CLRIAugust2016

CLRI ISSN 2250-3366

eISSN 2394-6075

Featuring…

Akhileshwari A Raj Arshi Garg Bhumika Marolia Chandrashekhar Sastry Dr Dalip Khetarpal Dr Divyabha Vashisth Gary Beck Dr Javed Latoo Kuldipsinh Jadeja Nilanjan Bhowmick Patrick James Wilson Pavle Radonic Sadia Riaz Sehole Syed Kazim Ali Kazmi Sharonee Dasgupta Dr Shobha Diwakar Dr Sukanya Saha Er. Vinod Khanna & Book Releases.

Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016 CLRI Online Quarterly Edition

Contemporary Literary Review India ─ The Journal that brings articulate writing for articulate readers.

Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016

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Contemporary Literary Review India (CLRI) is one of the leading literary journals in India and attracts a wide audience each month. If you search with the keywords: literary journal, literary journals India or similar keywords, CLRI will appear on the first or second page of Google search result.

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Khurshid Alam Editor-in-Chief Contemporary Literary Review India http://literaryjournal.in

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Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016

Contents POEMS ......................................... 5 Arshi Garg ............................................ 6 Million Reasons to Give Up ......................... 6

Dr Javed Latoo ...................................... 7 I knew a man in a crowded city ................... 7 Of space .................................................. 9

Kuldipsinh Jadeja ................................. 10 Eulogizing Her ........................................ 10 A Union ................................................. 11

Patrick Wilson ...................................... 13 Leonard Lowe’s Final Flight to Life ............. 13 Our Anniversary...................................... 15

Vinod Khanna ...................................... 18 Whore’s Horror ....................................... 18

STORIES..................................... 21 Akhileshwari Anand Raj ......................... 22 Shadows and Smoke ............................... 22

Bhism Sahani ...................................... 28 Made in Italy .......................................... 28

Chandrashekhar Sastry ......................... 40 Talaaq ................................................... 40

Nilanjan Bhowmick ............................... 52 The Uprising ........................................... 52

Pavle Radonic ...................................... 63 2

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Southernmost Point ................................. 63

Sadia Riaz Sehole ................................ 76 Reborn .................................................. 76

Syed Kazim Ali Kazmi ........................... 88 The Story............................................... 88

RESEARCH PAPERS..................... 94 Dr Dalip Khetarpal ................................ 95 Dr O. P. Arora’s WHISPERS in the Wilderness: A Perspective ......................................... 95

Dr Divyabha Vashisth ......................... 110 Dalit Literature: An Insurrectionary Voice . 110

Sharonee Dasgupta ............................ 120 Dalit Struggle and Subjugation Through The Centuries ............................................. 120

ARTICLES ................................. 139 Bhumika Marolia ................................ 140 3D Printing and Its Applications .............. 140

BOOK REVIEWS ........................ 148 Dr. Sukanya Saha .............................. 149 Book Review of Usha Rajagopalan’s Amrita: A Read into Traumatic Emotions ................ 149

Vinod Khanna .................................... 155 Book Review of Eswar Anandan’s Seasons 155

BOOK RELEASES ....................... 158 Aditi Bose ......................................... 159 My Dream Man ..................................... 159

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Gary Beck ......................................... 161 Call to Valor — A novel .......................... 161

Mahendra Bhatnagar .......................... 164 The Poetry of Mahendra Bhatnagar : Realistic & Visionary Aspects ............................... 164

Shekher Srivastava ............................ 166 You Are Beautiful, O Woman!.................. 166

Tushar Sen ....................................... 168 Pandora's Box ...................................... 168

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Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016

Poems

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Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016

Arshi Garg Million Reasons to Give Up With the every piece of my heart.

Going my shadows apart.

To search a purpose of this life, Hold the sword or just the knife.

Though I climb every mountain, Pushing forward with all the pain.

Doubt regarding dreams it lend, Whether I gonna remember till end.

Feel like breaking the silence, I don’t want any more tolerance.

Millions reasons to give up, But few still keeps the hope up.

Arshi Garg, 19, is a student and loves to write poems. She wants to become a famous poet in life.

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Dr Javed Latoo I knew a man in a crowded city I knew a man in a crowded city.

Tall, handsome and ageing.

Living in a house filled with wine of solitude, the bread of Philosophy, fruits of Poetry, casks of memories sprinkled with salt and sugar, curtains of secrecy; and no family to return to in the evenings.

He held a rewarding job of midwifing people's affairs.

He bridled his mind with regular reading and writing; holding his head high, unbending like a solitary oak tree.

He did not take refuge in drinking, smoking, and judging; ceaselessly clipping wings of his expectations; without carrying a moral telescope, he fed his heart with beneficence, friends and soothing music.

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He was happy and contented! People often wondered how he got by without a family? I know I could not.

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Of space When I felt your presence Between every breath, Between every sound Reaching my ears, Between my ceaseless evaporating thoughts; Between every word Ever written or spoken,

When I saw your void Between every object In front of my curious eyes, Between our Earth, the moon, Sun, Stars, and Galaxies; A tranquillizing sense of Awe and expansion Filled my heart and mind.

Dr Javed Latoo is a UK based senior clinician, honorary lecturer, health advocate and an Editor of a UK medical journal. In his spare time, Dr Latoo writes poems. His poems have been published in literary and medical journals. His first collection of poems is Gushing Fountain: A Collection of Poems (2015).

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Kuldipsinh Jadeja Eulogizing Her Smile unbuttoned those sugary lush lips, To lure the longing souls of beauty’s admirers.

Dark in color and light in movements, Those with a shape scarcer than hen's teeth, Puckered to bewilder me.

Mystery of thousands of poetry, I could find in her hazel and liquid eyes.

Each move of her fringed eye lids Ceased the tides of mad and lunatic seas.

Eye brows as if a deer jumping over a stream, Garnished eyes to shake the world of beholders.

Carefully carved curves of curly curls, Concealed soft ears almost To remind me of Leaves of a delicate plant covered by creepers, From the scorching rays of Sun. I could find meaning of life, And life started throbbing in each vein.

I exhaled in anticipation, And blessed them all, The craft, the crafted and the crafter.

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A Union Balmy breeze pampered buds, To feel the velvet touch, Coy but keen, Preteens evinced not much, But drew back lips to show delight.

Leaves were smiling to woo, And flowers rejoice the scene and move.

Tree was bestowed upon a chance to witness it.

How can he miss a chance to respond to it!

Moving branches in agreement, He just shook them all.

All danced with joyous zeal of adolescent, And kissed each other tenderly to feel the moisture, Sprinkled upon them by the dews of morning, Shining brightly in beams of the sun in infancy.

Birds fluttered and flew from branch to branch, Talking of the ranch, Adding chirps in melodic symphony of nature.

Root, though under the soil, Was filled with life to grow large and coil.

I blessed the union, then, May God Save You From Cultured Man.

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Kuldipsinh Jadeja is a lecturer in English, Department of English, C. U. Shah University, Surendranagar.

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Patrick Wilson Leonard Lowe’s Final Flight to Life I’ve been absent for thirty years; Away from what I’ve recognized as life.

I’m different, so, too, is the world that embraces me.

I left my life as a pupil, Only to stare at the same white paint as it aged before me.

I’ve been a hostage to myself, for most of my adult life.

I was a lad who never experienced my first car, waltz, or kiss From another lass besides my mother, until now!

Fortunate I was to have this awakening, for The doctors would wonder if I were dead from reality, or If I were undergoing my resurgence to it.

Mr. Lowe was my name during those forlorn years, But Leonard is my name today, for it’s my resumption; to My new shot at occupying in a world that so many folks, Including my doting mother, feared life forgot.

Come walk with me beyond the outlets of one’s consciousness that were locked for many years.

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Learn from my affliction what life is from the inside.

I want to experience what I’ve been missing for so long.

Let us reserve a flight on Life and see where the plane will take us.

For in an instant, one’s voyage could be one’s last.

And we return to the shell of an existence touched briefly by Life.

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Our Anniversary My fervor for you is like cotton: Permanent and Malleable.

For that caramel band encircles my left finger, as a habitual token of the day.

When two nascent hearts pulsated and became one, neath our Lord and His sun.

I bear this ring not as a material prop, but as my marital troth: To love you duly and tender!

Because without it, my heart would seep blue; Though my fidelity to you will immortally abide true .

Some say a gold ring can be lost and replace, Or broken and fixed, or turned to rust and polished.

Of course, those are the ones who wait a lifetime for their date.

I know — ours will forever be on the eight.

Yet why shall we anticipate, when time does not hesitate?

Rest to sure my love, my amour for you is neither above.

Since my love has never been lost, I have no reason to replace; Nor can I fix what is not broken, or polish the old when you are always new.

Furthermore, the Cosmos thrive modestly inside my mind, Just knowing how our marriage is like porcelain: angelic and fine!

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And it only cultivates in harmony, As the Hessonite in my chest beats blood red each day I rest next to you in bed.

"Till death do us part," We both said on this day. But why eulogize our Biennial When we can celebrate tomorrow, and we should have last night?

Because my love for you does not end on the eight, nor does it simmer in June, or drift beneath a September moon; nor congeal in December; Or drool burgundy from a thumb kissed by a March thistle.

Thus, our anniversary does not have to last for only twenty-four short hours; since I have three hundred and sixty four of them in each year to celebrate.

To me, our wedding was yesterday, is today and will be tomorrow as long as one – and – one makes two; Our love will continue to flow and prosper.

Henceforth, each day will be our anniversary Even when I take my climactic air on Earth; the love-chain we so proudly share will never turn to dust, for as long as you live and breathe when I wake and when I sleep.

I will always cherish your love deep in thought, And it shall remain perennial throughout the heart — Thus, it will live on 16

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in Heaven for the two of us ─ Even when 'death do us part'!

Patrick Wilson has been in the education field since 1998. He has an A.A. in English from the College of Coastal Georgia, Brunswick, Georgia; a B.A. in English with a minor in Linguistics from Armstrong State University, Savannah, Georgia; and an M.A. in English from Georgia Southern University, Statesboro, Georgia. Currently, Patrick lives with his wife and daughter in Brunswick, Georgia where he teaches English at Coastal Pines Technical College and at the College of Coastal Georgia. He also tutors English and math at both colleges as well. Patrick enjoys writing creative pieces as well as scholarly pieces, for which he has been published in several online and printed journals over the years.

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Vinod Khanna Whore’s Horror Who came, when?

To visit my den; Does it matter?

Forget. Better.

Leaders came, Pleaders came; To play a game, Who should I name?

Honourable men, Eight, nine, ten; Night after night, Gave me fright.

I was young, The sadist stung; My body was bit, My soul was hit.

Like a thief, For time so brief; They came and went, Drained and spent.

Of father’s age, Full of rage; 18

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Vented the ire, Quenched the fire.

Like noble savage, Came to ravage; My body, my soul, In this hell-hole.

Hated carnivores Like wolves devour; Body’s each pore And call me whore?

Of mothers are they born?

To wives are sworn?

If daughters were to know, What face they will show?

Now I am old, Body is cold; Door steps worn, My mind is torn.

Caught in a whirl, Born as a girl; I lost the race, To save my face.

A bundle of flesh, Thrown in slush; Gasping for breath, Choking to death.

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Vinod Khanna (b.1948) is a Mechanical Engineer and a Post Graduate in English literature. He started writing at a young age and had four of his novels published, while he was barely out of his teens. His debut book of English poetry Lamp Post was awarded with an Award of Excellence as the best book of poetry in rhyme at International Poets meet2014, organized by The Poetry Society of India, Gurgaon during September 2014.

Khanna’s second book was of Hindi poetry in early 2015, titled Lamhon Ki Shararat, which too has been immensely liked by many connoisseurs of poetry. His third poetry book Sentinel was released by the Chief Minister of Himachal Pradesh along with the Vice Chancellor of HP University at Shimla on 22nd July 2015. He also edited an anthology of English poetry titled Spectrum and his poems have figured in many anthologies, worldwide. He is also a member of the editorial board of The Poetry Society of India, Gurgaon and Vice-President of the Readers and Writers Society of India, based in Chandigarh.

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Vol 3, No 3, CLRI August 2016

Stories

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Akhileshwari Anand Raj Shadows and Smoke We’ve always been in that “phase”; you know, a very will they, won’t they? kinda couple. We were never a couple, except that one time in eleventh grade anyway. Friends with benefits is befitting, also, actual best friends—but not a couple. You and I, we listened to Aoki all night, baked apple pies together, spent ten consecutive Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners with your family, had sex, went on amazing road trips, did I mention—mindblowing sex? Go figure.

You had just spent the night, and I left you lightly snoring as I went into work on a Saturday. A normal weekend for me, whenever you were in town. Which was quite often these days. Work dragged on, until I got a call from Lea—your brother’s wife, my best friend.

“Wh.. where are you… come to St. Lugos quickly… please”, she said, hiccupping her way through the sentence.

And, I knew. Didn’t really need an explanation.

I made my way across town, the radio lulling faintly in the background.

You’re dead. An aneurysm, they said. Never seen a case this young, they said. What I processed: the one person that needed me—to 22

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function, plainly, was gone. Selfish? Oh, yes.

Was I upset? Of course not. __ I sat there, holding Lea’s hand throughout the afternoon. She cried uncontrollably, like I should have been wailing, like my whole world had just been shaken up. I hugged your mum as she sat petrified, in disbelief; she kept murmuring something about all this being a bad dream. I did puzzles with your nephew Robbie, to keep him occupied. He didn’t really understand the commotion, and it made him cranky. __ I really loved you—wait, I loved the idea of yours. You’re dead, but I can keep you alive forever; I’ll just have to find someone to replace you.

I did just that. I left the hospital in haste, went to a frat party round the corner. Round the corner from where you died. A few shots down, and I found him: naïve brown eyes and a smirk on his face, which was glowing with a sense of importance. There, I found just what I wanted, what I had found in you ten years ago. After that night, someone who will need me. __

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However, I didn’t spend the entire night at his place. In your memory, for what we had been.

But I couldn’t sleep all night, and I wasn’t able to eat all day either, at least my body was mourning your loss. Next morning, I put on my black blouse and trousers, and searched frantically for shoes. I didn’t even have black shoes; I wore red shoes instead to your wake.

The long drive was graced by incessant rain, and this reminded me of just two nights ago.

When it was lightly drizzling outside, a pleasant patter, as we had lain on my bed, legs lost in the sheets, with me whining about how busy I was, and you listening patiently, while silently playing with my hair. Just like a perfect boyfriend would’ve.

I finally pulled over at your parents’ townhouse, preparing myself for Round Two of ‘trying to feel something but cannot.’ Thank God it was an open casket wake. __ The walk from the parking lot to your living room was long; I was greeted with piteous eyes, hushed voices and tearful glances.

I met our friends. Your high school football team, the one with my first boyfriend, whom you loathed since then. He hugged me, and told me I was a strong girl who could easily overcome this. Your first girlfriend was there, the one who slapped me across the face the 24

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day you asked me out. She held my hand, and solemnly told me that she was sorry for my loss (and for all that she had put me through).

All these people, they kept coming to console me. But the thing is, I didn’t need to be consoled. I was perfectly fine, and that was the problem.

Your parents were a mess: your dad was hiding his grief behind his surly smile, the grief that came with the premature passing of his wastrel child, the one he disliked so much that he disowned him. He was ashamed of you when you were alive; and he was ashamed of himself now. Your mum honoured you with her words, as she recounted tales from your innocent childhood days and up to your pensive adult years. She loved you, and you repaid her by moving thousands of miles away from her in pursuit of your art.

Your brother stood grimly amongst your cousins; you would’ve been a part of that circle. Lea was pretending to help around with the food, causing more damage than being helpful. But that helped her put off her impending breakdown, so she continued anyway.

Robbie, your nephew and godchild, our godchild, was oblivious to the situation. He pulled his usual antics, and kept the spirits artificially high. The sight of him brought the faintest of smiles on even the most forlorn faces. He brought happiness to the room, the 25

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opposite of what you were doing at the moment.

When I saw Lea and her little family, I wondered, would we have become like them, given time? The idea was repulsive. __ What were you to me, really? That guy I’ve been constantly looking out for since high school, because you were an idiot. And then you became that guy I hooked up with on-andoff.

You were my project of sorts, one I took pride in fixing and refining. In the process, you became the guy who embodied my utopian ideas. I managed to make you what I needed: someone to give me a sense of belonging.

Ten years, it took me to fix you. Ten years, I invested in you. You were my perfect illusion, and now you’ve gone and burst my bubble by dying. That’s what I grieved. How I spent too much of my time on you. For now, you’re really gone, and I’m moving on. __ This time around, I spent the night. I woke up to his light snores, and I realised that you didn’t matter to me anymore. He’s awake now, with his strong arms wrapped around me, stubble chin resting on my shoulder. I felt like 26

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I finally belonged, just like I did with you. You, him, what difference did it make?

Safe and sound, all a mere farce. I just need someone to fool me long enough to believe the farce, and you played your role for ten long, long years, really well. You’ve been relieved of your act now, but the show must go on.

Akhileshwari Anand Raj is a student at Gujarat National Law University (GNLU), Ahmedabad. She has a keen interest in politics and public policy issues. She enjoys reading fiction.

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Bhism Sahani Made in Italy Originally written in Hindi and translated in English by Dr Shobha Diwakar Swinging her new suede bag over her shoulder, Meera ambled on the streets of Rome. She was jubilant and her heartbeats tickled her fancy. She halted for a minute to admire the bag she had recently purchased.

She swung it off her shoulder and caressingly beheld it uttering, “Oh, How pretty!” She pampered herself, “How nice she had bought it,” and swinging it back to its delightful perch, she strode on.

