Showing posts with label 202206E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202206E. Show all posts

Translation: Big Cloud 2068

Anurag Sharma

- Anurag Sharma

Year 2068: Scientific progress has turned the world into a well-connected global village.

The books were finished at the climax of the digital age with the last book printed in 2043. By then a few books were saved in digital format by some crazy computer-enthusiasts who preserved antiquated technology for sake of nostalgia. But now computers are not around at all. Everything revolves around extremely powerful yet tiny hand-held devices. These powerful devices connect us humans to the information that resides on a central big cloud.

Emergency, like never-before! Nobody imagined the sudden deterioration of the Big Cloud. No one knows exactly what happened to the Big Cloud that was designed as a fail-proof, ultra-reliable system to support entire world. Service crew got struck because the critical information needed for this kind of repair is now inaccessible because Big Cloud is partly unresponsive. All hope is not lost because Johnny Booker is still alive.

Johnny Booker is one of the original creators of the current Big Cloud universal system. He headed the Big Cloud project from the beginning to the completion. In fact, he was the father of the idea that the world needed only one big cloud. Due to his efforts, the United Nations put pressure on all the countries to put all the information of the whole world in a central cloud, which was named Big Cloud.

Following the worldwide success of Big Cloud, Booker was counted among the richest men in the world. But after retirement, he got a little deluded.

Lunatic old man Booker, who remained unmarried, began to speak about the dangers of the Big Cloud. Every event he was invited to, he started talking about going 'back to the book' from the digital world. Slowly, he gathered some people and started a 'back to the book' campaign. In every scientific and technical conference he attended, he delivered speeches on the need to go back to printed books. Initially, people listened but then later it got the label of a fanatic archaic. Due to the launch of the Save Books movement, his identity was established throughout the world as such a conservative old man who had no support except two or four old men like himself. Schools and the industry stopped inviting him since he insisted on the importance of the book over any other form of technological advancement. He tried hard, but his movement, far from growing, slowly started to break down as the aged members were not replaced by anyone new. One day, Booker was left alone in his campaign. For some time his statements appeared on the cloud, then he went into anonymity. There were rumors that using his immense wealth, he had built the world's largest library in a secret place by buying all the books that survived digital revolution.

Ray of Hope: All experts believed that Big Cloud could still be saved if Booker could be traced and convinced to provide the printed copies of the technical manuals that were published by his team decades ago.

Although with technological advancement, the location of a dead ant in a forest could be accurately traced, it took the police several days to locate Booker due to Big Cloud related problems.

Booker Traced: When the police reached the secret palatial Library-Bunker of Booker, the frustrated and desperate lonely man was seen burning his books in a huge incinerator. The last book caught flames in front of the police. The title read 'Big Cloud Troubleshooting - Final Volume' ...

(Translated from Hindi)

Contents, June 2022


Setu

Volume 7; Issue 1; June 2022


Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Poetry

Ghazal

Special

Author of the Month

Conversations

Translation

Exclusive

Photo Essay

Short Fiction: : Kelli J Gavin

Book Review

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings

Special Edition: Food Narratives: Links to the Past and Present
Sunita Jugran
Anjani George
K Pankajam
Hema Ravi
Nivedita Roy
Dhee Sankar
Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy
Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy
Snigdha Banerjee Agrawal
Satbir Chadha
Marianne Szlyk
Vandita Dharni
Neelam Malik
Boudhayan Mukherjee
Namita Rai
Nivedita Dinkar
Sangeeta Sharma
Amita Paul
Brindha Vinod
Santosh Bakaya
Meenakshi Mohan
Usha Kishore
Meghna Kaul
Paul Brookes
Srishti Sharma
Pravin B
Laksmisree Banerjee
Maria do Sameiro Barroso

Poetry: Dee Allen

Dee Allen
GRANNY OAK

As a boy,
I was raised
By 3 maternal elders:

Grandma Lillie,
Granny Lucy
And Granny Oak.

Although she never dispensed
Treats to us kids
Like the other 2 did,

Granny Oak
Always held down
The front lawn of Grandma Lillie's house'

Near what my
Little brother Mike called
“The gumball trees”.

Granny Lucy
Kept the inner house
Running smoothly, even from her wheelchair.

She was the stern
Disciplinarian among my
Female elders, despite partial paralysis.

Whenever one kid stepped out of line,
Granny Lucy would order another,
Usually the kid that wasn't in trouble,

And tell them:
Boy! Git outside
An' cut me a switch!


