Showing posts with label 201712E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 201712E. Show all posts

Yuletide Hope

By Karen O’Leary
Karen O’Leary
I pushed Dad
in his wheelchair
to the lounge to hear
Stanton’s Christmas
Choir Cantata.

Dad and I always
shared the love
of music.  A stroke
left him paralyzed,
in a mute world.

“Please Lord send
us a Christmas miracle.”
Half way through
the program singing,
Joy to the World, Dad
tapped with one
finger on his knee.

I reached out my finger
and Dad wrapped
his around mine,
just like when I
was a little girl.

We were connected
in our hearts.  I could
feel him once again.
With Silent Night,
we were both in tears.
 Bio: Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, ND.  She has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of venues including, Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, Haiku Pix, bear creek haiku, Shemom, Creative Inspirations and NeverEnding Story. She edits an online journal called Whispers http://whispersinthewind333.blogspot.com/ She enjoys sharing the gift of words.

Matsuo Basho’s Creative Haibun: State of the Art


In an article titled, “Make Haibun New through the Chinese Poetic Past: Basho’s Transformation of Haikai Prose” Chen ou Liu suggested, “In my view, maybe it is time for anyone who is interested in writing haibun to re-think Basho's poetic ideal of ‘the unchanging and the ever-changing’ situated in one's own socio-historic-cultural contexts, and to make haibun anew through the poetic past of one's own literary legacy and shared ones from the rest of the world.”1 
     Here is a point to ponder over. Though short verses were available aplenty in many literary societies the creative genre called haibun was perhaps rare; it was a Japanese speciality, a gift from Matsuo Basho (1644-94). Even haiku is known world over as a Japanese genre of short verse. Poets writing haiku and related poems usually relate to the original creations adapted to their respective tongues adhering to the Japanese style and content, to the extent possible. It may not be based on one’s own literary tradition. Regarding the use of past in poems Haruo Shirane wrote, "Basho believed that the poet had to work along both axes. To work only in the present would result in poetry that was fleeting. To work just in the past, on the other hand, would be to fall out of touch with the fundamental nature of haikai, which was rooted in the everyday world. Haikai was, by definition, anti- traditional, anti-classical, anti-establishment, but that did not mean that it rejected the past. Rather, it depended upon the past and on earlier texts and associations for its richness.”2 So past and present both are to be utilised which includes culture of countries but in such creations the Japanese creative force has to be utilised even in the modern context.
     Basho was the key figure who elevated haikai from an entertaining pastime to a respected poetic form. He had developed a set of related poetic ideals widely utilised by his disciples, fellow poets, and successive followers since the mid-1680s.   It looked to the past for inspiration and authority and yet rejected it. It parodied the classical (and Chinese) tradition even as they sought to become part of it. It paid homage to the 'ancients' and yet stressed newness. The haikai Basho created was marked by its freshness though it was not delinked from the Japanese and Chinese past.
     It was after his return from a journey to Oku that Basho became more focused on developing a different style of prose which was infused with a haikai spirit. Around 1690, in a letter to Kyorai, he named this new haikai prose haibun which was characterized by the "prominent inclusion of haikai words (haigon), particularly a combination of vernacular Japanese (zokugo) and Chinese words (kango)."3  
     Though Basho re-established and refined a mixed genre of verse and prose called haibun (haikai prose), leaning on the Chinese past, as exemplified in The Narrow Road to the Interior, it has been opined that haibun had been developed before Basho and written in the form of short essays, such as Kigin's Mountain Well (1648). But its prose style resembled that of classical prose. So though akin to it, it was not considered as haibun proper. After the publication of the first anthology of the new haibun, entitled Prose Collection of Japan, Basho was recognized as the first creator of such a model.
     Basho's haibun are allusive, figurative and are infused with parallel phrases and contrastive words; all of them are used to enhance literary effects and add aesthetic-historical depth to the poems. To have direct experience of his haibun and haiku two quotes are given below from Matsuo Basho’s Oku no Hosomichi in English translation:4
     “The months and days are the wayfarers of the centuries and as yet another year comes round, it, too, turns traveler. Sailors whose lives float away as they labor or boats, horsemen who encounter old age as they draw the horse around once more by the bit, they also spend their days in travel and make their home in wayfaring . . . . As the sky of the new year filled with the haze of spring, I thought of going beyond the Shirakawa Barrier, and so possessed was I by some peripatetic urge that I thought I had an invitation from the god of travelers himself and so became unable to settle down to anything. I mended my underpants, re-corded my rain hat, and took three bits of moxa cautery. I could not put from my mind how lovely the moon must be at Matsushima. I disposed of my property and moved to Sampu’s villa.
My old grasshut
Lived in now by another generation
