Kafla text summer.2015

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Contents
Reports on 10th. International Writers Festival & Indian Ruminations Literary Festival-2014
by Sandhya, S. N./2, N. V. Subbaraman/5, Sabita Das/9
Poems :
Cheng Youshu/4, Davide Cortese/17, Diditi Mitra/16, Gurdev Chauhan/11, Manisha
Gupta/20, Monima Choudhury/21, Mutiu Olawuyi/8, Nar Deo Sharma/41, Neeru
Aseem/19, Noel King/22, P. Vijayalakshmi Pandit/36, Paramita Mukherjee
Mullick/18, Samcilla Baakojr/15, Sham Singh/53, Soumya Vilekar/13, Vishal
Bodhale/14, Yioula Ioannou Patsalidou/26
Fiction :
Dev Bhardwaj/The Lump/23, Birbhadra Karkidholi/The Story is yet to finish/27,
Pushpa V. K./Mehriye/31, Anuradha Bhattacharyya/Death by Water/37
Articles
Dr. Nandini Sahu/Reading Myth as an Epistolary Novel: Prativa Ray’s Yajnaseni/42
Dr. Motaleb Azari/Socio-cultural Evolution of Ancient Civilizations and Formation.../49
Rajesh Kumar/Modernism and Experimentation in Twentieth Century Literature/54
A Hazel Verbina/The Migrant and the Immigrant-Salman Rushdie & Chinua Achebe/57
Dr. Payal Trivedi/The Natyasastra retrieved in Girish Karnad’s Plays/60
Mani Sankar Barik/Folk Music Tradition of Himachal Pradesh/65
Book-Reviews:
The Great Maratha (Poems) by Vishal Bodhale/Reviewed by Subodh A. Joshi/70
Contemporary Indian Poetry in English/Shalley Mannan/Reviewed by Gurdev Chauhan/72
Window on Roma:
Dr. Nalini Pathania/Gypsy/74
Dev Bhardwaj/An Interview with Anette Åkerlund/77
Title : Raman Bhardwaj <www.ramanbhardwaj.com>
Minimum Subscription Rate : Rs. 500 (for Two years) For abroad : Any amount of Donation.
Life Membership: Rs. 2500 (includes webpage on www.indianwriters.org)
Copyright: The copyright for all material published in Kafla Inter-continental belongs to the respective authors.
Printed at : Mona Enterprises, Naveen Shahdara, Delhi.
Disclaimer: Views expressed in this journal are those of the contributors and not of the publisher/editor.
RNI No. CHA-ENG/1994/235 ISSN 2278 - 1625
(An International Tri-annual Peer Reviewed Journal of Art, Literature & Culture)
Summer 2015, Vol. XXII, Number 1 & 2
Intercontinental
Edited, Printed & Published by: Dev Bhardwaj, # 3437 Sector 46-C, Chandigarh-160047 (India).
Ph. ++91-98728-23437 <editorkafla@yahoo.com www.kaflaintercontinental.com
Executive Editor (Honrary): Harish K. Thakur (Shimla-H.P.) <harish_070@yahoo.co.in>
Editor at Large : Gurdev Chauhan (Canada). <gurdevchauhan01@gmail.com>
Honrary Associate : Asror Allayorov (Uzbekistan) - <allayorovasror@mail.ru>

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Kafla Intercontinental (ISSN 2278-1625) (Summer-2015) : 2
KaflaIntercontinental’s10th
International
WritersFestivalandIndianRuminationsLiterary
Festival 2014 was organized on 27-28
December, 2014 at Kerala Gandhi Smarak
Nidhi, Thiruvananthapuram (Kerala)-India.
The festival was organized jointly by India-
Inter-Continental Cultural Association,
Chandigarh, Indian Ruminations, Kerala,
GandhiSmarakNidhi,andShruti–theSchool
of Music, Guwahati. The focal theme of the
festival was ‘Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam’ with
special focus on World Peace and Literature.
About 150 writers from India and abroad
participated in the two day festival.
On 27th
December, 2014 the inaugural
Sessioncommencedat10.30a.m.Thesession
started with an Introduction by Dr. Parinita
Goswami, Director, Shruti School of Music.
Sandhya S.N the Chief Programmes Co-
ordinator briefed about the two day festival
and invited the dignitaries on the stage. Dev
Bharadwaj, Festival Director welcomed the
HonourableGuestsandparticipantsandgave
a brief about the previous Festivals. Dr. N.
Radhakrishnan, Working Chairman, Kerala
Gandhi Smarak Nidhi presided over the
function. The festival was inaugurated by Sri
Puthusheri Ramachandran, the renowned
Malayalam writer.
The festivals were scheduled to conduct
in two Halls in the venue. 10th
International
Writer’sFestivalintheSarwaDharmaBhavan,
which was named as Prof. B. Hridayakumari
Nagar and Indian Ruminations Literary
Festival in K.J. Pillai Hall named as Prof. K.
Ayyappa Paniker Nagar. Dr. D. Maya Rtd.
Principal, University of Kerala gave a talk in
the inaugural session on the contributions of
two great teachers. The condolence message
in the demise of Prof. B. Hridayakumari was
read by Dr. Maya and the festival observed
one minute silence as its honour to her.
Dr. Thomas Issac, MLA, Padmasree Dr.
Laltluangliana Khiangte (Mizoram), Prof.
Mustafizur Rahman, Ex. Vice Chancellor,
People’sUniversityof Bengaladesh,Dean,City
University, Mr. Asror Allayarov, Uzbakistan
weretheGuestsof Honour.Dr.G.Jayakumar,
Editor, Indian Forward, gave away the vote
of thanks for the Inaugural Session. The chief
guests releasedmore than 20 booksofwriters
from India and abroad.
This festival was attended by delegates
from the countries like Bangladesh, Croatia,
10th
International Writers Festival &
Indian Ruminations Literary Festival 2014
-- a report by Sandhya, S. N.
Sandhya, S. N. is a bilingual poet and social activist. She is doing Ph.D
in Gender and Development. Presently working with Kerala Council for
Historical Research. She is also a News Presenter in Doordarshan. Her
published works are of poetry. She is Chief Editor, Indian Ruminations
and lives in Trivandrum (Kerala) -India. She was Co-organiser of 10th
International Writers Festival-India held at Trivandrum (Kerala) on 27-
28 December, 2014

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Kazakhistan, South Africa, UK, USA,
Uzbekistan. Indian delegates were from
Andhra Pradesh, Assam, Bihar, Chandigarh,
Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Haryana, Jharkhand,
Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh,
Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Odisha,
Puduchery, Punjab, Rajasthan, Tamilnadu,
Telengana, Tripura, Uttar Pradesh and West
Bengal. After the Inaugural Session, further
sessions started in parallel Nagars.
27th
December 2014
(K. Ayyappa Panikkar Nagar)
In the K. Ayyappa Panikkar Nagar (K.J
PillaiHall),IndianRuminationsorganizeditsfirst
seminarsessionon‘EvolutionofThemesand
StylesinIndianEnglishWriting’.Thesessionwas
chaired by Prof. D. Maya. Prof. G. N Panikar,
renowned bilingual writer and Prof. Meena T.
Pillai,,IndianInstituteofEnglish,Universityof
Keralatalkedoverthesubject.Inthefunction,
Prof. G.N Panicker gave away Indian
Ruminations Poetry Award 2014 to Mr. P. A.
Naushad,renownedIndianEnglishPoetfrom
Kerala.Twobookswerereleasedinthefunction.
‘Tequila’ the anthology of poems by Rajesh
ChithirawithitstranslationsbySandhyaS.N.and
Anthology of English Poems ‘In Solitude’ by
RahulSharmawasreleasedbyProf.G.NPaniker.
The poetry reading started at 3.15 pm.
About 27 poets presented the poems. There
wereMalayalamandEnglishpoetryrecitations.
27th
December 2014
(B. HridayaKumari Nagar)
In the B. Hridaya Kumari Nagar (Sarwa
Dharma Bhavan) two paper presentation
sessionsandonepoetryrecitationsessionwere
conducted in Kafla Intercontinental’s 10th
International Writers Festival-India. In the
evening poetry in singing was presented by
various poets.
Prof. Manjit Indira, Mr. Sham Singh,
Mr. Harish Mangalam, Salu D’ Souza, Charu
Chitra, Devmani Pandey, Kunti, Jinat Rehana
and others amongst the delegates conducted
the vario us sessions. Sessions were also
chaired by the distinguished writers amongst
the participants notably- Prof. Mustafizur
Rahman (Bangladesh), Prof. Mohammed
Shamsul Hoque (UK), Mr. Jacob Isaac,
Dr. Laltluangliana Khiangte, Mr. Asror
Allayarov (Uzbekistan), Mr. Dinko Telecan
(Croatia), and Mr. Siri Ram Arsh.
The Scholars presented their papers and
poets presented their poems. The audience
also actively participated in discussions.
At 6.30 pm, the participants from both
the halls assembled in front of Smrithi
MandapamofMahatmaGandhiinthevenue.
The participants lighted the candles in the
Mandapam for world peace. Mr. Siriram
Arsh, a Punjabi poet and Ghazal lyricist gave
a talk on World Peace at the place. Later the
participants assembled in the B. Hridaya
Kumari Nagar for the ‘Kavya Sandhya’ the
cultural evening which lasted till 8.45pm.
28th
December 2014
K. Ayyappa Panikkar Nagar
Seminar on ‘Vasudaiva Kudmbakom –
AGandhiyanconceptforWorldpeace’started
at 10.30 am. Ms. Geetha J. welcomed Sri. P.
Gopinathan Nair for the speech. Informative
and scholarly talk was very well received by
the participants and commented its relevance
after the talk. Ms. Sangeetha S.N sang a song
on Gandhiji and was well appreciated by the
participants.Ms.KrishaNararpuzhagaveaway
the vote of thanks for the session.
Afterthelunch,theparticipantsassembled
in the hall for the next session on ‘Process of
Decolonization in Contemporary Writings at
2.30 pm. Ms. Sandhya S.N. welcomed the

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session and Mr. K.G. Jagadeeshan, Secretary,
Gandhi Smarak Nidhi, presided over the
function.Thebook, ‘Stigmata’of Mr.Glavious
T.Alexanderwasalsoreleasedinthefunction.
Prof. K.E.N gave a talk on Decolonization in
Contemporary Writings. Following which,
Mr. C. Asokan gave his talk on the seminar
subject. Mr. Vinod Vaishaki introduced the
Book“Stigmata’.FinallyfelicitationbyMr.Hari
Charutha was followed by a vote of thanks
by Mr. Glavious T. Alexander.
28th
December 2014
(B. Hridayakumari Nagar)
Thefirstpaperpresentationsessioninthe
hallcommencedat10.30a.m.Theparticipants
briefly presented their papers and were
reviewed by the panel of experts and
discussed by the audience. There were very
interesting discussions on various subjects. In
between the presentations the panel gave the
opportunity for the writers to present their
poetry. Hence it was very interesting.
Aftertheteabreak,thepaperpresentation
session continued. Altogether 72 people
presentedtheirpapers/writingsinthetwoday
festival. After the lunch break at 2.30 pm, the
poetryreadingsessionstarted.
After the tea break at 5.30 pm, the
participants of the two halls assembled in the
B. Hridayakumari Nagar for the certification
distributionfunction.Allparticipantsweregiven
the participation certificate and Kafla
Intercontinental’s Literary Awards were also
presented in the function. In the concluding
session,KalfaIntercontinentalhonoredMr.K.G
Jagadeeshan,Secretary,GandhiSmarakNidhi
for the Organizing Committee of the festival.
Hecongratulatedtheparticipantsofthefestival.
The two day festival concluded at 8 p.m.
<sandhyapreejithraj@gmail.com>
ooo
WATCHING THE EARTH
FROM THE MOON
Cheng Youshu (China)
What a scene when the earth rises
above the moon-horizon,
I would like to see it a thousand times,
As if I’m standing on the moon,
Watchingtherisingearthbecomeafullmoon.
Since the earth isn’t the burning sun,
I needn’t hide myself in the shade of a tree.
Againstvastspace,
the earth is blue, not hot red,
Nor as lonely and chilly as a crystal sphere.
What is it like, the sky above the moon?
Are there myriad stars looking down
at all existence?
Sincetherearenotreestocaptureabsentwind,
How can there be birds
singing among the leaves?
Opening new territory,
exploring and even migrating lives,
Are the pioneers writing another Genesis?
Yet I prefer to believe
it would be better for human beings
To live on the earth,
even called by some only a cradle.
Flying,rising,soaring,theuniverseisboundless.
Being close and closer, all are so mysterious.
O, mankind, never destroy the earth further!
Who can give us wings to fly
if our mother earth dies?
<chenluzhi@vip.sina.com>
POETCRIT (Bi-annual)
(ISSN 0970-2830)
Editor : D C Chaambial
Address : P.O Maranda-176102
(Himachal Pradesh) - India.
Phone +94180 38277:
email : editorpoetcrit@gmail.com

