WHEN COOKIES JUST CRUMBLED IN THE MOUTH

A memoir by Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

Someone was yelling in a heavy, bellowing voice. 
There was another-louder than the first one.
It was difficult to make out whether it was a male or female voice. 

The night was all around me,in thick swathes of intimidating darkness , but the shrieks and bellows were more intimidating than the dark, sinister night.

Were they the demons that had slithered out of overcrowded minds, and were now bent on creating ruckus outside?

One demon from the next door neighbour’s house, another from the house fronting our house, big and small demons were in a celebratory mood. They sang, and buzzed, laughed and cackled, chortled and bottled up emotions burst out into the open. 


I could imagine them holding hands and dancing and swinging to the rhythm of some enigmatic music. 
Why would the neighbours’ demons congregate on my terrace? Were my own demons not enough?


“Listen to me”, cried one. 
“No, me,” yelled another.”
“No, me, I am here.”The one with the long nose beseeched, the nose appearing longer in its hyper excited state.


“Hear, hear”, they shouted.
I put my hands over my ears. 
And listened. 
To the sounds within.

Would I write my final notes tonight? With the night monsters surrounding me, chattering away with a malicious intent. 


There was an unassailable tumult in my head.


Why was that demon with buck teeth making grotesque faces at me? Why was that demon with oily hair..Why was that....oh that is my school teacher glaring at me, my Maths teacher. Maths was a nightmare, it still is.


”When will you learn Maths, you nincompoop?”


The night was audacious enough to call me names. It was on an unabashed name calling spree.

I threw away my blanket, knuckled away sleep kinks from my eyes, and headed towards my terrace. 
Ah what a delectable overhead bonanza! The dawn was still an hour away, the darkness still held sway.
The sky was a grey shawl with sequined embroidery appearing as though a great tailor had been at work, moulding silhouettes with dollops of imagination, and loads of inspiration.

What a heavily embellished ensemble it was, flaunting a crescent moon, gemstones and diamonds- a smorgasbord of twinkling brightness. .

Hey, who was that in the distance, that tiny speck peddling away in my direction? I rubbed my eyes, trying to see clearly.


A tin box welded to a creaking, ramshackle bicycle, and wonderful smells erupting from the box. A man hunched over the bicycle, humming an old off-key song and peddling away. The breadvala of yesteryears had appeared.

Through the alleyways of unfamiliar and dangerously dense woods, those childhood resonances ferry me across years, blurring boundaries, blurring time. 


I am at the threshold of my childhood home, talking animatedly and gesticulating wildly to the breadvala-a tall, affectionate looking man, forehead creased in lines, which were meant to be read between. 


And I, proud to be labelled a voracious reader read nothing else but immense love in those lines on the forehead, endless warmth even in the coldest of days . 
The cycle would creak to a halt outside our house, he would ring the bell on his bicycle....tring tring tring, and we would rush out.


“Look, Baby, how fresh these cakes are-fresh from the bakery-and these chocolate pastries- have you ever seen such mouth watering cookies? “And he would pick up one cookie and thrust it into my mouth. 


With the cookie in my mouth, and a pastry in the hand, I would skip back into the house- the happiest person on earth.


Life then was all about pastries and cakes -lots of chocolates for me to eat, lots of cold drinks and lots of sweets......yes, it really was lovely !Bliss it was when a mere muffin or a cream -slathered pastry could send one into a tizzy . 

Today, one smell wafting across to me from a golden era had decimated the demons.

Travelling from the yesterdays, a breadvala had suddenly appeared, sloughing away the wrinkles of the present and smoothening my tomorrows lovingly . 
The morning was just a few hours away.

Table of Contents, March 2017

Poetry by Lopa Banerjee

Lopa Banerjee

The River Dark, The River Deep

The rivulet, the gushing stream bounced and swayed
Like a colicky infant.
Didn’t I love you, sleeping in your banks, pure?
Hiding myself so deftly in your little pockets of silence?
Why then, today, when I ran to touch you, hot, raw, burning,
You ran away instead, fearing my coagulated blood,
my frozen tears, my milk stuck on your door-frame, my breath,
shot up, in spurts, that has known you like the grandma’s old tale,
Like the lone, dazzling truth?


Come, enter through my rich brown, derelict doors,
Still open for you. Settle slowly amid the thickets,
Soaking in the smudged, docile light setting in,
The skyline of my wants still eager, firm with primroses,
Brown, yet not dying still, with music, sharp, yet blurry,
The details obscured, yet the pleading, the little lightning
Robust, plump, hammering.
Will you burn it, like the rest of my thwarted dreams galore,
The pregnant ashes of my sighs
that once I had closed your palms with?


Like the stubborn, wailing infant, eyes rolling, fingers tossed,
You had wanted small tufts of the dried, golden grass
Growing mammoth, fleshy, in a mountainous pile.
Today, between my calloused palms, the ashes dwindle,
And let out an air, musky, choking, yet again.
The verdant spring, the primroses, the half-baked love songs
Burn me like the old, bloody embers, the fungi strong, shadowy
Smeared all over like a beauty in continuum.
Come over, do not run, what is there to hide?
Lie down, flat, on my back, as I float on your scalding waters,
Doused with the dark grey of our self-same songs.


Primal

Note: For all of womanhood and our blood that brings forth generations. A chain of poems that started in The Significant League, an online literary group in Facebook.

For years, I have breathed in the
dingy hollow of my own blood,
Trembling, gasping, clutching at the skinny edges of myself.


For years, we have cracked open
Praying the whirlpool gets a nobler name, praying it does not strain us,
lapping at the shores of our thighs
we have so much strived to hide.


Today I listen to the deep-throated music of my own blood,
Naked, primal, alive.
I listen to it, watching it return in cycles.


I am sucked into the dense clouds
And wet earth of my being,
I am free, I sing, swirling in
spirals of a woman, menstruating, unabashed.


For 'A Doll's House and For All Women

Note: This small poem is my humble dedication to Henrik Ibsen, his phenomenal play ‘A Doll’s House’, and to all of us women folks.

Good, good heavens,
My beautiful, happy home!
Who calls you 'A Doll's House'?
A self-loathing of debt
A pinch of punctuality, a tinge of engagement.
Who calls you 'A Doll's House'?
The messed laundry,the maimed laughter
The sweet scent of prayers that you slaughter
Who calls you 'A Doll's House'?
The burnt garlic, the half-cooked onion smirk,
At a quiet cranny, Nora's crochet and embroidery lurk.
Who calls you 'A Doll's House'?
Nora's starved essence, her miracles and crushing blows?
Ibsen squints from his cold grave.

