 SetuVolume 9; Issue 3; August 2024Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetryYoung VoicesTranslation
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Showing posts with label Displacement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Displacement. Show all posts
Setu, August 2024
Setu Special Edition: July 2024
Displacement: The Quest for New Skies and Nests
Special Edition Authors: July 2024
Setu, July 2024
SetuVolume 9; Issue 2; July 2024Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
Art and Artist: TagoreCinema DeconstructedAuthor InterviewAuthor of the MonthSpecialItinerant Idiolects-VIThematic AcrosticsCollaborative Work: Special EditionTravelogueShort FictionBook Review
Setu Video Series of Literary and Critical Conversations/ PoetrySetu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings (Facebook Page)
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Poetry: Toolika Rani
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| Toolika Rani |
One of the biggest achievements
of human beings
was to domesticate the wild animals:
Cow, goat, horse, elephants, hens, camels
Cheetahs
And then they domesticated themselves,
Their own clan
In chains, invisible
To earn, to reproduce,
To rear the young,
For what?
To live a life of slavery
Slavery by their own clan.
Bodies rooted, minds wandering
What a catastrophe!
Falling into the bottomless abyss
Of the labyrinth called society!
And turning insane
Day by day
Growing dull and devoid
Of passion, energy, activity
Dreaming of the waterfalls
With sinking eyes
Pacing restlessly, to and fro
Escape, from this open jail!
Is there anywhere, where
there is none of my own?
and only the wild,
the jungle, the creepers
the mountains, the rivers.
***
Bio: Squadron Leader (Dr) Toolika Rani is an ex-Indian Air Force Officer, Mountaineer (Everest Climber), International Motivational Speaker (TEDx), Author, Poet, Assistant Professor of History, and was the G-20 Brand Ambassador of Higher Education Department, U.P. Government (2023). Her book Beyond That Wall: Redemption on Everest was published from Delhi in 2021, and has received ‘Sahitya Shree’ and ‘Young Writer Award’. Based on her Ph.D. research work her book ‘Sherpas of Solukhumbu: History and Evolution’ (2023) delves into the fascinating lives of the Sherpas living at the base of Mt. Everest. A bilingual poet, she has published two Hindi Poetry books titled, Dayron ke Bahar and Hasratein and one English poetry book, ‘The Song of the Sky’. She has compiled an international anthology of poems on Himalaya, titled, ‘The Mountain was Abuzz’ which was displayed at the Kathmandu International Mountain Film Festival, 2024. She is the co-author of the book, ‘Healing and Growth: Inspiring Stories for Massive Transformation’ published from USA. Contact her on tulich83@gmail.com, or Insta ID toolika_14.
Displacement Poetry: Nicho Rongchehonpi
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| Nicho Rongchehonpi |
Two mask of displacement
Did you know displacement wears two masks?
One of hope, another of despair.
A quest for new life, away from home,
In search of dreams, they roam.
Blessed are those, they say, who leave,
Comforts traded for a brighter eve.
Money earned, yet hearts remain,
In the places they cannot regain.
But what of those, we often forget,
The displaced poor, in constant threat?
Huts and hopes washed away,
By wars and floods, they sway.
Imagine losing all you own,
In open space, left alone.
No spark of hope, just endless night,
Seeking solace in a distant light.
We read the news, we hear the cries,
Safe inside, we sympathize.
Yet never faced such harsh dismay,
Behind our screens, we turn away.
Two types of displacement tear,
Yet the poor bear the heaviest wear.
If we quest for others’ betterment,
Might we break this cruel lament?
A question posed to hearts and minds,
Can unity heal what hatred binds?
***
Quest
Lying low in my dark, empty room,
Wishing for stars to break this gloom.
So many thoughts race through my mind,
Life’s so hard, solace hard to find.
I know the path is rough and steep,
But I didn’t know the climb so deep.
Adulting’s tough, but harder still,
Is surviving in this world, uphill.
