Literary Consummation of Eternal Lovers- Novel ‘Urvashi Pururva’ by Santosh Srivastava

Review by: Neelima Ranjan

Novel: Urvashi Pururva (Hindi)

Writer: Santosh Srivastava 

Publisher: Kitabwale Publication,  New Delhi

Price: ₹ 600/

Pages: 151

Santosh Srivastava is a well known and much read name in Hindi literature. She is adept at creating new rainbows in her own creative world. She has penned more than thirty books in almost different genres of literature. She has been felicitated with five international and twenty national awards. Researchers of Hindi literature and students of different universities are aspiring for M. Phil. and Ph.D. on her novels. A remarkable fact about her is that much has been written, discussed and spoken about her as a novelist, I won’t be exaggerating if I say that her readers and fans know a lot more about her than me. Her literature meets all social obligation in its own stride. This obligation is not strenuous or artificial, it is effortless and spontaneous woven as intrinsic part in her creations.

She calls her recently published novel ‘Urvashi Pururva’ as ‘the golden chapter of Indian culture’. I am sure that the readers will be overwhelmed by six years of research, the novelist did while writing this masterpiece. The present form has been chosen from the oldest love story from not only Puranas but also historical events. Giving this idyllic tale- love story of a dancer from Lord Indra’s court and king Pururva, the ruler from Chandra clan of Prathishthanpur, a form acceptable to modern readers must have not been easy.

This saga dates back to Satyug or even prior to that - the time since history was written. It has been presented, re-presented, written, re-written numerous times and in many forms. Most readers are familiar with this narrative. All the learned readers will definitely agree that it is not easy to write on a much known, much repeated and much explored plot. Kudos to Santosh ji on her grit for choosing it and giving it a new, fresh look and feel to a story so familiar. Her art and acumen as a writer must have helped her  in doing justice to integrity and intactness of the story. Another point is important enough to be mentioned here that no matter how much has been written or discussed on a story or subject, there definitely remains something untouched and unpolluted in it. I am positive that the novelist must have taken up this story line after much analysis, deliberation, ground work and research. If we think about ‘how’ it must have been very complex experience to establish balance between characters and storyline while penning this novel of 124 pages.

Time frame of Urvashi and Pururva has been established during 1600 BC. This fairy tale has been mentioned in Rigveda, incantations from vedas (ऋचाएँ), 18 Puranas in one or the other context. Vedas regards these two lovers as eternal man and woman. Urvashi is the celestial maiden, a nymph as already mentioned in Ramayan & Mahabharat whereas Pururva is a modern man of contemporary time. This love saga finds place in Brahman Puran too. The novelist in her introductory note writes about ‘Vikramorvashiya’ by Kalidas and also ‘Urvashi’ of Ramdhari Singh Dinkar. ‘Soorsagar’ also has its reference. I have tried to analyse the storyline on the basis of these references. We cannot even count the number of stories, plays, mentions, plots, subplots etc that branch from this eternal saga of love and passion. Kalidas had written about the first sight of Urvashi and Pururva in detail and in the novel this scene seems like conjuring, trickery and illusion. Urvashi in her first appearance charms the readers and no doubt Pururva too. This is the magical charm of narrative by Santosh ji who knits the tale in a manner like a visual treat too. It feels like finding valuable seashells and pearls from the ocean.

Storyline can be traced centuries back but it is enveloped so well in incomparable passion of love that every single syllable looks drenched in love potion. In the play ‘Vikramorvashiya’ the story is about parting and reunion of Urvashi and Pururva with a reference about Aushinari, wife of Pururva getting letter from Urvashi before it reaches to Pururva and her handing this letter to her husband Pururva immediately. There is also an instance of Urvashi turning into a creeper with magic. The novelist presents the story using the creative freedom of a literary persona. If we analyse ‘Urvashi’ of Dinkar, the poetic dramatisation of this ancient legend with new meanings. The play presents union of love and eroticism with spiritualisation. In his creation Dinkar presents the love that pervades through nature beyond the horizon.

The novelist here includes clairvoyance and intangibilities of love, awakening of conscious heart, imbuing of all senses of Urvashi in supernaturally passionate love and finally submitting herself to unbearable indulgence and romantic bond. This includes impassioned love with a great many images and forms of love. Story is everlasting, plot is same but the women characters in the novel tempt and force readers again and again to find the underlying characteristic features.

Let us begin with Urvashi, the lead character of the love story, the divine idol of love, feminine beauty and eroticism with perseverance of persona and also embodiment of the age long saga. A courtesan, a dancer of Lord Indra’s court Urvashi doesn’t belong to earth but when she falls in love with Pururva, she is only a woman in love, a paramour. She does not bother about pristine youth, the probable changes in the body after bearing a child and all worldly effects on a woman in high place. She is a complete woman, love incarnate. All small waves of life meet and merge into main tidal wave of love, warmth and tenderness. While in Indra’s court she is lost in thoughts of Pururva while performing and misses a step. A nymph from the other world, then suffers with a curse from Brahma and is sent to earth and live there. Love of Pururva is like blood stream in her existence. She asks  Pururva to make three promises if he wanted to wed her. The impatient and boisterous lover in  Pururva doesn’t even think for a split second and agrees to all her conditions. While with Pururva she keeps wondering, ‘Is it really possible that earth is far more beautiful than heaven?’ (क्या देवलोक से सुंदर भूलोक हो सकता है?’) She never tells Pururva that due to the curse - as soon as Pururva sees his son, Urvashi has to go back to Indra’s court. She does all this for her insatiable love for her lover as she was ready to bear all the consequences only if she could stay back with Pururva sees. He undying love and devotion for Pururva can be seen when she herself doesn’t even have a glimpse of her own son for sixteen years- she wanted to stay with her love. As soon as Pururva sees his son, Urvashi goes back to Indralok. Here I could not digest how ecstasy of love surpasses in importance than the innocent bond of motherhood and mother’s natural attachment with her son. Urvashi and Pururva stayed together for 16 years complementing each other with dancing and music. Love for each other was a compulsive inevitable force for both of them. This makes us think about modern time : the conflict and dilemma of modern men and women for whom their relationship is paramount and it leaves no place to accommodate even their own children.

Then there is Aushinari- religious, very beautiful, serene and elegant. She is wife of Pururva and queen of Pratishthanpur. Her marital life had been an example of pure undulated selfless love until Urvashi entered. She has been aptly called a virtuous and saintly woman, an epitome of faithfulness in marriage. Her sincerity for her husband is exemplary even when she is heart broken to find her husband madly in love with another woman. She still gives her benefit of doubt that perhaps Pururva really owed to his people and needed a heir for the throne- that’s why he did what he did. He needed a son to keep his dynasty intact and safe. She knows her rights as a wife but accepts Urvashi as co-wife. The novelist here pens a flicker of consciousness, the voice of all women, presented here in a monologue of Aushinari: ‘If a husband were impotent, will his wife do what Pururva did for getting a child? This question has remained unanswered since times immemorial.’

