Inklette The Club Inkers’ Newsletter Inside This Issue Page 2 The Soldier by Rupert Brooke “How Sleep The Brave!” by Walter De La Mare Page 3 Bestsellers @ NY Times The Editor‟s Bottle of Ink Page 4 & 5 Katha by Maanav Jalan Page 6 Artwork by Ashwin Pandya Submission Guidelines
Today’s Inker To mark the centenary of the World War I, Club Ink organises an Open Mic on the Literature during World War I. The event will take place on November 11, Tuesday, 2014 at Swami Vivekanand Library, Bhopal, India from 5pm to 7pm. The participants will receive free memberships of the American Library and other goodies given by the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai, India.
V O L U M E
1 ,
I S S U E
7
N O V E M B E R
1 1 ,
T U E S D A Y ,
2 0 1 4
Poetry During World War I I did not exist during 1914-1918 but many people did exist and some, unfortunately, ceased to. War is not just a reflection of political relationships or ties between countries. It is not so much about systems and technicalities or analyses as it is about emotions. War prompts us to enter a world that is desolate and vacant. It is not easy to see a neighbourhood being deprived of its inhabitants. It is not easy to see newspapers collecting more obituaries than headlines. The poetry of this age clearly reflects that more than just thinking about economic, social and political issues, people consider people more important. War will not prompt us to contemplate about fiscal deficiency as much as it will affect us when we see a young soldier‟s
corpse feeding on dust. Fire seems to be grand, eloquent and powerful but when it is put out, it can almost injure us.
your heart ache when you saw guns firing, and life taking life?
War means erasing one‟s all-too rigid self. It is the removal of humanity by humanity. When you look into someone‟s wandering eye and if suddenly, that eye were to still and penetrate itself deeply and darkly into you, would you let it? Would you not be struck with grief and pain? Wouldn‟t your mind sicken and
Humans are not perfect and every event in history reiterates this fact. Grief is invincible. It cannot be overcome merely by grief or bliss. It is an indelible mark. It tears us. Forever. But poetry can aid us when we need to aided.
Language is mysterious. Even one syllable can contain a lot within, and war has one syllable. But through language, we are transported to that place in that time. Mothers lost their sons and “The poetry of this age clearly only a poem can reflects that more than just truly explain how thinking about economic, social and political issues, people con- those mothers must have suffered in sider people more important.” their sons‟ eternal absence.
Devanshi Khetarpal
The Soldier by Rupert Brooke If I should die, think only this of me: That there‟s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed: A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England‟s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) was an English poet who is known for his poems based on war. He was educated at Cambridge.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
“How Sleep the Brave!” by Walter De La Mare Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! Not one of these poor men who died But did within his soul believe That death for thee was glorified. Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathed fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come!Walter De La Mare (18731956) was an English literary figure who wrote prose as well as poetry. He was a recipient of the Carnegie Medal.
Heard and obeyed. O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.
Bestsellers @ The New York Times November 9, 2014 PAPERBACK TRADE FICTION
PAPERBACK NONFICTION
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (Broadway) The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho (HarperOne/ Harper Collins) 3. Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline (Morrow/ Harper Collins) 4. Dark Places by Gillian Flynn (Broadway) 5. Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn (Broadway) 6. The Best of Me by Nicholas Sparks (Grand Central) 7. Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Anchor) 8. Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James (Vintage) 9. This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper (Plume) 10. The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion (Simon & Schuster)
1.
1. 2.
2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand (Random House) The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown (Penguin) Rise of ISIS by Jay Sekulow with Jordan Sekulow and others (Howard Books) The Hot Zone by Richard Preston ( Anchor) Wild by Cheryl Strayed (Vintage) The Map of Heaven by Eben Alexander with Ptolmey Tompkins (Simon & Schuster) The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg (Random House) Quiet by Susan Cain (Broadway) This is the Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett (Harper Perennial) American Sniper by Chris Kyle (Harper/ Harper Collins)
The Editor‟s Bottle of Ink Dear Readers, It‟s hardly been a year since Club Ink was established and it‟s been almost no time since Inklette was initiated. Yet, every issue has successfully brought something new. We have introduced various artists and writers from all over the world and our popularity has been rising.
This issue is mostly based on war, particularly World War I since Club Ink is hosting an Open Mic on the literature during World War I. We hope our seventh issue is successful in its endeavour to deliver the same. In this issue, we have published a short story by Maanav Jalan. After quite a delay, his story has finally been published! We thank Maanav for being so generous and patient.