Is decked out with dolls”
(Translated by Earl Miner from “The Narrow Road Through the Provinces”, in Japanese Poetic Diaries, 1969)
     And
“The passing days and months are eternal travellers in time. The years that come and go are travellers too. Life itself is a journey; and as for those who spend their days upon the waters in ships and those who grow old leading horses, their very home is the open road. . . .
I sold my home and moved into Samp├╗’s guest house, but before I left my cottage I composed a verse and inscribed it on a poem strip which I hung upon a pillar:
This rude hermit cell
Will be different now, knowing Dolls’
Festival as well”
(Translated by Dorothy Britton (A Haiku Journey “Bash├┤’s Narrow Road to a Far Province”, 1980)
     Example from another travel book by Basho is here:
“In his introduction to Narrow Road (18),  Hiroaki Sato translates a passage from  Basho’s Knapsack Notebook, the Oi no Kobumi:
“Heels torn, I am the same as Saigyo, and I think of him at the Tenryu ferry. Renting a horse, I conjure up in my mind the sage who became furious. In the beautiful spectacles of the mountains, field, ocean and coast, I see the achievement of the creation. Or I follow the trails left by those who, completely unattached, pursued the Way, or I try to fathom the truth expressed by those with poetic sensibility.”5
     Basho understood his journeys through a genre he developed from old travel genres.  He refurbished it through his understanding of haiku. In his study of Basho, Makoto Ueda noted the artistic quality of Basho’s prose and opined that Basho’s haibun could be called haiku prose, written in the spirit of haiku. David L Barnhill called them prose poems. But Jamie Edgecombe aptly thought that the complex structure of haiku should keep the poem from being dissolved in the haiku prose.6 So it may be said that the haikuesque prose remains with the haiku making the whole a comprehensive poetry.
     Basho says, “Learn about pines from the pine, and about bamboo from the bamboo.”7
     “The is-ness of a thing is not to be gained through attention to the thing alone. Indeed, is-ness is not the same as the ‘thingness’ of a ‘thing’”, opined Jamie Edgecombe in his “Basho’s Journey: A Rumination” as referred above.8
     “In his essay, Basho’s Poetic Spaces, Barnhill quotes from the poet’s Knapsack Notebook:
     “Saigyo’s waka, Sogi’s renga, Sesshu’s painting, Rikyu’s tea ceremony – one thread runs through the artistic Ways. And this artistic spirit is to follow zoka, to be a companion to the turning of the four seasons. Nothing one sees is not a flower, nothing one imagines is not the moon. If what is seen is not a flower, one is like a barbarian; if what is imagined is not a flower, one is like a beast. Depart from the barbarian, break away from the beast, follow zoka, return to zoka.”9
     Basho journeys or voyages run into the multiple fields of past and present, of persons bygone and existing. He follows their becoming as he exists; he physically journeys across time-space while simultaneously journeying into his existence and the nature of these journey-voyages become a creative process. He follows and returns to zoka, the creative heart of the real. He inhabits travel. Travel becomes a symbol of time and space. In the two haibun referred from Oku no Hosomichi we find that the selling of his hut and its impact is present in both the haiku referred. The works are repetitive and imaginative to some extent. He is concerned about the poetic sensibility and artistic quality, travel being at the height of things in his life. Basho pays little attention to the present, past occupying a greater portion but the past is not mere memory. It is nostalgic, it is mystic. Past contains the future in it as in “Doll’s Festival” or in the mere mention of the dolls. Learning about the pine and bamboo from pine and bamboo refers to the idea of becoming one with them by concentration. The idea of catching the is-ness, thing-ness and I-ness lie in the spiritual sphere to be found in ancient Chinese and Indian sources, specially 
in Taoism, Buddhism and Vedic ideas. Here I refer to one of The Mother’s (A spiritual personality; co-founder of Sri Aurobindo Ashram. Pondicherry, India) diary entry to know the process of her identification with the plants and flowers; her spiritual journey into the thing-ness of the flowers. Let’s look at her diary entry of 7 April 1917: “A deep concentration seized on me, and I perceived that I was identifying myself with a single cherry-blossom, then through it with all cherry-blossoms, and as I descended deeper in the consciousness, following a stream of bluish force, I became suddenly the cherry tree itself, stretching towards the sky like so many arms its innumerable branches laden with their sacrifice of flowers.”10
     Basho the main architect of haiku expanded his poetic self into haibun as he was a real poet-philosopher, an explorer of consciousness; far above writing few lines of light bodied haiku with technical fitness. 
