A Review of Ethereal Earth

Book: Ethereal Earth
Author: Rishipratim Guha Mustafi
Date: April 2024
Number of pages: 96
ISBN: 978-81‐967932-3-4

Review by Ajanta Paul

 

Ethereal Earth by Rishipratim Guha Mustafi is a feast for the eyes as he takes the viewer on a panoramic journey across various places in India and Bhutan. Artfully reproduced on glossy paper, the 76 photographs unfurl their narratives of reality, mystery, beauty and fantasy through an adroit blend of light, colour, form and texture. Captured and compiled by a professional photographer who consciously chose his artistic discipline over a regular job in the IT industry, this book is for photography enthusiasts and art connoisseurs alike.

Divided into nine sections - Kolkata, Madhya Pradesh, Bhutan, Darjeeling, Paradip, Kiriburu, Howrah, Jamshedpur and Daringbadi, this magnificent collection of landscape photographs is an opulent testimony to natural beauty in its many forms.

Interestingly, Nature dominates the depiction of urban scenes, too, lingering within the frames of city compositions as is the case with the Kolkata and Jamshedpur photographs. When these photographs are not celebrating a stark and striking chiaroscuro of the city they're serenading the cosmos in all its elemental splendour. Skies swirling with clouds, awash with delicate hues, at times gently luminous with a dawn mist or sunset haze unfold across the pages in a cornucopia of shades that sates the aesthetic palate.

The very word “photography” meaning “drawing with light” provides an insight into its process of creation. While painters use pigments to draw objects or abstractions, photographers use light to define their subjects. This practice of painting with light is exquisite in Ethereal Earth as the photographer plays with its effects in frame after frame. The quality, intensity and direction of light determine the visual aspect of the work, impacting its mood and mystique.

Like Alice Aedy, documentary filmmaker who believes her work “is driven by the idea that visual storytelling and images have the power to change the world”, Guha Mustafi’s camera is immersed in its truth telling tryst as it seeks to transform modes of perception which, for their part, can revolutionize the way we look at things or understand their inner dynamics.

In the best tradition of landscape photographs which capture sweeping vistas along with detailed close-ups, Guha Mustafi's lens is, for the most part, unerring in its estimation of scale, intuitively incorporating both expansive shots of the immense outdoors and minutely observed details of a humdrum human life. The photograph in the Bhutan section (p 49), for instance, presents a nebulous landscape in the distance where a clothesline with a couple of clothes pegs in the foreground adds that domestic detail which imparts an overall balance to the composition.

Each photograph speaks to the soul initiating a dialogue of discovery that attempts to understand the dreamscape in its mesmerizing aspects. Some of the photographs of this young lensman have the quality of paintings, the liquid colours flowing fluidly into each other as light suffuses the outlines of things. Those on pages 32, 37, 47 and 80, for instance, are mist-laden scenes where the outlines between land, sky and vegetation are blurred in an apotheosis of mysterious haziness. Most of the photographs in the Madhya Pradesh, Bhutan and Darjeeling sections are picture postcard perfect in the delicacy of their tints and neatness of composition. The frames on pages 32, 36, 44, 46, 47 and 80 may be regarded as representative examples of this kind of lyrical beauty. They are, at the same time, Impressionistic in their use of light and general diffusion of detail.

Lavish centre spreads like the photographs (on pages 18-19. 22-23. 42-43, 58-59, 84-85, 88-89, 92-93) demonstrate a centripetal energy, opening from the centre onto distant margins, exhibiting considerable spatial range within their aesthetic ambit, and presenting the near with the far in an ambitious embrace.

In photographs across sections a river frequently winds along like the proverbial twist in the tale, sometimes barely discernible, a whisper of white merging with the background; and at other times, an active agent of allurement touched with a brilliant indigo or the rosy blush of sunset. Similarly, river banks, skies and clouds constitute a lingering leitmotif of recognizable natural elements in the overall symphony of space and style.

There is something haunting about the imagery - a solitary boat cruising on blue waters in the Paradip section; a lone cowherd driving his bovine flock home in the dusk; an ebony silhouette of a bird etched against a slowly kindling dawn horizon in one of the Kolkata frames; and a lost and lonely boulder in the serene flow of the Narmada in the Madhya Pradesh section. Each of these figures instils in its own way, a sense of loneliness but not necessarily desolation in the contemporary experience.

As the photographer strives to uncover that elusive truth - that epiphany born of angle, depth and light, experimenting as he does with filter and aperture control, he sometimes delivers  brilliantly in capturing the essence of mood and moment. In such instances one is reminded of Alfred Stieglitz's words, "In photography there is a reality so subtle that it becomes more real than reality.”

