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

Each city has got a personality, an aura.

Each city is individual, unique.

And it calls!

Listen to Robert Frost:

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

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

Picture by Keshav Sharma

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

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

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

A typical cityscape.

Vibrant but silent.

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

As Emile Dickinson observes in her signature style:

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

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night’s decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

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

The responses to this monthly prompt are equally riveting.

The rest of the issue is also rich with content.

This is the last edition of Setu.

We are going on a much-deserved long break.

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

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

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

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

Setu is on hiatus from next year onwards.

Once back, we will let you know.

Happy holidays!
Happy New Year!

Apologies for any unintended error, inconvenience or mistake.

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

Continue to read and sing your songs, please.

With very best wishes!

Sunil Sharma,

Managing Editor,
Setu (English)

Setu, December 2025

Setu Special Section: December 2025

Special Section: Framing a City

Picture by Keshav Sharma

Special Section Authors: December 2025

Contributing Authors

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

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

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Learning to stay standing

The cottages keep breathing

under layers of paint, crumbling

A wooden beam bows with the memory,

of hands that formerly shaped it

Even as glass window panes,

with distinctive distortions,

stays stuck on wooden frames,

clear, efficient, indifferent to age

The old staircase knows each footfall,

how weight hesitated before a step,

how time settled in the knee

It was built for pauses

Now elevators hum nearby,

on the street opposite

Impatient, smooth, forgetting the climb

Bricks listen

They have learned this skill

They listen to wires threaded through their ribs

Ornate lamp posts once hand-lit,

now glow on circuitry

Nothing is removed entirely

Only re-taught how to function

from within

An elderly window opens the same way

but the view has changed its language

Shadows move faster

The air is louder with ideas

To stay open, the hinge must learn

A new angle of trust

Life does something similar

It does not ask permission

before adding metal knee caps

The body becomes a heritage structure

preserved, admired, occasionally bypassed

While the world installs boom bars

and signs with smaller letters

Survival is not demolition

It is an adjustment

And so, the old remains,

not untouched, not erased, but altered.

***

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

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

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Robert Maddox-Harle

Robert Maddox-Harle

Deserted City

Eerily empty, the city at five am

a “still life” of despair,

the edge of a desperate cold mirage

suspended, like purgatory

between false-dawn and dawn.

Greys change to black

then back to grey-yellow,

pushed downwards by the damp draught,

drawn past drab facades

and steely-mirror-glass

reflecting itself - reflecting itself

in the sickly yellow lighting.

The scent of the underground

warm metallic, dusty

stale electric,

rises from the gutter grates

testing the memories of tramps,

those who rode the rail-road

in suits of silk

and careless confidence,

from warm home

to office obsession and back again,

and then - redundancy.

A faint hum, hum, hum

permeates the sacred silence

mysterious and alien

not wholly human,

not merely machine,

the ghost of the city moans,

a disembodied chant

surrounds the monuments,

marvels of human madness.

Silent street sweepers,

caretakers of this shadow world

sweep slowly, the sins

from last night's sacrifice,

sacrifices to love

to lust and longing.

Even the hard-core whores

desperate for a last trick,

leave this monstrous mausoleum

when the dawn reveals the morning sky.

A black stiletto heal, scarred

wrenched free in hustle

in bondage in a footpath crevice

remains as testimony.

A siren far across the city

screams,

slashing the silence,

in a second all is dead again.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Marjorie Pezzoli

Marjorie-Pezzoli

Give the Future a Chance

cityscape

a maze of streets

remember to follow the leaves

leave not a trace

wait for the moon

meanwhile look for dimes

*man*made*stars*

gather around this lamppost

DNA pinpoints spiral up

this beacon

becomes a landmark

a tether for exploration

first inhale crisp air

take in the blueness

the oneness of it all

gaze up, know—

home is in the corner of one’s eye

you can come back anytime

Poem - Marjorie Pezzoli

Photo Inspiration - Keshav Sharma

Bio: 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

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Sumana Bhattacharjee

City Nostalgia

As I walk through the city's lane

Something stirs in my stagnant brain.

