CLRI CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
CLRI Print Edition ISSN 2250-3366
Poetry
Stories/Criticism
Reviews/Arts
Vinita Agrawal
Dr. Rashid Askari
Bernard M Jackson
Manohar Bhatia
Kyle Hemmings
Zachary Kluckman
S. K. Aithal
Eleanor Leonne Bennett
Timothy Ogene K Pankajam
Dr. Pratyush Vatsala
Rinzu Rajan Denver Ejem Torres Changming Yuan
June 2012
Contemporary Literary Review India www.contemporaryliteraryreviewindia.com
Editor-in-Chief: Khurshid Alam
CLRI publishes a wide variety of creative materials including poems, stories, essays, criticism, book reviews, film reviews, and arts among others.
June 2012
Contents 1. Best Selling eWriters by Khurshid Alam ................................................................... 3 2. Three Poems by Changming Yuan ........................................................................... 6 The Call of a Crow ................................................................................................ 6 Self-Rebuilding: A Bodhi Poem ............................................................................ 7 Epilogues: A Parallel Poem .................................................................................. 8 3. The Image and the Form by Vinita Agrawal ............................................................ 10 The Image and the Form .................................................................................... 10 4. The Postman by Manohar Bhatia ........................................................................... 12 The Postman ...................................................................................................... 12 5. Two Poems by K Pankajam .................................................................................... 13 A Monument ....................................................................................................... 13 Weeds ................................................................................................................ 14 6. Two Poems by Zachary Kluckman ......................................................................... 15 Forgiveness is a Small Boat ............................................................................... 15 The Sun is a Bug on the Windshield................................................................... 18 7. Three Poems by Rinzu Rajan ................................................................................. 20 A Carnival of Cliff Hangers ................................................................................. 20 The Lost Sheep and the Shepherd ..................................................................... 21 Black Eye Theory ............................................................................................... 22 8. Three Poems by Denver Ejem Torres .................................................................... 24 The River Fish in Mongolia Have Haloes ........................................................... 24 Nomenclature ..................................................................................................... 25 Why Armstrong Went to the Moon...................................................................... 26 9. Two Poems by Timothy Ogene............................................................................... 28 Man in the Mirror ................................................................................................ 28 Time Ticks .......................................................................................................... 29 10. Three Short Stories by Kyle Hemmings .................................................................. 30 Manga Girls Need Love: Snitch & Forget You Are ............................................. 30 Manga Girls Need Love: He Drops Over with All his Baggage & Your Old Wounds .............................................................................................................. 31 1
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Contents Manga Girls Need Love: Rina, a Tall Buzz-fly Girl Who Never Goes Short in the City ..................................................................................................................... 31 11. Locked-in Syndrome by Dr. Rashid Askari ............................................................. 33 12. A Karmayogi by S. Krishnamoorthy Aithal .............................................................. 41 13. The Quest for Intimacy by Dr. Pratyush Vatsala ..................................................... 48 14. Review on NATURE by Bernard M Jackson ........................................................... 58 15. Arts by Eleanor Leonne Bennett ............................................................................. 62
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Editorial
Digital medium
is not simply a medium, it is space to our life. All its
shortcomings stand tiny before its advantages. It is the best alternative to saving paper, thus saving plants and forests. It is the fastest means of communication, you can fly your documents and files across the globe in no time and at no costs. You can share your heart and mind to the world without coming under hammer. – Khurshid Alam, Editor-in-Chief, Contemporary Literary Review India
1. Best Selling eWriters by Khurshid Alam I would first like to narrate a story here to make my point clear. I knew a man who was very educated, well informed, and used to write many things. Whenever he would meet people whom he found the appropriate ones he could share his literary zest talked about his plans. He used to say he wanted to get his manuscripts published. He contacted many publishers, and submitted to a dozens of them as well. But his manuscripts were never selected. A couple of years back when e-publishing came into existence I suggested him to opt for this. But he would always say so many things negative about it. Last year he died. See his manuscripts were never selected by the traditional publishers and he never selected epublishing as an option. His manuscripts will now belong to nowhere. Was he right not to choose the option that he could? I think no! Because he could have published a good number of collections and if he believed his writings had power readers would have loved him to read, whatever formats his books were available in. This does not mean that I’m pursuing anyone to shun traditional publishing, my point is to adopt the current situations fast, and be the gainer than the loser. Now we have a good number of writers who opted digital publishing and are selling huge. They are best sellers! Some even are offering their books at a very low cost yet are earning good 3
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Editorial money. Many have gained popularity and have broken the blockades of not getting recognized on time. Many traditional publishers are showing interest in publishing them. Michael Prescott, Barbara Freethy, Darcie Chan, Kerry Wilkinson, Katie Stephens, John Locke and Amanda Hocking are some of the writers who gained popularity after getting e-published. Michael Prescott (51) has had already got 20 books published to his credits, and received success as well before he took to self-publishing, yet his thriller Riptide got rejected by 25 traditional publishers. He opted self-publishing. His Riptide in digital format hit a success and entered the top 150 on USA TODAY's Best-Selling Books in 2009 and was declared as the New York Times bestselling author. In total his e-books have been sold over 8,000,000 copies. Barbara Freethy has a more exciting story about her e-publishing journey. Of all her novels, 17 were out-of-print. She self-published her books including the OOP versions of her novels. Nine of all entered the top 150 USA TODAY's Best-Selling Books. She sold over 1.3 million copies of all her e-books. Darcie Chan (37), a lawyer by profession, started writing a fiction The Mill River Recluse in 2002 and submitted to more than dozens of publishers and hundreds of literary agents. All rejected her stating the fiction lacked selling substances. Some years later, Darcie self-published the fiction and it started selling. Soon her fiction recorded huge sales and was subsequently listed in the New York Times, USA Today and the Wall Street Journal e-book best-seller lists. Till date she has sold over 5-million digital titles. Kerry Wilkinson is a young sports journalist who started writing novels just a year back. Typically he sold a total of over 250,000 copies of all his three novels Locked In, Vigilante and Woman in Black in a short span of six months. He was listed in the Amazon best-sellers list in 2011. His success attracted the attention of traditional publishers and now he has entered into a contract with none other than Pan MacMillan for a six-book deal, three of his already published books in the digital format and three new books. Kerry mostly writes suspense thrillers which are famous as the Jessica Daniel series thrillers. John Locke, a crime fiction writer, has a similar story to tell. Earlier in his career he published books predominantly in the electronic formats with Amazon (Kindle Direct Publishing). In a few years he became a reckoning self-published writer by becoming the first ever to have sold over 4
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Editorial 1 million copies of all his novels in the Amazon bestselling writers list. His success landed him offers from Simon & Schuster for print publishing. After having written eight novels, Amanda Hocking started submitting her works to traditional publishers to only find rejections without a stop. Tired of her hard work and exhausted of rejections, she tried self-publishing with Amazon as an option. Soon her sales grew. She sold more than 225, 000 copies of all her nine novels by February 2011, of which Switched emerged as bestselling fiction with 60,000 copies sold. Hocking is one of the bestselling authors in digital publishing now.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems
At one time poetry was a large part of mainstream readership. The public seemed to lose interest with the advent of gaming and the Internet, and now the Internet can be the avenue of restoration of this important genre of entertainment and enlightenment. – Jack Huber, Poet & Author, http://www.jackhuber.com
2. Three Poems by Changming Yuan The Call of a Crow How often Have I lain in thick darkness Imagining a white crow That I wish to see Or rather to be Not until the other morning Did a wild bird cry Its glaring yaws into my dream Like a persistent knock at the door Beyond my curtained glass door Beyond my curtained dream The crow hammered all its calls Right into my soul Resonating with my truer self
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Self-Rebuilding: A Bodhi Poem Let the seed of fire grow, rising Above your inner horizon Like the most glaring summer sun Let the ball burn brilliantly Burning out every cell within your body And shooting its light through your skin Then, let the light from heaven fall Filling in each blank within your shape Until all the light starts melting together To stuff your entire selfhood.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Epilogues: A Parallel Poem Just as both God and Devil are man’s incarnation, so are Heaven and Hell both man’s construction. I From the front yard of a melodious morning From the busy road of a sweet Saturday From the moist corner of a heavy march From the back lane of pale winter We have come, here and now, all gathering In big crowds gathering in big crowds Gathering in ever-bigger crowds gathering For the boat to cross the wide wild waters Before the fairy ferry is fated to fall Under our feet too heavy with earthy mud II You may well hate Charon But you cannot help feeling envious: That business of carrying the diseased Across the River Styx is ever so prosperous The only monopoly in the entire universe That has a market share Larger than the market itself Daydreaming, on this side Of the river, how you might wish To be an entrepreneur like him A successful American dreamer III Flying between sea and sky Between day and night Amid heavenly or oceanic blue 8
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems I lost all my references To any timed space Or a localized time Except the non-stop snorting Of a stranger neighbor Then, beyond the snorts rising here And more looming there I see tigers, lions, leopards And other kinds of hunger-throated predators Darting out of every passenger’s heart Running amuck around us As if released from a huge cage As if in a dreamland.
Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman and 3-time Pushcart nominee, grew up in rural China and published several monographs before moving to Canada. With a PhD in English, Yuan currently teaches in Vancouver and has had poetry appearing in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Cha, London Magazine, Salzburg Review, Poetry Kanto, Taj Mahal Review and nearly 400 other literary journals/anthologies in 18 countries.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems
3. The Image and the Form by Vinita Agrawal The Image and the Form I switch off the Television 1 as if laying Mara to rest turn off the lights, get into bed ready for the scornful play of distance once again the remote, the water the pills, the duvet, the reading light the books...are all close by close by too is this receding grip on my form the rose quartz on my wrist is more grey than pink... an innocent parasite, true to my state outside the window a thick river of scent from the blooming Estonia bathes a coiled, taut moon and the restless hare in its belly The imprints of your touch from long ago are chafed by the winds from the North but they bring no death to the cravings of the mind and I tumble in a squall of putrid hopes dissembling desires Like a sigh still shuddering around the sternum I fumble for the breath of release 10
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems and wake up in pieces in the morning like a smashed mirror glinting with images the images I love...the form I abhor
Hints: 1. Mara is the God of evil according to Buddhist texts
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi based writer. She has been published in both national and international print and online journals and has been nominated by CLRI for the Best of the Net awards 2011. She has participated in a few reading events. "Those born, balance like seeds on needle points" she quotes the Buddha.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems
4. The Postman by Manohar Bhatia The Postman Neither Google nor Yahoo Has diminished or out-stepped The memory of your humble postman Bringing mail to your door step! What joy is there in waiting For your beloved’s letters/parcels/postcards Anticipating many wonderful gifts Sent by her through her credit card! The web rules your life Through the internet, it will chart Your multi-dimensional activities But the postman always rules your heart. Google can be equated to worldliness The Post man’s uniform always displays orderliness. Manohar Bhatia, 64), holds a four-year diploma course in Civil Engineering from Pune University, is a businessman-writer. He writes extensively which includes short stories, poems, plays, novels and on various topics of general interest. He has four books published to his credits till date which include The Man With The Magic Spectacles published by Saga Books (2007) (www.sagabooks.net), Creative Meditation___ A Step By Step Approach published by St Pauls (2008) (www.stpaulsbyb.com), Young Adults Short Stories published Lulu (www.lulu.com), and A – Z Book Of Introspections published by Lulu (www.lulu.com). Many of his other manuscripts are ready for publication.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems
5. Two Poems by K Pankajam A Monument The easy chair with moist trails of memory lies unused for four decades now. Termites feast on it. One of the legs needs a support. As children, we hopped and bumped on it not after it sucked in our father’s last breath. It holds his scent, desires and zeal; Mom wanted to preserve it for long. She sits by it every day, wipes it with her own cloths, her way of reverence, to last till the day of their reunion. It gets periodic touch-up, but imminent deterioration with time outlives all. Finding it difficult to destroy or dispose for affinities and affections to our parents embedded in its weary planks, the chair has become a monument filled with memories and sentiments.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Weeds Grass weeded out from paddy Hay from grains Husk when polished Fat after cooking All weeds come back as milk Nothing called weeds on earth.
K Pankajam works for BHEL and lives in Chennai, India. She has two collections of poetry to her credit and has been published in Muse India, Contemporary Literary Review India, Reading Hour, etc., and some more are forthcoming in a few more journals. Her poems have been included in the anthologies The Fancy Realm and Roots And Wings-An Anthology of Indian Women Writing In English. K Pankajam can be reached at: kp_bhargavrag@yahoo.co.in.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems
6. Two Poems by Zachary Kluckman Forgiveness is a Small Boat You were
almost
A silk-worms’ favorite leaf Once Almost
delicate
Slender wristed As the throat of those orchids We talked about planting at Christmas But you could never catch rain That’s how I knew we were doomed The heart is a drunken architect Full of blue prints
and sky scrapers
No one understands his designs When you danced naked Through the tawdry office of my mind Upsetting the furniture Teaching the windows 15
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems to sing like wine glasses At Hollywood weddings You were the rain All throaty laughs and light touches You were the leaves
dancing over concrete in fall
Red eyed and wicked Waiting for someone to jump in I was a leaf gatherer Chasing these widows of spring Pressing lovers into bed sheets The way maple folds against the spine Of old journals
biting at the bindings
A canvas topped Samson Loose in the city
assaulting bookstores
With the jawbone of an ass Stolen from a farmer’s field Freeing poems trapped like hungry birds In the back of old books 16
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems You were
almost
delicate
I was rebellious, a bee in the window Your eyes could never quite close Somewhere in Albuquerque there is a church That remembers the prayers of our feet In that church there is a closet Where we almost committed a sin of impatience A broom that has seen you naked And a flowerbed where I buried our vows When you weren’t looking As this earth is my witness You were the rain I have stood naked inside of you Surprised by your violence
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems The Sun is a Bug on the Windshield …the sunset stays in my windows. I have trapped it there with a brush painting each color’s portrait with the eager optimism of a sinner seeking salvation, with the quick hands of a junkie, convinced that rainbows are prisons. Water based prisms making marionette’s of the spectrum. Colors suspended by their own lack of faith, with the skepticism of a father, with no home for his children convinced the sky has slit its wrists, opened the veins in a display meant for the sun. 18
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems A mean ex-lover whose affairs with the trees gave birth to the shadows where my mother was born, sculpting mud for a son she named carelessly under the bright, melancholy suicide of dusk.
Zachary Kluckman is the Spoken Word Editor for Pedestal Magazine, Director of the Albuquerque Slam Poet Laureate Program and a regional director for the 100 Thousand Poets for Change movement. His poetry appears in print and over 500 radio stations worldwide. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his recent publications include The New York Quarterly, Memoir (and) and Cutthroat among others. When he is not untangling string cheese, Kluckman is hard at work on a new manuscript titled “Those Dust Shouldered Ghosts”.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems 7. Three Poems by Rinzu Rajan A Carnival of Cliff Hangers It's a vicious circle rotating around my sun a black beast sheds its skin to dramatize a façade, a character charade scripted into nine lives she sinks into the soil succumbing to sorrow and out of her sores she soars into the stratosphere. There is dark sunshine which leads to colour blindness, there is rainbow that is near yet so far curtained behind the cold sun. It has stayed like chilling fever, nine times death and a nine timed resurrection, taping me into loose tights, It's what others call a circus and I, a cliff hanger carnival.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems The Lost Sheep and the Shepherd Activism advances on the carriage of change amidst colour blindness a battalion of buffoons play hide and seek as per impersonated instructions. Cocks crow through lurid loudspeakers candle clay drips in convulsion as the youth proclaim a parrot's polly reciting verses in eruptive excitement and follow as a flock of frozen fossils behind an ambitious autocrat, who they have christened as Messiah or a fairy God mother with a magic wand. Unmindful of implications that vilifies their vulnerability impeaching democracy as a drab, they launch a leap, thousands of lost sheep, the wind blows in the westward wilderness requiring revolution in reckless rooting they want to cry through the corrosion but how many of them actually know that they themselves are the rusted relics of a rotten resolution hardly a few maybe.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Black Eye Theory Don't know if black eye is an episode in the universe or a verse from my vestry, fire fumes on my floor charring the cross and cure, my mouth quivers in migraine madness, I've bled like water and slept with my foe the one that has slashed me into slices and sold me to the butcher. I do not understand rubric reasons and those that give them, I've forgiven and forgotten from my plate of feed despite this, swallowing my sea in a sip, They say my hand will be held one day, as I wonder who will hold this amputated arm?
Rinzu Rajan writes in an attempt to sear away from the boundaries of cliche. Research in the field of biology and feminist activism occupy the rest of her time and devotion. Despite the lack of formal training, Rinzu has written poetry in over 30 forms. Her work has featured in Bicycle Review, Houston Literary Review, Barnwood Review, Red River Review, Muse India, Green Silk Review and Asia Writes amongst others. She has an anthology 'Gestures' to her credit with four other poets.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Her upcoming features include A Spinster Act in Penwoood Review, Cursed Daughter of Eve and An Ode to a Woman’s Veil in Melusine and “Child Bride” and “Grandmother” in Message in a Bottle poetry magazine.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems 8. Three Poems by Denver Ejem Torres
The River Fish in Mongolia Have Haloes The river fish in Mongolia have haloes. They fly freely in that water without fear. In India, the cows too, have haloes. But these animals in pedestal, untouchables, not in India's Caste System sense, made me think of the fish at Gensan. Do we have this type of reverence or respect here? Then, I look at a stray street dog. In its eyes, the answer, a maudlin man drunk with his lust of steamy azucena. When I was a child, I wished I did not have a Dad who owned many belts But I do not want to recall anymore, my desire to belong somewhere else. Like the dog, I have learned to live with this maudlin man.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Nomenclature The poet attempts always to name all that arrives and departs; a nomenclature of sort is poetry therefore.