Table of Contents, March 2017

Poetry of Pranab Ghosh

Deep Inside You

As you sink deep inside you

Faces emerge from forgotten past

As you sink deep inside you

Pent up emotions are given vent

As you sink deep inside you

Your births and deaths hold you aloft

And illumines your present.

Things should be set right now

Says someone deep inside you.

Poetry Assassinated

Bullet-riddled poetry lies

Scattered in Africa, Middle East.

Poets run for cover; accused of

Blasphemy they are scared to

Even think of their muse.

In daylight he could just see

Her eyes when he meets her

In the local shop. She comes

To buy her groceries every

Wednesday and he

Goes for weekly ration of

Wheet and rice.

His muse, burka-clad was

A fellow student in University

Where they dreamt of radical

Change in society.

Today  there is radical change,

As omnipotent as death.

Even the dead is afraid to lie

On their back with a bullet

Hole in the head. They have all been

Victims of fanaticism, of lust and greed

In the name of Jihad.

People die,

People love,

People live

To write poetry.

Bullet-riddled he lies on footpath

Poetry finds its way to grave!  

Sunshine

As day sinks into the night,

Crickets call and the pain returns.

Wailing Ma looks for relief.

Pain all over her body; muscles

Cramp. With night and old age

Come maladies, diseases you

Have to put up with.

Medicines, every hour, kill.

You want to rebel!

Only if you were

Twenty years younger!

Age and night take rebellion away.

You succumb. You wait for the morning

Breeze to soothe you.

Will the sun shine on her again?

By

Pranab Ghosh

Author’s Bio:Pranab Ghosh is a journalist, blogger and poet. His poems have been published in Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, Literature Studio Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Leaves of Ink, Hans India among others. He writes short stories too. He has co-authored a book of poems, Air & Age. He has translated a book of Bengali short stories into English. The name of the book is Bougainvillea And Other Stories. He, at present, lives in Kolkata, India. He can be contacted at pranabg2008@gmail.com.

Table of Contents, March 2017

Poetry by Anwer Ghani

Anwer Ghani

Our Days

Our days are mirrors of our souls and their smiles are the chants of the love, The night kisses are just echoes of the morning roses. They will be white if the birds of our hearts are cloudless, and will be gray if our images are hard.  They may show you the laugh  or the tears and you should remember that their flowers can't open their eyes in a hazy sky. Our days are warmhearted; if their coldness burned your cheek in the morning, their breeze will be amazing in the night.

Our Earth

The colors of our trees tell you the story. This earth is our  heritage and without any delay, we disappeared in her fragrance. We are swimming in her lakes like a fish and drown in her smiles as a sunset . Our earth has lucent wings and her birds wear white coat, so you can imagine her beauty. 

Our Boat

Here is our white boat. Where our dreams chanting their songs and our happy moments blossom. Its warm woods appease my heart, and draw on my pulse a butterfly searching your face. When you feel my husk in your hands, and when you see my soul flying dreamily in front of your eyes, at that moment you should remember our boat.

Table of Contents, March 2017

The Burren - Fiction

Mark Cornell

- Mark Cornell

This was the last part of the County to explore. Kathryn had been told that somewhere around here lay the bones of her great grandmother. She shivered as the lunar landscape opened up around her. Brendan pointed his skinny hand across to a handful of deserted cottages on the crest of a distant grey hill.

The Youth Hostel was a run down manor house. It had a note on the front door saying the owner was away, but travelers were still welcome to stay. Kathryn staggered upstairs, crossed a ward lined with bunk beds then tossed her pack onto the bed closest to the bay window. She dragged a lounge chair across the wood floor towards the window to collapse into what felt like the softest cushion of her journey. She listened to the hissing ocean.

Kathryn saw Brendan march down a trail that led to the beach. A bloated sun was plunging into the Atlantic. Red flares of sunlight flooded the horizon. An image of her Auntie Dolly suddenly came into Katherine’s mind. Silver haired Auntie Dolly, was bouncing a tiny Kathryn on her skeletal knee. Her warbling voice telling Kathryn she should be proud to have Bushranger blood coursing through her veins. Auntie

Dolly’s uncle was Joe Byrne, Ned Kelly’s lieutenant.

She struggled on her aunt’s lap when she was shown sepia photographs taken of Joe the day after they killed him. His body was strung up like a puppet; his hands were scorched by the fire that burnt down Glenrowan Inn. Those charred fingers had once scrawled a defense of the Kelly Gang, and written ballads for the little people. Those fleshy stumps, had squeezed the trigger to blow away his old mate, Aaron, to Christ knows where.

Hazy memories, dead auntie Dolly’s unfulfilled dream to get back to County Clare. Kathryn had forked out many a pound note to spend the day sifting through birth and death certificates. She and a silent Brendan had explored graveyards dotted with weeping angels and Celtic crosses, to find no record of the Byrne’s.

Brendan hunched over an open fire, slurping and stirring a pot of soup. Red embers flared each time the arctic wind rushed down the chimney.

His glazed eyes mirrored the flames as he murmured away to himself. A yawning, stretching Kathryn suddenly floated through the doorway. She quietly knelt down next to the flames.

‘G’day sleepy head. How’s it going? ’ Brendan’s weather beaten face crinkled when he smiled.

‘I’ve had the best sleep of our trip. No snoring or smelly armpit tourist disturbed me. How was it down there? ’ Kathryn yawned again.

‘It was bloody amazing. The sun reflected off the mountains and sea, everything merged into red. I’ve still got blind spots in front of my eyes. I wrote four poems while you slept.’ Brendan rubbed the black stubble on his chin.

He leant down towards Kathryn and began to stroke her long dark hair.

‘Your ears are on fire, it’s what’s his face. He’s sending words, twelve thousand miles across the ocean. He’s saying come back home to the nest of wealth acquiring drones.’

‘Just leave it, eh? I’m over here with you. Isn’t that enough for God’s sake? ’ Kathryn took a swig from Brendan’s Guinness bottle. He chuckled then turned back to nurse the soup.

A lighthouse from an island across the sea suddenly lit up. Their room flared with white light at regular intervals. Kathryn sipped Brendan’s soup. She recalled the way David, her husband, squirmed on the edge of the couch when confronted with the Byrne family for the first time. His puzzled, ‘ You understand that gobbledygook ? ’ after Kathryn translated her sister’s toddler language for him. She thought of David’s snooty response to Kathryn’s father, Brian, who chain-smoked and nattered about the gee-gees. She remembered the silence of the streets of Templestowe, after the swarm of voices at the Housing Commission Estate. And David, always outside when the Byrne’s visited, pretending to do renovations to their house that looked like a Masonic lodge.

