Showing posts with label 202001E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202001E. Show all posts

Setu January 2020

Setu

Volume 4; Issue 8; January 2020

Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Poetry

Fiction/ Flash

Nostalgia

Serial novel

Photo Feature

Folklore

Guest Editor: Nandini Sahu

Research Papers

Poetry

Folk Tale

Women Writing Ecology and Eco-Criticism (Guest Editor: Sangeeta Sharma)

Guest Editorial

Research Articles

Poems

Memoir

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Welcome 2020!

A whole thrilling year is ahead!

Welcome 2020!

In the first month of the New Year, Setu brings lot of excitement to your PC and/or Smartphone, by way of fine content---poetic, fictional, critical, theoretical.

This issue is doubly stimulating.

Two special sections, besides the regular literary and other columns, are there this time.

Two important focal areas of knowledge production and insights under spotlight.

The first one is on folklore, a niche area of academic study, criticism and theory. Guest-edited by Nandini Sahu, the noted author-critic-poet, and a specialist working in Indira Gandhi Open University, as director of School of Foreign Languages. The contributors investigate the various key aspects of this area, covering interesting themes and techniques. Myths, tribal literature, poems, folk tales and songs get covered, dissected, analyzed. These are the broad contours of a fascinating domain, making its presence felt across the universities now, courtesy the works by eminent scholars. More, of course, needs to be done in the emerging field of study by other scholars as well. More documentation and fine hermeneutical work be undertaken. It is a humble beginning done by the Setu team here in a challenging area of cultural studies; some important investigations by the experts and insights provided that could be the framework for further advanced scholarship.
Another special section is equally unique and crying for high activism: Women Writing Ecology. Helmed by well-known academic-poet-editor-critic Sangeeta Sharma, this field has, of late, attracted lot of talent that is keen to explore the intricacies and complexities of a looming global crisis, the crisis of climate change, whatever the deniers and skeptics might say or maintain. Significant role is played by women in the preservation of ecology, eco-balance; environmental interventions done at micro and macro levels by the female gender is worth respect and admiration. Women as nurturers! The select contributors focus on crucial dimensions of the sensitive topic that warrants widest-possible engagement by the civil society, if humans want to live in a habitable world and aim to pass it on to future generations.

Poetry and fiction, too, offer lot of fine reading experience.

There are more calls by noted authors, part of the editorial board.

Please do visit and send us your best.

We want to read you.

And publish you, provided the submissions meet all the parameters and technical norms of the editors.

Again thanks to the editors and contributors…and to our esteemed patrons for their love and support. We remain indebted to you all!

Due to this kind help only, the Duotrope-listed, peer-reviewed, bilingual journal published every month from Pittsburgh will very soon reach a whopping figure of 12-lakh hits.

These regular visits more than compensate our silent labour.

A big milestone for any journal!

We hope to create more of milestones---in coming months.

Wishing the very best of the 2020!
Sunil Sharma,
Editor, Setu (English)
Mumbai Metro Area, Maharashtra (India)
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Letters: Shashi Padha

Shashi Padha

Translated from Hindi by Susan Nadolny Nath

Letters are the door to life for soldiers, with one end being the soldier stationed in distant lands and the other being his loved ones. A small envelope is sent with deep love, tears, instructions, promises, and blessings. Today’s younger generation cannot understand its importance, because today is the era of email and WhatsApp. Today, moment by moment, news reaches beyond the seven seas and even crosses mountains. Now, there is neither the agony of despair nor the endless moments of waiting. Whenever you want, the mobile phone button joins you with a loved one.

I am talking of a time before the arrival of mobile phones, when soldiers stationed on the far northeast border or battling the cold peaks of Siachen had only one means of contacting their loved ones—the letter. This letter used to arrive either as a military-blue Inland Letter, on the outside of which was the army stamp, or in a sealed envelope. It is said that both incoming and outgoing letters were reviewed many times for safety before being sent. Receiving letters in the military was like listening to several songs and watching several short dramas being played out. A family with no members in the army could not know the importance of letters.

Soldiers have many stories to tell about their letters. At the time of my marriage, my husband was posted in the Shugar Sector, located on the Indo-China border, which was difficult to reach. Army vehicles crawling along the snowy hills ahead of Shimla used to spend several days reaching their camps. In such an icy state, letters were also transported by helicopter and, that too, only once a week if the weather was permitted. My husband used to joke many times that those who built the helicopter must have been inspired by messages tied to the feet of pigeons. Otherwise, letters would have had to be sent off on the wings of clouds. I knew I must have told him about Kalidasa’s Meghadutam (Cloud Messenger). Otherwise, where would this soldier have acquired such a beautiful imagination?

Here is an idea of the excitement of receiving a letter, in my husband’s words: “Once a week, when the weather was clear, we used to hear the noise of the helicopter coming from far away. The heart rate of perhaps all the soldiers increased on hearing it. The helicopter was on its way not to us but to the base camp, but there was hope that it carried our letter. From the base camp, separate bags of letters for each unit were sent out by military trucks to different places. Sometimes the post arrived in the morning, several hours after the helicopter had been heard. Sometimes the post did not arrive until late evening. While waiting ,the soldiers would do  their daily exercises or listening to film songs on the radio or peeking out of the window for the post’s arrival. In these moments, the black-and-white photograph placed on the chest of drawers in front of you knew all the secrets of your mind. Finally, it was evening and the letters arrived at the camp. Army letters were brought to the officers by their Sahayaks in  their bunkers. God knows how many times they were read by the light of a kerosene lamp!  How the hands of the soldier trembled! After reading them two or four times, or even more than that, he would immediately start the process of sending a reply. Because the fear was that the fabric of the love-dialogue should not break.”