(यदि पति नपुंसक हो तो क्या पत्नी संतान प्राप्ति के लिए वह सब करेगी जो महाराज ने किया? यह प्रश्न अनुत्तरित है सदियों से।)

Here we cannot forget to mention one more respectable lady from the novel, Sukanya, the daughter of King Sharyati and wife of Saint Chyavan. It was just by an unintentional mistake that she became a culprit in case of her husband losing his sight. She then herself chose to marry and serve  the aged saint Chyavan as penance. Later the son of Urvashi and Pururva, Vayu was brought up by Sukanya for sixteen years.

The story moves smoothly while the readers get acquainted with characters of the novel. The novelist presents a detailed account of the codes and treatises written by saint Chyavan. The details are woven seamlessly about garden around the monastery of Rishi in a picturesque and self explanatory manner. The writer writes about the medicinal herbs and plants in an incontestable style. That is the beauty of her style. She does not stress on the facts in a persuasive way but mentions it casually so as to make it natural.

Hero of this love story is Pururva, the first king of Chandra clan and son of Buddh and Ila. He is wise, religious, daring, powerful and extremely good-looking. He had been bestowed with powers of Chandra, the Moon. It has been said that he could visit abode of Indra on a no moon night. He saved Urvashi from being kidnapped once and there it was- the love at first sight. Pururva was a devout follower of Lord Vishnu. His intense love for Urvashi compelled him  to go through a number of challenges. He is caught in deep love characterised by cavernous emotions and daring summons. Urvashi had been disgraced in Indra’s court and had to leave heaven but she looks forward to meeting Pururva on earth. The definition of love spoken by Pururva is showcase of Santosh Ji’s rich and impressive diction:

‘When the tiredness of love seems sweet, the burden of duties seems as light as flowers, burning in passion grants you peace- All these put together mean the soul of man is soaked in the syrup of warmth and fervour of love’. (जब प्रेम पथ की थकन मधुर लगे, कर्तव्यों का बोझ पुष्प सा हल्का लगे, विरह में दग्ध होना शीतल लगे, तब मनुष्य की आत्मा प्रेम की चाशनी में पगी होती है।)

There is mention of contemporary form of hermaphrodites or kinnars. The novelist writes about confusing emotions of courtesans from Indra’s court when they talk among themselves: ‘Everything is timeless in heaven, whereas it is happier to die on earth while creating thing, babies and dying in its aftermath joyfully.’ (देवलोक में सब कुछ शाश्वत है जबकि भूलोक में सृजन करते हुए उसके आनंद में जीते हुए मृत्यु होना अधिक सुखकर है।)

References from different treatises have been chosen wisely by Santosh ji. She has recreated those to solve her purpose successfully. Each reference has admissibility and acceptability.     The beauty of nature, difference species of vegetation and enticing description of various seasons is truly heartwarming. Let us quote from the book: Spring has quietly entered the earth, forests thrive with greenery and colourful flowers, water sources bubble with glass-like transparent water, the wind loaded with enticing fragrance and calming aroma of flowers, echoing chirping of birds and melodious ragas sung by songbird nightingale. It seemed that all the five arrows of Love God Cupid had hit the earth hard yet softly and drenched the forests in romantic love.’  (भूलोक पर बसंत का आगमन हो चुका था। वन प्रदेश पुष्पित पल्लवित हो, काँच की तरह पारदर्शी जल के झर-झर बहते जल प्रपातों, सुरभित बासमती पवन, कलरव करते पक्षियों और कोयल की मधुर तान से गुंजायमान हो रहा था। कामदेव के पाँचों बाण मानो वन प्रदेश को श्रंगार रस से सराबोर कर रहे थे।)

This is indisputable eternal truth that man and woman are complementary to each other. The story leads us to understand spiritual experience as ultimately practicable and sensual enjoyment realisation and thereafter meditation of it. Pururva can be called a man of all times, a symbol of conflict and duality between love and renunciation- He left all worldly pleasures as soon as Urvashi left him. The main female character of the novel Urvashi is a woman experiencing conflict between lust(symbol of sensual earthly pleasures) and Karmasu Kaushlum Yoga (कर्मसु कौशलम् योग).

This story of Santosh Srivastava is surrender and submission of two opposites with no opposition— earth and heaven, sky and ground, a barren woman and a complete woman. The tale encompasses the dignity of womanhood, an extraordinary saga of love with one end in heaven and other on the earth both connected by love. He story-telling technique is superb, storyline conforms to relevant times and dialogues pique readers’ interest. All these elements can be related to essence of modern-day society too. It is enjoyable to re-visit treatises- the golden history of our country, India through relationship between earth and heaven. It’s a must read for readers of legends, mythology and ancient historical literature.

***

Reviewer's Bio: Dr Neelima Ranjan, a professor of English retired from Madhya Pradesh Higher Education Department.  She lives in Bhopal, M P. Due to her intense interest in literary activities she has been practicing creative writing for many years. She has published 5 books in Hindi and one in English. Her genre is poetry, article writing and review of books mainly. She had been felicitated with a number of prestigious awards for her writing skills.

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Setu, December 2025

Book Review - Mississippi Delta: Photographs by Jianqing Zheng

Put Me In the Water:

the blues of Jianqing Zheng's 'Mississippi Delta: Photographs'

Review By Jerome Berglund

 

If the old adage contending a picture's value appraises at equivalent to a thousand words be true, prolific writer and photog Jianqing Zheng’s luscious new volume of fine art photography may well represent among his most expansive and weighty contributions to English literature and art to date, deceptively hefty in its 100 gorgeous glossy pages of stunning black and white imagery, handsomely presented across eight well organized sections in predominantly full-page layouts, with occasional gray backdrops to preserve thoughtfully devised crops. 

Jerome Berglund

Designed elegantly by renowned photographer Leo Touchet, with whom Zheng previously collaborated unforgettably in a striking collection of ekphrastic dialogues between image and verse, this book represents a glorious achievement in documentarian prowess and vision, a source document of exciting ambition capturing with unique artistry and keen perceptiveness the distinctive aesthetic and inimitable tone of an underrepresented and highly valuable slice of Americana readers the world over can benefit enormously from basking in the rich immortalizing of. 

Through a lengthy, impressive career Jianqing has utilized an eclectic array of modes with letters, photographs, artwork, and charged hybrids or variations thereof, in the interest of preserving for posterity, communicating, and eloquently articulating the language and story of his gorgeous, woeful space, and has made marked contributions to heritages’ reverence so doing via prose, verse, micropoetry, and combinations of these approaches. But thanks to its incredible accessibility Mississippi Delta: Photographs represents one of his oeuvre's crowning achievements, with some of the most powerful impact, immediacy, clarity and universal appeal he has achieved in all his careful scholarship and intimate field research. 

