CLRI CONTEMPORARY LITERARY REVIEW INDIA – journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers. CLRI Print Edition ISSN 2250-3366
October 2012
Rs. 10.00 / $0.79
Contemporary Literary Review India – journal that brings articulate writings for articulate readers.
October 2012
Editor-in-Chief: Khurshid Alam
CLRI Print Edition ISSN 2250-3366 Rs. 10.00 / $0.79
October 2012
contents
1.
KHURSHID ALAM ..................................................................................... 2 India’s Stand in Digital Publishing ............................................................. 2
2.
STEFANIE GOLISCH ............................................................................... 5 Little Hope ................................................................................................. 5 Kisses ........................................................................................................ 6 This is the Question not ............................................................................ 7
3.
DIKE OKORO ........................................................................................... 9 Requiem .................................................................................................... 9 Looking Back ........................................................................................... 10
4.
WILLIAM DORESKI ................................................................................ 12 Color More than Design .......................................................................... 12 Sort of an Elegy ....................................................................................... 14 Law versus Art ........................................................................................ 16
5.
DR. SWAPNA GOPINATH...................................................................... 18 Fear ......................................................................................................... 18
6.
RAAD KAREEM ABD-AUN ..................................................................... 19 Imposter Beggar or Old Habits Die Hard ................................................ 19
7.
ANNE CARLY ABAD .............................................................................. 21 The Debt comes Due .............................................................................. 21 Reruns ..................................................................................................... 22
8.
DR. GIRISH RAMESH KUTE ................................................................. 24 Kashmir ................................................................................................... 24
9.
KYLE HEMMINGS .................................................................................. 26 Friends .................................................................................................... 26 Anna ........................................................................................................ 27 Spaghetti Western Hero .......................................................................... 28
10.
GIRLS FROM WILLIAM-ADOLPHE BOUGUEREAU'S GALLERY ........ 29
October 2012
contents 11.
RONNY NOOR ....................................................................................... 34 Big Brother on the Nine-thirty .................................................................. 34
12.
LORNA BROWN ..................................................................................... 37 Ester ........................................................................................................ 37
13.
DR. SUKANYA SAHA ............................................................................. 54 Tagore’s Chokher Bali: A Critical Appreciation ....................................... 54
14.
IFTIKHAR HUSSAIN LONE .................................................................... 56 Women In William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar ................................... 56
15.
REVIEW ON VINAY CAPILA'S THE REVOLUTION AND OTHER STORIES ................................................................................................ 64 Meenakshi Chawla Reviews Vinay Capila’s The Revolution And Other Stories ..................................................................................................... 64
16.
BOOK RELEASES .................................................................................. 68
October 2012
editorial
Digital medium is not simply a medium, it is a space to our life. All its shortcomings stand tiny before its advantages. It is the best alternative to saving paper, thus to 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 any hammer. – Khurshid Alam, Editor-in-Chief, Contemporary Literary Review India
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October 2012
editorial 1.
KHURSHID ALAM
India’s Stand in Digital Publishing Digital Publishing is poised to fast growth in the world, however this has been a little bit slow in India, because of various reasons. Electronic books are best read on gadgets such as ebook reading devices (Kindle, Nook, Cybook, Sony Reader Wi-Fi), tablets, laptops and computers. While ebook reading devices are fast peaking up sales in the USA, Europe and Western markets, they are not as popular in India as of now, and they will take time to gain popularity. Some of the important reasons are ebook reading devices are not economical viable. Ebook reading devices are very costly and to buy electronic books online you need to have either a credit card or a debit card and the Internet connection. Second, reading habit on electronic devices is not as common among the readers. You will hardly hear that anyone is opening his/her laptop only to read an electronic book. Surprisingly, this applies even to the people who are in the IT-field. Moreover, the best hope is yet alive because mobile devices are widely popular among the Indian consumers. The usage of mobiles has been on the rise than any other devices, chiefly because mobiles are coupled with multiple facilities. According to Telecom Regulatory Authority of India (TRAI), there were around 400 million mobile users as reported till May 2009 while this figure reached to 900 million by July 2012, more than a hundred per cent growth in three years span (Press Release, September 7, 2012, TRAI).
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October 2012
editorial Added to this, we should also keep the fact in mind that ten per cent of all Internet usage is done through mobiles worldwide, while in India it is over twenty per cent. Hence the need is to incorporate the facilities of ebook reading devices in the smartphones instead of waiting for the time when the ebook reading devices will become popular. Hence the need is to incorporate the facilities of ebook reading devices in the smartphones instead of waiting for the time when the ebook reading devices will become popular. If so, people will be soon seen switching to reading electronic books on their phones and the digital publishing will grow leap and bound in India.
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October 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
To enquire for placing ads, contact us at: contemporaryliteraryreview@yahoo.com
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October 2012
poems 2.
STEFANIE GOLISCH
Little Hope She sells herself at the fish market. Her prices are good and she smiles at everybody who comes along, stinking of fish, drunk at sunrise. Little Hope never says no and never stops smiling. If she could explain, she might say, what do you want, desire is the only reality, but, of course, she cannot, cheapest girl in her shortest tiger skirt. In her bowels, every man is welcome just the way he deserves. When she’s sold out, around noon or so, her body is kind of a lost and found kingdom. Like a child she falls asleep, a snow flake in the middle of an august day, pure like the eyes of a dead flatfish
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October 2012
poems Kisses Golden September, he thought, I’ll take her to the park, buy her coffee, maybe recite some verses, tell her a funny story, true or not, who cares? Tell her how beautiful she is in the rosy afternoon sun light The truth is that for seven endless years I haven’t kissed a woman. How can I tell her, please let yourself be kissed by this old man you hardly know? Don’t worry, just close your eyes if you think that I’m too ugly, my skin is too wrinkled and my breath too muddy. Your vanishing beauty will understand what it is all about Don’t ask me if the stories I tell you are true or not. (Of course they are not, as you well know!) Please, just let yourself be kissed by the hungry lips of a man who feels that he doesn’t have much time left. Call it love or horniness or, even more true, fear of death, call it whatever you like, but please, let yourself be kissed, since you are old enough to know that in the world there are so many reasons to kiss
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October 2012
poems
Look, golden September around. Did I not choose the right season, trying very hard to be what once was considered romantic? Believe me, if I had a more exiting kiss to offer, I would. But I don’t. This harsh desperate tongue is all that is left of me. I beg you, do not refuse it. Please understand that I’m just trying to stay alive Alive
This is the Question not Luz is the name of the tiniest bone among all my bones. From its improbability, I’ll be recreated after the big wave will have taken me away, my mother will have called me back to the sea Dearest thing on earth, I beg you, do not forget that my left leg is shorter than the right one, do not forget my sadness when evening comes 7
October 2012
poems when birds voices die when question after question stands still, unanswered unanswerable And I become bluer than blue, cold dark night blue no longer a thinking thing on earth, much less than an I, silently waiting in the mystery of my imperfection Hint: * In the Jewish religion luz is the name of a very little bone that is impossible to be destroyed and from which, at the end of time, man will be recreated. Stefanie Golisch, born in Germany, studied German literature in Bonn and Hannover and has her master degree and PhD in contemporary German literature. She is a writer, translator and literary critic and teacher. Her books include Uwe Johnson (1994), Ingeborg Bachmann(1997) Vermeers Blau (novel), 1998, along with many other short stories, essays, reviews having appeared in literary magazines and anthologies. Stefanie Golisch now lives in Italy and is a member of the Pen Club of German speaking authors abroad. She is also member of Writers in Prison.
