By Sutputra Radheye
Sutputra Radheye is a poet and commentator who delves into the themes affecting the socio-eco-political scenario. His works have been published in prestigious platforms like Frontier, Countercurrents, Janata Weekly, Culture Matters (UK), Livewire , Sunflower Collective, Eleventh Column and many more throughout the years.
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By Sunil Sharma
I
Modern Paris was discovered by Baudelaire in his avatar as the flaneur. And Walter Benjamin made this figure intellectually respectful as a field of study.
In a recent visit to Paris, I hovered between two allied states of being a flaneur and a gawking tourist. I had come as a sightseer from Mumbai, India, allured by the tales and well-crafted image of a mythic Paris, drinking in the street flavours on those May days, passively registering the wide monuments and boulevards and palaces and towers in one clean and clear sweep — almost like a wide-angle shot in a Stanley Kubrick film. Spring had set in and the Paris of May 2014 was full of eager tourists from nations as wide apart as China and the USA; Africa and Middle East and Latin America. A bouquet of the ethnicities strung together.
Then, I became a flaneur, making a neat switch, in a single instant.
I became Baudelaire.
Different terms can make you look differently at a similar set of things or a common setting.
Of course, I did not have the urge to write a new millennium version of The Flowers of Evil. At best, you can parody a sacred text but you cannot re-write it, howsoever Borges-like you might be.
I am neither of the two.
Like Mallarme and Verlaine, you can carry forward an idea by expanding it further but cannot imitate with complete fidelity to the original.
So, not in a mood for a cheap replication of a master praised by Proust so profusely, I took on the stance of a flaneur and became a connoisseur of the street-life.
Was it possible?
Assuming the role of a figure long dead or supposed to be dead? Replaced by a tourist? Solo or in a group?
Armed with a camera or a cell phone, in casuals, the modern tourist — guided by brochures and online information and a city map — looks at the urban skyline vicariously familiarized by prior research. Or, could it be at a professional polyglot guide spewing bits and pieces of history like a typical street performer or an amateur actor? A mass tourist consuming the city, architecture, culture, food, arts and clothes — public life — in a predictable way and sequence largely decided by the tourist industry. A few breaks are possible in that routine.
But to resurrect the role and agency of the classic flaneur, you have to take on a different position and way of seeing.
And what was that?
I could not become a dandy—detached, arrogant, inheritor of a small fortune, an idler walking a tortoise on a Paris street of the nineteenth century. Even if I had the means, I could get arrested for an act of animal cruelty!
Those were different times!
So what can be done?
The clues lie in The Flowers of Evil, perhaps.
Will this title be acceptable today? With changing definitions of evil? With life becoming more liberal and open?
Baudelaire was a dandy and a cultivated flaneur—the painter of modern life; a gentleman stroller of the city streets. Part of, yet apart from, the crowds.
But then, not every dandy is a flaneur and every flaneur, a dandy?
Again, dandy is a historical invention, a social-engineering, manufacturing of a social type for a particular age.
Perhaps, a metro-sexual male, now no longer fashionable.
Is he a voyeur?
Perhaps, we all are, given the nature of our society.
Or, a keen participant, an acute observer, a chronicler?
For me, the answer lies in the personality of Charles Baudelaire who in turn was influenced by Edgar Allan Poe. But that would be complicating things further.
Let us stick to our central figure Baudelaire. His genius lies in radicalizing the trope of the French flaneur. A theme that fascinated Walter Benjamin who, in the twentieth century, tried to essay the same role performed so well by Baudelaire in the industrialized Paris of the nineteenth century. The former could not capture the underlying passion of Baudelaire in this unfinished project.
In fact, by the late 1990s and start of the 21st century, author-flaneur proved an impossible figure.
Market forces, on global level, have incorporated author as a producer of kitsch or dystopia. Dissidents were slowly and subtly disenfranchised.
We are all sellers!
Baudelaire resisted this initial process in Paris. Beckett was next. Sartre and Camus too tried.
Then the flow stopped.
The Flowers of Evil mounts a challenge to the order and morality of the Second Republic.
The poems challenge the bourgeois morality and conception of order and beauty and aesthetics in a radical way. The book talks of evil and implies that the source of evil lies in its origins — capitalism.