We have published artwork by Ashwin Pandya– an illustrator and digital artist. We are very happy to have had the opportunity to publish his work. Happy reading! Your Editor-Ink-Chief, Devanshi Khetarpal
Katha by Maanav Jalan He opened the window which looked out into the river. The sun was setting and its rays were painted the crests of the waves with an unabashed golden. Black cormorants glided over the waters and smoke clouded the horizon. The open fields, the great maidaan of the East spread out below him. The king wondered where the smoke was coming from- the rebel camps ahead or from the homes of the people. His people. Being smoked to drive away evil spirits. He turned away from the window towards his once grand room. He stared at his desk. His father‟s desk. It seemed to have lost all its polish and the armchair was spewing its sponge filling. He glanced at his books and they seemed to cheer him up. „My precious,‟ he thought with a proud smile. “Maalik, the queen,” said Pandey, one the few servants left in the palace. “Let her in”, he said with a sigh. The queen waltzed in, swathed in several feet of embroidered cloth. “How are you today, my king?” She spoke in a painfully deliberate manner. She had had a lisp till a year ago, and suddenly, on the day of her husband‟s coronation, it had gone away. She was perpetually afraid it would return (with vengeance). “You know how it is. The rebels are stronger than ever and my garrisons, like my coffers are empty. I don‟t know, Myra.” „I don‟t know‟ was his favourite phrase. “What does anyone know?” he would say. “You must not lose hope. I have been praying for your safety. The Gods will help you in these hard times.” The king nodded, wondering about God. The queen grimaced, and waltzed back out with her handmaid scurrying behind. Raja Parisana had been the ruler of the Empire in the East for a year. His ancestors had ruled over this fertile plain for centuries and now under his rule, the dynasty seemed to be dying. A few years ago, his father realised that his castle looked a bit lacklustre. The castle on the moor, of Raja Minla was so much more beautiful. Such architecture! Such gems! And so, the taxes were doubled. While the black bricks on the castle walls were replaced with those of gold, scrawny mothers outside shoved sticks and stones down their babies‟ throats. Diseases thrived and ruined many. With national immunity levels at an all-time low, the plague spread, devouring thousands of commoners and in a stroke of poetic brilliance, the king himself. This was a year ago. A week later, the king‟s young adviser had told Parisana, after the huge heavy crown had toppled off his head, “Thank the Gods! It‟s not His Highness‟ head that‟s rolling on the ground.” Everybody had laughed, but he hadn‟t meant to make a joke. Later in Parisana’s chambers, the adviser counselled His Highness. “Your highness, the people are hungry. They hadn‟t mutinied yet because they saw your father as a formidable threat. You seem weak to them, my Lord. Now that they‟ve imagined victory over you, bread won‟t be enough to satisfy their hunger. You will need to uproot this unrest.” But he couldn‟t. What good could come out of killing young men and women over a few cheeky demonstrations? No, he would not have it. He almost supported such mutiny; how very modern he thought. He had read the books of the western liberal leaders. “To each his own,” he told his father‟s advisor. He tried educating his servants to empower them. “You must try, Pandey. You must. I learnt the letter when I was five, it really isn‟t that difficult. Once you learn, I shall give you all the books money can buy.” Pandey bowed and attempted to discern one letter from the next, and when the Raja retired after lunch in his room, with worries far more immediate than the alphabet, Mistry dusted the king‟s bookshelf “The oppressive ways of our kingdom must come to an end. The poor have as much right to a life of dignity as we do,” he said to the rich and to the poor. “Poverty is a state of mind.” And thus he passed one decree after the next. He said that the women must be independent. He probably didn‟t mean for women to be thrown into the streets leaving simmering oil and wailing babies inside their homes. Nor for the grain from silos to be thrown out into the streets. And during all of
CONTINUED ON PAGE 5
this, the matter of the reduction of taxes remained buried under the (many) chin(s) of the ministers and the (many) books on His Highness‟ mind. And so, the rebellion against a dead king and his poor (but quite plush) son gained force, little by little. *** He was waiting for Grishma, the leader of the rebels, while he eyed his sherwani. The queen had had her tailors stitch an outfit that would impress the rebel leader. Sapphires, as blue as Parisana‟s eyes, had been extracted from the queen‟s jewellery and studded onto his dress. The tailor had done a fine job. A handsome king needs handsome clothes too. And the huge, heavy crown had been carefully fitted onto his head lest it fall in the presence of those who wish it to. As the king eyed his sapphires, sitting in his audience room - the only room that lived up to royal standards, the rebel king walked in in linen trousers, with a disturbed expression. He bowed before Parisana. “Raja Parisana, I have come to ask you to step down as king. We do not wish to harm you. Only your crown. Times are changing, my friend, and the days of oppression and anarchy are over. We seek to establish a