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October 2012
poems 3.
DIKE OKORO
Requiem I did not notice the water of life dry in your eyes Nor did I see the angels hanging in the ceiling Your bed was a garment decorated with roses and azaleas Your unspoken words a warning I took for healing No alarms rung to safeguard your body Your closed eyes forewarned of the inevitable storm! But mortals too are not given every gift to notice Or see the footprints of death around their loved one Claim the moon with your sweet voice Let the glory of the sunset by your guide I know now where to harvest a song Whenever thoughts of you rush tears down my face.
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October 2012
poems Looking Back For days our village welcomed men And women with dull faces The markets were literally empty Like butcher tables without meat pieces Fishermen returned to their homes with empty nets School children, most of whom trekked Bare feet, dragged along dust home Only church bells rung from afar While the occasional siren of police Pickups sped after armed robbers, Summing up the dreary moments From which many sulked and yawned For days our village welcomed women And men disinterested in street gossips As the bushes burned and farmers gathered The remains of harvests they did not see And huge waves dashed ashore as oil spillage Emptied on land and marshlands and rose Beyond unimaginable heights, where Mouths closed and tongues tied Agreed with the eyes that the sea Must be very angry. 10
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poems
Dike Okoro is a poet, short story writer, essayist and editor. He is the editor of Speaking for the Generations: An Anthology of Contemporary African Short Stories (New Jersey: AWP, 2010). He teaches at Northwestern University, Evanston, USA.
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October 2012
poems 4.
WILLIAM DORESKI
Color More than Design Annuals to edge the garden: violets, ageratum, verbena, pansies, marigolds. No rain today, only the biggest sky so far this spring. Meanwhile, as I grub in clay-heavy loam, you ponder those darkest reds of Luca Giordano, whose late Baroque style doesn’t excite me. His self-portrait affixes him with glasses something like mine, marring his magisterial sneer. Draped in his surly crimson, he amassed great history paintings in Naples, and taught his pupils to hold the brush just so. Colors vivid as the annuals I’m planting linger three hundred years later. He claimed the public loved color more than design, and was right.
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October 2012
poems You prefer color to the outline of leaf and stem, prefer the green of the panorama to the stark profile of hill overlapping hill. Your essay on Giordano will saturate and dazzle itself with vermillion, gold, and eye-blue of the forget-me-nots scattered around the yard. Tiepolo would improve Giordano’s technique, just as hybrids improve their colors over the wildflowers dandling in the damp forest a few yards from the garden I’m massaging. I wish you’d write on Winslow Homer, whose rugged brushwork better suits landscapes as troubled as this one, which strains to accommodate by supporting wild and tame flowers, but someday will betray us.
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October 2012
poems Sort of an Elegy Who put meatballs on your pizza? Meat wilts you. Scraping it off won’t undo the shock of facing the processed animal grief. Rain troubles the parking lot. It spatters in great silver gobs on the hoods of expensive cars lined up like cattle feeding. So much misery in the laughter of families in other booths. Most of the pizzas bear meat: sausage, pepperoni, meatballs. You know the secret desperation that drives humans to devour their fellow creatures in the name of nourishment. You understand how domestication has severed fauna from nature, how starved and miserable the sacred cow of India, placed like women on a pedestal for men to mock.
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October 2012
poems Omnivores, we process plant protein as readily as meat. No excuse for pizza sporting these bulging criminal extrusions to ruin your big evening out. The rain won’t let up. The streets near Mill Brook will flood. Basements will weep all over town. Driving you home in your pea-green funk will further depress us both, so let’s swap pizzas. Mine sports green peppers and black olives. Lacking your sense of decorum, I’ll scrape away the meatballs and eat with a clear conscience— the lingering taint of meat too faint to sour my breath, the ghost of that creature barely invoked.
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October 2012
poems Law versus Art Erosion reveals a skeleton buried in the riverbank. Almost fossilized, it’s older than New England puritan culture, probably the relic of a Pequot lost on a hunting trip. We unearth without malforming it, but when we tote it into sunlight, it pops like a porcelain bubble. Every bone reduced to shrapnel no larger than a dime. You shrug off this small disaster, but climbing into the back seat of my Saab you cough to hide your emotions, as you always do. Let’s donate the fragments to the museum.. The curators will chastise us for disturbing the bones but they can’t afford to sponsor digs and would have let the river carry away the remains. Why do you always ride in the back seat? Afraid I’ll touch you while driving and veer off the road in shock?
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October 2012
poems This year maybe we’ll attend the conference on Law Versus Art and bring the exploded skeleton to prove our thesis. Meanwhile you hug your own skeleton to yourself, padding it with flesh enough to keep curiosity from overwhelming our friendship.
William Doreski teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poetry is Waiting for the Angel (2009). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Atlanta Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Worcester Review, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, and Natural Bridge. He won the 2010 Aesthetica Poetry Award.
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October 2012
poems 5.
DR. SWAPNA GOPINATH
Fear A thought that creeps in Gaining in stature past memories and experiences Helps build it up Into a giant wall Impenetrable and defiant Challenging the master Daring him to peep through And you succumb Turn back like a frightened pup Tail down and a whimper You walk away .... in fear.
Dr. Swapna Gopinath is working as Associate Professor in English Literature at S. N College, Trivandrum. She has an M.Phil. and Ph.D. in English Literature and has been teaching for the past 15 years. Writing poetry is a passion for her and she has been writing poetry, some of the poems have been published as well.
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October 2012
poems 6.
RAAD KAREEM ABD-AUN
Imposter Beggar or Old Habits Die Hard This morning I was stopped by a man I saw eight years ago in Al-Kasrah intersection in Baghdad I also remembered seeing him a few weeks later in Babb Al-Muadham, and again in al AlKasrah intersection walking with another busy talking. Then, he was middle-aged, about my height, with a few extra pounds. He looked quite respectable wearing elegant clothes, speaking with a soft, broken tone full of pretense. He wasn’t changed a great deal. He only grew a bit greyer. I still remember what he twice asked me for eight years ago: ‘Please help me, I don’t have the bus fare to go home.’ I politely denied him the first time. The second, realizing he was an imposter beggar, I rebuked him. Today, he had modified the formula a bit: ‘May god preserve you, I am in need –’ 19
October 2012
poems ‘I saw you in 2001 and you said the same cliché. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ ‘I swear I am in need –’ ‘Go away!’ I regretted that I did not turn him in to the National Guard check point a few yards away at Al-Waziriyah intersection the same way I regretted not turning him in to the police eight years ago. I guess old habits do die hard.