Granny Oak
Never gave up
Any fruit or nuts,

But she damn sure 
Supplied Granny Lucy with
Enough whip-like switches to beat us with!

Those whuppings
Kept me on the straight-and-narrow.
Until 10th Grade. The start of my “Metal Years”.
***


GRANNY OAK 2

As a man
In my 20s
Living out “The Punk Years”,

Grandma Lillie
Had Granny Oak
Evicted from our family's land.

Granny Oak
Did something Grandma Lillie
Didn't like—and she couldn't help it:

A thunderstorm,
One of the fiercest, caused
Granny Oak to snap

A gigantic branch.
All that torrential rain and wind
Went well into dusk, sent that branch

Landing on the roof of
Grandma Lillie's house.
If that broken limb of wood were

Heavier,
The inner ceiling would've collapsed.
And this tale would never be told.

Next day,
Grandma Lillie
Telephoned for someone to escort

Granny Oak
From the front lawn.
It wasn't a team of sheriff's deputies.

Tree surgeons 
Drove their chainsaws
Into the big oak tree that served as


Granny Lucy's
Partner in child
Discipline when I was younger.

A clean-cut
Stump, a layer 
Of sawdust, leaves and twigs

Were all
That remained of
Another family maternal elder, gone from our midst.

***


ORCHARD 3

There was much more
To Grandma Lillie's backyard
Than the 3 or 4 peachtrees
Standing at attention.

For starters,
The sad little 
Weather-beaten,
Peeling-paint tool shed

Seemed to collapse with each
Passing season and storm,
But it never
Lacked company

Like the ophidian grapevine
That slithered along the side of the tool shed
Doing its tumble down number in slow motion.
It yielded purple grapes in Spring, though;

The blackberry bush
That grew against a neighbour's chainlink
Fence behind our time-worn shed. I bet
Those blackberries were sweeter than the grapes;

[ Razor-sharp thorns made picking them a challenge ]

The pear tree
And the apple tree,
Though I'm partial to apples than pears,
Which had blandness you could tell from one chomp.

The peachtrees' mature, juice-laden bounty
Went through the routine seasonal
Cycle of drop-soften-rot, attracted
Wasps by the swarm onto

Felled blond fruit
Prior to decomposition—


Those stinger insects
Loved the taste of peaches, too.

[ Explains why nobody gathered them up ]

But it was like that
In Grandma Lillie's
Self-contained orchard
In her backyard.
***

Dee Allen: African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California U.S.A. Active on creative
writing & Spoken Word since the early 1990s. Author of 7 books—Boneyard, Unwritten
Law, Stormwater, Skeletal Black [ all from POOR Press ], Elohi Unitsi [ Conviction 2
Change Publishing ] and his 2 newest, Rusty Gallows: Passages Against Hate [
Vagabond Books ] and Plans [ Nomadic Press ]—and 50 anthology appearances under
his figurative belt so far.
Email: deeallen415@gmail.com  

A Treasure-trove: a review of Oral Stories of the Totos.

Review by 
Sutanuka Ghosh Roy


Title: Oral Stories of the Totos
Author:  Ketaki Datta
Page: 134
ISBN: 978-93-5548-046-0 (Paperback)
Edition: (2021)
Price: ₹ 150 INR
Published by Sahitya Akademi
Reviewed by: Dr. Sutanuka Ghosh Roy.

  

Sutanuka Ghosh Roy
      The history of literature dates back to the earliest human society. Right from the beginning people created stories primarily to entertain themselves, also to educate others, and for other purposes. Much before the introduction of the writing system, such stories were transmitted orally from generation to generation. Oral Stories of the Totos compiled and edited by Ketaki Dutta has been recently published by Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi India. The present volume dwells on the evolution of the Oral Tradition of the Stories of the Totos and places them on the literary map of the world. A special reference has been made to their way of living, their sociological position, and the evolution of the tales that run in their clan. Further, Datta has placed these stories in comparison with similar tales of other tribes in the home and the world. This has catapulted the simple tales of this indigenous tribe to a universal plane. She has skillfully traced the trajectory of similarity or dissimilarity by way of comparing the narratives. Moreover, the book gives the readers an overview of the Toto folklore positing it on the map of the storytellers around the globe.

