Jury Choice

Embroidered Wings by Aditi Mishra

In the aftermath of a storm
I find a blue handkerchief
hanging from a jasmine shrub
with hopes of being owned again.
It dances with dew-kissed bluebells
caressed by warm wind on clear days
and the white butterfly embroidered
in running stitch seems to waltz
like ballerinas slipping in streams,
sprouting wings of hopes dissolving
the fears of being outcast in a foreign land.

On tranquil cold nights it haunts me
as a ghostly shadow beyond my window,
a reminder of masquerading anxieties
as grey as my existence has become.
This place has a history of melting
melancholic melodies into tears
as an abandoned nest shivers,
wearied of the waiting years
and no traveller ever stays forever
in a heart that yearns to revive
this wilting vineyard with love.

Oh Aphrodite! This spring isn’t mine,
I’ve been longing for an autumn
that could touch my musings
with tendrils of blooming notes,
the butterfly dusts off charades
from embroidered white wings
and longs to reveal itself as a moth!

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Ask Him If He Needs More Coffee by Rahul Jayaram

———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Brian Walter bw2346@altworld.org
Date: 30 May 2009 13:20
Subject: Re: Ask Him If He Needs More Coffee To: hrdesk@altworld.org, ceodesk@altworld.org
To
The Human Resources Department,
I’m sending out a kind of brief to all concerned. I think this can be a helpful way of dealing with our situation. As you may know Gabriel from the Mountain View office has been on the case, flying into China and India and has delivered on 18 counts so far – and you will have heard of some employee reactions.
Regardless, Gabriel has given us a helpful way of preparing yourself to undertake such a task. It follows below.
Regards, BW, Head, HR
PS: For our Indian employees it is coffee, but for our Chinese folks it can be tea.

———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Gabriel Palance gp2341@altworld.org Date: 28 May 2009 18:01
Subject: Re: Ask Him If He Needs More Coffee To: Brian Walter bw2346@altworld.org
Carry coffee on a tray into the room. Post-lunch, Mr. Deputy Program Head from the structural engineering division of the Bangalore office, will be droopy. But it’s a good time. It’s siesta hour for housewives, maids and grannies in India. If he’s strong, he won’t call any one of them once your job is done. Not immediately. So, get cracking.
The coffee must not be California cappuccino, not French café latte, or for heaven’s sake, from Brazil – it’ll slight his local pride. Only genuine South Indian allowed. Our man is what Indians call ‘America-returned’, but boy, is he a home-boy. He’s picky. Milk coffee must bubble to the top of his steel tumbler. It must have a vessel below it. It should look like it may overflow any moment and the top of the tumbler must have a nice ring of extra coffee decoction drops to complete its ‘COME-AND-GRAB-ME’ look.
REPEAT: Do not let the peon bring in the coffee!
Let our man do the coffee-flaring from tumbler to vessel to tumbler.
REMEMBER: You must stand while offering him coffee. You giving it to him, means you hold him in equal estimation. Perhaps a little more than that. He will say, “Oh Why Sir? I’ll help myself, Sir” etc., but don’t let him.
You must commence talking business only after he’s internalized a sip or two. If he likes it, he won’t talk straight away. He’ll hold his mouth and roll his tongue to soak in its flavor. He’ll be distracted, so don’t open your mouth till he opens his. He’s quite senior in this set-up, and at any other time, due for appraisal and a move-up. He may slurp, let out a burp and say, “This feels home. Am sorry but you Americans do not know what real coffee is, Sir.” Educated Indians like running educated Americans down – though they may call you ‘Sir or Ma’am’. This is a good sign. He’s relaxed. Seize it now.
REPEAT: Don’t offer him anything to eat. His heart may start thudding. Two months back, a senior coder in our Gachi Bowli office collapsed. His company administrator brought him to speed over lunch at McDonald’s. Food, not recommended. Comprendez?
Choose a time between 4.00 and 5.30 pm, the period for snacks which Indians call ‘tiffin’. My yoga instructor says it’s the time of day he would have gained inner equilibrium. He’d be keen to check his personal e-mail or Facebook during ‘break hour’ on the office terminal. Oh, all those family photos of Seattle, Mountain View… He’s already switching off for the day.
Now. Speak slow and clear. Pause, so that everything you say is emptied of emotion. He does not hate you. Even if he says so, he doesn’t. Remember that.
REMEMBER: Do your homework the night before. You’ll have his background files. When you’re nervous, it’s good to talk of his folks. Was his dad the first in the family to go to school? Is he the most educated man in his family? Did his wife work? (There are many in our India office with a last name like Iyer. Never ask if it’s a Muslim last name.) You maybe American on Indian soil. Don’t let either of those things get in the way. It’ll be over before you broach the topic.
“Sir, am I being laid off?” he will ask.

It will hurt you to hear the words you’re supposed to tell him. He’ll be very quiet now. His eyes will do all the talking. You will now be on your way. Explain everything to him. Cost- to-company, balance sheets, deficits, stock market valuations.
“Recession,” he will say, shutting you up, fixing your eye.
REPEAT: Avoid eye-contact.
If you don’t, learn to hold back your tears even if he isn’t holding his. ALWAYS: Ask him if he needs more coffee.