Those old buildings and golden memory,

Some ancient story full of disdain or glory.

As the evening fall to night

The sparkling of evening street -lights...

That brighten the dimming daylight,

Takes me to an other height.

What happened to this city

Everybody chasing towards dream

Becoming insane without sanity,

About to forget our own identity.

Walking through the memory lane

Rarely I get any footprint or name,

Those shoppers, hawkers, footpath- walkers

All behave like busy fighter.

The life that once seemed slow and little lazy

Difficulties of time made us crazy,

Is this the effect of globalisation

Or the result of modernisation?

The city has gone through so many transformation..

The new look, splendour and moderation,

But in my imagination the city seems an illusion

My nostalgic heart couldn't find any solution.

***

Bio: Sumana Bhattacharjee is an English poetry and quote writer from India. She born and brought up in city Kolkata and still residing there. From her childhood she has keen interest in music, poetry and drama. She is a published poet and her poems have been published in more than twenty national and international anthologies, ezines and blogs . She is the founder of an online poetry group and working as an admin of five poetry and literally groups. She is passionate of poetry and music and she thinks that the poetry is the best way to spread her inner thought around the world.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Sushma Malhotra

Sushma Malhotra

1. Conceivable

Where the heart lies

With joyful golden colors

Evening and the dusk

Ground wet before it dries.

Wrapped all around

Bright big lamp post

With glowing wired bulbs

Shining streets, no sound.

Electric wires are below

Those street lights

Enhancing and magnifying

To brighten the houses in a row.

Suspense and excitement

What will be at the turn

Meeting strangers at the corner

Bringing joy and appeasement.

Cleared dried fallen leaves

Pleasant weather in the fall

Ready to welcome the winter

As a cold chill with snow heaves.

Very far I see with my eyes

Tall trees at the corner

Bare with scanty leaves

Merging with blue colored skies.

Alluring to stop and create

Looking at the lanes

Visibility too is serene

Vibrations make it even great.

***

2. Two Roads

One on the side

The other one

In front of the houses

Maybe the townhouses.

Possibility

One for parking

The second for stopping

As needed by the drivers.

Whether they stop or drop

All clear at this moment

Roads silent and calm

Forcing us to think about.

Unfamiliar and strange

Hidden and concealed places

The colorful ambience

Of the surroundings.

Doors closed and

Even windows shut

Some are lighted inside

Others are pretty dark.

Waiting for the owner

To return and step in

Turn the lights on

Unify it with the outside.

Two roads whether merging or not

Houses are lighted or not

Surrounding brings varied mood

Looking at the two serene roads.

***

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Nivedita Roy

Nivedita Roy

The Humble Lamppost

Frothy tea in a humble cup

The first sip of that warm beverage

Dawn lights overpowering the humble lamp

The misty streets carpeted with those crispy leaves

The lonely benches that cradle the homeless

The rejuvenating smell of the early morning wafting through the city,

The city is lazily waking up to a new day

Rising from it slumber like a prima donna

Awakening, arising to the sound of reason

The voices upping the ante, higher decibels

The chants grow with the tinkling of the bells

Echo that floats embracing the nippy breeze

Shunning procrastination the city bounces to life

Nature beckons the city to breathe deeply be awakened

Far in the horizon,

The grey smoke rising from the chimneys

Diffusing its monstrous arms

Choking the entire stretch of the human habitat

The city chokes, its weakening limbs flailing

The helpless lamppost gazes blankly

Perhaps wondering at its failing spark...

***

Setu, December 2025

Special Edition: Meenakshi Mohan

Meenakshi Mohan

Who will hold the light

Ke loibe mor kaarjo, kohe shondhya robi

Shuniya jogot rohe niruttor chhobi.

Matir prodip chhilo, she kohilo, shwami,

Amar jetuku shaddhyo koribo ta ami.