Most, if not at all times we only discover that we have forgotten the name of a person, place or thing when we bump into them again, either in memory or down the road. And likely we get a hectic heart beat and because we are no-name-a-phobic we panic. Then we grope, grope and grope in the broad daylight of memory but only to discover that it was not the light who hid their names. But the poet reaches for the pen and starts naming them all, and since the poet is easily tired and bored, he renames them all instead. (After TALA MUNDI)
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Why Armstrong Went to the Moon Whenever I look at the Moon's face I see a scar Resembling a human foot. Everytime this happens, I think of that whisper my childhood crush made to our classmate's ear and all the other things I will not ever know. And I look at the Moon some more and think of the reason why Armstrong had to go there. And I am certain that it is not the case of the moth and the flame. It wasn't its luminescence that led him‌.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Denver Ejem Torres has a Bachelor's degree in English Language and Literature Studies from Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan and is a Fellow for Poetry at several national writers workshops. As a bilingual poet, he writes in his mother tongue, Visayan and English. He has appeared or is forthcoming in The Asia Writes Project, Red River Review (USA), Bisaya Magasin (Manila th Bulletin) and 18 INWW Proceedings. Recently, .MOV International Film, Music, & Literature Festival included his poetry in Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry. His interview on the process of writing, with Roger B. Rueda will be featured in 8finity Magazine this March 2012. He is presently with WIPRO LTD.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems 9. Two Poems by Timothy Ogene
Man in the Mirror "I'm starting with the man in/The Mirror/I'm asking him to change/His ways" —Michael Jackson I set out in search of the enemy; the one responsible for my nightmares. From the sand seas of North Africa to the seven seas beyond. I spoke to men and beast, searched the Milky Way and forests of planets. Exhausted, I returned to our plane of life and death. Stooped to drink from a Creek; a flowing glass of water. In that moving mirror, he appeared— As shocked as I was. We both could not drink from the flowing mirror. I touched his face, he shivered and shattered into a hundred pieces of crystal, staggered and randomly re-assembled. At last, he rose and walked away without drinking from the mirror.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
poems Time Ticks Broken canoe, battered, Left to rot ashore, helpless— Long days of fishing gone, Much pain borne, Broken and done, Left to fate— Replaced by another towering tree That’s happy to be a sail boat. Alas! A canoe it became. Ashamed, But happy to sail. No fail; Nets and men applaud. But her days are dotted lines on sand. Fading up and down like the tide.
Timothy Ogene was born and raised in Nigeria. He has written for Dekeyser & Friends Magazine, Reading Bridges and Successpills. His poems have appeared in Literary Kicks, Ovi Magazine, the Daily Observer, Haggard & Halloo, Underground Voices, the 2010 Arvon International Poetry Competition Anthology and are forthcoming in Subtle Tea, Snake Skin and the Dark Eye Glances 2012 Anthology. He was shortlisted for the 2010 Arvon International Poetry Prize and was honorable Mention at the 2010 Best Short Writing in the World Contest. He currently lives in Robertsport, Liberia where he divides his time between working for the Strongheart Fellowship, an innovative social enterprise, and teaching literature at the local high school.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
Flash fiction is fiction with its teeth bared and its claws extended, lithe and muscular with no extra fat. It pounces in the first paragraph, and if those claws aren’t embedded in the reader by the start of the second, the story began a paragraph too soon. There is no margin for error. Every word must be essential, and if it isn’t essential, it must be eliminated. – Kathy Kachelries, Founding Member, 365 tomorrows
10.
Three Short Stories by Kyle Hemmings
Manga Girls Need Love: Snitch & Forget You Are What you lost was the girl who sold her story to the ears of city night, cheap despair under wigs, tattoos under Peking pink panties w/ indigenous ruffles. The night was all stereotyped sky of ink & erasure fluid, trace of clouds whispering behind cracked walls, peeling walls, walls that were squeezing your suburban rage-lust. Your past was all blur & lingering on deceptive tweets was bushy-eyed girls from Jersey who turned you into dust into a man-broom into a star-struck eunich with poor reach. Your royal loyalties sucked. The girl you lost in Tokyo took your money & said like a true fan that you have superhero bones, great cheeks, man, they won't sag when you're 40, then she flattened you w/ pale horse whiny sex-scapes. When you saw her photo in the paper, read in 8 pt. print w/ generous leading that she ratted on some Chinese gangster nicknamed Mustard Gas, owner of 17 stairways to immigrant-raided heavens, an allergy to metal trachs, you clenched you boyish hands your retched you swore to the demons of your inner gut that this would never happen again not love not obsessions w/ runaway slumgoddesses w/ one perfect pimple but the wind swept you up & into its empty charge into its amnesia of beautiful girls too real for this Pantone-smudged life.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories Manga Girls Need Love: He Drops Over with All his Baggage & Your Old Wounds Mr. Portable Suicide drops over today with his black leather suitcase & unfashionably slicked back hair. He wants to know if you, the girl of a thousand painful caterpillars in her sleep, is ready. You smile you tilt your head you think of ten songs that end in E-minor you ask Mr. Portable Suicide if he would like some tea. No, he says, sitting uncomfortably on your Lazy-Boy, clipping his nails. Over the apartment complex, you hear strange humming. Have you thought of a method? Asks Mr. Portable Suicide. A method, you say. Yes, he says, the ones we discussed last time on the phone—pincer poison, noose of dreams, dog-day drowning, crumble under rubble, the stop-dead-heart-pills in choice of colors. The humming is getting louder. You rise & walk over to the outdoor patio. You hope it’s not another helicopter about to crash. Your boyfriend, Daichi, is always crashing his. Look, you yell to Mr. Portable Suicide, it’s a flying saucer. His laughter is sharp & dry. Really, he says. Is it green? Yes, you say. Does it have 14 portholes? Uh-huh, you say. Does it have soft blue rays of light shining from its bottom? Yes, you say. It’s the one I have dreams about after every contracted suicide, he says. You tell him to check it out himself. He does. Where, he says, I don’t see it. On the outdoor patio, he slips & falls over the brass rail. From so many stories up, you shout down, ARE YOU ALRIGHT? The flying saucer was playing hide and seek behind a cloud. You know Mr. Portable Suicide will be back next week with more foolproof methods.
Manga Girls Need Love: Rina, a Tall Buzz-fly Girl Who Never Goes Short in the City When Black Friday hits, Rina will stand along Koen Dori in Shibuya & play old love songs on a ukulele. She will sing for free. She will laugh at the taxis running out of gas, the stocky four-eyed businessmen crashing their bicycles into department stores. The world as a flat tire, ruined rim. Or, donning white gloves, she’ll direct traffic. Towards afternoon, she will post herself in front of the Haichiko statue, named after the dog that waited faithfully for its dead master. She will give fake tours through Spain Slope or the Tobacco & Salt Museum. Someone towards the rear will suppress a painted girl giggle. In Mark City, she will lose all the old women who have mistaken her for the daughter they once gave away. By the end of the day, she will be alone again. She will take the cheapest room at a love hotel & wait for her married lover, a man who has lost everything. 31
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
Kyle Hemmings is the author of three chapbooks of poems: Avenue C (Scars Publications), Fuzzy Logic (Punkin Press), and Amsterdam & Other Broken Love Songs (Flutter Press). He has been published at Gold Wake Press, Thunderclap Press, Blue Fifth Review, Step Away, and The Other Room. He can be reached at: dwruss@gmail.com or hemming06@hotmail.com.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
11.
Locked-in Syndrome by Dr. Rashid Askari
When I came to my senses, I discovered myself as a mummified corpse in a supine posture. It was a queer state of body and mind. A state which was neither life nor death or was both! I heard it say that I took on this abnormal condition after I survived a persistent vegetative state. At first sight I looked like a vampire with a pair of deathly pale eyes wide open. No children, not even my own infant son, would dare cast a look on my face. My whole body—from head to toe—was completely paralyzed and devoid of the slightest tactile sensation. A soft and feathery touch or a knockout punch would make no difference on it. Heaving with all my might, I could not move any parts of my body even an inch. As a matter of fact, I felt like a man without any physical existence. But strangely enough, I had full cognitive function. I had a very good brain, but no brawn. I was sort of a disembodied cerebral creature! That was completely a bizarre situation, and I did not know if anybody else on earth had ever had this weird experience. The body that contained my whole being seemed to be someone else's. A totally unconnected entity! Had it been my own body, it would have followed the command of my brain. But it was not doing that. Contrary to the cerebral laws, all parts of it waged non-cooperation with the central organ, and took an eternal work-abstention. As a result, it lay defunct like a million year-old fossil. I was made to lie on my back, on my sides, and in prostration by turns. I could not see around, though I had very good sight. My eyes were firmly focused on the frontal point, and could only spot things appearing face to face with me. I forgot the last time when I snapped my fingers and scratched my back, or chewed on the bone, and sucked its marrow. How nice it was to have the body parts fully functional! Picking teeth, threading needles, sorting out fish-bones, walking down the narrow cobbled streets, giving kiddies a piggyback; everything seemed a mind-blowing experience. That I could do all these was now utterly inconceivable. Believe me, for pity's sake, I used to do all these, with considerable ease and effortless grace. All were now daydreams. A mortal blow was responsible for this terrible predicament. It was a dull, grey morning. I was waiting for the bus at Mirpur–10 Goalchakkar. Although a rush hour, there was not much traffic. The Opposition Party was out on a dawn to dusk hartal. It meant a total paralysis in the city. People were forced willy-nilly to refrain from going to work. But I had to go. Hardly a 33
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories month passed since I had joined a national newspaper. Besides, I was not in the editor's good books. In fact I was in his bad books from the very first day I met him at the interview board. "Why have you left Banglabazar?" The editor asked me very oddly. "I want to work independently". I replied firmly. "Oh, I see! Angry young man!" He seemed to have greeted my answer with scorn. I bit back a sharp retort. The literary editor, who had known me for about a couple of years now, quickly intervened. "I think he would be OK for us." The editor put in a good word for me, nodding approval with some reluctance. A bus was running towards me. I gave it a signal to stop by raising my hand. It slowed to a halt, and I hurried to catch it. But, before I completely placed one of my feet in the doorway, a sudden loud uproar descended on us, and the bus quickly picked up speed. I was thrown onto the street, and much before reaching the safety of the roadside, I collided head-on with another speeding car which was being chased by the furious picketers. My head hit some rocklike object with a dull thud. I saw the sun bursting into a million pieces. I could recall nothing else. When I woke up , I found myself physically finished off. But I grew bright and brainy inasmuch as my whole body was crippled. I was reduced to a mere thinking pot. I could understand everything happening around me but I could not express myself. The only way I sometimes reciprocated my passion were the silent tears streaming down my face. But that also dried up with the passage of time. Now, I was left with a transfixing stare in my stiff grey eyes for evermore. The wanton flies would buzz lazily in and around them. I could not drive them away. I was weaker than the insects! I was being fed and watered through a tube, and my bowels were opened through another. A servant was hired to do these jobs for me. My wife would walk around inspecting his work but could not stay much longer in my room—she had an allergy to stench. I could very well understand that this sort of parasitical life should not be carried much longer. I wished I could 34