Raad Kareem Abd-Aun, born in Babylon, Iraq (1976), holds a PhD in English Literature. He writes poetry since 1995. One of his poems appeared in Revival Poetry magazine (Ireland) and another won the monthly poetry contest held by Muse India eJournal. He currently teaches English Literature in the University of Babylon. He divides his time between teaching, academic, and creative writing.
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October 2012
poems 7.
ANNE CARLY ABAD
The Debt comes Due It’s almost night he’s on his way home. Why did you choose the kitchen today? You’re supposed to be hiding, by now at your neighbor’s they have TV there; tell him you can’t miss your favorite show or take one of your ten children to the albularyo. even if the child isn’t sick. But you’re out in the open. Weary with work, he will touch you, you hide the kids before that, behind the curtain door as if they never were. He’ll forget about them make love to you. And you you’ll watch the children, watching. You’ll shiver and sweat not from coming 21
October 2012
poems but because another face peeps out from behind the curtain. A ghost waiting to become the eleventh. You’ve chosen the kitchen for a task. You’ve arrayed the knives. they say you’re evil for wanting to prevent life— something better then: to be rid of man! For the life you take today should be more than paid for.
Reruns Watching reruns gives me a taste of divinity. I'd trace the threads of predictability; somehow fathom Fate’s workings, like how love stories can only end with one lover dead, or a parting of ways else, happily ever after.
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October 2012
poems No need to feel bad about a character doing the wrong thing there is, after all, a script ensuring the desired outcome is always met, or maybe the producer just changed his mind. But the show ends, and I’m left wondering, what counts? When I first smoked pot, how many paths did that open or close? When I eat, smile at a stranger, buy new shoes, sleep... Will everything add up, or is this some arbitrary mess where someone forgot the script. No director, no qualified critics, Do I take comfort in knowing that no one really knows?
Anne Carly Abad graduated from the Ateneo de Manila University. Her works have appeared in the Philippines Free Press, The Sunday Inquirer Magazine, The Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, The Asia Literary Review, and The Philippine Graphic Magazine among others.
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October 2012
poems 8.
DR. GIRISH RAMESH KUTE
Kashmir Amidst swaying waters on a boat house, In the milieu of snow-clad peaks, beauty vales, Hand-knit scarves adorning beauty females, To tell you of a blessed Kashmir tale, Stupefies yet without ale. Throbbing landscapes, breathtaking waterfalls The kahwa odour and the pulao vigor Pleasing to senses. Dream-o-genic Kashmir A paradise on earth. But The sistering vale Tells an unlike tale. Says the sobbing peak, Sees diwali and holi every week, Played with bullets, spraying blood, Peak that once snow covered, Melting to the heat of grenade and bomb, Eyes once filled with love and aplomb, Overshadowed by fear. The ones once living in joy Life shorter than of a toy. Longing to say, dare not, Wanting to be free, cannot. A free haven, 24
October 2012
poems Now struggling to be curfew free. With life in the docks Streets shut with locks, The once resonance of sage's penance, Now the militants menace, Beauty still exists, But lives don’t persist Our jeweled crown Spiked and thorn It’s a paradise lost In the paradigm of paradox.
Dr. Girish Ramesh Kute is a 23 year old doctor from Mumbai and also a published poet, author of "Poems – Mon Premier Travail". Has been published in various magazines, e-zines, literary journals including Fried eye, frogcroon, epigram, Enchanting Verses, Taj Mahal Review, Fancy Realms etc.
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October 2012
poems 9.
KYLE HEMMINGS
Friends In the end, she lines up jars of apple butter or pineapple chutney against the windowsill. This is to keep out the bitter chill that drives certain birds, the solitary feeders, into a void. Some stand motionless, but really, they're falling through air. On Sundays, after a narcoleptic cloud of a sermon, she convinces herself that she has no friends. She gives her best flans and strudels to a homeless woman who passes the house twice a day. Maybe she and the woman will converse on the lattice porch, will empty their hands of crumbs. She will tell the homeless woman how she can never get rid of the last man who left her. He's just a part of me, she says, that's constantly hungry. Greedy too. He makes me roll in my sleep. Sometimes when I wake up, I want to eat the whole world. The homeless woman stares at her blankly. Do you have any of the world left over, she says, the part that I once threw away might be in your freezer.
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poems Anna As a child, she grew up in the pale light of others, in the debris of their conversations. The voices, as if searching for her in indirect ways, were always so far away. In those days, her version of Finland was a stone throw away and even stones have heartbeats. Her grandmother, in the last stages of dementia, told her that she looked like the Virgin of Kazan, that she would always remain spellbound by white nights. Verging into an adult, reconciling herself with her borderline beauty, she waited in a room separate from her suitors. When bored or nervous, she recalls all the toponyms of Petersberg, the Marble or the Taurida Palace, the Obvodny Canal. It impresses her hard-boned lovers tortured by their dysfunctional mothers. They smile, have manners, but their eyes give up winter's last refugees from bare forests. She keeps secrets from them, like who is the one she truly loves. A love incomprehensible as war. Who is as selfless as she? Footsteps approach the door. She recites the names: Belsky, Boyarchikov, LandĂŠ, Valberkh. The voice knocks, asks if she is ready. The man she really loved was killed in a duel on a pontoon bridge. It's barely visible from her window. In the snow, it doesn't sway. She won't marry out of love. She'll marry to stay dug in for the winter. She will die young. She will give virgin birth to a white night. On that same night, her husband will leave from the lack of heat.
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October 2012
poems Spaghetti Western Hero He rides into town on a cross-eyed mule his porkpie hat full of holes. A mute nicknamed "Lips" is sheriff. A woman disguised as a man lathers him up & by Act II admits to stealing his past. Shortly before the climax, she gives him a bad haircut & a handful of hard candy. Kyle Hemmings lives in New Jersey. His work has been published by TenPagePress, Gold Wake Review, Nano Fiction, Wigleaf, NAP, and elsewhere.
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October 2012
arts 10.
GIRLS FROM WILLIAM-ADOLPHE BOUGUEREAU'S GALLERY
A Woman For Offering To Love
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October 2012
arts
Seated Nude
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October 2012
arts
Young Girl Crocheting
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October 2012
arts
Young priestess
Note: William-Adolphe Bouguereau (November 30, 1825 – August 19, 1905) was a French academic painter.
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October 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
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October 2012
stories 11.