No place to turn, no hand to hold,
Facing struggles, feeling cold.
I try to break these chains that bind,
Of poverty, and the scorn unkind.
In search of new skies, I quest and dream,
Where stars will shine with a gentle gleam.
To share that light with those I love,
To make them proud, to rise above.
A new quest in life, I chase each day,
For brighter skies, a better way.
To find my place, to break the night,
And bask in love, in starlit light
***
Rising From the maze
In the maze of my mind, confusion reigns,
Life’s direction lost, tangled in chains.
A message whispers, “Be the change you seek,”
Yet joy and sorrow play hide and seek.
At times I’m elated, at times I’m down,
Escaping duties, feeling like I’ll drown.
My career teeters on the edge of the abyss,
Uncertainty grips me, life’s hit or miss.
Met countless faces, all seem so sure,
While I drift aimlessly, searching for more.
At my lowest, I wonder and I blame,
Faith and fate, a cruel, twisted game.
Wrong country, wrong family, wrong turn I took,
Wrong love, wrong choices, pages of my book.
Doubt gnaws within, am I the mistake?
Self-blame looms, depression to awake.
Life’s harsh when wealth and wisdom lack,
I’m the talk of the town, with confidence cracked.
How to improve, how to reshape?
This silent cry, my soul’s escape.
Strangers indifferent, loved ones hurt,
Shielding their hearts, my emotions inert.
A modern girl, burdened with care,
Expected to guard, expected to bear.
But I rebel, I yearn for more,
A future bright, beyond this door.
Ten years on, I’ll rise, I’ll shine,
My words will echo, my work divine.
Regret will haunt those who turned away,
While I climb, I earn my place to stay.
To the top I strive, relentless, bold,
In this journey, I shape my gold.
Poem: The day is all that I have
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| Chayanika Saikia |
Chayanika is a bilingual poet from India & is the recipient of ‘Glass House Poetry Award 2024’. Her work has appeared in ‘Scent of Rain’ (Red River), ‘Yearbook of Indian Poetry in English 2022’ (Hawakal), ‘Muse India’, 'Setu', ‘Petrichor’(Pebbles), ‘PikerPress’, ‘Cafe Dissensus’, ‘Usawa Literary Review’ & others. “Mimosa Land” & “Kor Pora Kho Loi” are her poetry collections.
-----
it’s one hell of a thing to ride with, to begin
missing you even before we start, car startles
with a qualm just as grief twitches its belly pit,
there goes the tick-tick,
the day is all that I have,
radio plays O Fair New Mexico, we hit US-70E, morning
flush strikes, pipes of the Organ Mountains dazzle
in rust, the day is all that I have San
Augustine pass,
morning reduces to night, I
recede
from your sight, White Sands to Cloudcroft,
desert to snow, desert to snow,
deliquescing into the dunes of the gypsum sand,
I am w i n d -shaped,
leeward to your feet that make them flat, what when
it ends, Alamogordo, give me Sacramento to hold on to,
Cloudcroft, tender things to hold on to, the day is all that
I have, I fade with snowdrifts
in the moonless night shrinking into a seed,
another 40 minutes or less - is all that I
have,
I gallop towards madness, but stay
for the dripping spring sprung in
White Sands, stay
for the soaptrees awaiting rain
in Tularosa;
desert to snow, lonelier than
mountains,
colder than absence, I am shrinking into a seed.
You are all that I have.
Poetry: Radha Chakravarty
In Your
Eyes a River
Radha Chakravarty
[To my
father’s village Shyamsiddhi]
You
never left Shyamsiddhi.
In your
heart you carried a home,
in your
eyes a river, in the soles your feet,
the swing
and shift of a bamboo sanko,
narrow
bridge of precarious crossings,
in
seasons when you were not a-swim
in the
rain-swollen canal circling
that
mound, the lost ground of your birth,
forsaken
foundation of your fast-transforming self,
and absent
source of mine.
