Special Edition: Cul-de-sac
Picture by Robert Maddox-Harle
Special Edition Authors: September 2025
Contributing Authors
Showing posts with label Cul-de-sac. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cul-de-sac. Show all posts
Setu Special Edition: September 2025
Special Edition: Staring into the Historical Well
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| Toolika Rani |
Toolika
Rani
(Based
on the picture by Robert Maddox-Harle titled, “Lydia waiting at the bank That Never Opens”)
That
year was a doomed one
A
black spot in human history-
Hordes
of panicky people rushing to the portals of an erstwhile saviour.
How
disastrous it feels when the saviours fail!
They,
who had promised a long, long lease of a lustrous life, illustrious dreams,
O,
nothing seemed then out of reach!
The
luxuries of daily existence had been
Elevated
to the latest trend of being,
And
none, no one would lag behind,
They,
the banks assured them thus.
How
marvellous!
Loan,
the magic word, was thrown
Into
every dream as the philosopher's stone
Churning
out cars, televisions, and more;
Market
was the new-found God.
But,
then, in 1929, the bubble of mirth did burst,
The
doors of banks were shut,
Her
savings sunk in the Wall Street flunk;
She
stared stupefied
At the
white fa├зade of a closed building
Against
her black outline-
Black-
the colour of mourning,
Deepening
with every ray,
And,
still, there she stayed
Day
after day.
Hope
would never betray
The
heart she dwells within,
One
day, may not she see
That
things begin changing?
White
and black together stacked
One
upon another,
Layers
and layers in the annals of time
A
pattern forming forever,
In the
Longue Dur├йe,
Braudel
said,
The Total
History lay.
***
Bio: Squadron Leader (Dr) Toolika Rani is an ex-Indian Air Force Officer, Mountaineer (Everest Climber), Motivational Speaker (twice TEDx), Bi-lingual poet, Author, Assistant Professor of History. She is the author of eight books i.e Beyond That Wall: Redemption on Everest, Sherpas of Solukhumbu, three English poetry books titled, A Song of the Sky, A Wild Flower, and Thus Sang the Bluebirds, and two Hindi poetry books. She has edited an Anthology on Himalaya, The Mountain was Abuzz, which was displayed at the Kathmandu Mountain Film Festival 2024.
Special Edition: Waiting for a miracle
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| Paramita Mukherjee Mullick |
Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
She waits, waits and waits
Outside the bank the whole day.
The bank has not opened for days.
But she still waits outside the door.
She waits, waits and waits.
She waits for the little money saved in the bank
To buy bread and milk for her little ones.
She waits in her black mourning dress.
She waits, waits and waits
Hoping against hope she waits.
She has six mouths to feed back home.
Her husband had died in the war.
She waits, waits and waits.
She waits for the bank to open.
She waits to nourish her little ones.
She waits for a miracle to happen.
***
Special Edition: A Tenacious Woman
 |
| Namita Rai |
Namita Rai
Optimism, trust, and tenacity
confronted deceit fraud, scams!
Little bony wrists, sunken cheeks of her children in the dark backyard, gloomed in front of her eyes:
The prick of needle on the pads of her fingers
attributed to the gowns, which
adorned the LADIES IN STYLE
With her craft going!
She bought bread on the table to feed her little ones.
Her stitched patched slippers,
tired, dull eyes, spoke of her penury existence
But she took pride in her hard-earned savings,
invested in a bank, considered trusted!
Every day her savings elevated her spirit, to start the day with a new vigour.
But when she needed her savings most!
she was made to wait! wait! and, wait!
Each day, she was made to run from one desk to another table!
For in their eyes lurked, deceit and manipulations!
without any logical explanation,
They talked of everything except her
Investment,
She vowed not to let her hard-earned savings go in drain!
All doors were shut in her face!
Yet she still hoped to see an honest gaze!
that little ray of hope kept her going.
As her open mind, confronted the shut gate of the building without bowing!
Piercing an unshakeable iron will, in the core of fraud and deceit.
After eons and eons!
She heard the sound of young energetic feet by her side
A small frail, but firm form! now, inspired many hands to join her side!
