Special Edition: Surreal Moments
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| Picture by Jerome Berglund |
Special Edition Authors: July 2025
Contributing Authors
Showing posts with label Surreal Moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Surreal Moments. Show all posts
Special Edition: Rupa Rao
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| Rupa Rao |
Diva Donna Dares the Devil
Chilly darkness descended earlier than usual for Donna rushing to her destination - she has enrolled to learn new skills and language. Fingers of darkness were tightening grip around her dropping heart.
She plonked herself on the window seat to stare into the abyss that seemed to her once blissful life lately.
A Chicago native, Donna worked her way out of the tough projects she was born in. Her resilience, awareness, and grit stood her in good stead when she had to protect her life, possessions, dignity surrounded by aggression and bullies.
She was blessed with the voice of an angel and natural rhythm making her a natural for singing, dancing and stage performances.
She knocked any and every door to find a job as a teenager until she found one as an usher then stage hand, gal Friday, background artiste until she was recognized as a woman who could belt out a high note and hold it long and move with fluidity.
She caught the eye of music Moghul who was scanning prospective hot beds for a new face to launch
She was overjoyed, her happiness knew no bounds. She was a fast learner, willing to put in long hours, practice until she was ready to drop.
It paid off, her star rose and her name flashed across Broadway marquis and she inched her way up in the firmament of thespians who left a legacy of impeccable memories and creativity.
Soon she met many other artists who had blurred into oblivion despite being talented.
She did not want to be one of them, she kept away from intoxication of her heady success, substance abuse, flatterers n followers feeding what would benefit them and choices that were exciting but hurt a rising career.
One day "love" walked into her life. A director who moved from obscurity to limelight with his slick productions found her depth, reserved ways attractive. They became soul mates and inseparable. They wanted to paint the universe of stage productions with the brilliance of their work.
As expected, in the corner lurked jealousy, rivalry, competitive put-downers who would malign their name with cooked up stories so their own work may find space and a stage.
After all director Ivan was a passionate man who found love wherever he went and was comfortable moving on from relationships when he tired of constrictive-ness in a partnership. His free-flying ways though well known, Donna thought this would be different. And she was not wrong.
While the couple was busy making plans for life, life and the divine had different plans for them.
When they were heading to the Tony awards to receive their due, car-brake failure paralyzed Ivan and Donna lost her singing voice and one leg. After initial sympathy and platitudes, like arc lights faded the many friends and colleagues who had little use for the couple.
Money dwindled fast; resources were no longer easily available. They downsized to a studio apartment in the vicinity of projects and there Donna was back to where she had begun. Life seemed to have dragged her back to the old neighbourhood she escaped with her persistence and smarts.
She stares unseeingly through the window into the familiar and comforting dark that beckons obscurity she dreads. She smiles as shadows of past, ghosts of future flit by on the Bus window's screen. She will alight at the night school that teaches sign language so she may secure a role once again in the entertainment universe as a sign language spokeswoman. She will rise again and she will own the world under the starry night. She will recreate the blazing marquee featuring her name and her unique never-give-up spirit!! (614 words excluding title)
***
Special Edition: Hema Ravi
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| Hema Ravi |
Elephant on the track (Prose)
The evening rays of the summer sun shone and brightened the entire landscape. A sudden cloud brought along a passing shower, uncommon at that time of the year. However, within seconds, the rain stopped, and it became warm once again.
Since it was an unplanned journey, Pooja had to sit in the unreserved compartment along with a host of unfamiliar passengers; perhaps one of them was a tribal too, she mused. She sat as comfortably as possible on the rickety seat. The train journey was about 2 hours or more; she could then reach her home in the village by bus from the station.
There was a middle-aged man with a fat paunch who didn’t seem threatening. A large family, oblivious to the presence of others, was garrulously exchanging words.
Beside Pooja was a young dark-skinned girl with cropped hair, a red cap on her head with the letters USA embossed on it. She was seated comfortably and appeared to be enjoying the scenes outside. Pooja wondered what the purpose of the girl’s visit to this country was. Unable to control her curiosity, she leaned towards the girl and said with a smile: “Your folder says Emma Watson, Student of Anthropology.”
