Categories
Essay

Celebrating the novel… Where have all the Women Writers Gone?

G Venkatesh writes about a book from 1946. What is interesting is no women writers are featured in it despite their being a phrase which he quotes in his essay, ‘a stepdaughter of the Muses’…

Photo graph by G Venkatesh

There is this book published in 1946 in New York, that I picked up at a Red Cross charity shop in Karlstad (Sweden) of late. A compilation of micro-biographies (make that ‘nano’ if you will) of 20 novelists (fiction-writers in other words) from Italy, Spain, France, England, Scotland, the USA, Russia and Ireland, who graced the world of literature in flesh  between the mid-14th and the mid-20th centuries, and will continue to do so, in spirit, forever.

Pillars of fertile imagination, seeded from the idea-realm
Visual by G Venkatesh

I venture in this article to present some gleanings from this little gem of a book, to enlighten, motivate, inspire, educate and rekindle interest in the classics of yore. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that all writing happens by the grace of God. We witness that in the lives of the twenty writers profiled in the book. Some had an inborn urge to write, some developed the penchant to do so as if the idea floated in from the idea-realm beyond the astral, and some others were blessed by the Divine to transmute their pain and suffering to the written word that has stood the test of time, and will continue to do so, into the distant future. Condemnation paved the way to commendation for some, while rejections emboldened others to transcend the limits of human judgement and rejoice in the sunshine of hard-earned glory.

At its perigee, the ‘novel’, as observed by Henry and Dana Lee Thomas, is an epitome of philosophy as applied to life. The Thomases ask readers to consider the life of every novelist profiled to be a magnum opus in itself – each adorned with facts stranger than fiction.

Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes

This is an Italian-French-Spanish trio (encompassing the 14th to the early 17th century), and perhaps most of the readers may be familiar only with the third-named. Giovanni Boccaccio was a contemporary of Alighieri Dante (whose biography he wrote). A ‘friendly sinner’, he was a devotee of the here and now, while also being profoundly interested in the hereafter.’ Novelists, well and truly, leave behind accounts of their times, couched in fiction (and that, read alongwith factual history, helps us readers to visualise and understand better how things were in the past). The ‘poets’ in them, simultaneously dwell on and dream about how things can, must and will be in the future. Many of them refrain from including a semi-autobiographical element to their novels, and the Thomases have identified Francois Rabelais as being one such. To the Frenchman, all life was an anecdote with a bitter ending, a truth he based his limited fictional creations on.

Miguel de Cervantes, the Spaniard, is presented as a disappointed, shattered and disgusted man, who was chiefly motivated by his own trials, travails and tribulations to pen the famous Don Quixote. This knight who fought windmills, was perhaps what Cervantes thought himself to be – blessed with the good fortune to live in folly and die in wisdom.  

Defoe, Swift, Sterne

From the simple Quixote and the clumsy Sancho Panza to the resourceful Robinson Crusoe and his helpful Man Friday, characters created by Daniel Defoe in a novel eponymous with the protagonist. Defoe was a paradox of moral integrity and material ambition (if you can visualise one such blend), who by virtue of the fact that he donned the mantles of businessman, pedlar, politician, pamphleteer and spy (not necessarily in that order) in his life, could interpret mankind expertly in his fiction. A kind of ‘been-there, seen-that, done-that, can-write-about-all-with-authority’. Jonathan Swift, of Gulliver’s Travels fame, was gifted with a supreme intellect and a spiritual-religious leaning, but encumbered by physical weakness. God gives but also deprives at the same time, a mystery which humankind has not been able to solve. Fatherless when barely half-a-year old, he was verily a titan (like the character Gulliver he created) among pygmies (like the Lilliputians). He abhorred injustice and thought and prayed forever for the felicity of humankind. He lived to be 78, but contended on the basis of his experiences that the gift of a long life is bought at a very high price.

Laurence Sterne, the preacher-poet Yorkshireman, left behind several nuggets of wisdom in his novels and a couple of them can be cited hereunder:

“I laugh till I cry, and I cry till I laugh” (reminding one of the Yin and the Yang which feed into each other)

“Give me all the blessings of wisdom and religion if you will, but above all, let me be a man.”

Scott, Balzac, Dumas

Sir Walter Scott, while being a prodigy like Swift, also had to contend with physical disabilities like him.  He tided over them marvellously, prudently, gallantly and tirelessly, en route to a knighthood and immortality in the realm of English literature. Dreamy Honoré de Balzac, obdurate and uncompromising, believed that man’s destiny and purpose in life was to “rise from action through abstraction to sight” – a deed-word-thought ascent in other words. “Life lies within us (spiritual), and not without us (material)”, he averred. He never got the glory he deserved when he was alive, and his soul perhaps got the peace it richly merited when fame showed up posthumously.

Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan – characters from The Three Musketeers, a novel by Alexandre Dumas which presents the facts of 19th century France through the medium of fiction – were known to school-goers in the 1970s and 1980s, like yours sincerely. Dumas, as the Thomases have noted, met praise with a shrug and insults with a smile – stoically in other words. However, he had a penchant for sarcasm and trenchant wit which were unleashed whenever required. “I do not know how I produce my poems. Ask a plum tree how it produces plums,” is verily a testimony to his transatlantic contemporary Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “All writing happens by the grace of God.”

Hugo, Flaubert, Hawthorne

Two Frenchman and a New-Englander American comprise this trio. Viktor Marie Hugo, of Les Misérables fame, was born in the same year as Dumas, and was regarded widely as the ‘Head’ of the 19th century to Abraham Lincoln’s ‘Heart’. His crests of hard-won success coincided with the troughs of ill-deserved sorrow (he had to contend with the deaths of his wife and children). The Divine Will strengthened his mind, soul and fingers to move quill on paper, enabling the much-bereaved Frenchman to cope and conquer. “Sorrow,” he wrote, “is but a prelude to joy.” A stoic would however add, “and vice versa”. Quite like Sterne’s “I laugh till I cry, and I cry till I laugh”. Despite all that he had to endure; Hugo always believed in God and the purposes he lays out for human beings in their lives.

