Showing posts with label 201909E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 201909E. Show all posts

Editorial: Sunil Sharma

Pleased to present the September edition for the connoisseurs of fine writing!

Setu will be soon achieving a million views. So far, 986,888 hits. All thanks to the patronage of you guys from across the world.

This edition has its own moments, moods and flavours--- critical, artistic, intellectual and emotional.

As usual a complete package of prose, poetry, visual art, reflections and conversations---engagement with real issues and topics requiring our attention and their cultural articulation through varied forms.

We thank all the valued contributors for their continual support to an ongoing mission---providing wholesome content, month after month.

Please do write in.

Best.

Sunil Sharma

Editor, Setu (English)
Kalyan, Mumbai Metropolitan Region,
Maharashtra, India.
September 30, 2019

Setu, September 2019

Setu

Volume 4 Issue 4 September 2019


Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Poetry

Special

Short / Flash Fiction

Photo Essay

Essay: Modern Literary Theory

Setu Exclusive

Author of the Month

Conversations: literary

Book review

European poetry curated by Agron Shele

Wakefield Lit Fest


Poetry: Sekhar Banerjee

* Author of the Month *
Sekhar Banerjee is a bilingual poet. He has three collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. His poems in English have been published in some of the major literary journals in India and abroad.


parallel life

During this asymmetrical autumn
somewhere in an empty field
near your ancestor’s sold out building

over the border of unintentional myths
and the thoughts that prolong in the middle of
an aged clerk’s sleep,
an ordinary blade of grass suddenly quivers
out of turn in autumn
near a settlement of the refugees

This is an apology for living
beyond history - the lost land-lord of ease

Now, you must learn why
silence is almost a parallel life
***

holidays 

The things I have decided to do
before reaching the railway station –

looking for my seat, a cigarette to finish,
calls before returning, going to the washroom,

some more thoughts to conclude, assessing
the co-passenger, looking at the newspaper,
inviting some final peace of mind

One by one they get done
Only some odd pistons stuck in my head
and an incompleteness in my sigh

for the aborted thoughts of a new life
that I have left behind
***

errata for the second edition 

Please open the autobiography at page sixty nine –
the last sentence
It should read ‘pretence’ in place of ‘change’
 ( It’s getting late, the last metro would leave at ten
I need to go home early . The locality looks
almost Jurassic after eight in the evening
and the Epicurean moon,
you won’t believe it, just melts on every
lamp post in the street, and
I always think of packing my old valise. )

Would you please erase ‘ existence’
and write ‘ naturalized citizens’ ?
(I have had bad dreams about Gods
And the Demons, you know . All starts
with a capital letter.
The pathway to my rented home gets stretched
on full moon nights and I walk on and on .
It never ends. It is elastic. )
Anyway, at page 123, second paragraph, last line,
do replace ‘logic’ with ‘ psychologist ’
and ‘emotion’ with ‘wild hyacinths’

Would you be kind enough to remove
all commas after ‘speed’
from chapter nine to twenty six ?
( I have completely forgotten about my past lives.
I can only remember that I was a cat
in my last life. I was imported here
by a little refugee girl .I died in a road accident
and I was born again
as a citizen of a new land.)
Would you please insert an interrogation mark
just after my autobiography’s last sentence ?
(I became a refugee again and I crossed
the border in search of another world.
Nothing actually lasts.
And the last sentence again becomes the first. )
***

Shadow

The shadow of a huge edifice
stands by me
silently
it looks at things I need

to contemplate on:
re-evaluating the course, waiting
for a better time, slowing down

It scolds and teaches me about
Darwin’s theories
and the religion of selection

In the middle of a day, I stand
under the sun
with the edifice on my head


Poetry Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The  Community Garden

I thought of visiting the community
garden only one block away if ever
I were impoverished and needed to
make vegetables grow. Me, never
having been born with a green thumb,
having pruned plants only once in
my life, but willing to buy a packet
of seeds and grimly give it a go.
That's when I went outside my
mobile home, walked the distance
to a small untended area hemmed
in by a mesh wire fence. No one
was there, but I'd seen a sign of
growth—thimbleberries, both red
and black, and when I looked
closely I touched their hard, drying
fruit. I'd longed to clean the memory
of the abandoned garden, wondering
if it could ever be saved. It was then
a tiny hope rose inside of me, and
for one dollar I bought some seeds.
I tore up the thimbleberries, and
with a pitcher of water I did my
best to plant some mums in their
place. Days later I returned one
afternoon, below the quietest sky
in the last of summer, a gentle
wind spilling its breath on my
skin. Buds had maturely formed
in the garden, and as time elapsed
the lips of mums opened, smiling
in their red brilliance.
***

The Young Rose

Waiting by the river in
the icy rain, watching my
husband searching for agates
on what he says is a perfect
day, I stand there shivering,
wishing I could also find
a golden specimen or two,
seeing if anything would
twinkle up at me saying it
were a gem. Hours spent on
the gravel bar, and without
any luck I sit down, hoping
he'd call it a day and we'd go
home. It was only then, my
hands numbs and shaking,
I saw a young rose at my feet,
miraculously saved from decay
at this time of season. I stared
at it raptly, a rose so perfect
glistening in the water that had
dropped on its petals, having
brought me new air to fill my
lungs, its beauty keeping me
warm, my meager coat so thin,
and the shy rose hummed a
song of love inside my heart
I couldn't resist.
***

Skylight

Above the skylight
I saw a lost feather
lacing the air, a sleek
red like that of a cardinal,
and I hoped the astute bird
was still in its flight. I stood
on a chair and peered up
in the morning sky, wishing
I could catch sight of its wings,
its regal breast, imagining
the dignity it felt flying high
til its feather loosened in the
wind and made a downward
path as if swirling from heaven.
It was when the sun rose
its highest did I see the kingly
head. He lit upon the roof
and for a minute eyed me
from the skylight with a
curious inflection of its head;
then in only a second he
proudly opened his beak
and I patiently listened as.
he begun to sing

Poetry: Louis Kasatkin

By Louis Kasatkin

Louis is editorial administrator at www.DestinyPoets.co.uk and founder of Destiny Poets and in his spare time is a civic, community, political activist, blogger and general nuisance to the status quo!
Louis Kasatkin
Synopsis for a Novel

I read a book once,
one with a happy ending
the denouement didn’t suit my mood
I have to admit;
the good guy won out in the end
and got the gal,
justice was served,
the bad guys got their just desserts;
the sun presumably rose again
the following morning after the story ended,
over that small town in the middle of nowhere USA;
It’s always a small town,
the crooked politician, corrupt cop,
local businessman with too many secrets to conceal.
and some innocent gets in their way
by chance or accident,
fate really doesn’t mind which,
and then up pops the reluctant hero;
the saviour of the day,
honour, virtue and fair play;
and he is pretty much always
reluctant, hesitant, self-effacing
pushed to the limit
before he invariably acts,
displaying the customary tropes of being
a tad graphic, a touch sadistic and having a
a flair for the unexpected as he dispatches
each of the bad hombres in turn;
And so he wins in the end,
gets the gal and the kudos,
and most important of all,
the chance to do it all again
in the sequel.