In several of the landscape photographs the focus, usually softly effulgent, is on serving a lateral slice of the topography under description. The sequence of the frames tells its own story, often with single and double pages providing variants on the same theme under different types of lighting. The same piece of landscape is sometimes seen from different angles of vision, the photographer's perspective negotiating new transactions of locatedness and identity. Such a resonantly repetitive technique seems to be a visual counterpart of literary postmodernism with its lush and overlapping modes of storytelling.

The vision that holds together this compelling and comprehensive photo-essay seems to emanate from a gentle wisdom which sees an interconnectedness between all things, and which engages with the essential haziness of matter, the clarity of truth being just an aspect of the epistemological reality.

Handsomely produced by Penprints, the present repository of rich and rewarding prints is a collector's item with its coherent context, concept and content. The minimal text enhances the lucidity of the frames without being, in any way, intrusive or redundant. The layout, typography, color, size, paper and binding of the book testify to a commitment to quality that is non  negotiable.

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Setu, July 2025

A Review of Ganga Sagar: Salvation by Water

Ganga Sagar: Salvation by Water

Author: Sandipan Mukherjee 

Publisher: Penprints 

Year of publication: 2023

ISBN: 978-81-964177-9-6

ISBN 10-81-964177-9-9

No of pages: 144

Review by Ajanta Paul

Ganga Sagar: Salvation by Water, an elegant and elaborate photo-essay on the many aspects of Gangasagar - the pilgrimage, the place and the passion - is a paean to the primordial power of the river Ganga in its multiple manifestations. Explored assiduously over years through repeated visits, the pilgrimage of Gangasagar, in its bewildering variety and rich complexity yields its elusive spirit to the faithful and visionary lens of the author/photographer, Sandipan Mukherjee.

It is to the author's credit that he never overworks his subject but allows it to tell its story, or rather, stories at its own pace, revealing and withholding its secrets according to its mood and will. This imparts to the book a mystique that defies facile interpretations and neat classifications. Gangasagar - the pilgrimage, the festival, the mass worship, the ceremonial ritual and lone supplication - is the culmination of a journey, and in some cases, a dream.

Located in an iconic riverine estuary, Sagar Island is caught in the cross currents of history, geography, geology, religion and mythology. A.F. Lacroix's “ephemeral city” on what the author describes as “desolate shores”, the origins of the pilgrimage and mela at Sagar are obscure, even apocryphal, at times, though empirical evidence such as coins, inscriptions, remnants of pottery and other artefacts and infrastructural ruins provide an idea of its successive phases of human habitation and general history.

Academic debate about the genesis of the Bhagirathi and the antiquity of Sagar Island notwithstanding, “archaeological evidences unearthed”, says the author, “since the reclamation of the island from the Sunderbans have now proven beyond doubt the existence of advanced civilizations in the area between 300 BC and 1200 AD”.

The photographs in the book, according to Sankarlal Bhattacharjee in his Foreword to the work strive to “arrest fleeting moments of the human drama that is Gangasagar Mela”. While for many “Bengalis Gangasagar is a site too close and too far”, according to him the whole of rural India converges on the delicate coastal ecology of this deltaic region during the days of the festival. Luminous and eloquent, the photographs are poems in shade, shape and colour, striving to express the soul of the ancient traditions of the fair.

Supplementing the photographs is a comprehensive textual commentary that includes insights on the history and mythology of Sagar Island, the logistics of the pilgrimage and details of the pujas and yajnas organized at the temple of Kapila Muni during Makara Sankranti. There are references to sacrificial offerings such as mundan and distinctive rituals like go-daan, Ganga puja, pitri tarpan and Baitarani-paar.

Charitable deeds by the pilgrims, yogic feats by the Naga sadhus, the stalls selling food items, daily necessities and souvenirs, the customs and superstitions, a breath of spirituality, the sensory overload, the chaos and the calm, the sheer energy and scale of the extraordinary exercise and the presence of government as well as non-governmental organisations have been masterfully  portrayed through lavish photographs that celebrate the lush extravagance of the unique phenomenon.

The photographs make a deep visual impression and forge a creative connection with viewers through the frequent presence of multiple narratives in a single frame. The scene in the landscape on page 21, for instance, tells the story of a knot of women pilgrims through a stark evocation of the back of their covered heads in the foreground. The ominous, swirling clouds in the background improvise their own raga of an imminent storm while the water in the middle distance enacts its limpid drama of eternity.

The photographs in the book, in the rich diversity of composition and style conform to the landscape, portrait and documentary modes, detailing an amazing verisimilitude with a life lived on the edges of land and water, and in the core of faith. The title page, spectacular in its panoramic sweep, is a superb example of the landscape mode revelling in a mystical evocation of its primary subject - the journey to salvation.

Many of the photographs in this aesthetically produced coffee table book have the quality of a painting. Shaded colours, hazy outlines, a palpable atmosphere, the use of chiaroscuro and a subtle play of light all serve to achieve the interdisciplinary alliance referred to. There are numerous plates which bear out this contention; the photograph on page 69 is an illustrative example of this quality. The water in light and dark shades, a muted orange sun in a blurred sky, and two black figures on the shore paint a universal nostalgia with rare felicity.

