatic nature of Rob's poetry. His approach is personal and engaging and easygoing. He quotes Rob himself in an attempt to define the poet's work - "My concern is to explore the phenomenon of consciousness and our 'apparent' aloneness in this universe." (p. 71) Most of his poems deal with both personal and collective

mosaic of his experiences, Sarangi adds.

PCK Prem, also contributes an essay on Rob's poetry to the book. He extracts some of the most moving and soul stirring verses from Rob's work. To quote a few: (pp. 76 -98)

Old human vessels sail slowly,

sometimes silently,

egos are the only terminal events in history

and dissolve when the river becomes the sea.

(Growing old - Time, Mechanisms of Desire)

**

And

My right to life and love and death

is carved in burning stone

...

**

And my personal favorite:

empty, heartless, barren

your life is a useless farce

...

when your children cower and freeze

in the sewer of your mind

**

( Betrayal- Scratches & Deeper Wounds)

The book also carries a brief biography of Rob Harle, authored by Jack Lister G Clark. There are several images of Rob's sculptures and digital art forms interspersed in the article. The visuals enable the reader to make an immediate connection with the artist behind the work. Rob's sculpture titled Sound of Silence is eye catching and moving. Another piece, called Depression is also extremely apt for the title it carries. His digital art called Young Cyborg too is a splendid representation of the futuristic youth.

Clark's biography traces the step by step progress of Rob's professional life, his formal education and the highlights of his career. Reading the essay, one concludes that Rob is indeed Australia's Nimbin settled, national treasure!

When the pages of the book veer towards Rob's career as a sculptor, we as readers learn fascinating facts about Rob's professional life as a carver of plaster stone, sandstone, camphor wood, terra-cotta and marble. Sandra Joran reveals that Rob's reclusive life on a remote country farm gave him " the freedom to develop his sculptural vision and skills and produce some of the finest pieces." She mentions that Rob considers Hawkesbury River valley as his spiritual home because according to him "here the sandstone, River and Australian bush exist in perfect harmony." (p.99 – 100)

Rob confesses in an interview towards the end of the book, that "the journey of the most serious artists in Australia is an arduous one. Australia is a cultural backwater...and to be always be up against this antipathy is quite soul destroying." (p.   165-166)

The essay by Sunil Sharma titled The Unseen Rob Harle is particularly memorable. The author confesses to Rob being his “long-distance friend and adopted elder brother”. His essay on Rob is personal and uncovers the angst and hurt simmering beneath the surface in Rob's life. It seeks to place Rob into a time frame. Of course it can't! Because, Sunil Sharma admits that Rob is a man ahead of his times...or in another sense, he lives in many ages simultaneously. Perhaps he lives “beyond the pale of time." In any case, he “disrupts temporal sequence”, he is a “transcendental being”. Sunil Sharma finally settles into calling him a mystic. The words in Sunil Sharma's tribute to Rob display palpable affection and immense respect for Rob the artist and the man. Clearly The Renaissance Man is labor of love for an artist who exceeds all expectations.

While the book captures and encapsulates the work and thoughts of Rob Harle for the present generation and for posterity, it is important to also remember the greater relevance of this book - namely the complete recognition by a few that one man can make a difference to our world. We must, each one of us, endeavor to be that person. And if we need a role model to look up to, someone who can inspire us on our individual journey, then Rob Harle has already set the path, shown the way. That in essence is the subtle message of this compelling book. It describes the extraordinary journey of a single man against all odds and in so doing, it motivates us to rise above mediocrity and complacence in the pursuit of of our own lives.

*********
Author of three books of poetry, Vinita is a Mumbai based, award winning poet and writer. Recipient of the Gayatri GaMarsh Memorial Award for Literary Excellence, USA, 2015, her poems have appeared in Asiancha, Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Pea River Journal, Open Road Review, Stockholm Literary Review, Poetry Pacific, Mithila Review and over a 100 other national and international journals.  She is contributing editor for wwww.thewomaninc.com. She was nominated for the Best of the Net Awards in 2011. She was awarded first prize in the Wordweavers Contest 2014, commendation prize in the All India Poetry Competition 2014 and won the 2014 Hour of Writes Contest thrice. Her poems have found a place in significant national and international anthologies. She has read at SAARC events, at the U.S. Consulate, at Delhi Poetree and at Cappucino Readings, Mumbai. She can be reached at https://www.pw.org/content/vinita_agrawal and at www.vinitawords.com

