The sanctuary for a post-modern soul seeking sublime in a concrete forest; a haven for getting some quick respite from a deadening culture of consumerism and utter materialism, in a burgeoning megapolis of migrants and neo-rich and power elites.

Such addresses are disappearing fast in the city where old tombs and monuments coexist along with new monuments to the capital.

It is a sizzling June evening.

Evidence, real-time, of extreme climate change. The mercury hovers at degrees that can trigger orange and red alerts in a dry and dusty north of the country.

It is distressing, baking outdoors.

The long street has got rows of neat bungalows on both sides. There is no honking vehicular traffic---bane of every urban centre. Silence prevails in this tony neighborhood.

Soft shadows hug the green enclave.

As we---Sangeeta and I---walk into the well-maintained property, there is this sudden realization of walking into another dimension of existence and cognition---the dimension of beauty, of aesthetics, of finding patterns and designs that transmit and give direction and meaning to an individual and collective.

It is a place where art is not an abstraction, a concept but real; art as a praxis.

Kind of studio-lot where colours, sounds and words intermingle, and produce a heightened sense of other realms, beyond the ordinary ken.

Where poetry lives and works with the everyday.

A rich and multi-hued landscape unravels before our startled eyes.

Like any property, it has its usual facade but unlike other structures of steel and concrete, it possesses a unique element, a native soul. The walls have got their own language. Trees whisper songs. Birds add to the music of the spheres. Squirrels flit across the lawns.

It is a serene stratosphere!

Welcome to the House of the Lals---Malashri and Robey Lal---sweet home to the fine arts!

A refreshing discovery!

An open inner courtyard with a fountain. Front and back stretches of grass. Walls with photographs and paintings.

Breath of art here.

The famous Pilkhan tree, in the front lawn, beckons the poets who often congregate under its welcoming arms for a rendezvous, special and lyrical. The swing in the corner; the chairs and tables arranged artistically; the fairy lights and lanterns; these combine to lend a touch of the ethereal to the mundane.

Over the last couple of years, Pilkhan tree has emerged as a haunt for fine poetry and serious discussion, attracting talents from many parts of the capital---and country.

Pilkhan tree is an event---and a participant in the activities of his human cousins.

They understand each other, the poets and the tree.

The readings are well attended and camaraderie, rare.

A happy family of multilingual poets and professionals; an event that gets wide attention, thanks to social media.

The space reminds us of the salons of Paris.

Here you are welcome to recite poetry and listen to others, as the evening lengthens into the night, ushering in subtle transformation.

A fulfilling encounter with spoken and verbal artifacts.

Many poets found their voice here.

The group is called Poets under the Pilkhan Tree.

Pilkhan welcomes all.

Delhi is known for its poetry readings and has got a long history of such mehfils. A decade or so before, Alka Tyagi, an eminent bilingual poet and academic, started an initiative, inviting poets to read in the gardens and under the monuments. It was a great hit.

Then the Pilkhan happened---the new place of meeting.

The open-air dialogue continues to engage the best creatives.

Poetry is the star here.

“I am happy that so many poets are writing today in different languages. There is already a big market for poetry. It is being read and recited everywhere. We are happy to organise such sessions here, under the tree and exchange ideas,” says Malashri, the eminent poet and academic, and our generous host, sitting under the Pilkhan.

Her own collection of poetry Mandalas of Time is creating global waves.

It compresses many timelines and evokes historical moments and mythological memories of an ancient civilization in short and terse lines that continue to resonate well, post-reading, very much like the haunting music of the gentle waves that often returns to the solitary traveller walking along the star-lit path, in a forest, or to a person awake, in a lonely cottage, near the lakeshore, on a lonely night.

Lines that are deceptively simple, but profound, keep on recurring in mind:

In the gem cutters’ hands

Twinkling green-eyed emeralds

Emerges out of blobs of stone from Zambia

Who knows what love and loss are ingrained

In this heritage?

(“Jaipur Bazaar”, p.37)

As well-known poets---Sangeeta Gupta and Satbir Chadha along with her spouse Balbir Singh---join the soiree, the energy field gets further surcharged.

Poetry, politics, travel, feminism, patriarchy, cuisines, food, visual art get covered in a free-flowing conversation.

The delicious food is served--- a delectable spread of Bengali dishes---lovingly and caringly.

