Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Stories

The Cartographer

Praniti Gulyani journeys back to Godhra riots in 2002 Gujarat with her unusual narrative.

There was something absolutely strange about our next door neighbours, yet whenever I’d bring this apparently important issue up on the dinner table, my parents would reprimand me almost instantly. And despite their strangeness, I could not resist venturing into their house whenever time would permit me. There was this inbuilt magnet within me, which automatically pulled me towards all things bizarre. My next-door neighbours were a man and a woman, though in my initial years with them, I could never, ever figure out if they were related, and most importantly, how they were related. The man was a pleasant character, who had a big billboard with the word ‘Mr Noor – Cartographer’ imprinted on it, and pasted outside his door.

Every evening, he’d begin to take me around the map that he’d drawn the night before. As I’d glance over his hunched shoulders and look at the yellowing chart paper clipped to the huge slab of wood which was propped up against his knees, I’d witness a labyrinth of squiggles and scribbles, struggling to navigate my way. Yet, when I’d tell him so, he’d look at me with condescending glares and tell me, that just because I could not see his countries and continents, that didn’t mean that they do not exist. And then, when I’d shake my head in disbelief and walk out of his room, he’d throw his head back and burst into song.

I’ve spent many afternoons thinking about him and his absolutely extraordinary ideas and conversations, yet I’ve never been able to put my finger on the essential truth of the situation. By day, he was a prim and proper businessman, his shirt ironed to such immense precision, that it would almost make his onlookers uneasy. He’d sit through his meetings with a poker-straight back, his fingers drumming a slow metallic tune on the keyboard of his laptop. And when the moon would wedge itself into the entangled embroidery of the sky like a piece of cold, grey stone, he’d burst into his apartment, change into his loose, light-hearted night clothes , draw out his board, and continue working on what he called the map of his world. His eyes would sparkle with a silvery flame which made me feel as though the gibbous moon was softly flickering within his being. After all, the wilderness, the insanity of the flame was such.

He has a wife, as I later learnt — a simple, Indian woman who’d usually be found clad in a colorful jeans and kurta, who’d spend her days in the attic reading and writing. Both of them were two absolutely different individuals or rather living in absolutely different worlds under a common roof.  But at least, each individual world had space to grow and flourish. A few days ago, before Diwali — our festival of lights, I decided to pay this curious duo a visit.

Being a writer at heart, I’ve always believed that within the soul of every writer, there is a net crusted with starlight and moonlight. It is within this net, ideas, dreams and thoughts get entangled, and from there, they gradually flow out on paper. The sky was bruised with deep purple shades that looked almost ugly and threatening. I rang the doorbell – once, twice as the resounding chime cut through the silence. Yet, it seemed as though no one was at home. Instead, the white door striped with green paint and decorated with glow in the dark stars was partly open, and a string of shadows seemed to be floating out, silently. . .

The silence engulfed with its intense. I could almost hear the scrape of shadows against the wooden boards of the floor. With bated breath, I tiptoed inside. My eyes took at the messy garden, the confusion of wild grass that seemed to hold a million secrets entangled within its interior darkness, and a winding flight of stairs that seemed to curve into the infinity of the rich, purple sky. Almost instinctively, I began the journey up that flight of stairs. It seemed as though the stairs were calling out to me, in soft, low pitched voices, as they silently led me to his room. For a moment, I felt as though the stairs of his room had transformed into this silent companion, who was taking me by the hand and leading me to a place which was probably my destination. But instead, this companion did not converse with me in loud, exuberant tones. Instead, he just looked me in the eye and assured me that whatever happens, all would definitely be well.

His room still had its traditional, everyday yellow light on, and as I stepped inside, the characteristic fragrance of lavender incense mingled with freshly brewed coffee filled my lungs. The bedcover was hastily spread into some kind of a mat, upon which a huge, wooden board was propped up. I moved closer to the board, and examined the confusion of squiggles and scribbles that he had created. Now that I was closer to his creations, I noticed how some of the scribbles were especially highlighted with deep orange and crimson shades, and the streaks of this bright colour, were so angry, so furious that it almost seemed as though a fire was roaring within their soul. The wall was covered with partly crumpled wallpaper and I could distinctly make out the words “Welcome back to fairyland” spelt in stumbling, blue ink. Amidst all this, there was a crumpled sheet of paper pasted to whatever portion of wall was remaining. With increased eagerness, I leaned forward to read the sloping, slanting handwriting . . .  .

Dear Baby,

I hope you read this letter sometime in your life. I know that after reading this letter, you will feel as though your mother is the worst mother in this entire world and possibly you will be happy that your mother is no more. But, I just want you to know that your mother has left behind a story which she wants you to read, absorb and experience. This story is very special to your mother, dear child. Because this story is about you, the only person that your mother could call her own. Always remember that every child is an extension of their mother, and oh, the pride it gives to me merely write this sentence . . .  that you are an extension of me!

As I write this, you are squirming in a partially broken cradle that a passerby was kind enough to lend me. So, it all began on a warm, winter’s afternoon towards the end of February, when your father and I were returning to our hometown in Gujarat, from the temple of Ayodhya. You were in my belly, alive and kicking, and the sudden jolts that you would bestow upon me would make my world jerk to a sudden halt, and you know, in that pause, I’d see all the goodness in this world, all the rainbows, all the sunshine, all the stars. That’s the effect you had on me, my love. And then, as our train neared our home, you began kicking even more, even harder. I felt as though you wanted to come out of me right away, and make the world your own. I held onto the metal bars of the train, my breath reduced to short, sharp wheezes. I felt as though you would tear my belly apart and just dash out of my being. Then, the waves of pain intensified to such a great extent, I was sure I could not take it anymore. God wanted you to be born in a train cabin, my dear child, and He sent people to ensure that His wish became a reality.