Waiving her passbook in the air!
she marched to the now seeming unfamiliar structure,
She heard the turning of a key in the building gate,
the sound of click firmly established faith in herself
Optimistic,
she felt the richest woman of this world despite, her meagre savings.
Aah! Now with her savings in hand,
she dreamt of schools opening, books, brown paper cover and a quill.
As now, she could
write a better future for her little ones;
affording education and multiple skills.Special Edition: Tainted money, tainted love
By Anita Nahal
Her translucent
shadow strikes the grim building as she comes shrieking in and leaves the same.
As if from birth adored cries had become needy clarion calls. Blue-black, sooty
bruises were splash-painted on unclean doors, windows, and walls. And the pain
just settled and settled and settled like an adamant fog that refuses to
disperse. What is it that some souls seek to revel in? Rebel in? Castigate in?
Bake in? Churning the over-thick cake mix that looked like cement and mortar,
she eyed me disapprovingly. The spoon got stuck, standing straight and chiding.
My efforts were outdated bank notes, just like my aging skin that can’t appear
youthful in every picture. Everything around me spread not like smooth butter
but like a heavy shroud of disapproval and demise. No bank, not even in
recession, can allow tainted money to be invested. It’s like a cake mix that
was never baked, left on the counter, and molded in a few days with flies
swarming around.
Bio: Dr. Anita Nahal is a professor, poet, children's books writer, recent novelist and a very recent poetry-film maker. Finalist, Tagore Literary Prize, 2023, for her ekphrastic prose poetry book, Kisses at the espresso bar and she’s been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize (22, 23), Anita won the 2024 Nissim Prize for Excellence in Literature for her poetry-prose novel, drenched thoughts. Her third prose poetry collection, What’s wrong with us Kali women?, is mandatory reading at Utrecht University. Her first under 3 minute very short film, “Clubs my sinful dance muse,” won the best super short film at the Five Continents International Film Festival, Venezuela (August 2024). Her latest book is, Animals-Prose poems on sentiency, decency and indecency (2025).A Fulbright and NEH scholar, she teaches at a university in Washington DC. www.anitanahal.com
Special Edition: Hema Ravi
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| Hema Ravi |
When hope rests in the soul…(Prose)
Roshni watched the sights from the open verandah. Beyond the treacherous mudslide stood the stoic hills, a picture of verdant green. Above the hills, white clouds were gently passing by. No tell-tale signs of the disaster that struck the villages below; in a matter of seconds, she, along with a hundred others lost her homes, livelihood and belongings – all around the air was putrid.
She shed copious tears as the uniformed men pulled out bodies. A smile lit her shriveled face when there was a shout of joy - a survivor!
Strange are the ways of Mother Bhagirathi. Just a month ago, hundreds of people from her village and the nearby villages had gathered for the annual festival. She, along with others prayed for timely rains and well-being of all. Some well-to-do people gave them sarees and sweets. Roshni was overjoyed to get a brown cotton saree with paisley design. One of the two sarees she owned was almost in tatters; the gift was manna from heaven not just for her, but for the others too.
It was now gone forever, devoured by the torrent, along with her thatched home and meagre belongings. Stoic and resilient, she knew there was a higher purpose in her life being spared in the deluge. She had survived greater storms – the demise of her god-fearing parents, and devout husband; amidst it all, she had managed to hold on to the gossamer threads.
Most of the people in the village were small farmers who grew apples, rajma or grains on their tiny patches of land. It wasn’t easy to make ends meet, but others like her had accepted their poverty without rancor or ill will. After her husband’s demise, she sold the tiny piece of land to the village money lender to pay off the money borrowed from the rural bank.
The money lender advised her to keep the remaining money in the bank for future use, which she did.
Soon, Roshni began to earn a
living by helping on the farms, which was sufficient to fulfil her basic
needs. Life had been peaceful
until...she sobbed uncontrollably once again.
In the blink of an eye, the torrential waters spewed rock, mud and water over their homes, uprooted them from their foundation, buried roofs and left them homeless.
The pathetic faces of the few young survivors in the makeshift community hall brought another lump to her throat. The handful of them were huddled together in the relief camp; most of them were still in shock and in uncontrollable grief at the loss of their kin.
