MAY / JUNE 2017
YUGEN EDITOR IN CHIEF /
AKASH RUMADE
MANAGING EDITOR / RISHIKESH PANDE ASSOCIATE EDITOR / SAUNDARYA JAIN COVER PIC DESIGNER / ANIKET KHARIWALE COVER PHOTO BY/ MITESH PATIL
YuGen is a publication under Artists' Syndicate. All content of this magazine may not be reproduced, duplicated, republished or featured without prior consent from the publishing company. All rights reserved 2017.
editorial Hello Readers, My name is Akash Rumade and I don't have any superpowers. I work in a room full of books in my home and not a library. I was your Editor-in-Chief for the last two issues and am here to stay. In the month of May, I attended an open mic poetry hosted by co-founders of Spill, Daaniyal Sayed and Foram Shah at Qtube Cafe, Bandra. The room was filled with around fifty people; poets with their diaries, musicians with their instruments and singers rehearsing early in the summer morning. Nobody gave a damn about the free wifi that the cafe promised to provide. The few hours that I sat there cross-legged on the floor hooked to all the performances experienced the vibe being thrown resulting in the Brownian motion of colliding consciousness of every person in the room. Nobody was there to beat anybody or be better than the other. They were there to justify the Spill's motto, SPEAK, SHOUT, SPILL! By the end of the show it dawned onto me that we don't need weed or coffee to write poetry we need people. I hereby solemnly swear that we at YuGen will strive more to bring out stuff for you to read. You, readers, do deserve it. That's how we co-exist. We write and you read. With this issue, we take one more step to get closer to you. Â We're providing you android and ios app of our magazine YuGen powered by Magzter. The cover photo was clicked by Mitesh Patil whose Photo essay has been featured in this issue. The Age of Sins by Kumar Aditya is a definite read I shall suggest. Consider it an Editor's Pick. Pallavi Sareen never seems to disappoint with her short paced fiction. Do watch out for her short fiction, 'Collateral'. Ananya Dhawan has penned down a literary analysis of Kamala Das's most famous poem, 'An Introduction'. Ratnadip Acharya shares his journey regarding the craft of writing fiction. Jessica Daly with her essay, 'The Age of the Ego', makes us realize why we should learn to digest opinions and work in accordance with one another. I am greatly indebted to all our contributors for making it such a rewarding experience. And you readers, I do sincerely hope you will enjoy reading this issue. Happy Reading!
Editor-in-Chief, YuGen
CONT ENTS Poetry 06
MY CITY
38
By Anindita Dash
45
RIOT
55
JEWEL OF THE DARK By Aishwarya Ashok
TRUTH By Tina Acharya
60
By Orchida Mukherjee
31
THE FIGHT By Navneeth P
By Yogesh Sharma
25
INCOMPLETE LOVE LETTER
DARKNESS WITHIN ME By Satyam
61
REMINISCE By Akash Rumade
CONT ENTS fiction
32
THE CATERPILLAR By Tapan Mozumdar
39
AN APPLE TREE IN THE DRIVEWAY By Zach Smith
07
CROSSING THE RUBICON
47
By Divya Maniknandan
By Rahul Gupta
11
THE AGE OF SINS
53
By Kumar Aditya
26
COLLATERAL By Pallavi Sareen
NORM
PEOPLE, NOT PROJECTS By Aditya Puranik
56
NO By Sailesh Mishra
CONT ENTS 'AN INTRODUCTION' BY KAMALA DAS LITERARY ANALYSIS By Ananya Dhawan
22
THE AGE OF EGO By Jessica Daly
43
GRAY By Ritwik Chaudhary
essay 09
29
writer's guidance 36
By Meena Mishra
PHOTO-ESSAY By Mitesh Patil
RATNADIP ACHARYA
52
ASIF ALI, KALAAGE By Shruti Mall
You can reach us at
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Twitter: @art_syndicate
Email ID: artists.syn@gmail.com
Poetry
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
My City By Yogesh Sharma Silent lights twinkling,
Everything dusty, inside my home,
flashing – past the moonlight,
-the walls, sheet, fans, tea cups,
out of the train compartment,
and glasses.
peeping through the trees,
Brooding on the smell of glasses,
the running light augmented the
still fresh in memory,
beats of my heart.
on a perfect wintry night- lest I
beggars in holy saffron wait,
die of cold.
on the platform,
rising at the steps of Siddheshwar
their holy kamandal,
Temple,
collecting dust and rain water,
I land, in an unknown space.
but no offerings.