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It was indeed a great delight to receive the
letter dated 19th
October 2014 from Shri Dev
Bhardwaj, Director, India Inter –continental
Cultural Association, Chandigarh, inviting me
toparticipateinthe10thInternationalWriters
Festival, India (an International conference of
poets, writers and scholars) scheduled for 27-
28, December 2014 at Thiruvananthapuram,
Kerala. It was all the more fascinating to me
as I do not consider myself fit to be called as
a poet, writer and/or scholar! Venue was
announced as GANDHI BHAVAN,
Thiruvananthapuram – the God’s own land,
and the theme of the conference was to be
Literature and World Peace with special focus
on VASUDHAIVA KUTUMBAKAM - all
very dear to my heart. Hence I decided to
attend the Festival.
I love train travel and in fact when I
visited TRIVANDRUM (as called in those
days)coupleof decadesago,Itravelledbytrain-
aroundsixteenhourtravelfromChennaiandI
wrote a 64 line poem in English titled
“DELIGHTINDEEDISTRAINTRAVEL”
which was greatly appreciated by the readers.
But then my affectionate sons felt that sixteen
hour train journey will be taxing their 74 year
old father and organized my air travel-to and
fro hardly taking 75 minutes by flight!
Since it was a couple of years, I visited
airport-lastwasmyairtraveltoGoatoattend
the annual convention of the Authors’ Guild
Of India” where I submitted a paper on
“READING CULTURE IN INDIA” and
presented a poem on “WORLD PEACE”-
of course both were well received by the
scholarly delegates, I agreed with their
suggestion of air travel to the festival. Indigo
flight took off at Chennai on Friday the 26th
December at 16.10 hours and reached
Trivandrum at 17.20 hours. Aircraft was full
–all the 180 seats occupied. Seated along with
me on the right of 18th
row were Shri K. P.
Radhakrishnan, a former MLA , Tamilnadu
and a Tamil Scholar to attend the Festival and
Smt. Ranjani Ranganathan- a student of
journalism in Orissa, married in Delhi and
hailing from Kerala! In seventy minutes,
discussion on varied topics took place! Frills
free flight-pay for water or snacks if you need!
Though the organizers arranged
accommodation who have opted for the
same in JAS Hotel and Hotel B. G. PLaza,
nearer to the Festival venue, viz Gandhi
Bhavan,Thycaud, Trivandrum,Ichosetostay
in the Guest House of Life Insurance
Corporation of India whose employee was I
for a little more than four decades! That
Days to Nourish and Thoughts to Cherish !
- N. V. Subbaraman
Mr. N. V. Subbaraman is Author of 19 books (Poetry=07, Others=12).
Recipient of Michael Madhusudan Award-1995- Kolkatta, Best Poet of
the year- 1996- Bangalore, Fellow of the United Writers Association of
India he has participated in Two International Poets Meets and Authors
Guild of India Conference in Goa. Chennai-600101 (Tamilnadu).

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beautiful and comfortable Guest House was
six kilometers away in Pattom.
On that day to nourish, Saturday the
December 27th,
first day of the Festival, I
reachedthevenuearoundeightinthemorning
(though the Conference was scheduled to
commenceonlyat10.30hrs.)inanautodriven
by an honest driver who did not claim a rupee
more than the meter rate, rare to come across
in my place in these days!
The venue “Gandhi Smarak Nidhi”,
Gandhi Bhavan, in Thycaud,
Thiruvananthapuram waslocatedincalmand
serene location. Though I was there two and
a half hours ahead of the schedule, a nice
Gandhian , clad in saffron khadhi dhoti and
pyjama, brightly bearded Secretary of the
Bhavan Shri K. G. Jagadeesan received me
with love and respect. The building was
sanctified by great personalities as Dr.
Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan, former President
of IndiaandShri LalBahadurShastri, former
PrimeMinisterinconnectionwithfoundation
stone laying ceremony or inauguration of the
building. A beautiful burst size statue of
Mahatma Gandhi, Father of our Nation
blesses us as we enter the main building.
The 10th
International Writers’ Festival
was organized by India Inter-Continental
Cultural Association, Chandigarh. Co-
organisers were Indian Ruminations,
Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, Gandhi
SmarakaNidhi,Thiruvananthapuram(Kerala)
and Shruti-the School of Music, Guwahati
(Assam) and supported by Writers Club,
Chandigarh and International Poets Society,
Nellore (Andhra Pradesh). This was the 10th
Festival organized by Kafla International- the
first nine were held in Chandigarh (2004),
Kurukshetra(2006), Agra(2007), Ambala
Cantonment (2008), Jaipur (2009), Chennai
((2010), Wardha (2011), Bhubaneswar ((2012)
and Nellore (2013). This conference was
attended by delegates from the countries like
Bangladesh , Croatia, Kazakhstan, South
Africa, U. K., USA and Uzbekistan. More
than 100 delegates from various states
participated.TheywerefromAndhraPradesh,
Assam, Bihar, Chandigarh, Chhattisgarh,
Gujarat, Haryana, Jharkhand , Karnataka,
Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra,
Meghalaya, Mizoram , Odisha, Puduchery,
Punjab, Rajasthan, Tamilnadu, Telengana,
Tripura, Uttar Pradesh and West Bengal.
A beautifully designed booklet was
brought out by the organizers providing all
thedetailsof theFestivalalongwiththeextracts
of the papers to be submitted and poems to
be presented- indeed a great guide to the
delegates. List of all participants with their
photos was highlight of the booklet.
The Festival started at 11.00 a.m. on 27th.
of December, 2014 with opening ceremony
and welcome speeches. Newly published
books of some participants were released on
the occassion. Shri Dev Bharadwaj, Director,
IICCAwelcomedthegathering.Thestagewas
well managed by the co-organisers- Mrs.
Sandhya, S.N. and Dr. Parinita Goswami. The
New Sunday Express, Thiruvananthapuram
dated 28th
December reported thus:
LITERARY FETE BEGINS
“T. Puram: The two day 10th
International Literary
Meet and the Indian ruminations literary Festival
began here on Saturday. Thomas Isaac MLA, who
presided over the inaugural function, called for a
radical shift in attitudes so as to facilitate the
expansion of cultural activities in the country. “This
is very much needed if the future generations are
not to abandon art and culture and blindly follow
the culture of consumerism,” he added. He said
that capitalism would “force to convert” leisure time

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for promoting production. “Here we have a system
that breeds greed. One should strive for a society
that promotes sustainable development”, he said.
Poet Pudussery Ramachandran inaugurated the
meet. He said that Mahatma Gandhi keenly worked
for unity of people belonging to different groups.
Gandhi Smaraka Nidhi Chairman N.
Radhakrishnan, who spoke at the programme, said
that the writers have become “change agents” of
the society. Writers have the responsibility in
molding the future generations, he said. Asror
allayarov, a writer and journalist from Uzbekistan,
poet Jacob Issac, and Laltluanglina Khiangte, who
received Padma Shree Award for literature and
education in 2006, were also present at the inaugural
function of the meet.
The meet held at Gandhi Smaraka Nidhi
premises is being jointly organized by Indian Inter-
Continental Cultural Association, Indian
Ruminations, Gandhi Smaraka Nidhi and Shruthi
School of Music.”
Dr. N. Radhakrishnan, Chairman,
Indian Council for Gandhian Studies (New
Delhi) Working Chairman Kerala Gandhi
Smaraka Nidhi, and Secretary General:
Writers Forum for Harmony (New Delhi)
addressed the audience and his address on
the theme “The Ideal of Vasudaiva
Kutumbakam in Raja Rao’s Kanthapura and
the Great Indian Way” was distributed to all
delegates proves a wonderful reading.
A number of new books were released
including this writer’s (N V Subbaramana’s)
two books- titled “Gift of Life” translated
intoTelugubythepoetSriragi,titled“Brathuku
Varm”wasreceivedbyPeruguRamakrishnan,
noted Telugu poet and writer, “Thannir Alai”
in Tamil translated work of English poems
of Japanese poet Daisaku Ikeda by N. V.
Subbaraman was received by Pudussery
Ramachandran.
In the two days of conference in all 36
papers by the Indian delegates and five
papers of delegates from abroad were
presented on different subjects keeping the
focus on the main theme of the Conferences
including my paper on “Translation
Literature”. Most of the papers were in
English and a few in Hindi. All the scholarly
papers were well received.
In all 68 poems in English, Hindi,
Malayalam were presented including my 30
line poem in English – “World Peace- The
Nectar” and needless to say all were well
received.
In the evenings, songs were rendered in
variouslanguages- Hindi,Guajarati,Assamese,
Punjabi and Malayalam proving that some of
the poets can be great singers too!
On the whole several sessions of Paper
submission, poems presentation and singing
of songs in the evenings/nights were all well
received.
On 27th
night there was a candle light
procession by the delegates for world peace
and harmony and the candles were kept at the
feet of statue of Mahatma Gandhi invoking
hisblessingsandguidance.Itwasindeedagrand
sighttowitness!
Hospitality in the form of lunch and
dinner was excellent. Typical Kerala food-raw
rice, boiled rice, chapathi/roti, dhal, poriyal,
sambar,rasam,curd,pappad,payasam,aviyal,
raitha and so on- served with love and
affection, regard and respect- a great
experience indeed !
Timely tea and biscuits served as a great
booster to the ‘at- times- tired- minds.’
Certificateswerepresented,meritawards
were given, and mementos were presented to
theorganizersbytheKeraladelegates.
Profuse vote of thanks was proposed
by Sandhya, S.N. and Parinita Goswami.