Roshni noticed a young girl in their midst, her face buried over her grimy lehenga. Moving closer, she patted her head gently and coaxed her to eat the gruel that lay untouched in front of her. The little girl sat there without a murmur or a tear; her eyes had a vacant stare. Placing the girl against her frail chest, Roshni fed her the gruel, little by little, smoothening her hair and nerves.
Slowly, the girl asked, Why…
Why did they leave me behind? Her heart filled with sympathy, Roshni said
in a tone barely audible - Divine
Mother’s plans cannot be understood, my dear. Pushing aside her personal
woes, Roshni offered words of solace to the traumatized survivors. She knew
that even if relief came, it would take a long time for the villagers to
recuperate. The mud slide had engulfed the
village, it was a mound of hills, and it was unfit for farming now.
Summer went by, and autumn had set in. The survivors were lodged in the makeshift home, they had rationed food, some clothes, and a thin blanket each.
An invisible bond kept them together.
One windy afternoon, a government official came up, he was panting and puffing as he came closer and announced - We will arrange compensation for the survivors and the families of the deceased. With downcast eyes, Roshni muttered, No one can ever farm on these mud hills anymore. With a stern expression, the official retorted- although it’s a small sum, it will help you to start a new life at the edge of the hills. To claim your compensation, you’ve got to come to the Panchayat Bank in Harsil valley.
He walked off hurriedly without uttering another word.
The sun was dipping over the
horizon; the sky was painted in hues of gold and crimson.
The little girl came up to her and said nonchalantly- the hills just don’t care; they just stand in silence.
Letting out a deep sigh, Roshni patted her and said, that’s the lesson, dear- rain, shine, heat, dust, storms, earthquakes or more….just remain there, be grateful for the lease of life. You’ve another opportunity, unlike many others who got sucked into the slushy grave, not with joy, but with screams and shouts.
The words meant nothing to the young girl. But Roshni was determined.
Early next morning, she left the little girl under the care of a few women and said, I’ll be gone for two days, I promise, I’ll be back soon…
Roshni walked on and on. Her
legs ached; there were blisters on her feet after the long walk over the mud,
rock, slush and debris. She reached the
large building in the town of Harsil valley. There was a large lock on the
gate. She decided she would wait there until the gates opened once again,
knowing little that the wait would be long, eternal perhaps!
Cul-de-sac (Poem)
She stopped at the large
grilled gate -
Its locks were dusty and
rusty.
Worn out clothes, her hair
done into a plait
Diminutive and sharp-nosed,
her face was crusty.
The gentle wind suddenly
turned gusty.
Move off, lady! A passerby shrieked
A storm is headed, don’t
you see everything’s dusty..
By his remarks she was
piqued.
A thunderous roar followed
a flash of lightning
People rushed hither and
thither in search of cover
Squally winds, clattering
noises, dark clouds menacing
She said to herself – the
storm will soon get over!
While the lashing continued,
she plodded towards her shack
little knowing it was a cul-de-sac…
Bionote: Hema Ravi is passionate about teaching and writing. She is the author of Joie de Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings, Everyday English and Write Right Handwriting Series. As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, she empowers and encourages aspiring writers to unleash their creative potential. She is the editor of Efflorescence – the anthology of the Chennai Poets’ Circle.
Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal
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| Snigdha Agrawal |
Walk to the bank
Lydia Kingswell was once a name of quiet renown among past and present students and staff of the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, when it came to banking matters. For more than forty years, she walked through the impressive revolving doors of the Bank of Montreal, situated within the Student Union Building on the university grounds.
She had begun as a teller and, through decades of careful and dedicated labour, became the branch manager. Her fingers had counted thousands in cash; her signature had signed off on mortgages; her voice had calmed countless worried international students trying to get by on meagre scholarships.
Her matronly looks won everybody's heart, particularly the young student community. She was a sympathetic ear for Kamaljeet of Ludhiana, India, a favourite boy of hers. Soon, she became his professional setback and personal crisis sounding board.
