Literature is a bridge that spans across borders, languages, and hearts. For years, Setu has strived to be that connection. However, the time has come for this bridge to find a moment of stillness. It is with a mixture of pride and heavy-heartedness that I announce the December 2025 issue as our final publication before an indefinite hiatus.

Our journey has been defined by the extraordinary company of authors and scholars from every corner of the globe. Together, we achieved a monumental milestone of 7,322,863 interactions, a testament to the resonance of our shared vision. We have touched the heights of excellence in multilingual literature, art, and research, delivering the finest digital content without compromise.

However, vision must be sustained by means. Our limited resources have brought us to a crossroad, forcing us to pause and review our path forward. We deeply apologize for the disappointment or inconvenience this hiatus may cause our readers and contributors. While the bridge remains quiet for now, the echoes of the voices we hosted will remain.

Anurag Sharma

Editor-in-Chief

Setu, Pittsburgh

एक सेतु का विश्राम: अंतिम संपादकीय

साहित्य ऐसा सेतु है जो सीमाओं, भाषाओं और हृदयों को जोड़ता है। वर्षों से 'सेतु' ने इसी संपर्क को जीवंत रखने का प्रयास किया है। किंतु, अब समय आ गया है कि यह सेतु कुछ क्षणों के लिए विश्राम ले। भारी मन से मैं आपके साथ यह जानकारी साझा कर रहा हूँ कि दिसंबर 2025 का यह अंक, एक अनिश्चितकालीन अंतराल से पूर्व, हमारा अंतिम प्रकाशन होगा।

एक दशक की हमारी इस यात्रा को विश्व के कोने-कोने से आए लेखकों और विद्वानों के साथ ने परिभाषित किया है। हम सबने मिलकर 7,322,863 की पाठक संख्या का जो कीर्तिमान स्थापित किया, वह हमारी सहयात्रा की सफलता का प्रमाण है। हमने बहुभाषी साहित्य, कला और शोध के क्षेत्रों में गुणवत्ता के उच्चतम मानकों को छुआ और डिजिटल प्रकाशन के क्षेत्र में सदैव सर्वश्रेष्ठ देने का प्रयास किया।

किंतु, किसी भी दर्शन को निरंतर बनाए रखने के लिए संसाधनों की आवश्यकता होती है। हमारे सीमित संसाधनों ने हमें एक ऐसे मोड़ पर खड़ा कर दिया है जहाँ अपनी भविष्य की राह की समीक्षा करने के लिए एक पड़ाव अनिवार्य हो गया है। इस निर्णय से हमारे पाठकों और सहयोगियों को जो निराशा या असुविधा हुई है, उसके लिए हम क्षमाप्रार्थी हैं। भले ही यह सेतु अभी शांत है, पर यहाँ गूंजने वाली आवाज़ें सदैव जीवंत रहेंगी।

अनुराग शर्मा

मुख्य संपादक

सेतु, पिट्सबर्ग

सेतु, दिसम्बर 2025 -()- Setu, December 2025

When the cities speak in colours and solitude

Sunil Sharma

“The city is a labyrinth of streets, each one leading to a new adventure.”

--– Langston Hughes

What makes a city tick? What makes us choose a particular city? To migrate from one to another, near or far, sometimes, making us cross the seven seas?

Each city has got a personality, an aura.

Each city is individual, unique.

And it calls!

Listen to Robert Frost:

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

This month's call is based on a stunning picture by Keshav Sharma

Picture by Keshav Sharma

, a young visual artist from Ontario, Canada. It captures the mood of the city in seasonal transition. The dusk has arrived. Lights are on and vivid painting unfolds before you.

In fact, the visual is a testimony to the haunting beauty of nature. How autumn can colour the cityscapes with broad brushworks, dipped in the colours of primeval energy and raw intensity; a live canvas where one walks freely, being a part, an element of the collage.

The palette of hues is staggeringly rich and multi-shaded; fresh and real; soothing to the eyes and souls.

A typical cityscape.

Vibrant but silent.

Sunset brings its own sadness, melancholic note to the sensitive. It also signals the end of the day’s hard and honest work.

As Emile Dickinson observes in her signature style:

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night’s decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

The city with many faces and moods. Vibrant. decaying. Dynamic. Static. Witness to the seasonal change, transitions, leaving silent non-verbal messages to the dwellers, denizens.

The responses to this monthly prompt are equally riveting.

The rest of the issue is also rich with content.

This is the last edition of Setu.

We are going on a much-deserved long break.

Remain thankful to our valued contributors, guest-editors, editors and readers for their continual love and support to the bilingual journal.

It was a fulfilling journey---and a humble endeavour to serve the global community of more than 7-million patrons.

Setu tried to serve as a bridge in Hindi and English to the best of our abilities and happy to say that it could create a place in your hearts and forge long-term bonds.

Big thanks to everybody involved in this almost-decade-long cultural mission; a monthly online outing with creatives that was always exhilarating; innovating and radical in the editorial vision and practice.

Setu is on hiatus from next year onwards.

Once back, we will let you know.

Happy holidays!
Happy New Year!

Apologies for any unintended error, inconvenience or mistake.

Enjoy life as it passes in its daily flow, every minute of it.

Continue to read and sing your songs, please.

With very best wishes!

