Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Musings

Bibapur Mansion: A Vintage Charmer

By Prithvijeet Sinha

Photos of Bibiapur Mansion by Prithivijeet Sinha

Writing about Lucknow’s fabled monuments has set me free to regurgitate images and feelings (‘ehsaas‘ as the Urdu equivalent goes) that call for effusive recollections. When the praxis of location and travel stand side by side, words flow out of the material foundations of structures that court our instant awe. Another fabled monument that rewrites the architectural-historical continuum of Awadh in that admirable vein is Bibiapur Kothi (Mansion); there’s just something sturdy about its presence in one of the most beautifully quiet corners of the cityscape.

Blessed by the legendary aesthetic choices of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, one of the most prominent architects of Lucknow, and built by architect Antoine Polier and his dedicated team in the latter part of the 18th Century, Bibiapur Kothi is a vision of grandeur. Legend has it that it was a favourite country retreat for the Nawabs as well as a centre for another arcane ritual from the past — hunting.

Like it always happens, visiting this site is like opening a door and entering the mystifying corridors of a past that can never be replicated. The neo-classical architectural style itself is easy on the eyes as spacious arches, halls, high roofs and round pillars — hypnotic ballasts of extreme strength – mesmerize the visitor. An enchanting spiral staircase divides this space into two storeys while the halls and Greek columns, beautifying its iconic exteriors, make us hark back to the glory days of interracial socialization that prevailed here. Lakhauri[1]betweenbricks and majestic stones’ sturdy network further arrests our undivided attention.

Imagine the masked balls, coronations (such as that of Saadat Ali Khan as the legend goes) and exquisite mehfils (musical/ poetic congregations) marked this mansion and its prominence for both for the native and colonial understanding of Awadh’s sensibilities, particularly Lucknow as the harbinger of urban sophistication.

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Even for a modern traveller who can visualise yesteryears’ customs and etiquettes, the place is like a replica for the way the people lived and loved the essence of Lucknow. One can hear the hooves of equestrian sentinels guiding elaborate carriages, imagine a nawab reminiscing of a beloved while beholding the moon from the second floor and guests spread out under these roofs and occupying the hall, deep in conversations that could make or break the cultural sphere of influence tied intimately to regional politics. So, it’s natural that the more credulous storytellers still believe in this space holding fort for ghostly travellers who, it seems, just can’t escape the thrilling sensibilities of this particular realm.

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Bibiapur Mansion is a visual delight. Its current locational axis generates awe for discerning visitors. Today, one has to take a straight drive from the Dilkusha corridor and nestled within the cantonment area beyond an old railway line is this architectural wonder. An army sentry guides us further as we enter the gateway and a world of trees, vegetation, cricket’s unified whispers, quarters and a granary beholden to the cantonment board fall in the pathway. Everything has old-world charm. The passage invites to the visitor like a transcendent experience. Surrounded by ancient trees, some with beautiful forms and thickets relaying the permanence of this area’s timelessness, is this fabled monument.

Sunlight lights up its walls and every now and then a langur(monkey) sprawling his long tail stands guard over the gates. The staircases, spacious compound, arched entryway and the glory of the Greek columns touched by the inimitable mix of lakhauri and current-day refurbishments awe us.

Here at Bibiapur Mansion, everything has a presence. Everything is accessible and iconic. In the absence of noise and marked by surfeits of wonder, we travel to the past while celebrating the immediate moments that brought us to this place.

Here, History and Wonder never sleep for long. Rather they awaken a new sentience.

Photograph by Prithvijeet Sinha

[1]Lime paint and plaster

Prithvijeet Sinha  is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies. 

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Categories
Poetry

Hello

By Soumyadwip Chakraborty

HELLO

And yes, this is a city, a city, a city.
And words repeat as they learn from sound -- 
shape-shifters, taking moulds, forming legion.
And I see cacophony knocking on my windowpane
In the dead of night,
In the tender morning light.

Yet escape comes from hindsight.
I drown and drown myself in your voice --
pebble in a pond,
milk in coffee, 
sweat in the ocean, 
And as I sink to lower depths,
I try to avoid the unavoidable,
writing my name on a single blade of grass.

Cacophony stares back as I finish this line 
only to pick up the phone and say, "Hello...”

 Soumyadwip Chakraborty, born and brought up in Sodepur, currently residing in Hyderabad, works in a multinational. Since the body can run on food, water and oxygen, he chooses to have literature, music and cinema run his soul. His poetry is nothing but a by-product of his living.