Hugo’s friend Gustave Flaubert considered the written word to be a living entity, with a voice, perfume, personality and soul. A concoction of realism and romanticism, if ever there was one, Flaubert was also a peculiar amalgamation of poet-cynic, artist-scientist and humankind’s comforter-despiser.  He ardently believed that though the soul is trapped within a mortal corpus on the terrestrial realm, it (which is the actual identity of a human being) lives in the idea-realm, and finds its rewards therein.

Hawthorne, on the other side of the ocean, was charmed by the sea and surf and sand in his childhood and youth, having spent a lot of time along the New England coast in north-western America. That led him to dwell on the mysteries of the human soul (which continue to be mysteries at the time of writing), while rebelling against the Puritanic influences that had engulfed the region. He was on an eternal quest, an intellectual and moral pathfinder in his own right, and a pioneering rebel with the pen and quill in his arsenal.  

Thackeray, Dickens, Dostoyevsky

William Makepeace Thackeray, readers will be interested to know, was born in Calcutta (now, Kolkata). A sentimental cynic who glimpsed the stupidity of life through the fog of sorrow, he believed that foolishness of the past is a pre-requisite to wisdom in the present and the future – in other words, simply put, we learn from our errors as we move on. ‘Gifted with a bright wit and an attractive humour’, in the words of Charlotte Bronte, he contended that literature was more a misfortune and less a profession. His cynicism helped him to grasp reality, and feel empowered in the process –“How very weak the very wise; how very small the truly great are.” Kind and wise humans often lack the power to change things for the better, while the powerful ones lack the conscience, will and goodness to want to do so.

Thackeray rivalled with Charles Dickens for fame and glory. Dickens, similar to Scott and Swift, had to contend with physical discomfort in his childhood and adolescence, in addition to a father who was not responsible with the money he earned. These experiences would later feed into the stories he churned out prolifically; semi-autobiographical some of them, while informing readers at the same time about the times that prevailed – “the best of times and the worst of times” (A Tale of Two Cities). His humble beginnings made him burn the midnight oil later in life, fuelled by the ambition to succeed, which he sustained all along. Quite like it was Hugo across the Channel, the troughs of torment annulled the acmes of accomplishment. Yet, he remained grateful to God and fellow-humans for the life he lived, and bade one and all a ‘respectful and affectionate farewell’, before ascending to the astral realm.

Reclusive Feodor Dostoyevsky, like Hawthorne in America, struggled to shake off a Puritan upbringing and sought fodder for his literature among the common man – the suffering proletariat who visited liquor shops to drown their sorrows in alcohol. Man, he believed, was responsible for his own salvation…and not God. He however did believe at times that God saved those whom men punished. But then, he also contradicted himself or seemed to do so, when he said that man is saved only because the Devil exists. But perhaps that was not a contradiction after all – God saves man from what he has to be saved from! The meaning of life, according to Dostoyevsky, was the brute-to-angel and the sinner-to-saint transformation of man; quite on the lines of Balzac’s action-abstraction-sight prescription.

NovelistLifespanSelected works
Giovanni Boccaccio1313-1375Filocolo, Filostrato, Teseide, Fiammetta, Amorosa Visione, Ameto, Decameron, Life of Dante
Francois Rabelais1495 – 1553Pantagruel, Gargantua
Miguel de Cervantes1547 – 1616Galatea, Don Quixote, Novelas Exemplares, Persiles y Sigismunda
Daniel Defoe1661-1731The True-Born Englishman, The Apparition of Mrs Veal, Robinson Crusoe, The Dumb Philosopher, Serious Reflections, Moll Flanders
Jonathan Swift1667 – 1745The Battle of the Books, The Tale of a Tub, Gulliver’s Travels Children of the Poor, Directions to Servants, Polite Conversation
Laurence Sterne1713-1768A political romance, Tristram Shandy, Sermons by Yorick, The Sentimental Journey
Sir Walter Scott1771 – 1832The Lady of the Last Minstrel, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth, The Lady of the Lake, Waverley, The Monastery
Honoré de Balzac1799 – 1850The Country Doctor, Eugenie Grandet, Jesus in Flanders, Droll Stories, Louis Lambert, Seraphita, A Daughter of Eve, The Peasants
Alexandre Dumas1802 – 1870The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Black Tulip, The Prussian Terror, The Forty-Five, Chicot the Jester, The Queen Margot
Victor Hugo1802 – 1885Les Misérables, The Toilers of the Sea, The History of a Crime, Legend of the Centuries, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Supreme Pity
Gustave Flaubert1821 – 1880Madame Bovary, The Sentimental Education, The Temptation of St Anthony, Bouvard and Pécuchet, Salambbô
Nathaniel Hawthorne1804 – 1864Twice Told Tales, The Blithedale Romance, The Scarlet Letter, Mosses from an Old Manse, The Marble Faun, Tanglewood Tales, The Snow Image
William Thackeray1811 – 1863The Great Hoggarty Diamond, Vanity Fair, The Book of Snobs, Henry Esmond, The Virginian, Lovel the Widower, The Newcomes
Charles Dickens1812 – 1870Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Barnaby Rudge, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations
Feodor Dostoyevsky1821 – 1881Crime and Punishment, Poor Folk, The Double, The Landlady, The Family Friend, The House of Death, The Gambler, The Idiot,
Leo Tolstoy1828 – 1910War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Childhood, The Cossacks, Two Hussars, Three Deaths, A Confession, Master and Man, Resurrection, What is Art
Guy de Maupassant1850 – 1893Une Vie, The Ball of Fat, Mademoiselle Fifi, The Necklace, Yvette, Our Heart, Bel-Ami, Pierre and Jean, A Piece of String
Emile Zola1840 – 1902Doctor Pascal, Therese Raquin, The Dram Shop, Nana, Germinal, The Earth. The Dream, Rome, Paris, Fertility, Work, Truth, Justice
Mark Twain1835 – 1910Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Joan of Arc, A Connecticut Yankee, What is Man, The Prince and the Pauper
Thomas Hardy1840 – 1928A Pair of Blue Eyes, Under the Greenwood Tree, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Trumpet-Major, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Jude the Obscure, Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Table: The novelists profiled, and a list of their selected works

Tolstoy, Maupassant, Zola

Leo Tolstoy, also a Russian like Dostoyevsky, unlike Dickens, was not guided onward and forward by ambition. He believed in stooping to conquer and was motivated in his life’s journey by compassion. Orphaned when not yet a teenager, haunted by an inferiority complex pertaining to his ‘unprepossessing appearance’, and disgusted with organised religion (the Orthodoxy which prevailed in Russia), he discovered his purpose in Rousseau’s philosophy and in ridding the human heart of evil and helping it to live in peace, in communion with Nature. His dissent, rebellion and dissatisfaction with extravagance (of the nobility), bigotry (of the clergy) and tyranny (of the royalty), were the seeds, water and fertiliser for his contributions to Russian literature. Readers know that Mahatma Gandhi was inspired by the philosopher-prophet-penman Leo Tolstoy to set up the Tolstoy Farm in South Africa. Some nuggets which will serve as parts of vade mecums for readers:

“Death, blessed brother death, you are the final deliverance.”