Past
towering Shyamsiddhi Math,
crossing
lush green fields of memory,
flourishing
on the soil of old tales retold,
I
traverse, now, the trail you took
on
sunburnt days, to Srinagar school, clutching
slate,
chalk, and shining boyhood dreams,
unaware
that the highway of history
is a
one-way route to the point of no return.
Across
that same swaying sanko I step, now,
forward
and back, into your past and mine,
searching
opaque green water for signs,
scanning
cloud-laden sky for answers.
The
climb is slippery. Mud can be treacherous.
Helping
hands draw me ashore, to the present.
My
questing soul kneels before
the
starkness of your truth. Face to face
with
the very spot where your story began,
bearing
hidden future seeds of mine,
awed by
stark simplicity of hut, yard,
well,
sky and bottle-gourd vine,
green
sway of banana leaves
and
palm tree’s shaggy grace,
Here, I
hear the heartbeat of the past,
feel
the pulse of my present.
The
silence of the listening earth is deafening.
Beneath
the gaze of that same new and ancient sky,
I stand
face to face with your impossible story,
and find
at last the missing opening lines of mine.
[Note:
This poem is addressed to my father, whose family migrated to Kolkata from
their village Shyamsiddhi in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), just before
Partition.
sanko:
Bengali word for a narrow bamboo footbridge.]
***
Cut
Flowers
Roses
in a vase
stems
cut to size, arranged
in formal
symmetry, designed
to
please the cultivated gaze,
to match
the stately grace
of ritual
social pageantry
still
fill
the air
with fragrant
defiance,
of forbidden
memory—
that forsaken
garden,
familiar
thorny branch,
wildness
of the wind,
smell
of moist earth,
hum of
the honey bee
dazzle
of sunshine,
tender caress
of
dewdrops at dawn, and
the
whimsy
of
butterflies
***
Driftwood dreams
stranded on a strange new shore
driftwood dreams of home—
that familiar forest, that deep-rooted tree,
that growing, branched family
of ancient lineage, lush with leaves,
new shoots, blossoms, slowly ripening fruit,
filled with birdsong, echoing calls
of creatures of the wild,
growing living history, now lost
in the toss and churn of ocean waves,
tides of time, indifferent
to the fate of un-homed migrants
***
Bio: Radha Chakravarty is a widely published writer, critic and translator. Subliminal: Poems is her recent collection of poetry. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She contributed to Pandemic: A Worldwide Community Poem (Muse Pie Press, USA), nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020. She has published over 20 books, including translations of major Bengali writers, anthologies of South Asian writing, and critical studies of Tagore, Mahasweta Devi and contemporary women writers. She was Professor of Comparative Literature & Translation Studies at Ambedkar University Delhi.
Poetry: Braja Kumar Sorkar
 |
| Braja Kumar Sorkar |
Home and the world
Each of us has a different world,
Different their sky, air, different their water, land, people
And they live differently
This is the magic of life!
Who is my friend, who is my enemy, either
I don’t know, because
I have come to orbit in a new world!
A tree does not survive if its roots are removed, displaced in a new world.
but a man lives, he deviates from his roots and finds a new place,
creates his own world , invents and adopts all in his own way
with hard vows, fights with life with intense pain..
The thrill of reinventing oneself makes him dream,
Takes him forward in a new direction!
I found and left my beloved land, relatives,
I remember, I remember those days,
the memory wakes up in my previous birth..
I didn't know what Diaspora was.
I did not know that I have roots like a tree.
I have been gradually discovering myself for so long,
there is no such thing as home and outside.
I have made the whole world my home.
***
In search of origin
I came to a new land, new its sky, air, new people,
I left everything and came to a new country,
I see everything in amazement,
I can't match myself, but the new world.
There is nothing new, nothing old
Only a dream comes true.
New gets old and life makes its journey as before!
I have built my home afresh, with power and pains,
I have built my new world, in my mind.
Have I forgotten the past?
