Setu 🌉 सेतु: Ritu Kamra Kumar

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Scrolling Through My Mobile… and Other Modern Misadventures

Scrolling through my mobile this morning—an activity I now classify as cardio for the compulsively curious—I stopped at a picture of an old, peeling, time-tattered house with a caption that hit harder than my alarm clock:

“Only the mobile knows what kind of character its owner truly has.”

One blunt, beautiful, brutally honest line, staring at me with the same judgmental stillness my phone uses when it informs me that I’ve snoozed fourteen alarms. That decrepit house, with its cracked character and sagging soul, suddenly seemed to whisper, “Child, I have survived centuries of storms… but your phone has witnessed things even I would collapse from.”

In that moment, my mobile felt less like a device and more like a diary with a doctorate in psychology—mirror, mentor, monitor, and menace rolled into one sleek rectangle.

If character were a classroom, my mobile would be the strict invigilator—spectacles lowered, eyebrows raised—catching me cheating in the quiet test of life. It knows everything: my moods, my midnights, my million little meltdowns.

My 2:00 a.m. searches (“How to become confident… by tomorrow morning”).

My 2:15 a.m. despair (“How to sleep after overthinking”).

My 2:20 a.m. existential sprint (“What is the purpose of life? Kindly keep it short”). Even Shakespeare needed sprawling soliloquies to spill Hamlet’s secrets. My phone requires nothing more than my search bar.

Last week it had the audacity to offer me a personalized suggestion:

“New ways to stop procrastinating.” I didn’t click it. I procrastinated that too.

The image of the old house tugged a dusty thread of memory—my ancestral home, the one with fading frescoes, moody wooden doors, and shadows that stored stories like stubborn siblings unwilling to leave. When I visited years ago, my cousin whispered, “These walls know more family secrets than we ever will.” But now, my phone is the new ancestral house: same silence, same secrets, only auto-saved and available for download. If the house walls could talk, they would politely gossip. My phone, however, would publish an entire scandalous anthology titled: “My Human: A Case Study.”

And if we are confessing honestly—let me offer a tiny, humiliating anecdote. I once texted a friend, “I’m coming in 10 minutes,” while lying horizontal, cocooned in my blanket, contemplating the philosophical weight of leaving my bed. Annoyed by my dishonesty, my phone autocorrected “coming” to “combing,” gently exposing the fact that I was combing excuses, not my hair. Oscar Wilde famously said, “I can resist everything except temptation.”

If he had a smartphone, he would have added: “…and notifications with neon neediness.”

Jane Austen would have penned Pride and Prejudice and Push Notifications. T.S. Eliot might lament The Waste Land of My Screen Time. Even Kabir would have rewritten his wisdom into motivational wallpapers and morning alerts.

Mythology, too, would not be spared. Narad Muni, the celestial messenger, once travelled with a tambura; today he would carry an iPhone—forwarding screenshots instead of sowing rumours.

But nothing competes with the quiet comedy of the screenshot scandal. One morning, determined to be the heroine of my own productivity saga, I saved a motivational quote: “Be the best version of yourself.”

Within ten seconds, I betrayed it magnificently by watching a video titled:

“Cats Falling Dramatically for No Reason.” My mobile, exhausted by my ethical gymnastics, generated its weekly whim:

“Your screen time is up by 28%.” My productivity, for the record, was down by 98%. We claim our phones store memories. Truth is, they store our weaknesses—carefully, chronologically, cruelly. They know our deleted photos, impulsive purchases, emotional drafts never sent, midnight rambles, and Google searches revealing more about our souls than our journals dare.

My phone has witnessed my finest moments—optimistic, organised, oddly philosophical. But it has also seen me Googling: “Why do bad things happen to good people who only procrastinate sometimes?”

The picture of the crumbling house called me back. Old houses possess a noble stoicism; they endure storms without complaint, age without apology, and crack without collapsing. They keep their doors open even when their frames tremble. Meanwhile, I panic when my battery dips to 11%—behaving as though civilisation will crumble with it. Perhaps that is our modern satire: We carry ancient fears in futuristic devices. We store fragile truths in permanent clouds.

As sunlight spilled across the room, I scribbled a small ode—a soft salute to the wise old house and the wickedly honest phone:

O fading walls of forgotten days,

Your silence still sings ancient praise;

Yet here I scroll, my screen aglow,

Where secrets sleep and shadows grow;

One stands in ruins, one in code—

Both bearing stories never told.

Another misadventure belongs here—my mis-navigation moment. One evening I asked Google Maps to guide me home. It instructed, “Head north.” I blinked at the sky, turned in a slow uncertain circle, and wondered whether I should consult the stars or continue spinning like a confused ceiling fan. To its credit, the app recalculated—digitally, but I swear, also emotionally. And then the delightful irony of my phone’s spiritual instincts. Whenever I am sad or sulking, it suddenly suggests soulful videos: “Let go of what you cannot control.”

It recommends that wisdom while simultaneously refusing to let go of a stuck software update. That caption—Only your mobile knows your true character—returned like a refrain. Maybe it does know the private, petty, panicky parts of me. It knows my boredom, my bravery, my bravado. My urgent loneliness, my unexpected clarity, my unfinished thoughts.

But it also knows the long gratitude messages I type and never send, the poems I save, the photographs of sunsets I cannot stop capturing, the reminders I set for people I love, the book lists I hoard, the ideas I scribble at midnight. Maybe this, too, is character. Character is not carved from perfection. It is shaped from persistence—our stubborn, shimmering humanness. As I scrolled again, the old house on the screen seemed to murmur,

“I stand broken, yet whole. What about you?” I smiled because we all carry cracks—in our stories, in our screens, in our souls.

Maybe our phones do not expose us. Maybe they simply reflect us—our chaos, our confusions, our contradictions,

our little courage. So yes, my mobile knows me.

But more importantly, it nudges me to know myself—

one notification,

one misadventure,

one comforting comedy at a time.

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Under the Watch of Quiet Lights

Streetlamps stand like sentinels,

gold-throated guardians of the hour

when the city loosens its grip.

An azure horizon thins to ash,

clouds—cottoned confessions

hover, hushed, undecided

The road exhales, emptied of haste,

a ribbon of restraint

asking nothing of passing feet.

Windows glow with borrowed lives,

faces framed in glass,

learning safety, fearing silence

The night collects its fragments

faded footsteps, forgotten faces

and lays them gently on the street.

Even shadows behave here,

leaning lightly, learning stillness.

The lamps do not hurry the dark;

they host it,

teach night how to breathe.

Cranes pause mid-sentence,

wires whisper old prayers,

trees tremble with unspoken knowing

Non-living listens

Living forgets how.

Ambition sleeps uneasy indoors,

while patience walks the pavement,

slow, steady, sufficient.

