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Setu

Volume 10; Issue 1; June 2025

Setu PDF Archives

Editorial

Sunil Sharma

Poetry

Performing the Text/s: Author Readings

Long Fiction

Critical Paper

Vaishali Suyal

Verse Novel: Chapter Four

The Schedule of Vihaan: John Clark Smith

Book Review

Setu Special Edition: Abstract Articulations

Special Edition: Authors

Setu Video Series

Setu Bilingual

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings (Facebook Page)

Prose and Poetry Readings in the Time of Pestilence (Setu's Facebook Page)

सेतु, जून 2025

Setu Home - Past Issues

Setu Special Edition: June 2025

Special Edition: Abstract Articulations

Special Edition Authors: June 2025

Contributing Authors

Poetry
Michael R. Burch
Aparna Pradhan
Radha Chakravarty
Nivedita Roy
Sankha Ranjan Patra
Pankajam Kottarath
Ritu Kamra Kumar
Rajnish Mishra
Sriparna Mitra
Milan Mondal
Meetu Mishra

Meghna Kaul

Toolika Rani

Poetry
Baijnath Gupta
Amimon Islam
Anita Panda
Namita Rai

Prose
Padmaja Iyengar-Paddy
Hema Ravi

Snigdha Agrawal

Collaborations
Marjorie Pezzoli, Christina Chin and Sarang Bhand
Jerome Berglund, Christina Chin and Shane Coppage

Setu, June 2025

Poetry: Aparna Pradhan

Aparna Pradhan

Be a human, not a monster / Guardians of the living earth

Beneath the vast and endless sky,

We greet you gently as you walk by.

Spreading our branches we pray to the Almighty,

To save us from the cruel hands of humanity.

Facing brunt of stormy weather and scorching heat,

We offer you shade and smilingly we greet.

Through rainy days and wintry nights,

We give you respite standing upright.

Yet you come with your cruel sharpened steel,

Cut our barks ignoring our cries and how we feel.

We shelter life, we hold your dreams,

Yet we perish under your greedy schemes.

We give you food, gift you clean air and rain,

We ask for gentle care – not endless pain.

Listen to our pleads now before it’s too late,

Your hands will decide the planet’s fate.

For every sapling you let thrive,

You help the world to breathe and survive.

Our fate and your wellbeing are tied to your decision,

Save us now to save the generations.

Be a human, not a monster –

Kind and gentle, not a conqueror

Let the forests live and grow,

Spare the earth from pain and sorrow.

***

Warning

Mother Earth is crying, pleading loud and clear,

In silence she speaks, can’t you hear?

Why do you commit atrocities on nature so severe!

“Adorn me with green trees” she pleads her voice sincere.

Do you not hear the forests mourn?

Whispers and cries of the bark that’s torn.

Destroying the nests of the birds you ignore their cries,

End your greed or else you will pay a heavy price.

On the lifeless bodies of trees, you build concrete jungles,

Mining the earth, leaving her chest scarred and humble.

With dams and walls, you try to halt the river’s might,

In your greed, you erase their song of delight.

You poison the winds with your reckless stride,

Breathing in fumes, as nature is denied.

Enough of this exploitation, no more torment and strife,

If you don’t heed nature’s call, you’ll pay the price of life.

Wake up before it is too late to regret,

The clock is ticking, don’t forget.

Plant trees, restore the stream,

Protect the Earth — revive the dream.

***

हैवान नहीं इंसान बनो

मैं पेड़, आज कवि बन कर

अपना दुःख-दर्द शब्दों में मुखरित करता हूँ।

क्यों धरती माँ के सीने पर निर्दयी बन आघात करते हो?

मुझे काट कर माँ की गोद उजाड़ कर

माँ की चीत्कार को अनसुना करते हो!

मैं तूफ़ानों का निडर हो कर सामना करता हूँ,

डरता हूँ उस वार से जो तुम मुझ पर करते हो।

जड़ो और टहनियों पर तेज़ आघात कर के,

दर्द से पीड़ित कर मार गिराते हो।

क्या कभी सुना है कटते पेड़ों का क्रंदन?

आरी के आघात से ज़ख़्मी होकर दर्द से छटपटाना!

जननी से उखाड़े जाने पर विलाप से रोना?

चोट करते समय क्या नहीं सुनाई पड़ती,

मेरी गुहार, जननी से बिछड़ने की सिसकियाँ!

हे मानव, तुम से मैं विनती करता हूँ

मत उखाड़ो मुझे मेरी जन्मभूमि से,

मैं भी जीवित हूँ तुम्हारी तरह।

प्राण रक्षक हूँ धरा का, हर जीव में चलती साँसों का।

मुझको तुम अपना समझो, मुझको जीवित रहने दो।

जननी से अपनी जुड़ा रह कर निःस्वार्थ कर्त्तव्य निभाने दो।

प्रकृति से मत खिलवाड़ करो, धरती माँ का सम्मान करो।

हैवान नहीं तुम बस इंसान बनो,

वृक्षारोपण कर के धरा का शृंगार करो

स्वच्छ हवा में सांसें लेकर स्वस्थ रहो,

आने वाली पीढ़ियों के लिए सांसें उगाओ।

***

चेतावनी

धरती माँ करे करुण मनुहार,

वृक्ष लगा कर करो मेरा श्रृंगार।

तरह तरह के जाल बिछा कर,

स्वार्थी बने प्रकृति पर क्यों करते हो अत्याचार!

हरे भरे जंगल काट कर बन रहे हो गुनहगार।

पंछियों के घर उजाड़ कर अनसुनी करते हो चीत्कार।

स्वच्छ हवा दूषित कर साँसों से कर रहे हो खिलवाड़।

बर्बादी की ओर कदम बढ़ाकर हक़ीक़त से नज़रें फेर रहे हो।।

पेड़ों के शव पर कॉंक्रीट के जंगल बना रहे हो।

खनिज दोहन कर के धरा की छाती छलनी कर रहे हो।

बांध बना कर बहती नदी का वेग थाम रहे हो।

कल कल बहती नदियों का अस्तित्व मिटा रहे हो।।

बहुत हुआ प्रकृति का शोषण, मत करो अब चीरहरण।

अब सुनी न अगर तुमने मेरी पुकार,

प्रलय के रूप में होगा तांडव,

जीवित रहना हो जाएगा दुशवार।।

***

Setu, June 2025

Special Edition: Namita Rai

Namita Rai

Damaged Not Destroyed

The sculptor hammered day and night,

Resolute to breathe life in the granite.