     Even after seventy-five years of Indian Independence, the Totos remain in the margin. Their stories remain largely unheard. They regale themselves by weaving their own stories and die unsung. This effort of Datta to make the world know of the tales of the Toto tribe is no doubt a commendable one. She has also added a few photographs clicked during her visit to Totopara. The oral stories of the tribes are a vast repository of knowledge and they are to be treasured. The privileged literate populace is equipped with all the amenities to cash in on, but these tribal the so-called weaker sections of the society are yet to find a foothold in the mainstream society. Largely ignorant of their rights they lack the basic amenities of life. However, they are proud of their culture which is reflected in their oral stories---myths, legends, and folktales. Datta writes “oral stories reflect their ways of living”. The book mentions the contribution of Dhaniram Toto, a prolific writer, and poet, a winner of the Adivasi Manab Kalyan Samiti Award who has helped Datta immensely to cull the tales she had been keen on including in this volume.

      Dhaniram is instrumental in getting the Toto language “carve a niche in the list of recognized languages of the tribes of India. These oral stories which are documented in this volume thus have a rich legacy of the culture of an endangered tribe too”. The book comprises Toto Folk Tales, in the translated version as well in the Toto language. There are fifteen tribal folktales in this volume. In the Toto folklore, there is an abundance of wild animals, like monkeys, tigers, boars, etc. The animals are either stupid or clever what is important is their behavior as narrated by the narrator largely reflects the attitudes of the tribal populace by and large. The tale of The Monkey and the Wild Fowl for example is a pointer to their behavioural pattern though narrated through the wild-animal representatives. Datta rightfully draws our attention to the fact that “the power-structure in tribes can also be understood from these tales as well as their varying emotion-intelligence graphs. However, cutting across all inequalities, there is homogeneity in these stories, pointing to the origin of man!”

    The Totos believe in the spirit, their tales are fraught with imaginary elements laced with a fairy-tale-like appeal just like any other folktale from any other part of the world. These tales speak of the suppressed desires of the tribal folk who try to ape the civil society through their wish-fulfillment in their stories like Pumpkin-shaped Mauriya, Mauriya in the Land of Ghosts, Mauriya in the Snare of the Queen of Dices. The Totos love to live in a world of fantasy, they love and respect their culture and these stories are a cementing factor—they bind them as a unit. An interesting element of these oral stories is that they can be retold by a new narrator. The oral transmission gets pepped up each time hence these tales offer a fresh perspective and can never be boring. However oral transmission has its shortcomings too. Hence it is important to document them properly. Datta has completed a mammoth task by compiling and editing these near-lost tales. The volume thus adds to the oeuvre of oral stories of the world.  


Poetry: David Francis

David Francis
Pep Rally for the Home Team

go to school here
raise children here
have nothing to fear

learn to sew
be able to say ‘no’
on with the show

make things clear
fish off a pier
be of good cheer

serve hors d’oeuvres
mind dangerous curves
control your nerves

don’t bend your ear
start letters ‘Dear’
address them near
***


Greasy Spoon Cup (Perky’s)

I’ll assume these
are stains—
made long ago
they won’t scrape off
and you won’t know
about inside
till it’s too late!
***


Failed Novelist (Pigheaded Phenomenon)

I  

When I was unemployed
the waiters were annoyed
and asked, “What do you do—
how do you keep these hours, you?”
I said, “I am freelance.”
They stared, as if in trance,
and waited, as do waiters.
“I am a translator,”
I said, “for companies.”
They asked, “What are your fees?”
“It varies…it depends.”
I left it at loose ends.


II 

I’m not any good at this
and I don’t know why;
not to keep my hand in
but my foot in the door
always once more
though I know what failure is
with abandon
from time to time I try.
***


Exhalation

How sad to be an observer
of other people’s fervor.
***


Breakfast Downtown (as a Child, with My Father)

The miniature boxes of cereal
mirrored in their glass case,
the doodlebug doubled on the sill
were more my speed in the place.

The net on the waitress’ coxcombed hair
and her orthopedic lifts
made me feel like Hansel there:
I did not know there were shifts.