“There are millions of human beings on earth who are suffering. Why do you think only of me?”  

Guy de Maupassant was one of those millions who suffered a lot. Reading about the tragic short life led by him, with constant physical and psychological afflictions which led to autoscopy in his 42nd year, and death in the 43rd, makes one sad. It also makes readers turn to his short stories – of which he is known to be a master – more eagerly. Flaubert and de Maupassant knew each other well, the former being a ‘guru’ guiding the latter on from time to time, along his literary journey.

Another Frenchman – Emile Zola – a contemporary of de Maupassant and Flaubert and a good friend of the painter Paul Cezanne, progressed through pitfalls and serendipitous godsends to profile the poor people of France, and ironically rise to richness thereby. A man who defended justice and spoke up against all forms of unfairness, Zola is known for standing up for the French army captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jew who was wrongly (and knowingly so) accused of treason in 1894, and playing a key role in clearing the Jew’s name in 1906 (four years after Zola passed away). His last written words –“…to remake through truth a higher and happier humanity.”

Twain and Hardy

The man most readers know as Mark Twain, was born Samuel Clemens in America. Though it would not be right to compare and contrast the travails endured by the novelists profiled by Henry and Dana in this book, it can at least be said that a peep into Twain’s life tugs at your heartstrings and the vibrations linger on for a long time. Indeed, as a natural consequence, respect and admiration well up in the heart, for this novelist. He suffered an awful lot, but also learnt to laugh at his own agony as an ‘onlooker’ – the soul observing the pain of the body and the trauma of the mind it enlivens, from a distance, without being affected in any way. Like Hugo on the other side of the ocean, he endured what can be considered as possibly the greatest sorrow a man can face – burying/cremating his own children, one after another. Twain always supported the underdogs while voicing his disgust at the pompousness of the rich and powerful, in his own unique brand of sarcasm. The following words of his may sound cynical, but they are open to interpretation:

“Nothing exists but you. And you are but a homeless, vagrant, useless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty centuries.”

Without letting these words deter you, link them with the other sufferer Viktor Hugo’s “Nothing is as powerful as an idea whose time has come”, and soldier on.

The last of the twenty, Thomas Hardy, is yours sincerely’s favourite (I happen to read all his important works in my twenties, if I remember right). Hardy like his fellow-Britons Swift and Scott was born with a “frail body, strong mind and compassionate soul”. He was compassionate towards and appreciative of the forces and elements of Mother Nature – winds, clouds, bees, butterflies, squirrels, sheep etc., as pointed out by the Thomases. The manner in which he moulded his protagonists in his novels was catalysed by this compassion. Most of them are compassionate themselves, and evoke compassion in the hearts of readers, quite easily. Hardy wanted to teach his fellow-humans how to “breast the misery they were born to”, by using his fictional protagonists as instruments. His life was an exercise in “subduing the hardest fate” and “persistence through repeated discomfitures”. As it often happens with true geniuses, he was much ahead of his times, and the glory that illumined his soul in heaven posthumously, more than compensated for the disappointments which had to be endured when it was encased in his mortal corpus.

Not the last word by any means

Serendipity, it must have been, which made me stride into the Red Cross charity shop in Karlstad in June, wherefrom I purchased this 280-page treasure. To quote Longfellow (who incidentally was a college-mate of Hawthorne’s),

“Lives of great men all remind us/We can make our lives sublime/And departing leave behind us/Footprints on the sands of time.”

The 20 authors profiled in this book represent a huge family of writers who converted fiction from ‘a stepdaughter of the Muses’ to an ‘epitome of the  philosophy of life’, except that there were no ‘daughters or stepdaughters of men’ listed among the novelists in this volume.

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G Venkatesh (50) is a Chennai-born, Mumbai-bred ‘global citizen’ who currently serves as Associate Professor at Karlstad University in Sweden. He has published 4 volumes of poetry and 4 e-textbooks, inter alia. 

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Categories
Poetry

The Woman in the Dabb

By Santosh Bakaya

A house with a protruding balcony or Dabb. 
The Woman in the Dabb*

Rub –a- dub- a- dub, one woman on the dabb*.1 
Absently, she gives her Pinocchio nose a rub.  
Is she waiting for some mouth-watering grub?
The belligerent woman smug in the snug dabb.  

That woman always strikes a quarrelsome pose.  
A contemplative finger perched on her nose, 
conferring with cacophonously cawing crows 
sitting on the boundary wall in rows and rows.  

Nay, I plead guilty to the crime of mendacity. 
But, no way am I refuting the crows’ garrulity.
Then, there were no walls etched with bellicosity. 
Those times were marked by back-slapping hilarity.   

But, my kid brother was a very mischievous sort, 
raising a hue and cry when in the slips caught. 
This budding cricketeer with everyone fought, 
Saddled with a sharp tongue and a temper hot. 

Not friends with the shrewish woman in the dabb 
who had one eye cocked towards our respected Bub*.2 
Brother’s sixer caught the woman’s nose in the dabb.
Profanities followed from the woman in the snug dabb.

Cursing the ball, the boy and the corollary disgraced, 
she flailed her pheran-clad arms, singing her own praises.
She had a penchant for evocative Kashmiri phrases, 
a rich vocabulary of intriguing phonetic cadences.  