A catalogue of memorable vignettes, superb scenes, exquisite moments, predominantly devoid of any interference by man or creature largely excepting a few birds and beasts, or the evidences of his having passed through and left a mark by structure, mural, signpost or monument, there is the feeling for the vicarious observer joining Zheng on his roaming of being an archaeologist traversing the ruins of a lost civilization, or an audience member at a drama observing the theater set after or before a show has begun and its players have taken the stage. Yet the inhabitants of this place, their profound feeling and dense culture and history are also always the most prominent characters of the scenes, infusing each with meaning and imbuing every frame with countless layers of complexity and depth which make for the most captivating facets at dialectic play with nature and the elements in timeless and storied configurations or waltzes.

This book also serves as a spectacular testament and exemplary resource for those interested in appreciating, understanding, and deploying the traditions, techniques, aesthetics of eastern poetics and artwork, a case study and master class in ideas of wabi-sabi, yugen, shasei which the author has demonstrated terrific command of and nuanced grasp employing across his poems and narratives elsewhere. But the beauty, strength, and potency of image is its economy, functionality, coherence across barriers of time, space, and most constructively language, so that these extraordinary contents can be as easily and readily appreciated in Peru as Japan as Nigeria or the continent of Antarctica. The commercial media, the accepted historian anthropologist and ethnographer, the press and magazine and Instagram story of our era has traditionally demonstrated a highly limiting focus on a few prominent beacons or hubs geographically, which omit, ignore, exclude, redact the larger, crucial portion of where humanity lives and dies, loves and conscientiously maintains, and it is integral, significant work remedying this tendency and tragedy. 

The contribution to revision and improvement to such policies books like this make to our shared understanding, memory and perspective cannot be underestimated, should be lauded and encouraged  enthusiastically. I hope as many people as possible have the opportunity to admire these fine art photographs and the instances in our age and this incredible landscape they commemorate. I can't recommend this outstanding book highly enough, to readers young and old, as well as formal artists, scholars and institutions.

Available here: https://photocirclepress.com/msdelta/msdelta-back.html

Jerome Berglund has published book reviews and essays on poetry and poetics in Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, Frogpond, Haiku Canada, Hooghly Review, the Mamba, North of Oxford, Setu, Valley Voices, also frequently exhibits poetry, short stories, plays, and fine art photography in print magazines, online journals, and anthologies.

Jianqing Zheng’s poetry books include A Way of Looking, The Dog Years of Reeducation, Enforced Rustication in the Chinese Cultural Revolution, Delta Sun, and The Landscape of Mind. His edited books include African American Haiku: Cultural Visions and The Other World of Richard Wright: Perspectives on his Haiku. He has received three poetry fellowships from the Mississippi Arts Commission and teaches at Mississippi Valley State University, where he edits Valley Voices: A Literary Review. His latest publications are Still Motion, coauthored with Leo Touchet, and Delta Lenscapes Photoku. He has also published more than 20 photographic essays about the river and land of the Mississippi Delta, with topics of African American hospitals and clinics, country churches, shacks, cultural flavors of hot tamales, Emmett Till, Mississippi John Hurt, Robert Johnson, the river’s business, and ghost place in journals, including Arkansas Review, Integrite, Maine Digital Collaborative, Mississippi Folklife, and The Southern Quarterly. A few of his photographs were used on book or magazine covers.

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Setu, December 2025

A Carousel of Time: The Politics and Poetics of Sanjukta Dasgupta’s Oh Freedom

Title: Oh Freedom

Author: Sanjukta Dasgupta

Publisher: Sahitya Akademi

Pages: 126

Price: ₹ 225

---Reviewer: Koushik Sen

Sanjukta Dasgupta’s newest volume of poems, Oh Freedom, collates the poems that she has written over the last couple of years. Putting down this very line on a computer screen, it feels like documenting something; that primal itch since I A Richards for close readings, to get into the head of a poet, to decode the cryptic lines as if they were some sort of interpretive revelation of history. That is something akin to what people generally tend to do in their daily lives, their furrowed eyebrows, their WhatsApp screen reading message deleted, frantically typing out, ‘What did you delete?’ As if the act of omission, the commission, the very act of writing and non-writing is not valid ipso facto.

Sanjukta Dasgupta

It is a difficult proposition to talk about Dasgupta’s poems and do so with the expected impersonal detachment. The anxiety of influence looms as someone who relates to things; one is given to think that the couple of years at the University of Calcutta are a permanent epiphany. At the same time, it is easy to read the lines redolent of the familiar wit, the occasional bon mots, and the surreptitious jibe at the positivist view of history as a Marxist-feminist: ‘He himself said he had Greek genes/Remember Alexander’s visit’ – the rest is history. And that’s no critique of the ethno-religious supremacist politics – she’s talking of her father, or her mother’s husband, to be loyal to the title of her poem. She follows up this poem with one on her husband, beginning with a characteristic tongue-in-cheek ‘Unlike Draupadi, I have just one husband’ but ending on a neoclassical sobriety. Poetry is fiction, after all, as Terry Eagleton makes it clear in his How to Read a Poem.

Koushik Sen

With poems like Bombs in Bethlehem and Murder Most Foul, the continuity of time that carries with it the weight of a domino effect of political misappropriation is made clear. Dasgupta’s poems, particularly those with this sensibility, are a departure from the modernist hope for a savior. She uses the usual leitmotif of the baby, metaphorically and metrically aligned, but appropriates it as a subversion. Her vision is that of history repeating itself as a farce. The half rhymes and progressive metres grope for hope in a world that cannot distinguish the left from the right in the ever-changing madness of shifting politics that consider a concession from neoliberalism as a victory: ‘Dreams turn to nightmares/Callous fingers on remote triggers’ or ‘A storm rose, a tumult tore/Through the tragic night/As never before’. It is not the calloused fingers but the callous ones that call the shots, and the poet engenders and accomplishes a literary history that can tell very well the mushroom cloud from the cumulonimbus. The poet, the seer, is aware that there is no centre that holds anymore, and the falling apart of the world is not a departure in principle; rather, there’s a firm knowledge that spring will always follow winter. 

It was Julian Barnes who had famously written that history is the crossroad between the shortcomings of documentation and the inaccuracy of memory. For poets, however much logicians would hate it, it is by their very vocation that they bridge this gap, and they do it with a personal reading of history. With poems fashioned as childhood reflections like Tom, My Little Puppy, and Bulbulie, My Little Bird, Dasgupta seeks to do the very thing that she does in the other poems, at least in their central fabric: undermining the family without subverting the personal. It seems like a contradiction in sorts, a Marxist obsessed with the individual – but that is where the poet trumps over the rationalist – putting fingers on a history that is so awfully visible yet guarded, carefully picking out the bones from the flesh, the crenulated mark of personal loss recognizable. The learned is separated from the instinctive, bond from love; which reminds one of the late Sankha Ghosh’s often quoted lines: ‘Mukh Dheke Jaay Bigyapone’ (Advertisement obliterates the identity). Incidentally, Dasgupta refers to this instinct with her characteristic wit in one of her poems, Reading, noting with a chuckle how emoticons are the new antediluvian pictography.