RONNY NOOR
Big Brother on the Nine-thirty Back in 1946, in the old days of the Raj, my beloved grandfather, the one who was my mother’s father but affectionately known to us all – my two siblings and me – as Big Brother, hopped on the nine-thirty train at Howrah en route to Bardhaman. He had to stoop a little at the door for he was a tall man, a little over six feet with a fair complexion, who deposited his leather suitcase on the overhead rack of the first-class coach before flopping on the cushioned seat with a book in hand. He was returning home from London, where he had been to a round-table conference with English doctors on tropical diseases. Learning that he relished poetry, though he didn’t claim to be a poet like Dr. Zhivago, one of the genial physicians at the conference had presented him a verse collection of T. S. Eliot, inscribing on the first page succinctly with a fountain pen: Let us heal the sick together, dear Ratan. Friendly yours, Gareth. Big Brother opened that book as the train pulled out of the crowded station and the clamor slowly dwindled, tearing through the country before long on tracks meandering between tree-lined hamlets and fields. He was so absorbed in his reading that he did not hear the man across from him striking a match to light a cigarette but when the smell of tobacco hit his nose, he flicked up his eyes. It was a middle-aged Englishman with thinning hair, high collar, and a modest tie affirmed by a simple pin. In all likelihood, an officer of some sort. The man’s head was buried in a book by Rudyard Kipling, whose title Big Brother couldn’t catch as it was hidden by his thin fingers. He must be entranced by a story or poem, thought my grandfather. Could very well be a lover of poetry like him. Now Big Brother was no heavy smoker but he liked to puff a pipe from time to time. But his pipe 34
October 2012
stories had been put away in his suitcase and he did not feel like getting up. So he smiled at the Englishman and asked politely, “Excuse me, Sir. May I borrow a cigarette from you?” The Englishman did not raise his head from the book; his eyes seemed to be glued to its page. Thinking the man hadn’t heard him, my grandfather raised his voice an octave higher. “Sir,” he said. “May I borrow a cigarette?” The phlegmatic officer turned to his side and stared out the window lifting his face up to the sun as if he lacked vitamin. Realizing it was futile to urge a third time, Big Brother went back to Eliot’s world, where he crossed Highbury and Moorgate by tram, waddled through the river of oil and tar, and fell into the whirlpool in a daze, in which he rose and fell and rose again to see the flash of lightning, the sunken Ganges, and was swept off by the trinity of verbs – datta, dayadhvam, damyata – he was so familiar with. They came alive in a new light, those abiding words of his ancestors, flashing like a beacon in the waste land of the preeminent English poet of the day. He snapped shut the book and laid it beside him. Then he pulled himself up to his feet, straightened his back, and brought down the suitcase. Clicking it open on the seat, he found the pouch of Imperial Tobacco he had bought in London, but where was the pipe, his meerschaum pipe? He searched every nook and cranny of his suitcase, poking around among his clothes and gifts for his family – a gold necklace for his wife and plastic dolls for the two little girls – but in vain. Oh well, he said, disappointed. He must have misplaced it somewhere; he had been on planes and trains, not to mention in hotels. He fished out a ten-rupee bill from his wallet, put some tobacco on it, and rolled it into a cigarette, holding it together by bits of string that could be slid up and down. Then closing the suitcase, he put it back on the overhead rack, and resumed his seat. He placed the handmade cigarette between his lips, lit it with a match, and took a lengthy puff, releasing two streams of smoke through his nostrils, as the Englishman raised his head from Rudyard Kipling for the first time to glance at Big Brother, who was looking out at the luscious green foliage of the monsoon whizzing past, 35
October 2012
stories still contemplating those three words of his ancestors as never before in earnest.
Ronny Noor is an English professor at the University of Texas, Brownsville. His stories and essays have appeared in numerous journals around the globe, including Short Story, The Toronto Review, and Palo Alto Review. He is also the author of a novel titled Snake Dance in Berlin (Orient Blackswan, New Delhi, 2009).
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stories 12.
LORNA BROWN
Ester “Hello, is this Ester Raines?” Ester should have felt the chill of the past at her neck, but she was not expecting the girl to say, “Bernard gave me your number. I’m Moire Hennigan’s daughter.” Hearing Moiré’s name, Ester had the sensation of waking in her dark narrow hall. She felt empty and bereft, as though her life since Moire had been swiped from under her feet. “I know,” the girl said. She had started to cry and Ester heard an intake of breath, a pulling together, and envied the girl’s ability to rein it in. ‘I know,’ she had said, and Ester’s heart had missed a beat. Her hand covered her mouth, burying the cry that had died at birth. “You were her best friend.” She finished, and Ester hung up. The phone rang seconds later. The vibrations swam through her palm, down her arm, and into her heart that had started to thump with a quickness that made Ester feel faint. She had not thought of Moire for over thirty years. She lifted the receiver, and let it fall, cutting the girl off, before taking the phone off the hook and moving slowly, like someone who had just heard of a death, into the kitchen. For years, memory of Moire had been blocked by her husband’s solid arms and her sons’ shouts, but now on an early morning, with the clouds looming like nosy neighbors, fragments were 37
October 2012
stories coming back to her, as though the girl’s voice had been a hammer on the dam holding everything in. Ester was hit with the vision of that vast room with its high bay windows and pale walls, where faces peered down from their vantage points, serious eyes and sullen mouths that Ester in her nineteen years had hated. She remembered the fire place, large and open, like a mouth needing to be covered, and the too soft carpet which had made her steps feel light and not entirely under her control. She remembered Moire waiting in her long black dress, hands joined in front, half gone…all her years of knowing her, of being her best friend, wiped away by this room and the man who owned it. Ron, old enough to be their father, grey haired and serious, who became a shadow clouding their relationship. Ester always felt his stifling presence in the thick heat of his house and the eyes peering down on her. She had hated him, his pleasantries, his lank handshake, but mostly the way he poisoned Moiré’s mind. Ester knew the secrecy was Ron’s idea. How easy would it have been to manipulate the innocent eighteen year old? How easy to take her from her friend and her life, and imprison her in his Kensington home. At first, Moire stayed in her job. She went to work on public transport, and told Ester that she didn’t want people talking. She wanted to keep her independence. Besides Ron had meetings here and there, worked late every day, and she preferred to know her routine, to rely on no one. But after her brother’s visit, she stopped working. Her face turned pale and gaunt, and she refused to go out. She was made suffer for Bernard’s appearance, for disobeying the man who shrugged and pretended 38
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stories innocence. Within weeks of moving to that house, Moire grew wary of the outside world. At first Ester could convince her to go for a walk in the park. Sometimes they would have tea and sandwiches in a café close by, where Moire sat in a dazed state of tension, unable to keep a firm grip on conversation as she looked out the window, studying passersby as if worried that some dangerous animal might appear. “You’re afraid of Ron, aren’t you?” Ester insisted one day. Moire shook her head. She wouldn’t meet her eyes, hadn’t done since Ester wrote to Bernard and told him what was happening. Her pale hand was lying on the table between them. When Ester went to hold it, she pulled away. “I had to tell Bernard where you were. I was scared, I still am.” Dark eyes fixed on Ester. She would give nothing away, and her absence brought Ester forward, “I didn’t know what else to do.” The smile was swift and felt like a slap on the face, “Who said you had to do anything?” “I should have just left you alone in that house?” “Yes, I was happy.” “You were, but you’re not now, help me, tell me what I should do.” “Nothing Ester, I want you to do nothing, do you understand!”