Alas, the ball had created a dent in her Pinocchio nose. 
Kashmiri expletives freely flowed; belligerent her pose.
Now, Naseem, the woman, was ready to come to blows. 
She rolled up her pheran sleeves, bracing to give a dose

Of her tongue to my brother, who had dented her nose. 
In a fiery temper vile, no longer could she lie in repose.
Salman, his buddy, said, “You should try giving her a rose. 
Quipped my brother, “Will she accept it despite a broken nose?”  

Strange but true, after hours two, the team was in her dabb.
Rohit, Sarju, Ashok, Kuku, Salman, Irfan and a doting Bub,   
breaking bread; of cherry chuckles, the dabb was now a hub.
Kandurvaan ki roti*3and kehwa*4 and mouthwatering grub.

Down below, the houseboat-dotted Jhelum happily roared.  
Over bellicosity and grudges, love had once again scored. 
From the pine tree the golden oriole its melody poured.
Grudges and spats had once again been wisely ignored.   

The languorous traffic swirled on the ancient Kani Kadal.* 5
Soon, some little folks and a woman were in a group huddle.
Suddenly a cry of ‘Howzat?’  went up like a lilting song. 
The woman smiled, her voice ringing like a dinner gong: 

“Gobra*6, thankfully, you broke my nose, not my heart.” 
Eyes twinkling, she said with a chuckle, a hand on heart. 
Now, my kid brother mends hearts, does not break noses. 
Violence, and heartlessness, this cardiologist heartily opposes.   

With a smile, he often recalls that woman in the dabb.  
He grins as he glimpses her giving her Pinocchio nose a rub.
The woman is now history; for my brother it is a mystery
whether she really carried a torch for our beloved bub.
That affectionate pheran-clad woman in the snug dabb.
 


 *1 Dabb*: A mini balcony with a protruding ledge in old houses in Kashmir. 
*2 Bub:   An affectionate term for an elderly person, [short for Babuji] 
*3 Kandurvaan ki roti: Baker’s Bread. 
*4 Kehwa: Milk less tea garnished with cardamom, crushed almonds, and cinnamon powder [[saffron optional]        
*5 Kani Kadal: The name of a bridge in Srinagar, Kashmir 
*6 Gobra:  A Kashmiri term of endearment for a child.

Dr. Santosh Bakaya is an academician, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer. She has more than ten books to her credit , her latest books are a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. (Only in Darkness can you see the Stars) and Songs of Belligerence (poetry). She runs a very popular column Morning meanderings in Learning And Creativity.com.

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Categories
Notes from Japan

Against Invisibility

By Suzanne Kamata

Courtesy: Creative Commons

When I first came to Japan, it seemed as if people were always wanting to dress me up in traditional Japanese clothing and take my picture. The kimonos were bright, with embroidered cranes and flowers, and long furisode sleeves. I was 22 or 23. I would soon learn that such garments were only meant for young women. After marriage, Japanese women typically wore kimono with short sleeves in shades of gray.

Years later, I remember going to an event at my daughter’s school in a tunic and cardigan of light blue. One of the younger Japanese mothers commented on my outlandish fashion choice. Apparently, in Japan, I was too old for pastels. Also, it is unseemly to stand out.

Women tend to stay behind the scenes in this country. In fact, the word for wife, okusan, means “interior person.” This brings to mind someone who hides out in the depths of the house. Normally wives are not mentioned. Men do things without them. I have no idea what the wife of the current prime minister looks like.

As I became older, I could feel myself fading. For many years, I was conscious of the colour of my clothes. Wanting to be taken seriously and respected, I opted for the dark and somber. But recently I am less concerned with what other people think. This, too, comes with age.

Yaoyi Kusama. Courtesy: Creative Commons

I discovered that there is a stereotype concerning women of certain vintage in Osaka. They wear loud clothing, including leopard print, and say whatever they like. I admire that attitude. I am also a fan of Yayoi Kusama, she of the red wigs and huge polka dot dresses. Why not be iconic? Why not be a little weird?

I recently came across a call for models for a project called “40 over 40.” An American photographer in Tokyo named Tia Haygood had decided to make older women visible, to let them feel glamorous and have a good time. I volunteered to be a subject.

We had a consultation via Zoom in which I answered questions about my preferences and personality. I showed her my closet, and we talked about what I would wear. The champagne sequined dress that I bought for dinner with my daughter at the Eiffel Tower? Yes! And the four-inch heeled leopard print shoes that I had bought to go with the dress? Yes! My African print dresses? Yes! Businesslike black blazer? No!

The photo session would be fun, but I also needed a professional headshot. The author photo that I had been using, which had been hastily taken by my impatient husband in our backyard, was fifteen years old. Whenever someone asked me for a photo for a conference programme or a website, I panicked. All I had were some unsatisfactory selfies.

I packed a suitcase with clothes for the photo shoot and flew up to Tokyo. I spent the night in a hotel, and then took three trains to get to the photo studio. By the time I arrived, I was hot and sweaty.

Nobue, the makeup artist, greeted me when I peeked in the door. She ushered me into the breeze of the fan. When I had sipped some water and cooled off, I sat in a chair in front of a mirror and had my face made up.

“Don’t worry,” she kept saying, as she added colour. “Trust me.”

I did.

Tia and I talked about books and people that we knew in common and about the photo project. In December, there would be an exhibition in Tokyo featuring photos of the forty subjects. It would be a celebration, and also a networking opportunity. I vowed to be there.

For the next two or three hours, she took many photos of me in different outfits and poses. Music pumped out of the speakers. She told jokes to get me to laugh. It was fun, and it felt a tad self-indulgent, but I loved it.

While I was in that studio, no one was judging me and I wasn’t invisible. I sparkled.

Suzanne Kamata being jazzed up. Photographs provided by Suzanne Kamata

.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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Categories
Poetry

Still Ringing

By Afshan Aqil

STILL RINGING

I visit my school,
Sit under the Ashoka tree,
Straight and tall,
Before the gym hall.

Issuing from the tower 
Of St.Joseph’s Cathedral,
Floating in the air
Came the sound of the bell,

Peaceful, white,
Sailing light,
The most pleasing notes
I had ever heard.

The bells were still ringing 
When I woke up at dawn,
Filling the courtyard,
The garden and the lawn.  

By the boundary wall,
Stood the Ashoka tree, tall.
Beyond the low wall
Stretched the Western sky.