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Categories
Musings

What’s in a Name?

By Jun A. Alindogan… also known as Manuel A, Alindogan

Lines from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare(1564-1616) From Public Domain

When I was in kindergarten, the only name I knew was Jun. So when my teacher called me by my full name, I didn’t respond at all.

Obviously, I was named after my father and am the second child in a brood of four. Many acquaintances actually mistake my name for Emmanuel. I don’t know why my grandparents named my father Manuel, but it might be attributed to common influences in the community, not necessarily based on a desired dream or a definite meaning. My grandfather was from Fujian, China, as were many other Chinese migrants to the Philippines. It is presently common for Filipino Chinese to have Filipino surnames, which could be traced back to the Spanish regime in the Philippines when conversion to Catholicism entailed getting a godparent to sponsor one’s last name.

Although my surname has its Tagalog root, which means alluring or captivating, my facial features are predominantly Chinese despite being just a quarter Chinese. According to my mom, I got my habit of heavy toothbrushing from my father. My dentist told me that I inherited my yellowish and strong teeth from my dad. According to stories, my grandmother, Isadora, was from Tondo, Manila, who I presume, had some Chinese roots too as her maiden name was Gubangco.

While teaching at a special speech school in Manila, I met a student from Capiz province whom I got to know better through some conversations on a bus heading to a southern suburb. She asked me about my middle name, which is Arnaldo, and mentioned that my roots might have a tendril from her province. She also noted that in addition to Roxas City, there is an Arnaldo City in the province. Similarly, there is a highway named Arnaldo in General Trias, Cavite province. However, our Arnaldo clan is from Bulacan province, so I am not sure if we have relatives who migrated to Capiz or if it is the other way around.

It is interesting to note that my grandfather had only one sibling. They shared two last names, which were Arnaldo Cruz. These names were not to be mistaken for middle and last names, as is the legal order of our names. From some information I received from my cousins, I discovered that my grandfather decided to only have one last name, so he adopted Arnaldo, while his brother took on Cruz. In Spanish, arnaldo means powerful as an eagle.

Our Arnaldo clan is large, as my mother had twelve siblings, with one dying shortly after birth. All of my uncles’ first names ended with the letter O, while two of my aunts shared the same last letter, A, in their first names as my mom. I do not have information about my grandfather’s brother and whether he had a large family as well. However, I do know that my mom and her siblings were close to their first cousins, who mostly lived in a village in Tondo, Manila.

One of their cousins worked in theatre, sharing the last name Arnaldo, for many years until his passing. My second cousin, whose maiden name is also Arnaldo, is a seasoned actress for television and movies. Another nephew who shares the same last name, Arnaldo, owns a boutique in Makati and is a fashion designer. His father was a village captain (Barangay Chairman) in Tondo. I am a freelance writer with a creative non-fiction portfolio. I do not know if talent is innate, but I believe it is a gift that needs to be consistently nourished and shared. Each family has its own unique talent, origin, and destination.

A former movie actress, who used to be known by her maiden name Arnaldo, has now become a nun and has turned her back on films. However, we are not related. She was also an environmentalist. Perhaps we are all connected in some way, but as time and tradition fade away, we cannot definitively identify these physiological and social elements.

When I moved to a residence uphill a few decades ago, the municipal mayor’s last name was Cuerpo. Residents claimed he was originally from Nueva Ecija, the province next to Bulacan. Recently, I discovered that two last names were common during our grandparents’ time. I learned about this during annual visits to our family tomb in Obando, my hometown. My grandmother had a brother whom we fondly called Lolo (grandfather) and was a good painter. I remember a porch at their house with a concrete wall painted with fish, shells, and other marine life. His name was Eliseo, but we knew him by his nickname Sayong. On our family tomb, his death marker shows his full name as Eliseo Cuerpo Cruz Enriquez. Does this mean that we are remotely related to the previous town mayor of my current residence? Her daughter recently started a political career and won as the number one councilor in our just-concluded national and local government elections. It would be great to have a conversation with her about her family origins. Cuerpo means body in Spanish.

