Showing posts with label 201810E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 201810E. Show all posts

Setu Editorial: October 2018

Sunil Sharma
October became dark and grim. The death of Ma---sudden and fast---left the family in deep mourning, and, the ensuing void continues to be felt both collectively and individually.

The loss can never be repaired!

Passing away of the dear ones is always traumatic and of the parents, more painful for the sensitive offspring. Like severing of an umbilical cord again. Ma always was a source of strength. Her love and guidance made the terrestrial journey for this obscure writer easy. She is with the stars, watching us from the empyrean heights. On purely emotional plane, her absence becomes a rich presence! Her values and guidance become our load-star for the rest of our lives on this earth, another silent mother, universal and benign, nurturing civilizations across time-space continuum.

***

The October issue is before you.

This time, the fantastic tales by Pu Songling--- a 17th-century writer from the Qing Dynasty, much liked by Kafka and Borges--- are brought as a staple for aesthetic enjoyment of different kind. It is one of the highlights of this edition. Kind of time travel, taking you back to a land, once forbidden, steeped in its own mystery. These stories are full of wonder and informed by an overarching sense of the real and the supernatural: Qualities that make them a precursor of the two great story-tellers of the world: Poe or Marquez. These famous stories of marvel anticipate a new avatar of an old genre of perception, narration and reception of the unusual in the usual; the odd in the banal; the unreal in the real--- a mesmerizing literary style called rightly or wrongly, the magic realism that gives jaded realism a fresh cutting edge.

In the new millennium, these Chinese narratives offer insights and perspectives, transcendental in nature and impact. And make the current fantasy best-sellers, mere pale shadows of Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Liaozhai zhiyi).

Read them and get transported to another region altogether.

Another specialty is the Paris Review interview with another fantastic master Jorge Luis Borges who redefined the art of reading and writing forever. The long conversation would be appreciated by the serious readers in search of excellence in a mass market. Writers too can benefit from his observations.

Editor’s choice, an occasional column, intends to curate the content that refuses to stale, despite dramatic changes in socio-economic-political climate of the world. T. S. Eliot is one such artist that gets contextually relevant and re-born in succeeding eras and generations.

The poem chosen for October is profound in its reach and effect on post-colonial and post-industrial audiences.

It continues to address some fundamental questions that only a learned thinker-artist like Eliot could handle.

The lyrical echoes haunt the mind, post-reading of this classic. Not many texts today can lay claim to such an overall appeal and hold on the recipient’s consciousness.

***

The Native American poetry translated so competently by the prodigious talent Michael R. Burch---Mike for friends---is another high point of this edition of an e-journal that, every month, tries to serve the very best from the past and present for the connoisseurs through an eclectic and right mix of the ingredients for a good issue.

The selections by Mike address universal themes and provide solace to those in mourning.

Other featured writings offer variety and uniqueness of vision and talent. Each writer has been selected carefully.

Together, it serves as a Setu (bridge) between various cultures, spaces and time zones.

***

The overall mood is both sad and happy---much like the dialectics of Life.

Please enjoy the spread and do write in.

Sunil Sharma
Editor, Setu, English
Kalyan (MMR), India

Ignorance, Hatred, and Guns

"Jatasya Hi Dhruvo Mrityur Druvam Janma Mritasya Cha
Tasmaad Aparihaaryearthe Na twam Shochitum Arhasi" (Gita)
рдЬाрддрд╕्рдп рд╣ि рдз्рд░ुрд╡ो рдоृрдд्рдпुрд░्рдз्рд░ुрд╡ं рдЬрди्рдо рдоृрддрд╕्рдп рдЪ । рддрд╕्рдоाрджрдкрд░िрд╣ाрд░्рдпेрд╜рд░्рдеे рди рдд्рд╡ं рд╢ोрдЪिрддुрдорд░्рд╣рд╕ि ॥

Mrs. Prabhavati Sharma
(October 10, 1924 :: October 11, 2018)
Death is certain for everyone who is born, and so is rebirth of the dead. Feeling sorry about it won't make much difference.

Indian scriptures speak at length about the mortal nature of life. We understand this phenomenon well. Throughout life, we see people coming into this world and leaving us. Yet, death is one of the most puzzling aspects of life.

It was a sad month. One phone call from Mumbai, announced the sad demise of Mrs. Prabhavati Sharma, mother of  the editor of Setu English edition, Dr. Sunil Sharma.

My sincere sympathies to the grieving family. Mrs. Sharma is in my thoughts and prayers.

***

Shootout at a local synagogue in Pittsburgh in the morning on Saturday, October 27, 2018 shocked the community. A gunman killed 11 innocent people at the Tree of Life Congregation synagogue in Pittsburgh's Squirrel Hill neighborhood. The suspect, 46-year-old Robert Bowers is charged with 29 counts.