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It was announced by Prof. Mustafizur
Rahman of Bangladesh that they will also
organise such Literary Festival at Dhaka.
Quite a number of delegates went on a
picnic tour to Kanyakumari, southern most
point of India that is Bharat on Monday the
29th
December 2014.
Organizingsuchaconferencesuccessfully
is not an ordinary achievement. Lot of efforts
has gone in for days and weeks together to
makethisfestivalamemorableoneinlifetime.
Patron Mr. Jacob Isaac, a poet of
international eminence and author of several
books living in Kerala and South Africa and
Mr.PeruguRamakrishna,apoetandconvener,
InternationalPoetsSociety,Nellore(AP)made
significant contribution for the success of the
conference.
It is no doubt a team work; yet particular
compliments should have to be offered to
sarva Shri Dev Bharadwaj Director IICCA,
Chandigarh, Sandhya, S.N., Managing Editor
Indian Ruminations, Dr. Parinita Goswami,
Director, Shruti-the school of Music, K.G.
Jagadeesan,Secretary,GandhiSmarakaNidhi,
Prof. J. T. Jayasingh, Chief Editor, Indian
Ruminations and coordinator, and associates
Yes; with a little more cooperation from
the delegates, time could have been better
managed. Planting of a sampling in the
Gandhi Bhavan in commemoration would
have been ideal.
With happy memories of the tenth
international writers’ Festival, delegates
returned to their headquarters with a firm
resolve to pursue World Peace and Harmony,
treatingtheentireworldasonefamilythrough
literary activities. I, N. V. Subbaraman, am not
an exception! ....Jai Jegath!
<nvsubbaraman@gmail.com>
ooo
I AM ONE OF THE CAGED BIRDS
Mutiu Olawuyi (Gambia)
(To Maya Angelou)
My shank pip out to spot my fellow wings,
though of different colors and shapes,
from the fluid cage since the shadowy point.
I sulk to flee the cold from
the callous snowy soil,
though the coop metal gate was bolted,
with my bald and skinless neck.
And those like me in blood and eye-sights
crouch with outward smiley face -
built with rotten rice and cassava and maize.
Dogs eating dogs and things fall apart –
Our cooked foods are enjoyed
by our visitors
and we – turned their watchmen.
And our crops turn their plants
for us to buy.
They’ve swapped our
bearers’ tongues with theirs.
And they on our wings now survive.
Our saliva is dry – we can no longer sing –
Wewheeze and sneeze to feel an atom breeze.
Surely you may know -
whythecagedbirdsings
how the flutes of others fine-tune his throat –
hidden to the free bird flowing
in the cloudless sky .
I am one of the caged birds –
troubling my gangan,
bata and kora, yes,
for freedom of my vein’s wits,
and of her sights and her legs.
The caged bird
no longer sings but wheezes,
sneezes and drums not.
He shivers but never allowed to dance.
<thejunglepoet@gmail.com>
ooo

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It was early week of November 2014 that
I came to know about the 10th
International
WritersFestivalgoingtobeheldatTrivandrum
(Kerala)on27-28December,2014.Fromthat
day, I started my planning, firstly, I submitted
seven days leave application to my boss but
his reaction was not so appreciated but I
managed to get leave sanctioned.
On 24th Dec. 2014, I took flight from
Chandigarh to Bangalore and then traveled
by road to Trivandrum. The Hotel Jass was
already booked for the delegates coming
from various parts of India and abroad.
Mr. Dev Bhardwaj, Festival Director and his
associates Madam Sandhya, Mr. Issac Jacob,
and Dr. Parinita Goswami were busy in
welcoming them at the reception.
This was my second participation in
Kafla’sInternational WritersfestivalseriesasI
hadparticipatedinthe1st.InternationalWriters
FestivalinthecitybeautifulChandigarhin2004.
On 26th. Dec. morning, a fresh look and
smile was on my face, neither any work load
nor any tension, I came down at ground floor
where Jass hotel’s restaurant is situated, every
corner table was occupied by the prestigious
writers. When I was finding a suitable table,
suddenly a call from Mr. Sham Singh, “Sabita
come here one chair is vacated,” I wished
“Good Morning all of you Sir,” “they smiled
and offered me to sit.” After taking breakfast
we four people – me, Sham Singh and two
from Bangladesh suddenly made a program
to see Kanyakumari which by road is 93 Km
far away from Trivandrum and took 2:15
hours. Kanyakumari; formerly known as
Cape Comorin, is in the state of Tamil Nadu.
Thenamecomesfromthetemple,DeviKanya
Kumari Temple in the region.
We saw the Thiruvalluvar Statue, which
has a height of 95 feet and stands upon a 38
foot pedestal that represents the 38 chapters
of “virtue” in the Thirukkural. And about
the Vivekananda Rock Memorial is awesome
and most popular tourist monument in
Kanyakumari. According to local legends, it
was on this rock that Goddess Kumari
performed austerity. The design of the
mandapaincorporatesdifferentstylesoftemple
architecture from all over India. It houses a
statue of Vivekananda. The rocks are
surrounded by the Laccadive Sea.
Geographical value of Kerala state is
significant. It is divided into three regions:
Highlands, which slope down from the
Western Ghats onto the Midlands of
undulating hills and valleys into an unbroken
coastline with many picturesque backwaters,
A memorable Writers Festival at Trivandrum
- Sabita Das
Sabita Das is a upcoming poetess. Originally she belongs to West
Bengal but settled in Chandigarh. She writes fiction, poems and articles
in Bangla, English and Hindi. She is a regular contributor to leading
journals and newspapers.

h
interconnected with canals and networked by
rivers. Kerala enjoys diverse and unique
geographical features i.e. an equable climate
and a long shoreline with serene beaches,
tranquil stretches of emerald backwaters and
lushhillstations.Waterfalls,Wildlife,Sprawling
plantations and Paddy fields etc. have made
Kerala one of the most popular tourist
destinationsinIndia.
Now, once again I am coming back on
the topic for which we all gathered at
Trivandrum from various states of India and
abroad i.e. 10th celebration of International
Writers’ Festival, held on 27-28 December,
2014. On the first day around 10:00 morning
we all assembled in the main hall of Gandhi
SmarakBhawan,Trivandrum,andawonderful
arrangementwasmadebytheorganizers. The
function started just in time; firstly, the chief
guest lit the light (Diva prajwalan). Organizers -
Mr.DevBhardwaj,Dr.ParinitaGoswami,Mrs.
Sandhya and Mr. Jacob (South Africa) were
honoring to the esteemed guests of this
convention by presenting bouquet, shawl etc.
Afterguest’sspeeches,thefunctionstartedwith
grace, some scholars submitted their papers,
some poets recited their poems. Around
11:30AM we enjoyed the tea session and one
hour lunch break was at 1:30 to 2:30 PM. We
all relished Kerala’s delicacies like boiled rice
with Sambhar, Rasam, Prippu, Pappadam,
Theeyal(MixVegetablecookedwithcrushed
tender coconut) and Herbal drinking water
(Mild red colour) and were also served
paayasam as desert.
2ndhalfsessionofthefirstdaywasstarted
atsharp3:00PM.againwiththepaper-readings.
Kav-Sandhya (Poetryinsinging)wasthehighlight
of that evening, when poetry came alive in
musicandsinging.Atdinner;againwemeteach
other and reciprocated our thoughts.
One thing I must share with you about
my room partner Ms. Jeenat, a beautiful lady
professionally expert in stage hosting. She is a
Bangladeshi citizen and working in Cyprus
Embassy at Dhaka. I met various people over
there and each person is special for me. I was
impressedandoverwhelmedafterseeingtheir
cooperativenature,understanding,softspoken,
well behaved etc. In true sense “Vasudhaiva
Kutumbakam” means whole universe is one
family”wasthere.Anditismyfirmbelief that
our international guests must say, “we have
brought a commendable memory from India,
the real harmony, integration, hospitality is in
their nature and where the shine of the sun is
like the smiles on every face”.
Onthesecondday,Igotachancetorecite
mypoem“GoonjBetiKi”andalsosangaGhazal
“Ranjish hi Sahi Dil Hi Dukhane Ke Liye Aa”
accompanied with Dev Bhardwaj ji, and the
listeners appreciated us. After Lunch, Award
distribution ceremony was started and I was
also honoured by the Sahitya Shree award.
We also went for shopping at famous
Kalyan Silk Emporium; I purchased few silk
Saris and Kasavu Salwar suit, and also bought
Pattu Pavadas a traditional dress of Kerala for
my grand-daughter.
We are quite familiar about the story of
Kerala’s spices from thousands years into the
past. And I am too greedy of those fabulous
spices; hence, I brought some good quality
organic spices like Black pepper, Clove,
Cinnamon, Cardamom, Nutmeg, Mace and
Star Anise form the local market.
At night of 29th
Dec, 2014 around I
started my journey back to Chandigarh with
lots of unforgettable memories of this
wonderful Writers Meet at Trivandrum.
<sabita_1108@yahoo.com>
ooo

h
THE SOLDIER AND THE GIRL
The young girl
looked fondly at the soldier
newly back from the battle front.
she loved him
but she took way too much time
to profess her love to him
and he went without love back to the war.
But back at the battle front
the soldier could not wait
way too much for the girl’s love
before being hit by the enemy bullet
And he died
Girls take way too much time
to profess their love and lose.
A POEM
Rain fell yesterday.
I was home
sleeping.
Someone shook me
I got up.
It was the old love
my childhood friend
It had come hurtling
through walls of time.
Rain is falling .
A small sparrow
rainstorm-driven
has come for the shelter
through the window of time
shakingfeathers
off the raindrops.
The wind from the window
has fluttered the papers
of my poems on my table
The sparrow,
my old love
hidden somewhere in you
TIME
Carrying two paper bags
the girl has come
out of McDonalds’s
She eats off one packet
She picks up her little dog
feeds him off the other bag
She plays with the dog
puts it down on the ground
lifts him again
the dog shows annoyance
thenyields.
She puts the paper bags
in the garbage bin
and sits on the bench
She shakes her hands,
sets a wayward tress
that had pulled off her face.
Gurdev Chauhan is a poet to watch. He writes in Punjabi and English.
His poetry makes the fusion of memory and emotion the heartbeat
of his poetry. He has published several books of poetry, satire and
literary criticism in Punjabi, Hindi and English. He resides in Canada.
He is editor of South Asian Ensemble, a Canadian Quarterly of
Literature, Art and Culture.
Five Poems by Gurdev Chauhan

h
The girl’s boyfriend arrives
she leaves the dog back on the bench
embraces the boy.
They sit on the bench
spend a way too much time
playing with the dog
as if they were
mocking at the time
They, then, walk to
and sit in their car
race the car and are gone.
Time sitting idle on the bench
doesn’t know what to do
except looking in vain at its clock
and at the speeding car.
THAT GIRL OF MY CHILDHOOD
I look for that girl who had disappeared
in the cocoons of my childhood days.
My childhood stood here just now,
palpable and balanced
like a bowl of milk.
From here she flew like a ribbon
and was lost among the multitude
and could not be traced.
At the moment of the rape
of her time
she had screamed
with all her might
I heard her cry
from the grain market.
She had turned into
a grain of wheat.
The sky had forgotten its rainbow.
She could not be found anywhere.
I was in constant search of her.
Grief-stricken faces, angry heads
said so much :
gratuitous, dubious and loud.
Her hand called me again and again.
Now wherever I go,
I hear her shriek.
Nights and days are clue-less about her.
I think I’ll find out
that shriek-girl somehow.
She will emerge surely one day
all of a sudden, from some flourmill
or be seen falling down
from the third floor
of some office trying to save
herself as she plummets.
Or be sighted in some lonely lane
opening onto some bazaar
or in a nondescript room
with windows all shut.
I know she loved too much, the sunlight.
That girl waits for some sunny day
and looks towards
the hands of a young man
who could scoop
darkness out of her body
and coax back her lost volubility.
SHE AND THE TRAIN
The train had gone
She too had gone
riding in the train
Her bag too that dangled
from her shoulder.
How perfect she had become
with her going with the bag
that dangled from her shoulder,
perfect or fragile as
the next station of her life
or of mine
or of us.
<gurdevchauhan01@gmail.com>
ooo

h
O ! thy waxed figurine,
How elegant is thine charm!
In eloquence you speak floral phrases.
Alas, beneath the beatified layer
Lies a cruel , barbaric heart!
When died thousands in ruined fields,
Sliced by calamities of
Unquenchedthirst,
Gazing at grey skies,
For a few drops of water,
You abhorred the clouds and
The parched earth,
Trampled the soul of nameless peasants
Beneath the burden
Of mint and hoarded grains
Whose hands feed
The nation of hungry stomachs.
…
O Look! He laughs, mocks at the helplessness
Rocks his chair,
The chief of tyrants,
Chewing the paan in his sour mouth,
He gobbled the treasure
Of innocents
And slayed them.
The brilliant hues, now somber
As radiant sun sinks in the horizon
Snatching the light of lives,
When abducted a few girls
Exhibiting signs of barbarism. . .
Ignorant those meek ones,
Oblivious of the lurking signs,
O ! They get crumpled,
Their attires rumpled…
Where do they flee,
Which side and whereto ?
’Tis danger,
At every bend, in every mind,
Be it foe or a stranger.
Forgetting the human,
Hapless and the pitiable,
In leisure he sleeps,
Drinks in pleasure
While miles away,
A barbed wire severed
Millions die within minutes,
Shellings deafen the selfish ears
“Count the gains”, narrate rich nations
In powerful area
As everyone watches breakfast news ,
Amnesiacthose,
Forget the savagery in few seconds.
In torn wraps of the cruel world,
Penniless,homeless
Soumya Vilekar is a writer, blogger and a poet. Her poems are included
in various anthologies which include a collection of inspirational,
spiritual, motivational and romantic poems. Soumya gets her inspiration
from nature where she cultivates her thoughts and forms the essence of
the Divine in her milieu. She, currently, resides at Sharjah, UAE.
W O R L D P E A C E
- Soumya Vilekar