Looking for solace in a boundary-
On the train trip,
less cosmos.
hawkers shouting their gullet out,
Lost somewhere, on the remains;
selling cheaper fancy goods,
this holy temple takes for eternal
ignorants buying,
peace.
the things, but inside will forever
Of the starry restless night,
bite their soul.
sweaty farmers working in wheat
Stepping home – from lane to lane,
and sugarcane fields,
crossing roads and streets,
Siddheshwar pilgrimage attains
filled with dirt and stench,
glow and comfort,
up to the street of Chatta Devi Das,
to a forgotten self in a long
down Padam Gate, Opposite Virat
journey of life:
Bhawan.
with radiance in eyes and a new metaphor for life.
Yogesh Sharma can be reached at https://www.kalaage.net/yogesh.sharma
POETRY | 06
Fiction
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
crossing the rubicon BY RAHUL GUPTA
Following piece of fiction is in
adrenaline rush. She used to avoid going
continuation to Rahul Gupta's previous
near any water body - be it still or
article, 'Chronicle of a dubious mind',
running. This fear became the nightmare
published in YuGen Issue II, Mar-Apr
and bitter reality of her existence. Though
2017.
nobody bullied her, all that she wanted deep down was to forget this fear and get
Arachnophobia’, ‘Mysophobia’,
close to the water. She knew she could not
‘Glossophobia’, ‘Xenophobia’, a mention
stand outside when all of her friends had
of these complex words may bring jitters
fun in the mighty AquaLoop. She was
to you. May you start wondering the
sure, she had to do this. By undertaking
reason behind picking these jawbreaking
the war against her fear, she decided to
terms? Well, just so you know, these are
join the “Swimming Classes for
the most commonly found phobias among
beginners” after her office hours as she
people across the world. Though she
had waited enough on this side of the road
belonged to this same population, she
longing to meet her beloved on the other
was a little different; Unlike these
side. Now, it was the time to take steps
common phobias, she had the most
towards it and claim what was hers. This
uncommon ‘Hydrophobia’.
was the challenge she took and wasn’t ready to lose at any cost.
Yeah, she was scared of water - never jumped into a pool, nor took any water
Initially, she was tumbling with fear on
ride in any amusement park when all of
one side and on the other, after working
her friends had screamed loud of that FICTION | 07
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
for a whole day, she was battling to keep
difficult thing is the decision to act, the
up her spirit for the splash. But, these
rest is mere tenacity. The fears are the
couldn’t be the reasons for her to avoid
paper tiger. You can do anything you
herself from taking a step closer to that
decide to do. You can act to change and
square pool. Even if the instructor threw
control your life; and the procedure, the
her into the pool from the edge where the
process is its own reward.’
pool was 8 feet deep, still she was not allowed to say ‘No’. When she was
We all know, fear doesn’t ask us our
completely inside the water, and every
strength and plus points before clawing
second she felt the fear gripping her
around us, to engulf us completely; it
tightly, she didn’t give up and made an
shows no mercy. For her too, it had the
effort relentlessly to stay put. It was not
same procedure in mind; slowly and
her heart, but the mind giving the orders
completely disemboweling her wholly. But
and she had no choice but to follow them
unlike others, she tried and stayed put.
unquestionably.
Before it could trap her in itself for a lifetime, she mustered the courage
It’s been a year now and she hasn’t
required to cut the way out through this
looked back even once. Not a day went by
trap. Now she can face it boldly, staring
when her heart didn’t try to convince her
right into the eyes. Fear is thus the
to say ‘NO’ to this crazy idea and be done
paradigm that affects you the way you see
with this drama. Thanks to her
it, wise would be to turn this little
determined mind, she didn’t stop and
mystery to your benefit and drink that cup
kept going near water to recognize her
of success.
fear from close, understand its weakness from the edge, and devise the strategy to fight it down at the right moment. Her endeavors didn’t go to waste in vain as after 365 days in this death pool, she has the soul to face it boldly. Even after being a part of the incessant life-threatening adventure, she can shake hands with the opponent before jumping into the battlefield. After all this time, she can at least jump into this 4 feet deep swimming pool. Though she can’t swim like the others, but she has succeeded in taming the demons inside her who had kept her
Rahul Gupta is an engineer, working for a startup based in Bangalore. Everyday, he makes effort to chase his long cherished wish of writing something meaningful other than just a piece of CODE. He loves writing because it is one of the best media to express, impress and elate. For him, it’s a salvation from a moribund life around him. In a nutshell, for him, it’s a tunnel to the world where he is the creator. For him, it’s the most precious of the things he cherishes.