These motley threads do not serve as a workaround to the realm of the elusive freedom, but probe the absence of it in everything, from the throes of birth to the stillness of death. One could go on and on about Dasgupta’s love for Shakespeare and Hemingway and how she weaves the Greek myths to weave her own fabric, the spool of politics leaving her with no dearth of creative lapse during her creative hours. However, as a jaded reader, one could only sit with this book, maybe stare at the wall for one, and bask in the carousel of the city memory she weaves, one that is inhabited by the rich and walked on by the workers. Maybe the tea will run cold, and one would, inspired by the reading, set out to haunt the alleyways of this ancient city appropriated by traders for centuries, only to find a lane or two named after people who truly belonged to the city she cares for, such as the one who saved a manual scavenger by entering a manhole, losing his life in the bargain, a little over a century ago.

***

Reviewer's Bio: Koushik Sen (b. 1994) completed his Master’s in English Language and Literature from the University of Calcutta, and has taught as Assistant Professor of English for five years. He writes in both, English and Bangla, and his works have been published in Aaro Ananda, The Statesman, NY Literary Magazine, among other places. His translation of Avinandan Mukhopadhyay’s poems, Limbed Moon Harvested Void, was published in 2025. He has served as book review editor for Ethos Literary Magazine, and writes a review when he genuinely likes a book. 

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Setu, November 2025

The Red Woman by Laksmisree Banerjee

The Red Woman

Laksmisree Banerjee
Black Eagle Books [Dublin. USA. India]
PP 108, Year 2025

ISBN 978- 1- 64560- 637- 6
PRICE ₹ 280

---Reviewed by Santosh Bakaya

There is no denying the fact that Laksmisree Banerjee is an important literary voice in the present literary scene. I have read many of her books and have found the impassioned intensity of her writing almost palpable, impacting the reader powerfully.

In the pages of this new book, The Red Woman, published by Black Eagle Books, [Dublin, the USA, India], Patriarchy, with all its cruel claws, is in the dock!

Laksmisree Banerjee

 In her foreword, Bashabi Fraser says that the ‘vigilant third eye’ is forever awake in Laksmisree’s poetry, as she walks with the prostitute, remembers the child widow, the smothered silence, the shunned, isolated or lonely woman…”

Her poems cannot be stifled, but will bring hope to the hopeless, revitalizing and resurrecting the women languishing in the margins of society. 

With remarkable panache, Laksmisree has woven together myriad female experiences in a Male-dominated society, symbolized by the powerful Red Woman, embodying pain, defiance, and the searing fire of rebellion.  As she says in her interview with Rachna Singh, [Editor, The Wise Owl magazine], she has presented and poeticized 'The Red Woman in all her entirety."    

She has a voice that excels at singing dulcet songs, but here her poetic voice reaches a crescendo of indignation at the centennial patriarchal mindset.

Santosh Bakaya

 With an edifying eloquence, she expresses empathy with the marginalized, the downtrodden, the silent sufferers, the child brides, the young widows, the victims of prejudice, and the invisibles. And, also, the new bride,' in closeted freedom of female glory', all dressed up in heavy finery, waiting for the doors to open, 
' lattices removed,
for guests to enter, inspect, and laud
the newest toy in her in-laws' home."   

Dedicated "to all such Abhayas, Nirbhayas, and fearless women of the world, brutally treated  daily, killed and raped by the ageless guillotine of patriarchy", the book, in its 108 pages, attacks the sinister minds responsible for the' female body and soul strewn in gory shards.'

" lacerated womanhood, the searing agony of a manacled womanhood,"

In the Author's Note, she says that, “the predominance of the Red Colour, its efficacy and usage is interwoven in my poetic fabric."
 ”Fire and the colour red are powerful symbols that burn in her poems and remain intensely personal, while also connecting with the reader because of the universality and the immediacy of the issues raised,"  says Debjani Chatterjee in her blurb. 

The longest poem in the book is The Red Woman, pp 1- 5 - the woman who is lost in the meandering paths of Songachi. 

She exclaims,  

"You are the whore,
 not I 
 You have sold your soul
 not I 
You have revelled in perfidy
 not I 

You have traded in lust 

not I”. 

 The back page blurbs speak highly of her poetic talent. 
Candice Louisa Daquin, [USA], calls the book 'a potent tour de force through womanhood, culminating in a meticulous, polemic rebellion.

K. Satchidanandan says that she has consistently pursued the "painful secrets of the human condition."

 The poem Timeless Sin p 30, hits hard at the regressive ritual of locking up a woman for her crime of bleeding for 'four days a month'.

"My grandmother 

 was chained in darkness in the cowshed,
Barred from sunlight four days a month
It was a crime for her to bleed
 Like it was for her to be a girl-"

After coming out, she would be purified with cow dung and chilly Ganga water
"Strangling her every month 

with pneumonia."

Unborn Kill, p 39 is another hard-hitting poem on female infanticide.
"I felt my throbs
deep within
 the frothy warmth of
 my mother's insides...

 I was she
a teardrop on the serrated edge

 of being,
a dew on her hidden, clement leaf,
soon to be sucked out by
the boiling seas, the hot winds
 of prejudice.”   

In 'Renaissance after her Martyrdom', p 107

"No way will this upheaval ever stop
till a new awakened, sun rises in tearful blossom..." 

No longer can we afford to remain complacent or indifferent; we need to raise our collective voices against these atrocities, against bruised womanhood, against all societal stereotypes,

'Till fists are ready to combat subjugation

...

patriarchy asphyxiated with blasts of justice:

In an interview with Rachna Singh, the editor of The Wise Owl magazine, Laksmisree Banerjee   says that the book accentuates 

'' the multifacetedness of women's experiences throughout the world."   
She emphasizes that the "resonant image of this book would be a blood-smeared woman with an unfurled flag in one hand and a tight fist in the other, proclaiming a crying rebellion for a better world of equality and humanity."

This collection throws ample light on the brutal fact that women continue to battle the evils of patriarchy, excruciating humiliation, and isolation.
Some, like Maya Angelou's caged bird, alas, have forgotten to sing.   
Like Laksmisree, I am also robustly convinced of the power of poetry to bring about positive change. And this, I am sure, is one such book which will take society by the scruff of its collar, and shake it out of its complacency.
Let me add an important point here.   
Despite the bludgeoning and battering of women in a toxic patriarchal society, Laxmisree reiterates that we continue to witness the grit and gumption of such women to rise above the trials and tribulations of life, and We Rise with Her.P 107

"No, we cannot stop till the seeds flower again
till the verdure of love sprouts in redressal 

Till the womb stops bleeding in such a demoniac carnage
..............................
We now await appeasement of a new daybreak."

 Two chilling poems, Fire of a New Woman, PP 25, and SCARS: Burnt Woman, based on a real-life, personal Fire Tragedy, sent chills up my spine:
In the concluding lines, of Fire of a new Woman, I could read the message of resilience and fortitude. Out of the ashes of the fire, a new Woman was born.

   “You found your new sangfroid
I found the darkness of fire 
the light of knowledge."