If light can wait without wanting,

if roads can rest without regret

perhaps hearts, too,

can unlearn their noise

and arrive, finally,

at a quieter kind of courage.

***

Setu, December 2025

Special Section: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Innocence Meeting Innocence

Innocence meeting innocence—

not a moment, but a merging of worlds.

She stands in peace and piety,

as if time itself pauses to listen to her knowing.

The air turns translucent;

leaves lean closer, and the sky forgets its vastness.

God showers petals—

not from heaven, but from the heart of being.

She reminds me of Lucy,

that unseen daughter of dawn

who walked with the pulse of nature, untouched by hurry.

And of Yeats’s prayer—

that purity might endure the storm,

that the heart remains whole when the world grows unkind.

She moves like a thought that forgot to fade,

a ripple across Blake’s clear brook,

a crescent from Tagore’s moon—half dream, half-light.

Her eyes are windows of wonder;

her laughter, light spilling where shadows once ruled.

O child of light,

you carry within you the memory of Eden,

and the promise that faith, once lost, can still be found.

When innocence meets innocence,

creation breathes again—

and the universe remembers how to pray.

***

Footnote: The allusions—Wordsworth’s Lucy (symbol of purity in solitude), Yeats’s “A Prayer for My Daughter” (hope for grace amid chaos), Blake’s “Songs of Innocence” (spiritual simplicity), and Tagore’s “The Crescent Moon” (childhood as celestial communion)—intertwine to express how the uncorrupted heart reconnects humanity with the universe’s sacred rhythm.

Setu, November 2025

When Petals Whisper of Passing

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Last night, the flowers in my courtyard swayed their delicate heads in the whispering wind — proud, perfumed, pulsating with life. Their whiteness shimmered faintly under the shy moonlight, as though each petal were a tiny prayer murmured into the night. I lingered near them longer than usual, feeling a strange companionship with their stillness — a reminder that beauty, even when silent, speaks.

This morning, when I stepped out with my cup of tea, they lay scattered like fallen thoughts — pale, bruised, and ready to be swept away. A breeze stirred, and a few of the petals fluttered helplessly toward the gate, as though seeking one last glimpse of the garden that had once embraced them.

It was then that a stillness settled over me, deep and deliberate — a quiet questioning of the fragile fabric we call life. How brief, I mused, is the journey from bloom to dust! From fragrant existence to forgettable debris.

The scene transported me to my mother’s garden in Ambala, where I had spent countless childhood mornings. I remember trying, with anxious hands, to “save” fallen marigolds, tucking them carefully into an empty box. “They’ll be fine tomorrow,” I had told her with childlike certainty. She had smiled, that warm, gentle smile that now lives only in memory. “Beta,” she said softly, “everything that blooms must bow.”

Back then, I thought she meant only the flowers. Now, years after she has gone, I understand she was speaking of life itself. It reminded me too of her small brass trophies lined on dusty shelves — medals for school plays, running races, and timid debates. She would dust them lovingly every Sunday, whispering, “These are reminders that you once shone.” Their worn gleam, like the petals, spoke of impermanence — yet of enduring joy. The trophies, like the blossoms, were monuments of momentary marvels, fragile evidence of time’s fleeting favour.

As I looked at the wilted blossoms, I recalled Wordsworth’s daffodils — forever “fluttering and dancing in the breeze” ¹. Yet, unlike Wordsworth’s immortalized flowers, mine had no poem to preserve them. They had lived their verse and met their quiet epilogue in the dust.

Perhaps that’s the bittersweet truth — life moves on, with or without witness. We often chase permanence — in relationships, possessions, ambitions — forgetting that transience is the truest teacher. Like Shelley’s “Ozymandias” ², even the mightiest monuments crumble; like Kalidasa’s Meghaduta³, messages of longing are carried away by clouds that never stay still. Even the most radiant of things, like the golden fleece of Jason and the Argonauts⁵, must eventually fade. Everything is a fleeting fragrance, fading even as it’s inhaled.

I remembered once meeting an old man in Lodhi Gardens who fed breadcrumbs to the pigeons every morning. “They forget me by afternoon,” he chuckled when I asked if the birds recognized him. “But that’s the beauty, beta — no one remembers too long, not even pain.” His words lingered with me, echoing the same truth these flowers silently speak — that every bloom, however bright, must dissolve.

I bent down to pick a single petal. Despite its fall, it still felt velvety, stubbornly clinging to its faint scent. Isn’t that what we humans do too? Cling to fragments of yesterday — a smile, a letter, a song — even when life has long moved ahead?

The morning sun climbed higher, and the petals that had once glowed with moonlit charm now looked like paper ghosts. The gardener came with his broom, sweeping them into a corner. Part of me wanted to stop him — to cry, “Wait! They were beautiful once!” But I didn’t. I simply watched. Because somewhere between the night’s bloom and morning’s decay lies the entire metaphor of existence.

Life, like those flowers, demands to be lived in the now — in the dance, not the decay. And yet, how often we delay joy, defer gratitude, deny ourselves the simple grace of noticing what is while yearning for what could be.

I thought of my mother again, dusting the trophies with careful hands, whispering lessons in silence: that recognition is fleeting, effort endures, and beauty bows only to time. In those moments, the line between blossom and human blurred — the petals fell, the trophies dulled, yet their stories remained, stitched into memory.

When the broom swept the last petal away, the earth seemed bare, yet strangely serene — whispering softly, like Tagore’s truth: *“Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.” ⁴

I lingered for a moment, touched the empty stem, and smiled. Perhaps tomorrow new buds will bloom — different, yet the same. Perhaps life is nothing but an endless rehearsal of renewal, a rhythm where endings and beginnings clasp hands unseen.

As I turned to go inside, the breeze brushed past me, carrying the faintest trace of that vanished fragrance. And in that soft, invisible breath, I heard the quietest of whispers —

“Bloom while you can, and bow with grace.”

Footnotes:

1. Wordsworth, William. “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” — celebrating nature’s ephemeral beauty and joy.

2. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. “Ozymandias” — reflecting the impermanence of power and worldly grandeur.

3. Kalidasa, Meghaduta — a classical Sanskrit poem in which messages of longing are sent via clouds, symbolizing transience.

4. Rabindranath Tagore — emphasizing the gentle continuity between life and death.

5. Greek Mythology — Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece represents ambition and desire for the unattainable, echoing the fleeting nature of achievements.

Setu, October 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Whirlpool of the Watchful Within

In the cosmic canvas of conscience,

a cataract of stars swirls—

the pupil of eternity, unblinking.

Forget the guards, the street cameras,

the sterile sentinels of law and light;

for deeper within, a divine detective dwells.

It watches when you wander astray,

its iris shimmering with silent verdicts,

its lashes woven from your latent fears.

Each sin sends a ripple—

each thought, a tide.