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stories She didn’t understand. Moire was pushing her away; just like her brother. Bernard had been a mess when he came back from seeing her. His eyes were red from tears and his voice low and shaky. “What’s happened to her?” he asked, and Ester had no answer. When he had gone back to Ireland, Ester went to the house in Kensington. Ron opened the door and looked at her for a long time before asking, “What?” “Is Moire here?’ “No!” Moiré’s dark coat was hanging on the peg behind him. Ester glanced at it, but he didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He was about to close the door, and Ester’s hand went out, her gaze darting towards the cracked and chipped wood near the door handle. “Her brother did that.” The scorn in Ron’s voice ran through Ester and made her too angry to argue. She hated his conceited notions, the way he looked at her without seeing her, and could only imagine how he would have treated Bernard, barring him at the door, hardly giving him the effort of a grimace. “What about Bernard? He’s really worried.” she asked in the café and Moiré’s cheeks became flushed. For a moment Ester thought that she would cry and hoped for a softening, a way to bridge the distance, and put her hand on her friend’s, to touch where she used to touch and where now touch was scorned. But when Moire spoke, her voice was hard. “Poor Bernard…” She was a different girl to the one whose excited face peered from the front door on Ester’s first visit to Kensington. “I’m so glad you came, I missed you.” Her gaze had been sure and deep, as if she had climbed inside herself and finally found something she liked.
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stories The smile was confident, enhancing the loveliness of her skin. During those weeks of restfulness she had talked about studying accountancy. She had always been a good student. At home she had sat quietly at the back of the class, rarely lifting her eyes, nodding to the teacher with embarrassment, her discomfort with attention so obvious that she was usually left alone. Fortunately there was no need to test her knowledge. Moire was conscientious in her homework. After Moiré’s mother died, her father remarried, and her step brother made up for his mother’s lack of interest. Eight years her senior, Bernard took her under his wing, helping her with her school work, and later when she had surpassed him, he got her father, who was large and quiet, more like a shadow floating around the house than a solid presence, to pay for private tuition. Moire resembled the dark mass of her father, with brown eyes and dark hair, while Bernard had light blue eyes, brown hair and a smile that made Ester faint hearted. Without thinking, she would doodle his name, draw love hearts in between, an arrow from her to him. Moire caught her once and the hurt in her eyes surprised Ester. “You can’t like him.” “You don’t own him.” Ester had argued, annoyed. Moire shook her head, her gaze held on the names written in blue pen as if they smelled foul. Ester felt the possessiveness in Moiré’s silent retreat, and in the mood that hung over her for the rest of that day. She’d seen signs of her jealousy in the light touch of her friend’s hand when others had taken Ester’s attention for too long. This had been her only concern when they went to England, where they shared an apartment with two other girls, but Moire was easy in their 41
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stories company, her quietness not so strained and tight, as if the city with its smells, sounds and feeling of obscurity had loosened her. During the evening, they listened to music on the radio, dancing around the dark shabby couch and mismatched armchairs. On days off, they sunned themselves on their building’s enclosed flat roof with the sounds of traffic filtering through their conversation. It was there with the sky above her and the hard ground underneath Moire first heard Ron’s name. “He’s kind and interested.” Later, Ester realized the word ‘interested’ should have made her sit up and stare at Moire until the truth came out. But she was too caught up in their freedoms, too content with the evenings spent jiving, the sound of linoleum sliding against leather shoes and the feel of Moiré’s hands in hers. As the months progressed, Moire started staying late at work and Ester hated that she never realized what was happening until it was too late. She had thought homesickness was the reason for the heavy weight of her shoulders and the empty feeling in her belly, when in reality it was her friends lingering absences, her drifting away. It was only a matter of time before she came back to Moire packing her bags. She stood at the bedroom door, the silence of the apartment raining down on her. What were the other girl’s names, the girls they had danced and laughed with, who moved into their own corners when the dynamics changed? Had they seen what was happening? Had they thought Ester naïve? She could no longer picture their faces, but knows they were home that day. They asked Ester if everything was okay, and Ester waved them away before stepping inside the bedroom and closing the door. “What are you doing?” 42
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stories “I’m moving in with Ron.” “You can’t!” Moire stopped packing to straighten up and look at Ester with a ferociousness that was new. “He’ll take care of me.” “What about your family?” “What about them?” The anger was so thick, it drifted between and made Ester’s breath catch. Moire was glaring at her, and she shook her head, “don’t go Moire, you’re making a mistake.” She could see the thoughts roaming around Moire’s dark eyes before she shrugged them away, as if the truth no longer mattered, and watched helplessly as her friend zipped her bag and strode towards the door. Only when she was gone, did Ester admit that she had been afraid to stop her. The girl leaving the room had been so full of determination she looked like a stranger. Three days later Moire appeared at the restaurant full of smiles and offering her half of the rent. “I don’t want it” Ester pushed her hand away and Moire laughed, the sound light and airy and ruffling Ester’s skin. “What’s so funny?” “You, all angry at me, it’s going to be okay, I promise.” “You’re an idiot.”
