Setu 🌉 सेतु: 202008E

When Dr. Sunil Sharma asked me whether I would like to be the guest editor of this special Setu issue on hyphenated identities, I eagerly said, yes! It’s a theme very dear to my heart and being. My prime identity from childhood has been peace and justice. My father had nicknamed me, mother of all humanity. What is the meaning of a person’s identity, if they are not safe? What defines our core? Gender, class, education, or being a good person? In India folks often talk about the Chaar Diwari (four walls) of the house, sometimes evoking the crassest of patriarchal control of women within those four walls, which instead are meant to be the most sacred and safe spaces for anyone—their home.

Originally from India, when I moved to the US with my young son twenty years ago, creating a safe and peaceful home, and being a great mother trumped any concerns or desires I had as an immigrant. Folks around me were buying homes and establishing financial real estate roots, while I was on a journey to raise a decent human being. One who would epitomize and recognize that treating people properly far outweighs any degrees or financial wealth one may possess. The duality of being Indian and American did not stress me out too much. And, hyphenated identity can imply a plethora of dimensions we all possess that we keep hidden in our blind spots or chose to freely exude. I don’t deny, I was tugged by notions of belonging especially when I traveled back to India. Didn’t quite feel at ease anymore in my birth country. And didn’t quite feel comfortable in my new home country either like, Ijeoma Umebinyuo eludes to in her poem, Diaspora Blues. So, I borrowed what I perceived to be the finest of both cultures/places, and to try to be, and raise a decent human. In my belief system, being good is a person’s true identity.

Now, with COVID19 plaguing the world, and racial injustice ever so disturbing in the US, home and identity have added news layers for me.

I could go on and on. So, let me shift to my focus in guest editing this special edition…to draw out folks from various walks of life and diverse backgrounds. I hope you enjoy this special issue which carries thoughtful expressions by artists, painters, poets, short story writers and life contemplators.

To begin, please find below a special prose poem, I curated. I requested six other women poets to write a poem jointly with me... they graciously agreed for which I am most grateful. Each person picked up on the work of the person before resulting in an amalgam of real voices, in this case women’s voices, lending themselves with openness of thought, expression and feelings to the theme.

I am deeply thankful to Dr. Sharma for this fascinating opportunity to be guest editor of this intriguing issue. I learned so much from the process, and from our contributors.

Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP is a poet, professor, short story writer, flash fictionist, children’s books author, and D&I consultant. Currently she teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Besides academic publications, her creative books include, two volumes of poetry, Hey...Spilt milk is spilt, nothing else (2018) and Initiations (1988), a collection of flash fictions, Life on the go-Flash fictions from New Delhi to America (2018), and three children’s books: I love Mummy and other new nursery rhymes, When I Grow Up and other new nursery rhymes and The Greedy Green Parrot and Other Stories (1993-1995). Her poems and stories can be found in national and international journals. Nahal is the co-editor (with Roopali Sircar Gaur) of the anthology, In All The Spaces-Diverse Voices In Global Women's Poetry (2020). She is also guest contributing editor for aaduna. Nahal is the daughter of Indian novelist and professor, Late Dr. Chaman Nahal, and her mother, Late Dr. Sudarshna Nahal was an also an educationist and author. Originally from New Delhi, India, Anita Nahal resides in the US. Her family includes her son, Vikrant, daughter-in-law, Sumona and their golden-doodle, Cashew. For more on Anita: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

Who am I?

Anita Nahal, Niharika Chibber Joe, Meenakshi Mohan,

Roopali Sircar Gaur, Lopa Banerjee, Shruti Goel & Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

I’m wood encasing a soul, best I can. Wise oud, ancient agarwood of a woman escaped from mutilated identities. Not here to create new ones. Phoenix and Renaissance marry my soul. And the clothes, hairstyle, lipstick shimmering are whiffs of a polish with which I shine my naked self. You’ll need to sift the coarse grains, the burning ambers beneath if you wish to find me. Go through the trials with me. More I age, more with ease I stand. I’m a blue moon drink of dervishes, gypsies, hippies and fairies. Stirred. Neat. Peppery. I’m just fine wood that my sins, and yours, tried not to rot so I could wrap my soul, and yours. Tenderly.

Anita Nahal

They told me I was different. They said I wouldn’t fit. I wouldn’t fit into the clothes they sold. I was too fat…I didn’t fit their idea of beauty. I was too dark. I wouldn’t fit into those shoes – they were big shoes to fill…I wouldn’t fit into the mold, the box, the boundary. Who was I, they asked? Where was I from? My identity, an incomprehensible mosaic of ancient cultures and of myriad lifetimes. My strength drawn from my mother. I keep them guessing. It always amuses my mother and I.

Niharika Chibber Joe

Pages layered in stacks, my life stories bound, etched from birth - some in colors, some in gray and white, then, a whole black page. How many avatars do I wear? Who am I? Where do I belong? A blank page awaits --Dharman Sarnam Gacchami! Let me drape myself in peace, quiet and tranquility!

Meenakshi Mohan

I stand like Colossus bridging both banks. Far beneath and between flows the forever changing moody river. Like Atlas I long to shrug, throw this dichotomous existence. My aching back, the colored visage, the painful forked tongue, the twanging white voice. How did I get here? What brought me here? Choiceless but not voiceless I must stride both worlds, muscle aching yet arms akimbo.

Roopali Sircar Gaur

I let the rivers of my life run haywire, flirting with the uncertainty of miles that sprouted on summer nights. I would come out in the open, unabashed, an earth unknown, cracking wide open at the edge of an unnamed surrender. In that sacrosanct moment of a dark-throated song, the confluence of the east and west wrote its script of diaspora within my being like an irreconcilable truth, like the whisper of an omniscient God. Come, visit the rivers, the homes, the molten stories dying, and born anew, within me.