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories put an end to it. My wife, however, was not willing to give up hope. A half-dead husband was better for her than no husband. I desperately wanted to die. But I could not. I would have committed suicide at the first chance if I had any. Earlier I didn’t understand why some people committed suicide. I thought it was stupid of them to kill themselves deliberately. I took pity on them. But I now realized why people fall back on suicides. Why they are in favour of voluntary euthanasia. My plea for suicide was far stronger than others'. Anybody in my shoes would support my claim. I thought of killing myself every moment, but to no effect. I envied them who succeeded in self-killing. But I was incapacitated, to kill myself with my own hands. I was very firm in my decision to execute it, but I did not have the necessary strength. I could not make the noose, nor did I have the ability to drink a cup of poison with my own hands, let alone jump under the express train. I saw a flood of sympathies for me. People would come to see me everyday. My mother was crying her eyes out. My siblings were getting frantic with worries about my life. The future of my wife and son became a serious matter of concern to my sorrowful relatives. My colleagues were taking the trouble to raise charity funds for my overseas treatment. They gave my wife a job in their newspaper office. Among all these, what struck me most was the abrupt U-turn by our editor. He had a deep aversion to me which seemed to have turned into deep sympathies. He started visiting me time and again. I could very well cotton on to what was with him and his philanthropic work. In addition, I could read the whole situation—why my family and I had become an object of pity, why the number of well-wishers was increasing, and for how long this tempo would continue. I could smell that some hungry vultures were trying to crouch on a carcass. The imam of our local mosque came to make me recite my confession of faith. The deathly shape of my body made him horror-stricken. Looking at my stony eyes he murmured some arcane quotes from scripture. "All is the Almighty's wish." The imam tried to control his bewilderment. "Have patience. Have faith in Allah. He is the most beneficent, most merciful. He puts people to trouble to test their reliance on Him. You see, how terribly Prophet Ayyub (PBUH) suffered from an ugly disease. Worms were eating away at his whole body, but he put up with it without any complaint. Yet he did not lose his faith in Allah, and finally he won His grace. Your disease is 35
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories nothing compared to his. You keep praying to Allah. He can do everything. He can make a mountain out of a molehill. He'll sure forgive you." The imam delivered a brief sermon. Noticing no sign of response from me, he got a little embarrassed. He, however, mumbled some prayers, and blew on my whole body thrice from head to foot. The span of sorrow is miserably short-lived. The surge of sadness over my nagging disability started dying down. I was, as it were, overstaying everybody's welcome. I ought to have died by now. But I was outliving my usefulness like the old, omniscient jackdaw of Hindu mythology. The angel of death might have developed distaste for me. The flow of visitors was on the wane with an exception to my boss. He was untiring in his efforts to frequent our house. He took great care of my health. He bought my son costly toys. I knew neither my son nor me were his object of interest. But my infant son did not know. He would call him 'boss uncle'. He preferred his alive and kicking uncle to a virtually dead father. The dad who could not buy his boy nice playthings was a rotten one. Really, I was not a good father, nor was I a good husband. My boss took full advantage of this. He came forward to fill up the gap with tangible love and reassurance. He was a good charmer, and knew the art of seducing women. My wife, too, loved to have him dance on her. So they soon became a good match for each other. I was well aware of the inevitable outcome of this sort of relationship that developed in such critical situations. I noticed a change in my wife's behaviour towards me. She was never good at taking care of me. But now she was trying to be unnecessarily more attentive. The other day she sat beside me, placed her hand on my forehead, and fixed a tender look at my eyes. I caught a whiff of some expensive perfume as she leaned towards me. I had never bought her one like that. She was looking very gorgeous in a new dress. Maybe she had been right back from outdoors. "How're you now, honey?" She began talking in a soft, soothing voice. "I don't know if you'd at all be OK. But I don't mind that. I want you to remain like this if you're not cured. I don't want you to die. I can't bear the thought of losing you, Babu. I love you, and always will do. Please don't get me wrong." She took a series of deep sobbing breaths. This was for the first time that the sweet sobriquet 'Babu' sounded plastic. I became pretty sure that there must have occurred something wrong. She had a guilty look on her face. But I was not hurting much. I never expected her to be a wife like Rahima Bibi, and wait on me hand and 36
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories foot. I would not mind at all if she married after my death or even before. She could jolly divorce me, and get hitched soon. She had reasonable grounds for that within our personal law. But, I was goddamn sure that my boss would not be that gentlemanly. Had he taken these sorts of affairs to the level of marriage with due sincerity and solemnization, his wives would have sure outnumbered King Solomon's. Owing to lying thick on the bed day and night, bedsores developed on my back. Taking the advantage of the attendant's inefficiency and carelessness they formed cavities full of pus, and were gradually expanding and rotting away. I could not feel anything, but could smell the foul putrid stench of the rotting flesh. The whole room was stiflingly stinky. The attendant refused to dress the sores. My wife proposed to redouble his wage. That worked. Now he would make perfunctory efforts, and dress the wounds with clumsy fingers. The wounds, however, did not heal at all. I was fortunate enough that before my death I had been able to know of the disease I was diagnosed with. My doctor said it was a very rare disease called 'Locked-in syndrome'. The patient is aware and awake, but cannot move or communicate verbally due to complete paralysis of the voluntary muscles in the body except for the eyes. But my disease was, as the doctor identified, the worst kind of locked-in syndrome, which is called 'Total Locked-in Syndrome' where the eyes are also paralyzed. For me, it was caused by the traumatic brain injury done in the Mirpur–10 accident. The doctor disappointed us by declaring that there was no standard treatment for it except for the symptomatic ones. So there was no question of cure. He, however, assured that patients might be able to communicate with others through coded messages by blinking or moving their eyes. But I could not even do that. Mine was the worst case of locked-in syndrome. I could feel that I was clearly sinking fast. It was impossible for me to regain motor control. But I suffered no heartbreak for going to lose my life. I was not looking forward to a comeback. But I had a dying wish. I wanted to write a poem. The last poem of my life! Just a few lines! The verses were coming into my mind in bits and pieces but I was failing to capture them. This never happened before in my life. I had searched high and low for fresh images, but I seldom got them perfect. Now a tide of imagination was surging through me. I needed to find an outlet for them. But that was closed sine die.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories Another thing for which I was burning with was the publication of my book. I was not much of a poet, but I had a penchant for writing poetry. Some of my poems were published in the literary supplements of the national dailies. They earned some critical acclaim too. But I could not get any books published in almost a decade. A manuscript was ready at hand, but I found no publisher for it. All asked me money for publishing it. I had declined. I resolved on waiting another two decades to publish it without giving any sweetener. But now the declining days of my life sapped me of my confidence. I felt tempted to see my book published before my death. But how was it possible? My wife had no interest in my poetry. I could clearly recall the incident. It was a few days after our marriage that a poem of mine was published in a highly esteemed national daily. I rushed home to show it to my wife. She was making herself up for a post-wedding family photosession. I covered her eyes from behind with my hands in sport. "Don't be naughty, honey. What's up?" My wife kept combing her long wavy hair. "I have a surprise for you!" I was flushed with excitement at the chance of proving myself to my wife. "Really? What's that? Let me see." She jumped in joy. I unfolded the paper before her eyes, and pointed to my name in bold type under the title of the poem. "You see, it's your husband's name in print. A promising poet of this soil!" I tried to impress on her. All her interest vanished off her face. She rolled her eyes upward. "Oh, your poem! I thought it something else. I guessed you'd won the national lottery. Anyway, how much would they pay for it? "Nothing." I turned pale and drew with a deep feeling of unease.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories "Then, what's the point of writing poetry? You have bigger fish to fry," said my new wife with proud eye brows as if to underline the real truth of life. "But, I'll read your poem. After all, it's my good man's stuff." She took the newspaper from my hand. I was grateful that she spared my blushes, although she could not spare the sheet of paper containing my poem. The following day, she wrapped up some new saris in it, and asked me to get it ironed from the laundry shop. I held the bundle in my hands, and saw my poem was peeping through the crumpled papers. How could I believe that such a wife would feel the urge, and use her initiative to publish my poetry? But she did it. One evening, she came to me with the manuscript of my book. There was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. "Babu, haven't you heard that Javed Bhai has agreed to publish your poetry book. I've made him agree. He'd already talked to a publisher. He gave me a big amount in advance from the royalties on your book." I breathed a sigh of contentment. My eyes were glued to the pages of the manuscript as my wife was turning them. Neat, legible, and calligraphic handwriting! My poetry! My creation! At long last going to see the light of day! What else did I need? I had no more repentance. I seemed to be left with a light heart. Maybe my life had been miserably short, but my poetry was going to be permanent. This is called the power of printed page! I wish I could give my wife grateful thanks. There came the coveted day. My book was out. It was put before my eyes. I was bursting with joy. I tried to get an eyeful of it. What a deluxe edition! How spectacular the dust jacket is! The title fell on my hungry eyes. It was OK. Verses from the Alluvium! But whose name was this in my book? It was not my name! It was Javed Karim! How come? I felt an explosion inside me. But I could not give vent to it.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
Dr. Rashid Askari, an MA in English from Dhaka University, and a PhD in Indian English literature from the University of Pune, is a professor of English at Kushtia Islamic University. Rashid Askari has emerged as a writer in the mid-nineties of the last century, and has, by now, written half a dozen books, and quite a large number of research articles, essays, and newspaper columns in Bengali and English published at home and abroad. His two Bengali books: Indo-English Literature and Others (Dhaka-1996) and Postmodern Literary and Critical Theory (Dhaka-2002) and one English book: The Wounded Land deserve special mention. He also writes short fictions in Bengali and English. Currently, he is working on an English fiction.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
12.
