Literature Studio Review • Vol. 1 No. 4 • July 2016

Literature Studio Review

The TeamFiction Editor Kathryn Brettell

Non-fiction Editor Kiriti SenguptaPoetry Editor Ashmi Ahluwalia

Book Review Editor Mallika TripathiDesign Editor Namita

Joint Editor Priyanka KharbandaEditor-in-chief Vibha Malhotra

Cover picture by Vijay Kumar Sharma and inside back cover by Namita

Copyright 2016 by Literature Studio Review

All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual writers, poets, and artists. No work may be reproduced,

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Table of ContentsEditor's Note 2

Featured Writers, Poets, and Artists 3

FICTION

The Last Parting 7 Moumita Goswami

Electronic Toast 21 B.K. Crawford

CRITIQUE

Reflections on Antigone 11 Rahul Mane

POETRY

Hint of a Smile | Where were you? 5 Pranab Ghosh

Various poems 15 In Hindi by Vivek Misha and transalations by Amrita Bera

A Mother Fades Away 24 Mamta Joshi

Ozone 25 Alisa Velaj

Hello Dear Readers,

Here we are with the 4th Issue of the Literature Studio Review (LSR). We are glad that across all issues of theLSR we have been able to present to you an interesting mix of stories, poems, articles, and reviews. We may have compromised on quantity, but never on quality, and that is our driving principle. It takes great passion to do things consistently when the deed itself is the only reward you can expect. And I am very proud that I am part of a team that does just that. As you read further, the result of all this deliberation and hard work will become apparent.

Talking of passion, as creative people, all of us have come across this comment in some form or the other: “You are lucky to be able to follow your passion.” It is, however, an open secret that following one’s passion needs more than just luck. One needs to fight self-doubts, procrastination, laziness, health issues, family problems, lack of motivation, and others’ opinions of our work. One needs to get up and get going despite everything, for there is no one else who is as passionate about our work. One needs to wear multiple hats – those of the creator, the critic, the marketing team, and the sales team. Each creative professional is an entrepreneur and an enterprise. And there’s no one to pass on the buck to if we fail. We need to search within ourselves to find the strength to carry on in spite of all odds. We need to work every day to earn our bread. Agreed that at times it is much more fun than a regular day job, but at other times it is much more heartbreaking and excruciatingly painful.

I have been thinking of all this for the past couple of months, and I know what my response to the aforementioned comment is going to be from now on. “I am brave enough to follow my passion,” I’ll say with pride. And I promise to myself that I will keep on reminding myself of this whenever the vicious cycle of self-doubt kicks in. We all deserve to pat ourselves on the back occasionally.

In this issue, you will find works of several creative people who are “brave enough to follow their passion.” If you are one of our contributors, please know that you are very special to us. Your talent, energy, love, and trust inspires us, and we hope we have done justice to your work.

Cheers,

Editor-in-chief, Literature Studio ReviewJuly 21, 2016

Vibha Malhotra

Editor's Note

Featured Writers, Poets, and Artists

Vivek Mishra is a well-established name in the contemporary Hindi literature. His first short story collection, Hania tatha anya Kahaniya (2008) ran into its seventh edition in 2014. Other published collections of his works include poetry and ghazal collections, Maati Ka Gumbad (2005), Duniya ek samandar hai (2007), and Bol Uthe Hain Chitra (2007), short story collections, Paar utarna Dheerey se (2014) and Ai Ganga Tum Behti Ho Kyun (2015), and also a novel named Domnic ki wapasi. Light through a Labyrinth, English translations of his Hindi poetry and Ghazals, was published from Writer's Workshop, Kolkata 2009. He is the recipient of Bismil Samman by Pt. Ram Prasad Bismil Foundation and Sahitya Academy (2013), Bundel Khand Gaurav Samman by Bundelkhand Vikas Parishad, Delhi (2014), Yashpal Puskaar (2015) by U.P. Govt. and Arya Smriti Samman (2015) by Kitabghar Prakashan. Born on 15th August 1970, in Jhansi, Bundelkhand (U.P), Vivek Mishra lives in Delhi and works as a Dental Hygienist in a community Hospital under the Dental Health Scheme of WHO.