Table of Contents, November 2016

कुछ कोलम्बस कुछ शिकागो (फोटो फीचर)

Photo Feature- Dipak Mashal

सतरंगी गुब्बारे में नीले आसमान की ओर (कोलम्बस-ओहायो)

Riding on rope 

To invade the sky of hope 

On a rainbow balloon (Columbus Ohio)

चेहरा बिगाड़ देता है आइना तेरे शहर का (शिकागो)

Mirrors of your city get crazy seeing my face (Chicago)

कितने गुजरे सेतु से
 ये मरा मरा ही रहा
जल भरा ही रहा 

A bridge allowed thousands to pass through 

A tree refused rebirth hypothesis 

And a fall was adamant falling in between

ऊँचे होते मकान
सिकुड़ता आसमान (शिकागो)

Concrete jungles are most rapidly growing species 

They survive on green earth 

They survive on blue sky (Chicago)

जंगल के सेतु 

In a jungle a Setu (bridge) is more than just a bridge

हिंदुस्तानी कनेक्शन (शिकागो)

Man is in the universe Universe is in a man

पतझड़ आते देखा
बहार जाते देखी
पुल की पथराई आँखों ने
जाने कितनी बार 

Being witness of fall 

Being witness of spring 

With its vary stone eyes 

A bridge transformed into a storyteller 

Appointed as a part time fortuneteller

तुम अड़े
मैं भी अड़ा हूँ
सीना ताने खड़ा हूँ 

Both are adamant 

Both have chest 

With iron ribs

जंगलों को जोड़ता सेतु
जोड़ता जीवों को
बनाया आदमी ने
कितना जुड़ सका आदमी
खुद से
The Setu (bridge) connects jungles 
Connects the creatures 
Man made 
How much could man connect with himself

Table of Contents, Setu November 2016 :: अनुक्रमणिका सेतु नवम्बर 2016

Child Abuse: Fiction by Glory Sasikala

Glory Sasikala

It was still dark when her mother woke up: like the chirpy birds. Sigh…she was like that, and Anna wished she wasn’t that bright and chirpy in the morning.

Soon, rattling noises ensued from the kitchen. “Lord!” thought Anna, as she twisted and turned uneasily in her bed, all thoughts of sleep abandoned, “Why does she have to be so overactive in the morning?” She turned to the other side and cast an envious glance at her sister, Mitchell, sleeping next to her. “The Blessed One,” she thought, angrily. Come hail, storm or hurricane, she slept through it all. Nothing – absolutely nothing – bothered her once she was out.

During the day, Mitchell was a teenager, struggling and grappling with all the nitty gritties of being one, but come night, she turned into the Queen Of Her Bed. She spread herself across the whole of it, lying flat on her back, hands outstretched, legs akimbo, mouth slightly open, and no sheets to contain her. Anna was sure that’s how Mitchell thought about sheets. Fetters trying to bind the Queen! How dare!

Anna sighed…”Whereas, poor me…” Bang! It was her mother opening the door to see if the milk packets were there. Anna shut her ears tight with her hands and tried to bury herself deeper into her sheet. “How I hate the noise!” she thought, miserably.

But as the day progressed, her mother’s shrill, excited voice filled the house, flinging orders at them, scolding exasperated tones for the missing objects right under their nose, coaxing tones to get them to hurry, and diplomatic tones for the servant.

Anna’s mother, Sarah, was a small-made, petite woman, extremely feminine. Her close cropped hair only made her look even more so. One would think she would have broken down when her overprotective husband died a couple of years back, but she had only bounced back with amazing resilience. Bending backward to look after her family, she had to tighten her own belt. Clucking around like a fussy hen, she was too busy tending to everyone else’s needs to bother too much about her own. Unfortunately, she was a bit insensitive and incapable of sensing the atmosphere in the room or reading between lines, and most of the time, she was unaware of any undercurrents.

Today, the house wore an almost festive look. Anna’s Uncle, her mother’s brother, was coming back from America. He had an assignment here, and would be staying with them for a while, in Chennai.
“Anna! What are you doing, standing there, child? Go and see if the milk packets are there.”
“But Mumma, the milk has already come.”