Sunil Sharma,

Managing Editor,
Setu (English)

Setu, December 2025

Setu Special Section: December 2025

Special Section: Framing a City

Picture by Keshav Sharma

Special Section Authors: December 2025

Contributing Authors

Nivedita Roy
Sushma Malhotra
Meenakshi Mohan
Marjorie Pezzoli
Robert Maddox-Harle
Sumana Bhattacharjee
Snigdha Agrawal

Hema Ravi
Meghna Kaul
Toolika Rani
Satbir Chadha
Baijnath Gupta
Ritu Kamra Kumar
Sankha Ranjan Patra

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Learning to stay standing

The cottages keep breathing

under layers of paint, crumbling

A wooden beam bows with the memory,

of hands that formerly shaped it

Even as glass window panes,

with distinctive distortions,

stays stuck on wooden frames,

clear, efficient, indifferent to age

The old staircase knows each footfall,

how weight hesitated before a step,

how time settled in the knee

It was built for pauses

Now elevators hum nearby,

on the street opposite

Impatient, smooth, forgetting the climb

Bricks listen

They have learned this skill

They listen to wires threaded through their ribs

Ornate lamp posts once hand-lit,

now glow on circuitry

Nothing is removed entirely

Only re-taught how to function

from within

An elderly window opens the same way

but the view has changed its language

Shadows move faster

The air is louder with ideas

To stay open, the hinge must learn

A new angle of trust

Life does something similar

It does not ask permission

before adding metal knee caps

The body becomes a heritage structure

preserved, admired, occasionally bypassed

While the world installs boom bars

and signs with smaller letters

Survival is not demolition

It is an adjustment

And so, the old remains,

not untouched, not erased, but altered.

***

Bio: Snigdha Agrawal was raised in a cosmopolitan environment. Both Eastern and Western cultural influences have shaped her writings. Educated at Loreto Institutions under the tutelage of Irish nuns, she developed a love for writing early in life.

A versatile writer, she explores a wide range of genres, including poetry, short stories, travelogues, and prose. She is the published author of five books, the latest being FRAGMENTS OF TIME, a collection of memoirs written in a clear, accessible style. The book is available worldwide on Amazon in all formats. She currently lives in Bangalore, India, where she continues to nurture her two lifelong passions: writing and travelling.

Setu, December 2025

Poetry by Anurag Sharma: Translated by Sunil Sharma (Bilingual)

अनुराग शर्मा

Original Hindi poetry available at: An Indian in Pittsburgh Blog
(अनुराग शर्मा के हिंदी काव्य का अनुवाद सुनील शर्मा द्वारा)

एकाकी कोना (Lonely Spot)

मन में इक सूना कोना है

जिसमें छिप-छिपके रोना है

अपनी पीर सम्भालो आप ही

कहके किससे क्या होना है॥

There is a lonely nook in

the mind

for crying stealthily, away from

public eye,

one has to bear one’s existential pain, saying

it to anybody will not serve any purpose.

Sunil Sharma

गलियों-गलियों फिरता मारा

रात विवश और दिन बेचारा

जागृत मनवा चैन न पाता

भाग्य में अपने कब सोना है॥

Wanders aimless in streets,

A hapless night and poor day,

Alert mind never gets any relief,

Rest is never my destiny.

ग़र्द-गुबार और छींटें गंदी

इधर-उधर से हम पर पड़तीं

दुनिया धोने निकले थे अब

तन-मन अपना ही धोना है॥

Dust, despair and mud stains

Descend on us from every nook,

Once wanted to clean the world,

Now---have to cleanse own body/soul.

सीमित रिश्ते सतही नाते

खुद से बाहर सोच न पाते

जीते जी जिससे भी मिल लो

शव अपना खुद ही ढोना है॥

The limited relations, superficial associations

Cannot move beyond the self,

Whomsoever you come to meet, while being alive

You have to carry your own corpse.

सुख आभासी दुःख आभासी

जीवन माया, या बस छाया

जो भी मिला इसी जीवन का

अपना क्या था जो खोना है॥

Happiness is just a state, so is sadness

Existence is an illusion, or mere shadow,

Every possession is a gift from this life

Not going to lose what was never yours!

***

निर्वाण (Niravana)

अंधकार से प्रकट हुए हैं

अंधकार में खो जायेंगे

Born out of the dark

Will blend in the dark

बिखरे मोती रंग-बिरंगे

इक माला में पो जायेंगे

Scattered pearls, different colours,

Will get woven into a single garland.

इतने दिन से जगे हुए हम

थक कर यूँ ही सो जायेंगे

Awake for so long, we

Will fall asleep soon.

देख हमें जो हँसते हैं वे

हमें न पाकर रो जायेंगे

Those who mock now shall cry,

Once they do not find us around.

रहे अधूरे-आधे अब तक

इक दिन पूरे हो जायेंगे॥

So far felt half-finished, incomplete

Will become complete, some day.

***

मैत्री (Friendship)

दुश्मनी जमके हमसे है ठाने

दोस्ती किससे है वही जाने

Sworn enmity to us

Only they know about their friendships.

हमने दरियादिली नहीं देखी

खूब सुनते हैं उसके अ‍फ़साने

Never came across generosity

Frequently hear of such tales.

अंजुमन में सभी हैं अपने वहाँ

घर से बेदर हमीं हैं अनजाने

In the gathering are those

closest to us,

Expelled, unaware, we in our

Own home.

कुछ जला न धुआँ ही उट्ठा है

न वो शम्मा न हम हैं परवाने

Something burnt but no smoke

Neither they are the flame nor

We, the moths.

कुछ तो है खास मैं नहीं जानूँ

यूँ नहीं सब हुए हैं दीवाने

Some charisma must be there

Of which I do not know, otherwise

Folks would not have become devotees.

जाने क्या कह दिया है शर्मा ने

हमसे अब वे लगे हैं शर्माने

What did Sharma utter that

They act shy in our presence.

***

घर के वृद्ध (Old Folks of the Family)

कहते-कहते हुए रुक जाते हैं

जब न सुनता किसी को पाते हैं।

While speaking, they stop midway

Realizing that nobody is listening.

चलो अब डायरी में लिख लेंगे

मन को कहके यही भरमाते हैं।

Let us jot down in the diary

Thus, they console the mind.

बीती बातों को याद कर-कर के

दिल के घावों को वे सहलाते हैं।

Remembrance of things past

Their balm for the wounded hearts.

सबकी मजबूरियों को समझा है

अपनी बारी पे चुप हो जाते हैं।

They Understand the limitations

Of others but

Fall silent, when it is their turn.