Anurag Sharma
Racial hatred is not a new threat. It has hurt humanity in various forms. Anti-Semitism, the hostility against Jewish society is much older than Nazi Holocaust. But there are various other forms of hatred. Romas are still being persecuted on daily basis in majority of Europe. Muslims are under threat in Muslim majority countries. The lives of so called infidels, Hindus, Buddhists, and Sikhs are in danger in places of their origin and abroad. People of all faiths have been officially supressed by authoritarian regimes, they become targets of extremists, and face difficulties even where none is expected.

Not sure if we will ever be able to clean human minds to eradicate racial hatred, but we can certainly put better regulations in place to stop lethal weapons from falling into a killer's hands.

It is a serious global problem which has adversely affected humanity for a long time. Unfortunately, this issue has not been addressed at the priority it deserves.

I offer my thoughts, prayers and well-wishes to the victims and their families during this dark time.

Warm Regards,

Anurag Sharma
Setu, Pittsburgh, USA

Setu, October 2018 - Contents

Setu

Volume 3 Issue 5

October 2018


Editorial

Poetry

Short/Flash Fiction

Book Review

Novel (In Serial Form)

Special: Long paper

Author of the Month

Contemporary Concerns

Classics Revisited (External Link)

Classic Interview (External Link)

Translation: Poetry

Dialogue

Photo Feature

Exclusive: Poetry from Europe and other Western locations: Curated by Agron Shele

Editor's Choice (External Link)

Back to roots: return of the Nomad

Dr Chandra Mohan Bhandari

by Chandra Mohan bhandari


One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of looking at things.
                                                            - Henry Miller
For long man has inhabited the planet as a wanderer and hunter-gatherer motivated primarily by need for food, shelter and better survival options. It was the onset of agrarian revolution few thousand years ago that brought a sea-change in the lifestyle of nomadic man, and most of wandering tribes started a settled life and made a new beginning. Some wandering groups could still be traced around the globe, who could not accept a settled life like the vast majority. However, deep within his psychic layers man is still a wanderer, and with revolutionary changes in transport and communication the wanderer in man is trying to revisit his past in a different setting. It seems that itinerant existence is deeply ingrained (whether by design or by default) in deeper layers of man’s psyche and we might be witnessing a return of the nomadic life albeit in a different format.