The Stranger’s Absence

I recall him saying,
” of all the possible possibilities isn’t it possible
that there being no possibilities is amongst them? “
To which I countered,
” We cling obsessively to those pieces of a jigsaw
we’ve somehow come to accumulate by chance,
accident or ulterior design, only for those pieces
never to fall into place or even bear any resemblance
to a discernible outline or pattern or a promise of coherence. “
I contemplate the solitary glass of absinthe
that sits forever stationary on a marble top table,
un-paid for and un-drunk until The Stranger returns,
and quaffs it savouring the liquid’s unique indifference
as it surges down his gullet;
We are only led to imagine such things
because we imagine that the Stranger,
long since absconded into the obscurity of the world-at-large
might somehow re-appear unannounced as if by chance,
fate or ulterior design,
And then we might recommence the desultory dialogue,
the Stranger and me
that dialogue which he chose peremptorily to abandon
with his trademark flaneur disquieting insouciance;
and so I sit and toy with the pieces of jigsaw
left me as a memento or perhaps not,
some pieces are clearly missing and
the glass of absinthe requires that I pay for it.

Bekal - God’s Own Country

Gopal Lahiri

- Gopal Lahiri

Bekal is a quiet town by the sea in North Kerala and is located about seventy kilometres from Mangalore city. The picturesque coast facing Laccadiv sea is scenic, with beautiful sand and with a very few people there. We had a lot of long walks on the long beaches and twilight clouds were our perfect companions.


This resort town, with its pretty back water, brightly painted boats, coconut groves, the picture-postcard fishing village, thatched cottages, banana leaves and a sprawling beach is a perfect destination for unwinding our mind and muscles. Boat cruising in the back water in the evening and Kerala Cuisine is a must for the tourist.



One of the main draws on this stretch of coastline is the Bekal fort, located beside the Pallikare Beach. It is the biggest fort in Kasaragod, spreading over forty acres land. The fort was built in 1650AD for the defensive purposes against the attack from the sea. From the Observation Tower, we could see the stunning view of the sea on one side and the sprawling green on the other side. The water tank, the magazine for keeping explosives and the secret tunnel all roll into an amazing sight inside the fort. We missed the sunset view because it was drizzling.


Thonikadavu estate is thirty kilometres away from the Bekal town and the estate in private hands. The plantation is widespread and the trekking in the wild is a riveting experience. We had a fish spa on the natural spring and bath on the water fall. We were scared to enter the magical cave to trace the source of the spring water.

Once we ambled through the Kundamkuzhy forest, Tagore’s words echoed in our head, ‘Give us back the forest, take this city away.’ The view from the top is breath-taking with Payasani River flowing through the forest green below.

The bio-diversity of the Muliyar forest is awe-inspiring with vivid flora and fauna on display with tall coconut trees, betel nut, walnut, bamboo, banana and rubber plantations were well spread over the private estate of Mr Ratnakar.

The fresh coconut water and spring water were so refreshing to drink! There is an accommodation within forest facing the green cover and the river down below. You can enjoy in this well-furnished home stay equipped with modern facilities! A must stay indeed!


We enjoyed fish spa in natural spring water and one can take a shower in the water fall as well! Rathnakar has made beautiful bags and hats on the spot from the skin of the betel nut (Areca nut) and presented us! Those were a revelation! Our 3 hours trekking ended with a delicious Sadhya Kerala lunch offered by Rathnakar and his family at their beautiful house!

On our return journey to Mangalore, we visited Ananthapura temple. One of the oldest and only lake temples in Kerala, the deity is Lord Vishnu and the temple is guarded by a crocodile who eats only prasad.




Overall a terrific escape to the nature in Bekal. The coastline was great, but nothing compares to trekking in the wild.

Haiku: Gopal Lahiri

Gopal Lahiri
1.
evening sky
antholizing the
tiny stars

2.
seals wallow
in brackish water
evening arousal

3.
raindrops
dead leaves
quavering

4.
birds flying past
for the twilight
tight finish

5.
the emerald sea
stretching to a hazy
skyline

6.
stars come out
from the clouds
sharing stories

7.
the mist departs
perfect sunbeams
prattle of birdsongs

8.
winter rain
washing
the cardamom leaves

9.
seabirds
take with them
the mountain shadows

10.
the green turf
unfurrowed by
human footsteps.

INTERVIEW with MIKE ZONE

Duane Vorhees

- Duane Vorhees


Mike Zone is the author of A Farewell to Big Ideas, Void Beneath the Skin, Better than the Movie: 4 Screenplays and Fellow Passengers: Public Transit Poetry, Meditations and Musings. A contributing poet to Mad Swirl and contributing writer to the graphic novel series American Anti-hero by Alien Buddha Press. His poetry and stories have appeared in: Horror Sleaze Trash, The Daily Dope Fiend, Outlaw Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review, Synchronized Chaos and Triad├ж Magazine.


Mike Zone: My bio is an observation: I'm walking along the neighborhood gazing at the hill with a flock of geese neatly lined up gazing at me, cold black eyes and solemn black beaks pointed at my person. Sometimes there's a sense of looming anger. My intrusion into goose territory? Jealousy aimed at the cup of coffee in my hand? Could it be they'd like a cup of coffee but being geese this is an impossible scenario due to their lack of hands and digits? F**k paying for it, they will just beak the barista or cashier and go. It's goose territory and I envy them and their fantastical visions of getting coffee.

Duane Vorhees: Okay…… Can you describe in detail what caused you to write, especially poetry?

Mike Zone
MZ: I write as a coping mechanism to deal with an ever bombarding set of conflicting emotions and situations within my day to day existence. Sometimes it's just ire aimed at our society's vapid social engineering and slamming against what I would like to deem the big unfeeling picture of it all and it's empty meaning, so why be a miserable wretch about all of it and torture others for one's own egotistic sake? Poetry gets to the heart of the matter, the pacing of breath, a rhythm of sorts even if I'm the only one who can feel it. It's a play of poetry and needles, poking and exposing what needs to be done or said as you paint either brutally or elusively what you see and feel in relation to that on an instinctual whim.