     In contrast to the above, if we refer to the submission guidelines of modern haiku and some haibun magazines or e-zines we shall have different notions about the poetic genres depending on the ideas of their editors and others governing them. As large numbers of haiku and even haibun have been written, they seem to search for the new and exotic varieties of poems to avoid boredom, to be tuned according to their choices which are often idiosyncratic. Asking for changes in others’ poems is never a norm usual with the mainstream poetry magazines. One may reject poems or take them but demanding changes regularly in poetic creations are beyond expectations, beyond the usual. In spite of all fastidiousness when the issue is published one may easily find similar kinds of works strewn throughout the pages of the magazines which often ends with a touch of personl memory or a piece of story at the end of the haibun. A tiny story linked with memory is the most popular example of such works. Short Stories have their own science. Mini stories following the Short Story pattern could be created as a genre but they already exist. Haiku, dangling at the end of the prose in a haibun as the end product, not related to the prose many times, are often noticed. Here I refer to some comments by critics which are very relevant.  
     “We note that the vast majority of Western haibun end with the haiku – the contemporary desire for selflessness, for abandonment of the ego, has been structurally arrived at within a given context. The textual journey is over. But such an act of closure may deny haibun a sense of resonance and layers of depth. The “haiku prose” demanded by haibun is deeply metaxic and the only difference between it and the haiku itself is the architecture of the haiku, which formalizes the tension between the particular and the universal.”11
     In his “Haibun: Some concerns” in the June 2015 issue of “Haibun Today” Ken Jones has made some in-depth study of the earlier issues of the journal:
     “It was exasperation on reading the March 2015 issue of Haibun Today that impelled this paper-
     “I refer to the current haibun norm of a long single paragraph or more, where a solitary haiku dangles insecurely from the end of the prose. And where the reader is required to do some hard thinking as to how it might connect with what has gone before, because of its obscurity or because it’s (sic) meaning is too far removed to jump the gap, or both. Often it feels as if the writer felt the requirement for an end-stop haiku and pulled out something vaguely relevant from her ditty box as an afterthought . . . .
     “A great wasteland of unremarkable prose with only an apology for a haiku dangling from the end makes the heart sink . . . .
     “A reference to the American journal Modern Haiku issue at time of writing showed all but one of the eleven haibun were end-stopped only. The comparable figures for the UK journal Blithe Spirit were half the twelve haibun end-stopped.12
     Some examples from the issue referred to are cited below for a better understanding of the subject.13
     1. “At the Marketplace” begins with a quotation of four lines from a poem by Patric Kavanagh which introduces a melancholic tune of April by a bird. Then it runs like this
     “In early April, days before Easter and Passover, the local supermarket sets up displays of pansies for sale outside their doors, close to the parking lot. The flowers are a joy; in shades of lavender, Velvety purple, and soft yellow, they are an emblem of spring’s return, rebirth and the revival of our spirits after the long, harsh winter.
easing the egg
Into the dye . . .
The waxing of the moon
     “Sadly though, the pansies are wilting. On the tiered shelves under the store’s overhang, they are bone dry, dying. Someone forgot to tell someone else to water them. A busy store manager has already declared them a loss, ‘ready for the trash bins,’ not worth keeping and doomed.
Holy Week
another day
closer to Coventry”
     Here the story moves round religious ritual and local culture about the Easter festival in April. Return of the spring from harsh winter is a good subject though well known but the whole thing happens at the community market place.
     2. “Songbird”, another haibun begins with a haiku: “A wren announcing /the scheme of one small space /with his rollicking song.” And then the prose begins, “I’ve always thought it kind of funny how some unlooked for little thing like that can call up a memory, intact and vivid as the day it happened.”
     Calling up memory and telling stories; most of the haibun and tanka prose here make up with stories of writer’s personal life. “The Sutra” is good because of its reminiscent story but it is the same technique. Story is the mainstay in “Kathy’s Mum”; here haiku has link with the very short prose but is not quite related to Nature. Nature is used to tell a small story. I don’t think that stories only make good haibun.
     Among these haibun a tanka prose the one titled “Presence” keeps to the promise of a good haibun. The tanka and the prose are so natural with the surroundings, drenched in beauteous Nature, that it seems there could be nothing else. The prose is poetry fitting with the tanka; added with haiku it could be haibun, though there is some subtle difference, as the experts would claim.
     Though change with time is always the norm for any type of literary work, such things have to be in tune with the basic ideas behind the creation of a genre. Here Basho and some of his distinguished contemporary poets remain the ideals, still now. High poetic and creative zeal is the requirement for creation of haibun. For both haibun and haiku the ideal background should be pastoral. Beauty of Nature is an additional qualification in them. No quizzical trick or idiosyncratic insistence is the ideal to be imitated. The poetry should be natural expression coming out of the being of the poet; original and evocative, following the traits of the genre.
     A comparative study of the latest volume of such journals as mentioned, shows that through the changes incorporated into such poetic works the poets have shifted from the original base of such poems as Basho had initiated, followed by the poets close to his time and thereafter.


