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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Contents
THE LITERARY JEWELS Volume I Issue 2 January-March 2012 Editor: Amritbir Kaur
03 FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK COVER STORY 04 Chetan Bhagat: The Story ‘Seller’ -Siddhartha Mukherjee, Amritbir Kaur
38
REEL STORY
FAITH AND NATURE
07 Book Review Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition
CULTURAL EXCHANGE 27 Nabha Poetry Festival, November 2011 - Mohinderpal Babbi
TELLING A TALE 09 Pansies are Beautiful - Aman Mangat
TRANSLATED TREASURES 30 Malkoha’s Nest -Veena Verma
POETIC PLEASURE 12 An Ode to Kashmir - Shyam Sunder Kaushik
32 Bridge of Silence - Satinder Singh Noor
12 To Err is Human - Rohit Singh Bedi
SPECIAL FEATURES 33 Libretti Lumi: Poetry for Two Operas 35 Jaipur Literature Festival 2012
13 Evils’ Rhyme - Kartar Dars
REEL STORY 38 Faith And Nature
FLIGHT OF TALENT 22 Childhood Gains Wings - Our Correspondent (Chandigarh)
WORDS’ WORTH 42 Spiritual Corner -Surjit Singh Gulati
STUDENT SPEAKS 23 School Bullying - No more a NIghtmare - Sonakshi Arora
42 You-Life-HIM -Vishwanath Seshadri
IN PHILOSOPHICAL TERMS 25 The Trusted Ally -Parambir Kaur
43 YOUR SAY ART & ARTIFACTS 45 Sculpting his Path to Glory -Harminder Boparai
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
From the Editor’s Desk Heartiest Greetings to all my Esteemed Readers!
Editor Amritbir Kaur
Immensely encouraged by the warm welcoming response to the
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first issue of ‘The Literary Jewels’, an online magazine of Art, Culture and Education, I am elated to present before you all the second issue.
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We often say life is like a river. That is not just because of its continuity, but also because it passes through various phases. The journey of a
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river is full of numerous ups and downs. It babbles down the stony paths, passes through the dense growth of foliage, calmly passes by in the plains, carries within itself flowers, twigs etc. Tennyson, the celebrated English poet, has very well
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theliteraryjewels@gmail.com to different phases in the journey of a river. We pass through many rough patches in life. We carry with ourselves loads of memories,
lation. This copy is circu-
both delightful and those that left a bad taste. When I contemplated about ‘The lated on the condition that jurisdiction for all disputes concerning published matter will be forums /tribunals at Delhi. No article, story, photo or any other matter can be reproduced from this magazine without written
Literary Jewels’ after the release of its first issue, I felt the same about it. Just a beginning right now, the magazine is yet to face a stony patch. It is only after those jerks and jumps that it will sail smoothly in the world of literary magazines. I have full faith that ‘The Literary Jewels’ will continue to have your support, encouragement and inspiration. And I promise to make tireless efforts to fulfill your expectations and improve the standard with every issue. The essence of the magazine is to have a variety of write-ups. The motto of ‘The Literary Jewels’ is to provide a platform to the newly emerging writers, while keeping intact a high
permission.
quality of writing. Hence, quality comes first, and not quantity. Now go ahead and enjoy your journey through this 46-pages second issue of the GET IN TOUCH AT
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Cover Story
Chetan Bhagat: The Story ‘Seller’ Chetan Bhagat has become a rage with the youth. We can spot his books with the railway station book vendor, roadside book stalls, market place vendors, that is, of course, apart from the book shops meant for the elite readers. Let alone the book vendors, we can even see a boy selling Chetan Bhagat at a traffic intersection along with some other knick-knacks. So with ‘Revolution 2020’ Chetan Bhagat has become a ‘road rage’ too! -Editor
E
quilibrium in all spheres is the force that underlies the peaceful existence of the whole of this universe. But as exceptions, there are disconcerting dimensions like idiots, pretentious cretins and the likes of Chetan Bhagat, who unleash terror with their paperback atrocities. Both these facets, of dependence and dislike deserve their degree of dedication. Here's one to something I don't quite fancy. About 5 years back, I bought this book called ‘Five Point Someone’ (‘FPS’, as I would like to call it, out of the horror that the full name now instills in me). It would be interesting to find out what not to do at IIT, I had thought, brushing aside the warning signs given by a tasteless book cover and font (including the size, face and its colour, in their triadic disharmony, both inside and outside). What I mean to suggest is that I gave full chance to the book to exercise a change in the impression it had initially made upon me. FPS, which till then was gaming parlance to me, soon left my linguistic inventory, never to come back. The present article is neither meant to be a book review nor a critique. It is an introspec-
tive account of my regret at having crossed paths with FPS. Now here a few important questions: Why am I taking so much pain by writing it then? Why does it bother me? Simply, because reading a bad book is something you can never undo. It takes away a part of you, not to mention a handsome amount of time spent in reading it (which thanks to Bhagat's bourgeois grammar, pleonastic sentence formation, redundant thoughts and humdrum language, was not that significant a factor here!!!). And if I could spare myself the leisure of quoting from real literature, "I'm here to bury Chetan, not to praise him." It definitely was, and is incontestably mercenary. And judging by his choice themes for portrayal and his complexity of thought (or rather the lack of it), I can safely say that all his future works too will be aimed at the masses. We must not forget here that this kind of writing always comes at the cost of quality. The one and only good thing to it is that it makes those people take up books who would never have done that otherwise. It's disheartening though that most of them don't go beyond the horizons of ‘Bhagatitude’. And it becomes the ‘cul-de-sac’ of their reading experience. I started reading the book, without any hopes or preset mindsets, for it was just out at that time without a lot of reviews doing rounds. And I am glad, for that was the most opportune time for reading that
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Cover Story book, else the hope they would've conjured up would ence. have lead me to a greater disappointment, leading to a I don't fully gather as to what effect people associate his name to their experience in reading. "I love more acrid response from my side. I did not finish reading the book. I could not convince to read" they tend to touch up with "my favourite myself to. Predictability is flirtatious, but my encoun- author is Chetan Bhagat". And that takes away any ters with books had armed me to extrapolate the regard I might have had about them. Along with storyline of the only disappointment I happened to lay him now come a myriad of other authors, producmy hands on. The language and style(?) of writing made ing story books that flood the now unfriendedsure I content myself with the calculated guesses. Eighty neighbourhood bookstores. Some of them might odd pages into it, I took the nearest exit, silencing the be better than the others, no denying that. But when impressive narration of a teenager beginning to pen I enter the store with my wish list in mind, and his inner voice, often running out of ink, often run- hopes mounting like the notes in a mental whistle, and have to realise that CB is the most "in thing", ning out of thoughts. ergo they did not risk/bother getting copies of the Being specific for a while, I would like to mention: His books are definitely works of literature by any well writ brethren of books, I cannot be expected means. They are not novels either, by any norms of to keep my calm. novel writing, and I can debate on that and dismember Why people enjoy his books is because they relate to it in some regard, I guess. The commonplace any argument you could try conjuring in his favour. His works are short of comic books due to a visible drudgery or the