Brendan nodded towards the window, ‘That’s the Aran Isle out there.’ Kathryn looked up to see the islands’ cottage lights trace fluid trails on the black sea. Brendan scoured his dog-eared map. ‘ I reckon this town we’re in is Fanore, Katie.’

Kathyrn remembered how she’d rediscovered her childhood friend,

Brendan sleeping in a bus stop in Templestowe. He was living like a gypsy and studying literature, in a decayed old weatherboard cottage on the back blocks of one of the last orchards. ‘ Stuffed if I know,’ was his response when she asked him what he wanted to do with his degree.

‘Listen !’ Brendan suddenly shouted one night to David and Kathryn. His brown eyes were wild with excitement. The melody of a Willy Wagtail drifted through their dining room window. Brendan went out to the front nature strip to sit below an old man gum tree. Kathryn followed him.

‘This place used to be teeming with these little fellas, until those bastard developers came along and pulled every tree down. Look after him Kathryn eh ? He’s the last of his mob.’ The dancing bird sang beneath a canopy of stars. They sat outside for hours; talking and watching the north wind brush the night sky. David’s television threw its blue sheen along the marble hallway behind the screen door.

Kathryn floated in and out of sleep. Sometimes she’d see the peat collapse into grey mounds of soot. At one stage she saw a silhouette squatting in front of the fire. ‘ Is that you Bren? ’ Kathryn leant up. The shade turned to face her. Kathryn sensed it was female. It silently went back to study the dying fire.

‘You remember your dreams once you’re away from work,’ Brendan said to her the next day. Their old bomb of a car put-putted up a rocky ridge. His dark eyes stared up at the sun which was a feint orange smudge behind a wall of mist.

‘Last night I dreamt I stepped up into the sky. I felt I had springs on my shoes. I soared over a flat grey landscape. I felt strangely detached as I flew like a phantom towards a yellow smoking sun. That detachment’s been haunting me all morning. ’ Kathryn’s forehead wrinkled. She stared at rocks that squatted like sentinels on top of a distant hill. A nearby cottage merged into a broth of low-lying cloud.

‘Turn right up here, I reckon that’s the ringfort, jutting out like a pimple on the edge of that mountain.’

Brendan tossed his map into the back seat. Kathyrn turned the car to crawl along a white road full of ruts. Rain bands swept in from the powder blue ocean.

Brendan and Kathryn resembled a pair of monks while they staggered around the walls of the ringfort in their black raincoats.

‘What can you see Bren ? ’ she shouted through the wind. He didn’t reply. A burst of rain forced Kathryn back into the car. When she last saw Brendan, he was leaning down to poke his head into the beginning of an underground passageway.

Kathryn squinted through the streaming windscreen towards the figure of someone slowly coming towards the car. It was an old man shuffling along a stone path, she could just make out his ancient black cap and oak walking stick. His clay-coloured face looked like it had been chiseled out of the local rock. He raised his stick towards the car, then muttered in a sing song voice, ‘ Hello lass, you look like you’re a long ways from home, what brings you here? ’

‘We’re exploring the fort. ’ Kathryn wound down the car window.

‘Oh me fort, oh well you’re most welcome to have a look around.’

As she stepped out of the car, the old man slowly turned his watery  blue eyes to the now clearing sky and uttered, ‘We’re standing in the belly of a glacier lass.’

‘What do you mean ? ’ Kathryn peered towards a band of mist that had enveloped the ringfort, Brendan wasn’t around.

‘During the old days, a glacier stretching hundreds of miles from the north, sat here like a white giant, carving out the Burren. There’s still some arctic flowers to be found, if you spot blue star shaped wildflowers perching in the rock shelves you’ll know that’s them.’

‘The Burren, The Burren,
where the green roads do run,
over hill, over dale they sing
tales of the magical ring.’

The ditty her father used to sing in the shower, suddenly popped into her mind. Kathryn studied the old man’s face while he spoke; he had the same huge brow and square head she’d seen in photographs taken of her great grandfather in Melbourne, after he’d stepped of the boat from Ireland.

‘ My name’s Kathryn Byrne.’
‘ Mine’s Tom O’Loughlan. How do you do child ? ’
‘ Do you know any Byrne’s in this neck of the woods ? ’
‘ No, most of them left for the New World many moons ago.’

Jesus, Kathryn thought to herself, I’ve searched everywhere in this God forsaken County, not finding one member of my bloody family. Was Aunty Dolly right, or was she a notorious yarn spinner like all the Byrnes ? Sensing her disappointment, the old man mumbled, ‘Doesn’t matter anyways child, home is where the heart is.’

Brendan suddenly appeared out of nowhere, jumping over a maze of potholes towards them. Yellow strips of sunlight chased shadows over the silver ridges behind him.

‘So what do you think of our Burren? A lot of travelers hate this place. ’

‘It reminds me of the desert country where I was born.’ Brendan’s curly black hair blew in the wind. ‘I love the stillness…the only thing you hear is the sound of the wind whistling through stone.’

A wren hovered overhead; its intense medley wove through their conversation. They finally parted company when another wall of dark cloud loomed nearby. ‘ Looks like a black wind’s on her way, ’ warned Tom as they said their farewell.

‘ Did you hear Tom call the wren the king of all birds? ’ Kathyrn shook her head.

‘ That’s because they reckon he was in a competition with all the other birds to see who could fly the highest. He hitched a ride on the back of a stronger bird. When the other bird tired the wren soared off and beat everybody else. I admire the little fella. ’ Brendan put his rainbow-coloured beanie on his head. A sudden downpour of rain clattered on the roof of their car.

‘ Old Tom reminded me of your granddad Katie, the way he’d point out things to us. Like the night he told us, when we were little kids, that magpies are the spirits of our dead relatives. Or if you look hard enough you can see the face of God in a full moon. ’ Kathryn thought of how David used to ridicule her, everytime she tried to share her grandfather’s insights with him.

The Atlantic droned as Brendan crawled out of their bed. She watched his huddled shadow merge into the darkness of the doorway. His thoughts were of the afternoon, and how he’d managed to crawl into a tiny chamber of the ringfort. Brendan recalled when he knelt down and placed his ear on the ancient fortress wall to listen to the wind’s tune. He made out his book in the crimson light. Brendan tossed more peat onto the fire. The flames caressed away the chill in his fingers. He sat and watched the moonlight revealing the outline of a distant peninsula. The Aran Isle lighthouse illuminated the pages of his book; Brendan composed a poem.

Kathryn spent the next morning in Ennis. ‘B, B, Bloody B.’ She muttered while she thumbed through yellow cardboard records of the families of Clare. ‘ Barrett, Boyle, Brady.’ Flick, went the cards under her angry hands. ‘Buckley, Burns, God where are you? I’ve blown another twenty quid on these useless bloody records. Butler, Byrne! Resident of Fanore !’