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stories Moiré’s eyes narrowed, Ester saw the fleeting anger before she shook it off. “I’m giving you the rent, so I can keep the room.” “And keep this a secret from your family.” “I don’t want them to know where I am.” “I’m not surprised.” Moire was shoving the money in her hand, and she let it fall into the space in her palm before closing her fingers around it. At least this was one less worry. She hadn’t known what she would do. She didn’t want to share a room with someone else, to have another girl fit into Moiré’s space, but she couldn’t go home either, not yet, not without asking, “Can I visit you?” Moire shrugged, “can I trust you.” With the lack of response, she smiled, “you were never good at lying.” The next time she saw Moire, she was ready. “I want to meet him and I want to see where you live, otherwise the next letter that comes from your home will be sent back unopened.” That evening she took a bus to Kensington. The house was white and narrow with black railings around the small square garden. She knocked on the door, and Moire answered, bright eyed with excitement. She grabbed Ester’s hand as if her desertion hadn’t happened, and Ester hadn’t had to black mail her into telling her where she lived. She pulled Ester in through the plush hall, larger than Ester would have imagined, passed the stairs, to the sitting room where the high backed chairs stood face to face 44
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stories in front of the fire, and Ron was waiting. Ester’s heart dropped, she had hoped to have time with her friend alone, but the leanness of his smile told her he was not going anywhere. “Welcome Ester.” She did not feel welcome at all. Within weeks, Ron, with his brown eyes, a shade brighter than Moire’s, like gold caught behind wire rimmed glasses, dark hair going grey, his firm mouth and expensive suits, was at the door of his house in Kensington, a sudden buffer between Moire and the world. How quickly everything changed, innocence gone, pulled from under their feet. Ester could have forgiven Moire for abandoning her for an aged and strict lover. She might have looked passed her treatment of her family, which led her father to write letters and ask in a strained and tired hand, ‘what is happening to Moire, why does she not write’? Ester read the between the lines guilt for never being there, while he described how Bernard had lost the ability to sleep. We should never have let her go, her father wrote, and Ester found herself on Moire’s side…thinking they had no choice…it was Moire’s life. But months later, all warmth for Moire would seep out, running through the cracks in their friendship, their lack of trust, and Ron’s continual presence. In a kitchen in North Dublin, with the clock ticking in the background, Ester closed her eyes to the slurring words and the fallen wet mouth. Moire’s thin red lips were monstrous in their drunkenness. “You have no idea what you would do!” she screamed at Ester. “Yes, I do,” Ester answered. Her body was rigid and tense, and the words clear and even. “I would keep the baby and I wouldn’t drink,” her gaze took in their rich surroundings, “you have all this!” 45
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stories “It’s not what you think.” Moire spat. Ester wanted to grab her arms, but looking down into dark eyes, seeing the paleness of her face and the sorrow in her misty eyes, she had the impression that Moire might break into little pieces by her feet. “Then why don’t you tell me what it is, what’s happening. Jesus you wouldn’t have even told me you were pregnant if I hadn’t guessed.” Twice in the space of twenty minutes Moire had run to the bathroom with the blood rushing from her face. When Ester asked her if she was expecting a baby, Moire didn’t deny it. She didn’t say yes either. Moire stiffened. “Because you’re so trustworthy…How do I know you aren’t going to run back and tell Bernard?” “I did that to help you. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” The sprightly girl who had answered the door eight weeks ago had disappeared, to leave a woman whose smile cracked the dry hardness of her face. Her gaze was like a moist weak handshake, barely registering what it held, before letting go again. “I don’t want to look.” Brought Ester on her knees, the admission had given her some hope, its faint spark letting her see how scared she had become. “You mustn’t give the child away. Ron will help. He can’t throw you out.” “Ron will do whatever I want.” Did she really believe that? This woman who had let age creep up before time, who had grown cold sitting before the fire that never went out, as if 46
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stories the flames were sucking her strength, this house was taking her soul, the pictures laughing down at them. “Then keep your child.” “I hate this child!” Ester still felt the force of those words and the terror that had gripped her with the notion that Moire had already gone. “What’s happened to you?” “I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not, I am not the liar.” Years later, memory of those words would not allow her talk to the child Moire had carried and hated. ‘Your mother never pretended to be anyone else’, she’d say to the girl, who she imagined had brown eyes and dark hair like her parents. The girl would ask, “So what was she?” And on the kitchen table with her fingers digging into skin to ease the pain of memory, all she could think to answer was ‘mean’. Days after she discovered Moire was pregnant, Ester moved back to Ireland. She was unable to stay in the same apartment they had shared. The sound of their long dead laughter glided through the walls and kept her up at night. Ester’s mother met her off the bus, her mouth tight and hard, the lines crawling through her forehead showing her anger even before Ester felt her hard and unyielding grip, “What’s this I hear about Moiré, what’s happened?” With the bus starting up again, its engine like an old man’s cough, and the narrow street spreading out in a quiet hush, Ester shook her head and bit her lip to hold back the tears. “I don’t know.”
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stories “She won’t let her own father visit. The worry has made him shrink, I tell you.” “I don’t want to talk about her, okay.” By the time the child was born, Ester had started dating Pete. He was the only person she cried with, the one person she could trust not to keep an account of her talk, and he fought against her going to England, “she’ll only hurt you again. Don’t do it to yourself.” But Ester had counted the weeks to the birth, and needed to see if Moire had allowed the baby to soften her and bring her back from the dark place she had disappeared to. Pete flew to England with her, but she went to that house alone. The moment the door in Kensington opened, Ester knew there was no baby inside, but she thought the child must have been born in one of the fancy bedrooms with the quilted sheets and fine silky wall paper. The quiet was thicker as if made stronger by the infusion of a new born cry. Moiré’s smile was kind and reached her brown eyes, but her, “Ester, I missed you,” sounded flat. “You could have written.” Ester told her. “I didn’t know where you were.” “I went home.” Moiré’s ‘good’ annoyed her. The last thing she wanted was this woman’s approval. Her eyes scanned the sitting room for a crib or small vests, while her heart grew heavy in her chest, so it seemed to reach her throat and make small talk impossible. 48
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stories “There’s no baby here.” Moire was standing by the window, dressed in dark trousers and a pale pink t-shirt, her hair was pulled back from her head. She looked tired. Ester couldn’t read her face, though her gaze was soft, impatience oozed from her parted lips. “Is that why you came?” Ester nodded, finding the release of words difficult as if they clung to her, like nervous children unwilling to go forth in this room. “She was born two weeks ago.” The dead pan way Moire was speaking made Ester feel nauseous. “I was given this so I might never forget.” She pulled up her t-shirt and Ester saw a scar, smooth, pale and thin running from below her breast to the button of her pants where it disappeared. Minutes later, Ester stumbled from that house, gasping for breath, as though she had been held under water the whole time. She ran down the road, blinded by tears, to the park where Pete was waiting, and was never so glad to have someone’s arms holding her together. She didn’t tell Pete about the scar, or Moire saying that her baby girl was in a good place, Ron had made sure of that. Ester had resisted the urge to spit with the sound of his name as if she was an old Irish gypsy by walking for the front door with quick steps, while Moire remained standing in that room. The doorbell rattled through the memory of light spilling onto Moiré’s narrow shoulders, but it took a second press of the buzzer for Ester to come back to the gloom of her kitchen. Her body was stiff and sore.