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The Fishwater War by Rah Abraham Iype

As if the usual problems were not enough, another problem soon raised its head to trouble the Managing Committee. The problem was this. KK, who lived in 402/C Wing, was in the habit of watering the plants in his balcony with fishwater, the water left after his mother, Ai, cleaned the fish. The water would trickle down the drainage pipe filling the apartments below with the smell of fish.
The worst affected were the Sitharamans who lived directly below KK. The smell of fish was particularly abominable to them because they were strict vegetarians who had adopted the
Sattvic Diet. Forget meat and fish, they had stopped eating onion and garlic as well. Mr. Sitharaman requested KK to stop using fishwater. KK refused; he maintained that fishwat.  1er was good for plants. Mr. Sitharaman complained to the Managing Committee. The Committee asked KK to stop using fishwater. He refused. The Committee threw up its hands. The Chairman told Mr. Sitharaman, “We can’t force him. He’s not breaking any laws.” Everyone knew that KK’s real reason for using fishwater was to torment the Sitharamans.
The Sitharamans were South Indians and KK was a supporter of the Shiv Sena. The fact that the Sitharamans were South Indians played nicely to his prejudices. Another reason was that the Sitharamans were Brahmins, and there was in KK’s tormenting of them, a bit of the perennial contempt that all meat eaters have for overly fussy vegetarians. Mr. Sitharaman knew this. But it only added gall to his rage because he could do nothing about it. He buttonholed anyone he ran into in the compound and complained about KK. People listened sympathetically but that was all. No one wanted to pick a fight with KK. KK was short and powerfully built like a wrestler, and he had a quick temper.
Mrs. Sitharaman advised her husband to stop complaining. She said, “We don’t want any trouble.” He said savagely, “Are you prepared to spend the rest of your life smelling fish day
and night? What if people come from our hometown? What will you tell them? How will you explain it?” “He knows people.” It was rumored in the society that KK knew influential people. Some said he also knew local goons. Mr. Sitharaman said, “I don’t believe it. Have you ever seen him with a political leader?” “Let it be. What is the use of complaining?” “At least I am doing that. Everyone else is keeping quiet.”
Then Mr. Sitharaman had an idea. He called a contractor.
The next day when KK’s servant maid poured the fishwater into the flower bed it did not drain away. By evening when KK returned from work the fishwater had ripened and the flat stank horribly. “Do something,” yelled KK’s mother, Ai. Thinking the drainage pipe was blocked, KK tried to unplug it with a stick. But the stick only went down the pipe a few inches before it met something hard and unyielding. KK prodded and pushed to no avail. Then he jumped up. He shouted, “He has blocked the pipe!”
He came thundering down the stairs and rang Mr. Sitharaman’s bell. “What have you done?” he shouted. He glared at Mr. Sitharaman. Mr. Sitharaman stood his ground. He said coolly, “Is there a problem?” “I know what you have done. You plugged the drainage pipe with cement.” “Yes, I did. I’m not denying it.” “You can’t do that!” “Why not?” “Why have you done it?” “So I don’t have to smell your fishwater. All these months you have been singing the praises of fishwater. Now you can enjoy it all day.” KK hesitated.
It was one thing to bully a cowering South Indian; it was another thing entirely to quell a feisty one. He went to the Managing Committee. The Chairman smiled. “We can’t do anything. The alteration is within his rights.” “This is injustice! I will complain to the BMC.” “I can show you the bye-laws of the Cooperative Society Act if you like.” KK went silent. The Chairman said, “Take my advice. Stop watering your plants with fishwater.” “It’s good for plants.” “It smells.” He waited for KK to say something. When he didn’t the Chairman said in his soft bland way, “We must all live together. If you promise not to water your plants with fishwater then I can request Sitharaman to unblock the pipe.” KK knew he had lost the battle. “Alright,” he said. He never used fishwater again. The residents smiled and told each other, “Sitharaman won the Fish Water War.”

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Wallflowers by Shalini Chaturvedi

Wallflowers don’t know where to bloom
they sprout within shade of bowers
camouflaged in dense foliage of leaves
petaled laughs within green rustles sieged
they find mirth in the strangest places
tendrils twined to outskirts of wind’s frenzy
growing in the bramble of stiff recluse
brimming in dust of unworn dancing shoes
a yellow bee may momentarily flit about
to unfurl their breadth in sundry notes
they bleed a scent in ruminating stains
and curl moist and still
as after the tumult of rain
they can’t be coaxed
into feverish bursts of sway
underneath dark-lidded dreams
they’re always tipping astray.