In my first teaching job at a high school in my province in the late 80s, I had the opportunity, along with my colleagues, to visit the ancestral house of the then-municipal mayor, former mayor Tito Enriquez of Bulakan, Bulacan, on his birthday. His house reminded me of the Alindogan ancestral house, also known as Bahay na Bato (stone house), where the ground floor was used for firewood storage, free-range chicken, and other household items. I suspect that we may be related, as my grandmother was also from Bulacan, but from a different municipality, Baliwag. I recall attending a large family reunion of the Arnaldo-Enriquez clan in the same town during my childhood, which rarely occurs now since all of my mom’s siblings have passed away. In my first year of teaching, I was too timid to inquire or discuss my ancestry with the mayor. “Enriquez” means “son of Enrique” in Spanish. According to history, the Enriquez family of Bulakan, Bulacan, were prominent heroes in the Battle of San Rafael[1].

Not everyone has the opportunity to observe, identify, and understand family connections from the past and present, but it is always a good idea to remember where we come from. This can perhaps help us navigate our present and future destinations more clearly.

[1] Fought between the Spanish and the Filipinos in 1896

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Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

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Categories
Poetry

Thirty Days Left

By Sanzida Alam

My days have blurred 
like the wet henna stains on my fingertips. 
Each fading line, 
a day close to elsewhere. 

Thirty days left. 
Each one peels away 
a face, a corner of home 
a street I walked a thousand times. 

I wanted this –
the scholarship letter,
a dream stamped by a foreign visa. 
But want and farewell
speak two different languages. 

Even joy comes with mourning. 
How does one carry 
both a suitcase and 
the weight of leaving? 

I eat mango slices more slowly now,
as if sweetness could hold me back. 
I take the long way home now, 
even when I don’t have to. 

I linger in my mother’s room 
fold her scarf a little tighter– 
Then unfold it again. 

My room is already a museum
of the things that I can’t pack. 

The city has begun to look like a goodbye. 
I walk slower now, 
as if I could memorise the dust
before the plane lifts it from me.

Sanzida Alam is a Bangladeshi writer and researcher passionate about exploring social issues through her work.

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Categories
Stories

The Fog of Forgotten Gardens

By Erin Jamieson

It’s always the same: rose petals, plucked from our apartment’s community garden.

Gray, misty day. The kind of day that Mom will spend asleep in her bed, curled up like a cat who doesn’t care about anyone or anything else.

Not quite raining. Just threatening rain. That heavy feeling in the sky, that tension that I feel now as I arrange each petal.

There’s a rumble of thunder just as I lay the last petal on Dad’s grave.

But the rain won’t come.

It never does.

I toast two slices of sourdough bread and slather butter on one and peanut butter on the other. I’ve tracked mud into our kitchen, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now. It’s already way later than it should be, and if I’m too late…

I actually don’t know what happens if I’m too late, or what too late even means. Dr. Hansen never really explained that. Probably on purpose.

What Dr. Hansen doesn’t get is that I’m the one taking care of her, not the other way around. Mom is a great actress: last appointment, she even put on makeup and ironed the pants she used to wear to work.

I fill a glass with soy milk and then take out her pills.

One purple one, one blue one. I set them beside the piece of sourdough with butter, then set the soy milk on the plate too. It makes it easier to cram everything on one plate like this. I learned the hard way, when this started. Ended up cleaning shards all over our apartment for the next half hour. And even then, I found some later — by slicing my foot open.

“Mariella?”

I nearly drop the plate I’m carrying. I can count on my hands the number of times she’s been awake this early — usually I just place her breakfast on her dresser. The same dresser they were going to sell in a garage sale before everything went to hell.

I race to Mom’s room– which, with a teeny two-bedroom apartment, it doesn’t take long. When I swing the door open, she’s sitting upright in bed. Her hair is damp, and even though there are still shampoo suds, it makes me feel something I can’t describe.

“Hey, I have breakfast for you.”

She watches me like I’m a stranger, or someone from another life. Her light brown hair is curly from the humidity– the only way we resemble each other. Her once full cheekbones (your Mom could be a model, seriously, Luis used to insist) are sunken. Even though she’s still several inches taller than I will ever be, she feels smaller than I am, her lanky arms and legs covered with not one but two bedspreads.

“It’s sourdough,” I say, and I’m annoyed that my voice shakes. This is my Mom after all. The same person who used to braid my hair before soccer games.

Who made me Jello Jigglers in heart shapes when I was sick on Valentine’s Day. (Valentine’s Day is 100 percent cursed for me, and no one can convince me otherwise. I get sick almost every single year — and now that most people I know are dating, it’s all the more sickening).

“Leave it on the dresser, Mariella.”