There was a midwife in the next cabin, and she heard my cries. The men were cleared out, and I was made to lie down on the seats. After what seemed like forever, she drew you out, and I still distinctly remember seeing you . . .  your little tomato-like face was lit by the rusty rays of sunlight that scraped the train window and your lips were full with the crimson moonlight of the evening crescent. My eyes brimmed over with tears, as you were placed in my arms. I wanted to hold you to my heart, cover your forehead with a crown of kisses, and whisper all the prayers I knew into your tiny ears.

And, as I drew you close, a resounding thud echoed around us. There were flames everywhere, furious, angry flames that rose up and seemed to touch the sky, setting the clouds aflame. The world that you had entered a few minutes ago had been calm and stable, my dear child, but that very world had somersaulted into a chaotic, fiery, murderous mess. Your father burst into the cabin, and pulled me out, enveloping me in his arms, wrapping you in his coat. The stench of burning cabins, burning bodies was everywhere, and I could almost taste it. I felt an upcoming surge of nausea in my throat, and my eyes brimmed over, clouded with hefty mountains of smoke. I was coughing, wheezing, trembling, and amidst all of this, I was trying to hold onto you with all my might. I felt as though I was about to drop you.

The flames smacked me on my cheek, dear baby, and I remember putting my fingers straight into the fire, just so that I could prop up your father’s coat over your writhing body. My dear baby, your first glimpses of the world were squiggles, scribbles of consuming flames, and you were in the absolute centre of this fiery labyrinth. This was your first experience in the world, and I am so sorry for this. As I write this, I am partially lying down on a hospital bed. My cheeks, my neck, and my lips are all burnt, and I know that I don’t have much time to live. I can almost taste my bruises, my burns, my wounds . . . 

But, I am so happy I could save you. There are burns on your tender cheeks, but they are like moles. I am sure that a well wisher will tell you that these are mere birthmarks. I hope you will believe them.

Maybe what happened with us, what happened with you will be splashed across newspapers, and maybe your insides cringe when you learn that you were such an essential part of such a gruesome incident, and that too, in the initial hours of your life. I don’t know what people will call this. Will they call it riots? Will they call it a war? Will they call it . . . I hate to write it here, baby, but will they call it a Hindu – Muslim conflict?

If they do, my child, I just want you to remember that the person who placed your little, crying body in this cradle was a lady in a black curtain. Not only that, she also rocked you and held you in her lap, while your mother’s wounds were being looked after. Always remember that your second mother was a lady in a black curtain. And, isn’t this so very beautiful, my child? Motherhood is an essence which surpasses all boundaries of religion. And you know, after my wounds and burns were filled to the best of the on the spot medical fraternities abilities, your second mother kissed you on your forehead and asked me to name you ‘Noor’. She told me that you have precious gemstones shimmering in your eyes. And, so right she was!

Also, no matter what happens, I hope you build your home in our Gujarat, or at least visit this place thrice a year. It is an absolutely beautiful place, and I wish that you embrace your hometown with the joy and love that your mother and your father both did. Perhaps, your vision will be clouded with unfortunate memories after you read my letter, but let me tell you – that you’ve been living in Gujarat since the moment you were a mere fetus in me. And I know that Gujarat will reach out to you and call out to you, her child, in her soft, melodious voice.  . . . .

Let me seal this letter with a kiss. I hope you can forgive me for what you went through. I wish that this mess of fire and flames, fiery squiggles and scribbles did not have to make up your first bit and first memory of this world. Do you know what, baby? There is positivity in everything around us. Even amidst this murderous confusion. Even amidst this chaos of death and agony.

At least you can live your life knowing that you had a mother who held you close.

If not a life full of joy and love, at least I could give you this thought . . . .

Yours,

Maa

I was absolutely taken aback. I backpedalled, and all the words that would fill the space called my heart with initial ease, had almost disappeared. My eyes brimmed over with tears, as a pulsating river of sobs began to throb in my throat. My gaze drifted back to his squiggles and scribbles, and I could almost hear him telling me about his map. He’d been mapping out his world, a world that he’d lived and experienced. He’d been born from the flames.

“It is a surprise to see you beside my map’’ a baritone voice called from behind me. I saw him standing behind me, a slight smile on his beautiful face. I couldn’t answer. My face was an entangled mess of emotions, tears and joy. With one look at me, he understood everything. He picked up his wooden slab, lifted his pencil, and continued sketching and painting with all his might. “I am no less than a cartographer. It’s just that normal cartographers map out countries and continents, and I put forth unseen worlds on paper….’’ he whispered, mostly to himself, partly to me. He began talking about different shades of orange, the perfect mixture of grey to create the smoke, but paused as he thought long and hard about the colours to use, to paint his mother. . .

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Praniti Gulyani is an aspiring poet from New Delhi. She enjoys debating, theatre and fiction . She believes in voicing her opinions through her stories and poems, and sees literature as the strongest and most beautiful form of protest. Her book ‘Sixteen Drops of Ink’ was published by The Impish Lass Publishing House in August 2020.