The chisel glistened with sweat and sighs!

As it engraved each suffering on the Sun cursed granite.

The pain was dark and deep, humiliation sharp as ridges steep!

Exploitation had left them distraught in grief,

Nature's wrath connived with man's manipulations,

Pride dried and cracked by droughts,

Spirits damp by floods,

Earthquakes shook their foundations,

The Sun darkened their aspirations!

No wonder!

Greed, might, and fate conspired to annihilate the deprived race!

But resilience breathed and sustained through,

Causing a stir in the faint spirit anew.

Tourists flocked around the sculpture to bask in their past Glory,

Failing to see a race rising in the granite story,

Rewriting boldly the history of resilience in the face of gory,

The sons of the soil upright, tall.

The Sun crimson with shame hid low in the horizon like a tight ball.

Tears trickled but his eyes smiled,

With joy in his voice cried, "Now my art has actually been defined, why? An exploited race can be Damaged Not Destroyed".

He left the site

For the world to observe and decide,

How resilience survived the might.

Not just to capture the sculpture in their cameras,

to keep a memory of their vacation alive!

Setu, June 2025

Poetry: Pramod Rastogi

Pramod Rastogi

Emeritus Professor

Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (EPFL), Switzerland

In the Glow of Evening

In the silence of the evening,

Where the last light lingers like a whispered secret,

Memories rekindle, soft flames in the heart.

Your eyes, stars guiding through the endless dark,

Hold a paradise I can never forget,

An embrace woven of promises and quiet truths.

Tears fall not from sorrow,

But from the weight of love’s enduring glow,

A warmth that stays close to me,

Even as the world shifts and fades.

Love is not a fleeting moment,

But the thread that ties the heavens to the earth,

A light that rekindles every time we remember,

Every time we choose never to let go.

***

Flames of Love

When I gazed at her,

A spark awoke the dormant fire,

And glowing red, I blushed anew.

Her smile fanned the embers bright,

And from their warmth, love’s poems flew.

Each word, a flicker, tender and shy,

Tracing her presence, the how and why.

Her laughter wove verses, soft and sweet,

And with each line, my heart would beat.

The flames of love, they danced and leapt,

Through silent nights and dreams well-kept.

No parchment vast enough to hold,

The story of love, both fierce and bold.

***

Echoes of a Dream

One day, wandering through the woods,

I glimpsed a lady bathing in a pond,

Her cotton saree clinging to murmurs of water.

Time faltered as her gaze met mine.

Transfixed by the lightning of that moment,

I let my eyes return her gaze,

A longing wrapped in molten desire,

Strong enough to melt glaciers to streams.

She was sweetness incarnate, a rare bloom.

The verses I murmured to her beauty

Fell like drops of nectar,

Binding us in an unspoken bond.

Hand in hand, we walked wooded trails

To the quiet warmth of her humble hut.

With a promise to meet again, I departed,

Yet she vanished, leaving only her memory.

Was she a fragment of some vivid dream,

Rippling through the still waters of my life?

She took with her my only love,

Leaving me a poet of colored dreams —

A heart bled dry, now painting the world

In hues of red and rose,

Forever caught in the ache

Of what was, or what might have been.

***

Setu, June 2025

“Bodily Struggles and Societal Silences: Examining Marginalized Women in Kamala Das’ Short Stories”

Vaishali Suyal
Vaishali Suyal and Nilofar Akhtar

Abstract

Kamala Das, being one of the pioneers in Indian feminist writings, has advocated for women’s identity and rights. Her works, especially short stories, offer a powerful medium to examine women’s issues concerning personal autonomy and patriarchal expectations. Her short stories are poignant narratives elevating grave issues of human trafficking, prostitution, sexual assault, betrayal and adultery.

The paper is an attempt to highlight the body struggles faced by women and the associated marginalization. It also investigates the absence of choices and agency for these women, often arising due to societal silences.

Keywords: Kamala Das, Short Stories, Marginalized Women, Husband-wife, Prostitute.

Introduction

Kamala Das Surayya

The Indian authors have time and again taken the initiative to bring in societal issues pertaining to women to give impetus to the discourses referring to women’s bodies. The context of Das’ short stories had been in connection to the society that never allows freedom to women but has a prominent role in unacknowledging their presence. Accordingly, the plot of her short stories takes into account the underlying perspectives of women from different age groups. Her ideology further expands through her characters to mark the suppression of voices and the unavailability of protective factors.

Kamala Das, also known as Madhavikutty, was born in a conservative Hindu (Nair) family on March 31, 1934, in Punnayurkulam, Thrissur district, Kerala. Hailing from a well-known family, she was the daughter of a celebrated poet, Nalapat Balamani Amma, and V.M. Nair, an automobile company executive. Her childhood traversed between Kerala and Calcutta, where her father worked. She was just 15 years old when she was wed to Madhava Das, a banking executive. Although the marital alliance wasn’t a fruitful one. She writes in My Story:

“My cousin asked me why I was cold and frigid. I did not know what sexual desire meant, not having experienced it even once. ‘Don’t’ you feel any passion for me?’ he asked me. ‘I don’t know,’ I said simply and honestly. It was a disappointing week for him and for me. I had expected him to take me in his arms and stroke my face, my hair, my hands, and whisper loving words. I had expected him to be all that I wanted my father to be, and my mother. I wanted conversation, companionship and warmth. Sex was far from my thoughts. I had hoped that he would remove with one sweep of his benign arms the loneliness of my life…” (80).

The short stories of Das— “The Princess of Avanti”, “Padmavati the Harlot”, “A Doll for the Child Prostitute”, “The Young Man with a Pitted Face”, and “A Little Kitten”, analyzed in the paper—paint the canvas of the repressive social structures and their functioning. These short stories collectively frame her anthology Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories, first published in 1994. Jai Shankar Tiwari states Das discusses Indian womanhood through the network of her short stories by deftly utilizing the confessional mode (38). The characters of Das celebrate womanhood, question self-identity, and demand a personal space for themselves. Thus, Das becomes the flag bearer for these destitute women through her bold yet empathetic writings.