Where is my root?
Is there anything called paradise today?
Searching for myself, found the new me, discover me
Time and again….
The moment I think about displacement, I remember Amitav Ghosh!
He dwells on how displacement leads to negotiation with new condition
that sometimes leads to the formation of identity.
I make sense of Country of origin.
What is origin?, I never thought before.
I am reading now ‘The River of Smoke’ and In an Antique Land
He is Ghosh, who shows how new community is built
on the existential crisis faced by displaced people.
Am I a displaced man, anyway?
It is the same world, I watch differently,
As it responds to me
My home and the world…
***
Liberation
Humans are only migrants!
History of mankind tells so!
People move from country to country, find new shelter,
people leave their roots and spread their new roots
somewhere else to get a taste of freedom.
Humans are bipedal creatures, where they happily go,
unbound by any fixed bond, create new bonds,
and discover new worlds.
A new present emerges from the past!
Sometimes people are expelled from their country,
bear the pain, suffering, sadness of life and go out in search of
a new land and a nest of their own..
Does God ever stay in one place?
He is also a migrant
I believe.
Sometimes a god comes down from heaven to this world,
wants to find a new address, wants to forget the heaven's sky, air and compulsions.
Gods, like humans also want to discover new abode, get the address of liberation--
I am thinking all these things, sitting next to the open window
and watching how a golden bird is flying in the sky,
crossing over the horizon to a new horizon in search of a nest …
***
Poetry: Nivedita Roy
 |
| Nivedita Roy |
1. Orbital eccentricity
It sucks us in
It creates boundaries
We are lost in the ardour
We eventually resurface
Pining to struggle out
The maze is unending
The mind is whirling
It’s a vicious cycle
The emotions revolve around
Creating a stormy ambience
The cacophony of regrets
The din of ugly desires
Frothing up to choke us
As the gurgles are hushed
Clamour heightens persistently
Swaying pendulum of quadrants
The vertices wedging
The borders nipping
Shapes commute and convert
Vilifying the sombre nature
Defying the natural balance
Where art thou headed ?
Is our journey towards infinity?
What’s our destiny ?
***
2. My second home-Bahrain
Vast expanse of sea and sand
Cluster of thorny bushes and palms
Sun rays create a mirage and bright skies
Setting sun brings along pleasant vibes
Arabian lamps dotting the campsites
Grills and sheesha add joy to the evening
The city side would be busy and bustling
Shopping arcades and souqs are abuzz with mild haggling
The aroma of saffron and herbs fill the air that’s rustling
Traditional dresses and jewellery attract the visitors
Arabian nights are a vision of hospitality and fervour
Expats and workers enjoy the sea breeze post work hours
Dates and plums adorn the woven palm baskets in some corners
Arab artisans create pottery, carpets and handicrafts
Beautiful mosques with tall minarets and pretty marbles call for prayers
Keeping its originality intact
Arabian days also keep pace with the world afar !
***
The Olive Green Gypsy Trail: Displacement and Relocation
 |
| Roopali Sircar Gaur |
“I have received my Movement Order,” Dad declared. Mother looked panic-stricken. “Start packing! We are leaving in 15 days.”
Soon those boxes made from wooden crates would begin getting a new coat of black paint again.
And slowly the mind would begin to dismantle itself.
Time to get moving.
New home, new school, new friends.
A train would take us away from all that which was familiar. The unfamiliar was exciting and full of anticipation too.
The temporary accommodation had predictably remained temporary for two years. The boxes never opened. Except the one that said “kitchen”. We seldom ever made it to the so-called “permanent” housing. It was a sort of cheat word. A year and a half later or, if you were lucky, two years later that “movement order” would become a reality.
I am an army brat and an army spouse. So, I have never ever had a forever home. A permanent impermanence and dislocation stalk us military families. Yet we learn to rejoice in this continual displacement. Perhaps it’s embedded in our psyche or, as some say, in our DNA.