government of the people. All we ask of you is to renounce the throne.” “I have no army nor will to fight you”, the king said, “But tell me what wrong have I done?” “You would not understand. Come out of your palace and live in your kingdom, king, and then you just might. You are a scholar, I have heard. But then, people lie. And you‟re king. We‟re king.” “I-I-I do understand. I b-b-be-believe in equality. I will en-n ENFORCE liberty. Trust me!” He had started stuttering. Old memories of his father punishing him for his speech defect swept over him. He had slapped him and threatened him. Nothing had worked. And one day, it had stopped. Like Myra‟s lisp. After his father‟s death. For the few moments that the crown had stayed on Parisana‟s head on his coronation, some strange energy had flowed through him- his shoulders had broadened, his nose heightened, his bones thickened and his hair darkened. And his stutter vanished. The tendrils of royalty had crawled up from behind him, in his sleep on his soft mattress. He had come to love the way Pandey bowed to him- lower than before; the beautiful pearl encrusted net that covered his glass of fruit juice at breakfast. His chair- the throne. In his free time, he would read voraciously, write eloquently, go for walks in his walled rose gardens to wonder about the world and then, look at himself in the mirror. When he would look at himself in the mirror, he would feel a tinge of irritation. He felt that he was at the threshold of scholarship if only he could renounce his titles. He envisioned him under a Bodhi tree, eyes closed and light irradiating from behind his head. And then he would say to himself, „I have a responsibility towards the people. I cannot betray their hopes. I am their only hope. Their king.‟ “You have a day. Vacate the palace. I will convert this into an ashram.” Suddenly the queen-robes and all- wailed after a frenzied fall on Grishma‟s feet, “Protect me, Lord, from this spiteful man! I had been forced to marry him by his father, the despot. This is not my fault.” And so while the articulate and innocent queen played with her hair, Parisana who was no longer Raja, stuttered and stuttered in hope of finding a „rhetoric solution‟ of this mess. But alas! his tongue wouldn‟t let him talk him into his own lies anymore. *** Grishma made a moving speech from the palace‟s balcony in a pope-ike manner and SHORT STORY by showered his blessings upon the people. An elaborate ashram was built for the peo- Maanav Jalan ple, of course. The new king marched from here to there, and then some more and somewhere along the way, this frantic marching had turned into a regal parade. Maanav Jalan is a stuThe people watched rapt as he eased gracefully (almost royally) into his seat in the dent of Sardar Patel newly built parliament. In his free time, Grishma, who had adopted the title of Ma- Vidyalaya, New Delhi. hatma, cured all ailments. He fixed those troubled young men who couldn‟t love He runs a fascinating beautiful girls and those who couldn‟t stop. He fixed men who didn‟t seem to have blog by the name of God. He fixed those poor women who sought to work outside their homes. And „The Sunday Roost‟ and throughout, he had that benevolent and calm expression on his face and the con- is keen on writing satvert Myra, forever swathed in beautiful cloth, by his side. ires. Of course, he was a liberal. The Empire was now a republic. For the power of the people is supreme and no one can rule over the people. Old lies break and new ones emerge and as the grand deception unfolds, the people watch, rapt.
ARTWORK BY Ashwin Pandya Ashwin Pandya is a digital artist and illustrator. He is passionate about music as much as art. This painting is entitled, “The Fall of the Black Cloud.”
Submission Guidelines Thank you for showing interest in Inklette. We are currently publishing short stories, poems, essays, book reviews and art work, which includes photographs or paintings. Inklette intends to publish the best examples of art and writing from established and emerging artists from all over. Each piece should be single spaced and typed in Times New Roman Font 10 on either side of the page. Please include your piece and a short bio (about 50 words) separately as .doc attachments to club.ink13@gmail.com. Photos and artwork should be scanned and sent as .jpg or .gif file to club.ink13@gmail.com The subject of the email should be: First name_Last Name_Type of Submission (For eg: Casey_McCormick_Poetry). Simultaneous submissions are discouraged. Please send us your submission in any one category. Do not send us more than 5 poems, 5 photographs or 5 paintings or 2 short prose pieces at a time. Multiple submissions are not accepted. Inklette accepts submissions on a rolling basis, i.e. all year round. However, we do keep fixed deadlines for each issue. Submissions received after the deadline of a particular issue will be considered for the next issue. We would request you to go through our previous issues to get acquainted with the quality of work that we seek. We have no definite time period for sending a response to your submission. However, you may send us an email regarding the status of your submission after the termination of a month. Inklette is an e-newsletter which has an extensive circulation through Club Ink‟s facebook group as well as through www.issuu.com. For more information, feel free to contact us at club.ink13@gmail.com. We look forward to reading your work! Devanshi Khetarpal Editor-In-Chief