“Oh yes! I forgot! Mitch! Get up! Up, up, up with you.” Slap, slap, slap! Mitch was always woken this way because nothing else worked with her.

“Anna! Stop standing and gaping and get some glasses from Shanti. And ask for some plates too.” Anna was only too happy to oblige, and rushed off to the gardens, where the maid was plucking some vegetables. Shanti, with the sunny disposition. So what if she was a scatterbrain, and so what if some of the best cutlery slipped from her hands from time to time? She was part of the family.

“Madam is very happy today? First time I’m seeing her so happy after Sir died. Otherwise she’s always crying when nobody is watching her.”

Anna felt a pang of guilt. How selfish she was, never sparing a thought for her mother; in fact, it was a startling bit of knowledge that mothers had feelings too.

The day went by in a whirr of activities, cooking, cleaning, and getting ready. Everyone was excited except Anna, but her happy smile and animation belied the fear in her heart. Like most 12 year olds, she could put up a jolly good façade for any gullible grown up who would fall for it. She walked, talked and behaved confidently, showing the world the face it wanted to see, her insecurities and uncertainties perfectly camouflaged. A discerning parent would have seen through, but unfortunately, Sarah was not discerning.

Anna went into the garden, climbed up the mango tree and sat at the junction of two branches, her favorite spot for reverie…

The picture was still so clear, even after all these years. She was four years old, and they were living in an old decrepit house. It was a dappled afternoon, and all afternoons were dappled in that house, for it was surrounded by trees, and as the Sun fought to find a way through the thick foliage, dancing shadows were cast on the walls and the floor. Sometimes the Sun won and it was bright. Sometimes, the wind and the trees won, and then there would be this leaf-shadow dance against the golden Sunlight.

Anna sat next to her mother, very happy and very secure. Only that morning, she had wailed like the police siren as her mother had bathed her, dressed her, and carried her to school. She had felt so insecure away from the familiar surroundings and her mother. But now, she was happy. Her mother was fast asleep and Anna was playing “market, market” by herself. Her father had taken her to the market the day before and Anna had watched with interest the interaction between her father and the shopkeeper. She now enacted the whole scene. Betwixt, she would abandon the game to nuzzle up to her mother. Eventually, she would fall asleep.

“Sir, come to our shop. Why go elsewhere? Everything you want is available here.”

Her father smiled, “How much for the tomatoes?”

“Tomatoes, Sir? Twenty rupees. Good tomatoes, Sir. Hybrid variety.”

“That’s fine, but reduce the price. It’s too high. Sixteen rupees and I will take a kilo.”

“What Sir!  You are so adamant! One rupee for each of us. Pay me seventeen rupees. Last price. Take three kilos, it will stay for weeks.”

Her father laughed and said, “One kilo will do.”

Here Anna abandoned the game to nuzzle up to her mother. Somewhere, someone was singing – a thick, gruff male voice – a voice devoid of any emotion or tune. Her Uncle! David had come to stay with them four days ago. He had come with his college friends on a tour, and had decided to stay on for a while. Sarah had been delighted to see him and had made immense fuss over him, just the way she was doing now, hovering over him and coaxing him to eat. Anna did not really understand the relationship then. All she knew was that he was her ‘Uncle’.
For the first few days, he had completely ignored her, talking to her father, mother and sister. But the night before, he had stared across the table at her during dinner time. It was an odd gaze, as Anna remembered. He seemed to be seeing her for the first time. He was taking in her presence. She had stared back at him with the unblinking gaze of the very young and continued to munch her food.
Before going to bed, he had smiled at her and wished her good night. It was a very special smile and she had warmed up to him immediately and smiled back.

Now, as she heard him sing, she left her mother’s side and padded across the corridor to the guest room, where her Uncle was staying. She stood by the doorway and watched him as he sang and arranged a pack of cards on the table. He looked up suddenly and saw her standing there. “Hello! Come in!” She stepped in shyly, and when he reached out a hand, went to him quite willingly.

He picked her up and sat her on his lap. “You heard me sing.” She nodded her head, her thumb in her mouth, as was her habit.