PoetryPranab Ghosh is a journalist, blogger, writer and poet. His anthology of poetry, Air & Age, Linked Since Eternity, co-authored by Tanmoy Bhattacharjee, was published earlier this year. He has also translated a book of Bengali short stories written by Bitan Chakraborty. The translated work Bougainvillea and Other Stories was launched recently. He is a guest faculty at the Rabindra Bharati University, Kolkata. He teaches journalism there. He lives in Kolkata with his wife, mother and daughter.

Alisa Velaj was born in the southern port town of Vlora, Albania in 1982. She was shortlisted for the annual international Erbacce-Press Poetry Award in UK in June 2014, and also for the Aquillrelle Publishing Contest 3 in January 2015 – she was the first runner up in this contest. Velaj’s full length book of poetry A Gospel of Light was published by Aquillrellle in June 2015. Her works have appeared in a number of print and online international magazines. Blue Lyra Review (USA), The Cannon’s Mouth (UK), The Missing Slate (UK), The Midnight Diner (USA), Poetica (USA), Time of Singing (USA 2014 and 2015), Canto (USA), Enhance (USA), Phenomenal Literature (New Delhi, India), Spark (India), Free Lit Magazine (Canada), and Aquillrelle Magazine (Belgium) are just a few of them. Some of her poems will also be published in the forthcoming issues of The Seventh Quarry, (UK), Envoi Magazine (UK) etc.

Mamta Joshi did her post- graduation in History from the University of Allahabad. She took a course in Mass Communication from Maxwell College, Syracuse, U.S.A. Over the past two decades she has been teaching English to the college section in St. Mary’s Inter College, Allahabad, U.P. She writes short stories, reflective essays, prose pieces on everyday life in national dailies and international E-magazines. She also writes blogs in Hindi and English.

Born in Kolkata, Amrita Bera is a writer and a translator with proficiency in three languages – English, Hindi and Bengali. Her published works include Light through a Labyrinth (2009), which is a translation of poetry and ghazals by contemporary Hindi writer Vivek Mishra, translation of Bagh, a play by the legendary playwright, Badal Sircar, and translation of Dozakhnama, an awarded Bengali novel written by the renowned Bengali novelist, Rabishanker Bal. She has translated the 7th part of the autobiography of the exiled Bangladeshi writer, Taslima Nasrin by the name “Nirvasan” from Bengali to Hindi. She regularly translates articles of Taslima Nasrin for a reputed Hindi literary magazine “Hans”. Her translated poems, articles and short stories of various authors, as well as her own writings appear regularly in most of the noted Hindi, English and Bengali literary magazines. She has been awarded Dr. Anjana Sahajwala Samman for translation (Hindi), in the year 2012. A lover of music, Amrita also specializes in singing ghazals.

She lives in Delhi. She can be reached at amrujha@gmail.com.

Featured Writers, Poets, and Artists

Moumita Goswami, from Kolkata, is an English Teacher by profession for more than a decade now, and she enjoys every moment of it. Her passion is exploring the world of literature and the 'written word' is her tool. Scribbling her mind on paper is a favourite pastime; embroidering being the other thing she loves to do. Nothing interests her more than the vibrancy of life that surrounds us all.

Rahul Mane, a graduate in Physics (Shivaji University) and masters in Communication and Journalism (Pune University)—Rahul Mane (Currently Research Associate at MICA, Ahmedbad) is a passionate science writer. He is also a keen believer in theatre for development and loves history of science as well as history of Indian classical music. His research interests include grassroots innovation, development communication and intellectual property rights. Also, he loves blogging on health and development issues.

B.K. Crawford attended college in Syracuse, New York, and currently resides on the East Coast, USA. She has published several Young Adult novels including Devil’s Edge, The Future Queen, and J.J. Houston: Murder on Moon Street. She has also published a collection of short stories in numerous genres. Her published works are available at Amazon.com. She is currently working on a sequel for the J.J. Houston series. She enjoys oil painting, photography, graphic design, and tending to a family of gnomes who have taken up residence between the

cabbage and broccoli in her garden.

Ninad Parikh is a freelance writer based in Ahmedabad. While he claims that he has married Writing, he has still managed to fall in love with other art forms like Painting & Acting! He loves to be on stage and also loves to be alone while trying to play with colours, brushes and ink. He tries to put this in a very succinct way as - "Rushnaai aur Rang" - meaning Ink and Colors! With Ink he writes and sketches and with colors he tries to further express his emotions. He battles with words to bring out his emotions through poetry and short fiction and works as a freelance Theatre / Drama Teacher and prefers to work only with kids. He can be reached at ninadvnc@gmail.com for any conversations!