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stories It was 2pm; four hours had been spent sitting on the hard kitchen chair. The next chime, longer and more persistent, brought her to her feet, glad to have something to take her mind from Moire. It was probably her eldest Michael, having lost his key again. No doubt her son would see through her smile, look sideways at her and ask, “Something wrong?” She decided she would shake her head, and leave the girl’s voice buried inside. When she opened the door, the sight of Bernard’s eyes staring at her made her gasp. Light blue, specks of grey, and his brown hair hung on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” The girl said. She was tall and wore jeans and a black sweater. “I tried calling you back for hours but the phone was engaged, I had to come. I had to find out about my mother.” Ester was hit with images, rising from the girls startling blue gaze. The past was sparring with her, moving easily through her defenses, Bernard standing at Moiré’s bedroom door, leaning over her, bringing a silence to Moiré’s room that Ester had always supposed was from reverent love, a possessive need, Moire crying out with Ester’s infatuation. “You can’t like him.” Ester’s grasp on the door tightened with her fear that she might crumple from the memory of Bernard coming back to her apartment that day with bruised hands, unable to look her in the eye, the smell of sweat coming from him, “What happened to her?” or “What happened.” Which had he said, why can’t she remember now. Either one, he had not wanted an answer. The silence dragged on between them. Ester cleared her dry throat. She was so thirsty and drained, as if she had walked miles to get here. “Bernard knew about you?” her voice was raspy and faltering. 50
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stories The girl nodded, confused and worried by Ester’s face. She thought she must have turned pale. “I was happy.” Moire told her, sitting in the café, jumpy and gaunt. “I was happy,” a life so easily ruined, the door bashed in. Ester was hit with the fact, as if it had been waiting in the sidelines for the right time to attack, Ron wouldn’t have answered the door. It was Friday afternoon when Bernard went to that house, his thick shoulders barred against the world. Moire would have come home from work early, but not Ron, the boss, he always worked late. Did Moire scream when she saw Bernard’s face? Did she try to close the door, pleading to be left alone? Ester imagined the sound of the latch catching, a teasing click pulled asunder by the push that sent her backwards. Nausea was building up in Ester’s belly, a mix of sadness, rage and disbelief snowballing her. She met Bernard a few weeks after she moved home and asked, “Have you heard from Moire?” He smiled nervously. “There’s nothing we can do.” She imagined the letter that would have come from Ron, telling him of the baby’s existence, and ensuring Moiré’s safety, but too late and at too much cost. She wondered if Bernard had thought of his daughter through the years, and if he was worried that she would have his eyes? The color was his, but the sadness was Moiré’s and brought Ester back into the hall to allow the girl entry. Her limbs were heavy with numbness. There would be time to 51
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stories cry later, for Moire, and the letter she had sent across the waters with the address on a Kensington street, the betrayal that had killed her in the end. “Thank you.” The girl said, the relief coming over her like perfume. “My names Jules…” She told Ester as she stepped inside and Ester thought of her friend dancing around an English apartment, light footed, and free.
Lorna Brown, lives in Winchester MA, is a published author with Renaissance e-books and Lyrical Press under her pen name Marianne Brun. Her short story 'Margaret' has been published by Idea Gems magazine. Ester is a story taken from a fiction anthology titled Patrick which she is working on, themed around misconception.
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criticism
I criticize by creation - not by finding fault. – Marcus Tullius Cicero
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criticism 13.
DR. SUKANYA SAHA
Tagore’s Chokher Bali: A Critical Appreciation Chokher Bali is one of the most celebrated and critically acclaimed novels of a true literary genius, Tagore. Tagore - a master craftsman is endowed with lyrical talents which has immense capability to transfer the reader to the state of trance. Tagore projects tangled web woven with contrasting forces of culture and heritage at one side and desperate desires or wants on the other side of the scale of value judgement. Chokher Bali is a brilliantly written saga about trajectory of human emotions travelling from innocence to unfulfilled passion. The novel is a feast to the reader looking for literature about the intricacies of human emotions and relations. Tagore deftly expounds how human beings become slaves of their own desires are not able to overcome the mayhem they have landed in. Binodini, a beautiful young widow epitomizes the plight of all those women who have been “thrown away� from the mainstream of social life and have been deprived of all worldly pleasures for no fault of theirs. The vituperations which Binodini had to face from villagers after her stay in Calcutta are examples to this. A widow is expected to observe complete reticence. Binodini eventually wreaks havoc in amorous life of Mahendra and Ashalata. She fails to embrace the supremacy of immaculate Asha, as the latter was enjoying such complete devotion from her husband. With her growing petulance over conjugal bliss, she finally manages to entrance Mahendra. However she soon realizeses the extent of her folly and conceives that she does not really want him. She craved to feel wanted, to 54
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criticism be belonged, a feeling she has not known because of the early death of her husband. She eventually falls in love with simple, honest and upright Bihari, Mahendra's childhood friend, who everyone ignores and takes for granted. Mahendra, a spoiled son, who always presumed that everyone is there to fulfill his wishes. He as a child had been thoroughly cosseted by a doting mother. At an impressionable stage conquers to marry timid and shy Asha. Asha unquestionably and devotedly surrenders herself wholly at all whims of her rather capricious husband. Mahendra accomplishes physical pleasures and proclaims his superficial love which enchants docile Asha. The approaching threat of rift under the garb of Binodini, escapes unnoticed by Asha’s trusting heart. It is disheartening to read how Mahendra betrays his wife’s innocent love and selfishly strides being lust driven towards Binodini. Spurned by Binodini, he is not able to come in terms with his defeat for a long time. Bihari and Asha appear to be innocent victims in this topsy-turvey. Without any folly of their own, they fall prey to the intricacies springing up in the emotional drama of Binodini and Mahendra. To conclude, Chokher Bali certainly exhibits all those ingredients that are necessary to make a gripping tale, which retains reader’s interest throughout. It has love and hate, downfall and redemption and every other element for reader’s delight, hence, it does not disappoint.
Dr. Sukanya Saha is a lecturer in an Engineering college in Bangalore.
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criticism 14.
IFTIKHAR HUSSAIN LONE
Women In William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were richly spun and woven so fit And, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit On Shakespeare (Ben Jonson) His (William Shakespeare’s) characters differ in sex, age, state of life, virtues and vices but all are alike in being ‘alive’. William Shakespeare’s capital gift was to depict characters, both historical and imaginary, with a surpassing vividness and spontaneity. His characters differ in sex, age, state of life, virtues and vices but all are alike in being ‘alive’. Whether good ‘or’ bad, whether moving among the realities of history ‘or’ among the most romantic happenings, his characters possess an unfailing humanity, and striking realism: Rosalind, Portia, Juliet, Cleopatra, Caesar, Brutus, Orlando, Shylock, Touchstone, not to mention the great tragic heroes – indeed the catalogue is endless. Shakespeare, if is claimed by many modern critics, was a feminist. Shapiro, for example goes to claim that Shakespeare was “the noblest feminist of them all”. Though historically untrue, it can be forwarded that ‘patriarchy’ is more at centre in his tragedies. Msluskie believes: “Shakespeare wrote for male entertainment”. William Shakespeare because of his extra ordinary genius for portraying human behavior, necessarily depicted the condition of 56
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criticism women within a patriarchal system and created female characters which in their richness, transcend the limitation of his time. Though Elizabethan era was no exception to the beliefs if looking at women as objects and chattels, however, Shakespeare appears to portray the characters of part Portia and Calphurnia in Julius Caesar in positive light, ignoring the common stereotypes often associated with female characters. Both female characters are portrayed as logical voice of reason, whose intellect and intuition are able to foreshadow Caesar’s death. Their loyalty and devotion to their husbands, and their ability to manipulate the most men in Rome, demonstrates that Shakespeare intended to portray Portia and Calphurnia as women of great strength to men. They themselves are strong women but men are unwilling to accept the reality and in the long run become butts of ridicule and death. …that ‘patriarchy’ is more at centre in his (Shakespeare’s) tragedies. In Julius Caesar, the female characters of Calphurnia and Portia are vital to the play for their personal relationships with their husbands, Julius Caesar and Brutus. Despite their concern about their respective husbands' political careers, their opinions are ignored or rebelled against because they represent feminine values and are grounded in the domestic sphere. Although they are used to emphasize the gender differences, these women are also needed in order to provide further insight into the characters of Caesar and Brutus. Their interactions serve to emphasize the "feminine" traits of the men and the ability of women to display "masculine" traits. …that women were 'untrained in reason' and had no control over their affections.