“Did you like it?” She shook her head. “No? Aw, that’s about as much as I can sing, I’m afraid. Did you go to school today?”

Now she removed her thumb, turned to look up at him and said, “Yes.”

“And what did you learn?”

“ABC.”

“Ah, the alphabets. You must teach me sometime. I have a gift for you. There, in that box.”

And he put her down and picked a small box from the side table and opened it. Inside was a cake. A lovely creamy cake, fluffy and creamy, with chocolate topping and a cherry.

Anna gazed at it in delight. “For me?” she asked.

“All for you,” he replied. “Will you eat it now or later?”

She knew she should have said later, after asking her mother, but this was a very strong cake indeed! Too strong for the will of a small girl. Even as Anna gazed at it longingly, it seemed to grow softer, fluffier and creamier.

Her mouthwatering, she replied, “Yes.”

“Good” he said, and lifted her up and placed her on his lap, facing him with her legs on either side.

Then he took the cake from the plate and gave it to her. But suddenly, something was wrong. Her Uncle seemed to be to close. Something about his breath on her cheek was not right. Something about the smell of his sweat and shirt was not right. Something about the feel of his hands locked behind her back was not right. Something that pushed against her panties was not right.

But her Uncle did not seem to notice anything amiss. He broke a piece of cake and put it in her mouth before holding her close again. And he watched her eat. Behind him, and to Anna’s view through the window, the leaves swayed in the wind, casting dancing shadows everywhere.

“Nice?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, “I must go.”

“What about cake for me?” he asked. “You eat too,” she said. Suddenly, he had bent forward and licked her mouth. “Ah! Very tasty!”

But Anna was alarmed now. “Let me go!” she said, beginning to wriggle. “Anna!” her mother called, and David unlocked his arms from behind her back and Anna scrambled off his lap and hurried towards the door.

“Anna!” he called to her. “Don’t tell anyone about the cake.” She had not understood. “It’s a kind of hush-hush between you and me. You understand?” Suddenly and instinctively she knew there was something very wrong about what had just happened. But hadn’t she been a naughty girl too? Her mother would scold her if she knew she had eaten the cake without her permission. She had warned her never to accept food from anyone. So she nodded her head and left the room.

Her Uncle had left the house the next day, and now, he was coming back nearly a decade later. Anna was now 12 years old, a half-grown child-woman. She was tall and coltish, with a swing in her walk, and showing all signs of growing into a beauty, and she loved wearing short skirts.

David arrived that afternoon and was received with hugs and tears of joy by Sarah. He then turned to the girls, “Hi guys! How’s life?” They grinned back at him, and Anna relaxed. He was handsome, tall and broad shouldered. He had very even white teeth and laughing brown eyes and wavy brown hair, swept back from his forehead. And he was charming. He had remembered to bring gifts for all of them, dresses and scarves and scent bottles. The day passed pleasantly enough, as they sat around the table long after the meal was over, talking, laughing and catching up with the events.

Anna, who was just making a tentative foray into the adult world, chipped in now and then, but some of the topics were beyond her power of comprehension. “Hey!” she said, as David reached out and pinched her cheek.

“You’ve grown up, almost.” She smiled shyly. The day seemed to pass too quickly.

It was the day after David’s return and Sarah had left on some errand and Mitch was off to college. Anna was at home on study leave. “Anna!” It was David calling out to her from the bathroom. “Yes?” she said, walking over. “I’m having trouble with the tap. Please bring me the spanner.” “Okay,” she said. She found the spanner and came back to the bathroom door, “Here it is.” Suddenly, the door was flung open and her Uncle stood there, naked. He reached out for her, but she was screaming and running for her life. She made it to the front room still screaming. But no one followed her, and all was still and silent. She could hear the tick-tock of the clock, the cawing of crows…She slowly moved to the door to unlock it and go out, but he appeared again suddenly, from behind a door where he was hiding, and he picked her up. She was a sturdy girl and she struggled and kicked him and screamed. Unnerved now, he let go of her, and in a trice, she unlocked the front door and ran out.
How could a day seem so normal when such a terrible incident had taken place inside? But it was just so, placid, with cows grazing in the fields, flicking at flies with their tails, young boys lazily dribbling a football,  a cyclist making his slow, leisurely way down the lane. Her mother was at the gate, talking to someone. She turned to Anna. “Go in Anna. It looks like it will rain.”