‘So this is it eh? ’ a gasping Brendan asked, as they staggered up a nearby hill. The clay coloured ocean below them churned.

‘ The graveyard’s behind these empty cottages you pointed to when we first came into Fanore.’ They walked past the shattered homes and stumbled through a stone ring, towards a clump of weather-beaten tombstones. The rain and wind had defaced the inscriptions.

‘ She’s supposed to be here somewhere, Mary Byrne !’ Images of her dead relatives swirled around her head. Her giggly grandmother, Leila, with her generous kisses, the way she’d talk through her nose when she’d had a bit to drink. (‘ You do the same Katie ’ Brendan once observed.) Her bull-headed grandfather, Alan, splashing around their back-yard pool chasing Kathryn’s little sister, unaware his exposed testicles were dangling out of his shorts. The way her grandfather used to call David a Methodist wowser. The hurt look on Alan’s face when she once angrily replied, ‘ I married him because he’s a gentleman, not a pig like you and your bloody son.’

‘Doesn’t matter Katie.’ Brendan took his beanie off. ‘ Unlike my family, the important thing is you found her.’

‘ No I haven’t, you can’t read the tombstones I don’t know which one she is.’

‘ Yes, but you know her spirit’s here.’

A cormorant dived into the ocean below her. The Burren mountains began to slowly turn from a rust colour into silver. The wind blew through Brendan’s hair while he picked a handful of tiny blue flowers and sprinkled them over the graves. Kathyrn rubbed the knot in her stomach.

She leant into the jet’s window. The coastal city’s light reminded her of an amoeba. The neon glow was eventually swallowed by the darkness of the Indian Ocean. Kathyrn looked at her watch to realize that Brendan would be flying over southern England towards London to find work. She lifted her feet off the cold floor and tucked them under her thighs. Kathryn leant back and stared into the black belly of the sleeping jumbo. Already her journey to the Burren with her absent friend was starting to feel like a dream.

The jet banked. She opened a book she’d bought in Ennis. A blue gentian and a foolscap page fell onto her lap. She stroked the flower and squinted through the cabin light to read Brendan’s poem:

Wind Gifts

Moonlight straddles the edge

of the dark peninsula,

curling ribbons of white 

swell to break this leaden darkness.

Waxing winds coil through 

the shattered shore stones, hissing 

tidal songs coldly brew 

behind our glowing faces leaning

for relief into the flaring hearth:

whistling tunes flow from our thawing hearts.

Kathryn sent ‘Wind Gifts’off to publishers. It took a couple of years to get into print. Brendan never replied to her letter announcing the good news. The last she ever heard of him, he was working in a cannery somewhere along the Dingle Peninsula. She’d kept her promise to him not to return to David. She remembered the shrieking seagulls, as he waved from the ferry taking him to the Aran Isle. She recalled his brown face merging into the purple light of dusk. He’ll soon lose that sad look on his face, she told herself; not realising this was the last time she’d see Brendan.

Table of Contents, March 2017

Setu Special: Modern Uzbek Writing

Sunil Sharma

Welcome again!

March comes with its own flavor. You can smell fragrance in the air---announcing the arrival of mild spring, especially in India. In Mumbai, it heralds the transition to the hot, humid and windy summer that carries its own charm for the poetic of the species. The March issue of Setu is dipped in the variegated colours and scents of nature---the primary source of serious writing across time and space. It also has an added exotic flavor imported from Uzbekistan. Curated by young poet-translator-journalist Asror Allayarov, the Modern Uzbek Writing is sheer aesthetic delight. The prose and poetry selections reflect the changing realities of that country in a most telling way. You can hear the soul of the nation breathing. Aspirations, nationalism and realism blend well in these excellent translations by Asror. We thank him for his commitment and efforts to popularize his nation’s modern literature through English to a global audience.

Senior editor Rob Harle continues to contribute richly to the ongoing evolution of Setu by his signature pieces. This time, it is a singular visual essay---photo feature--- on the interaction of Zen and the medium of sculpture. Through photographs of his long journey as a world-class sculptor-poet-philosopher, the venerable Australian unfolds his own inner self through these sculpted objects that are simultaneously, both superb art and a way of living life, coalescing in a single moment of creation that inspires a sense of profound harmony and affinity with nature. The solitude of the Nimbin Valley where he resided for years with his artist spouse---now the famous Harles have moved from the bush to Lismore---helped a lot in realizing the liberal-humanist vision of a Westerner who had eagerly embraced Zen for its contemplative, non-logo- centric and calming features. Zen, for Rob, is a sure- shot path to spiritualism rooted in nature. It is his chosen mode of critiquing excessive consumption and destruction of natural resources for unchecked greed for more profits, as witnessed in developed economies. Zen spells balance for the thinker artist.

Michael R. Burch is the author of the month. Michael---Mike for friends and fans---is a fantastic poet from Nashville, Tennessee. He edits The HyperTexts, an online journal promoting the best of culture through writings from across the world. With background in computer science, this American poet, so far published more than 2, 500 times, is an activist and accessible public figure out to defend the humanism, now in much danger in every country.

Such saner voices like Michael are urgently needed to counter the Alt-right and all the Politics of Untruth.

Veteran author Atreya Sarma has been equally supportive. This time he translates a great story by the noted Telugu author Mantha Bhanumathi. Translations, like bilingual or polyglot authors, connect as a Setu, divergent cultures. Atreya is doing that through his writings of various types.

Poet-scientist Gopal Lahiri delves into his immediate world and comes up with words that define us with our contexts: An author revealed!

Rest of the literary space is also brilliant and multi-hued, like the third month of the year.

Talking of March and not talking of March Hare will look a bit incongrous.

Here, a dialogue has stayed on for decades; a simple conversation that says a lot on the process of writing, truth, intention and execution; in brief, on the very nature of human communication:

'Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?' said the March Hare.

'Exactly so,' said Alice.

'Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on.

'I do,' Alice hastily replied; 'at least — at least I mean what I say — that's the same thing, you know.'


Lot of cool stuff!

So, go ahead, please and ENJOY!
Sunil Sharma
Editor,
Setu, English

Table of Contents, March 2017

Poems by Michael Burch

Michael R. Burch

Autumn Conundrum

It’s not that every leaf must finally fall,
it’s just that we can never catch them all.

Piercing the Shell

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

Something 

for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality has swept into a corner, where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

How Long the Night

anonymous Old English Lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Love Has a Southern Flavor

Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle’s spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume ...

Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines ...

Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations’ dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree’s
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight ...

Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.