h
Wander,
Screaming their hearts in desperate hunger.
They share with a dying dog the only morsel
Near their broken shelter.
Amidst the concrete and glass ensemble
Fears my soul in conjecture
Live here mortal souls,
Immortal they think
Is their embodied structure…
For power, fame & money, they fight
And kill each other...
Pitythehumans,
Disgusting is their shroud
Which cannot cover
Eventheirtransgression?
Oh ! Then,
Why O Majestic one!
What for I am here
On the blessed altar of earth
As a mortal, helpless kind?
A witness … merely.
Why , then ’tis called the
Precious gift?
A life full of miseries,
Sufferings endless,
Neither an end to sins…
Ya! Speaks everyone -- about world peace
From every nook and corner …
Where do thy think, shall we find it?
Beneath whose grave,
Whose memorial?
Fragments lying, of those shredded bits of
Ataraxic
Reposes obscure
In which pit or tunnel
The vanished tranquil peace?
<soumyaindian2012@gmail.com>
ooo
THE PLEDGE
Vishal Bodhale (Maharashtra-India)
She passed from me
as the destiny patrolled around
to guard the dreams
secretly secured.
And …I
looser of all keys
unlocking the treasure full of dreams.
The mirror reflecting the maiden.
Had I negotiated with my Lord
to repay His debts.
Mortgaged my little dream
seen with her
drenchedincessanttears.
Twisted the rose she offered once.
Bowed against Lord
saw I
Hisaquaticeyes…..
Though He blessed me
with His love
with her lost love.
She lent me the path of sorrows
every grass stick
sharpened with arrows.
Though I
should not complain.
‘the show must go on’
few tears, few fears
The destined role
waiting on stage
I must break my desired cage.
Through the thousand claps for me
saw I her silhouette
reminded my pledge
‘I have my own commitments.’
replied her unheard footsteps
‘I have my own too.’
<vishal_bodhale@rediffmail.com>
ooo

h
SOMETIMES
The quiet wisdom of the body's peace
chaos in this our carnal world
Haste is all bamboo and iron
having sealed our mundane eyes
To views of time and peace!
now I'm strong as stones
or tress are strong
Insensible or ignorant
with vibrant life streams
or the air may wash or pass me by
But my mind breathes quiet,
lying yours along the line
Upon what meat is this man fed?
that he has grown so great!
Diet of eloquent delectable accolades
warm, soft, sweet and red
Under no banyan tree
I strip on onion skin
to find a neat kernel at the still centre
"a little winter love on a dark corner"
No love, no love, no sin to hammer!
Yet more acutely mundane now,
man's finger claw the cosmos
in gestures of despair
Our souls since the beauty of lust is unknown
when you save love, you saved mine
Now you left like a bough sometimes,
The rhythm of life is unknown
LANDSCAPE
Landscape of my young world
Land of soft hills and lots
Of aloes and grey - green dreaming fields
-thesearetheimagesoflacerateagainstwhich
I grace myself
Indistanceorinarebelliouswallingorreserve!
Heart breaking hillsides and green slopes!
Thereisnoarmourtoexcludeyourpoignancy
No blunting and for me no ease!
Nature creates torture
Artist depicts pleasure through sculpture
Time to make use of this beautiful Vista
Landscape of my young world!
Young, arrogant and ignorant green slopes
Misused life, no hopes
Drawing edges to improve living scopes
No blunting and for me no ease!
Landscape is eloquent of the interplay
Forces that have created it to be alley
Now spread before us like the pages
of an open book, we stare till ages
Biodiversity, human university
Landscape of my young world,
where I grace myself.
<samcillabaakojr@gmail.com>
ooo
Samcilla Baakojr is a Poet, Writer and Graphic Designer from Ghana.
He’s currently a broadcaster for Ghanaian internet radio bjrlive.fm
and the founder of Bjrworld Media; one of the most powerful
young brands on social media which houses all social media activities.
His write-ups are a blend of echo verse, free verse with a fusions of
blank verse, lyric and he does a bit of epic and kenning writing as well.
His movie scripts are awesome; his latest “Holiday” will be premiered
in December 2015. His recent collection titled RECOVERY features
six of his Lyric poems. He’s more of a writer than a performer.
Two poems by Samcilla Baakojr

h
ONE SUMMER EVENING
Together,
we sat. Silence masked the words.
The coffee table in the center,
cupped the stillness between
its legs; it contained the frantic quality
buzzing around in the air
that one summer evening.
Through the periphery,
I remembered to look at the sun,
setting;
its glow fading
quietly, stunned into sadness,
unable to
drop through the clutter of
human words, unspoken,
splattered all around,
as it witnessed
two people suspended from
each other, who could not reach
through the knot of
history and about to
unfurl, like flags seeking freedom
from the cloth
that had sealed their fate
into permanence.
REMEMBRANCE
Inhabit the pulse
that beats within you,
only then will you learn
to breathe
Inhabit the milk
that flows out of you,
to taste
Inhabit the tears
that rest on your eyelids,
to see
Inhabit the blood
that trickles down your throat,
to feel
Most of all -
Inhabit the dreams with which
you were born
to love
FRAYING, SLOWLY
Whimpering with delight,
I see temptation fraying at
Diditi Mitra earned her doctoral degree in Sociology from Temple
University. Her work is focused in the areas of race and immigration.Her
work has been published in peer reviewed scholarly journals. She has also
published two books (‘Immigrant Punjabi Mobility in the United States:
Adaptation through race and class’ & ‘Race and the Lifecourse: Readings
from the intersection of race, ethnicity and age’). Diditi is also trained in
the north Indian classical dance form of Kathak and has performed in
various venues in the United States. She lives in USA.
Five poems by Diditi Mitra

h
the edges; it is
ripe with remorse, repentant
with every whisper,
undone like the raindrops
coming down slowly in the midst
of a thick fog over the rainbow,
calling out to the chains
fastened around
the belly of its creator.
MOTHER’S ASHES
Like that bird, far away,
distant, small, but free,
I breathe freedom from
the ashes that once
belonged to my mother.
UN-LACED
It drips,
onto the shoelace,
final,
as if singing the chorus of a song
never heard before cascading,
on the bed, coarse
from the sand
washed ashore
after, the storm, last
night.
<diditimitra@gmail.com>
UNDER THE SKIN
Davide Cortese (Italy)
Read and Subscribe
SOUTH ASIAN ENSEMBLE
ISSN 1920-6763
Chief Editor :.Gurdev Chauhan
Editor : Rajesh Sharma
23, Sahib Enclave, Near Urban Estate-I,
Patiala-147002 (Punjab)
Ph. M-7837960942, 0175-2281777
Email: gurdev.chauhan01@gmail.com
sharajesh@gmail.com;
www.southasianensemble.com
I have forays of disquiet,
migrations and flights of desires,
wanderings of sadness.
Under the skin, without mercy,
a fiery solitude burns
my teeming multitudes.
An icy flame
grazes me with cruel truths.
A fire without love
that burns as love.
My skin is ash of poetry,
My heart a burning coal,
a scorching black bread
for the hunger of a mysterious demon.
I’m the berry of a smiling pain.
The black fable of a woman of snow.
Enshrined by a secret,
i breathe the salt of a forbidden journey.
I caress the spectrum of the lover,
together we keep silent my chant.
Translation by Fabiano Balzamin
<postacortese@gmail.com>
METVERSE MUSE (Bi-annual)
ISSN 0972-5008-19, RNI 69286/98
Editor : (Dr.). H. Tulsi
Address : 21-46/1, Kakani Nagar,
Visakhapatnam-530009 (Andhra Pradesh)
Phone : M-98497-44194
email : metverse_muse@yahoo.com

h
SUDDENLY
Suddenly I am feeling I am flying.
Suddenly I am feeling I am free.
Suddenly I feel I have fallen in love
for the first time.
Suddenly I can’t recognise the new me.
The blue skies are brighter.
All work is lighter.
Some hidden spark has ignited.
Someunidentifiedthoughtshavebeensighted.
Suddenly the colours have changed.
All trees are looking green
as if it had just rained.
Suddenly the meanings have changed.
All bad thoughts have drained.
Am I on cloud nine?
Am I sick or am I fine?
Somewhere I am finding me.
Somehow I am discovering the real me.
Suddenly I feel I have fallen in love
for the first time.
Suddenly I have fallen in love with ME.
THE WOMAN IN ME
(on Women’s Day)
Walking the path of life.
Going forward with every stride.
Overcoming every hurdle.
Breaking away the girdle.
I have felt the woman in me.
I have realised the woman in me.
Walking the path of love.
Caring, sharing, giving.
people go forward.
Helping people in fulfilled living.
I have seen the woman in me.
I have understood the woman in me.
<mukherjeeparamita@hotmail.com>
ooo
Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick is a scientist, an educationist
and an author. She is into education for more than two decades. At
present, she has an educational consultancy of her own and is
associated with the Quality Council of India, Govt of India for
helping in the quality management of schools and junior colleges.
Her first book of poems, “Life- A Collection of Poems” (2013)
and was launched in Oxford Bookstore, Mumbai and released by
noted Bollywood Music Director, Mr. Bappi Lahiri. She also has
written and published a story book for children titled, “Stories
from Fantasyland”. She lives in Mumbai (Maharashtra) - India.
Two poems by
Paramita Mukherjee Mullick
Read and subscribe
Conifers Call
ISSN 0975-5365
Editor : Harish Thakur
Thakur Building , New Totu, Shimla,
(Himachal Pradesh)- 171011
Phone: +94180-08900
coniferscall@ymail.com;
harish_070@yahoo.co.in
www.coniferpublications.com

h
I’M FLOWING
I have no identity
I was an artist long ago
Sometime, a daughter,
a wife, an actor
Now,
I’ve stopped
being any of these
O my critic !
how would you define me now
how you’ll catch me
out of thin air
Those times, it was like that
I contained
something else within me,
revealed, something else
Those days
even light makeup
on dark skin could not help
showing through
Now-a-days,
I am like I am.
I don’t do any make-up
I have stopped acting different
Now I observe the currents
surging in my body
I watch the cyclones raging in me
I rise with the tide
I fall with it
I keep on reaching some place
diminishing as the days pass
dragging along
under the weight of my identity
vaporized with the heat of the journey
changed into air
Now I flow
sometime fast, sometimes slow
when I need muscle
I don’t become timid
Breeze or gale
I’m flowing
I’m neither a creation nor a creator
I’m wind and am blowing
PUPPETS
Dancing
the puppets’ feet blistered
Laughing and smiling
their eyes filled with tears
This news, no newspaper
carried on its pages
Every day, we turn the pages
but the dashed dreams of puppets
none has dared to write about
They daily see
the brisk trading in the bazaar
and bear the wounds
of buying and selling
Theythink
how to teach the eyes
to write the script
the way that none
can turn that page
(Translated from Punjabi by Gurdev Chauhan)
<neeruaseem@gmail.com>
Neeru Aseem is an upcoming Punjabi and Hindi poet. She has
published two books of poetry, Bhurian Kedian and Siffar. Her poery
is known for its terseness and buried metaphors. She lives in Canada.
Two Poems by Neeru Aseem