Anna went in and sat down, her legs still shaking and her heart pounding in fear. Her mother came in.
“What’s the matter, child?”

“Mumma, I’m scared of Uncle. Why can’t he stay in a hostel? Why does he have to stay with us?”

Sarah looked startled. “Why, what did he do?”

“He…” Anna was finding it hard to explain. Her mother did not encourage any discussions regarding sex, and bad words were taboo. Besides, Anna was not aware of the term “rape.”

“I don’t like the way he touches me. And he doesn’t wear any clothes.”

To her surprise, her mother laughed, “He’s your Uncle and he’s been away for a very long time. He’s just happy to see you again. Besides, he’s been abroad for a while now. His habits are likely to be more wayward. I’ll talk to him.”

Anna wanted to scream to her mother, “He attacked me! And he wasn’t half-naked. He was naked.” But the words stuck in her mouth. She tried to plead with her mother with her eyes, but unfortunately for her, her mother was not very sensitive to nuances like that.

“Talk to whom, Sis?” asked David, strolling in, cool as ever. There was no trace of the beast that had attacked her just some moments ago.

“To you,” said Sarah, smiling at him, “David, this is request. I know you’re used to a different lifestyle, but could you just keep your shirt on while you’re here? My girls are not comfortable with it.”

David smiled affably. “Sure! Yes, of course!” He turned to Anna, “Sorry babes, didn’t know it bothered you.”

Sarah laughed, “Give her a break, David. She’s at that sensitive age.”

“Is she now?” said David, looking speculatively at Anna. But he turned and followed his sister out of the room.

Life was never going to be the same again for Anna ever again. Never would she think her mother omnipotent anymore. Never would she be deceived by a man’s charming demeanour any more. Never would home be a safe place any more. And never ever had she been as lonely and as vulnerable as she was now.

Apprehension held her in a vice-like grip. She grew wary of her Uncle. Shadows at night bothered her. What if he was lurking around? Sleep became her enemy, for it made her vulnerable. But it was so hard to stay awake and resist sleep’s calm, soothing tones or the rainbow colours of the dreams – that make belief world into which she could escape and pretend to be free and unfettered, flying up, up and away. But the tug of apprehension always brought her back, and she stayed awake.

But there were no further incidents and Anna began to slowly relax and feel more normal again. One night, she fell asleep. In her dreams, she was travelling in a train. On and on it went towards an unknown destination. Finally, it came to stop at a station and she got off and walked towards a gate. Beyond the gate was a maze and she walked on, taking turns as they came. Suddenly, she was confronted by an old man with a pair of scissors in his hands. Old, withered and shriveled like a dry grape, with white, flowing hair and a flowing beard.

“Hullo, Lady, I’m a tailor,” he said in a quavering voice, “Come, let me stitch you a dress.”
But suddenly, his eyes were not old. They were young, lustful and craving eyes that devoured her. “I’m sorry, I must go.” She said and started walking, but the old man easily kept pace, with the scissors in his hands, and he was moving faster and faster, and she was moving fast too, and then, she was running.

She woke up from her sleep, and instinctively, she turned to the door. Yes, there was a shadow behind it of a person standing there. She got up and switched on the light, and the shadow moved away. Choking with rage, she flung open the door and padded over to David’s room. He was there in bed, pretending to be asleep. She spat on him in rage. He opened his eyes and said, “Go back to sleep, girl. You’re wasting your time.”

And as suddenly as she had been angry, she broke down and tears rolled down her face. She went back to her bed. “Mitch! Mitch! Get up.”

Mitch did not wake up, but growled, “Yes, what is it?”

“I hate Uncle!”

“Okay, don’t go near him.” And Mitch went back to sleep.

Anna woke up late the next day and was late to school. Her sleepless nights were taking their toll and she found it difficult to follow the lesson. Physical activities were tiring and her eyes burned.
“Anna, check this book out.” It was her friend, Sumita. “It’s about a girl who was raped.”

Anna looked up, “What’s that?”

Sumita looked surprised, “You don’t know what rape means?”