The oppressive patriarchal norms rooted in the society affect and control the women all across in their own way. The women in these stories struggle not only with their bodies but also have a tough time handling the silenced approach of the society. “The Princess of Avanti” isn’t the story of a princess or her magnificent palace but of an old woman who identifies herself as the ‘Princess of Avanti’. The woman is a nameless character who is greeted by three imposter men, and as the story moves further, they exploit her sexually to the extent that she dies.

Throughout her life, the old woman attended to the needs of her family. She only desired love and attention from her daughter-in-law, but all she did was pack her lunch and send her to the park. The false sense of dignity and abandonment takes hold of the old woman as she completely trusts three unknown men. She interacts with them for the first time “‘Have I met you before?’ the old woman asked. ‘No, we are new here,’ said the man. ‘This young man is the king of Vangarajya. The other is the king of Kerala. I am the ruler of Kalinga.” (11).

With growing age, the old woman is not able to come in terms with the reality but she finds an escape through it by acknowledging herself as ‘Princess of Avanti’. The young men who were befitting to be her sons appear before her as husbands. They dupe her into believing that they have travelled all the way just to attend her wedding “We want you to select one of us as your husband.” (11).

The men were sane enough to prevent the heinous task of ripping off a woman’s dignity, though the old lady suffered from an identity crisis; keeping this in mind, the men hatched a plan. Under the pretext of celebrating her wedding, they asked her “‘This evening you must not go home. Remain hidden behind a bush. After the park is locked we shall climb over the wall and come to you. We can celebrate your wedding quietly inside this beautiful park.’” (11).

The bout of madness took over the woman as soon as she heard of getting married. The men knew what they were about to do was ethically incorrect; however, they were endowed with animal instincts. They discussed the future implications of their callous actions “‘Suppose she cries?’ asked the tall one. ‘I can prevent that,’ said the second. ‘She desires you,’ said the third.” (11).

With the fall of dusk, the young men reunite again to plunder the soul and purity of the old woman. Unaware of the things happening, she informed them about her not being the princess and her disinterestedness in getting married. Still, nothing stopped the perverts from forcing themselves on the old woman. In a vulnerable tone she requested them not to hurt her further but her loud shrieks of pain made no impact on them “‘Oh, you hurt me terribly,’ the woman cried out. ‘I cannot bear this pain. Do not bite me to death.’ She struggled to free herself from their grip.” (12).

The old woman was sidelined by her family when she expected their love and support the most, but to them she had no feasibility. The self-assumed identity of Princess Avanti shows that she craved importance and dignity, which everyone around her failed to give.

Padmavati, the middle-aged prostitute, is the eponymous character in “Padmavati the Harlot”. Standing at the brink of her life, she realized that she devoted thirty-three years to looking after her family. Firstly, she tended to the paralyzed mother for seven years, and after her death, she met the expenses of her brothers’ education and her sister’s marriage. It all came as a bundle of responsibility for Padmavati. The brothers got good jobs in other cities and never bothered to remember her. Sister, after settling well in her married life, never stayed in touch with her.

She never complained to anyone about anything in her life for she believed “Who can blame them? Who will want to consort with a woman like me?” (17). The profession of selling her body to strangers landed her in the world of loneliness, although everything she did was for the sake of her own family. But no one really bothered for her as a woman, and she felt lovelorn throughout her life. Love and acknowledgement from loved ones and respect from society were her only expectations, yet all she got was contempt and hatred. The world failed to understand her efforts, and she finally submitted herself to the Lord:

“She felt the warmth of His body against her own. She closed her eyes in ecstasy. At dawn, she left the precincts of the shrine and walked down the steps with her hair dishevelled and her blouse torn in places. She blushed like a bride when the young men at the foot of the hill came near her and looked at her face. There were bruises on her cheeks and on her white throat. Her lips were swollen and blue. There was fatigue in her eyes. She hid her face behind her long hair and walked fast. The young men let her pass, bowing before her and murmuring, Mother, go in safety, give us your blessings and go your way…” (19).

Rukmani was very young when she was left to the care of her mother and stepfather. Childhood is the most delicate phase of a child; unfortunately, this phase of Rukmani turns out to be the scariest nightmare in “A Doll for the Child Prostitute”. Abandoned by her father, she is raped by her stepfather and further exploited by the Inspector sahib “‘Come to me, my moppet,’ he pleaded, his voice thickening with lust.” (86).

The condition worsens when Rukmani is sold by her mother at a brothel that is owned by Lachmi Bai, aka Ayee. Prior to her marriage, Anasuya, the mother of Rukmani, was also one of the residents of the brothel. She holds an extramarital affair with a man younger than her age and this illicit relationship with the younger man becomes the cause of her daughter’s molestation “‘You ought not to have sent away the good man I married you off to, Anasuya,’ said Ayee. ‘He was a steady fellow and he never drank. But you lusted for a younger one. Are you satisfied now?’” (59).

Frequent molestation, harassment, and rape attempts on Rukmani compel Anasuya to sell her daughter in a brothel, though the primary reason is the newborn baby of Anasuya. Due to her poor financial condition, Anasuya is not able to raise the child properly “Anasuya rolled the dirty currency notes in a paper and tucked the roll into her waist. ‘I would not have taken any money from you, Ayee,’ she said, a sob rising in her throat, ‘but we are practically starving at home. The baby is given nothing but tea and maybe a banana at noon.’” (59).

Sita, Mira, and Saraswati are the other inmates who accompany Rukmani in the brothel. Rukmani, as a child, was helpless to decide her future; her only desire was to get love from her family. It is clearly reflected in the story when she embraces the Inspector Sahib, addressing him as Papa. She feels the warmth and affection in his presence that she fails to get otherwise “Then Rukmani for the first time after her friend’s death, broke down. She rushed towards the man and hid her sobbing face in the bushy growth of hair on his deep chest. ‘Papa, Papa,’ she called out, sobbing, while the man, stupefied beyond words, kept stroking her curly hair. ‘Oh papa, take me away from here,’ she said, ‘Otherwise I too will die…’” (86).

Sita was the go-to person who made Rukmani happy; however, Sita’s untimely death left her soul shattered. Cholera devoured Sita’s family long ago, leading her to be sold at the brothel by one of the villagers. The frequent exploitation by the visitors leaves her pregnant, although she hoped for a natural life away from the world of fleshmongers, desiring freedom “Leaning against the bars of the porch, Sita said to her friend: ‘Look at the sky this afternoon, it is like a whitewashed wall. Once upon a time I lived in a house with white walls. Every year during Diwali, my father whitewashed our walls with lime and powdered sand.’” (70).