                                                                        I
We are all travellers, even when not traveling in the usual sense; we do travel in time even if stationary in space. Time is an important parameter that constitutes and imparts meaning to being, and it’s this parameter that has been one of the difficult notions to grasp, even for hard core scientists. In scientific terms theory of relativity goes to the extent of imparting time a relativistic character that could in principle change with the person who observes provided the observer is in a state of relative motion with respect to the system being observed. And that brings to the fore the element of subjectivity – a realm so familiar in literary pursuit. Nomadic man travelled in search of food, security and better survival options. That was the modus operandi for millennia until evolving and thinking human mind brought forth the transformation heralding an agrarian revolution. Things changed for most of humanity although some wandering groups kept following their earlier life styles. Prominent among them were the desert dwellers known as Bedouin, Kochi in Afghanistan, Roma in Europe and Banzara in India; these and several other groups could not permanently settle down even when most of mankind decided to call it a day. Some historians see a linkage between Romas and Banzaras; the two could possibly have a common history. A recent DNA study of the Romas has revealed their connection with North Indian Dalit communities. Indian Council of Cultural Relations organised a conference [1] to discuss some of these issues. The conference concluded with a resolution that Roma people should be recognised as part of Indian diaspora. Currently there are an estimated 20 million Roma people scattered all over Europe and Americas. Bedouin nomadic groups too are estimated to be around 21 million strong and are known to support themselves by goat and camel herding.  
What was it that stopped these wandering communities from choosing a settled life? Whether it was due to an innate irrepressible urge to constantly move on, embedded deep in their psychic underground, or an inherent incapacity to adapt to settled lifestyle – could be debatable, but one thing was certain - man’s psychic architecture that emerged during billion years of biological evolution could not be washed clean by the new settled lifestyle changes prompted by cultural transformation. The ever present dualist in man kept raising its head at regular intervals to remind him of the dilemma of existence. The ever-wandering human groups’ presence even to this day could be a vague manifestation of the same. A dualistic trend of settled (physically) and itinerant (mentally) conscious being could help understand some of the human situations. Present essay deals with some queries of this kind.
To begin with nomadic man was like other animal species which he truly is. The bipedal animal started on its forward march some six MYA (million years ago) when this offshoot of the chimp embarked upon a process of bio-cultural co-evolution. It is likely that standing on two legs accelerated man’s cranial evolution. On the other hand the cultural changes could possibly have an impact on evolutionary process, and that may be reasonably true for human brain [2]. As his brain grew in size (proportion to body mass) and complexity, complex neuronal networking started emerging. Along with this dualistic trends started manifesting themselves. The body cared for its survival as in other animal species and looked primarily after its autonomous needs. The mind did take many roles and dimensions: primarily it strengthened the autonomous need thereby giving mankind greater control over the surroundings. Agrarian revolution followed by a settled life transformed man’s thinking in a significant way; he now had enough time to manipulate things, he was now a ‘manipulator’ who acted not only for survival but for comfort, entertainment, power and prejudices. However, his mind was now destined to go beyond this limited role. Man had his (her) own hierarchy of needs, and among this list was his (her) frequent, although not too long, forays into the realm of the ‘transpersonal’. Man is often referred to as an amphibian leading two different lives – his autonomous physical existence as a living being like other animals, and his other existence beyond the autonomous self that may include his cultural life, sometimes referred to as his homonomous existence. 
Understandably the conscious mind is in a position to assert of another existence that transcends the self where one could embrace aspects of life beyond the need to focus on immediate survival.
Complex human mind is a by-product of the architecture of brain with strange and baffling neuronal circuitry guiding its actions. It has already been stated that the cultural transformation too had an indirect role in the process of evolution thereby making it a bio-cultural co-evolution. Whereas neuro-scientists were busy trying to comprehend the causes and repercussions of these baffling neuro-connections [3, 4], the artist in man has effectively used this intricate network to fulfil his other requirement – to search the meaning of being and to bring an element of aesthetics to it. Life is what it is, yet it is up to the man to search methods and means to impart it a meaning and a purpose, and make it worth something, although many of his actions have thus far highlighted the opposite.  
Man like other species had a long nomadic existence. The settled lifestyle was a consequence of a thinking mind and physical necessity; this could not stop the wandering mind from doing what it could do best – to wander. To wonder at the life and mind, and to wander in space and time - trying to discover new avenues to wonder about – that was the predicament of a man who was no longer obsessed merely with earning his daily bread. That may not be true for a vast majority of humans who still have to struggle  for earning their livelihood. However, anyone with reasonable livelihood had sufficient scope to satisfy this need of the mind; arts and literature were but a manifestation and an outcome of this need. Man, once physically rooted in a location, ceased to be a wanderer but could not do the same when it came to his mind. At the psychological level he fully retained his nomadic character. It was a kind of dual existence; man truly was now an amphibian in yet another sense, his autonomous physical existence often in conflict with his other existence, as part of the whole (homonomous existence), and his settled physical existence often in conflict [5] with his ever restless and itinerant mind.
It is not the purpose of this essay to delve deeper into the making of the human mind and certainly this is beyond the scope of this essay. That is a complex and growing field presenting serious challenges to scientists and some of its peculiarities are open to enquiry with the new developments in neurology – a puzzling account of neuronal connections and cross-connections. Whatever the origin of all these, one thing was certain by now – mind,  destined to float over the neuronal network, gradually emerged to remain unstable, restless, floating incessantly on a turbulent surface. In every sense mind was to be a traveller – a traveller in space and time. And an account of the space-time travels and travails of this wanderer is given a special name – LITERATURE.
Very often I try to feel in my bones the thrill of Marco Polo’s historic journeys or great Chinese traveller Huen Tsang’s journey to India and back covering a time frame of twenty years. Not an easy travel by any account. I often ruminate about innumerable other traveller-seekers spanning the length and breadth of the Himalayas. There was no tradition then to keep detailed accounts of the proceedings but the essence of their searches did pour out in the form of verses and jataks (short stories); in fact much of the Vedic literature has been a collection of all such experiences. Those who could not afford to face the uncertainties of such an arduous travel did so by sharing those moments from others’ travel accounts. Many great voyages witnessed different outcomes – the discovery of the Americas among them. Fifteenth century European voyages were definitely among the greatest feats of humans comparable to or even surpassing the earlier great travelling feats. The urge to discover the world for oneself guided all great journeys; the motive determined the future trajectory. While Columbus, Cortez and their successors, conquered lands and collected fortunes, travellers like Huen Tsang discovered an ideology and a way – a path, a Tao. The former was a story of adventure and conquests often followed by unfair acts and practices, the later reflected attempt to conquer the inner domain.
The world out there and the world within both reflect often the best and worst of life and living. Over the millennia the world out there has transformed almost beyond recognition with wilds giving way to settlements. As a consequence life and its primal cause, the biosphere, have gradually come under stress; as a consequence the ecological changes are bringing forth issues never heard of earlier. The world is changing out there; it is also changing the layers of psyche and its architecture. The irrepressible human urge to explore the planet may soon come closer to a dead end; there may not remain much in the planet to explore. The regions beyond the planet are immense but then exploratory voyages beyond earth are still a distant dream. On the other hand man’s efforts to explore the inner world would continue which can still offer unlimited possibilities.
The perennial traveling mind passes through different territories and, taking notes, glides on. It often discovers links that connect it to almost everything on the planet. At one epoch it was located in Marco Polo’ cranial cavity, at other instance it’s with Huen Tsang. Besides the two celebrated travellers innumerable others have their way and say in the scheme of things. Every inquisitive mind has the urge for a first hand encounter, and when this is not possible, it tries to remain connected to the world of experience available in literature  – a truly human experience. Power of language and communication has given the species a tool which can help him comprehend the reality without the necessity of going through a first- hand encounter – hereby enable him(her) to live many lives in one. This dualism- nay multiplism – has its rewards as also its curses; reward in the form of innumerable choices and curse in the form of conflict and failure. This mode of mind’s travels is going to stay; dealing with this challenge is among the toughest ever faced by man.
The nomad of earlier days did not possess a choice, under the circumstances that was the only way out. Itinerant man of today has a choice and if one decides to leave the comfort and security of home to explore the world [6, 7] around there seems to be an inner urge, something built-in in the psychic back waters. Or there may be another point of view- the comfort and security of home is now available all over the globe. Well this may be true for some tourists, but we must distinguish between a traveller and a tourist. There are innumerable examples of people taking risks of all sorts to discover things their way that may satisfy their inner urge to wander and to discover. “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves, and next we travel to find ourselves” [Pico Iyer].  
Often I find myself in the shoes of Marco Polo or Huen Tsang, and sometime among recent travellers [8 - 10] like Paul Theroux, Collin Thubron and Bill Aitken; but never even once I thought of reliving the travel accounts of Columbus, Cortez and the like in spite of their great spirit of adventure. But for the unfair and unjust practices that followed, these voyages could be counted among the greatest of human feats.   
I find Huen Tsang’s travels and travails of particular interest as he was among those who carried with him the enquiring spirit of man and a thirst for conquering the world within, that truly needed to be conquered. As the world events unfold we shall witness the great voyages of discovery exploring the depths of human mind. It seems that the primary purpose of a travel is to lose oneself to be able to discover oneself (recalling Pico Iyer). The details of the methodology will be travel-specific and traveller-specific. In fact almost all journeys are in that sense dual travels [11] – out there and also within.
Steady in Motion
In some respects mind is like a bicycle – stable and steady while in motion, and unable to stand while at rest; a balance is possible only while in motion. The two wheels unable to keep the system steady, require a kinetic energy to balance the bike to a steady state of motion; that is a good analogy for mind. And remember one has to learn to balance both – the bicycle and the mind. A further modification would be useful by adding an accelerating device. Think of a bicycle with a motor attached to it and with its brakes removed. This unique traveller (mind) is on a motorbike with acceleration facility but without brakes. You have to learn to occasionally stop it and how you do so defines your own self to some extent. In some Hindu and Buddhist practices, such as in Raj-Yoga and Zen, we find effort and procedure to bring the bicycle to a state of balance even when not in motion.
Dual exploratory travels in space and time – that is the characteristic feature of all great travels. However, the direction and motivation in a given case is that of the specific travel and the traveller. The wanderer of yesteryears saw a big change with settled life style and that determined much of his life and work-pattern. After the agrarian revolution two other transformational events took place in a small time-span, the industrial revolution in eighteenth century and the electronic revolution [12] that started in the second-half of twentieth century and is continuing. These developments had their impact on life and mind, and as a consequence yet another lifestyle change seems to emerge, the permanence of settled life giving way to semi-settled life. The human cultural transformation has taken a full circle. With the revolutionary changes in communication and transport and availability of frequent travel options a large population is already living some diluted form of a nomadic life.
                                                                