The photographs on pages 37, 51, 69, 118 and 119, to name a few, are Impressionist in their blurred silhouettes and use of light. They are landscape photographs which explore the presence of nebulous human figures against a mystical expanse of ocean and sky, inevitably inducing philosophical speculation on birth, life and death. The softly shaded and hauntingly enigmatic photographs on pages 18 and 51 could well have been paintings by Claude Monet. The presence of painterly qualities, notwithstanding, the aesthetic method and the philosophical perspective of the photographer require a mode that is key to his medium, as Susan Sontag so perceptively reminds us, “The painter constructs, the photographer discloses”.

The documentary photographs on pages 53 to 68 and 70 to 117, in addition to numerous others in the book, are a glorious testimony to the myriad facets of life. They throb, for the most part, with the pulsating reality of a lived experience. The photograph on page 57, for instance, documenting a community meal captures the truth of the moment through an undeniable authenticity of mood and setting. The indistinct figure of a man inside his rudimentary tent on page 55 mediates the reality of his situation without a hint of manipulation while maintaining a mysterious air that adds to its intrinsic charm. This is in keeping with one of the stated objectives of the author who believed, “that a photograph - as an individual image or as a part of a narrative - should be able to establish some connection with the viewers on its own, without the help of elaborate captions”.

Some of the frames are lyrical in their leitmotifs of loss and loneliness. The misty landscape on page 18 with its barely discernible human figures trudging towards a hazy future, with the mendicant and his bowl in the foreground resonates with an almost surreal sense of uncertainty. Some are poignant pleas for redemption. An ineffable hope of rehabilitation clings to these visuals as those on the facing pages 118 and 119. While the subjects in the former seem to be searching for something, those in the latter are pulling forward resolutely in a setting not altogether conducive to their aspirations. Yet others are exquisite epiphanies of spiritual illumination. The very last photograph in the book, a portrait on page 144 with its subject in a path of sprinkled radiance in an otherwise bleak setting suggests an enlightenment beyond the bounds of ordinary experience.

 At times, the human subjects seem utterly immersed in the ritual at hand as they are absorbed in the rhythm of renunciation. At others, they come across as vibrant beings, participating spontaneously in life's vivacious and variegated incidents. Sankarlal Bhattacharjee describes this vitality and dynamism as “an exquisite social drama replete with the finest details of custom, behaviour and norms.”

The portraits towards the end of the book, awash with colour and form, radiate an infectious energy as the subjects, seemingly caught offguard, afford a candid glimpse into their private world. The personal and the public are seen to coexist in interesting configurations of imagined spaces as subjects move fluidly between the two, negotiating the overwhelmingly communal and the resiliently individual.

Gangasagar: Salvation by Water is a handsome publication by Penprints in which the photographs have been reproduced with commendable fidelity to the original, making it a striking and evocative photo-narrative of a pilgrimage that has, of necessity, changed over the years but which remains essentially timeless in its perennial appeal.

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Setu, November 2024

Book Review: Probably Geranium

Title of the book: Probably Geranium

Author: Sekhar Banerjee
Publisher: New Delhi: Red River
Publication Year: 2024
Pages: 104 pp.
Price: USD 9.99/ ₹ 299
ISBN: 978-93-92494-64-2

   

- Ajanta Paul

 

Sekhar Banerjee

Sekhar Banerjee's latest collection of poems Probably Geranium, divided into three sections, namely, ‘Heaven's Furniture’, ‘Belladonna and Zinc’ and ‘Lukewarm Silence’ impresses with its profundity of thought couched in apparently simple, everyday images which stun the sense with their sheer ontological force. It is the inevitability of the sudden connection forged by Banerjee's verse that enforces the authenticity of the encounter. Take the first poem “An Ordinary Morning”, for instance, where the senses interfuse in a rich interplay of words and images instilling an organicity of effect that is as fluid as it is felicitous.

 

   …when winter boils

   in a kettle, the scent of steam

   and tea leaves fills up every inch

   of the broken silhouette of the sun,

   and you think of old things

   that you could have done 

   in other ways.

 

Ajanta Paul

Rainer Maria Rilke's belief in poetry being a response to the poet's deep inner need to write is eminently attributable to Banerjee who strives to capture the essence of his feelings through appropriate textures of word and image. 

 

Probably Geranium is a joyous celebration of life; ironical critique and philosophical acceptance of the same in the best tradition of a balanced appraisal. The Modernist theme of dislocation, loss and loneliness haunts the collection manifesting itself in evocative epithets that heighten the poignant discourse. In the poem “Of Letters and Addresses” the poet nostalgically recuperates a “bevy of retired postmen…carrying lost letters with good news” hoping to deliver them to their destinations. Dislocation and migrancy are clearly indicated in the ending, 

 

   They search for you

    in your old home town

    where you don't live anymore. 

