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: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

When the hatchling emerged…

 

 

Go, baby, Go! Walk faster towards the deep blue,

The tide is right for a splash and a swim.

Phew! That was a great escape! a gull just flew

past; another prey must’ve attracted him.

 

Its almost dark, the sun has just begun to set

The frolicking waves will hurl you deeper inside.

Once darkness set in, I believe, there’s lesser threat,

in the open ocean, enjoy the spectacular ride.

 

Your green grey helps you to camouflage;

to swim far using the magnetic cues…

Bask under the temperate sun with your entourage,

My, My! You’re fortunate to gain a round-the-world-cruise.

 

As you navigate towards feeding grounds

‘Safety in numbers!’ your mantra, from predators, to hide.

Come back, after you’ve done the rounds

on your own, discovering newer spaces, with curiosity and pride.

 

Go, turtle, Go! Go faster, towards the deep blue

This fascinating world is yours to view…

***

 

The Forgotten Key

Nita stood at the very spot on the seashore where she had done decades ago.

The azure-green had changed to a darker green, the golden sands weren’t spotlessly clean, there were bits of plastic and debris all over. A few rocky dunes remained, and an occasional sailboat fluttered past, but mostly, there were noisy speedboats that sent frothy waves swiftly towards the shore. 

Besant Nagar Beach (Photo: N. Ravi)

Unlike in the past, it was more inhabited now. The laughter of children, squealing and splashing as the chilly waters touched their feet; the aroma of roasted corn emanating from a seller’s handcart, colourful cotton candy stored in large glass jars atop another’s cart, the balloon stalls and innumerable other treats offered a range of sensorial delights. 

Aren’t these man-made enticements ruining the pristine spaces?

She was also glad that people had returned to begin their livelihood all over again; the homes were much raised now, and there was a large rocky barrier to keep the sea from flooding the land. Grandpa and Grandma’s home was destroyed in the devastating tsunami; the very sea they had loved claimed their lives; the ocean consumed them while they were asleep in their home.

Nita, her mom, Dad and all the family members wept endlessly; they could not forgive themselves and were ridden by relentless guilt. 

Tears flooded Nita’s face.  How many years have gone by…Sigh!

Offering a silent prayer to her beloved grandparents, Nita regained her composure after some time.

She began to reminisce the good old days. 

Morning Glow at Besant Nagar Beach, Chennai
(Photo: N. Ravi)

Grandpa and Grandma were fascinated by this beach house and refused to move out even though the sea was silently eroding the land.  ‘The sea gives; it also takes back!’ was Grandpa’s philosophical dismissal whenever Nita’s mother urged them to vacate the cottage.

Mother knew it was a stubborn choice, but she was helpless.

Nita recalled the amazing time she had with both her grandparents. Both grandpa and grandma narrated fascinating tales of the sea, the turtles, the marine creatures, the need to respect and protect all living creatures – they both were nature lovers and protectors of the environment; yet, they publicly did not take credit for any of their contribution.

Grandpa often said, turtles are the ‘maintenance crew’ of coastal environments, they need to be protected, nurtured and every individual should make sure they do not go extinct…

While Nita was lost in her reverie, a large wave brought along ribbons of rotten seaweed to the shore. A little one who was collecting shells nearby grimaced and kicked it aside.  Nita bent down over the seaweed and her heart began to beat faster. 

In the debris, there was a rusty key, which she picked up with some trepidation. 

Is it the same? I just can’t believe it.  The ring looks similar, so does the turtle head, she said to herself after wiping off the sand, weed and grime.

How did it happen to come here at this very minute? And where is my box now? What had happened to her box of secrets? The secret box which had helped her overcome all her fears… I wish I get to see it again…

Nita looked around to see if there were any familiar people from the past.  All around were unfamiliar faces and nationalities, including the dozen vendors.  Instinctively, she went up to a grey-haired vendor and asked him if he had ever noticed a decorated brown box bobbing towards the shore.

The vendor nodded and said, my granddaughter who is playing over there spotted a brown box being pushed towards the shore. She picked it up; we took it home and placed it in a corner of our cottage.  We did not have the keys; we also did not have the heart to break it open.  But I always wondered if any treasure was within.

Nita’s heart raced faster, but she said nothing. The elderly man invited her to his humble abode.  His wife offered her a concoction in a stainless-steel tumbler, which she called kaapi.   Nita sipped the brew and relished it.  It calmed her nerves further.  She vaguely recalled Grandma had made this concoction once, when she was down with severe cold.