Table of Contents, March 2017

On a wet Sunday morning

Dr Sunil Sharma

Light rain. Standing on the bridge, indifferent to the vehicular traffic a small thin figure, drenching in the rain. A local train coming hurtling down the wet gleaming tracks. In the distance, the phantom of far-off bridge looming. On the left side, apartments yellowish and weather-beaten, standing like solid square of concrete-and-glass. Ugly and  ordinary. Behind the bridge, hills like a clenched fist, in the rainy mist rolling down. A gentle breeze.

Another local train, going towards Mumbai, shuddering and galloping on the tracks. A green light. Tracks, silent now,stretching into dim horizon.

The figure, a young man, hungry-looking  and thin, watching the trains rolling by under the bridge, in the rain. Standing alone, getting wet, deaf to a light traffic passing on the bridge, watching the trains moving up and down, in the rain. He is the Gurkha, the watchman of a building, who comes often to the bridge and watches the train for an hour or so with a child- like curiosity. Trains, ferrying   thousands  of people to locations different, to dreams multi-coloured. A hamlet, tucked away in Nepal, in the shadows of' the mount Everest, drenching in the rain of Sawan, obscured in the mist, with fires burning in the humble hearths, songs bursting from the souls of the pining maidens in the orchards, people dancing In the rain high on the local liquor. Clouds, kissing the sacred peaks, and pouring out heavenly water on the small villages, weaving magic in the dark-gray-skies, with soft winds whistling and light darkness falling. A symphony unique. The man, watching the trains rolling by below his small  feet, on the bridge, indifferent to the sounds at the vehicles racing up and down, on this Sunday morning.

In his fourth - floor 3 B H K flat, lying sprawled on the hard bed on his stomach, a clerk is reading a thriller. Immersed in the book, the short and fat man, unaware of his environs, is in a dark alley in Cairo, where two hired assassins are lurking in the shadows, waiting for their deadly victim: a C.I.A. undercover agent, who is expected to emerge from the house of his Egyptian mistress at any minute now. The small alley looks unearthly at 2 P.M. It is a warm night. The alley is in a seedy section of Cairo and totally in shadows. A perfect place  for murder. There are two cars at the two ends of the dark alley. Small and run - down cars where four assassins, in pairs of two, are sitting patiently, commanded by a Yankee going by the name Scorpion.  They are ready to ambush and kill their prey. Tonight, hisses the thin Scorpion in cold voice, otherwise we are all dead meat. They will wait halt an hour more. It he does not come down, we will take that bastard in the flat, snarls the Yankee In a voice that sends a chill down the spine of other members. They had seen the agent, walking into the apartment - building, in the evening. The agent was looking like an Arab from a distance, wearing the traditional headgear and flowing white robes, painfully hobbling on a cane. An ordinary Arab, in an ordinary street, now back home. The team was waiting, itching to lay bands on the man who bad busted a drug racket of their Turkish boss. But, unknown to the surveillance teams parked in the twisted Oriental alley, the agent was watching them from the opposite terrace of a dilapidated building, home to the lower class families of porters, cooks and peons. He had slipped outside in a burka three-to-four hours ago carrying a small laundry and a basket, not an unusual sight, in that poor street of unlit lamps, broken pavements, stinking garbage. The agent, code-named Carlos, was as dangerous and ruthless a man as was his namesake, the dreaded Venezuelan Carols or the Jackal. He was a master at disguises and carried enough ammunition to blow up an entire neighborhood. His seniors at Langley called him a walking arsenal and an efficient, cold killing machine. He was pulled out of semi-retirement from a life of a decent businessman at a small town near Texas, an anonymous town dotting the American map like any other middle-class town of 6,000 people or so - a perfect hiding place for an ex-C.I.A. operative with a now identity and a business to save him from any possible enemy or enemies that might settle score by killing him - and pressed into this last assignment,    on the oral "orders" of the president himself. He still remembered the rich, husky voice of the top executive of the nation: Mr. Carlos, do it for America. One last time, we need    you   He had felt electrified and said, Yes, Mr. President.   The orders were clear: bust the drug syndicate called Hydra.  Kill the top guys. Cripple the whole operation that ships billions   of      dollars' heroine into the states and then that stuff hits the streets of America, killing her young children by degrees.

What the hell that bastard is doing up there, snarled the big Yankee assassin in a southern drawl, where the hell that bastard is? The answer came in the form of a bullet, shot from close range that travelled through the open window of the car and killed the big Yankee In a second. Before his bewildered Arab companion could comprehend, a dark figure sprang up near the car-window, silent as tiger on the prowl, and pressed the trigger of his revolver fitted with silencer. The next bullet caught the Arab wide - eyed and terrified. It entered and exited through the waiting assassin's wild heart. A neat hole gaped there hideously.

The hunt had begun. The hunter had become hunted. Carlos smiled silently. He remembered Hoover's words: C.I.A., remember, is white America's Imperialism at its deadliest and ruthless. You challenge American hegemony and get your ass blown off, without even realizing it during those brief seconds. Carlos muttered, here I come, bastards, to teach you the power of the American imperialism. And he blended in the shadows, a tiger stalking its victim…

Take your breakfast, honey. I will eat it later on.

What are you doing sprawled on the bed?
Oh, I am reading an English thriller.

Cannot you do anything else on Sunday mornings, dear?
We have only Sunday mornings.

Do not disturb, yaar. An  exciting book. Edge - of - the - seat excitement.

I am the only one doing the breakfast. This is my lot now. Kitchen, children,  and kitchen. No change.

Oh, come on! Do not start nagging me. Be my good girl. Let me finish the novel—it is so—o ex—citing!.

The voice of the child coming from the living room. T.V. is on. A cartoon network showing  Tom and Jerry series. The child, excited,    yelling and laughing before the T.V. set. Is It Jerry or Tom.   Tom and Jerry?

Well, who bothers?

And the bored spouse resumes her dull kitchen job on this wet, Sunday morning.

A few blocks down the pot - holed, garbage - strewn road, a tall thin man sitting in a bar and watching the rain streaming down. Alone on his table; surrounded by soda bottles, papad, -whisky bottle, he drinking and smoking, cocooned in a haze of alcohol and smoke. Outside, the day looks dark gray and dull.

The rain has created a pulsating shoot of water between the earth and the heaven.

And who bothers, they care for money, all of then. Here, I am, here in the bar, a regular, the whisky the only passport to lands distant. The wife and kids, a big house full of  things. The wife reading  magazines. The kids talking over the phone / listening to music  / going out with friends in their second car. He leaving early and returning late from the Fort office. Commuting in the locals. Cattle cars. Bored commuters, tired sweaty, sitting standing, blank - eyed. Evenings most horrible. The kids watching T.Y., wife preparing the meals, and he, in the regular bar, downing pegs, in a haze of smoke, opposite a silent man, both drinking and smoking, close yet remote. And then he remembers the happy past while sitting in the bar:

Many years ago, in a different age and setting, the pouring rain cascading down their faces and bodies, the father and son walking down a deserted small- town street. Open-fields weaving  in and out, in a flat country. A temple, near the street, & neem tree sprouting from the ground.