 

In “The Lake” humans and nature are shown to be “two far-off planets” in their mutual exclusivity, heightening the isolation associated with both orders of creation. In the same poem a technician searching for radio signals is a potent commentary on the human need to establish connections in the vast universe. 

 

   I'm an old radio's mechanical 

   hand trying to touch distant signals

   around infinite space and darkness. 

 

In “Grief in One Line” the hills

 

   remain rooted in a place

   for long

   where they sometimes don't belong “.

 

This lack of a sense of belonging despite stability and community is an aspect of the modern predicament that is repeatedly explored in Banerjee's poems, revisiting the deracination experienced by the Euro-American writers of the 1920s belonging to what Gertrude Stein so memorably described as “the lost generation”.

 

Spiritual apprehensions informing the poems lend depth to the articulation. Referring to boats on the Ganges in “A Winter Morning in Banaras” the speaker says no boats are visible, maintaining, “But you know they are always there in the folds / of the fog”. In “Rosary” the mountains are similarly effaced by the elements: “The mountains are not visible now. They are brushed / by the rain, a single masterstroke / in watercolour”. In both instances, the hint of an entity present though not seen is powerfully felt enhancing the mystical content of the work.

 

Nature appears to be an important source of inspiration for the poet even as it is setting and symbol. It is less of an abstraction in Banerjee's present collection of poems, and more a precise geographical location such as the Darjeeling and North Bhutan hills, the Raimatang and Jayanti forests, the Leesh River Tea Estate, Zero Point, West of Bhutan, the Ganges and the Hooghly. References to dark pine forests, fog, winter sunshine, snails, fish, pebbles, moss, lichen, cardamom saplings and the like, permeate Banerjee's poems with an earthy, elemental quality that is not only deeply sensuous but is, at once intensely personal and reassuringly universal.

 

Alongside this feeling for nature in all its beauty and freshness runs an understanding of the city and its manifold moods. Much like Charles Baudelaire's and T. S. Eliot's urban poetry Banerjee's creativity is stirred, intrigued and tested by the drama, decadence and despair of city scenes. “New Year at GPO” is one such poem which captures the mentioned locality of British colonial Calcutta with an effortless ease. The speaker shares,

 

   Calcutta aka Kolkata, last days of   December, polluted

   air, festivities on Park Street, warm winter, 

   Chinese rice lights, crows on old tram wires,

   three beggars smiling in Queen's Way

 

Describing a Calcutta just waking up from sleep in “Shadows and Blebs”

 

   yawning 

   around the Howrah Bridge

 

where

 

   Municipal supervisors wander the streets

   of North Calcutta, Gothic,

   to search out the lost blackhole lids

 

Banerjee paints the picture of a sordid city preoccupied with a historical calamity; a modern metropolis in the throes of remembered atrocities, imbued with the shadows of a suffocating necropolis. 

 

The prose poem “An Afternoon in Ballimaran” captures, in an outpouring of sensations, the congested chaos of the urban reality, a cosmos unto itself. 

 

   …the shadow 

   of the minarets, the diphthong of the azaan,    smell 

   of treated leather, half-burnt thick milk, splintered

   Urdu-zubaan, scent of dry berries, the narrow alley

   sucks it all…

 

The above description, suffused with a sensory overload of details teases the mind with images of sight, sound, smell and taste, not all of it gratifying, in a rich repast of impressions which captures the hybrid pleasures of a city seething with different registers which come together in a cornucopia of experiences.

 

Lyrical, epiphanic, dramatic - the poems in Probably Geranium are, above all, unabashedly sensuous. Whether dealing with rural or urban themes, the past or present and cultivated nature or forests, the one common feature of Banerjee's poems in the present volume is sensuousness. In the poem “Body of Water” the poet achieves a sublime solipsism, beautifully expressed:

 

   You become a waterbody, a running whole

   and finally

   dissolve into yourself 

   like a lagoon

   of coarse salt.

 

The fanciful imagination of the poet expresses itself through ironic associations and striking juxtapositions. In “Rosary”, “The bathroom has a noisy faucet / as if an entire river is trapped somewhere / You can almost hear gulls screeching, water gurgling”. This may be an example of what Robert Frost (in his letters and essays) called the “audial imagination” receiving and expressing the sense of sound in an extension and intermingling of the faculties.

 

Auditory ruminations achieve a brilliance born of originality in musings such as the following stanza in the poem “Operas*:

 

   You find a roaming vegetable seller 

   with a broken cart

   reciting in a deep baritone in the lonely street -

   carrots, spinach, beans, celery, tomatoes, onions, turnips…

   an opera singer doing an aria -

   a special session attended by none.