from this pool for eternity. Amelia Earhart once said, ‘The most
FICTION | 53
Essay
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
'AN INTRODUCTION' BY KAMALA DAS LITERARY ANALYSIS ANANYA DHAWAN A literary analysis of one of the most famous poems by Kamala Das. Kamala Das was one of the boldest female writers India has ever experienced, who is applauded by feminists for her slap on the face of patriarchy as is clearly reflected in her writings. Her poem ‘An Introduction’ is an autobiographical one, in which she unhesitatingly describes all aspects of her life as a woman. She primarily speaks of love, sex, and frustration.
She begins by saying that she might not be well-versed with the nuances of politics, but she does know the names of all the politicians. Her rebellious selfdeems it necessary to subtly state that all political leaders are males; the society cannot accept a female being in power. She is proud to state that she is an Indian, capable of speaking in three languages and writing in two, but she is fed up of her family, relatives, and cousins trying to take control of her life and criticizing her for writing in English, ESSAY
| 09
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
which they said was the writing of the colonials.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is not your mother-tongue. Why not leave me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, every one of you? Why not let me speak in any language I like?
Her married life, as is clearly understood by the following lines, is miserable. Married at the naïve age of sixteen to a much older man, all she craves is love, which they mistake for an unquenchable sexual craving.
I was child, and later they Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the Bedroom and closed the door
She then goes on to narrate her experiences with a man, who described himself as ‘I’, the male ego, which apparently gives him the power to do anything he pleases.
I am sinner, I am saint. I am the beloved and the betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no aches which are not yours. I too call myself I. While concluding, the poetess gives the power of ‘I’ to herself and says that she is a sinner and a saint, the beloved and the betrayed, and thus reaches self-assertion. Kamala Das's poems are honest, frank and provide an understanding about female sensibility. She defies norms and traditions, is not afraid to give voice to her anger and frustration, coming forward as bold and unconventional.
Ananya Dhawan can be reached at https://www.kalaage.net/ananya.d hawan1
She feels her body being used and abused. She masks her fragility by acting like a tomboy, dressing like a man and cutting her hair short. Her family criticizes her for this and tells her to behave like a woman, calling her a schizophrenic and a nympho. ESSAY | 10
Fiction
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
THE AGE OF SINS KUMAR ADITYA The Old Gods are getting weak. The New Gods are rising. The crow flew close to the city lights, wounding through the concrete jungle that stretched as far as its eyes could see. The air was thick with smoke and carbonexhausts. Air-conditioners and cooling systems were working full time in the sweltering heat of the August night. Humans in colorful clothes milled around on the streets, on the pavements and outside shop-fronts. They weren’t so lucky when it came to star-gazing. With the perpetual haze of pollution hanging over their heads and the ever-present distraction of glowing phone screens, star-gazing had almost turned into a lost art of contemplation. Who had the time for all that?
Even the crow didn’t appear to have any time to appreciate the smoking delicacies being cooked and served at the street-side stalls. It glided purposefully past the stalls beneath without even waiting to appreciate the rich cornucopia of smells from the food items. The restaurants, pubs, and bars were doing good business and that meant plentiful food to be picked from the trash cans, but probably food was the last thing on the crow’s mind. Through the intricate maze of buildings, a double-storied structure emerged. The crow flapped its wings harder and without hesitation, flew in through the open French window on the second level. It was lost to view in an empty hallway, full of shadows. A bulb flickered to exist right above the narrow doorway where the hallway ended. Moments later, an old man in a crisp
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YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
black suit opened this door and stepped into the plush, insufficiently-lit bar on its other side, brandishing a polished leaning-staff with a silver eagle’s head for the handle. His face was wellshaven and clean, accentuating his pale complexion; his white hair was oiled and stuck to his scalp. Many would’ve agreed he had aged gracefully, even. The establishment he’d entered was a far cry from the glitz outside: dull, quiet
eyes were rheumy from the three empty mugs of beer before him— he was halfway through his fourth. “No need to apologize now,” the octogenarian said, twirling the handle of his beer-mug. “We know you are busy. You always have calls to make.” “Good to see at least one of us has something better to do than sitting at home and watch Netflix,” the gaunt one spoke gloomily.
and windowless, lit by a few electric bulbs in sconces. Empty chairs and tables with a plaque reading RESERVED were strewn around wide-apart. A barcounter lay on one side like an island of mellow light. Three old men dressed in a similar fashion as the new-entrant were occupying the three out of ten upraised stools lining the counter; hunched over their drinks with their backs turned to the visitor.