——————————————————————————————

Sukhjit Singh

This early on a North Indian winter morning, only the brave venture out. Or those who must.
He starts from his village at 3 am, just as the priest of the gurdwara wakes up. He reaches the city outskirts as the priest, after completing his morning ablutions, switches on the loudspeaker of the gurudwara and starts reciting gurbani. The village wakes up to gurbani.
The tempo he has hired to bring the produce to the city mandi marketplace, has threatened to break down multiple times. On the empty city roads, this early in the morning, it is a wake-up alarm to the sleeping city.   He pays the vehicle entry fee at the gate of the mandi. The driver helps him unload the sacks of produce. He moves the sacks to the auction area. The driver will wait for him. He waits for the traders.
He looks at the sacks like a proud father. Five months of sweat and toil. Five months of caring for the seed and the soil. Weather gods were kind, and the yield is plentiful. The extra cost of high yield seeds and expensive pesticides was a good decision, he thinks, even though the interest the moneylender would charge is a big worry. Plus, the balance of his earlier loans, costs of the failed summer crop and this year’s rent on his own land, which is pledged with the moneylender. All his hopes are on this crop.
One by one more farmers and their tempos and trolleys arrive. The auction yard fills up and is soon overflowing with the produce. It has been a good season all around. His face suddenly has a worried look. Will he get a good price?
As the village priest winds up morning prayers and as his wife, after putting feed to the cattle and having made tea, goes inside their only pucca room to wake their children, three daughters and a boy, the traders start arriving. The munshis serve their masters steaming hot tea and report the quantity of produce arrived. A good season means a buyers’ market, their market.
By the time the first trader and his munshi reach his pile of sacks, he already knows the prices have crashed. The munshi carries a curved knife, to make a small cut in some sacks for checking the produce quality. He rips the heart out of a few sacks and pulls out a few samples. Daagi hai.’ Blotted. Keeda hai.’ Worms. Daana kamjor hai.’ Poor Quality. The trader rips his heart. Today the traders can be as picky as they want to. He listens with a bent head and folded hands. The trader makes his bid. He gasps. It’s so low, he can’t even pay the due of the seeds and the pesticides. One by one other traders give their verdict at his pile. One by one the munshis and the traders rip apart his sacks and his heart.
He does what he has come to do. He sells.
He walks back to the tempo, light without sacks, heavy with burdens.
The driver has been a witness to mandi’s ways for long and knows that a mandi can make or break. Mostly the traders make. Mostly the farmers break. They drive back in silence. The stray dogs chase their tempo and them out of the city, out of their city.
He closes his eyes and leans back. Outstanding loan of the moneylender, rent of the mortgaged land, his wife’s medicine, the daughters are of age, the boy wants a mobile and a motorcycle, the tubewell needs repairs, dues of the kirana shop, money he borrowed from his neighbor, his cycle needs a new tyre, the roof needs repair before the coming rains, seeds and fertilizer for the next crop. His hand grips the pocket and keeps his money safe from his expenses.
The tempo driver drops him at the village square. He pays him his fare.
The village kirana shop is open. The seth is at his seat.
Come, Mohan Singh. You had a good crop. Please clear my dues now.
He pays him. Hesitantly.
There is one currency note left with him. He looks around the shop and at all the things his wife has asked him to bring.
He steps out of the shop. His feet refuse to turn homewards. Across the road a small group is warming themselves around a fire. His neighbor greets him from the group and seems to be asking him something. He stands there, glued to the ground.
The gurdwara loudspeaker croaks to life and the priest makes an announcement. Officers from town are visiting today for enrolments to Pradhan Mantri Jeevan Bima Yojana.’ The sarpanch had taken his thumb impression on these papers last time the officers were here.
His feet move. He enters the shop and asks for a length of strong nylon rope. He hands the last note to Seth and hurriedly walks toward his field.
His grandfather had him plant the tree next to their tubewell when he was ten. He watered it regularly, protected it from the goats, and grew up with it. The little stem with few tiny leaves turned to a tall trunk and many wide branches, green and laden with fruit. The tree had been his companion. It is old and withered now, like him, but he knows that one branch, where he put swings for his children, is still strong enough to carry his weight. One last time.

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An Ode to Wide Sargasso Sea by Trishana Seth

You brought to life
the Madwoman in the Attic

You gave her a name – Antoinette
And with every sentence, we shook because we felt the tremors of the doom that awaited her
You told us of her childhood in Jamaica
Wrought with anguish and longing
the loss of a brother, the heart wrenching destiny of her mother
You showed us the turn of fate in faraway times
As owners of slavery, now languished in poverty
Bearing the hard burden of hatred

You said, “There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.”
And when Mr. Rochester’s marriage to Antoinette kills her with every cruel act and infidelity
I read and reread that sentence
I wept.
I wept for the sweeping injustice of it all
I wept because for years I believed Mr. Rochester’s love story with Jane Eyre was a thing of beauty
I wept because he turned Antoinette into Bertha Mason
And in literature, we knew her as ‘the madwoman in the attic’

Birds. Forests. Gardens. Mirrors
the garden had “gone wild”
the “tall dark trees” became a premonition
I lived in your imagination
The air in my reading room
Growing heavy as I entered this world
Painted by Jean Rhys

What does it mean then to not have a voice?
What does it do to you when you struggle for an identity?
What does it reduce you to?
It makes you a Bertha Mason
With a nightmarish reality

As the curtain raised,
I understood
And, today, I can understand so many more
Because you showed me.

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VOTER’S PICK

Akshat Mahajan

It was a beautiful night with the moon and stars in the sky. Gordan, who looked to be in his thirties, was running on the footpath and hurriedly entered a spacious, dimly lit restaurant. He stopped in the dining hall and searched the many candle-lit tables. He found his wife, Jessica with whom he separated two years ago sitting alone at a corner table. The remains of her half-eaten dinner were lying on the table. A small piece of cake with a candle in it sat untouched. Jessica stirred sugar in her coffee as Gordan sat in the seat across from her. She gently stopped stirring, but didn’t look up.

Gordan said, “I thought you meant the other restaurant where we celebrated our first anniversary.”

Jessica didn’t respond.

Gordan continued, “I’m so sorry, darling. I know I am too late for dinner but I couldn’t keep track of time.”

Jessica quietly took a sip from her coffee.

Gordan continued, “It isn’t going well in the office. I was planning to arrive here yesterday but there was so much work to do and there was no one to help me.”

Jessica looked around for the waiter.

Gordan continued, “Well, everyone hates me at work. No one talks to me. I have to do all the work myself. They didn’t provide me with a desk. I have to work alone in a small store room where no one comes all day.”

Jessica turned back. She glanced across the table, then looked down.

Gordan continued, “Nowadays office jobs are so difficult to do. There is so much ego and grudges hidden inside every person in the office. It breaks my heart. I am not this kind of person. I care about them all but they think that I am selfish and do all this just for my benefit. I try talking to them and making our office relations good again but nobody listens to me, not even the boss. When I speak, they ignore me as if I am not there.”