In that simple gesture of observing, participating, recording of street life, Baudelaire liberates himself from his historical position and becomes a true artist. By talking of prostitutes and vampires, the poet shows the underbelly of capitalism. His creations provide the material basis for highlighting these themes and give credence to outcasts from the system that feed on the blood of the innocent and the gullible.
The Flowers of Evil is the greatest indictment of the French bourgeoisie by a person deeply embedded in it as a bourgeois but a radical one that unveils the brutal face of a system that once talked of revolutionary slogan of liberty, equality, fraternity!
An evil society can produce evil flowers!
Vampires are for real!
II
That Baudelaire had not died in 2014 was proven on a street near the Eiffel Tower on that memorable trip.
A Roma girl, bold and audacious, stole my son’s cell phone from his shirt pocket. She returned it after a cop intervened.
I could smell evil in the air. The disenfranchised and the ethnic Roma are still the threat — like the prostitute and the vampire, the perpetual outsiders.
The Paris of Baudelaire is not safe.
The shoot-out at the Charlie Hebdo proves that.
The vampires are out.
This time round, Baudelaire the flaneur has disappeared. There is no one to warn us of these sinister presences.
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Sunil Sharma, an academic administrator and author-critic-poet–freelance journalist, is from suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 22 books so far, some solo and some joint, on prose, poetry and criticism. He edits the monthly, bilingual Setu: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html
For more details of publications, please visit the link below:
http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/. This story was first published in Scarlet Leaf Review.
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By Lidia Chiarelli
Very often on winter nights the halfshaped moonlight sees
Men through a window of leaves …
from: A Dream of Winter by Dylan Thomas
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Reflections of alabaster
in the winter sunset
droplets of subtle mist
laying on the sea
with the last games
of starlings in the wind.
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A crescent moon
makes its way
in the ancient maze,
in the darkness
carved by the waves
on the sand
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where also
our words
slowly
fade away.
(to Rudolph Valentino)
In Life’s masquerade the disguises are many
from: Cap and Bells by Rudolph Valentino
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Through the open window
a dull sky hid the stars
when you paused and listened
to the lost language of the night.
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Under glittering chandeliers
the precious clock ticked endless hours
and your many faces,
reflected in the sumptuous mirrors,
(impassive masks)
slowly dissolved
into another place, into another time
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Unspoken thoughts words left unsaid
broken phrases vague illusions
dreams of passion vainly chased.
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Then the dazzling spotlights
switched off one by one
on the set
of your last film
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Lidia Chiarelli was born and raised in Turin (Italy), where in 2007, she founded with Aeronwy Thomas the Art-literary Movement: Immagine & Poesia.Lidia’s passion for creative writing has motivated her to write poetry and she has become an award winning poet since 2011. Her writing has been translated into more than 20 languages and published in Poetry Reviews and on web-sites in many countries. In 2014, she started an inter-cultural project with Canadian writer and editor Huguette Bertrand publishing E Books of Poetry and Art on line.She is also an appreciated artist, working on installations and digital collages.
https://lidiachiarelli.jimdofree.com/ https://lidiachiarelliart.jimdofree.com/
https://immaginepoesia.jimdofree.com/
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Bhaskar Parichha is a Bhubaneswar-based journalist and author. He writes on a broad spectrum of subjects , but more focused on art ,culture and biographies. His recent book ‘No Strings Attached’ has been published by Dhauli Books.
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By Kiriti Sengupta
Lights turned off,
three glasses retire
as the bar closes.
The first stands upright,
the other upside down,
another lies horizontal.
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For last few hours
the crystals held liquor,
ice, scent and comfort.
They also witnessed
eyes that spoke volumes
while lashes refused
to flutter.
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The pub reopens
the next day
to the riff of unrest.
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1
Visitors, who checked in
to see my father post-surgery,
appeared stressed.
After his discharge several came home.
Eyes moistened, they wished him Godspeed.
All of us except Baba knew…
Ma informed him months later.
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No one pays a call anymore.
Three decades…
2
Tittle-tattle halts.
The mother waves a goodbye
as the school bus sets off.
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Both these poems are excerpted from Kiriti Sengupta’s collection, Rituals (March 2019, Hawkal Publishers), with permission from the author
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Kiriti Sengupta is a poet, editor, translator, and publisher from Calcutta. He has published eleven books of poetry and prose and two books of translation and co-edited five anthologies. Sengupta is the chief editor of the Ethos Literary Journal.