Meanwhile, the stooped man brought out the brown box. It was made of teak, hence, had survived the salty waters for a long time. 

The box stirred a range of emotions from excitement to apprehension. Should she open the box of fears again? 

Abruptly, she rose, held by hand the old man’s granddaughter and walked towards the sea. On the distant horizon, a crimson red ball, was slowly receding into the waters.  Elsewhere, there was a brilliant dazzle, as if fireworks had lit the sky.

She thrust the key into the box; after a slight struggle, it opened…without a word, she emptied the pieces of paper into the sea.  Large waves came frolicking towards her and receded.  As little boats, the paper floated upon the dark waters and disappeared soon.

Nita stood still, transfixed in that ‘golden hour’ and remained in deep contemplation until the lights began to fade.

She handed over the box and the key to the little girl and walked on towards the glittery cityscape.

---

Setu, November 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Those Eyes… (Poetry)

 

‘Sweet is the greeting of the eyes…’

A comfort! This is what everyone thinks.

In time, one can see through that  disguise–

the secret plan behind those occasional winks…

 

Years ago, I saw an Indian film, ‘Athey Kangal.’

Seeking revenge upon the  members of a family

a masked man, tangled and strangled

until his sinister plot was exposed callously…

 

‘Tricks and treachery are the  practice of fools…’

Integrity requires understanding and awareness

A pity! Today, you stare vacantly…your own tools

have deserted you. As Karna, you’re left with the same unfairness…

***

 

Eyes that see… (Prose)

 

Magpie-robin at Adyar river pathway, Adyar, Chennai

Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

 

Happy Dussehra, uncle… Mira gushed out in joy as she handed the box of sweets to Sandeep Uncle’s wife, Mitali.  Auntie received it with a gentle smile; Uncle had a neutral look on his face, because of which, he looked older than he was.

 

Without exchanging  pleasantries, he quipped, ‘Where does your husband go so early in the morning, rain or shine?’

‘Oh, uncle, he enjoys outdoor photography, he goes to capture birds and street scenes on his lens…’ replied Mira.

‘What does he do with them?’

‘Well…. at times he shares them on social media, but mostly, he clicks them for his personal joy, not for competition or promotion…’

‘Does he know there’s a story waiting on this very street? Moment by moment, it keeps changing —a kaleidoscope of colors, images, sounds, noises, and anything else the senses can grasp.’

Auntie interrupted: ‘You’re lucky that he has some hobby to keep the blues away.  Here, Uncle merely spends time warming the bamboo chair in the veranda, watching the passersby, passing some adverse comments…’

 

Gul Mohar Tree, Sholinganallur Wetland, Chennai

Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

  

Ignoring his wife, Uncle continued – On that Gul Mohar tree over there, I have watched the crows nesting. The Asian Koel stealthily places its egg in the crow’s nest…..Once or twice, I have seen crows chasing the female Koel…most often, the Koel couple play a trick….while the male keeps the crow away from its nest, the female does her job stealthily!

 Life isn’t fair, many a time…. saying this, he kept nodding his head.

That statement hung in the air, and Mira used the opportunity to take leave.

That evening, while Arya was downloading his photographs on his computer,  Mira was around, and suddenly, she began to show interest in the pictures.

Ji, ‘What is the most important thing you focus upon while photographing birds?’

Delighted with Mira’s question, Arya began: ‘Golden hour lighting – early in the morning, or in the late afternoon, which is also the peak activity time for birds. Understanding their habits is important- birds never remain in one place; knowing where to find them is important.   And Mira, you always complain about my muddy trousers – that’s because I stoop down, crouch, crawl…to get that eye-level shot.   Most importantly, the eye of the bird! That is the key to engaging photographs, where focus is on emotion and the overall composition. There’s so much more to learn; this is just an overview.’

‘Arya ji… You and Sandeep uncle are stalkers! You stalk birds to capture them through your lens, Uncle silently observes the happenings from the comfort of his verandah; most certainly, he enjoys keeping tabs on them all, just as he does upon you,’ Mira chuckled.

The months of September and October brought along a copious monsoon.  Wet spells continued endlessly. Arya was bored stiff and his hands itched to click images….When the rain stopped for a while, he walked up to the terrace and began taking pictures of the neighborhood.  The neem tree, the Gul mohar, the mango, the Ashoka tree, and others were lush and green; the leaves had quenched their thirst adequately after a rather long dry spell. Interestingly, his camera got pictures of a magpie atop the largest tree in the salubrious environs.  Squealing in delight, he took shots in the burst mode, although he could not see much in the dense foliage.