Notes and References

1 Haibun Today; Volume 6, Number 1, March 2012
2 Haruo Shirane. "Beyond the Haiku Moment: Basho, Buson and Modern Haiku Myths", Modern Haiku, XXXI:1 (winter-spring 2000). (http://bit.ly/CckuN)
3 Shirane as above  
5 Quoted in “Basho’s Journey: A Rumination” by Jamie Edgecombe (Part One) in the World Haiku Review; August 2011 (https://sites.google.com/site/worldhaikureview2/whr-august-2011/basho-s journey
6 Jamie Edgecombe as above.
7 Hass, Robert (ed) (1994): The Essential Haiku, The Ecco press, New Jersey. p.233
8 Jamie Edgecombe, as above
9 Quoted in Jamie Edgecombe (quotes the Knapsack Notebook) from: AC Barnhill, David L (2005): Basho's Journey: The Literary Prose Of Matsuo Basho, State University of New York Press, NYC. Basho’s Poetic Spaces (33)
10 Prayers and Meditations. The Mother. Collected Works. Centenary Edition. Pondicherry; Sri Aurobindo Ashram. V-1. p.359
11 Jamie Edgecombe, as above
12 “Haibun Today”; Volume 9, No. 2, June 2015 (http://haibuntoday.com/ht92/A_Jones_Haibun.html)   
13 “Haibun Today” as referred above. 

Book Review: Dreamday

Jaydeep Sarangi

-Reviewed by Jaydeep Sarangi

Dreamday by Amelia Walker
ISBN 978-0-6481751-0-0
Publisher: Campbelltown ArtHouse, Montacute, SA,2017


Dreamday is a poetic sequence by Amelia Walker, one of the signal poets from South Australia, inspired by DREAMDSCAPE, a visual art exhibition at the Campbelltown ArtHouse for SALA (the South Australian Living Artists) festival 2017.

Poetry saves a man from moments of frustration and dejection. Mundane wishes come and go. A poet has a sensitive heart to feel all these arrivals and departures of wishes and dreams. For Amelia Walker, only the senses are moving among the objects of senses. Thought is a mental act. The poet wants to sign in the dream knot of minds with a whirlpool of images of varying nature. Human being lives with dreams, dreams for a better tomorrow. For the poet, absences stay in the midst of dreams resulting in attitudes and actions:
“At my desk again.
Sleepwalking without walking.” (‘Living the Dream’)

Amelia’s musings are often short, compact and witty. There are some long poems in between. Some poems show the poet’s vast knowledge of inner life:
“Water reflects skies, and because
skies and clouds are so much water.” (‘Dreaming a Dream’)

Remembering to dream is very special for the poet. It brings new idiom in our commercially profit driven culture.:
“A dream within a dream suggests worry
or distress: a subconscious distancing
Device (.)” (‘Bare’)

The sap of psychology of the mind is her long pedigree. She goes deep into her within through the gates of dreams. Her dream poems significantly break free from the overwhelming compulsions that prudes and purists of the defining routes that poetry must track to remain truly obvious. Her journey is personal:
“I would be flying:
Free
-         My own green dragon.” (‘Dreaming a Dream’)