Anna shook her head. Sumita explained. Now, Anna was interested. “What does the girl do?”

“She kills the rapist. She kills him with a knife.”

Anna was quiet. “Anna?”

There was a strange light shining in her eyes, “Good. He deserves it.”

Days passed and then it was already a month since David’s arrival. They had been playing games, a whole group of children, in the ground beyond the front yard of Anna’s home. Screams and laughter and yells rant the air as the ball was passed from one player to another. Anna was completely engrossed in it. She was a good dodger, and she could aim well too.

“Hey, I’m taking a break!” she called out, and ran to the house. Her throat was parched and her frock clung to her slender body. She knocked on the door. David opened it. “What do you want?”

The laughter died out of her eyes. “I want to drink water.”

He moved aside and she went in. Once in the corridor, she looked about, suddenly aware of the eerie silence. Nobody was home except David. She turned to him, “I’m going out. Open the door.”

But he blocked the entrance. “Go and get that glass of water,” he said, and cold fear gripped her.

She stared at him. Then she went to the kitchen, which was on the other side of the corridor and overlooked the backyard. She drank water and wiped her mouth with sweaty, shaking hands, and then turned to go out. But David was there at the kitchen door, blocking her path.

But now, her hands were steady, her eyes fearless. “Get out of my way.” He only smiled and stood there, a demonic smile playing about his lips, but there a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes now.

Anna looked incredulously at him. Did he not get it yet? This was it, the end to all his games.

She walked up to him till she was close and eye to eye with him. And then her eyes changed. They were no longer the eyes of a child. They were the eyes of the Goddess Kali as she went on her killing spree, chopping heads and hanging them as a garland around her neck. They were the eyes of a cold hearted killer, the eyes of a tiger as it relentlessly ran down its prey. They were eyes that held the promise to destroy completely.

Instinctively, David moved back, closer to the wall and gripped it. And still glaring at him, Anna left the room, opened the main door and was out!

She stared at the scene in front of her. Screaming children! Laughing children! Happy, carefree, gay children! Children! Only a moment ago, she had been one among them. But now…

“Anna, come soon! It’s your turn!” The screams grew louder, calling her.

She stared at them. The she shook her head and smiled. And she picked up the ball and went back to the game – pretending to be a child again.

Table of Contents, November 2016

Destiny - Fiction by Glory Sasikala

Glory Sasikala

Perungudi should be given the prize for the best non-roads in the world. By non-roads, I mean non-roads. Huge ditches with stagnant rain water, giving way to slush, giving way to the cobblestones strategically arranged to topple the most careful walker.

There's a strip of what looks invitingly like a 'plain piece of good road' nearer my hostel. Every time I come by auto, I have to warn the driver not to try and mount on to this strip because the vehicle gets stuck somewhere between the chasing slush and the inviting mirage, and then you're bending over to see how to work the wheels out. Nopes, no luck there, you just have to get out and slush it out.

That being the situ, I've totally given up on walking to and fro and now opt for the train from Perungudi (just outside my hostel) to Thiruvanmiyur (15 minutes from Ascendas). Of note, I am now working in Ascendas, a tech park, and I’m living in a hostel. Occasionally, I do brave it out to do some shopping, and each time I do that and I come to what is the longest stretch of muddy rain water on the road and try to balance it out through a narrow strip of land on the side, I come face to face with a cow.

No matter what time of the day or night it is, this cow and I get stuck on the same strip of land. I never win because I simply will not budge till the cow has crossed over to my side. And the cow, for its own good reasons, will not move too.

It has the most beautiful kohl-marked expressive eyes, with long, long eyelashes, and when we see eye to eye, we do seem to recognize each other.

Invariably the cow's owner turns up and says, "hoi! hoi!" and the cow moves.


I'm thinking it’s destiny. The cow probably thinks, "Aw shucks! Not this female again! Here we go once more with the 'no-budge' ritual."

Setu, November 2016

Poetry by Gopal Lahiri

Gopal Lahiri

Street Fair

Between 53rd and 54th street
Joe, Our taxi driver shouted in utter disbelief

Street Fair? As if a magic!

No traffic! Avenue of America
Greeted us by a few drops of rain.