“Stop complaining now, Famine,” the crew-cut old man said, bringing down his beer mug with a thump. “I’ve told you to read for ages but you… Netflix and chill, hah!” “Want to know something interesting, my friend?” Famine retorted. “I read one book finally. It was by this American fellow, some Vonnegut. I can vaguely recall the name but it’s about you, you know—about War.”
“I see you gentlemen started without me,” he said, approaching the trio. “My apologies for being late, I had to make some urgent calls that couldn’t wait.” The trio glanced around as he took up the empty seat next to the geriatric with the gaunt face and a shining, bald head. The gaunt one grunted in greeting. The one beside the gaunt face was a heavyset man with a crew-cut hair and a stern face that dripped with authority. On his side sat a broad-headed, liverspotted octogenarian with a handlebar moustache and overhanging jowls; his
“Anti-war,” the latecomer interrupted, smiling. “Yes, whatever. You know my favorite line from the book? It goes something like this: And, even if wars didn’t keep coming like glaciers, there would still be plain old death”. Famine jerked his thumb towards the latecomer by his side. “I wasn’t complaining. I was stating the obvious and you very well know TV-shows or even the best books won’t help. Look at Death—he’s the oldest in our quartet, but boy, he looks much more graceful and much younger in FICTION | 12
YUGEN ISSUE III | MAY/ JUNE 2017
comparison. That’s because they still believe in him—fear him.” “Too bad your ego’s too small to even accept a friendly advice,” War spat, placing his beer down with another thump. Foamy liquid sloshed upon his hand, but he didn’t even notice.
“The scale’s enormous. I’m talking about almost half the seven billion population, maybe more if they fail to stop the crisis in time,” Death emphasized, noticing how the old men were staring him: agog and blank.
“I didn’t ask for it, sir, in case you have forgotten,” Famine said.
Famine mouthed the words. War snorted and gulped down his beer. The fourth gentleman—the mostly-forgotten God-ofConquest, who hadn’t said a word in the last few minutes, went on drinking.
A thin man in his early fifties appeared from a door to the rear of the bar. He stepped behind the counter. Dressed in a starched shirt and dark waistcoat, plaited trousers, and a bow-tie, he pleasantly wished Death a good-evening. “What would you like to have, dear sir?” he asked, the voice and mannerism an epitome of politeness.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” Death went on, “but come on, we all know the human spirit has achieved much that was once considered unbelievable—there are enough tools of death lying around. There’s a wellfunded cabal in Pakistan, equipped with some pretty sophisticated BOWs. They’re making their move within a month from now.”
“The usual, Alfred,” Death replied, “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”
“So now bio-weapons are the in-thing,” Famine commented.
“How can I? None of my ancestors did.” The drink was placed before Death in a matter of minutes. “Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred.” He refilled the beermugs, served them platters of chicken and salads with a bowl of peanuts. Then, with a bow, he departed from the scene. Death sipped at his Martini, sloshed the fiery liquid in his mouth and nodded in approval. “I’ve heard whispers of conflict —something big coming our way,” he informed his peers, attempting to break the nervous tension.
“Exactly and take my word for it, we’re all going to get stronger with all that destruction and chaos,” Death was beaming with delight—a businessman about to reveal his masterstroke plan that would bring the entire quartet of entrepreneurs back in business.
“How big are we talking here?” War enquired. “Another Hiroshima & Nagasaki, or Dresden—what’s the scale?”
“It’s almost going to be like a chainreaction: they’ll wage war on the other country for harboring terrorists; the economy would flounder—which means a shortage of food items and crumbling supply chains; it might give India enough reasons to erase the enemy state's name off the world map.” FICTION | 13
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Death drained his Martini and trilled a small bell on the counter nearby. Alfred, the bartender made another appearance and without a word, refilled their drinks before leaving the scene as quickly he’d come. The minutes of silence had given them enough time to ponder the news. “Well, you’re a dear friend,” said War. “And there’s no doubt that once again it’ll be you who would gain the most out of the imminent crisis while we three would’ve to satisfy ourselves with the scraps on the side but what the hell, something is better than nothing. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” he asked Famine and Conquest. They grumbled their agreement. After a short spell of silence, Conquest cleared his throat and began, his voice slightly slurred: “I miss the good old days. What glorious days! We made civilizations tremble—the four deadly Horsemen of Apocalypse. And now…” The main door into the room was set at the extreme end from their side of the room. Conquest paused. The others cocked their ears and half-turned to listen to the commotion outside the closed door: voices, footsteps; a woman was sniggering. It opened and a man in a Seville-Row suit sporting an amused smirk entered. There were six more people who trickled in after him—three men, three women; all young and glowing with bodies full of vitality, all in their thirties’. And the Horsemen knew each one well since they all served the same force of nature the Horsemen had once paid homage to Lord Apocalypse.