In [SCARS: Burnt Woman pp 23 -24] Despite ‘ice cold abandonment…”
 “my tears hardened

Into granite chips…and the darkness of fire
taught her ‘the lessons of love and life’.

Bravo for writing such an important book- A book which deserves a permanent place in the book shelves of all university and college libraries.

---

Setu, November 2025

Book Review: Mother Mary Comes to Me

Reviewer – Snigdha Agrawal

Title: Mother Mary Comes to Me
Author: Arundhati Roy (Booker Prize Winner, 1997)
Genre: Non-Fiction / Memoir
Year of Publication: September 2025
ISBN: 9780143473060
Publisher: Penguin Random House, India
Pages: 373
Price: ₹899 (inclusive of all taxes)

At the outset, I would like to clarify that this review reflects my personal impressions, an intentional surface-level response to the narrative, rather than a critical examination of political ideologies or factual accuracy. While some of the author’s views diverge from my own, I do not seek here to either critique or endorse her politics. I am going to share what stirred or resonated with me as a reader.

Snigdha Agrawal

The cover's visual impact is instant and compelling. Hardcover in hibiscus-red, title and author name printed in gleaming black, gives the effect of classic Indian holy books commonly found on the domestic prayer altar. It is reverential, borders on devotional. Concealed behind the white jacket is a butterfly motif. A delicate and tasteful revelation that encourages one to take a second look. This covert design feature, one that is both surprising and significant, is a visual metaphor for the memoir itself: layered, intricate, and metamorphic. The proverb "Don't judge a book by its cover" has seldom been more apt.

The white jacket, like a wraparound skirt, over the red casing, features two contrasting portraits of the author. On the front, a younger Arundhati Roy, with a lit beedi (tobacco-filled, hand-rolled cigarette rolled in a dried tendu leaf), defiantly sitting on her lips, radiates rawness and rebellion. On the back, the older, serene-looking woman looks back with a melancholic serenity. Both of these photographs tell more than a thousand words, narrating the path of a life led uncompromisingly and on her own terms. The visual curation is nothing short of brilliant.

The title, Mother Mary Comes to Me, instantly provokes curiosity. Given Roy’s well-known ambivalence toward organised religion, born to a Syrian Christian mother and a Hindu father who later converted to Christianity, one wonders if this is a reference to a mystical vision, a spiritual awakening, or a poetic metaphor. The answer, as one reads on, lies somewhere in between. Roy explains that she never quite belonged to any single religion or practised any religious tradition. This confession flows like a throbbing vein throughout the memoir.

Whereas her name precedes her reputation, backed by her prior win, connections with high-profile TV anchors, politicians, and the movers and shakers in the literary world, what finally pushed me to read her memoir was a combination of profound interest and respect for her writing. Roy's narration of tales is seamless and unafraid. There is no hyperbole, no attempt at veiling or softening truths. She lays bare her soul, drawing the reader into the innermost recesses of her existence with a candour that is disarming, making it hard sometimes to turn away or dismiss what she says.

Fundamentally, Mother Mary Comes to Me is a poignant exploration of mother-daughter relationships: strained, complicated, but strongly binding. But the memoir also branches out to Roy's activism, her public image, her politics, and the personal wounds that fashioned her into who she is today. She writes about childhood abuses, of being emotionally brutalised and neglected, of living on the margins, physically, socially, and emotionally, and of speaking out despite, or maybe because of, the silencing forces that prevailed around her.

Her mother, herself a hard-hitting activist, is at once a role model and a source of pain. A woman who defied patriarchal succession laws in Kerala and won against formidable opposition. She transmitted to her daughter the same combative spirit. And yet, she also transmitted the trauma. In perhaps the most burning chapter, "Her Birth Certificate Was an Apology from God," Roy describes the emotional burden of being an unwanted child, of knowing her mother had tried several times to abort her. It is ruthless in its candour, jolting in its emotional nudity. And still bearing this weight, the daughter is faithful, obedient, to a mother who was never able to really raise her.

This complicated, often heartbreaking relationship forms the emotional backbone of the memoir.

Roy's life, as recorded here, reads like a tattered red-and-white tablecloth, rough around the edges, smeared with use, but sewn together with resolve. From poverty to world fame, from the streets to the spotlight, from camp life in the forests to trial by jury in courtrooms, her path has never been a straight one. She has lived unapologetically, made unpopular choices, and in many cases, paid a high price, in the form of imprisonment, censorship, or demonisation. And yet, her humanity and ferocity are evident in equal proportions. She will not conform, will not apologise for her decisions. And in so doing, she inspires.

The memoir is also punctuated with digressions: accounts of demonstrations, political upheaval, and incarceration. Although they seem to divert from the main theme, they actually are crucial. Roy's activism is not an aside or an appendix; it is the essence of who she is. These parts create tension and urgency in the narrative, compelling the reader to read on and even to gasp in places.

As the pages turn, so do the layers of Roy's personality: fiery yet tender, disillusioned yet optimistic, severely hurt yet deeply self-conscious. She is, simultaneously, her mother's daughter and her own woman. A product of abandonment and a figure of defiance. A paradox she accepts more than she denies.

Having just written/self-published my own individual memoir, I was especially interested in reading Mother Mary Comes to Me. Although Roy and I have had very different lives, there are certainly threads of similarity to be acknowledged, particularly regarding how memory, emotion, and family influence identity. Her direct candour and unapologetic storytelling caused me to think more deeply about the vulnerability and courage it takes to share one’s life with the world.

In short, Mother Mary Comes to Me is a harrowing, uncompromising, and emotionally nuanced memoir about a woman who has never followed the rules. It is more than a chronicle of events; an intimate mapping of the emotional geography of her life. Raw, defiant, and redemptive. Whether or not one shares her vision of the world, it is impossible not to be impressed by the courage it took to publish this book.

A powerful follow-up to The God of Small Things, this memoir deserves both critical acclaim and a wide readership. It would not be surprising if Roy adds another prestigious literary accolade to her name for this explosive and exquisite work of truth-telling.

Verdict: A rousing, gutsy memoir that strips away every veil of the author's public self to show us a woman who is, above all else, human. A must-read.

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Setu, November 2025

Environmental Concerns in Sanjeev’s Novels

Rakhi

Rakhi

Research Scholar, Hindi Literature

B.R.A. Bihar University, Muzaffarpur, Bihar

Abstract

          The contemporary age can rightly be called the age of environmental crisis. Industrialization, urbanization, and uncontrolled scientific progress have exploited natural resources so recklessly that the balance of the Earth is continuously deteriorating. Climate change, deforestation, water and air pollution, soil erosion, and the depletion of biodiversity have become some of the most pressing problems of our times. While the modern model of development has provided humanity with material comforts, it has simultaneously endangered the very existence of Earth’s environment. Literature has always been considered the mirror of society. Whenever society has faced crises, literature has given them a voice through its creative expressions. Hindi literature is no exception in this regard. In modern Hindi novels, the pain of nature and the environmental crisis have found strong expression. Among the notable writers addressing these concerns, Sanjeev holds a significant place.