A Karmayogi by S. Krishnamoorthy Aithal
Alone in his study-cum-bedroom, Nitesh was calculating, as he waited to hear the news of the success or otherwise of the latest top kill procedure to choke off the oil flow, just in order to pass time, based on different estimates, the number of gallons of crude oil that might have been spewed into the Gulf of Mexico by the offshore rig Deepwater Horizon since it exploded and sank. Bianca, his granddaughter, quietly entered the room and wanted to know if she could take a few minutes of his time. Nitesh was more than happy to receive his young visitor, age 15, a student of Junior High. “I know for sure it would take more than a few minutes,” Nitesh said, warmly. “You have all of my time—take the rest of the evening, if you wish. Do you want me to correct your English essay assignment?” Bianca frequently sought Nitesh’s editorial help. The sessions sometimes took hours and she thoroughly enjoyed those sessions. She learnt a lot not only about grammar and style, but also of new ways of thinking, feeling, and, in brief, looking at the world. She always acknowledged his help when she turned in her essays to her teachers. Many times her English teachers expressed their desire to meet her private tutor, but the tutor had no desire to give interviews. Bianca had to invent polite reasons to dodge such invitations. “No, I don’t have an essay today,” Bianca said. “I don’t even have a topic for my essay to state the truth. Students have been asked to write an essay on an ideal member of their family, and I am at a loss to select my subject. You are my first choice, but it would take barely 100 words to describe your living style beyond human desire.” Bianca studied her grandpa’s reaction. “Very true, very true,” Nitesh agreed. “Bianca, I don’t know if you said that in compliment or deprecation, but I can’t tell you how pleased I am with your character evaluation. You don’t know what efforts I have been making to reduce my life to the bare bones. You are the first one to tell me that I have achieved my aim. Thank you.” 41
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
“Gran’pa, you may be happy, but I need a topic,” Bianca protested. “After eliminating you, I am left without a topic.” “Why, you are not an orphan. You have your mother and your father, uncles and aunties, here and in India. Why not write an essay on your mother, or father, for example?” Nitesh suggested, helpfully. “Oh, no! They are so boring!” Bianca said, artlessly. Grandpa was stunned. “Come on! These crazy people are always talking about their workplace, as if the workplace is the whole universe,” Bianca went on to explain her viewpoint with reasons and examples, as she had been taught to do in school and at home. “And criticizing specifically, their boss. O, Lord!” “Bianca, you are not supposed to talk about your parents in this way, disrespectfully,” Nitesh said. “If your dad or mom comes to know that you find a sympathetic audience in me for such talk, you know I will be thrown out and you will have to come to the shelter for the homeless to meet me for any editorial consultation. I wouldn’t dare say something like this about my mother or father, you know, even though they departed from this earth a long time ago and are beyond all hearing.” “I am sorry,” Bianca quickly apologized, but felt it was unfair on her grandpa’s part to characterize her remark as disrespectful. “I don’t know what to make of it—you always tell me to speak the truth and nothing but the truth, but when I do you scold me.” “Bianca, I wasn’t scolding you,” Grandpa spoke in a conciliatory tone, skipping the important issue she had raised. “You haven’t told me much about your parents,” Bianca said to put his grandpa at ease. “Please tell me about your mother.” “Which mother do you want me to talk about?” Grandpa asked. 42
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
“What do you mean which mother?” Bianca asked, perplexed. “The one who lived in Koteshwar, Balgudi, or the one who lived in Saligrama, Balgudi?” Nitesh asked. “You had two mothers? How is that possible? One could have two fathers, the official one and the real one, but …” “Bianca, where did you learn about two fathers, the official and the real?” “It says in your Shakespeare’s The Tempest,” Bianca said. “Prospero’s speech to his daughter Miranda, Act I, scene ii, lines.55-57, if I am correct.” “A far-fetched interpretation of the lines of the bard, to ignore the wrong use of the pronoun ‘It,’” Nitesh remarked. “Be that as it may. I had two mothers. The one who lived in Koteshwar was my grandmother and the one in Saligrama was my mother, who gave me birth. I called both of them ‘amma’, mother. I was brought up by my gran’ma and until I was four or five I did not know that I had another mother. When I was once told around the time my mother would be visiting Koteshwar the following week, I was thrown into a confusion, as you are now. You follow me?” “Did you experience any problem relating to your mother?” Bianca asked. “As far as I remember,” Nitesh said, “none at all. When my mother arrived in Koteshwar, I quickly switched sides. I don’t know what my gran’ma felt about my behavior. I was too little to understand and it was a long time before I had learnt the art of deception. If I hurt her, I guess I made it up when my mother returned to Saligrama after a couple of days. I was back again on gran’ma’s lap.” “How interesting! You didn’t suffer severe trauma?” Bianca said, showing her knowledge of and familiarity with the jargon of child psychology. “Far from it. I grew up proud I had two mothers unlike the rest of my friends. I was happy. Everyone in my circle envied my position.” 43
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories
“How wonderful! Please tell me more!” Bianca requested, certain to find a topic for her essay. “I know you need stuff for a 500-word essay.” Nitesh said. “All right let me talk today about my “amma”, i.e., my grandmother Radhamma. Feel free to interrupt me if you have any questions or if you have difficulty following my accent. “She had three children, two sons and a daughter. The sons divided the property between the two of them as soon as their father died and lived separately. Since the younger one was still unmarried, it was decided that my gran’ma would live with him. The married daughter, my mother, lived in Saligrama some six miles away with her husband, my father, and his extended family. I come on the scene about this time. “As she was a widow, she had her hair shaved off. She wore a red saree. She ate one meal a day, at noon, as widows were supposed to do. My uncle was most of the time away, but the house used to be full. Most of her daughter’s—i.e., my mother’s—children, my brothers and sisters, were brought up there and also her grandchildren’s children. Many of them came and went, but I lived there the longest period of time. “She worked from sunrise to sundown in the backyard garden, out in the fields, and in the house. Never did I see her relax. No question of taking a vacation. She was first on the guest list of all her friends and relatives on any special occasion and she took me with her, as everyone knew that I was too small to be left alone safely behind. She reached all the places in advance of time to provide help—to cook and get things ready for the feast, and the last to leave after all the pots and pans were washed clean and put back in their proper places. Before she left, she made sure that left-over food was attended to. If the hosts gave her some, she took it gladly. She was universally liked because she never spoke about herself. She never indulged in idle talk because there was always some useful, productive employment. She had absolutely no time to take off from work, keep worrying or complaining. She was busy like a bee every minute and hour of the day, day after day, week after week, month after month, all the year round. She felt twenty-four hour day was not long enough to complete her work. “I loved play, but did give her a helping hand, now and then, albeit grudgingly.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories “She was frugal. She saved money she earned by selling vegetables, crops and milk, but she did not spend a penny on herself. I don’t think she ever bought a saree herself. She wouldn’t understand how anyone would enjoy life by borrowed money, like Americans do. You know our national debt? 13 trillion dollars! What this means is that every American—man, woman, and child today—owes $42000 to a foreign government. Why blame America? ‘Holier than thou’ attitude doesn’t any longer wash. The trend today is universal. Governments want people to spend, to consume, to keep the economy growing. My gran’ma would be aghast to hear such talk. As for her savings for a rainy day, it never added up because her son was always in need of money to start a new business venture that would free her from a life of labor, and he pestered her to support his ventures. “Her philosophy of life can be summarized in a few simple words: Our actions must be free from any material desire, the idea founded on the belief that good actions have good results and bad actions have bad results, ultimately. She made no effort to intellectualize the philosophy, though. It came naturally to her. She went about her work in a selfless manner to get the job done. She committed herself to work in a spirit of dedication and detachment. She simply followed the path she believed that god had set for her to make her life worthwhile. “What were her goals and ambitions in life? None for herself, for sure. Did she want to be remembered? I doubt it. Was she ever bored? No, she had no luxury to think along the lines. You would call her life very boring, perhaps.… Nitesh looked at Bianca, who sort of freed herself from Radhamma’s embrace. “Certainly not! How I wish she were among us! We would have learnt from her how to live without TV, cinema, parties, dances, drinking, and the like,” Bianca said. “You would be surprised to know that she had no desire to last long enough to see you,” Nitesh resumed. “She knew that our lease of life in this world lasts only so many years, and not a day longer. In fact, she knew that Lord Yama could appear any moment. She kept herself ready to answer his call and ride with him to Yamalok, but she was not other-worldly or negative in outlook, as some books on eastern culture might characterize such a way of life. “You know that we cremate our bodies after death. A lot of families face problems to burn the bodies of the deceased because of lack of sufficient amount of wood when people suddenly die 45
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories without prior notice. They cut trees on those occasions, but the fresh wood doesn’t easily burn. The families have to spend a lot of time and pour ghee or clarified butter to make the wood burn. Considerate of the survivors, Radhamma kept wood ready, and dry. Bianca was distressed to hear this, and did not know where and how the story would end. With his voice choking, Nitesh continued. “During the middle of one night, I woke up when I heard painful sounds coming from my grandma’s mouth, and I shook her up to wake her. Brushing her fingers gently, she narrated a nightmare she had. A cobra was biting her fingers to wake up and asking her to get inside the house. We dismissed it as a bad dream. My grandmother promised that she would make an offering of milk and honey to the God Cobra the next day and we went back to sleep. “By the way, a real cobra used to be a periodic midnight visitor to the room where we slept. It would wake us up and announce its presence by its hissing sound. Whenever this happened, my gran’ma would simply light up a candle, put it in the corner, along with a cup of milk. She would kneel down and acknowledge the cobra’s presence, make a promise of an offering the next day, and we would go back to sleep. Lacking her faith, I would cover myself completely head to foot, and would never get a good sleep the rest of the night. The night would pass without any incident and in the early morning, I would notice the cup empty of milk. “Coming back to where I left, after gran’ma’s dream that night, we went back to sleep. But not long after, we heard a cry of ‘Fire!’ ‘Fire!’ from the villagers. We woke up and walked out of the house and looked for signs of fire in the village in front of us, but found none. When we turned back, we saw flames of fire at the back of our own house. “The villagers came in large number and put out the fire, not before a good part of the house was destroyed by it. “In order to keep the wood dry, my gran’ma had stored the wood on the attic above the fireplace. After cooking food for me that night, she did not obviously extinguish the fire completely. A cinder might have been left burning. The fire must have spread from it and slowly reached the dry wood above the fireplace. Not knowing whether to cry or laugh, the villagers heard gran’ma give the background details. 46
CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
June 2012
Stories “When the villagers heard about the God Cobra who appeared to her in her sleep to warn her of the fire, they bowed their head with deep reverence and touched her feet and took her blessings. Tears rolled down Nitesh’s eyes. Bianca’s cheeks were wet.