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Categories
Poetry

Lingering Sounds and Scents…

By Hema Ravi

Grandma’s house resonates with distinct sounds and scents

of agarbathis* and aromatic spice(s)

In gleaming tins and porcelain jars the contents

were stored, hand-pounded by grandma, all in a trice.

The ‘clang’ on the brass filter ere decoction fresh

added to creamy milk with aroma pleasant

for heavenly ‘kaapi*’ to start each day afresh

Tumblers filled and emptied, brought smiles effervescent.

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While grandma meditated with large pots and pans

Grandpa pored over religious texts for long hours

Our play would halt when we had to wash feet and hands

In prayer we stood; to deities, offered flowers.

In that easy chair sat Grandpa under the large neem

post the sumptuous dinner, it was story-time.

As the full moon in the sky continued to beam

We sat all eyes and ears, until it was bedtime.

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Guavas and mangoes have gone; neem tree’s survived

Continues to invite the parakeets and crows

ammi and aattukkal* shelved when the mixer arrived

What happened to the assortment of pans, God knows!

The memories lie frozen in pictures of the past.

Now trendy, the large mansion does have its appeal

Technology had cast its spell on all too fast.

Progeny elated — they have got a square deal!

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*Agarbathis: joss sticks used in prayer.

*Ammi, aattukkal: grinding stone

*kaapi: Cofee

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Hema Ravi is a poet, author, reviewer, editor (Efflorescence), resource person and independent researcher. Her writings have been featured in several online and international print journals, notable among them being the Metverse Muse, Amaravati Poetic Prism, International Writers Journal (USA), Culture and Quest (ISISAR).  She is a freelancer for IELTS and Communicative English.

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Categories
Musings

Of Cats, Classes, Work and Rest

By Nishi Pulugurtha

On the step of the building just opposite my living room window is a cat. A beautiful tabby that is in repose – a blissful repose, it seems, as I struggle to deal with things online. Examinations, messages, mails, calls, meetings, discussions – they just seem to go on. Beyond working hours, on Sundays too – yes, they do keep me busy, maybe keep me sane, however, at the same time they are tiring and exhausting. I attend sessions which tell me of various technical aspects of the online platforms that supposedly will make things easier, my take on them —  they seem to be even more complicated.

The cats are not my pets. It is just that I like to observe things around me and working from home my views are limited these days. One of my neighbours has about four pet cats, I can hear her calling out to them – Chini, Mini, Kini, Tini. I hear them purr in response to the call. They snuggle around her feet as she walks out. She picks up one, cuddles it and then picks up another. I see her kneeling and talking to them. That conversation goes on for a while. I hear all kinds of noises – human and feline. She goes in and gets to work and the felines decide to remain in the compound. I guess they want some more of the sun – it is scorching still but that does not seem to stop them.

One of them crawls into the green space in front. She seems to be looking for something — maybe she did get a scent of something that could be a delicious afternoon meal or snack. There is a big noise, an uproar, you could say. That is my other neighbour. I hear her go on. She seems to be shouting at someone. I can clearly understand that she is trying to drive something out of her house. She hollers out to her husband to close the kitchen door. She has just finished her cooking. Well, one of the felines decided to visit neighbours and that was the reason for the commotion.  Inspite of all this shouting and hollering, Mita makes it a point to mix a little bit of leftover rice and some fish bones every day after lunch. She puts this in bowls and puts them out in a small dish near the steps. Slowly the cats venture forth. She has been doing this for years now. She has a late lunch, a very late lunch.

I am in between classes then, online classes and need a cup of tea to cheer me up. As I make myself a cup, I see her walking towards that empty space, bowl in hand and a few of the felines following her. She is no longer shouting at them. Rather, she is talking to them, asking them to wait for a while. She leisurely walks, greeting someone in the distant window. As she puts the food, the felines get busy.

Mita decides to catch up on some conversation with the lady who lives upstairs. As I put on my headphones, I can hear their voices. I am off to another world, a virtual one – my classroom these days. The class consists of new students who are more than lost in all this huge virtual space. I tell them I am in as much trouble as they are in. I am still trying to negotiate my way through this maze of platforms, learning something, trying to learn and not always succeeding. They are quiet for some time, and then I see a message in the chat box. I answer, ask them to speak one by one. I have the list of names on a list, a list that has numbers too – numbers that confuse. This is the first time I am unable to associate the name with the person. I have never seen them, do not know when I will meet them in a classroom.

Room 212 on the second floor, a big, warm, airy room that in the summer months burns, is the allotted classroom for my students. The windows of the room look out to the huge playground. A lot of activity is seen there. A lot of noise too, that disturbs my class. I need to raise my voice to be heard by all. A couple of huge trees stand between the windows and the playground — trees that are home to beautiful pigeons and mynahs. Between the trees and the huge playground is a narrow path that meanders around the playground, branching off at two places. That physical space of my college and the classroom, the space beyond lingers on in my mind as I talk to these students who have just joined college. They have not been to the college. All they have seen are images in the virtual world. We go on trying to make some sense of things.

When it is done for the day, I still have work to be done, attendance and the like – there are still things that I need to attend to. I hear the sounds of the cats purring. They are all under my car that is parked just outside the window. It has been parked for most of the time in the past few months. The space beneath the car is the favourite afternoon siesta time for the cats. They play, they rest in the much cooler space there — nice and cozy too. As I walk on the terrace in the evenings to take a break from work, the two little girls on the neighbours terrace call out to me and point to two cats high up on a ledge. Like these two little ones they are at play too. A little later the cats are near the red toy teddy that has been discarded and tied to a pole on the terrace of the house opposite, their play still on.

