 SetuVolume 10; Issue 2; July 2025Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetryTankaAuthor of the MonthYoung Talent
Poetry and PaintingCollaborationsFiction and Flash FictionCultural MappingsVerse Novel: Chapter FiveArticle: Analysing Ways of Screenwriting
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Showing posts with label 202507E. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 202507E. Show all posts
Setu, July 2025
On isolation and beyond, and archetypes of doubts
 |
| Sunil Sharma |
“I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.”
---Ralph Ellison
It is the pensive gaze!
A woman with a cap looking out of the window at the nightly world rushing by.
A picture of the urban disconnect, desolation, reverie.
Lonely in a crowd!
A woman with a cap looking out of the window at the nightly world rushing by.
A picture of the urban disconnect, desolation, reverie.
Lonely in a crowd!
The fellow commuters are also mere outlines, shadows,
blurs---reflections on the glass, each atomised, withdrawn, a study in
isolation, ironically, on public transit.
The focal point is a female figure staring and slightly detached from
the surroundings. She may look a descendant of a Toni Morrison or Richard
Wright or Ralph Ellison; surely a proud offspring of Rosa Parks, confidently
commuting in the bus/train, ear hoops and cap defining her identity, yet
forlorn, part of a gloomy scene, typically urban, maybe, neo-noir. An
illuminated interior, fellow humans as distant, part of the scene, yet away.
Some surreal moments!
Sharing his perspective, the noted young photographer Jerome Berglund
says of the moment that presented itself to his artistic side and
compelled him to freeze it for posterity:
This was snapped on the subway when I was regularly riding public transportation around the greater Los Angeles area in my California years. It's a rare example of an isolated individual I captured amidst general cityscapes and street scenes. Something about her expression continues to captivate me, I'd like to know more about who she is, what she was thinking, what experiences were underway at this particular moment in time frozen forever, encountered in media res. The image always also reminded me of the painting Girl At Mirror by Rockwell and its cubist cousin by Pablo Picasso...
As Haruki Murakami observes so well about this modern characteristic of social living:
Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it.
Jerome captures the isolation and a deep desire for connections most poignantly in this frame.
Robert Maddox-Harle, a regular contributor and on our editorial board, published another of his cerebral collections of poetry---Archetypes of Doubt.
Robert Maddox-Harle is an artist who needs to be discussed more regularly and frequently.
This month's Special Focus is on his latest literary achievement and features a recording by him as well.
We wish him critical and commercial success and a long productive life.
The rest of the edition is equally fascinating.
Enjoy, please!
Sunil
Sharma,
Setu Special Edition: July 2025
Special Edition: Surreal Moments
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| Picture by Jerome Berglund |
Special Edition Authors: July 2025
Contributing Authors
Selections from Archetypes of Doubt
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| Robert Maddox-Harle |
Four poems selected from my latest book, Archetypes of Doubt.
Published by cyberwit.net (India) - Robert Maddox-Harle
Archetypes
of Doubt
In the
remote village of raw emotions
seduced
by the tyranny of time
wheeling
photons mesmerise the unwary,
Shamanic
visions invade the mind
mysterious
unknowable forces
expose
archetypes from the Prima Materia
delving
deep into chthonian realms.
The
Ouroborous materialises from nowhere
resonating
violently with recurring trauma
challenging
cultural memories
highlighting
the philosophical effects of desire.
Removing
the mocking mask
is a
strategy for survival
for
those seeking refuge in their poverty
and
subservient in the pathological need of domination
by those
with portfolios of power.
Violin
strings vibrate harmoniously
exciting
the four fundamental forces,
Fire –
Earth – Air - Water,
Chaos
dances in diachronic evolution
creating
fractal archetypes of doubt
for
those who are sensitive to constant iteration,
to the
fall of the dangerous and deceptive Tarot
and a
little too imperfect for eternity.
Homeward Bound
From
the dark belligerent nightly news
a
hopeless sense of misery engulfs me,
exploding
forth with cyclonic fury
memories
enshrined in my heart, agitated
like
dead leaves jostled by a restless wind.
Then
a spark of hope arises in my despair,
the
sandstone and eucalypt hills surround me
yellow-red
ancient stones
contrast
the soft green trees
guarding
and guiding the sacred river,
a
silent place!
A
sanctuary for a reclusive life,
the
spirit of this Hawkesbury rift incessant,
“return
to your ancestral home”
spirits
beckon
“return
to the hearth of creation”.