अपनी तनहाइयों को झटका दे

गीत उत्सव के गुनगुनाते हैं॥

Shedding the heavy loneliness

They burst into

Songs of festive happiness.

***

Setu, December 2025 - सेतु, दिसम्बर 2025

Excerpt: An Alien Among Flesh Eaters - Anurag Sharma

The Cold Wall

- Anurag Sharma

Amar drove to the house, the one he still thought of as "theirs," though his name was now just a ghost on the mortgage. He hadn't called first. In his culture, you didn't schedule a crisis; you faced it with the people who were supposed to be your foundation.

He found Rita in the garden. She wasn't gardening, though; she was standing near the edge of the property, staring at the hilly horizon of Western Pennsylvania. She looked fragile against the backdrop of the massive, indifferent landscape.

"The company is gone, Rita," Amar said, bypassing the pleasantries. He stood a few feet away, respecting the invisible boundary she had drawn months ago.

She didn't turn around. "Companies go bankrupt every day here, Amar. You'll find another."

"It’s not just the job," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The Green Card application is dead. My H1B is tied to the firm. I have sixty days. If I don't find a new sponsor who can take over the filing immediately, we have to leave the country. You, me, and Vinay."

That finally made her turn. Her eyes weren't filled with the fear he expected, but with a sharp, cold calculation. "I am not going back, Amar. I've spent six years building a life here, even if it was a life in a kitchen."

"Building a life?" Amar's sincerity finally cracked. "You haven't left the house in weeks. You don't drive. You don't work. How can you stay here without a legal status? If I leave, your H4 visa vanishes instantly. You become an illegal immigrant."

Rita walked toward him, her footsteps silent on the grass. "You always think you are the only one with a plan, Amar. You always think I am the 'dependent' because that’s what the piece of paper says."

She reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out a small, laminated card. She held it up. It wasn't a driver's license.

It was an Employment Authorization Document (EAD).

Amar stared at it. His mind raced through the legalities. An H4 holder couldn't get an EAD unless the spouse's Green Card process had reached a specific, advanced stage—a stage his application had never touched.

"How?" he whispered.

"I didn't need your sponsorship for this," Rita said, her voice steady and devoid of the bitterness she usually carried. "I filed for a U-Visa months ago. I told them about the 'mental cruelty,' the isolation, the way you kept me dependent by refusing to let me integrate. The lawyer said that in cases of domestic 'control,' there are protections."

Amar felt the world tilt. He had spent years begging her to drive, to work, to socialize—to be free. He had uprooted flowers for their son and spent his lunchtime driving across town to ensure she was never stranded. He had been the one pushing for her independence, yet she had used her lack of independence as the very evidence to secure her own legal safety.

"You told them I kept you here against your will?" Amar asked. His voice was a hollowed-out version of itself.

"I told them my reality," she replied. "And my reality gave me this card. I have a job starting Monday at the local library's administrative office. They prove transport. I don't need your car; I don't need your visa. Frankly, I don’t need you, or your sɥıʇʇy green card."

The "surprise element" wasn't the bankruptcy. It was the realization that while Amar was playing by the rules of a fair society, Rita had learned to play the rules of a broken one. She had found a way to stay in the "land of the richest" by painting him as the villain of her story.

"And Vinay?" Amar asked.

"He stays with the parent who has a future here," she said simply.

Amar looked at the house, the scentless flowers, and the woman he no longer recognized. He had lived his life believing that good deeds bore good fruit. He had sown seeds of care, but he was harvesting a crop of betrayal.

He turned back toward his car. He didn't have sixty days anymore. In his heart, he was already gone.

[An Alien among Flesh Eaters: Coming soon online, in the bookstores, and the libraries near you]

Synopsis: In the land of the richest, the cost of a future is higher than Amar ever imagined.

Amar is a man of protocols. He believes in the school bus laws of Pennsylvania, the precise requirements of his H1B visa, and the ancient laws of Karma: sow a good seed, reap a sweet fruit. To protect his son Vinay’s future, he uproots the fragrant flowers the boy is allergic to, replacing them with a scentless, sterile garden. He thinks he is building a home.

But while Amar plays by the rules, his wife Rita is learning a different game.

Trapped in the isolation of a "dependent" visa, Rita transforms her silence into a weapon. When a corporate bankruptcy threatens to deport the family, Amar finds himself caught in a devastating paradox: to keep his son in the country he loves, he must accept the role of the villain in a story he didn't write.

Moving from the humid foothills of the Himalayas to the icy hills of Appalachia, An Alien among Flesh Eaters is a masterful exploration of sacrifice, the legal labyrinths of immigration, and the silent, heavy weight of a father’s love. In a world where "left is right and right is wrong," Amar must decide if losing everything is the only way to truly save what matters.

Setu, December 2025

Photo Feature: चित्रावली

Bio: Keshav Sharma, among other pet passions, loves to click the varied moods and beauty of the cities and countryside of Ontario region. His day job as transport manager keeps him busy; music, photography and outdoors give him a lot of energy.

केशव शर्मा अपनी अन्य रुचियों के साथ-साथ, ओंटारियो क्षेत्र के नागर और ग्रामीण क्षेत्रों के मिज़ाज और सौंदर्य को कैमरे द्वारा साझा करना पसंद करते हैं। परिवहन प्रबंधक की उनकी वृत्ति उन्हें व्यस्त रखती है, तो संगीत, फोटोग्राफी और अन्य रुचियाँ उन्हें ऊर्जा देती हैं।

Keshav Sharma केशव शर्मा

Setu, December 2025 - सेतु, दिसम्बर 2025

Fiction: Just A Bench

Rachna Vinod

Every evening at exactly six, I, the venerable iron-and-wood marvel they call Bench Number Seven, perform my first ritual of the day: clearing my throat. At least, that’s how I like to imagine it because a bench has to dream big. The pigeons always take it as their cue to flap into the air in panic, the leaves seem to shiver and fall, and I settle in for my favourite hour—the hour of stories. You might think I spend my days quietly, stoically, holding the occasional stroller-straining toddler or the bored jogger’s water bottle. But no. My evenings are packed. Humans, bless them, are the most ridiculous creatures, and I see everything.