Lopa Banerjee

I am me. A culmination of my experiences, environments, my beliefs, my strengths, my vulnerabilities, my visions, my actuality. Every facet of me with a glimmer of originality. They wanted me to be silent, yet my silence was louder than a million words. Here I am today, neither black nor brown, not red nor white. I come undone bearing my soul in this world so ready to brand me. I unearth the layers of my identity every moment, learning, molding, and remodeling myself. Etched as a human in this world, a work in progress to be more humane in this evidently opinionated world. That's who I am.

Shruti Goel

The moth is one metaphor for my existence. Sometimes it beats its fragile wings against the windowpane, praying to be let into the light of belonging. The butterfly is the other metaphor. I feel like that colorful butterfly I chased in the garden of my home by the sea. And knew it was home. Yet, in faith, I know I am where I am supposed to be. I must stop flapping my restless wings, and practice acceptance in silence. I must rest against the windowpane, albeit lightly, and make peace with my world even though the unbreakable barrier of present reality allows scant comfort. Longing and memory bring bitter-sweet fusion into my hyphenated identity, into my divided self.

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

A moth, a butterfly, a fish, human, deer, dog, from this planet or not, you can think of me as any and none. I am the sheen that sparkles on dried spilled milk, the gooey honey that lingers in a beehive, the fauna, flora, dirt, air, fire, the waters that crust the earth and beyond. I am an atom, I am Avinash. Am each one of us. I’m your imagination, dreams, and maybe reality. I’m ethereal bells, music, dance, whispers and screams. I tell stories as is. In my voice. I am layered, not homogenous. I am passion, heat, the cool on your perspiring brows. I consent to my hyphenated identities; not letting them control me, I work with them, not carrying them in my heart or soul or my wood. Those are me. Just me.

Anita Nahal

*Dharman Sarnam Gacchami: I go to Dharma for refuge

**Avinash: indestructible

For bios of the other writers of this special combined poem on hyphenated identities, please see their work and bios in this issue.

Hyphenated Identities in the US: Authors

* POETS *

Lopa Banerjee

Radhika Sajja Chandrasekar

Sean Cribben

Anne Madhu Gammon

Anoucheka Gangabissoon

Shruti Goel

Frederick D. Harper

Parvinder Mehta

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Meenakshi Mohan
***

* ARTISTS/PAINTERS *

Michael D. Harris

Tara Sabharwal

* CONTEMPLATORS *

* SHORT STORY WRITERS *

Niharika Chibber Joe

Sujata Sankranti

Setu, August 2020

On hope, pestilence and the divine

Sunil Sharma

…and the rains continue to pound Mumbai and rest of the country; the monsoon is in full fury, flooding, ravaging and uprooting things; an annual national narrative of despair and survival against natural odds.

And, in the midst of heavy rains, the pandemic continues unabated, striking at will, subsiding, re-asserting and in some places, diminishing fast.

And, then the Lord Ganesha arrives in full glory and humans petition the destroyer of obstacles for mercy, feeling assured and protrected.

Faith in its full splendor!

It works its magic and things calm down and settle, eliminating fear to a great extent.

Worth recalling here, below, these vintage words of Daniel Defoe about the Great Plague of London that happened in 1665. Taken from A Journal of the Plague Year, as a relevant message resonating again from 1772 to the denizens of the 2020, it aptly and uncannily mirrors similar anxiety, fear and hope---and the triumph of spirit and a deep desire for divine intercession and mercy:

In the middle of their distress, when the condition of the city of London was so truly calamitous, just then it pleased God—as it were by His immediate hand to disarm this enemy; the poison was taken out of the sting. It was wonderful; even the physicians themselves were surprised at it. Wherever they visited they found their patients better; either they had sweated kindly, or the tumours were broke, or the carbuncles went down and the inflammations round them changed colour, or the fever was gone, or the violent headache was assuaged, or some good symptom was in the case; so that in a few days everybody was recovering, whole families that were infected and down, that had ministers praying with them, and expected death every hour, were revived and healed, and none died at all out of them.

Nor was this by any new medicine found out, or new method of cure discovered, or by any experience in the operation which the physicians or surgeons attained to; but it was evidently from the secret invisible hand of Him that had at first sent this disease as a judgement upon us; and let the atheistic part of mankind call my saying what they please, it is no enthusiasm; it was acknowledged at that time by all mankind. The disease was enervated and its malignity spent; and let it proceed from whencesoever it will, let the philosophers search for reasons in nature to account for it by, and labour as much as they will to lessen the debt they owe to their Maker, those physicians who had the least share of religion in them were obliged to acknowledge that it was all supernatural, that it was extraordinary, and that no account could be given of it.

Hope somebody rewrites a journal for our times!

This edition has a special section, on the vexatious theme of identity, especially the hyphenated-identity talked frequently in the USA, as some kind of racial marker, a contested site of colliding cultures and creating subtle political binaries, in a system weighted heavily in favour of the whites and implicitly promoting the white privilege, at the cost of ignoring the other ethnic groups and their contributions,; a practice most ironically, occuring in a functional democracy, thereby showing its faultlines.

Time somebody interrogated such categories of the public discourse and perception, reducing some citizens to a strange dualism and as a double geographic being.

The real identity is being human and compassionate, treating everybody with respect and as equal---and constantly striving for such political formations.

Never heard of such hyphenated identities, at least openly, as a defining human indicator, in other countries! One happens to be a Canadian or German or French or Japanese there---or, merely a foreigner.