Mira, just like Rukmani, longs for a dignified life and love. She falls in love with a college student whom she addresses as Krishna. Although the poor fellow has no money, he sells his pen to meet her. Then one fine day they get married to each other and elope. When they are caught, the boy is beaten brutally. Later, Mira is abandoned by the boy. The affair is short-lived, as the story, which blossomed with love, ended on the verge of lust being fulfilled. Vinothkumar and Daniel note Das’ opinion on love and lust in the system of marriage:

“Kamala Das has admitted that there is ‘lot of love’ in her poems. She wrote, Love is beautiful, whatever four-lettered name the puritans call it by. It is the foretaste of paradise. It is the only pastime that involves the soul. She is not a poet of free love. On the contrary, she upholds the sanctity of domestic love and marital relationship. But she is disheartened when marital love degenerates into lust, when marital relationship turns into one of domination by the male over the female. Her poems are fierce expression of the emotionalism caused by frustration when love turns into its opposite solely because of male insensitivity and self-centredness.” (14).

Inspector Sahib and Lachmi Bai were instrumental in the oppression of Rukmani and Sita. The protector of the law had become the predator, even though he should have been concerned about the safety of all the women in the brothel. But instead, he was searching for young girls to satisfy his own thirst. Mira's abandonment by her lover after marriage signifies that a prostitute is never meant for marriage, which is asserted by the Inspector “‘Why would a decent boy marry a prostitute?” (78).

“The Young Man with a Pitted Face” is the story of a dying woman, a young man, and their one-month-old relationship. He was the most charming man she had ever come across. The woman lay in the hospital battling with all sorts of diseases, though her deteriorating health scared her at times:

“She had during the past fortnight two major operations and the cardiac condition which had worried her doctor, had remained. Her womb, that had lain fallow, had grown fibroids just as a desert may grow cacti and carnivorous plants. Her liver had adhesions. Her intestines, not to be outdone, had developed tuberculosis. All this and the weak heart had in those recent months drained her of whatever beauty she had left. The chloroquine that was administered regularly made her colour as dark as quinine.” (26).

The man used to visit her in the hospital after the evening visitors’ departure. She knew she wouldn’t be able to live long so she thought “If she survived she would return to the narrow confines of her brown body and the little flat with the blue brocade curtains and her favourite bronzes but if she slipped out of the surgeon’s hands silently, beautifully, she would be free; she would have the universe with its celestial furnishings as her home.” (26-27). Vinothkumar and Daniel comment with regard to the poems of Das that it not only centralizes on love and lust but it also covers the other aspects of human life, i.e., death, decay and illness. Lust is the parameter which affects woman and man, creating resentment in the former and brutality in the latter, ultimately destructing the inner spirit (15).

The young man was the only blessing in the woman’s life. His presence made her feel so comfortable that she fell in love with him. Although the man wasn’t sure about his feelings, as he was a married man. Moreover, what could he get from an ailing and diseased woman? He never showed that he loved her but was simply concerned, or maybe not. The dialogue delivered by Dev Mathur in Jalebi movie released under Vishesh films is apt to describe the situation of sick woman “Unse mohabbat kamaal ki hoti hai, jinka milna mukaddar mein hi nahi hota” (“That love is out of the world…Those who are never supposed to be together”; my trans.; 0:07-16).

The only things desired by the woman were love and attention, and the promise on behalf of the young man to meet was the only hope keeping her alive, albeit he had no time to spare for her. With all the illness and ugliness followed with the procedures and treatment, she wanted to feel beautiful and to be loved so she never failed to adorn herself as a woman “And yet, being a woman, nothing but a woman, she rubbed lipstick on her blue lips and washed her hair every day to leave it smelling sweet.” (26).

The man never turned up to her; though lying on her deathbed, she only hoped to see him once. He should have known his limits before approaching the woman and coaxing her with false hopes. She hadn’t envisioned life without him even after death, as she imagines “She would be in the wind, in the sea, in the rain, in the sand on the beach where the young man walked with his wife. And at night, the young man would tell his wife the winds are cold and sharp today, close the window, and without knowing that she was at the window the wife would shut it and lie against his body.” (27).

The man’s response was everything that she should have understood long ago; however, she was too naïve to interpret it. He meant what he said to her, as not even pity moved him an inch towards her. He started ignoring her under the pretext of being busy instead of conveying it was only sympathy rather than love. The man was a shallow person who visited her aimlessly in the hospital despite having a wife. When she questioned him, he replied in vagueness “If he could love her, her eyes full and her mouth pale, he would look down at his shoes and say, you know what you mean to me.” (27). She died without acknowledging that he never wanted to continue with the relationship.

“A Little Kitten” is the tale of a happily married couple living in a small flat at Dadar. The husband is a working man, and the wife is a homemaker. Staying at home made the wife feel miserable and lonely in his absence. She demands a little kitten, but her demands are overlooked. It seems as if the husband is only concerned with his satisfaction and happiness “And, he threw back his head and laughed. What a sweet and innocent creature he had married! He tickled her until she rolled over on their double bed and screamed out for mercy. You are killing me, please stop, PLEASE STOP. Then, he began to lick her toes, mumbling, you see, I am your kitten, I am your little kitten.” (31).

The essence of the relationship soon faded and paved the way for frequent quarrels. The husband’s involvement with his secretary, Miss Nadkar, added further spice to it. The unanswered questions and the unspoken silences drove the woman crazy. It started affecting their relationship badly as Miss Nadkar became an indispensable part of it. The intricacies of the husband-wife relationship are expressed in the poem “The Testing of the Sirens”:

“I am happy. He really was lavish with words.
I am happy, just being with you.
But you . . . you love another,
I know, he said, perhaps a handsome man,
a young and handsome man.”

The wife only longed for affection and extra time from her husband, albeit Miss Nadkar was showered with all the attention by the boss morally, which was the wife’s right. Not only this, he even started comparing Miss Nadkar with his wife “He gave for the first time a birthday gift to his secretary because he had begun to compare her with his petulant little wife.” (32). When all the attempts of the wife failed to get her husband on her side, she gave up on him and found solace in some other man.