                                                                       II
Sitting on the balcony of the fifth floor suite in the hotel I reflected upon the travels of the wanderer mind and some of its travel accounts. From the balcony of my room in the hotel overlooking the Hudson river I felt myself to be a wanderer in my own way – an itinerant individual who just two months back was overlooking the magnificent central Himalayan range in Kumaon Hills.
Often do I ruminate upon the architecture of mind and wonder what could be its better description than a traveller – a traveller extraordinaire, a wanderer par-excellence, a dualist (nay multiplist ) tat-twam-asi. And what name could be given to its travel-accounts other than thought; travel-accounts of this unique traveller is also known as literature. Its peculiarities are in some sense better described by some unique concepts in modern quantum physics, important among them being superposition.  Like atoms or electrons  conscious mind keeps changing places, creating a thought pattern of its own, seeking the new along with the familiar and incessantly looking for a meaning of being which may or may not be there.  A wavelike fluidity imparts to mind a capacity to travel along two or more paths simultaneously something akin to what one encounters in quantum objects.

The World Created by Wandering Atoms
Physics and astrophysics remind us in no uncertain terms the origin of our solar system, the universe and above all the miniscule atoms that construct the world including us. I know now that the atoms that construct us have also been wanderers traveling for long in space and time inhabiting many stellar cores in their long and tedious journeys. Progress in cosmology brings us closer to the stellar evolution and evolution of the atoms that construct the world. The atoms like hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen and oxygen are essential ingredients of living systems; all atoms other than hydrogen had their origin in the stellar wombs where they were virtually cooked for thousands of years before they started shaping the solar system, the planet earth and the world of living beings.  And remember – not one but several of stellar wombs. Not only humans but the atoms that construct them have been wanderers migrating from one star to another to be cooked and refined for the onward march. Poets are known for their imaginative powers but this kind of situation is even beyond their imagination range:

Universal [13]
Atoms of my body
and yours too
Cooked in stellar kitchens
at ten million degree.
Mould in molecular configurations, patterns and themes
Amino acids, proteins, cells and genes;
Herald and define my very existence
Essence of my being, interior and outline
The path and process of my presence
and yours too.