“Alfred, come out now, the cavalry’s here,” the one leading: Pride, called out and the bartender, like an eager servant, materialized at their service. The Seven Sins gave the Horsemen a passing glance. One of them—a voluptuous, darkskinned woman with coal-black eyes and hair, dressed in a short Prada dress—was the only one to nod at the quartet. The newcomers seated themselves around the large round table not far from the Horsemen. The old men could very well hear their excited chatter. Alfred reappeared with food and drinks balanced dexterously in his arms and the seven cheered him on. The Horsemen couldn’t help but notice how Alfred, unlike his usual reticent self-was basking in the limelight the younger folks showered on him, appreciating his culinary skills and promptness. Death’s eyes met with the beautiful, dark woman. She was smiling and laughing with the others but her gaze was constantly returning at the Horsemen. The pearl necklace around her neck shone as bright as her kohl-rimmed, almond-shaped eyes. Her puckered lips, the plunging neckline of her dress, made the woman all the more striking. “The ever-powerful Lust,” Famine whispered to Death. “I heard she’s going around with Pride these days. A rare couple, wouldn’t you agree?” “They are,” Death said, turning away from the, for the most part, bunch. “She’s had rich pickings over the years.” He couldn’t keep his eyes or mind on the conversation for more than a minute. When he looked
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back Lust was whispering something to Pride, who with his perpetual smirk and Seville-Row comport pecked on her lips in response. “Word is they started hanging out after the North Korean despot was assassinated by his mistress, last year.” Alfred had refilled their drinks and disappeared from the scene, leaving the patrons to their food and amusement. At the table, the obese Gluttony, in his illfitting suit tittered at some joke the laconic God of Sloth had cracked. His mouth was stuffed with chicken and some of it dribbled down his triple-chin when he did so. Jealousy and Greed, the well-known bitchmouths were discussing something about the recession they’d co-conspired in recently, causing more than hundredthousand lay-offs in the American industries and more than five-hundred cases of suicides. Only Anger remained to himself, restless and twitchy, staring at the food before him and murmuring to himself. He sat sideways, tapping his shoes on the linoleum like he would get up and leave any moment now. In one way or another, they were all contributors to Death’s multifarious industry. Dictators in lust got assassinated; angry schoolboys shot down their classmates or trampled people in road-rage; gluttons stuffed themselves to Death; pride was a cause of universal downfalls—so was laziness, where little mistakes escalated into momentous disasters. Greed and Jealousy, for the most part, were team-players, feeding on their prey in close coordination with the other
five Gods of Sins—yet as common as the houseflies. All were cogs in the machinery of Apocalypse but unlike Death, the other Horsemen were merely sitting ducks in the age of media, technology, and consumerism that had opened a thousand doorways to crises, just as they’d made things better for modern civilization. “You seem pre-occupied today,” Famine prompted. Death looked at him and smiled wanly. “All seasons belong to Death, as the saying goes. So what’s the reason for your worry? Did the humans discover the Elixir of Life or what?” “They will someday and then we’ll be the Four Grumpy Horsemen,” Death tried to hide his emotions. Conquest was quickly working on his seventh drink. He muttered something angrily to War, who in turn tried to pacify him by the aid of words and pats. But something was wrong with Conquest, this Death and Famine knew at the first glance; something that was now pouring gallons of oil into the simmering fire of dissatisfaction and obsoleteness burning within Conquest’s heart. Conquest shrugged his hands away and downed the remaining beer in one swallow. War whispered placating words. Death and Famine leaned closer to intervene but by then it was too late. “They’re hard-working, my foot!” Conquest bellowed, jumping off the stool. “They’re nothing but a bunch of brats is what they are. Lord Apocalypse has given them too much free rein.” FICTION | 15
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