Conclusion

In the story “Princess of Avanti”, an old woman is brutally killed in the society’s park; strangely, neither did anyone pay attention nor was she rescued. Ironically, law and order didn’t exist for either the victim or the accused, as the men killed the woman with no remorse after raping her. The society where she lived turned a deaf ear towards her helplessness; no one safeguarded her, not even her family. The only crime committed on the part of the old woman was that she failed to reckon with her true self.

“Padmavati the Harlot” shares the age-old saga of women trapped in the cobwebs of family responsibility. Padmavati, with no formal education in hand, takes up the job of selling herself to the strangers unwillingly. Owing to her profession, everyone resents her, including the family for whom she didn’t even hesitate to trade her dignity. Throughout, she struggled with the stigma attached to her profession; her decision to quit the old ways of living wasn’t welcomed by the society, as for them, she was a prostitute who had a past but no future.

“A Doll for the Child Prostitute” draws attention to the absence of choices not only for the women but also for the children. Rukmani and Sita, at a tender age of playing hopscotch, are sold to Lachmi Bai, where Sita had little agency, unlike Rukmani. Sindhuthai and Koushalya were aware of the consequences of subjecting a minor to the life of prostitution; still, there was little they could have done about it.

The act of Anasuya is sufficiently satirical, being a mother, where she drags Rukmani at the doorsteps of a brothel to deter further exploitation caused by her lover. Rukmani became the source of earnings to meet the expenses of Anasuya’s other child. Only if Anasuya had no other child would she have raised concern for her daughter’s molestation, or who knows, even then she could have bargained for her. Anasuya would have looked for deviant ways for her daughter’s safety, but she found it easier to sell her daughter. Emphasizing the short stories of Kamala Das, K. T. Sunitha remarks:

““A Doll for the Child Prostitute” and “Padmavathi, the Harlot” are both stories of considerable importance insofar as its materialist emphasis makes visible the embodied existences of mainly deprived women, and highlights the ways in which those existences have been, and continue to be, largely framed by masculinist assumptions and patriarchal agenda which must be questioned if women are going to accrue the right to self-determination. Kamala Das has by the gradual accretion of detail and resonance reveals a deep engagement with some of the most profound questions regarding the place of the woman in the patriarchal world” (177-78).

“The Young Man with a Pitted Face” explores the thoughtless and selfless love between a dying woman and a young man. The woman needed her husband the most during her crucial time, but his neglect makes her vulnerable. Due to her state of illness, the woman falls passionately in love with the young man and dies. “A Little Kitten” criticizes the fraudulence of a husband who enjoys himself by ignoring his wife. The wife, who was dependent on him, had no autonomy of hers.

The middle-aged woman, old woman, sick woman, married woman, and young woman find a resolute place in Kamala Das' short stories that leave behind readers to ponder over certain things. She painstakingly captures the images of these women to mark their struggles, ostracization shaped by the silences of society.

Works Cited

Das, Kamala. “A Doll for the Child Prostitute.” Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories. Aleph Book Company, 2020.

---. “A Little Kitten.” Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories. Aleph Book Company, 2020.

---. “Padmavati the Harlot.” Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories. Aleph Book Company, 2020.

---. “The Princess of Avanti.” Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories. Aleph Book Company, 2020.

---. “The Young Man with a Pitted Face.” Padmavati the Harlot & Other Stories. Aleph Book Company, 2020.

---. My Story. Harper Collins Publishers India, 2019.

---. “The Testing of the Sirens.” Summer in Calcutta. Poetry Nook. www.poetrynook.com/poem/testing-sirens. Accessed 1 May, 2025.

SUNITHA, K.T. “POSITION OF WOMEN IN THE SHORT STORIES OF SUBHADRA SEN AND KAMALA DAS.” Indian English Literature, 2007, vol. 5, pp. 166-79. Google Books, www.google.co.in/books/edition/Indian_English_Literature/PHCZ0z0P5mwC?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=POSITION+OF+WOMEN+IN+THE+SHORT+STORIES+OF+SUBHADRA+SEN+AND+KAMALA+DAS.+Indian+English+Literature&pg=PA166&printsec=frontcover. Accessed 25 Apr. 2025.

Tiwari, Jai Shankar. A Study in the Short Stories of Kamala Das. Shanlax International Journal of English, vol. 8, no. 3, June 2020, pp. 37-41. https://doi.org/10.34293/english.v8i3.3225. Accessed 21 Apr. 2025.

Vinothkumar, G., R. D. Nelson Daniel. “LOVE-LUST-FRUSTRATION IN THE POEMS OF KAMALA DAS.” Hankering in Literature, Shanlax Publications, 2023, pp. 13-19. Google Books, www.google.co.in/books/edition/Hankering_in_Literature/m6C9EAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%E2%80%9CWhile+her+sensibility+seems+to+be+obsessively+preoccupied+with+love+and+lust,+it+finds+love+invariably+petering+out+into+lust,+and+lust+merely+eating+itself+to+the+point+of+nausea%E2%80%9D&pg=PA13&printsec=frontcover. Accessed 1 May, 2025.

Setu, June 2025

The Schedule of Víhaan

John Clark Smith

A Novel in Verse by John Clark Smith

4 Rivalries

Wherein we learn

how the name ‘Machiavelli’ comes in handy,

Carina’s attitude toward Hután,

the rivalry of Selma and Gillian,

the origin of the counter blood,

Selma’s deadly game,

the fate of Rohan

Some might claim—but not Aristotle, Hután would point out—[1]

the numerous dangers to Hután on the island were

unlucky or “bad” luck; yet that was a limited view.

Who could prophesy or arrogate exhaustive knowledge

of the way things work? Good and bad luck were thus unstable

and always caused incidentally, though each had a cause

and didn’t arise without purpose. Some day Hután

knew he would perceive his presence here as incidental

to a grander causal event occurring because he was here,

inspiring him to revisit the tape of George from which

he noticed immediately an unusual event

at the place of the blood sample, a mystery that grew

more intriguing when he returned to that same location

on the counter and discovered fresh blood spots oozing out

from the marble beside another crack where the blood

of Mustfarris originated and streamed out evenly,

both cracks allowing only a tiny amount of blood

to stream but both cracks draining to a similar exit

in the marble, raising the question: From where did they come?