While processing them, he was jubilant….he had captured a magpie’s nest; in it were two infant birds. Arya had read somewhere that such a breeding pattern was favourable;  food was available in plenty for the babies.

He quickly walked up to Sandeep uncle’s home and rang the doorbell. A surprised uncle stared at him and reluctantly welcomed him in.

Uncle, did you observe the magpie’s nest atop that large tree? Arya asked, without wasting time.

Uncle, in his customary nonchalant tone, said: ‘I don’t know that bird. I only know the crows, cuckoos, the parakeets, and the squirrels.’

‘Uncle, look over there- that bird has a distinct black and white body, its tail is long and upright.  Like the mynahs, woodpeckers, the crows, and others, they are common in urban gardens…’

He handed his binoculars to Uncle. He watched the birds for a while.  A faint smile escaped his face.

‘Magpies are known to be thieves; they steal shiny objects…do you think that bird has stolen Auntie’s stainless-steel spoon that she had left last week for drying? The spoon was along with several other utensils, though. I wonder if it could have stolen it….Auntie would have dropped it down, and the domestic help would have swept it off and thrown it into the garbage, is my strong belief.’ 

‘Uncle, it could have happened either way. We do know that we cannot climb that tree now, the chicks are there, they should not be disturbed…Once they leave, perhaps…’

Arya thanked Auntie for the steaming cup of filter coffee, and as he was about to take leave, she said:

Both of you have eyes for the simple joys of life… only now, I realize that uncle has been sitting quietly, even meditatively, and has been observing natural scenes unfold on the large screen... I, on the other hand, resort to the sensational serials on the small screen… most of the time, they leave me disturbed and irritated…’

Mira had entered while this tete-a-tete was going on.  ‘Auntie, both our husbands have eyes to perceive fabulous sights; they dive deep into several experiences, which others would dismiss as mundane and ordinary.   

‘Yes, dear!’ Auntie replied.  ‘Hasn’t a great man once said, ‘Eyes are the window to the soul...’

***

Bionote: Hema Ravi is a part-time educator and an enthusiastic writer. Her poems and short stories have won awards. She is the author of ‘The Cuckoo Sings Again,’ ‘Joie De Vivre,’ ‘Everyday English,’ and ‘Write Right Handwriting.’ Her book of short stories and micro stories titled  ‘The Greatest Sweepstake’ is currently with the publisher.

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Setu, October 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

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.

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Setu, September 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Without Bounds…(Prose)

One summer morning, Mahima's adventurous spirit led her to explore the steep slopes and rugged terrain of Gokarna, a laid-back coastal town, adorned with pristine beaches.  Losing the trail on a desolate beach, she found herself walking deeper into the foreboding woods.

Tall trees stood like sentinels as sunlight crept through the canopy. The sound of her boots was perturbing in the dense foliage— a dull, definite thud.  A whispering wind stirred the leaves, then a powerful gust swept through, sounding almost like a roar. She heard the chatter of monkeys in the distance. 

And that's when the ‘savage’ appeared. She froze and was about to scream when he gestured for her to stop.  Introducing himself as Rolf, he offered her water, which she took reluctantly, eyeing him with fear and suspicion. His long beard and deep vacant eyes unnerved her.

What have I landed myself into?

Her heart hammered louder from within her blouse; perhaps Rolf heard it too.

Come! You’re not safe here.

A shiver ran down her spine. Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire?

Riddled with misgiving, she plodded on behind him, hoping they’d reach a village soon where she could seek help. She had always lived up to her name's meaning—possessing moral greatness and inner strength, though not external power or aggression. Now, she was powerless and had no choice but to follow the savage in good faith.

Prayer after prayer appeared on her lips.

Rolf moved with a natural grace, stepping over gnarled roots and decayed vegetation with agility, in stark contrast to her clumsy trudge over the unfamiliar terrain.

The price of her defiance was evident.

Just then, Rolf suggested they rest for a while. Opening his backpack, he offered her a water bottle made from a bottle gourd.  It had cool water.  Then, he gave her a handful of jamuns; he ate a few and sat comfortably on a makeshift stool that he brought out from his backpack. He handed her his gun and sat in silence.  Standing behind him, she remained a mix of unease and calm; her backpack still hung over her shoulders.