Other soldiers had a different process for receiving letters. In the evening the soldiers would gather at one place, according to company, for roll call. They formed two lines, and the Havildar Major would bring the bag of letters to the front of the lines. The young soldiers would stare up the aisle, closely watching the letter bag with great enthusiasm. The Havildar Major would take out the letters one by one, and a soldier whose name was read would come forward and take his letter. A profound sense of disappointment could be seen on the faces of those whose name was not called. After distribution of the letters, all returned to their bunkers as soon as they got the order to break the line. Some held joy in their hands, whereas others had sadness in their eyes. How many poets must have been born on the mountain peaks at that time, and how many love stories must have been woven! Only the sender and the recipient of the letter would know. Replies to the letters were written right away so that tomorrow’s post would not be missed.

This is the story of “that side.” Now for the story of “this side,” in my words—

The postman who brought letters during my childhood was called Maniram. But in our house we used to call him ‘Uncle’. When Uncle rode his bicycle to the gate of our house on sunny days, we knew that the post had arrived. He would often throw the letters into courtyards or over gates, but the rule of our house was different. It was my responsibility to call him inside and give him a glass of cold lemon water. After drinking the water, Uncle gave me   many blessings. This pattern continued for years. Then, I got married to a military officer. I was still studying in graduate school, and my husband was posted on the Indo-China border with his unit. The only means of contact between me and my husband was—letters.

After my marriage, Uncle’s work had increased a bit. My husband wrote two or three letters a week to me. My letters were never thrown over the gate. Uncle used to ring his cycle bell, and I would run to get my letters from him. Uncle would very fondly say, “Daughter, write our love to Captain Sir.” I listened to him and took the time right then to write my reply. Sometimes Uncle would say, “Today there is no time for lemonade? No problem, even plain water will work.”

Even helicopters could not come every day to those remote mountains to collect the letters, so perhaps the post would not reach its destination for several days. How, then, did the staff of the postal department trim the number of times that two or three letters would come in my name in a day? The irony for Uncle was that he had to come to our area twice a day only to deliver my letters—that is, two different times, at twelve in the morning and three in the afternoon. In the beginning, Uncle would gladly hand me my letter, but when this started happening three to four times a week, many times Uncle would get annoyed and say, “I don’t know what he writes every day. I only have to come so far on such a full afternoon to deliver your letter.” In those days, I could hear little annoyance in his voice. Perhaps the sun god’s wrath was also a little to blame.

I would quietly take the letter from him and give him a glass of water, and he’d say in the same old style, “Please write my love to Captain Sir.” This went on for about two years.

During the Indo-Pak war of 1971, my husband was battling an enemy on the border near Jammu. By then, Uncle Maniram had retired from service. But he used to come to our house every afternoon on his bicycle, sit near me, and say comforting things to me. He used to draw out my worries. Our letters had created such a sweet relationship between the three of us.

Whenever I remember my early married life, Maniram Uncle’s affectionate face comes into view. And I think—

Where’s the sweetness of those relationships in today’s WhatsApp or email?
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Fiction: ON A SURGICAL STRIKE

Dr Chandra Mohan Bhandari

by Chandra Mohan Bhandari

I
As Doctor Neelkant entered room 136 of the Ward he found Major Yashwant Singh in a pensive mood gazing at the ceiling. Doctor greeted his patient:

Doc: Hello Major, how do you feel. The surgery has been successful.

Major: Yes Doc, congrats for a successful surgical strike; your success, my failure.

Doctor knew that the jovial soldier in his patient was somewhere deeply hurt due to his own misfortune. Composing his thoughts, he said:

Doc: So sad that doctors’ earning relates to the misfortune of others. As for the strike that kind of strike is only your domain, and the nation will always be proud of you. Mine was just a tumour removal with some undesirable but necessary implications. As far as this surgery and your disease were concerned, yours was no failure, it was simply destiny, not in anybody’s control.

Major: It’s amazing how science and technology have altered the way we go through complicated surgical situations in a simple manner, and in many cases the person undergoing surgery can see his own organs being operated upon as if it was a show out there.

The sudden change of topic was, as the doc knew well, Major’s smart effort to control his own emotions.

Doc: You have rightly put it, you can see your own belly opened. Of course not many patients would dare to look at their own opened bellies.

Major: It was marvellous to see the tumour cells being cut and removed as you often see when a municipal vehicle removes the heap of garbage.

Doc: Yours was a huge mass to be removed which was hard pressing your urethra and you had difficulty in passing urine.

Major: As I understand that was a kind of symptom, the major issue was its malignancy.

Doc: Major, it’s difficult for me not to appreciate your understanding and analytical mind and the guts to face the situation as it comes, be it out there in the battlefield or deep within. I am really proud to have met and closely known a man like you.

Major only smiled pressing his lips in a kind of acceptance of the compliment.

The doc was perhaps for the first time in his life in a state of dilemma while in the OT removing the affected prostate tissues and also testicles of the hero of the recent successful operations across the border. That sort of a prostate problem was not rare in men in their seventies, but at the age of 48 it certainly was a bit too early and that too to a man known all over for his grit, courage and decision-making. Here too it took the major only half an hour to hear the report, to appreciate the situation and take a decision to give his acceptance for the surgery.