He followed the tube around the room until it ended

or began at a wall and went through the wall near to which

was a door—not the door from which he entered or which Wink

was guarding—a door, he thought, that might lead to another

space into which the counter passed or stopped, these clues all

quickly forming several directions in Hután’s mind,

particularly due to the absence of Pitworthy:

First, the invitation could be a ruse. Pitworthy had

never invited him, someone was manipulating

him because he was a significant Remnant person,

someone like Selma Whitmani—the Remnant’s nemesis

and brain behind Hydra’s determined quest for The Schedule

and the abduction of Víhaan—may first have extorted

or captured Pitworthy or done something to flex muscles

with a threat or trap, perhaps as a bargaining approach

for Víhaan who, as far as Hután knew, was under Hydra’s

control. If this was true, then Selma had also been here

and left the three poisons—the green liquid, the counter slime,

and gas—as threats she must have assumed Hután would detect.

Or Second, a similar series might point to the mark

of Dvorak, especially one of Dvorak’s two

key brains and eyes, Leonard Frig and Gillian Zorotas.

Gillian, the original buyer of The Schedule,

had assumed that Rohan, Víhaan’s friend and business partner,

was the inventor—one critical action of Rohan

was to keep Víhaan’s identity secret long enough

for Víhaan to alert Hután, because if she had known

Víhaan was the key mind, Gillian would have kidnapped him

and all would have changed—but when Rohan tried to mitigate

his mistake and take back The Schedule, the gas filled his lungs

and killed him soon after in San Sebastian. Once again,

can we ask if this accident was bad luck for Dvorak

and Gillian? Or was it not a result of extreme

paranoia that someone might steal The Schedule and take

something that was never their own from the start? Hután would

say they were ignorant of the words of Epictetus,

“When you seek earnestly that which is not your own, you lose

that which is your own;”[2] and what they lost was Víhaan’s respect

and trust, because the death of Rohan not only surpassed

feelings of anger and sorrow, regardless of motive,

and hammered a wedge of hurt of Vihaan toward Dvorak,

it showed how nervous Dvorak was about The Schedule,

so nervous that they protected it with deadly gas

and transported it through Prince Andres, whom they were certain

would be an unexpected courier, a clever plan

if Rohan had died sooner—again Dvorak taking

what was not their own—and hadn’t seen Prince Andres talking

with Gillian when he sold the Schedule, and then texted

that information to Víhaan before he threw his phone

into the fountain and repeated the information

to Hután, allowing Carina to steal the Schedule,

an event that clearly infuriated Gillian

and made her more determined to reacquire it, since she

mistakenly assumed Hydra somehow was the real group

behind the theft—an assumption and lie Carina fed

to Andres—and because Selma, Gillian’s rival, worked

for Dvorak once and left not because of Dvorak

but because she hated Gillian. Yet when Gillian

discovered the Schedule’s gifts, and Rohan foolishly bragged,

if you don’t want it, there are the others

and the others were Hydra, the Remnant, and nation-states—

groups about which Rohan knew nothing but had overheard

mentioned by Víhaan—Gillian knew she had to have it.

Third, Mustfarris or Aaron arrived at the castle first

and they were injured or someone shed or brought their blood

or they were injured somewhere else, raising the question next:

How did the blood initially end up in the counter?

And the immediate answer, and not so surprising,

was that either someone without compassion wanted him

to notice or, upon reflection, perhaps someone had

poisoned the blood itself, with the bold scheme Hután might brush

his finger against it, which he hadn’t—and the trickster

suspected perhaps Hután might also call this cunning—

so Hután analyzed the blood again, and there George found

a micro-message in the blood, which once unencrypted

read: ‘thank you and Carina for accepting my invite,

will exchange Víhaan for The Schedule, coming soon, Selma;’

a message that seemed to make too little sense to Hután.

If Hydra had Víhaan, why would they need The Schedule chip?

Was Víhaan only a lure or trap? Which left the Fourth way:

Dvorak would be here, as it always was, both watching

and waiting to snatch again the Schedule and Víhaan,

perhaps even Pitworthy if possible, though that scheme

didn’t explain the message of blood, implying Selma

may indeed have involved Aaron or Mustfarris, knowing

that Hután alone had George and could analyze the blood,

hinting toward the Fifth precarious direction, that both

Hydra and Dvorak were involved, were here or coming.

All this information Hután chewed on cautiously as

the Remnant’s strategic mastermind, leading him to rush

through the door beside the counter and tube, where he did find

a gagged and bound human groaning and grimacing, propped up

against the far end of the counter on the other side

of the wall, holding a beaker of blood and pouring it

drop by drop without missing—lest a glistening knife move

straight through the top of his head—into the tiny mouth

of a funnel sticking out of two holes in the marble.

Hután released the knife above the head of Pitworthy,

freed him from the restraints, caught his body as he collapsed,

and gently placed him on the floor, his body quivering,

his face red from anxiety, his nerves shaken, fatigued,

arms numb, neck limp, sweat covering his arms, chest, and face.

He raged in a breathless, indignant, impatient tone,

Where were you? I heard someone. Was it you?

I had given up hope, wanted to quit,

and wondered: Why couldn’t you find me? Why?

a fair request from someone struggling with such tedium

and the pain of hearing a savior in the other room.

Yet the next question Hután had not anticipated:

And why are you here anyway? Why not

Aaron? Or have you ignored my wishes?

I give millions and I get a brainy

strategist. Ridiculous! Anyway,

she, whoever she was, threatened me, said

one of their goons would torture and kill me

if you didn’t hand over “The Schedule,”

whatever that is or means. And then she

set up this bizarre torture, not telling

me whose blood this is and why I’m doing

this, and then she assures me, ‘Don’t worry,

Hután will be here; he’ll figure it out.’

You, not Aaron, you’ll figure it out, you’ll

be here. And when I heard someone out there,

I expected she’d be here too, somewhere.

What’s going on? What kind of a twisted

operation is this? Are you wanted

by the police or the feds or some mob?

Hután calmly listened to and stared at a trembling man

terrified from the ordeal, from his forehead sweat dripping,

mumbling, how could this happen to me, how? Hután thinking,

‘How much could I explain without revealing anything?’