This
is Darug-Darkinjung country
a
place where the tides dominate,
the
pulse and flow
a
connection to unknown realms,
deep-water
reflects rocky outcrops
dense
mangroves,
the
roots gnarled and tangled
bathe
in the shallow liminal zone.
Sunrise
paints a surreal scene
blazing
orange-red cascades down the valley
reflecting
image-perfect from the still-mirror-river
a
new day has arrived in mesmerising splendour.
Serenity
– Silence – Seclusion – Stillness
surround
me.
I am
home!
Note
From an Elder
Even the body meagre
ghastly, famished and cold
gently breathes in the prison of night,
it owes its existence to pure chance.
The
hour hand moves slowly.
The tragedy unfolds each day,
stories and myths invented
every imaginable self-deception embraced,
the illusion of redemption
the illusion of salvation
the collusion of “the rapture”.
The
hour hand moves a little faster.
The surge of time washes over,
rhythms of nature dance their dance
cyclic movements ebb and flow,
control and greed are idiot cousins
their characteristics wreaking havoc,
this miraculous planet is dying.
The
hour hand is moving faster.
Indigenous peoples embrace ‘what is’,
symbiotic rapport with nature
no ‘town clocks’ to control and enslave
acceptance of limitations
harmonious empathy with daily cycles.
“No, we are not the pinnacle of evolution!”
“No, we cannot control earthquakes,
cyclones and floods!”
“Yes, we flow with the flow of time!”
“We embrace the Tao!”
The
hour hand is moving full-speed.
Silent
Spring
The flat black glass begins to glisten
devices invade our privacy insidiously,
eyes squint and squirm unknowingly
but gaze in disbelief
heads bowed in addiction,
#despite #numerous #ridiculous #hash tags
social media remains vacuous and deceptive
but all invasive and powerful.
The public dumbed-down, subtly Somatised
always ready to activate the escape switch
but with no possible get away,
and the bird-song fades.
THE SILENT SPRING DEAFENING
echoing in the ears of the few who can
hear,
publicly announced agendas of death thrive
the nightly News complicit in the killing.
“Now To Finance”
announces the puppet news presenter,
NYSE
the new church of unspeakable filth and
evil,
silent, suited, faceless killers
the clergy of the new god.
Mammon rules supreme.
AND THE SILENT SPRING IS DEAFENING
All around the powder dry earth groans
suffocating in its dry lifeless toxicity,
the masses indifferent to the devastation,
another enchanted forest dies
indigenous hearts are weeping
as shareholders cheque their balances,
laptops sweating as the tension rises.
Retreating into artificial life,
artificial intelligence
artificial food
reflecting existence like a chrome-stained
lithograph,
the indifference a hideous portent of
extinction
a gravel pit of impossible futures.
I wonder if any will survive?
Fiction: Sudha Subramanian
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| Sudha Subramanian |
You Called Me Eternal
Jyothi - light
Akka, you called me Jyothi that humid September afternoon. You
tenderly caressed my swollen eyes and blistered cheek despite Naana’s
relentless banging on the door.
Megha - cloud
Akka, you called me Megha after a late-night party that cold
December. The house reeked of tobacco, and Naana swayed like a twig caught in a
storm. Your moist eyes searched the dark-bellied clouds hugging the mountains.
Arnav - Ocean
Akka, you called me Arnav that monsoon evening. The grocery
contents speckled the grey floor. Naana’s eyes were sinister red while his
fingers fumbled with the belt. You whisked me away to the beach, and you
wondered how deep the ocean was.
Akshaya - eternal
Akka, you called me Akshaya that
windy November noon. The plate flew across the room, slicing the thick
air. Naana balled his fists and charged towards me. The walls shook with his
grunts and lightning flashed in the sky. You grew and grew, breaking through
the ceiling, towering over the roof, till your head grazed the clouds. You
looked like the Himalayas laden with snow. Wings jutted from your shoulder
blades and flapped. And then you lifted me in the air, leaving behind Jyothis
and Arnavs.
Shanthi - peace
Akka, you called me Shanthi that cool January morning. With laugh
lines on your face and butterflies in your hair, we hugged trees and listened
to songbirds. No one trashed our songs, no one crossed our path. We didn’t
laugh, but we held hands and breathed.