Rabindranath Tagore

(This poem is dedicated to my sister, who, despite her handicap and humble living, was the sole caretaker of our father in his ailing age.)

in the twilight hour

when the sky wore the deep sapphire blue

to bid farewell to the sinking sun

the sun whispered, “who will now hold the light?”

the world stood mute,

then the lampposts one by one

sprinkled their faint amber glow

brightening the city’s lonely alleys

inside one of the humble abodes,

dim and quiet

lay her father in deep repose,

a fragile structure of the past

yet for her, an ancient,

rooted tree, and she a tender vine,

despite her slow rhythm of destiny

wrapped strength around

his slowing life

she creaked the window open

to let the fresh air breathe in

into the still room

and saw the lampposts

standing guard to hold the light

through their thin, dark pole,

bringing color and glow

in the desolate cityscape

she looked inside her apartment

cloaked in loneliness

where silence was broken

by the raspy, shallow sound of

her father’s breath – she smiled

yes, she was the one

holding the light in her frail hands –

a flicker against her father’s gathering dusk.

Note: Tagore poem:

Who will take up my work?" asked the evening sun.

Hearing this, the world remained silent. A clay lamp said,

"My Lord, I shall fulfill this duty to the best of my ability.”

Dr. Meenakshi Mohan (USA) is an internationally published writer, scholar, art critic, children's writer, painter, and poet. She is on the editorial Committee for Inquiry in Education, a peer-reviewed journal published by National Louis University, Chicago, Illinois. She is an Advisory Editor for Confluence, UK. Meenakshi received the Setu and Panorama International Awards for Excellence in Literature. Her book, Symphonies of Life, won the Sudesh Kamra Memorial Award for the best debut poetry book at the Bhasha and Beyond Literary Festival, Pune. Meenakshi lives in the USA.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Satbir Chadha

Satbir Chadha

Dawn or Dusk

A stroll down the town street

Am I walking into the dark

Or will the red morn break

The woe of yellow bile

Lurking here and there

Forebodes a weakness

That I’d rather deny

But days of vacuous thought

Days of friendless chats

Of nothing nice happening

Weakens the resolve

If ever there was

To make good here where I’d thought

I would, I’d thought I could

But my anaemic mind and

Slow spasmodic limbs

Spare me the effort

Vain would it be

They seem to say

So I stay I stay

Yet the clouds drift apart

Under a dull blue sky

And I want to go on

And make this place my own

Wearied jaundiced me

And this town of yellow lights

Let’s adopt each other

And t’gether dwell

If I walk into the dark

The red morn will come too

I shall wait I shall wait

For the clouds do part

And the sky is ocean blue

My hopes will be true.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Toolika Rani

Toolika Rani

The Interplay of the Light and the Gloom

(Based on a picture by Keshav Sharma, Canada)

In the golden light of the night

Sleep the dreams that the day had lulled

Into a waking slumber,

An ache of the limbs that descends

Into the bones

In an uncontrolled tumble.

The windows shut to keep the frost out

Spare no vent for the unsuppressed sighs to sneak out

And thus, they circulate within

Like a bad air to breathe in.

The glow on the window

Quietly exhales-

Below is the road to freedom.

Though no one appears in sight

And the lonely path might

Scare the ghost of your

Previous bright self,

Here only dwells

The spirit of the elf

That rises to the heights

In the supernatural world.

So, take a golden leaf

And beginning with a leap

Release the feet from fear

The light is bound to tear

The ensemble of the gloom,

There is no perpetual doom!

***

Juxtapose

The shapely houses with a clear, rigid structure,

All resembling one another,

Tied to a lamppost of strained security,

Glistening as the paradigms of man-made purity,

People who love each other live there

Or at least that is how it is supposed to be.

No one wanders on the road

In an endless seeking that explores;

Twisted in the centre,

Dissecting the rows of the houses

As if it were a monster out to meander

And capture anyone who may, by chance, wander

On its slippery, shiny gravel, only to surrender

The will to return ever,

And toss her into the realm of the clouds

Forever cursed to a shapeless splendour.