Fiction

Critique

Visual Arts

Namita, a mononymous lass with a Masters degree in Graphic Design from Savannah College of Art & Design and five years of experience in Print, Publishing & Photography works as a full time freelancer. For a sneak peek into her world of photography, log on to: https://www.facebook.

com/namita.photography/

Vijay Kumar Sharma, (popularly known as VJ Sharma) is a manager in a leading IT firm and is a photographer by passion. He hails from the picturesque State of Himachal Pradesh, so it is no surprise that he specializes in landscapes, along with abstract, product, and motorsport photography. He is reachable at

www.travellingcamera.com.

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PoemsBy Pranab Ghosh

Hint of a Smile

There was a hint of smileon her lips, years ago.Looking back we travelledin time.The unwritten invitationhad all along been there.But we couldn't livebetween the sheetsto transcend timeand nights.I saw her yesterdayamidst fleeting street lights.Was there still thathint of smile?

Where Were You?

I wanted to meditatebut went to sleep.

Faces and dreamsinvaded me.

Were you there?

Deep inside meI felt you move.

My soul stirred.

Poetry

That Smile by Namita

Fiction

It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And soon this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together, all those things would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling.

A feeling that could render one paralytic, both physically as well as psychologically. She had seen many separations through the sixty years of her life, but this one was the bitterest.

Once she had left her parents at their ancestral home. Her marriage took her to a faraway land from where she would not come back to have a last glimpse of the house that preserved her childhood memories. The fondest of her memories were the ones wherein she danced to the tunes of her mother. Her mother’s songs carried her to a world that was flawless. It was full of a rhythm that freed her soul and made her dance, emancipating her from the burden of the family prestige that she, as the daughter of the Laha family, was compelled to carry on her shoulders. The dance let her breathe; it let her dream.

But all these dreams shattered along with the brick and mortar used to construct the strong walls of the house. One of the most powerful builders of the city had acquired their house, to build an apartment in its stead, with all the modern amenities.

This separation hurt, but she carried on. She knew she had to part with her childhood fantasies as an adult. It was her duty to gather pleasant memories for herself with her husband at her in-laws’ place. That was her ‘real home’, as her mother had said when she left after marriage.

It was a different story that her ‘real home’ did not prove to be her in-laws’ place but a small two-room apartment at a distant part of the world. Her husband was pursuing his Doctoral Degree from a University in the United States. They had to settle there for almost ten years.

The separation that hurt her more was that with her parents. This time it was a permanent one. In the ten years that she spent in the U.S. she managed to visit India only thrice. The first time she met her ailing bedridden father. Her mother had more tears than words for her. She knew she was meeting her father for the last time. The next two visits she had come to attend the funeral of her father and three years later that of her mother. Her desire to listen to her mother’s song could not be fulfilled again.

She accepted this as destiny that befell her, like many other women she knew. At least she had the good fortune of having a husband who loved her, and they lived in a foreign country.

The Last PartingBy Moumita Goswami

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Living in the United States in the 1970s was unique and something to be proud of, unlike the present day, where every second or third person we know is settled abroad. Partings pained Indulekha. But each time she steeled herself, recalling that she was blessed with a doting husband and a dutiful son. She lost herself in this small world centered on these two men.

Coming back to India her husband took up a teaching job in a college in a suburb of Calcutta. He had built this house then, with the small adjoining garden. Growing seasonal flowers was his passion. The winters glowed with the bright colours of the dahlias, marigolds and roses; the summers sparkled with the ‘gandharaj’ and ‘rajanigandha’. Indu (as Indulekha was familiarly known) needed flowers all year round to appease her Gods but she could not pluck these flowers every day.

It was then that her little son Biswa had brought the small branch of a hibiscus plant from his friend’s house for his mother. His friend had told him that prayers to ‘Kali Ma’ went unanswered if they did not accompany these red hibiscuses. Indu and her son planted the hibiscus branch in a corner of the garden. It was one of the happiest days of her life when she realized she had a son who could read her necessities aptly.

Indu dreamed of her son attaining the same reputation and prestige that her husband had. Biswa surpassed her expectations. He did well in school, earned a scholarship for himself in a foreign university, pursued higher education there and settled with a job. He was an example to his cousins and neighbours.