An intimate portrait of friendship.

Of an evening soaked up in images, metaphors and of meaningfully living and being.

Of being alive in a reified society through art, ethics and philosophy.

Laughter and wit attend the dinner, turning it into a memorable evening.

Robey Lal’s repartee and one-liners add to the charm of the select gathering. The bulbs glow on the front lawn and change the scene into something magical, special!

As I look across the glass doors, I catch Pilkhan wink in the merry way known only to their hardy species on a degraded planet.

Thomas Hardy is right about the trees and woods---I clearly hear the tree- voice, within the depths of my heart and primeval memory coded in some part of my brain.

And a song is born, a light shines.

I smile back at my many-limbed tall friend.

Communion is over.

The young night is enchanting---so is the company!

Poetry and poetical dialogues are like the sacred songs that revive and revitalise the soul in a mass culture. A culture that deadens and makes humans into one-dimensional beings.

Art restores sanity and humanity to a commercialised culture.

Let thousands of such Pilkhan trees bloom in courtyards and streets!

To arrest the advance of the dry deserts lying outside the gates of the cities and towns, waiting to invade the dark interiors.

Trees of hope, love and compassion.

Stirring lines of Malashri, the poet, can help in stopping the slide into a sterile, empty void of nothingness; lines that deliver the truth of existence, in striking simplicity; beautiful and stark message:

Buried bulbs know they will creep upwards in season

Life’s renewal is a beautiful certainty.

(“Easter Lilies in an Empty Home”, p. 108)

A tree.

Poetry.

And a loving home.

Nothing else matters!

Setu, May 2024

Udaipur उदयपुर

Photos by Sreekanth Enagalur
चित्र: श्रीकांत एनगलूर

Sreekanth Enagalur श्रीकांत एनगलूर

सेतु, मई 2024

Three Photo Poems: Gopal Lahiri

Uxbridge

I imagine a packet boat anchor there and ready

to sail in the Blackstone Canal on the other side.

Green warbles scout up tree after tree

and then stop, begin to cry out in chorus.

They now look at the brick eye and rearrange

the mesh of their wings, later they quietly sit

on the bridge until their eyes are filled with sleep.

The slim and delicate needles of pine throw

caution in the wind as great chested flycatchers

wake up and begin to fly in all directions.

Towpath Trail separates the shadows of history

thrown amid the grass in a new time and space.

*Uxbridge is in Worcester, Massachusetts, US

***

Time of Transience

It is 7-10 PM Chicago time; we look through

the hazy glass window, our eyes widen to notice

a strange bowl of yellow-orange sun spreads at the

horizon line, perhaps ready to drop down

to the roof of the skyscrapers.

Each particle of light bursts in variants of colour,

glows and gleams, capturing the atmosphere

infused with a sense of yearning and melancholy,

passing out slowly and steadily,

through the corridors of the earth and sky.

History is now an old timer here bleeding

anecdotes, the dark clouds will soon drop

a few stars on the busy downtown street far below.

The spring wind brushes the glass wall.

A rare moment to celebrate the time of transience.

*Chicago, Illinois is in US

***

Chicago 360

It may be a rainbow time

but below nonetheless

the city shimmers.

High-rise by high-rise

goes up one by one

in a series or parallel lines.

The glass case here defends

the gutsy lake winds with

a glass-willow dead- bat.

Lake beach, navy pier,

harvest glowing sunsets,

and curl stories day and night.

What joy to look at miniscule

birds perhaps puff, hulks and hisses

on the roof of the matchstick trees.

Not crossing platforms of time

and yet it is. So, goes

regular life here, there, and everywhere.

Below pigmy-sized people walk on

the streets, lanes, and by-lanes

over the shoulder of April evening.

*Chicago, Illinois is in US

***

Bio: Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 29 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are translated in 16 languages. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. He is the recipient of the Poet of the Year Award in Destiny Poets, UK, 2016, Setu Excellence Award, 2020, Pittsburgh, US. His collection of poems ‘Alleys are Filled with Future Alphabets.’ has received Pan Asian Ukiyoto Award, 2021 and recently he has received First Jayanta Mahapatra National Award, 2024 for his contribution in Indian English Writing.