          Sanjeev has portrayed environmental issues not merely as problems but as phenomena deeply rooted in social, cultural, and political dimensions. He emphasizes that nature is not merely a resource for fulfilling human needs but is the very foundation of human existence, culture, and social fabric. The severance of this intrinsic relationship between man and nature due to blind modern development has led to crises. Industrialization and urbanization have left severe impacts on the environment: degradation of arable land, pollution of rivers, reckless felling of forests, and the displacement of tribal communities from their traditional habitats. Capitalist development has enriched only a small section of society, pushing the majority into crises of survival. Farmers, laborers, and tribal lives have been shattered. Literature has deeply depicted this tragedy, and Sanjeev’s novels stand as witnesses to these realities.

Sanjeev

Main Article

           Sanjeev, whose full name is Ram Sajeevan Prasad, is an eminent figure in Hindi literature. He was born on 6 July 1947 in Sultanpur district of Uttar Pradesh. Though trained in science and employed in a chemical laboratory in West Bengal, his literary inclination drew him toward writing. Over time, he received many accolades, including the Sahitya Akademi Award. His major novels include Kisangarh Ke Aheri (1981), Circus (1984), Savdhan! Neeche Aag Hai (1986), Dhaar (1990), Paanv Tale Ki Doob (1995), Jungle Jahan Shuru Hota Hai (2000), Sutradhar (2002), Aakash Champa (2008), Rah Gayi Dishayen Isi Paar (2011), Faans (2015), and Pratyansha (2019).

          In Sanjeev’s works, nature and environment appear as central elements. His novels such as Circus, Savdhan! Neeche Aag Hai, Jungle Jahan Shuru Hota Hai, Rah Gayi Dishayen Isi Paar, Dhaar, and Faans depict the environmental crisis arising out of development projects, deforestation, and the reckless exploitation of natural resources. At the same time, he not only illustrates environmental destruction but also portrays tribal lives, their culture, and their deep connection with the natural surroundings. Thus, Sanjeev’s writings highlight environmental consciousness while interlinking social realities and the struggles of marginalized communities with nature.

         In Circus, Sanjeev uses the circus as a metaphor. The glitter and artificiality of the circus symbolize the false glamour of modern civilization. Here, nature is lost amidst artificiality. Animals are confined for entertainment, removed from their natural habitats, and turned into mere objects of display. This novel compels us to reflect on the insensitivity of human relationships with nature and animals. The grand circus tent emerges as a metaphor for the nation, reflecting human struggles, joys and sorrows, hope and despair, as well as social contradictions. The pain of animals and their separation from nature symbolize alienation, while the life of circus performers mirrors human emotions, conflicts, and pretenses. Thus, the circus becomes not just a site of entertainment but a symbol of modern life’s complexities, contradictions, and its uneasy relationship with the laws of nature.

          The novel Savdhan! Neeche Aag Hai presents the ecological crisis caused by industrialization and mining. It vividly portrays the underground fires in coalfields—fires that are not merely physical but symbolic of the destructive tendencies of modern development. These fires render the earth unsafe, displace entire communities, and create zones of crisis. The narrative reveals how industrial development pushes both nature and human life toward devastation. Sanjeev realistically depicts the plight of coal miners, their entrapment in exploitative systems, and their struggle for survival in toxic, unsafe conditions. The novel critiques capitalist consumption-oriented approaches that exploit both laborers and nature. Viewed through the lens of ecocriticism, it emerges as a significant ecological text, connecting literature to debates on environmental justice and sustainable development.

          In Jungle Jahan Shuru Hota Hai, Sanjeev explores the forest as a site of life and culture. The destruction of forests is not merely about losing trees, but about erasing biodiversity and tribal culture. Forest conservation, therefore, is not just an ecological necessity but a matter of social justice and cultural survival. This novel highlights how so-called development projects, industrialization, and globalization turn into a curse for indigenous communities by depriving them of their fundamental resources—water, forests, and land. Sanjeev portrays their struggles not just with empathy but as a voice of resistance against mainstream cultural and political structures. The narrative stresses that the alienation of tribal communities from their natural resources is both an existential and cultural crisis.

          Rah Gayi Dishayen Isi Paar widens the scope to represent global ecological imbalance. This novel is not confined to one issue but portrays the larger environmental crisis—nature’s pain, human greed, and distorted notions of development. It warns that unless a balance with nature is restored, human civilization itself faces destruction. Sanjeev connects myths, science, ethics, and human existence with ecological issues, making the novel a profound text of environmental consciousness. Through metaphors such as forests crying under axes, poisoned soil, and biodiversity loss, he underscores the catastrophic consequences of human exploitation of nature. By including themes like cloning, genetics, telepathy, gender transformation, and surrogate motherhood, Sanjeev links scientific advancement to environmental and social distortions. The novel resonates with discourses on ecocriticism and environmental justice.

           In Dhaar, Sanjeev foregrounds the water crisis—one of the most pressing issues of the 21st century. The novel shows how water scarcity devastates villages, ruins agriculture, and forces communities into migration. It strongly advocates the need for water conservation.

          In Faans, Sanjeev turns to the agrarian crisis, particularly farmers’ suicides linked to genetically modified seeds, indebtedness, and ecological degradation. Inspired by real incidents, the novel explores how droughts, natural imbalances, and exploitative market forces push farmers into unbearable distress, often culminating in suicide. Sanjeev depicts the intimate bond between farmers, their livestock, and their environment, offering a poignant critique of modern agriculture and ecological exploitation.

          From these novels, it becomes clear that Sanjeev presents environmental crisis in multidimensional ways. He shows that it is not only a matter of resource depletion but also of social justice, cultural identity, and human survival. His works not only depict problems but also hint at solutions—emphasizing the need to balance development with ecological preservation and to protect tribal and agrarian cultures as a way of conserving the environment.

Conclusion

          In conclusion, Sanjeev’s novels are not only treasures of Hindi literature but also serve as warnings and sources of inspiration for environmental conservation. They teach us that a writer is not merely a creator of beauty but also a vigilant guardian of society and environment. His works compel us to realize that nature is not an object for human consumption but the very soul of life and culture. Sanjeev’s writings instill the belief that if literature and society work hand in hand, solutions to the environmental crisis are indeed possible.

References

1. Sanjeev, Savdhan! Neeche Aag Hai, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 1986.

2. Sanjeev, Circus, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 1984.

3. Sanjeev, Jungle Jahan Shuru Hota Hai, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 2000.

4. Sanjeev, Rah Gayi Dishayen Isi Paar, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 2011.

5. Sanjeev, Dhaar, New Delhi: Vani Prakashan, 1990.

6. Sanjeev, Faans, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 2015.

7. Shukla, Ramesh; Hindi Upanyas aur Samajik Yatharth, New Delhi: Vani Prakashan, 2002.

8. Tiwari, Chandrabhushan; Hindi Upanyas ka Vikas aur Paryavarniya Chetna, Sahitya Akademi Journal, 2018.

9. Mishra, Vijay Ratan; Hindi Upanyas aur Adivasi Jeevan ka Yatharth, New Delhi: Bharatiya.

10. Guha, Ramachandra & Madhav Gadgil; Ecology and Equity: The Use and Abuse of Nature in Contemporary India, New Delhi: Penguin Books, 1995.