The last day of her stay was indeed stupendous. What a piece of luck she had obtained this bag. She was unable to find one so attractive in Paris, but yes, she had found one here. It would match all her saris. It was a light yellow suede bag, adorned with a shimmering silver brooch fastened with a magnetic clip button. It was fascinating: whether held in hand or swung on the shoulder; with a sari or with slacks. She had gathered all her courage, walked out of the hotel and bought it. Had she waited for Baldev until he returned from the meeting, it might have been too late. On the other hand, had she listened to the hotel boy, she would have been viewing some relics of the past. It was 28

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that little voice inside that kept goading her to get up and go out to explore the market and instantly she had got up and stepped out of the hotel. Yes, it was a good decision or else the hotel fellow would have kept her wandering on some endless spree.

Skirting out of her wandering fancy she perceived Pietas’ all-embracing courtyard glimmering under the rays of the sun. Nearby a cluster of pigeons wafted down near an ancient fountain. Anywhere you turned your eyes, the sight presented holiday- makers. On Saturday afternoons, the streets of Rome became overcrowded. Meera lulled near the fountain wall then sat on it to rest herself.

Looking around she wondered as to which ancient fountain it was, and just as soon turned away her gaze. In Rome, every nook and corner seemed to be crammed with relics and fountains, and what not. Who could go around inspecting all this? Satisfied with her sprawl and her ‘booty,’ she once again tenderly cosseted her new- found joy of the bag .Had she delayed her shopping even by an hour she would never have found it.

No matter how thirsty one might feel, no one lunges for a glass of water to quench his thirst as hysterically as Indians do for foreign goods on their trip abroad. Although Meera had capriciously purchased almost everything, she had set her heart upon on her foreign tour she wantonly craved to possess more. She had 29

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bought woolens from London, perfumes and night- wear from Paris, and a transistor and tape recorder from Berlin. By the time she reached Rome, her shopping list was complete, but she had not found a bag like this. Thrilling, she had found it here! What was the use of going abroad if you could not find something as beautiful as this? What then was the use of such a foreign trip?

On his last visit abroad, Meera’s mama (uncle), had presented her a delightful tape recorder, an absolute new model. It was an instant hit at the kitty party. Now, Meera herself was touring Europe. She had discreetly preserved her hotel bills, air tickets, even those tickets she had bought for buses and trams. Once back in India from a foreign tour, not only foreign tape recorders, but also tiny bits of paper carried weight. “When Vimla perceives these bits of papers initially she will be crestfallen. Then her eyes will pop out of their sockets staring.”

Meera said to herself. “Although Vimla too has a tape recorder, which is made in England, yet, a German tape recorder! That is just different, and this bag?” Musing thus, Meera once again cuddled the bag. “When Vimla views this bag, at first she will screw up her nose,” then she will say, “Where did you buy it from?” I’ll say.

“From where do you think it is?” It is from Italy. See, here is the shopkeeper’s bill, and I will thrust the bill before her.

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Contemplatively, Meera thought about the shopkeeper, and smiled coyly. Italian businessmen are well versed with the art of flattering women, and this fellow was no doubt struck by my good looks, she smiled to herself. Good I wore a sari for my shopping. When you wear slacks in Europe, you are lost in the crowd; no one bothers to look at you, but if you drape a sari, people turn around and stare at you.

What is it that they visualize in a sari? A couple of days ago a passerby stopped and came across to meet her. Speaking in broken English, he first commented on Meera’s black eyes, then extolled her sari saying, “When Indian women prod along draped in saris, it seems as though waves of music are undulating, and kept repeating what not. Then taking her hand, he planted a kiss. While Meera’s heart fluttered by this unexpected gesture, she blushed rapturously.

Closeted in her adventures of the day Meera could not but muse on the fact that when you ramble on Rome’s thoroughfare graced in a sari, all eyes turn admiringly at you, so when touring Europe you must always adorn yourself in a sari. Had anyone committed the audacity to kiss your hand like this in India, ten people would have pounded him. Meera herself would have given him a piece of her mind… because… in India … there are only quirky people. Once when she was climbing up the stairs of a cinema hall (in India), a man stuck out his hand and touched her waist in the dark.

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Immediately Meera’s husband called the police, which created an uproar. Eventually the police officer tightly smacked the culprit’s neck and scooted him off.

Here it is different. Every passerby pays you a compliment. What about this shopkeeper who sold bags? Did he pay lesser compliments?

“Madam this bag enhances the beauty of your eyes!” he remarked, and Meera flushed while her heart went flip flap.

“Your choice is excellent. This befits your height; for slim ones like you this bag is a perfect match. You should carry a bag of just this size.”

Meera deliberately batted her eyelids’ with ecstasy. She was aware that each time she did so her big black eyes fascinated and bewitched every onlooker.

“Perceiving your expressive eyes I knew you would buy this bag.”

“You speak shayari,” Meera smiled.

“Madam, the moment I set eyes on a beautiful woman I become crazy. Waves of inane sensations smother my inmost feelings.” Meera giggled. The man flung out his arms as if he was an actor saying, “Truly madam, half the beauty of the world lies in the beauty of women and that too, ninety percent of it comprises the beauty of Indian women.”

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Once again Meera chuckled, and once again her heart flittered. She picked up the bag swung it on her shoulder and stepped aside to admire her demeanor before the big mirror resting against a corner of the shop.

Simultaneously, she whirled around to admire her personality. Contended with her image, swaying the bag, she smiled and approached the counter, paid and loftily walked out of the shop.

By now, tourists had begun to gather around the fountain. A couple of them who seemed to be Americans were clicking pictures of the ancient fountain. Two men standing close by to Meera were discussing about the lion’s face engraved on the fountain. She overheard, “This was built in the third century. It’s the oldest one in Rome.”

Meera turned around for a moment to glance at the fountain then shifted her gaze. She wondered what people found of interest in these relics. When she was in Europe, like a fool she too had wandered here and there along with Baldev and other tourists. However, she soon concluded that she would no longer trudge along on these expeditions. In Paris, Baldev accompanied with some globetrotters went to visit Libre, which was packed with frescos. Meera halted at the portal and told him, “You go and see. I will wait here for you. I have not come here to break my bones; as though I have not seen pictures before!”

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Just this morning the hotel manager placed a map of Rome before her saying, “Here is a church, here a relic.” Spreading a typical European smile across her face Meera reiterated, “If I wished to see relics here I would have seen enough of them in India itself. I have come here to shop. You guide me as to which road leads to the market. I will manage the rest myself.”

Meera’s house in India was flooded with foreign pictures. Before she married, she recalled that her obsessive father too fancied only foreign stuff. Nothing less was acceptable to him. His life’s mission was to buy only those items that had a foreign label attached to them; if the foreign label was missing, the thing was never bought. Her father was a government officer in pre and postindependent India. In fact, after independence, he was promoted to the topmost rank and his only mission in life was to collect foreign goods. He prided himself over six foreign cigarette lighters- each one surpassing the other. From a motor car to neckties, every item in his collection was foreign made. He possessed no less than forty neckties each one surmounting the other, and all imported.

On his daily morning walks, Meera’s father stepped out of the house dressed in a suit, not forgetting the necktie. Meera too had married a government officer and at her marriage, she received an exotic foreign crockery set and a 34

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complete dinner set. When Vimla set her eyes on it, she was edged with a pang of jealousy.

Now… she herself was touring and shopping in Europe.

Gently Meera unclipped the button of the bag.

With a ‘khat’ sound the bag snapped open. She peeped inside and beheld a beautiful silky sky blue lining, which made the bag even more gorgeous. To maintain its shape it had been stuffed with wax paper. Meera slid her hand inside, drew out the paper and chucked it behind the fountain wall. At once, she caught sight of the label stitched in the right corner of the bag and stood stunned as if paralyzed. She trembled from head to toe. She could not believe her eyes. She was badly shaken up and felt her whole body was ignited. The bag was made in Hindustan! Meera staggered. “I have been cheated.” The shopkeeper had cunningly engaged her in his crafty and luscious chat, and palmed off a bag, which was – Made in India! The rascal…

Quickly Meera glanced at her watch. It was just a few minutes to one. The shops closed at one, and today was Saturday. Meera contemplated, “What if the shops shut down by the time I reach? Why didn’t I first peep inside the bag? I was captivated by his chirpy talks and he cheated me. ‘Desi stuff,’ and that too, in two thousand liras! Shall I carry this to Delhi? Shall I dangle this and step out of the plane? The rouge, the scoundrel. Baldev had 35

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warned me not to get infatuated by these Italian shopkeepers and I merely got led away.

Like a blind fool, I paid so heavily for this ‘fatichar’ (third rated) bag.”

Stamping her foot Meera got up and proceeded to the shop muttering all the way, “How dare he refuse to take it back? I’ll report the matter to the embassy. How will he get away? I won’t leave him.” The shopkeeper was raising some hoarding when he heard the thud of footsteps.

Perceiving Meera a big professional smile spread across his face.

“The sun has risen twice today,” he rambled stretching out his hands. “I was aware madam that you would return. Beautiful women visit Mario’s shop again and again.”

Meera chagrined, hotly broke out, “Why didn’t you tell me this bag was made in India?”

But Mario did not understand what she meant.

Graciously he said, “Madam this bag is very beautiful. Do you wish to buy another? Today I have sold fifteen bags,” he proudly added.

“Sorry I don’t want this bag. I don’t wish to buy it,” she charged pungently.

‘Madam, madam, oh, oh, you don’t want this beautiful bag. Is there anything wrong with it?

Shall I change it?”

“You have cheated me?”

Mario continued to laugh and placing his hand across his heart said, “Come to my shop and I 36

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will cheat you not once but ten times. Mario loves to cheat in this manner and grinning, once again, outstretched his hands.

Meera was nettled. She quivered and chided him, “Why didn’t you tell me this bag was made in India? Please take it back and refund my money.”

“Madam,” Mario flapped again. “Take the money as well as the bag as a Lilliputian gift from me.”

“No, no, I don’t want this bag.”

“Madam I have sold fifteen bags today.

Customers love this bag made in India.” Mario chirped.

“Maybe you did, but I do not want this bag.”

“Madam, do you really not like this bag?” Mario said with amour propre, a little puzzled.

Meera almost truckled but spoke firmly, “Whether good or bad, I don’t care. I will not take this bag.”

Baffled, Mario kept goggling at her. Once again, Meera twirled the bag in her hand and stared at it for a while. Who knows he may really have sold fifteen bags today. “The bag is not as bad as I consider it to be. The color is also… not so bad after all… and … it is not too bad to look at.” She churned over the thought pensively then plausibly said, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Madam…?”

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“Cut off this label, which is stitched inside with a pair of scissors and replace it with another that has the logo, “Made in Italy.” Then I will take it.”

Mario carefully scrutinized Meera’s countenance, her sari, the ‘bindi’ on her forehead, and simply kept staring at her.

Meera was agitated, “Flip it, flip it and stitch a ‘Made in Italy’ label.”

Mario hazily smirked and ducked behind the counter. He snipped off the ‘Made in India,’ label and ripping off a “Made in Italy” label from a cap, glued it inside the right corner of the bag.

“Now that you have extracted one ‘Made in Italy’ label, take out three to four extra ones and give them to me. I will pay you separately for them,” said Meera with a disencumbered smile.

After a while, slinging the bag on her shoulder, Meera walked out of the shop, but no sooner was she out of earshot she boomeranged, “Had I not seen this label then, this change would not have been possible.” Then insolently rebutted, “Damn it now everything is being made in India!”

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This story was originally written in Hindi by the renowned novelist and short story writer Bhism Sahani (8 August 1915 - 11 July 2 003). The story appeared in Charchit Kahaniya (2007).

Sahni was a writer and playwright in Hindi literature.

He was an actor also. He is best known for his novel and screenplay for the television serial Tamas (or Darkness)—a powerful and passionate account of the partition of India. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1998 for Literature, and the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2002.

Translator: Dr. Mrs. Shobha Diwakar, was Head, English, C.P. Mahila Mahavidhyalaya, Jabalpur, M.P is retired now. She was appointed in the guest faculty, Dept of PG Studies & Research in English, Rani Durgavati Vishvavidhyalaya, and supervised M Phil theses. She was also Honorary Prof. of English, St. Aloysius’s College [A] Jab. She has published many research papers, stories, poems and essays in national, international and online journals. She contributes regularly to writerslifeline.ca and Indian Periodical.

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Chandrashekhar Sastry Talaaq She had been warned by her mother Asiyabi not to embark on such a foolish venture but love as always was blind. Akash was such a handsome boy and he seemed to be totally enamoured of her. Akash with his rotund figure and neatly circular face appeared to Tarranum like an oversized baby who needed to be protected and mothered. She had a longish intelligent face with large eyes and a near perfect nose. When Akash described her as ‘stunningly beautiful’ she revelled in his adoration. They looked forward to a lifelong relationship and readied themselves to weather the protestations of both families.

Abbajan the retired school teacher from Lucknow looked lovingly at his daughter and shaking his head said, “Tarranum, we all love you and we want you to be happy for all time not just for the moment.

Akash is a nice boy but not of our faith. Will his parents be able to take you in as their daughter-in-law?”

He put an aging hand upon her head smoothing her curls and repeated her name a couple of times. He was wondering, as any parents in such a situation would, ‘Will two and a half decades of parental love prove futile in 40

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the face of a daughter’s obsession with a young man?’

Akash too faced considerable opposition from his parents who lived in Kanpur when he spoke of his love for Tarranum. He had first revealed it to his mother and shown her some photographs on his phone. The pretty pictures delighted her but when she heard the name, so unmistakably Muslim, she was startled.

“Akash, what has happened to you, son? Are you joking?” She had known him to be a prankster from his school days. Akash was renowned for his clever April Fool’s Day antics.

“No, Amma,” he said, “this is real, this is serious.”

Her brows furrowed and face fell into a saddened mien. “Tell this to your father when he comes home in the evening. “Wait till he has had his evening bath and said his prayers.”

She knew it to be the best time for such a revelation when he was at peace after the turbulent day at work and the hard, nervous scooter ride returning home.

“Don’t be carried away by her pretty face.” The astonished father tried to tell his son of responsibilities to family, of a family that he would have in future, and how society would regard his actions.

“We do understand all that, Father. We too have apprehensions of the future but we are prepared to face it together.” He bent down 41

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and touched his father’s feet. “Bless us father,” he said while the mother wept into her sari’s pallu. ~ It had become an impossible situation with both lovers facing a silent, sullen antipathy in their homes. They were employed with the branches of software companies having head offices in Bangalore. After a lot of discussion they applied to several consultants to their organisation for positions in software offices in Bangalore. They were greatly surprised to find attractive offers forthcoming and negotiated for their joining dates to take effect at about the same time. On reaching the big technological capital that was the new Eldorado they decided against a formal marriage. Going with the new trend they opted for a live-in relationship in a small flat in the new environs of the Electronic City. They were both employed in good positions and their combined income enabled them to have a reasonably good living. Brought up in frugal families they planned to save adequately and soon afford a flat of their own. They had been told that the banks were quite helpful in loaning money to professionals.

To the neighbours in the huge condominium of small and medium sized flats they were Akash and Tara a newly married couple from Lucknow. Tara wore a bindi when she went to 42

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work but was reluctant to participate in the religious festivals that the association of residents celebrated. Akash was indifferent to religious affairs and did not go beyond making the occasional contribution solicited for a community puja. After a few months they felt they had melded well into the assembly of residents in the condominium who hailed from many parts of the country. ~ Tarranum’s parents in Lucknow had to face a blistering attack from the Maulvis for not having kept firm reins on their daughter. They asked him to file a case for kidnapping but Abbajan could not bring himself to do that. “I will not face further ignominy with a court hearing in public and with lawyers asking me to utter perjury.�

When they found him obdurate they went further and even threatened to bring her back from Bangalore by force but he put his foot down at that and refused to take part in any such scheme. He even said he would denounce them to the police if they attempted it. Finally he was unusually rude with them asking them not to visit him again if all they wanted was to pester him on this score. Asiya agreed with him; they should accept the inevitable and await a reunion when things cooled down in a while and time had healed the wounded mind.

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Secretly she hoped a grandchild would arrive and untangle the knotty situation. ~ Tarrannum could not remember when it had all started. She was greatly disturbed on the day he announced that he may move to a night shift.

“I’ve been offered a position to lead a team that works the late night shift,” he said one evening. “Would it be alright with you?” I have to answer by the weekend. She put on a brave face as she sensed that he was eager to accept the promotion that came with it.

“Yes, yes. It’s OK with me, but how long can you go on always on night shifts?”

Akash raising his large head to eye the ceiling, thought it best not to answer for he too did not know how long this would work out. They celebrated his promotion that weekend by dining at the newly opened Italian restaurant in Indiranagar. For the first time Tarranum tasted with a joy she had not expected, a celebratory red wine and for the first time Akash bit on a piece of steak that Tarranum was eating with a surprise at the pleasure he got. Neither felt any guilt for tasting what had been forbidden for them from their childhood. ~

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Both Tarranum and Akash felt a bleak loneliness on the nights they had to spend separated. After a few weeks Akash thought he would give it up and revert to his earlier position but his Manager threatened him with severe consequences that may lead to a pink slip. He was beaten down to continue without further remonstrance.

“I’m stuck with this,” he told Tarranum on Sunday after his meeting with the Manager. “If I can’t cope with this promotion I’ll quit.”

Tarranum was consoling, “You’ll get used to this after a while and ...... maybe so too will I.” She bravely went on to philosophise on how one gave up present conveniences for the sake of something better in future.

“We will buy our own flat a little sooner now with this. So don’t give up too easily.” ~ She started spending her nights surfing on the television but the channels seemed uniformly uninteresting. Taking her neighbour Padma’s advice she sat with her laptop and earnestly worked at Facebook collecting a large number of friends. Chatting and exchanging pictures and jokes were giving her a social status that she started enjoying. It made up for her lack of company in the late evenings when Akash was away at work.

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Padma had been widowed early and was quite independent. Unencumbered by children she stayed in a one bedroom apartment on the same floor and had befriended the young couple when they first came in. She sympathised with Tarranum on hearing of Akash’s change of shift and spent more time with her in the evenings, often staying back for dinner. One late night she related her problems hoping for a sympathetic ear.

“Tara, do you know, I tried a dating site? It was boring at first and was weird talking to two-three men at the same time. They all asked the same questions - 'What do you do?