h
OF DUST & STARS
Manisha Gupta (Delhi-India)
Here was another evening
With the glorious sun setting
The ladies & children all gathered in the park
Children began playing
while the ladies busied in talk
Topics came and topics passed
Then it was time for the last
Somehow the argument drifted
towards the East & the West
Majority was in favour of the west
while for some east was best
East and west not in any other sense
But of flats facing east & those facing west
Arguments were serious and colourful
And the ladies all remained cheerful
Said one- The west side flats overlook the
swimming pool
An opponent retorted- the east ones give a
view of the Film-city hill
Quipped one-The west gets lovely breeze
morning noon and evening
Opponent said-the east gets the warmth of
the rising sun each morning
More points in praise of the west
More arguments favouring the east
Then someone intending to settle the matter
once & for all declared
Since there’s no stretch of empty land facing
the west side
We’re saved from watching people shitting
first thing in the morning
This was the turning point
Even the east side ladies seemed to falter
For, what was said, nothing could alter
Yes, they agreed-every morning we remove
the curtains summer winter or rain
What we get to see is a number of people
easing themselves, sitting in a chain
And so the discussion seemed to be over
West side had won
while the east stood the loser
I, one of the east block group had been a
silentaudiencethroughout
Smiled to myself silently thinking of the two
great lines which read out
“Two people look out of the prison bars
One sees the dust the other the stars”
For……. …
Looking out of the window each morning,
all some people saw were
the slum dwellers doing “potty”
Whereas, I welcomed the morning sun each
day and enjoyed its beauty while it rose from
behind the hill of the Film city.
Thus in conclusion what matters most
Is the kind of outlook that you host !
(This poem is a real account of the situation in a
posh multi-storey apartment in Mumbai where the
poet used to live. The land facing the east side was
unoccupied and so the slum dwellers from
neighbouring areas used it as a perpetual toilet)
<parinishacreations@rediffmail.com>
ooo
Read and subscribe
Kohinoor
ISSN 0973-6395
Editor : Dr. A. K. Choudhary
Saraswati Nagar, Itaba Pipra Road, Pipra,
P. O. Dumri, Dist. Begusarai (Bihar) 851117
email :arbind442002@yahoo.co.in
arbind.choudhary11@gmail.com
Read and subscribe
VOICE OF KOLKATA
Editor : Dr. Biplab Majumdar
3/34, Surya Nagar
Kolkata-700040 (India)
Phone Cell : +78900-19669
email : biplab66@gmail.com

h
LIFE STRUGGLE..
The real and next name
Of life is struggle ..
Inreality
Life becomes meaningful
Only with struggle..
And
Can anything be
More beautiful
Than life struggle ......
POETIC PLEASURE
It keeps
The world fresh and alert
Byconnecting
Heart with heart ..
Its the real beauty of poetry
That it touches us
By a typical touch
And we get involved in a
Glorious search
To discover
The glory of
Poetic pleasure.
NATURE
If you ask me
To identify the
Real source of
Beauty and pleasure..
I would like to whisper
A single word ‘nature’
ATTRACTION
Its impossible
To cage it within
The so called cage
Of definition..
Because
Attraction is always
A wild passion
UNDERSTANDING
Understanding
Is a fact of feeling..
On behalf of us
Its tells and reads
Themeaning
Of everything.
Keeping us fresh and fine
Understanding
Enhancesthebeauty
Of thinking.
<assam.choudhury75@gmail.com>
Dr. Monima Chaudhury is from Nalbari, Assam (India). She
got her education from Handique Girls College, Guwahati and
Guwahati University (Assam). She writes in Assamese, Hindi
and English. She has to her credit several books of prose and
poetry published in three languages. Recipient of about 200
national and international literary awards.
Two poems by Monima Choudhury

h
MINUET IN D
Scraping our tormented violin,
my daughter is practicing to please
me and her absent mother
Her eyes clock the minutes,
score the scrape of her bowing,
taking to heart all her teacher has given
of The Coulin,
knowing it’s she herself must find
her way with it, until an index finger
presses our doorbell
- her young beau is her.
His father’s dropped him over
and soon my ears are drumming to the boy
bowing his cello.
And there is our Living Room,
her mother’s harp,
- her mother’s harp lies
never to be played again.
I stare through its dusty strings to our
daughter’s possible future.
SEPARATION
Light on my new horizon
Doesn’t stay long enough
To breathe a second breath
To a dawn of freedom from
Under him
I’d cut his suit-sleeves at the elbows,
(Trousers being too much a cliché).
It sent him.
Now the other woman can feel
The roughness of chapped
Hands of her breasts,
His punch on nights
After drink.
No shower power washing
Can drive his scent from me,
Each cell he touched
Has cancered those
That has been born
From it.
I cup my breasts
Imagine them as they were before him;
Will them to: the sun of God,
God of love,
God of the virgin
Soul.
THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT DAY
Words pour in the rain
as Miss Kenton tells Mr. Stevens-
she loves him
and he tells her he loves her too
Theykiss
<kingnoel@eircom.net>
Noel King was born in Tralee, Ireland. His poems, short-stories,
reviews, photographs, articles and journalistic work have appeared in
newspapers, journals and anthologies in thirty-seven countries. His
collections, Prophesying the Past (2010), The Stern Wave (2013) and Sons
(2015) are published by Salman Poetry. He lives in Ireland.
Two poems by Noel King

h
Chanderbhanshoweredhisloveuponboth
his kids. It was not only them that he loved so
much, he was also all love for his wife. But his
wife and his elder son, Shanty, sometimes
thought that he loved his younger son, Bunty,
more. Maybe it was Bunty's abundance of
love for his father that spoke for the reason.
Thatwaswhy,Buntysleptwithhisfatherrather
than with his mother. Bunty stayed awake till
his dad didn't come to sleep with him, his
eyes not missing even a wink. He was always
like this, all agog for his father to come to
sleep with him on the cot.
In the evenings, Chanbhan had nothing
to do except to tell his kids stories of days
long gone. From where did he pick up those?
Maybe from his mother and father or his
grandmother. He had not gone to any school.
That is why he worked hard to make ends
meet. Sometimes he hauled loads in the grain
market. When there was no work there, he
went to work on the roads where some kind
of work was always going on. He, then, filled
up earth or dug it or did some other odd
labour job they put him on. He didn't not
remember how many foundations of houses
he had worked on and how many roofs of
houses. Wherever there was work, he went
there. He never flinched. He would say when
you have to do labour why not do it with all
yourheart.Whenoneputhisheartinhiswork
thennoworkwasdifficult.Ontheotherhand,
all the difficulties would go away. Thinking
like that, Chanderbhan was pulling the heavy
loaded cart of his life.
When he returned home after the day's
work, he had only two things on his mind to
do. One, to take his meal and the second to
play with his children and after that to go to
hisbedwithBunty.Buntywashardlyoneyear,
when he had wrestled his right from his dad
to sleep with him. In this doing, his mother's
hand was more pronounced than his. Mother
had to work in the kitchen and Bunty would
begin to weep endlessly insisting to be taken
up on her lap. Mother had difficulty working
with Bunty astride her.The elder son, Shunty,
wasneverobstinateaboutsuchthings.Hejust
would sit playing in the house. When Shunty
grew up a bit more, he got himself busy
playing games of his, alone. He too liked that
Bunty should play with him but Bunty was
madeof strangeclay.Whenhewept,hewould
gononstopheedingnoone.Whatevertoyyou
The Lump
by Dev Bhardwaj
Translated by Gurdev Chauhan (Canada)
A Punjabi Short-Story
Dev Bhardwaj was born on November 20, 1948 at Village Marar,
Dist. Gurdaspur (Punjab), India. He got his school education at his
village and higher education at Chandigarh, where he is settled since
1966. He has written several books of short-stories, plays and children
books besides translating some world famous classics into Punjabi.
Honoured by Chandigarh Sahitya Academi for his outstanding
contribution in the field of Literature, he is Editor of Kafla Inter-
Continental and lives in Chandigarh (India)

h
give him, he would just go demanding the
one he happened to have a fresh craze for.
By the time Chanderbhan came home in
the evening, he was dead tired to go out
anywhere on the streets with Bunty on his
shoulder. But Bunty had somehow to be
tackled. So he had devised a formula to amuse
him. He would lie on the bed with Bunty on
his belly. He would, then, shake his belly that
madeBuntylaughandaskformoretumultuous
rides. Bunty felt as if he got a cradle. So he
would stop weeping and most times went
asleep on dad's belly.
Bunty was deep in love with dad's belly.
Even when his dad made him get out from
over his belly and made him lie on the bed,
Buntywouldneverthelesskeephishandorleg
ondad'sbellyasifthereweresomeconnection
between the two, never to be broken. Even
when he slept on the bed it seemed to Bunty
as if he were sleeping on his dad's belly.
NowBuntywasseven.Buthestillinsisted
on going to bed with his dad and felt no
shamesittingupsidedownondad'sbelly.And
he didn't want to go to bed with any other.
Sleep he must, but on his dad's bed only that
too with his leg or hand resting on dad's belly.
If he didn't do this, he would not get asleep
so very soon.
But from the last few days, Bunty was
not keeping well. He didn't like anything. He
wouldn't drink or eat anything. Bunty felt his
head getting more and more heavy as the days
passed. He just wanted to keep lying on the
bed, all the time. Chanderbhan took him to
one or two doctors, but even they could not
findwhatwaswrongwithhim.Theyprescribed
somemedicinesandaskedtobekeptintouch.
But Bunty was far from improving.
Now Chanderbhan also lost his mind in
his work. His attention always turned towards
Buntyandtonootherthing.Whenyourmind
is not in your work how can you do it in a
good way.
And then one night when he was about
to fall asleep lying on the bed with Bunty
besidehim,hewasovercomebysomestrange
feeling which so overwhelmed him that he
started muttering all kind of nonsense out
loud like mad. It was all abracadabra. He
himself didn't know what it all was. His wife
heard him garbling to himself but she could
not make out what it all was about. But on
the lips of them both, Bunty's name could be
heard every now and then.
What happened was, that when all of a
sudden,ChanderbhanputhishandonBunty's
head and began stroke his scalpel, his fingers
suddenly shuddered to a stop. It took him a
whiletoknowthatBunty'sheadhaddeveloped
some kind of outgrowth. When he tried to
grope the place more closely, he felt as if the
swelling had gone more pronounced. When
he looked up more close, he saw a clear lump
onBunty'shead.Hewassoshockedherushed
to his wife working in the kitchen.
This was a very grave matter but what
couldtheydo?Hiswife,thoughweakof body,
wasquitesteelyasregardsherwill.Shehugged
the sleeping Bunty to her and took him to
bed. After many years, Bunty was tonight
sleepingwithhismother.Chanderbhanwalked
aimlessly for quite some time before going
to his bed.
It was morning now. A very different
kind of moment for them. Bunty had a
rubber ball like lump grown on his head.
They were greatly perturbed but to Bunty it
seemed all normal. He had no pain and felt
okay. But he was surprised to feel a lump on
his head. They had shown him the wart with
a mirror.