Dusk settles in and the autumnal sky hues bring in much colour. The clouds, the setting sun, and that all those exuberant colours remain for a while. The cats are in by now. I know I will hear their names being called out again a little while later, at dinner time. As it gets dark and I turn towards the stairs I see a pair of bright eyes sparkle on the verandah grill – comfortably at rest.

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Nishi Pulugurtha is an academic and writes on travel, film, short stories, poetry and on Alzheimer’s Disease. Her work has been published in various journals and magazines. She has a monograph on Derozio (2010), guest edited the June 2018 Issue of Café Dissensus and has a collection of essays on travel, Out in the Open (2019). Her recent book is an edited volume of essays on travel, Across and Beyond  (2020). She is now working on her first volume of poems.

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Categories
Humour Poetry

Writer’s DUI

By Penny Wilkes

I grip the wheel stung

by consonants and vowels.

Nouns smudge the windshield.

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As windows swarm with phrases

Verbs whine, bite and beg me

to pick up a pen at 65 mph.

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“Write me. Me. Me. Me.”

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Ideas flash and honk my horn,

they force swerves and street slaloms

as I sing to stay on the road.

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When mind fireflies go incandescent,

I beg for red lights or stop signs.

Oh, let traffic slow.

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On manic freeways

No stopping places

When the buzz heightens.

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If I’m cuffed for DUI* when writing,

will the kind officer trade the ticket

for a signature on my poem?

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*DUI – Driving Under Influence is punishable as it involves driving a car while impaired by alcohol or other drugs (including recreational drugs and those prescribed by physicians), to a level that renders the driver incapable of driving safely.

Penny Wilkes, MFA, served as a science editor, travel and nature writer and columnist. Along with short stories, her features on humour and animal behaviour have appeared in a variety of publications. An award-winning writer and poet, she has published a collection of short stories, Seven Smooth Stones. Her published poetry collections include: Whispers from the Land, In Spite of War, and Flying Lessons. Her Blog on The Write Life features life skills, creativity, and writing:  http://penjaminswriteway.blogspot.com/

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Categories
Review

Fighting Fascism with Poetry

Review by Candice Louisa Daquin

Title: Lastbench, North American protest edition,

Editor: Tanvir Ratul

Publisher: AntiVirus Publication www.lastbench.org, November 2020

Lastbench is an anthology written in the time of Trump and Covid-19, acting as a voice for those who are frustrated with the news cycle, wishing for something more visceral. It is unapologetically against Trump and considers his Presidency to be the terror that began the downfall. Whether true or not, this is the slant of this publication and it will appeal to those who feel similarly and are frustrated by the current office. That said, it’s aware things will not change simply because a President changes. Many of the issues brought up, are systemic.

If you are looking to read a collection of poets who explore the myriad ways of frustration against the current administration and the over-all ineffectiveness of politics en mass, you may find a lot here to sink your teeth into. Irrespective of which political hat you wear, you cannot fail to appreciate the solid authorship of the writers involved in this inaugural issue. Clearly the editor has gone out of his way to ensure those who were featured were the very best writers he had, and the writing is impressive.

I particularly appreciated the IMMEDIACY of this publication, you feel as if you are reading in ‘real time’ – this highlighted in Jennifer Lagier’s piece, ‘A New War’, that begins with a quote from Michael Cohen, “I fear if he loses the election in 2020, there will never be a peaceful transition of power.” Let’s hope the prophecy isn’t true, but either way, we’re in the moment, the writing is now, the authors are current, this is why we have technology, and this is how Lastbench is relevant and interesting.

With such publications, poetry needs to have that edited, clear, precision that speaks to the point immediately and cuts to the chase. If it goes on too much, we lose focus, because this is all about the punchline, the bottom line, the key points, the overview of what is occurring. We don’t want massive detail; we want provocative thoughts, and this is how this publication reads.

Personally, it doesn’t matter whether I agree with the politics or not, I can appreciate the voice and what is being described through poetry, as well as the humor and horror behind it. This is a writ of 2020 and it’s deeply relevant because of its collective moment.

On a purely poetic appreciation level, I really liked Mary Ellen Talley’s piece, ‘Fools Like Me’ for its simplicity, and jarring vernacular, it’s a classic resistance poem that could have been written in WW2 as easily as now, but has the edge of today, and the sorrow of loss etched all over it. I must really like Talley’s work because her second piece, ‘Veering from a Villanelle’ was equally haunting to me. The line: “Come again, USA, nation of truce, nation of trust” was chilling.

‘Love Letter to the President’, by John Milkereit, was another modern horror/humor mixture that I appreciated for its sardonic wit and deft amusement with reality. So many memorable lines like: “I can’t love you as much as I love a stranger, / or Joseph Stalin’s ghost might be watching.” It’s hard to go wrong with writing like that, veering on the classic.

Some pieces didn’t do anything for me, but I’m sure others could find a lot in them, it’s all about what you’re feeling as you read them and how they relate to your own ideas at the time, as much as how stellar they are literally. For example, I could see what Tom Montgomery was trying to do with ‘untitled’, but I felt ultimately it just read like a dull version of a children’s rhyme and it didn’t catch me beyond that. Compared to this, Marianne Weltman’s ‘Make America Great Again Songbook’ was incredibly clever and very funny, she really took the genre of a children’s rhyme and made it work with the idea of Trump’s campaign slogan as key theme. The lines I found most compelling; “This Land is Your land, This Land is My land / In a prison van to Riker’s Island / Ave Maria, Holy Mother take pity / On asylum seekers lost in this city.” A very, very smart blend of reality and children’s song, leaving you wondering and slightly horrified by the depiction. The core question Dustin Pickering begs in Snake/Shutdown “why did we nourish him? / why did our nation bend?” Lines like these will resonate with those seeking comrades in arms, or just an alternative voice to the mainstream narrative.