joy one finds in the anecdotal staclack of speech bubbles, also devoid of any form of cato of intermittent ups and downs of life and its imagery (which comic books are best known for, albeit portrayal in the linguistic equivalent of a tramp. literal), also the most basic virtue of a novel. Not to It instills, like I mentioned at the start, horror at the realisation that the youth is holding CB as their mention the meek namesake of a storyline. The character names do not go beyond the most un- standard for reading. Being generous, I would not deny it as maybe an occasional accompaniment to imaginative, common Indian names. The humour is not even borderline seasoned, or re- an otherwise thorough and elegant bookshelf, but it cannot be the definitive motely satiric. It is at its best, anecIt instills horror at the realisation that the identity of anyone's reading dotal. I personally did not want to be any youth is holding Chetan Bhagat as their habit. One man's riches of the characters from his book standard for reading. Being generous, I should not come at the cost (which again is the least an author's would not deny it as maybe an occasional of a million people's accepaccompaniment to an otherwise thorough tance of mediocrity, to the imagination should incite), and I and elegant bookshelf, but it cannot be don't really think anyone would. the definitive identity of anyone's reading extent that New York Times called him "the biggest sellFive books down, the quality of habit. ing English language novelwork is still the same, which in his ist in India’s history". Kudos! case, is not something one should pride in. The sneak peek to the story behind the book is a peep I'm sure although that the next trip home too, like show I would choose to avoid. It shows the wrong kind every other trip anywhere, will have yet another traveller looking intently into a CB book. For his of flesh to my liking. He single handedly brings down the average quality of benefit, I hope he moves on. And so does everyIndian writers. And there are avant-garde authors as one else with anything CB. Because CB does not opposed to our very own enfant terrible of epiphanous translate to "C'est bien"! trite in writing. The detailing is pretty much anti-LOTR, Siddhartha Mukherjee and the scenes bask in a negative space of non-exist5
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
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Cover Story
‘SAB FILMY HAI !!!’ We’ve had movies like ‘Hello’ and the one that was a roaring success, ‘3 Idiots’. What was common in both was what has now become a household name even with non-readers, Chetan Bhagat. Both films were based on his novels, ‘One Night at a Call Center’ and ‘Five Point Someone’. As the news has it, Sajid Nadiadwala is planning to produce a film based on Chetan Bhagat’s novel ‘2 States’ and Ranbir Kapoor has been approached for the lead role. The rights of the latest Bollywood fiction flick by Chetan Bhagat ‘Revolution 2020’ have already been purchased by UTV. While ‘2 States’ is a story of inter-regional love between a girl from
North India and boy from South India, ‘Revolution 2020’ is a love triangle.
No scriptwriting for Bollywood: Chetan His books have invariably found a visual spin in Bollywood, but writer Chetan Bhagat, whose latest work "Revolution 2020" has just hit the stands, says he isn't game to sit and script a film. The corporate executive-turned-author, who admits he has imbibed a lot from the late Apple co-founder Steve Jobs, reasons he would rather continue the magic of words with good old books. (Source:IANS)
There is heaps of praise, there is intense criticism. If I take it all seriously, how will I write? Or rather, how will I live? Life is not to be taken seriously, as we are really temporary here. We are like a pre-paid card with limited validity. -Chetan Bhagat
It’s no point wasting time on a person like Chetan Bhagat. -Aamir Khan, Actor
He matters precisely because he sells. Cele-Hartosh Singh Bal, Writer/Journalist
Qu
His (Chetan Bhagat) books are like fast food. -Sonam Kapoor, Actor at the launch of Revolution 2020 6
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Cover Story
BOOK REVIEW
‘Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition’ Amritbir Kaur Revolution 2020’, the fifth novel of Chetan Bhagat, too begins with a Prologue just like all his other novels. The Prologue binds you to the story as a reader. The only difference is that this time the prologue continues at the end of the novel and the whole story of ‘Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition’ is a flashback of the events that have already happened. As a reader, I found the prologue comparatively a bit less effective in evoking a sense of suspense and mystery. As far as the pace of the story is concerned, the pace of events happening in the first half of the book is fast but they become a bit dragged in the second half. Inspite of this, the greatest achievement of Chetan Bhagat is that he keeps the reader hooked on to his book till the end. Though Chetan Bhagat has none of the literary touches (you’ll be
totally disappointed if you are a fan of Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry, Jhumpa Lahiri or Amitav Ghosh), yet he is a good story-teller. At times the things become predictable, just like it happens occasionally in Bollywood masala flicks. After all, soon ‘Revolution 2020’ would be one amongst them. At the very onset of the story of the novel, Bhagat visits GangaTech college in the city of Varanasi, where he is to deliver a lecture. The story presents before us a love-triangle, which involves two childhood friends, Raghav and Aarti, and Gopal. As might be expected, Gopal falls in love with Aarti, who instead professes her love for her childhood friend, Raghav. And then in vengeance, Gopal sets out to prove himself better than Raghav. In this venture Gopal entangles himself in educators-MLAs nexus. Thus, Bhagat weaves in a social message along with a masala story.
Three Idiots was only inspired by Chetan Bhagat's book. That is why the film is very different. I am glad I didn't make it like the book. The film is much brity superior to the book, even though he (Bhagat) later -ote said that he should have been given credit for the film. The book was very mediocre. I could not go beyond 10 pages. -Vidhu Vinod Chopra Producer-3 Idiots at India Film Festival, December 2011, Goa 7
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Pansies are Beautiful
Telling-A-Tale
Aman Mangat The screaming noise of the telephone woke me
sisterly feelings between us, not from my side, at
up. In a half dazed state I picked up the receiver
least. Or was it that I refused to acknowledge it?
and heard a tense voice at the other end. It was dad.
Pansy was born with a blood disorder called haemophilia. It is a condition when factor VIII, a
“Daisy, Pansy is dying…” my mind went numb. “W…what…no Dad, this can’t be true!” “Wish it wasn’t honey, but we have to accept it.
vital component of blood is missing and blood doesn’t clot. This meant that whenever she bruised or even scratched herself, she had to undergo the painful procedure of complete blood transfusion.
Come soon dear, it is time to say
So, as a baby, she was taken special
goodbye…”
care of. Barely five years old
Suddenly I was too awake and too aware of what lay ahead. ‘Goodbye’…’Goodbye’? Pansy, my little sister was dying. I knew she was terminally ill, but I did not know her end was so near. Fighting back the blinding tears, I woke up my friend with whom I shared the apartment and explained the situation. Her reaction was one of utter surprise. I did not, could not, reply when she asked, “Sister! You have a sister?”
myself and suffering from the usual sibling jealousy, I failed to see her medical problems. All I saw was the pain and worries that she caused to my parents. Mother, particularly looked frail and sad all the time and suddenly one day, when Pansy was two years old, she fell ill and left us forever. Dad explained that she had a brain tumor. I felt betrayed and confused and blamed Pansy for her death. After all, it was her ‘blood defect’ that caused mother all the worries and ultimately the tumor. Thus, Pansy
The plane took off and I closed my eyes. Sister!
became the guilty and victim. I would slap her, hurt
My friend had exclaimed. It hit me then how little
her and tell her that God had punished Mom for
I spoke of Pansy ever since I came to the U.S.