Inhabiting downtown, giants
so enormous that their mirth
was invisible, to quote Science,
as our revolving earth.
***

Bio: Born in Houston, Texas, David Francis has lived in London, Buenos Aires, and New York.  He has produced six music albums, one of poetry, Always/Far, a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books).  In addition, he has written and directed the autobiographical films Village Folksinger (2013) and Memory Journey (2018).  His verse and short stories have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. www.davidfrancismusic.com


Poetry: Lorraine Caputo

Lorraine Caputo
COLD MOON NIGHT

 

That midnight rain begins,

a soft scuttle across my roof,

 

rivulets streaming off the tejas,

rivulets flowing between cobblestones

 

of the narrow streets …

low fog slinks into the folds

 

of the jaguar valley, obscuring

the slopes of volcanoes & mountains,

 

obscuring the newly full moon,

a green comet, the stars

 

a rain soft,

a lullaby for this

 

Cold Moon Night …

***

 

 


 

NIGHT PULSE

 

yonder beyond

shadow

mountains silent

 

lightning pulsates

over

night-black jungle

***

 

 


 

THE STILLNESS

 

Tonight

there is

a

stillness

of light

 

Bright specks

marking

homes

& streets

do not

 

shimmer

 

The sole

movement

are

fireworks

shooting

 

skyward

marking

the

Virgen’s

feast days

***

 

 


 

THE HOUSE OF ONE THOUSAND WINDOWS

 

A hodge-podge house,

naked adobe

 

patched with white wash,

rambling, bare windows –

 

small or large panes or

mere slits – all facing

 

at many angles …

This casa sprouts

 

from the river’s banks

greened by willows

 

& elderberry.

***


 

THE WARNING

 

The temperature drops

          the wind picks up,

rumbles crumple

          over western mountains.

 

A warning of the

          cold rain to come

 

                    downpouring, pelting

                              upon empty holiday streets,

                    lightning flashing

                              outside my window

 

& thunder pounding

          upon this tin roof.

***

 

Biography

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 300 journals on six continents, such as Prairie Schooner (US), Revista M├бquina Combinatoria (Ecuador), StepAway (UK), Erothanatos (India), Cordite Poetry Review (Australia) and Bakwa (Cameroon); and 20 collections of poetry – including On Gal├бpagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also pens travel pieces, with narratives appearing in the anthologies Drive: Women's True Stories from the Open Road (Seal Press) and Far Flung and Foreign (Lowestoft Chronicle Press), and articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. She has done over 200 literary readings, from Alaska to the Patagonia. Ms Caputo journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com


Poetry: Sayan Mukherjee

Sayan Mukherjee
Knight

There is no peace
for a human not
here on earth,
to fight till death
and to fight alone
we were given
birth,
we either fight
and stand at least
having won the day,
Or we can waste,
lazy, in shame
and then die anyway,
But the death will
not be the same,
some will have their
heads bowed,
and some defying
laws, will have
cause to die proud.
***


The Madman

Maybe a man, then do i not feel ?
The pangs of love or the burden of shame,
if that burden was not mine to carry,
am i a man ?
Even a child or a woman is allowed
to falter and cry
but in the midst of hell and norms
why can't i ?
To feel as but a human feels sad,
i am slighted and called mad.
The mighty Achilles ever more man than me,
from whose rage gods tend to flee,
was allowed still to regret,
why shall i be deprived to bear equal weight?
***


I Walk

My reason to fight
is not to wound
but only to stand
and i find no space ;
I do not ask you
to tie my shoelace,
nor clean my shoes,
i will wear them
weary and torn
if i must, without luck
i only ask I'm allowed to
walk.
I can withstand gravels
and hated thorns,
I only ask I'm allowed
to walk.
if not once, I'll a
thousand times fall,
but I'll walk, and not
crawl.
***

Bio: My name is Sayan Mukherjee, a student of B. K. C. College, Semester 6, and my one great passion is dedicating my myself to poetry.

Poetry: Cortney Bledsoe

Cortney Bledsoe
Bees

Bees duck into a crack at the base

of the stairs, one and then another

in formation like quiet schoolchildren.

My daughter is afraid they’ll like

 

her too much. I want to say it’s a good

problem to have, but she won’t get

it. So I stand between her and them

until the man can come and usher

 

them to a new home. We’re walking

to the mailroom so we can get

the book I ordered for her with money

I don’t have. Don’t waste your life

 

on stories, I want to say. “I’m ten,”

she says when I say anything I think

is profound. I don’t mean reading.

 

I don’t mean the way the leaves

are shoved aside by the breath

of the world above us. All I mean is

that life is for living. That’s something

 

I never did until she was born

and I decided I liked her too much

to ever run away again.

***

 


Mother, Father, Son, Daughter

The devil’s biggest problems are lack

of dopamine. Nose-blindness. Not

existing. One expects time to pass,

some progression to be revealed,

not this dog-trying-to-stand-in-a-

pickup thing we’ve got going on.