‘Summer in Trump’s America’ by Marianne Szlyk, is a haunting version of today’s emptied streets and whether you argue in favor of Trump being culpable in some way for Covid-19 or not, you can appreciate Szlyk’s portrayal of those abandoned streets – as we have all seen them. In Jim Cox’s poem, ‘Earth Day’, we see the other ways writers blame Trump for global-warming and his responses thus, and whilst I am not a huge fan of rhyming, Cox does a terrific job, making something awful, humorous and then reframing it and begging the question, when will it end? Leszek Chudziński’s beautiful poem, ‘Refills Are Free’, really struck a deep chord, it’s a classic poem you’ll think of long after you’ve finished reading with lines like: “Where food is good / And suffering discernible.”

Equally, any survivor will find much in Kelli Russell Agodon’s brave piece, ‘When I Look Into The Face Of The President Of The United States, What I See Is My Trauma Walking Around’. I won’t spoil everything by detailing what I appreciated in each, but there is a little bit for everyone and some enormously talented writers therein. Often when you read a collection of poetry by different poets, you wonder why half of them were included, not so here. The editor(s) have done a superb job of collating the very best, the very now of writing and if poems like Thomas Brush’s “Legacy, don’t stay in your head for hours afterward, percolating and querying at the deepest levels, I don’t know what would.”

I won’t go through all the poems, although I could, and I’d enjoy doing so, which in of itself proves the readability and relevance of this publication. Suffice to say, there are gems here that any vantage point will get something from, and stellar writers with sound awareness of what it takes to write a good poem, irrespective almost, of what you are writing about. Margaret Shafer Paul Shafer, in ‘January 1st’, give a voice to those who do not fit the label of ‘minority’ but feel as disenfranchised by recent events, Cheryl Latif in her blazing poem, ‘Searching for America’, really stunned me with an anthem of these times, so many Americans will relate to, I don’t want to say more, just read and you’ll see. If nothing else, this is half or more of America and what they are thinking, feeling, saying and it’s wise for everyone to listen, because to do less is to miss half of this country’s voices.

There’s even a manifesto at the end, I’ll leave that for you to find. I stand with Rose Drew on this salient last word; “Can’t watch the news but I’m not defeated.”

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Candice Louisa Daquin is a Sephardi immigrant from France who lives in the American Southwest. Formerly in publishing, Daquin is now a Psychotherapist and Editor, having worked in Europe, Canada and the USA. Daquins own work is also published widely, she has written five books of poetry, the last published by Finishing Line Press called Pinch the Lock. Her website is www thefeatheredsleep.com

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Categories
Poetry

I Fear

By Nayonika

I’d fear the day when I would have to choose —

Between my beliefs and my beloved.

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I’d condemn such an existence,

Where I’m trapped,

Between the abyss of resentment,

And the restless waves of unforgiveness.

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I’d abhor if ever there came a time —

When I’d only mimic someone else’s plan.

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I’d pity such a person,

if so I ever became such,

Who’d only see the world as black and white.

I’d shun such a being, if ever I lost my own respect,

For it’d mean I gambled away my whole wealth.

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I’d want not such wits,

Where neither a sincere purpose nor a noble thought sits.

I’d dread such an unfortunate life, where

Expectation refuses to meet us; even half-way.

And I’d frown upon the day

That I’d only evoke scorn, no longer envy.

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But most of all,

I’d cease to be–

If ever I lost the spirit to raise my voice,

The unquestionable ability to rejoice,

And the simple liberty of choice.

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Nayonika is a Mechanical Engineering student from Guntur, Andhra Pradesh. She writes to express myself. She also is a passionate reader and an avid gardener.

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Categories
Ghumi Stories

At Par in the Pandemic

Nabanita Sengupta explores the impact of COVID19 in the small town of Ghumi that she has created

Ghumi, the small town, had always thrived on close social interactions. When the world was hanging out in shopping malls and cineplexes, Ghumians continued to entertain themselves by visiting each other’s houses or gathering at their only club for a game of cards or for reading or to simply chitchat. A lifestyle that was old yet treasured had continued and a colonial aura with its associated languor still hung in the air. It was a world in itself — contained and calm to the point of  collective lethargy. 

Raya wondered, sitting at her thirteenth floor balcony in a South Kolkata locality, of how Ghumi was coping with the current wave of pandemic and isolation. She thought back to the numerous Sunday afternoons she had spent in the company of family friends, in her house or in theirs; the games they had played as children and loud laughter reverberating throughout the house from the elders’ adda* sessions. School breaks meant sleepovers or lunches with close friends. And evenings meant playground – kabaddi*, lock and key, hide and seek and so much more. 

Even the last visit that she had undertaken a few months back, a trip taken almost after twenty years, had shown her that nothing much had changed in their way of life. As soon as she had stepped out of the train, she felt she had entered a time bubble where everything was at a standstill for the past twenty years. Yet oddly, it did not lag behind the fast moving society outside. In its own pace, it negotiated with the rest of the world. In spite of spending a part of her life here, the leisure paced lifestyle came as a shock to Raya, now used to the hectic city life. 