The boxes mark a soldier’s life journey. Stencilled in white, every box sets up a trail. Emblazoned with the development of a career. From the small precious tin trunk, marked “Cadet” “Number” “Indian Military Academy” to Captain to Major to Lieutenant Colonel to Colonel to Brigadier and on and on. Travel details etched in white paint and in our memories. Bangalore to Dehradun, Jaipur to Kolkata, Srinagar to Thiruvananthapuram, Bhuj to Kohima. The promise of all journeys spawned by the small tin trunk, long ago, marked “Cadet”.
We often travelled to our destination on military trains. These trains carried troops and vehicles and weapons and all the property of the unit or regiment. And some animals too. Chickens and goats. Rescued animals and birds that became regimental mascots. The Military Train always took a special route and stopped for a long time in the non-commercial parts of the main station. Food would be cooked and served by the Officers’ Mess cooks. Hot meals, as we impatiently waited. Security checks had to be done. Only when the bugle sounded could the train leave the station. Admittedly, that part was quite thrilling!
As the train rumbled by, catching speed, children waved and random adults watched in awe as soldiers sat atop battle tanks, loaded on the train, their long guns covered with tarpaulin. We felt a strange sense of adventure and pride. Trains that left from big stations and sometimes from small military zones were accompanied by nimbu paani (lemonade), cucumber sandwiches and packed lunches. A happy pipe band offered a farewell tune. Saying goodbye through train windows decorated with marigold flowers was always painful. Well wishes would pour in for services rendered. Who knew when we would meet again!
We travelled all over India, and lived in homes that didn’t let us feel homeless. Even if it was just one room with no kitchen, sending us off to the Officers’ Mess for every meal. Each time, properly dressed to eat only with a fork and spoon. Tired of this ritual, we sometimes sneakily cooked a meal in our tiny dark storeroom. The travel trunks covered with shawls from the great Indian states of Manipur and Nagaland made up for furniture. If you walk into a military home in India, you will at once know where the family has lived. The garden umbrella from Pipli in Orissa; the decorative spear from Nagaland; the carved furniture from Rajasthan; the embroidered curtains from Jammu and Kashmir; and the carved sandalwood Shiva from Karnataka.
Other times we lay on cotton mattresses in the back of a truck known as a “three-tonne” as part of a military convoy that took us from Bangalore to the salubrious town of Wellington in the Nilgiri mountains. This was another one of Dad’s famous movement orders. We would stop at resthouses along the way. A hot meal here, a cool drink there. Surprised city slickers in their cars or on foot would stare and we would happily wave to them.
We were growing away and growing up on these many journeys. Military families are different. We are pan-Indian. Our fathers’, brothers’, and husband’s ranks, and more recently, our mothers’, sisters’, wives’ ranks were only for the office or the field. They did not apply at home. But the military work never stopped. Sometimes the dislocation was acute and the displacement traumatic. Everything was unreachable, incommunicable.
School break meant going to remote places named Aishmukam, or Tangdhar, Pedong, Dulabari, Zero, Churachandpur, Ganganagar, Dras, or Kargil. That depended on permission from higher authorities. Up, up in the mountains we went up winding roads where soldiers stand precariously plastered against the craggy face of the mountains. We looked up and shouted, “Thank You!”.
As we travelled across this vast country of ours crisscrossed with rivers and deserts, forests and lakes, mountains and villages, towns and cities, we imbibed its beauty and natural grandeur, and its people became part of the commonality of humankind. We erased all the divisive forces of caste, community, colour, food and religion.
Moving from one place to another was at times heartbreaking. A surprise awaited in the meeting new people, local cultural exchange, learning of languages, inculcating new food habits, and more. The frequent displacement of military life makes for the becoming of a composite culturally sensitive person. If you visit the home of a soldier from Rajasthan, his wife will happily feed you authentic South Indian delicacies! I own exquisite sarees from every state of India because we travelled miles into the interiors of these regions and bought them from the weaver. How else could we afford it?