“I always do,” I mutter. For a Moment, I have a weird urge to throw off all those bedspreads and blankets. Shake her awake. Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be taking care of me, instead of the other way around? Don’t you even remember how to wash your own hair?

I turn to leave.

She grabs my hand. “Wait.”

I turn to face her, but I can’t look her in the eye. I’m scared of what I’ll see. No, I’m scared of what I won’t see. I’m scared I’ll see that glossy look the day he left us, like there was nothing left of her. Like whoever this was, was just inhabiting her body.

Luis would love that theory — love as in want to investigate it. He’s really into that kind of thing: the idea that we can exist in many ways at once, or live different lives. Even though he’s Catholic.

His parents absolutely love that.

But I’ve never told him. I haven’t talked to him, period, since everything happened.

“Are you going to prom?” she asks.

The question is so unexpected that I don’t speak for a moment. I stare at the dark bed board: this ugly tawny brown I’ve always hated. The apartment walls we’re not allowed to paint, so they’re this insipid beige-grey color that no one wants and no one asked for.

“Prom isn’t for a month,” I say, because it’s the easiest answer.

“Well, you need a dress.”

She studies my clothes: beige cardigan, ripped low rise jeans, both splattered with mud. In my defense, I left my rain boots in the kitchen. After tracking mud all over the tiles.

“I’m probably not going,” I say.

She sinks back in bed. “I need to call our landlord. The sink is leaking again. Could you get me his number?”

The leaking sink from the house we used to rent — before we couldn’t afford it anymore and had to downgrade.

“The sink is fine,” I say.

“Oh? I didn’t know they came.”

I bite my lip. “Hey, did you know you still have shampoo in your hair?”

She reaches to touch her hair. “I should probably take a shower,” she says. “You’re right. Well, you better get ready for school. Don’t want to be late.”

My eyes mist with tears, but I turn my back before she can see. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be late.”

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Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a forthcoming poetry collection. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books.  X/Twitter: @erin_simmer.

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Categories
Poetry

Unspoken Promise by Shamim Akhtar

A Quiet Sunrise. Photo Courtesy: Shamim Akhtar. 
UNSPOKEN PROMISE 

If you can,
look for a few words
scattered somewhere
across the vast distance
between two untimely wishes.

Upon tall pillars
of silent moments,
someone may have tried
to build a bridge —
a bridge adorned
with unspoken words of promise.

Dr. Shamim Akhtar is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Management at ICFAI University Mizoram. A researcher, writer, and a passionate poet explores themes of memory, longing, and the human condition. His work reflects a blend of lyrical sensitivity and deep introspection.

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Categories
Stories

The Anger of a Good Man

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

A wealthy man named Dharmayya hired a carpenter to do the woodwork for his newly constructed house. He handed over the timber required for doors and windows and asked him to begin the work.

The carpenter brought his tools and started working. By the end of the week, the doors and windows were nearly ready. He used nails extensively to join and shape the wooden pieces.

One day, when the carpenter said he ran out of nails, Dharmayya immediately went to the market and bought some more. Showing them to the carpenter, he said, “The price of iron has gone up, so nails are expensive now. Still, I didn’t compromise on quality. Strong nails ensure durability. One shouldn’t hesitate to spend for lasting quality.”

One of the nails overheard these words — a particularly arrogant one — and it swelled with pride. It already had a haughty nature, and now hearing the owner’s praise, it became even more boastful.

Using every opportunity, it began to taunt the wood: “You’re nothing without us! Your strength and durability come only because of us. If you’ve earned any reputation, it’s because of the nails like me!”

But the wood didn’t mind. It calmly replied, “No one can survive alone. If I stand strong today because of you, I’m grateful.”

The nail didn’t like this response. The other nails and tools added, “Don’t say that. In a way, it’s because of you that we have any purpose.”

The arrogant nail was not pleased to hear even the other nails side with the wood. It glared at the wood and muttered, “Just wait. The moment I get a chance to tear through you, I’ll make you cry!”

Two days later, the carpenter happened to pick up that same nail. He placed it on the wood and struck it with a hammer. But the nail refused to go in. Seeing this, the carpenter struck it harder on the head with the hammer. The nail bent sideways. Trying to straighten it, he placed it on a stone and hit it again. This time, the blow landed badly and broke the nail’s head off.

Now useless, the carpenter tossed it into a corner and continued his work with a new nail.

The arrogant nail was shaken by the incident. It had never imagined such an end. Not knowing what to do, it sat there, broken, and wept.