I had known the Major for almost a decade through one of our common friends Major Rakesh Shukla who was my class fellow during graduation. Rakesh joined the Army and I took to teaching. In one of their postings at the border Rakesh and Major Singh spent few years together and developed a strong bond of friendship. Among their common interests were rock climbing and mountaineering. I too shared some of their enthusiasm but my own knowhow was of amateur level; I could at best consider myself a hiker. However, I kept in touch with these expeditions. The duo had during the past decade jointly scaled almost half a dozen peaks ranging from fifteen to twenty thousand feet. More than the height they aimed at scaling summits which although not among highest were much more difficult to climb. They were jointly planning to scale another peak at around twenty four thousand when the tragedy struck. Major developed mild fever along with some urinary problem that initially seemed to be of minor nature. Unfortunately things took an unanticipated turn as he was diagnosed prostate cancer. The good thing about the disease, as the doctor himself put it, was the fact that prostate cancer was much better treated than other cancers: “If you have to have this disease nothing better to expect than the one related to prostate.”

Thus at 48 years, this was a jolt for the major not only because of the nature of the disease but the fact that a reasonable and effective treatment was possible only after the removal of the testicles. The biopsy tests revealed a medium to advanced stage of the disease, but fortunately it remained localised to the region. Scans revealed all this but the removal of testicles could not be avoided. The doctor explained almost every detail prior to the surgery.

Maj: That means I would lose my manhood.

Doc: No Major, not manhood in the true sense, but ……………………..

Maj: I have a daughter and earlier I had already opted for vasectomy. That’s not of consequence, but……

Doc: But – what?

Maj: Will the removal affect my … er .. my ..

This hesitation was quite unlike Major’s approach to life and living. But he was a human being.

Doc: I understand what you wish to know. Yes you will lose much of your libido, but we can partly compensate for that loss with proper medication.

It was not easy to guess what turmoil was raging within his mind, and more so within psychic layers of his better half.

The discussion got interrupted partly due to major’s hesitation and partly due to the entrance of his family, his wife and daughter. I learnt from Shukla about Major’s enthusiasm and motivation for adventures – be that volunteering for difficult operations, or rock climbing which were sportingly shared by his wife. These activities put a constraint on the time he could give for his family, and the Major was certainly lucky on this count. Anyway these developments must have been a sad and difficult issue for the family especially his wife. However, she showed no external signs of the turmoil within her mind although there must have been a massive landslide somewhere in deeper psychic layers.

A man after having dared breath taking surgical operation within enemy territory became a victim of undesirable operations at the molecular level.

But the show goes on, it has to, and we as willing or unwilling participants are among the actors as also the viewers. Rakesh and myself often paid visits to the hospital but avoided the detailed discussion on these topics and most of our information came from the doctor or from the website.

Major wasn’t confined to bed for long. Almost in two weeks he was in a position to move around and if permitted to join his duties. That happened in four weeks’ time and the soldier was back on his duty with an air of confidence that camouflaged his inner feelings. He not only took charge of his duties as officer but continued with his adventure pursuits. On doc’s advice he did not take any stressful assignment for a certain time but beyond that he had all the freedom and the necessary will to forge ahead. The doctor was somewhat cautious about Major’s activities as he thought that the surgery of this kind does have psychological as well as physiological implications which were difficult for him to communicate with the patient. Of course he gave sufficient hints which were more than enough for the smart mind of the Major to take note of.

It was almost six months after the surgery that Major came to know of another proposed strike at the hideouts of the terrorists, just on the line of control. This time his name was not among the short listed members. An informal enquiry revealed that his name was not considered fit for two reasons: his age now 48 plus and his prostate problem. The prostate problem was no hindrance in his duties, it was something under control after the surgery and hormonal medication. However, in spite of his personal request to seniors and his enormous prestige the decision could not be reviewed. He was disheartened as his motivation for adventure did not register a decline.

In two years he was fifty, and he applied for voluntary retirement. With some queries from his seniors and failed attempts to persuade him he had his say. He was now a free man.
                                                                
                                                                                  
                                                                          II
For a year or so there was not much information about him. I often wondered how a man of his zeal and motivation would lead a retired life. One day I heard from Shukla that Major has opened a Trekking and Mountaineering School near Mukteshwara in Kumaon hills. I was happy to hear the news as I knew well that men like him could never be at peace with themselves unless they acted in tune with their psychic underground. The restlessness of such men and women is noticeable and to some extent infectious. I had known this much even before he became well known for his adventures. Not that I had many occasions to observe him in detail, my source of information was our common friend Shukla. 
I learnt from Shukla about this idea and its development. Shukla was apprehensive of the feasibility of the plan due to lack of motivation in youth in this direction. However, Major and his wife knew better about the changes taking place; of late there was a resurgence of adventure spirit in youth which was found missing till yester years. In all generations there is no dearth of youth with daredevil spirit but they do require some kind of impetus to channelize their motivation in directions that are laudable. I remember very often the beautiful story by Munshi Premchand titled “ Chess Players” which was centred around two Nawabs of Lucknow. They were not lacking in courage but they had hardly any motivation left for a noble cause due to subjugation by the British and their own luxurious lifestyles. Addicted to chess they spent much of their youth in either luxurious living, hunting or playing chess. I have my own interpretation and analysis of the story theme. Probably the game provided them an escape route to show their battle skills which they did not have guts to display in real life. It was a kind of virtual reality and they revelled in it. Instead of taking note of the problems facing their own subjects they were very much concerned about the virtual warriors on chessboard. As the story goes they often started hot arguments and abusive language for each other when one of them sensed a mischief by the other in his brief absence. On one occasion the whole quarrel snowballed to the extent that their swords came out and a real fight started. The virtual reality of the game led to a real bloodbath and both lay dead defending their chessboard armies.