Then one day, years later, travelling in a rattle-trap military “Jonga” jeep-like vehicle, I found myself being followed by a cheeky guy in a fancy car looking at me disdainfully and honking away. “I could easily buy a car like yours, buddy,” I thought bemusedly. “But you can never ride in an olive green Jonga. For that you must pay with your blood. Not with your cash.”
From the Other Side of the Fence
 |
| Meghna Kaul |
Sitting at the chipped fence of the factory building
he looked at the billowing smoke of the chimney
six months have passed since he left his village
and mingled with the multitude rushing past
the sugar factory that sustained their lives
his tattered vest now replaced with a new shirt
a semblance of respect the mirror reflected
smouldering bidi and sipping the tea from a stall
his keen eyes moved to ever stretched fields of his village
near the banyan tree he rested on one such exhausted day
the sun streaked mildly through the leaves making patterns
at the clank of the anklet, he lifted his laboured laid drowsy eyes
Bholi clung to her slender veiled mother
placing her into his arms, she laid the food for him
the little one snuggled into his arm as he offered mother the first bite
blushing and looking around with her soft eyes, she ate the food
Oh! such tenderness touched his heart
What he would not do to make their life happy!
Shaking him from the reverie a whistle blew
a call from the verdant to the mechanical
among the noise of the running machine
the slow music of the rustling leaves moved in his heart
back home on the way to a busy market
he passed a few shops laden with green bangles
green bangles of Sawan on those tender lean hand
suddenly he saw a herd of birds soaring high in the sky
he thought of the nest that was left behind.DISPLACEMENT
 |
| Satbir Chadha |
They came riding the waves as traders
Gradually, the riches of our land they plundered
Till they sucked and took away
The blood of the land
Able bodied innocent youth pride of our farms
Men and women, for their agrarian skills
Lured with permanent employment
A monthly salary of five rupees each
Growing sugarcane in the distant island of Maurice
Herded like beasts they were packed on the ships
Facing filth, hardship and disease
The men flogged, the women raped
Poor things could never a sense of this make
Passed their days lost and dazed
Taken to their camps they were totally stripped
Stripped of their belongings, and the harshest of all
Stripped of their identity
Their records were destroyed, their names, their origins
Stripped of their names, assigned a number each
Like human herds, each one was reduced to a numbered being
Over years they all forgot their names
As ailing and toiling, they spent their measly days
Fettered and attuned to the masters of their fate
A generation passed, then the next, they missed being called by name
Trying to recall what their parents must have named them
They simply decided to adopt their simple first names
And make them their family names, so the progeny won’t be unnamed
So some became Ramchurn, some Ramgoolam, others Ramaswamy
Or just Gopaul or Beeharry
Three generations were lost to civilization
The fourth stood up with new names
Got an education and fought a revolution
Threw aside the mantle of slavery and exploitation
And created a benign hospitable new country
Also rekindled and with pride, established their religion and traditions
Finally erasing the imprint of the great displacement
You may take a man away from his roots, but roots never leave him
After a cycle of centuries they stand erect
And take pride in their Indian roots
Celebrate their traditions, religion and culture
With the next generation that comes
Inculcate in their offspring the pride of a new nation
Built on the ancient Indian civilization
Poetry: Malkeet Kaur
 |
| Malkeet Kaur |
I was young once like everyone else.
Like everyone else once
I wanted to turn into a swan,
Grow wings
Spread arms
Turn into a ballerina
Pirouetting gracefully
Overnight
And fly off to a land-
More lush and fresh.
I waited and it outgrew soon-
The yearning for conquering the skies to
Taste the forbidden in the distant terrains.
I befriended my finite boundaries
As the wings never materialized.