her illness and that she was responsible for her
some six years back. ‘Sister’ was a farfetched
death. Growing up together wasn’t easy for either
term, ‘sibling’ was more like it, for there were no
of us. While I became more and more difficult and irritated, Pansy became more and more shy and 9
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Telling-A-Tale reserved. I knew she was hurt but I never made any effort to console her. The pain of mom’s death was still fresh in my mind. Since she was constantly ill,
“No one.” I had had my revenge.
she couldn’t attend school regularly. The days we
Time passed by and Pansy became more and more
went to school together, I would walk fast with my
sick. Her immune system became weak and she
friends. At times, I would turn around and see her
was constantly suffering from one disease or the
lagging behind, sometimes out of breath. But I
other. Frequent blood transfusions took their toll.
only quickened my pace. Her sad expression told
She had to drop out of school. A tutor was
me she understood I was avoiding her deliberately.
arranged for her at home. I left for the U.S. to
That gave me a lot of satisfaction. After all, that
study medicine. With time and distance, my
was the plan.
attitude towards her softened. At times I missed
It was my twelfth birthday and I had invited some friends over for a party. I felt ashamed of my sickly and ugly sister and didn’t want her around. But dad wouldn’t let me have the party if she wasn’t a part of it and eventually, I agreed. After I cut the cake, she came forward and shyly gave me a card she had been making for the past two days. It was a simple card with the drawing of a little girl, Pansy’s age,
her but now I didn’t have the courage to talk to her. After completing my MBBS, I opted for a special course in the study of haemophilia. Perhaps, it was a conscious decision on my part. Secretly, I hoped I would find a cure to heal Pansy. As I labored in the labs, in another part of the world, my sister was slowly dying of this dreadful disease.
holding a bouquet of pink flowers in her hand. It
It was raining heavily when I got off the plane. I
said “Happy Birthday, Daisy. I love you.” Suddenly
hated the depressing aura and wished it would
I had a plan.
stop. Dad came to the airport to pick me up. We
“Its ugly…these flowers. You know what flowers are these?”
raining when we reached home. When I first saw
“Pansies. They are ugly wild flowers which grow on their own. No one plants them in the pots because
“No one?”
to say and then it struck me it was my last chance to tell Pansy how much I loved her. It was still
“No.”
no one wants them.”
talked little on the way home. There was nothing
her, the first thought that came to my mind was – how weak she looked..and how beautiful. She smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I looked out of the window cursing the rain. Suddenly, she stirred a little and then she was gone. Forever.
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Telling-A-Tale Before I had time say to say ‘I love you’ or even
she had found on the doorstep. Someone had just
‘sorry’.
left it there. There was no message or card
Days turned into weeks and then it was time for me to go back. But there was a heavy weight in my
attached. Moreover, she was confused as the flowers were out of season.
heart. The night before I had to leave, I was going
“These don’t grow at this time of the year…don’t
through family albums. In every picture Pansy
understand.”
seemed to be smiling at me, consoling me. Suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. I knelt and prayed to God, to her spirit, to forgive me. I asked her to give me a sign of her forgiveness. I wept for a long time and miraculously, I felt her presence beside me. I felt blessed.
But I did. Sometimes the heart knows what reason can’t explain. As I came out of the house, I noticed that it had stopped raining and the sun was appearing from behind the clouds. I looked at the bouquet, the sign I prayed for. The pansies were beautiful.
The next morning as I was getting ready to leave, the maid came to me with a bouquet of flowers
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
The Poetic Pleasure
AN ODE TO KASHMIR Shyam Sunder Kaushik
The blood of us was in the same pot cast. Why be bait for vultures in wait, The bigger the vessel the safer the fate. Sweet are the fruits of boughs so bent, God bless the heaven with SUFI endowment
‘To Err is Human’ Rohit Singh Bedi
Where earth is the envy of the firmament, A graffity of nature so permanent. Where never the sun fade nor moon wane, The Angel’s abode and God’s domain. But alas ! the Satan in intent insane, Possessed the Angels in order to reign. The snow was sick with blood so pure, The lake was livid for lost azure. Air is heavy with fear and pain, Weeping lies the desolate lane. Lives perish and moments freeze, To sing the dirge moans the breeze. Rise, O Angels ! with rancour slain, Love and peace be thy domain. Go to the past, and not very past,
We are afraid of making mistakes Forever evading chances to make an error However inadvertent it may seem At work, society and home Projecting a semblance of perfection Belying popular beliefs: ‘To err is human,...’ ‘Mistakes are essential to grow’ Cheating our own selves Wary of changes, big or small Happy treading the beaten path Howsoever obsolete it maybe!
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
The Poetic Pleasure
Evils’ Rhyme Kartar Dars
You Dream in Your Mother Tongue, We make them True. We are proud to Design Corruption gulping country badly O comrade Isn’t now the suitable time to crusade? Dignity of country conceals face in shame When rises politics to the number one trade. Whenever go astray in jungle of suspense Find within yourself safe and sound glade. Disheartened we vote for our destiny-makers Not bloody less than twice within a decade. Warp and the weft of country is entangled I ask why it should not be remade. Never could hindrances stem your way to goal If dare devil dreams in your hearts pervade. Motivation necessary is for the despondents So that them we could be able to persuade. Victim’s anger turns to lava very dreadful When and where unduly justice is delayed.
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Everyone on earth be fully complacent Debt of humanity will then be defrayed.
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Classic Corner
TALE OF TWO CITIES CHARLES DICKENS
Book the First—Recalled to Life (Continued from the previous issue)
IV. The Preparation
W
hen the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon. By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog. “There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?” “Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed, sir?” “I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.” “And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please. Show Concord!
Gentleman’s valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off gentleman’s boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!” The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to his breakfast. The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat, with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might have been sitting for his portrait. Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Classic Corner good leg, and was a little vain of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and reserved expression of Tellson’s Bank. He had a healthy colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety. But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson’s Bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on. Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it: “I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman from Tellson’s Bank. Please to let me know.” “Yes, sir. Tellson’s Bank in London, sir?” “Yes.”
“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company’s House.” “Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.” “Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think, sir?” “Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we— since I—came last from France.” “Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people’s time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.” “I believe so.” “But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen years ago?” “You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from the truth.” “Indeed, sir!” Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left, dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the immemorial usage of waiters in all ages. When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk 15
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Classic Corner cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter. As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry’s thoughts seemed to cloud too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging, digging, digging, in the live red coals. A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work. Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam’selle!” said he. In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from Tellson’s. “So soon?” Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson’s immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience. The gentleman from Tellson’s had nothing left for it but to empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette’s apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if they were buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected from them until they were dug out. The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a ridingcloak, and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an
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Classic Corner inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions—as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him, of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the feminine gender—and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
cupids. As if they had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets! “—rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for the purpose.” “Myself.” “As I was prepared to hear, sir.” She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he was than she. He made her another bow.
“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself, during the journey, under that worthy gentleman’s protection. The gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that some intelligence—or discovery—”
“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall be more happy to execute it.”