What I and others learn from the beautiful story is the need to have a right kind of atmosphere which is a pre-requisite for the growth and development for an emerging nation. It’s a slow process where the role of leaders is to create right kind of conditions and biases that lead to required results. It requires a certain level of visionary spirit. In absence of this the energy and courage of the masses is not channelized in the right direction.

That as I understood was what the Major had in mind while preparing the curriculum for his recruits.

I too had a role to play as I was one of the visiting speakers during weekly seminars who interacted with the youngsters and gave occasional lectures on varied subjects. Not all were young although they were quite so in their spirits and determination. Major himself was invariably there; he not only motivated, he got himself pushed further in that dimension by enthusiastic pupil. I soon realised that the whole training was not only for climbing a mountain, it was working at the psychological level too. Deep within I could feel an urge to climb.

The most difficult among the mountain summits was supposed to be Barmeru and Sumeru, more difficult compared to Mt Everest due to the steepness of climb. Nobody had till then scaled these summits not because they were unconquerable, but because with Everest there was a price tag which would be missing here.

But Major was a different species among the humans too. He tread where others did not dare, or if they did have the guts considered it not worth the risk. He speculated where others could not, such as his understanding that these days adventure loving youth is in appreciable strength. He had in mind scaling the Barmeru around 25 thousand feet. Three of his worthiest trainees were ready for the job: Bahadur, Jitender and Raj Shekhar; they were the chosen guys for the top job and a risky one at that.

The good thing was that their family members too had put no objections although it was not needed as they were adults and responsible for their actions. They had full faith in the Major who would not do things without proper precautions. Having said that the risk was there but probably it was worth taking.

I had to attend a seminar in UK during the first week of May and it was during the same period the expedition was planned. On my return I rang Shukla to get an update of the expedition.

- Oh dear, there was a mishap, the Major….

- What about him.

- Sorry for him, he lost his legs, amputated.

It was shocking beyond words; yet the kind of expedition was full of all possibilities. What surprised me was the Major being part of the expedition which was not included in the plan.

- There was to be a three member team for climbing. Major was not part of it.

- No, he was not. He was in the base camp when there was an accident with Bahadur getting trapped in a crevice between rocks. After successfully scaling the summit they were on way down when this happened. Jitender and Shekhar had come down although they too were hurt due to slippery rock.

- I see. Then Major must have taken the mantle on himself.

- You guess correctly, so he went up.

- At his age, it must be truly difficult.

- Well he and his associate Thapa managed to pull the young man out, but Major himself suffered severe injuries and frostbite too.

The event was soon known to people and there was great applause for the man’s concern for his students and for the greater cause. Some papers called it: “Yet another surgical strike by the hero in the heights.”

After about four months I went to visit the school. Many had written the school off the map with the man at the helm of affairs having lost his legs. But this was not an ordinary human being. When I arrived I saw him in the classroom sitting on his wheel chair talking animatedly to the trainees. I could discern an increase in the number of trainees.

The other day I had a brief conversation with the doctor. He explained in brief the progress as regards the prostate which seemed fairly satisfactory. In the end he said: “This man and his determination can to a large extent defy even well-known psychological and physiological principles.”

I could only agree with him.
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Destined to Meet

Debasis Tripathy

Fiction by Debasis Tripathy

The remote retreat located about a hundred miles away from the nearest town was perfectly drowned in silence. The order of the place was stillness. So much so that even the few pet animals who were the permanent inhabitants of the retreat had turned mute and meek.
There were male and female meditators in the retreat but by the rule of the place they were barred to intermingle; not even eye contact was permitted - complete segregation of the genders and the only place you found both males and females together was in the meditation hall, where anyways all were supposed to keep their eyes shut. It was a life of total renunciation – practicing the life of a monk or a nun - for two weeks during the course.  Everyone was supposed to practice abstinence from desires and ‘noble silence’ - total silence of voice and thoughts.
An outsider could see soundless queues of meditators slowly moving through the prescribed paths for a few minutes on their way to the canteen or on their way back to their rooms or if they desired to breathe in some fresh air. There was no one to enforce the rules, which were boldly displayed on whiteboards at the junctions and the central meditation hall, but none had the will to break them either. People had come there of their own choice; they were misfits in the crowded and noisy world. They had enough of breaking the rules of the world.
One bright Indian winter morning a day before the completion of the course Rishi Dash, a banker by profession and a loner of late, was strolling along the strip guarded by Neem and Peepal trees after four hours of ‘standstill’ meditation session that had started at 4 A.M, his hands in his track-pant pockets and stomach empty, he suddenly came face to face with an acquaintance — Sonali Mishra, a chum from their college days. It was a very awkward moment for both of them, yet the silence was not broken.