You cannot outswim your own seeing.

Dimmesdale too heard its dreadful drumbeat—

the heart’s own lash of luminous guilt.

A whisper in the whirlpool warns,

“Beware, before you drown in your deceit.”

This eye does not close with sleep;

it dreams your darkness awake,

it drips gold and guilt in equal measure.

Like Conrad’s Kurtz, you will one day gasp—

“Horror, Horror!”—

and see yourself mirrored in that abyss.

The inner cosmos contracts,

galaxies of remorse revolve.

Your heart becomes a haunted observatory.

So, listen—

before regret becomes your relentless reflection,

before conscience becomes your captive tide.

For the eye inside is ancient and awake,

the ever-watching whirlpool

of the watchful within.

Footnote: Dimmesdale in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter and Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness embody the torment of hidden guilt and moral self-surveillance—the haunting gaze of one’s own conscience.

Setu, October 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

The Bank That Never Opened

The painting hangs in the gallery: a woman in a faded blue coat, standing before the locked shutters of a grand but desolate bank. Her name is Lydia. The onlookers who pause before the canvas often whisper, “She waits for what was hers.” But Lydia’s story is more than a brushstroke—it is the story of countless women who trusted institutions, only to be betrayed by them.

Lydia was a nurse, gentle and generous, the kind of soul who wrapped both wounds and words with warmth. Her life had been stitched with sorrow—her parents separated early, her mother died young, her father remarried and drifted away. Out of that solitude, Lydia carved resilience. She adopted two orphans, Daniel and Clara, determined they would never taste the bitterness of abandonment. She poured into them her modest earnings, her mothering tenderness, and her unshakable faith in education.

For decades she deposited her savings into Horizon Trust Bank, a neighbourhood institution that advertised integrity, transparency, and “banking with benevolence.” The posters bore smiling faces; the chairman gave lofty speeches about empowering the common people. Lydia, like many, believed.

But one Monday morning, she arrived to update her passbook and found the shutters sealed. A handwritten notice fluttered: “Bank under investigation. Operations suspended.” Overnight, dreams dissolved. Depositors discovered that the bank had been siphoning funds into real-estate rackets and phantom firms. The chairperson, a smooth-tongued man named Richard Caldwell, was accused of colluding with politicians, funnelling fortunes into offshore accounts. The case became a headline: “Horizon Trust Scam Swindles Thousands.”

Lydia felt crushed, yet not broken. Every day she returned, standing opposite the closed bank, as if her presence could shame the shutters open. “This is not only money, this is my children’s dignity, my decades of duty.”

Others joined her. There was Mr. Brown, a retired schoolteacher who had invested his pension. His hands shook as he clutched faded receipts. There was Mrs. Harper, a florist whose daughter’s wedding was postponed because the savings vanished. There was George, a taxi driver who had set aside coins for his son’s college admission. Together they formed a circle of loss, but also of resistance.

They would gather on the pavement, facing the bolted doors. Someone would bring tea, another biscuits, and conversations became chronicles of betrayal. Lydia emerged as their quiet leader who spoke with a solemn clarity that carried weight.

“You know,” she said once, “Simone de Beauvoir wrote, ‘Waiting is a trap. There will always be reasons to wait. The truth is, there are only two things in life, reasons and results, and reasons simply don’t count.’ Our waiting here must not be silent. Our waiting is witness.” The group nodded, She became their polestar, standing steady, silently indicting the system.

Journalists arrived, scribbling notes. One young reporter, Rachel Thomas, framed Lydia’s vigil as symbolic. “A society is judged not by its skyscrapers but by its safeguards,” she wrote. “When banks betray the very hands that built them—nurses, teachers, drivers—the economy is not merely shaken, it is shamed.” Her article went viral.

Still, the legal machinery moved slowly. Committees were constituted, commissions convened, case files circulated in labyrinthine loops. The culprits found bail, citing ‘health reasons’ and ‘political pressure.’ Ordinary depositors were handed technical jargon: liquidation, recovery, restructuring. Lydia listened, bewildered. “I only know injections and bandages,” she said, “not liquidation.”

Yet she refused despair. “My children must not see me crumble,” she reminded herself. Daniel, now studying engineering, urged her to move on. Clara, pursuing law, insisted she file a case. “Mum,” Clara said, “justice delayed is not justice denied. Let us fight.”

And fight they did. The group appointed Clara as their legal voice. She researched precedents of bank fraud, cited the Lehman Brothers collapse, referenced the 2008 financial crisis victims. Her petitions reached consumer courts, banking ombudsman, even the High Court.

The hearings became miniature theatre. Lawyers of the accused flaunted loopholes. Judges postponed. But Lydia and her circle kept arriving, their presence an unspoken testimony. They reminded the nation that behind each number in the scam report was a life, a livelihood, a lost future.

One winter evening, as the group sat opposite the shuttered bank, a little boy approached. He offered Lydia a daisy. “My mother says you are like Joan of Arc, standing against the fire.” Lydia smiled, her eyes moist. Perhaps endurance was its own form of divinity.

Months stretched into years. Finally, a ray of redemption arrived: the government announced partial reimbursement from the Deposit Insurance and Credit Guarantee Corporation. Each depositor would receive up to five thousand pounds. It was not the full sum, but it was a recognition of their right. Lydia clasped the cheque, not for herself, but for her children.

The fellowship rejoiced. Mr. Brown bought books for underprivileged students. Mrs. Harper managed her daughter’s wedding in modest grace. George paid his son’s fees. Lydia used the money to secure Clara’s enrolment in a law master’s program—so that she might continue to fight for those voiceless victims of financial fraud.

The painting in the gallery captures only one moment—Lydia before the bank that never opened. But the story beyond the frame is one of stubborn hope. For Lydia’s vigil was not vain; it became voice. It showed that even in a system scarred by scams and scams men, the steadfast stance of a simple nurse could inspire solidarity and scrutiny.

Lydia told Rachel in a later interview, “that when the gates close, women write their own openings. From Beauvoir to Showalter, from Virginia Woolf to Mary Wollstonecraft—resistance is always a rewriting” The bank that never opened may remain a ruin, but the courage it evoked has opened doors of awareness and activism. For every closed account, a conscience was awakened. For every loss endured, a legacy of resilience was written. And Lydia, luminous in her ordinariness, remains the polestar—proof that even when systems collapse, the human spirit can still stand, steadfast and shining.

Setu, September 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Veil of Convenience

“One is not born, but rather becomes a woman.” — Simone de Beauvoir

Patriarchy perches,

throne of thraldom beneath him,

lounging under a veil of convenience—

fabric fixed, face half-hid.

No decree escapes his lips;

crossed legs, shaded eyes

declare the creed:

she stays behind.

Born human—

made into Woman—

he, the subject; she, the object,

a silhouette of service,

sun-hatted, still.