What are you interested in?' Where do you work?’ Curiously none ventured to make a joke when commencing a chat. But there was sheer joy in rejecting men, after having been through the few boy-see-girl meetings that my parents had arranged and which resulted in humiliating rejections.”

Tarranum heard Padma, eyes wide open and jaw dropping, in incredulity. She reacted with an explosive, loud, ‘What?’ that left Padma wondering if she had erred in opening out to Tara.

“Tara, how long have you been married?”

Tarranum now used to the question responded lying automatically. “Two years,” she said.

“That’s about two years less than the time I have been widowed. It’s been a hard four 46

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years. I have struggled for and finally achieved an independence that I never thought would be possible.”

Tarranum tried to empathise, “What makes you join a dating site?”

Padma was hard put to give a cogent reply.

She talked about the men in her office. They were younger to her and mostly dull. She found the married men uptight and prim – some were insufferable. She needed to find some better more attractive men.

“My husband had a wonderful sense of humour. Perhaps I am looking for him in every man I meet.”

“Padma, we have to get on with life, to move on.” A wave of compassion flooded her and spontaneously she reached out to the older woman and gave her a big hug. ~ They had come out on a double date. Like youngsters not sure of themselves and needing the reassurance of a friend. Padma refused to share her phone number and the email conversations with a man she picked out for his striking looks ended up with a request for a meeting. She was a bit frightened to go alone and so Tarranum agreed to accompany her.

Besides the attractive face Padma had only the vaguest of ideas what her internet boyfriend would be like. He mailed her that he would be 47

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in a red Tee shirt and black jeans. He would bring along a friend so they could make a foursome.

The men were waiting at a dimly lit corner of the restaurant. They rose as the ladies entered while an usher strode up to them with a smile and a ‘Good Evening, Madam,’ that enchanted them. Looking around Padma found the red shirt and jeans approaching and smiled a little hesitantly but Tarranum was shocked at what she saw. The man accompanying Padma’s friend was Akash who grimaced awkwardly and staring at her exploded, “You ... You ...”

Tarranum gasped with incomprehension and could only repeat awkwardly like a fading echo, “You ... You...”

Akash strode out of the restaurant without a word to his companion, while Tarranum staggered to the nearest chair small sobs erupting uncontrollably into heaver ones. A distraught Padma sought to console Tarranum when Red Shirt expressed his apologies for having ruined their evening and offered to escort the ladies home. They both said ‘No, thank you,’ repeatedly like in a chorus. After a while when Tarranum had stemmed her tears and composed herself Padma hailed a Uber cab on her mobile phone. ~

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Tarranum sat awake all night sorry at her foolishness and waiting for the clang of the lift door closing and his shuffling steps heralding the sound of the key in the lock of their flat.

She did not want to call him as she would not be able to do anything but sob into the phone.

After five in the morning she gave up and went on with the routines before she went to work.

The next night again she waited through the night with no avail. She chose to message him but Ashok denied her any reply. After her early morning desperate message Tarranum willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been two days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his ‘last seen at’ status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn’t stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous.

And then, just as she sat down on the bed, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message. But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn’t know if he was joking or not. What was this?

Talaaq! Talaaq!! Talaaq!!! The cryptic message shocked her. The escalating exclamation marks seemed ominous like a mounting ire that explodes into a rash outcome. She concluded that he was not joking and his message was in 49

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earnest for the usual emoticon at the end of the message was missing.

When Padma came in that morning she found Tarranum laughing hysterically.

“The irony of it,” she said, “to be divorced without even being married.” And again that hysterical laughter pealed out of her. Then she went quiet. Gravely she told Padma, “Only last week I read of a Maulvi who upheld talaaq on phone or through social media saying ‘Talaaq is the husband’s right and is valid thorough any means.’ Indeed, what is a Talaaq without a Nikah.” She could not stop her laughter.

As a slow comprehension dawned upon Padma they grinned at each other on hearing the lift stop at their floor, three shuffling steps and the key turning in the front door.

Chandrashekhar Sastry is a widely travelled engineer-scientist now retired and living in Bangalore. He has studied in Bombay, Germany and in the UK and worked in Mumbai, Pune , Kolkata and Bangalore.

C Sastry is a published author and has won several prizes for his short stories. His first book The Non Resident Indian – from Non-being to Being (Panther 1991) was a path breaking study on the Indian diaspora.

His second book was a novel The Tanjore Painting (Partridge –Penguin 2014) dealing with the cultural imports that non residents carry to their new homelands. He has contributed to various journals

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including The Little Magazine, The Times of India, The Deccan Herald and the Statesman.

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Nilanjan Bhowmick The Uprising Morning. Winter.

An officer of the government of India strode to his office with a slim VIP briefcase in one hand, dread in his heart and the firm belief in his mind that the country had gone to dogs.

Three things that he always carried with him.

There was complete silence in the corridor.

Silent benches, silent doors, silent walls.

He pushed the heavy wooden door, which had his name embossed on a shiny metal strip, and entered his chamber.

The chamber was spacious with an oversized glass topped L-shaped table plunked at a difficult angle. There were three push button telephones arranged neatly in a row on the table. Files lay stacked in a dead heap to one side. There was a bookcase in the room, choked with codes and manuals completely unrelated to his work.

A faint, musty smell pervaded the chamber. He kept his VIP briefcase on the glass topped table, walked over to the window and threw back the curtains keeping his breathing in control, mindful of the ages of dust that could billow out and cause an allergic fit.

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The morning sun straggled in, revealing the carpeted floor, the grimy fan, and three creaking chairs.

He glanced at his Titan watch, a marriage present, a delectable icing on the sumptuous cake of dowry.

The golden hands showed ten o’clock sharp.

The officer was pleased. He couldn’t help give a self-satisfied smile. Ten o’clock. The exact time for a government officer and his staff to show up in office. Well, a government officer could be allowed to be ten or fifteen minutes late but the staff, they have to show up at ten o’clock. He even felt, in his inmost self, that a class-one officer like him could walk in and walk out anytime. After all, they – especially he – had so many responsibilities. They could discharge their duties better by being mobile, on the move, coming surprisingly late and leaving without notice. But he kept such revolutionary thoughts to himself.

Ten o’clock, then. For everyone.

He groped under the L-shaped table for the bell. He always had to grope for it, even after having spent six months in this chamber after having been posted to the town of M. Finding it finally, he gave a shrill ring.

Short. Exclamatory. Announcing his presence.

He settled down in his Godrej executive chair and waited for someone to show up.

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But there was silence. Pin-Drop.

Flustered and annoyed, he rang the bell again.

A long, hard, deep ring, painful to the ears.

No one answered.

A poisonous well of hatred and anger bubbled inside him. Where were all the lousy nincompoops?, he thought.

Someone had to be pulled up for this.

Responsibility had to be fixed.

He decided to call his Section Officer, Establishment Matters, Estt. for short.

Sometimes just E. He dialed on the intercom.

The phone rang ten times and then died, replaced by a dull dial tone.

He tried Section Officer, Public Information.

The phone rang a predictable ten times and disconnected.

Frustrated, he rang the bell again.

He hated the sound the bell made and he often rang it to feel the hatred rising in himself, like mercury in a thermometer.

An unfamiliar face peeped in.

“Koi nahin hai, saheb.”

“No one’s there!” the officer spluttered. “What do you mean by

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no one’s there? It is already ten twenty.”

“No one’s there!” the officer spluttered. “What do you mean by no one’s there? It is already ten twenty.” He showed his glittering watch to the man.

The unfamiliar face looked puzzled.

“Don’t look at me like a fool. Find out where everyone is,” he shouted.

The man disappeared.

Silence descended, like a curtain in a theatre.

The officer swallowed hard.

His day had begun the way it always did.

Dread gripped him. Nothing was in his control.

No one listened to him. People came and went whenever they liked. Sweat broke out. He searched his mind frantically for a solution to this situation. Could he ever bring anyone in line? He jumped up from his Godrej executive chair and rushed out having no idea what he was going to do.

His office was big; many halls each lined with long rows of desks and stools, which looked like broken, abandoned furniture. Typewriters lay festooned on the desks. Carbon paper lay strewn over the floor.

Not one man, not a soul could be found.

The walls, the floor, the desks, the files, all lay lifeless.

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Fury blazed through the officer.

He checked another hall. One clerk graced an invisible corner. The clerk shrank back at his sight.

The officer wanted to do something violent but he lost heart and retraced his steps to his chamber like a tired batsman after a long innings at the crease. Once inside, the swelling magma of anger blew his top.

“The effrontery of it, the gall, the chutzpah,” he muttered to himself, grinding his teeth.

“What do these people think of themselves? Do they think they will get away with this?”

He planned to throw a harsh volley of insults at his staff. The moment he thought of this, his mood changed, became light, the fury climbing down.

He planned to throw a harsh volley of insults at his staff. The moment he thought of this, his mood changed, became light, the fury climbing down.

Just let them come, he thought with glee. I will make them think again of coming late. First, I will call for the attendance register. Just casually, as if it is nothing. A small thing to check. Then, when I have it in front of me I will cross out with a red pen each and every unsigned square in that wretched register.

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A joyous sensation leapt up within him. He began to walk to-and-fro in his chamber, throwing his arms about, as if pushing at an invisible crowd.

I will have them all groveling at my feet for mercy. Oh, just for once, only this time, forgive us, sir. Please sir. Tomorrow we will be on time, sir.

Tomorrow, he imagined himself shouting. You wretches, there is no tomorrow in my dictionary.

No sir, please sir, no sir. We won’t repeat this mistake. Please let us off this once, sir.

A smile, almost beatific, played on his lips.

I am not going to spare any one of them. I will file a charge sheet against the whole lot today. I will chop their increments, mince their free passes, incinerate their leave applications, cut their very throats for their perennial insolence.

I am not going to spare any one of them. I will file a charge sheet against the whole lot today.

I will chop their increments, mince their free passes, incinerate their leave applications, cut their very throats for their perennial insolence.

And I will follow all this with pointed confidence, to be pasted with Fevicol in their service records. A confidential to my clerk R S Sharma, my assistant J P Mahato, my Section 57

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Officer, D T P Singh. And to Mrs Sengupta, my secretary? What will I do to her? What can anyone do to her? What possible heights can punishment rise to equal her unbounded discipline? She hardly comes to work. When she does, she brings her tale of woes along.

Her drunken husband. Her unemployed children. Her mortgaged house. Her loan payments. Ha! There will be no mercy this time. I will – he clapped ecstatically – S-U-S-PE-N-D her. That will bring her to her senses.

Teach her to be more responsible.

He whirled around in his chamber and went charging to the other side.

And there is more I will do. I will carry out a sudden, penetrating and damaging inspection.

When they least expect it. When they are sleeping in their chairs. When they have had lunch and are conversing with each other, like women, like tribals. That is when I will strike deep into their territory. The fusillade will be terrible. The damage shall be irreversible.

Their terrible standards of working shall be exposed. Their incomprehensible writing, their appalling composition, their fraudulent designs, their laziness, their corruption – all will tumble out bare and naked in the glaring sun of my brilliant inspection. I will burn them like a magnifying glass burns paper. I will send the inspection note typed in Microsoft Word, Times New Roman, (or if they like Comic Sans Serif, then Comic Sans Serif it will be) font size 12 to 58

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my Superiors, class 1 officers all. They – my Superiors – will be surprised at my hard work.

My dedication. My inventiveness. And then, as my staff will see my ardor cool (I will do that deliberately) and will let their guard down and get back to their old ways, I will ambush them.

I will liberally hand out ill-deserved suspensions, a few removals, one or two compulsory retirements.. There will be chaos, fear, trembling.

He turned around. It was ten forty five.

Speaking of chaos, do these ungrateful people, these work shirkers, know the bewilderment and pain in my life. Here I am, a city-bred man, born in a city, schooled in English, a University scholar, a respectful rank in the civil services, married to a high-ranking police officer’s daughter, what am I, me, myself, possibly doing here? Here, this abominable town of two streets, matchstick markets, interminable rains, where Lux is a luxury and owning a car—a sure sign of black money. This town of small achievements, frazzled ambitions, local, incomprehensible cultures.

This town with no bookshops, no restaurants.

At home, everyday, I have to hear my wife’s tirades and have to be reminded of the huge dowry she brought me: the ornate furniture, the heavy immovable bed, the arty, tribal, dysfunctional crockery, the loads of jewellery, the unused, ironed suits. My children are veritable devils. They are dull and disgustingly 59

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stupid and I have to request the teachers to give them passing marks so as to tell my colleagues that they are doing well in education.

What do these people know of chaos?

Everyday, I face bewilderment. Even though I have no work, I feel wretched and completely worn out. I have grown silent and miserable.

Everyday, I have to see nothing happening and nothing working.

And yet, and yet – his arms opened in a flourish as a conductor’s would in an orchestra – and yet, I come on time. The least I can expect from these miserable nitwits is at least to show me some respect, admit my presence.

I am not an invisible man.

A shadow of misery fell upon the officer’s face.

He had skill, patience, attitude, and education.

He had a position in society. Who were this vermin to show him his place, drag his eminence down, make him feel depressed, impotent.

Impotent!!! He jumped at this word. His eyes bulged out and his nerves stood on end.

Impotent! Oh, no, sir, no, never. Masters will be masters and slaves will be slaves.

Otherwise, the nation, already gone to the dogs, will fall to the jackals and vultures.

He whirled around.

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the Officers of the nation.. Slaves can’t have it all their own way. We struggle, we slog, we sweat. They can’t go home without doing a thing. We have to organize ourselves, be responsible, hold out against the silent erosion of our rights. We can’t allow indiscipline to spread. Never, Never.

“Never”, a shout escaped from his tight lips and he rushed to his L-shaped table and groped for the bell and gave a sharp, hellish ring.

“What’s wrong, sir?”, a voice piped out of somewhere alarmingly close.

It was his officious administration clerk with the attendance register.

The officer realized with panic that the man was standing right next to his desk. How long had he been inside his chamber? Did he see me rushing about in my room, throwing my arms about?

Shame consumed him. However, he collected his nerves and coolly looked at his watch.

Eleven o’ clock. A stern look settled on his face.

“May I sign, sir”, the clerk said, with a disarming smile. “My wife is expecting, sir. Had to take her to the doctor, sir.”

The officer waved his hand in despair.

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As his men trooped in one by one and signed on the little blank squares drawn on shabby paper, the officer threw the idea of the uprising away, stowed his rebellion inside his heart, stifled the unrest in his breast and began clearing files.

As his men trooped in one by one and signed on the little blank squares drawn on shabby paper, the officer threw the idea of the uprising away, stowed his rebellion inside his heart, stifled the unrest in his breast and began clearing files.

Another day had finally got on its way.

Nilanjan Bhowmick works as an Assistant Professor in the department of philosophy at Faculty of Arts with University of Delhi. Her interests lie in philosophy of language, philosophy of literature and she writes short stories.

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Pavle Radonic Southernmost Point The Old Beggar One guesses from the example of the chap turfed out of Muthu's dining room. Made it as far as the first table of young Chinese lasses opposite. The first meek, soft lad lightly clasped the old, bearded and barefoot man's elbow whispering in his ear from behind. Up front the cashier called out into the hall drawing from the back the stocky little fellow who had earlier intervened when the Soft was taking time to comprehend it was not sugar one wanted with the uppuma, but some sambal please. Sambal.... Quick-step forward, intruder taken by the same elbow but now forcefully clutched and pulled back. Come on Granddad, you know the schtick. Out you get. Away we go. On the street onto the road and down the incline broad soles footing. The lass at breakfast had attempted to ignore the fellow. A minute more however he would have winkled something from her just to rid herself of the pest. One guesses from the example the standpoint in India proper teeming with beggars, the truly needy and then the practiced scammers maimed at birth and working for the cruel fiend. Old India hands, the flinty old Eastern Europeans recalled with their easy, settled and uncomplicated attitude 63

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to the beggar. Thirty years ago on Melbourne streets the first beggars had appeared as mythic creatures from the ancient fables. The Bible featured beggars and their staffs, some of the old school books. For two generations they had disappeared in the great Southern land.

Short soft chap turned out Lahorean; Stocky was Tamil. After two and one half years working in Malaysia the former has insufficient funds to marry. Five year plan now was study back home after the completion of his contract here first and hopefully thereafter.

Shivaratri a fortnight off, when better pickings could be expected for the beggars.

Fortune-seeking Shortly after nine the cut-through off Wong Ah Fook was unopened at that hour. Therefore the muddy, stony, broken path around through the construction on the riverside. The trannies on Ah Fook corner were still in their beds, many of the shops shuttered. Passing the side of a black parked car the furnace heat sent out a short blast. Around opposite the temple a single elderly beggar. Fortune tellers had already set up along the river, by the temple and along Jalan Turus. Muthu sat a hundred metres from the temple on Turus, the Sikh gurdwara behind. The fortune-tellers were a surprise so early, one regular beneath a blasted palm sat on the raised rim of the pot.

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It was her customer that drew attention this morning. The woman, the fortune-seeker, wore a crimson knit and was caught in passing hands clasped and eyes closed. The fortuneteller was also female, camped like many of the others on spread cardboard from boxes that had been flattened. Woman needing guidance had a partner accompanying. During the consultation it seemed this man's place was not immediately beside the other pair.

Chap needed to remove himself, choosing to take a seat on a concrete block a few metres behind against the hoarding. Here. The fortune-teller tearing a piece of cardboard beneath her from a fold handed it over. There you are. It looked to be somewhat narrow for his bottom, but better than nothing. Much obliged. A single glimpse of the seeker had clearly shown the gravity of her situation.

The Lesson of the Servant Observing the relayed orders at Muthu from the stocky floor chief, to the waiter, to the prata-maker; observing the lads at the construction sites in Singapore, transported in the rear of the lorries and queuing for their meals at night; the maids escorting their ancient charges, running their shopping errands and cleaning shop windows and mopping floors, the injunction of the I Ching arrives with sharpest probing. The sages from three millennia ago teach: ".... master the inexhaustible endurance of a servant."