First, there was the mother. Then,

the father, trying to erase the memory

of the light from her eyes, soothing

fingertips on fevered brow. Finally,

the son who forgot his keys and had

to run back home for them. It probably

all has to do with prisms because I

was absent that day. There are people

who spell out their pettiness onto signs

and stand outside places to try to

intimidate others. There are people

who walk into schools with automatic

weapons and open fire. There are

people who sit in pews one day a week

and think that’s enough to make them

people. It wasn’t that long ago a person

could be murdered for asking questions.

Even still, questions are met more

often with shame than considerations

of where the answer might come from,

and who. The son – it’s his age, remember –

thinks crystals will save him or maybe

just yelling at the wall until it feels

punched. There’s a fourth age no one

seems to have considered: the daughter.

***

 

 

Some Thoughts on Moonflowers 

Skitterings in the night, like

            bristly feet and dripping teeth.

            I am not butter, I don’t

            care what the pamphlets say.

            You may not fry anything in me.

 

Magic lacks melatonin, which

is why it hides from the sun.

Ask anyone who knows.

Shadows. Moving lights.

If all the evil could shut

the f**k up that would be

great. I’m trying to die, here.             

 

My head hurt for days because                      

            I couldn’t afford to keep up

            with my meds. Don’t tell me

            it’s about anything other than

            greed.

 

It’s always raining somewhere

            n mi hart. *tap tap*

           

Maybe the mice are putting on a symphony.

Maybe the moonflowers are going for a walk.

Maybe the dust bunnies are thirsty for blood.

 

When I go on meds, I can’t see anything

            inside my head, so I have to write

            to have thoughts.

 

It’s about keeping myself safe because

            the squeaky wheel gets evicted.

 

On a scale of one to ten tell me how

            Capitalism is treating you today.

            The first two don’t count.

 

These nights when I’m waiting to be

            recycled, I think about the warmth

            of your body in my arms

and remember there was a time

                        however brief

            I didn’t feel alone.

haha no take backs.    

***

 

 

Doing the Work

 

My therapist thinks being

polite is the same as faith,                  a habit, worn long enough—

                                                            like a crate-trained soul—I smile.

This is how we patronize

each other, her and me                        and God. If I promise to jump

                                                            at the thunder, He promises

not to burn me from the

ground up. With her, it’s just             cash. She asks             if I have any

friends. I say too many has always

been my problem. That’s not                         

the right word. What I mean              to say is that when I was younger,

                                                            I never woke up alone, but

I never slept, either. Let me

tell you a joke. What does                  a gangster cat say? (In an Edward

                                                            G. Robinson voice) Meow, see,

meow. My daughter and I made

that up together. Maybe you had        to be there. To put it another way,

if I open my mouth, what do you

think will come out? Dirt daubers     

crawling on my tongue, which           is another way of saying writer’s

block, the smell of mud, which

is another way of saying death.

But I paw through the nests,               looking for the sound of my own

voice before I lost the accent,

the mud for my father’s approval.     

When I was a boy, and the sickness   took her, my mother would howl

late into the night, me lying

in the dark, listening to the animal    

that had gotten in, waiting for it         to find me and feed. I’m not trying

to complain. Lots of my friends

had much harder lives than I             

until they died. She asks why             I’m here, and I say I’m buying time.

I’m tired. I’m going to kill myself,

but I can’t today. I have an                

appointment. Give me a decade.        Help me find the strength, somehow 

to last that long. Not that I’m implying

in any way that it would be your       

fault. She nods, and I’m grateful        for her so obviously practiced

sincerity; the last thing I need

is to fling a craving on some             

body. Here is a list of ways I’ve

                                                            tried to die. Water, wind, a bullet’s

kiss, the things of the world

I’ve swallowed. I’ve got so much     

going for me, I can barely stand.        This is why I don’t own a gun.          

Do you drink or do drugs? She asks.

That’s a kind of trust exercise

with the world I’m not prepared         to take, I say. The only thing

I remember about my mother’s smell

is urine. Maybe, if I could’ve

saved her, I could forgive myself       for still being alive. But forgiveness

is a myth; eventually, you just           

forget to be angry. Let’s not talk       

about me anymore. She says,             Okay Here’s an exercise. I want you

to write about your trauma.

When that’s done, I want you            

to run as far away from it as you

                                                            can. And then have a snack or soothe

yourself in some way. I can hear rain

outside as I type this, working on      

its aim. Maybe I’ll order pizza. 

***

Bio: Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of thirty books, including his newest poetry collection, The Bottle Episode, and his latest novel The Saviors. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue: https://medium.com/@howtoeven Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.