She thought of the escape routes she could take once they reached a village. Someone there would be her beacon of hope and would help her find her way back to the concrete jungle, with its pitfalls and uncertainties.

The hilly terrain and the cave-like structures no longer seemed friendly; she was on the verge of a meltdown.

After what seemed like eternity, Rolf got up and, in his harsh voice, said: Let’s go!

As a meek child, she walked behind, lagging. She noticed he turned to check on her, waiting patiently until she drew near; then, he proceeded quietly. 

Despite his savage looks, he has some gentleness…

As they walked towards less dense vegetation,  a deafening crash made her scream; her hat flew from her head.

 An axe came flying through the air;  its shiny blade landed into a large log of wood that lay across their path.

A few men emerged from their hiding spots in the tall trees ahead. 

Spotting  Rolf, they let out sheepish smiles.

In a language alien to her, he communicated with the stocky, scantily dressed men.  They bowed and led the way. 

Seeing signs of inhabitation, Mahima let out a sigh of relief.

A dark-faced lady came out of a dwelling.  At Rolf’s bidding, she led Mahima inside.

Over her shoulder, Mahima heard Rolf – Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall guide you back to your world.  I caution you not to speak about any of us.  Forget this encounter as a dream, get back, as quietly as you entered…

Mahima slept soundly; a rescued damsel, her valiant prince was around…

 

The axe will fall…(Poem)

 

He sat, relaxed in his chair, with his long legs

crossed, one over the other.

His long boots protected him from the ants swarming on the earth

The large umbrella shielded him from the summer glare.

 

She, dressed in oversized clothes, was drenched in sweat.

The weight of the long gun made her fume and fret.

In front of them was a large wooden log; a gleaming

axe lay embedded within.

 

This was the proverbial axe that would not just

clear deadwood; it symbolized change – free people

from their limited beliefs and negative thoughts.

How much longer? she wondered.

 

The shabbily dressed cameraman screeched –

Ah, at last! This is the best shot. The axe will soon fall…

 

Unable to bear it longer, she grumbled and muttered.

Just then, he, cool as a cucumber, flicked his wrist.

The axe fell…she let out an

earth-shattering scream and swooned.

***

 

Bio: Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), event organizer, and independent researcher.

Her poems, short stories, travelogues, and articles have been featured in reputed international journals.   Her name is featured among the ten shortlisted poets in the inaugural “Asian Prize for Poetry, 2025.”

She is the author of Joie De Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings Again, Everyday English, and Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3.

She is a freelancer for IELTS, Communicative English & Soft Skills.  

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Setu, August 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Elephant on the track (Prose)

The evening rays of the summer sun shone and brightened the entire landscape.  A sudden cloud brought along a passing shower, uncommon at that time of the year.  However, within seconds, the rain stopped, and it became warm once again. 

 Since it was an unplanned journey, Pooja had to sit in the unreserved compartment along with a host of unfamiliar passengers;  perhaps one of them was a tribal too, she mused. She sat as comfortably as possible on the rickety seat.  The train journey was about 2 hours or more;  she could then reach her home in the village by bus from the station.  

There was a middle-aged man with a fat paunch who didn’t seem threatening. A large family, oblivious to the presence of others, was garrulously exchanging words.

Beside Pooja was a young dark-skinned girl with cropped hair, a red cap on her head with the letters USA embossed on it.  She was seated comfortably and appeared to be enjoying the scenes outside.  Pooja wondered what the purpose of the girl’s visit to this country was.  Unable to control her curiosity, she leaned towards the girl and said with a smile:  “Your folder says Emma Watson, Student of Anthropology.” 

“I know very little about the subject, although I taught English at Ranchi University for a while.  I do know it is the study of human societies, cultures, and evolution. “

 The girl’s eyes lit up.  She mentioned she had stayed at Ranchi University for about a week. She had come down to gain knowledge and insights into the lives of some rehabilitated tribals.  

“My professor had visited the place a few years ago and wants more research to be done  on these indigenous tribes.” 

“This is my first visit to India, and I’m a little nervous.” 

Pooja said, “Yes, every country has its positives and negatives.  One has got to be careful, find the right people to interact with...”

“Did you manage to get any references from the University?”

“Yes!” 

Before Pooja could speak more, Emma enquired,  “Are you on a business trip, or a holiday?”