The Way Paati Finds Home
The way Paati mumbles Sanskrit shlokas as if they were a mathematical table, the way she ties, opens and re-ties her hair into a knot, clearing her face of any stray strand, the way she picks on the shadows cast by the dancing curtains wanting to grab them, the way she surveys the kitchen, lifts the steel vessel by its side-handles and pours out the freshly made dosa batter into the garbage bin, the way she tells us how she likes her food, separates the rice and vegetables in her plate before making mushy rice balls and pops them into her mouth, the way she goes into the bathroom, removes her clothes, forgets to wash, dashes out - undressed - and screams there is a great big beast lurking in the dark, the way she accuses all the Gods and Goddess adorning the picture frames for sitting in shiny thrones and doing nothing about her problems, the way she scratches her head, stares at her son and wonders who he is, the way she curls up in bed, holding her favourite saree - the one she claims her father bought - feels the fabric between her fingers, hugs it to her chest, closes her eyes and says, I am home.***
Bio: SUDHA SUBRAMANIAN lives in Dubai with her husband. She was
a columnist in Gulf News for over
fifteen years. Her words have appeared in many newspapers and magazines. Her
short stories have found space in anthologies and in many international
literary magazines. A complete list of all her publications can be found on her
link tree : https://linktr.ee/sudha_subramanian
She is an amateur birder and a tree hugger. Connect with
her on X @sudhasubraman or on IG @sudha_subraman or on Bluesky
@sudhasubraman.bsky.social
Book review: Heart Lamp
Reviewer: Snigdha Agrawal
Book: Heart Lamp
Author Banu Mushtaq (Kannada)
Translated to English by Deepa Bhasthi
Booker Prize Winner, 2025
Year of Publication 2025
Publisher – Penguin Random House, India
No of Pages – 216
Price – ₹ 399/-
ISBN 9780143464471
BOLD, BRAVE, BANG ON…these are the words that best encapsulate the
stories in Heart Lamp, crafted in a deceptively simple yet deeply
relatable style. As someone who has lived in Karnataka for over three decades,
the geographic and cultural references struck a familiar chord, making the
narratives even more resonant. As a septuagenarian woman, I found myself
profoundly empathetic to the emotional and societal contexts within which the
female characters live, contexts marked by fear, suppression, violence, and
silence. Their pain often felt like a knife turning in the heart.
 |
| Snigdha Agrawal |
Personal
Favourites
Without giving away too much, I’d like to
highlight a few stories that made a lasting impression:
1.
The Shroud – A powerful tale of guilt and atonement that
lingers long after it ends.
2.
The Arabic
Teacher and Gobi Manchuri – A
sharply humorous story, veering into absurdity, yet grounded in socio-cultural
reality.
3.
Be a Woman
Once, Oh Lord! – The last story is a
profound narrative that ties the collection together with philosophical depth
and emotional force. The line, “…because I am your incomplete creation”,
becomes a rallying cry for every woman questioning the fairness of her
existence. It challenges divine infallibility itself: “If you were to build
the world again... Come to the earth as a woman, Prabhu.” The closing
leaves the reader stunned, reflective, and emotionally spent.
On
Translation and Interpretation
Deepa Bhasthi’s translation is commendable for
preserving the soul of the original text. Her deliberate choice not to italicise
or explain colloquial words within the main body respects the texture of the
source language. However, for readers not familiar with the culture and
traditions, this choice tends to shift the focus from the story with having to
search for its meaning. A glossary, either per chapter or at the end of the
book, would serve as a helpful companion, preventing disruptions in the reading
flow without compromising linguistic integrity.
I also found the frequent references to Hindu
mythology and characters from the Ramayana, somewhat tangential. While they may
have been intended to add a layer of intertextual or philosophical depth, they
occasionally distracted from the storytelling. The strength of these narratives
lies in their authenticity and emotional weight, elements that do not require
symbolic reinforcement to make their mark.
Final Thoughts
Heart Lamp is a fearless, uncompromising, and deeply
affecting collection that gives voice to women who have too often been rendered
voiceless. Banu Mushtaq’s storytelling is both a literary triumph and a social
statement; bold in its themes, brave in its execution, and bang on in its
impact. Her characters are not just stories on a page; they are echoes of real
lives, crying out for recognition, justice, and change.
The book’s Booker Prize win is not just a personal milestone for the author but a landmark moment for regional literature, for women’s voices, and the larger movement towards inclusive storytelling. It speaks not only for a community or gender, but for every silenced voice seeking dignity and justice. May Heart Lamp continue to shine its light across cultures, spark difficult yet necessary conversations, and reach the minds of readers in every corner of the world.