First came Mr. D’Souza, a retired accountant with a tie that could choke a goat. He sits exactly on my left edge, adjusts his hat at precisely 6:02, and starts muttering numbers under his breath. “Two thousand… three hundred… oh, no, wait, carry the—” he goes on until his wife arrives, waving her floral scarf like a victory flag. They bicker lightly—about the price of tomatoes, the correct pronunciation of ‘quinoa,’ or why the neighbour’s dog has better manners than their cat. I like them; they remind me of squirrels arguing over acorns. Then there’s the teenager, who plops down with dramatic flair right in the center of my slats, headphones on, staring at a screen as though it contains the meaning of life. Occasionally, he taps his foot, groans, sighs, or rolls his eyes—sometimes at me, I swear. Teenagers are a mystery. I’ve concluded that if they survive adolescence, they deserve medals.

By six-fifteen, the Yoga Ladies arrive, mats in tow. Their stretches and poses are a sight. The one with the bright pink headband always tries to balance on my right armrest. I pretend not to notice, though honestly, it’s exhausting supporting her tree pose. But she smells nice, and her laughter is contagious. At times, I imagine myself flexing along with them—though that would be a sight. Then, there are always the inevitable dog owners. Mr. Kapoor, with his poodle, insists on using me as the official “post office” for whatever correspondence the dog deems urgent. I nod politely. A bench has to maintain dignity, after all. By six-thirty, the park begins to calm, the chaos simmering down. It’s then I truly enjoy my privilege: the conversations humans don’t even know I hear.

“Oh, do you think he likes me?” whispers a voice one day. I glance at a young woman on my left. She fidgets with her scarf, unaware I have been silently judging her over several weeks. “Trust me, he’s thinking about his Instagram feed, not you,” I would have said, if benches could talk—though that might be considered rude.

And then there’s the philosophical fellow who always reads aloud to himself, muttering lines from books I’ve never heard of. “To be, or not to be,” he says dramatically one Tuesday, looking at a squirrel that isn’t even paying attention. I try to act impressed. After all, I’ve read the newspaper shredded by pigeons—an achievement, in my opinion.

I’ve had visitors from all walks of life. Once, a man in a neon tracksuit ran past so fast I swore he was auditioning for a superhero movie. Another time, a woman sat for an hour knitting something so complicated I suspected it was a sweater for a giraffe. And who could forget the duo of elderly gentlemen playing chess on the adjacent table, tossing gossip back and forth like confetti? Humans are endlessly entertaining. But the best part of my day is when nobody sits on me. That’s when I stretch my imagination. I think of myself as the throne of empires, the confession booth for secret affairs, the launchpad for runaway pigeons. I imagine I have fans, followers, a social media presence and thousands of likes pouring in. In truth, my only audience is the occasional curious squirrel, who doesn’t understand irony, and a stray cat that judges me with intense suspicion.

One evening, something unusual happened. A small boy approached, dragging a bright red wagon behind him. He stopped in front of me and, after a long deliberation, sat down with the sort of decisiveness only a five-year-old can muster. His mother shouted something about ice cream melting, but he ignored her. He leaned back, staring up at the sky, and sighed. “Bench looks so comfy.” , he said suddenly.

I do not have eyes, but if I did, they would have widened. Comfy? That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever received. Most humans only curse me for being sticky, wet, or slightly wobbly. This boy, however, talked like an old friend. I felt proud. And then he whispered another secret: “I think clouds are hiding today because they don’t like Mondays.” Ah, the honesty of children. Nothing is more refreshing. I stored that wisdom in my imaginary memory banks for future reflection.

By seven, the park lights flickered on. Shadows lengthened. Pigeons returned, confident the human dramas had paused. Leaves rustled. Mr. D’Souza’s wife yanked him away toward the bus stop, the teenager plugged in his phone charger, the Yoga Ladies rolled up their mats, and Mr. Kapoor tugged his poodle off my armrest. Silence descended, comforting and familiar.

I settled into it. My day’s work was done. I had listened, judged gently, fantasized, and occasionally inspired. I had borne the weight of humans and their quirks. I had laughed silently at their earnestness, their absurdities, their small triumphs. I had, in short, lived fully—even if from a slightly stationary position.

Tomorrow and subsequent days after tomorrow, the pigeons will flee. Leaves will tremble. Humans will arrive with their dramas, confessions, ambitions, and secrets. And I will be here, faithful, observant, and infinitely entertained. After all, someone has to witness the nuances of life while pretending to be just a bench.

Setu, December 2025

Poetry by Dharmpal Mahendra Jain: Translated by Sunil Sharma (Bilingual)

धर्मपाल महेंद्र जैन

Poet: Dharmpal Mahendra Jain
---Translated from Hindi by Sunil Sharma

Loneliness

Loneliness stands like a desolate mountain

Silent aspirations get lost in the wilderness

Glazed eyes

Bidden bye to the sleep.

Remaining awake, alone, now

A big challenge.

Terrifying, the mirror

A strange look-alike lives there

Loneliness seems like an eternal mountain.

Birth and rebirth, their

Infinite definitions

Cannot be rendered in words.

Sunil Sharma

Individual mountains make ranges

Those ranges look inert.

In the darkness, I think

Darkness is not a friend.

There the isolated beings

Shed the shadows.

When solitary cloud

Does not rain in its rhythmic way

It explodes

Along with the lightening

Mountain undergoes tremors.

The solitary two--- the mountain and cloud

Turn into a spring, a river

Loneliness is washed away

In their union.