 

This is as close as it can get to the real thing. Like the radio mechanic in “The Lake” the “roaming vegetable seller / with a broken cart” singing an aria in his deep baritone becomes a symbol of forlorn modern man striving to communicate with an indifferent universe bent on doing its own thing. Commonplace scenes and situations are recaptured through ingenious perspectives. The poetry lies in the surprising yet complete appropriateness of the equivalence wrought by the comparison in question. 

 

Probably Geranium is a colloquium of voices; a free play of accents as speakers range from the sombre and the conversational to the conspiratorial. “Scent of summer” conceals philosophical speculation in colloquial advice. “Spinoza's Hills” is an exercise in authority. In “Of Letters and Addresses” the tone is that of wistfulness while “The Philosopher's Nest” affects a decadent detachment. One is reminded of Robert Frost's famous belief in what he called the “sound of sense” in this regard, meaning, among other things, the tonalities and inflections of the speaking voice which creates its distinct audial reality as the poem proceeds, exemplifying one or more perspectives from which the same may be approached. 

 

The cover and photographs contributed by the poet testify to his multifaceted creativity, reinforcing through their uncanny mixture of starkness and ebullience some of the main concerns in the poems. There is in Banerjee's superb collection a propensity to linger on the little, often unnoticed things which, for all their apparent triviality, often comprise the vital synapses that hold together the intimate experiences and nebulous mysteries of life. Perhaps, like Rita Dove he prefers “to explore the most intimate moments, the smaller, crystallized details that our lives hinge on”.

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Setu, September 2024

Poetry: Ajanta Paul

Ajanta Paul

Fertile grief

I did not cry

When my father died.

The tears would prove useful later, 

I decided, to water the deeds

Planted in his memory

As we overcome suffering

Through struggle,

According to his teaching.

***

Expression

Those bright flowers,

sun washed, rain tossed

have sprung from my grief

buried six feet below

who says sorrow

is barren, or not beautiful?

***

Foraging

Forage amidst the stubble 

of roots and stalks 

of old words in fallow fields

where poems yet bloom

in the barren heath.

Dig below the earth

Of the subconscious hearth

For tuber treasures of thought

Growing in the warm embrace

Of rejuvenating synapses.

Search amongst nettles,

Briars and brambles, shorn

Of hope, yet seething with fruition,

In this wilderness of wants

Where paradox haunts. 

***

Strong

I grew up in a thicket

with other saplings, 

warmed and drenched 

according to the season's whims,

danced in the breeze 

with my lissom siblings, 

slept under a gorgeous moon,

pulling her silver stole 

up to our snuggling chins.

Serene it was, and graceful, too.

Who was to know what was due

to happen in a year or two?

Tall and strapping, we were 

cut down in our prime 

and sent to a timber store

where we were fashioned into 

bamboo poles, and stacked together.

I had no idea how hard I was,

or what obduracy was packed

in my unknowing young sinews,

till that night of the fateful riot

when I was used to split

the skulls of innocent strangers,

shatter the dreams of teenagers,

and drive a wedge into togetherness. 

I had no idea how strong I was.

Strong enough to break others, 

strong enough to remain whole 

while my heart lay in tatters.

So strong that I wept to discover

the power that was in me.

Bred as I had been, in harmony,

I couldn't come to terms with my identity. 

***

Bio: Dr Ajanta Paul is a poet, short story writer and literary critic who is currently the Principal of Women’s Christian College, Kolkata. A Pushcart nominee, Ajanta has published in literary journals including Verse-Virtual, Setu, The Wild Word, Offcourse, Kavya Bharati, The Statesman and The Atticus Review. Her publications include The Elixir Maker and Other Stories, American Poetry: Colonial to Contemporary, From the Singing Bowl of the Soul: Fifty Poems, Beached Driftwood: Poems and Earth Elegies.

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Setu, June 2024

Poetry of eternal hope

Book Review by Anita Nahal

Book: Beached Driftwood

Author: Ajanta Paul
Publisher: Hawakal
Year: 2023
Pages: 139
ISBN: 978-81-19858-86-6
Price: $15.99

 

When I held Beached Driftwood in my hands, the latest book by writer and academician Ajanta Paul, I was immediately reminded of Driftwood Beach on Georgia’s Jekyll Island. On the expansive, light beaches, weathered driftwood trees are left behind, just resting in their irregular glory, presenting magical optics. Visitors move over and around the oddly shaped remnants of prior full trees in a spectacular surreal setting, experiencing the stories these washed-up natural effluvia or bounties deliver to humanity. Since the title and jacket design of any book capture my attention first, therefore, my initial understanding proved correct in finding delicate, whimsical, and resilient poetry on hope, loss, and rejuvenation in this collection. Ajanta Paul’s book is an exquisitely crafted nod to waiting, expecting, and, in most cases, fulfilling moments in our lives, thereby creating, and recreating new and better memories.