“Well,” Pooja replied. I’m visiting my ailing aunt in Latemda.  It’s been years now. Professional demands, familial commitments, and others kept me away. My parents used to live there, and my growing-up years were spent there until I was sent to a boarding school in Patna. My parents passed away in quick succession during the pandemic. Since then, my visits to Latemda have reduced to about twice a year.”

“Do you like it there?” asked Emma.  

“Yes, of course.  I try to stay connected to my roots… My father was a farmer, contented and hardworking; my mother, a devoted homemaker.” 

“I lost them both during the pandemic.” 

“They used to visit Ranchi once a year, check on my well-being, and pass on some money to my uncle, who was my local guardian.   After college, at their insistence, I got married to my uncle’s son, who works in a large factory in Ranchi.  It was my husband who encouraged me to study and pursue a professional career, which I did.”

“Do tell me about yourself, if you feel I am not intruding…” Pooja prodded gently.

Emma spoke briefly about her family.  Her parents had migrated to the USA when she was a child, and her schooling and undergraduate studies were in Florida. After her graduation,  she began pursuing a master’s degree, and that was when she met Prof. Wilbur, who persuaded her to continue her research on the ethnic tribes of Jharkhand.

“I’m truly excited to know more about your research and your subject of study,” Pooja expressed in an earnest voice.  

They were conversing softly, munching on some homemade snacks that Pooja had brought along. Suddenly, there was a loud screech of brakes, and the train came to a grinding halt.

The driver had got information from a local about an elephant, which was in labour on the railway track, about a kilometre away. The pachyderm had been there for nearly two hours.  The train wouldn’t move until the mother left with her calf. The villager went into one compartment after another, conveyed the news to the passengers, and requested them to be patient. He urged people not to get off the train and scare the animal or cause any harm to it.  

Pooja gave him a bunch of bananas, and a few other passengers too did so… she said he could take it up to the distressed animal, if he chose to do so.

“How nice it would be if  I could click some pics,”  Emma squealed, even as she showered words of appreciation for the local and the driver for letting the animal lie undisturbed until it delivered its calf.

Some of the passengers got restless and tried to get off the train, but a handful of locals who had gathered outside shoved them back, saying, “Pareshaan mat karo!” (Don’t disturb!)

Pooja was worried she would miss the village bus, which she and Emma had to take to go to the village.  Coincidentally, Emma was going up to the same village to meet Shruti Munda, who had moved into a village home very recently.  Pooja was dying to know more about Shruti.

Emma sat calmly and started reading something.  Pooja became restless and began fidgeting with her fingers; she was sweating too, as the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, and the moon was rising – a voluptuous moon!

To her disbelief and surprise, the train began to chug forward.  All the passengers cheered in glee. 

One of the locals who came into their compartment said: “Aap ma aur bachda ko us side mein dekh sakthein…” Hearing this, all the passengers rushed towards the windows to catch a glimpse of the duo.  Emma got up too, and as the train passed by slowly, she videographed the entire scene.  

“There they are, Emma squealed.”  “It’s too surreal to be true…”

***

Guru Purnima (Poem)

Through the looking glass

I caught a glimpse of the ochre.

Such an incredible sight, how I 

long to be up there…

If I can cast off these earthly bounds

Climb atop the high-rise edifices

And get hold of you -  Silvery Quiet!

The cab whizzes past.

You’ve vanished again… 

***

Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), event organizer, and independent researcher. 

Her poems, short stories, travelogues, and articles have been featured in reputed international journals.  She is the author of Joie De Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings Again, Everyday English, and ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3. Writing, she believes, is therapeutic…there is always a story out in the open, if one keeps the eyes and ears open.

Hema is a freelancer for IELTS, Communicative English & Soft Skills.  As the Secretary of Chennai Poets’ Circle, she empowers poet-aspirants to unleash their creative potential effectively.

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Setu, July 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Breaking News (Micro Story)

The package movers stopped in front of the large gate.  One of the helpers got down, opened the gate, and let the truck in. Unlike in city homes, this country home had ample space for the large truck to enter the open courtyard. 

From a large window in the living room, Sheena watched them; they seemed professional and went about their work meticulously.  In no time, they unloaded all the boxes from the large truck – about ten large crates, which they started opening, for reorganizing in the Basus’ abode.    A few office staff had also accompanied them to assist in the unpacking.  