“I know very little about the subject, although I taught English at Ranchi University for a while. I do know it is the study of human societies, cultures, and evolution. “
The girl’s eyes lit up. She mentioned she had stayed at Ranchi University for about a week. She had come down to gain knowledge and insights into the lives of some rehabilitated tribals.
“My professor had visited the place a few years ago and wants more research to be done on these indigenous tribes.”
“This is my first visit to India, and I’m a little nervous.”
Pooja said, “Yes, every country has its positives and negatives. One has got to be careful, find the right people to interact with...”
“Did you manage to get any references from the University?”
“Yes!”
Before Pooja could speak more, Emma enquired, “Are you on a business trip, or a holiday?”
“Well,” Pooja replied. I’m visiting my ailing aunt in Latemda. It’s been years now. Professional demands, familial commitments, and others kept me away. My parents used to live there, and my growing-up years were spent there until I was sent to a boarding school in Patna. My parents passed away in quick succession during the pandemic. Since then, my visits to Latemda have reduced to about twice a year.”
“Do you like it there?” asked Emma.
“Yes, of course. I try to stay connected to my roots… My father was a farmer, contented and hardworking; my mother, a devoted homemaker.”
“I lost them both during the pandemic.”
“They used to visit Ranchi once a year, check on my well-being, and pass on some money to my uncle, who was my local guardian. After college, at their insistence, I got married to my uncle’s son, who works in a large factory in Ranchi. It was my husband who encouraged me to study and pursue a professional career, which I did.”
“Do tell me about yourself, if you feel I am not intruding…” Pooja prodded gently.
Emma spoke briefly about her family. Her parents had migrated to the USA when she was a child, and her schooling and undergraduate studies were in Florida. After her graduation, she began pursuing a master’s degree, and that was when she met Prof. Wilbur, who persuaded her to continue her research on the ethnic tribes of Jharkhand.
“I’m truly excited to know more about your research and your subject of study,” Pooja expressed in an earnest voice.
They were conversing softly, munching on some homemade snacks that Pooja had brought along. Suddenly, there was a loud screech of brakes, and the train came to a grinding halt.
The driver had got information from a local about an elephant, which was in labour on the railway track, about a kilometre away. The pachyderm had been there for nearly two hours. The train wouldn’t move until the mother left with her calf. The villager went into one compartment after another, conveyed the news to the passengers, and requested them to be patient. He urged people not to get off the train and scare the animal or cause any harm to it.
Pooja gave him a bunch of bananas, and a few other passengers too did so… she said he could take it up to the distressed animal, if he chose to do so.
“How nice it would be if I could click some pics,” Emma squealed, even as she showered words of appreciation for the local and the driver for letting the animal lie undisturbed until it delivered its calf.
Some of the passengers got restless and tried to get off the train, but a handful of locals who had gathered outside shoved them back, saying, “Pareshaan mat karo!” (Don’t disturb!)
Pooja was worried she would miss the village bus, which she and Emma had to take to go to the village. Coincidentally, Emma was going up to the same village to meet Shruti Munda, who had moved into a village home very recently. Pooja was dying to know more about Shruti.
Emma sat calmly and started reading something. Pooja became restless and began fidgeting with her fingers; she was sweating too, as the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, and the moon was rising – a voluptuous moon!
To her disbelief and surprise, the train began to chug forward. All the passengers cheered in glee.
One of the locals who came into their compartment said: “Aap ma aur bachda ko us side mein dekh sakthein…” Hearing this, all the passengers rushed towards the windows to catch a glimpse of the duo. Emma got up too, and as the train passed by slowly, she videographed the entire scene.
“There they are, Emma squealed.” “It’s too surreal to be true…”
***
Guru Purnima (Poem)
Through the looking glass
I caught a glimpse of the ochre.
Such an incredible sight, how I
long to be up there…
If I can cast off these earthly bounds
Climb atop the high-rise edifices
And get hold of you - Silvery Quiet!
The cab whizzes past.
You’ve vanished again…
***
Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), event organizer, and independent researcher.