Raya often thought of her time in Ghumi as a utopia, something that no other place in the world could give her. But it was also a place where one could not return. Going back would mean turning time backwards and that would of course be unsettling in this world of linear progression. Now in the pandemic, as she found herself overflowing with leftover time, she suddenly felt her life had reverted to her days at Ghumi. 

Employed as a saleswoman in a private organisation, most of her time was spent running across the city. Her two-wheeler had become an extension of herself and home meant just a resting place at night. But now, confined to her apartment, she felt strangely liberated, perhaps from the grinding schedule that was slowly eating away her soul. In fact, life had become an oxymoron for her. On the one hand, this sudden lull in time was exhilarating, while on the other, she often had panic attacks — fearing a job termination, a health crisis or a similar personal catastrophe. Like million others, she did not know what the future had in store and hence, for the moment considered it best to live in the present.

Overflowing time, a luxury she had missed since Ghumi days and was now available to her once again, had made her nostalgic about her childhood and teens. Suddenly she found herself transported to that world.

Food during lockdown was one of the first things that made her feel nostalgic. With the fear of infection spreading like wildfire and a self-imposed ban on food bought from outside, her life sought solace in her childhood memories. Ghumi in her childhood had no restaurants or fancy eating places. There were a few sweet and samosa* shops and a few roadside eateries on cart, but they were out of bounds for her. Baba would never allow her to have those ‘unhygienic stuff’ as he called them. So only home cooked food was allowed. But ma was the saviour. She learnt new recipes from her friends there and thus cuisines from various parts of India found a place in their meals. There was never a dull moment for the taste buds. From the tangy rasam* to the continental pudding, all had made their way out of her mother’s kitchen. Also, a visit to any of the friends’ homes always meant a treat of home-cooked delicacies. Hospitality floated in the air of Ghumi. Yet Raya till date had regrets about not having ever tasted those street foods. Imagine, spending years in a place and never ever eating on a roadside eatery there!   

Today as she was rolling out the dough into small circles ready to be fried into fuchkas or panipuris* as they are also called, she couldn’t help thinking back to those wonderful evenings of friends and her mother serving them all fuchkas one by one in their small bowls. That was many years back, yet the memory was bright and clear. She made a mental list of all the delicacies that she was going to include in her lockdown kitchen — dosa, idli, samosa, pudding, pastries, payesh, luchi all found a place there. She was going to hone her culinary skills during this period. 

An alarm jolted her out of her musings. Her phone calendar reminded her of the online reunion that she had this evening with her school mates. On a whim she had also sent an invitation link to one of their ex-classmates still living in Ghumi. They had left him out of their earlier meets due to their pre-conceived notion of poor network connectivity of that place. A quick dash of lipstick, some kohl around her eyes and her favourite danglers in the ears and she was set for the meeting. She often marvelled these days at how minimalistic life has become in the pandemic times. No elaborate dressing up any more, no fancy sandals. She cast a pitiful look towards her closet as she keyed her laptop out of snooze mode. When was the last time since March that she had completely shut it down? 

One by one most of her classmates came online. But the name that surprised her most was Jishan. He had logged in from Ghumi, the only one who had stayed back there, continuing with his father’s business. All her other friends had moved out. She had missed meeting Jishan in her last trip to Ghumi as he was out of town then. Suddenly, everybody was curious to know about Ghumi’s latest state of affairs. Conversation, dripping in past memories, freely flowed. After satisfying all their queries, Jishan added with a smile, “Now finally Ghumi is at par with the world even in terms of socialising. Chased out of malls and cineplexes, you people are also taking resort to chatting with friends as a way of unwinding. We, at Ghumi, have been doing that for ages! Now, when you start taking baby steps towards reclaiming your socialising, I know the first thing that you will start with is calling over a very small group of close friends to your homes, going back to our childhood days of weekend gatherings. And perhaps, you all will cook too, not order from outside, displaying your culinary skills as our parents used to!” And he laughed aloud…

Raya and her friends were all left stunned. This was not how they had thought of the matter, but realised how true it was! Lockdown had forced them to put a brake on their fast moving lives and had taken them back to days when meaningful interactions with close friends in a homely atmosphere was preferred over large gatherings with strangers over fast foods and drinks. A bit of Ghumi was woken up in each of them as they perhaps also realised the mindless pace of life in pre-lockdown days. 

*adda — gossip

*Kabbadi — a game

*Samosa — a savoury

*rasam — a spicy soup

*fuchka or panipuri — a savoury snack

*dosa, idli…luchi — savoury snacks

*payesh — rice pudding

Dr. Nabanita Sengupta is an Assistant Professor in English at Sarsuna College Kolkata. She is a creative writer, a research scholar and a translator. Her areas of interest are Translation Studies, Women Studies, Nineteenth century Women’s writings, etc. She has been involved with translation projects of Sahitya Akademi and Viswa Bharati. Her creative writings, reviews and features have been variously published art Prachya Review, SETU, Muse India, Coldnoon, Café Dissensus, NewsMinute.in, News18.com and Different Truths. She has presented many research papers in India and abroad.