“As years passed, I left home and moved away, wherever job took me. I am ashamed to say I didn’t keep her thoughts in my mind during my absence from home, distracted by the stress and pressures of life. I heard Gran’ma collected wood for her cremation all over again. However, death took its own sweet time to claim her. Before she died, I got the news that she fell and broke her ribs and hands and bore the excruciating pain in silence for months.
“In summary, your great-gran’ma Radhamma lived her life to the beat and rhythm of a song divine.” It was late in the night. Bianca said “Good Night!” and quietly went to her room. The next evening Bianca visited her grandpa again in his room. She had an essay in her hands. She wanted his help to make corrections and suggest revisions. Bianca had found a topic and written an essay. Nitesh was pleased to see the title she had given her essay “A Karmayogi.” Obviously, Bianca had done her research. “A great title” Nitesh said, congratulating the author. “It suits the subject best. Well begun is half done!” S. Krishnamoorthy Aithal has published articles on a wide range of authors and books in scholarly international journals. His short stories have appeared in Critical Quarterly, Short Story International, Unlikely Stories, Long Story Short, Indian Literature, and New Quest. Two volumes of his short stories One in Many and Many in One are making editorial rounds. He teaches English at Potomac College , Washington , DC.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
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criticism
I criticize by creation - not by finding fault. – Marcus Tullius Cicero
13.
The Quest for Intimacy by Dr. Pratyush Vatsala Abstract Intimacy may be seen as eternal and universal search of Man for his existential roots. In other words, to find the missing link to the umbilical cord that was cut at the time of birth is the crux of the whole pursuit of all forms of love, care, sex (heterosexual or homosexual) and intimacy. The present paper is an attempt of a close reading of Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho, a Brazilian writer, well-known for his humanistic concerns and spiritual quests. The book envisions entirely new meaning of love and sex for the contemporary world. The study probes into the complex psyche of the individual in modern times passing through the transition from tradition to modernity and still looking towards love and sex as a panacea for his fractured soul.
The Quest for Intimacy & Paulo Coelho’s Eleven Minutes: A Study in Changing Paradigm Thou madest us for thyself And our heart is restless until it repose in Thee. —Augustine Modern man has classified and categorized all labels and fables. He is moving faster than ever with supersonic speed, cutting the skies above and diving deep into the ocean. Alas, he has forgotten how to remain natural, a human being, in communion with the consciousness. His plans and negotiations have made towering buildings, sent missions to Mars but he is failing to 48
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criticism communicate with his partner. Somewhere, something is missing. With the burden of volumes of knowledge and technology, crawling across the history, the modern man has exhausted himself. Fallen upon the thorns of life, he is bleeding profusely and has no one to take care of or to extend his trust to. Fear of the dread is immanent in his being. He has nobody to share his angst, though, there are many people, sailing on the same boat. A void has been created through the ages. He is stumbling badly. He is growing crazy to get that ‘something’, though he is not sure, what it is. He does not know where to seek and where to find this something. There is a deep urge to seek and strive for something unknown, missing so far on the earth. Everybody is searching. The poor, the rich, the wise, the powerful, and the powerless—all are searching and nobody knows what it means to seek or to find. If somebody gets something he feels happy for the moment. But the next moment, he cries, “Neti Neti”, it is not that. There seems to be a void in the very structure of human consciousness, a hole, a kind of black hole that devours anything that comes to it, of whatsoever pitch and validity it might be. The hole is ever hungry and never full and so there is no chance for fulfillment. And, the feverish search continues in this world and in the world hereafter. A baffled man tries to seek this something in money, power, prestige, sex and, love. But, Love’s labours are lost in oblivion. Life is a search, a desperate and hopeless search for the uncanny. No one can quit. The desire for something is always nagging him, pushing him or pulling him all the time. His search continues to seek that something in love, prayer, God and bliss, and he moves on. That is the message of Upanishads also “Caraiveti Caraiveti”. That is what human life is made of. There is no other option. Man has to enter “the dark night of the soul” to find the missing link, the roots of umbilical cord that has now grown in him to nourish his confidence and trust in his own existence. He is unaware of this growth and so fears the development. What is to be done? Love is the only possible alternative that can be tried here. Hence, life becomes a pilgrimage to the shrine of love. However, the inner shrine of love is not open to each and everyone except for those who know how to be intimate with the other being from the centre of their existence. As Erich Fromm says, “Love is possible only if two persons communicate with each other from the centre of their existence…. Only in this “central experience is human reality, only here is aliveness, only here is the basis of love” (The Art of Living). And if we believe Paulo Coelho, “…important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other….when we need to die and reborn emotionally…. The unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes direction. (Eleven Minutes, p140-141). “The Twin Soul” (Ying & Yang) theory also suggests that at some magical moment in cosmic time, each of us reaches a point during personal growth and 49
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criticism evolution where the soul reunion awakens the spirituality igniting the divine spark within. The Sufis, and Bhakti Poets, like Kabir, Sur and Mira also refer to this indescribable, connection between two individuals that can go beyond everyday love. John Donne also refers to this union that does not depend upon eyes and ears and makes the circle complete like the twin foot of compass, even when going far away from the other one. The word intimacy comes from the Latin root ‘intimum’ which means interiority, the innermost core. Intimacy is an essential and existential need of man. Human child is the most fragile child among all living beings. He needs someone to take care of him physically as well as emotionally. He cannot live by bread alone, according to The Bible. It is with the help of others that he knows himself and manifests the divinity of his soul. He needs other beings to develop the blue print of his own being. His life arises from the womb of earth and permeates through the sky outside. Man wants to know the darkness of the womb with the help of the dazzling light outside. The dichotomy has to be understood and resolved to see the darkness with light. A Herculean task has to be done. It is not easy even to jump into darkness. A man must be trained to see through darkness. In darkness only, in secret moments alone, the spiritual cord reveals itself, illuminating the spirit in a blissful state. It cannot be visible in the dazzling light outside. The problem is not how to realize the existence but how to get rooted back in existence and to know that we are part of nature. It is really challenging. This knowledge posits intimacy with nature and godliness reveals itself to real friends of existence. The modern man is uprooted from his existence. He is alienated not only from God and society but also from himself. As Carl Jung writes in his article, The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man, “Modern man is an entirely new phenomenon; a modern problem is one which has just arisen and whose answer still lies in future.” (?). As rationalism fails and he realizes the futility of inauthentic existence aggravated by the “boundary situation”, a terrible sense of isolation and alienation from the social, moral or metaphysical reality is obvious. It is the destiny of modern man. He inevitably feels abandoned and homeless, and finally sees himself as a stranger who has been, in Heideger’s language, “thrown” into a world painfully foreign to him and wholly unresponsive to his ultimate questions and deepest longings. We hear the shocking cry of Nietszche “God is dead” and so the human values. A spiritual crisis is obvious in a world full of unauthentic, artificial people devoid of human values. As Dr. Rienx observes, “They know if there is one thing one can always yearn for and sometimes attain, it is human love.” (?). I-thou relationship explicates the need for communication with another “being” as Buber opines. Maria in her quest realizes: 50
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criticism Everyone knows how to love, because we are born with that gift. Some people have a natural talent for it, but the majority of us have to re-learn, to remember how to love, and everyone, without exception , needs to burn on the bonfire of past emotions, to relive certain joys and griefs, certain ups and downs, until they can see the connecting thread that exists behind each new encounter; because there is a connecting thread. (EM, p141). The ‘connecting thread’ if found in life helps us establishing link to the divine soul. The spiritual cord that lays hanging just above each human body at times, gets connected with it and we start receiving signals and experiencing ‘trance’ that Wordsworth felt in contact with Nature. “When desire is still in its pure state, the man and woman fall in love with life, they live each moment reverently, consciously always ready to celebrate the next blessing.” (EM, p135) To establish the missing link to the spiritual cord, to the soul above that unites man to atman, to immerse in paramatman, the Supreme Being or Supreme Consciousness, the jeevatman (the soul caged within the body) is always restless. The one and the only thing we can do, is to remain authentic and sincere to our own beings. The intimacy with other beings will spring forth naturally. Spiritual practice is needed to be conscious of the cosmic consciousness, a realization that one is everywhere and can find oneself anywhere. As soon as he learns how to look deep into things, the consciousness begins to pass from him to the object and comes back completing a circle. The lake is visible in the eyes of Narcissus and vice versa. Upanishads promulgate the very message of “Tattvamasi”, ‘Thou art That’. But thinking creates barriers. Barriers must be dropped to realize the existence. Deep and true love helps us. With the help of true love one can float on the cosmic consciousness feeling coddled and confident. Meeting with love is a beginning. It is an arch where through gleams the fading margins of the divine world. However the desire is to be one, to be intimate with God yet while staying on earth and in this body we still have a chance to experience “the limited abundance” with men and women on earth, as Lisa Graham McMinn puts it in Sexuality and Holy Longing.. However, the condition becomes deplorable as we do not know how to be intimate. We are not open to the people around us. We fear intimacy but we cannot live without it. Intimacy needs to represent a subset of larger group of human needs like needs for achievement, power, affiliation with others, recognition, status, and autonomy. (Leary, Maslow, Murray and Rotter). Maslow and Wilson argue that fulfillment of these needs is associated with well being and good 51