Ably guest-edited by the noted author-academic Anita Nahal, settled in the States, this feature brings together some of the best signatures that expertly decode this experience and its varied cultural connotations.

There are other interesting reads in the general section.

Once again, our gratitude to all the writers, guest editor Anita Nahal and readers for support.

So, here, we go on another monthly journey!

Sunil Sharma,

Editor, Setu (English)
Mumbai Metro Area, Maharashtra (India)

Setu, August 2020

Orange Dawn - Chapter 7

John Clark Smith

On the Monday of the next week, Harding's oldest citizen, Tosh Jones, visited us. The mass of wrinkles on his dry face, as well as the orange tinge to his skin, was shocking at first. If not for his steady walk and the fire of life in his eyes, I would have thought he was near death.
Aphra took Tosh by the hand into the hut. He sat down out of breath at the table. After a minute or two, he began shaking his head and making sounds of relief, as if a great pressure had been taken off him.
“I need to tell you…” he said, gasping.
“It’s fine, Grandpa Tosh,” Aphra said. “Lie down and rest.”
“But they may be following…Go. Now. Look.”
“I will,” I said, patting him on his shoulder.
I went to the door and looked out, then returned to him. “No one.”
We took him over to a cot, removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket. In a few minutes he was sleeping as if he hadn’t slept for a long time.

He was still asleep after Aphra and I returned from our morning explorations. When Tosh did awake, he stood up in a state of alarm, and said, “Quickly! We must go!”
I urged him to sit back down on the bed and explain.
"First we must leave. Then I’ll talk."
His destination was a mountain much higher than the ones we were accustomed to. Almost immediately, as we began our climb, Tosh calmed. It was a gentle slope, but it still required stamina. Clearly here was a man who had spent his life roaming in the mountains.
“Before you ask, Aphra, your mother is fine. In fact, that’s part of the reason I’m here. She wanted to let you know. And Glen said it was time for me to come to bring you the news.”
“Are we going back?” Aphra said, her voice full of hope.
“No, no, I’m sorry, Aphra.”
Aphra slumped, disappointed, and stopped to pet Peirce.
“What was that big gathering in the square?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Aphra, “what happened?”
“It all goes back to one morning several weeks ago, when we all awoke to notices pinned around the city. It said, ‘If you are interested in stopping the orange, come to the square at noon on Wednesday.’
“That sure got us excited. Though to be honest, some thought it was a hoax.”
“But it must have brought hope,” I said.
“It did,” Tosh said. “I was almost giddy.”
Aphra pointed at a tree a hundred feet ahead of us.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “A Dark-eyed Junco. They’re never here in the summer. Check it off, Aphra.”
“Shh,” Aphra said. “I want to get up close. Here, Tosh, hold on to Peirce. I don’t want him to spook it.”
Tosh took the leash. Peirce tugged and whined.
I squatted beside him. “Now boy, you know how the birds feel about you.”
We circled around the tree so we ourselves wouldn’t spook it. We were now directly below the bird so that its white belly was visible.
It jumped up to another branch. and began to sing – a fast whistle with little change in pitch. Aphra tried to imitate it without success.
We high-fived and stood up. The Junco flew off.
“Sorry to stop you, Tosh, but that one wasn’t even on our list.”
“I understand. Haven’t seen one of those myself.”
“So what happened on Wednesday?” Aphra asked.
"The government announced a curfew for that lunch period. They claimed some fanatic was planning on bombing the square.”
"Did the person appear?” I took my turn holding on to Peirce’s leash.
“Glen works at the café in the square. He said no one appeared; there was no bomb. The next week the same notices were pinned in different locations, again the government called a curfew, again used the bomb threat, and again nothing happened. By then we had our doubts.”
Tosh stopped to rest on the slope. He massaged his legs and stretched them out. Aphra and I weren’t tired, but we sat down beside him. I knew that the next incline would be more strenuous. Peirce was happy to watch a bunch of ants near an ant hill.
"We were so tired of having no answers. Tired of the orange.”
“I would’ve thought a few of the citizens would’ve showed up,” I said.
“After the second curfew, some did protest. But they were too few in numbers.”
With a little support from me, Tosh stood up and started walking again.
“Some of them were jailed. Not your mother, Aphra. Probably because she was a friend of Paul’s.”
“What happened the next week?” Aphra said anxiously.
“Well, Wednesday morning came. Morning registration, everything routine.
“No notices. No curfew. At first we didn’t know what to do, but after much discussion the group decided we would return to the square at noon.”
“Mummy?” Aphra asked.
“Yes, and Paul and Abe. Many more came in the end. Even the Mayor came out onto his balcony, protected by Guards. The square was alive again.”
Tosh stumbled and fell. I helped him to his feet and led him to a log under the shade of several large eastern Hemlocks that stood over a hundred feet. He slowly bent and sat upon it, breathing a great sigh.
“I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
We rested for a while, watching Aphra throw a stick for Peirce. Sometimes he couldn’t find it so she would find it herself, and Peirce would chase after her, not after the stick. Or Aphra threw the stick in the air and Peirce would jump and catch it in his mouth. They enjoyed this game until a squirrel distracted him. Then Aphra lay on the ground to spy on the lives of small creatures. Her hair melded in with the grass as she stared at white flies, aphids and pine beetles in a chunk of rotted wood.
When we continued, I waited for him to pick up his narrative. Aphra had no such tact.
“What happened next?”
"Well, at exactly noon, we heard this booming electronic voice from the top of one of the buildings: Silence! Silence! Silence!
“The crowd became silent. The soldiers were looking in every direction. The voice continued:
Why haven’t you come? Have you become sheep? For months the government has told you that the orange will disappear! Has it disappeared? No! So now you must prove your courage! You mustn’t listen to the authorities! You must listen only to yourselves. I will be here next Wednesday. In person. I will tell you what must be done to be rid of the orange forever.
"We could see the Special Forces scurrying about on top of the buildings. Many of us also were looking for the location of the voice. Who would broadcast such a message? Someone claimed to have a way to end the orange. Except for me, the others scattered around the square to see if they detected any speaker. I started to walk back and forth in an almost lightheaded nervousness. Some were jumping up and down. Some were yelling, as if the orange had already disappeared. If the Guard and the local police weren’t surrounding us, we might have burst into exuberant clapping. Yes, the voice threatened us. Yes, the voice called us cowards. But I didn’t care. The sincerity in the voice made me believe there was a chance. I watched the authorities frantically try to find the hiding source for the sound. My neck strained upward watching their search; but then suddenly Glen with Melinda appeared and stood beside me. I said, ‘I hope they don’t find it.’ Glen looked at me and smiled.”