Poetry: Gary Beck
 |
| Gary Beck |
So Brief
I am a leaf
blown by the wind
aswirl a moment
I come to rest
after I fall from
the juice giving tree,
while some foolish leaves
believe they’ll be treed again.
I slowly decompose,
do not fertilize
the famished earth
prevented by humans
preferring neat lawns
to the cycle of life.
***
Dread
I live in a land
of unhappy people
faces fixed in frowns
wherever they go,
lips clenched, eyes afraid,
apprehensive
that the present
is better than the future.
***
Last Stop
I no longer remember
where I lived as a youth.
My mind is so erratic
details evaporated.
Strangers visit me
and claim to be family,
but I don’t know them.
Some people in white suits
claim I’m in a nursing home
without the faintest idea
how I got here.
I don’t know if they’re lying
and holding me prisoner.
I don’t like how I’m treated,
but there’s no use complaining.
It won’t make them treat me right.
So I’ll hang on while I can
cause I’m afraid of dying,
but if I keep forgetting
I guess I’ll never notice.
***
Public Housing
I was born in the projects.
Well, in the hospital,
then they brought me here,
at least I guess so.
I was too young to know,
I live here all my life.
It was good for me.
I had these good friends
Keisha and Shawna.
We did everything together.
Mama yelled at me a lot
but I pay her no mind
Once her boyfriend hit me,
she got rid of him quick.
We attend school
but it’s not so nice.
Some of the kids are nasty.
The teachers don’t like us.
But me, Keisha, Shawna,
we stick together.
This group did a show for the kids.
A lot of grownups come
and laughed like the kids.
The group come back the next week
and taught us theatre games,
circus arts, I learned to juggle
and do lots of fun things.
The Community Center lady
is mean, yells and pinches us,
but not when that group is here.
The kids did a show at the end of summer
for the whole neighborhood.
Lots of people come
to see us do the circus.
I was a lion and roared.
I jumped through a flaming hoop.
Everybody clap for us.
It felt good to be applauded.
Two from the group came back after school
and did fun things with us.
We worked indoors until summer
writing, acting and circus stuff.
The Community Center lady
still be mean to us,
pinch us when no one looking.
The acting lady is nice.
She tell me: ‘Don’t fear failing.
Always keep trying, even if you’re scared.
You’ll grow more confident’.
She right. I am more confident.
The theatre group comes twice a week
during the school year.
At the beginning of summer
they do a terrific show
in beautiful costumes
and everybody love them,
well not the mean lady
from the Community Center.
They come three times a week
and we do a show before school start.
I never really thought about them
cause they always be there.
They always nice, help us do things
and we always have fun.
It be different in school.
Not everyone be nice.
Shawna hit back when kids hit her
and teachers always blame her
cause she speak up for herself:
“I don’t take no shit from those kids.”
It took a few years and I learned
the theatre company was helping us,
but no one else seemed to care.
That nice lady, Nancy,
always talk to me.
When I tell her: ‘It’s not fair.’
she say: ‘That may be true
but you have to build yourself,
so you can deal with what happens.’
I try, but it not easy.
I guess I was about ten
when everything change.
The teachers complain our parents
are burning the Bronx.
I don’t have no parents,
just mama and her mean boyfriend.
She didn’t start no fires.
The neighbors aren’t friendly
and there were lots of bad kids
fighting, stealing, making trouble.
But the theatre company still come.
I learned they’re called ‘Sidewalks Theatre’.
Keisha and I were ten. Shawna eleven
and we didn’t want to be lions,
so Nancy make us assistants
and we work with the young kids.
Nobody force us to work with them
and we don’t go to the Center
with that nasty lady
when the theatre’s not here.
Keisha and me wasn’t kids
when we were thirteen
and the boys think we be women,
offer us money, jewelry, sneakers,
even coke or crack if we sex them.
Keisha and me always say ‘no’,
but Shawna was fourteen, tell us:
‘I want what we see on tv,
so I let boys sex me
if they give me what I want.’
Things be worse at high school.
Teachers look nasty at us,
like we burning the Bronx.
The only ones they treat worse
be the homeless kids
who they make sit in back
and tell us they be homeless
and live in a shelter.
They be worse off then me and Keisha,
but we still get it tough every day.