DV: Are you saying, then, that poetry is mainly a private affair, that there’s no need for audience participation?

MZ: In a way, when it comes to conception and maybe even the actual writing of it but once we get to say actually reciting it or presenting it to an audience whether they be the reader, listener or editor it begins to evolve on its own and shifts into a communal agent of sorts prompting a plethora of reactions and experiences.

DV: Are you a dedicated public reader of your verses? Have you ever had an audience reaction that you didn't expect or that led you to revise a poem?

MZ: I used to read my poesy at a local coffee shop on poetry night and that was about it, when my mother became gravely ill much of that fell to the wayside as I took time to take care of her... sometimes one of the local bars downtown hosts an open mic poetry/performing arts session that I feel caters to self indulgent middle class kids with imaginary problems which I've been hesitant to attend, sometimes my poetry will touch on the nature of class and that seems to ruffle feathers in a rather adverse manner...a tense and silent astonishment, talking about the forbidden when we're all supposed to be the same but different, of course I kind of thrive on conflict of this sort and my working nearly sixty hours lately prevents me from attending these gatherings. Have I ever had an audience deliver an unexpected reaction? Well, yes actually I was doing a reading at the local community college (Grand Rapids Community College) "50 Years The Best of Display" magazine reading my blues poem Shock Doctrine Bride about an engagement gone awry which also invoke elements of class conflict in society, surrounded by comfortable baby-boomers and millennials I was surprised to have the non-academic baby-boomers shake my hand, compliment my work and congratulate me. The so-called open minded progressive generation and established academics seemed a bit perturbed by the nature of the work and my delivery. Now, have I ever revised a poem due to a lukewarm reception? No, the work is generally as it stands a testament to a moment in time which evolves through external and internal perception. I'll consider what prompts such a reaction, mull it over and write a response accordingly if the need should strike and sometimes it does.

DV: My own open mic experience is quite different. In the early 90s I was teaching in Seoul. A poet/musician named Dan Godston organized an open mic movement, which I participated in from almost the beginning. We had events at a number of venues, every week, and even a couple of international festivals. For a while we had several hundred bodies packed into a small bar, though the numbers dropped to a few dozen regulars and one-timers. Most of the attendees were young Canadian English teachers, but it was truly an international, cosmopolitan set, and the mic was open to everything – poets and musicians of course, but also body painters, fire breathers, dance-like capoeira martial artists, even a visiting member of Blue Man Group.… It was all very exciting, maybe because we didn’t cater to the academics. Would you mind sharing Shock Doctrine Bride with us?

MZ: Not at all but beware the novice poet with his blatant hammering and yammering...

you'll never know what it's like
you say it's not your problem
if I wind up homeless
then call me at odd hours of an eclipse morning
weeping about how I'm the only one
how you miss me sleeping at your side
you're so sorry for the way things are
thanks
you'll never know what it's like
clawing and scraping like I did
to even get to this menial level of survival
on the rollercoaster labor scale
working a five-dime store job
affording nothing but nothing with infinite dreams
you'll never know what it's like
going hungry to pay for a surgery on your credit card
or even decide
what do I need more this week?
heat or electric?
F**k it. Winter's here.
happy anniversary honey
you'll never know what it's like
not your problem right?
tell me to have sweet dreams
I want you to have dreams about rich girls
rejected by working class lads put out on the street
then shot by private police cause the school's budget
just got redirected

Thank you for helping me rekindle the memory of the poem that started my foray into publishing, a poem written in a creative writing class taught by David Cope that I took to hone my screenwriting skills... here I am 7 years later with a lack of a film deal and over 100 poetry, flash fiction and short story credits later.

DV: Jack Warner dismissed his writers as "schmucks with Underwoods." William Faulkner used to periodically write in Hollywood until he made enough money to live on while he wrote his next novel. Most of his work on screenplays went uncredited, but he did receive acknowledgement for adaptions of Raymond Chandler's "The Big Sleep" and Ernest Hemingway's "To Have and Have Not." Both movies starred Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall and were directed by Howard Hawks. Indeed, Faulkner had boasted to Hawks that he could turn Hemingway's worst book into a great movie. F. Scott Fitzgerald tried it full time for a couple of years, actually worked for a week as a rewrite man on "Gone With the Wind" but was forbidden to use any dialogue that didn't appear in the novel, and in the end his only screenwriting credit was for an adaptation of Erich Maria Remarque's "Three Comrades," which was actually heavily rewritten by the producer. So, obviously it's a tougher writing nut to crack than most.  Poetry does not generally pay well but at least allows creative freedom and doesn't need much equipment. Are you currently working on a script idea?

MZ: Yes, I actually am working on a couple, one is a stream of consciousness scene a day concept while the other is about a barfly trying to distance himself from a life he really isn't happy with but is essentially the only life he has in which he exists in a somewhat sociable manner. I have several other concepts, such as a zombie STD flick and a slew of other whack-a-doodle ideas but I'm gradually working my way back to screenwriting. I actually wouldn't mind being a success at that so I could be like Faulkner and write some "serious" literature but ultimately I'm not that serious of a person, my dream project is a heavy metal version of Lord of the Rings filled with anti-heroes who set out to destroy the world and perhaps sitting down to write the events behind my Mona in Amerika series of poems which could be taken serious it really depends on how one views the "American Dream" and its relationship to the universe if there is a relationship at all. I actually have a collection of screenplays which aren't edited very well (all apologies never go to create-space drunk with "good ideas in a state of panic stricken depression) entitled Better Than the Movies: 4 Screenplays....shameless plug.

DV: It’s not shameless to share whatever you’re proud of. How did you get interested in doing screenplays? Aside from the obvious differences between poems and screenplays, of course, in what ways do the mental processes of creating differ between the two genres?

MZ: My interest in screenplays developed through my interests in comics books, I originally wanted to be a comic book writer, however I started getting more into my music during my teenage years coming across The Doors and being really enthralled by Jim Morrison's poetry which caused me to come across a copy of American Night which showcased his poetry and a short film script which was something that blew me away at the time being all of sixteen years old not really having a notion of what cinema could be. So this idea of communication via the visual and literary ignited a compulsion into my brain. The comic strip being a sort of natural evolution to the motion picture storytelling. My poetry is more instinctive, slam, bang with a bit of editing whereas my screenwriting is a tad more structured. I always have the three act story construct in mind, perhaps even a theme, there's a character and a situation that I build off of and I have a general direction I'd like to go but more often than not they tell where they'd like to be or rather where they would rather not be but the laws of their universe kind of say otherwise. It's kind of a balancing act much like with the poetry where you're trying to communicate something without being excessively direct about it but not overly allusive. Perhaps the ultimate objective is a balance of sorts. Whatever that's supposed to mean, I was grocery shopping the other day and ran into a medicine woman and wound up having a discussion about my trying to bring a sense of balance and attempting to communicate with the rest of the human population. Apparently I need to sleep with an onyx bracelet to keep me grounded but I shouldn't fear people thinking I'm crazy...or I could stop buying avocados during full moons.