Gordan lost himself in his thoughts. The waiter dropped off the cheque on the table. Jessica grabbed it before Gordan and quickly signed it.

Gordan said, “I know you’re mad. It’s just that office work is getting more day by day. I know that I came from another state after two years and we haven’t talked since we separated but now I am here. We have a lot of time for talking. See, you didn’t even tell me that we would be meeting here. I went home and saw it was locked so I guessed that you must be in the restaurant on the eve of our anniversary. Please say something to me.”

Jessica waited till he was done and rose from the table. She pushed her chair in hard and walked away without a word. Gordan sat alone and stared at the piece of cake with a candle on it.

Gordon left the restaurant to find out that Jessica left in a taxi. He preferred walking and after some time reached outside a house, stared at the house for some time, and then entered the house. Gordan entered a room and found Jessica lying on the bed.

Gordon whispered, “Jessica, I missed you,”

Jessica whispered,“ Why Gordan? What did I do? What made you so sad? Why did you leave me?”

Gordon replied softly, “I didn’t leave you.”

Jessica became silent and fell into a deep sleep. Her arm slid down and something fell on the ground. Gordan gazed curiously at a wedding photo of him and Jessica. He came near Jessica, picked up the photo, and smiled. Then only his eyes glanced over an old newspaper cutting lying on the side table which showed the headline “A Bus Accident Kills 10 Passengers”. Beneath the headline was the list of names of dead passengers. Confusion washed over Gordon’s face as he saw his name on the list. Gordon was completely lost. He took a couple of steps back and looked around in confusion. His eyes came to rest on a table. He looked in disbelief at the flower bouquets and “Rest In Peace” cards lying on a table in front of his photo. Gordon didn’t know what the hell was going on. His eyes get drawn to the wedding album. Gordon saw the pictures of him and Jessica in the album. He looked at Jessica’s face and became very still.

Flashback: Gordon and Jessica were a happy couple but conflicts started arising between them due to Gordan’s busy office schedule. The conflict rose to such a point that both of them decided to separate. That night, Gordan got a call from the office asking him to shift to another state as he got transferred. Gordon took all his luggage, saw Jessica, who was sitting on the sofa in a bad mood for the last time and left home. He took a bus to travel to another state but on the way, the bus met with an accident on route killing all the passengers including him.

“All this time I was dead?” Gordon whispered.

“That’s why everyone ignored me because no one could see or hear me,” Gordan continued whispering.

His eyes were drawn to the wedding album. Gordon saw pictures of him and Jessica in the album. He then looked at Jessica’s face, “She looks the same, beautiful and cute while sleeping.”

His eyes filled with a storm of emotions. He came closer to Jessica, kissed her on the forehead, and left.

——————————————————————————————

An Invitation by Anjali Agrahari

I got an invitation –
On the darkest of nights,
In an empty white desert, far before my eyes.
While my soul sailed in insecurity,
I – dressed in obscurity,
A blouse warding misery, draped flaws,
With a purse full of unthinkable chaos
Looked at the bareness, the invitation & the escape –
Whoa! What an inebriety!
That haled my heart out of ceaseless race.
“Hello is anyone there?”
I shouted & waved at nobody
Before one by one, I undressed my body –
To dive into the theme – ‘The inked sea’
An old ritual perhaps, inevitable – see!
Then I came out naked like a sun,
Desert echoed & a message run –
“Dance with commas, Drink full stops, Sing rhymes;
Live-write before it ends, write-live before its time!”
In a blink, thousands of words came running to light
Intoxicating emptiness with one’s pride.
Alphabets playing musical chairs,
What the world wants? no one cares.
Woohoo! – the space shouted;
Desert – never so crowded.
Meanwhile, I met everyone –
Most alive, imaginative and fun.
Some kissed my wet soul,
Many said goodbye before I could hold.
And hence the party of poetry began!
Now every time my world burns,
My fate turns blue; agony returns,
Or heart catches the flu, or mind madden,
Sorrow whispers my name, mixing breath & poison;
Night by night – the invitation arrives,
Same white desert – new dress derives.
We dance, we sing, we art a little,
Before stopping off – engage in solitaire.
Thus I save myself from life & death
As I become a poet, till the party ends!

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Fading Footprints In Memory’s Maze by Soyeenka Mishra

Clear little wiggly worms in the sky
Jumping among clouds, moving with my eyes.
As of late, the exhaustion of the present
Weighs down on me heavier than the past
So that’s where I slip into, through the narrow cracks.

Lady Reminiscence often fancies dealing tricky hands
Not necessarily to be trusted—
Tinged with the pink of nostalgia are the recollections of a life lived
Quietly resting at the back of the mind.

Revisiting time that far behind is easier said than done.
Foggy glimpses into scattered memories,
They come to me when I close my eyes
Over a long drive, during a thunderstorm, on a windy day,
A quiet time, a serene moment.

Unassuming walks through the abandoned hallway of memories
Usually lead to undesirable places cloaked in darkness.
However, trundle down deep enough
And I’ll end up in a sunny little backyard, sometimes.

That vast playground from a favourite childhood haunt,
A decade and half later, remains just a tiny old lawn.
I span in less than half a dozen steps
What I used to run across the whole day long.
The same powder puffs, the same orchids, the same doña luzes,
The same trees and the same bushes still occupying the same space
Grace my sight, yet largely reduced in scale.
The once-busy fishpond by the mighty banyan I stared into for hours,
Now a dried up vessel that rests against a lonely tree.