As dusk fell, the carpenter packed up and left, leaving behind the wood, tools, and materials.

Seeing the nail lying sadly in a corner, the saw said, “So, miss high-and-mighty, look what happened to you! You thought the wood’s strength came from you? You mocked the very material that patiently endures our harsh cuts, believing that we are helping it become stronger. You couldn’t recognize its silent strength and goodness.

“When the carpenter hurts the wood while crafting a beautiful home, the wood endures it in silence. We are only tools used temporarily. But the wood is not weak. After being used once, who thinks about nails like you again? You wanted to hurt the wood but ended up ruining yourself. By morning, you’ll be swept away and tossed in the trash. Your life now has no purpose.”

The nail was finally enlightened. “I misunderstood the wood’s kindness as weakness and spoke arrogantly. It’s true — when good people get angry, they leave no trace of those who cross them.”

The truth is, the wood refused to let that nail in — not because it was weak, but to teach a lesson to that arrogant nail. Its resistance came from strength. It proved that the truly strong remain silent and fulfill their purpose without pride.

From Public Domain

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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Ashwini Mishra’s poems

Five poems by Ashwini Mishra have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

Ashwini Mishra 
RIDING THE EARTH: THE LAST DAY

Farewell! 
A final goodbye!
The prologue to an epic of an endless rest
Has to be something
Extra special.

Gathering up all the strength
Of his senses 
He strove to know the people
Around him.
He spoke fondly to them
‘Let you all be there in my heart
Forever,
May my world keep shimmering
With the glow of this endearing bond.’
He rode each passing day
That galloped on -- 
Like a well-fed, robust horse,
He rode on, 
His feet securely stuck in the stirrups 
His hands gripping the rein hard.
 In an instant he could
 Gallop around the earth
 Cradling time under his arm. 
The river, the ponds 
And the rainclouds brought water
For his parched throat,

Towards the end of the journey 
He called one by one his folks 
Whom he held dear to his heart.
 Some of them sounded assuring,
 Some promised to come.
 A few fulfilled their promises too
 And came --
Still, there was a disturbing emptiness
Somewhere within.

Where has disappeared
The knot of love that had held  
So strong in the days of past?
It was as though that knot 
Had loosened and shredded.   
Worn out like a weary page 
In the mindscape,
Like someone that had once 
Played a major role,   
And had moved away from the centerstage,   
To stand by the stage-wings
Distanced and dispassionate!

SWORD  

 I had never wanted
To wield a sword, a dagger or a goad.
I had always wanted to tuck plumes
into the hair,
To draw a lotus on the palm,
To play the notes of spring breeze
For the ears of the 
Blazing summer noon.
I had wanted to be a dreamer,
To let my eyes close 
At the touch of the delicate petals 
Of exotic blooms!
But you did not let that happen.
My loved ones,
My folk I held close to my heart,
Fell at the merciless blows
Of harsh and hostile words
Your canons shot.
Your anger, your cruelty,
Weighed heavy on me
And a thunderstorm brew inside me.
Unnoticed by others. 
In the end,
My compelled hands
Reached out to the scabbard
Lying abandoned under 
The smuts of time
To draw the sword out.
 
THE CLAY LAMP

A clay lamp can always guess
How long the ghee and 
The wick in it will last.
It is a living thing 
How brief might its lifespan be.
It can, like all living beings,
Battle the wind and the darkness
In its struggle to survive
In an unenclosed space
That is vulnerable to 
The assault of hooves of animals
Or the misty spray of the dew.
 It knows that 
 The moment the curtain rises,
 Revealing the stage
All set for the entry of light,  
The first act of the play will end  
And Its role will be over    
Even before the makeup is 
Rubbed off the face or the artificial tint
On the hair fades.
The hand that had lit it 
May turn impassive, too!
  
  A woman, her heart and hands 
  Focused on the act,
  Keeps lighting up the clay lamps,
  Not knowing for sure 
  How long their light would last
  Or when the flames would die.
 The idol of the goddess    
  That glittered in the light of 
  The lamps she lights 
   Never steps down to help her 
   When the flames char her body.
   There is not a soul in sight
   When her flame dies,
   Except a few burnt insects.
  