Then I found myself slowly
Evolving into a deep-rooted tree
And then I was at home with
Having roots
And being wingless-
Not to move, yet
To shelter and welcome the roosting birds from
***
Displacement: The Quest for New Skies and Nests
 |
| Vinita Narula |
Vinita Narula
Well said and that for us seems to have been a practice from times immemorial, with great grandfathers having moved to places like Africa, Quetta, Burma, Singapore, Malaya etc., at least six generations back to dig gold.
Highly qualified and hard-working persons were hugely welcomed and appreciated in far-off lands for their diligence, honesty and other attributes leading to gains for the lands immigrated to as also a success for themselves in terms of monetary gain and fame. While mentioning this I am talking of late nineteenth century and early twentieth century.
The exodus mostly happened due to the economic conditions in the country for the salaried class families initially. Later, even after independence, the same continued either due to the shortage of available research facilities during higher education, the sought after courses not being offered or better emoluments expectations not being met after obtaining their professional degrees, causing a brain drain and loss for India.
By this time, by nineteen fifties/sixties, the western countries like England, United States of America and Canada seemed to find favour with the younger generation. Then came the other countries like Europe and Australia that offered interesting courses in hospitality, finance, music and art etc.
All through these periods, Individuals mostly travelled as single, unmarried persons, whether male or female. Some found their partners there, while the rest came back for matrimony with specific choices and preferences. These were clearly put in and advertised in the daily newspapers and scores of interactive sessions took place in order to pick the ‘right match’.
Choices tended to be mostly in terms of the sought after person’s appearance and family background but more importantly the employability avenue of the selected partner in the far-off land in order to facilitate building of the newer nest utilizing the double income of the couple.
In spite of the rigorous and tedious selection process, it is important to mention the unfortunate avoidable post marriage mishaps and frequent deceitful fallouts due to the lack of convenient communication and travel facilities.
The newlyweds naturally bore offsprings and mostly made for, struggling nuclear families having to be self-dependent. Devoid of otherwise, amply available physical familial help and household staff assistance in their home turf, the country of origin. A large number requested for their parents help in tiding over this rough patch and had them visiting and staying with them for rather long periods to tide over.
While enlarging their families, holding on to traditional values and cultural practices seemed eminent and therefore a serious effort was put in continuing the process by the couple for themselves as also for the growing up progeny. Some couples succeeded in retaining their value systems whereas others found themselves getting sucked into the prevailing patterns of foreign lands, having to say ‘bye, bye to the child after turning eighteen’ or fearing their children could go astray, deemed it better to return to their home country and start their life afresh with the sufficiently earned high value monies. However, majority stayed back and adjusted their lives according to the country men there.
Till the time children were young the couples could make frequent trips to the home country which were keenly awaited for by both, the visitors as also the families at home ground.
The foreign residents as visitors could enjoy their favourite dishes, make purchases, reconnect with relatives, friends, earlier education institutions etc thereby avoid their getting homesick. However, as their familial encumbrances increased in the far-off lands due to multiple reasons their trips tended to become less frequent.
Large family structures as of the earlier times in the home country made looking after greying parents not as difficult but seemed unsustainable as time passed by due to reasons like small family norms meaning lesser siblings, increased cost of living, efforts required in tending to the property etc., it was considered more appropriate and practical to live together in the foreign lands. Slowly and steadily getting the aging parents over into their family fold overseas seemed to be best option and acted upon too by many well-meaning children.
However, in spite of the best intentions to look after and the sharing the pleasure of being together physically, inability to spend quality time together due to children and grandchildren’s busy schedules for their individual pursuits, elders seemed/ tended to feel left out and lonesome.
Newer communities, newer friends, newer cultural norms, newer eating habits made many miss their roots and crave for their own space and independence.
Declining health conditions, incapacitating the elders further tended to add on to the financial burden of the working family members.
It is a known fact that as an individual ages, one tends to become more childlike.
“рдмрдЪ्рдЪा рдмूрдв़ा рдПрдХ рд╕рдоाрди”.