Raymond, the leading character in the American television series Everybody Loves Raymond, said in one of the episodes, “Editing…yes…only remember the good stuff…Remember what you want to remember…just the good ones…” The tan, taupe, and gray colors of natural driftwood are heightened by striking, imaginative poetry in Paul’s memorable collection, one that creates heart-touching memories, in turn bestowing on the original driftwood patina, deeper pink, brown, and sometimes dark hues.

For the first time, I came across an entire collection molded around optimism and anticipation. There are no doubt streaks of grief, pain, fear, and concern embedded in the poems, for example, the heart touching poem on parents lost during Covid-19 in the poem, Statistic: Nobody had planned it that way/he had expected to see grey hair/in the comb, more ash in the ashtray/not be the ash in the shared shelf/of the oven in the crematorium.” (p. 52) Or say, the hurt of bad mouthing as expressed in the poem, Swallowing Slights: There are those slights/that remain in the mind/and, over time, multiply/magnifying the original hurts.” (p. 88)

Paul clearly employs the dichotomy of being as a metaphoric technique to address various routine or natural happenings, sentiments, and actions. However, the placidity in one’s prayer for normalcy despite the storms within and outside is still the central thematic strain of this beautiful collection. It seems the author has carefully crafted each poem with her heart placed at the center of the jumbled, confusing life matrix.

The very first poem in the collection, Trust, talks of, “I have placed/the knotted handkerchief/of my life/in your open palms…so that your monogrammed initials/in its corner may be seen again.” (p.17) Like any piece of art, the creator leaves it to interpretation. These lines could be about a lover, about sheer existence, or, as Malashri Lal asks in her foreword referencing this poem, “…I wonder if the poet is entrusting the interpretation of her poems to each individual reader…” However, as I see it, the forte in this and numerous other poems in the book is the sequential span of time and emotions that lie between wanting and aching for something to its plausible culmination and fulfillment, or at least the signifying of some kind of realization. So, we have poems such as Rice (pp.18-19), Caesura (pp.24-25), Mirror (pp.28-29), Nocturnal Rhapsody (p.30), Eternity Unrationed (p. 32), Moon Gazing (p.32-33 or Ritual of Survival (p.82) among others. And, if not realization, there is an acceptance of the tribulations and outcomes of thoughts and decisions say in poems like Eyes (pp.20-21), Aftermath of a Riot (pp.65-66), Dead Stars (p.133) Word (pp.55-56), Pin Code of Peace (pp.63-64), or in the last poem in the book, Becoming (pp.136-138).

There is also lament in many poems, such as, Of Porcelain and Pain (pp.34-35), Felled (p.36), Hibernation (p.39-40), Inheritance (pp.42-43), Ruin (pp.59-60), The Migrants (pp.67-68), and Reading (pp.50-51) to name a few. And yet, still, I find myself sensing a phoenix like positivity despite time’s misfortunes on people’s lives. Take Reading for example, while Paul talks of, “Had I read it wrong, then/Or, were the words upside down/upending their meaning/wrong side up, confusing… Or for hopes sewn into the lining/or your coat, promising warmth/in desolation when the world/ lies changed and closes”. (pp.50-51).

Like in poems by Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, and others, Ajanta Paul’s poems draw forth a distinct internal energy that is inherently reflective of our daily rituals and times. In that sense, Ajanta Paul’s poetry is contemporaneous, visually impactful, and motivational in the conduct of our lives. The poem The Impossible Light is one clear example when the poet says, “The impossible light/is the untidy sun/yellow like straw…scattering the largesse of its smile/around the quiet compound/like leaves of corn on fields of blight.” (pp.123-24) The uniqueness of Paul’s poetry is epitomization of both the good and bad of life and living, quite like the poet Rumi.

Anita Nahal

Paul’s book is very much like the driftwood that washes up quietly yet assuredly, never without a narrative to share, never without revealing scars to those empathetic, perceptive, and prudent enough to grasp, and always leaving sparkles of hope gleaming like the iridescent mother of pearls.

Beached Driftwood is an endearing poetry collection to revert to in challenging times, reaffirming our faith in ourselves, others, and the natural motion of existentialist elements.