Yet, the billion years gone by
Roll down the blood stream, the bone marrow
And above all
In hundred billion neuronal cells
Performing incessant fire dance.

It’s time for ‘ I ‘ to step in
Widen shoulders, look around
Think, feel and proclaim
Uninhibited universality
Not just a figment of poetic imagination,
A hard scientific fact
The universe within me
And yours too.

More Revelations

The notion of the universe within us now seems not merely a poetic metaphor, it is real; that this is so is based on scientific findings. And not only this, we have to be prepared for other revealing notions from scientific quarters. Darwin’s theory of evolution reveals another aspect of our hunter-gatherer past; we have come to our present state of evolution after having gone through innumerable intermediary stages. The closest in these are the species of apes with chimpanzee being the closest and it was some six million years ago that this homosapien branch started evolving. Taking even a small chunk of this long evolutionary journey would be enough to tell the epical story of long and arduous space-time travels of this species, the humans.

Globalisation has started influencing our everyday lives, be it in information or in employment, commerce or economic inter-dependence. Transport and communication have made it possible to remain moving without the hardships associated with it in the past. A recent United Nation’s report (published in newspapers, January 2016) indicated the number of people living in countries other than those of their birth to be around 220 million which was about 3.5 percent of world population. Incidentally, Indian diaspora constitute the largest of such population standing at around 16 million, followed by Mexicans at 12. Of course by no means this is all due to love for travel only, there are many other considerations. This only indicated that in the three centuries of industrial revolution if this could be the scenario then in another three centuries, a whopping 10 percent of world population may be constituted by itinerant dwellers – a new class who in the real sense do not belong to any specific location and, in good many cases, country.
Often I ruminate that consciousness or awareness at the highest level is nonlocal by default and by definition too. I strongly feel that our psychic architecture is rooted deep in our long past that may include various stages, as homosapien or earlier as chimp or ape. Whatever be true a conscious mind is comfortable while in motion in its truly nomadic manifestation.
It could very well be the beginning of a new chapter in the epic story of humans, to be titled: ‘Return of the Nomad’.

[1] ‘Roma Conference and Cultural Festival’, organised by Indian Council of Cultural Relations (ICCR); 3-day event starting February 12, 2016.
[2] P J Richardson and R Boyd, Not by Genes Alone: How Culture Transformed Human Evolution, University of Chicago Press (2008).
[3] V. Ramachandran, The Emerging Mind, Profile Books Ltd, London, 2003.
[4] R Penrose, The Emperor’s New Mind, Oxford University Press, 1989.
[5] C M Bhandari, Entangled realities in Literature and Science, Muse India, Jul – Aug 2012.
[6] Ed Stafford, Walking the Amazon, Virgin Books, U K, 2011.
[7] C M Bhandari, Travel and travel writing, Muse India September-October, 2013.
[8] Paul Theroux, Happy Isles of Oceania, G P Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1992.
[9] Colin Thubron, In Siberia, Chatto and Windus, Great Britain, 1999.
[10] Bill Aitken, Seven Sacred Rivers, Penguin Books, India, 1992.
[11] Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintenance, A Bantam New Age Book, 1991.
[12] Alvin Toffler, The Third Wave, William Collins and Sons, 1980.
[13] C M Bhandari, Universal, PoemHunter.com, 2013.

Poetry: Saikat Gupta Majumdar

Saikat Gupta Majumdar

John Mcenro Lane

At a corner of the town
A man was passing through a lane
An old narrow one
With the scholar’s house to burglar’s den

Both the famous and notorious too
The lane can be so claimed
Town’s richest fellow, Macenro John
After whom the lane was named.

Things are born and keep dying
With the years that pass on
And are witnessed by the lane
For last hundred years or more,
Some are hateable , shocking to the million
Some gives pleasure to the hearts of crore.

But, a tradition goes over the burial of events
With rising and set of sun
Keeping alive the old name,
Although the air brings away both un fame and fame

The man was filled with thought
Came suddenly in sense and walked again
Leaving that old narrow but not forlorn – ‘John Mcenro Lane’.

Bachelor’s Den 

Fifteen men looked down the lane
From behind the houses and their window panes
A pretty woman with her lovely dog passed every morning
Whether it’s sunny or a nasty fog.

She was lady Helen
And had been so passing since she was ten,
Every brick of the houses came closer to her
But the men who lived in peeped from a little far.

She felt their presence behind the scene
From every fall of leaves to the further green
And so went on with the pretty Helen.
Who did not marry leaving that ‘Bachelor’s den’,
The poor Helen is no more today
But still the fifteen men are
And await for her every morning only from a far.