But—ah—her hand

clasps cold rebellion,

gun gleaming like a promise,

its barrel breathing the hope

to hush his smug silence.

I wait for the day

grass drinks her ache,

waiting’s weight washes away,

and she steps forward—

shadow blazing ahead.

***

The Cup at the Bedside

Every night,

I cradle the same cup—

clear glass catching the glow of the lamp,

filled not with water,

but with whispers I wouldn’t dare speak aloud.

Sharp shards from the morning’s quarrel.

The cold curl of an unanswered call.

The bruise of a glance that glanced too long.

I pour them in,

watch the liquid darken—

drip by drip—

to the colour of midnight fears.

By dawn,

I drink it down in dutiful gulps.

Swallow the sour swirl of suspicion,

the grit of grudges ground fine,

the faint, ferrous taste of “not enough.”

It sits like stone in my stomach,

sapping the sun from my smile,

slowing the song in my chest.

And I wonder—

as I always do—

why joy feels so thin,

why the day feels already doomed

before breakfast.

But tonight,

I will rise,

spill the sediment into the sink,

watch it whirl in a small silver storm,

and fill the cup fresh—

with the cool, clean water of mercy.

Because I have learned

that the mouth that swallows poison

is the same mouth

that can sing itself free.

***

Setu, August 2025

Browsing Beyond the Covers: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

—A Budding Author’s Window to Changing Reader hood

"There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favourite book."

-Marcel Proust

Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a book exhibition held in the verdant lawns of a renowned university. It wasn’t just the cool breeze or the scent of freshly printed pages that held my attention; it was the people—students of Humanities, Science, and Commerce—browsing through the exhibits with a keenness that both surprised and delighted me. As an author myself, I was curious: what drives these young readers? What are their yardsticks for selecting books in an age dominated by digital distractions?

Contrary to the assumption that young readers are impulsive or driven solely by flashy covers, I observed something far more heartening. Students weren't buying books haphazardly, nor were they seduced merely by a bestselling author’s name or the brand of a reputed publishing house. Many were thumbing through prefaces, flipping to the acknowledgments, reading indexes with care. I even overheard one student say, “Let’s look the author up on Google—has she written anything else?” A group from the Literature Department was discussing the relevance of contemporary Indian poetry, debating whether the confessional tone of Harnidh Kaur’s The Inability of Words echoed Sylvia Plath or diverged into its own postmodern syntax.

Clearly, the modern reader is informed, intentional, and inquisitive.

As I meandered through the stalls, I engaged in conversations with students who had already made up their minds about what they wanted. Some sought poetry, both contemporary and classical—Keki N. Daruwalla’s Collected Poems, Ranjit Hoskote’s Jonahwhale, and even self-published chapbooks by campus poets. Others leaned toward historical nonfiction—titles like Ira Mukhoty’s Heroines or Manu S. Pillai’s The Ivory Throne were being leafed through with reverence. I noticed a surge in interest in genres such as speculative fiction, climate fiction, and even graphic novels that address political history or gender identity. It was no longer just about popular bestsellers—it was about relevance, resonance, and rigor.

This experience transported me back to my own youth, when reading meant waiting for new arrivals at the district library or buying the latest works by celebrated authors from the town’s trusted bookshop. There was something quietly ritualistic about those visits—the thrill of a hardbound copy, the joy of hidden margins in borrowed books. But one couldn’t deny that the space for lesser-known voices was limited. Budding authors rarely found a place on library shelves, and self-publishing was viewed with suspicion. The current wave of campus exhibitions, college fests, and community reading corners now offers a much-needed platform for these emerging voices.

I met young writers—still in their final year of college—bravely showcasing their self-published works. A political science major had authored a novella exploring caste dynamics through a time-travel fantasy. A commerce student-turned-poet shared her debut collection Unfolding Origami, a blend of confessional free verse and haiku. Another, who had written a series of short stories about queer identity in small-town India, said, “Even if five people read it and feel less alone, I’ve done my job as a writer.” Their confidence wasn’t naive—it was informed, reflective, and grounded in purpose.

Of course, the democratization of book access has its pitfalls. Sometimes, a book’s title or blurb might be polished to perfection, but the content may lack depth or craft. However, this trial-and-error process is itself instructive for readers. And for writers, even a single conversation with a genuine reader can ignite the desire to write better, with more honesty and insight.

What struck me most was the way these young readers treated books—not as relics of the past or mere academic burdens—but as vibrant, living entities. Their conversations evoked the timeless reminder of Virginia Woolf, who wrote in The Common Reader that reading demands not only the mind but also “imagination, insight, and judgment.” Indeed, today’s readers—more than ever—embody that trinity. Even the scattered copies of classics weren’t gathering dust; I saw students flipping through Orwell, Toni Morrison, Ismat Chughtai, and Mahasweta Devi with equal curiosity.

This resurgence is not just confined to literature departments. I saw biology students engrossed in books on the philosophy of science, architecture students poring over illustrated editions of urban history, and commerce students debating whether Yuval Noah Harari oversimplifies historical processes in Sapiens. The interdisciplinary interest is, in itself, a welcome departure from rigid academic silos.

As a budding writer myself—still wading through the muddy waters of edits, rejections, rewrites, and that occasional lifebuoy of a kind reader’s comment—this exhibition felt like a quiet affirmation. There are readers out there. Not just browsers or blurb-skimmers, but real readers—those who pause, linger, underline, and sometimes argue with the text. And that, for any writer, is both a solace and a spark.

It also reminded me that books are not merely bought—they are befriended. A well-thumbed volume on a hostel shelf, a borrowed poetry collection with coffee stains and scribbled exclamation marks, even a self-published novella tucked between famous names—all have stories beyond their spines.

In an age of swipe-ups, scroll-downs, and short-form summaries, there’s something splendidly subversive about sitting down with a book—an act that says, “Dear world, hush a moment. I’m eavesdropping on someone’s soul.” And the best part? The voices are getting more varied, vibrant, and valiant with every page turned.

So yes—book reading isn’t just "still in." It’s quietly staging a renaissance in lecture halls, libraries, hostels, and hearts. And perhaps, somewhere between a second-hand Dostoevsky and a dog-eared debut, the next great writer is reading… and readying their pen.

After all, who knows? That shy soul behind the stall, rearranging their stack of unsold stories, might just be tomorrow’s literary lodestar. So go ahead—judge the book after reading it. You might just stumble upon your next unforgettable friend.

As Jorge Luis Borges once mused, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” If so, then the lawns of that university—and the luminous curiosity of its readers—felt nothing short of celestial.