Hindi Original

अकेलापन पर्वत-सा गुमसुम खड़ा है।

मौन इच्छाएँ वीराने में गुम हैं।

पथराई आँखों ने

नींद को अलविदा कह दिया है।

अब अकेले जागने का

साहस नहीं है।

दर्पण से डर लगता है

एक अजीब-सा हम शक्ल है वहाँ।

अकेलापन पर्वत-सा अमर लगता है!

जन्म और पुनर्जन्म की

अंतहीन व्याख्याएँ शब्दों में

नहीं ढल पातीं।

अकेले-अकेले पर्वतों से बनीं

जड़ लगती हैं पर्वत शृंखलाएँ।

अंधेरे में सोचता हूँ मैं

अंधेरा मित्र नहीं है

वहाँ अकेले लोगों की

परछाई नहीं होती।

जब अकेला बादल

नहीं बरसता अपनी लय में

तो फट पड़ता है

कड़कड़ाती बिजली के साथ।

पर्वत दरकने लगता है।

दो अकेले- पर्वत और बादल,

झरना बनते हैं, नदी बनते हैं

अकेलापन बह जाता है

परस्पर विलीन हो जाने में।

Setu, December 2025 - सेतु, दिसम्बर 2025

KRYSTYNA LENKOWSKA क्रिस्टीना लेनक्वोस्का - 5

Sangeeta Gupta

THE POEMS ORIGINALLY WERE WRITTEN IN POLISH AND TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY VARIOUS TRANSLATORS; ALMOST ALL OF THEM WERE PUBISHED IN POLAND IN POLISH AND SOME OF THEM WERE PUBLISHED IN ENGLISH IN US, NEW ZEALAND AND KENYA

13. KINGDOM OF KALINGA

Ashyuta Samantha has no relatives

not even a wife

he has 2700 boarding school kids

on his mind

they won’t return to their overpopulated

tribes over murky water

they won’t be selling fake corals and pearls

to tourists under the Konrak temple

they won’t become coconut

or plastic bucket sellers

and they won’t be coming home from work at night on motorbikes

nor at dawn transport groups of their children

without safety helmets

maybe they will go to England

and open plastic surgery clinics

maybe they will stay in the country

and become builders of luxury hotels

or Hindu temples

perhaps there is another Ghandi among them

or his adoptive daughter Indira

or maybe Krishna himself

maybe one of them will be the next Ashyuta Samantha

without relatives

without a spouse

with a boarding school on his mind

you will never run out of the poor or of orphans.

Translated by Krystyna Lenkowska

कलिंग का साम्राज्य

अच्युता सामंता के कोई संबंधी नहीं,

न कोई जीवनसंगिनी।

उनके मन में बस 2700

आवासीय विद्यालय के बच्चे हैं।

वे अपने भीड़भाड़ भरे क़बीलों में

गंदे पानी के किनारे नहीं लौटेंगे।

वे कोणार्क मंदिर के नीचे

पर्यटकों को नकली मूंगे और मोती नहीं बेचेंगे।

वे नारियल या प्लास्टिक की बाल्टियाँ बेचने वाले नहीं बनेंगे।

और न ही रात में मोटरबाइक पर काम से लौटेंगे,

सुबह-सवेरे अपने बच्चों को

बिना सुरक्षा हेलमेट के सफ़र पर नहीं ले जाएंगे।

शायद वे इंग्लैंड जाएंगे,

और प्लास्टिक सर्जरी क्लिनिक खोलेंगे।

शायद वे देश में ही रहेंगे

और भव्य होटलों या हिंदू मंदिरों के निर्माता बनेंगे।

शायद उनमें से कोई एक और गांधी होगा,

या उनकी दत्तक पुत्री इंदिरा।

या शायद स्वयं कृष्ण।

शायद उनमें से कोई अगला अच्युता सामंता होगा—

बिना किसी रिश्तेदार के,

बिना किसी जीवनसंगिनी के,

सिर पर एक और आवासीय विद्यालय का भार लिए।

कभी गरीबों की,

कभी अनाथों की कमी नहीं होगी।

***

14. THE SILENCE OF THE POEM

Behind the wall a great poet

in a small room

with a small balcony

overlooking the great sea

day after day

night after night

behind the shade built

from the noise of the street

hidden in the silence of the poem

so perfectly

that it leaves a black hole in the heart

for a long time

maybe for

we exchange notes pushed under the doors

she does not use the sounds of feet

windows doors keys elevate

behind the wall the great poetry is silent

I move closer to the wall

to hear the great silence

to go deaf for a moment

to touch the black void

to turn black or even gray

to become blind with a flash

the wall on my side is white

white paper

white pen.

Translated by Krystyna Lenkowska

कविता की निस्तब्धता

दीवार के पीछे, एक महान कवि

एक छोटे से कमरे में,

छोटे से बालकनी के साथ,

जो देखती है विशाल समुद्र की ओर।

दिन-ब-दिन,

रात-दर-रात,

गली के शोर से बनी छाया के पीछे,

कविता की निस्तब्धता में

इतनी पूर्णता से छिपी हुई

कि वह हृदय में

एक काला शून्य छोड़ जाती है,

बहुत लंबे समय तक,

शायद सदा के लिए।

हम दरवाज़े के नीचे

चुपचाप नोट्स सरकाते हैं।

वह पैरों की आहट नहीं होने देती,

खिड़कियाँ, दरवाज़े, चाबियाँ—

सब ऊँचे उठ जाते हैं।

दीवार के पीछे,

महान कविता मौन है।

मैं दीवार के और करीब जाता हूँ,

उस महान मौन को सुनने के लिए,

क्षणभर के लिए बहरा होने के लिए,

उस काले शून्य को छूने के लिए,

खुद को काला,

या शायद धूसर बनाने के लिए,

अचानक चमक से अंधा होने के लिए।

मेरी ओर की दीवार सफ़ेद है—

सफ़ेद कागज़,

सफ़ेद क़लम।

***

15. ODE TO SNOW

You fall like everything else

on this planet

you come from silence

from where we also come

you rest against freezing time and hard earth

deer leave traces over you

a dog sinks in you up to its ears with such obviousness

in his eyes as if he had understood

in Slocina in the Carpathian foothills you’re the same

as in Turkish Kars

Herodot’s legend

geometry on glass

black ice on the road

our fragile bodies crash

in your glazed splendor

under you - love death and trash

lightly patted over

fragments of rockets from Baykonur drop on your head

while you, unshakable equilibrist, lie

supine in the Altai mountains

my white idealist.