Face bravely and win

Tough time never last
But the tough men do,
Perhaps this is a tough phase You’re passing through.

Time rotates with movements of the earth
In a cycle of tough and fair
A man has never faced sorrow
Is found very rare.

As dawn awaits behind the darkness
With the desire to lighten all
A man who steadily endures in sorrow
Can have the prosperity after all.

So keep all the worry aside
And see the world in a brave man’s view
For tough times never last
But the tough people do.

Poetry: Moinak Dutta

Moinak Dutta
Durbin (The telescope)

It has been my favourite toy for long,
That durbin of my grandfather,
Made of copper with bronze rims,
Heavy and magical,
One night of Indian summer,
When our mufassil town after a long drawn loadshedding
Bearing the darkness and mosquito bites,
Thought of finally going to sleep,
My granddad took me to the open terrace of our house,
And showed me the wonders of the night sky,
Celestial things which I always thought them to be
Faraway and completely out of reach,
They came down like guests,
One after another,
As my grandfather introduced them to me,
That's Cassiopaeia,
That's Pole Star,
He told me,
'Do they glitter all day and night?
Do they not get tired?'
I had asked.
'They do get spent too'
He had told me
And recited two different poems,
One of Tagore and the other of Octavio Paz,
Two different poems,
But somehow they rang like two brothers
Or sisters,
Like twins almost,
'keep this durbin with you'
That had been his words,
I found a speck of sudden light in his eyes,
Were they glistening?

The next morning,
I woke up
My grandfather did not,
He went to meet those celestial beings.

(word note : mufassil: small town, a town in the countryside commonly found in India)

Laxmi
----------
My laxmi is a little girl
She runs all around the house,
In her red bordered white saree
With big dots of alta on her feet
She looks more like a girl
Who has all of a sudden grown up
Going beyond her age,

My laxmi is a little girl
She giggles and plays all day
After coming home from school,
If I ask her to sit for a while
And do those sums,
She will try to find a pretext,
One or other
Of not doing them,
 I do not like sums...I like something else'
She will declare,
'what?'
If I ever ask her that
She will go to the kitchen
And bring a dough of flour
And knead it and give it a shape of a doll
Or an abstract tiny sculpture,

My Laxmi is a little girl
And I call her ma
For only a mother can be a Laxmi.

(alta: red colored liquid used by bengali women to decorate their hands and feet on auspicious days)



Poush parban
-----------------
Patisapta, pithey pullies,
Notun gur,
Without them there is no way
To think of Poush Parban,
And some memories
They also conjure up
Magical things,
Mother and aunts making them,
All day long,
The mellowed light of prewinter days
Filtered through curtain
Falling on the verandah,
My grandmother sitting nearby
Watching over the proceedings
With keenness and commenting
On how she had learnt to make
Patisaptas, pitheys,
From her mother in law
That very year when she came to this home
As a girl knowing nothing about art of cooking;
Poush Parban,
It always brought sweetness.

(patisapta, pithey pullies, pitheys : different food items made with jaggery and rice paste.
notun gur: common bengali parlance used to describe  jaggery first available in the market at the onset of Poush, a month of bengali calender.
Poush parban: the celebration of the arrival of the month of Poush, a month of bengali calender / almanac)

Poetry: Parneet Jaggi

Parneet Jaggi
The Best Option

Even today,
to recidivate to the tribal life
seems the best option,
the killer instinct got a vent in feeding oneself
not letting tiny petty instincts
poison the entire being,
mental faculties poisoning each moment of life
with airs of envy,
breaths of pride,
glances of hatred,
words of falsehood.
If hunting a prey
satiated all hungers,
then residing in forests
is still the best option.



Where has Love Gone?

Where is Mahiwal’s love
that doesn’t drown in flooded rivers?

Where is Sohni's passion
that doesn't tire of waiting for days?

Unyielding,
Unquestioning,
Love through the waters!

Where is Meera’s love,
the unfaltering singular love
that doesn’t flinch?

The eternalized love
is now very much in time,
flies away with rains and pains,
no matter how we lay down our life.

The tech savvy love
works well when batteries are full.
Conditions vary,
determine the duration and intensity.

Today love has its expiry too.



Cocoon

Each in his cocoon of pain-
the pain of loss
of what he once had,
the pain of the eternal longing
of satiating one’s desires,
the pain of an injured self – respect
breaking the glass
gilded in self – praises,
the pain of expressing in words,
a similar pain of the lack of expressing ,
the pain of constructing walls of self –limitedness,
the pain of setting the mind free
to wander in dark forests,
the pain of virtues and vices,
the pain of disease and fatigue,
each trying to break the cocoon,
unwrapping the fine threads,
unwinding, unfolding,
unknowingly

further strengthening it.