Setu, August 2025

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar, Retd. Officiating Principal and Associate Professor of English at MLN College, Yamuna Nagar, is an acclaimed academician, poet, and writer. With over 400 contributions to leading national newspapers and magazines, she has published 70+ research papers in reputed national and international journals and edited books. A noted resource person and speaker, she has led workshops and panel discussions nationwide, including at the Delhi Book Fair 2024. Honored by the District Administration and featured as an Empowered Woman by The Hindustan Times, she is a recipient of the Indian Woman Achiever Award and authored eight acclaimed books.

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Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Through My Window, You Must See

You think I’m just another woman on a bus—

Headscarf loose, gaze lost past the glass.

But this window isn’t just for looking—

It’s where I speak when the world won’t ask.

Born as human, shaped into silence,

Taught to tiptoe, speak sweet, serve tea.

A woman, they say, must earn her world

By shrinking to fit what they decree.

This pane—my second skin—

Holds reflections of rules I never wrote.

Glass ceilings hang like invisible clouds,

Their weight pressing down my throat.

Alice Walker once whispered to me—

Not in dreams, but in daylight rage:

“Our mothers wrote in gardens and grief,”

While men scrawled across history’s page.

I want to roam where signs say no,

Drive past dusk without fear’s refrain.

Not to shatter norms with noise—

But to sing against society’s chain.

Roles were handed like heirloom rings—

But I slip them off with steady grace.

I dare to tread the pebbled path,

To reach a self they can't erase.

See—there’s no meekness in this seat.

Only strength strapped in resilience.

I ride not just through traffic,

But through centuries of silence.

And if you hear in my stillness

The roar of something wild and free,

Know that locked doors may still exist—

But not for women like me.

Postscript (Walker’s Voice):

"I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter... and I have discovered that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb."

— Alice Walker

The Silent Commute

Windowpane blurs with breath and rain,

Veiling thoughts I can’t explain.

Faces flit past—unknown, unkind—

While I wander within my mind.

This bus, a cradle of crowds and care,

Holds my hush, my hidden prayer.

Home behind and work ahead—

In between, I hang by a thread.

Shoulders strong, smile stitched tight,

Yet weary with unvoiced fight.

Toni whispers in silent plea—

"You are your best thing," echoes in me.

But when will they see this silent toil—

Not just success, but scorched soil?

Labels like laurels, loosely bestowed—

“Superwoman” is a heavy load.

Woolf once wished for a room, a name,

Not bound to beauty, nor bruised by blame.

Have I that space, that sovereign right,

To speak in shade, to burn in light?

Between deadlines, diapers, dreams deferred,

My worth feels weighed but seldom heard.

I walk on wires strung thin by fate—

A mother, a maker, a muted state.

No medals for meals made with grace,

No claps for calm in a crowded space.

If only love could leap unsought,

Without my needing to be forgot.

But hush—my stop begins to near,

Hope halts the heart’s small fear.

Each morning may mute my song,

But silence never stays for long.

Today I rise, not just arrive,

In fragments flawed, I still survive.

Not to be fixed or merely found—

But to be fully, fiercely sound.

Setu, July 2025

Faith, Fantasy, and the Fractured Self: Ethan Goffman's The Church of the Oversoul and Other Stories

The Church of the Oversoul and Other Stories

Author’s name: Ethan Goffman

Publication: Uncollected Press

Year of Publication: 2025

Pages: 180

ISBN: 979-8-9905585-6-4

Reviewed by Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ethan Goffman’s The Church of the Oversoul and Other Stories is a compelling mosaic of modern anxieties, satirical excursions, and dystopian spiritual quests, grounded in contemporary social commentary and psychological realism. The stories unfurl like a map of modern America’s existential contradictions—of techno-futurism colliding with spiritual hollowness, of adolescent mischief veiling adult despair, of inner searches for meaning in a world where noise overwhelms nuance. With a diction that is functional, economical, and sharply observant, Goffman weaves a web of stories that engage deeply with the unconscious, the absurd, and the absurdly human.

Ritu Kamra Kumar

The Incident: Adolescent Angst and Epiphanic Fatherhood

In The Incident, Goffman taps into the universally awkward rites of teenage boys: sneaking into basements, sharing beer, nicknames like Wingman and Fruitcake, hormonal chatter about girls, and peer bullying. Mike, Fred, and the unnamed narrator are not merely characters but archetypes—emblems of that strange cocktail of bravado and vulnerability that defines male adolescence. The narrator, now a parent to teenagers himself, undergoes a reflective transformation. Parenthood, it seems, enforces a retrospective wisdom. His fear is not moral judgment but inherited recklessness. The story’s circular structure reinforces its emotional resonance—what began as innocent mischief ends with existential anxiety. As in James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, epiphany arises not in grandeur but in quiet, cumulative moments.

Ethan Goffman

Meltdown: A Lament for a Fractured World

Meltdown is a particularly poignant tale that veers into eco-dystopian terrain, focusing on Alfred and Eva, a couple whose summer cottage burns down due to a wildfire—a grim symptom of global climate trauma. As the story progresses, Alfred’s despair intensifies. “Humanity today is like a person with multiple diseases all at once,” he proclaims, juxtaposing environmental collapse with the war in Ukraine and the moral decay of human society. His sermon at the club echoes the impassioned, desperate voices of Eliot’s The Hollow Men, crying out in a spiritual wasteland.

Eva, witnessing Alfred’s disintegration, knows that his obsession with myths and folklore is not escapism but a frantic search for meaning in a world spiraling toward entropy. His dream—preaching from a mountaintop—is abruptly eclipsed by a surreal nuclear rain that dissolves his tablets, symbolizing the death of truth. The vivid imagery and elegiac tone elevate the story to a prophetic lament. It is both political and poetic—a modern-day Apocalypse Now fused with Jeremiah’s wailing.

The Return: Prejudice in Post-Truth America

In The Return, Goffman exposes the latent racial bias that continues to plague supposedly progressive societies. Through the vehicle of a computer game, Sylvia’s disdain for black characters leads to a terse yet revealing conversation with Nate. His rational appeal—“You have to be open to different kinds of people”—falls on deaf ears. The futility of dialogue and the narrator's resigned conclusion, “Nothing will change...little volcanoes wait for eruption,” serves as a caustic indictment of liberal complacency.

This brief yet potent piece channels the spirit of George Orwell’s realism—direct, emotionally subdued, but ideologically searing. The satire cuts deeper because it does not exaggerate; it merely holds up a mirror.

A Real Man: The Policing of Masculinity

This story attacks the totalitarian policing of thought and gender norms. Surveillance extends beyond physical space into the very interiority of individuals, reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984 or Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. Authenticity is no longer an aspiration but a regulated performance. In this world, even being a “real man” becomes an algorithmic mandate, a coded expectation devoid of emotional truth. Goffman’s minimalism here is potent—every sentence lands like a command, or a suppressed scream.