Setu, May 2024

Summer 2024: Jerome Berglund

Jerome Berglund has published book reviews and essays on poetry and poetics in Fireflies’ Light, Frogpond, Haiku Canada, Hooghly Review, the Mamba, North of Oxford, Setu, Valley Voices, also frequently exhibits poetry, short stories, plays, and fine art photography in print magazines, online journals, and anthologies.

Jerome Berglund

Setu, May 2024

Summer 2024: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Summer of discontent

I was ten, that summer of 1962. Like every other year, the khus-covered bamboo blinds in the veranda, were down from dawn till dusk, during those three months of April, May and June, serving to block the glare and heat. The garden hose pipe sprayed on the khus, releasing a rich, earthy, and woody aroma with a cool undertone, was a time-tested practice for cooling homes. Two tall stand fans facing the chicks (blinds) aided in stirring a breeze which accelerated the process. The khus perfume lingering in the air, conjured images of playing hide and seek amongst the tall grasses growing on the fringes of the gated community. That year, nothing helped. Nothing could beat the heat and dry winds from making its presence felt.

Being grounded indoors for the entire day was hard to deal with- especially for the ten-year-olds. Interacting with friends halted which added a further dampener. Of course, that did not stop little notes written on ruled pages, torn from exercise books, being sent back and forth between homes checking on each other. As the heat hit with greater force, blistering the asphalt on tarred roads, I was the first to break out in blisters, with the cursed chicken pox. Painful and energy squeezing. And though I was kept in isolation, soon my siblings followed, and then friends. It seemed the air-borne virus was visiting homes uninvited, to cut down our vacation fun times. A killjoy. With the constant comings and goings of domestic staff, no one had a clue as to who was responsible for the spread. The Community doctor sent out a “do’s and don’ts” pamphlet to contain the spread. Room coolers did little to alleviate the discomfort. Nor did the skin itching cease. Ma spent hours stroking the affected areas with neem branches in an attempt to soothe the inflamed skin spotted with pustules. Her hands were more than full, that dreadful summer having to deal with whining kids and coaxing us to eat. Drinking glasses of homemade lemon/barley juice diluted with water had a soothing effect on the throat and stomach. Otherwise, the tummy rebelled, rejecting any solids that came rushing up the gullet. Soaked flattened rice mixed with yoghurt to a soft consistency, and drizzled with sugar, became the staple diet for all three weeks of the isolation period, compelled to swallow under threat of being locked, beyond the prescribed period.

Lying in bed, the sudden dust storms in the afternoons without any warning, would give me gooseflesh, sounding like the symphony of a thousand hissing snakes. On one occasion, out of curiosity, I watched in awe, an approaching dust storm. Dust rising from level zero, swirling and twirling up and up, its mouth widening, resembling a kerosene stove funnel, gathering speed as it grew. And carrying with it all the debris, dried leaves and trash strewn around. A spooky sight. The only comfort was in reading books and disappearing into the world of the ‘Famous Five’ characters of Enid Blyton…racing with them across meadows with the wind on my face; jumping across little gurgling brooks running between the cottages.

These dust storms accompanied by hailstorms were responsible for wiping out the mango blossoms and with it the promises of a good yield. Trees that bore the green unripe mangoes, met a worse fate. The velocity of the wind shook the tender fruit hanging from branches onto the ground, dashing hopes of enjoying the ripened yellow mangoes. The King of fruits. Whatever could be salvaged of the green mangoes went for making green mango pickles. That year, the pantry wore a vacant look, with fewer ceramic jars of pickles on shelves. Likewise, other fruit-bearing trees in the garden bore the brunt of premature death; mulberry, papaya, and Jamuns (Java plum) trees, were stripped naked of their fruits, lying on the ground, dust-covered. The scattered black seeds of the papayas split open on impact resembling an old woman’s paan-stained teeth seemed to be smiling mockingly, at the immeasurable damage wrought. Pets, birds and wildlife were not spared. We lost a few Budgerigars kept in the cage. Pained to find them lying upturned, wings open, their fluttering eyelids stilled forever. The heat had taken a heavy toll. Most homes followed the practice of leaving water in clay cups on balcony ledges, for the pigeons. The lack of avian visitors suggested the worst.