“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
“—respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw—so long dead—” Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of negro
“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes—I—” 17
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Classic Corner After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the ears, “It is very difficult to begin.” He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression—but it was pretty and characteristic, besides being singular—and she raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing shadow. “Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?” “Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with an argumentative smile. Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the moment she raised her eyes again, went on: “In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you as a young English lady, Miss Manette?” “If you please, sir.” “Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don’t heed me any more than if I was a speaking machine—truly, I am not much else. I will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
customers; in the banking business we usually call our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific gentleman; a man of great acquirements—a Doctor.” “Not of Beauvais?” “Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that time in our French House, and had been—oh! twenty years.” “At that time—I may ask, at what time, sir?” “I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married— an English lady—and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson’s hands. In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss; there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere machine. To go on—” “But this is my father’s story, sir; and I begin to think”—the curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him—”that when I was left an orphan through my mother’s surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”
“Story!” He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added, in a hurry, “Yes,
Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then conducted the
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Classic Corner young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking down into her face while she sat looking up into his. “Miss Manette, it was I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of Tellson’s House since, and I have been busy with the other business of Tellson’s House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary Mangle.” After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was before), and resumed his former attitude. “So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died when he did—Don’t be frightened! How you start!” She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands. “Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation—a matter of business. As I was saying—” Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain;—then the history of your father would have been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.” “I entreat you to tell me more, sir.” “I will. I am going to. You can bear it?” “I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this moment.” “You speak collectedly, and you—are collected. That’s good!” (Though his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business. Regard it as a matter of business—business that must be done. Now if this doctor’s wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was born—” “The little child was a daughter, sir.” “A daughter. A-a-matter of business—don’t be distressed. Miss, if the poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born, that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of the agony she 19
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Classic Corner had known the pains of, by rearing her in the belief that her father was dead—No, don’t kneel! In Heaven’s name why should you kneel to me!” “For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!” “A—a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so much more at my ease about your state of mind.” Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry. “That’s right, that’s right. Courage! Business! You have business before you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with you. And when she died—I believe broken-hearted— having never slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.” As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already tinged with grey. “You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what they had was secured to
your mother and to you. There has been no new discovery, of money, or of any other property; but—” He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror. “But he has been—been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best. Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.” A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream, “I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost—not him!” Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there, there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now. You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.” She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!” “Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would
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Classic Corner be worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries, because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove him—for a while at all events—out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even Tellson’s, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries, and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, ‘Recalled to Life;’ which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn’t notice a word! Miss Manette!” Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out loudly for assistance without moving. A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too, or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back against the nearest wall.
(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry’s breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.) “Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants. “Why don’t you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don’t you go and fetch things? I’ll let you know, if you don’t bring smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar, quick, I will.” There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care. “And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry; “couldn’t you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call that being a Banker?” Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon her shoulder. “I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry. “No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”
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Classic Corner “I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?” “A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever intended that I should go across salt
water, do you suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an island?” This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to consider it.
(To be continued in the next issue)
Flight of Talent
Childhood Gains Wings Our Correspondent|Chandigarh theliteraryjewels@gmail.com The dreams of childhood have gained wings in Azal Dosanjh’s maiden book ‘Dreaming Kids’. The play penned by a mere 11-year-old Azal has also been translated into Punjabi by famous Punjabi poet, Jaswinder as ‘Sufne Lainde Bachche’. The illustrations have been contributed by Ekam Pannu, a class eleventh student of DAV School, Jalandhar, situated in the state of Punjab in India. ‘Dreaming Kids’ is about the flights of imagination of a young child and his friends. The character of the play are Azal himself, his friends including Karman, Amardeep and Harnoor. The play has all the elements of the
innocence of childhood like colourful dreams, the pure thinking and minds of children. Azal is a student of Ryan International School, Mohali. He aspires to achieve further heights in the field of art and literature. He has rightly stepped into the footsteps of his father, Sushil Dosanjh, who is a noted Punjabi writer, columnist and editor of a known Punjabi magazine ‘Hun’. His mother Kamal Dosanjh is a writer too. Perceiving the talent exhibited by this young writer, Punjabi Sahit Academy (Ludhiana, Punjab) has conferred an honorary membership upon Azal Dosanjh. It is truly said ‘Creativity knows no bounds of age or anything’. May this flower of creativity bloom as fresh as ever for all times to come!
For Latest Updates on Literary News, Events, Book Reviews and much more, Keep visiting
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Student Speaks
School Bullying-No more a Nightmare! get away from the fear of being trapped in the feeling of isolation again. Sonakshi Arora
B
The consequences of bullying are even worse. It leaves an exceedingly negative impact on not just the victim, but also the witnesses. The sufferers of its after-effects can, therefore, be affected academically, physically, socially, emotionally and even psychologically. A lot of reliable studies have been done in this regard, results of which show anxiety, sleeplessness and low self-esteem as the immediate symptoms, besides countless others.
eing bullied at school is indeed one of the biggest nightmares ever. The need of the hour is to throw away this toothed watchdog from our hearts and get rid of this fear for now and forever. Just to reiterate the innumerable ways in which students can be bullied at Now that we are well schools, it’s important to trace acquainted with the concept of back the ways in which kids can bullying, it is very important for be vulnerable to bullying. all of us, especially the parents Bullying can be verbal, and teachers, to ponder over the emotional, physical, cyber, question of “bullying”. First sexual and homophobic. and foremost, it is necessary to Bullying usually happens at make sure that neither is your school when a target student is child being bullied, is he attacked in various ways by a indulging into bullying group of students. This gang someone else. Secondly, it is initially wins the bystanders’ highly desirable to identify the loyalty by threatening them that warning signs of a child being they’ll be their next target or bullied at school and they need victim on the hit list. This is to be ensued by the necessary followed by taking the steps in order to rectify the vulnerable student in isolation and harassing him/her in the above mentioned ways of bullying. The target damage done. is primarily teased and taunted, subsequent to which If the child has suddenly started showcasing a physical bullying turns the tables on the victim. relatively different behaviour than before, it’s It is very important to eradicate this dirty problem important to peep through the matter and prevent from our society. We often notice that pupils turn even worse from happening. For instance, becoming into bullies on being treated strangely or differently quiet and withdrawn, getting frustrated easily, often by their peers which makes them feel left out and making excuses to miss school, and showing lonely. As a result of this, they take up activities, which reluctance to move out in recess time and so on. make them suppress all those they wish to take But don’t you worry! Know for a fact that it’s still not revenge against or they wish to oppress in order to late! Just follow the dependable 4 R’s principle and 23
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Student Speaks feel the magic working on your child by making him/ operate and listen to your problem and try to solve her bully proof. in the best possible manner. RECOGNISE: Your chief responsibility would be to recognise the intrusion of the painful injection of “Bullying” in your child’s life. Identify the symptoms and try to analyse the root-cause of the occurrence of such an event. Furthermore, make sure that you do not flinch and listen to the whole issue your child is willing to get across to you. Rest assured, once you take the first step, you are, in reality, simultaneously in reality are also taking the first step towards helping your child overcome victimisation. RELATE: Your next step should be to relate to the school. Remember, withdrawing your child from the school might be your first thought but that isn’t a wise one. It’s important for you to recognise that no school wants such happenings so they would surely co-
REPORT: Once you have well identified the whole matter, your instantaneous step must be to report the incident to the approachable authority. You must keep in mind that you do not get offensive at any point, yet put across your concern in a straightforward manner. RECORD: Your final step should be to take care of the record maintenance as to what was the whole case and how it was handled. Put down every single date, time and actions that were taken. Make an entry of precise and accurate details to prove the authenticity in case of reproducing the record to the authority in case of a repeated bullying case.So, exercise the power of the 4 R’s the next time you come across such an incident!!