Before they graduated out from Ravenshaw College they had been in the habit, every morning, of setting forth for a long jog along Mahanadi River with a bottle of water tucked to their waist straps. He would wait for her in front of ladies hostel before dawn set in and the moment it turned a little lighted they would run side by side for the next hour.  The meeting will end with a breakfast of DahiBara Aloo Dum, a local delicacy and a favorite of theirs.
And every Sunday Rishi and Sonali, a shy, slender attractive girl with dark black eyes, equally black long hair and also a movie buff, would meet at the nearby movie hall and they would spend three hours side by side, watching any movie which got released that week. They had a warm friendship. There was a strong rumour in the college that they were in a relationship, although both of them never could propose to the other.  They just remained good friends, primarily because of inherent reticence and an unknown reluctance. Rishi, a young man who was a few months older than Sonali, was from a humble background and his goal in life in that phase of life was to make it big in life.

On the fourteenth day, when in the conclusion event ‘noble-silence’ was broken Rishi met Sonali at the reception area.  He felt a chaotic eruption, unrest forming within him. A fortnight of silence and meditation had turned him to a mode of heightened solitude and discipline. In a way, he’d started liking this form of ‘ideal’ life and there was no noble form of chatter that he wanted to indulge in. Rishi also had this problem of confronting his past.  He conversed with himself thus:
“Regardless of where my journey of life takes me, hopefully now I’m more ready to accept life, as it comes”

Both of them were jobless - Rishi had lost his job. Sonali never cared to do a proper job; she had briefly been associated with a few non-profit organizations, but it never lasted long enough. They did not have to worry about ‘what-next’ during the last fortnight. Now it was different and felt awkward. 
Rishi broke the silence “So, what next Sonali?”
Sonali responded without even having to think "Nothing.  I am in no hurry to return. As such there's no one waiting for me"
Rishi, surprised at the coincidence remarked “Same here. I lost my job a month back. No family to call my own” 
And these few words served enough to make them understand that they had not made many new friends in life after they’d departed.  They had wished success to each other on the farewell day at college and never stayed in touch thereafter. For some strange uncomfortable reason, they did not speak much to each other towards the last few days of college.
Rishi had enough of being alone in this vast world, he shared an idea “I am planning to go on a long road trip. When I was in my job, I always wanted to take a long train journey, but that could not happen.  And yeah… buy a Royal Enfield Bullet. I am buying it from a friend in Delhi. The idea is to go to Delhi by train and pick up the bike from him.”
After a pause, he continued with some hesitation "Would you like to join me on this trip?” This hesitation was nothing compared to how he floundered to propose Sonali of a future together during their days of being together.
Sonali did not say anything but both of them well interpreted that she was okay to join the new journey. They headed straight to the railway station and bribed their way through to buy two tickets to New Delhi.  On the bike and a vague destination in mind, they set off to a lesser-known hill station in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand.

Driving through the mountain roads, early in the morning, when the fresh sun weakened the mist to be swallowed by the cold air Rishi would remark casually to his pillion driver:
 “Sonali, it’s pleasant here”
To which the other would reply “I can’t think of anything better!”
And terse exchanges like this helped a long way to bolster their friendship and further complement their mutual appreciation. They still did not speak much; at other times they chatted; but they always deduced each other thoroughly, even without the service of a conversation, having similar characters and feelings and being so similar. They had not changed much, though grown older.
On another day, toward the eventide, when the setting sun would cast a crimson shadow over the clouds in the horizon and along with it displayed a rushing radiance on the faces of the two riders, Rishi would say beamingly interrupting the still silence:
“Brilliant, simply marvelous!”
And Sonali would nod, her head heavy with a load of the helmet, too big for her head.
“This is even better than the last few days of 'noble silence'. What say you, Rishi?”
And they would turn wordless again for a long stretch. Sometimes, the silence was the way for them to convey repentantly to each other what they'd missed in life before now.
 “And we are yet to reach heaven! This is just the way.” Rishi declared.

The sun showered its charming rays and the cool breeze splashed on their faces. They no longer remembered anything or thought of the future. They drove along on the lonely Ghat road lined with a beautiful blend of rhododendrons and oak forests, their bodies next to each other, dreamy and hopeful.
“We are almost there?” Rishi said pointing at a milestone.
“But where?” Sonali lazily inquired, her eyes closed and ears not exactly caring for a response.  
Soon they left the milestone behind them. They decided to take a sojourn near a small deserted chalet.  There was an eerie beauty about this place. The only sound they could hear was that of gurgling of a slender stream almost touching the chalet.  In no time, the wearied riders were sitting next to the stream their legs dipped in the chilly blue water and their hands clasped together. And the sight of the mountains in front of them filled the two friends with a feeling of pleasure never experienced before. And then, there was not even an inch of hesitation between them. There was a new sense of willingness in the air marked by an absolute lack of resistance.
Rishi, pointing to the heights ahead of them, murmured “Let’s climb up!”
And they started climbing. As they were ascending, Rishi could observe some discomfort in Sonali. It was tough for Rishi to combat her resistance to his offer of stopping the climb.
He pleaded “Sonali, let’s stop. It’s okay. We can do this some other time”
Without any warning, she crashed down and slipped down.  When her eyes opened, at the reinforcement of consciousness she found Rishi’s face hanging down on hers and his tears dropping on her faded fair face.
The helpless silence which reigned around them was overawing.
Rishi gathered courage and asked, “Come on, will you tell me what’s wrong with you?”
Wearing a spirited smile she muttered inaudibly “Rishi, I think am dying. Will you be my husband in my next life? I hope you’re not this shy then”
Rishi cried out “Yes, Yes, Yes…. What a fool you are. We can get married now if you want”
And then Sonali burst out laughing, unable to control the masked mischief.  The laughter was very infectious and Rishi could not escape it either. He also joined her and they laughed; they laughed like insane. He had not laughed this way for a long while now.
“I’ve altitude sickness. I think I’d enough of this climbing” Sonali confessed.
 “What about Jaipur then?” Rishi whispered into her ears and kissed her for the first time in life.
 “Let’s go!” replied Sonali, still laughing and her ears moistened with pearly drops of tears.
In the space of a few moments, the Bullet was descending the meandering mountain roads. After an hour or so, the air had turned warmer and it was much easier to breathe. A green signboard hanging on top of the road read:
“Dehradun 60 km
 Jaipur 600 km”
***