Poetry: Mohan Rana (Translation)

Translation from Hindi by Lucy Rosenstein
Mohan Rana
A Patch

The forest first dried inside me
The river turned into stone
The sky became barren
The earth fallow
Desert spread
Soaking up every drop like blotting paper
Every shape tumbled onto its roots,
I had crossed a sand bridge there
Before putting it into words
A green shoot dried under my feet
A memory – just touched – became sand
My footprints disappeared
Crazed hot air whirled about
Unravelling breath from my lungs

Past days are saved in spider webs
In the outer mirrors of the inner world,
Hopes lie around with broken spades
Sew a patch
On the torn fringes of the day
So that a door may open
This century has lost its way
In the dark lane of time

With eyes open I see
This world, all around
Words turn into dust
First inside me
The sand storm has struck
  


The Cormorant 

Soon a new season will start
If there is spring in this latitude 
I'll change my clothes
And stroll around guided by maps 
Trees will come into leaf
Birds fly back from near and far
I hope there will be no news 
Of a new war
I'll clear my throat to say the half-spoken but fall silent
May this spring be so long that the memory of 
Autumn does not return to the solitude of words

Spring is getting shorter each year
Each year grows shorter in spring,
So short that sometimes
Only two seasons seem to be left now -
Good and bad
Joy and sorrow
Love and fear
You and I
May spring and autumn be divided between us
And the withering rain remain all year long

I thought, let's catch the fragrance of a taste coming from the kitchen 
On my sleeve and write it down
Wishing to understand something in the quiet back yard
Searching in a tiny space for a corner to stand,
Time may come soon
To divide the world
All has to be forgotten in order to remember
Alone with the inventory of necessary baggage,
Life requires not just breath
But flames of love in mind's shadows -
The hand which breaks the fall

Small change in the abacus adding the loan of drudgery
Nervous in the decrepit present, feeling my dry cheeks,
I haven't yet seen the past
From inside the mirror
When I leap in its luminous unknown
I lose one thing to gain another.

Poetry: Bhaskar Pitla

Bhaskar Pitla

The unsaid


Most of the time
when we are speaking, we mean
the opposite of
                          what we are saying


At times, and
most of the times
language hits a wall.
And tongues can only do
so much - thoughts explode
in our mouth, form fissures on our face


these wrinkles
are nothing - sentences
that are dead


And most of the time
when we are listening, we listen
what is not written
but a tyranny of words
looping in our brain


the folds of the creasing
hide the meaning – almost
                               of what’s left
unsaid



Submerge


Memory fades in the waters of
Kanyakumari. Remember? when
we met, following the north star we
reached the southern tip. Perched
precariously like the sun balancing
on the horizon
 Slowly,
             Slowly,
                            Slowly…
we caught the thermals of the
windmills they say ‘take you
places you want to be’. Floating
 onwards like a dream.

Nothing
stays the same in these whirls
of the sea. Our only hope is
our skin, every pore the colour
of dusk, gleaming effervescence
with every breath, as the supple
waters soothe our souls and winter
flakes the greenest trees.



Shackles


The sky is a monologue, a shifting continent of hues.
Nothing is linear, not even the gaze
Even if ‘consequence’ is ‘because of’
I map my world from the ‘TV news’.                                     

The feet are always grounded
And only when in somatic sleep
To which direction, do they point
Depends on which corner the bed you keep

Silence is also a vibe - nomenclature of the deaf
-  sights and throbbing blood in veins.
I’ve only heard the grey thud of rains
Wonder how white snowflakes sound

The window becomes my alma mater
Open shut and open close
And hands that keep you rooted to the shore
Still, the waters haunt you evermore

Knowledge comes in black and white
And even through the way tongues roll.
I am stuck in a language, a hand full speak
But only which, I can call my own.

Many places left to be seen.
Many poems to be bought home.
What do you write, when the skin hasn’t felt?     
And the mind hasn’t left this quotidian drone.

The hinges in the head now weak
Eyes meditate on the door.



Why Continents Collide


Our bodies are two continents severed by time
moving slowly towards each other;
the oceans between us sinking, the trenches
getting deeper. The landscape of our skin
shudders with this approaching.
Mountains forge and veins converge
like rivers charting a new course.
A current runs through the rough
churning out relics, insignias of distinction
blur – even a catastrophe is beautiful.
It will be long after dusk and dawn
cast their uneven light, a new continent forms
a million years it maybe, to discern how
we fit like a puzzle – this longing.



Prayer


Still your mind. Watch
the tree. The tree

is our temple, bow
down to the tree.

Watch the tree. Still
your mind. The tree

is our temple. Bow
down to the tree. Hold
it’s hands, branches long

S-ilent
   W-inds
        I-nvoking
             N-esting
                    G-ods
                        with the tree



Afternoons & Now


I don't know if we ever live again
all we have are these quiet hours only
these sultry moments of Now. These afternoons

where nothing moves, the quiet dissipation
of our languid hours, slowly melting like
ice cream - butterscotch flavour is it?
Taste these moments, the salt inside them

salt makes everything taste so good. Snowflakes
are salty or are they sweet, taste them anyway
snowflakes don't last like these afternoons

when nothing moves, afternoons staring
at the sea wondering what moves
oceans - this world is made up of water
of salt, of dreams and the sweet taste
of kisses on afternoons like these

the way I see it
the way you see it
the world doesn't see quiet
like the way we do

everything stays
when nothing moves.