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

बर्फ के लिए एक ओड

तुम गिरते हो जैसे सब कुछ

इस ग्रह पर गिरता है।

तुम आती हो मौन से,

उसी मौन से जहाँ से हम भी आए हैं।

तुम जमी हुई घड़ी और कठोर धरती पर ठहरती हो।

हिरण तुम्हारे ऊपर अपने निशान छोड़ जाते हैं।

एक कुत्ता तुममें कानों तक धँस जाता है,

उसकी आँखों में ऐसी सहज स्वीकृति

जैसे उसने सब कुछ समझ लिया हो।

स्लोचिना के कार्पेथियाई पहाड़ियों में तुम वैसी ही हो

जैसी तुर्की के कार्स में।

हेरोडोटस की कथा,

काँच पर बनी ज्यामिति,

सड़क पर जमी काली बर्फ।

हमारे नाज़ुक शरीर

तुम्हारी चमकती हुई सतह पर

टकराकर बिखर जाते हैं।

तुम्हारे नीचे—

प्रेम, मृत्यु, और कूड़ा,

हल्के से ढका हुआ।

बैकनूर से गिरे रॉकेट के टुकड़े

तुम्हारे सिर पर बरसते हैं।

और तुम, अडिग नटसम्राट की तरह,

अल्ताई पर्वतों में चित्त लेटी रहती हो।

मेरी श्वेत आदर्शवादी।

***

Setu, December 2025 - सेतु, दिसम्बर 2025

The Schedule of Víhaan

John Clark Smith

10 Samu

Wherein we return to the present from Hután’s recollections

and learn while Hután is in Samu
Carina’s story and her abduction,
the identity of her patron,
Carina’s training,
the Cube Fortress
and why Rita died.

Víhaan, despite his own agenda, hadn’t forgotten

his willingness to assist Hután with two enigmas—

First, who took Carina, where they took her and why,

and Second, how did Rita perish from a heart attack?

A few surprises surfaced despite the many details,

such as the connection between Carina’s abduction

and the series of events that ended in Rita’s death,

a fact that meant, though rescuing Carina was a start,

Hután sought to know who risks abduction when Carina

had a powerful and protective personal patron

as well as members of the Remnant supporting her?

Long ago he had learned that there is always more to know

and new knowledge leads to ignorance and secret knowledge.

To remind himself he would chant two lines of mystery:

“I think not ‘I know well’ yet I know not ‘I know not;’ He

of us who knows It, knows It, yet he knows not ‘he knows not.’”[1]

After the meeting ended at Andaman headquarters,

Hután boarded a plane on route to a Polynesian

island, Samu—a location The Schedule suggested—

a forested island with gorgeous beaches, rocky cliffs,

one hundred caves, a dormant volcano, several small

villages around its coasts and one large town, Latika,

where The Schedule disclosed they now were holding Carina.

On the way he received a long text message from someone

unknown to him but claiming he was Carina’s patron

yet offered no name while acting as if he knew Hután

and requested Hután ask Carina to contact him—

the assumption being he couldn’t contact Carina

himself but only it seems through the Remnant and Hután—

and say to her Eger, a word unfamiliar to him

until he asked George, which promptly said it was a city

a couple of hours by train from Budapest, Hungary.

Hután was aware that her unknown patron had guided

Carina to the Remnant—she often talked about it—

by encouraging her to go to a Buddhist retreat

in Mount Shasta, California when Udaki was there

and where Carina could show a corrupt Hungarian

politician the toll his harsh policies inflicted

on the constituency until a brutal snowstorm

struck the region, stranding all guests, giving Carina time

to meet and talk with Udaki—the politician’s mind

remaining unchanged—talk that eventually convinced her

to join the Remnant, though the patron had signaled Hután

and Udaki that Carina would be there and how much

he wanted his prodigy to belong in the Remnant.

Yet the meeting was fortuitous for the Remnant too,

since Hután and Udaki also scouted Carina

a few months previous to the patron contacting them

and were impressed with her focus, skills, and maturity.

They too were waiting for the proper opportunity.

Now the patron appears again here, clearly very aware

that something has happened to Carina, and sends this code

word Eger, which will mean something when Hután rescues her,

a rescue that had to remain uncertain as he was

without his team, such as Carina herself, to help him—

since Udaki and he had agreed he must act alone.

Yet the patron was more aware than a code word would show.

This patron also paid for and arranged a covert passage

on a boat captained by a man who knew the back story,

the causes why these events happened, and who was involved.

Though he hadn’t traveled beyond the islands, to Hután

he seemed “to know the world without going about,”[2] a man

essential, for Hután had never visited Samu,

had no knowledge why Carina would have been taken here,

but, most of all, he had always had a dreadful feeling

about abductions—the abducted are either never found

or they are found dead in rarely pleasant ways of dying.

These were his thoughts when he rowed his boat to a dock

distant from busy shores, a place where the captain said

he would go unnoticed, and he trusted the old fellow,

because what Hután did know, he had learned from the captain,

who not only knew about Samu and its politics and society,

but about the people who caused this event to happen.