[To be continued ...]

Setu, August 2020

Poetry: Jimmy Sharma

Jimmy Sharma

The Makeover

The different formations take cogent patterns in the mindscape
These patterns dwell there, inhabiting there for centuries
moving into coils and spirals
shedding certainty and finality of imagination
The psyche becomes divine like a prophet
That can see everything crystal clear
The vision becomes more lucid
That can see through magic realism
After the rain of good deeds and endeavours
The rainbow of contentment gleams
***

Reconciliation

The fresh breeze of hope and optimism
has blown away the cobwebs of gloomy memories
that blurred the vision
and marred the beauty of life.
The period of mourning
besieged the dynamic mind
crushing the valiant and vigorous spirit.
At times, varied long forgotten memories
stirred in her head and she harboured
the hope of meeting the new, independent,
emancipated self at the horizon of
opportunities and desires.
Desires are the crowd of spectators
that throng at the very arrival of
impulsive whims of the heart.
Holding them back by strings of focus;
they smash the trance of chimera
and steer the mind towards
the lighthouse of truth and reality
The serene and resolute psyche
imbibes the comprehensive outlook of life
where giving and offering brings more comfort
and the living becomes ecstasy.
She realizes that she has become Love.
***

Musings on Love

The empathetic emotions,
the implicit words purge all dross
and usher the radiance of understanding.
The lovers, then, become
fluent in metamorphosis.
When the beloved flutters a glance,
the lover catches the gleam of love in her eyes
He senses a flicker of eagerness to hear the words
How he wish this longing to be contagious!
They say, “Name it first. Then enter the shrine of love.”
She replies, “We name what we own.
I don’t owe him.
I breathe him like one inhales the air
Do people name the bond they have with air?”
The true lovers realizes that
If one justifies; one is in an argument
If one explains; one has to prove
the self out to the world
And love does not need both.
So ask yourself whether you love
or you just breathe what others define air to be.
***

Assassination

It takes no time to kill lovelorn people.
First, you have to stab them with
indifference, apathy and lies
The more you pinch and attack with claims of lies
The more they feel the shock
Then, you stop the smooth flow of communication
Then block it
So that, come storms of emotions
And wind of memories
Such people are alone
Helplessly alone- suffocating and shrieking within themselves
They cannot reach you
Then, for God's sake
Stop meeting them
Every time you meet
Their love grows deeper
Their love gives them life
But one day you strangulate it too.
***

Lovesickness

The feverish restlessness--
the hallmark of love and separation--
a non communicable feeling
A reluctant listener
the urgency of emotions
a long awaited train of thoughts is deferring
the onset of passionate coaches
The heart twinkles at the glimmer of the eyes
Eyes excel at communicating the unsaid
The heart then hears it all with each throb
The glimmer of the glance scintillates with the inkling of craving
A blind temptation sweeps over--
The logic and reason is hurled away.
***

Setu, August 2020

Fiction: The Bookstore

Swati Moheet Agrawal

- Swati Moheet Agrawal

Mrs. Bakshi found herself that little corner and settled down to read. The joy of sinking into a book, even for a little while, was all the therapy she needed.

Long hair rolled into a lopsided bun, spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, Mrs. Bakshi plopped into her favourite butterfly chair with a cup of cappuccino sitting next to her. She invariably chose that butterfly-upholstered accent chair because it gave her wings, wings to fly to places unknown and known, feel feelings unfamiliar and familiar and savour experiences pleasurable and painful.

Reading was her one consolation – she lost herself in books, she found herself there, too. She found comfort in knowing there were ordinary people who led ordinary lives like her own, and there were extraordinary people who led extraordinary lives, too.

The bookstore offered respite from monotony and drudgery, burden and responsibility - no daughter or husband to tend to, no laundry or dirty dishes staring her in the face. Those two hours of mental stimulation were enough to recharge her batteries. The trip to the bookstore was an opportunity to escape her mundane existence and live a little!

“Welcome Mrs. Bakshi. Hope you find something exciting to read today,” Mr. Nath greeted Mrs. Bakshi rather affably.

“Mr. Nath, there is a book for every mood – if you are seeking inspiration, look up Kalam’s biography, if you are in a mood for quiet companionship, Rumi’s poetry fits the bill, if you are seeking spiritual guidance, there is The Untethered Soul by Michael Singer, for humour, turn to Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat,” she replied rather enthusiastically.

“Great. Looking forward to your upcoming story,” Mr. Nath trailed off.

Mrs. Bakshi visited the bookstore thrice a week, from 11 a.m. to 1.00 p.m. after dropping her daughter off to ballet. Mr. Bakshi thought it would be a great recreational activity to keep Sia busy through summer vacation. Moreover, Sia was nimble and graceful and loved dancing. The idea of twirling in ballerina outfits and glittery shoes excited little Sia no end.