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Poetry: Rob Plath

lone rose fist

i had a dream my heart was on the opposite side of the room glowing red in the pitch dark. it even spoke as it floated there breaking it to me that it had to vacate my chest. “how am i still alive?” i asked, expecting to suddenly collapse. “you’ll be okay w/out me,” it consoled. “you’ll live,” it added but i just stared at it hanging there like a lone rose fist two arm lengths away & i was so sad that my heart had moved out that i awoke weeping & hugged myself knowing it had returned to my body...



my demons

i know those
terrible bastards
like the backs
of my hands

in fact, they are
the backs
& palms
& fingers too
etc..

& when they’re not
clawing at
my f*ing windpipe

they’re helping
type the goddamn
poems

like now

rad,
demons...


enjoy yr spread under the sun while you can, sons-of-bitches

on
the
flipside
of
the
dirt

the
maggots
eavesdrop
on
yr
picnic

snickering
&
drooling
over
the
day
you’ll
make
the
six
foot
descent

a
large
dark
wooden
basket
full
of
cadaver
sandwiches

upon
their
black
uncheckered
blanket

death machine

father, why did you pass on to me
this death machine?
when i was in rapture couch surfing
in the wilderness of heaven
visiting star after star
napping upon the brims of their twinkling hats?
father, why did you signal for the terrible hook
to disturb my silver sleep
& have me stuffed in this heavy death machine?
now i am nothing but gears that grind
year after year
rusting from tears & daydreaming
of my old blue homeland

BIO: Rob Plath is a writer from New York. He was once tutored by Allen GInsberg for two years from 1995-1997. He has published 22 books and a ton of poems in the small presses over the last 26 years. He lives with his cat and tries his best to stay out of trouble.

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Poetry: Ethan Goffman

Ethan Goffman
Do Not Read this Poem, Read the One Below

This poem is pathetic.
It has nothing to say and says it badly.

This poem has no rhythm, no rhyme, no resonance, no romance, no reason.

However you spend your day,
do not read this poem!

Instead, read the poem below.
Its profound wisdom
will enlighten you.

The poem below will act as
your Zen Master
guiding you on a marvelous journey
on a craggy path through the mist
to the sun-drenched peak above.

Read the poem below and you are 110%, fully, completely, and utterly guaranteed to

·       find your bliss
·       fulfill your destiny
·       transcend time and space
·       attain Nirvana


Don’t Even Glance at This Poem, Read Only the One Above

You are a fool
to look at these words
written by a suffering man
with a migraine headache
a tortured childhood
and no sense of form or beauty.

I warn you
do not read this poem!
It is a profound waste of time,
precious seconds you will never recover
in the brief candle
that is
your life.

Instead, read the poem above
destined to stand
as the most profound work of artistic perfection
in the English
or any
language,

indeed, the most profound work,
visual, sculptural, musical, culinary, olfactory,
in the whole entire history
of artistic endeavor
in the known
and unknown
universe.

Eat, drink, observe, touch, taste, hear, the divine words of
the previous poem.
Feel the sublime experience
radiate
in every micrometer of your being
from the tips of your ears to the hangnails on your pinkie toes.
Satisfying
your body.
Satiating
your soul.

Lick the above poem,
rub your fingers lovingly
over each profound letter
feel the texture
enhanced by immortal words.

Print it out and bring it with you
into your daily shower.
Use it to gently scrub your body,
every cranny,
every pore,
every nanometer,
of your tender flesh,
each iota

of your immortal soul.
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Fiction: Rhododendrons (Sreetanwi Chakraborty)