The captain told the tale as told to him by the patron:

A princess secretly bore an illegitimate child

and let the father raise the child while the princess married,

became a queen, had three sons—one of whom was Prince Andres—

but the princess, now the Queen, learned that the father—who had

a palace of his own on another island—had turned

her daughter into a spy, a warrior, a martial

arts expert, well-versed in weapons, the arts, economics,

sciences, languages, but importantly, a cowgirl,

he was proud to say, as rugged as any gunslinger;

and that angered the Queen more than all the other training

he was foisting on her daughter, because his obsession

with the American West was so vulgar, so irksome

and also so American, a culture she hated,

that, even if he had Royal blood and she could have

married him, she wouldn’t have married him, not when she saw

his own palace and the tasteless interior décor,

an amalgam of house styles from that period—or what

he believed copied the aesthetics of the Old West view

of interiors—with a lot of objects made of wood,

stone, leather, metal, in a simple hand-made rustic look,

and a varied assortment of mounted animal heads.

She couldn’t conceive of walking around every moment

of her day looking at those rugs, furniture, and walls,

but an even greater travesty was when he wanted

his daughter to belong to that cowardly, liberal,

sissy, Sunday school bunch of idealists, the Remnant,

not Dvorak, which she supported and greatly funded,

even using her son Prince Andres on Dvorak’s missions.

No, she couldn’t tolerate that, she had to do something,

and not let an idiot who struts in flashy cowboy

outfits and boots, who attempts to talk in a nineteenth century

accent of Old West townsfolk, try to brainwash Carina.

No, she wouldn’t allow it, none of it, she had to save

the girl and introduce her to the ways of the Queen.

So first she tried to threaten Hután himself by warning him

she would hurt his wife Rita unless he fired Carina,

a common threat that Hután ignored when used against him.

But the Queen wouldn’t be ignored, she continued her plan

to terrorize Rita constantly for several hours

by barking dogs, pounding the windows and doors, girls screaming,

keeping her from leaving, yelling out cruel threats at her,

shooting bullets up to the sky, and non-stop banging drums.

Perhaps another woman might have survived the trauma,

a less fragile personality who feared less the country,

but Rita lived in a state of fright before the terror,

her heart panicked too many times, she fainted and awoke,

fainted and awoke, five times to her worst nightmare,

a scene she had seen in her imagination daily,

till finally the heart, the mind, could not recover

and her life slipped away, with no one nearby to save her.

Afraid no more, her house under attack, Hután’s dog Wink

placed there to keep her company to scare off intruders;

but there were no intruders. The danger remained outside.

Wink’s last defense was to growl and bark and prowl for a while,

but even Wink, when he saw Rita lifeless on the floor,

stopped and lay down beside her, his head resting on her chest,

and stayed beside her until they took her body away,

the entire incident not what the Queen had intended.

She wanted only to coerce Hután to find a way

to release Carina so she would then join Dvorak.

She didn’t want the father to influence Carina,

but in the end, she blamed Rita’s death on weakness and fear,

and refused liability or regret and moved on.

At that point the captain stopped and stared at Hutan’s tear-streaked

face, this part of the story making him so furious

he couldn’t stop his tears and rushed on quickly to the sea

as if he was intending to plunge into its dark depths.

Instead, he stopped at the edge and picked up a couple shells

and hurled them into the water, then fell on to his knees

and cried with far greater force, ending in a long shrill scream.

After, he became very still and tried to meditate

and “turn the light around to shine inward so that the mind

is not aroused by things,”[3] as he had practiced so often,

finally relinquishing himself to the true story

of how Rita died and dissipating his emotions:

‘The Queen killed Rita? She caused her death? Carina’s mother?’

The Queen never seemed to care whether her first paramour,

Carina’s father, had big plans for his brilliant daughter

or wanted her to become what he could never achieve

even with all his money, a good outlaw in the Wild

West—but the “west” in this case was his homeland, Hungary.

He raised her to combine all her training, skills, and knowledge

and ride into towns where corrupt evil people govern

and save the town, to do what he wished someone could have done

for his grandparents, immigrant victims of tyranny.

None of these plans did the Queen know, and, if she did, she would

have rebuffed them, even if all those tyrants Dvorak

controlled and were planted there for the welfare of the town.

So the patron, Carina’s father, watched her life slowly

unfold, proud how she was growing into such a woman,

and expected—with no help from The Schedule—that the Queen

would try to change her views and ask her to join Dvorak,

or if not, she would then jail her to prevent an escape

so she couldn’t return to the patron’s choice, the Remnant.

Those were the first assumptions, but the patron was guessing

about the plans of the Queen, with no knowledge where the Queen

was holding Carina, since the crisis now in Eger

required Carina be found and freed as soon as he could

or the crisis there and in other towns would escalate.

The captain explained that the caves were the best means to move

around the island without being noticed and Hután

should use them to find her and return her to the same place

the captain brought him and take her home on the same boat route.

Hután stopped for a moment, sitting on the sand, and thought

about Carina, how she was always supporting him.

“What are tributes, freedom, or youth compared” to her,[4] his muse,

how effective she had been in executing his plans,

how he first noticed her when she was dancing with Prince Andres

and how her two giant guards had quickly rushed her away,

but even then, he wondered why someone targeted her.

Carina believed Dvorak was trying to threaten

her patron, but Why threaten her patron? Hután had asked.

Was her mother the Queen somehow behind the poisoning?

Yet that made little sense to him: why poison Carina

when she was abducting her now for another purpose?

So Dvorak once again became the perpetrator

who sent Prince Andres to poison Carina at the ball

without knowing she was his half-sister, their true motives

unclear at first to Hután, since he saw no connection

to Prince Andres, who broke the maxim of a follower

and a sage: “Follow not that of which you have no knowledge.”[5]

But now Hután understood why the patron was a threat.

The patron planned to challenge Dvorak’s ubiquitous

dictators, not only in Hungary, and the patron

had trained Carina to stop Dvorak, even enlisting

the Remnant to help before they focused on The Schedule.