 GAZA
You neither have a chest 
Nor arms now 
To embrace those who once saw
You as their own
Like you did before.
The natives and the foreigners, 
Who trod your soil, 
Now take a turn either to your left
Or to your right and move on.
No longer the chirrups of birds
Come sprinkling down 
Either from your sky, or your trees.
There are vultures everywhere
Scavenging on the tender human flesh
Getting fat and heavy.
The sun, the moon and the stars 
In your sky are 
Blown away into thousand pieces now.
You may dig up some of them  
Graved under your ground.
The Death in your sea breeze
And in your explosive garb
Haunts living humans 
To turn them to corpses.
Like a farmland ladened with crops,
Skeletons are heaped in your streets.
Houses and buildings where life dwelt 
Are mounds of shattered concrete.
Wreckage of kitchenware, 
 And of home appliances
 Lie on the desolate roads 
 In pathetic scatters.
A book satchel slings from the 
Severed hand of a dead child.
The thirst for war is not quelled yet,
New strategies are deliberated upon
To pursue newer missions of death.
New weapons must be hoarded 
In the arsenal 
To launch an attack on the netherworld 
After this world is razed to ruins.  

WHIP 

The whip that once basked proud in
The love of the kings and the feudal lords  
And danced in elation on 
The defenseless back of the oppressed, 
Now lies worn and weary 
In a niche in the royal palace or 
Behind the glass doors in the shelf 
Of a museum, 
Coated in dust and dirt.
The obsequious tanners,
Who were far below the 
Aristocracy,  
Polished this tool of tyranny  
 Bright with oil, 
 And it jumped crazy 
On their haggard backs, 
Drawing crooked lines 
Of livid blue and red.

How wide is the chasm between 
Sage Dadhichi who gave his bones 
For forging a thunderbolt 
To kill demon Brutrasura*,
And the stingray that gave its tail to 
Shape a whip 
That performs its brutal dance
On the back of innocent humans? 
Even today,
The barges of history and legends
Voyage across the pages 
Of text books taught in the classroom,
Their sails fluttering 
On their proud masts. 

*Brutrasura was killed by Indra with a weapon made with Sage Dadhichi’s bones as per mythology.

Aswini Kumar Mishra has 13 poetry collections to his credit. He has been translated widely into English, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil and other Indian languages. He has authored a fiction in English, Feet in the Valley (Rupa Publications, 2016),  His poems and essays have appeared in several literary journals including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Wasafiri, M.P.T, The Little Magazine, Samakaleen, Konark, Rock Pebbles and Vahi etc. A recipient of several awards, he currently lives in Bhubaneswar and can be reached at cell phone +919438615742, +918456953936. His email id is:  mishra.aswini53@gmail.com

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Categories
Review

‘…Water is achromatic and otherwise called life…’

Book Review by Pradip Mondal

Title: Selected Poems

Author: Kiriti Sengupta

Publisher: Transcendent Zero Press (Texas)

Sir Philip Sidney, in his An Apology for Poetry, argues that the primary purpose of poetry is to “teach” and “delight”. Kiriti’s Sengupta’s Selected Poems serves both purposes though the poems do not preach at any point but leave the readers mulling over the ideas with the play of words. The book contains more than 125 poems, selected by Dustin Pickering, a writer and the founding editor of Transcedent Zero Press. The content covers an eclectic range of subjects—from personal musings to ecology, memory to myths and more — mostly republications from his earlier collections and some from journals.

An award-winning poet, publisher, editor, translator and critic, Sengupta believes himself twice-born as he states in his poem of the same name — ‘Twice Born’, written specially for this collection.  He has embraced the calling of a poet, forsaking the lucrative profession of a doctor. It’s not that he doesn’t vacillate: “The ink has dried on the paper; the pot can’t be refilled with scribbles. Do I now surrender my pen?” But poetry is his vocation; it would sound ludicrous if someone could ask a noted poet, “What if you weren’t a poet?”(“Intrinsic’)

There is a sense of flow in the poems despite his stylistic terseness. Water permeates his poetry. The poet believes: “…water is achromatic and otherwise called life.” As the poet is a deep observer of nature and its surroundings, he observes that water carries out its own duty: “Water has no call, no décor either; it floats the bone and/ the ash free.” In ‘Evening in Varanasi’, the poet assigns the water of the Ganges with exceptional qualities: “The water here is not/a fire extinguisher. /Flames rise through the water.” He connects the water to the Sun: “O Sun, I remember/I’ve bathed your feet/with the water of the Ganges”. ‘River of Tears and Mother’ airs the deep concern about the recalcitrance of those who ignore ecological issues: “Ganga has her stories to tell;/wish she had someone to listen to her.”