***

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Meghna Kaul

Meghna Kaul

Behold

From the window of this

building

the sight was too beautiful to escape,

A sacred dawn bathed in the orange glow

the winding streets destined the path,

that dissected far and wide in its sweep

The wisps of clouds were bunch of fragmented memories

keeping that in heart

many footfalls made their way through the path,

Every day with murmur of desire

many walk towards their goal higher and higher,

The suave and sombre

the elegant and highbrow

a feel of it you carry when you walk on this road

and be a part of its glow,

But when the autumn falls

and blossoms shed

leaving residue,

of dried vestiges of unfulfilled dreams

still feeling the pangs of not belonging to this place

the encroachers, the outsiders

something within them shrieks

The city embraces many in its arms

but many are still in the pavement

trying to carve out a piece of it for themselves,

Half of their life spent in pursuing their dream

half trying to be a part of this place

The cottage wraps a sense of calm and content

a part that lives with peace away from glutton,

of pursuing hard for more and more

with the voice cracked and the throat sore

Instead it stares calmly

taking in this beautiful dawn in its early break

Whenever you feel constricted and dark

there is a chink that opens slight

leads you to a path of golden light

a path of hope and faith

Let’s try your luck in the cityscape.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Broken Rhythms (Poem)

“Wee Willy Winkie runs through the town –

Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown…”

Once, cosy cottages and verdant spaces

relentlessly revealed nature’s myriad hues.

Now, high rises, roof top gardens, swimming pools

and large glass windows offer stunning views.

“Tapping at the window, crying through the lock –

Are the children in their beds for it's now eight o' clock.”

Why aren’t today’s children in their beds at bedtime?

Rigid school routines, reduced daylight activities,

artificial lights from gadgets and loud noises disrupt

children’s circadian rhythms… Adults’ too!

Resultant fatigue, headaches, irritability,

reduced agility, and increased debility –

not a “Wee Willy Winkie,” but a ‘Go to bed’ reminder

and ‘Wake up alarm’ every day serves as factfinder

to soothe the mind and keep the midnight ghosts away.

Regular sleep routines enhance daytime interactions…

Second Life…(Prose)

A season of contradictions…

Freezing air leaks from the Polar Vortex had brought along ‘early chills’ across most countries in the Northern hemisphere, well before the winter solstice. Owing to increased smog, days continued to be warm.

The flâneuse wandered through the maze of high-rises and glass towers, her slow rhythmic steps contrasted the city folks’ hasty strides. The old-world charm – the quaint names, the stony buildings and winding streets remained, some patches of verdant green were still visible.

The continuous drone of air conditioners from the modern mansions made her ponder about people’s dependency on gadgets. She recalled how she and her friends had spent summer afternoons within the precincts of the old brick library, which boasted of high ceilings and cool interiors.

Her mind’s eye recalled the shady boughs and fruit-laden orchards, the parks where they had spent endless hours without stress or worry. They plucked and ate juicy fruits, chased squirrels that scampered up and down as they carried fruit into hollows atop the high branches.

With unhurried steps, she walked up to the sculpture-garden that her maternal uncle had painstakingly built decades ago using recycled items - broken tiles, pieces of pottery, electrical fixtures and other materials, which others had dismissed ‘kooda-karkat.’(rubbish)

For uncle, the broken bangles, pieces of glass and cracked porcelain were objects of beauty waiting to be exhibited. His ‘garden,’ once regarded as a ‘living monument’ to sustainability, now seemed to be facing challenges, which increased urbanization had brought along. A section of the garden was destroyed; several trees had been felled to widen roads and increase parking facilities for the public.

Earth-shattering honks and roars of the passing vehicles disturbed her senses.

On her way to the artificial lake close to the garden, she passed by a modern swimming pool in the lawn of a glass mansion. A young boy jumped and splashed about in the sparkling water. Although her eyes enjoyed it, she did not miss the hardened cement in polythene bags, discarded pipes and debris that lay forgotten in a far corner.