I keep staring at the wide open space lost in time
Now all cramped and neglected without a care.
I remember a little labrador pup eager to be friends
Licking my toes and spooking the daylights out of me.
I wonder if I’d grown to love his company had we grown up together
I wonder if years later I wouldn’t be jumping every time canine companions
Approached me at full speed in their guileless enthusiasm.
I wonder if that childhood terror would still have stuck with me so doggedly.

Borrowed memories from even earlier niggle at my mind
From being told over and over again
Of being fussed over by a black hound as a baby
Peacefully being carried here and there
Hanging down from its protective maw.

A little slide I don’t remember except from old photos,
The grass being mowed, napping in huge air conditioned rooms
And waking up to silence – the fear of at finding myself alone,
The pangs of anxiety weighing heavy on my heart;
They all seem quite foreign now, and so do the rooms,
Stifling and cluttered, filled with memories I was no longer a part of.

As I scan that space from far away,
I can find neither the dogs nor the owner.
I wonder if the trees, the soil, the bricks remember them.

For though these fragmented sights
Grace my memories still,
Even more remains forgotten,
Just out of reach of the clutches of my mind.

I don’t remember the feel of the wind on my skin or the cheeping birds
I don’t remember flinching from the fire in the sky
Nor feeling the rolling thunders resound in my heart.
What I remember is the smell of torn leaves on fingers,
Those small hands that endlessly chased the small white butterflies
On the boxwood hedges,
I remember the ticklish feel of the powder puffs
On my nose and cheeks as I lovingly nuzzled them,
The stubborn dirt sticking to little bare feet
As they frolicked on the prickly grass after a light shower.

I remember the little finger caught between the looming iron gates
And the confusing, strange taste of pain,
The pressing desire to conceal it for as long as possible.

That old panic at being all alone almost seems silly
For loneliness is my only companion now, perplexing as it is.
Solitude, an unrelenting demand of my soul I strive to fulfill at every step.
I create it when I can’t find it –
Solitude, that is; I create it alone,
For solitary I must stay.

One day it was the last time I stepped foot there,
Not realising in the least the gravity of the moment.
Perhaps I still can’t comprehend it fully, either,
But how do I blame the me from that time,
For she hadn’t even been alive for half a dozen years then.

Decades later I go back in time inside my mind
To see if I had loved the sun shining down on me,
Having grown to love the darkness so much.
I wonder if I’d ever want to leave the patch of sunshine
If I ever so much as get a taste of it.
These, I can never recall no matter how hard I try.
Is it for the best?

Memories stack on on top of another
‘Til I feel crushed beneath the weight of being alive,
‘Til I feel alive.
I hope I remember.

At some point the stack tips over,
And everything dissolves into smoke
Leaving behind little wisps
Lingering softly at the corners of my mind.

Then life rears its head and we’re back where we began,
Gazing lazily at the distant birds and the
Clear little wiggly worms in the sky
Jumping among clouds, moving with my eyes.

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The Shades of Womanhood by Tasneem Nasrulla

At what age did she wear the crown of womanhood?
I guess it was at a tender age with the arising of the menstrual cycle mood.

Her heart from many a young boys in those teenage days fluttered;
But finally stuck to one lover , everyone muttered.

Soon womanhood went into the beautiful attire of a bride , a lover;
Her innocence gently took a hidden cover.

Romance as beautiful as a peacock dancing in the rain made a headway in her life;
Kisses and hugs and much more made her a stunning sexy wife.

She carried her duties of cooking and caring all right;
Occasionally she would douse into a fire of fight.

Soon the woman sat on God’s favourite throne;
The mother to be everyone congratulated her on the phone.

Carrying for nine months the bump in her stomach with great pride;
Her trim & proper figure did vanish by the side.

Soon the woman in her cried & screamed with pain;
All her energy must have had a drain.

Soon all the frantic moments were forgotten with the baby making her way;
With a tired smile on her face exhausted she lay.

The woman in her now danced to the tunes of the little one;
She needed loads of patience for this kind of fun.

The beautiful strong mother and child bond;
How very much for each other were they fond.

Then at a certain point she had to face the gusty winds of a storm by an intruder in the dark nights;
She bitterly wept but fought for her rights.

She forgave her lover and their relationship grew stronger;
Now it was for,compassion that would hold them for longer.

Years flew by and her daughter was another woman in her life now;
And her aged mother passed away , the first woman she used to often bow.

The woman was seen with the salt and pepper look hair,reading glasses & knew it was mid way;
She dreaded for her menopause to come and stay.

Time had gone by fast and she had many unfulfilled dreams;
She now wanted to attain many a thing in a short time it seems.

As she crossed the road of life this age;
She wondered what it would be to become old as a sage.

How will I look?Walking stick,dentures,hearing aid;
Will my medical bills,be,easily paid?

Will I have someone by my side?
Or hope,not shamefully tears I have to,hide?

And at this juncture she heard a whisper;
Soon the voice became more crisper.

“You have been a terrifically strong woman all these long years;
Why are you drowning your happiness in false fears?

Let every dawn be a beginning of your new day;
Live it to your best on this earth’s stay.