Ecological strains seep through Sengupta’s poems. In ‘The Pillars of Soil’, he draws a fine connection between human beings and trees through the image of the roots. The poet invokes a supreme spirit: “the world would need another maestro/who could sing for the seasoned flesh—/those who walked the earth—/whose roots ran deep into the ground”. In ‘Hibiscus’, he evocatively draws a curious connection between the colour of hibiscus flower and human blood: “…I’ll bloom/like a hibiscus:/the blush will endorse/my bloodline.” The epigraph of the poem, translated by Sengupta from a poem by the noted ‘rebellious’ Bengali poet, Sukanta Bhattacharya, re-enforces his stance.  

Concern for extreme air pollution in cities yields sardonic poetry: “Nature made the nasal frame fragile. /How do they breathe the vain air?” He also highlights pollution caused by plastics: “The earth has grown plastic. Water takes eons to seep”.

Some of Sengupta’s poems convey a sense of domesticity. “Clarity”deals with gastronomy as the poet succinctly invites the reader to succor ghee with all their five senses. In this piece, the poet reminisces about the aroma of ghee that his mother used to prepare. The poet here compares his mother’s organic ghee with his organic memory: “So organic is my memory—/the granular residue lifted us to heaven. /Ah! Pious Ghee, and incorrigible.”

In poems such as ‘Experience Personified’, the poet records his experience of the commonplace things: “Tiny droplets envelop my feet/and permeate the toes. /I don’t call it a feeling, I will name it/my experience”. It reminds a me of lines by Tagore: “But I haven’t beholden/what lies two steps away from my home/on a blade of paddy grain, a dazzling drop of dew”. Sengupta also doesn’t shy away from the recent happenings in India. In ‘The Untold Saga’, the poet recalls the abominable “Nirbhaya episode” and rues that, unlike Durga, Nirbhaya could not create an epic due to her untimely death.

The poet turns metaphysical – almost like John Donne[1]— when he asserts, “I now look beyond the flesh, bone and keratin, /I’ve been told/the finer body dwells undressed.” Though most of the poems are contemplative, the book offers some light-hearted ones too: “To my complete bewilderment, if the ghost appears, I’ve decided to offer it a chair first, and then I’ll plead, ‘Take a seat and relax! Let us share our stories.’” In ‘Gravity’, the poet offers a lighter note for the turbulence caused in the aircraft due to the inclement weather. He gives solace to his terrified son: “Relax, Bumps help us/ realize the earth.” In a haiku, punning on the word ‘wisdom’, the poet realises that it’s a test of a surgeon’s wisdom to pluck out a wisdom tooth (biologically called ‘the third molar’) of a patient.

Sengupta’s Selected Poems is a fabulous collection. These poems are like chosen seeds that contain intrinsic vigour to sprout through the age-old concrete floor, giving a message of hope in the face of all odds. Sengupta’s penetrating observations, coupled with his poetic prowess, can be vividly experienced by delving into the rich treasures hidden in between the covers.

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[1] John Donne (1572-1631), Metaphysical poet

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Pradip Mondal teaches at L. B. S. Govt. P. G. College Halduchaur, Nainital (India). He has been published in journals like Suburban Witchcraft (Serbia), Muse India (India), and Indi@logs (Spain).

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Categories
Poetry

Looking for a Sanctuary

Poetry by Mian Ali

THE SANCTUARY
Somewhere in between the woods,
Where trees flutter, flowers bloom,
Bees hum, winds chime. 
And when the night turns, 
A nightingale guides strangers in the night,
And when the seaman is lost,
The stars brighten to direct the right sight, 
Like a saint, 
Who holds the panacea to an evil mind.
As an itinerant,
I am frightened by the demons inhabiting all sides, 
So come and shield me,
And provide me sanctuary in your arms full of serenity.

EMBRACE ME

Embrace me,
And I would place them all in your heart --
The tales of grief,
And fables of betrayal
Of the Jasmine and Lilac
By the stream where they bloom.

They promised me they would reach you
On the winds of spring, 
To carry my message of love. 
But I know
You would throw it out.

Mian Ali, a Lahore-based writer published in The Brussels Review, explores love, hate, spirituality, and morality through his writing. He weaves the tale that narrate the stories of the grieved heart. His work lingers at the edges of feeling and thought, always reaching for something just beyond language.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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