Her poems, short stories, travelogues, and articles have been featured in reputed international journals. She is the author of Joie De Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings Again, Everyday English, and ‘Write Right Handwriting Series 1,2,3. Writing, she believes, is therapeutic…there is always a story out in the open, if one keeps the eyes and ears open.
Hema is a freelancer for IELTS, Communicative English & Soft Skills. As the Secretary of Chennai Poets’ Circle, she empowers poet-aspirants to unleash their creative potential effectively.
Special Edition: Sankha Ranjan Patra
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| Sankha Ranjan Patra |
The Lady I Met On The Train
The lady I met on the train looked
In the glass with her dark eyes,
As if those were numb and dumb,
Those had their own stories,
Those had their own beauties,
Maybe she possessed a dancing and daring heart
What if those seemed placid and pious?
The lady I met on the train looked
At me never with her sharp eyes,
As if those were forbidden and forgotten,
Those had the grace of any damsel,
Those had the grace of any duchess,
Maybe she possessed a charming and churning art,
What if those seemed cajoled and curious?
I was sitting, not very far,
Like opposite to each other
With a face to face encounter,
But she ignored all the time
For she had to recall someone
Buried in the depth of the burning heart
And I captured her emotion
So closely, and not with eyes only.
I was sitting, very near,
Like known to each other
With an eye to eye encounter,
But she ignored all the time
For she had to recall someone
Lied in the breath of the living heart
And I captured her innocence
So purely, and not with eyes only.
***
Special Edition: Ritu Kamra Kumar
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| 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.Special Edition: Archana Bahadur Zutshi
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| Archana Bahadur Zutshi |
Severed from Self
The scene shifts outside
I cannot look into the dark inside.
Reflections betray,
residuals of a spent childhood,
The limited forays.
My own freedom I try to unlock;
Caress my carefree disposition,
The balmy twirls of the trees
I can feel, how my soul swirls
With the gushing waters.
Transitions are good for growth.
The longing and heart has to learn and decode.
The mysteries of each moment
Cascade in a torrent if you are oblivious
Of the station you are headed for!
I remember the time you spoke my friend,
Of your unease, how you wanted to skip going home.
You believed just like them who caused you anxiety,
That the journey would go on...
No my friend, 'you' need to move on!Special Edition: Marjorie Pezzoli
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| Marjorie Pezzoli |
MEtro
every day
same train
passing stations
a blur of recollections
recognize smears of paint
my reflection is my reference
today
choose a new seat
when will the fare be fair?
UTro/uTro
you stare at me
WEtro
we become i
off the rails
spirits glide
back on the metro
***
Special Edition: Neelam Saxena
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| Neelam Saxena Chandra |
Reflections
She is blank. Stares into nothingness.
Everything appears wistfully gloomy.
She’s long been feeling disconnected,
The melancholy moment and the murky reflections,
Make her wish to run away somewhere.
But where? She has no place to go.
“Global recession,” her employer had said,
While firing her with an emotionless face.
She had entered the train, ticketless.
Maybe, she would be sent to the prison
Where she’ll get food to eat, bed to sleep,
And a few feet of scarce space.
She solemnly stares
Into the beclouded reflections once again-
A shining ray of the sun enters, flooding with light.
The train has crossed the long tunnel,
And rather than crawling, is roaring with might.
Was she also in the dark tunnel of her thoughts?
The employer has taken away her job, not her talents.
She may be pitifully penniless,
But there can always be a new bright beginning!
She walks out of the coach, throws her cap,
And dances out of the train station with a satisfying smile.Special Edition: Ranjana Sharan
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| Ranjana Sharan Sinha |
Accented Syllables
The woman looks out of the window
while on public transit--
Tall buildings, bustling streets,
the flow of traffic and much more...
The window itself reflects
the interior of the vehicle
adding another layer of perspective.
The cityscape and the images continue
and she wishes to escape the boredom.
Overwhelming thoughts
come and create corrosion.
Despite being surrounded by people
she feels disconnected--
No friendly immersion!