As a result, these elderly parents felt more and more out of place in the lands away from their place of birth, reminiscing and craving for their favourite foods and eating practices, close relatives, friends and places of worship etc. causing considerable psychological and emotional problems, resulting in setbacks for themselves as also for their attending children.
Physical immobility adds on to their misery even further by not only needing assisted care but also being bitten by the guilt of not being of as much use to the household. That was then, May be two decades back.
With the world becoming one large village, situation is changing almost on a day-to-day basis. Explosion of telecommunications, video calling, zoom meetings, emailing, convenient air travel has reduced the physical distance to just being like neighbourhood, availability of all kinds of food items and feasibility of YouTube offering the ease of preparing any dish of one’s choice while being explained in one’s own regional language too has reduced the cravings.
The CEOs of most valued companies being our own worthy sisters and brethren all over the world makes one wide eyed with hope and anticipation. Sunita Williams, Space crafts and Space missions, the Silicon Valley and the like almost seem being with in one’s own fist.
Art, music, theatre and other forums are there to fit in every one’s reach, enabling even the elders easy and convenient mingling. A change in mindset of elders further will tend to be a win -win situation for the families nesting in the newer skies.
With our very own Kamala Harris and Vance’s name coming up right on the top is a cherry on the cake and may be, just may be the pastures are going to be green everywhere, not just on the other side of the fence.
Displacement: The quest for newer Skies and Nests here after seems a healthy possibility instead of taking to an earlier times kind of a toll.
Jerome Berglund
 |
| Jerome Berglund |
* Text of Concrete Tanka:‘Spotlights’
wood anemone
she told me the things
that are here for you
are not the ones
that you want
Poetry: Joan McNerney
 |
| Joan McNerney |
Falling
down through blackness
into dusty subterraneous
tracks where trains race
silver roads speed through dream
stations transforming tunnels
with bolts of blue white sparks
Falling
on a steel car looking out my
window how many times will
this bullet train spin off rail?
how many times must I ride
that dark horse called nightmare?
in air off course tumbling down falling
Falling
dangling on thick utility cables
over edge, through trees into lights
crashing fast against buildings
now flying through space
careening in pitch black nightmare
my silver train shattering glass
***
Dream Blue
Deep blue midnight blue.
Once in a blue moon.
Driving a long blue van
through a deep blue sea.
The steering wheel pops
out in my hand, this long
blue van crashing crashing.
Cold cold everything cold
Water cold icy cold.
Falling in icy cold water.
Once in a blue moon.
Diving between the devil
and deep blue sea.
Driving through waves.
in dream blue.
***
Lost Landscape
I am driving down a hill without name
on an unnumbered highway.
This road transforms into a snake
winding around hair pin turns.
See how it hisses though this long night.
Why am I alone?
At the bottom of the incline
lies a dark village .Strangely hushed
with secrets. How black it is. How difficult
to find what I must discover.
My fingers are tingling.
Smoke combs the air, static fills night.
Continuing to cross gas lit streets
encountering dim intersections.
Another maze. One line leads to another.
Dead ends become beginnings.
Listening to lisp of the road.
My slur of thoughts sink as snake rasps grow
louder. See how the road slithers.
What can be explored? Where can it be?
All is in question.
***
Hurry!
Let's stand and sun like salty seals
touching mud with all our toes.
One big wave can push us over
laughing tumbling in the brine.
We'll dive in ocean hiss swish
riding with bluewhales, bluewaves.
Brush of foam and windy ripples
sunbeams chasing quicksilver fish.
Floating through our shining world
fragrant clouds, feathery clouds.
We weave one arm after another
wearing bracelets of watery pearl.
***
“A” train
brassy blue
electric
close eyes
watch points
like stars
think now
how insignificant
compared to train
speaking for itself
stars known
in no language
burn shoot
thru
tiger’s eyes
brain in
constant action
reaction
to what we do not know
plans of distant stars
galaxies floating as
“A” train
silver worm
slides under
big belly
of city
***
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