11. Sharma, Shambhunath; Paryavaran Vimarsh aur Hindi Sahitya, New Delhi: Vani Prakashan, 2016.

12. Gupta, Vijay Bahadur; Hindi Sahitya aur Paryavarniya Chetna, New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan, 2010.

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Setu, November 2025

On Reading Fictile Feelings: Few Random Thoughts

Sunil Sharma

---Sunil Sharma
 
Here is an anthology of poetry, guest-edited by the noted poet Sanjeev Sethi, and published online by the Hooghly Review, on October 3^rd.
Talking of his vision for this inaugural special, Sanjeev---a unique voice in the field of English poetry, combining rare syntax and idiom and imagery, as his singular signature and winning global fans---writes in the brief editorial:
 
We offer a bouquet. There is no claim for it being the best poetry ever written. That wasn’t even my brief to myself when I agreed to take on the responsibility of curating this Special. What we have is a happy mingle of the most striking poems from the slush pile and from the dispatches of the few poets I invited.
As the Issue developed, I realized each poem was for a reason. It served a purpose as it added to the poetic conversation.
 

Poetic conversation. Fictile Feelings. Two key terms that define the editorial vision of Sanjeev that informs the careful selection of works of 96 poets.
Conversation among poets.
Conversation among readers.
Between poets and poet-editor.
And, with the editors of the journal as well.
Meaningful dialogue it was/is.
The canvas of feelings and emotions that unfolds on the screen before the reader’s eyes is---mesmerising.
Multi-tonal, multi-hued.

Full of warmth. Full of warm colours coming straight from a full heart in the process of creation---crafting visions, words, images.
Fictile feelings---being moulded. Being shaped into rich forms and colours.

Different themes and flavours woven expertly by poets deeply engaged in the “making” of worlds and meanings through the aesthetic production.

Curated by a committed editor who knows the craft and emotions of poetry so well.
A rare vision; conversation; collection!
Each poem, a sensory, sensuous experience.
Citing few poets will be unjust to other brilliant ones; a pitfall to be avoided, in this collage.
The general mood can be summed up in Sanjeev’s voice:
 
Never sue love for its heightened unease. It is temporal under the tutelage of sensory spice.
There is much in my creel, yet a chilling emptiness continues. Should I see it in punitive strokes?
Or as a propelling agent?
(From: “At Sixty-Three”, page 96)
 
A pleasurable outing with the gifted ones, curated by the best in the field.
Congrats to the poets and publishers for this stand-out book of happening poetry.
 
The Link to the Special:
---https://thehooghlyreview.com/issues/fictile-feelings-poetry-special-october-2025/ 

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Setu, September 2025

Bleeding Ink: The Unwritten Grammar of Pain in Rukhaya M K’s Lost Canvas

Reviewer:  Wani Nazir

Book Name:  Lost Canvas

Author: Rukhaya M K

Publisher:     Red River

Year of Publication: 2025

Pp: 150

ISBN: 978-8197630402

Forget about all the highbrow literary jargon—Rukhaya M K’s Lost Canvas is a straight-up gut punch. There is nothing sugar-coated here. No lovesick diary scribbles, no delicate confessions. No. This is raw, it is brutally honest, and it is all about juggling two worlds, drowning in questions of “Where do I fit?” and the never-ending mess of womanhood in a place that is supposed to be free, but honestly? Feels more like a maze of unwritten rules. Her poems? Damn, they hit hard. Each one feels like a snapshot—some cracked, some so sharp they draw blood, but every single one feels real in the way a midnight breakdown does. Rukaya’s tearing open old wounds, letting the ugliness ooze out, and trying to stitch it all back together. You end up holding a piece of her soul, splintered and bleeding onto the page.

Wani Nazir

This whole “canvas” thing? It is like life has been run through a cheap washing machine—colours faded, edges frayed, everything washed out till you can barely see what is left. Even the good stuff gets steamrolled by this greyness. It is all slipping away. Check out these lines:

Life now seemed 

black and white, 

like my paintings — dead. 

Hues on the canvas 

dribbled down to gravity, 

trickling with it 

the curves of a smile

See what I mean? This isn’t just fancy talk about art. This is real life, stripped of colour and warmth. It is not just physics; it is the heaviness you feel when happiness just won't stick around. That smile? It doesn’t just vanish, it leaks out, slow and sad, like your heart has got a crack in it. The world weighs too much, and joy can’t unpack its bags here. The poems falling apart? Makes total sense. They are not just clever metaphors—they are little catastrophes that don’t shout, but settle quietly in your chest and refuse to move out.

The way she paints these scenes—kind of reminds me of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. After trauma, everything has dried up, language is dead, and you are left piecing together ruins. Rukhaya has got that vibe: even happiness feels heavy with the knowledge it won’t last. Her lines aren’t just pretty—they are the rubble of real life. The choppy syntax? That is what it feels like when you are barely holding it together, silent and stubborn.

And homesickness? For Rukhaya, it is not just about missing a place. It is bigger, messier, harder to shake. It is about never really fitting anywhere. She nails that limbo—after marriage, you are suddenly homeless in every way that matters. Old place? Gone. New place? Not really yours, either. You are always floating, never landing.

When I got married,

they told me now onwards

You belong to your hubby’s home;

and when I went there,

they always spoke of

where I came from,

Yes. You are from everywhere and nowhere. Welcome to womanhood. And it is exhausting, isn’t it? That sense of being unmoored—socially, emotionally, all of it—is like being told to build a home with no doors, no windows, just walls that keep moving. This push-pull between spaces—public/private, inherited/adopted—totally gives off Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie feel (think Americanah, with Ifemelu floating between worlds). But Rukaya doesn’t just describe it in prose—her poetry slices through the confusion like a razor. She draws a map of being lost.

And let’s talk about growing up. Periods? No celebration, just exile:

once below a time

when I found a huge stain

on my white-and-white,

and mom said: You have become big,

now onwards play

only with your cousin sisters

Congratulations, you are now a woman—translation: here are some new rules, and by the way, your childhood is over. Those “now onwards” moments? They hit like a freight train. No parties, just restrictions. Silence. Goodbye, innocence.

The pain of growing up female is baked into her bones—physical, social, mental. Sure, you could draw parallels to Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, where becoming a woman feels like suffocating under a pile of expectations. But while Plath simmers, Rukaya protests out loud—her rage is aimed squarely at society and its quiet betrayals. No flinching.

And don’t even get me started on memory. These aren’t your typical sweet flashbacks. They are shattered, refugee fragments. Think glitched-out home videos and burned-up photographs.

Your memory, 

a permanent refugee 

in what was once home

That line? It is got big Edward Said energy—exile as a state of mind, not just a place. Her memories don’t comfort; they haunt, stateless and wandering. Ghosts with nowhere to go.