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Up in the former hill villages of Montenegro where these lessons had long been welllearned — not necessarily brought back from the Orient by the local lad Marco Polo (a Dalmatian by origin) — the old folk were wont to say, Celjade trpi sto magarac nemoze / Folk will endure what is beyond a donkey.

A Book of Hours A strange pass. Something like one reads about in glossy arts pages in the magazines and newspaper supplements. A book for which one would risk one's life rushing back into the burning house & etc.

This case weight considerations in the backpack was the factor on a little trip up the Peninsular revisiting old haunts from a couple of years past. The particular volume had previously been packed in one of the bags for storage at Four Chain View. After reflection it needed to be extracted. Hardback of only 140 pp and only a quarter remaining to be read. An unusual case. Hand on heart, each line, certainly each paragraph here held promise; the Introduction needed another close reading and the Notes at the end. Some of the pages reviewed again too.

An unusually captivating volume in any circumstances. The first book of human civilization one could term it, in a new, gripping translation by a sensitive and dedicated 66

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specialist who had clearly committed to the life-work.

The I CHING; The Book of Change in David Hinton's translation. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, $34 at Kinokuniya in Singapore. (The only place in the region where it would be available.) Hinton now would be the choice for revisiting Li Po and the T'ang poets and onward from there.

A sampling, brief in case of copyright infringement: Some key-notes often repeated in the text: “…yielding and devoted as a river....” “…the dedication of a bird sitting on eggs.... “ “…heart-sight clarity."

“Move with composure, with awe in wonder, and there's wild bounty in having no destination.”

“Throughout all beneath heaven, mountains: that is Solitude. Using it, the noble-minded keep clear of small-minded people — not in dislike for them, but in dignity.”

“Practice heart-sight clarity constant as moondrift, or you'll learn to accept shame. And the difficulties of your journey will be inexhaustible indeed.”

“Restlessness constant as moondrift: that always brings calamity.”

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“Have no suspicions, and you will gather friends as a hairpin gathers hair.”

“With inexhaustible women, family brings forth wild bounty.”

(In the Thunder segment) “Using it, the nobleminded examine and cultivate themselves by living with fear and dread.”

(In the Stillness segment) “Raise up succession, all that will follow you, or you'll never know contentment.”

First Cousin Once Removed The child of your first cousin is your first cousin once removed, Google answered the enquiry in under a second.

The mother, the first cousin proper, Mara, was the eldest of that branch of the family. As a girl Mara had shepherded with mother, her aunt by marriage, who was fifteen years older.

A quiet, perfectly dutiful girl Mara. One sees her counterpart here on the equator among all three racial groups; in half a century in the great Southern land almost never. (Perhaps early years, up-country and among the Aboriginal community the type was found.)

Once mother, the aunt, frightened young Mara.

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ambition and drive. The work never done, always to do. In the heat of summer it was particularly onerous.

Up at the high summer pastures on Bastik at a spring the aunt suddenly suggested to her niece that it might be best to make an end of it there and then, jump in the water and be done. Young Mara, early teens she must have been, had been alarmed by the half jest and it had taken some effort to reassure and calm the girl.

Thirty years ago on the first stay in the village cousin Mara had suggested a visit to her daughter, who lived nearby. A flash of the briefest kind remained over the years of a small, bright-eyed woman staring a little shyly, before dropping her gaze and avoiding eyecontact thereafter. For the remainder of the afternoon visit Vase had kept up an unusual smiling countenance that she seemed to turn up to the room and all round; something like a steady candle-flame in a dim room in the middle of the day.

It was a divide impossible to breach; Vase had been a little daunted at the long-lost relative's appearance.

Vase from Vasiljka, feminine of Vasil. Saint Vasil was one of the two or three chief saints of the region. One swore and cursed most assuredly by Sveti Vasil.

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Vase had married a brute named Dragan, a drunkard who beat his wife, it would subsequently be reported. The villain was sighted once briefly in passing and it seemed the chap might have assumed the reports had preceded him. There was a kind of encounter that wasn’t, no greeting or words offered, only a broad retreating back. As a newcomer and the male heir it was unclear whether there was an implied antagonism involved here; some wariness on son-in-law Dragan’s part.

Six years ago, a quarter century after the first visit, after more wars of devastation that in this case had left Montenegro more or less untouched, the next visit to the village took place. Husband Dragan had long been dead, the two daughters married with children, one to a second cousin indeed. In earlier years a second cousin had been absolutely forbidden.

(A famous case in the extended family involved a young man who visited the monastery in Niksic town in order to obtain final ruling.)

The odd regard of Vase’s on the first visit had not been forgotten. Nedjo, another first cousin once removed, wanted to visit Vase, his first cousin, daughter of his eldest maternal aunt Mara. We went over to the house near Vase’s mother Mara’s, who was long deceased too.

Close by the door against the wall of the old stone house where Vase had married a little animal pen had been raised, presumably by the drunkard in earlier days. Within the pen of 70

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weaved vines and branches goats rose up on their hind legs for the visitors. Down on the coast where most of the family had removed there was no longer any livestock. On the first stay in Boka and up on Village Uble there had been some tentative acquaintance with the remnant herd. Down on the coast uncle Petar had still kept cows, sheep and goats, chooks and donkey. On a couple of occasions the small herd had been brought home from the pastures.

On the second visit a quarter century after the first, first cousin once removed Vase busied herself over a hot stove. Guests needed to be fed. — Oh moj Nedjo, Oh my Nedjo, Vase called numerous times with upturned face and bright eyes.

The pair rattled warmly about one thing and another, one person and another, Vase’s attention divided between stove and cousin in his chair, but reaching out in her gaze. Nedjo had been in Switzerland many years. The mountain tracks and the villagers he knew from his youth. Again Vase could not manage direct eye-contact with her first cousin once removed.

Vase’s ardent visage, her brief gleams and her tone of voice had in fact unexpectedly remained in the memory. An hour and one half acquaintance over a quarter century had left an indelible mark.

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The short familiarity with the various herds of the family across those hills had likewise imprinted on the mind. Later with mother’s stories where the various animals regularly featured—a prized cow well-sold to grateful buyers; an ox she had been ordered by her brother-in-law to slaughter; a mule that had kicked her in youth—the insight had slowly developed of the gentling that occurred through the course of animal husbandry.

Vase’s manner, including her manner with her goats and sheep in the pen against her house, had been an early indicator; information that could not be processed at the time. Over the years the intuition slowly grew. For the women and children in particular the relationship with the animals produced important effects; it was these two classes that did the bulk of the shepherding. The men slaughtered of course, but no doubt they too benefited, had been calmed and soothed through the contact with the herd. In cities those familiar with dogs and cats had some access to this understanding.

In country kitchens in Australia one had seen that kind of look, that kind of regard and gladness for the esteemed guest and care over the food that Vase showed at her kitchen on Village Uble; that she had displayed in her person on first acquaintance. Vase and numerous others of her generation and way of life.

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The second-cousin/son-in-law Zoran reported today here in Johor Bahru that his mother-inlaw Vase was poorly. She could do nothing for herself now, Zoran reported. A couple of earlier mails of the last few months had conveyed the preliminaries of the illness. Now the two daughters with husbands and children were taking turns housing Vase and caring for her, doing all that she could not do for herself. The cancer had spread recently, the therapies were over; there was no pain and there would be none, Zoran reported the doctors’ prognosis.

It was sad Vase could do nothing for herself, Zoran observed.

And ziva se ne cuje, Zoran also reported in the common phrase.

Literally, not a sound does she make. Not a sound of life—ziva is the feminine case for life.

(Zivo the term for the herd — the live, which in the Anglo-sphere had one harkening back to a time before large-scale, industrial animal husbandry.)

This was no surprise. None whatever. It fitted.

It would pain Vase greatly to be a bother to anyone. Energetic, resourceful, dutiful woman rendered utterly helpless. The daughters were bad enough, but then sons-in-law and grandchildren burdened. This would pain Vase if the cancer did not.

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Vase. All Vase’s dead lay up in one of the two church graveyards. The people of these mountains had seen animals slaughtered, sold and dying. Many had experienced the deaths of their lambs, calves and goats; all their many kin of course from earliest days.

One would have guessed precisely this kind of end for Vase and the few like her remaining in the village. The element of helplessness was sad misfortune.

Among mother's innumerable stories was one of a near neighbour returning home from the pastures laying himself down and lighting his own votive candle.

Note. The city of Johor Bahru on the Malaysian peninsular is the southernmost point of the Asian continent.

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Australian by birth and of Montenegrin origin, Pavle Radonic's two and a half years living and writing in a particular back-corner of Singapore—the old Chinese/Malay Geylang quarter—provided unexpected stimulus. Previously his writing has appeared in Australian journals and magazines Wet Ink, Southerly, A Time To Write (NMIT) and upcoming Post Magazine.

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Sadia Riaz Sehole Reborn Redolent of friendship is she.

Adorable is she simply, Beautiful the most in the universe, Intellectual is none like her of her age, Affable is more than a saint.

This story portrays a girl Named love and Sincerity The unsurpassed, the best.

But becoming a prey of An unmatched tie, She broke down And the pain drove her to pen down The tale of a heart ache.

Sara gazed over the sea, feeling the soft gust of wind against her face, eyes closed, and the silver sand warmed between her toes. The sight was attractive beyond certainty but still it could not ease the grief she felt. “What if I had not gone to the coffee house today? I would not have found the truth”. Sara thought feeling angry at herself for falling for scum like Saad. …much can change in a little time and the intense heart ache can impel a block between the cordial

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ties; it can even break the deepest of love.

He had betrayed her. He had played with her emotions. With watery eyes she saw him standing with his wife and daughter in the coffee house this noon. Sara felt very sad, her mouth opened in pain but no sound came out.

Her eyes nearly gone way to tears but she blinked them away and took control of herself.

Getting herself together, Sara decided to leave, but, to her surprise, Saad came and sat across her exactly like the first time they had met and it all seemed to be long ago now, much can change in a little time and the intense heart ache can impel a block between the cordial ties; it can even break the deepest of love. Sara quickly wiped off her tears, but the past has pushed itself into the present and took her back to the school days when she enjoyed her life to the fullest. Only then she had courage to look up every opportunity as a challenge. She accepted them with a big smile on her face and shine in her eyes. She had competed with some of the best people and won love. That was what Sara’s life needed and with Saad, her life was complete then.

With him at her side she was ready to face every challenge. She never felt so confident or bold about herself until he came into her life.

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Sara was like an ordinary girl in school whose only aim was to get straight A’s. She was in class 10. It was there that she became friend with Saad. With him at her side she was ready to face every challenge. She never felt so confident or bold about herself until he came into her life. It was like breath of fresh air to her slow paced steady life. To her, Saad was a silent support of her teenage. She believed he would be there even if the whole world turned its back upon her. As time passed, her love became stronger and trust became deeper, so did her success.

Her life was bed of roses and she enjoyed every single moment of it. She became quite popular with people. Her relationship with friends, family and teachers were going very well. She was so much grateful to love.

Initially, Saad and Sara were net pals and then they had fallen in love. So there was nothing like meeting up, though they were going to meet that summer because Sara was visiting Saad’s hometown. It was just email, short messages, calls or sharing snaps and videos until then. The summer came and she met Saad.

Sara had visualized and fanaticized her upcoming life ecstatically expanding in front of her, together eternally. With him, Sara designed their whole life even their children.

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Wearing a simple white frock, minuscule white jasmine flowers attempting to tame her shady tresses, she married Saad. They swore the promises as they held hands and smiled at the pure bliss of being adolescently married.

Staying in a sea side resort, they consummated their love. Sara had visualized and fanaticized her upcoming life ecstatically expanding in front of her, together eternally.

With him, Sara designed their whole life even their children. She wanted two, but he wanted four, so they had made a compromise on three; of course they hoped to have two boys and a girl. They had planned where they will live, forever they had thought.

Soon things turned the other way round. She started realizing that he was ignoring her. At first she thought it was just negativity but soon she could take it no more. Disowned by her father after her marrying Saad without his approval and consent, Sara started living in slums. Lately there she realized the change in Saad. If she did not call him, he would never bother to talk to her. She was more worried about him than her own self. Even though she realized he was ignoring her, she was still in love with her. Her love had come to a selfless stage that she no more cared about herself but him. His silence was killing her inner-self not knowing what had gone wrong.

Three years to the day she saw him in the coffee house, she kept wondering about the 79

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reasons of leaving her in lurch when she needed him the most. Just this noon he sat across her while smirking at her, “Oh my darling, what can I say? Are you wondering what if you had never met me? What if you had not expressed love for me? What if you had not so foolishly trusted me? What if you had never married me?” he said laughing at her.

“Why did you ruin my life?” Sara demanded to know while unshed tears were shimmering in her eyes.

“Oh well… go and ask your dad and thank him on my behalf. What if he had not asked me for a deal that day? I would not have become a millionaire today!”

“Deal!” Sara moaned with agony in her voice.

“Yes, deal…after disowning you for marrying me, he called me up and fixed a meeting with me. He offered me one-third of his property and a good sum of money as a price to leave you because he wanted you to have a college degree as you desired, make a career and so on and so forth. So you did, I’m sure. Not to disclose this truth was the part of the deal but who cares now when the man who offered me the deal is dead and buried,” he said laughing and took his wife’s hand.

In stunned silence Sara sat there watching the man of her dreams walk away.

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In stunned silence Sara sat there watching the man of her dreams walk away.

She was standing alone on the sea shore. The cold air bit her inside like a termite gnawing on a piece of hardened wood. Her eyes were closed and her hands were numb. It was useless to curse the dead father now because the man of his dreams entered her life looking for money not for her. The beach side marriage dissolved into quick divorce. Sara let out a pain and regret-filled sighs. “How could this beautiful place with its sapphire blue ocean and never-ending silver sand be the site for the angst she felt?” she spoke to herself in her meager voice while her eyes continued to burn with dire agony. The passion, the power, the fire, all had been blown away by the pain. She stood alone and yelled in pain.

They say love brings joy and happiness…It takes you to the highest mountain and gives you wings… It makes you sing, embraces you… muster you and turns you into a beacon of shining light…but now in her heart she knew they were wrong. Love is nothing but pain and woe. It plunges you into the darkness of an ocean and leaves you there to drown. It burns you, rips you and leaves you worse off than being dead. She realized that love is nothing more than an illusion, an illusion that addicts you with its charm and beauty. But when that illusion breaks, there is nothing more than a deep gaping hole. She was feeling exactly the 81

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same at the moment. She stood near the edge of sea shore and thought of choices she had.

She could walk the path that lay before her, a path full of ashes and amber, where her dreams lay routing and her future lay burning.

She could suffer and never be free‌ Or she could fight back. She could jump now in deep sea and be reunited. She could fight and defeat the troubles and suffering that had been etched into her destiny. She closed her eyes and thought about freedom. he had happened to meet numerous pretty ladies during his job as a freelance photographer. It was her lonesomeness and isolation that had engrossed him. Even at the distance, he knew that she was unique and unusual as compared to other women he had met.

The man stood gazing from the rim of palm grove, his eyes never leaving the woman staring out to the sea as thought waiting for some maseeha to relieve her from the pain that she underwent. She was gorgeous and had a trim slandering body wrapped in a baggy flowing chiffon gown; her wild hair and dazzling azure eyes were not different from the shade of the ocean itself. It was not her features and looks that had fascinated him though; he had happened to meet numerous pretty ladies during his job as a freelance 82

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photographer. It was her lonesomeness and isolation that had engrossed him. Even at the distance, he knew that she was unique and unusual as compared to other women he had met.

Sara sensed the man forthcoming even before turning around. She had sensed his presence in palms grooves and had known about him standing there, gazing at her. Opposite to her nature she had felt eccentrically tranquil about being observed and spotted. She looked at him and felt the instantaneous glow of association she had experienced only once before. He strolled gradually towards her and their gaze met each other. They felt as if they had been soul mates in some previous birth and were reincarnated here and meeting again on a familiar beach. This feeling was mesmerizing and it brought them closer.

Accompanying each other they sat facing each other at one of the sea side bars; sipping the indigenous cocktails they started talking. They talked about the quality of the available local and foreign food and affability of natives.

Later, after the alcohol took control of their nerves, their conversation dwelled deep into their lives and its tragedy. Finally, Sara exposed her wounds, pain and dilemmas of her past life and how her destiny brought her back to the place where she had married the man who duped her and outplayed. Sara thought to herself, 83

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We love men But they dupe us.

We do anything for them But they inflict pains upon us.

We regard them But they disregard us.

We take care of them But they do not pay heed to us.

A mind would wonder Why do the men have this attitude?

Why do they dupe us?

Then a mind would realize That they do not dupe us But we dupe ourselves As we fail to recognize them.

Sara told Omar, the man with whom she felt completely comfortable and compatible, the tale of her grief that she had buried down deep inside her incapable of relating it to anyone.

She told him how she felt hurt and agonized after losing her baby whom she nurtured for complete six months inside her womb. She was six months pregnant and the most delightful she felt, thoroughly engrossed in her life waiting for her baby. The pains started earlier than expected. She was sharing a room with her friend as Saad was not attending her calls. He failed to reach to Sara in time. She loathed him for not being around her; for not feeling the pain as much as her but above all 84

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for resembling so much like the little baby boy that she pressed against her chest tenderly for a short while before the hospital staff took him away.

All through the following days she had withdrawn from her husband Saad, family and friends just like they all have turned their back at her considering her an outcast for marrying at just 18 and expecting with a baby and then losing the unborn. She didn’t try to come out of the ache and never let her wounds heal considering it as an infidelity to her son’s grief.

At the memorial service of her son, Sara denied standing next to Saad and subsequently she files for annulment of her marriage.

Looking up, Sara could see her pain reflected in the man’s eye. Solitariness in him had become more sub-merging with the fall of darkening night. He felt spine-chilling fret-full.

This very isolation belonged to Maryam, his wife as well as sweetheart. They had promised to live together throughout their life but their innocent promise was shattered by the Mighty nature. His love had left him alone. All he had of her was her smiling face in his thoughts. He wanted to reduce his turbulent nature so he called his close friends but after some time they all got bored with his meaningless talk.