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criticism adjustment while frustration and deprivation of needs are linked to adjustment to problems and symptomatology. (Deiner). Without intimacy we are unable to be with our own Self as we need other’s eye to see our own visage. Even the Lake in the prologue of The Alchemist weeps for Narcissus. It weeps not because Narcissus was beautiful, but weeps because “each time he knelt beside my bank, I could see, in the depth of his eyes, my own beauty reflected” (Coelho xiv). The lake is searching its self in the eyes of Narcissus. That is the beauty of the earthly existence that we are interdependent. We need other beings to manifest our inherent attributes. The crux is that the concerns with the self and identity cause people to develop intimacy with others. Unlike primitive cultures, man no longer lives as a part of a large family or community where there is a sense of comfort and safety, a network of people to share and care, to feel at home with. Maria discovers “Human beings can withstand a week without water, two weeks without food, many years of homelessness, but not loneliness. It is the worst of all tortures, the worst of all sufferings.” (EM, p92). A man chooses a partner as a source of affection, love, support and more than ever a best friend. A beggar is begging from another beggar. Both get irritated as they are not rooted in their existence. A relationship based on illusion gets disillusioned and ends in confusion and chaos. What is needed is to be honest, as Kierkegaard exclaims, “Quite simply I want honesty … I am neither leniency nor severity: I am – a human honesty.” (?).The man who is a rational animal of Aristotle, the homo economics of Adam Smith, and a Marxian specimen of class consciousness suffers the pangs of alienation, loss of human values. His immanent existential fear needs intimacy to satisfy the basic needs- to be attended to, understood, and, ultimately, known deeply by another while still being accepted and valued. Intimacy, thus, may be visualized as eternal and universal search of Man for his existential roots. He is constantly in search of the missing link to umbilical (the human) and spiritual (the divine) cord, satisfying him at different levels of his being and existence. As man’s existence is multi-layered, from physical body to spiritual body (Annamaya Brahman to Anandamaya Brahman), from gross body to subtle soul, human life is a journey towards attaining a blissful state. How to attain this blissful state? Love, intimacy and awareness of his existence are the broad categories under which all his feelings, demands and desires (physical, mental and spiritual) can be categorized.
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criticism The concepts of love and intimacy have undergone through a transition from tradition to modernity. The world is so much with us that we are looking for solutions of emotional and psychological problems in physical and material things. Sexual revolution has taken place sweeping all emotions aside. It is through “plastic sexuality” (Anthony Giddens) that man is trying to satisfy his psychological needs of intimacy and roots. “ …whether it is hidden away in pretty little love stories or discussed in serious tomes on human behaviour , it appears to be all anyone thinks about.” (EM, p138). But the “matter” is failing us badly. “Seven Minutes” or “Eleven Minutes” that too has disillusioned humanity, though, body is now more open for sexual dissection anytime, in the name of love, intimacy, tension release, revenge or even rape gratifying the animal within. Ralf Hart mourns the situation and wonders “Is it possible to know why, after gods had split the four legged creature in two, some of them decided that the embrace could be merely a thing, just another business transaction, instead of increasing people’s energy, diminished it?” (EM, p160). The point is not sex and its commercialization but what man has been looking so far. The intimacy gives strength to survive in difficult conditions. The Literature Asian or Indian is replete with sex themes. The desire to be close to someone especially in Indian contexts has been extended to lesbianism and gay theories also. India, where sex has been a taboo, particularly for women subjugated under male oppression, the things have changed a lot as we find in Dharmveer Bharati’s “Gunahon Ka Devta” (Hindi), and Kanta Bharati’s “Ret Ki Machali” (Hindi), Manju Kapoor’s A Married Woman, Gitanjali Shree’s Tirohit and, Rajkamal Chowdhary’s Machali Mari Huai. India already had examples of intimacy in its traditional texts, as Radha playing with her sakhis (friends) in Yamuna, though, at different levels. Indian traditional Sanskrit literature also boasts of intimate depiction and Erotic emotion has been given the most prominent place among all permanent emotions numerated by Bharata Muni, the writer of dramaturgy, The Natya Sastra. Love has been celebrated and compared to Brahmanand even, if refined. Today, people have choice to look for their partners from homo or hetero circle. Society has accepted and legalized it as an alternative available for the moment, so far as this wider choice helps to provide a congenial environment for “disclosing intimacy” between sexual partners. But such an intimacy lasts for seven or eleven minutes only. It is not a ‘genital embrace’ as seen by Paulo Coelho, “when two bodies meet, it is just the cup overflowing. They can stay together for hours, even days. They begin the dance one day and finish it the next, or – such is the pleasure they experience – they may never finish it. No eleven minutes for them.” (EM, p160). 53
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criticism Love is much more than sexual contentment, gratifying desire of physical body. It can’t be one night together. It may move to Sat-chit-anada level if the lovers can transcend beyond the body-needs. As Sri Aurobindo says, “Thus it can transform the conflict of our dualised emotions and sensations into a certain totality of serene, yet profound and powerful love and delight.” (SY, p405). He believes that the supreme state of human love is the unity of the soul within two bodies. The desire to know other in a free environment obviously turns to sex for its fulfillment though that was not the aim. Man has been looking for a union to escape from his loneliness and existential fear and “…sex has come to be used as some kind of drug; in order to escape reality to forget about problem….” (EM, p176). Paulo Coelho, here, heralds, epoch-making shifts to the existing concepts of love and intimacy prevalent today diving deep into the abyss of individual and collective consciousness. Combining love and sex with spiritual quest cannot be the theme of a cheap blockbuster but an exploration of a real penetrating insight into human consciousness. The realization comes, “Love is not to be found in someone else, but in ourselves; we simply awaken it. But in order to do that, we need the other person. The universe only makes sense when we have someone to share our feelings with. (EM, p118). A concept of “sacred sex” emerging from “the centre of existence” of two human beings, let it be outside marriage, is a new construct very close to the heart of all human endeavours and his search for true self. The ultra modern theory nurtured by ancient Indian texts, emanates the scope of evolution of human consciousness. It gives a chance to human beings to evolve like a saint from the role of a playboy. When sex becomes physical expression of inner soul and the direction changes and everything turns inward. And Eleven minutes of sex unfold the possibility for a prostitute to rise above the physical level and to explore something eternal at conscious level. In the very beginning of his celebrated book, “Eleven Minutes”, Paulo Coelho proclaims: Like all prostitutes, she was born both innocent and a virgin, and as an adolescent, she dreamed of meeting the man of her life (rich, handsome, intelligent), of getting married (in a wedding dress), having two children (who would grow up to be famous) and living in a lovely house (with a sea view). (EM, p1) She was pure enough to be a medium of a new dimension and combination of two different needs of man finally merging into one. 54
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criticism I am two women: one wants to have all the joy and passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be slave to routine, to family life to the things that can be planned and achieved. I’m a housewife and a prostitute, both of us living in the same body and doing battle with each other. The meeting of these two is a game with serious risks, A divine dance. When we meet we are two universe colliding. If the meeting is not carried out with due reverence, one universe destroys the other. (EM, p153) Maria recognized the dizzying game of her life as ‘roller coaster’ and surrendered herself to God. She refused to bother about anything though many a times she had to struggle not to lose her soul in the pages of her diary, as she wrote. She knew well that everyone was in search of happiness and nobody had it. She also felt that it was not sex for which men were crazy but it was happiness that tantalized them. She was intelligent enough to make it that men paid ‘thousand francs’ not for sex but for the hope of happiness. Maria was little different from other prostitutes. She was sensitive to the intimacy needs of man. She knew which points to touch- on both body and soul but mainly the soul- with her clients. During her search for ‘Self’ and happiness she had to face harsh realities of life, that too in a foreign place. But she was determined to overcome all the difficulties purely by dint of her own intelligence, charm and willpower, as she declared. Though sometimes she was caught in a quagmire and waited for the time to pass to “resume her search for Self in the form of man who understands her and does not make her suffer.” (EM, p92). She believed that the signals sent by passion can guide her through her life. So she was keen on interpreting them. She was looking for true love that could promise her freedom. Going through the course of her journey she learnt the art of giving rather than asking or expecting. She had to answer her conscience (her invisible friend) but she preferred to be “an adventurer in search of a treasure than to be a victim of the world.” (?). She developed a detached attitude towards her profession and continued her search. She became an observer (Drshta), as recommended by Lord Krishna in Bhagvadgita. She was not a “Split Personality” of the psychologists but she could rise above to the level of souls, to find sense in the metaphor of the birds of Upanishads, one doer (participating & enjoying) and one observer (not participating & detached). And, she could preserve her ‘special light’ (light of the soul), to be seen by Ralf Hart. Her soul was getting stronger while going through all types of pain and humiliation with her body, so much so that she could imagine herself “as a soul that has a visible part called body.” (EM, p75). She came through different types of pain, one that awakened the body and gave pleasure but the other awakened the soul and led it to peace. She was aware of the fact 55