If you are student and interested in writing, you can send us your write ups for the column 'Student Speaks'. theliteraryjewels@gmail.com
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In Philosophical Terms
The Trusted Ally
But one thing is certain, that to avoid facing problems on account of some past mistakes, it is Parambir Kaur
imperative to learn from the previous experiences. The past is a great teacher, an able guide and a mentor. By regularly taking lessons from the bygones, one
I
t is a widely accepted belief that the past is
best forgotten and it is no use fretting over it. Same is true of the future as well, as we do not
know what it has in store for us. So worrying about the time to come too is a futile exercise. It is only ‘today’ and ‘now’ that one is left with. ‘Present’ is the time, then, that needs to be taken care of, planned and utilized to the maximum. Squandering the time available on one’s hands is equivalent to wasting life itself. The way, we use the ‘present’, determines the quality of our ‘yesterdays’ and ‘tomorrows’.
can improve, become mature, achieve success in one’s undertakings, scale newer heights, emerge victorious in difficult situations and accept new challenges of life as and when they materialize. In fact an earnest analysis of the past makes the path to the times ahead, well-lit, obstacle-free and smooth. The American philosopher, George Santayana has rightly enunciated, “Those who cannot remember the past, are condemned to repeat it.” Now, this certainly does not imply that a person should just go on recalling and lamenting over
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In Philosophical Terms one’s past mistakes and contract depression and routine, the past proves to be a trusted ally once again. tension in that bargain. Rather one has to keep one’s One just has to close one’s eyes for a short while and face towards the golden future that is beckoning, with recollect some, natural scenes like a grassy expanse limitless possibilities in its lap, in the form of ‘present’, or an unforgettable sight of a spring or flower-laden ‘today’, and ‘now’. Of course one’s achievements in trees lining the stretch of a road, to feel rejuvenated. the past do prompt one to improve the score further. This mind-trip makes one feel fresh, improves one’s Its only that one has to be vigilant enough not to concentration and the quality of work. Sagacious use overstay while visiting the past or else ‘today’ might of the times gone by can make our ‘todays’ and slip away unnoticed, giving way to remorse later. The ‘tomorrows’ more valuable; even inimitable and one real purpose of life is to keep advancing and not may evolve into a better being! looking back. Sometimes, when one is on the lookout for a refreshing break from the mechanical
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Cultural Exchange
Nabha Poetry Festival, November 2011
Mohinderpal Babbi
I
n keeping with the tradition of fourteen years, the fifteenth Nabha Poetry Festival was celebrated on November, 2011 in the city of Nabha, situated in the Patiala district of Punjab state. The festival was held in joint collaboration of Languages Department Punjab and Bhai Kahn Singh Nabha Literary Discussion Forum (Bhai Kahn Singh Nabha Rachna Vichar Manch).
intrusion of foreign language we have started distancing from using our mother tongue in its pure, unadulterated form. And it is through such programmes that we make an effort to attach ourselves back to our moorings. The day-long session was presided over by Prof. Ajmer Singh Aulukh, the famous Punjabi dramatist; Dr. Deepak Manmohan Singh, Director, World Punjabi Centre; and Dr. Balbir Kaur, Director, Languages Department. Among those who made their presence felt on stage were: Prof. Anoop Virk, Dr. Satish Kumar Verma, Prof. Gurbhajan Gill, Dr. S. Tarsem, S. Sukhchain Singh Bhandari, Iqbal Ramoowalia (Canada), Shri Parminderjeet and the President of the Manch, Shri Darshan Buttar.
Famous Punjabi poets from all over India took part in the recitation. The The programme celebrated poets, was inaugurated who recited their by the poems in the Chairperson of morning session, the Forum, were: Dr. S. Tarsem M a j o r (Malerkotla), Prof. Adarshpal Gurbhajan Gill Singh. He said (Ludhiana), that there is a Par minder jeet dire need of (Amritsar), Prof. being attached Anoop Virk to our roots and (Patiala), Jaswinder our mother (Ropar), Surjit tongue. He stressed on the fact that with the Judge (Phagwara), Satish Gulati (Ludhiana), 27
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Cultural Exchange Sushil Dosanjh (Mohali), Jaswant Zafar (Ludhiana), B.S. Bir (Nabha), Dr. Manmohan (New Delhi), Manjinder Dhanoa (Ludhiana), Joginder Amar (New Delhi), Lakhwinder Johal (Jalandhar), Kavinder Chaand (Patiala), Harvinder Bhandal (Kapurthala), Sukhchain Bhandari (Sirsa), Artinder Sandhu (Amritsar), Amritbir Kaur (New Delhi), Jeninder Chauhan (Nabha), Harvinder (Chandigarh), Ujagar Singh Kanwal (Canada), Ramesh Kumar (Jaamnagar), Anu Bala (Anandpur Sahib) and Prof. Sukhdev Grewal (Nabha).
Sukhdeep (Birdhno), Amritpal Shaida (Patiala), Darshan Cheema (Barnala), Gurbachan (Pathrali), Jasmer Maan (Patiala) and Parneet (Ropar). The satiric poetry of Hari Singh Dilbar was very well received by one and all. The whole audience experienced fits of laughter.
As is the characteristic feature of this festival, the two awards, Shri Kanwar Chauhan Memorial Award – 2011 and Shri Kanwar Chauhan Poetry Award, were bestowed upon Dr. Mohanjeet for his poetry and Harvinder In the second session of the festival the Bhandal for his book ‘Charagahan Ton Paar’ poets presented an unplugged rendition of their poetic creations. The experts, who (‘Beyond the Pastures’). presided over this session, were Sardar This time the festival was dedicated to Panchhi, Prof. Kulwant Grewal, Dr. the memory of Dr. Satinder Singh Noor, a Mohanjeet and Prof. B.S. Bir. Among those who created a rhythmic ambience with the renowned scholar and Gursharan Singh, the magical aura of their poetic voice were Iqbal famous dramatist. The stage was managed by Ramoowalia (special guest poet from Dr. Satish Kumar Verma, Sushil Dosanjh, Canada), Manjit Indra (Chandigarh), Dr. Jeninder Chauhan, Sukhdev Singh Dhindsa Mohanjeet (New Delhi), Shabdeesh (Mohali), and Ashwani Bagria. In the concluding Sardar Panchhhi (Ludhiana), Ram Singh ceremony, mementos were presented to all the (Ludhiana), Jaswinder (Dhanansu), Ajitpal (Moga), Paramvir (Amargarh), Prof. Kulwant participating poets. Grewal (Patiala), Balwinder Sandhu (Patiala),
We, at ‘The Literary Jewels’, believe in cultural exchange. Let us know if you are organising a literary event, be it related to any language. We would love to highlight it here. Send in your event reports at theliteraryjewels@gmail.com 28
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Translated Treasures
Malkoha’s Nest Veena Verma
Q
uite often it so happened that my heart went out in admiration for the creativity, art and the skill displayed by the greenbilled Malkoha in weaving the nests hanging from the branches of elephant grass that grew on the shores of the pond. From a distance, those hanging nests appeared to be no less than beautiful palaces, designed by a wise architect. Many a times I had touched those nests but never broke them. I don’t know why I felt that if ever I touched them they would fall and break just like a beautiful dream. But whenever one goes by the pond’s side for an early morning walk, one can spot the nests fallen on the ground and the Malkohas busy building them all over again. Even today when the twilight’s cool and fresh breeze forced me to visit the green fields, I could see the Malkohas engaged in their nest building activity. They had once again started from a scratch because of the destruction caused by the previous night’s storm. My mind, irritated by the teasing of daily life and mental stress, experienced an unusual type of peace. A young Malkoha was building its nest with full concentration all by himself. Immediately on seeing that young one I was reminded of my sister, Indu, who often remarks, “A Malkoha’s nest is very dear to him. In building the nest the bird invests too much of its time, even the spring time with several beautiful mornings and evenings. That is why a Malkoha’s nest is so beautiful and attractive!”