The sofas, cots, refrigerator, washing machine, steel cupboards, television set, computer, and dishwasher were placed neatly in their respective places. Then the kitchen stove, utensils, storage bins, and the rest of the kitchen gadgets were arranged in the allotted spaces.  

Sheena directed the domestic helper to prepare tea and bajjis for all.  

The tea and snacks energized everyone.

After the tea break, the office assistants left.

Sheena noticed only three crates were left.  Upon one – “Fragile! Handle with care” was written. She instructed the movers to skip that and open the other two crates.

Sitting with her teacup, Sheena was reading a message on her mobile when a loud crash startled her and everyone else in the room.

“What’s that?”  She shrieked. 

A young helper stood there with his head down.

Her heart missed a beat when she saw it was the “Spring of Girl” sculpture – a large porcelain figurine that Anil had gifted her on her birthday a year ago.  

“How come it got packed in this crate and not in the ‘Fragile' box?” 

 An ominous sign…

The helper apologized and assured Sheena that he would get it fixed through a sculptor who lived in his neighbourhood.

Earlier that month, the diamond from her wedding ring had fallen off.  She searched but was unable to find the diamond stone; therefore, the ring was sent to the locker.  Anil assured her that they could always get another.  He added, “Losing a valuable object means one must shift focus towards non-material things to gain greater fulfillment in life.”

Anil was both rational and religious.  A conscientious professional, he always found time for his prayers – he did it sincerely and on time. Again, ostentation and vulgar displays of wealth were never his cup of tea.  Sheena found herself oscillating between the two. She was not as strong-minded as Anil.

“Two bad happenings!” 

 “Will more evil things happen? Will harm come to us?”

At that moment, Anil got a phone call.  His face was ashen as he listened.  He spoke very little, just said, I’ll be there soon… “Emergency, Sheena,” he said, and rushed out without looking back.

The cup of tea and bajjis lay untouched. 

An annoyed Sheena sat on the couch with a sulky face and switched on the television.  

BREAKING NEWS – “Aircraft with 200 passengers crashes just before landing and bursts into flames. Firefighters are dousing the flames. All are feared dead…”

A quick prayer escaped her lips.  A piece of art can be restored, a diamond ring too… Loss of human lives, who can replace them all???

Guard Your Psyche 

Fallen leaves have the power to rise again – 

Rejuvenation springs after a winter lull.

Hibernators arouse, stirred by their internal clock

Circadian rhythm compels humans to sleep.

The body rests, in sync with the clues in the environment

For food, clothing, and shelter, Humans must work.

Life has its lows and highs, its busts and booms

As the crests and troughs in a wave surge and descend.

Damaged objects can be restored.

Through corrective steps, goals can all be achieved.

Physical damage takes time; most often, it heals.

A destroyed psyche – resultant trauma overwhelms…

Bio: Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), resource person for language development workshops, and an independent researcher. 

She is the author of ‘Joie De Vivre,’ ‘The Cuckoo Sings Again,’ ‘Everyday English,’  ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3.’

In 2023, 2024, and in March 2025, she conducted Communicative English sessions for the students of SheViL STEAM, an initiative of IITM.  She was a guest faculty trainer in the Virtual Communication Skills Program for the Undergraduate Students of IIT Madras in 2020 and 2021; resource person in the National workshop 'English Language Skills for Academic Purposes' at Sastra University, Kumbakonam (2019). 

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Setu, June 2025

Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

Be a Guest

In silence, I watch the noisy world move past.

No one has time to stop, to lend an ear

To my chronicles of this world so vast…

A rudderless boat is what I now steer.

Creativity has long bid adieu

I am just a square peg in a round hole

Tough to keep pace in this fast-paced milieu

But yes, I'm not too far off from my goal.

Before long, the words will all come to rest

Bring eternal calm when peace stands up tall

Absence in presence proves a fruitful quest

Within folds, life’s tapestry has it all…

***

Tête-à-tête with a Gen Z 

“Traditionally, Groundhog Day continues. People in the town gather to watch the groundhog emerge from its burrow. If a groundhog sees its shadow on a sunny February 2nd, six more weeks of winter will follow; otherwise, spring will come early...” Aunt Polly concluded.

Daniel, the Gen Z, gave a rather sarcastic smile. “Aunt Polly, is there any scientific proof of this? I believe it’s a rather quirky tradition, but it’s fun listening to your Gens’ serious discussions.”