The relentless demands of a busy life,
the struggle to balance
career and relationships, and
her daily commute to work,
have made her life a sorry saga
full of dull and hectic happenings.
Emotional depletion--
The whispers of her own desires
have drowned in the bustle.
Amid a thousand tasks,
a millions demands,
she seems to have lost touch
with her own identity and passion.
A withered flower
in a concrete vase,
she yearns for a patch of earth
to call her own!
***
Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya
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| Santosh Bakaya |
Inaudible Chronicles
What inaudible chronicles,
What untold stories speak to her from the glass?
Is her muse reflected in the window glass?
Is her muse talking to her in hushed whispers?
Is the thoughtful woman reflecting on her inner tranquility
or her inner turbulence? She sighs.
She seems to be caught in a haze.
And hazes can paint surreal scenes.
It is weaving swathes and swathes of wonders.
Unleashing eternities of splendour.
Does she see a stranger in the glass?
Her reflection sparks the memory of Rosa Parks.
She smiles at the thought.
No way can she be as phenomenal
as the spunky woman
who triggered the Montgomery Bus Boycott.
But the thought fills her with a happy glow.
She hears a melody! Ah, such an elegant melody.
She slowly slips into a soothing quietude
amidst the chaos of the teeming multitude.
The bus stops.
She shrugs off the existential sorrows.
Lost in promising tomorrows,
she hops out of the bus, finally home.
Special Edition: Toolika Rani
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| Toolika Rani |
1. A Curse?
(Based on a picture by Jerome William Berglund)
Looking out of the window
to probably catch
a glimpse of the outside world
in an endless journey
where loneliness seems the only word
that resounds in the deepest chambers of the heart,
dark outside; the mirror decides to reflect
an image of your true self;
being alone no longer remains a curse.
***
2. How Long is the Night?
A journey alone in the times unknown
casts a darkness around the throne
seated where does she quietly mourn
the passing out of the halcyon days.
Alas! She faces a drought of rays
which could pierce the darkness deep
so that she would no longer weep
in the quietest, softest ways of hers.
Can't there be a turn of verse
where mourners sing and despots burn
in the hell of fire, they intentionally turned upon her world?
We hear the night can't be forever.
***
3. The Hidden Galaxy
In the solo journey of life
even though there is darkness behind
the glass that separates
two semi-realities,
her eyes pierce through
the layers surrounding her
with somewhat blinding frivolities,
and travel to a dimly-lit star
blinking unashamedly on the face of eternity;
therein lies her destiny.
Silhouettes of fellow passengers
shine on the dark mirror
each ensconced in their world
staring out into a void
searching for their own light
some far-sighted, some colour-blind
some engulfed by the dark night.
And perhaps they don't realise
that far above, some peering eyes
enclosed in a chamber dark likewise,
in them, their gleaming star, recognise.
Floating thus, in a liquid universe
inside their cells the varied nuclei
form the galaxies shining bright
together a light, but dark inside.
***
Bio: Squadron Leader (Dr) Toolika Rani is an ex-Indian Air Force Officer, Mountaineer (Everest Climber), Motivational Speaker (twice TEDx), Bi-lingual poet, Author, Assistant Professor of History, and was the G-20 Brand Ambassador of U.P. Government. She is the author of eight books i.e Beyond That Wall: Redemption on Everest, Sherpas of Solukhumbu, three English poetry books, and two Hindi poetry books. She has edited an Anthology on Himalaya, The Mountain was Abuzz, displayed at the Kathmandu Mountain Film Festival 2024.
Special Edition: Irene Emanuel
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| Irene Emanuel |
THOUGHTS ON THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN IN SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
The impersonal recorded voice said,
“DOORS CLOSING, STAND CLEAR”
He almost missed the step as he lolled into the carriage,
his shirt of no consequence exposed his obscene belly,
his navel-plug, a stopper for what lay beneath.
She, with the earrings and lank black hair, gazed at him,
a startled Sabbath witch, nose-ring twitching,
black eyes peeled wide in blankness.
Her large, heavy feet looked odd in ordinary sandals,
had she abandoned her pointy shoes and black cloak?