DV: Comic books were my entr├йe to writing as well. In 2nd grade or so I tried to write and draw sci-fi stories and invented a handful of superheroes. They were, of course, highly imitative and crude, but everybody has to start somehow. (Indeed, I often imagine the poems in “The Many Loves of Duane Vorhees” becoming the basis of a graphic novel and/or a movie. Wanna collaborate?)

MZ: I'd be open to it, as a matter of fact I'm also a contributing writer on Red Fock's illustrated novel series American Anti-Hero and plan on introducing some pretty exciting stuff there which will hopefully lead to an actual comic book in the future, but I'd totally be down to seeing what we could come up with.

DV: The poem sequence is essentially a biography. The central persona starts out as a young man or perhaps teenager, with an idealized romantic attachment who dies. The next part is more sexualized, but illustrative of an alienating relationship. Then there is a marriage that ends in divorce, followed by a middle-aged man playing the field in a series of frustrating sexual pursuits. Then an ill-fated late-blooming romance with a younger woman. Feelings of death, possibly suicide. Finally, true love. It is an outline of a plot structure, though it lacks plot and deep character (and dialogue). Early on it should be made clear that the main, aging character is a poet, either by showing him writing a poem or reading one, perhaps as part of a seduction scene or reflections on his life. But what I picture is a subtle, mainly indirect presentation of the poems -- as various chyrons, billboards, voice-overs, background TV or radio sequences, soundtrack, crossword puzzles, audible thoughts, product placements, etc. Clearly, they can't all be used.

MZ: I have downloaded your text and will begin reading it and jotting down ideas and such. I'll be exploring both venues of the graphic novel and script form before ultimately deciding where I'd like to go with it. I may even play with chronology. 

DV: I hope something good develops.

MZ: I'm sure something will.

DV: Meanwhile, can you fill us in on Red Fock’s venue? How did you get involved?

MZ: My involvement in Alien Buddha Press along with my association with Red Focks was spawned from my seeking out a home for my poetry collection Void Beneath the Skin...Alien Buddha Press happened to publish some of the contemporary poets I most admire such as Kevin Peery, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Don Beukes and Scott Thomas Outlar, so I figured these were poets I corresponded with via social media who seemed to be interested in my work so working on the wild assumption Alien Buddha Press would pick up my collection I submitted it as they were seeking out new poetry manuscripts as well. I also had caught word via the Alien Buddha Press page on facebook that they were seeking contributors to an upcoming graphic novel series, which intrigued so I submitted my short story Human Zoo along with a short script I wrote in college and submitted to the Blue Cat Screenplay contest ... needless to say things have gone well and I hope to keep it going in the long run if not entirely on American Anti-hero, there is a plethora of opportunity via various incubating projects.

DV: Ryan, Don, and Scott, of course, have long been associated with this site as well (where’s Kevin?). What is your impression of the new internet-spawned poetry universe (versiverse)? Will it ever achieve the critical/intellectual legitimacy of the poetry found in the hard-copy, small-press world?

MZ: I was rather dismissive at first, almost perceiving it as Peter Posing Poet posts up another poetry blog via wordpress, but after actually taking time to read and actually correspond with fellow poets, I think it is a fantastic venue in the exchange of ideas, perceptions and information that congeals most wonderfully with the hard copy, small-press world. One does not have to decimate the other in a survival of the fittest combative state. I look at it as a natural co-evolution in which the "establishment" so to speak will learn to embrace this ever evolving neo versiverse (I like that term by the way).

DV: I seem to recall that when Adrienne Rich guest-edited one of “The Best American Poetry” series of annual volumes in the mid-1990s she exclusively chose on-line, nontraditional sources, and then when “The Best of the Best American Poetry” came out a couple of years later Harold Bloom rather pointedly neglected to include any of Rich’s selections. Do you think the “establishment” views have evolved at all since then? Is that a good or a bad thing?

MZ: I feel as if they have softened a bit. It's funny you should mention the "The Best American" anthologies, working in book stores over the years, perusing the shelves of thrift shops along with doing a brief stint at a textbook company, I've had these types of discussions with students and educators in conjunction with seeing a wider acceptance of the so-called "non-traditional" sources. Good or bad? Well, you have an increase of exposure to a variety of voices, and hopefully the chance to garner new readership which in turn could spark interest in your more traditional sources, which is what I'd personally like to see going back to the concept of co-evolution of tangible and electronic media. Now there could be a drastically negative aspect in which the past is disregarded should things go entirely into the realm of cyberspace but again I don't foresee that happening, because then we are entering the realm of corporate controlled publishing monitoring the net should the erosion of net neutrality be maintained.

DV: Marshall McLuhan famously insisted that “the medium is the message,” suggesting that the printing press led to a shift of consciousness away from a cyclic understanding of reality to a linear one, and by extension the new cyber technologies are creating asynchronous modes of communication. If this is true, how is it going to affect the form or content of poetry?

MZ: Now we're getting to the nature of time of itself in which two or more events or rather all of time is happening at once but our human perspective seems to compartmentalize this experience unless we are getting to the nitty gritty of computer programming itself which leads to an entirely different nature of permissiveness. I like to believe something within our DNA adds a bit of rational coherency to the experience and I would love to give a definitive answer but like the philosopher Slavoj Zizek has alluded to we are embarking on a time as a species that we do not even have the linguistics to define as of yet. Ergo (I'm starting to sound like a pseudo intellectual blow-hard now) I believe once the poetry is engulfed within technology, it is fully capable of transcending beyond language even into the multitude of the visual mediums, perhaps even an amalgamation but then again there will be that craving for simple language and bare indirect communication alongside say shifting content affected by direct reader/observer participation. In essence there will a social mode of multimedia experimentation anchored and contrasted by the traditional form of content in an ever shifting landscape.

DV: Maybe your next graphic novel or movie venture could be that seminal breakthrough into universal poetic experience.