I laugh as I say, “Hey Sis! Why does this bird, Malkoha waste so much of his time in just building a nest! He can stay wherever he wants, there are so many trees out there, a host of gardens and he can soar high into the skies whenever he wants. And what family liabilities does he have that he keeps on maintaining his house like a typical house-lady. He can spend the lovely time in whatever way that pleases him.” My sister laughs. “Guddi, you are still a kid! You don’t realize how important a nest is for a bird and a house for a human being. A neat, clean, cozy and a cute home! The luxury of a comfortable night’s sleep after seasonal flights can only be enjoyed at one’s own home. Only those who derive pleasure from the joys of flights can appreciate the necessity of a nest.” After listening to her, I would look for long at the nest that was swaying to and fro in the wind and sometimes at the wings-spreading sparrow, that left her nest and in a fraction of a second was lost in the vast expanse of the sky, just like my thoughts. I loved her flight more than her nest. Coming back home I gave myself up to reading a newspaper, magazine or a novel; or simply indulged in gossiping with my friends. But my sister held a broom in her hands and swiftly took to cleaning the floor; making the used utensils shine once again like gold and silver; the furnace glow once again like a fashionable girl by giving it a fresh coat of mud. The terrace floors shone like a mirror after she gave them a wash. Loitering here and there she accomplished a lot many small and big chores. She never called up anyone for help inspite of the fact that there were so many servants present at home all the while.
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Translated Treasures At times I was so irritated at her behaviour that why on earth did she re-do the tasks already done by the servants! May be she is so proud of herself! On being asked she used to reply, “E’er heard of servants running a house efficiently! They are only meant for doing a bit here and a bit there. If you depend on them for everything, they’ll run away.” Silently occupied in her work, my sister appears to me as if she is a Malkoha. Throughout the day she keeps herself busy in beautifying the nest. The mud on her white hands seems black against their beauty. The ashes of the coal beat the colour of henna on her hands. While doing her work she sometimes ties her long hair into a bun and then she seems to be engaged in deep meditation. I am shocked that she is not tired even after spending the whole day in school. My sister spends all her wonderful and precious time in beautifying the house. How beautiful she is! May be the fairies are like her only! Whenever she used to tell me the stories of angels and fairies I used to think, the gods forgot their way after having a look at the fairies and the Sun and Moon stand at their service. Inspite of being so beautiful she did not wear clothes that matched the radiance of her complexion. And I thought that she was a miser, who wants to save some of her precious money and, therefore, does not get fashionable clothes stitched for herself. But the very next moment, cupboards and trunks full of colourful clothes brushed these thoughts aside. Her heel’s cracks on her white feet made one feel as if cracks had appeared on the surface of a mirror. But oblivious of this entire thing, she is too
much engrossed in a world of her own just like the Malkoha. I often laugh it away saying, “Hey Sis! You are just like the bird Malkoha. You never pamper yourself but always keep the house gleaming. I feel a strange kind of pleasure when my friends say ‘Guddi your house is so spick and span always that one can consume food even while sitting on the floor’.” On the very next day early in the morning, my sister went to Patiala for some urgent work. I was feeling a bit lonely, and reluctantly I climbed up the stairs. I could hear sounds emanating from the ventilators. May be the pigeons were sitting there. It appeared that they had made their nest that very day, using blades of grass ‘coz quite a few blades had fallen on the bed placed next to the wall. I felt a bit uneasy. I called Chhotu, our servant, with all my might and asked him to clean up the mess. Feeling actually low, I went further upstairs to the topmost floor. From the terrace when I cast a glance downstairs I could see the topsy-turvy bundle of used utensils, a host of slippers lying in complete chaos and many more things there in a total mess. The sight had a nauseating effect on me. The terrace floor was presenting the scene of a pigeon’s nest. I felt like taking off a flight right from the terrace itself but it was getting dark, so it was not the time for flight rather it was time to return to the nest. With a 31
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Translated Treasures
heavy heart I brought myself down the stairs. May be my full-throated call for Chhotu had fallen on deaf ears. Then standing near the terrace wall I called him again, even more loudly this time. He was playing pebbles with some boys from the neighbourhood. I felt the poison of fury taking control of me, “Eh you, what is this…? Is this your playing time? Who will clean the utensils…?” Dumbstruck, he looked at me in awe and then wiping his face with his arm, he replied hesitatingly, “I never do any household task in the evening. The Elder Sister does it herself…” “Why…are you the King that you don’t work…the owners of the house work while you enjoy yourself playing outside?” I found it hard to control my anger. “It’s not like that younger Sister. Actually Elder Sis tells me that I work for the whole day so I should take a break in the evening and study or play during this time…Today she is not home otherwise she
teaches me in the evenings…” he hardly mustered the courage for uttering these words. “Ok fine, at least work for today evening. I am not like your Elder Sister that I should play your part in cleaning the utensils…” Saying this, I went to have a look at my face in the mirror hanging on the wall of the verandah. My face in the mirror seemed foggy to me. I tried wiping it but ended up getting my fingers covered with dust. “You have not even cleaned this mirror today Chhotu…what did you do the whole day…? Chhotu was fully engrossed in cleaning the utensils with his head bent down. I wiped off the dust on my finger against the whitewashed wall. The dust laughed at me. I tried cleaning the dust with the towel hanging there but the dust continued making faces at me and teasing me. I stared hard at the dust. It humbly replied, “Malkoha is not in the nest today!”