Indu’s heart filled with pride whenever she mentioned her son, though every time, strangely, a small tear escaped her eyes unknowingly. She was happy with his success, but knew he would never come back. He had decided to settle in that faraway land where life beckoned him with its glitz and glamour.

Indu could have continued this way forever, if her husband had not cheated on her.Yes, he had cheated, by suddenly breaking his promise to never leave her alone. He had set out on an otherworldly sojourn when a cerebral attack had claimed his senses. He passed into coma.

Biswa came back to the country immediately. He wanted his father to get the best treatment, but the doctors had something else to offer. His father was already comatose and chances of him recovering were equivalent to nil.

Putting him on a life-support system would be expensive, and Biswa could not stay in India for long. His job needed him back. Indu had to make the decision. It was a parting that tore her into pieces, yet she survived the pain.

After all, she had a son like Biswa, who would never leave her alone. She signed the consent form to withdraw the ‘life-support system’ from the love of her life.

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Biswa left a few days later and Indu was left all alone in this house. Before leaving, Biswa had requested Indu to come and stay with him for a few days. This would relieve her of her loneliness, he had said. Indu listened to him with unblinking eyes.

“Maa,” Biswa stated, “I think you should not stay in this house alone. It would only increase your suffering. Every moment you would be reminded of Baba. Instead I believe you can come and stay with me for a month or so. That would help you to forget the pain of this separation. Then you can come back to India. Leaving you here alone and unattended would worry me. So I have thought of a better arrangement. I already had a talk with Mitra Babu who is interested in buying this house. He wants to stay here with his family. The money that I get out of selling the house, I would invest in an old age home where you can stay. Nowadays these old age homes have become quite well equipped and home-like. This way I would be content about you and not worry. Mitra Babu would take over the house in a week. I hope you appreciate my proposal and understand it is the best that could be done now.”

Indu sat unmoved. Her eyes still did not blink. Only the bewilderment in them passed into complacence and finally a strange calm descended.

Her voice wavered, but was strong. “It is your house Babu. You may do whatever you want with it, but please don’t ask me to accompany you. The old age home you have found for me will suffice. You leave with no more worries.”

This parting had fractured her steel resistance more than all the previous losses. The next morning arrived. Today she would leave for the old age home. She got up early, even before the sunrise, so that she could witness it from her garden sitting beside the hibiscus tree.

The orange glow of the Sun gradually painted the whole sky swallowing the darkness as if it were never there. The glow changed into a sparkling white. The birds cooed from the trees, the flowers swung in the morning air.

Indu closed her eyes.

A tune came floating with the breeze from a distance. Her mother was singing to the little Indu, and she danced to the tune with open arms. She jumped like a grasshopper and flew like a butterfly. She danced the way she wanted. There were no rules. It was an unquestionable freedom.

Indu danced in full force. She began panting yet would not stop. Her breathing became heavier and longer. Her heart was pumping blood as fast as it could but failed to match the energy of Indu’s dance. She felt a little pain in her chest. Perhaps Indu’s heart was failing, but not her legs. They continued to move to the tune of the song. The sky was now bright with light. It filled her with such happiness as she had never experienced before.

This was the brightest morning of her life, but it brought with it the last parting of her life, and she smiled at this one.

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All around her was calm and beautiful. The tune that still rang in Indu’s ears slowly faded away,“…Amar mukti aloe aloeeiaakash e…” (I aspire to be liberated in the glorious lights lit up in the sky.)

The Lonely God by Ninad

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Antigone, an ancient Greek tragedy drama evokes strong contemporary connections to many debates we witness in our day to day life. Some of these debates are public morality vs. individual ethics/morality, adherence to public law (constitution) vs. respect to norms by god (religion) and forms of punishment as expressed in death vs. burial vs. detention. In the society where virtues represented by nature gods were evoked for maintaining law and order in the country, the conflict between individual righteousness and civic justice plays out amongst different personalities who are of the same family and still express far different understanding about what is right and what is wrong.