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By Ratnottama Sengupta
Protima could not believe her eyes when she got back home from the shelter after the super cyclone had spent itself. Her milch cow was standing on the pukka road that led to the river Mani — one of the many arms of the Hooghly before it flows into the Bay of Bengal. Right next to the cow stood Lalu and Bhulu, the two pariah dogs who had made her courtyard their home. All three wagged their tails as she approached them. But she stopped short as she looked towards the pile of hay stacked next to her kuccha* hut: On top of the pile, were the hen and the ducks!
Protima was amazed. They had stood there all through the stormy night of rain and gale, as Amphan churned the water of the Bay and flooded the land on both sides of the river that flows 50 meters from her house. They did not run amok when the hurricane winds blew away the thatch roof off her mud walls…The television channels had been blurting the news for days and days that the government had alerted the state about the cyclone that was to land at a speed of 160 kmph. How fast is that? Who knows! Even cars, if they come to this remote corner of West Bengal, don’t run at more than 40 kmph.
The panchayat had organized for the villagers to seek shelter in the local school which was a double storeyed structure. That’s where Protima had followed her husband just before the wind started its tandava* in the afternoon; he with his nonagenarian father on his back, she holding the hands of her younger twins and her elder daughter clutching the free end of her sari. Only, even as they were fastening the doors before rushing out of the hut, she had unlocked the coop to let out the hens and untied the rope around the neck of the cow. That proved a saving stroke: the cow moved away from the house far enough to be safe from the flying roof, yet close enough for Protima to find her when she came back home.What is more, the two dogs followed the cow and not only kept her company — they even held on to her tail and sought the support of her hind legs to keep their noses in the air when the salt water of the ocean came riding the fresh waters in high tide.
Although it came up to her belly and chest, the cow stood stock still and did not kick the canine members of the assorted family. The ducks too did not ditch the hens. They could have paddled away in the flooding water. They didn’t. They inchoately knew that the hens do not swim. They had all come out of the coop and assembled on top of the haystack — quacking and clucking, clucking and quacking even when the birds on the swirling trees had stymied their cheeping.
Miles away from Raidighi, Protima’s mother Chhabi was reminded of the earlier severe cyclone Aila that had struck precisely eleven years ago. That day the second named cyclone of the North Indian Ocean had come at a speed of 110 kmph leaving a million souls homeless. That time too, all the members of her neighbour, Haran Sardar’s family had scurried off to seek the safety of the only concrete structure — the middle school — in the village on the vicinity of Gangasagar in the Sunderban region.
In the haste stemming from their anxiety, they didn’t notice that their father, an old man in his seventies, had lagged behind to secure their meagre belongings and beddings. However, as the strong winds coincided with the high tide, the water rose faster than he expected, and cut him off from the safe house. But Haran Khuro* was a wood cutter whose feats are still narrated to the younger lot. He looked around him and swiftly climbed up on the nearest tall tree and, at the fork of two sturdy branches, secured himself with his coarse cotton gamchha*.
A while later, as the swift waters rose further, he noticed a black keute — Bengal krait — emerge out of the whirling white and slither up the bark of the same Hetal tree. The old man at once untied his gamchha, clambered up a few notches and found himself a perch in the highest of boughs.
As the water kept rising higher still, he noticed a tiger emerge out of the cluster of Sundari trees. Swiftly, though, noiselessly the feline came and seated itself at the foot of the very same tree that had already given shelter to a venomous snake and and an infirm biped. “Oh God!” Haran Khuro thought to himself. “I climbed up the tree to be safe from the flood — but where can I go to save my life now?” Sheer helplessness got the better of him and he fainted then and there, fastened to the tree by the gamchha around his waist.
That may have saved his life. Or was it the innate instinct of animals — wild, venomous, or social — not to be hostile and fight with another being faced with the same wrath of Nature, but to live peaceably? For, two hours later, when the waters receded, the tiger ambled back into the forest, the keute slid down the tree trunk and returned to its hole in the ground; and Khuro‘s sons rowed down in a fishing boat with a search party looking for the father.