Bells were tinkling,
Incessant and merry
At a far-off shrine 
By the riverside.
Photo provided by Afshan Aqil

Dr. Afshan Aqil lives in India. She has authored a book titled, The Poetry of Edward Thomas. She has taught English Literature to undergraduates.

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Categories
Stories

A Hand Mill

Ammina Srinivasaraju

A story by Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated from Telugu by Johny Takkedasila

Chandu is a smart child studying in the ninth standard at a Government High School in Charla village. He excels not only in his studies but also enjoys playing games. Everyone in the School knows him for his intelligence and hard work.

Every morning, Chandu wakes up early and completes his work. He even helps with household tasks before going to school on time. In class, he pays close attention to his teachers and diligently completes his homework.

Chandu has a habit of thinking deeply about everything and seeking guidance from his elders whenever he has doubts. Sometimes, he recalls the words of his Telugu teacher, Mr. Satyanarayana, who had said, “The one who asks questions is the true student.”

Chandu had come across an article in the newspaper. It mentioned that “Madhuravani” had been honoured as the principal of the school because Chandu’s class had scored good marks and achieved the highest pass percentage in the entire district. However, Chandu felt confused when he read this news.

Chandu had never seen Madhuravani teach a single day. She would come to school and comfortably sit in her room under the fan, signing papers brought by the attender. Sometimes, she would briefly visit the classes and give moral lessons to the students in the morning. This was her daily routine, as Chandu observed.

Chandu knew how hard the teachers worked every day to teach lessons in the classrooms. They put in a lot of effort to ensure the syllabus was completed, and the students could study well. The teachers’ hard work was the main reason for the students’ good results. But something seemed different about the recognition Madhuravani received.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Chandu gathered courage to approach the principal with folded hands and humbly ask her to clarify his confusion.

Madhuravani smiled at Chandu and told him to come back after the evening classes for a detailed explanation during the prayer session.

After the evening classes, all the children gathered for the prayer session under the supervision of the physical education teacher. Madhuravani began sharing a meaningful message with the students. She said, “Children, let me tell you a story. In the past, people used a handmill to grind flour. They would rub one stone against the other to make fine flour. It seemed the stone on the top bore the brunt of hard work, while the one underneath remained still and seemingly comfortable. But in reality, all the effort was actually to churn the contents in the stone that lay below.”

A hand mill made of stone.

All the children looked surprised and curious.

Madhuravani continued, “Just like the top stone, in our school, the teachers work hard every day and give lessons to you. Their work is visible and evident. On the other hand, I may not give lessons like the teachers, but my role is equally important. I take care of the administrative tasks and ensure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.”

Chandu finally understood why the district collector had honoured Madhuravani, the principal, even though she didn’t teach. Her invisible efforts were essential for the school’s success, just like the bottom stone in the grinding process. From that day onward, Chandu developed a newfound appreciation for all the teachers and the principal, realising that everyone’s efforts, whether visible or invisible, contributed to the school’s achievements.

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Dr. Ammina Srinivasa Raju is a writer and essayist with more than 300 articles and over 100 stories published in various journals. Since the academic year 2009-10, the Maharashtra Government Curriculum (Sarala Bharati) has included the children’s story ‘Adavilo Andala Poti‘ in Class 7. In addition to these achievements, Dr. Raju has delivered many speeches on the Akashavani. In 2005, he received the Pothukuchi Vamsa Award from Vishwasahiti Hyderabad.

Johny Takkedasila is a popular young poet, storyteller, novelist, critic, translator, and editor in Telugu. In 2023, he received the Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award for his criticism book, Vivechani.

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Categories
Poetry

Kiyya and Sadu

A part of a Balochi ballad translated by Fazal Baloch with a brief introduction by the translator

Courtesy: Creative Commons

The love story of Kiyya and Sadu is very famous among the Baloch. An anonymous poet has versified the whole story in the form of a romantic ballad in lucid yet captivating language, this story of Kiyya, a young man from western Balochistan, and Sadu, who hailed from Makkuran. When a devastating draught hit the region, Kiyya along with his herd migrated from his hometown and camped somewhere in coastal area of Balochistan. One day by the river, he ran into a fair maiden, Sadu. He was struck by her charm so much that he fell in love with her instantly. He approached Sadu’s father and asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Since Kiyya was the member of an illustrious tribe, Sadu’s father accepted his marriage proposal.

A few days later, Kiyya took leave from Sadu’s father asking him that he would come back just in a few days after making necessary preparation for the marriage. However, he did not return in the stipulated time. Time went by. Neither did Kiyya showed up nor did come any message from him. In the meantime, some other men approached Sadu’s father with the desire to tie the knot with Sadu. His father was caught in a dilemma. He had given his words to Kiyya who had almost forgotten his commitment. On the other hand, age was slowly creeping upon her daughter. While, Sadu was not in favour of tying the knot with another man. She wanted to wait for Kiyya. The following poem is the description of Sadu’s message to Kiyya through an emissary bird:

SADU SAYS TO THE BIRD --

O sweet singing lively bird! 
Red-eyed and pretty-winged, 

When you peck from harvested fields,
Bits of spring yields. 
But tiny grains of wild shrubs 
Wouldn’t ever feed ye. 

Come, alight onto the threshold of my hut, 
Away from rest of the flock -- 
I'll feed you with fragrant grains, 
With cardamoms and cloves.

I’ll spread them on my scarf 
And water I’ll give you in a silver cup. 
In the shade of my sable hair 
Perch on my shoulder and chirrup.

Nestle on my lap and sleep. 
Whenever you want to leave, 
Just coo and forewarn me. 
With civet-musk I’ll gild your beak, 
With rose-petals your wings,
I’ll dispatch the clouds of mist 
To sail you over.
 
Come and be my messenger 
From Belau*, all the way to Bahau*.
Of the lay of the land, I'll give you some clues. 
On the land that's called Bahau, 
A long river flows through.

Like Zamzam* its water sweet and scared,
Herds of camels and calves,
Roam and graze on the verdant meadows. 

A dome-shaped tree stands in grace and awe,
Like a camel’s foot appears its leaves,
Like a scorpion’s sting its spikes,
And branches like a tiger’s paw. 