Aren't the rains wonderful, son?
Yes, papa. I love rains.
Why? Papa?
They bring heavenly nectar. God sends down these waters to his children.
Why?
So that the earth children  should not starve or feel thirsty.
Does God exist, papa?
Yes, Sonny.
Where does he live?
He lives everywhere.
Have you seen him?
Yes.
Where?
In you, in others.
In me.
Yes, all of us are his children.
Can I see him?
Why not? Work hard. Do your duties. Love others. He will show Himself.

They sitting now in the temple courtyard. Everywhere the rain dancing around. Grey mist gliding down the open fields. Far off, a train whistling down in the thick rain, emitting clouds. The temple courtyard, a father and a 14-year-old boy sitting together, in a flat country, empty. Two human beings. In a deserted place with  no other soul in evidence. Father, all wet, thinking. Son, watching him and  the nectar falling from the heavens. And, suddenly, father breaking out into a folk song:

Aaya sawan umad - ghumad nache re man ka mor,
ab lott  kay aaja  balamawa-
bahut diwas reh liye tum ab pardes...

His deep musical   voice, rising up above the din drumming about, echoing in the covered temple courtyard,  empty except the duo filling the sacred space with sadness. He mesmerised, staring at father. The tall muscular man, singing bef ore the decorated gods, in full ecstasy, tears running down his hollow cheeks. Rains ... the gods ... the flooded open fields ... a man singing in a musical voice booming in the yard... A train chugging away in the distance, smoke curling up...

Later on Ma chided papa. The boy is all wet. To the bones. He may fall ill. Papa only smiled...

Another drink... The bar becoming oppressive ... Gulping down the peg and lighting up another cigarette...

Five years ago, papa critical at the native place. He was in Singapore. Finalizing some projects. Returning two days later, driving a distance of 900 K.M. overnight, reaching the modest house of the younger brother... Papa, papa, I have come... A life less, old body, wrapped up in white, lying on the bare cement floor, eyes closed and nostrils filled up with flowers. Hands, that once stroked, now  mere bones. Papa, once powerful and handsome in a rugged way, now awfully shrunk. A bundle of  old bones and parchment.

Sing, papa, sing
     I have come back to meet you...
     Sorry, I couldn't come early...
     Sing that song... Talk to me…
     Look at your first-born son ... say a few words...

In answer, Ironically, -the same rain hissing and lashing the covered verandah and the few mourners, consoling the crying son ... the whistle of a thundering train in the background...

chal khusro ghar aapne…


The bar, now spinning. The man, paying the bill, walking out on unsteady legs. Outside, the slanting  rain, coming down heavily from a dark-gray sky. Black clouds, ominous, stretching across the sky,

Oh such a rotten day! A young man, standing under cover, saying to his bored companion. No traffic on the main street. The rain drops hitting the tar road ferociously and bouncing off. The man, walking down in the rain, moving  towards the edge of the town.

...The father and the son...the temple-courtyard...father singing before the gods...many years ago.

Semi-naked children , gambolling in the rain, splashing in the puddles, screaming and laughing. The children  of the slums.

At the edge, a small temple,  with a covered verandah. The man, now perched on the low parapet, crying and hoarsely singing in the empty courtyard:

ab laut aao balamawa
bahut diwas reh liye tum ab pardesh...

... On a wet Sunday morning...

(Courtesy: Creative Saplings)

Table of Contents, March 2017

Na Kisi Ki Aankh ka Noor Hoon - Bahadur Shah Zafar

 Ghazal by Bahadur Shah Zafar – A Translation by Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy

Padmaja Iyengar 'Paddy'

न किसी की आँख का नूर हूँ
न किसी के दिल का करार हूँ
जो किसी के काम न आ सका
मैं वो एक मुश्त-ए-गुबार हूँ

Neither am I the light of anyone’s eyes
Nor am I the peace for any heart’s sighs
I am just that fistful of mud
Of no use to anyone, a dud

न तो मैं किसी का हबीब हूँ
न तो मैं किसी का रकीब हूँ
जो बिगड़ गया वो नसीब हूँ
जो उजड गया वो दयार हूँ

Neither am I anyone’s pal
Nor am I anyone’s rival
I am a destiny gone haywire
I am a place deserted entire

मेरा रंग रूप बिगड़ गया
मेरा यार मुझसे बिछड़ गया
जो चमन  खिज़ा में उजड गया
मैं उसी की  फसले-बहार हूँ

Disfigured is my appearance
Separated am I from friends
I am that garden’s spring-bloom
That’s ruined by autumn’s gloom

पए फातिहा कोई आये क्यूँ
कोई चार फूल चड़ाए क्यूँ
कोई आके शम्मा जलाये क्यूँ
में वो बेकसी का मज़ार हूँ

Why should anyone at my grave pray
Why should anyone on it flowers spray
Why should anyone on it a lamp light
For I am a tomb of such a blight

Table of Contents, March 2017 :: अनुक्रमणिका, मार्च 2017

Ajit Kumar in a conversation with Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

Photo Courtesy – Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis is an Indian-American Poet, Filmmaker and Actor of East Indian descent based in the United States. She was born in Gaya, Bihar, India in a Hindu family. Right from the childhood, she had a great influence of Buddhism on her. She was educated at Magadh University Bodhgaya and New York Film Academy at the Universal Studios in Hollywood. She began her career as a writer and lecturer of Political Science. She also worked as an actress and a model, before turning to the film directing. She has produced a wonderful collection of poems, Bare Soul in English, nominated for the 2017 “Nazi Naaman Literary Award” and three collections of poems in Hindi. Kalpna received a great success as a writer at a very young age. She won the prestigious “Bihar Rajbhasha Award” (1986-87) for her first poetry collection Chand Ka Pavand (Patch of Moon). She also received the “Rajiv Gandhi Global Excellence Award” in 2014 in New Delhi, for her contributions to literature and film at national and international levels. She was nominated for “Honor of Yeast Litteraire” by French magazine “Levure Litterarie” in 2014, where she also served on the Editorial Board.