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Categories
Poetry

A Warm Handshake

By Gauri Mishra 

                                  

A Warm Handshake White clouds of steam rising as I exhale, The cold chill of a December morning, A nip in the air, clothing in layers Cold, half-clothed children on the sidewalks and Half-burnt fires dying out amongst people in flocks How different it was – from the warmth of my Mother’s place Where everyone was free to have his own space… Home-baked cookies, warm coffee mugs, Playing carrom on warm earthy rugs. Ah… to be home again was my earnest wish, Swimming in strange waters, was I a goldfish? Turning a corner, I spied an old man… Huddled in a blanket and braving the dust of every passing van He looked ancient, face full of wrinkles But in his eyes I saw a twinkle… He gestured me to come near, In my mind I was nervous, but there was no fear. His cold rough hands held a few marbles Shiny, sparkling pieces of marvel… A crimson red, a sea-green blue, A blazing yellow with a purplish hue My eyes gleamed, as he emptied his treasure Joy knew no bounds; I was full of pleasure. Suddenly home was right there, In all its brightness, lovely and fair… Living alone in foreign lands, Away from home, lost in timeless sands What make life enriching are such chance meetings… A little joy, a shiver of thrill and A gay abandon for my heart to fill… Misery too had its glory and happiness was in every life story. How did he guess that’s all I needed? An endearing smile…a warm handshake No rich offerings, not cookies nor cakes I understood then…what life has to offer, Sometimes comes as a surprise… A beautiful sunset, and a warm sunrise.

Dr Gauri Mishra is teaching as Associate Professor in the department of English at College of Vocational Studies, University of Delhi. She likes to dabble in some poetry and short fiction from time to time. She is very passionate about teaching and also heads the placement cell of her college.

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Categories
Interview

A Woman Who Dares Dream Big

In conversation with Aysha Baqir

Aysha Baqir

Aysha Baqir, an expat in Singapore, grew up in Pakistan. Her time in college sparked a passion for economic development. In 1998 she founded a pioneering not for profit economic development organization, Kaarvan Crafts Foundation, with a mission to alleviate poverty by providing business and marketing training to girls and women in low-income communities. Her novel Beyond the Fields was published in January 2019 and she was invited to launch her book at the Lahore and Karachi Literary Festivals. She and her book were also featured in the Singapore Writers Festival and Money FM Career 360 in Singapore. In this exclusive, she talks of her work in Karvaans and her writing, telling us how it all happened.

You have been working on development of women in Pakistan and writing. Which came first, writing or the developmental work?

My development work in the villages of  South Punjab from 1998 to 2012, in part, inspired me to write the fictional novel, Beyond the Fields.

I grew up in Lahore, Pakistan. Graduating as the valedictorian of my class I won a scholarship to Mount Holyoke College. My classes in International Relations and Economics  sparked a passion for economic development and opened my eyes to the poverty around the world and in my home country, Pakistan.

Upon my return to Pakistan, I saw that the poor didn’t need my sympathy — they needed access to economic resources and networks before they could voice their demands for social justice. In 1998, armed with an MBA from LUMS, I led an enterprise development program that later emerged into a pioneering not for profit economic development organization, Kaarvan Crafts Foundation, focused on poverty alleviation through the provision of business development and market-focused trainings for girls and women in low income communities.

In 2013, I relocated to Singapore. The spark in my writing process came from the time I spent in the villages and the voices of the village women. During the time in the villages, my life interfaced closely with girls and women and my admiration and respect for their determination, strength and humour in times of despair grew immensely — with so little they managed to achieve so much. The characters in the novel are fictional but the voices are real. Zara, the protagonist in Beyond the Fields challenges the roles that have been defined for her, determined instead to persevere, fight for justice, and achieve her dreams.

When and how did Karvaan foundation start? What are the kinds of people you aim to empower and why?

According to the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Report 2019, Pakistan ranks 151th in a list of 153 countries. The institutional and structural provisions for women to live their lives are non-existent, and there is a dearth of basic freedom for women across the country. Kaarvan Crafts Foundation is a not-for-profit organization based out of Lahore Pakistan
that works for the empowerment of women while implementing United Nation’s Sustainable Development Goal 5, to achieve gender equality and empower all women and girls on the ground in Pakistan.

I founded Kaarvan Foundation in 2004 with the objective to strive towards global development goals on a local level by creating opportunities for income generation among girls and women in poor communities, by strengthening their skills, business capacities, thereby facilitating them in accessing market linkages and economic opportunities and improving their quality of life and that of their families. The Foundation works in over 1000 villages across 15 districts in Pakistan. It has trained over 24,000 women entrepreneurs in 250 development centers and linked over 8000 women sales agents to markets to date.

Tell us about the work this foundation is doing. How many volunteers do you have?

The Foundation is a Not for Profit Company that trains girls and women to access market opportunities directly through providing them with the relevant focused trainings under Value Chain Development Programs. The Foundation has full time and project employees and encourages volunteers to join the summer internship program.

You have many sponsors. How do these sponsorships help you?

Kaarvan Foundation works with international aid agencies to implement programs that enable women and girls to directly access market opportunities.  The International Sponsorships provide funds to the Foundation to implement the projects and the benefits of accessing markets and getting orders continue to accrue to the girls and women long after the projects close.

Living in Singapore, are you able to still contribute to Karvaans? If so, how?

I continue to be on the Board of Kaarvan Foundation and contribute to the strategic growth and development of the Foundation.

You have written a powerful novel, Beyond the Fields, centring around two sisters and the Hudood ordinance. Tell us about it.

Beyond the Fields is a gripping tale of resilience and reclaiming honor in which the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl living in a remote village of Pakistan drives her twin sister on a dangerous quest for justice. Set in the early 1980s against the backdrop of martial law and social turmoil, Beyond the Fields, brings up close the fears and hopes of women in Pakistan. It is a riveting and timely look at profound inequality, traditions that disempower women in our world, and survival as a dance to the beat of a different future.