Limbo Is a Happenin’ Place: Bureaucracy in the Afterlife

Perhaps the most overtly satirical of the stories, Limbo Is a Happenin’ Place envisions the afterlife as a bureaucratic purgatory. Identity is reduced to paperwork, freedom becomes procedural, and spiritual transcendence is mediated through absurd regulations. The narrative is rich with Kafkaesque echoes: a dead man forced to wait in line, fill forms, and prove his “limbonic eligibility.” Yet Goffman infuses this bleakness with Vonnegutian wit, transforming metaphysical uncertainty into humor.

The narrator’s voice—bewildered, sardonic, and strangely hopeful—guides the reader through this spiritual DMV, where no one seems quite alive or dead. This story functions as both parody and parable, its absurdity mirroring the dehumanizing rituals of modern existence.

The New Melissa: Identity, AI, and Emotional Dislocation

A deeply philosophical tale, The New Melissa follows Ivan’s spiral from academic promise to emotional and moral disillusionment. His relationships—with Melissa, then Julia, and eventually with a humanoid AI modeled on Melissa—trace a journey of failed intimacy and self-delusion. His confession that he might be a sociopath yet craves redemption invites comparisons to Dostoevsky’s Underground Man. As he weeps for Melissa, he finally acknowledges the poverty of his soul.

The AI-Melissa, programmed to be “better in all the best ways,” raises disturbing questions about identity: can artificial memory ever replace emotional complexity? Could the soul be downloaded, revised, and played back in upgraded software? Ivan’s tears—delayed, fractured, and guilt-ridden—suggest that no machine can code the human need for forgiveness. The story critiques the techno-utopian impulse to remake lost love without grief. It is, at once, science fiction and psychological elegy.

The Church of the Oversoul: Faith, Failure, and Fragmentation

The titular novella is the most ambitious in scope and complexity. The narrative is kaleidoscopic: environmental catastrophes, failed utopias, gender fluidity, interfaith awakenings, and AI-driven spirituality all jostle for attention. Kristiana—a priestess, mother, and mystic—emerges as a tragic heroine. Her Church of the Oversoul begins as a dream of redemption but collapses into ash and addiction.

Xochitl, her intersex daughter, dies from a fentanyl overdose, symbolizing the ultimate collapse of ideals in the face of societal and personal chaos. The narrator, captivated by Kristiana’s aura, ends the story clutching his cat Fluffy, craving comfort. The story moves like stream-of-consciousness but is peppered with surreal reportage, giving it a fragmented, labyrinthine structure akin to Virginia Woolf’s The Waves.

Itzamatul, Lynn, Verne—all emerge briefly, each carrying their own tormented pasts, as if the Church has become a mausoleum for the spiritually wounded. Goffman’s prose here turns more experimental, blending dream sequences, dialogue, sermons, and diary-like introspections. It demands active engagement from the reader—fragmentation as both theme and method.

Pifflemeyer: The Anatomy of Alienation

Alvin Pifflemeyer is perhaps Goffman’s most introspective and symbolically rich character. Wandering through laundromats, parties, malls, and failed relationships, Alvin is a tragicomic figure reminiscent of Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus or Beckett’s Vladimir and Estragon. He fantasizes about Jeanine but cannot emotionally connect. His thoughts are nonlinear, peppered with existential brooding, epistemological digressions, and sudden melancholia.

The narrative is elliptical—chronology collapses into thematic association. He contemplates suicide, drifts through conversations about viruses, economics, lesbian culture, and literary modernism. Life becomes “a nothing day—chaos.” He moves to Chicago, studies theology, flirts with faith, fails to resurrect intimacy, and finally flings the gun into a river—perhaps the only symbolic action that contains both despair and release.

In Pifflemeyer, Goffman’s use of interior monologue is most pronounced. Like Woolf or Joyce, he captures the inner cacophony of consciousness, where thoughts layer over one another in contradictory spirals. The narrative form itself reflects Alvin’s fragmented identity: “Alvin felt that his mind was tied up in knots...a maze going nowhere.” This formal mimicry of the psyche elevates the story into literary modernism.

---

Narrative Techniques: Structure and Style

Goffman employs a range of narrative techniques across the collection:

Stream of Consciousness: Particularly in Pifflemeyer and The Church of the Oversoul, he dives into characters’ minds, presenting layered, nonlinear introspection.

Circular and Fragmented Structures: Stories like The Incident and The Return use circular framing; others like The New Melissa and Oversoul employ fragmented chronology to reflect thematic disintegration.

Satirical Realism: Through ironic juxtaposition and bureaucratic absurdity, Goffman critiques societal systems (Limbo, A Real Man).

Symbolic Minimalism: Often, a single image—nuclear rain, a robotic Melissa, a flung gun—encapsulates a universe of meaning.

Stylistic Economy: His prose is sharp and economical, rarely florid, allowing metaphor and irony to do the heavy lifting.

---

Conclusion: Literary Lineage and Legacy

The Church of the Oversoul and Other Stories may be a contemporary creation, but its soul vibrates with the echoes of literary masters. Goffman dialogues with James Joyce’s existential interiority, Virginia Woolf’s emotional depth, George Orwell’s political skepticism, and Franz Kafka’s surreal dread. In Limbo, we feel Vonnegut’s satire; in Meltdown, T.S. Eliot’s spiritual dryness; in Pifflemeyer, Beckett’s absurdity and Graham Greene’s moral despair.

But Goffman is no mere mimic. He fuses these influences into a distinctly 21st-century voice—irreverent, introspective, and ethically alert. His characters are fragmented, not simply by trauma or ideology, but by overstimulation, digital seduction, and the breakdown of communal rituals. Faith, in his world, is not lost—it is scrambled.

In the end, The Church of the Oversoul is not just a book of stories. It is a collective lament, a philosophical inquiry, and a literary experiment. Goffman exposes not only what we have become, but what we have refused to confront: that humanity’s greatest peril lies not in external collapse but in our vanishing ability to feel it.The collection, though uneven in density, is rich in insight and style. It calls readers not merely to observe but to introspect—into our fears, our follies, and the fragile faith we place in systems, selves, and salvations. In the end, Goffman does what literature must: he makes us pause, ponder, and perhaps, prepare for a better—if uncertain—tomorrow.

Setu, July 2025

The Misted Horizon: A Critical Reflection on A Sky Full of Balloons by Santosh Bakaya

Reviewed by - Ritu Kamra Kumar

Book: A Skyful of Balloons (A Novella)

Author: Santosh Bakaya

Authorspress Publication

Year of Publication: 2018

Pages: 147

Price: ₹295| $15

ISBN-13:978-93-87651-49-4

Santosh Bakaya, a luminous presence in contemporary Indian literature, is a poet, columnist, and storyteller whose prose transcends boundaries and resonates with universal human emotions. A recipient of numerous literary accolades, Bakaya has carved a niche among India's literary stalwarts, giving voice to the silences of many unheard lives. Her novella A Sky Full of Balloons is a delicate yet powerful tapestry of love, loss, memory, and hope—a narrative that both shimmers with poetic grace and pierces the heart with raw truth.