Sreetanwi Chakraborty
Evenings in North Bengal are abrupt, sudden and often monotonous. Summers, with the last strand of breezes sweeping across faces, can have a real soothing effect. Monsoon evenings, on the other hand, can be more beautiful for some, like me, with that incorrigible romantic heart that throbs for George even now. With the dark tumultuous clouds hovering above the cyclop-like gothic, colonial, spired Darjeeling buildings and hotels, monsoons often offer no respite to many. But for me, they keep on weaving messy stories each and every time. Was it the 3rd or the 5th of May, 2015, when George said he no longer...that he cannot...that we should...that the paths better get diverged? I really wonder how to react when my friends and colleagues still keep blabbering, “it wasn’t a break-up, it was a blessing.” My classes in the quaint little hill-college still look the same, my lessons often interrupted when I see him fidgeting with his golden spectacle in the Principal’s room, or else when I still find him humming ‘two old friends meet again’ by Michael Murphy. Strength, madness, love, sex, anaesthesia, a shoulder to cry upon, rhododendrons...I feel desperate and forsaken, with an insipid taste in my mouth, perhaps even more insipid than the words he blurted out last. The last one, yes, maybe the rhododendrons can be of slight help, now that I am all inside this huge cottage of mine, one more pair of doe eyes observing me intently, often crawling by my side, waiting for my care and attention.
“Why doesn’t he call you anymore? What about the poinsettia flower beds across the college alley? Will they not be watered anymore because you had the worst break-up of your life?” the doe-eyed devil was inquisitive.
“They will now be looked after by Narayan, he is there to help but...” I stammered.
“But what? How are you going to recover? What about your classes?” doe-eyed was impatient now.
My classes. Ah, my classes. I still remember the first day of the interview. It can also be called a break-up of an interesting variety, as I keep explaining doe-eyed sitting in Vajrasana position right now on my tattered mattress. It was also a break-up, a blessing in disguise, breaking our silence, the interview and the ice-breaking session (as it is technically called). I was dubious if I could be the chosen one, frantically trying to adjust my bra strap and the sheaf of papers in my hand, completely oblivious that I had almost entered the interview room. I expected a volley of questions as settled down on the revolving chair, but instead, there was just a baritone, and a bouquet of rhododendrons resembling a flurry of colours all splashed across a palette, and...and...a pair of eyes that instantly reversed my entire world order into an amalgamation of god knows what. A pair of greenish brown hazel eyes minutely checking my printed credentials as I sat benumbed, besotted, longing to be immersed into a thin film of spring pool of ripples in front of my eyes. For the first time in my whole 30 years, I fell in love and that too with the principal of a hill-college.
“What happened after that? Why the break-up?” Doe-eyed now started fidgeting with the ends of her drawing copy, trying to paint clusters of rhododendron by dabbing colours into the inflorescences with her thumb.
Happened? As in? I mean this was never going to be even the worst love story possible ever. Nestled amidst the snow-capped mountains of North Bengal and Bhutan, this college was just a feast to the nature-lovers. Misty mornings, myriad moments, magical mountainscapes and lulling-lullabies that tottered across my dreams at night- my life was surely going to change for the better.
Away from the bustles of myopic city life, I could rediscover how enchanting literature could be. First flushes, tea-buds, teaching British Romantic poetry and Indian English drama was never so fascinating. College meetings were as usual dismal, with a bunch of half-researched, moronic questions hurled at newcomers. My students were very fond of me. From the ‘new English ma’am’ it took them very less time to include me in their local college community, as ‘Sree’ mam, with all the warmth that I craved for. College excursions and community building programs were fun. Teaching role-based plays through voice modulation and enactment became livelier with outdoor sessions and rigorous library works. George was always there as a live encyclopaedia. He had been a globe-trotter; I never was. However, although initially I could not decipher why we talked about obscure philosophical facts, or why the first electric chair was invented by a dentist, or even when he ridiculed me with a chuckle because I did not know that Stewardesses is the longest word in English, that can be typed only with the left hand. The only thing that was a common bond between us was the rhododendrons in multiple colours. Excursions were the only platform where George made me familiar with rhododendrons. He never plucked the flowers. But he just took me to his side, looked straight into my eyes and started explaining:
“Look, Sree, bluette, the blue variety, and there, on the branches up there, you find the lovely Dexter’s Victoria, almost pale lavender to mixed white in colour as per seasonal variations. The locals call the rhododendrons laali guras.”
“Oh, these are wonderful,” I said.
“See this, come here,” at 50 he was nothing short of a Hercules remorphed, it seemed. I staggered on my way to the lofty undulated peak areas, but George, with an inimitable gait and charisma, could easily manage me by holding my hand, helping me to climb up very near to the flowers-so near, that the fragrance of the magnolias, the orange clusters of the laali guras dissolved into his clove-scented breath that only I could feel. I...I could...I felt...I said...and stopped.
“Ok. Understood. It was love at first sight, then at second sight and then at every sight.” Then what? Doe-eyed was intently looking at me. “Come on. There must have been some more romantic encounters.” Doe-eyed was chuckling. I observed, and felt very uneasy; I was searching for some kind of anomaly but could find none. Chuckling...the right facial muscles resembled...
“If you are so impatient, I think it is high time I go back to my diary. I do not want to tell you anymore about it.” I looked vacantly at a Golden-breasted Fulvatta as it flapped its wings on my window louvers, perhaps indicating an impending disaster. Doe-eyed perhaps felt repentant for snubbing at me like that. She came to me and clasped my fingers and started playing the criss-cross game with them. It started raining. I tried to smell the drizzle pattering on my window sill as the conifers, and the aromatic anthopogan shrubs in my garden sparkled with a fresh lease of life. I started humming my favourite...our favourite... ‘Rhapsody in the rain.’ Suddenly I remembered. Was it a rainy day? Or did it rain the other day? I felt a convulsive sensation now; it was very tough to remember anything. Doses of medicines, anaesthesia, ampoules, ambulances, red, orange and greenish-blue syrups- greenish blue...red...orange...my past and present almost congealed into an abyss of nothingness now. I remembered, faintly.