Let us try to understand Antigone, scene by scene with corresponding conversation and what values and distinct commentary it offers about the ancient Greek society and further what lessons it has for today`s contemporary society. Initial conversation between Antigone and Ismene gives a glimpse about conflict between Laws of god vs. laws made in public good. Further, Creon many times expresses his devotion to governance by maintaining that public welfare is based on how we understand the functioning of governor which in turn, as he believes, is guided by rule of god. In his adulation to gods, he asserts that godly power will never grant mercy let alone recognize bad men, who he claims destroy the honor of image of god.

Interesting conversation between Sentry and Creon throws light on what Antigone has done and how she should be put on trial when in fact she does not deny what she has done. Here whole discussion moves towards what justice is, what fair judgment is and who is capable of providing fair justice to the person (Antigone) who dared to bury Polyneices. Here it was emphasized by chorus that “When the laws are kept, how proudly his city stands! When the laws are broken, what of his city then?” Can we make audacious claim that how even Greek states, which are hailed as birth place of modern democracy and civic society—had no conception of individual dignity, liberty and free expression as reflected in these situations mentioned above? Everything in public place was either judged by public welfare defined by governor and which in turn shaped by god`s will arbitrarily defined by bureaucracy of the state.

Then, in a conversation between Antigone and Creon, the legitimacy of what is right criteria to judge individual action comes to the forth. Antigone asserts that a king`s decree is not superior against immortal unrecorded laws of god i.e. god`s proclamation. This constant dialectics between Creon and Antigone about relevance of unwritten codes of morality, ethics, public behavior and conduct in monolithic and also in multicultural societies (all these vis-à-vis codified laws, rules and regulations) is important lens to understand the dilemma, contradictions and tensions prevailing in our times.

The drama also indicates range of different meanings and variety of layers death was attributed to in Greek society. On one side, Polyneices (who is already dead) is not given privilege of fair burial as against his brother Eteocles. Apart from the fact that, Polyneices was considered a declared

Reflections on ANTIGONEby Rahul Mane

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Critique

traitor against the state of Creon and his fighting brother Eteocles died while protecting the pride of country as drama narrates. These events still resonate to us because of many contemporary events. Recall recent celebratory farewell of Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam (former President of India who passed away by natural causes) and the departure of Yakub Memon on same day speculating different understanding about respecting individual`s death. While it is natural to recognize nationalistic pride overflowing and lakhs of people attending the Abdul Kalam`s last rites, it is more complex to understand the criticism and support of Yakub Memon`s burial (after he was hanged) when many thousands of people turned to pray for him. In how we allow the celebration of death is defining/capturing how we understand virtue of human life, contribution of one person and kind of subjectivity/value we associate with the person`s religion as well as his/her public stand on some issues or its relevance to wider debates of public interest and welfare.

Antigone as a drama, is also beautiful exhibition of beauty of language through kind of figure of speech it has used increasing the intensity and impact of the arguments related to character`s understanding about life and death, state and public, right and wrong, norm and law. Eg. “The inflexible heart breaks first, the toughest iron Cracks first, and the wildest horses bend their necks”, “In flood time you can see how some trees bend, And because they bend, even their twigs are safe, While stubborn trees are torn up, roots and all. And the same thing happens in sailing: Make your sheet fast, never slacken,––and over you go, Head over heels and under: and there’s your voyage”.

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Marred Innocence by Ninad

Antigone drama expresses strong paternalistic ideas of erstwhile Greek society and underestimation of what woman can stand for and what she can argue for.1 While glossing over the conflict between Creon and Antigone, it is imperative to understand the kind of dissent Antigone expressed. At the same time, she is giving primacy to kinship (by standing for burial of brother as against sacrificing her marriage), she is giving primacy to natural laws (blood relations and godly norms) as against disciplined rules maintained by custom and culture (represented in human institutions) and finally when she gave vigorous defense of her actions being borne out of human conviction and righteousness as contradicted against written laws.2

Another interesting conversation between Creon and Haimon reflects differences about what continuing wisdom stands for. Creon argues that subordination to the law of state is common-sensical wisdom making best sense for everyone (as against law-breakers, critics of the government responsible for anarchy) and Haimon replies that the terrifying temper of singular voice of Creon will create obedient citizens but sycophant society when he opines that “everyone Will tell you only what you like to hear.” This is important indicator towards how dictatorial and unilateral regimes develop over the time as societies submit their reason to the wistfulness of few rigid conservative voices. Haimon also articulates when we should obey reason and when not—by expressing nuances in claimed reason and genuine reason.3 Further he warns that, we all can fall astray because of our convictions and thus we should heed to learned voices and to the philosopher-guides rather than submitting to emotions, impulses, dogma and authority.4 Thus, Haimon emerges as a strong possible antidote for ambiguous debate between Creon and Antigone where both invoke godly sanction and public welfare as a remedy in the subjective form, though Antigone is more concerned about individualistic understanding of public welfare as against Creon`s state sponsored meaning of public welfare through rules enforcing inertia and hence consolidating the control of patriarchy and governor.