Honestly, Lost Canvas isn’t just a book. It is a wound, still open, that you can’t help but poke.

Like this poem,

that becomes my own

only after I part with it on paper.

While inside me, it doesn’t exist.

One has to become

part of the diaspora,

to be called one’s own.

The poem in the book has got that wild, slippery thing going on—like, you don’t even own your words ‘til you toss them out into the world.’ Inside your head? They are ghosts. That is the diaspora vibe, right there: always orbiting, never quite landing in your own skin. It is not just about packing bags and finding new postcodes, it is about being exiled from yourself. Your body turns into someone else’s Airbnb. No wonder it stings.

Seriously, Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks? It is screaming in the background here. The split—voice, self, reflection—so loud you can’t un-hear it. Diaspora isn’t just a location thing. It is language, it is existence, it is that constant wobble under your feet. Rukhaya’s power comes from the fact that she never settles—her voice is loudest when it’s breaking.

And then, boom, the gut blow :

The real diaspora

is the one that

has lost the mother.

There is no return.

The real diaspora is not just distance, it is losing mom. Not just the lady who birthed you, but the motherland, the mother tongue, that first soft place you ever knew. You lose that? Game over, buddy. What is left to clutch when your origin either ghosts you or doesn’t even exist anymore? That emptiness? Congratulations, it is yours forever. Inheritance sucks sometimes.

Nature shows up in these poems—not the Disney kind, all huggy and warm, but cold as hell. It doesn’t care. Growing up is the same—everybody is hacking at your branches, and even the leaves are like “nah, not today.” Growth? More like dropping deadweight. It is rough.

I shake my branches

desperately,

but only

withered leaves fall

and turn words

as they touch the ground.

You try to soil my roots,

as I try to strike roots

in another soil

That is Morrison territory—Beloved echoes all over. Trying to anchor yourself after your whole world has been nuked, making words carry way more than they should. Rukaya gets it: language is both the knife and the bandage. Writing isn’t just venting, it is staking a claim.

The lines with the newspaper on the train:

Today

he was the newspaper

on the train

as he read it loud and clear:

Ah, the Bengaluru incident...

these things happen,’

stealing a glance at the girl

sitting next to him.

This guy is reading something horrible and he says in passing “these things happen.” Then he stares at the girl. It’s creepy. The poem is not very content, but you feel the size of people who do not care. It's basic, and that is real.

Then she comes swinging for the “oppressed woman” trope with the hijab poem:

My hijab is my window,

a window to the world.

The world says it limits my freedom,

freedom limited is yours

So good. Reminds me of Arundhati Roy—no such thing as “voiceless,” only folks who get muted on purpose. Rukaya isn’t waiting for your approval to wear her hijab or call it freedom. She is not here to perform suffering for your applause. Her hijab isn’t a muzzle—it is her megaphone, just dialled to a different frequency.

There is some sly humour in the sadness too—life “uninstalling itself”? That is bleak, but also kind of cheeky. Forget counting birthdays; we are counting body bags now. Scores of deaths per minute. Then there is Sylvia Plath salute:

Dying is an art, and like everything else,

I do it exceptionally well;

Lying is an art, and like everything else,

you do it exceptionally well.

Yes, you hear Plath—how could you not? But Rukhaya is not doing karaoke. She is twisting the knife. “I do it exceptionally well” lands like a slap. Sarcasm with brass knuckles. It is not just about pain—it is about betrayal, about gender, about how language can wreck you.

And the form—forget pretty poems. She tosses lines like broken bones, trashes rhythm, lets it rot. Why tidy it up? Life is a dumpster fire, so let the poem be a hot mess. That mess is the point. You want clean, you are asking her agony to get a haircut. No.

There is this excellent riff on Twain:

 

Who prays for Satan,

as Twain said,

the sinner, who needed it the most?

Darkness, sure, but she is asking: who gets denied empathy? Who do we write off as unredeemable? It is not just flipping the bird to authority—it is calling out the reader, making you squirm with your own judgy nonsense.

She is not playing the victim. It is more like—here is how to live wrong, loudly, with scars and awkward grammar. Who is unsalvageable? The girl on the edge, the body that doesn’t fit, the voice no one wants to hear. Nothing snaps together, nothing gets sanded smooth, and that is exactly the point.

You look down upon her

saying she came

off your rib

but innumerable times

after that —

you hailed from her womb.

Wo(man) can be destroyed

but never defeated.

That is Camus with a side of riot girl. She grabs Genesis, rips it up, and makes it her own punk anthem. Not about pretty endings or tidy lessons. Just surviving, out of spite. Persistence as protest. That is what sticks.

Life kicks off by ghosting itself, honestly. One second you are ticking along, the next—boom, time ditches the calendar and starts measuring things by body count, not birthdays. Grim?

Words? They play dress-up in old memories, swanning around all mysterious, only to yank off the mask and show up here, now, in your face. Sometimes I think those memories are just waiting to trip me up.

Life starts uninstalling itself.

Time stops counting itself

by the calendar,

but by scores

of death per minute

And poetry? It’s bleeding everywhere.

Words also wore

the veil of memories,

lifting the veil

at times solely for me

revealing itself as present.

Buy one, get one free—

with the wound,

salt was complimentary

Oh, that “salt was complimentary” bit? That is classic. You order a wound, and—surprise!—the universe tosses in a fistful of salt, on the house. Life is own sick joke. Thanks, I guess.

This whole mess isn’t neat. It lurches forward, all wild-eyed and unpredictable, like a subway at midnight with the lights flickering and the doors banging open. Rukhaya isn’t painting inside the lines; she is smearing silence and chaos across the canvas, leaving “i’s” undotted and “t’s” in tatters.

Lost canvas? Forget about pretty pictures. The real art is in the scraps—the stuff nobody bothered to finish, the stains nobody could scrub out. That is where the gold is. The stuff we leave unsaid, the half-formed aches, the bits we want to hide? Yes, they all get a front-row seat. This isn’t poetry that lets you off easy. It is jagged, raw, and doesn’t give a damn about rhyming—or making you comfortable. That is what makes it real.

***

 

Reviewer's Short Bio

A Kashmir University Postgraduate Gold medalist in English Literature, Wani Nazir, from Pulwama J&K India, is an alumnus of the University of Kashmir, Srinagar. He is the author of a poetic collection, “…and the silence whispered” and “The Chill in the Bones “. Presently working as a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Education, J&K, he has been writing both prose and poetry in English, Urdu and in his mother tongue Kashmiri. He is a voracious and wild reader and a reviewer. He contributes his brain-children-his poetry and prose in Kashur Qalam, The Significant League, Muse India e-Journal, Setu-a bilingual e-journal published from Pittsburgh, USA, Langlit & Literary Herald - both UGC approved journal, the Caffe Dissensus and Learning and Creativity – a Silhouette Magazine, the Dialogue Times – a journal published from London, and has been receiving laurels for his beautiful writings.

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Setu, September 2025