That horrible summer, the Club swimming pool was drained and closed. Too risky they said. News of the chicken pox outbreak had alerted the management. Another wet blanket to add to the woes. The club premises were closed for fumigation, which meant all sports activities, indoors and outdoors, were suspended. Recall Baba sounding disappointed when he broke the news to Ma. The expat community, mostly Britishers, were impacted the most. The old proverb, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” applied more to them, at not being able to sit in the Club bar in the evenings, guzzling chilled beer, in between breaks of a billiards game.

The water scarcity was evident, with the reduced water pressure from taps. Residents were advised to be jurisprudent on water usage. The luxury of soaking in the bathtub called off till the water level rose in the reservoir from where pipelines were drawn, providing water to houses. No one resisted. Hard times call for hard decisions. Moreso, when some were dependent on water from the river for domestic purposes. With the lowering of the water table in the Khudiya River, they acutely felt the shortage, hardly enough to fill a bucket. Water that smelt putrid with dead fishes floating around, raising an unbearable stink. Wells had run stone dry. The clanking of buckets against stone, reminding of how cruel summer can be for the underprivileged.

that year of discontent…

summer logged in

putting filters to keep out the rains

and logged out

leaving devastation and pain

corrupting the landscape

till monsoons arrived

restoring life and faith

After a thirty-day of no rain in April this year, with temperatures peaking at 38.1 degrees Celius at Bangalore on 2nd May, the hottest day in forty years, opened long-forgotten doors in my memory, to that summer of 1962, when I was ten!

Setu, May 2024

Summer 2024: Meena Chopra

Silicon Soul

My eyes tinted with moon-shadow

summer sun rises in the east

glittering through my window

golden tendrils softly graze mylashes.

Face radiant with a luster

dawn pours a liquid gold

hearts melt.

A warmth swirls my blood

my breath expands

a silicon soul circulates in my veins

shaping a new rhythm to my days.

My vision shrivels

the sun dips into the cyberspace

dusk unfolds on the window screen.

Night falls, churning algorithms

sky loops in the moonlight

fading shadows float

within the computing clouds.

Digits beat in my heart

my body dehydrates.

I become a nocturnal sprite

a native of a dream space

soaring in a lunar land

leaving no data to process

No black dust, no traces behind.

No shadows of networks to find.

Link to Video art: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T06D3roj2Oo

***

Meena Chopra is a Canadian Indian poet, a visual artist, art curator and a producer of art and literary events. She lives in Mississauga. She writes both in English and her native Hindi language. Her poetry has been published in several literary magazines and anthologies and also has been translated in Urdu, German and Punjabi. She has authored several poetry and art collections and co-edited an anthology. Driven by power of the abstract imagery, many times her art and poetry blend into each other. Meena advocates discovering collaborative experience between the literary arts and other art forms in order to give the audience a comprehensive and vibrant artistic experience and has a successful trail of producing such art and literary events behind her.

Website: www.meenachopra.art

Setu, May 2024

Summer 2024: Antara Mukherjee

Antara Mukherjee

At the cusp

That summer

unbridled a kalbaishakhi

on our delta door

and three terracottas landslided

a quarter of the sky

over my bed,

soaking with petulance.

I gazed above

at that biasness of an open eye

crackling a threat

on our soggy sorrows

perimetered by our tribulations

while the fronds outside ruffled

and wrestled the jargon of electric poles,

bird nests, and langurs,

driving them away

jubilant.

As the wailing wind

lashed hailstones

that turned water on my tropical skin,

our home floated in broken pots.

But then you entered,

a greasy hurricane in hand simmering

a purple distraction

wide

as your silent promise.

***

Meandering Murals

This afternoon scuttled

in a trail of carpenter ants

is bailed by a floating market

of cirrus clouds

unravelling cities and worries

curating murals calico

fleeced into songs, carousal, tapestry

calling out to my summer window

where it unpacks a mane, hooves, withers

running into a woman on her haunches

stirring a pot mingling

with the muzzle still prominent

making her more an animal

she wants to mount, ride

those edges fraying a little

her chore disintegrated

as they come apart

drifting into another

tale

***

Negotiations

A warp of wild grass in our purple kanakambara

tangles

the hack of garden shears

into a weft and woof, wild;

for another waft.

A dog named Sindoora

by the color of her red collar,

or her hematite curl on the floor,

or her clotted wounds,

licks water heaving her last.