Now ninety, Lydia resided only a block from the campus in a peaceful, clean retirement complex. Her small suite had walls covered with framed certificates and pictures. Memories of her working years. Some showcased "Employee of the Month" medals; others depicted happy office Christmas parties and goodbye addresses at her retirement.
In her closet, neatly stored, was her navy-blue blazer encased in plastic, and her old ID badge still connected to a very worn-out blue lanyard. A pair of black heels, her favourite, stood below. The pair she could no longer use, but couldn't possibly give away.
Lydia suffered from dementia. The physicians had labelled it: Alzheimer's disease. Her caretaker, Marta, knew. Every morning, Lydia's brain rummaged through her memories like loose papers of outmoded bank statements, known but jumbled. Past and present merged. Only one ceremony remained intact.
Each morning, sharp at 8:30, Lydia put on work clothes. Not excluding Sundays.
"Can't keep the customers waiting. Today is the first day of the month, and the queue will be endless," she'd mumble, adjusting a pearl earring with shaking fingers.
She would iron the lapel of her blazer, nod to Marta, and declare,
"Time to open the branch."
Marta never interrupted her. There was no need to.
Lydia would stroll down the block, cane in hand, eyes aglow with fancied intent. The building still stood, but barely so. The doors were still shut, the windows barred. The paint flaked away in long strips. Birds had made their nests on the sills. The rustle of wings would sometimes shatter the thick stillness.
The bank had closed its doors for good following the shooting.
They explained it was a question of public safety, trust, and trauma. Things no vault, no matter how secure, could hold. In time, the site was fenced off, and a weathered wood sign heralded its destiny:
"Future Site of High-Rise Apartments for UBC Staff"
But Lydia couldn't—or wouldn't—see it.
Reaching the grassy slope, she’d stand at the edge and gaze upward as if waiting for the doors to swing open. She’d nod toward the space beside her.
“You’re in early, Kevin,” she’d say to no one.
And every morning, Marta followed a few steps behind, silently letting Lydia revisit the comfort of her former life.
In the late afternoon, again in her suite, Lydia would sit beside the window, observing clouds wander across the university landscape.
"Did I ever tell you how I began?" she'd say to Marta, who knitted beside her.
"Tell me again," Marta would say.
"In 1959, I was hired as a teller. No computers then. Just ledgers, pen, and gut."
"You did well."
"I did, didn't I?"
Lydia would smile, a gentle sparkle in her eyes, and then gaze back out of the window, as if still expecting something. During the peaceful hours of the evening, Lydia would fall asleep in her chair, a woollen shawl around her shoulders. The television hummed quietly. Maybe the news, or an old TV comedy that she no longer watched. Her fingers moved languidly in her sleep, as if tallying bills or flipping pages on a register past and gone.
And in the dream, the bank was open.
The doors swung open. The employees smiled and waved. Nora, her assistant, sat with her. Kevin delivered her coffee. The steel vault sparkled in the background.
And Lydia Kingswell, Branch Manager, sat at her desk.
Waiting for another day.
There was a time she knew every face,
Every number in its rightful place.
Gold-lined vaults of memory.
Now, crumbling as the mind ages.
She sees the bank, not shut, but intact,
Still nursing every troubled heart.
Coming onto these far shores,
Away from home, with dreams galore.
And though steel and stone remain.
Her memories slowly begin to fade.
In their stead, a foggy hue,
Superimposes what once was true.
Bio: Snigdha Agrawal was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, shaped by both Eastern and Western cultural influences. 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.
Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar
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| Ritu Kamra Kumar |
The Bank That Never Opened
The painting hangs in the gallery: a woman in a faded blue coat, standing before the locked shutters of a grand but desolate bank. Her name is Lydia. The onlookers who pause before the canvas often whisper, “She waits for what was hers.” But Lydia’s story is more than a brushstroke—it is the story of countless women who trusted institutions, only to be betrayed by them.
Lydia was a nurse, gentle and generous, the kind of soul who wrapped both wounds and words with warmth. Her life had been stitched with sorrow—her parents separated early, her mother died young, her father remarried and drifted away. Out of that solitude, Lydia carved resilience. She adopted two orphans, Daniel and Clara, determined they would never taste the bitterness of abandonment. She poured into them her modest earnings, her mothering tenderness, and her unshakable faith in education.