BRIDGE OF SILENCE Satinder Singh Noor
a thousand times but emptiness still the same
A conflict crops up when we try and try What paradoxes words are! to define something. They create relations Come let’s not define anything massacre them as well let’s keep every single one undefined words, both boon and bane and call her embodiment of music Come let’s make poetry personified a bridge of silence something shrinks away from the world of words when defining relationships on that bridge moving to and fro beloved and sweetheart – the words come let’s be free from conflicts debased so often consigned to the dark corners Story and poem Translated from Punjabi by Amritbir Kaur 32
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Special Feature
Libretti Lumi:Poetry for Two Operas Lyrical and deeply resonant, this book of postmodernist poetry explores the dynamics of interpersonal relationships and communication. Built on classical forms, the work draws a direct line from the modern avant garde back through colonial and medieval literature to ancient Rome and Greece. In many ways, it is a summation of the long tradition of literature in the Western world. But don’t let that intimidate you. libretti lumi is a simple and personal account of the effects of love. You will find yourself and your relationships in this book ~the title implies the epiphany you will have when reading it. Non-narrative in format, libretti lumi is the cycles of poetry for two operas. Actually, it is one cantata (a pre-cursor form to opera) and one opera. It is also thoroughly modern and accessible. libretti lumi is really a post-modern love story about a spiritual awakening that documents the process of learning to live with and love one another.
the size of the universe is not its expanse but its age distance is measured in years of light though years without light are also counted the number of the number of the number of the number of
light years from here to there dark years from there to here twilight centuries to somewhere eclipse minutes to anywhere else
thus the size of the universe is not the space between you and me but the time between you and me the moments of light the moments of dark the moments of twilight the moments of eclipse sometimes your light bent around me only by its bending acknowledging my orbit sometimes i reflected your light increasing the beauty of heaven master moon that i am
but always Here’s an poem from the book ‘libretti lumi’ you were the star exclusively for the readers of ‘The Literary Jewels’: i was the satellite the universe is not measured in space but in time
no binary solar system here
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Special Feature the yard stick of light which keeps the time of the universe measure for measure does not plumb a black hole that which is reckoned there is more essential than light and measure for measure is more accurate dark matter is what matters it seems without radiance your gravitational pull exerted influence on my body for a time until the implosion was complete and I was a single meteor flying half frozen half burning across the constant night sky the universe is not measured in space
but in time and we are measured in moments of of of of of
light dark twilight eclipse emptiness
* Roy Anthony Shabla is an esteemed poet and writer with credits in both fiction and non-fiction on various subjects. His work is known for its humanity and its startling epiphanies on the reality of human nature, often with a humorous bent. He is the author of several books, most notably, eating God and (PEACE) WORDS, each of which chronicles the progress of a spiritual person in the physical world. His newest book, libretti lumi, is a cycle of poems exploring the nature of love and communication. Excerpts from eating God and libretti lumi have been used in several short art films, one of which is the poetic masterpiece, body of water. See roytube.com. Roy Anthony Shabla is a longtime publisher and editor, book designer, and bookmaker specializing in small, limited edition, letterpress broadsides and chapbooks.
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Special Feature
Jaipur Literature Festival 2012
“The greatest literary show on Earth!”, as Tina Brown put it, is here again. The Jaipur Literature Festival will be happening from January 20 to 24 at Diggi Palace in Jaipur, Rajasthan (India). Among the participating authors in festival are: A Abhijit Banerjee Aman Sethi Anita Agnihotri Anuradha Roy AC Grayling Amish Tripathi Anjum Zamarud Habib Ariel Dorfman Akash Kapur Amitava Kumar Anna Pavord Arshia Sattar Alka Pandey Amy Chua Antara Dev Sen Arvind Krishna Mehrotra Ashok Vajpeyi Ashwin Sanghi
Ayesha Jalal B Bama Faustina Bani Basu Ben Okri BN Goswamy Bhaichand Patel C C.P. Deval Carl W. Ernst Catherine Weinberger Chetan Bhagat Chandrahas Choudhury Charan Singh Pathik Constance Borde Cheran Charu Nivedita D
Damodar Mauzo David Cannadine David Davidar David Gordon White David Hare David Malone David Remnick Deepak Chopra Devi Moodley Rajab E Ebba Koch Esther David F Fakrul Alam Fatima Bhutto Franklin Lewis G Geling Yan Giriraj Kiradoo
Girish Karnad Gogu Shyamala Gulzar Gurcharan Das H H.S. Shivaprakash Hanan al-Shaykh Hari Kunzru Hariram Meena Hisham Matar Hoshang Merchant I Iftikhar Gilani Ila Arun Ilija Trojanow J Jamaica Kincaid James Mallinson James Shapiro Jason Burke 35
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Special Feature Jatin Nayak Javed Akhtar Jawahar Sarkar Jay Garfield Jeet Thayil John Keay Jonathan Shainin Joseph Lelyveld K K.Satchidanandan Kalli Purie Kamin Mohammadi Kapil Sibal Karima Khalil Karl Sabbagh Katherine Boo Katie Kitamura Kiran Nagarkar Kuldip Nayar Kunal Basu L Lakshmi Sharma Lalit Kumar Lata Sharma Linda Spalding Lionel Shriver M Madan Gopal Singh Madhu Trehan Mahendra Bhanawat Malashri Lal Manisha Kulshrestha Mark Tully Max Rodenbeck Michael Krueger
Michael Ondaatje Miriam Margolyes Mitra Phukan MJ Akbar Mohammed Hanif Monika BoehmTettelbach Mukund Lath N Namita Gokhale Nand Kishore Acharya Nathacha Appanah Navdeep Suri Navtej Bharati Navtej Sarna Nayana Currimbhoy Nayanjot Lahiri Neelabh Ashk Neelam Mansingh Neelum Saran Gour Nidhi Razdan Nirupama Dutt NS Madhavan O Om Prakash Bhatia Om Prakash Valmiki Om Thanvi Oscar Pujol P Parvathy Baul Pavan Varma Peter Popham Philip Gourevitch Philip Marsden Piyush Daiya Pola Oloixarac
Pradiip Krishen Prasoon Joshi Pratibha Ray Purushottam Agrawal Q Qaisra Shahraz R R. Raj Rao Rabi Thapa Radha Chakravarthy Rahul Bhattacharya Rahul Pandita Raja Shehadeh Rameshwar Godara Ramkumar Singh Randy Boyagoda Ranjit Hoskote Richard Dawkins Richard Flanagan Rima Hooja Rita Kothari Romesh Gunsesekera Rosamund Bartlett Roshi Fernando Ruchir Joshi Rupleena Bose S S. Anand S. S. Nirupam Sahil Maqbool Samanth Subramaniam Samit Basu Sari Nusseibeh Shabnam Virmani Shail Mayaram Shashi Tharoor Sheila
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Malovany-Chevallier Shyam Jangid Siddharth Vardarajan Siddhartha Gigoo Simon Sebag Montefiore Steven Pinker Sudhir Kakar Sugata Bose Suman Keshari Suman Yadav Sunil Khilnani Sunil Kumar T Tabish Khair Tahmima Anam Taiye Selasi Tarun Tejpal Teju Cole Thant Myint-U Tim Butcher Tom Stoppard U Uday Prakash V Valmik Thapar Vijay Tankha Vinod Mehta W Wendell Rodricks William Dalrymple Y Yatindra Mishra Z Zha Jianying Ziauddin Sardar
Special Feature The Directors of the DSC Jaipur Literature Festival are William Dalrymple and Namita Gokhale and the festival is produced by Sanjoy K. Roy, Sheuli Sethi and Teamwork Productions. The DSC Jaipur Literature Festival was originally an initiative of the Jaipur Virasat Foundation, an NGO that works with Rajasthan’s musicians and craftspeople to preserve skills and promote economic livelihoods while protecting heritage. Dates: The 2012 DSC Jaipur Literature Festival, Asia-Pacific’s largest literary festival, will be for 5 days from 20-24 January in Jaipur, India. Venue: The DSC Jaipur Literature Festival is held across multiple venues at one festival hub – Diggi Palace. Address: Diggi House, Shivaji Marg, C-Scheme, Jaipur – 302004, Rajasthan (India)
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Reel Story
Faith and Nature When Nature sings a new morning song, the soothing rays of the Sun give a wake-up call to the humanity...