Our spell of summer

dissolves into the night

with your resolve

to hold us together, longer

as you leave behind

a string of purple kanakambaram

—weightless on my palm.

***

Bio: Antara Mukherjee is a writer based in Mumbai with an interest in the human experience and its dichotomy. Her short stories and poems have appeared in Kitaab, Muse India, Sahitya Akademi, The Chakkar, Usawa Literary Review, Joao-Roque Literary Journal, Verse Of Silence, The Alipore Post, Madras Courier, Hakara and the Yearbook of Indian Poetry, among others. She has co-written a play that premiered at the Bangalore International Centre in 2022 and she was one of the participants of the Kolam Writing Workshop in 2023. Her manuscript was selected for a mentorship program by Asian Women Writers, a platform by US&UK agents to recognise upcoming women writers from Asia. Recently, she has been selected as one of the writers for a fully funded residency program at Himalayan Writing Retreat.

She is represented by Jayapriya Vasudevan.

Setu, May 2024

Creative Nonfiction: Dare Devil

Subhash Chandra

A cautionary message (actually a warning!) on a signboard I had read while driving up to a hill station flashes in my mind.

Time: early morning, about 6.00 a.m. Place: Sai Baba Chowk Crossing on Lala Jagat Narayan Marg in Rohini, Delhi. It is a major crossing; the intersecting roads get clogged with traffic as the day progresses. But at this time, not many vehicles are on the road. The traffic signal is red and a taxi is waiting. I stop behind the taxi. A spanking new SUV whizzes past … the red light be damned!

After about a month I read in the newspaper about a smash-up at Madhuban Chowk on the same road involving an SUV and a truck … and the death of the car driver on the spot!

The message on the signboard was:

‘Better to reach twenty minutes late than to reach twenty years too early. DRIVE SLOW!’

Setu, May 2024

Periodic Tales by Aparna Singh

Book Review by Naina Dey

Periodic Tales – Aparna Singh
Virasat
Price: ₹ 250
November 2022
Pp 94
ISBN 978-93-93063-15-1

Although menstruation is a natural, reproductive process, it bears a strong cultural taboo that commands that it not be seen, discussed, or in most ways, acknowledged. This desire to keep menstruation a secret is often paired with an attitude that menstruation is dirty and disgusting. Many women have considered and still consider menarche as an experience that ‘contaminated’ their bodies. Despite recent attempts to celebrate form and function of women’s anatomy, such as Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, it is still a matter of fact that there is little attempt at sensitizing both women and men towards women’s sexual functions. What are the implications of feeling shame about menstruation and the body? Conversely, might women’s comfort with menstruation promote well being in other areas of their lives?

Aparna Singh

Periodic Tales, a volume of twenty short stories, tries to address the issue of menstruation by bringing under purview a cross-section of women including housewives, pubescent girls, working class women and athletes. The book dedicated to Arunachalam Murugantham, the maker of “Pad-Man”, and Sobhan Mukherjee, a student who promoted menstrual hygiene by stocking public toilets with sanitary napkins, - tellingly begins with a quote from Chapter 5 of the Vasishtha Dharmashastra that refers to the guilt of Indra.

In Aparna Singh’s book, we find practices and inhibitions relating to the seclusion and restrictions of menstruating women explicitly or implicitly linked to the mythic story of Indra’s slaying of Vritra, that is variously associated with the evolution myths. Each story centres around a female protagonist of a particular age group, belonging to a particular section of society. Through each of them, Singh highlights the necessity of sanitation and hygiene in relieving menstrual trauma in young girls and grown-up women in a third-world country like India. In this, she brings into focus the importance of sensitization within families, institutions and local NGOs. It is due to lack of awareness as well as social apathy towards sexually sensitive issues that make women vulnerable during medical crisis within their respective social settings. The shame, inconvenience and ignorance linked to menstruation are identified as key reasons for keeping girls and women away from school and work for several days each month – thereby decreasing the quality of their education, lifestyle and ultimately their chances in life.