“I think there is something between us, Sree”, George was a bit hesitant. It took him one whole year to find out what that ‘something’ was. It rained that day when we were out for a community development program in a small village at Alipurduar. The Terai-Dooars weather forecast department predicted a storm, thunder, lightning, and average to heavy rainfall. The distance from Panchak village to our hill college was more than 95 km and therefore, we decided to stay back in that village. There were few local people here and there, trying to shield themselves from the rain. The community church was the only huge shelter that we had there. Rests were small hills and some undulated stretches of forlorn land, often taking us nowhere.
“Something, means?” I pretended to be as naive as ever. His eyes sparkled a little, the rustling wind trying to camouflage his enthusiastic spirit.
“I mean it is about love, relationship, commitment for life...come on Sree, you understand.” George was feeling helpless now. We decided to walk a little more along the blasted heath. The storm had subsided although the rain was still lashing with an indomitable spirit across the landscape. After walking miles, we could see the rhododendrons all washed by the slanting gashes of rain. The village roads were mainly made of broken bricks and clay, and I was suddenly at the brink of slipping. But when you have the messiah by your side, in all probability, nothing can go wrong anywhere. George held me strong, pressed me hard to his chest, so hard that I could feel him entirely. It was a forsaken rain-kissed land it seemed now, and each and every drop of water, along with his frantic kiss, triggered in me the tremendous urge for a sublime bodily union. The raindrops were more frantic then, and so were us. We nibbled, kissed like never before, as George’s hands were searching all across my landscape, for his prized possession-
“My rhododendrons are lovely,” he kept on foraging into the darkness of a deep abyss, as I moaned and wreathed in ecstatic pleasure. The rain-kissed explorer was ecstatic to find his desired spot, as he kept on rowing till the pirate’s boat reached its destination. The rain stopped early in the morning. We decided to go back to our college; our small guest room behind the church vibrated with the gongs of the morning bell.
About four months passed after this. Classes went on as usual; the poinsettias in the college garden were more vivacious with proper pruning and watering. There were new batches of students, with the previous batches bidding us farewell. I was busier, and so was George, with more academic and administrative duties. Some new teachers joined, some were about to leave for better monetary opportunities. Those days I was not keeping well. Pangs of nausea, weakness and bodily discomfort took sway over me. A well-churned distance was developing between us. We did not discuss poetry or rhododendrons anymore. Rumela, the new Geography teacher, was now closer to him. He often fell embarrassed now when I entered his room suddenly; there were animated discussions going on with Rumela, about something that I did not find it worthwhile to find out. She was everywhere now-in the community development program, with George in different social and academic programs, often taking care of his files, his spectacles and one day, as I found out, also, about his diet plan. Everything seemed perfect in the cloistered hill college with two people falling in love again, except that I needed to talk to George now regarding the new life that was growing in me.
“Responsibility? Fatherhood?” Doe-eyed almost chewed the words as she spoke. I pursed my lips in anguish.
“Sree, I do understand, but you see, we live in moments. It is not about camouflaging, or commitment of a lifetime, it is pure and sublime love that surpasses any type of social commitment.” His oracular stance made me impatient; I tried to clench my teeth and looked longingly at him, trying to make him understand:
“But dear, it is not about you or me now, it is about the third voice, it is about our child. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, I do. I do. But there are multiple ways in which this rash decision of giving birth to this child can be avoided. You know how medical science has progressed. Just accept this as God’s will.” He seemed almost nonchalant about the moments and the rhododendrons now. And somehow, a bit more interested in where Rumela was, perhaps.
This was the end of everything. Somewhere the roads diverged; somehow I could not come to terms with the raw sensation that I must move on. There was nothing to move on, except that the poinsettias and the college building looked blurrier. I could not gauge if it was the storm that was brewing outside or inside. I wanted to say the final goodbye to Narayan as he stood in the gateway. I decided not to come back anymore, but then I stopped. I wanted to change this college, but not the city. North Bengal hills were my greatest shelter. Narayan just glanced at my face and like some ancient clairvoyant, he uttered:
“Didi, it is the third time, God will not accept this anymore. He has crossed all limits. It is the time for the apocalypse now; aandhi, toofan, God is going to exact the penalty.” He kept on muttering and looked at the Christian graveyard at a stone’s throw distance. To my horror, I discovered much later, that Dorothy Ekka was Narayan’s only daughter and the cursive engraving on her tomb read: For the child unborn, for the moments that passed by, for your hazelnut eyes, thanks to George, and my rhododendrons.
The rains stopped now. Doe-eyed had fallen asleep. I decided to open the louvers and smell the rain-soaked nature outside. It was no time for delirium. I needed to remove the tanned zones of my life now. The local doctor had prescribed me high doses of sedatives, after that incident...that...I really detested this amnesiac tendency. I closed my eyes for a minute, waited, again looked outside, could feel the clove-like breeze, and then swallowed the pinkish-white tablets, resembling the colour of his favourite rhododendrons...
“Who prescribed her such heavy doses of anti-depressant and anti-hallucinatory drugs?” the head of the neuro-psychiatrist department asked the warden as she stood by Sree’s frigid body in the mental asylum. “The patient had a clear case of tactile, visual and auditory hallucination after the loss of her first child through an ectopic pregnancy. How can all of you be so irresponsible in administering the hallucinatory drugs? We need to make a report on this. God knows how the medical commission will now react to this suicide case.” She was furious and helpless.

As per the latest news reports circulated the next day, the principal of a reputed Christian missionary college was found dead in his room, the medical reports said massive heart attack. After primary investigations, the police could only find a red leather diary in his room. The last few words were, “Sree, I could not save you, for the doe-eyed that I could not save, for the rhododendrons that will no longer bloom. Pardon me...” Nobody except the Almighty could find out that both the deaths occurred exactly at 11:56 in the night. Narayan looked at the table calendar. It still showed the date as 5th May.
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