This drama is less about the power enjoyed by female characters in ancient Greek drama and but more about what it means for the representation of their social concerns, reflection of their social status and also about how their convictions are pitted against those of who are powerful,

1 As Creon says to guards: “You, there, take them away and guard them well: For they are but women, and even brave men run When they see Death coming”.

2 For further analysis in this regard, please refer to: Murnaghan, S. (1986). Antigone 904-920 and the Institution of Marriage. American Journal of Philology, 192-207.

3 Haimon says: “The man who thinks that, The man who maintains that only he has the power To reason correctly, the gift to speak, to soul–– A man like that, when you know him, turns out empty. It is not reason never to yield to reason!”

4 Haimon says: “The ideal condition Would be, I admit, that men should be right by instinct; But since we are all too likely to go astray, The reasonable thing is to learn from those who can teach”.

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rule by tradition and enforce decree by abstraction rather than explanation.5 Also, Antigone`s life is depicted as prisoner of three irreconcilable categories of marriage, of attachment to family and of death.6

Antigone`s tragic cry that if she is guilty, Creon also be equally punished goes rhetorically answered by Teiresias and thus was echoed by chorus that “Reverence is a virtue, but strength Lives in established law: that must prevail. You have made your choice; Your death is the doing of your conscious hand.” Antigone`s argument for accepting death has not been portrayed through lens of rationality but for her emphasis and craving or love for her brother Polyneices`s fair funeral. This is also a problematic aspect with this drama that despite being shown as a nonconformist to the social customs sanctioned by state, Antigone was not given agency of rebellion language, arguments, reason and rationality in explicit terms as against which is given to the people who rule by decree, patriarchy and through collective sense of public morality rather than respect for individual right and sensitivity towards what is right and what could be wrong.

Teiresias, here seems to be behaving like Vidur from Mahabharata, counsels both Creon and Antigone alike.7 Teiresias`s narration about grave before death (Antigone) and separation of grave and dead (Polyneices), deepens the symbolic paradox and tragic shades of this drama. Even though, Creon admits of his follies by saying that “I alone am guilty and fate has brought all my pride to a thought of dust”, the chorus and messenger’s recital reinforces the fate of woman character of Antigone, in the sense that she has to weep in death and her grief is too short to inspire others to ponder upon. This may reinforce the belief of readers, viewers in patriarchic society that ultimate destiny towards which women dissenters lies in defeat and death rather than in deliberations, debate and dialogue.8 This is possible despite the fact that this tragedy may evoke fear and anger along with pity and compassion about the possible representative character of Antigone, in Greek and for that matter in any society around the world.

5 In Greek dramas and especially in Sophocles` Antigone, woman are never end in themselves rather they are catalysts, agents, instruments, blockers, spoilers, destroyers and helpers to mail character…[as narrated in Zeitlin, F. I. (1985). Playing the other: Theater, theatricality, and the feminine in Greek drama. Representations, 63-94.]

6 Please refer to Seaford, R. (1990). The imprisonment of women in Greek tragedy. The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 110, 76-90. (Here Seaford also deconstructs how Antigone`s life crisscrosses and oscillate between marriage procession, funeral procession and journey from her natal family to that of powerful but unknown family of husband.)

7 Teiresias warns to Creon: “…The time is not far off when you shall pay back Corpse for corpse, flesh of your own flesh. You have thrust the child of this world into living night, You have kept from the gods below the child that is theirs: The one on a grave before her death, the other, Dead, denied the grave. This is your crime:”

8 CHORAGOS: She has left us without a word. What can this mean? MESSENGER: It troubles me, too; yet she knows what is best, Her grief is too great for public lamentation, And doubtless she has gone to her chamber to weep.