MZ: This is how I picture the film's opening: Black screen with a quote by Lawrence Ferlinghetti "One needs other people, perhaps especially women, to construct one's own special illusions of life." We see the POET walking from the dock, toward a hut on the shore, the tide barely approaching the doorway. He lights a candle and sits at a desk, slips paper into a typewriter, contemplates and begins typing at a slow then rapid pace. The script will be slightly more detailed than this but it's a start. The tide coming ever so closer as his story progresses.


DV: And as the tide progresses, the POET ages, the typewriter becomes a laptop and then a tablet. Perhaps by the end it is just a shaky hand with the nub of a pencil. But, out of ego, instead of Ferlinghetti I might want to use Vorhees, perhaps “There are two sorts of zebras in this world / and two kinds of love, / The love that burns / and / the love that cools / to then burn anew. / Black zebras with white stripes / and white ones with black.” (The real poem would have some ellipses, of course, but comic books and movie scripts shouldn’t be too damn pedantic.) But, I guess this beginning of a project makes a fitting finale to our conversation. Thank you for sharing your vision and vicissitudes with us, and I hope to stay in collaborative contact.

Kalina’s Story

by Mark Cornell

1.
Down on a tiny block in Murrumbeena, Aidan grew up in a tin roofed humpy made by his brown skinned, frizzy haired Mum, Kalina Oak. The Oak family scratched a living selling potatoes, pumpkins spinach, lettuce, carrots, tomatoes and beans from their veggie patch to the locals. The soil was sandy, Kalina said during the old days, this part of the land was under the sea all the way up to the Dandenongs. The locals nicknamed Kalina, Grannie Crap, because they reckoned the quality of her veggies was due to her pooing in the veggie patch. Didn’t stop them buying and haggling though. Truth was the Oak’s nurtured their veggies with muck from the compost heap and potash from their oil drum fire. Kalina kept the fire going all day, all night, every season, she called it, “ the eternal flame.” Aidan’s job was to hunt around the place for wood. There was a strip of wattle trees and redgums down at the local Kooyongkoot Creek. One night, as a rainbow circled moon sailed through a broth of mist Kalina, told her boy the old people’s word meant, “ the haunt of the waterfowl.” Aidan’s Mum said it was once a good place for tucker, food and medicine; when she was a little girl Kooyongkoot was chock full of platypus, water rats, sugar gliders, flying foxes, black faced ducks, old man herons, cormorants, swamp hens, eels, and black fish. The creek sang all day, now, maybe the only thing you hear around here is crazy growl of the possum or the whirof the frogs. Kalina brown eyes glistened as she sipped on her longneck bottle of stout, she had one every night as she sat down on a log next to the eternal flame, she told her son it was her “medicine,.” she called the bottle shop the “chemist.” 

2.
Aideen knew bugger all about his Dad, who’d nicked off after he was born. His name was Joe King, he came from County Clare, the west of Ireland.  ‘They’re different gubbas bubup, not as cold as the bloody Poms.’ Kalina said the big thing Joe King and she had in common was hatred of the money grubbers. These days the creek is called Gardiners Creek. Gardiner was the first white fella to settle in this part of the country. He was a banker and pastoralist who bought a big mob of cattle to the Kooyongkoot, soon their hard heels and big mouths wrecked the soil and destroyed the murnong plants. One drizzly arvo, Kalina showed her boy a yellow daisy plant by the creek and told him the old people used to grow and harvest it all over the place, it was their main source of tucker. She tugged the flower out of the sandy earth to reveal it’s small white carrot like roots. It tasted pretty good, sort of part radish, part coconut. The whites reckon its poisonous. Gardiner and his mob loved shooting kangaroo and possum, the din was like bloody thunder, pretty soon, two more sources of food for her people, the Bunurong disappeared. To Kalina’s people the land was mother earth, and to be shared, and as a neighbour, kin maybe, Gardiner should  leave them some food. When they tried to explain this to Gardiner, like all white fellas, he was deaf and reckoned he didn’t understand “jibberish.” Then people’s stomach’s growled. ‘When your sick you make crook decisions bubup,’ Karina watery eyes reflected the eternal flame. Out of desperation some of the Bunurong  started spearing Gardiner’s cattle. They had plenty of opportunities to kill the white fellas, but didn’t, they were pretty stupid out in the bush. You could hear them and smell them from miles away. ‘ They reckon blackfellas stink bubup but poo you can smell a Pom from miles away!’  Kalina once cackled to her son. ‘ They don’t wash, you see son, they reckon the time a Pom’s of any use is during a drought!’ The old people thought if they attacked their bloody animals, then the intruders would get the message and go away. But they kept cutting down the trees, fenced off the best land and ploughed crops.

3.
The Bunurong raided Gardiner’s potatoes and once caught one of his men, a bloke called Underwood. They took him back to their camp and put it to him that seeing Gardiner had hundreds of beasts, and the best of their land, surely, he could spare something. But Underwood, like Gardiner was bloody deaf and told us to stop talking “mumbo jumbo.” They let the useless barstard go, but he came back with more men and guns and blasted the old people across the Yarra. Kalina drained her stout, she reckoned they don’t know how many were killed, they never do, but two poor buggers were arrested. Tullamarine and Jun Jun. The two-set fire to the jail and escaped, ‘ Bloody heroes I reckon bubup, they deserve a memorial!’ 

Batman, the founder of Melbourne,  (this is a place for a pillage,) ended up being pushed around in in a pram before he snuffed it, his nose dropped off because he had the pox. He signed a treaty with the old people for  about  250,000 hectares of land, in return for some blankets, axes, flour and other goods, and a promise of annual rent. Batman never kept to his side of the bargain though and died in debt.  One of the people who “signed” the treaty was Derrimut, he  was the head of the Yalukit-willam mob, one of six Bunurong clans. Derrimut’s land was the south bank of the Yarra. He was good mates with John Pascoe Fawkner, they used to go hunting, fishing  and shooting together. Derrimut used to strut around the place like a bush turkey with a dirty great big top hat on his noggin. Derrimut warned his mate Fawkner twice about an impending Aboriginal attack, they were both prevented. Derrimut went with Fawkner to Van Diemen’s Land in the ship, The Enterprise, and was introduced to Governor Arthur and presented with a drummer’s  uniform, a source of pride among some of

4.
the locals. The was the same Governor Arthur who organised  the Black Line debacle. Where the army and settlers tried to flush the blacks out of the bush and push them into isolated peninsulas where they could be controlled. Arthur ordered the Van Daimonians to arm themselves and treat the indigenous as “ open enemies.” Before Derrimut died, he told  a government committee of his heartbreak over the way immigrants-built homes all over his  country. Penny less Derrimut was put into the Benevolent Asylum in North Melbourne in March 1864, he died about a month later. He was 54 years old. Poor old Derrimut.