They all got busy in their work leaving Omer behind. After losing hope of his friends, he turned to his family for support but it was his hard luck that his own family failed to console 85

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him. His thoughts and his mood took him to this sea….for no hope.

For the very first time after so long, Sara did not feel unaided; she felt the agonizing weight lift from her, only a speck, but it was a beginning… Omer took Sara’s hand and led her to the depth of sea. They closed their eyes and thought about freedom. They thought about the entire thing they had and all the things they could never have. They tightened their eyes and said a silent prayer…

Then with a smile on their faces and a twinkle in their eyes, Sara and Omer took a step back and let themselves into the arms of eternal bliss…!

Then with a smile on their faces and a twinkle in their eyes, Sara and Omer took a step back and let themselves into the arms of eternal bliss…!

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Born and brought up in Lahore, Pakistan, Sadia Riaz Sehole acquired her early education in science, though she later pursued her academic career in Literature. She is currently residing in Lahore, Pakistan and working over her PhD dissertation. She is a teacher, researcher and a utopian who is too much absorbed in the world of ideas. She has already written for various newspapers and research journals. For her writing is a vent of feelings, agony, dilemmas, chaos, evens and odds in life. She wants to be a maseeha for the shattered souls and reform the humanity by inculcating positivity in them through her writing.

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Syed Kazim Ali Kazmi The Story “It was once a dazzling city. The crowded streets bustled with people. There were all sorts of men and women…”

I stopped here. Not a single word more… despite my intense urge… all the thoughts dashed away in the emptiness around.

This had been happening with me for quite a long time. I take my pen and papers and in order to write something, but the same happens with me, time and time again, I couldn’t manage to write more than two or three shadowy lines.

“People go through phases, this might be an unfertile phase too, and it will pass!”

I tried to calm myself with this thought, and left my pen and paper aside. Then I took a cigarette from the pack and looked around to find something to light it. I lit it, took a deep mouthful of smoke and released it out. I had just moved here and did not know much about the neighborhood, though some of the faces were more familiar than the others, maybe because, I saw them here everyday. Whenever I came back from the work, I usually found him sitting on the stairs, having a pencil in his mouth. He always chewed his pencil from the opposite end. I encountered him too often.

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his nose carelessly with the back of his hand, is often found here. Other than this I didn’t know anything about the neighborhood.

The cigarette hasn’t cleared anything in my mind; I tried hard to get the focus again on the piece of writing I had left unfinished. No; to be honest I hadn’t even begun.

First, I tried to sound accomplishing to myself.

Later, I thought it to be unprofessional of me to state what I haven’t done already. I should not tell lies you know. I am a writer and I should be honest. My way of life teaches me to be honest. When I was young I was injected with an acute need to be honest. I was confused then, and I still am befuddled about honesty. I never found any reason for being true. I mean what difference it would make?

Why I couldn’t be utterly dishonest? It is like what they say in English “to call a spade, a spade. If a spade is a spade there is no need to call it a spade. If not, what is the point of saying it at all? I think forceful propagation of being honest is to inflict guilt, and as a result they can be manipulated. You can never underestimate the power of guilt.

I suddenly remembered that my boss hasn’t paid me. Perhaps he is afraid that I might go somewhere else. I liked to think that his guilt would clear my way to be a husband for his daughter. I could then compensate my suffering through her broad pelvis. I’d imagine 89

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myself leaning over her and she panted when I stroked and loved her.

“Oh No! Not now!”

I hated my stomach for I felt hungry, now I remember I haven’t taken anything solid since morning. I must have something to eat and then I can rethink about the creativity. As I tried to work out my food options the electricity went out. The fan stopped and it increased my agitation.

“There it goes again, the electricity!”

“Shit! Now what! Huh” “How will I see the current affairs program on TV where decent looking politicians come face to face and abuse each other vigorously?”

“Damn it man! Damn it!”

I stuffed my stomach to the brim. I began to ponder over the paragraphs that I intently wished and was about to write. I tried to find some affection from the past, as inspiration, to ignite the fire. There were several candy-like moments; perhaps some wet kisses would do the job for me. But none of it seemed to work.

In another hope to find something rousing I turned towards the things that I have been keeping in my cupboard for such a long time. I rose from the chair and opened the closet; there they were lying in front of me. Two ribbons, a discolored pin, a cap of pen, a key, and some used tissue-papers.

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“Oh dear! I remember her as she just left this room I can still smell the scent here.”

The things reminded me of her.

It is the curse of such things. With time such things cease to exist. They adopt the whole self of the individual to which they once belonged. I could masturbate by just looking…imagination did the rest. I stroked myself and soon after it was over.

Afterwards I started to write again. “… That city had an alley where, it was said, there are artists who can create such wonders that people were often stunned by their mastery and craftsmanship, now over four thousand years have passed and nothing but their creations stood against time …”

I thought I was going somewhere. In an effort to retain my thoughts I pressed my pulsating forehead with my little fingers but the idea had slipped.

“What was I thinking?”

Was it her rosy birthmark under her supple breasts? Or one of her slippers that I had lost?

The slipper served many a masturbating session.

No! It was some city, with craftsmen and artisans. I was thinking about some creations and their longevity, the continuous knock of the hammer, the devotion, which deformed the hands of the beholders.

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“I spoke loudly in a lame effort to join the loose ends.”

I was lost somewhere between her shoe and ribbons.

And suddenly another idea struck me.

“O yes! This should work”.

“Nobody could know,” I exclaimed and left hurriedly.

I picked up my bag and notebook. Carefully locked the door and went down by the stairs.

In my excitement I could only remember a glimpse of the same child under the stairs.

Poor thing was confused. His hands were on his knees and he was bowed oddly, I clearly heard someone on his back under the murky staircase. They halted for a moment; I looked at his face and said to myself, “Leave it; he is not the only one”.

I have to finish a story and the library is about to close.

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Syed Kazim Ali Kazmi teaches English language to diverse young students at a university. His research interests are in Postcolonial literature, globalization, cultures, diaspora literature, and narratives. He is an amateur painter and also writes short stories and poems.

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Dr Dalip Khetarpal Dr O. P. Arora’s WHISPERS in the Wilderness: A Perspective Dr O P Arora, a renowned versatile novelist, short story writer and poet-critic, dominates the current literary scenario with his knack for debunking all shams, superficialities, conventional evils, moral bankruptcy and spiritual sterility pervading our life and society through rare artistic skills and lyrical beauty.

The poet, however, also strongly feels that the time for anger and action has arrived, to slap us out of our inaction and torpor, concerning the toxins settling around us, vitiating our mind, body, soul and milieu. It is with great management skills that he compresses various vital areas and issues of life into his slender but elegant anthology laden with profound and innovative thoughts and ideas. The title, ‘Whispers in the Wilderness’ seems to allude to today’s frighteningly vacuous existence that is grim, is barren and lifeless wherefrom emanates, a weak and lonely whispering voice of some anguished soul clamoring to remedy all ills and abort all devastating situations and self-created crises besetting our life.

After going through the entire anthology, I instinctively discovered that it is streaked with three vital aspects of life: personal philosophy, current grim scenario and nature ----all emanating from his catholicity of thought, 95

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tastes and perception. The outcome of the unique synthesis of all these darts straight to the heart of the readers with piercing directness. It cannot be denied that the poet’s philosophy of life and human existence is unique, meaningful, deep, has modern relevance, larger universal significance and eternal validity. In ‘The Invisible Connect’ (14), the poet discovers a grand cosmic order in all nature. To see the imperceptible link among ‘all things, living and non-living/higher and lower/material and ethereal/inner and outer/visible and invisible…’ and to finally perceive a grand harmony and energy manifesting in all these, evinces the poet’s extraordinarily keen perception and breadth of vision almost like that of Shakespeare’s and great philosophers.

It is also surely Arora’s holistic vision that gives due significance to abstract, airy, ephemeral dream and illusion and the vital role they play in human life. This very idea is established in the ‘Sandy Castles’ (16) with simple logic and a tinge of optimism: ‘Some illusions sprout into dreams/only through dreams man perceives/….bequeaths/human race wins even if one succeeds…’So, continues the poet, ‘Don’t chide the dreamers/always flying on the wings, your saviors/blame yourself if you want/they do what you can’t’.

Further, the poet, through in-depth analysis, insightfully affirms, ‘Without dreamers/man would still be living in the caves/eating raw 96

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flesh, buying slaves……without their dreams/your civilizations would be in teens…..’Dreamers so, has the capability to turn ‘…the tide of history’ ’Dreamers’ (30-31)----Luther, Viveknanda, Einstein, Edison, Wright Brothers are inspiring specimens of this. While reality is ‘cold, mechanical calculations/ no heights or flights, no passions/beauty, chococake; love, simply fake…../Dreams….give meaning to the meaningless meanderings/in the nightmarish wasteland.’ Those who poohpooh dreams will surely recognize and realize the essential role they (dreams) play to mould and develop our life into something great and big, sometimes even from nothing. A seemingly divine experience, Moksha (17) attained by many renowned spiritualists and saints, has been viewed by the poet also from a practicable, feasible, psychological and saner perspective as ‘Illusion. Hallucination.

Imagination.’ Rather in a world wherein ‘Satans and demons rule…., it is ‘Melody of Peace’ (18), that can lift man to blissful spiritual realms. It is also his ‘…craving for living to the full’ that ‘enlivens’ and strengthens his ‘soul’ without any ‘fear of the unknown…’ In ‘Clap, Clap’(104), Arora grasps the nub of human psychology and unfolds the sub-consciousness of man by proving how everyone fosters hope for some rosy future.

Though this often seems illusive, it strengthens his desire to live and realize his dream in some future. Further, though one sometimes lapses 97

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into delusion, it cannot be denied that delusions also sustain life, as hope does.

The fading and perishing of everything including big castles has been stressed in Shelley’s Ozymandias of Egypt’ thus: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings /Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!/ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay/ Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare, /The lone and level sands stretch far away’, For all his enchanting philosophy and intense comprehension of life, Dr Arora also does not lose sight of the transient nature of life and conveys the same in a rather interestingly concrete manner through ‘Castles’(37). Like castles ‘on the beach’, the poet ‘too had built castles’, but they could not withstand the ravages of time as they are now ‘Demolished, decimated, destroyed/…..not a trace of them……./…..all dreams, dreamy stuff, all visions, only moony’. With all the grit and guts to be enterprising, to seize the initiative, to face challenges, to take risk even with one’s own life, the poet is on his full mettle when he daringly affirms : ‘…Only fools wait for the right opportunity/the daring create the opportunity./Think of Columbus, Vasco-deGama or Tithonus/adventure and risk, them success crowns’. How inspiring and educative the lines are! Their power and strength of the poet to wake up the slumbering, sleeping, dormant, complacent, regressive souls lyrically is remarkable and unparalleled indeed! This 98

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very thought is further stretched and intensified in ‘The Forked Path’ (107) wherein the poet underlines that it is the spirit to venture into the unknown that enables one to make new discoveries or discover new regions, for ‘every new path’ according to the poet, is ‘a new challenge/a new discovery/a new destiny…./Had Columbus not ventured on…….he would never have discovered the New World’. Miltonic idea of ‘the courage never to yield or submit’ is explicated thus: ‘Even if you are doomed/even if it is all dark and gloom/even if it is the dead-end/just don’t give up, don’t bend/be the Edison/you will ultimately win…..’The concluding punch lines are really noteworthy, motivating and meaningful: ‘…there is nothing significant about falling/significant is---rising again after falling’. In ‘Be a man’ (81)—a thoughtprovoking and stimulating poem the poet gives a clarion call to the slumbering humanity to ‘Arise, awake, and clean up the tan….’; no Messiah like Gandhi or Krishna should at all be needed to shed darkness, ‘moral cowardice, tortoise culture, sheer selfishness’ to ‘awaken your slumbering soul’.

‘Chimes of Time’(77) corollary to ‘A New Beginning’(79) are two psycho-philosophical poems wherein the poet discovers some eternal truths perceived by man since time immemorial. In the former, the poet watches all the activities and happenings of the world objectively and dispassionately from a vantage 99

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point and convincingly proves how time is silhouetted against the goings-on of human life. The latter elucidates how despite the transient nature of life, it ‘never ends in Nature/every end is a new beginning….’ and ‘The universe/ spanning millions of galaxies/billion of years/would go on forever….’This very idea that is explicated by ‘The Eternal Spectacle’ (13) also reflects the see-saw motion of the poet’s fluctuating emotion: ‘watching the eternal spectacle/rise and fall/assertion and fusion/aggression and acceptance/crisis and calmness….’

Literature reflects life in all its diversities and complexities; it also holds up the mirror of people to the life we readers live and poetry is, perhaps, the best type of literary endeavor that best reflects life. It shows the reader how the poet perceives and comprehends life. This reflection can teach, inspire, motivate, educate, make us laugh, or even frighten us.

This in fact, is the beauty and the joy of reading poetry. The back cover-page of the anthology clearly states: ‘These poems are a mirror in which you get your own reflection, sometimes clear, at others hazy and foggy, nevertheless your true reflection if you deepbreathe them….poems…strive to make your reflection wrap in beauty, truth and divinity….touch the cords of your heart…feel the inner bliss…bound to stir your soul and the vibrations will be a source of eternal joy …help in creating an ‘invisible connect’ between you 100

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and nature.’ Dr Arora, through his powerful imagination, lyrical beauty backed by his own intense and immense experience inspires the reader to enter his world and share it with him.

As such, like other great poets of all centuries, the poet also vividly reflects the current grim scenario of today through various poems of the anthology, making it the epic of modern age and the live example of Eliot’s dictum: “A great poet in writing of himself, writes his age”.

The pungent criticism of the bleak state of affairs, sometimes direct and sometimes indirect, is tellingly relevant, caustic and effective: ‘ Oh God, look at man, the best of your creation/his deeds, he shames even the worst of demons/ a heartless butcher, destroys everything beautiful/ rains fire, paints red on this planet wonderful…..competition in sadism, how fast they kill how many more/ blood sucking beasts, they surpass even the vampires/ the shrieks of the innocent, the sweetest melody they aspire….” ‘Melody of Peace’ (18 ).In ‘Kurukshetra’ (22),when the poet sees that the overpowering forces of evil cannot be conquered by even the divine and virtuous powers, he sub--consciously resorts to scriptures for help and inspiration: ‘I would arouse Arjuna to Krishana’s call/inspire him to come out of the cocoon/fight out evil to the last drop, greatest boon….’ A sequel to this is ‘Krishna’(25) wherein the poet implores Lord ‘Krishna’ to fight evil: ‘Rid the earth of devils and demons, law of Dharma/no sin, only a 101

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duty to cleanse the universe of Adharma,’ the universe replete with people who excel ‘in the art of manipulation’, who shame the ‘whole creation.’ Even Ram, despite his best of intentions and efforts, failed to cleanse the system, ‘but frustration and failure became so vile/disgusted, he realized things had gone beyond repairs….silently he prayed and took to the heavenly stairs…..’ ‘Had Ram Really Returned to Ayodhya’(29). Fed up with all prevailing earthly ‘obnoxiousness,’ the poet also envisages undertaking such a journey to heaven himself, but also sub-consciously feels that it would be an uncomfortable one: ‘…path to divinity/has to suffer the ugliness/for my journey to eternity.’ ‘Deaf and Dumb’(32). As a sensible, insightful, analytical and meaningful agnostic, the poet here blasted the beautiful myth of the, one could even say, escapist Ram, who is a Hindu divinity and is ironically worthy of being revered and even worshipped.

Though understated, the querying title: ‘Has Ram really returned to Ayodhya?’ is pregnant with meaning. Leave alone ordinary mortals, even a ‘Mahatma’ ‘in moral uniform’, ‘runs the empire of evil/boasts of kinship with the devil….’and pathetically, the reward of the great, but ill-fated ‘Jesus, Joan or Gandhi’ is nothing, but a ‘a bronze statue’, ‘You Too’(36).

‘Anger, agony, anguish/pour out of’ the poet’s ‘every pore’ when he finds ‘infants, worth a lore/tattered, twisting with hunger…..crying and shrieking, a mournful score/cursing human 102

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race, gods too…..’, ‘Cuckoo-Clock’ (41). The poet projects the worst thriving in the current scenario through expressions like ‘…..man fighting his last stage of cancer‘, ‘The nation bathing in the swirl of black money’, his own ‘faithfuls’ daggers more poisonous and spiteful/than Caesar’s murderers’, ‘invincible India, at peace, raped and robbed in heaps’, ‘man kills man only ‘for greed’, ‘mother dumping her newborn daughter into the dustbin/hear the wails of the child on the roadside, his mother gone to earn his feed….’Even the world of nature is not devoid of sorrow. The poet, with sardonic humor and irony advises the miserable sparrow to ‘learn to suffer in silence, for the world, cheerful quotes…’Witnessing the all round sorriest state of affairs, the poet becomes completely broken, his ‘heart pierced, his soul in agony, cried foul/deception and stabbings, jeers and tears, negation and rejection…’and so feels compelled to ask God, ‘My God! Isn’t that the history of man?/He realizes only when deflated, in vain./But is it too late?/No, never, it’s never too late….’It is human nature to question God or some supernatural being unconsciously, sub-consciously or even consciously when mortal powers fail to rectify the desperate plight or topsy-turvy condition of this earth.