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Various poemsOriginal Poems in Hindi by Vivek Mishra, along with translations by Amrita Bera

Poetry

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An Evening of a Complex Life by Ninad

Since ages

I am diseased with amnesia, so I have jotted down all the important things in a note-book, things likemy name, age, caste, religion, address, qualificationsThe God I worship and my belief in himmy political ideologies, as well asthe names and addressesof my near and dear ones.

Once while travellingfrom a city to anotherI lost my bagin which I had kept that note-book

Thereafter, eons I kept wanderingThrough many cities, changing modes of travel.Everywhere people apprehending my weakness kept showing me a different note-book.They pretended to be my near and dear onesbut, I couldn’t bring faith in anyoneand kept roaming city after cityin search of my note-book.Now, I don’t even rememberin which span of time I amand since when am I wandering?

Yes! what was I saying?what have I lost?

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May be a city, may be a note-bookor may be the thingswritten in it!

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Four Seasons

One

The memories of summer vacationare like the sweet & sour candiesmelting in the mouths of children.

Two

A tiny droplet, dripping from your tresshas held on to your rosy cheek.Smile a little and let it fallto the groundthere have been no rainsin our villageall the year round.

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Three

In the chilly winterthe rattling past trainhas filled with warmththe icy rails of the track.When will the train return? till when willthe frigid rails remain exposed in this freeze?Thinking so, her hair rose to their endsand she shivered.

Four

Broken sandals, torn frockand a little spacemade by the justfallen tooth.All are basking bright.Gunchi has putyellow flowersIn her hair, that is why.She has never learntWhen does the spring come?And how is the spring,But the world around her knowsThat spring has arrived.

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Fiction

Gene never thought he’d leave his job at Stonegrove, but there comes a day when a man has to do the unthinkable. Peering over his shoulder at the crumbling bricks of the memorial building, he noticed only one thing—no signs of the old one remained.

The withered one wouldn’t eat electronic toast. Despite every type of coercion offered, he’d made up his mind, unless the toast was prepared the old-fashioned way, it would not move past his lips. No lecture on nutrition, no demonstration of pliability, and no opportunity to appease any of his senses had ever been entertained. The old goat just wouldn’t eat replicated toast.

Harry was a man of unbounded determination, no one at Stonegrove ever questioned that, and most of the attendants found him an entertaining anomaly. There were less and less of the elderly admitted due to the wide spread acceptance of post-natal-immortality-implants. Pii had been in use for nearly thirty years and old people were simply becoming hard to find. Geriatric care was an occupation fading into historical retrospect. Stonegrove itself held the aura of a repository housing the final relics of aging humanity.

Insisting that a great deal of money could be made if the proprietorship had the common sense to let him sell tickets to the general public, Harry rode the electronic rails in the corridor, bellowing with vigorous entice, “Come one, come all! See your bloody history fade... only thirty quiggs to pull a gray hair!” His hands passed through the slick of his graying grease-mop as he raised his arms over his head, emphasizing the exhilaration in his voice, “You ain’t seen nothin’ ‘til you seen the likes of me.” By the time he finished his elaborate oratory, the ramp had swept him into his chambers, his voice fading in descent.

Gene would glance up from his quarterly and smile as he watched the last of Harry’s fingers fade from sight. He believed something invaluable would be lost to the world when Harry passed away. Why would anyone refuse the implants? An implant represented the fountain of youth, a promise of eternity. Why choose death over life-everlasting? Still, Gene wouldn’t deny that he perceived a sublime sense of joy in watching evolution in motion and wondered if that didn’t constitute a profound testament to the natural cycles of life.

Vince Muldowny, the supervisor at Stonegrove, had once attempted an explanation. Leaning in close to Gene’s ear, he whispered his guarded words, though most of the patients at Stonegrove had little, if any, hearing capacity left. “Some people don’t see the value of immortality. They get stuck on nature and there’s nothing you can say. We’re better off without them. They confuse the children.” He sighed, slapped Gene’s shoulder, and shuffled into his office. Hogwash, Gene thought, finding Muldowny’s words cold and calloused as usual. Men like Harry had more to offer the world than just scrambling the minds of children.

Electronic ToastBy B.K. Crawford

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Mrs. Ferrus, the head nurse on shift, rode the rail, gliding toward the office. “Help!” She blurted.

Gene recognized the purple-hued facial flush; it signified a familiar distress. “He’s at it again!” Mrs. Ferrus barked. “Come quick!”