Her beautiful kohl-lit eyes turned moist when she saw the vast reservoir polluted with plastic bottles and covers.

A security guard sat in a corner, unmindful of the passersby.

She stood there in deep contemplation until streaks of orange, violet and pink began to cast a spell atop the dark waters.

Paddlers were returning the colourful boats at the docks. She grimaced at the sight of pot-bellied men walking on the cobbled path zombie-like, with ears plugged, oblivious to the celestial drama unfolding in front of their eyes. Keeping pace with them were garishly dressed women engaged in loud conversations.

A tiny smile escaped her lips when she spotted a few lensmen hunched over tripods, continuously clicking pictures of the golden hour. Her sharp gaze did not miss a young photographer’s burst shots as a large squirrel hurriedly disappeared into the hollow of the tree.

Before long, the golden rays would give way to the thick smog. As she walked on towards the guest house, she gazed at the wall of broken bangles shimmering in red, blue, and amber.

The walk was quite a revelation; she had gathered sufficient evidence to recognize the frailty of human behaviour in the city’s shrinking spaces and unpredictable climes.

A sudden gust brought along a discarded soda can right up to her feet. She stopped and picked it up.

Everything has a second life; she smiled as she walked on…

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Sankha Ranjan Patra

Sankha Ranjan Patra

Cycle

In the tree of tyrany

Lying my leaves

Till the old span ending,

In the house of hollow

Sleeping my senses

Till the new span starting

In the street of silence

Walking my works

With the note of innocence,

In the change of cycle

Waking my words

With the note of non-violence.

In the sky of serenity

Floating my flakes

At the advent of occasion,

In the charm of cheer

Foaming my flames

At the advent of celebration.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: The Sauntering Vacancy

Baijnath Gupta

Vacancy saunters across the sunless street

As autumn slowly withdraws his feet.

A time so ripe for the grey on the trees

To gaze at the grey earth-

Their erstwhile grave,

And their soon-to-be site of rebirth.

A time so transforming

When the yellow lights

Fill some sleepy-eyed

Dryads with golden dreams.

A time so opportune for the halcyon blue lover

To glance at his brown beloved

In the stillness of solitude

To gladden her soul.

A time of revelation for

The proud brick houses

Not to repulse the humble cottages.

A time so healing for

The winding way to lie in peace;

No weight of human feet or motor

Bruises his bosom.,

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Under the Watch of Quiet Lights

Streetlamps stand like sentinels,

gold-throated guardians of the hour

when the city loosens its grip.

An azure horizon thins to ash,

clouds—cottoned confessions

hover, hushed, undecided

The road exhales, emptied of haste,

a ribbon of restraint

asking nothing of passing feet.

Windows glow with borrowed lives,

faces framed in glass,

learning safety, fearing silence

The night collects its fragments

faded footsteps, forgotten faces

and lays them gently on the street.

Even shadows behave here,

leaning lightly, learning stillness.

The lamps do not hurry the dark;

they host it,

teach night how to breathe.

Cranes pause mid-sentence,

wires whisper old prayers,

trees tremble with unspoken knowing

Non-living listens

Living forgets how.

Ambition sleeps uneasy indoors,

while patience walks the pavement,

slow, steady, sufficient.

If light can wait without wanting,

if roads can rest without regret

perhaps hearts, too,

can unlearn their noise

and arrive, finally,

at a quieter kind of courage.

***

Setu, December 2025

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Setu

Volume 10; Issue 7; December 2025

Editorial

Collaboration: Experimental Poetry

Poetry

Translation in Five Parts: Poetry: Part V

Translation (Hindi Poetry)

Exclusive: Excerpt of a Novel

Young Signature: Fiction

Author of the Month

Fiction

Long Read: Fiction

Non-Fiction

Book Review

Three-Part Novella in Free Verse: Part III

Photo Album: Cityscapes

Reflective Essay

Verse Novel: Chapter X

Setu Special Edition: Framing a City

The Limited Video Series of Literary and Critical Conversations

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

Special Section: Framing a City