h
For Chanderbhan, the world had
grounded to a halt at this juncture. He was
rendered useless to do anything. He did not
want to leave Bunty at his mercy, in the state
he was in. He didn't want to go for work. He
took Bunty to a different doctor thinking that
the bulge was a kind of benign tumour that
the doctor would fix easily. But the mound
on Bunty's head was beyond his ken. The
doctor advised him to take the child to some
big hospital. So he did as advised. There in
that big hospital the doctors got busy taking
one test after the other, and writing medicines
to be broght from market. The doctors took
the medicines he brought and gave them to
Bunty to gulp them down with water.
Chanderbhan was asked to bring more and
moremedicinesandsometimesdifferentones
too. Chanderbhan was reduced to doing this
only. There was nothing else for him to do.
Days passed, then the months and then a full
year but there was no turn for the better for
Bunty. Chanderbhan's money was all gone
now. The lump on Bunty's head stayed the
same. Chanderbhan went to work for one
day and stayed four days making rounds of
the hospital and the home. For how long a
daily wage worker could afford to pull on
doing this.
So their financial condition went from
bad to worst. Now they had moved from
their rented house to a shanty. His wife went
houses to do housekeeping and other
household chores thus earning something to
carry on. No money could be found in the
house. Whatever they both earned, went to
buy medicines for Bunty. Chanderbhan was
now reduced to being no better than a beggar.
His friends, colleagues and relations turned
their backs on him. Frustrated from all sides,
he had almost given in.
One day he sat by the outer wall of the
hospital, resting his tired back against it. He
had come to show Bunty to the doctor but
the doctor had not yet turned up. He must
havesatalongtimelikethiswithBuntysitting
in front both in engulfed in painful silence.
From the time the lump had come up on
Bunty'shead,theybothhadbegantostaysullen
likethat.
The father and the son were sitting or
lying on the bare ground by the hospital wall.
They knew not how it happened and when.
People came and went away throwing coins
or putting some lower denomination notes in
their front. By the time Chanderbhan came to
knowwhatwashappening,ithadturnednight.
Hesawthenotesandcoinslyingaboutintheir
front. He counted them and the aggregate
turned out to be a handsome amount. Who
could be they, their silent sympathisers? From
where had they come and where had they had
gone! It was quite a riddle for Chanderbhan.
When home later that night, he told his wife
that Bunty needed much money to get well
and the people visiting the hospital were
helping him with the money.
He would sit daily likewise during the
day resting against the hospital wall and by
the evening quite a good amount was
collected. Now all the bad days of his poverty
were gone. Now the lump on Bunty's head
no longer disturbed him. He rather began to
adore it. He would lovingly stroke the lump
and said," Son! Do you feel pain?" Bunty
would say," No Papa."
By now Bunty's treatment had stopped.
Chanderbhan had made their hospital visit a
dailyroutineHenevermissedit.HetookBunty
to the hospital every morning. It went on like
this and he totally forgot all about the past.
HiswifesaidthatifBuntywasnotbeinggiven

h
any treatment what was the purpose to take
him daily to the hospital. The best thing was
that he should again find some work to do.
But for Chanderbhan, doing any type of
labour was very difficult. He was earning
handsomely without doing anything.
One day when Chanderbhan was lying
with Bunty in the bed waiting for sleep to
come, he suddenly took his hand to where
the lump was. It looked as if the lump was
sagging slowly. He tried to grope the hump
with his fingers. The blob of flesh went more
and more small till it was totally gone and
Bunty's head became totally free from it.
Chanderbhan began to speak loudly whatever
came to his mind, God knows what.
Chanderbhan's wife who was listening to him
could not make out what it all was. However,
on the lips of both, Bunty's name could be
heard now and then. Buty's mother took him
to her bed. Chanderbhan staggered here or
there before going back to his bed.
When in the morning they awoke, they
were wonderstruck. The lump was totally
gone. No sign of it was left, as if it never did
exist at all.
Bunty was happy. Bunty's mother was
happy. And Shunty was most happy. But
Chanderbhan was flabbergasted. He was
drowned in some deep sorrowing thought.
He was sad... utterly sad.....
<writerdev@gmail.com>
<gurdev.chauhan10@gmail.com>
ooo
Two poems by
Yioula Ioannou Patsalidou (Cyprus)
SOLITUDE
Once again it has grown dark early.
Unbelievable how the nights become longer.
And I shall spend the
autumn with solitude for company.
The shutters were closed
early but through the slats I observe the
passers-by on the pavement opposite.
In the apartment black, immense silence,
just mutual abuse from next door.
They’re rowing again!
His wages have been gambled
away and Martha has no milk to feed the
baby. Wait and see, soon she’ll be
ringing the bell, inconsolable.
Every evening the same story.
Me alone, she with her partner
but which of the two of us is more alone?
RENTED HOUSE
Life’s a rented house and its
belongings are ruled by my house lord
and they’re not mine.
Once the house is
empty and I’m loaded into a coffin
to go to my permanent abode,
two metres long,
it won’t make a differenceif I lived in
palaces or in a farmhouse full of
weed and thorn.
Nor will anyone care
who this body belonged to,
white or black or if it was the
flesh of a skeleton.
But the merchants that rule
usspread discordand their enemy is
clearly peace and accord.
<kiklamin0@yahoo.gr>
Read and subscribe
Bizz Buzz
ISSN 2277-8896
Editor : M. S. Venkata Ramaiah
No. 2, I Cross, Kalidas Layout,
Srinagar, Bangalore-560 050
Phone : Cell : +94481 68097
email: ourbizzbuzz@gmail.com

h
Manyhillsweredemolished.Thelastremnant
was demolished today. Border Road
Organisation, in its effort to provide an all
weatherroadtoSikkimiscuttinghillsandridges.
Dozers plied for the whole day. New earth is
being cut and dug. We do not know the
beginning and ending of the road. At present
works of breaking hills are being undertaken.
Massive pine trees were cut. It is strange that
when the village is in dark, the Border Road
Organisation is flooded with light. When our
village is silent, the BRO village is full of noise
andfullof activities.Blasting,bridgeconstruction
and earth cutting are going on unabated.
My village has a very thin population in
comparison to other villages. Being a hill
village,itspotatofieldsarealwaysgreen.Peach
andplumtreeshavestartedflowering.Hillocks
havebecomegreenwithnewgrass.Therivulet
is dried because of summer season. It has
demarcated the boundary of two villages.
Onehourhaspassedby. Ihavejustreturned
from the market. We have a flat stone in our
courtyard.Ihavemadeitmyrestingplace.This
stone and the village are new to me as I am
recentlytransferredhere.Ihadleftbehindmany
villagesandhillsinmyteacher’stransferablejob.
Village school master’s job is a thankless job.
Thishasmademeshortof witsalso. Teachers
donothavefriendstotalkto,tosharethetrials
and tribulations. Sometimes I wished to write
the history of the villages where I was posted
but the old people are disinterested to shed
informationwiththeteachers.
Iamstillsittingontheflatstone.I’mtrying
to pass the time by observing hillocks of
surrounding areas. Sitting on the flat stone is
not comfortable than the couch sitting. But
taking rest does not mean relaxation.
She had already given two calls for tea. I’m
notfeelinginclinedtogoinsidethehouse.The
enjoyment sitting outside has a different kind
offeelingwhichisnotavailableinsidethehouse.
I’m not within me. Anyway I got inside
the house, sipped the tea. While sipping tea,
images of different persons reflected in my
eyes. So many children of a couple! All of
them emaciated! Their age gap has not
exceeded two years! All of them were dirty,
face with dots of cough, clotted lips and
cracked feet! Wearing rags and weeping and
uncared for! How careless were their parents!
I had met them while treading the uphill track
today.Itappearedtheywereacaravanwalking
soundlessly. I had stopped them and had said,
“Whoareyou?Whosechildrenareyou?Where
The Story is yet to finish
Birbhadra Karkidholi
Birbhadra Karkidholi is one of the bright stars of the Himalayan
state of Sikkim. He is a poet and story writer par excellence and an
extraordinaire littérateur. He has to his credit several books of poetry
and short-stories. He is editor of Prakriya, a literary magazine in Nepali.
He lives in Gangtok (Sikkim) - India.
A Nepali Short-Story

h
are you going? What are your names? Come
on, tell me. I’ll give you biscuits. Tell me your
name in turn!” I had shown them the biscuits.
“Tellme,I’llgivetwobiscuitswhotellhisname
first.” They did not speak. A slice of bread fell
from the hand of a girl-child. She picked it up
immediately.Imaderepeatedrequestsbutthey
did not respond. Their faces were similar to a
lady whom I had met in my youth. But I was
notabletorecallitproperly.LastlyIgavethem
biscuits and said, “Don’t cry! Don’t be dirty!
Attend my school from tomorrow.”
After traversing some distance, we took
different ways to our respective homes.
Facesofthepoorandhaplesschildrencame
againandagaininmyeyes.I’vejoinedthisvillage
asSchoolHeadmasterlastmonth.Beforethis,
I had served three schools as assistant teacher.
But I’ve not seen such children emaciated,
hungry and worn out as I saw them today.
At present my mind is in the process of
weaving the past moments, sequences of
memories and situations. I’m beset with the
past now at present. I am not feeling to talk
to anybody now. Why the forgotten past is
pricking me now? I am recollecting the time
of my school final days. I was very close to
Phulmaya. She was my intimate friend. I do
not know where she is now. She might have
forgotten me as I have forgotten her. But
many memories are there which we can not
forget. We were together from primary to
secondary.Therearemanypersonalmoments
which can not be obliterated from the pages
of our heart. Two decades have past by now.
SheusedtohavetuitionsfromtheMathematic
teacher. She was brilliant in Science and
Mathematics. She used to love potato chips
and popcorn. My parents were not well up
to arranging tuitions for me.We used to share
Tiffins.Wewere themainactorsforarranging
all programs of the school, be it the Teachers’
Day, Independence Day or Republic Day. We
grew together. She was the daughter of a
assistant manager of a tea garden and I was
the son of a laborer of the tea garden. But
she was simple as lily. Pride and vanity had
not touched her. I used to suffer from
inferiority complex as I had to attend the
school with one pair of uniform and with
second hand books.
But we, both of us were good in study.
We sat for the School Final Examination
together. Our parents sent us to school in a
grown up age so we were at the age of 22-23
at the time of appearing School Final
Examination. We had stayed together in
Darjeeling at the time of examination in her
relative’s house. It was her request to stay
together in Darjeeting. I was obliged by her
generosity and I had started loving her. She
had the same feeling towards me. We used to
meet two three times after our examination.
We did not know how it had happened.
Whenthenewsofourintimacywasknown
to her father, assistant manager of the garden,
he made all his efforts to suspend my mother
from the job of tea garden worker. But he
was not successful in his endeavor. Being
unsuccessful, he had heckled my father many
times in front of the villagers. He had created
problems to my family. My father kept mum
as he had no guts to face the proud and
haughty assistant manager for fear of being
hounded out from the garden. He took
advantage of my father’s weekness and
poverty and pestered him every time.
After one night when we had our dinner
and listening to the radio news, my father
announced,“Wemayhavetoleavethisgarden.”
He was very sad and desperate that night. He
shared many things of unhappiness to us that

h
night.Ihadopenedmymouthinthepresence
of my mother, “Where is the prestige we have
in this garden? The image of the higher ups
willbetarnishednotours.Soyouwillnotleave
thisvillageontheinsinuationsofahaughtyand
proud assistant manager. If you can afford, I
want to pursue my education further.” I had
dared to talk to my father that day. My mother
washappytohearthenewsofencouragement
from her son. I had whispered my mother,
“After my graduation and service I will marry
Phulmaya.Shehasalreadygivenherconsent.”
My mother had cautioned me not to disclose
the secret to any one.
But I had to express my inability to my
mother one day, “Mother! Phulmaya can not
be your daughter-in-law any more.” My
mother had assured me to have confidence.
True love will be successful one day. Her
words of consolation had helped me to carry
on the struggle. All these memories had kept
me in sad position. But I had made my mind
strong. I wished to see the photo album of
my late father. But I desisted myself to open
the box where I had kept his photos. I
remembered the Fridays when my mother
used to give me one rupee from her hard
earnedweeklywage.Irecollectedthememory
of the day when my father had purchased
for me a second-hand coat on my success in
theSchoolFinalExaminationfromthefestival
bonus. How happy he was that day? I have
kept the coat with care inside my box till now.
I wanted to take it out from the box and put
it on now. While with the memories of the
past, I had banged the table on excitement.
Findingmeinpensivemood,mywifetold,
“What happened? Have you any altercation
with somebody in the market today? You
looked depressed today. Is the tea not good?
Do you want me to prepare fresh tea?”
“No, please leave me alone for some time.
I’llgiveyouanswerstoyourqueriessometime
some day. But, leave me alone now.”
“Ok, fine. Let me burn the lantern.”
She left me alone in the room. I touched
my heart which was aching for many days.
The wealthy assistant manager forced his
daughter Phulmaya to marry an army man
and the blows his henchmen hurled on me
came in dim shadow before the flame of the
lantern. They gave me pain in winter time.
I came out from the sitting room and
entered to the bed room. She had kept one
glass of hot milk on the table. She gave a
glance on the clock and left the room.
I tried to forget the past. What is the use
of brooding over the past? I mustn’t pinch
my wounds again and again. There is no point
of hovering over the past. I washed my face
and said, “Your time of taking medicine is
going to be over. Have it.” She was in the
kitchen talking with a neighbor.
“Bye, madam!”
“Please come in your leisure time. You are
from the same village. We know your
problems. Please send your children to school
from tomorrow. I’ll talk to my husband. But
please send the text books in proper order.
My husband is a strict disciplinarian. Ok. We
will take care of the matter. We have also
come here for the last month. We have not
been able to familiarize with many people.
Please come tomorrow. It’s very dark, take
care of yourself.”
“With whom were you talking to?” I
asked her.
“You have the bad habit of poking nose
in the women’s world. I’ve to talk to the
peoplevisitingourhouse.Itisnotyourschool.
It’sourhome.Ihavetotreatthemwithrespect
and love. We are here as new comers so we’ve