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rather impossible to say which precedes which: the external world is explicitly and vividly perceived, yet the specific object is chosen to reflect the mood. Hence, poetry, at times tends towards pan-psychism - the feeling that soul pervades all matter. And complete development of this feeling is pantheism. So, pantheism is a belief system or concept that reflects the awareness of and belief in the life force in all objects in nature, like trees, rocks, water, mountains, etc. It is somewhat related to the concept of animism, which suggests that there is consciousness in nature and natural objects. Many romantic poets, like Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth were deemed pantheists. In modern times, the ecological movement has given way to new interests in pantheism and considered its concept of nature as something sacred. In his nature poems, Dr Arora also evinces marked traces of pantheism. He not only personifies nature and blends it with his own consciousness, but also views it objectively from different angles, giving new meanings and shapes to it. In the ‘Eternal Spectacle’ (13),the poet first objectively views and personifies waves as ‘mighty, menacing…coming upon you like demons…as if they would swallow the whole world….soften down/subside, lower, still lower/retreat, like a defeated army ….’The waves then naturally get fused with his own consciousness that bespeak his fluctuating thoughts and feelings: ‘…rise and fall/assertion 104

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and fusion/aggression and acceptance/crisis and calmness….’ Finally, the poet winds up the whole psychological interplay with perfect artistic subtlety, metaphysicism and a tinge of philosophy by showing how these very waves culminate with the terminus of the journey of his life: ‘The realization dawns, as I awake/me too like a wave/flaunt around my identity…passion and intensity/and then merge into the eternal ocean/lost forever, unknown, unseen’. In Sea Waves’(75), the powerful imagination of the poet enables him to see the different movements and forms of the sea waves with apt poetic analogies as ‘….rising and howling…towering the skies….storming the citadels….hoping to destroy the despotic tower’, ‘subdued and retreating….like the mobs, defeated and desperate, ‘like Indian masses, opiate, slumbering….fated to be slaves, they bow’, ‘like the Indian sages, resigned, deep insight/gazing….compassion at man’s plight’.

On few occasions, the poet perceives nature as an independent entity that has no interference in human affairs. But all the same, he meaningfully enlivens nature and gives to it the form of a detached and dispassionate spectator: ‘Nature only looks on his (man’s) illusions, mockingly/adhering to its laws, the axis rotates, nonchalantly…. ‘Life’(21), but often conscious of it’s ‘miracles’ and ‘man’s blunders’. It is with this consciousness that he could think of how ‘Nature’s design you and 105

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your consciousness/otherwise, how could you explain your brother’s selfishness./Everything in nature serves her shrine/your talents, gifts of Nature, meant to serve her design.’

However, in moments when gloom overtakes the poet, he paints a grim picture of nature.

When the poet fails to find true love among humans, he makes a desperate and vain search for it in the world of nature by narrowing down the search to ‘the loveliest flower of the garden I chose’ and asks ‘Why don’t you spread smiles and love/and turn this House into a Home?/The rose squirmed, callously cast/you seem ghost from the past/how dare you, here, those foreign words dart?’ ‘I Looked for Love’(53). ‘She And Her Garden’(94), a short narrative poem, is strongly marked with lyrical fervor and expresses the influence nature exerts on man.

On seeing the ‘elusive, reclusive, mysterious’ and disillusioned lady ‘tending her garden, ‘the poet curiously asks, ‘why this self negation, cutting at the roots of Creation’. He was taken aback to get her pert response filled with wisdom, irony and acute awareness of life and all human relationships: ‘I’ve seen so much of man, homilies on friendliness/In this world of flowers, no deception, no torment, no selfishness/they speak to me, wave to me, fondle me, touch me/they understand my pain, my agony, try to cheer me…’ How educative and thought–provoking is the poem!

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To conclude, Dr Arora has spontaneously displayed the best of his knowledge, observation and experience. His keen perception, profound imagination, emotional intelligence, intense sympathy, infinite compassion and deep passion for serving humanity and preventing ecological disaster have enlivened, embellished and sanctified the anthology so much so that it has become a source of perennial delight, instruction and phenomenal piece of art, to be treasured, glorified and preserved by posterity for all ages to come.

Title: Whispers In The Wilderness Author: Dr O. P. Arora ISBN:9789352071302 Type: Poetry, Fiction and Short Stories Paperback: 110 pages Publisher: Authorpress Year :2015

Whispers In The Wilderness by Dr O. P. Arora at Authorpress.

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Dr Dalip Khetarpal worked as a Lecturer in English at Manchanda Delhi Public College, Delhi. He worked in various capacities, as Lecturer, Senior Lecturer and H .O. D (English) in various academic institutes in Haryana. He was a Dy. Registrar and Joint Director at the Directorate of Technical Education, Haryana, Chandigarh.

Dr Dalip has also started a new genre in the field of poetry, which he would like to call "psycho-psychic flints".

Dr O.P. Arora is a well-known poet, novelist and short story writer and holds a distinctive place among contemporary Indian writers in English.

Arora has a Doctorate in English Literature from Punjab University, Chandigarh and has taught in Delhi University for over three decades.

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His poems have been published in many leading literary journals, magazines and dailies and have been generously included in the prominent anthologies. He has four poetry anthologies The Creeping Shadows, Embers in the Ashes, The Edge of the Cliff, and Pebbles on the Shore to his credit.

His last novel The Silken Traps has been critically acclaimed as a true portrayal of contemporary Indian social scene and a great work looking at human relations in a novel way.

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Dr Divyabha Vashisth Dalit Literature: An Insurrectionary Voice Abstract Dalit literature is a voice of the subjugated laden section of the society. Dalit movement is a struggle that tries to carve the niche for impartiality. No other medium could be more influential than literary works to show the existence of any movement. Dalit literature has played an important role in it. Writers share their own experiences of social and communal iniquity. Their writings were the outburst of their suppressed feelings which continued for ages. This paper aims to present the facts regarding the contemporary province of Dalit literature with precise reference to autobiography of Dr Sharankuma Limbale, feminist writing of Bhama and Dalit writing by non- Dalit writer Mulk Raj Anand.

Keywords: Impartiality, Communal, AutoNarratives, shunned, oddities, elevated Dalit Literature: An Insurrectionary Voice

Dalits have been victimized on the financial, communal and political grounds since time immemorial. They have never been given a chance to amalgamate with the other section of the society, particularly the so-called upper section of the society. Their livelihood has been dependent on mean and disgraceful works and 110

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have been referred as the ‘untouchables’ by the elevated segment. This prejudice was the legacy of Hindu culture and custom. The Dalits have been left to live life as shunned in poor state.

One important section of the population in India is obligatorily being the prey of communal discernment. This caste based variance in society prevails in the basic rights including education, life-style, occupation and socialization and thus the segregation amplifies violence.

According to Manusmriti, the society was divided into caste system primarily based on the occupation of the people: Brahmin, Kshrtriya, Vaishya , Shudra. The Dalit cast was kept in the fifth varna. the Dalits were traditionally engaged in the works and professions socially considered inferior , and hence they were rejected and outcaste by the caste Hindu.

At the time of independence, the Dalits still lingered in the lowest strata of the society.

When the constitution was formed in 1950, the Dalits were not given equal rights and dignity.

Regardless of the constitution’s pledge towards the right of equality, the primitive structure of inequality could not be removed. This was the pivotal point from where the Dalit Movement took off.

The key issue of the Dalit Movement has been the focus on the problem of untouchability.

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Though there were no evidence when the movement came into existence exactly, the terms Dalit Literature were first coined in 1958 when the first ‘Dalit Conference’ took place.

The victims (or the Dalits) propelled the movements for reservations in almost all sectors of public services.

The Dalit Literature is a voice of the subjugated laden section of the society.

The name Dalit came into existence in the nineteenth century, it was the founder of our Indian constitution Dr Bhim Rao Ambedkar who first used the term.

The Dalit movement is a struggle that tries to eliminate impartiality of all sorts. No other medium could be more influential than the Dalit literary works to show the existence of any movement. The Dalit literature played an important role in it.

The Dalit Literature is a new genre in the canon of Indian literature, where the Dalit writers share their intolerable and bitter truth experiences and the non-Dalit writers express the trauma of the Dalits they go through. This medium of writing is not only against the biased mentality of the upper caste but also deals with the people whose disposition is maligned towards the weaker section. The style of these writings is traditional but very expressive be it Dalit poetry, folk poetry, novels, short stories and the most effective style of this medium is ‘Dalit Auto Narratives’.

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Writers share their own experiences of social and communal iniquity. Their writings were the outburst of their suppressed feelings, which has come down from generations. The Educated Dalits are spreading awareness and making oppressed acquaint with their rights through their intellectual discourse.

This paper depicts neither prejudice nor is against any set rules of the society but presents the facts regarding the contemporary province of the Dalit literature with precise reference to the autobiography of Dr Sharankuma Limbale, feminist writing Bhama and Dalit writing by non- Dalit writer Mulk Raj Anand.

Dr Sharankumar Limbale wrote his autobiography Akkarmashi in 1984 in Marathi which was later translated in English with the title The Outcaste. Dr Limbale’s father belonged to the high caste while the mother was from the untouchable class. Dr Limbale wrote in the Acknowledgement of The Outcaste ‘My history is my mother’s life; at the most my grandmother’s. …. my mother is an untouchable, while my father is a high caste from one of the privileged classes of India.

Mother lives in a hut, father lives in a mansion, Father is a land lord; mother, landless. I am an Akkarmashi (half-caste). I am condemned, branded illegitimate.’ 2 Dr Sharankumar lived the life of an oppressed, untouchable Akkarmashi (half- caste). He was 113

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treated as untouchable by the high class society and he was called and subdued by being addressed as akkarmashi by the society.

Dr Sharankumar unfolds his story, ‘Ithal Kamble toiled on the farm by Hanmanta Limbale, a Patil, who helped him during hard times. But while helping Ithal Kamble, the Patil’s intention was quite different.’3 The mala fide intentions of the landlord for Kamble’s wife forced her to get separated from her family and live the life of a courtesan of the landlord. Dr Sharankumar carried the burden of this label, of being the child of an illegitimate relationship, all his life. He mentions about being considered an illegitimate child in his book. He claims that, ‘I was growing like Karna in the Mahabharata’4 (p. 37). The author leads all his life with the identity crisis. His mother was married to Kamble, but she had to leave her husband and two sons. The chief of a village was Dr Sharankumar’s father so he was privileged enough to get a chance to go to school but he had always suffered discarded attitude of the world around him and he could never justify his existence and communal identity because of different caste and status of his mother and father. His grandmother lived with a Muslim, so she also could not give her identity as his guardian. When Dr Sharankumar reached the age of marriage, his outcaste identity became a hurdle again. In Dr Sharankumar’s 114

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autobiography we can observe the oppression of the Dalit class inflicted by prerogative class of the society. ‘Woman is the earth, air, sound; woman is the microcosm of the mind, the articulation of space, the knowing in knowledge; the knowledge in fire, movement clear and rapid as the mountain stream; the woman is that which seeks against that which is sought. To Mitra she is Varuna, to Indra she is Agni, to Rama she is Sita, to Krishna she is Radha.

Woman is the meaning of the word, the breathe, touch, act; woman, that which reminds man of which he is, reminds herself through him of that which she be. Woman is kingdom, solitude, time; woman is growth, the Gods, inherence; woman is the death, for it is through woman that one is born; woman rules, for it is she, the universe.’5 Feminism is about celebrating equal rights of women to men with respect to social, communal positioning. If equal rights are not delivered, we actually deny equal weightage to half of the people of the world. When we consider Dalit feminism, it is doubly oppressed and humiliated section of the society.

In the Dalit society also, there is a gender discrimination as it is in the upper castes.

Rather, the Dalit women are more affected and oppressed on the basis of gender and caste system. They are illiterate, unaware and uneducated and highly dependent either on 115

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their male counterparts or on very low grade work. . They are sexually assaulted also by the upper caste males. As the modern women are in the effort to establish their independent identity so the Dalit women are struggling.

Karukku, a very prominent writing written by Faustina Mary (Bama), one of the first Dalit writers is an example of this struggle.

Woman’s quest for identity and respect was a key factor in Bama’s writing. Women are deprived of the freedom and if she comes out she will be assaulted mentally and physically.

Mulk Raj Anand, the renowned novelist exhibits his in-depth discernment towards the degraded and disgraceful life of the Dalits in India. Mulk Raj Anand is an Anglo-Indian novelist and wrote about women, Dalit and other social issues.. Mulk Raj Anand, in his novel ‘Untouchable’ tried to change the Indian perspective for the Dalits. He was rather shunned because of the strict laws of the caste system at that time.

‘Bhaka’, the protagonist in Untouchable, is an untouchable and outcast boy. Untouchable depicts a day in the life of Bakha, which unmasks coarse reality of the Dalits and their struggle for justice and fight against all odds.

Bhaka never likes his work of cleaning toilet .

He wanted to study. Bakha always had a substantial longing to study. He often tried to feel like a learned man. He even tried for selfstudy but his efforts failed. He was ready to 116

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employ Babu's son to give him tuitions in the evening. The novel revolves around the innovative idea and fundamental right of education of a dalit (untouchable). The writer paints the character of Baka to function as a work force to continue the message of ‘existing peacefully together’ by Mahtma Gandhi. Mulk Raj Anand presents some notions and responses to the ill -practice of untouchability.

When the Dalit writers or non-Dalit writers investigate the plight of the Dalits, they indulge themselves in criticizing and condemning the Brahmins and the upper castes and praise Christianity where no caste system is followed. They explain that Christianity brings them into existence without any fear of untouchability, whereas, Bama, the female protagonist of Karukku, shows a different side of this reality. After completing her training as a nun, Bama started working in a Christian school where upper caste Christians and the Dalits (converted Christians) studied together, ‘… pupils from very wealthy households, people of my community were looking after all the jobs like sweeping the premises, swabbing and washing the classrooms, and cleaning out the lavatories.’6 In Untouchable, Bhaka was fearful of such unequal treatment. After hearing the words of wisdom of Mahatma Gandhi and his preaching for removing untouchability, Bhaka was so 117

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influenced that he started respecting everyone who voices for the upliftment and the rights of his community.

To conclude the Dalit literature is not only a new genre of writing for the sake of reading pleasure but it serves the purpose of revolutionary writing. The Dalit writing is a strong voice for radical transformation in the fundamental rights. Just like other writings of the marginalized and suppressed class i.e.

Black literature and feminist writing, the Dalit literature has the capability to raise voice against all the injustice suffered by the downtrodden.

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Works Cited 1. Limbale, Dr Sharankumar. ‘The Outcaste : Akkarmashi’, translated by Santosh Bhoomkar, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003: IX. 2. Ibid: 35.

3. Rao, Raja. ‘The Serpent and the Rope’. John Murray, 1960: 357.

4. Bama, Karukku. Translation. Lakshmi Holmstrom.

Ed. Mini Krishnan. Chennai: Macmillan. 2000: 22.

Dr Divyabha Vashisth is an Assistant Professor at Centre for Languages Learning, The Northcap University (Formerly ITM University) Gurgaon, India.

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Sharonee Dasgupta Dalit Struggle and Subjugation Through The Centuries Abstract

Our society is marked by its hypocrisy. On the one hand, our constitution guarantees equal rights to all its citizens yet the reality is just the contrary. Hierarchy continues to exist at every stratum in the society. Instead of bridging the gap in the society, this further feeds inequality on the basis of caste, class, gender, and what not. India has been portrayed as a land with unique and yet striking differences, the Indian national identity has been evolving over the past century.

Introduction

Indian culture is complex yet diverse. It is a potpourri resultant from influences across time and varied races. It is a huge overplay and crossover of ideas. Indian culture is a comprehensive idea of a pluralistic society, it has its wide display of languages, communities, caste, tribe and religion.

Therefore India can be called a multi-religious, multi-ethnic and multi lingual society with its wide array of religions such as Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, Buddhism, Zoroastrianism and Jainism and also twenty two major languages have been recognised by the Indian constitution apart from which there 120

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are many other languages. 1Yet poverty, gender discrimination, caste discrimination, communalism, hierarchy are the off shoots that are both unique and stark realities of the Indian culture. The constitution of this country drafted by Dr. B.R. Ambedkar is a formidable body of scholarship, it guarantees equal rights to all its citizens. Caste is an important aspect of the Indian culture. Every caste has its own rituals, customs, and deities. As Professor Ghurye points out that caste was considered as central to organized form of division of labour in the Aryan society.

Ghurye explains caste in India on the basis of six distinctive characteristics: 1. Segmental division of society; 2. Hierarchy; 3. Civil and religious disabilities and privileges; 4. Lack of unrestricted choice of occupation; 5. Restriction on food, drinks and social intercourse; 6. Endogamy.

2

Hasan, Zoya. , India-European Union Round Table.

Diversity and Democracy in India. 4 May 2016.

2 Ghurye: G.S. Journey of IAS. Indology. 15 August 2014. 25 April 1

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In India, hierarchy has always existed within the family, caste, and class structure. People would and are still divided into hierarchies. In the present context as well, social class system seems be an influencing factor. Firstly, let’s look at the origin of the term "Caste", the term is derived from the Portuguese word 'casta' meaning race or breed3. Caste structure is not based on power but rather on purity and pollution. Caste determines a person's occupation. The caste system has shaped the Indian society. . A person from a higher caste would not be allowed to socialize or mingle with a person from the lower caste. The lower caste people were and are constantly humiliated and kept away from the public activity. Hinduism is based on varnas. Varna, a Sanskrit word, is derived from the root vr, meaning to envelop, classify, consider.4 Varna literally means division of society namely Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishya, Shudra.

Brahmins (priestly class) Kshatriyas (warrior class)

2016http://journeyofias2013.blogspot.in/2014/08/indolo gy-g-s-ghurye.html 3 Caste.Wikipedia.web29 April, 2016. 5 May 2016. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caste_system_in_India 4 Varna Hinduism. Wikipedia. Etymology and Origins of Varna. Wikipedia. Web1 May 2016. 5May 2016. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varna_(Hinduism)

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Vaishyas (trading class) Shudras (labour class) Outside of the varna system is the fifth caste or Avarna and hence the Dalits and untouchables fall under the category of Avarna.

Indian culture is though claimed to be diverse, yet it fails to accommodate voices of all? This is where the hypocrisy lies, Women, Dalits Adivasis, and the minorities are still not part of the inclusive India. It doesn’t adequately represent the reality of these issues. The issues cannot be ignored, since major groups are not represented. There has always been an opposing relationship between modernity and culture. On one hand, women are made to feel that they are part of the Indian culture yet on the other hand she is part of the age old form of repression and suppression. Most often women are not allowed to participate in decision making. Gender and caste are still one of the major barriers of the world’s biggest democracy. Many writers have tried to bring out the voices of the evils prevalent in the society. the Dalit writers have been among prominent voices of all. These writers were part of the very suffering community.