What inspired the story?

Beyond the Fields is story is about a young village girl called Zara. Zara is carefree – she has dreams, she want to study, and wants to become someone important. She loves kairis (raw mangoes) so she disobeys her mother and steals into the orchard. And then on one ordinary day, Zara’s twin sister, Tara, the one she is closest to in the whole wide world, is kidnapped from the fields while they are playing a game of hide and seek and raped.

Having worked in the villages of Punjab, Pakistan for over fifteen years, I wanted to show the plight of village girls and women. Thousands of girls and women are assaulted each year and the abuse continues without any substantial family, community, or legal support. And, just not in Pakistan, but across cultures and continents.

I deliberately set the story under Zia-ul-Haq’s regime.  I was twelve years old when my mother dragged me to a march called by WAF or Women’s Action Forum. Being an introverted teenager studying in American School, I didn’t want to go. But my mother insisted saying it was important for me to see what was happening in our country.

The protest was for Safia Bibi — a young blind girl a few years older than me — who had been raped by her employer and his son. She didn’t report the crime. Because she showed clear signs of pregnancy and was unmarried, it was assumed she had premarital sex. Her failure to prove that she was raped prompted the judge to sentence her (under the Hudood ordinance) to three years of imprisonment and 15 lashes. The ruling cast her as the perpetrator instead of the victim. Her rapists were never prosecuted and did not spend any time in jail. 

At the protest, I stood with my mother along with hundreds of other women — and the memory of us standing under the sweltering sun for hours with other women protestors jammed across the mall road demanding justice for Safia Bibi haunts me to this day and to this day I shudder thinking that if it wasn’t an accident of birth, it could have been me.  I wrote Beyond the Fields to start a discussion to challenge the unjust mind-sets that condemn and punish girls and women who have been raped. I wrote the novelto start a conversation about rape and sexual assault and I hope we don’t stop talking about the issues until we create the change we owe to girls and women across the world.

Finally, I wrote Beyond the Fields, to allow the readers to see the lives of village folk in Pakistan — they possess incredible strength and resilience. It is a glimpse into what makes them laugh, cry, betray, and come together.

Do you think your novel has impacted the world in a way to change it for better?  

I have been overwhelmed with the number of women reaching out to me to share their stories not just in Pakistan but from all over the world. According to World Health Organization (WHO), estimate nearly one in every three women worldwide has been physically or sexually abused by their partners or experienced non-partner sexual violence. Rape is a silent epidemic. And we need to take action now.

Has Kaarvan impacted the women you aimed to help?

Kaarvan’s work has had a significant impact on the girls and women not only in the target and neighbouring communities. The impact can be measured through economic indicators such as increase in income, change in asset base, changes in diet and schooling of children and social indicators such as changes in decision making, changes in household chores, and mobility. You can read more about Kaarvan’s social impact on its web page (www.kaarvan.com).  During the COVID19 pandemic Kaarvan, through remote learning workshops, prepared the women entrepreneurs for digital readiness and  “Digital Enablement”, which constituted of a range of trainings given to group of micro-entrepreneurs who connected remotely from their mobile phones on platform best suited for the training. Kaarvan facilitated Digital Market Linkages through enabling the entrepreneurs to participate in two online exhibitions.

Do these women teach you? If so, what have you learnt working with them?

The Value Chain Development approach focuses on understanding the needs of women entrepreneurs and they are viewed as the customers of the program rather than the beneficiaries. Hence, there is constant learning from women about how they take decisions, how they want to grow their businesses, how they overcome their challenges. The learnings are documented in the internal and external impact reports and well as the case studies.

You are working on a new novel. What is it about and when can we hope to read it? What are your future plans for your writing and Karavaans?

My work in progress, Forsaken for Saints, is a fiction about longing, deception, and betrayal that delves into a web of conspiracies that extends from expat cosmos to the walled city of Lahore. I am privileged and blessed to continue to write because it enables me to explore critical and pertinent issues through stories and to share them with the readers to question and comment.

This interview was conducted online by Mitali Chakravarty.

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Categories
Poetry

A Moth as My Mantelpiece

By Saranyan BV

A moth came home last night. I must have been asleep when she did

She was not there when I retired to sleep.

She’d found a place on the mantel where some curios are kept

To tell the people the kind of person I am, the visitors who come home.

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The mantel holds up a teacup with a picture of my under-grad days,

Long sideburns and disheveled hair and care-a-damn appearance.

Also, there a mascot from the University of Duke.

My son had brought and left so we could remember he was there.

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I am thankful the moth found a vacant space

To spread her wings and in that order chose to die,

I think she is dead for she hasn’t moved since —

The moth not as colorful on her wings as butterflies,

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The wings spread like eagle in flight, above in the sky

The wings have all the sheen, all the curve on the verges

The wings look like cape extending from kingly shoulders,

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The motif on her back hard not to see in the morning sun

The body structure the same, ugly cylindrical, rolling pin with rings,

Her proboscis now immobile, coiled, were once ceaseless foragers.

It would be foolish to remove and cast her

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As dead carcass in litter of the world,

Let her be, be my guest in that departed condition

Till it’s time for my going —

The house has all the air and all the oxygen.

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That it chose to die in my home as mantelpiece is a benediction,

I watch her, the piece of advice sent from heaven,

Something like Gita or Guru Granth Sahib

Passing out in an unaffected stance of corporeality.

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Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves works of Raymond Carver.

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