Yet Dvorak wasn’t behind this Samu abduction,

this was the Queen’s scheme—though Dvorak would gladly back her—

a personal matter between the patron and the Queen

where the Queen had to prevent this molding of her daughter

by what she described as anti-establishment, vulgar,

naïve, idealist propaganda and corruption.

After these thoughts and the captain’s avid encouragement,

Hután entered the caves and took the captain’s instruction,

as well as the information given by The Schedule.

Most of the trip was dark, even with a light evident

far down different paths, each leading to a different

location on the island, some of them stopped at the shore

areas, others remained level and led to inland

spots, while thirteen opened to the city, exiting

from the underground into diverse places, such as shops,

people’s homes, from under the street, the churches, and temples,

the police station, the bank; but the captain, who had lived

his life on Samu, guided him where The Schedule pointed.

Hután came up from under the street and was confronted

with a two-story concrete cube without windows or doors,

and he thought, as he sat on a curb on the street and watched

at least six people roaming about and looking at him,

‘Now this building reminds me of a place to keep someone

abducted or imprisoned.’ Entering it from above

or below the building were choices anticipated

by Hután, for which the patron gave a helicopter

but which couldn’t be useful until her situation

was far more clear. The Schedule could say she was in a room,

it couldn’t describe her plight. Hután needed to witness

how they were guarding her and her mental and physical state.

He walked up to the building and scanned its walls to find out

if there was a way he could climb up, but nothing appeared.

He went around the back of the building to see if there

was a fire escape or some other device for scaling,

yet each side of the cube looked like a military fortress

without any means to enter. He hurriedly returned

to the curb and realized that entrance from above may not be feasible.

Perhaps from below a cave path might lead to an entrance.

He climbed down under to the path that brought him to the street

and tried several underground paths until he found one

that The Schedule approved as leading to the concrete cube.

The path had four guards, two at the start, two at the end,

Hután disabled the first two with paralyzing gas,

the second two he allowed capture until they opened

the door and then spit out two knock-out darts at their forearms,

dressed in one of their uniforms, and cautiously wandered

up the spiral stairs to an open and dim vestibule

so frighteningly quiet he had to remove his shoes

and tread lightly the next spiral stairs to an oval shaped

area bordered by Corinthian pillars, at the center

a blue pool with Carina floating there on a mattress

face up, a rope tied to legs and arms and to four pillars.

Hután hid behind one of the pillars, looking for guards.

Though no one was noticeable, he knew they must be close

since she needed to perform basic functions at some point.

After an hour of waiting, two female guards came, released

the ropes so she could stand and walk up the steps in the pool

and offered a table, chair, and a portable toilet.

Carina sat and ate her meal, used the toilet, returned

to the water without speaking or any protesting—

which Hután found most odd, ‘Was she doped?,’ he thought at the time—

but he learned that escape from this trap was impossible.

He had to act quickly since soon the effects of the gas

and the darts would wear off and the guards would quickly find him.

When he saw the guards leave, he cut the ropes, and Carina

followed him to the roof, where the guards appeared and attacked,

but Carina had no difficulty defeating them.

While the helicopter flew them to the shore, Carina

kept her arms around Hután and continuously thanked

and kissed him, and for the first time did what she had promised

she would do, laying on that mattress in lonely darkness:

express her true feelings for this man she had so long loved

and ignore the risk that had always plagued her. I love you,

she whispered in his ear, and he held her face a long time

and stared into her eyes and in them Rita was smiling.

A stubborn wall of bricks crumbled for such a waiting heart

that pounded hard at the sight of her and feel of her skin,

and as one once blind, he acquired vision with her embrace.

I love you too, he said, the words changing a man grieving

into a man looking into a future that could be bright and light.

I’m sorry you had to wait so long for me to see you,

but that’s done: Forever now you’ll be “in my hair and eyes.”[6]

They returned to the same shore where awaited the captain

who took them to the patron’s island and a private jet

that flew them both back to the headquarters of the Remnant.

On that jet was the patron, Carina’s father, in tears,

so happy to see his daughter escape from the Queen’s trap,

but who soon returned to his own plans to free Hungary

from the many tyrants now installed there by Dvorak,

plans that Hután and she eagerly heard and accepted,

and on which the Remnant had labored before The Schedule

but upon which they couldn’t act until they had resolved

all the problems and present dangers facing the Remnant.

[1] Kena Upanishad, 10, trans. R. E Hume. Principal Upanishads dated ca. 800 to 300 BCE.
[2] Dao De Jing 47, trans. Ariane Rump.
[3] The Secret of the Golden Flower, VIII.11, trans. T. Cleary.
[4] From “The Muse,” by Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966), trans. S. Burnshaw.
[5] From The Quran (610-632), Chapter 17, trans. M. Z. Khan.
[6] From Kenneth Fearing’s poem, “Love, 20C The First Quarter Mile.”

Setu, December 2025

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Setu

Volume 10; Issue 7; December 2025

Editorial

Collaboration: Experimental Poetry

Poetry

Translation in Five Parts: Poetry: Part V

Translation (Hindi Poetry)

Exclusive: Excerpt of a Novel

Young Signature: Fiction

Author of the Month

Fiction

Long Read: Fiction

Non-Fiction

Book Review

Three-Part Novella in Free Verse: Part III

Photo Album: Cityscapes

Reflective Essay

Verse Novel: Chapter X

Setu Special Edition: Framing a City

The Limited Video Series of Literary and Critical Conversations

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

एक सेतु का विश्राम: अंतिम संपादकीय

Special Section: Framing a City

एकाकी कोना (Lonely Spot)

निर्वाण (Niravana)

मैत्री (Friendship)

घर के वृद्ध (Old Folks of the Family)

- Anurag Sharma

Rachna Vinod

Poet: Dharmpal Mahendra Jain---Translated from Hindi by Sunil Sharma

10 Samu

Poet: Dharmpal Mahendra Jain
---Translated from Hindi by Sunil Sharma