Illustrious men have gathered by the royal court. 
In a row, sit the matchless warriors; 
In the next, the common folks; 
The blue-blooded Kalmatis*, in the third row.

Amongst them, there’s a man 
Dressed in exquisite robes.
Handsome of the most handsome fellows, 
Indeed, Kiyya is distinct 
In appearance and demeanour, 
His waist curved by the quiver,
By the glistening shield his shoulder.

Alight on his turban, chirping 
Ever so gently whisper in his ear, 
The message of Sadu I do bear 
Her message and good tidings.

Kiyya! O, you the unfaithful fellow 
You promised to return in ten days, 
But now it has already been 
Six months and a whole year.
You vowed to return but did not.


The lambs kept for the wedding feast
Have now all grown old.
Worms have devoured the flour.
Birds have pecked away the henna. 
Your bride has lost all her teeth.
The bridal incense has gathered dust.
Come if you must, 
Or henceforth someone else will replace you.

If you’ve fallen in love with someone else,
May death consume her! 
May a headache, a deadly cough 
And a slow fever claim her mother!
May no harm befall you ever!
It’s a loss alone I’m to suffer!

*Bahau: A place in Western Balochistan.
*Belau: A place in Eastern Balochistan
*Zamazam: A well located in Mecca, Saudi Arabia.
*Kalmati: Name of a Baloch tribe.

{Note from the translator: There are more than one version of this ballad with substantial difference in the text. This is an assortment of different sources primarily from Meeras, (The Heritage) (4th edition) compiled by Faquir Shad, and published by Fazul Adabi Caravan, Mand in 2016}

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.

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Review

The Warrior Queen of Awadh

Book Review by Somdatta Mandal

Title: Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh

Author: Malathi Ramachandran

Publisher: Niyogi Books

Over the past few decades there has been a surge in the publication of Indian historical fiction where the authors are fascinated by India’s rich past, and the many human stories of love and loss buried beneath the larger narratives. Simplistically speaking, historical fiction is a literary genre in which the plot takes place in a setting related to the past events, but is fictional.  An essential element of historical fiction is that it is set in the past and pays attention to the manners, social conditions, and other details of the depicted period. Authors also frequently choose to explore notable historical figures in these settings, allowing readers to better understand how these individuals might have responded to their environments. After The Legend of Kuldhara (2017) and Mandu (2020), Malathi Ramachandran has now presented us with a fascinating novel, Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh (2023). She endeavours in her novel not just to re-create history as it happened long ago, but to also explore the lives and relationships of those who lived in those times.

The setting of the novel is Lucknow, 1857 where the First War of Independence against the British is fought. Wajid Ali Shah, the last Nawab of Awadh has been exiled by the British to Calcutta along with his courtiers and his coterie some months ago. Only his second wife, the beautiful queen Begum Hazrat Mahal, who had refused to accompany her husband to Calcutta stays back with her young twelve-year old prince Birjis Ali. Hazrat vows to fight the British and win back her beloved Awadh for her people and the crown for her son. She builds a rebel army and high drama ensues as they besiege the Residency, the walled British cantonment, for five months. A fictional saga based on actual events, this book takes us within the walls of the Residency where love and passion rage alongside the battle, and into the world of Begum Hazrat and her loyal band. From the beginning we encounter Hazrat’s interactions with Major Kenneth Murphy, the Company’s liaison officer who is enamoured by the beauty of the Begum and succumbs to her machinations. She wants his help to crown Birjis Ali the next Nawab and win back their lands and their properties. Then there are many stereotypical British characters – women who came from England to seek husbands and worked in evangelical missions, doctors, sergeants, and officers who took up native women for sexual gratification, and the like.

When Hazrat decides on action against the Angrez1, she forms baithaks2 comprising of the rich and poor, powerful and subordinate, Hindu, Muslim and Christian, all of whom feel that they had had enough of subjugation by these tyrants from another land. They would not take any more of their religious conversions, their oppression on the streets, their suppression in the garrisons. Her friendship with Jailal Singh, based on a shared love for Hindustan, blossomed and he promised her his allegiance in the fight against the British. She had found in Jailal a confederate, an able accomplice.

A large section of the narrative is then devoted to the details of the fight that ensued. There were times when the natives thought that they had managed to restrict the British soldiers from winning; at other times the tide of fortune turned in their disfavour when even after forming women’s brigade and defiant groups among the natives, success didn’t come in their favour. The reader is kept guessing whether the rebel army would storm the British bastion before their relief forces arrived or the tide would turn in a wave of loss and grief, crushing Hazrat Mahal’s dream for Awadh and her son. In November 1858, after more than nine months of fighting in Lucknow, and finally establishing complete control over North India, the Governor General, Lord Canning, presided over the Queen’s Durbar in Allahabad and read out the Proclamation from Queen Victoria. The territories of India, up until now governed by the East India Company, would now come directly under the Crown, and be governed by the Queen’s civil servants and military personnel.

After several turns of incidents Hazrat realises that defeated she and her army may be, but they would never be vanquished in spirit. In her chamber in the Baundi fort, she paces back and forth, the printed proclamation crumpled in her hand. Her close supporters watched in mute frustration. She would never agree to the British offer of clemency with all its benefits. She would rather live in penury than become one of their vassals. Deep inside the stone fortress, she sits huddled in her quilt, and feeling the loneliness and desolation of one who had fought and lost everything. The story ends with Hazrat and her son silently leaving the already orphaned Awadh and heading into the forests to cross over to Nepal on the other side and seek asylum there.  

Malathi Ramachandran must be appreciated for the racy narrative style of the novel that does not weigh down under the plethora of historical events. Here one must mention the similarity of incidents narrated about the plight of another Indian queen in another historical fiction titled The Last Queen written by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. This novel also tells us the story of Jindan Kaur, Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s youngest and last queen, his favourite. She became regent when her son, Dalip, barely six-years-old, unexpectedly inherited the throne. Sharp-eyed, stubborn, passionate, and dedicated to protecting her son’s heritage, Jindan distrusted the British and fought hard to keep them from annexing Punjab. Defying tradition, she stepped out of the zenana, cast aside the veil, and conducted state business in public. Addressing her Khalsa troops herself, she inspired her men in two wars against the ‘firangs3.’ Her power and influence were so formidable that the British, fearing an uprising, robbed the rebel queen of everything she had, including her son. She was imprisoned and exiled. But that did not crush her indomitable will. Like Begum Hazrat Mahal, she also had to live the last years of her life in exile, shorn of all her power and wealth. In both the novels, we learn about the strong and determined will power of Indian women who wanted to retain the pride of their motherland despite all odds and machinations of the British. A perfect blending of fact with fiction, the novel is strongly recommended for all categories of readers, serious and casual alike.