Mr. Nath observed Mrs. Bakshi rather keenly – she read as if she had been transported to another world; she read the way someone would swim to save their life.

“Reading gives me a chance to experience emotions absent from the reality of my ordinary world. I read to connect with new people, I read to reconnect with myself. I read to explore new worlds, I read to revisit familiar terrains. I like to immerse myself in other people’s lives – I laugh with them, I cry with them, moreover, escaping into someone else’s horror while leaving my own behind is calming,” she waxed eloquent adding, “you know Mr. Nath, my English teacher often reiterated that only a generation of readers will spawn a generation of writers, however, I never considered writing professionally, I should have given it a shot.”

“Well, I’ll make you a deal then – thrice a week you get to read books for free, and, in return, you share your observations, perspectives and recommendations on my website,” Mr. Nath pitched in.

“Sounds like an adventure to me,” she grabbed the opportunity. That’s how, little by little, Mrs. Bakshi’s life began to change for the better. There was something to look forward to, something that gave meaning to her existence, something that made her leap out of bed every morning.

Mr. Bakshi was of the opinion that a woman’s priority should be home and family unless she ‘needs’ to work, never mind her qualifications, skills or ambitions. He had categorically said, “sacrifice and forbearance are prerequisite skills in a good wife and good mother’s CV.”

He liked to call the shots, he loved to be at the helm of all affairs, after all, he was the man of the house. While he wasn’t the spouse Mrs. Bakshi had hoped for, he was most definitely a doting father – he indulged Sia all the time. He never opposed to anything Sia set her heart on. Sia’s wish was his command, literally.

Mrs. Bakshi ached for freedom, she longed for expression, so when she got those two hours to herself, since traveling back and forth from ballet class to home was not feasible, she took the plunge. Mr. Bakshi knew his wife spent those two hours reading at the bookstore but he didn’t know about her writing endeavours. The butterfly chair doubled up as her writing chair, too.

Mr. Bakshi even dictated his wife’s sartorial choices. Lately, he protested against her makeup as well - he vehemently expressed his aversion to dark lip colours. He was easily repelled by heavy garish makeup.

A bold red lipstick aroused suspicion in his mind. “Why are you painting your lips red? What’s the matter?” he snapped at Mrs. Bakshi.

“I just feel like it. It makes me confident,” Mrs. Bakshi replied rather nonchalantly.

“It makes you look vulnerable, like you are available. It invites unwarranted attention. Only those kind of women wear red lipstick. Don’t you know?” Mr. Bakshi almost launched into a tirade against his wife.

“Are you slut-shaming me?”

Thud!

It hurt bad. It stung. ‘Slut’ was a taboo word in the Bakshi household – how dare she utter that word, only those kind of women blurt out those kind of words! She tossed and turned all night, she barely slept a wink that night. Like most women who remain shackled in unhappy marriages, usually for their children’s sake, Mrs. Bakshi, too, put up with her abusive husband. She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his volatile temperament and his narrow-mindedness.

A woman can endure so much more when she is afraid, when she feels powerless.

What Would I Wish for on My 20^th Birthday?

By Mrs. Bookshi

Move over the aroma of freshly baked cookies or freshly laundered clothes – have you ever sniffed the pages of a freshly printed book?

The scent of fresh ink on paper and even aging paper is intoxicating. It smells way better than the scent of mud after it rains.

How I loved sniffing the pages of “Birthday Girl” by Haruki Murakami.

I am an ardent Murakami fan, devouring one book after the other. This tiny booklet is yet another masterpiece by a master storyteller whose tales captivate, whose words linger!

A seemingly mundane story with a mysterious undertone, ‘Birthday girl’, too, ends on a note of ambiguity. The story is about a woman turning twenty and her chance encounter with the reclusive owner of the restaurant. The woman in question is a part time waitress at an Italian restaurant in downtown Tokyo. Since her co-waitress calls in sick at the last minute, and the manager, too, is rushed off to a hospital, she ends up spending her birthday at work, and is entrusted with the responsibility of delivering dinner to the restaurant owner’s room that night. He learns it’s her birthday and grants her a wish; however, once she has made the wish she is not allowed to change her mind.

The woman, the protagonist of the story, tells the narrator of the story that her wish has been granted so far, but she’s yet to see how things work out until the end. “It was a wish that takes time to come true”, she tells the narrator in the present day scenario.

Murakami, expectedly, does not reveal her wish to readers. I think his genius lies in his ability to keep us guessing and craving for more. If you are seeking clarity and closure, Haruki Murakami is not for you.

So what did the waitress wish for? Many minds, many interpretations! Some believe she tricked her mind into believing her twentieth birthday wasn’t totally uneventful, hence, she conjured up the whole wish-fulfillment thing in her head. The wish was merely a figment of her imagination.

My interpretation is, she didn’t wish at all, which is precisely why the restaurant owner was surprised and shocked. She seems to be wise beyond her years unlike most adolescents on the cusp of adulthood.

I highly recommend this story because it has all of Murakami’s signature elements, it is surreal, gripping, moreover, it is a quick read.

However, the story got me thinking, it triggered a whirlpool of thoughts in my mind. Birthday or no birthday, we are all waiting for something extraordinary to happen to us, as if it would turn our lives around. As a matter of fact, for the most part, nothing exciting happens. If you don’t take joy in the simple pleasures of life like reading a book on a rainy afternoon, dropping your son off to football or savouring a steaming cup of chai latte, chances are, you are going to be unhappy and disillusioned for the rest of your life. If your happiness is contingent upon external factors like a trip to Paris or even perfect relationships, chances are, you are never going to be happy. There are two ways of looking at life – accept your situation or let go of it – being on tenterhooks is more exhausting than anything else. If you have the power to change anything that threatens your happiness or peace, change it all you can, if you are unable to change a situation that makes you unhappy or edgy, change your perception about it, make peace with it, breathe some life into it, easier said than done but that’s the way the cookie crumbles!