Fiction: In the good old days…

K S Subramaniam

K. S. Subramanian

It never ceases to amaze me that my frequent eatery, cozy and air-conditioned on one of the arterial roads in Chennai, is frequented by several elderly faces, often single or in groups.  I acknowledge them with a smile or nod of the head when I am busy digging into some spicy or delicious stuff to stimulate my gastric juice.  I have spoken to some, keep exchanging smiles with others but have picked up a modicum of info about how well the joint is doing in its business.  These days info travels a lot in social media or personal meets with lesser cloud around their credibility.  Yeah, they do matter a lot, right?

I met that benign, smiling face of a gentleman who appeared to be visiting the joint for the first time, at least to me.  It may not be so and it is not axiomatic either for him to know me before making his appearance there.  That was in a lighter vein, of course.  On the first occasion he smiled in a pleasant way and I responded.  He always seemed in a hurry and gave his order in a flurry as if he was to catch the next flight in a few seconds to his home a couple of streets away. 

As it happens, we were silently aware that exchange of smiles was no precursor to breaking the ice.  When my bill came and I paid I had accidentally kept a Rs.20 note with the other which was not necessary.  As was customary in that joint where the stewards were meticulously honest and officious about all, including expecting tips, one of them returned the Rs.20 note with an apology - “Sir!  It was found along with the other note.  I am returning it to you.”  Slightly abashed I took it when the elderly gentleman in front smiled and said “It happens to all.  Thank God, it was only Rs.20. “   I grinned and joked “Hope it does not happen to me again like the saying goes – if you stumble once you do so again.”  We broke the ice. 

On the next chance meeting a few days later the initial reluctance to open the vocal chords was there.  The chat drifted to hotels that had been there for ages and he seemed to relive his age by going back on the memory lane.  “Friend!  I don’t know how old you are but had you been born in the 50s you would have delighted in the typical south delicacies which cost not more than 50 paise or half anna as it was called in those days.  It included filter steaming coffee.  I used to visit a hotel near a popular cinema close to Mount Road where a delicious masala dosa cost 25 paisa.  Can you believe it now? That hotel has grown to have several branches now and much sought after still.  I still remember the joints in Mandaveli or Mylapore where on hygienic plantain leaf breakfast used to be served.  And filter coffee would stay in your stream for hours.”

I cut in.  “Those days business environs had been governed by some ethics.  Or some balance, to put it right.”   He pounced on it.  “Exactly.   Some of those joints are still there in new environs, bricks and mortar, and you pay ten times the price or even more.  I am not on that point.    What I specifically remember was a small businessman with whom I worked without pay as an accountant for some months  in the 60s.  He was a thoroughbred honest guy who never took a penny more than he was worth nor did he leave anyone unhappy.  There used to be a small caf├й near the theatre on Mount Road where a sumptuous dinner would cost 50 paise.  Every evening when I returned home he would stuff me with 50 paise to let me have dinner there.  Those days 50 paise would mean a lot, friend.”

I nodded.  As if to assuage him I told him that the joint where we were eating also had endearing, warm stewards though it cost 10 to 20 p.c. more compared to others in the area, including the traditional ones he spoke about.  He grinned.  “Friend!  The stuff may be palatable to you because you have no choice.  But my gastric juice does not react the same way as it did 50 years ago.  I am 75. “  His age slipped naturally out of the chat. 

The bill came and I paid. When I got up after polite pleasantries he came with a parting shot.
“Never forget the tips, friend because tomorrow you have to face them, unlike the old days.”

Fiction: Daily Routine

By Louis Kasatkin

Louis is editorial administrator at www.DestinyPoets.co.uk and founder of Destiny Poets and in his spare time is a civic, community, political activist, blogger and general nuisance to the status quo!
Louis Kasatkin


The first thing I noticed about him was that he always favoured the bench nearest the ornate water fountain, the one at the furthest point of the park’s circumference.

And there he sat, every day as far as I could tell, on the bench nearest that ornate water fountain just at the same time as I was taking my customary perambulation around the park.
I was subsequently to ascertain that every evening at around 5 o’clock he left his office at a pawn-broking establishment, in the city’s old quarter, and would take the tram directly into town and go for what was his accustomed stroll down here in the park by the canal.

Gradually over the days whenever I took my rest on a bench nearby, I would observe this fellow and speculate as to what thoughts might be occupying his mind during his sedentary repose.
Perhaps he dreams, of a lost childhood, as indeed do I on the odd occasion apropos of nothing in particular. Perhaps he recalls long summers ago that he spent with his parents on holiday by the sea, days filled with singing, laughing and maybe crying.

Summers in the park such as those, from which I now I recall the series of incidents, are nature’s magnet for children. freed temporarily to frolic vicariously amid the splendid and plentiful lush topiary of the park’s environs, out of sight and out of earshot of parents and nannies.
And on that one particular evening, tired from my exertions and sat in my usual spot observing almost as a matter of course the likewise repose of my quotidian twin, I found myself idly speculating as to what he might be observing with his doleful gaze behind those thick lenses perched awkwardly on his visage.

I often thought that he may unbeknownst to me perhaps be slyly observing me rather than I him. But on reflection I guessed his thoughts were as far away as ever, dreaming of his long ago lost summers. It seems that we were simultaneously stirred from our mutual daydreaming by sudden sounds of crying. A child,crying.

Crying now, the little girl who stood by the ornate water fountain, looking for all the world as one who has lost her way. There she stood with her golden hair and eyes of grey, reflected in his thick lenses;

And as he watched her he dreamt, of long summers ago, and a childhood by the sea filled with laughing and crying.

And as I look back to then in the park, I see him there as he lies beneath a summer sky and I am no longer sat on my bench but am there on the grass,  side by side with the golden girl and she lies very still.

Fiction: City of Death

Vivek Nath Mishra

- Vivek Nath Mishra


“If you are willing to meet me, come over to Assi Ghat this Saturday. It is the last Saturday I’ll be walking along the river.” He saw this message by Krish around five in the morning. He heard a faint sound of a group of pilgrims singing psalm in unison. But that too stopped after a while. It had been long since he woke up this early. It sounded divine in the utter silence all around. It reminded him of the school time when his mother would wake him early before the sunrise to revise for the exams. He couldn’t sleep thereafter. He slithered out of bed and splashed some water on his face. It was after a long time that he saw his face carefully. A long time had elapsed since the school days. A lot had changed around him but the fact that he didn’t have many friends remained the same. Krish was one among a very few friends he had.