He? He was still tied to the tree with his worn-out gamchha…Young Sujata had yet another story about the coevality and harmonious sharing of the living space by the humans and wildcats of the region that is the breeding ground of crocodiles. Kaal Baisakhis are a routine feature here. These Nor’westers frequent the southern tip of Bengal in the summer months of April and May, often with violent hurricane-speed winds, causing tornadoes. Just before sunset or immediately after it thick dark clouds appear in the southern sky foretelling gale-speed winds and torrential rains.
After one such evening Sujata and her younger siblings had gone off to sleep on the floor of the hut while their parents had retired to the sole cot in the room after making their Grandpa comfortable in the apology for a veranda that had no side walls but still had a roof overhead. Next morning the mother was woken up by the old man’s voice. “Ei byata, where has this dog come in from? Jaa! Go make yourself comfortable elsewhere. Hey! Why lean on me? You’ll crush my frail bones by your weight! Go away…”Alarmed by the monologue, she hurriedly opened the door. And froze. Nudged by the sleepy old man, the cub Panthera Tigris had got to its feet and was stretching itself out of its slumber.
It turned its head at the sound of the door opening, looked into the eyes of the lady of the house that had sheltered him from thunderous sleet, and sauntered away towards the jungle…..As I listened to these ladies from Bon Bibi‘s* domain, a single line from the Hollywood movie Black Panther kept playing in my mind: ‘In times of crisis the wise build bridges while fools build barriers…’
How very true! In the face of tidal waves and hurricane winds, tigers and snakes, cows and dogs, hens and ducks exist in harmony. But our political netas?! They sharpen their knives and reach for arms. The BJPs and INCs, TMCs and CPMs, SJDs and DMKs, the Republicans and Democrats, the Tories and Labours of the world can’t stop bickering, they all try to score over their opponents. Why do they only think of fishing in troubled waters?
*Kuccha — impermanent, mud hut
*Tandava — Shiva’s dance of rage
*Khuro — Uncle
*Gamchcha — A light strong absorbent piece of cotton, often used like a towel
*Bon Bibi — Forest queen
*Netas — Politicians
Ratnottama Sengupta turned director with And They Made Classics, on the unique bonding between screenwriter Nabendu Ghosh and director Bimal Roy. A very senior journalist, she has been writing for newspapers and journals, participating in discussions on the electronic media; teaching mass communication students, writing books on cinema and art, programming film festivals and curating art exhibitions. She has written on Hindi films for the Encyclopaedia Britannica; been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. The former Arts Editor of The Times of India is also a member of the NFDC’s script committee. Author of Krishna’s Cosmos and several other volumes, she has recently edited That Bird Called Happiness (2018/ Speaking Tiger), Me And I (2017/ Hachette India), Kadam Kadam (2016/ Bhashalipi), Chuninda Kahaniyaan: Nabendu Ghosh (2009/ Roshnai Prakashan).
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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author.
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By Sutanuka Ghosh Roy
Rain lashed uniform
Storm tossed umbrella
Paper boat
A puddle
A slithering spider
Two small feet
One plunge!
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Ma’s Kitchen
Cracked porcelain jars
Locked-in memories
Two turmeric dipped palms
Sari smelt like Rohu fish
Bay leaves, cardamom and cinnamon
In a discourse
Gas stove
Our endless hunger
Wok and ladles,
Blob of mustard oil
Sweat and toil
Ma stood
Her hands spoke of food.
.
Trying a new Gucci dress
She tried to put together
Her hook -less Choli
Cold cream on my soft cheeks
She licked her parched lips
Turned on the AC
Snuggled the Raymond blanket
She covered her navel
A washed out loincloth
Sank deep into my Kurlo pillow
The racing-engine kneaded
Her track-pillowed head
She fell asleep.
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Dr Sutanuka Ghosh Roy is Assistant Professor and Head Department of English in Tarakeswar Degree College, The University of Burdwan, WB, India. She has published widely and presented papers at National and International Seminars. She is a regular contributor of research articles and papers to anthologies, national and international journals of repute like The Statesman, Muse India, Lapis lazuli, Setu etc. She is also a reviewer, a poet, and a critic. Her poems have been Anthologized and published in Setu, Borderless Journal etc
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By Viplob Pratik
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A table on the corner of a restaurant.
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Half smoked cigarette is caught in my fingers
You are there; I am,
Face to face.
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I am telling something but mute
You are listening to me, but without any attention.
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The glasses of wine are recently backed in their position
And after we took the first sip,
One glass has a smear of lipstick on it
Another has on its outer part
A mark of wine drop.