It was in the 1920s, however, that the Dalits began to organize strongly and independently across India. The most important of the early Dalit movements were the Ad-Dharm movement in the Punjab, organized in 1926; 123

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the movement under Dr Ambedkar in Maharashtra, mainly based among Mahars which had its organizational beginnings in 1924; the Namashudra movement in Bengal; the Adi-Dravida movement in Tamil Nadu; the Adi-Karnataka movement; the Adi-Hindu movement mainly centered around Kanpur in U.P; and the organizing of the pulayas and Cherumans in Kerala5 Hierarchy in the caste system creates inequality. After gaining independence, from the British rule, India adopted a democratic form of rule which grants freedom of speech, equal rights; and to ascertain justice, secularism and liberty to all it citizens. Yet discrimination continues in every sphere of our society. There is a contradiction that exists between the modernity that we strive to be and backwardness that continues to prevail in most pockets of our society.

Debates circling around caste system have existed in the Indian subcontinent for centuries. Caste is a complex institution which continues to haunt our society. One would often see arguments revolving around the caste system in a news channel room when a person from a lower caste is killed. There would be sympathies and strong revolt, yet the

5

Patankar, Bharat and Omvedt, Gail. The Dalit Liberation Movement in Colonial Period, New Delhi: Critical Quest, 2007

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gruesome violence continues. The Indian constitution had been adopted in the year 1950 which guarantees equal rights and opportunities to the scheduled castes and tribes and also the disadvantaged groups of the society. However, the merits of the lower castes have often been humiliated and remain unrecognised. Significant observations have brought back debates circling around caste to the tables of parliamentarians and policy makers, yet one ceases to find a solution. For a person to compete with the rest, one needs access and resources to access quality education, yet the conditions in the government schools, universities or work place do not provide them any relief. One would want to believe that education would help them in their upliftment yet their voices remain suppressed. Even today discrimination continues in educational institutions. The constitution is available in its written form, but how much of it is followed?

However, the differences based on caste system plague other religions also and hence caste-based discrimination is a reality in other religions in India. , For example, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar writes in Waiting for Visa, that once during the month of Ramzan he along with his co-workers was visiting Verul. On their way to Verul, they would have to stop at Aurangabad, they decided to wash their face in a nearby tank, suddenly a Muslim man came running 125

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“The Dheds (untouchables) have polluted the tank”. Soon others started shouting at them.6 This shows that caste discrimination has been in practise at large in the society and by the people of all faiths. .

As Arundhati Roy writes in her essay The Doctor and the Saint, introductory chapter of Annihilation of caste, “Outside of these varnas are the avarna caste, the AtiShudra, subhumans , arranged in hierarchies of their own- the Untouchables, the Unseeables, the Unapproachables, whose presence, whose touch whose very shadow is considered to be polluting by privileged caste Hindus”7 Caste is deeply embedded in our society; it is still practised at school, work and marriage. In the Indian society practice of untouchability has always been a cruel and inhumane truth.

The untouchables were forced to live in the exterior part of the village, they would not be allowed inside the temple, they were made to

Ambedkar,B.R.Dr. Waiting for a Visa. Polluting the Water in the Fort of Daulatabad. http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00ambed kar/txt_ambedkar_waiting.html 7 . Roy, Arundhati. 2014 : “The Doctor and the Saint.” In Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition by Dr. B.R. Ambedkar edited and annotated by S. Anan.

New Delhi: Navayana 6

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do scavenging work, they would have to beg for the leftover food from the upper caste and were forced to carry excreta.

Origin of the word

The word Dalit has been derived from Sanskrit word ‘dal’ meaning crushed or fallen.8Dr. B. R. Ambedkar initiated the Dalit movement to represent the depressed class. After the 1960’s the word ‘untouchable’ came in use. Various terms have been used to refer to the Dalits, such as Mahar, Bhangi, Chura, Panchama, Avarna, Harijan, Chandala and Raksasa. The names carry within them the two- term contrast of “we the pure” and “you the impure”9 Portrayal of Caste in Indian Literature:

Caste hierarchy has been prevalent in India since the ancient times. Bhakti Movement a foremost religious movement was a way to convey that all human beings are equal in front of God. An important feature was that these poets sought salvation but did not protest against discrimination and social injustices.

Poets like Tukaram (a tanner), Kabir (a weaver), Eknath and Chokhamela were some of the earliest Bhakti poets and reformers to

8Origin of the Word “Dalit” History. 10 October 2015 http://www.dalitchristians.com/html/dalitmeaning.htm 9Origin of the Word “Dalit” History. 10 October 2015 http://www.dalitchristians.com/html/dalitmeaning.htm

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preach against the practice of untouchability.

Chokhamela was one of the earliest Dalit voices to discuss about the caste structure. He belonged to Mahar caste and wrote during the fourteenth century.

“He seems to accept his outward ugliness thus conceding in the process a sense of superiority to the aesthetics of the upper-order: Cane is crooked, but its juice isn’t crooked Why be fooled by outward appearance? The bow is crooked, but the arrow isn’t crooked, Why be fooled by outward appearance?

The river is twisting, but the water isn’t crooked. Why be fooled by outward appearance? Chokha is ugly, but his feelings aren’t ugly. Why be fooled by outward appearance? (Abhanga 52)10 The Dalit literature was a response to the humiliation and oppression that had been forced upon the lower castes by the upper castes. The Brahmin hegemony for centuries had excluded them from their writings. It had become important for the Dalit community to express the subjugation, atrocities that they had faced for centuries.

Indian writings do not primarily represent the Dalit reality. Most of works have ignored the 10Amandeep. Dalit Aesthetics: A Study of Bhakti Period Vol.-II 4 July-Dec. (Winter) 2010 http://www.inflibnet.ac.in/ojs/index.php/JLCMS/article/v iewFile/367/343

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issue of untouchable as a non-existent issue.

The main aim of the Dalit writers however had been to liberate themselves from the caste based politics. Ambedkar and Phule’s writings had become a powerful medium which helped other writers.

As the political movement began in Maharashtra and across India, the Dalit movement became a political identity for the untouchables.

“Arjun Dangle an important Dalit writer and member of the Dalit Panther’s organization has asserted that Dalit literature is not simply literature.

Although, today most Dalit writers have forgotten its origins, Dalit literature is associated with a movement to bring about change. “Dalit presently are able to show not only the hostile circumstances in which Dalits live, but also their struggle from emancipation from caste11 Marathi writers and intellectuals had contributed significantly in Dalit Literature.

Namdeo Dhasal founded the Dalit Panthers movement in the 1970’s. Marathi Dalit writers such as Arjun Dangle, Namdeo Dhasal,

11Azhar Samina, Mohindra Vinita. Muse India. Marathi Dalit Literature. http://museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=40&id= 2976

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Baburao Bagul, were all members of the movement. Dalit movement gained momentum in Maharashtra with the contributions of Jyotirao Phule and Ambedkar. The writers rebelled against the Hegemonic Brahmin class.

The Dalits had been pushed into poverty by the upper castes. Namdeo Dhasal, the founder of Dalit Panthers movement came from an impoverished family. His father was a butcher and bought home a meagre income. The sought of humiliation was expressed by the writers who started rebelling against the caste prejudices of the upper caste.

India has been portrayed as a land with unique but striking differences. The issue of caste and gender discrimination continues to plague our society even after India gained its independence almost seven decades ago. We are far from calling ourselves a free country that gives equal freedom and rights to all.

Dalits, Adivasis, Muslims, Women and children still occupy the most vulnerable positions.

Dalits continue to live in ghettos in the rural parts of India; they are still economically deprived and culturally marginalized. The voices are often suppressed, their pain and anger remains unheard.

Literature acts as a weapon for most writers to express their anguish and disgust. Mulk Raj Anand’s Untouchable, UR Ananthamurthy’s Samskara, Unnava Lakshminaryan’s Malapalli or the more contemporary God of Small Things 130

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written by Arundhati Roy have focused on the caste system. Malapalli is a strong revolt against the injustices that were meted out upon the Dalit community. Women are even today subjugated to multiple exploitations and discrimination. Women from the lower caste suffer double discrimination, both caste and gender. The main aim of the Dalit writers had been to liberate themselves from the caste based politics. Ambedkar and Phule’s writings had become a powerful medium which helped the writers. It had become important to represent their part of their story which had never been expressed by the upper caste. For a very long time the upper caste writers represented sweepers, rag pickers and toilet cleaners as representatives of the Dalit community. In Mulk Raj Anand’s novel Untouchable, the protagonist Bakha makes his living as a sweeper and toilet cleaner. The Dalits have never been represented as someone from a prosperous background.

Mulk Raj Anand’s Untouchable written during pre-independence India focused on the sweepers of Chandrapur, and the protagonist of the novel Bakha, an untouchable was a sweeper by caste. The story is a creation of a one day in the life of Bakha, a sweeper and toilet cleaner. As E. M. Forster points out in the preface of the novel, Untouchable could only have been written by an Indian and by an Indian who observed from 131

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the outside. No European, however sympathetic could have created the character of Bakha, because he could not have known enough about his troubles. Mr. Anand stands in an ideal position. By caste he is a Kshatriya and he might have been expected to inherit the pollution- complex.” (Mulk Raj Anand: Untouchable)12 It is important to understand as a critical outsider that Anand did not have an insight on the community. He tried to understand the tragedy of Bakha and his community but did not share their problems. He was detached from them because he himself belonged to an upper caste. He observed their lives as an outsider and wrote about it. Similarly, Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things explores the lives of who are untouchables in a rural part of Kerala. Therefore as critical outsiders, they observe the tragedy faced by the Dalit community but at the same time they are detached from them. They romanticise their problems instead of finding a solution to their problems.

Bama, an important Dalit writer focuses on the atrocities and oppressions faced by the Dalit community. She discusses in her work the exploitation that she and the women of her

12Anand Mulk Raj, E.M. Forster ‘Preface to Untouchable’. Untouchable. New Delhi, Penguin Books, 2001.

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community faces. Women are not paid equal wages and many times women have to run their entire family on their own without depending on their menfolk. The women are often subjected to sexual harassment at the hands of the upper caste men and at homes they are often treated violently by their husband and father. As an insider of the community, her language is both raw and crude, she uses Tamil dialect in a more consistent manner. The language used by her is the lingua franca of the real women of her community. The story has been written in many voices of women addressing to one another. Whereas Roy and Anand’s language is more colloquial and refined. It captures the educated western audience who are interested to learn about Indian society and the issue of caste. Whereas the critical insider of the community would often express the anguish and anger.

Reason

Dalit writers felt that there was a need to produce their own writings. It had become important for them to express their sufferings and anguish which had never been addressed in the earlier writings produced by the upper castes. The main aim was to see it as a new dimension and have their own identity. It was also important to analyse the social conditions of the Dalits.

As Bama discusses in her novel, 133

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Sangati is in the voices of many women speaking to and addressing one another as they share the incidents of their daily lives. These voices, sometimes raised in anger or in pain as they lash out at each other, or against their oppressors, is reported exactly.

Such a language is full of expletives, quite often with explicit sexual references. 13 Analysis

The major evil that has infested the Indian society has been its hierarchical structure whether it is religious or the social hierarchy.

All the exploitation and conflict is based or is due to the hierarchical system. It is always the upper caste who have looked down upon the lower caste and were not allow to coexist with the other castes as equals. A woman is still not allowed to marry a person of her choice or go out to work. Many times, it is observed that social views, perceptions or do’s and don’ts are above the law in the society. In fact the fate of an individual or a community is still decided according to these existing social norms which even revolutionary writers have failed to minimise or do away with.

Conclusion

Poet Meena Kandasamy writes,

13Sangati: Bama Page xix-xx.

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Aggression Ours is a silence that waits. Endlessly waits.

And then, unable to bear it any further, it breaks into wails.

But not all suppressed reactions end in our bemoaning the tragedy.

Sometimes, the outward signals of inward struggles takes colossal forms And the revolution happens because our dreams explode.

Most of the time: Aggression is the best kind of troubleshooting.14 As Meena Kandasamy writes ‘ours is a silence endlessly waits’ but now the silence needs to speak up. There is a current revolt that people in this country are experiencing that leads

14 Kandasamy, Meena. Poemhunter. Aggression. Web 20 June 2012. 5 May 2016<http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aggression3/>

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people question the law and governance and challenging age old norms.

While this is a positive movement that has risen. However to turn the movement into realities the agitation must continue until everyone has an equal right . People have been silent for centuries which only resulted in further suppression. Patriarchy shackled voices has created a hierarchy. This hierarchy needs to be broken.

There are many contradictions and conflict that exist in our society in the name of religion, caste and gender inequality. We have to revolt against this hierarchical structure and we must continue this struggle.

Works Cited 1. Hasan, Zoya, India-European Union Round Table.

Diversity and Democracy in India. 4 May 2016.

2. Ghurye: G.S. Journey of IAS. Indology. 15 August 2014. 25 April 2016. http://journeyofias2013.blogspot.in/2014/08/ind ology-g-s-ghurye.html 3. Caste.Wikipedia.web29 April, 2016. 5 May 2016. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caste_system_in_I ndia 4. Varna Hinduism. Wikipedia. Etymology and Origins of Varna. Wikipedia. Web1 May 2016. 5 May 2016. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varna_(Hinduism)

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6. Ambedkar, B.R. Dr. Waiting for a Visa. Polluting the Water in the Fort of Daulatabad. http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00 ambedkar/txt_ambedkar_waiting.html 7. Roy, Arundhati. 2014 : “ The Doctor and the Saint.” In Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition by Dr. B.R. Ambedkar edited and annotated by S. Anan. New Delhi: Navayana.

8. Origin of the Word “Dalit” History. 10 October 2015. http://www.dalitchristians.com/html/dalitmeanin g.htm 9. Origin of the Word “Dalit” History. 10 October 2015. http://www.dalitchristians.com/html/dalitmeanin g.htm 10. Amandeep. Dalit Aesthetics: A Study of Bhakti Period Vol-II, 4 July-Dec. (Winter) 2010. http://www.inflibnet.ac.in/ojs/index.php/JLCMS/a rticle/viewFile/367/343 11. Azhar Samina, Mohindra Vinita. Muse India.

Marathi Dalit Literature. http://museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=4 0&id=2976 12. Anand Mulk Raj, E.M. Forster ‘Preface to Untouchable’. Untouchable. New Delhi, Penguin Books, 2001.

13. Kandasamy, Meena. Poemhunter. Aggression.

Web 20 June 2012. 5 May 2016. http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aggression3/ 14. Bama: Sangati. trans. Laxmi Holmstrom. New Delhi: OUP.2005. Print. Page xix-xx.

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Sharonee Dasgupta is an independent researcher based in New Delhi. She recently completed her MPhil in Comparative Indian Literature from Delhi University. Her areas of research include pulp fiction, Indian novels, folktales, Dalit autobiographies and Nigerian fictions.

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Bhumika Marolia 3D Printing and Its Applications Abstract 3D printing is a form of additive manufacturing which outputs a 3D model of a object through a layer by layer process by taking in input a CAD (computer aided design) file. This technique is fast and saves time involved in basic manufacturing process. In this one has to just design the 3D image of object using CAD, then after selecting the material to be used this information is sent to printer which then prints the object. Depending on the materials used and the procedure employed in forming the object there are various methods of 3D printing such as stereo lithography, fused deposition modeling, selective laser sintering.3D printing finds its applications in every domain from medical, defense, factories, fashion, retail, food, architecture, functional prototyping, concept modeling, end user parts and many more which will be focused in this paper. Moreover its future applications are vast that includes using 3D printing for on demand parts in space, for printing organs and for making complex engine parts.

Keywords: 3D printing, 3D printers, Stereo lithography, Additive manufacturing, Fused deposition modelling (FDM), Selective laser sintering (SLS), Bio-printing.

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I. Introduction 3D printing which is also known as additive manufacturing refers to various processes which is used to produce a 3D object using a CAD (computer aided design) software. Early additive manufacturing materials were developed in 1980s [1].

Later on there were many advancement in the following years in this field.

3D printing involves a 3D printer which prints the object layer by layer by extruding the required material. Main principle involved is stereo lithography in which a 3D image of the object which is to be produced is made using triangles and stored in a STL file format. This can be done by using computer aided software or by a 3D scanner. Using a computer we can vary different dimensions of object easily with reduced errors and easy verification of design.

After designing next comes the printing part in which the printer reads the STL file of object and lays down different layers of materials to form the final object.

Finishing constitute the final part of 3D printing in which finishing of the printed object is done.

This may include removing the unnecessary part or hardening the required part with laser.

There are many processes that can be used to produce a 3D printed object like stereo lithography, fused deposition modeling (FDM), 141

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selective laser sintering (SLS), polymerization which vary upon the procedure used during printing.

3D printing has a wide range of applications in every domain mainly medical, industrial, space. Studies are going in field of medical to print body parts and soon in future it may turn into reality. We can also 3D print food and NASA is also planning to 3D print food, parts of machine as and when needed by astronomers there in space and also working to 3D print a lunar base on moon.

In future everything will be 3D printed instantly when required thus surely 3D printing signals the beginning of a third industrial revolution as suggested by futurologists Jeremy Rifkin [2].

II. Methods Of 3d Printing Most widely used methods are SLS, FDM, and stereo lithography. All of these are additive manufacturing process.

Selective laser sintering (SLS) uses two piston namely powder delivery and fabrication piston.

A roller rolls the powdered material on to the fabrication system. In this a high power laser like CO2laser is used to harden the desired 3D shape of object and it does so through fusing small particles of plastic, metal , ceramic into a mass. This can be used for architectural uses.

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In Fused deposition modelling (FDM) a build material spool which ends up extruding material filament is used. This forms the object by extruding and heating of thermoplastic filament. The great advantage of this technique is durability, stability and quality of parts formed. It is used for prototyping modelling and production applications where high accuracy of functional parts is needed.