——————————————————————————————

A day after 28 years by Vikash Poddar

Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, London.
Early morning on Sunday, November 20, 1994.
The theatre was packed. The final bell rings.
Lights at the center stage. Complete silence. Spotlight on the two characters at center stage.
“So, what have you decided, Riya?”
“Abir, we have to separate. There’s no other option.” With anger in his words.
“Oh. So, this is the end of all the promises you made?”
“Abir, my father will die if I disgrace my family.” “And what about me, Riya?” Abir Questioned.
She was quiet. Abir continued.
“Riya, I tried my best. Remember what your father said? He doesn’t prefer a guy in theaters with no stable income for his daughter. And that I’m incapable of even affording his daughter’s daily expenditures.”
“Abir, you are a software engineer; why can’t you get a proper job for yourself?”
“Oh, so today your opinion about me has also changed? This is the very stage where we first met Riya and where we first performed among those thundering claps of the crowd. You were the one who encouraged me to take up my hobby as a career, and today you are blaming me for everything.”
“Abir, life is not a dream world. As a father, is his decision wrong?”
“You being my only hope after losing my parents, is your decision right?” asked Abir.
She paused and turned away from him. The memories of their beautiful moments together for seven years flashed in her eyes. She could no longer hold back her tears. She never felt so helpless. She fell down on her knees and cried loudly and more loudly. Abir realized that she wouldn’t cross her family’s barrier for him. He stood for a few seconds indifferently as she wept. He then picked her up and hugged her.
“Don’t cry, dear; you will fall sick. If you have decided to do so, then let it be so.”
Yes, it was their last meeting.
Soft, sad music adds to the scene.
“Ok, listen, don’t get fat after your marriage; always stay beautiful as you are.”
He added cheerfully. The curtain slowly came down. A five-minute pause for the next part to begin. The audience was amazed at the beauty of this emotional scene and the brilliance of the performers. They had tears in their eyes, and so did Mrs. Soma in the audience.
She came out in the garden and sat watching things at length in deep reflection. Something had shaken her soul. She didn’t go to see the next part.
But why? Who wastes such an expensive ticket for such a fabulous play? The play ended.
The audience came out talking about the performances of the actors, but they seemed a bit sad. Maybe it had a tragic ending, contrary to our expectations of a happy one.
A gentleman of around 48 years, probably the director of the play, after signing autographs, stood gazing at Soma from a distance. She, too, saw him and recognized him after a few seconds. They stood speechless, looking at each other. He went to her.
“How are you, Soma?” Cheerfully, he asked.
“I’m as you see me. I knew only you could write this play.”
“Oh yes, a play that helped me become famous. This same play once played with my life in reality. Never mind, life still goes on. So, we are meeting after, hmm, 28 years?
A long time with so many memories. Where are your husband and children?”
“I am separated from my husband. I stay with my son and his family. I’m glad about your achievements Abir. You kept your promise of being successful and doing what you love.”
“But you didn’t keep your promise, Soma.”
She understood what he meant and became quiet.
“One promise you kept…… You still look beautiful and didn’t become fat.” He added.
She seemed to blush in the same way as she did in her twenties, except for her wrinkles.
After a long time, there was the same glow on her face and that spark in her eyes.
“Where are your wife and children?” Soma questioned. “No; I never married.”
“Oh. But why?”
“Does it matter anymore?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wish you were sorry 28 years ago.”
She was blank; tears rolled down her face. She lowered her face to hide her tears. He couldn’t hold her in his arms.
“Don’t cry, dear; you will fall sick.”
“Before leaving, can I get your autograph, please?” She asked.
“Oh yes, for sure.” After which they both departed.

——————————————————————————————

JURY’S PICK FROM THE POPULAR CHOICE

A Conversation in Dombivali Station by Akshat Dev

Run. Run faster.
Huff. I should have started jogging, like I’ve been planning to for years. I would’ve run faster. Hell, I might not even have to run to catch the local train if I woke up early enough.
What’s the time?
“8:55 AM” my smartwatch blinked.
Oof. Guess, I will burn enough calories today to make last night’s Missal Pav worth it. Yeah, think positive. Think positive!
No! It’s already packed and leaving the platform. The train chugged away, brimming with men and women just like me. Similar dreams, similar fears. The same ‘8:56 ki local.’ I had about 7 minutes before the next train arrived.
Gloom overcame me as I leaned on a metal column. What is this life? Wake up early -at least try to- and stuff yourself with junk, run through the crowds to catch a train, travel for hours, get taunts from the boss, return exhausted and just eat more junk and crash on a tiny bed. Is this why I worked so hard at Delhi University for this degree?
“Is it really so bad?”
I turned to see another person leaning on the same column.
“Shit! Did I say it out loud?”
“Umm…sort of,” she said.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…you know”
“I get it. It gets tough sometimes. But, Mumbai will grow on you. Trust me.”
“You’re not one of those “Spirit of Mumbai” people, are you? Because, please.”

She laughed, its sound subdued in the commotion.
“No,” she paused, “well actually, yes. I am. One of those “Spirit of Mumbai” people,” she said, making air quotes.
I think she saw me rolling my eyes.
“I’ve been doing this for years. Trust me.”
I thought about it. The weather in the city has been wonderful lately. The cool breeze in the nights made the travel back worth it. It was also the reason I couldn’t pull myself out of bed today.
“But it sucks, right? This crowd, this rush. The traffic is jammed, and the local trains are brimming. What does one do?” I said.
“Here’s a thought. Imagine a crowd, and remove one person one by one. At what point does it stop being a crowd?”
I was puzzled, but I was witty. Perks of being a copywriter.
“I mean, three’s a crowd, as they say.”
She laughed, I heard it this time.
“Let me guess you’re a writer?”
“Uhh, yeah…kind of.”
She squinted at this.
“But, I hope you see my point. You’re a part of the crowd. So is everyone else. And somehow we accommodate all of us.”
“I like your perspective. I’m almost convinced, even. But, here’s the thing, This is no way to live! What’s so romantic about being shoved around in these crammed bogies, jumping over open manholes, skidding around craters on the roads?”
“I don’t disagree. We can definitely do better. But that’s not what the spirit is about.”
“Yeah, it’s about showing up to work despite it.”
“Not really…”
“Uh-huh? What is it about then?”
“It is not about showing up to work. It’s about,” she paused, “just showing up.”
“Hmm…that’s something to think about, I guess.”