Naina Dey

Significantly therefore, the female body becomes a site of defilement when it menstruates and hence a problematic trope in cultural and religious contexts. Tellingly, in the first story “Her Body”, the young woman faces ostracism because she was menstruating. ‘Don’t enter the kitchen, don’t sit on the sofa, stay in the bedroom, keep to yourself’ – says her mother-in-law, and Rima realizes the pain of marginalization Dalits are subjected to for a lifetime. The story gives an account of the discomforts and mood swings experienced by a menstruating woman within a household that does not bother about her physical and mental uneasiness. Menstruation was ‘a hush-hush affair, a sad and uncouth secret, never to be uttered or discussed.’ Pain, cramps, nausea, headaches and low hemoglobin levels were just a few of the discomforts that menstruating women faced. Then there is Mrs Gupta in “Expectations” plagued by PCOS that prevents her from begetting children, thus jeopardizing her married life. “School” depicts the humiliation and insensitivity inflicted upon Aditi, the brightest girl in class by her uncouth and boisterous male classmate because she had stained her skirt. Equally disturbing is the school’s callousness towards her plight and her mother’s refusal to purchase sanitary napkins because they were expensive.

Stories like “Maa”, “Shibani”, “Charcoal and Wood Dust” are penetrating in their portrayal of the risks to which women subject themselves as they ignore their medical emergencies as they give more priority to their families. “Charcoal and Wood Dust” is a chilling presentation of Usha, a mother of four, who fashions sanitary pads out of unhygienic used cloth and charcoal and wood dust for padding during menstruation because she cannot afford clean and comfortable sanitary napkins thus contracting severe uterine infection.

“Blue Blood” is a humorous take on the general discomfiture of a middle-class family with TV ads of sanitary pads. The story concludes by paralleling the replacement of the discreet looking ‘blue’ menstrual blood in the ads with ‘red’, with the welcome change of awareness about menstrual hygiene within the family a generation later. “Let’s Run”, “Becoming”, “Disabled”, “Death Wish” question stereotypical attitudes towards female bodies in portraying the menstrual agonies of female athletes, hermaphrodites and differently abled women. “Frying Pan to the Fire” is an extreme example of the miseries of menstruating women in reformatories. Sonia the prostitute, is told that the only way she can procure sanitary napkins is by bartering her body like many other female convicts.

It is therefore, hardly surprising that plagued by their own physical agony and insensitivity of their surroundings, the women cannot but help being overcome by bouts of depression, anger and anxiety – a fact that has been interpreted negatively down the ages. Even early medical writers and doctors believed that the female reproductive system exercised a powerful influence on the mind giving rise to physical and mental disturbance. In extreme cases, it was believed that hormonal changes in women could lead to mania, producing violent, even murderous or suicidal rages that moral and political philosopher David Hume would term ‘disagreeable’ passions. However, these ‘disagreeable’ passions are also channelized through personal awareness and consciousness raising in “Charcoal and Wood Dust”, “Blue Blood” and “Pad-Man” – a particular focus of interest for feminist theorists. Thus, Periodic Tales is a significant work that encounters problems of female sexual hygiene, initiates and encourages sexual health and awareness while interrogating old sexual prejudices about women’s bodies that have hindered human progress in general.

***

Bio: Dr. Naina Dey is a widely anthologised critic, translator and creative writer. She has authored numerous literary and academic articles in noted journals, books and newspapers. Her books include Macbeth: Critical Essays, Edward the Second: Critical Studies, Real and Imagined Women: The Feminist Fiction of Virginia Woolf and Fay Weldon, Representations of Women in George Eliot’s Fiction, Macbeth: Exploring Genealogies and three books of poetry titled Snapshots from Space and Other Poems, Homing Pigeons and sundry stuff and Crimson Corset: poems on love. Her translations include Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury’s “Gupi Gain O Bagha Bain”, and One Dozen Stories.

She was awarded the “Excellence in World Poetry Award, 2009 by the International Poets Academy, Chennai and was among a team of young Indian writers felicitated jointly by Sahitya Akademi and Visva-Bharati University in 2010. She is functioning as member of editorial board of several literary bodies and is currently Eastern Zonal Secretary of The Shakespeare Society of India, New Delhi. She is concept creator of literary and artistic organ Chamunda’s Dream..

Setu, May 2024

Subscribe to: Posts ( Atom )

Special Edition: Winds of Summer

Photos by Sreekanth Enagalurचित्र: श्रीकांत एनगलूर

Book Review by Naina Dey

Photos by Sreekanth Enagalur
चित्र: श्रीकांत एनगलूर