For decades she deposited her savings into Horizon Trust Bank, a neighbourhood institution that advertised integrity, transparency, and “banking with benevolence.” The posters bore smiling faces; the chairman gave lofty speeches about empowering the common people. Lydia, like many, believed.
But one Monday morning, she arrived to update her passbook and found the shutters sealed. A handwritten notice fluttered: “Bank under investigation. Operations suspended.” Overnight, dreams dissolved. Depositors discovered that the bank had been siphoning funds into real-estate rackets and phantom firms. The chairperson, a smooth-tongued man named Richard Caldwell, was accused of colluding with politicians, funnelling fortunes into offshore accounts. The case became a headline: “Horizon Trust Scam Swindles Thousands.”
Lydia felt crushed, yet not broken. Every day she returned, standing opposite the closed bank, as if her presence could shame the shutters open. “This is not only money, this is my children’s dignity, my decades of duty.”
Others joined her. There was Mr. Brown, a retired schoolteacher who had invested his pension. His hands shook as he clutched faded receipts. There was Mrs. Harper, a florist whose daughter’s wedding was postponed because the savings vanished. There was George, a taxi driver who had set aside coins for his son’s college admission. Together they formed a circle of loss, but also of resistance.
They would gather on the pavement, facing the bolted doors. Someone would bring tea, another biscuits, and conversations became chronicles of betrayal. Lydia emerged as their quiet leader who spoke with a solemn clarity that carried weight.
“You know,” she said once, “Simone de Beauvoir wrote, ‘Waiting is a trap. There will always be reasons to wait. The truth is, there are only two things in life, reasons and results, and reasons simply don’t count.’ Our waiting here must not be silent. Our waiting is witness.” The group nodded, She became their polestar, standing steady, silently indicting the system.
Journalists arrived, scribbling notes. One young reporter, Rachel Thomas, framed Lydia’s vigil as symbolic. “A society is judged not by its skyscrapers but by its safeguards,” she wrote. “When banks betray the very hands that built them—nurses, teachers, drivers—the economy is not merely shaken, it is shamed.” Her article went viral.
Still, the legal machinery moved slowly. Committees were constituted, commissions convened, case files circulated in labyrinthine loops. The culprits found bail, citing ‘health reasons’ and ‘political pressure.’ Ordinary depositors were handed technical jargon: liquidation, recovery, restructuring. Lydia listened, bewildered. “I only know injections and bandages,” she said, “not liquidation.”
Yet she refused despair. “My children must not see me crumble,” she reminded herself. Daniel, now studying engineering, urged her to move on. Clara, pursuing law, insisted she file a case. “Mum,” Clara said, “justice delayed is not justice denied. Let us fight.”
And fight they did. The group appointed Clara as their legal voice. She researched precedents of bank fraud, cited the Lehman Brothers collapse, referenced the 2008 financial crisis victims. Her petitions reached consumer courts, banking ombudsman, even the High Court.
The hearings became miniature theatre. Lawyers of the accused flaunted loopholes. Judges postponed. But Lydia and her circle kept arriving, their presence an unspoken testimony. They reminded the nation that behind each number in the scam report was a life, a livelihood, a lost future.
One winter evening, as the group sat opposite the shuttered bank, a little boy approached. He offered Lydia a daisy. “My mother says you are like Joan of Arc, standing against the fire.” Lydia smiled, her eyes moist. Perhaps endurance was its own form of divinity.
Months stretched into years. Finally, a ray of redemption arrived: the government announced partial reimbursement from the Deposit Insurance and Credit Guarantee Corporation. Each depositor would receive up to five thousand pounds. It was not the full sum, but it was a recognition of their right. Lydia clasped the cheque, not for herself, but for her children.
The fellowship rejoiced. Mr. Brown bought books for underprivileged students. Mrs. Harper managed her daughter’s wedding in modest grace. George paid his son’s fees. Lydia used the money to secure Clara’s enrolment in a law master’s program—so that she might continue to fight for those voiceless victims of financial fraud.