What would I wish for if I were in the Birthday Girl’s place? Well, I am going to turn forty tommorrow, so, on my 40^th milestone, I wish I could wear red lipstick and live a little!

Mrs. Bakshi’s eyes teared over. Long bouts of weeping followed surrender.
***

Swati Moheet Agrawal is a freelance writer based in Mumbai, India. Her works have appeared in the Times of India, Café Dissensus, Twist & Twain magazine, Storizen, Indian Economy & Market Magazine and India’s premier mind-body-soul magazine, Life Positive. When she's not reading or writing, she likes to engage in creative pursuits like decoupage artwork. She also has a penchant for long walks and starry skies. She can be contacted at swatiwhowrites@gmail.com.

Setu, August 2020

Poetry: Indulekha Nair

Indulekha Nair

For what may come, let me hold on to this for a while longer.

Let me be where I am, let you stay till the end of the day.

But truth to be told, I'm scared the most, will I die to be apart, to be not near the womb that still feels warm, even when does it's no longer home. But it most certainly still feel like one.

They say that I'm strong enough to overcome, but what if I don't want to overcome? What if I don't want to forget the sweet scent of my mother's sweat.

They say I'll have to live no matter what, but I'm afraid that I won't wake up, not without her hands over my forehead, gently caressing my hair, gentle enough to not cause me distress.

I'm at a point in my life where I'm sure about the fact that I'm only still here for she had made sure that I don't break my neck everytime I fall.

I don't want to think about a day where I fall and she is not here anymore, about a day not awaiting the comfort of her cozy lap.

The grey in her hair spreading slowly but consistently is giving me nightmares that leave me haunted for more than just a day and

The times I yell at her for nothing but of irritation towards her desperate acts of love and affection, to make me see that she's still here, I sob a little more into my pillows at night for all the times I had to punish a pure being for it's kindness for me.

Every day passing in my calendar reminding me more often now that all this can be taken away, just like that, just so easily and there is nothing more terrifying than to be inside that box of thoughts for more than I wish to be.

To be so unfortunate as of existing in a world lacking the taste of unadulterated affection of my god, my creator, my mother.

For let me ask for nothing but a day less to live in a world when it will come to be cursed to function without the love of her's.

***

My Fight

A part of me just want to scream

at the face of the silver pain that is quitely eating me away, pleasurably.

To haul at the evil break,

to break the walls of these merciless glass chamber of suffering into a hundred million pieces.

Inside of me does it still echo the shadows

of arms that I once threw at every grip of those evil hands laid, fading but still alive.

Fighting for the fire to stay burning

amidst of the cold storms that were once named by the ropes curled upon my body and into my flesh with everyday passed.

When in places that it hurts still after long,

my breasts remembers how it felt, those fangs.

To cut a piece of flesh from between my legs

and serve dinner for those hungry lots, clean off my blood and sweats for they might diminish the sweet.

Losing my mind, perhaps my whole, trying so hard to stay a-longer while.

Taking my all, my life, to laugh down at the foes, to see the fear in their breaths, for when they left the bed, they thought I was dead.

***

(Un)real

How pretty does forever sounds to be.

To be loved, to be alive.

Much innocence in the trust we keep in mere utterances,

Blind to the ways they differ in life.

Raw hope fueling the thoughts of a 'happily ever after' less promised.

Knowing, yet pretending not to,

In the desperation to keep on existing in a world so unreal.

Blurring the lines between facts and what it lacks, inorder to fulfill the neverending cravings of a fantasy so far from our hand's reach.

Glaring head-right at the face of reality, hiding so gracefully the fear in our eyes.

Scared to the toes, for we know all of it can be so easily taken away.

Even the prettiest of forevers and happiest of ever afters comes with an alarm clock attached to it, ready to go off right at the second before our promised ecstatic bliss.

***

A hymn to the day we parted our ways

I still remember,

Vaguely, even so.

It was pouring,

The cruelty of nature's metaphors.

You asked me to stay,

To give another go,

At whatever it was that we had.

But what exactly was it that we had?

You asked me to stay,

With a little more desperation, the second time.

To not let go so easily,

To fight for it, for us.

You weren't noticing,

Not paying enough attention, perhaps.

I was fighting then,

Fighting myself to believe in what we never had.

But there's something about that day

That still make my heart go warm.

For I had held on to it so long,

Even when I knew I had lost.

Blinded with what it could have been,

I never knew how much I needed this,

How much I needed myself.

Let me assure you,

This is no 'love turned wrong and hate came along',

This is the story of two, who did not belong.

A hymn for the day we parted our ways.

***

Until

This is no heaven, I can see.

A place that holds no answer, no comfort nor cure.

At least not to the eyes of yours or mine, not today.

The sound of thunder and ice cold hands

And a thousand ice cold bodies behind those plastic covers.

This. This Earth, what is that it wishes? For the breathings to cease or is this it's idea of a practical joke?

Are we not to be or just to be more careful?

Is this the end or just another chapter to arrive?

Inside these cages, when our minds wander into the forbidden forests of our imagination,

Let it not eat us, for we are still here.

This is no heaven, for sure, but perhaps no hell either.

May this be that time, when we kiss a little kiss on our own reflection in the mirror,

That time when our heads swing a little swing with the sound of our favorite song,

That time when you hold that painting brush in your hands after all the years passed,

That time you start with the story that has been waiting behind the curtains of your mind, ready to touch ink,

That time you did every tiny thing that you had in your mind for a day when you are not in haste,

Everything that you wanted to do,

Everything.