Poems in this collection are not just the experiences and realisations of life, the poet rather moves towards aesthetic celebration, not just physical, but   psychological. The poems are to be appreciated for their rhetoric. The poet uses a variety of linguistic devices to convey her reflections:
Let’s google what that costs these days.” (‘Living the Dream’)
Most of his poems are collage of ideas effortlessly streaming from lived moments of creative pulls and mind’s reflections to art. Touching is knowing. Amelia records how touched words pulsate within her:
“(D)aylight once more, live to dance(.)” (‘Still Falling’)

                Dreamers are saviours of our race when we are chasing after profit, delight and cheap popularity. A collection on dream is a rare fabric these days. There is no page number in this poetic collection. Page numbers are intruders in a world of sweet process. Amelia is a committed artist. Her poetic lines flow like liquid on the unbound space. Adelaide- based poet, Amelia asks, “What makes it flow so fast, that stream?” (‘Still Falling’) This collection is a series of dream, one leading to another. There is no interval in between like cloud after cloud. It’s vivid dreaming. Amelia’s dream has a soul. A luminous halo of inside out in words! 

Poem: In the Tropics

Happy New Year2018

http://www.setumag.com/2016/07/author-sangeeta-sharma.html
Sangeeta Sharma



- Sangeeta Sharma


The menial labour
Is thrilled to see
The clouds gather
Victim of                   
The unrelenting heat
And the resultant                                                                                       
Miliaria
Sans
ACs, fans, electricity
In their tin-roofed torrid shanties
Sway, sing and jig
To see
The pearl-drops
That
Cool their skin
And
Quench their soul
 Drenched in the
Heavenly downpour
The miserable
Forget
Their miseries
Temporarily!

To God on my Birthday

George Onsy
My poem and artwork

- George Onsy

To exist
Was never my choice
Yet, You did insist
To turn
My very nothingness
Into an eternal being
Of soul, mind,
And body with a heart
Yearning to get lost
In Your melting love whirl
To be both
All and part.

Now, comes again
My birthday
To let me ask:
Do You still insist
To offer me
One more year
What if I offer you
My very existence
Ceasing to exist?
Aren’t You all
That should forever
Be and exist?
INDIA’S WHEEL OF EXISTENCE IN CONVERSE WITH THE FRIEZE OF THE TEMPLE OF ATHENS (2016)

Setu, December 2017

Setu

Volume 2 Issue 7

December 2017


Editorial

Poetry

Short Fiction

Exclusive

Debut

Language

Classics Revisited

Literary Interview

Translation

Author of the Month

Critical Essay: Contemporary Concerns

Talking Art and Artists

Book Review

Photo Feature

Belles-lettres

My World and Words

Art

Fiction: The Revenge

Rochika Sharma

Rochika Sharma

As soon as I woke up in the morning, with my favourite cup of tea, I went to the balcony and opened the pages of newspaper. Enjoying morning tea with
newspaper was my daily routine for many years.

The green grassy garden and twittering of the birds in the morning was lovely. I could witness the gift of this nature from the balcony. I read The Bombay Times, all fashion people, their lifestyles and the happenings in the city. Then Page 3 about the hotels, parties, stars and their stardom full of gossips and entertainment.

Busy in reading heard my mom’s voice from the kitchen, “Riya how many hours for the newspaper, can’t you come in the kitchen and help me pack the tiffin box for your dad and brother?”

I didn’t reply thinking that it’s mom’s habit. She knows without reading the newspaper, I can’t even breathe, still she shouts from the kitchen every morning. So let it be, first I will go through the newspaper then only I will listen to her.

Ohhhh, what a news? I murmured. I felt so happy reading that accident news. Then only, my mom came to me and screamed like anything “How stubborn you are, dad is getting late for the office, can’t you come and help me?”

I went in the kitchen and helped her, after that I went to gym. During my workout, I went in flash back. It was a new year eve. I was in a disco with one of my friends, Rack. Both of us had consumed some liquor in the disco. I was feeling very drowsy.

Returning from the party, I noticed that we were going to some new route.

“Rack where are we going?”

“Just two minutes, I have to return a CD to my friend Jose” he replied.

After that he took me to his friend’s flat. Nobody was there but Rack had the keys. We went inside, he started hugging and kissing me all over. I tried to stop him, but he didn’t. I pushed him with my knee.

He pounced back on me like a wild beast and pulled my skirt down. He threw me on the bed and sat on me. I tried to escape, I pleaded him to leave me. But he didn’t.

He raped me. I screamed, and cried, but nobody came to help.

“Sorry Riya” he said and dropped me to my home.