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While trying to take another sip
Something weird happens
And the glass slips
Hops in the air
And crashes on the floor.
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Clink!
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What’s broken –- a glass or the heart?
Both are fragile.
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People look at us
And again become busy with them.
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The waiter is cleaning the floor.
Love has broken in our heart too,
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But there is no waiter for us.
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Viplob Pratik was born and raised in Kathmandu, Nepal. He loves to travel, and has learned from other cultures and societies. He draws inspirations from everyday life. His thoughts are compact, and he is deeply sensitive to human values. His poetry collection ‘Nahareko Manchhe’ (translates to ‘The Undefeated Man’) and ‘A person kissed by the moon’ was published in 2005 and 2013 respectively and his debut novel ‘Abijit’ (the unconquered) was published in 2017.
~Bhim Karki
Frisco, Texas
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By Amita Ray
“What is the other side of love?”
“Hate of course.”
“No it’s love too.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Look at Ma and Baba, it has always been love…. friend or foe, through thick and thin.”
The daughters of Mr and Mrs Chatterjee were indulging in banter. It was initiated by the elder of the two, Sushmita. The younger one, Supriya, was cool and calculating while the other was sprightly and full of spark. They were the best of friends since their childhood. At times they were mistaken as twins; being of same height, almost the same features, the same likes and dislikes. The difference in their ages was only two years. Nothing could tear them apart. Even when caught at mischief , they would shoulder the blame for each other. A happy family of four, the Chatterjees were known as peace-loving respectable folks in their locality.
But Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee had their share of arguments and tiffs, probably a bit too many. It was contained and confined within the contending couple and rarely did it spill over to damage the peace of the household. The two daughters when big enough would at times take sides jovially and then it would inevitably climax to hilarious crescendos. The children preferred to be the silent spectators of the daily drama and enjoyed it, knowing very well the happenings during the post-argument phase; the epilogue to the drama. Ma with a grumpy face would resort to stoicism doing all household work with robotic precision. Baba would try his best to evoke a flicker of smile on her lips.
The arguments usually would spark off from trivial things and a day without bickering was unthinkable. The pet sentence of their mother when on the verge of defeat in an argument was, “Oh! What will I do with this person once he retires and stays at home the whole day to pester me?”
The daughters would then look at each other to exchange a meaningful look. That sentence would mark the end of that episode for the day. Mr. Chatterjee would meekly admit defeat with a faint hint that Mrs. Chatterjee was at a loss for repartees.
Many a time a squabble would erupt from Mr. Chatterjee’s love for jokes. Picking on his wife, even in jest, would enrage her and an altercation would ensue. How the children lamented their mother’s poor sense of humour!
A young boy, Khokon, used to work in their garden tending flowers, turning the soil and planting seasonal flower trees specially during the onset of winter. Khokon was so pampered by their mother that Mr Chatterjee at times would call her Khokoner Ma or Khokon’s mother jokingly. That would infuriate Mrs. Chatterjee marking the beginning of yet another tiff where the children sometimes joined in flippantly pointing out how she had been partial to Khokon among his three children.
It was usually Mrs. Chatterjee who called it quits in meandering long drawn altercations. Then the daughters beheld a unique scene of togetherness and concern; one coaxing the other to eat, reminders of taking medicine or they would simply get engaged in casual talks watching the television together. Strangely enough the television itself was at other times reason enough for their habitual contention. It is often said that true love sans arguments and pleasant quarrels hardly exists. It adds charm to the happy blend of sharing and caring among couples. Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee’s relationship was an embodiment of this love in its true sense.
The couple had been married for twenty five years, a long enough period to get adjusted to the rhyme and rhythm of each other’s ways and nature, but the propensity for arguments and occasional tiffs persisted. That seemed to uplift their spirit as a hearty interlude. It could be also a sort of cathartic release of boredom as Mrs. Chatterjee being a homemaker stayed indoors busy with domestic chores. Mrs. Chatterjee was petite and simple in her ways. She spent her early years till she married in East Bengal, at present Bangladesh.
The traumatic phase of Partition and her subsequent migration to the west of the border had taught her ways to overcome hardships. So when she got married to Mr. Chatterjee, a modest employee in government service belonging to a middle class family, she had no problem adjusting herself to the new family.