Uncle Roger, who entered, quipped: “Daniel, your scientific questions have begun, eh?”

Daniel went on: “I just want to know if there is any proven data regarding this.” Or is it just another folklore that people trusted for centuries and like to believe it to be true?”

Patting him on the shoulder, Uncle Roger began: “Daniel, you’re entitled to your views.”

“The baby boomers and the earlier generations were fed with a lot of folklore, fairytales, fantasy, and legends. Although these tales may or may not have been true, they always showed respect for nature, animals, birds, and all beings; they often had a universal theme of good versus evil. We accepted without asking questions and developed logical thinking much later in life. Legends were connected to the locales around us and were meaningful to those who understood such environments and climes.”

“Look out! What do you see?”

Daniel peeped out through the curtained window.

“Some trees have shed their leaves; others are still green. There’s a sunny patch above. The ground is barren; some grass is still green o’er there. The ubiquitous squirrels and chipmunks aren’t seen, but I see a bird flying past in haste. Things appear dormant; some things are still vibrant…in the apparent dullness, there’s vibrancy.”

“Wonderful, Daniel! Hibernating mammals and dormant creatures conserve energy, and their activities slow down during the harsh cold season. While swallows, swifts, and songbirds fly down to warmer zones, the crows, hawks, sparrows, and cardinals have adapted themselves well to endure cold weather, they manage to find food.”

“While many of us revel in spending time indoors, with a book or gadgets, a few indulge in winter sports. I just came back from one of those events, you know. Aunt Polly, too, used to accompany me earlier.”

“Today’s the first of February, almost the midpoint between winter solstice and spring equinox. Tomorrow is the second of February. We’ll not be able to go and watch the ‘Punxsutawney Phil’s’ predictions, do you think we could be up early and see if any groundhog emerges from our garden?”

“Why not? That would be great,” replied Daniel.

“So, let’s retire early and be up at the crack of dawn. Else, we may miss our groundhog, if he chooses to make an appearance….”

***

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Setu, May 2025

Book Review of ‘BOBBLING INNER BUBBLES’ Poems & Paintings

BOBBLING INNER BUBBLES

Nandita Samanta

ISBN 978-93-6095-106-1

Price: INR 295/$ 25

Reviewed by: Hema Ravi

 

About the poet: Nandita Samanta is a poet, short story writer, reviewer, editor, artist, and translator. She freelances as a parenting and relationship advisor and colour therapist. Her writings, published in many anthologies, webzines, and journals, are highly appreciated, and many have been translated into different languages. She has three poetry collections and four books of translations to her credit. She has also done cover page illustrations for many books and magazines.

 

WHEN ART & POETRY UNITE…

Chicken or egg? My first thought when I skimmed through ‘Bobbling Inner Bubbles’  – What came first, the painting or the poem? Just as a circle has “no beginning,” when unleashed, creativity leaps beyond the boundaries of time and space.

Ekphrastic poems with their Greek origins meaning “description;”  offer vivid descriptions of works of art, at times a scene, which can go hand in hand or bring along conflicting “disdain;” and not surprising when a verse leaves its mark on the piece of art. What originally was the transformation of the visual into the verbal, later gained popularity to convey deeper meanings, feelings, and more… Haiga- the traditional Japanese art/poetry is another genre, where the integration of pictures and poems brings along a plethora of invigorating feelings.

Nandita Samanta – artist-poet,  wields the brush and the pen with equal dexterity, and effortlessly brings along the multi-dimensional hues with a subtle message that power lies within, one has to express it without holding back!   The forty-two poems in this collection with an equal number of exquisite paintings – concrete and abstract offer multi-sensory experiences as one navigates through them, lounging on a float.

The poet’s ‘Observation’ aka preface is inspiring and motivating: ‘Accepting the challenges adds experiences that keep refining and redefining you…’ (p. 6) Redefining oneself, without going off script, is a challenging and remains a determined choice.  Without staying ‘silent,’ there is a definite need for the bobbles to “evolve into bubbles,” for newness, excitement, and purpose in life without remaining in the rut.

About  Home (p.11), poet Nandita remarks:

‘There are rooms within the rooms, and empty spaces

crowded with rattling thoughts…’  (p.11)

 

By juxtaposing the ‘empty spaces’ and the ‘rattling thoughts,’ powerful imagery is conceived. At the end of the poem,

‘We come back to find a peaceful refuge under the same

Roof –’  (p. 11)

 

 

Such juxtaposition suggestively reveals multi-layered sensibilities, which are much deeper than what they seem to be on the surface. Again, the contrasts and comparisons add depth and intensity to the writing.