Reviewer:

Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP, is a two-time Pushcart Prize-nominated Indian American author. She was a finalist for the Tagore literary prize 2023, and for the 2022 Cats poetry contest and 2021 Women’s artist contest, The Ekphrastic Review. An academic and author, Anita has one novel, four poetry collections, one of flash fiction, four for children, and five edited anthologies published. Her third poetry collection, What’s wrong with us Kali women? (Kelsay, 2021) was nominated by Cyril Dabydeen as the best poetry book, 2021 for British Ars Notoria, and is mandatory reading in a multicultural society course at Utrecht University. Her just released prose-poetry genre collaborative novel, drenched thoughts is also prescribed in the same course and university. Anita is the daughter of Sahitya Akademi award-winning Indian novelist and professor, Late Dr. Chaman Nahal, and educationist Late Dr. Sudarshna Nahal. Originally from New Delhi, India, Anita Nahal resides in the US. Her family include her son, daughter-in-law, and their golden doodle. More on her at: www.anitanahal.com

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Setu, February 2024

Vishnu's Debt: Ajanta Paul

Ajanta Paul

Divya looked at Naresh across the hospital aisle. Her eyes were red with lack of sleep, face taut with worry.

"It's alright," Naresh assured her. "It's a matter of only a few days, and then everything will be fine."

Just then a nurse came out of the doctor's chamber and handed Divya a sheaf of reports and prescriptions explaining to her the tests that needed to be done on Naresh before his operation could be carried out.

Young as Naresh was, he suffered from a rare cardiac condition and required a complicated surgery to get his health back.

To make matters worse, or was it better, Naresh had few relatives in the city. His mother had passed on long ago and his father had aged prematurely, becoming in the process, quite incapable of handling a crisis of this sort. So it was left to Divya to manage the present medical emergency as best she could.

It was Divya who had decided on this hospital after consulting her friends and acquaintances and she who accompanied Naresh to the doctor's visits and the various diagnostic tests.

It was just as well that they were engaged. The status somehow lent a legibility to the role that Divya perforce had to adopt under the circumstances. It was a difficult period for her though she never complained about the demands on her time and attention.

It was not the physical strain so much as the mental stress that took its toll on her. To counter the feeling of helplessness these days Divya sought solace in a small temple near her home. She found a strange peace as she meditated before the deity.

In the course of her frequent visits to this throbbing centre of religious activity Divya sometimes found devotees striking bizarre bargains with the deity in return for prayers granted. Some devotees, Divya discovered undertook the most rigorous penances imaginable - sitting for days without food or water in the lotus position; dragging oneself to the temple (not walking) and returning the same way; or flagellating oneself in some other remarkable way.

These experiences gave Divya an idea. She became hopeful of driving a deal with the Almighty. She would undertake a penance or sacrifice, something precious in return for the full recovery of Naresh. Yes, she would do that. The more she thought about it the more she liked the idea. Surely God would be convinced of her sincerity once she gave up that thing most valuable to her.

With this pact in place Divya could dispense with the excruciating anxiety that debilitated her much of the time. When she sounded out the plan before Priya, her friend, however, she discouraged her, urging her to steer clear of such superstitious mumbo jumbo.

Well, now Divya was in a quandary. She decided to approach the temple priest regarding the validity of her plan. Old Shyamsundarji was surprised. He had assumed that this girl was a modern young woman who had no interest in penances and other such practices. However, he welcomed the idea and encouraged her, saying, "If you have to do a penance or relinquish something, give up that which is really, if not most precious to you."

Divya considered the priest's words. If anything was precious to her it was her long mane that rippled down to her knees. It cascaded down in jet black waves attracting the admiration of one and all.

The day  Divya had her head shaved in the temple precincts she tried to behave as though it was any other day. Well, it was, too. What was the big deal? It was a small thing she was doing for Naresh in return for a long term guarantee of his health. She tried not to look at the locks as they fell to the ground in a steady drizzle of darkness.

The myth went that Vishnu in the Hindu pantheon had run up a huge debt to finance his marriage. Loyal followers often sacrificed their hair in mitigation of that debt. Well, that was one of the ways of looking at the matter, Divya mused.

When it was finally done Divya felt curiously shorn and vulnerable. She looked down at the ground, bit her underlip and held back the tears that threatened to engulf her. Despite her brave resolve a few drops trickled out so that the geometric design of the floor tiles lost its definitive shape and struggled to reassert its intricate motifs having become smudged like the patterns of life in those inexplicable twists of fate. Fortunately for Divya it was a passing moment and she soon became her normal self.

Divya donned a scarf to cover what she felt was her ugly and exposed head and sailed through her work with a breeziness she was far from feeling. When folks pointed to the scarf Divya just shrugged and changed the subject.

The day of the operation arrived. Naresh had been admitted to the hospital several days ago for the tests to be run and the necessary monitoring to be done. In due course Naresh was wheeled into the operation theatre. Divya sat shivering in the waiting room outside. Mohan, a distant cousin of Naresh was there along with Divya's friend Priya who kept up a patter to divert the former.

Really, relatives have this distressing habit of falling ill or getting admitted in hospital just when the professional front is at its most demanding. Mohan kept tapping his foot impatiently or looking at his watch as if through these actions he could expedite the hands of the clock. The rest of the time he kept flicking through his social media accounts on his phone to keep himself updated.