Then her daughters were born in quick succession. Her father-in-law had lived for a decade after her marriage. Her mother-in-law had passed away long before her marriage. Hence, she shouldered the responsibilities of the family and fulfilled her role in all facets of family life as a wife, daughter-in-law and later as mother admirably.
Her father-in-law was enamoured by her sweet nature and looked upon her as his own daughter. In the early days of conjugal life, when her father-in-law was alive there were lesser verbal frictions with Mr. Chatterjee and even if there were, they would wind up soon enough. The senior Mr. Chatterjee would take side with his daughter in law and the altercation would be soon hushed with a sweeping comment, “My Bouma (daughter-in-law) is Lakshmi of this house. You have no right to demean her.”
After the death of her father-in-law, the once coy bride — now a seasoned housewife –became all the more responsible, looking into every minute details of household affairs. This she did to the extent of becoming a bit nagging and fastidious and it paved the path to greater confrontations; the husband mildly dominating, the wife defiant.
But all said and done, Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee were head over heels in love with each other but rarely did they make a blatant show of it. It was evident in small gestures of appreciation and doses of kind words.
“Hold your mother’s hand and be very careful while crossing the road…”
“While boarding the bus with your mother and getting down, hold her hands properly. She has a pain on her knee…”
“Help her to get up on the rickshaw. She is at a loss when she goes out. Be careful with her…”
The above words of caution were uttered by Mr Chatterjee repeatedly and ritualistically each time before the children took their mother out. The younger daughter, the jovial one, would at times mimic her father’s voice and rattle off the overused sentences of caution. The three of them then had a good laugh over it and the father too reluctantly joined it.
As far as Mr. Chatterjee was concerned, he was more than aware of his responsibility when he took her out, sometimes verging on obsessive overprotectiveness. Not for once would he leave his grip over her hand fearing that she would either get lost or trip over to fall down. In the initial days after marriage, Mrs. Chatterjee would mumble a protest; the spectacle of walking hand in hand on the streets of Calcutta would seem preposterous to her.
She became more conscious about it as years passed when they couldn’t even pass off as a young romantic couple. But the possessive husband would have his way. Mrs. Chatterjee was forced to yield to the demanding gesture of her escort for all it meant was love for her. How could she be so rude? She knew that she didn’t feel confident enough to venture out alone for some strange reason. So whenever she went out of her home, she was in the endearing company of her husband or her daughters and complied with their wishes.
It was a Monday morning. The Chatterjees had to go to a relative’s home in neighbouring Jamshedpur for a wedding. The daughters chose to stay at home as they were busy with preparations for the University examinations. This was the first time the Chatterjees were not travelling as a family outside Kolkata.
The anxious children laid down a set of dos and don’ts for their parents while travelling. Of course one of them was the mandatory holding hands. Howrah station was a crowded place with people almost jostling in and out of its premises all hours of the day. In peak hours, it seemed to be a sea of humanity. People were in a hurry to catch trains from different platforms while those entering the station in down trains headed towards the exit.
Getting down from the taxi at Howrah station, Mr. Chatterjee held his wife firmly and led her into the station. It was afternoon and fortunately the place was not too crowded at that time. Being a railway employee, Mr. Chatterjee had a railway pass. They had ample time at their disposal. Having nothing to do Mr Chatterjee felt the instinctive thirst for a cup of tea. Moreover, it was almost time for the evening cuppa. So both of them headed towards a nearby tea stall; the husband careful enough about his grip over that tender hand. While sipping tea, suddenly a wave of passengers lashed towards them like a tsunami and crowds of people swept from other directions simultaneously.
Many down trains had arrived at the same time in various platforms and all the passengers tried to rush out. There were people negotiating the outgoing rush from the opposite direction too. In the vortex of such chaos Mrs. Chatterjee was pushed and her hand loosened from her husband’s clasp. She was compelled to drift along with the rush of people in a bid to save herself from falling down. It was impossible for her husband to either keep track of her or follow her. Thus she was virtually pushed to the exit point at one go when she sadly realised that she was lost. She could not spot her husband as she was far from the tea stall.