The boys in high school
want to sex us
and they be in gangs,
dealing so much drugs
they got plenty of money
and want to buy us,
like they bought Shawna
who be a gang girl now
with new clothes, but smoke crack,
so we stay away from her.
Me and Keisha make a promise:
‘Always stick together’.
But when we fifteen
comin home from school
she get killed in a drive-by.
Shawna come to the funeral,
tell me: ‘I be your friend again’.
I know that mean drugs and sexing.
I say no real nice
so I don’t get trouble with her gang.
It hard to be alone
with everything bad around me,
but I still go to Sidewalks Theatre.
I’m assistant instructor,
get paid for each workshop.
It not a lot of money,
but I earn it for work,
not sexing someone
for drugs or sneakers
who don’t be liking me.
The next few years be hard.
No friends, can’t have a boyfriend
or the gang boys fix him good.
They still look at me hard
but they let me be.
Nancy from Sidewalks Theatre
the only one stick by me.
‘No matter what,’ she say. ‘Don’t quit school.’
I don’t want what Shawna got,
so I make sure to finish school.
I graduate when I’m eighteen.
Didn’t listen to guidance counselor,
who told me: ‘Get a fast food job.
It can be a good career move,
Work hard, become a manager.’
Nancy say: ‘Go to college.’ I laugh.
I’m the first one to finish high school.
I start Bronx Community College.
College be a whole new world
and I fit in like I belong.
I didn’t see the theatre group
cause of school and part time job
in the pharmacy department
of a nearby drug store chain.
I deal with people real well,
don’t get angry when they get mad.
My only problem local gang boys
who know me, come robbing the store
and I can’t say anything
cause they know where I live.
I study computer science
and find out I got real talent.
A guy in my class talk to me
he’s real nice, very serious,
plans to go to four year college
and wants more then just to sex me.
He ask me out on a date.
I don’t say it’s my first date.
I like him a lot, he likes me
and we go out after school, weekends.
Things go well at school, work, with Kai.
My computer teacher tell me:
‘Go to a four year college.
You’ll have a great career
in the computer field.’
Work is great. My manager
give me a raise with lots of praise.
And Kai be perfect. I love him.
I never felt this before.
Didn’t think it would happen to me.
Mama and her mean boyfriend
who don’t dare be mean to me now
decide to move back to Georgia
to be with her family.
She want me to come. She crazy.
First time in my life everything good.
She want me to leave all this,
go somewhere in nowhere Georgia,
live with her and mean boyfriend.
Now I know for sure she crazy.
I got my A.A. degree today,
same day Kai got his.
We both going to Lehman College.
I was promoted at work
and I’m the systems manager
with a big raise in salary.
So work good, school good, Kai great.
He move in with me and nervous
about living in public housing,
but Shawna tells gang: ‘Leave him alone.’
I bring Kai to summer workshop
with Nancy and Sidewalks Theatre.
Nancy had him work with shy boys.
He got them juggling scarves real quick.
Later he tell me: ‘Nancy cool.’
That night he ask me to marry him.
I be so happy I ask him:
‘Why you take so long to ask?’
He smile, kiss me. ‘You saying yes?’
I kiss him hard. ‘I’m saying yes.’
We both don’t have any friends,
we get married at Bronx Borough Hall.
The clerk set a kitchen timer
to make a new marrying record,
but we don’t pay him no mind,
too happy being together.
We go for a wedding dinner
to Sams, on the Grand Concourse,
with a DJ playing rap
and delicious Southern food.
We be very happy
no matter what people say
about living in the projects.
We work, go to school, we love.
I get pregnant, find out
we going to have a girl,
make sure it’s cool with my job,
complete the year at Lehman College.
Kai make me promise to finish
my Bachelor of Science degree.
Things go faster and faster.
Seems like there’s war everywhere.
Crazies keep shooting kids at schools.
Everyone worry about jobs.
Me, Kai, baby Keisha be happy.
When Keisha be old enough
she go to Sidewalks Theatre,
do circus arts workshops.
She be a lion in the show
just like her mama used to be.
The mean lady who used to pinch me
still at the Community Center
and Keisha tell me she pinch her.
I laugh to myself that old hag
still be mean to little kids,
but I go there and tell her:
‘Don’t you ever pinch my daughter.
She ever tell me that again,
I have your fat old ass locked up.
Try to pinch tough bitches in jail.’
When beautiful Keisha five years old
she still go to Sidewalks Theatre’s
theatre and circus arts workshops
and Nancy makes her a lion. LOL.