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criticism that suffering if confronted without fear is the passport to freedom. She had discovered a door onto a different level of consciousness, and there was no room now for anything but implacable nature and her invincible Self. Though, her journey from body consciousness to soul consciousness through body is, of course, not straight, yet it has labyrinthine ways to lead up to the aim of self realization and ultimately the summit has been attained, a human summit with human body melting into spiritual consciousness of man. Paulo Coelho sums it up as: …it wasn’t eleven minutes, it was an eternity, it was as if we had both left our bodies and were walking joyfully through the gardens of paradise in understanding and friendship. I was woman and man, he was man and woman. I don’t know how long it lasted, but everything seemed to be silent, at prayer, as if the universe and life had ceased to exist and become transformed into something sacred, nameless and timeless (EM, p264) Here love becomes the Silence (Stillness) and “Samadhi”, where conscious presence merges into the ‘beingness’ itself (Maitri Upanishad). It may begin at physical level but goes much beyond and never ends without touching the soul, and sex becomes a divine dance, a sacred experience. Though, this state of Samadhi does not come without the feeling of Advaita that emanates from the inner core of being. There is then the possibility of the supramental transformation that might change our sense of sight (physical, spiritual) also and give us a natural sense of unity which is the need of today’s fractured world. Rare is the cup fit for love’s nectar wine As rare the vessel that can hold God’s birth; A soul made ready through a thousand a thousand years Is the living mould of a Supreme Descent. (Savitri, Book V, Canto II, p398) References: 1. Aurobindo, Sri. Savitri. Pondicherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Fourth Impression, 1995. 2. Aurobindo, Sri. Synthesis of Yoga (SY). Pondicherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram. 3. Coelho, Paulo. Eleven Minutes (EM).Translated. Margaret Jull Costa. India: Harper Collins, Sixth impression, 2005. Coelho, Paulo. The Alchemist. Translated. Alan R. Clarke. New Delhi: Harper Collins, 1998. 4. Comerchero, Victor. Ed. Values in Conflict. New York: Meredith Corporation, 1970. 56
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criticism 5. Gill, Richard and Sherwan, Earnest. The Fabric of Existentialism. Prentice Hall, INC,1973. 6. Jamieson, Lynn. Intimacy. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998. Print. 7. Jaspers, Karl. Boundary Situations. Transl. E. B. Ashton.: University of Chicago Press, 1970. 8. Jung, Carl. “The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man”, 12 July 2009. Web. 9. Kreeft, Peter. “Toward Reuniting the Church” Fundamentals of the Faith. San Francisco: Igatius Press, 1988. 10. Luhmann, Niklas. Love as Passion. Polity Press, 1986. 11. Osho. Intimacy. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2001. 12. Prager, Karen J. Psychology of Intimacy. New York: Guilford Press, 1995.
Dr. Pratyush Vatsala is an Associate Professor with DBS (PG) College, Dehradun.
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CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – a journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
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Book reviews
The artist doesn’t have time to listen to the critics. The ones who want to be writers read the reviews, the ones who want to write don’t have the time to read reviews. – William Faulkner
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Review on NATURE by Bernard M Jackson O Ballader! Embroider the caper Of the stellar For a wonder. (Quatrain 145)
The respected Editor of that excellent Indian English International literary Journal, Kohinoor, Dr. Arbind Kumar Choudhary , has long been a celebrated luminary within India’s bourgeoning poetry scene, and has subsequently been making manifold contribution of his works to numerous prominent poetry societies and publishing outlets abroad, over the years, having the distinction of his poems being published as far a field as England , Greece , Malta , Mongolia and Cyprus respectively. Within the educational field he has also taken a leading role, with a demanding mantle of responsibility, for he heads the Deptt. of English at a well established college in Majuli (Assam). It hardly remains for me to pertinently observe that A.K.C. has an extensive knowledge of vocabulary, giving prodigious greater depth to his literary output, a circumstance that even had this reviewer reaching for his dictionary on occasions. This exemplary collection, a virtual treasure chest of some 210 vibrant quatrains, inspired entirely by a poet’s all-embracing love of the Natural world, gives spontaneous mainspring to seasonal change and effects topographical detail, the charm of flora and fauna within his familiar environs, and all many other simple glories: 58
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Book reviews Spring is the golden fire Of natural caricature That is the score Of the parterre. (Quatrain 2) Many of A.K. Choudhary’s poems are couched in characteristically authoritative expression which has delightful didactic appeal, as passion of forethought reaches assurity of positive pronouncement: The pinion of permutation Is the ruling passion For the perdition Of the aberration. (Quatrain 77) Like countless other writers of a particularly romantic disposition, it can clearly be seen that here is a poet who cannotes essential parallels between the colours and alluring fragrance of a beautiful flower and the intoxicating charm of a lady so prominently figured in an affair of the heart : The savour of the larkspur Stirs the harbour Of affaire d’amour For the raconteur. (Quatrain 149) And a keen interest in areas of botanical attraction is patently evident as various species of wild flowers are intermittently represented and named in several of his choicest quatrains: The privet thicket Is the bracelet For the florescent Of Saint John’s Wort. (Quatrain 93) 59
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Book reviews
In his lucid PREFACE to this fascinating collection, Dr. Choudhary tells us ‘Every natural object is a manifestations of the spirit, beauty and love’ , and he further states that he derives the greatest pleasure from the music of nature from its beautiful colours and its sweet fragrance : The melody of the fife Is the lovely strife Like the love life Of the tophy wife. (Quatrain 52) Further references to this poet’s comments on the musical aspects of our natural world, far away from the noise and hustle and bustle of city life, is to be found in quatrain no. 131, a spiritually contained poem of profound significance. Again, here we have the didactic pronouncement of poet and teacher: To metrify the musicology Of the ecology Is the doxology Of the clergy. (Quatrain 131) For an entirely dramatic and most effective conclusion to this unique collection of quatrains what could have provided a more fitting finale than this worthy tail - end offering of verse? The lightning thunder Works wonder For the provender Of the ballader. (Quatrain 210) It is certainly good to observe that the English quatrain is alive and well – and ,in fact , positively thriving, in the informed poetry circles of India’s vast sub-continent. Dr. Choudhary’s collection has been further enhanced by the decidedly empathetic introduction provided by the 60
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Book reviews ubiquitous Austrian poet Dr. Kurt .F. Svatek – I wish the poet /author every success with the promotion of this absorbing literary venture.
Name of the Anthology: NATURE (2011) Poet: Arbind Kumar Choudhary Publication: Poetcrit Publications, Maranda ,H.P. – 176102, India Price : Rs. 99, U.S. $ 6 Reviewer: Bernard.M.Jackson,12,Selborne Garden, Jesmond, New Castle upon Tyne, NE2 1 EY ,England.
Bernard M. Jackson, poet and reviewer, is based in England. Bernard has six poetry collections to his credit.
Dr. Arbind Kumar Choudhary is a poet. Till date he has published a good number poetry collections including Love, Nature and The Poet and his poems have been included in many anthologies. He is Editor with Kohinoor and Ayush.
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arts
15.
Arts by Eleanor Leonne Bennett
Title: Ebennett
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arts
Title: YYY
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arts
Title: Rekindle Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15-year old photographer and artist who has won contests with National Geographic, The Woodland Trust, The World Photography Organisation, Winstons Wish, Papworth Trust, Mencap, Big Issue, Wrexham science, Fennel and Fern and Nature's Best Photography. She has had her photographs published in exhibitions and magazines across the world including the Guardian, RSPB Birds, RSPB Bird Life, Dot Dot Dash, Alabama Coast, Alabama Seaport and NG Kids Magazine.
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Editor’s talk Contemporary Literary Review India (CLRI) is a rapidly growing literary journal and has become reckoning in a very short span of time. CLRI receives huge submission each month from writers belonging to a wide range of professions from around the world. On one hand we strive to give space to as many writers as possible, so to accommodate more writers we are continuously increasing topics each month. CLRI June 2012 has 15 topics. On the other hand we regret that we’re unable to include all submissions. Earlier selection to all submissions was about 90% which has gone down to about 70% to 60%, which however raises the quality of the journal in turn. Moreover, we still make all efforts to publish more and more writers. CLRI has started some paid writing services such as book review writing, digital formatting, ads to promote writers, and recently we started a column on Featured Author that brings a writer to the light. These services have been started on the demand and requests of writers who want their work to be known to a wider audience and hence sell their titles.
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