 

‘The muslin-fine, red sunbeam, like an omen

drops at the horizon, rising again the following morning.’ (p. 23)

 

 

 

‘I Walk Within Me’ (p. 29) with prevailing imagery - ‘lonely streets within,’ ‘unending moments between,’ ‘ afterthoughts,’ ‘bygone time,’ accentuates that time is an “illusory concept.” While linear time in the physical realm implies moving from the past into the future, non-linear time helps to travel back and forth and view the past, present, and future simultaneously.

 

The line ‘Time is a true follower of an adamant soul,’(p. 29)  bears semblance to the famous lines: “Time is the king of all men, he is their parent and their grave and gives them what he will and not what they crave.”  Rather than focusing or being fixated on results, one has to enjoy the journey in the rapidly flowing river with endurance, tolerance, and compliance is the profound message here.

 

Yet again, there is reference to time in ‘Borrowed Time.’ (p. 39)

‘The tongue of time will savour every second I’ll be alive.’

 

 Understandably! Words have the power to create or destroy and the blatant truth is revealed in the most distressing of situations.  The Caveat - we are all living on borrowed time, let’s make the best use of it with good tongues!

 

The morning cuppa! Nandita’s painting portraying steam emerging from the coffee cup and the accompanying poem titled ‘A cup of Coffee’ would appeal to all classes of readers.  In another poem titled: ‘Evenfall Comes With A New Promise,’ there’s mention of tea as ‘a fresh taste of a morning brew.’ (p. 37)

 

‘A cup of coffee is essentially needed between the broken

days.  For me

one cup after the other has lifted a sun at the horizon…’(p. 43)

 

 

Tea and coffee are not merely beverages, they are an integral part of the Indian society, with deeply embedded cultural practices and preferences about the ‘filter coffee,’ and ‘chai.’ 

 

I often wonder when beverages clash, is there a way to find out which is better? 

Only coffee addicts and tea lovers would be able to offer the right answers!

 

The moon, viewed as a “friend for the lonesome to talk to,” evokes feelings of enchantment and surrealism. The lines in ‘Desire’ (p. 51) are bound to evoke the sensitivity from within.

 

 

‘…It is a witness to all the victims of the night,

Its gentle beams embalms the scars on the skin.’ (p. 51)

 

In the words of the Buddha, three things that cannot be hidden are: “the sun the moon, and the truth.”  Likewise, the bonding of grandchildren and grandparents cannot be hidden or ignored; it is but a veritable treasure – a WIN-WIN relationship! Grandmoms can prove to be the catalysts in augmenting the holistic growth of children by passing on familial traditions, stories, recipes, values and more; needless to mention such empathetic interactions contribute greatly to the cognitive development of children. 

 

Nandita Samanta, is a practicing parenting and relationship advisor by profession.  I believe she has basked in grandma’s love; learned much about the vicissitudes of life.

 

In ‘Grandma and Me’ (p.82)

 

‘…gave me other things too,

Veins bursting with deep blue

Stories of suffering in such simple words.’ (p. 82)

 

This verse evokes joy and sorrow as it talks about the life of a resilient woman – ‘running a family of seven!’

 

Joyous and sorrowful events, strained and healthy relationships – human thoughts and interactions leave behind several “bobbles,” which are not easily expressible, more so by women, as the poet points out….although I believe it includes the other gender as well.

 

Despite education,  women continue to live in homes and society in ‘denial,’ - not feeling empowered enough to advocate for their emotional rights… Home-Work-Home…Dinner, House, Kids et al…  Repeat! Repeat day after day. In Nandita’s words:

‘Sometimes, living in denial holds

happiness in its tightest grip…’ (p. 13)

 

The parting note: “Don’t let the bobbles of the mind hold you back” (p. 6)  - a positive message to any soul waylaid by doubts and apprehensions….

Discover the world of art and poesy…redefine yourself…

 

About the Reviewer:

Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), and independent researcher. Her poems, short stories, travelogues, and articles have been featured in reputed international online and print journals, a few of them have won prizes. She is the author of ‘Joie De Vivre,’ ‘The Cuckoo Sings Again,’‘Everyday English,’  ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’  and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, she empowers aspiring poets to unleash their creative potential efficiently.

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Setu, April 2025