Krish had been living here in Varanasi for about fifteen years now. He was a lean and tall French man aged around sixty-two to sixty-five with thin, silky, golden hair streaming down to the nape of his neck which had now begun to turn silver due to ageing. Once when he had seen a Japanese man at Prabhu Ghat with long matted hair falling down almost to the ground, he had asked Krish, “why don’t you grow your hair this long?”

“Everything has its own potential and limit, Sarad. This wouldn’t grow longer,” he had said with a gentle smile. Limitation. Of course it is our limitations that we fight against all our life and the scepticism towards it, perhaps, gives a purpose to our life. In Varanasi this is an assumption that everyone is a Guru and perhaps he had turned into one.

“Of course I am Banarasi. Don’t you see me preaching all the time for free?” he had said bursting into laughter.

Krish always wore the same golden coloured long khaadi Kurta which came down to his knees and a long white pyjama, folded at the end. He sometimes wondered if it was the same kurta he had first seen him in, many years ago. As it always looked brand new and well ironed or perhaps he had had a few sets of the same clothes. He didn’t grow fat or thin and nothing in him changed with the passing years not even his ochre coloured Jhola which he had bought from Tibet. He wasn’t on any social media platform. All he believed was in real things but quite contrary to it all the real things didn’t matter to him much. After he insisted Krish too many times for a phone he had bought one. A simple set with buttons and radio. Krish detested western music and Bollywood music too. He had his radio set in his room on which he listened to Indian classical music on All India radio Raagam channel.

Krish had asked him to come over around half past four in the evening but he was late. The time he got ready to leave, his father asked him to take him to a hospital to see a relative who had broken his waist by falling off a ladder. He couldn’t refuse his father, and Krish had to wait for half an hour.

“I’m sorry I am late. Sorry I kept you waiting,” he said as he sprinted down the numerous steps at Assi ghat.

“Oh! No problem, I was here with a cup of tea and Ganga, my best friends you see,” Krish said jubilantly. He looked happier that day. He had never seen Krish this much happy before. He didn’t show Krish but he even felt hurt that Krish was so happy to leave him, and ghat and chai and everything that kept him company for such a long time.

Krish was a divorcee. He and his wife had decided to separate long ago when their three children were small. They sold the house as his wife needed money to shift with her new boyfriend. They divided the money, and with his share of money Krish took a small apartment on rent in Nice. When his children grew up and were independent, he came straight to Varanasi. He always wanted to come to India. He felt disconnected to Western life. His children and neighbours thought he was crazy. He had bought a book of Nisargdatta, a famous Indian spiritual preacher, from an individual bookstore and he always remained engrossed in it. There was a huge photograph of Nisargdatta in his room, hung on the wall. He wore a Rudraksh mala which he had managed to find in France.

“India is too much, father,” his eldest son, Matt had suggested. Matt had seen the videos of Varanasi on YouTube. He had seen the cows and stray dogs on the street, the scattered filth, and the mad traffic always honking horns. The videos gave him shivers. His friend had once gone to India but even the short trip had taken its toll on his health. His friend had got a dreadful chest infection within two days of the trip which turned into an ear infection after another two days. Nothing worked to get him cured, not even Allopathy or Ayurveda. It lasted with him until he left the country and came back to Europe. He had decided not to go back to India again. “Nothing can take me back there, even if the whole world is on fire. It almost got me killed,” he had said.

Matt couldn’t think of his father passing through the streets of Varanasi without being knocked down by a mad cow or an old model motorbike. He had watched the videos of bulls, high on the hormones, fighting in the labyrinth of narrow lanes. Bulls chasing cows in a narrow pathway and people passing by them not much affected by the whole scenario made his hair stand on the end. The cremation Ghat where corpses burned in public while people ate and laughed seemed utter insanity to him. He tried many times to talk him out of this trip. They had no idea that it was not just a trip, in fact, Krish had decided to spend the rest of his life in a small apartment near Assi, eating Khichdi, learning Indian classical music and painting babies of beautiful animals, chimpanzee, orangutan, pandas, elephants, sloths for the rest of his life. He had enough savings to spend the remaining days of his life without doing any work, and so he didn’t paint to sell. He wasn’t ever bothered about making some money. Krish had refused to sell those to him. He always thought that Krish had some money problems considering his same attire over the years and the simplest food he ate but he hadn’t, as when he had asked him to teach French to a few students for money he had refused straightaway.

He had met Krish in a music class twelve years back. Krish would come on a giant size second hand bicycle which he had bought from a peasant. He had made acquaintance with Krish only to improve his English but he disappointed him with his. So later it was he who helped Krish with his English. He sang very poorly and practice over the years didn’t help him much. His accent always took him astray from the perfect notes, but he sang passionately. He practiced daily in the morning on his old harmonium.

They moved ahead on the Ghat. There were Nagas all around us, gathered there for Kumbh, an auspicious month in the Hindu calendar. There were small orange tents everywhere. Some Nagas were down with Ganja they’d been smoking all the time. All looked terribly thin and dark with their tiniest of waists. Nagas beckoned them to come near, but they passed without paying them much attention. He knew now it was all a sham. He wasn’t na├пve and credulous anymore. The place had changed him. A few monks were playing badminton. It had caught the attraction of many tourists who were busy in capturing them with their huge cameras. A scent of Ganja was lingering in the air that suffocated him. Smoke was rising from almost all the tents, as the monks had begun their cooking.

They passed through Harishchandra Ghat, known to be the second cremation Ghat. A thick smoke was rising from a funeral pyre. On the other funeral pyre a dead body was surrounded by infernal flames that erupted furiously. The hungry flames devoured the flesh and seemed to be dancing with joy. They could smell the burning flesh and bubbling and crackling of bones could be heard clearly. There were many people sitting on the steps to watch the whole process. Some were relatives of the dead body and many were foreigners, their nose and mouth properly covered with a mask. The sight could have attracted anyone’s attention or perhaps disturbed a sensitive person, but Krish was in some other world that day. Each time before, they passed through this cremation Ghat he would stop by and look at the burning corpses and utter a word or two about futility of all the things but today he passed by as if it wasn’t there. Krish was walking briskly now. He had a prodigious energy that day. There was a strange happiness on his face. His face shone with frequent smiles. They reached Pandey ghat where they had been drinking tea for several years. Many Koreans were around them smoking cigarettes and sipping their lemon ginger tea. Krish unzipped his jhola and took out a few plastic bags and began to roll a cigarette. He never bought readymade cigarettes; he always rolled one for himself. “It is cheaper and shorter in length and you smoke less,” he would say.