h
to build friendship with them. What more
should I say? You are very moody. You can
not differentiate between sorrow and
happiness. You feel happy with books.” She
gave her piece of mind to me.
I said, “What are you talking about? Who
was the lady with whom you were talking just
now in the kitchen?”
“Oh!Thelady!Sheisfromthelowervillage.
Her husband was creating nuisance last night.
Heisadrunkard.Hehassomelandedproperty
butitisofnousetoadrunkard.Heisaworker
in Border Road Organization. He does not
come home without being drunk. Bloody
nonsense, woman basher! He does not bring
homemoneyandkeepschildrenfamishedand
hungry.Hemakeshiswifepregnanteveryyear
and makes her a machine of baby production.
She requests him to opt for vasectomy
operationbuthedoesnotyield.Sheisgoingto
diewithbeatings,famishedandgettingpregnant
every year. Oh God? What is the fate of the
woman? How He hands over the woman to
the person. Don’t get offended. I felt pity on
her and so I sent her with some rice and flour.
She has agreed to send her children to school
from tomorrow. We must extend our help to
ahaplesswomanwhoisindireneed.Andmore
importantly is that both of you belonged to
the same village. If you allow me, I want to
give my red saree and blouse to her. After all,
you do not want me to don that dress and it is
faded also.”
I added, “Oh, it’s good to help others. But
tell me who the lady is. Introduce me with
her. Who was her parent? I haven’t visited my
villageafterthedeathof myfather.Thisvillage
is new and you know how you feel when you
meet the people from your village ... ·’
“You’ve the habit of knowing every thing
on the spur of the moment. I’ll tell you
tomorrow or at bed time today. Will it be
ok, dear?”
I took her to my side and said, “Oh! Dear,
why not now! As you know that we have just
come here for a month. My life is confined
from school to home and vice versa. I visited
the bazaar today after one month. I didn’t feel
like going there. I was upset. I was in that state
of affairs, had you been in that position you
could have been like me. So now tell me who
theladywaswithwhomyoutalkedjustnow...”
“Ok, I’m going to tell but first have this
glass of milk and drink. “ She was trying to
keep the secret at bay.
“Tell me first and then only I’ll drink.”
“You have told me about the assistant
manager of your Village whom you have a
grudge. She is the daughter of that assistant
manager. Her name is Phulmaya .... “
I asked again, “What is her name?”
“I told you. Her name is Phulmaya. She is
married to this village.”
Mymilkglassfelldowntotheground.The
cupbrokeandthemilkspreadovertheground.
Shecomfortedmewiththewords,“Please
forgive me. You forced me to tell the story. I
knew very well that you disliked her father so
muchthathisnamewouldbringhavocinyour
mind.”
She brought me to our bed and handed
me two albums and said, “Please go through
the photos of our marriage and your loving
daughtersintheirboardingschool.Meanwhile
let me throw the broken cup outside.”
She came back and we enjoyed the
moments of our marriage which were stored
in album: the love was yet to start and the
story is yet to finish.
(Translated from Nepali by Tika Khati)
<birbhadra64@yahoo.com>
ooo

h
‘Mehriye’ and “Sheerbaha” Dowry ! and
Milkmoney!...Onelikesitornotthesewords
poppedoutlikeleatherypopcornsinbetween
their daily conversations. No wonder some
scorned at the very word “Sheerbaha”, some
raised their eyebrows, some even made fun of
the way people assign an amount for a female
as her price and pay to the bride’s family.
But most of the elders justified Mehriye,
It was the custom or part of their tradition
for many years and they support it.
“It is law” some said…”
Olama says it is a security for the women
in case she is divorced or betrayed by an
uncaring husband. In that way it sounded
pretty better.
Those days, words like Mehriye didn’t
matter much to me. But years later it came
hurling like a hurricane, the very word with all
itswholeharshundertoneswhenHamidcame
from Bourjerd to marry Leila.
It was going to be a love marriage with
the man she met at the Ashura Hussaini when
Shea Muslims mourned the death of Imam
Husain.EveryyearatthattimeLeilawentwith
hersuitcasefullofsweetsandsouvenirswhich
shepackedmonthsbeforeinpretextofvisiting
her grandma at Bourjerd. I have seen her
mother forcing Leila to visit grandmother in
themonthofMohram.Sheknewitisthetime
thatpeoplethrongedthestreetscorners,pious
ornotpiousMuslimsgatheredatthepremises
of Mosque, both young and old; all came to
mourn the death of the martyr as well as to
renew friendships or begin new contacts.
“Go…go…it would be a change for
you..”
Mother would insist pretending that she
is unaware of Leila packing her finest clothes
which she bought and safely hidden many
months before the mourning month.
“Beche haste shode inja…Poor child is tired
here!Cuttinghairandthreadingthehairyfaces
of women”
Leila’s mother would say looking at the
onlookers.
Leila is tired it seems! Tired only during
the Mohram month?…..many times I felt like
saying….
Boro baba…..
or at least whisper the equivalent of that
inHindi…
Chalo ji…. who are you trying to fool…?
Whenever the mother and daughter
made a drama of her unmarried daughter’s
escapade, I just smiled.
M e h r i y e
Pushpa V. K.
Dr. Pushpa V.K., an Iranian national is originally from Kerala,
India. Her first English novel “Go and Catch the Falling Stars” was
first published in 2005. She has published several short stories and
poems in many International Jounals. Her latest story “Voiceless
Voices” was published in www.the-criterion.com, Feb 2014, Vol.5.
She has many scholarly papers to her credit. Currently she is working
as Professor of English at Islamic Azad University, Ahvaz - Iran.
A Short-Story from Iran

h
She always tried to justify her daughter’s
trip to the faraway town alone as if she
envisagedthequestionsothersmightask. Who
doesn’t know the norms? Which girl in the
neighborhood travelled alone? And everyone
knew the fact… an unmarried girl was denied
a room at a hotel in case she happened to stay
in a strange town alone. Where can she take
refuge at night? Is she safe at the streets if she
can’t hire a room for herself..? Mother was
clever enough to tackle such questions. She
didn’t want to tarnish the family reputation.
In spite of all the endeavors, Leila
remained single for many years…I haven’t
seen any suitors coming for her where as she
always declared the influx of suitors and their
family daily knocking at the doors of her
friends asking their hands in marriage.
‘Beche telasm shode..’
Leila’smotheroftensaid…shethinksthat
someonehascasteyeonherchild. Sheblamed
Leila’scousins,theirjealousyandaccusedthem
of chanting magic incantations for Leila to
remain single forever. She often whispered
some mantras in Arabic and blew left and right
...up and down and finally in clockwise and
anticlockwisetowardofftheunwantedspirits
that blocked their good fortune.
All on a sudden, the block was lifted.
People began to acknowledge Leila’s
existence. Thanks to the technology; plastic
surgery and liposuction! Leila’s giant nose
which gave her an eagle look was turned into
a little delicate chiseled nose by removing the
extra pound of flesh she had carried on her
face all these years.Face got lifting, laugh lines
were erased, chunks and chunks of ugly fat
was sliced off and finally the wild, bushy
Ravana eye brows were threaded and
tattooed to make a complete metamorphosis
in exchange of the huge savings she had in
Banke Melli. So also the daily gold and herbal
facials along with the yoga classes she had
undergone in chic beauty parlors of Dubai
and Paris; all did wonders.
Hamid’s visit was a great news in the
family. Before Eid Norooz, a line of cars and
a minibus filled with people of all ages and
sizes, mostly thin, fair and tall ones with sharp
pointed nose like Hamid landed at the
threshold at one morning. A houseful of
guests from Bourjerd, Hamid’s parents,
brothers, their wives, uncles and aunts, their
spouses and children, his close friends, their
wives and children…..
The grown ups couched on the Persian
rugschattedendlessly,laughingallthetimeand
taking part in the discussions no matter what
the topic was and a battalion of children
played foot ball at the courtyard and the little
ones played with Daddy’s myna and chased
his pigeons on the terrace. They hovered
above the house patiently, flying round and
round at the sky waiting for a chance to come
back and peck at the grains daddy kept in
little earthen bowls.
Big metal vessels and ladles clattered at
one corner of the sprawling threshold. The
men did the cooking and washed the vessels
at the hosche a rectangular tank with cool tap
water brimming up to the brim where golden
fishes danced under the watermelons and
apples floated on the surface of the water.
Flowers and vegetables of all types stood in
flower pots placed on the four low walls of
the hosche. It was their bagche, a miniature
garden. The women stirred the pots talking
loudly as if it was a feasting day.
Huge cauldrons of rice, meat stew and
sweet dishes stood above the burning fire
wood, spreading the exquisite aroma of
Persian cuisine…. The tempting aroma of

h
freshly made Kebabs and Tanuri Nan… the
mild fragrance of saffron, pistachios, almond,
basil and deep fried onion and garlic in pure
ghee engulfed the whole lane….
First day was a sort of display, somehow
a concealed exhibition of wealth and
hospitality of the girl’s family. Leila’s mother
had taken out the best pottery from their
underground vault, all the antique pieces she
collected from her frequent pilgrimages to
Mecca and Syria… and also the expensive
artifacts she bought from the posh shopping
malls of Dubai; delicately carved sandalwood
statues from India, fine handmade silk sheets
from China, chandeliers from Italy, antique
flower vases from Japan and exquisite ivory
collections from Africa. Things she collected
as Leila’s dowry and items from her own
personal collection were spread out at every
nook and corner of the house.
‘First impression is the best impression’
I told while helping her to place them in
the right place.
“Chikar be first impression darim?” Leila
mother told me.
Asshesays,itwasnotthefirstimpression
that matters…
She had her own reasons.
“You know…? The thing is that, no one
knowstheBourjerdipeopleandtheircustoms
like me. I am from there, one of them…You
know,andtheyareintoformalities…yes kheyli
tharofiyan…”
Shesaidwhiletakingoutthethingsneatly
packed in cellophane papers.
“It is mean and cheap to show the house
bare” and she began to bla bla… how they
entertained guests… how they insisted the
guests to eat... how many dishes they spread
in front of the guests on the sofra and above
all how they dressed and how fair and cute
their women are… misle holu… she repeated
misle holu… misle holu… may be to stress that
their women are peach themselves!
“Oh! Not to mention about their house
keeping! It is number one!”
She said lifting her old palm up to make
a circle in the air with her index finger and
thumb.
And she looked at me sideways taunting
indirectly that I was a good for nothing who
always meddled with books not the utensils
of the house.
“What are these books for?’
Once,oneofhercustomersinthebeauty
parlor asked her …
“Oh! They are my daughter in law’s…”
Leila’s mother said proudly. She always
presented her family with high respect to
others.
Leila was there too threading the face
of a young bride, to paint her face for the
marriage on Thursday evening.
“What do you want from her books?
She is educated. She reads. What is in that? ‘
Leila asked the customer.
“Ok… Ok… Let your sister in law read
thousand books! Grass is sweet in Goat’s
mouth? ... Hahah”
The old lady chuckled showing her
broad red gums.
I didn’t understand what she meant by
grass is sweet in Goat’s mouth... I looked at
Leila as usual expecting an explanation. But
she didn’t explain this time.
She just smiled and said.
“Leaveallilliterates...Theyseeeverything
through crisp bank notes and round coins.”
“Well, tell me… I told wrong?”
The customer was not ready to
retreat…Words in the local dialect came
cascading...