The painting in the gallery captures only one moment—Lydia before the bank that never opened. But the story beyond the frame is one of stubborn hope. For Lydia’s vigil was not vain; it became voice. It showed that even in a system scarred by scams and scams men, the steadfast stance of a simple nurse could inspire solidarity and scrutiny.
Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya
 |
| Santosh Bakaya |
This building is no enchanter
The building is no enchanter
But I will wait
I will wait with bated breath
I will wait for Godot
Like those two men.
Leaning against this building,
which is no enchanter.
Waiting for Godot
Is a good pastime.
Am I indulging in nonsensical banter
My thoughts running away at a canter?
Standing against this building
which is no enchanter.
Am I a fool indulging in absurd monologues?
Has the staff defrauded the bank?
Have they siphoned off the funds?
Have the rogues run away with the money? What if they have?
Is it cool to bank on an untrustworthy bank?
Hush, I hear the jingle of keys coming towards this building,
which is no enchanter.
Ah, there come two men with baggage and rope. Is there any scope for clinging to hope? Or should I stand here, moping,
unable to cope with the overhanging uncertainty?
Why do I keep seeing these images?
Images of the crackle of incinerating hope
hissing,
raging,
spluttering?
Oh, perish the thought!
Not for me the bugbear of negativities.
Positive Imaging is what I believe in.
Let me fix my mind
on that AI generated toddler that captivated me the other day, singing zoobie zoobie
And wait
with the sweetness of expectation.
Yes
Let me await
the opening of the
Gate …
Did I hear the creak of rusted hinges?
Or just the hiss of hope as it singes?Special Edition: Marjorie Pezzoli
 |
| Marjorie-Pezzoli |
Higher Dividends
the vault is closed
her mind is open
pickpocketed memories
returned —interest included
pennies from heaven
the shiny dime moon
more precious than gold
stretched dollar trampoline
launches her into the sky
Orion’s Belt tightened
she banks the next idea
looks in the mirror
becomes the teller
the seeker
self reflection multiplies
a passage of possibilities
the minter of pure coins
continued consciousness refined
chaotic conundrums no longer
vault of limitations —sealed over
a vanguard exchange
the currency of air is enough
innocents will no longer be traded
Marjorie Pezzoli is a poet, and silk painter.
Since 2019 her writings have been curated in printed anthologies and online
publications: Palabra: Open Mic, San Diego Poetry Annual, A Year in Ink,
Heterodox Haiku, Dadakuku, Setu Journal, Starbeck Orion, and others. Guest
Editor for the Pattern section of The
Body Politic, Nun Prophet Press. Nature, the cosmos, and the human
condition inspire Marjorie’s work. She looks for words worth a 1000 images, and
rolls out weekly gumballs of poetry, photography, and ponderings. www.PezzoliArt.com www.thecosmicgumballmachine.substack.com
Special Edition: Meghna Kaul
 |
| Meghna Kaul |
Lydia Waits
Is this the day that will avouch
for the long watch I made day in day out?
Will today be the answer
to my flickering hopes?
A gossamer I wrapped to keep my heart alive.
A flame that I kept alive
when the storm gathered in the dark
The menacing gust threatened to extinguish
I laid my body to save my soul chanting all around
This is the day that will avouch
for the long watch I made day in and day out.
People say” Look she sits there, morn till night
a desperate soul with senses denied.”
It seems life had stopped at the sight of
a door firmly bolted on her
but she sighs, “There will be a day that will avouch
for the long watch I made day in and day out.”
All my breath hangs on the door clasped tight,
where I entered once with dreamy eyes
of a life assured of peace and quiet
a corner in this world of a happy life
one glimpse of it when I close my eyes
persuades my heart, there will be a day that will avouch
for the long watch I made day in day out.
If hope is a thread, I will hold it tight
on this lingers now my tender life
“Oh insane, so na├пve to risk on the toss of a dime”
but I turn my face to these scars so sly
A day will be there that will avouch
for the long watch I made day and day out.
Hope is a slender breathe
that escapes my heart
My clutch on this hope is loosening fast
Till last I will hold it to my heart
murmuring this I will pass
That day will witness and avouch
the long watch I made day in and day out.
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