  1. British ↩︎
  2. Concerts ↩︎
  3. Foreigners ↩︎

Somdatta Mandal, author, critic and translator, is former Professor of English at Visva-Bharati University, Santiniketan, India.

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Categories
Poetry

Years of Yearning

By Swarnendu Ghosh

YEARS OF YEARNING 


I see the horizon filled with ghosts of pre-owned wives and
Insomnia dripping from rooftops.
Those bodies… bodies with eternal youth
emerge from utter darkness. Soft. Palpable to my carnal breath.
 
They all are coming out and claiming me.
A desire for a bonfire dance. I see insects
dying like martyrs.
Tomorrow, I will write an elegy in their memory.
 
Maybe those walls still stand. Those rooms.
Those battlefields and muses. Maybe we all recall our
scars and moonlit longings and the enchantress
who danced with us spitting fire.
She is there tonight, preaching peace and death.

Swarnendu Ghosh is a poet from Kolkata, India, who writes in English and Bengali. His first book, Ferry Ghate Frida, is a collection of Bengali poems published in 2023.

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Categories
Essay

Chandigarh: A City with Spaces

By Ravi Shankar

Pinjore Garden
Musical Fountain
In Chandigarh. Courtesy: Creative Commons

I was apprehensive. I had spent time in New Delhi when I was very young. But after that, I had never travelled to the north of India. I was traveling by chair car on the Rajdhani Express to Delhi and from there, by bus to Chandigarh. Sleeping on a chair is difficult though the coach offers enough legroom, and the seats are wide. The time was December, and the weather would be cold. The bus journey to Chandigarh from New Delhi took a long time. I was moving through the flat plains of Haryana with fields on both sides of the road. The sun set early during winter in the north. By 5 pm, it was beginning to get dark. The sun had truly set by the time I reached Chandigarh.

The cold was a de novo experience. Using a quilt was something new though later I began the appreciate the gentle warmth provided using the body’s own heat. Coming from the claustrophobic confines of Mumbai, the wide-open spaces of Chandigarh were a welcome change. Some of the traffic circled the roundabouts that were larger in this city than apartment complexes in Mumbai. Space, space, and plenty of space was my first impression of the city.

Chandigarh is believed to have been named after the Goddess Chandi whose temple is located near the city. Garh means a fort. This was India’s first planned city. Various teams of architects had been commissioned and the Swiss-French artist, Le Corbusier was the last in the series. Le Corbusier designed several buildings in Chandigarh including the secretariat, the high court, and the Palace of Assembly. He created an open-hand sculpture like he had done in the other cities designed by him. He designed many structures at the Postgraduate Institute of Medical Education and Research (PGIMER) where I was a resident doctor. His influence was also seen in Panjab University across the road in Sector 14. One of the challenges with a sprawling low-density design was services were located far away and you required a vehicle to access services and go to different areas. In high-density areas like Mumbai, you can just step down to access shops and services. This was in the days before online ordering and e-commerce platforms.

The city is divided into sectors. I settled in the Old Doctor’s Hostel or ODH in Sector 12, where the institute was located. I eventually shifted to the D block of ODH, the newest to be constructed. This had the benefit of a wash basin within the room reducing your trips to the shared restrooms. The research blocks and the college canteens had the trademarks of Le Corbusier’s design. He was fond of using primary colours like blue, yellow, and red as evidenced in the bright hues of the doors and windows of the hostel. The original structure was good but was constructed in the 1960s. By the late 1990s, living standards had improved and the rooms began to feel inadequate. He was also fond of using curves in his buildings and each room had a curve and there was a specially made wooden table to fit into the curve. Most of these had been destroyed over the years. The hostel rooms were single occupancy. This was especially important for the residents in clinical departments as it allowed them to rest after long hours of duty.

Sector 17 was the main commercial hub of the town and had several high-end restaurants and shops. People were fashionably dressed though the cold weather during winter required a lot of clothing. Winter mornings could get very foggy. In those days air pollution levels were still low and winters were generally pleasant. The food was good — ranging from aloo parathas (Indian flatbread stuffed with a spicy potato mix), gobi parathas (made with a stuffing of cauliflower), mooli parathas (Indian flatbread stuffed with a spicy radish mix), tandoori chicken (chicken grilled in a clay oven called the tandoor), tikkis (a small cutlet made of potatoes, chickpeas and different spices), chole bhature (a type of chana masala and puris) and samosas (triangular fried pastry with a savoury filling). Punjabis love their food. The food is wholesome but may be high in saturated fats. There were several tandoori chicken restaurants and chicken was a perennial favourite. The tandoor is a great invention though it may be difficult for the person making rotis in the heat of peak summer. But tandoori rotis eaten piping hot dipped in a spicy gravy on a cold night are a pure delight.

The sector 11 market was the nearest to PGI and there were two or three dhabas (roadside eateries) serving Punjabi delicacies. There was also a more upscale restaurant serving variations of the dosa. These had been modified to north Indian tastes and this was my first introduction to chicken dosa. The taste was good, but the stuffing was very unconventional. The buses were old and had seen better days. I usually took the bus to Sector 17 and to The Tribune colony in Sector 29. Started in 1881, The Tribune is one of the oldest newspapers in North India and one of my father’s acquaintances worked at the newspaper.                 

The Panjab University had a sprawling campus just across the road at Sector 14. I loved to roam through the beautiful campus. The market at the university had shops selling delightful Punjabi samosas. These were large, the covering was crisp, and the stuffing of potatoes and chickpeas was spicy and tasty. Those days a samosa cost around one rupee and fifty paisa — light on the pocket though wages were lower those days.

The northern sectors of the city including 12 where PGI was located were the older ones and more prosperous. The Zakir Hussain Rose Garden in sector 16 was named after India’s former president and had over 1600 species of roses. I used to visit occasionally, especially during the winters when the roses were in bloom. Summers in Chandigarh are hot but less than in many other places in the plains due to the closeness to the hills.