Kalpna’s poetry collections have received praise from eminent writers, scholars and critics such as Nobel prize nominees Dr. Wazir Agha, Naseer Ahmad Nasir, Vaptsarov Award and Ordre des Arts et des Lettres winner poet Amreeta Pritam, Academy Award winning lyricist, poet and filmmaker Gulzar, Gyanpeeth Award winner poets Kedarnath Singh, Shaharyar and others. Her fourth poetry collection, Bare Soul was among the top 10 best selling American Poetry, and top 27th bestselling World Poetry on Amazon Kindle in its first year of publication. Her poetry album Touched by the Devil (poetry in paradox) 2011, and her poetry collection Bare Soul are available for the readers and audiences online. Kalpna’s literary works have been widely published in the Indian subcontinent, Middle- East, Europe and North America. Her poetry and its literary criticism have appeared in prominent journals like World Literature Today, California Quarterly, Tiferet Journal, Levure litteraire, The Enchanting Verses, World Poetry, Prairie Light Review, San Diego Reader, Hans, Kadambini, Dharamyug, Saptahik Hindustan, Indraprastha Bharti, Femina and Care just to name a few. She has been interviewed by ABC Channel 7, Voice of America, LA 18, Doordarshan (India’s National Television), KPFK Radio, Aakashvani (India’s National Radio) and has made several headlines in newspapers like The Telegraph, OC Register, Los Angeles Times, Daily Pilot, OC Weekly, Times of India, Navbharat Times, Prabhat Khabar, Indian Express and others. Kalpna’s work as a film director has been recognized worldwide. Her short film Girl with an Accent was screened at many international film festivals and won the “Silver Award” at SMTV Mumbai International Film Festival. Girl With An Accent had its Television Premiere on LA18 TV in California and Hawaii in 2015. Her debut feature Goodbye My Friend (Adios Mi Amigo) world premiered at the Silent River Film Festival, and had its South Asian premiere at the Dhaka International Film Festival in Bangladesh. Goodbye My Friend has also been officially selected at Guwahati International Film Festival (India), LUMS International Film Festival Lahore (Pakistan), Life Fest (Hollywood) and Broadway International Film Festival (Los Angeles) in the United States.

Kalpna is currently working on developing the screenplay of her next feature film All About My Father and shooting her next film Dancing in the Rain (based on a true story), to raise awareness about the issue of honor killing in the Indian Sub-continent and Middle-East. She is also the President and Founder of “Silent River Film Festival” and Editor-in-Chief of “Life and Legends” literary magazine. Bare Soul is her fourth poetry collection, written originally in English. It is a collection of poems about life and love.

Dr. Ajit Kumar in a conversation with poet, actor and filmmaker Kalpna Singh-Chitnis.

Ajit Kumar: Indian-American or Globalized one, we are proud that you were raised and educated in India, and from there emerged as a successful poet, filmmaker and an actor. Could you please share about your early life, family and educational background?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I was born and brought up in a progressive Rajput family in Gaya, Bihar, India. I had my early education at Kendriya Vidyalaya and earned a Master's degree in Political Science from Magadh University, Bodhgaya. I taught international relations to postgraduate students at Gaya College, before coming to the United States in 1994, and getting another degree in Film Directing from the New York Film Academy. I have been writing since the age of fourteen and have published four poetry collections. Acting was my first love. I acted in several plays and television shows in India. I also did some fashion modeling. Now, my family in India lives in Mumbai, and many of my relatives are in the entertainment industry.

Ajit Kumar: Well, let me wish you a “Happy International Women's Day!” How do you look at this day, since it has been a long struggle for women, and the feminists are still fighting for equal rights?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Thank you! It is nice to have a day that celebrates women. On this day, I appreciate anyone who has fought to end gender discrimination and stood for women’s rights. We still have a long way to go in earning equal opportunities, wages and fair treatment in every part of the world. The recent women’s protests in the United States and elsewhere the world are a proof that women are still struggling to protect their rights. The solution is to bring changes from the grassroots level. We must give education to both boys and girls, and provide them equal opportunities to end a biased society, where politicians, religious leaders and lawmakers fail to protect the interest of women. Unless, we treat the other half the world population fairly, we cannot dream of a better world.

Ajit Kumar: What inspires you to write?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Reading is one thing that inspires me to write. But I also draw inspiration from my surroundings and meditation.

Ajit Kumar: Why poetry…why not a novel or drama?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Because first and foremost, I'm a poet. Poetry comes to me naturally. However, I have written several short stories, screenplays and writing a novel now. I also wrote and directed plays, when I was in India. I still write stories, but mostly in the form of screenplays for the films I direct.

Ajit Kumar: In writing a novel, how much is a conscious construction corresponding to your beliefs, and how much is autobiographical?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I'm only working on my very first novel right now. The story is based in India, and it is being written from the perspective of a youth inspired by her childhood memories. This novel is an observation of the social and political climate I was exposed to in my early age, growing up in a small historical town in Bihar. But I try to keep my personal beliefs aside as much as possible, while telling a story of others also.

Ajit Kumar: While writing, do you talk to the readers?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Sometimes I do talk to the readers. Sometimes I talk to myself. And sometimes I talk to people and things unknown.

Ajit Kumar: Do you read something to prepare the background for your poetry?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I do not feel the need to prepare backgrounds for writing poetry. I'm spontaneous and organic in my approach when I write poems. Although, I do read and research when I write prose, and use the references as needed.

Ajit Kumar: Whom do you appreciate the most among the poets and why?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I have a long list of my favorite poets (ancient, classic and modern) from all over the world. Among contemporary poets, I like those who are writing from their heart without worrying about the popular trends and what is selling in the market. I like to read poetry that explores life, reveals its beauty and complexities in simple words and communicate well with the readers.

Ajit Kumar: Kalpna, did you get any idea from some other poet?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I like to stay original in my expressions. I get ideas from my surroundings, not from others. For an example, my first poem was about the impermanence of life. I wrote that poem as a teen, after seeing the red flowers falling from the silk cotton tree on a grave in a Muslim cemetery, that was near my childhood home.

Ajit Kumar: The lines of your poem, “Jungle”, “Let’s rise in gratitude, and blossom like wild flowers” (Singh-Chitnis, Bare Soul 1). And the next, “In the jungle there is no need to pretend, let’s just be, whoever we are,” (Singh-Chitnis, Bare Soul 2) are really inspiring and heart touching poetic creation. What makes you produce such elegant poetry?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Thank you! These lines spoke to me in a state of an analytical meditation. It is a burden for anyone to live a life that is not truthful, or putting a face that is not real. Truthfulness brings vulnerability. But it also brings freedom and allows us to accept ourselves; the way we are. Being in touch with my inner self has often inspired such poetry.

Ajit Kumar: Your emotions are at the peak in “Ancient Quest” when you say, “I wear you like my soul, and become full of life” (Singh-Chitnis, Bare Soul 17). What makes you create such emotional poems?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: What inspires an emotional poem is not running away from emotions, but facing them. I’m glad you liked this poem.