Suppressing a smile, Gene took after the nurse at half a gallop.

Warrior of Life by Ninad

22

Rounding the corner to the replicator room, Gene spied an empty box of dental floss on the floor beside the door. Harry. The crafty old goat had passed the string through the laser lock and waltzed into the room unencumbered. As Gene approached, Harry waved a long rubber replication of the male genitalia through the air like a lasso and shouted, “I got it, Mrs. Ferrus. Everything you need, right here. Step right up!”

Gene couldn’t seem to draw contempt for Harry. Each of Harry’s attempts to re-wire Gene’s nerves had only managed to stir mirth. Gene forced a chuckle away and turned to Mrs. Ferrus who had thrown both hands over quivering lips, her eyes threatening escape from their residence. “You can go if you’d like,” Gene offered, “I can handle this.” Mrs. Ferrus let a high-pitched squeak slip from her lips and turned away in retreat.

“Muldowny will confine you again, Harry,” Gene said with a stern tone. “I can’t bear to see you locked up and depressed. Put your toy in the incinerator and let’s get out of here.” Harry’s reply rang with malice for Muldowny, “Go ahead and get him, I just thought of the perfect place to park this thing.” Gene fixed a threatening glare and managed to maintain it, despite the snicker begging for release.

The rubber put off a melting stench as it burned in the incinerator. Harry left the replicator room and rode the handrail down the hall, spitting guffaws and choking giggles along the way. He looked thin and pale then, the snorting ghost of a man who wouldn’t eat electronic food.

The following morning, Gene picked up the quarterly and read the headlines: “Overpopulation Forces Strict Reproduction Law.” Turning to face an antiquated lava-lamp recently donated to Stonegrove, he watched as the royal blue blobs of gelled mass bubbled through the cone-shaped artifact. Mesmerized by the slow, determined motion of the gel floating inside the lamp, he observed that no two spheres formed alike. With immersed fixation, he noted that each bubble held its own unique identity, and as the orbs passed the crest of the cone, a new one took its place in an unending cycle.

Weeks later, finding a few quiet moments to himself, Gene wondered if the immortality chips were really irreversible, his gaze transfixed on the rose gardens just outside the double-paned doors that led to the lobby. The rose blooms that had spread bright and chipper the week before had wilted and a group of new buds began to sprout. There had to be one surgeon, somewhere, willing to remove an implant.

The sound of feet shuffling on the floor broke through Gene’s self-induced trance. Mrs. Ferrus stood with her hands over her mouth, trying to hold back a flood of belligerent tears, her body trembling with a sobbing quake. Gene immediately understood that Stonegrove had, at long last, lost its most famous relic.

Harry never ate the electronic toast.

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Poetry

A Mother Fades AwayBy Mamta Joshi

Her memoryRazor sharpLoses its fluencyChoked grey cells With corrosive plaqueA sapless presentThe mind clingingTo the fragile strands of the pastImmune to the long struggleRelatives thwart the thresholdFearing contagion or assistanceVacant eyes, frail bodyFrugal mealsA festering bed sore that never healsMuted undercurrent of panic and sadnessCrisscrosses the householdIn a mofussil townDevoid of geriatric specialist or a sturdy forumTrial, error, on-line research and sanityRemain the only optionFor a bewildered familyAll spaces shrink to one bedFusty somnolent interiorsA window- sill piled with medicinesBlocks the view of the outside worldA trail of red ants senses death.

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OzoneTo Emilio, my toddler nephew by Alisa Velaj

"The sea is where the shark is", little Emilio says to me, while I am lost in a dream, after a day of mind-boggling humidity. Right there and then, I am carried away marveling at the song of a choir of angels. It is dusk and the sky is overburdened with leaden clouds. "How do such clarion tunes reach the earth?", I ask myself. "The ozone layer is cracking up ever wider and wider, so there is no hindrance in the way of the cherubs' voices", replies my other self. "And why are the clouds so dark?""He that once used to be called Lucifer pours his rancor into them."Morning finds me by the seaside together with my father. "Look, look at the gazillion of dead fish on the shore!" I freeze. The scorching heat grabs us by the throat like a cold-blooded killer. The entire island lays bare in front of my eyes, drowning in traffic smoke. Thick, grayish smoke. Like the leaden-colored clouds in the sky of my dream.

Translated from Albanian by Arben P. Latifi

Poetry

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