Poetry: Anchit Pandey

Anchit Pandey
Days of the sun  

Excoriare aliquis nosgris ex ossibus ultor - Dido, queen of Carthage 
(May someone arise from our bones as an avenger)

The barren encroaches more and more. 
Weeds grow on what has remained - 
No plants, no animals and no humans. 

Mind is the master and mind itself is the slave-
Seeing and judging, 
turning incidents into anecdotes of rage,
Misreading every sentence, 
convoluting every narrative 

Rendering what is present - waterless, mixed with dust,
Crimson under the sun. 

The barren is the fate, 
Like ashwathama’s leprosy 
Like a country’s predicament-  
Like a plague turning people into Lynch mobs. 

Throw me into the river after you are done with me, 
So, it rinses the blood on my body,
So, it permeates into the cells which are fed up with cowardice, 
So, it takes me away to a place where the whole sky is a river. 



Some general notes
(one and a half years after sister's death)

When you wake up crying every morning, 
you get used to the tiredness in the first hour of the day.

When numbness recedes, Pain follows
and yearning mixed with emptiness can be
good for a poet, you are told in a
countless number of books.

A mother sleeps on pavements in Delhi.
Her son has faded from public memory.

You constantly tell yourself that there are worse fears.

You look for hooks to hang on to and try running by the riverside 
because you have heard it does good - ‘elates', 
and is better than alprazolam 0.5 mg three times a day.

Nothing matters- is the oldest of literary jokes. Also, philosophical. 
I can form similar phrases. There are
no rules, there are no patterns -
what is new might also be depressive - the
way post-modernism likes it - expressive as a post-truth fact –
shaken and not stirred.

This is not good for your mind. 
you should look for distractions, your lover tells you. 
Your poet begs to differ.

That, we are, seems true
that, truth is, is implausible.


While listening to Giacomo Leopardi's opera Omnia at midnight

You stand on the axis
pulling and releasing the string I walk on
(at will).

Life unfurls and shuts down 
while I travel slowly away from you 
dissipating love and ideology- 
up and down as a wave of infinite possibilities. 

They talk to me of politics and communist-party-hats with red stars 
and I listen 
and I look for you in the crowd.

Gunshots are nearer every time-
blood more prominent at my hands

the insignia of love floats mid-air at midnight, reassessing decisions 
and behavioural patterns of comrades and martyrs 

You stand on the axis and 
I travel far into the world,
it unfurling and shutting down,
when a murderer speaks.

A right -winged murderer speaks 
like he is the moon; and 
some glee and some procrastinate 

and I am never midway,
always travelling far- 
I wonder to what deltas. 

Things can easily go south!

I wait for some intervention -
one in which you pull me back. 


For an old lover in Calcutta

Calcutta welcomes me in its full Glory.
Crowded, yellow, smelling of flowers and fish, 
very much like home- only marginally different, 
in between an ode and an elegy.

I often got lost when my fingers crawled along
the Hems of your light-coloured underwear,
the Polka dots confusing and the softness reminiscent of
Rimbaud, strawberry and old Christian Graves.

'True love lasts forever!'
You never said in any Canto of our togetherness.

I can only imagine how it is possible-
the malignancy that love is -

Once blood oozed out from my thigh 
when one of your toenails pierced it-
sweat and blood, blood and sweat together.
It stayed.

True love lasts forever
I told the cab driver on the Howrah station, 
as I had, to countless earlobes I had kissed-
those kisses -  straying and staying,
human and material, burning and crying out.
All at once.

We often talked of masks, Dear lover
and hid behind them till it was possible
like a city -
the river its Eyes
the bridge some mascara
deliberately put on.



Leukaemia 

1.

A catacomb 
beneath a maze 
Is laid out in systematic patterns. 
Venom drips in the IV, 
in the tanks outside, 
On the frozen oxygen cylinder. 
Venom makes death patient. 

 2.
 
All eyes point in one direction. 
There is no battle - 
there is no one to tell you.

3.            

A defeated smile travels 
from one face to Another, 
nonchalant - evasive,
Like a frozen lake on the South Pole. 
 
4.            
Not a single incident is loud. 
Not even the conclusion screams. 
Efficient, slow and the only need of the hour- 
Like in a good poem by a master craftsman-
Melancholy arrives 
And leaves never. 

5.          

I am detached, 
I tell the girl who lets me sleep on her bosom. 
At night, she offers me refuge in her smell
And loves me from beneath a veil. 


6.

She would be gone, soon. 
Like the country where I grew- 
Where venom drips in the IV 
Where there is no battle in the land of defeated smiles, 
Where there are only silences 

And leftover veils.