h
“You look at your mother... Is she
educated? No… she doesn’t walk and sleep
with books… but she has this beauty parlor...
how much does she earn. Tell me… By God’s
promise you say how much your mother
earns monthly? One million… two millions
Thumans ! …even more if she gets order for
bride’s make up. For God’s sake tell me... is it
not like that?”
The old woman went on babbling about
how much importance the women give for
their look, how the women take care of their
beauty, even if they don’t have money to eat
they go to beauty parlor to thread their face,
wax their feet off the unwanted hair and paint
their face to look more fair and beautiful for
theirhusbands.Awomanshouldmaintainher
beauty for her husband, if she wants him not
to think of a second wife.
I sat there frozen though I knew the
woman didn’t want to make me feel ashamed
or disgusted…. She wanted to stress money
and beauty as the essence of life, a one way
ticket for a woman …for her gratifications in
life. Having a man and money makes life
worthliving!Asiftostressthepointsheturned
to me…
“Look ... girl, one thing I will tell you…
if you were coming here with or without a
degree, it didn’t matter. But if you knew the
basic lessons of Indian or Chinese astrology
you could be a milliner in a year. I myself
would have brought for you customers”.
The other customers waiting for their
turn certified the woman in unison;
“Areh…areh..We too would have come
to read our hands.”
Well, who doesn’t like their future to be
told!
Leila’s mother spent her entire life with
female customers in the beauty parlor and
knew how other people would talk about her
daughter if she didn’t prepare a grand
betrothal ceremony. She first announced it in
thebeautyparlor,thentotheneighbors,found
time to ring to all family members and finally
instructed all the other daughters to come in
advance and help. They came giggling and
together they scrubbed the floor, washed the
rugs,curtains...polishedthefurniture... spread
out all the antiques and stored items their
mother guarded in the underground vault of
theirhouse.
The house stood ready before Hamid
and his battalions arrive... Everyone ate and
praisedherhousekeepingtalentsandshewent
on repeating…
“Don’t mention… don’t mention… I
didn’t do anything… it is all Leila’s work…
she helps you know...”
Finally they sat down to fix the date for
marriage, Mehriye and the sheer baha . While
discussingaboutMehriyeahostilewindbegan
to blow in the hitherto friendly fields...
Only Hamid told..
“Bashe..bashe…” giving his consent by
repeating the word ok..ok….
“Chi bashe…? Uncle shouted …”. What
ok is that? Hamid alone can not decide.. It is
after all a family business.”
Father,mother,uncles,aunts…brothers,
sisters and their spouses all did spill their
disgust in unison.
“Where in the world people ask such a
Mehriye..?”
Hamid mother’s screeching voice was
above all… everyone one uttered only one
word..
“Mehriye…!”
And one unanswered question seemed
vibrating there…
“Who will demand a Mehriye like this?”

h
What a Mehriye… !!!
Anditechoedoutintothecourtyardand
into the lane…
“Get up… lets go...”
The grand uncle of Hamid got up...
Shouting...
“As if it is the first marriage in the
world..The only girl in the world... !!!... How
funny! Strange Mehriye for a pickled girl”
“La ilaha illalah…Estakh froullah ! God
forbid!...
He hit his own forehead and bit his
tongue several times, repenting, for being ill
spoken.
Oh what happened…? What will
happen? The guests whispered to each other.
Like the inmates of a beehive suddenly
attacked, they hovered over and changed
paces whizzing just one word.
Mehriye…Mehriye…
It echoed there like the calls of cursed
Nymph,Echo…vibrating…atthecourtyard,
at the lane; taking momentum it flow in to
the alleys and streets and then rapidly spread
out into the vast wilderness of pine groves
stoodbeyondtheAndimeshkRailwaystation.
At last I asked him “Ye sub gad bad! kya
huva?” in Hindi for others not to understand.
Hewhisperedasifitisnothingserious…
“Nothing… My parents wanted
Hamid’s family to keep dowry equal to Leila’s
birth year… all in Gold coins apart from a
villa and apple orchards in Bourjerd…”
Suddenly, I remembered the day two
priests came from the nearby Masjed to read
the akt…
It was many years ago. Yes they too used
the same word “Mehriye” and went on
arguing behind the partition that divided the
males and females of the gathering mostly
his young countrymen who came to study
abroad. At last one of his friends convinced
the priests saying if the bride and groom are
agreedforthecontract,whattheproblemwith
the priests is.
“It is the right of any girl to have
Mehriye…” said the priests.
At last one of the priests peeped through
thenarrowcarvingsof thepartitionandasked..
“You agree to marry him …?”
When the priest got the positive answer
he asked again..:
“And no Mehriye..?”
Was he asking for no objections to
marry? I didn’t know.
Whatever it meant, my silence was
consent and the papers were signed. The
priests announced us married before they
went back to the Mosque they came from.
A week later he took me to that part of
the bazaars of Bombay where strands and
strands of vibrant yellow marigolds, tube
roses and Jasmine flowers hung from the
doors and shop windows. Bearded men
leaned on their velvet cushions and greeted
each other,
‘Salamaleikum’ and
‘Aleikumsalam’.
Seated on giant white cushions they
addressed everyone ‘bai’ and ‘behen’ and sold
agarbethis and cheap perfumes. The narrow
lanes were lined with little shops sold all sorts
of glittering items, glass bangles, knitted caps,
Burkhas, Mehendi and Ja-namaz . People jostled
and vendors bargained, and the whole place
reeked with sweat, dirt and a peculiar odor
of camphor, agarbethis and cheap attars.
He stopped near a shop which looked
likeaminimosquebutsoldbookswhichwere
written in a font and language I could not
read. He bought a book and handed over to
me... The green and golden letters on the

h
brown and green cover sparkled in big
glittering font “Holy Quran”.
“Whatwasthehurry?Couldbuyitlater.”
I told him clasping the English –Arabic
Quran.
“It is your Mehriye. My parents told,
write a Quran and a rose flower as Mehriye”.
I was thrilled then, so exited to have a
book in strange font and sweet smelling fresh
flowers. I began to sense a new found bond,
honor, love and respect.
But now, years later, living in a faraway
land IwentnumbasthoughitwasanOracle,
an answer to the riddle which never had been
answered before… a great truth and a secret
thatshroudeduscamecascadinglikeaflashing
thunderbolt of Zeus. I saw the earth begin to
crack open revealing the great hole down the
earthwherethedarkStyxflewandtheshadow
of a ferry man waiting for me. Is it Charon
rowing towards me? Everything happened in
a split second, just after I have seen Hamid’s
family stepping out of the house shouting …
“What a Mehriye…!! Phoooo!!!” they
spat on the ground in sheer contempt. And
behind them positioned Leila’s mother like
giantCyclops,chasingthemawayshouting…
“What you all thought? I will ask for a
petty flower that fades and go as Leila’s
Mehriye? I didn’t get my daughter on the way..
Mehriye is the worth of a Girl… Leila costs
more than this Mehriye we asked..!!!!...”
<pushpaz@yahoo.co.in>
ooo
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
P. Vijayalakshmi Pandit (Telangana-India)
Those sacred hands,
Brought up me,
With tender care and
Unconditional love.
Those hands Consoled me,
Wiping my tears,
When I was a child
And afraid of unknown.
They are the hands,
Hold my small hand
And made me put my
First step on the ground.
Those are the hands
Guided my little hand
To write “A” “ Aaa”on my
First slate first time.
They are the hands,
Of my first Guru; my mother;
Made me spell the
First word of love “Amma”.
They are the hands that fed me with love
And patience narrating amusing stories.
They are the hands
Hug me when I matured,
And educated me, the
Way I built my character.
Those are the hands,
Blessed us in my marriage,
And helped us, to build our sweet home.
They are the hands,
That nurtured my children,
With great love and care;
The un tired holy hands .
They are none other than
The divine hands of God;
That created as mother’s hands
To take care of his progeny.
<p.vijayalakshmipandit@gmail.com>
ooo
Read and subscribe
LABYRINTH ISNN 0976-0814
Editor : Lata Mishra
PG Dept. of English & Research,
Govt. KRG (Autonomous) PG College
Gwalior (Madhya Pradesh)-India
Ph. +97531-30161
email : dr.lata.mishra@gmail.com

h
Mr. Roy was software professional in a
multinational company. He was a very busy
man. He had only one son, Raghav who had
justcompletedsecondaryschool.Mr.Royhad
applied for study leave under the Quality
Improvement Program of the company and
joined a research program in IIT Roorkee in
the department of computer science. So he
moved to a married research scholars’ wing
of the IIT campus with his family.
Hissongotadmissioninstandardelevenin
the Roorkee branch of the same chain of
missionaryschools.Hehadadotingmotherand
apetdogforcompany.Thefatherwaslikelyto
be busy all day and all evening working on his
researchproject.Heneededtoattendclasseslike
a student once again and made a great uproar
about it every day. In the eyes of the son, who
attendedfivehoursofschooldailyanddidvery
wellinstudies,thefatherwasindeedajoker.His
motherhadthehabitofsayingthatRaghavhad
inheritedhisfather’sbrainsbutnowsheexpressed
some doubt. Now it appeared that probably
thelittleeducatedmotheractuallyshowedsigns
of the kind of patience the son displayed
regardingstudieswhilethefathermadelongfaces
andcribbedandcomplainedlikeatoddlerwho
goes to school for the first time and gets
homework to do.
However, the father doted on his son and
was ready to do anything for his wellbeing.
One day the boy fell ill. He vomited endlessly
andthedoctordiagnosedfoodpoisoning.The
father got very angry with the son. He asked
him where he had got rotten food. Raghav
hadnoreadyanswer.Herecalledhavingtasted
a friend’s tiffin; that was all from outside. All
that he ate was his mother’s preparations. Mr.
Roy loved his wife too and would not accept
that she could have served him rotten food.
So he gave up the research on the cause of his
illness and concentrated on the cure.
A few months later, Raghav met with an
accident too. This time Raghav did not get a
scolding from his father. He was riding his
bicycle to school as usual when a bullock cart
crossed the road all of a sudden. Since Raghav
had to apply the brake suddenly the brake
string of his bicycle broke and he headed
straight for the rear of the cart. He suffered
from some bruises and did not avoid going
toschool.Butwhenhiswoundbegantoswell,
his teacher sent him home. This too was a
minorinfectionbuthisfathercamehomeand
nursed him like a baby.
Mrs. Roy believed in astrology. She had
been consulting a pundit in her hometown
regarding everything in her life. Her mother
Death by Water
Anuradha Bhattacharyya
A Short-Story
Dr. Anuradha Bhattacharyya is a creative writer of international repute, who
has been widely published in India, U.S.A, Spain and Australia. She is Assistant
Professor of English in Postgraduate Government College, Sec-11, Chandigarh.
She has authored seven books. They are The Lacanian Author, The Road Taken - a
novel, published by Creative Crows, New Delhi and 3 collections of poetry
published by Writers Workshop,Kolkata, namely – FiftyFive Poems, Knots and Lofty
- to fill up a cultural chasm. Her book on European Literature with special concern
for Indian (Hindu) readers is due in 2016. Over 30 poems and 10 short stories
of hers are available online in various international anthologies and journals.
Her latest novel is titled One Word.

Kafla text summer.2015

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