I couldn’t make out, suddenly what happened to Rack. He was such a good friend of mine. I always trusted him, he was my childhood family friend. Even my parents liked him very much that’s why they sent me for the new year party with him.

More than rape, I was feeling cheated, as if I have had lost everything. That night I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Whole night I spent with bad dreams.
Many a time I thought of telling my mom about this rape incidence, the very next moment thought came into my mind that knowing the incident, mom would accuse me only. Because in our society, social stigma still exists. After any abuse, people start finding faults with the girls only. She would say “Now you are dirty, who will marry you? you have spoiled our name, why did you consume liquor and blaaa blaaaaa.”

I kept quiet and didn’t share this incident with anybody. But from dawn to dusk every thought in my mind was killing me from inside. I was feeling “I should not step out of home. What if Rack tells all other friends about this incidence, and god knows they already know about it and making fun of me behind my back.”

When I used to meet our common friends, it was being difficult for me to see my friends even smiling at me. Whenever anybody known to Rack would meet me with a broad smile, the thought process used to start in my mind “God knows, he knows about the incidence or is he just smiling normally?”

Day by day I was losing my confidence. I felt, as if I was going into depression. I stopped meeting people, I used to get scared in public places, thinking everybody is looking at me suspiciously. Life had become difficult for me.

I wanted to keep myself busy to come out from that worst mishap of my life. I indulged myself in reading books, joined the close by gym just to be away from the friends and pass my time. Every day I use to go to library and get the books, started reading novels. My childhood interest of reading suspense stories was back. I got some crime fiction books like “What She Left”, “The truth and other lies”, “I came to find a girl”, “The Big Sleep”, “The talented Mr. Ripley” and many more.

Now after joining the gym and indulging in my hobby of reading books I started feeling relieved from the incidence of rape. I started meeting my friends and Rack too, as I used to meet them earlier. All my friends were also missing me for a long time.

One day when one of my friends, Nisha asked “Hey dear, where were you? It seems as if we are meeting after ages.”

“Yeah” I replied, “I have joined a gym and reading lot of books, my mom also pushes me in the kitchen, so less time for friends, but I too missed you a lot, so joined you back” I replied with a big smile.

“Hey Rack how are you doing these days” I asked as if I had forgotten everything Rack had done with me.

Rack smiled and replied “Good, how about you Riya?”

“Good Rack, let’s be friendly again” I replied.

Now since I was maintaining my gym regime and having a balanced, nutritious diet, in few weeks I got a gorgeous figure. I became a favourite gym member for the instructor. He was helping me training strengthening exercises. I used to run on tread mill for half an hour every day to improve my body metabolism, alternate days I started cycling and sweating on elliptical machine. My body got toned. Anybody could get attracted to me.

One day after finishing my daily regime I asked the gym instructor “Rohit please help me in stretching exercises.”

“Why not” said Rohit.

Though it was difficult to turn the arms behind my own back and join my palms, but I told Rohit “I want to do this, I want to join my palms behind my back.”

“You try madam, I will help you, but don’t do without any help, your shoulder bones may break” said Rohit.

I tried that every day and finally one day I achieved what I wanted. My gym instructor appreciated me for the effort I put. I started going for the parties with my friends as before. Nobody could make out that I was a rape victim. In fact, my friends started calling me a bombshell. I got my confidence back.

I started dating with Rack again. “Hey Rack, there is a surprize for you” I said.

“What’s that?” asked Rack, "Is it a gift?"

Yeah, I replied, “It’s a surprize Rack, let’s plan a picnic, only you and me.”

“Oh! great, I am feeling so lucky Riya, such a gorgeous babe wants a picnic with me only. Let’s plan it immediately.”

“Tomorrow, near the valley” I asked.

“Why not” said Rack.

I smiled at him “bye Rack, see you tomorrow.”

“Bye!” replied Rack and started day dreaming.

Next morning, he woke up early and met me near the valley. Both of us were very happy meeting each other. Rack said “Riya, after that incidence, you stopped talking to me, I missed you a
lot. You can’t even imagine how much I love you, come close darling, whole night I couldn’t sleep thinking about meeting you, that too in a lonely place. With this thought itself, I was so thrilled.
I want to hug you, kiss you all over.”

“Yeah, me too felt all alone without you Rack. You won’t believe, I can feel your touch every night, can’t forget those moments Rack” I said hugging him.