She dominated the carriage with her strangeness.
Would she pull the plug that was holding
the bald-belly man together?
In the corner, the lovers held fast,
secure in their unity;
their invisible no-entry wall blocking all outside interference.
Would they unglue in time to get off at their stop?
Three stops on, belly-man got off;
flapping shirt open, oblivious to the
travelers frozen in optical shock
as the naked belly weaved erratically
round seen and unseen obstacles.
Again, the impersonal recorded voice said,
“DOORS CLOSING, STAND CLEAR”
As the train moved on, I realized that
civilization was heading down the path of
no return and this midnight train
was really going nowhere.
Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal
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| Snigdha Agrawal |
A Kafkaesque moment
The metro hissed to a halt with its usual sigh, just as another train slid in beside it, their windows aligning like mirrors. She glanced absently. Then stiffened. In the pane opposite, framed in the dull fluorescence of his carriage, sat he. The thief. The architect of her undoing.
Their eyes met. In the strangest of circumstances.
Like dough rising in a warm oven, the past surfaced all at once. Her mind convulsed with the memory of when it all unravelled: the presentation deck she had built line by line, the code she had debugged under flickering tube lights, over cups of tepid coffee, nursing a stiff neck. However, the result of winning the project compensated for all of it. The accompanying euphoria made her head spin with elation, until his voice, smooth and frothy as whipped cream, claimed it all in the boardroom. She stared in disbelief. Unable to stand up to claim what was hers, amongst a team of puffed-out chests.
He took the glory.
He was sent to the client site in Dublin to implement the project.
She was put on the bench. Her efforts were swept under the carpet.
He was the boss.
She, expendable.
The unfairness of it made her distrustful of men. She had covered his back, many evenings when he left the office to party away the night, returning the next day, hardly able to keep his eyes open or focus on the work at hand. She was the one who interacted with the client till late into the night, sorting out their requirements, writing and rewriting the coding program. Never mind that he took off during the crucial phase to get married. Ironically sanctioned by the top management, while she worked with a raging fever, in a closed-in office.
A crackle of static snapped her back. He blinked, shifted in his seat. His profile was like a neon cut-out, found on railway platforms. Perhaps he recognised her. Perhaps not. But she could never forget his face, though age had thinned his hair and dulled his charm. The passage of time couldn’t erase what he’d done. That ageing, unremarkable man across the glass had once worn charisma like a tailored suit. That, more than talent, had always been his trump card.
The brief, locked gaze through glass and steel had brought them side by side, yet divided. Like the universe had conspired to engineer this encounter on parallel tracks. A quiet reckoning. A soul stirred from denial.
Did he turn his head again as the trains began to slide apart? Did he try to catch one last glimpse of her receding face? Did he feel any pangs of guilt?
She couldn’t tell.
She sat frozen, her breath fogging the glass pane.
That moment felt like an ill-conceived joke. Or perhaps karma, peering at him through tempered glass and shadow. Whatever it was, it left her skin crawling.
Some ghosts wear suits two sizes too big, to haunt you through the glass surface.
emotions ran through steel frames…
past sins rode the rails again,
to torment the present
***
Bio: Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee), a septuagenarian, was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to Eastern and Western Cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds. Educated in Loreto Institutions under the tutelage of Irish Nuns, she developed a love for writing from childhood. A versatile writer, she writes poetry, prose, short stories, and travelogues in all genres.
A published author of five books, the latest, FRAGMENTS OF TIME, is a book of memoirs, written in a simplistic style. The book is available on Amazon worldwide in all formats. She lives in Bangalore, India. Writing and travelling are her lifelong passions.
Special Edition: Satbir Chadha
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| Satbir Chadha |
ME OR MY REFLECTION
I look into the mirror to see a reflection of myself
I get lost
There are mirrors within mirrors
Mirrors beyond mirrors
A web of mirrors
The world whizzes by in a static
A staccato keeping time
Shadows of shapeless forms rush by
Formless frames in a blur of a maze
I search for myself, within me and beyond
I am there in visions of the past
And in the haze of the future
Am I here
Or is it only a reflection
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