***

Indulekha Nair is a Final year English language undergraduate from Calicut, Kerala. She has been, from a very young age, an introverted soul who loves to exist inside fictional worlds more than anything else. Apart from writing poetry and short-stories, she also dedicates her time into social service through 'National Service scheme' and creating awareness in the minds of young people through writing content for youth related organizations. Her fascination for Literature and poetry is what makes her who she really is.

Setu, August 2020

Poetry: Jyotsna Mishra 'Sana'

An Indian Girl

One dark night in a lonely house
Everyone heard a melodious cry,
The nurse told, "Its a baby girl "
And she was welcomed with a sigh.

She grew up, somehow unwantedly
But reserved a special place
In hearts where she pinned as thorn
Still had love and moved in grace.

She moved like a gentle breeze
Flew on the wings of a butterfly
She sketched some beautiful rainbows
From the green fields to the azure sky.

Then came that strange day
As told she was now a big girl
The looks of people had changed
There were secrets, yet to unfurl.

She feared seasons as she had
Scary nights and painful days
All around superstitions n taboos
She went through awful ways.

Shunned was she as though
She had committed a sin
Dragged in dark she was
All her dreams went all dim.

Ignoring the changes and chains
Denied she the understated screams
Outpaced the hurdles, she sprouted
And embellished all her dreams.

But life, Alas! What lies in its folds
Came a gentle looking sojourner
Touched her with the beautiful words
Bewitched she fell for this conjourer.

Leaving behind her childhood abode
Stepped into that dreamt heaven
Soon felt the chains and bonds
Gifted to her by the oath of seven.

All the day she ferried through
The rush hours of each day
With a fake smile though
She forgot what made her gay.

Tired of being stuck in toxic relationships and atmospheres,
Tired of hypocrisy and lies in
A world full of fakes and veneers.

Still she tried to hold on with
Moments that made her restless and sad
No respite she found from the intense ache
Made her lose the calm she always had

Finally one day she decided
To unwrap this unwanted shroud
To find new roads, that maybe
Full of harsh sunshine and cloud

She rose to dispel darkness and
Spill radiance to find new hopes
She believed not to give up on life
Promised herself the ample joy's scopes.
***

Tired is my Body

Tired is my body
My soul is cumbersome
Don't remember when did life went out of flow
I heard something cracked inside though.

The crack has reached the core of my feelings,
Now barren is the town,
Silence are the windows
So is now my dwellings.

The silence is killing
Not just the inside of me
But also the surroundings around
It seems time is sentenced to death
The pulse of revolution is ground.

My heart has drowned somewhere..
Don't remember when did the connection break
No ends can I find anywhere
Everything of mine has become fake..

Tired is my body
My soul is cumbersome
Don't remember when did life went out of flow
I heard something cracked inside though.
***

Life With You

Life with you was
Never a bed of roses
It wasn't of thorns either.
Though I never felt the
Pain of thorns nor did I
Know how it's felt on feather.

Your words scorched me
At times, but you were the
One with me in all weather.

Always wanted you matured
You showed immaturity rather
People loved talking to you
I found silence between us better.

Besides all the complaints we
Have in store for each other
I still want to live and grow old
Till our Golden Jubilee together.

25 years with you was
Never a bed of roses
It wasn't of thorns either.
***

Nature is Not Poetic

Nature is not poetic
You said it right
Yes, nature is not poetic
And hell yes
It doesn't rhyme with us either

But let me tell you
For the last time,
Till the time
Drills a deal with hills
Or streams keep turning into dreams
Nature can't make any sense

It is just expecting harvest
From a barren land
Yet this is not what I want
You to remember
When you read this poem

I want you to cry, shout,
Ponder upon this fact
I want you to peep into
Your past done act
I want you to question me,
Yourself and the whole world

Why has mother nature
Always been assaulted
I want you to raise questions
They might be stupid, maybe plain
Maybe uncomfortable -
Still they ought to be raised

Why is it that we keep
snatching more than we
actually need from the nature?

Someday,
I don't want to assume
right or wrong
When nature will start thinking
about the significance
and irrelevance of your
behaviour and of your
Version of the truth

There definitely will be a few
Protests on that very day
No matter how similar
Or different it maybe,
I know
It surely won't be poetic

So start worrying
Pen it down
Say it aloud
But smile
Keep calm
And tell everyone.

You are right,
Nature doesn't rhyme with us
Yes, it is not poetic
But neither are we with it......
***

Well! No you cannot.

You said my words should
Always be full of 'gratitude',
Agreed, but can you assure
They won't show me their 'attitude'
Well! No you cannot.

You said to bow before
The tides when they are 'high'
Agreed, but can you assure
They won't lead me to 'sigh'
Well! No you cannot.

You said being a 'girl'
I should always be ' humble'
Agreed, but can you assure
They won't let me 'scrumple'
Well! No you cannot.

You said I should be polite
And shouldn't be ' aggressive'
Agreed, but can you assure
They won't ever be so ' decisive'
Well! No you cannot.