At its core, the novella chronicles the emotional odyssey of Preeti, a young woman whose life—once resplendent with color and melody—gradually fades into the muted hues of melancholy. The narrative opens with a scene steeped in symbolic imagery: a "pale and muted sky," white mist, and walnut trees whose music fails to stir Preeti’s heart. This spectral landscape mirrors her inner desolation, a world once vibrant now veiled by an impenetrable mist. The opening tone establishes a quiet eeriness, reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s psychological landscapes, where nature and emotion seamlessly intertwine.

Preeti, once a babbling brook under her professor father's tutelage, is now silenced by sorrow. Her youthful exuberance—her "Picasso in the making"—has slipped into oblivion. Bakaya uses natural elements not merely as backdrops but as living, breathing extensions of her characters’ inner worlds. The Lidder river, the peeping walnut trees, and the chirping birds act as silent companions, echoing Preeti’s joys and despair.

The love story between Preeti and Vivek (affectionately, Vicky) unfolds with lyrical tenderness. Their childhood bond, nurtured amidst the scenic valleys and flowerbeds separating their homes, blossoms into a romance etched in Shakespearean eloquence. The references to literary giants—Shakespeare, Tennyson, Dickinson—are not ornamental but integral to the story’s emotional fabric. Their shared love for literature is the very soul of their relationship. As they quote “Parting is such sweet sorrow…” or evoke the eternal cadence of “Dover Beach,” their love becomes both timeless and tragic.

The characters surrounding them—the warm-hearted Dhars and Rainas, the wise grandmother, and the theatrical Dr. Qayoom—are not mere supporting figures but vividly drawn, each embodying a facet of the socio-cultural milieu. Bakaya’s genius lies in her deft psychological sketches—she captures the unspoken anxieties, quiet joys, and emotional tremors of everyday life with startling realism.

Just as the narrative settles into the comfort of their union, tragedy strikes. In a heart-wrenching moment, Preeti believes she has lost Vivek. Her anguish—marked by her desperate cry, “You cannot do this…”—shakes the reader. But Bakaya, ever the master of emotional pacing, delivers a twist: it was all a prank. Yet this moment of panic foreshadows the real loss to come, casting a shadow over their eventual marriage.

The narrative is divided into three distinct parts, each marking a shift in tone, structure, and emotional resonance. The third part delivers the final blow—Vivek is gone, and Preeti, now emotionally inert, lives in a "somnambulistic trance." Her creative soul is frozen in grief, her colors drained. But it is here that Bakaya introduces a symbolic resurrection: a young boy, also named Vicky, moves in next door. This child, motherless and seeking comfort, becomes the unlikely balm for Preeti’s wounded heart.

Their evolving bond is tenderly rendered. The cyclical nature of life—loss and renewal, winter and spring—unfurls through metaphors of seasons, lullabies, and memory straws. As the boy’s laughter echoes through her house, Preeti begins to thaw. Her lullaby “Nanni kali sonnay chali…” becomes a metaphorical bridge between her past and a new beginning.

In a climactic yet understated moment, Preeti visits young Vicky’s home on her wedding anniversary—a day once steeped in trauma—and asks for a book, The Twelve Months, a symbolic nod to the continuity of time and healing. Emily Dickinson’s haunting lines, “First chill – then stupor – then the letting go,” echo as she begins to reconcile with her loss.

The novella ends on an open note, allowing readers to linger in the liminal space between closure and continuation. Has Preeti truly found peace? Or is she still navigating the misted corridors of memory? Bakaya leaves us pondering, much like the ambiguous ending of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, inviting the reader to co-create the narrative's closure.

Narrative Technique & Style:

Bakaya’s storytelling is deeply poetic, her prose enriched with metaphors, similes, and literary allusions that elevate the emotional cadence. Her use of nature as metaphor—trees, rivers, mist, frost—is both symbolic and sensorial. The third-person omniscient narration allows for deep psychological insights while maintaining a lyrical distance. Her structure—episodic yet seamless—mimics the flow of memory, echoing the techniques of modernist writers like Woolf and Joyce.

Characterization:

Preeti is a deeply human character—flawed, fragile, yet fiercely resilient. Her transformation from a spirited girl to a grief-stricken woman and eventually a nurturer again is depicted with grace and empathy. Vivek, though absent in the final act, lingers like a fragrance, his presence etched into Preeti’s psyche. Secondary characters are crafted with care, their dialogues and gestures reflecting cultural authenticity and emotional truth.

Conclusion:

A Sky Full of Balloons is not just a story—it is an elegy, a love song, a whisper in the wind. It speaks of ephemeral joys, the permanence of grief, and the quiet promise of renewal. Santosh Bakaya's novella is a triumph of literary art—a work that invites readers to feel, reflect, and perhaps heal.

***

Bio: Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar, Retd. Officiating Principal and Associate Professor of English at MLN College, Yamuna Nagar, is an acclaimed academician, poet, and writer. With over 400 contributions to leading national newspapers and magazines, she has published 70+ research papers in reputed national and international journals and edited books. A noted resource person and speaker, she has led workshops and panel discussions nationwide, including at the Delhi Book Fair 2024. Honored by the District Administration and featured as an Empowered Woman by The Hindustan Times, she is a recipient of the Indian Woman Achiever Award and authored eight acclaimed books.

Setu, June 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Canvas of Endurance

I might appear a fragment, a form undone

No limbs to gesture, no voice to claim grace,

Frayed at the edges, the colors run,

Yet, within my silence, a sacred space.

I never begged to be beautiful, pristine,

Not a portrait hung in opulent halls.

I was carved in chaos, in-between,

A relic that rose though time withdraws.

Cracks map my face like rivers of gold,

Each one a wound, but also a seam.

Kintsugi of spirit—resilience retold,

Restitching loss into the fabric of dream.

No tempest could tear the core of me,

No careless eye could erase my frame.

I am a memory that refuses to flee,

An unfinished psalm, not seeking fame.

Breath may falter, and flesh decay,

But the soul—like Lear in storm—will cry

Not for pity, but for a rightful way

To live with truth, not the mask or lie.

I have wandered through forgotten frames,

In galleries where ghosts once wept.

I’ve heard the hush of unspoken names,

Where light on ruin silently crept.

Still, I stand, though bruised and bent,

A lighthouse etched on night’s own skin.

Each scar—a syllable, each tear—intent,

Marking the place where I begin.

Who dares destroy the will to rise,

The hunger to hope, to still implore?

Even Icarus, scorched by skies,

Dreamed of wings that could soar once more.