Pitworthy was a patron and patrons were uninformed,

that was the contract they signed, each of them recognizing

they are sacrificing to improve the world, a penance

for what they or their ancestors did to earn their riches,

though Hután suspected that Pitworthy and other patrons

must have known the explanations given for their missions

were a little jejune, since disguising the secrecy

and operations were part of the deal. So Hután said,

And you’re thinking, Why me? But don’t worry.

They have seen you but they have no idea

you’re involved in anything, and why should they?

You don’t know a thing. That’s why you don’t know.

No one suspects you or your family.

And as he was speaking Hután realized—and Hután

confessed it should have happened sooner—that someone’s plan was

working too well, a wily scheme set up for mockery

and intentionally far more complex than necessary,

assuming the goal was to lure someone with The Schedule,

assuming the planner perceived that Pitworthy, Aaron,

Carina, or Mustfarris didn’t possess the Schedule,

assuming the culprit needed time, assuming Hután

would accept the invitation and come. Yet this tricky

maze required detailed knowledge of the Remnant, with knowledge

of the members of Remnant, of the group’s itinerary,

or at least the itinerary of some of its members,

as if one had the capability of The Schedule.

Selma wouldn’t have planned the exact scheme to anyone

who came or was here. Did you see who it was? Hután asked.

Pitworthy replied, as Hután guessed, he only knew it

was a woman. Very quickly she had grabbed and dragged him

to the room and propped him at the end of the black counter.

Pitworthy then began to whimper and scream out in blame,

I thought I’d never see my family

again. I felt as if she had chained me.

I would never live in freedom again

‘At least you have a family,’ Hután thought in some guilt,

‘at least you have someone who depends upon you and waits

for you, unlike most of those helping you in the Remnant.’

As for freedom, Hután cynically laughed to himself

and recalled Aeschylus’ line that no one who lives is free

except Zeus.[3] He tried to bury this feeling, nothing’s gained

in thinking about his wife Rita who once waited for him

but now would wait no more or think about what could have been.

No time to ponder about the rewards of true freedom

or whether his life is one of “quiet desperation.”[4]

For now he needed to create a ‘discontinuous

thought,’ as Udaki called it, a thought technique that would slow

the process down or see it differently, note its steps

and bridges so that Hután could understand it much better

since, beyond the fact that he assumed he had little time

before the next stage, and as the strategist of the group,

he couldn’t whine about discomfort or the fact he had

not anticipated quickly enough this fiasco,

no, not now, now he had to keep his wits and throw off these

confused feelings, regardless how tense grew Pitworthy’s whines:

That woman thought I would know, but what does

she think I know? What is it? She would have

let me die, I’m positive, I felt it.

Since Pitworthy couldn’t know how dangerous and crucial

The Schedule was, and Pitworthy in his heart knew

he couldn’t know, Hután would murmur a name to wake up

and redirect Pitworthy, because he knew the mention

of this name would baffle and yet gratify Pitworthy:

Machiavelli. These people follow

Machiavelli, who would recommend

fear and cruelty as tactics useful

for dominance.[5] This woman was cruel

to you because her company wants our

clients, our products, our information,

and they will do whatever is required

because they presuppose, given free scope,

men will prefer evil. They will do what works

to get what they want, because it’s a war,

Mister Pitworthy, and you, you’re in their

way, so they use you and anyone else

to get to the next stage because they want

to know what we know. They think I or you

have the document, the list, the secret,

the schedule, whatever; but, no, they had

no wish to let you die. They knew I was

coming, they knew. They just wanted to scare

you and me, that’s all, so no need to fret.

Throwing out the name of Machiavelli allowed him

to take advantage of their trading company Mannter

Limited, a front where anything goes, anything is

acceptable. While Pitworthy did like the adventure

on some level and liked the secrets—though he imagined

the wrong secrets—he preferred not to die, so he nodded

and nervously coughed, almost as if Hután had revealed

everything and the information made him uneasy,

Pitworthy always sensing Hután’s covert group may be

about something dangerous that didn’t mesh in his mind

with his normal life of business and finance, a life

of Birkenstock sandals, plaid shirts, khaki pants, black, horn-rimmed

glasses. In fact, Pitworthy believed it best not to know,

since the end of such knowledge, he recalled from a prior

conversation with Hután, could become the twisted fate

of Jacopo, the elder of the Pazzi family,

a respected Templar in fourteen seventy-eight—only

a few years after Machiavelli himself was born—

when along came Fortune[6], and what did Fortune do but hang

Pazzi upside down in the piazza, let his corpse be

exhumed and ripped apart by unleashed children, the flesh torn,

its bones abused, dragged through the streets, its skull used as a door

knocker, the remains thrown in pieces into the river,

and everyone banished with the name Pazzi from Florence,

even though Jacopo had done nothing except assent

against his will to a conspiracy that most, even

the Pope, approved, a plot to end the absolutism

of the Medici rule and kill the brothers Lorenzo

and Giuliano de’ Medici. True, he assented

to stop tyranny but he was aloof from the killing,

though he did try after the attacks to rally people

to revolt. Unfortunately for Jacopo, he failed,

the mob wouldn’t listen to someone like him, one of the

elite, a member of one of the wealthy families

whom the mob instinctively despised and wouldn’t rescue

when their children revenged, and history turned against him.

So isn’t history saying—in light

of these events, concerning whether he

deserved better than such treatment after

a reasonably honorable life—

that such involvement may cost you your life

and perhaps it’s better not to conspire

but conduct your life without questioning,

unless you’re ready to make the sacrifice.

Otherwise, let others fight tyranny,

let you and your family remain safe,

let others see the gruesome details around you,

such as the location of both Mustfarris and Aaron,

both clearly surprised, tranquilized, bound, gagged, and quickly dragged

to a closet in the room in which Hután was standing,

and mercifully, Hután the strategist thought of them

once he comprehended the plan and hoped they would be near,

knowing that the target of this mockery was himself,

not Mustfarris or Aaron. Hután started the search

with Pitworthy’s frantic words still blaring in his ears

and Hután thinking, ‘How is my work any different

or subtle from what an ancient or Renaissance soldier

or spy faced?’ Or is it? Hután always began by thinking

of those ancient, medieval, and Renaissance world events,

because to him almost every action and idea

in his life had some deep connection to those times of old

beyond which the patterns of humanity, he believed,

seemed unable to step, at which point his mind once again

drifted to his mother’s stories from classical authors,

such as Tacitus on the exploits of Germanicus

—one of the few characters Tacitus seemed to admire—[7]

who in Hután’s day would have had a more difficult task.