After, Nancy asks shy Keisha:
‘Are you as smart as your mama?’
She nod yes. ‘Then we’ll try to come back
as long as we’re welcome here,
because it’s important to us
to teach your children someday.
***
Voter’s Rights
It’s difficult to get up,
wash, dress, go out
to my polling station.
I wait on line a long time.
I’m very achy.
When I reach the registration desk
the volunteer is older than me,
but he’s cheerful, efficient, helpful.
I go to the fill-in stand
and review the ballot,
only judges for reelection
with no opposition.
As long as these judges
get even one vote
they will be reelected,
another example
of democracy in action.
***Three tanka poems
 |
| Joanna Ashwell |
Joanna Ashwell
Poem 1
awake again
myself and the moon
with no need
for more light
to shape my home
poem 2
morning silence
not even the scratch
across paper
dwelling in the deep
of ink-block
poem 3
morning again
the same song
surrounds every wall
if my heart
could be so light
***
Bio: Joanna Ashwell, a writer from the United Kingdom. Some of her published collections of poetry include a collection of contemporary poetry (Flarestack Publishing), one haiku collection (Hub Editions), one tanka collection (‘Every Star’ available on Amazon) and three Cherita collections (River Lanterns, Moonset Song and Love’s Scriptures available on Amazon). She has won awards for her poetry and honourable mentions in contests. She has also been on the Touchstone Award shortlist for individual haiku. Her short form poetry of haiku, tanka, Haibun and Cherita appear widely both in print and online journals. She is on the selection team for the Canadian Tanka journal Gusts.
Glimpses of my village - A photo essay
Amar Veluri
Amar Veluri is a nature photographer and motorcycle enthusiast with a deep passion for exploration and travel. He occasionally writes poetry and essays in Telugu and English. He lives in Wisconsin, USA.
Echoes of Tradition
 |
| 1. A busy morning in the paddy fields |
Lush green paddy fields lie blanketed in mist as a faint drizzle sweeps across the landscape. Monsoon clouds surge through the sky, gradually dispersing after a heavy downpour. A chain of lights snakes through narrow pathways beneath the shadows of mango groves beside the paddy fields. They approach a massive boulder, where a shallow cave houses an idol of a tribal goddess—one born from the beliefs, stories, and imagination of the natives, given a physical form, and worshipped, feared, respected, and celebrated.
As the lights advance, their bearers emerge; women of all ages, balancing earthen pots adorned with neem leaves, turmeric, and vermilion upon their heads. Vibrant silk sarees ripple with each step, their gold and glass bangles jingling, while silver anklets (decorated with tiny metallic bells) chime in rhythmic harmony as they carefully navigate the narrow paths between the paddy fields.
Leading them is a fierce, potbellied man, his body drenched in turmeric and vermilion, his ferocious gaze alive with intensity. A long whip cracks in his hands, punctuating the air as he dances to the thunderous drums reverberating across the village. Behind him, garlanded goats and sheep, draped in neem leaves, are dragged toward the boulder, soon to become sacrificial offerings to the tribal goddess.
 |
| 2. A silhouette of Palm Trees |
Whispers of Dawn
On a winter morning, nine majestic palm trees (one of the signature views of the village) stand united against a distant mountain, their silhouettes etched against the first rays of sunlight piercing through the mist. A soft golden glow filters through the haze, as dust rises from herds of cows and buffaloes, their warm breath billowing into the air like fire-breathing dragons. Village boys dart across the fields, racing to collect droppings before they touch the ground.
 |
| 3. A Palash tree in bloom |
Across the dew-laden fields, tiny droplets cling to blades of grass, glistening like scattered jewels, silent witnesses to generations who found solace within this land.
The Eternal Communion of Fire and Fellowship
On a spring afternoon, the outskirts of the village shimmer with the fiery brilliance of Palash trees, their beak-shaped, reddish-orange flowers blazing in the sunlight. In a small clearing by the toddy palm trees, villagers gather, savoring fresh palm wine poured into funnels made from native Palash leaves. The toddy pickers, their hands hardened by years of labor, tip earthen pots, releasing the most cherished drink, collected straight from the palm sap.
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| 4. A toddy wine picker |
As the sun dips lower, the pickers settle in, watching in quiet amusement as their guests surrender to the ritual of shared memories. Voices rise and fall in heated debates, weaving through politics, real estate, cricket, movies, affairs, and philosophy; sometimes harmonizing, often clashing. Tempers flare like fiery Palash flowers, fists fly, and if fate allows, a few brawls erupt, only to be interrupted by loyal companions, stepping in to mend bruised egos.