Coloured leaves smeared in sidewalks,
Shining glass windows wiping tears
A few food stalls and souvenir clusters
Sheesh kebab pitzels
Autumn fest fall festival

Early evening ushered a few people
Two tattooed black girls posing in front of Love puzzle

Hair askew, unkempt but cheerful
It's about to be adored, not ravaged

Don't dress your age
To eschew not in favour of strait-laced
Hands reach out.

Pantsuits wafting in Wall Street aroma
Adopt restraint demure dull image

Home less placards; Give me 100 dollars
or I will vote for Clinton and
then I'm sad' with drooping head and shoulders.


Reading Langston Hughes
“Tomorrow, / I’ll be at the table / When company comes.”
We were stone deaf.

It's raining heavily, we ran for cover
Stood under the shade.

Our clock already set for Times Square
Then Broadway musicals
Then eat well
Halal'Biriyani and chicken curry
And grow up.

We know
New York do not freely smile back.

Television trucks trawled looking for celebrities

Refusing to hide
Fade or march their neck wrinkles.

Important post truth to be written
And with every passing .

They took over paradise here
In the streets of Manhattan.
.................,.........................

Move

Before I move away
The autumn leaves started falling
Adding circle to circle
Cell to cell,
A splendid sight.

Let me like those maple leaves
Floating
Flutter in the breeze
Then surrender in the grass
Always inside me the colour I love

All that remains is an echo of overtone
A brief silence
Salutes the cold morning
A Squirrel slowly turning his head,
And then the applause of the birds stirring the life.

I know I am here
Far away from the downtown
Alone with the Mother Earth
Eaten out the carbon and greying in the shade
Groping the scar and wounds.
...........................,,,,,,,,,,....

Face to face

Much like our ancestors.
Once used to trust each other.

Now watching
each other like hawks.

I love the way a window is
like a viewfinder –
it frames
what is in front of us:
portraits of life.

Sometimes the books
on the wooden shelf
roil things up.
Not something lost but
as a treasured memory..

For the evening sun,
a plea for looking
at humanity and hatred,
a reminder.

Somewhere along the way
Hide themselves well,
the long walls
peppered with many faces
Erupt into meaning
at the end.
..........................,,,,,,,,,...............

Mask 

From turn to turn
Like this, like this.
Uncover
The menacing mask
More mirthful.

Let it be
Converted to
the symphony of riches.
.............................................

Dream

In the air we breathe

Unable even to look further
Not knowing what it takes
Away in convenience.

Let me like those pious men.

Resonant judgement and
memorable lines
on Rainbow of your eyes.

My dream do not listen to skies. .
...........................................,.,.....

Tweet

Walking in the dream lane
Dreams are dead now
Trample in the grass.

Yet those colourful birds
I hear the tweets,
a song I remember

‘I was in love with you’.

When I think of them
I am shaken
The past is whistling.

Cotton farming
live a life,
In the air we breathe,

Winter is permanent
In drunken glee.

Snow white clouds making sails
Come and go
the tourists
I am caged here

I tell only the stories of dry leaves.

 Short Bio: Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata. He currently lives in Mumbai, India. He is a bilingual poet, writer, editor, critic and translator and widely published in Bengali and English language. Anthology appearances (among others) includes National Treasures, Indus Valley, A posy of poesy, Concerto, Poet’s paradise, My dazzling Bards, Jorasanko, The Silence within, Indo-Australian Anthology, Homebound, The Dance of the Peacock, Illuminations. His works have featured in journals Indian Literature, Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, Haiku Journal and electronic publications Arts and Letters, Underground Window, Muse India, Poetry Stop, Debug, Eastlit and Coldnoon Diaries. He has jointly edited the anthology of poems: Scaling Heights. He can be reached at glahiri@gmail.com and g_lahiri@yahoo.com
Address: Gopal Lahiri, FLAT NO- C2-44, 4TH FLOOR, ONGC COLONY, BANDRA RECLAMATION, BANDRA WEST, MUMBAI-400050
PH- 022-26402566; Mobile: 9969221288

Table of Contents, October 2016

Poems by Tabish Khair

Tabish Khair

RUMI AND THE REED

Listen to the song of the reed flute:

It sings of separation.

Torn from the leaf-layered, wind-voiced

Banks of the pond,

It is joined to sorrow and joy

By a slender sound.