You said ' I'm a woman'
I shouldn't flaunt my 'pride'
Agreed, but can you assure,
They can really stop my 'stride'
Well! No you cannot.
***

Setu, August 2020

Rosie (Chapter 9)

Glory Sasikala

Serialized novel, by Glory Sasikala

CHAPTER-9

Let me sing you a very old tune
The Moon lives in me, and I live on the Moon

Rosie made her way down the street and down the noisy, dirty courtyard and greeted her friends at the water pump with a “Hello! Good Evening!” and got back a selection of the best secretive glances and furtive giggles. Then the Taleteller removed her hand from her mouth behind which she had been giggling and said “Yes! Oh yes! This is a good evening indeed! This evening,” she said, spreading her arms theatrically, “is the best evening I have ever known in my life. Oh that such an evening,” she said, lowering her arms and crossing them, “come in everybody’s life.” By this time, the girls had gone off into peals of laughter. Rosie gave them a puzzled look and said, “Hey! What’s all this about?”
“Why ask us? Why don’t you go upstairs and find out who is waiting for you?”
At that, the blood drained out of Rosie’s face and then rushed back, leaving her hot and red. The girls noted the effect with satisfaction and giggled.
“Ai, ai, the girl is blushing,” said one.
Rosie bent down and picked up some stones and threw it at them. By then, they had all scattered, laughing. She made her way upstairs slowly, giving time for her heart to settle down to a steadier rhythm.
“She’s come! She’s come!” She heard the whispers as she made her way down the corridor, and an old lady called out to her, “Go quickly! Your Prince is waiting for you.”
For all her wish to appear cool and collected, Rosie appeared at her doorway blushing crimson and beautiful. Nevertheless, she managed to lift her eyes and take in her visitor and give him a shy smile before she entered. Her effect on Prateik was electrifying although he had only seen her the previous morning. For the first time in his life, he knew what it was to love, and the knowledge that she loved him too made it all the more beautiful. Chetan and Grandma were there in the room too, and Rosie glanced anxiously at Chetan. Seeing him relaxed and smiling at her, she relaxed too and smiled back.
“What happened? Why are you so late?” he asked.
“I went to temple,” Rosie replied.
Chetan gave her a meaningful look. She caught the look and blushed and looked down. Then, lifting up her head and looking directly at Prateik, said, “Please excuse me,” and made her way inside.
They were all quiet for a while after she left.
Chetan then asked Prateik, “Another cup of tea? Please say yes, otherwise Priya will refuse, and I need another cup of tea.”
Prateik laughed. He turned to Priya and smile. “One more cup please if it’s not too much of a bother.”
She smiled and went in.
Grandma smiled too, “The more ginger tea you drink the better. There are so many good qualities in ginger.”
She continued to list the benefits, and Prateik and Chetan listened to her. Rosie came back into the room. She had bathed and changed into a soft silk-cotton cream salwar suit that was at once simple and grand. She had left her hair open and it fell in soft waves and framed her lovely face. She wore no makeup at all and no jewellery, and somehow, her simplicity enhanced her natural beauty.
Prateik could not take his eyes off her as she made her way to her grandmother’s side and sat down gracefully on the divan. He found himself wanting to just keep looking at her.
Chetan set down his cup and said, “Well, Sir, now that Rosie is here, can we talk?”
Prateik said, “Yes we can, but on one condition.”
Chetan and Rosie and Grandma looked at him wide-eyed. Prateik laughed, “Please relax. Chetan, you must call me Prateik. You can’t reduce your own age by calling me Sir.”
They all smiled and Chetan reached out a friendly hand, “Prateik is a nice name.”
Prateik bowed.
“So...Prateik Ji, you want to marry my sister. And you want to take my other two sisters too. The proposition that you made yesterday morning seems okay to us and we accept it. But we are worried…
This is all very sudden. Your people still don’t know about these developments. What if they object when they you tell them? It’s serious matter because you’re taking on additional responsibility. And also, they might have some hope for you—that you will marry in a rich family?”
Prateik set down his teacup. “Yes, it will come as a surprise to them. They have no hopes for me. I haven’t shown any interest in settling down up until now. And now, out of the blue, I want to get married. But we are all adults. Two of my brothers are married and have families of their own. I make all my decisions. I’ve never asked their permission to live my life the way I want to. So, they have to accept my decision and go along with it. I’m not going home to ask their permission. I’m going home to inform them. But yes, there is one person whose permission I need….Chacha, my Uncle.”
He paused and smiled at them, “He is not my Uncle. He is an old man and he’s a servant. He’s been with us all our lives. Our parents died when we were quite young, and if Chacha and his wife had not taken care of us, we would not have been able to manage at all. His opinion is very important. Don’t worry though. He is sick of seeing me wasting away my life. He scolds me every day. Baba, get married. Baba, don’t drink. Baba, don’t waste your life….sometimes he cries…”
Prateik grew silent… Then he looked up and smiled, “He will be the first person to celebrate when he hears the news.”
They all smiled.
“You’re treating your old servant with so much love and respect; it shows what a gracious person you are. God Bless you!” said Grandma.
Chetan said, “Well, in that case, we have no objections.”
Prateik, whose heart was singing with joy, leaned over and shook hands, and glancing quickly at Rosie, said, “So, I will be leaving for home tomorrow morning. I will talk to my family. Then I will call you. You will have to come home—all of you.” He looked at Grandma and Priya, “Rosie too. It’s very important to me that you all come home because this is going to be the Rosie’s home and Rashmi’s and Suman’s as well. It’s very important that you feel one hundred percent confident that they will be happy there. Please don’t say no,” he said, raising a hand as Chetan tried to object, “These are your precious sisters you are giving away. I will send in the car and I will ensure Grandma is able to travel comfortably.”
Chetan sat back, accepting defeat. “Okay, if that’s what you wish for… Thank you! I must admit that it will ease our minds.”
Grandma and Priya nodded. “It’s a good thing,” said Grandma.
“Shall we eat?” asked Priya, looking at Prateik.
“Oh yes, please!” he said, smiling at her, “I’m very hungry.”
He got up to go and wash his hands. Rosie got up too and led him inside.

[To be continued ...]

Setu, August 2020

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