What follows is an unraveling of emotions as old as time. Once-feuding friends are now drenched in sentimentality, whispering apologies, leaning on each other’s shoulders, their emotions spilling like the very wine they had savored. With slurred promises and wistful farewells, they part ways, knowing they will return, time and again, to this sacred dance of camaraderie, nostalgia, and raw humanity.
Shimmering Night Skies and Legends
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| 5. Milky Way |
At times, the Milky Way was a silver river of the cosmos becoming the Ganges descending from the heavens. Other times, it transformed into a diamond-studded baldric, a celestial adornment for the gods in their eternal battle against demons. And when time came to delve into our existence, the Milky Way became an arch of the heavens, separating the mortal realm from the divine.
Shooting stars and meteor showers pierced the stillness, their fleeting streaks adding dynamism to the composed star-studded skies. Beneath this celestial theater, the cold breeze rustled the banyan and neem trees, oozing a white noise, while crickets provided a chorus, and distant coyote howls added drama to the night’s opera.
A Village Rekindling Its Legacy
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| 6. An old Banyan tree in the village |
Like many villages, my village has borne the brunt of ‘Razakar’ atrocities, feudal oppression, and the ‘Patelgiri’ system during both the pre- and post-independence eras. Yet, it has gradually begun its quest to reclaim its past glory, one rooted in the rich heritage of the Kakatiya period (1163–1323 AD).
It is nestled between two man-made lakes, anchoring either end, alongside two old temples, positioned in the northeast and southwest corners. These centuries-old temples, crafted during the Kakatiya reign, stand as spiritual beacons, shaping the faith and traditions of the village.
A few kilometers to the east lies the sleeping giant of a mountain, its towering silhouette casting the first rays of sunlight upon the village every morning. With each dawn, as mist rises from the ancient waters and as temple bells echo through the air, my village continues its quiet resurgence, embracing both its past and the promise of its future.
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| 7. A sunset by the village |
The Enduring Spirit of the Village
As years passed, the hump of the mountain gradually sank, its shoulders mined, chiseled away by time and ambition. Tar roads slithered into the village, stretching from distant lands, ushering in new goods and unfamiliar habits. Electricity and communication cables coiled through the settlement, gavage-feeding it with etiquette, knowledge, and innovation—yet hidden in the currents, restlessness, confusion, and greed crept in, uninvited intrusions into the quiet rhythm of life.
For centuries, a massive banyan tree had stood guard over one of the temples, its expansive canopy a refuge for annual carnivals, its roots tangled in the fabric of tradition. But as change unfurled across the village, the ancient tree succumbed to sorrow, dissolving into the earth, unable to bear the weight of transformation. Concrete monuments emerged, casting long shadows over what was once a sacred confluence of landscape and innocence.
An old Banyan tree in the village. Photo Credit: Amar Veluri
Yes, change is the only constant, shaping and reshaping civilizations over roughly 2,500 generations since the first humans walked out of Africa, carrying the spirit of exploration to the farthest corners of the earth. Intellectual curiosity, defiance of stagnation, survival instincts, and the quest for meaning have propelled humanity forward, ascending the rungs of the evolutionary ladder—from hunter-gatherers to villages, chiefdoms, kingdoms, and, ultimately, states.
While it took us a million years to progress from mastering fire to discovering gravity, within a mere two centuries, we catapulted from harnessing the power of steam to building human-like robots and making the dead speak to us live using AI. The pace of change is now beyond exponential—though it must be regulated and controlled.
But I digress!
Everyone who leaves their village carries a fragment of it within their heart, leaving behind a piece of themselves in return. Whether they step into politics, law, medicine, engineering, literature, or business, or stand at the borders defending their homeland, they weave their village’s legacy into distant landscapes, imprinting each new place with echoes of the past—making it familiar, comforting, and alive with memory.
As they pray for the steady progress of their village, one selfish desire always lingers—that somewhere within the village, tranquility, purity, and innocence remain untouched, preserved as a sanctuary, a place to return to when the weight of the world grows too heavy. They pray that their village will retain its resilience, guard itself against reckless change, and stand unshaken in its integrity—re-emerging, not as something unrecognizable, but as the true beacon of human spirit.
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