"Here, have some coffee," offered Priya, holding out two cups of a strong instant variety for Divya and Mohan. Divya who had her eyes closed, had been praying fervently, "O God, if you return my Naresh to me I shall offer you the sacrifice of my hair again and yet again. Just extend your hand and heal him."

Divya took the proffered cup and sat sipping it. In her mind's eye she saw her lustrous hair growing back again and she, mindful of her promise shaving every last strand of it to appease the deity who had given Naresh a new lease on life. Of course, she would do it as many times as was required of her. She would do anything to see Naresh back on his feet and leading a healthy life.

While Divya was thus occupied with her thoughts her name was announced on the public address system and she was asked to report to an anteroom adjacent to the operation theatre. Heart thumping and ears ringing Divya quickly made her way to the place. One of the assisting surgeons, still in his surgical gown, removed his mask and informed her, "The operation has been successful. Your patient is stable. However, this post-operative period is crucial. We shall keep him in the ICU for the next couple of days for observation."

The smell of fear and uncertainty that had been lingering in her nostrils dissipated in the wake of the liberating news and Divya drew in deep draughts of air into her lungs as she thanked God profusely for his kindness.

Once Naresh was discharged from hospital Divya took care of him round the clock giving him his medicines, supervising the preparation of nourishing diets and generally attending to every detail of his post-operative care.

A green stubble of hope began to cover Divya's heart as Naresh gained in strength slowly but steadily. There now, the pain had lessened somewhat; he could sit up in bed; his appetite was improving; not to miss, he actually took a few steps, and so on.

Divya's hair, too, had begun to grow back and a glossy furze shone on her head like a tight fitting cap. Soon enough she could discard the scarf that had been her defence against the world. She flung away the violet, blue, green and yellow pieces of muslin which had been her faithful accoutrements in the past few months. These splashes of colour swirled into a rainbow of hope in the sky of her faith.

As the year sped by on gossamer wings a date was finalized for the marriage of Naresh and Divya. Naresh's father was able to snap out of his customary apathy sufficiently to begin the nuptial negotiations. The traditional bridal wear, the red Benarasi saree was duly bought along with the ornaments. Divya, Priya and the rest of them would occasionally run their hands over the smooth material of the wedding saree marvelling at the silken texture of the cloth. It held the promise of a whole new life in its weave and folds.

Even as the wedding preparations were on in full swing something happened that challenged all of them. A strange disease afflicted Divya. Her hair began to fall out in clumps. At first she wasn't unduly worried. Seasonal alopecia sometimes affected both men and women, as far as she knew. She consulted several doctors, at first with hope, then with faith and finally in despair. To Divya's horror her hair loss just kept worsening in the most unimaginable way.

The wedding day arrived in due course. Naresh stood in the beautifully decorated mandap in the evening as the rituals were about to begin. He looked, starry eyed, at his bride sitting demurely by his side. The soft strains of the shehnai mingled with the sounds of festivities to create a music of great intensity where it was possible to get lost in the soaring notes as also in the plaintive plangencies of pain.

The friends of the bride flocked around her fussing over her attire, accessories and make up. Once the ceremony was over the newlyweds stood receiving the guests. They made a handsome couple, he in his designer sherwani and she in her maroon kanjeevaram silk saree. In the queue to wish the couple stood a young woman in a bright red scarf.

There was quite a bit of speculation regarding this misfit of a guest. Mohan, one of the cousins of the bridegroom, was overheard telling a relative, "See that girl over there? She's a friend of Naresh. In fact, Naresh was supposed to…" he dropped his voice to a whisper at this point and muttered something conspiratorially before announcing, "By the way, she's completely bald, did you know?"

"Yes, someone pointed her out to me," returned the relative. "Apparently she was struck by a virulent and untreatable type of alopecia which took away her hair in a matter of a few weeks," she clucked sympathetically.

When the subject of their remarks came up to the head of the line she smiled sweetly holding out a parcel for the bride. Seeing her Naresh started visibly.

"Divya! You!" he cried looking at her as though he had seen a ghost.

"Niti," called out Mohan. "See who's come to wish you."

Niti looked out shyly from beneath the heavy veil of her bridal saree.

Divya adjusted her scarf which was actually a carelessly cut piece of what had once been a gorgeous red Benarasi saree. As she wished the newly married couple a long and happy life together the hint of a tear sparkled on her lashes like the diamond in Niti's ear.

Divya looked straight into Naresh's eyes but he wouldn't meet them. He shifted his weight from one well-shod foot to another looking uncomfortable and embarrassed till the hubbub of the occasion resolved the situation for him.

When Divya turned to leave, a rainbow of hope arranged its chiffon swirls of colour round her head dressing it in a radiant coiffure, making her look every inch the princess that she felt deep down within her. She left the venue, head held high, confident that she had played her part in paying off Vishnu's debt.

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Setu, December 2023