I hold no symmetry, nor gilded guise,

Yet in my shape, truth dares to dwell.

The canvas flawed, the frame unwise

Yet within, a universe rebels.

So, mark me not for what I lack

The missing brush, the faded hue

But for the will that won’t turn back,

For the art that keeps breaking through.

***

Crown of Clay

Ah, what a pitiful plight I parade

Once poised to reign, now razed in regret.

My mind, a maze of murmuring greed,

Spun its schemes to scrape the skins of need.

I dreamed not of love, nor of lore,

But thrones carved from the ribs of the poor.

Each coin, a conquest, each breath, a bargain

I bartered souls for a fleeting dominion.

With fingers forked like serpent tongues,

I pricked their peace with thorn-tipped wrongs.

A hound, I howled in hunger for more,

Draining dreams from every door.

My veins, once veins of velvet pride,

Ran red with ruin I could not hide.

Empires rose beneath my tread

Built on backs, and broken bread.

But now, behold—I stand alone,

A shadow beneath a shattered throne.

No sceptre now, no silken lie

Only the silence of a stifled cry.

I see Ozymandias in the mirror’s glare

His crown cracked, his kingdom air.

Time’s tide took all I claimed,

Etched in sand, my sins unnamed.

A lesson etched in blood and dust

No gold survives the grave’s rust.

The guillotine waits—its whisper near

Not of death, but of truth severe

Let me rebuild with bruised hands,

Sow light across these scorched lands.

Not for glory, not to reign

But to cleanse the crimson from my name.

***

The Thorns of Thistle Time

Oh, what a thorn-throttled time I tread

The sky once sapphire now sags with dread.

Where went the breeze that once kissed my brow?

Where sings the sun that bathed me—then, not now?

Love, once a lullaby, lost in the din,

Now silence stalks my soul within.

I watch the world, a wheel without wonder,

Its heart a hollow drumbeat of thunder.

My God! What ghostly guise is this age?

No kindness kindles, no wisdom sage.

Humanity’s halo, tarnished and torn,

Wanders weeping, weary, and worn.

I pass unnoticed—scant steps, no glance,

Wrapped in rags of a fading trance.

Misery, my sister, holds my hand,

Leads me limping through loveless land.

Why, I ask, do I wear such woe?

My worth—whittled, a whisper in snow.

Yet even Pandora, with palms unfurled,

Left Hope cradled in a cracked world.

I gather my grief like scattered glass,

Each shard a story, a soul’s bypass.

I knead my ache into mortal clay,

To mold a dawn from this decay.

O Courage—come, with calloused grace,

Cloak me in fire, let me face

This frozen fate with fearless flame,

Let scars be stars that spell my name.

For I may be fractured, but not yet done—

My ruin, a relic kissed by the sun.

I rise again—not crowned, not clean,

But burning brighter through what’s been seen.

***

Setu, June 2025

Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Crimson Testament

I — Prism of perfumed passion,

Laid to rest in sepia folds of time,

Cradled within a tome of tender verse

I am memory made petal,

A sweet whisper of lovers two,

Their breath and bond caught in crimson silk.

A symbol am I—sublime, eternal,

Of love unspoken yet profoundly felt,

Sensuous and sensitive, beauty bounteous.

In my petulant petals, they found themselves:

Hope, heartache, and hallelujah.

Still, I stir the air

With the elation of lips once brushed,

The tremble of hearts once bold,

The music of moments stolen

By poetic prodigies in twilight's hush.

Ah, their love lingers- faded yet fervent,

A fire folded into parchment.

This, too, is art - weightless, wondrous,

A sonnet pressed in stillness.

A universe resides within my shrivelled form.

I—reddening rhapsody—recount a thousand truths,

Each vein a verse,

Each curve a chronicle.

I cradle the cry and craving of creation,

A blend rare and radiant:

Emotion, intellect, and aesthetic grace.

A bejewelled bride of benign books,

Cloaked in dust,

Yet humming with entranced elixirs

An enchanted essence drawn from souls entwined.

Yes, my fragrance has waned

Only a wisp remains,

A breath on the edge of remembrance.

Yet I endure.

Still. Sacred. Spellbound.

The pious pulse of lovers’ past

Still thrums in my faded hue.

I was a witness. I was a vessel.

And now, I am a poet, too.

***

The Transition

I. Spring Surge

Teenage tempest—angst and fire,

Restless hearts with wild desire.

Dreams ablaze, laughter loud,

Eyes fixed firm beyond the cloud.

Each day a spark, each night a flame,

We raced the wind, dared stars by name.

To rise, to shine—that was our creed,

Ambitions bloomed like garden weed.

In spring’s soft glow, we ran unbound,

With youthful hope and joy profound.

II. Autumn Light

Now time has brushed its mellow hue,

And quiet lives where thunder grew.

No longer drawn to crowded halls,

I walk where golden silence falls.

Applause once echoed in my ear,

But now the stillness draws me near.

The leaves descend, their colors deep,

Like stories trees no longer keep.

Each step I take, a softer sound,

As memory blooms from fertile ground.

III. Winter Wisdom

The years unwind, a gentle stream,

And truth arrives not in a scream.

Ideas rise, then drift away,

Like petals loosed in wind’s ballet.

The shell may fade, but not the flame,

It flickers on without a name.

I do not grieve what I outgrew—

All things transform, and so must you.

The setting sun, the final gate,

Is not the end, but merely fate.

IV. Embrace

Let autumn come with all its grace,

Its falling leaves, its soft embrace.

No fear remains, just open skies,

Where every end is but disguise.

To cross the bar is not to part,

But journey deeper into heart.

And like the phoenix in its flame,

We rise again—reborn in name.

***

I Want to Be Little Again

Let me be little again—

In a brand-new polka-dot frock,

Twirl and twinkle down the lane,

Beaming with pride as I walk.

Let me be little again—

Hide my arms in sweater sleeves,

Pretend they’re lost, then cry and grin,

Spinning tales no one believes.

Let me be little again—

Tiptoe, crouch behind the door,

Startle guests with shrieks of glee,

Then slam it shut and laugh some more.

Let me be little again—

Sail paper boats in monsoon drains,

Launch paper planes with whoops and cheers,

In skirmishes of childhood games.

Let me be little again—

Blow birthday candles, cheeks aglow,

Cycle hands-free, wild and free,

In mother’s arms, swing to and fro.

Let me be little again—

No burdens, no masks to wear,

No hearts to mend, no need to blend,

Just sunshine, giggles, and open air.

Let me be little again—

Eavesdrop as elders talk in hush,

Hiding behind the heavy oak,

In silence, feeling the midnight rush.

I long for that innocent space,

When dreams were drawn in crayon hue—

Back when they’d ask, “What will you be?”

And I, not knowing, simply knew:

I only wish to be little… somehow.

***

Setu, May 2025

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