Who, asked Rumi, can understand

The reed’s longing to return?

                     Let its raw lips rest then;

                     Let all words be brief then.

And I, O Believers, cried Rum

   (Having lost the man he loved),

I who am not of the East

Nor of the West, un-Christian,

 Not Muslim or Jew, neither

Born of Adam nor Eve,

What can I love but the world itself,

What can I kiss but flesh?

                     Let my raw lips rest then.

                     Let all words be brief.

(From WHERE PARALLEL LINES MEET)

AMMA

Down the stairs of this house where plaster flakes and falls,

Through the intimate emptiness of its rooms and hall,

I hear your slow footsteps, grandmother, echo or pause

As they used to through long summer afternoons spent within

The watered down four-walls of khus  and fragile drinks

Of ice, mango or lemon, the circle of water-melon crescents.

Slowly you shuffle examining each new tear in the curtains

Which will have to be mended when the first monsoon rain

Provides a respite from sun, curtails the need for shade.

Slowly on arthritic joints you move from room to room

Marking the damage of the years, evaluating how soon

The past will collapse or how long the present last.

You never need glasses to mark the contours of your house

Though you can’t see grandsons at a distance, once wore a blouse

Inside out. Nothing has changed, grandmother, no, not yet;

Though your collected steps never turn the corner into you

In a starched and white sari, the fragrance of soap around you.

And all the curtains have long been taken down.

(From WHERE PARALLEL LINES MEET)

THE BIRDS OF NORTH EUROPE

Twenty four years in different European cities and he had not lost

His surprise at how birds stopped at the threshold

Of their houses. Never

Flying into rooms, to be decapitated by fan-blades or carefully

Herded through open windows to another life, never

Building on the lampshade

Or on some forgotten, cool corner-beam where droppings and straw

Would be tolerated until the fateful day hatched

And the world was fragile

Shell, feathers, a conspiratorial rustle of wings above and of

An intrigued girl below. Even the birds in their neat towns

Knew their place. They

Did not intrude into private spheres, demanding to be overlooked

Or worshipped. They did not consider houses simply

Exotic trees or hollowed

Hills. Not being particularly learned he did not know the thread

Of fear that knots the wild to the willed; not

Being well-read he

Did not remember the history behind their old and geometrical

Gardens, could not recall a time when the English

Parliament had killed a bill,

Shocked by a jackdaw’s flight across the room. He simply marked

The absence of uncaged birds in their homes. He thought

It was strange.

(From WHERE PARALLEL LINES MEET)

MONSTERS

Theirs the city of the sayable. Hers its suburbs,

Filling with the screamed obscenities of graffiti, gestures

At coherent articulation, the word within that world

Of splashed red, aerosoled blue, skulls and crossbones,

Crashing cars, rose out of a gun barrel, space monsters, all

Unable to utter a sound that will count as speech.

It is in such a moment of sheer scream, unsayable,

That Shakuntala looks in the mirror and is surprised

To see fangs and fire, a gaping mouth like Kali’s,

Goddess culled from the anger of colonisation:

It is a vision that lasts only a second, but in it

Are contained the silent stories of her history.

Her lineage is monstrous. Scylax said so:

Daughter of the dog-faced and blanket-eared.

Such many-armed, hydra-headed ancestors

Shocked the evangelising white man, puzzled

The aesthetes of Europe in later centuries:

Truth and beauty have long been denied her.

Did her mothers know what she has forgotten:

The choice was between mirror and monster?

How to keep their devdasis from turning nuns

In Danse des servantes ou esclaves des dieux,

They loosened their limbs in the cosmic dance

Of the oppressed – fingers, arms, heads flew off

Leonardo da Vinci’s symmetrical bodies

And the mirror of that white gaze shattered

On develish formes and uglie shapes. Adam

Stood speechless before monstrous Ada,

Which hath foure hands with clawes…

The better to rip you with, coloniser?

Faced with humanity, they could not look

Into those eyes and fail to be struck blind

By the injustice of it all, their own greed:

Monsters filled their mirrors. It was safer

To lose in that adytum of demons the truth

Of bodies with blackened teeth, minds on fire.

(From MAN OF GLASS, 2010)

Table of Contents, November 2016