When the mad rush of people abated she looked out for her husband and tried to locate the shop. She was panic stricken and in the process discovered her husband had moved away from the tea stall. Mr. Chatterjee was also looking out for his dear wife frantically ruing that it was his fault. How could the hand which he had kept in his firm grip for twenty five long years slip off! But being a practical man he didn’t waste much time in looking for her. The time for the departure of the train was announced. He immediately got an idea. Why not approach the personnel in the public address system? He knew that his wife wouldn’t leave the station at any cost. But he grew increasingly uneasy and concerned thinking about her wife’s helpless condition, a lady who hadn’t ventured out of her home alone even once in her life.
Soon the public address system blared… “Here is an announcement. Mrs. Sumedha Chatterjee from Tala Park Kolkata…you are requested to be at the Big Clock of Howrah Station…Your husband is waiting for you there.”
The announcement reached Sumedha Chatterjee’s ears and she beamed with relief. But the problem was that though she had been to Howrah station several times she did not know where the clock was. Ultimately she reached there guided by a young man whom she had approached. Thank God! There was enough time left for the departure of their train.
So overjoyed were they on being united that they did not start off with a round of blame game. But back home while narrating the incident to their daughters it was time to initiate the postponed battle of words. But this time each chose to take the blame on oneself.
Mr. Chatterjee: “It was my fault. I should have held the other hand so that you could be to my left. Then being in your place I could have withstood the impact of the sudden rush of people.”
Mrs. Chatterjee responded: “Oh no! How could you say so! Anyone would have been swept away in that wild rush. It happened because I was unmindful.”
“No dear, how can you claim yourself to be unmindful! That’s the last thing I can say about you.”
“ Last thing you can say about me! How often you have accused me of being unmindful…”
“But you…”
“Yes you…”
Thus Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee went on in their journey of life; spells of loving words spilled in the guise of tiffs, an oscillation between a war of words and treaty. So is it even now when both in their late eighties sit together at home most of the time cooing such words of love.
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Amita Ray, a former associate professor of English is based in Kolkata. An academic of various interests she is a published translator, short story writer and poet. She has two books of translations to her credit. Her short stories have been published in The Sunday Statesman, Cafe Dissensus, Setu and other online journals. Her poems have been widely published and also feature in several anthologies.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
By Linda Imbler
I must go with the wind’s song.
My feet bearing glad witness
to your many creeds.
Inside a maddening maze,
as day is done,
I follow the words on each page
that tell me how to sculpt my dreams.
Long standing upon stone,
upon hearts, jubilant,
upon the sky that is deep, dark blue,
upon vibrant moonshine
where all is amber and red,
I go to hear the colours
and feel exhilaration.
.
I gazed with wonder and delight
as the fall of monsters shook the Earth,
and effervescent spirits
became balanced between nowhere and now.
I forgave the winds,
and the Undines,
those elemental beings of water,
those paper tigers.
I walked through a door
of many colours.
Its soft archway still and grand,
and saw novel birds atop golden branches.
I saw a fly within its webbed cell.
On the ground, lay hatched fragile shells
but, no hatchlings were near.
A silent coil of that forgiven wind
lifted my hair ever so gently.
A clear horn blew from atop a shut temple,
and all the caves began to sing.
Within the heart of their song,
they said to me,
“Carry all the love you have collected,
and spread it on the fields of tomorrow.”
And, I slept within a sparrow’s nest
as the night light died,
and all heavenly visions were seen,
I, me, mine.
.
His soul heard no welcome,
only murmurs.
It seemed he heard sweet singing.
The hope that he was right
stayed his sorrow.
His bedimmed dreams
came as angels.
As death became his friend,
he saw his own grace,
and all of sweet peace
wailed for him.
And within the din, welcome showed its hand.
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Linda Imbler is the author of four poetry collections published at Amazon. Soma Publishing published two of her poetry books and one poetry-short fiction hybrid. She began writing in earnest five years ago. In addition to putting pen and paper to inventive use, Linda is an avid reader. This writer, yoga practitioner, and classical guitar player lives in Wichita, Kansas with her husband, Mike the Luthier, several quite intelligent saltwater fish, and an ever-growing family of gorgeous guitars. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and several Best of the Net awards. Learn more at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
By Devangshu Dutta
Devangshu Dutta is an entrepreneur, business advisor and a student of life. His published writing in recent years has largely been restricted to business analyses; this is his first non-business published work in decades. Upbraided frequently about not having put out a book yet, he promises to start working on at least one of the many manuscripts sketched out over the years before 2020 is out.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
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