They saw Prakash coming. Prakash was from Israel. He came to the same tea shop at the same time daily. They never had to call him up. He came there regularly. He had long matted hair, and his clothes were ragged and torn from places. One could not tell how much money he had as his clothes were falling apart like a beggar’s but he always paid for their tea. They talked about Indian classical music and the concerts they had been recently to. Prakash brought out his small notebook from his bag which he had bought from Ladakh, and began to sketch as he blew rings of smoke in the air. Krish's eyes had drifted over the river and had taken its placidity. He looked calm, deep and flowing like the river in front. The sun got down and they rose up to walk back to Assi ghat leaving Prakash who went back to his place.

This was their last meeting as Krish had texted him. He was feeling heavy with emotions. Krish was the only friend he had in Varanasi. He was more than three decades younger than Krish, but still he liked his company more than the guys of his own age.

“So are you going back to France?” he asked to break the silence that had dawned upon them and had taken them in trance.

“One cannot say before one gets to it. I have no idea where a man goes when he doesn’t find a home. But I feel like going somewhere far. Life is unpredictable. Who knew I would be spending this much time here, miles and miles away from my homeland looking for emancipation,” said Krish in a low voice.
“I shall miss you. You’re the only friend I have here. You already know my marriage isn’t a happy one. It has everything but chemistry.”

He burst into laughter. “Chemistry! Are you really looking for it? My marriage had chemistry. In fact, all the marriages in West have chemistry but what is the result? Divorce, divorce and divorce all you get. Accept life as it is, Sarad. You’re wise.”

He changed the topic immediately. He knew Krish was in a different mood. Nothing could perturb his happy state of mind in that moment.

“Can we take a photo together? For a memory after you go,” he said hesitantly. He knew Krish didn’t believe in photos. He had no photos of his childhood with him. But this was the last time and he didn’t want to regret later.

Krish laughed sarcastically. “Do you really believe in photos, Sarad? It’s a western thing. Do you not even scatter the ashes of your loved ones into the river after they die, instead of keeping them in a pot as a d├йcor? There’s no memory Sarad. World is a shadow. It has no shape. Nothing. It looks like a real thing; but has anything ever come into your hands? Stay free from it, untouched like you truly you are. We are only smoke rising from the pyre. I have lost a lot of time in finding something that was not there and now I seem I do not have a purpose.”

He hugged Krish and Krish hugged him back tightly. His eyes felt watery and there were tears in Krish's eyes too.

“Wish you good luck with your journey friend,” he said as they went their own ways. He turned back and looked at Krish once again but he was walking briskly as if he was getting late for somewhere. He felt as if it was a shadow he had met. Krish didn’t seem to be real that day. And within a few seconds he disappeared in the dark.

Next morning there was a strange calmness all around. An eerily silence was hung in the air. He had slept tightly all night and there was a stinging pain in his left shoulder. He was feeling like he was still in a dream. Birds which used to chirp early in the morning were uncannily silent. It took him sometime to get off his bed. Krish was still in his mind. He went over to the table to check his phone. He wanted to see Krish’s painting once again. He knew he was going to be friendless again. He thought of asking Krish to send at least one of his paintings. But he noticed there were three missed calls from Prakash and a text message.

He thought of calling Prakash but he first opened the text message.

“Krish passed away yesterday night. He didn’t wake up in the morning,” it said. He kept staring at the screen for long. It got him numb. Krish was perfectly fine yesterday night. Who could have thought that!

When he called Prakash he told him that Krish had not booked a ticket for France or to anywhere. He had no plans to go anywhere, as his stuffs were not packed. There was a new painting in his room and the paint was still wet on the cardboard. It seemed he had painted last night. The painting looks indecipherable. They cannot tell whether it is a suicide before the forensic team sends in the report.”

The phone trembled in his hand as he heard the word suicide. Could it be a suicide? Krish could not do that. He knew Kirsh for so long. He wasn’t the one who could suicide but a lot of time had passed since he had met Krish for the first time and a lot might have changed in and around him with that passing time. The time he remained excited about Varanasi was lost in past. The city which looked like a mystery to him had completely opened itself to him in its ugliness. The narrow lanes and bylanes were now totally consumed by modernity. Temples which embodied Gods of his imaginations had now a ruinous look. He went about the temples as if there was God sitting there right in front of him and who could change his life completely. Sadhus seemed to him a man sent by God. But later he seemed to be the bitterest critique of Varanasi. The indiscipline, the impenetrable traffic, the chaos, the lack of social conscience, the cows running on the road, the madness of common people, their adherence to superstition all earned disrespect towards the place of his dreams.

Time had changed a lot for him. He began seeking for the reasons that could force Krish to commit suicide. It was true that he expected too much from the city. After leaving the place he was brought up in because he felt disconnected, he had thought he would have himself completely changed but there was not much change in his life. The mysticism he felt looking at the fog in the photographs of the place was not there in reality. There was cunningness, treachery and looting everywhere in the guise of mystic power. But can a city be a reason enough for someone to kill himself? There were many reasons which could justify his suicide but none seemed too intense for a person to kill himself.

And he remembers Krish had asked him once about what a man does when he doesn’t find the home of his dreams. He had no answer. He didn’t know anything about that but he knew there was a time when he used to think like that about himself. The burdens he couldn’t carry on and felt like ending up. The impulse which seems indecipherable to him now, like the painting of Krish, felt so much more then to convince him to end his life.

Poetry: Saikat Gupta Majumdar

Saikat Gupta Majumdar

Mother Ganges


Our legend tells
For years since a long
Here the ‘Mother Ganges’ does belong
And with the flow of events with her
She is the most ancient river.

Days come to an end
And from the dusk to the next dawn
The holy Ganges flows on
And again till the another dawn
She continues to go and on.

But with the passing of days
The habitation grows
And as the habitants are on way to rise
No more alone she flows
But carries filths with her
Polluting the holy river.

Still we say her the ‘Mother Ganges’
As believed since the past
As the legend says
And believe her to be the holiest of all
In the need of worshiping ‘Idol’
And for every religious need
She is most sacred indeed.


Know thyself well


Who tells the almighty is there
Above the hills high
Behind the blue far from here.

Who tells he’s but in the heaven
And one can find him
The death but comes when.

He is the omnipresent, almighty God
And lies everywhere
From your home to abroad.

And you adore him all
Whether praying at the church
Or, in the form of idol.

Where ever you’re he lives in your heart
So know thyself well
Leaving the rest apart.