In Stereo lithography object is formed on to the vat of liquid polymer that gets hardens when laser focuses on the required cross section. It is preferred for rapid prototyping.

III. Applications 3D printing applications are diverse just as the materials that can be used to print a 3D object.

Approximately more than hundred materials are been recognized that includes plastic, metal, living tissue, concrete, polymers, food ingredients that can be 3D printed.

Considering applications of 3D printing in medical it can be used for mass customization and production of medical equipments. Using this method the cost and time taken in producing final object decreases significantly.

It can be used for making of bones that can serve as artificial organs for disabled. 3D printing is used by doctors to understand the real complexity involved in operations like in heart valve transplant, kidney transplant, 143

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cranium replacement, hip surgery etc. by making a models before the actual operations.

Synthetic skin produced using 3D printers can now save the lives of burn victims and others.

Researches in using a 3D printed kidney transplant are going and once it become successful the problem of organ transplant will go insane as any organ can then be 3D printed on demand.

In drugs and medicine manufacturing too 3D printing plays a great role.

Other applications come in manufacturing ondemand tools in a quick and customized manner. It can be used to print end user parts like bolts, nuts, and machinery parts in a cheaper rate than traditional manufacturing process.

Now a dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 3D printed is at its highest peak in fashion industry and there are many 3D printed dresses, jewellery, footwear, accessories available.3D printer can be used to sustainably 3D print food items like cakes, chocolates.

3D printing also helps engineers in conceptual modelling and functional prototyping for creating a realistic prototype of final object.

Architectural firms use 3D printing to create a prototype model to help client to visualize design better and also to actually 3D print buildings these days.

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IV. Future Scope In future 3D printing can be used by astronomers to make engine parts, food there in space whenever they needed. This will reduce the amount of things carried to space station. Its usage has been started and the Mars Rover comprises some 70 3D printed parts.

NASA after discovery of water beneath surface of Mars is now planning to 3D print biodegradable fungus towers that would leave no trace on Mars [3]. It can be used to create 3D printed lunar base automatically using 3D printer just as a robot.

3D printers can be used for making future buildings in less cost and time.

3D printing in medical industry or Bio printing is the most exciting areas of future applications in which it can be used to create organs of human body. If this happens the problem of organ donor will be solved.

It will take manufacturing industries to new heights and in future it will be used to create complex engine parts and every item will match the exact user specifications.

We can also 3D print our clothes at home in future. So it is not wrong to say next generation would be of 3D printing in which one would print any item as and when needed.

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V. Conclusion 3D printing, a additive manufacturing process is more accessible and useful these days. It prints the item in less time, cost with high accuracy, flexibility and durability of processes.

It finds it applications in every field and by increasing the amount of input given to 3D printer these applications can be increased.

With future applications in Bio-printing it would remove the problem of organ donor finding as organs can be printed when needed. In space also its applications found a deep root which can be used by the astronomers to make things in space.

After understanding the various methods and applications of 3D printing, we can conclude that it would change the quality of life we lived and would bring upcoming industrial revolution.

References 1. Jane Bird (2012-08-08). "Exploring the 3D printing opportunity". The Financial Times.

Retrieved 2012-08-30.

2. "Jeremy Rifkin and The Third Industrial Revolution Home Page".

Thethirdindustrialrevolution.com. Retrieved 2016-01-04.

3. http://www.archdaily.com/782087/could-fungus3d-printers-be-the-solution-to-colonizing-mars

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Bhumika Marolia is a student with the Department of Computer Engineering, JECRC, Jaipur , India.

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Book Reviews

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Dr. Sukanya Saha Book Review of Usha Rajagopalan’s Amrita: A Read into Traumatic Emotions Abstract: Usha Rajagopalan has much to convey to the modern reader about contemporary Indian society through Amrita.

The story can be read from different perspectives. It would not be enough to call it a story of two sisters and wash hands off. It has a lot in its store to add to reader’s ruminations.

It is a story of Kamala, a mother, who is subjected to agonised life once the realization about her elder daughter’s disability dawns on her life. It is also the story of Maya, a sister, who eventually accepts her sister’s disability and completely dedicates herself towards latter’s wellbeing. It is no less a story of a girl, Amrita, who becomes the epitome of disabled children and is a silent and helpless spectator of life around her. The haplessness of Amrita is there to remain in reader’s mind forever.

Neither can we extricate Raghu, the father from this web of life who cherishing an eventful past, remains indifferent towards his uncommon household.

Lives and emotions of these characters are deftly interwoven and they naturally evolve out of commonplace. Hence reciprocating to their actions and reactions does not seem 149

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demanding to the reader. Story proceeds with narrative accounts of its leading characters.

The binding thread of everyone’s account is Amrita, her disability, and justifies the title.

The blurb of the novel says, “Traumatised by the violent death of their mentally challenged daughter, Amrita, on the night of her sister’s wedding, the story behind Amrita’s death unravels as the family reaches out to Gauri, each telling her their story”. The statement indeed summarizes the chronicle. Narratives allow taking a peek into the lives of characters who confront like puppets in the cruel game of destiny. No one among them seems to have control over situations and fall prey to circumstances crowding around them, let alone Amrita, who was not endowed with the gifts of mental maturity.

Kamala’s dreams of leading a blissful married life with a child and husband come crashing down with the revelation of her first child’s abnormality. Mother’s heart however denies coming into terms with the stark reality and it’s disheartening to see her struggle to enable the child to perform daily chores in vain.

Kamala’s slogging over available literature on disability and her physical efforts do not seem something out of the world. Indian society, where the strongly rooted stigma for disability governs the psyche, a mother’s trauma is comprehensible. She cuts herself off from her duty towards Raghu, the husband, who turns aloof and takes refuge in distancing himself by 150

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undertaking official tours. In her devout endeavours towards Amrita’s learning, Kamala encloses herself within the constraints of the house where her life came to a standstill.

Kamala rightly fears the antagonism of society for her naïve daughter, and loses confidence for public appearances. Story thus holds forth the educated people’s attitude towards disability for our realization and criticism.

Kamala’s life takes up a turbulent path with the advent of her second child. Conception of course was unwelcomed by a mother who became increasingly apprehensive about giving birth to another child with disability. Kamala’s fears however proved to be futile with Maya, the second daughter being absolutely normal.

This satisfying pleasure of having a normal child however did not last long. Maya proved to be a hyperactive child, whose tantrums were beyond Kamala’s approach. Maya’s growing insecurities rising from her mother’s preoccupation with the elder daughter turned Maya a rebel. Maya’s experiences in school: her snatched freedom, the vitriolic remarks from her schoolmates about her sister, the constant pressure of performing well in exams all gradually pushed her towards hatred for her mother and more for her ‘mad’ sister. Kamala’s was torn between her two daughters, when her mother-in-law comes to her rescue and takes Maya away. After three years, on her return, we encounter a metamorphosed Maya. She harbours a strange kind of anger for her 151

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mother, but surprisingly takes complete charge of Amrita. Amrita welcomes Maya’s transformed self wholeheartedly and soon she finds herself entirely dependent on the latter for everything. Maya’s selfless dedication to her sister is heart-warming and this increasingly pains the heart to see two sisters parting during Maya’s wedding.

Author’s apt dealing with emotions of various shades is immensely appreciable. In her depiction of Kamala’s initial reaction after knowing Amrita’s disability, her determination to bring her daughter’s life to normal and her circumspection during Amrita’s birthday party, Raghu’s growing indifference and hostility in his behaviour, Maya’s instinctive behaviour at school and home as a child, her concern for Amrita as an adult etc., Usha Rajagopalan appears very effortless and spontaneous. She leaves no stone unturned while capturing such plethora of emotions in words. It is facile to substitute Kamala, Maya or Raghu with our own self or anyone from neighbourhood since her characterisation does not proclaim intricacy which hinders reader’s response.

Kamala is an exemplary of women who never lived and enjoyed their own lives. Her sufferings mute her wailings for attaining a social standing as a human being of considerable substance. Through her account which she outpours to her confidante, Kamala emerges as a woman whose agonies were 152

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never ending, and who was never truly understood neither by her daughter nor her husband. She lost her youth due to negligence of husband and neither could cherish a dutiful daughter’s regards at an old age. She remained destined to everyone’s miscomprehensions. Maya has some other story to narrate. Supressing much in heart she turns hostile to her mother and never confides in her. This adds to mother’s agonies. Amrita’s death was a secret which Maya buried in her heart is shockingly revealed at the end, leaving the reader pondering over lot many questions.

Raghu, does not startle an Indian reader with his inadvertent attitude. We cannot however blame him for his indifference.

Apart from these characters, around whom the story revolves, characters of Gauri, Revabehn, Sunder, Ganesh etc. form an integral part of the story. Gauri as a confidante, Revabehn as an elderly maid, Sunder as a wayward bachelor and Ganesh as an understanding companion leave an indelible mark.

To conclude, Amrita gives a read which moves.

It leaves tears in eyes and an endless series of questions keep haunting. Once picked up, it is difficult to put it down owing to its realism.

Dr. Sukanya Saha is an Asst. Professor, with the Dept. of English, Vidhyasagar Women's College, Chennai.

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Title: Amrita Author: Usha Rajagopalan ISBN-10: 8129105659 ISBN-13: 978-8129105653 Language: English Paperback: 333 pages Publisher: Rupa Year: February 2004 Amrita by Usha Rajagopalan is available at Amazon.

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Vinod Khanna Book Review of Eswar Anandan’s Seasons “No man is poor who has a Godly mother.” ― Abraham Lincoln Yes, Lincoln is right. You are the richest fellow on earth if you have a living mother. Loss of a mother renders one poorest of the poor, for it is a loss that nothing, absolutely nothing in this word can ever compensate. God can be against you, Angels can ignore you, stars can try to decimate you, but a mother will always hide you in her bosom where none can harm you.

Yes, Eswar Anandan has gone through the ordeal of losing his mother and in ‘Seasons’ he has tried to articulate the feelings that arise from suffering such an incalculable loss.

In ‘If only I can relive those days … again’ the emotions of having lost something forever make the reader sit up and think about the importance of loving while living, because tomorrow will be another day and one may lose this opportunity for ever. How beautifully Eswar expresses this emotion in the poem ‘Mother’ ‘Memories of moments spent Often bring tears...

Thoughts of you Have always created 155

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Enchanting notes of music Realizing … it’s all I have now…’

The poet, at other times, in other verses, is fully alive to his surroundings. He uses realistic imagery in his poems like ‘Compartment’ and ‘Onam Memories’. The festivities are described such that it gives a photographic portrayal of what he observes. These are true word pictures and delight the reader. He has a keen observation of day–to-day life as it goes on.

The smile of an unknown hapless woman, the scene of people crowding around in trains, are the everyday happenings that one can immediately identify with because of the mastery of the writer in describing what he observes. In ‘Talking with nature’ the poet establishes an intimate relationship with Mother Nature and revels in her bliss like he cherishes his own mother.

The very impressive message of ‘Seasons’ is that though dejected, the poet refuses to buckle down under the weight of his grief and starts a campaign to eradicate cancer, which claimed his mother.

“We CAN CERtainly fight CANCER together” is an optimistic statement and expresses a resolve to reduce agony by throwing a challenge to fight this malady.

It is hoped that Eswar Anandan, while fighting with the problem of cancer, and while dividing his time with his other obsession to see a free 156

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Tibet, does not let his poetic sensibility suffer and produces more such volumes.

Title: Seasons Author: Eswar Anandan ASIN: B01DDHBCNA Paperback: 51 pages Language: English Publisher: Maa Books, Kerala, India First Edition: October 2013 Price: INR 50 (India), $7 (Other countries) Seasons by Eswar Anandan is available at Amazon.

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Book Releases

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Aditi Bose My Dream Man I don’t know if I can do a story like this once again or not.

Ajopa Ganguly, a struggling writer, is reeling from the pains of her manuscript having been rejected by all publishers. She knows that making cupcakes and embroidering handkerchiefs is not her true calling. However, she is scared to write anymore and is losing focus.

Aniket Verma, is the professor of economics who was also Ajopa’s tuition teacher once.

Despite their twelve years age gap, with time, they forge a special bond of friendship.

Then a misunderstanding!

Now Aniket is back and it feel just like old times. With a challenge of finishing a new manuscript in record time and a promise that he will help her to get it published if she does, he asks her to meet him at the publisher’s office two days later.

Does she write?

Does she go to the publisher’s office?

At what moment does their friendship change?

Do they fall in love?

My Dream Man, a let-me-tell-my-friends and an I-need-to-finish-this story, is an insightful 159

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examination of how forces beyond our control help us make decisions. As Ajopa says, it is all about â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;deep choosingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;.

Author Bio A content writer and the author of an e-book for children, Aditi Bose is based in Delhi. She completed her MBA from the International Management Institute and is an alumna of Loreto House and St. Xaviers College. Hailing from a family of judges and lawyers, she is the first to pick up the pen. Stories her parents told her as a child and her passion for maintaining a personal diary and a travel journal inspired her to take up writing.

Title: My Dream Man Author: Aditi Bose ISBN-13 9789385137303 Publisher: Authors Ink Publications 160

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Language : English Publication Year: 2016 My Dream Man by Aditi Bose is available at Amazon.

Gary Beck Call to Valor â&#x20AC;&#x201D; A novel Call to Valor is a sweeping story of war, love and courage, as determined Americans face the war on terror, in a world of increasing nuclear threats. A dedicated doctor and a resourceful Marine join forces to prevent a terrorist group from detonating a dirty nuclear bomb in New York City.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks and 3 more accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays, Perceptions (Winter Goose Publishing). Fault Lines, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). His novels include: Extreme 161

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Change (Cogwheel Press) and Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). Call to Valor (Gnome on Pig Productions) and Acts of Defiance will be published by Dreaming Big Publications. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications).

Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

Gnome On Pig Productions works with authors, artisans and illustrators to achieve the common goal of success and have expanded into an international publisher.

Title: Call To Valor 162

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Author: Gary Beck ISBN-10: 1365244989 ISBN-13: 978-1365244988 Paperback: 352 pages Publisher: lulu.com (July 27, 2016) Language: English Product Dimensions: 6 x 0.9 x 9 inches Call To Valor by Gary Beck is available at Amazon.

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Mahendra Bhatnagar The Poetry of Mahendra Bhatnagar : Realistic & Visionary Aspects On this earth only we will live.

The followers of our religion, people of our caste, citizens of our state those who speak our language and know our script only constitute our country and form our universe. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Invoking Modern Men Overcast today; again Are clouds of doom, the sun of culture and civilization Again is eclipsed Conspiracies beleaguered this country of mine!

Today again is wounded to the core! â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Inhuman Dr. Mahendra Bhatnagar has a significant place in post-independence Indian poetry in English.

He is a prolific poet who has produced eleven volumes of poetry in English. Some of the volumes have appeared bilingual (English and Hindi), while some have been translated into French. Through his poetry he raises voices 164

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pertinent to modern age. Being born in British India and having experienced the complexity of life of that time, he envisions an India free from injustice, inequality, inhuman practices and all kinds of corruption. The present situation of India does not make him believe independent in its true sense. What disparity and cruelty he perceived in British India, he sees them still continuing after independence in different forms. Yes, one difference is that earlier these practices were carried out by the aliens and today by the mighty and influential people in power.

Title: The Poetry of Mahendra Bhatnagar : Realistic & Visionary Aspects Author: Dr. Mahendra Bhatnagar 165

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ISBN : 978-93-86163-46-2 Paperback : 214 pages Publisher : Onlinegatha Language : English The Poetry of Mahendra Bhatnagar : Realistic & Visionary Aspects by Dr. Mahendra Bhatnagar is available at Onlinegatha.

Shekher Srivastava You Are Beautiful, O Woman!

Since time immemorial, the woman has stood the testimony of time. As a mother, as a wife and as a daughter, she has untiringly continued to fulfil her role as defined by God. She has always been man's beautiful companion and the quite sentinel of his aspirations and ambitions. She has nurtured hope, walking hand-in-hand in every downturn, lending him unwavering support and encouragement, applauding every milestone, big or small. In return, she has never yearned for any appreciation or praise. However, being human, she would be happy to be acknowledged and appreciated, even if they are two kind words. This book is an attempt to write an ode to all women acknowledging them for who they are, why they are and what they are. Towards giving her the pedestal she deserves, the book describes and explains "Wumanity" as the basis of love and life as the 166

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basis that has forever fostered a benevolent, humane and socially responsible society. It recognizes that there was a purpose why God created the woman.

Title: You Are Beautiful, O Woman!

Author: Shekher Srivastava ISBN-10: 8193186109 ISBN-13: 978-8193186107 Paperback: 248 pages Publisher: Leaf Press Year: Second Edition, 2016 Language: English You Are Beautiful, O Woman! by Shekher Srivastava is available at Leaf Press.

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Tushar Sen Pandora's Box Pandora’s Box is a collection of tales that have woven reality and fiction together to serve to the reader spine chilling narratives and jaw dropping climaxes. Most of the stories are inspired by real life incidents and characters – like Saddam Hussein’s CIA connection, the secret army of the Indian prime minister, Hitler’s biggest mass murderer, strangest rains where frogs fell from the sky, heroism of Moldof, terrorist funding in Columbia, NASA’s controversial moon landings and so on.

Some stories are inspired by characters around you who touch your lives in so many ways yet go unnoticed. Some climaxes will urge you to read the story again with a new perspective.

If imagination is more powerful than knowledge then here is a book that invites you to join the author in the most powerful imaginative endeavors you may have ever undertaken till now . . . in a literary environment of course.

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Title: Pandora’s Box Author: Tushar Sen ISBN-10: 9384027936 ISBN-13: 978-9384027933 Paperback : 166 pages Publisher : Frog Books Language : English Year: August 13, 2015 Pandora’s Box by Tushar Sen is available at Amazon.

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CLRI Online Edition (Quarterly) Submission to our online edition is open year round. You can submit in the open categories or themed categories any time. See further details at our page of Announcement.

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The End

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