I suddenly noticed there were no hawkers anymore in the station.
“Off topic, but where are all the hawkers?”
“Oh, they haven’t been here for a while now. Since April, I guess.”
“Funny, how I’ve been passing by every day, but I only noticed it now.”
There was a silence, heavy with a mix of shame and guilt. In the station where I was cribbing about my little inconveniences, many livelihoods had been lost and I hadn’t even noticed. True, their carts and baskets congested the premises but it was their livelihood.
“Privilege, right? Somebody’s bread and butter becomes an inconvenience to you,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Right. Don’t worry about them, though. You can still find them in the streets somewhere. And sooner or later, they’ll be back. They show up, you know.”
“Ugh…I can’t believe you’re still going on about that!” I cried, rolling my eyes exaggeratedly.
It had been a while since I engaged in such a banter. My day often went by thinking of new ways to promote soap, detergent and, god forbid, a new app. I liked my colleagues, but you were supposed to keep your guard up, even in light conversations. Corporate culture does that, I’ve not figured out exactly why. My roommate worked a night shift. I didn’t hear his voice until my sixth day in the flat!

“Do you know when does a city die?” she asked. Rhetorically, I hoped.
She continued, “When people stop showing up. Not just for a job, or a living. But, just showing up. We show up for our dreams. We show up to help.
We’ve been through so much. We go through so much. Every day. But we show up. Why? When we get out of our homes and become a crowd, I think we feel like a part of this flow of energy that runs through this city’s veins. She’s a living being, you know. Mumbai. And we are the spirit of Mumbai.”

The rumble of the 9.03 local interrupted her. We stood straight, prepared to make the jump, again.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.” I said.
“Me? I am spirit of Mumbai,” she said loudly, disappearing into the crowd. “Follow me on Insta. Use underscores!”

Once onboard, I searched and there it was: spirit_of_Mumbai.

——————————————————————————————

 

A day after 28 years by Vikash Poddar

Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, London.
Early morning on Sunday, November 20, 1994.
The theatre was packed. The final bell rings.
Lights at the center stage. Complete silence. Spotlight on the two characters at center stage.
“So, what have you decided, Riya?”
“Abir, we have to separate. There’s no other option.” With anger in his words.
“Oh. So, this is the end of all the promises you made?”
“Abir, my father will die if I disgrace my family.” “And what about me, Riya?” Abir Questioned.
She was quiet. Abir continued.
“Riya, I tried my best. Remember what your father said? He doesn’t prefer a guy in theaters with no stable income for his daughter. And that I’m incapable of even affording his daughter’s daily expenditures.”
“Abir, you are a software engineer; why can’t you get a proper job for yourself?”
“Oh, so today your opinion about me has also changed? This is the very stage where we first met Riya and where we first performed among those thundering claps of the crowd. You were the one who encouraged me to take up my hobby as a career, and today you are blaming me for everything.”
“Abir, life is not a dream world. As a father, is his decision wrong?”
“You being my only hope after losing my parents, is your decision right?” asked Abir.
She paused and turned away from him. The memories of their beautiful moments together for seven years flashed in her eyes. She could no longer hold back her tears. She never felt so helpless. She fell down on her knees and cried loudly and more loudly. Abir realized that she wouldn’t cross her family’s barrier for him. He stood for a few seconds indifferently as she wept. He then picked her up and hugged her.
“Don’t cry, dear; you will fall sick. If you have decided to do so, then let it be so.”
Yes, it was their last meeting.
Soft, sad music adds to the scene.
“Ok, listen, don’t get fat after your marriage; always stay beautiful as you are.”
He added cheerfully. The curtain slowly came down. A five-minute pause for the next part to begin. The audience was amazed at the beauty of this emotional scene and the brilliance of the performers. They had tears in their eyes, and so did Mrs. Soma in the audience.
She came out in the garden and sat watching things at length in deep reflection. Something had shaken her soul. She didn’t go to see the next part.
But why? Who wastes such an expensive ticket for such a fabulous play? The play ended.
The audience came out talking about the performances of the actors, but they seemed a bit sad. Maybe it had a tragic ending, contrary to our expectations of a happy one.
A gentleman of around 48 years, probably the director of the play, after signing autographs, stood gazing at Soma from a distance. She, too, saw him and recognized him after a few seconds. They stood speechless, looking at each other. He went to her.
“How are you, Soma?” Cheerfully, he asked.
“I’m as you see me. I knew only you could write this play.”
“Oh yes, a play that helped me become famous. This same play once played with my life in reality. Never mind, life still goes on. So, we are meeting after, hmm, 28 years?
A long time with so many memories. Where are your husband and children?”
“I am separated from my husband. I stay with my son and his family. I’m glad about your achievements Abir. You kept your promise of being successful and doing what you love.”
“But you didn’t keep your promise, Soma.”
She understood what he meant and became quiet.
“One promise you kept…… You still look beautiful and didn’t become fat.” He added.
She seemed to blush in the same way as she did in her twenties, except for her wrinkles.
After a long time, there was the same glow on her face and that spark in her eyes.
“Where are your wife and children?” Soma questioned. “No; I never married.”
“Oh. But why?”
“Does it matter anymore?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wish you were sorry 28 years ago.”
She was blank; tears rolled down her face. She lowered her face to hide her tears. He couldn’t hold her in his arms.
“Don’t cry, dear; you will fall sick.”
“Before leaving, can I get your autograph, please?” She asked.
“Oh yes, for sure.” After which they both departed.