...at that time rises the light of faith with a sense of determination to serve the humanity.
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Reel Story Young lensman Swaranjeet Singh Ashk, belongs to Guru Ki Nagri, Mandi Gobindgarh. (Punjab). He has done his Masters in Journalism from Punjabi University, Patiala. Son of a Journalist and Teacher, Ashk has a keen interest in photography. He has organised two exibhitions to display his photographic art.
When the winds are unfavourable, the seasons against us and everything covered with mist...
...it is only faith then that strengthens us to stand firmly in all adversities.
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Reel Story What we sow, so shall we reap. Sow only what you want as the fruit, it is the Nature that says so...
...Those who submit to this Nature’s law of the Supreme Being and keep their faith as pure as gold, get to reap golden harvests later on. 40
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Reel Story
When we rise above all the trivialites of life and sur render ourselves in front of the Divine...
...He takes us into His abode and gives
us
the
wings to soar high in the skies.
Theme and Description: Deep Jagdeep Singh 41
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Words’ Worth Spiritual Corner
Give it a Thought
You – Life - H IM
Surjit Singh Gulati
Vishwanath Seshadri
“
The world is not the same to all people.Each one lives in his or her own little domain.Peace and harmony may reside in one person’s world ......strife and grief in another’s world. But whatever be the circumstances of one’s environment, it consists of both an inner and an outer world.
Last week a young friend passed away suddenly. He slipped into coma when his blood sugar went down. Despite continuous medical attention and all parameters being normal, he remained in coma and passed away after for a short while. On hearing about his death, I realised again about the fickleness and uncertainty of life. We all realise this but quickly The outside world is the one in which our life forget it in the hustle & bustle of everyday life. is engaged in action and interaction. The world King Yudhistir was once asked about what surprises inside us determines our happiness or unhappiness. him immensely and he replied “Everyday all around To exist in this world without peace of mind is to us we see death and yet people believe that they will dwell in a kind of hell. The mind in chaos finds live forever”. chaos all around. But man of divine perceptions finds the earth a blissful abode. Even knowing that our days are numbered and that we shall give up the ghost sooner or later, we So try to quiet the outgoing mental restlessness continue to lead lives without worrying about the and turn the mind within. Practice even-minded purpose or our direction. We continue to chase after, calmness all the time. Become a king, an absolute and bemoan about, things which do not matter. We monarch of your own mental realm of calmness.” aspire for temporary pleasures. We pursue worthless goals. We discuss vague topics. We listen to junk. We fail to see the presence of God everywhere. We fail to acknowledge His creation. We forget to There are things that upset remember Him. We avoid discussing Him. We turn us...but there should be a away from music that praises Him.
‘you’ who can upset things that upset you!!! -Amritbir Kaur
We do not sincerely worship Him. Nor do we show gratitude for His grace and generosity. Wake up. Waste not a moment. Focus all your senses and mind onto Him. Feel blissful and be blessed. Discover the true meaning of your life. Achieve the true purpose of your life. Reach out to Him before death robs you of this opportunity.
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Letters to the Editor Thanks a lot to all the readers, who gave a very warm and inspiring response about the inaugural issue. Editor The Literary Jewels’
“
Khushwant Singh (author of ‘Turbaned Tornado’)
Congrats Amrit. Excellent work. Keep at it. I would call it a great creative effort by a young creative lady. This is what I am looking for to happen in Punjab, youngsters adopting creative fields as careers. If this happens, the mind shall flourish yet again in this brawn era. Now your job is to pick up creative talent and give them opportunity and exposure through this initiative.
“
Parambir Kaur
Congratulations on launching the journal, The Literary Jewels. Indeed it is an appreciable venture to give writers an opportunity to showcase their ‘wordy pictures’. The cover story ‘The Running Icon’ is inspiring.
The snapshots in ‘The perfect weekend getaway’ are like a whiff of fresh air; so refreshing and invigorating, especially in the prevailing times when we are so preoccupied with worldly affairs and hardly take time out for such sojourns.
“ “ “ “ “
your say
Akashdeep Singh
Heartiest Congratulations on launch of new Online Magazine! And what a day for the auspicious beginning! Also, please pass on my Thanks and Regards to the Editor-in-chief for accepting a modest contribution and making it a part of the first issue.
Anupama Shetty
Thank you, so much for posting my poem, I felt awesome, I wish you come with successful series of this Magazine. All the best.
Anant Bir Singh
Many congratulations for launching ‘The Literary Jewels’. Your effort is applaudable and the contents worthy of Literally Literal Praise! Wishing you every success
P.P. Wangchuk (Senior Editor, Hindustan Times)
Great. Congrats!
Sujit Kumar Thakur
Hearty Congratulations ...I have a small query , will you be interested in putting the contents , article of political nature in the magazine ?
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
your say
“ “ “ “ “
Editor’s Reply:
“ “ “ “ “
Ranjit Singh Sekhon
Basically ‘The Literary Jewels’ is not a political magazine. It is about Art, Culture and Education. You can send in an article that may be about politics in general and not about specific news item, an event or a leader. It could be about the culture of politics.
Awesome…Regards and best wishes for the success of your venture.
Tahlia Newland
Congratualtions on getting this happening. The cover looks good. I haven’t looked inside yet, but I will. I have some photoshop art that you might like for your next edition. Where do I send it
Puneet Kaur
Congrats..!! The magazine is really good, I loved the poems.
Editor’s reply:
Himanshu Guglani
It was great to see a 42 page online literary magazine.
Jaswant Singh Aman
Congrats Amrit....great effort!
Rajbir Singh
Congratulations for a good beginning.
Thanks a lot Tahlia. You can mail your art work to the email id: theliteraryjewels@gmail.com
Happy Honkers
I found the email address. I really enjoyed the article about sleep. The only thing is that I couldn’t work out how to make the words larger, so it was a bit difficult to read.
Editor’s reply:
Thanks dear reader! You can enlarge the text of the magazine simply by clicking on the image of the magazine itself.
We love to hear both praise and brickbats about our work. Genuine criticism is always welcome. So grab your PCs, start writing an email and send it across to: theliteraryjewels@gmail.com 44
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Art & Artifacts
Sculpting his Path to Glory
Harminder Boparai, the sculptor who hails from village Ghaduni Kalan (District Ludhiana, Punjab), is an Art teacher by profession. He has made around 150 sculptors of wood, metal scrap, fibre glass, clay and stone. Recently the appreciation award was given to him by the Lalit Kala Academy for his contribution to the art. Earlier he has been awarded with gold medals in the clay modelling competitions of Punjabi University, Patiala
If you have it flaunt it... All those who want to showcase their artistic talent can contact us at: theliteraryjewels@gmail.com 45
The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012
Wishing You AN Entertaining New Year
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The Literary Jewels/January –March, 2012