Zakir Hussain Rose Garden
The Rock Garden
Courtesy: Creative Commons

The Rock Garden is a major attraction. The garden was begun to be built by Nek Chand in 1957. The garden was built illegally but later became world famous. It is built entirely from discarded household and industrial waste. There is also a doll’s museum inside the garden. One of my fellow residents knew Nek Chand very well and he used to play with his son when he was young. Models of rock gardens have since been built in several Indian cities.

Summers in Chandigarh are difficult. The sun is relentless. The institution timings change. Before the onset of summer, one visits the desert cooler shops to buy new grass screens for the coolers. The cooler is a great invention with a water pump and screens moistened by water through which air is drawn to cool the room. They work well but when there were power outages in summer, they stopped functioning. The onset of the monsoon in late July makes things difficult. The humidity is high, and the temperature is still above 35 degrees celsius. October to December and March to April are usually pleasant. Late December, January, and February are cold and there is a threat of western disturbances that bring rain and cold damp weather. The city has two satellite townships, one in Punjab (Mohali) and the other in Haryana (Panchkula).

Chandigarh has one of the highest human development indicators in India. I enjoyed my three years in this planned city at the foothills of the Himalayas and I look forward to a visit in the future!  

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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Categories
Excerpt

A City Full of Sirens

Title: A City Full of Sirens

 Author: Sanket Mhatre

Publisher: Hawakal Publishers

A CITY FULL OF SIRENS

On a rain kissed day 
sirens from ambulances wring at full volume
sending a shockwave through this somnolence 
the city has been suddenly diagnosed with Stage 3C 
and all of us who matter to her: 
slum dwellers, middle class, uber rich
upper caste, sub-middle-sub-lower, lower,
converts, casteless, outcasts, pimps and city planners   
were late by a minimum of ten months in pre-empting this disease
nobody took the city to an oncologist 
pointed out this infernal spread
no one bothered when her vitals temporarily shut down
no octogenarian ruins were consulted 
when her uterus screamed a history of malfunctioned births 
now, water levels are rising 
her stomach bloats with a spell of monsoon
and there’s no omental biopsy in sight
no cytology report collected
everyone’s figuring out which part of her abdomen
could be punctured to release the flow 
forgetting we had to close the tap, long ago. 
the city kept a lot in her womb for far too long
regret and debris
garbage and a festering wound
what she needs isn’t saline and drips 
but a memory from the books of sunshine 
an embrace from salt lines and mangroves 
the reassurance of leafy smiles stretching into infinity
somebody holding her hand, somewhere 
she deserves a Sunday with a beginning, middle & end
an unclogging of mind with forests of her childhood 
ultimate exculpation from all traffic jams, under construction sites, 
illegitimate saat bara* of a river rechristened as a gutter  
a forehead filled with deep-rooted kisses 
not immigrant, sweat-soaked goodbyes 
she needs hope in her veins 
laughter under her tissue
maybe, a joke from the past 
before she’s sent for chemotherapy

*Saat bara: The 7/12 extract is an information document prescribing details about a specific piece of land such as survey number, area, date and more particulars about the existing owner's name.  

MID FLIGHT

Bending over clouds 
we are dunked, face first 
into the broken arteries of Kolkata: 
dissected torso of a civilization, blinking back 

A vanishing sunset sprints
below a network of lackluster lakes 
suspended in time
green stillness festering in its colonial wounds

Our fingers trace her desiccated tributaries, desolate perimeters
brittle sentences from a lost fable breaking at the seams  
while miniaturized humanity rearranges  
the lost pages of an endless narrative

A new story foams 
at the mouth of its river 
yearning for reinterpretation 
from citizens in the sky 

We realize
mid-sentence and mid-flight 
are the same things
spoken skywards 


CULTURE OF TRANSIENCE

It took a river for civilizations to be born
how else do you explain the nature of blood in our veins? 

rivers wait for none, sometimes, not even themselves 
and here we are stuck in the make believe of eternality 

created to throw us off the scent of water
too precious, like truth, residing in our atoms

anything that doesn’t change our body can never change us: 
a law that stays hidden in deep trenches of our epidermis 

underneath all permanence lies everything in passing
oceans, forests, islands, farms, clouds, cities—landmasses of desire 

suspended raft-like, floating on the ever-flowing waters of time
while we are left to determine our own culture of transience 



VERTICAL FORESTS
 
Words are seeds
we sow for tomorrow
where an axe melts into the navel of the axis
emerges a flower on the other side
our voices etched in the bark
can put a soul to sleep
an Amazon in each word; stretching
through thick mesh of bones and arteries
 pulp synchronized to our heartbeats
birdsong to a breath
while ink sprawls
on a dream of half slept pages
 
blank verses quivering with eternality on empty lines
blood and conscience ensnared
 in a network of memories
 rooting us
 
To a new earth
where only time exists
—Unhalved

About the Book     

In Sanket Mhatre’s debut collection, A City Full Of Sirens, poetry is intertwined with the body language of love. From the simple act of facing oneself every morning deeds are garbed in the language of sensual love. These are deeply thought out, deeply experienced poems, germinating from a nameless place of profound experience. They measure intricately the delicate entities of parting and separation and pine for a union of the truth with the truth. Enmeshed with memories and half-memories, longings and surrender, Sanket’s poems reflect the deepest flushes of love and the brokenness that inevitably follows.

About the Poet

Sanket Mhatre is a Mumbai based bilingual poet, writer and columnist. His first book of cross translated poems in Marathi and English, titled The Coordinates Of Us , won the prestigious Raza Foundation Grant after being shortlisted at iWrite2020 in Jaipur Literature Festival. Apart from being widely published nationally and internationally, Sanket has been invited to recite poems at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Jaipur Literature Festival, Poets Translating Poets, Vagdevi Litfest, GALF, Glass House Poetry Festival, Anantha Poetry Festival, National Poetry Festival Kolkata, Ledo National Poetry Confluence Assam among many others. Sanket has also been curating multilingual poetry performances through Crossover Poems. He is also the co- creator of Kavita Café – a unique digital platform that blends cinematic vision with poetry. 

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