——————————————————————————————

Pune to Mumbai: Monsoon Malice by Ummesalama Karu

Rich Green Dementors –
Devouring the Earth’s Breath,
passing my window

——————————————————————————————

Romancing the Grass by Sibesh Sen

It was the summer of ’86 and romance in the lives of two men, both of whom were no more than five feet two inches with half the world separating them, were busy at work.

Mexico City: It was the World Cup Finals and Argentina was playing Germany. One man was making the tournament his own, Diego Maradona. No one can ever forget the two goals he scored against England. The first goal was the Hand of God where he out-jumped the keeper and punched the ball into the back of the net. His next goal was pure magic when he dribbled past eight English players before out-manoeuvering the keeper to score.

29th June, Delhi: Seven of the eight post graduate examinations were over and the last one was scheduled for the next day but the students had other priorities. The Boys’ Common room at St. Stephen’s College was jam-packed. Lines had been drawn between those supporting the reigning champions Germany and the artistic Argentines. No matter which side you were on, all knew this was going to be a one man show…The Maradona Show. Madhav, no soccer buff but not one to miss the fun either, had an early dinner and was there in the room with the others.

Mexico City: This tournament, apart from Maradona’s marvel, was made famous by the Mexican Wave where the crowds stand and wave their hands in the air in batches which would appear like the ocean waves. The final match was being held at Stadia Azteca where Brown opened the scoring for Argentina and it stayed at 1-0 until half-time.

Delhi: The lemon break for the players meant bio-break for the hostelites. Madhav walked out for some fresh air and went beyond the walls of the college to the ridge. It was nearly 2 a.m. and he saw a large number of white flowers on the ground. The match in the other part of the globe had resumed but Madhav was tenderly picking up flowers from the grass. He soon pulled out his handkerchief and started collecting more and more…surely his mind was working on the next step, exactly the way Diego’s was on how to break out of the tight man-marking Germans’ game plan.

Mexico City: After the break, Valdano doubled Argentina’s lead in the second half but the gritty Germans scored twice in quick succession and equalized. Maradona managed a superb pass in the 84th minute to Burruchaga who went on to score and that allowed Argentina to regain the lead at 3-2. That is how it remained till the 90th minute and then the world erupted in celebrations of blue and white.

Delhi: Madhav had, by now, collected flowers in his handkerchief, shirt and trouser pockets and, as he entered the hostel gate, he saw his mates celebrating. Madhav’s heart was pounding as he sneaked into his room and shut the door. As he held a bunch of flowers in his hands, Maradona was holding the World Cup trophy…the joy for both the men was quite alike except that in Mexico the hard work had been completed, while at Delhi the game had just begun. From his cupboard, Madhav brought out the needle and thread and made a big garland out of the flowers. He held the garland admiringly, closed his eyes and brought it close to his nose…it felt simply divine!

As Maradona started his victory lap in the Azteca Stadium, Madhav started his journey on his Hero bicycle to Pandara Road where the Beautiful One lived. Dot at 6 a.m., Madhav reached and pressed the door-bell. Luck favours the brave and so it was that day as the Beautiful One opened the door. She saw Madhav standing there, smiling at her. He pulled out the garland from a cloth bag and put it in her hands. The girl held the garland close to her face, took a deep breath and seemed completely mesmerized by the soft touch of the flowers and their beautiful fragrance. She looked at Madhav and smiled. Madhav blushed and quickly turned around and, as he started pedalling away, he heard her faintly say, ‘Thank You’.

30th June 1986: Madhav, along with other Delhi University students, gathered in the large halls to appear for the final examination. They looked weary, sleepy and red eyed. After all, none of them had slept for more than an hour or two. Suddenly, there was an uproar and someone shouted, “This question paper is out of syllabus – Walk Out!” Possibly this was what all wanted to hear and everyone, even before reading the question paper, walked out. The Mexican Wave had reached the backyards of DU too quickly.

Twenty Years Later: Maradona, after having achieved the heights of glory on the green fields and being named the Greatest Footballer of all time, was caught with grass and made a mess of his life. The halo of the football field had given way to the dirty smoke rings. Madhav failed to lift the beautiful trophy of his dreams but continued his love affair with nature, enjoying the earth in all its beauty, moving around on his bicycle from Kanyakumari to Khardungla, observing life from the cattle fair at the Sonpur Mela to the Ganga Aarti at the Ghats of Varanasi.

 

——————————————————————————————

We Should All Be Poets by Sonali Rasal

We, should all be poets.
Because poetry give you the license
To be brave, to make mistakes
Write and rewrite who you are
To be whoever you want to be
All is fair in love and war and poetry

Poetry allows you to be black
Or white or brown or a rainbow
Poetry allow you to change your name.
Gender or be anonymous
Poetry sheds all your dead
So you slither like a beautiful tender python
On life’s misshapen branches
And still evoke a gasp of admiration

Poetry allows you to play with time
To hold it, twist it, stretch it
Crush it…by simply
Playing with your mind

Poetry leads you to awareness
That you can think, act, and exist
Without barriers of religion
Culture and language
Poetry induces in you a seventh sense.
You can smell a poet from afar
And connect

Poetry is free, no tax no GST
No debit no credit
No clearing no balance
Just withdrawing from yourself
All that hurts
Causes torments and tortures
All that sits like an elephant
In your stomach
All that puts a spring in your step
All that makes you sing and sway
All the goodness you hide behind fear
All the craziness you hold dear
You see a glimpse of your own self
In poetry

Poetry, my friend,
Is a full length crystal clear
Beautiful mirror

Let us all be poets.