Then both of us had drinks. I put some drugs in his drink. He fell unconscious. Now I started my well-planned act. I laid Rack on his stomach and turned both of his arms behind his back, which I learnt in gym from the instructor. I knew little pressure on the shoulder bone, when hand is behind the back, will break his bones. I pulled his hands back and twisted them giving pressure. “Kdak- Kdak” his bones sounded.

I kicked him and came back home by a cab. Nobody knew about the incidence. But today in the newspaper when I read the headlines “A young boy near the valley, met with an accident”, I felt so happy and read the whole news again and again, which said “His both the shoulder bones got fractured in the accident, it seems the boy had taken some drugs and riding his motorbike, so he lost his balance. Some villagers informed to the police station and now he is in so and so hospital.” Rack’s picture was there with the news.

I said to my mom “mom, see the news, it seems this is Rack, look at the picture in the newspaper”.

“Yeah this is Rack” said my mom.

“Ok mom, I am going to see him in the hospital” I said and left from home. In hospital all our friends were already there, I went there with a beautiful flower bouquet and a “get well soon” card.
“Oh Rack, what happened to you, how did you meet with accident” I asked sobbing.

Rack knew what game I had played with him, but couldn’t opened his mouth. As he knew I will tell the truth in front of everybody and he will lose his respect. Seeing my courage, he was more worried, what if I tell the truth to family and friends. He didn’t open his mouth. I smiled at him, wished him good luck and came home.

Now one month over after that incidence, I forgot the rape incidence forever and won the battle by taking my revenge on my own instead of taking help of the law. Because I knew, if I go to the court, it will take many years and all those years, I have to face the society as if I had done something wrong. I was walking on tread mill deep into thought, suddenly Rohit said smiling, “Madam it’s more than one hour, you are on the tread mill. I have to leave early today, let’s do stretching exercises.”

“I have learnt the art of joining the palms, behind my back, without breaking the bones Rohit” I replied with a broad smile and left the gym.

Welcome 2018 рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рдирд╡рд╡рд░्рд╖

рдЕрдиुрд░ाрдЧ рд╢рд░्рдоा

Photo Feature - реЮोрдЯो реЮीрдЪрд░

рдЕрдиुрд░ाрдЧ рд╢рд░्рдоा :: Anurag Sharma

рдирд╡рд╡рд░्рд╖ 2018 рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢ рдФрд░ рд░ंрдЧ рд╕े рднрд░рдкूрд░ рд╣ो - Let 2018 be full of light and color




















Wish you a happy and prosperous new year
2018 рдХी рдоंрдЧрд▓рдХाрдордиाрдПँ
рдХ्рд▓िрдХ рдХрд░рдХे рд╕рднी рдЪिрдд्рд░ों рдХा рдмреЬा рд░ूрдк рджेрдЦा рдЬा рд╕рдХрддा рд╣ै।
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Poetry: Anasuya P. Pradhan

Anasuya P. Pradhan

Innocence at Stake

The string of my innocence,
That gives birth to a fate,
That I call my own,
Is now at stake,
From now,
Never further,
I will let you,
To kill it again & again.
For you it may be,
Just a feeling,
Or a state of mind,
A thought or theory,
But, it is much more,
So much above,
You could ever believe.
May be very often,
I seem to be artless,
But it defines who I am,
The honesty and valor I hold,
And how I’m a costly affair,
Not in terms of money,
But the pride I carry!
The mourn is over,
My innocence will be at its’ best,

When you will savor it,
As bygone MEMORY!

ON THE EVE OF THAT OMINOUS NIGHT!

On the eve of that ominous night,
The darkness was piercing lustily,
I couldn’t hold back tears, being the victim of dubiety.
I was musing through all my fears that drizzling night,
I was drenched completely with tears.
I was sitting at the darkest corner,
Trying to trace my blooper.
The night was growing darker,
I was yelling awfully being terrified,
As if the night was yearning to hunt me.
My heart was torn, beating faster than ever,
Chest was aching, eyes were burning,
I was quaking, shivering to demise!
I was running here and there in the most clownish way,
To soothe the damage I had.
I was filled with angst, fueled with buried hate,
Afraid of being outcast, terrorized of my fate.
I was low, depression was grabbing within,
I was laughing, grinning at myself,
I was striking hand here and there,
I was beating my chest, beating my head being broken.
Completely broken!
I was about to bid farewell from the treacherous world,

With all smiles, with all aches, with all faith, with all qualm,
Holding soliloquies within!