In the ancient era there were six: Rome, Byzantium,

Babylonia, an Achaemenid Empire, a Mongol

realm, and an Arab Empire, but now there’s also Hydra,

Dvorak, and the Remnant, secret organizations

that many ordinary citizens didn’t even

know exist, for ordinary citizens once believed

the nation-states comprised the world; and when asked—which no one

ever did—what is the purpose of the Remnant, Hután

would say, to offset or diminish—he wouldn’t claim that

they could eliminate—the potential domination

not only by nation-states but also by Dvorak

and Hydra, since each of them was just like an ancient Rome

or an Arab Empire, yet still so different that should

the Remnant manage one power, still another remained,

and should the Remnant attack one of the other forces—

which rarely happened because the Remnant’s mission was peace—

the others would know about it and plan accordingly.

Even should he know who concocted this scheme—though all signs

pointed to Hydra and Dvorak—he must still reckon

with the great complexity of defusing it quickly,

because knowledge alone was insufficient for success

and such a success would be temporary since, unlike

the Germans conquered by Germanicus, there’s no pretense

of permanence or even fear of him and the Remnant.

Its war was so old, it had been happening, the Remnant

believed, at least since the dawn of history, and happened

whether or not it took place with some visible weapons,

a visible enemy, nations, and diplomacy.

The awareness of the unending battle had over

time slowly wiped from his mind the mindless glory of war—

that great bloody triumph he innocently imagined

when he signed on to the Remnant and fantasized himself

as a covert operative in a wall-sized painting

by someone with an epic sweeping vision of conflict

and majesty, like Turner—and replaced it with a Bosch

painting of the saints having no escape from myriad

temptations, exploitations, deceit, and brutality,

and the omnipresent evil teeth constantly biting

at the heels of the good in a house of perversity

and depravity, the blood dripping off the ripped canvas;

and replacing the Renaissance perfect polyphony

of Palestrina, the keyless symmetry of Webern,

the anarchic dissonance of “Psalm 90” of Ives,

and the silent anxiety of John Cage’s “4’33”

with the repetitions of Glass and the complexity

of Carter, painting and sound with no meaning or purpose.

These were the dark moments, when he would often beg to know

if “one exception would have marred too much the pitiless

perfection of the divine, eternal plan;”[8] but the dark

moments can bow down to light, as they did when he opened

the closet and Aaron’s big eyes woke him from reflection,

though, with his usual sarcasm and combination

of candor and petulance that ached for a confrontation

of sorts, Aaron said in a fake tone of adulation,

with no effect from the terror he had experienced,

locked and tied up in the prison of a tiny closet,

Oh my! Look who saves us. I’m so darn thrilled.

I can’t believe that I’ll be oh so close

to the great philosopher man Hután…

—his associates used the sobriquet “philosopher”

because he frequently tended to quote philosophers,

…and just in time too, a few minutes more,

we might have been dead. But who would have cared

as long as great thinker Hután is safe,

worshipped for wondrous exploits of danger.

If a statue of you was near her now,

Carina would smear her blood on it,

to which Hután smiled and offered a sympathetic look,

to which Aaron had no retort, since his words and tone hid

his true feelings of awe for Hután, if for no other

reason—and there were several other more important

reasons—than he saw Aaron as a man, not a film star.

Even in the darkness with Mustfarris, when their backs were

tied to each other, their arms touched, and their mouths were covered,

he would have poked fun at Hután if he could have spoken,

just as Mustfarris whispered Flaubert’s ironic comment,

“il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles:

la dorure en reste aux mains…[9]

for Mustfarris knew he and everyone in the Remnant

admired Hután, but he knew Hután’s imperfections too.

Aaron’s sardonic comment Hután quickly put aside,

for nothing Aaron could say now would upset him or change

the sense of joy in seeing them both alive and unharmed,

so glad that he hugged each of them gently while Pitworthy

smiled as wide as a human could smile when he saw Aaron

Lee, his favorite of the Remnant, and thrust forth his hand;

but when Aaron grabbed his hand, Pitworthy wouldn’t let go

Oh my god, it’s Aaron Lee! So happy

to see you! And you’ve been in the closet?

until Aaron pulled away from these few effulgent words.

Pitworthy verified, his smile always fixed on Aaron,

what was becoming quite clear: He had never asked Hután

to his castle and had never asked for this gathering.

Several facts Hután knew: Hydra would exchange Víhaan

for the Schedule, Dvorak had set up the three poisons,

Selma created the torture chamber for Pitworthy

and tied up Aaron and Mustfarris in the closet,

and The Schedule was now, in his view, behind all of it.

But before he could turn his attention to what Hydra

and Dvorak would do next, Aaron had his own questions.

[1] On luck, see Aristotle (384-322 BCE), Physics, Book II.

[2] From Epictetus (ca. 50-135), Discourses, Book I.

[3] See Aeschylus (ca. 525-455 BCE), Prometheus Bound.

[4] See Thoreau (1817-1862), Walden, 1: Economy.

[5] Machiavelli, The Prince, Chapter XVII and XXV.

[6] Fortuna (fortune), along with virtù (will, force, virtue, ingenuity), are key concepts in The Prince. For example, see chapter XXV for fortuna and chapter VII for virtù.

[7] See Tacitus (ca.56-120), Annals, II.54.

[8] from Ambrose Bierce’s story, “A Son of the Gods.”

[9] Flaubert (1821-1880), Madame Bovary, Part III, Ch. 6. English translation: “One mustn’t touch idols, the gilding sticks to the hands.”)

Setu, June 2025

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Setu

Volume 10; Issue 1; June 2025

Editorial

Poetry

Special

Author of the Month

Photo Essay: Manhole Covers of Europe

Translation: Poems on Environment

Performing the Text/s: Author Readings

Long Fiction

Critical Paper

Verse Novel: Chapter Four

Book Review

Setu Special Edition: Abstract Articulations

Setu Video Series

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings (Facebook Page)

Special Edition: Abstract Articulations

Pramod Rastogi

Vaishali SuyalVaishali Suyal and Nilofar Akhtar

4 Rivalries

Vaishali Suyal
Vaishali Suyal and Nilofar Akhtar