Ajit Kumar: Your first poetry collection “Chand Ka Paivand” (Patch of Moon) came out when you were not even 21. What was it, that asked you to choose poetry writing as your professional interest?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I wrote Chand Ka Paivand (Patch of Moon) between the age of fourteen and nineteen. I did not choose to write poetry, it came to me, and I went with the flow. Only after writing my first poem I realized that I was a poet.

Ajit Kumar: Your poetry collections, “Tafteesh Jari Hai” (The Investigation Continues) and “Nishant” (The Dawn) have received great appreciations not only from the readers but critics, scholars and writers too. How do you view this success?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: When I look back, it is hard to believe that I had the attention of many great writers, scholar and critics, when I was just an emerging poet in India.

Ajit Kumar: Your film Goodbye My Friend and the short film Girl with an Accent have been the heart rendering presentations. First Hindi poetry, then English and finally to films and acting. Was it all a plan or just the flow of life? How do you view it?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I always wanted to be an actor, writer and filmmaker, but I had no plans in place to have a career in film and literature. I studied Political Science, taught in a college, and my father wanted me to join the Indian civil service. But it seems like my dreams had more power. I had my early success as a writer, artist and model in India; and what I was not able to accomplish there, I did after my coming to the United States.

Ajit Kumar: You are a global personality now. Moving from one place to the other, you meet with many readers around the world. From where have you gotten the maximum love for your poetry?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: When I wrote in Hindi, I received much appreciation for my work in India. I can safely say that I also have a readership in the Middle Eastern countries, after my poetry collection, Bare Soul has been translated into Arabic by poet and translator Nizar Sartawi. I have been writing and publishing in English also for quite some time now. But in the west, your work gets more attention when you receive critical acclaims, belong to certain groups and organizations, or have an affiliation with academic institutions. If you have a story to tell that sells well in the western media, (in other words, attracts propaganda and publicity) or fits western narratives, your work is more in demand. Many writers of ethnicity are being stereotypical in their writings, just to get attention. But this idea for some reason never attracted me.

Ajit Kumar: Literature has revolved a lot around the concept of mysticism and realism. What is your philosophy about mysticism and realism?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Both are the two sides of the same coin. What we call mysticism is also a type of realism, that cannot be seen with our naked eyes. And what we call a reality is a deception, as the reality is constantly changing and becoming nothing , or something unknown. I often find it sad to grasp on things that we call real, only to find that everything is constantly changing, and very soon they are no longer the same; at least in a way we thought they were before. Bare Soul poems are the results of these conflicts between understanding and not understanding these phenomenon.

Ajit Kumar: Anything in specific such as love, emotion, gender, nature etc., that you are inclined to write about?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I write about anything that touches my heart and makes my mind wonder.

Ajit Kumar: It would be great for the readers, if you could please share some lines from your collection of poetry!

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: It is hard to pick lines from my own poetry collections. But here are some short poems from Bare Soul:

JUNGLE

The jungle has caves,

but no cages.

It has a freedom unchained,

for everyone.

The jungle has no rules but one,

to have no rules, but disciplines.

The jungle has one language,

only to be heard in the silences,

and its meaning to be discovered

in the outburst of our joy! (4)

RIVER OF SONGS

I opened my eyes
and found poetry before me.

I turned my back on it
to face reality,

ever since I’m transformed into
a river of songs! (6)

           ANCIENT QUEST

When I try to reach you,

you step back;

when I try to let go,

you follow me everywhere...

I don’t know,

whether you are my obsession,

or I’m yours?  (16)

Ajit Kumar: Are you satisfied with your success as a poet?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Success for me is being on my journey, not arriving at a destination. In that sense, I'm satisfied with my success as a poet.

Ajit Kumar: In the postmodern English literature, female authors and poets voice the human rights for women, what do you have to say about it?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Women's rights are human rights. They are not separate from what is known as human rights, as some people think. Women constitute half the population of the world, but they still have limited opportunities. Even in the 21st century women are not receiving equal treatment as men do. They are expected to take care of their family and also work outside to bring financial support. Still, they receive less salary in comparison to men and compromise ranks in work places. Women are also the victims of domestic violence, abuse, rape , human trafficking, etc. . Even the most beautiful and qualified women still pay a dowry to get married in many societies. We cannot make our world a better place by discriminating and dismissing women.

Ajit Kumar: You have won many awards for your writing. How do you feel when you are rewarded and appreciated?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Recognition has brought me satisfaction and appreciation has inspired me to take writing more seriously.

Ajit Kumar: Critics say that your poetry is a reflection of everyday life. How do you react to this?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: More often, it is also about the hidden layers of life.

Ajit Kumar: How is poetry different from other forms of literature?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: Poetry is more subtle. Whereas, other forms of literature are more direct. Poetry is like fragrance in a flower. Whereas, other forms of literature are more distinct in nature, structure and form.

Ajit Kumar: How does fiction affect a society?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: It depends on what kind of fiction we are talking about. A fiction can have both good and bad effects on a society. A fiction may not always deal with our day to day life, but can give readers a break from the harsh realities they see every day. Good fiction can also amplify creativity and imagination and make people stress free. Whereas, lurid, crime and fantasy fictions may have adverse affects on us.

Ajit Kumar: What is for you the difference between your two images – as a creative writer and as a filmmaker?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I do not see them as different. Both share my voice and passion. It is that after writing, my filmmaker takes my work to yet another level, giving audiences an opportunity to view my story through the eyes of a camera, from my filmmaker’s perspective. The only difference is that my creative writer is a reserve person, and my filmmaker is more open and outgoing.

Ajit Kumar: What is your future plan?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I plan to travel, write a number of books, make movies, and enjoy my retreats whenever possible.

Ajit Kumar: Any message for the readers?

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: I'm thankful for their love and attention to my work.

Ajit Kumar: Thank you very much for your time!

Kalpna Singh-Chitnis: My pleasure! Thanks for the opportunity to have this great conversation!

References
Singh-Chitnis Kalpna. Bare Soul. Partridge, India - Penguin Random House - 2015. Print.
--- . Chand Ka Paivand. Ayan Publication, New Delhi, 1986. Print.
---. Tafteesh Jari Hai. Kadambri, Gaya, 1993. Print.
---. Nishant. Publisher: Kadambri, Gaya, 1993. Print.
 *Dr. Ajit Kumar is a lecturer of English in the department of education, Haryana (India). He has presented, edited and written a good number of research papers on gender studies and feminine theories. His latest literary interview with Arundhathi Subramaniam will feature in dialog, the journal, of Panjab University, Chandigarh. 

 Table of Contents, March 2017