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criticism Brutus' interaction with Portia, in Act 2, Scene 1, illustrates that women are isolated from politics. Although Portia proves that she is perceptive and intelligent, Brutus is reluctant to confide in her about his deep-rooted fears. This is based on the widespread belief that women were 'untrained in reason' and had no control over their affections. Portia is portrayed as the traditional nagging wife who worries about her husband, asking 'Is Brutus sick?' Initially Brutus insists that he is ‘not well in health, and that is all.' However, Portia uses a convincing argument to persuade Brutus that she is worthy of his confidence. Portia uses emotional blackmailing, begging Brutus to 'unfold to [her]' his secret because of his 'vows of love’, saying that if he refuses then “Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife." Once Portia begins to sway Brutus, she uses a rational argument, pointing to her father, Cato, and her husband as proof of her strength and reputation. Portia challenges Brutus, asking him 'Think you I am no stronger than my sex. / Being so fathered, and so husbanded?" However, she is merely defined in each instance by her relationship to a man. Finally, Portia provides 'strong proof of her constancy', a typical masculine trait, in the 'voluntary wound' in her thigh. The self-inflicted wound 'destabilizes the gendered concept of virtue' — that Portia can perform such an act proves that it is a learned behavior and not an inherent masculine trait. In response, Brutus promises that ‘by and by thy bosom shall partake / the secrets of my heart.' In comparison, Brutus' meeting with Cassius, in Act 1, Scene 2, takes place in the public domain, 'within earshot of a huge crowd, preceded and followed by a public procession.' Since it is a secretive conversation, this meeting lies on the 'border between public and private.' Whereas Cassius encourages Brutus to act upon male values in order to achieve political action, or a 'show / Of fire'. Portia represents Brutus' doubts or 'the "feminine" Other within him.' In particular, it is Brutus' reluctance to murder Caesar that is evidence of his feminine side. In these two separate scenes, Shakespeare overtly contrasts male and female values. He deems female values as unreliability, 'associated with 58
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criticism weakness, the non-rational and disorder.' From this one can deduce that male values are reliability, strength (of mind and body), rationality and order. He (Shakespeare) deems female values as unreliability, 'associated with weakness, the non-rational and disorder.' If Act 2, Scene 1, provides evidence of Portia's constancy, this is reversed in Act 2, Scene 4: O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain `tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! (Julius Caesar, II, IV, 11.6-9) Although Portia attempts to enter the masculine, public world of Rome, her inability to cope leaves her firmly grounded within the feminine world. This scene proves that the women in Rome cannot cope with political concerns. Shakespeare portrays Portia as weak and vulnerable, reinstating her 'into the category of woman.' Unlike Brutus' heroic suicide, Shakespeare undermines Portia's death by attributing it to female insanity. In Shakespeare's account, Brutus states that “she fell distract / And her attendants absent, swallowed fire.'’ thus depriving Portia of any dignity. In comparison, Plutarch's account, in his Life of Marcus Brutus, describes Portia's death as an honourable act. Although Portia attempts to enter the masculine, public world of Rome, her inability to cope leaves her firmly grounded within the feminine world. 59
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criticism …his (Brutus’) motives for murdering Caesar are ‘masculinized’, his doubts and fears are `feminized'. The male world of Rome, defined by Brutus and Caesar, is not as clear-cut as it appears. Brutus is defined by 'the contradictions embedded in his culture [which] are set at war.' Brutus is divided in terms of political alliances and gender definitions. Politically, he acts for the 'common good' as well as out of emulation or rivalry. Similarly, Brutus' gender contradictions are highlighted – although his motives for murdering Caesar are ‘masculinized’, his doubts and fears are `feminized'. Julius Caesar's interaction with Calphurnia follows Brutus' scene of interaction with Portia. Again, a wife's role is as a worrier about the safety of her husband, as Calphurnia exclaims, 'You shall not stir out of your house today.' Calphurnia's belief in her dreams about Caesar's death portrays women as being superstitious, despite her claim that she 'never stood on ceremonies / Yet now they fright [her].' Her dream images recall the theme of wife as a worrier or mourner, as she imagines herself to be 'A lioness [that] hath whelped in the streets'. In comparison, Caesar has boldly asserted that he does not fear 'death, a necessary end.' However, Calphurnia's fears about 'blood upon the Capitol' exist to emphasize the doubts that men hide under their assertions about constancy. Although Caesar agrees to remain at home to please Calphurnia, as he states 'for thy humour I will stay at home', he would not have agreed unless he shared Calphurnia's fears. Caesar uses his wife as a convenient excuse when he tells Decius: Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. She dreamt tonight she saw my statue, Which like a fountain with a hundred spouts 60
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criticism Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. (Julius Caesar, II, ii, 11.75-79) When Decius mocks Caesar's obedience to his wife's whims, saying 'Break up the Senate till another time, / When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams', Caesar changes his mind. When his reputation is at stake Caesar exclaims 'How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia!' However, the fulfillment of Calphurnia's prediction suggests that men should put more faith in the intuitive powers of women. Through his representation of womanhood, especially in the character of Portia and Calphurnia, Shakespeare indeed does transcend the stereotypes of his own time. Throughout the play, Caesar's power has been ambiguous. Cassius feminizes Caesar in his description about the swimming contest, telling Brutus that Caesar cried “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!” Cassius also describes Caesar's fever in Spain, calling him 'a sick girl.' However, Cassius demonstrates that he fears the power Caesar would claim if crowned, comparing Caesar, a 'Colossus' with everyone else, and ‘petty men'. Likewise, Calphurnia's dream of Caesar's wounded statue emphasizes the `contradictory images of Caesar as both Colossus and sick girl, mighty in his triumph over Pompey, yet childless and deaf.' Caesar is ultimately feminized in his assassination – he is rendered powerless and silent, just like the women in Roman society. Through his representation of womanhood, especially in the character of Portia and Calphurnia, Shakespeare indeed does transcend the stereotypes of his own time.
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criticism Works Cited: 1. Shakespeare, William, Julius Caesar (Penguin London, first published, 1967). References: 1. Bowden, William R. “The Mind of Brutus”. Shakespeare Quarterly. 17 (1966): 57 2. Holderness, Loughrey and Murphy, Shakespeare: The Roman Plays (Longman, London and New York, 1996) 3. Hunter, G.K. “Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy”. Wells, Stanley, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare Studies, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994 4. Kahn, Coppelia, Roman Shakespeare (Rutledge, London and New York, 1997. 5. Paimer, D.J. “Tragic Error in Julius Caesar” Shakespeare Quarterly. 21-22 (1970): 299. 6. Paolucci, Anne. “Female Characters in Julius Caesar” Shakespeare Quarterly. 11 (1990): 329 7. Schanzer. Ernest. “The Problem of Julius Caesar”. Shakespeare Quarterly. 6 (1955): 297 8. Shakespeare, William. Julius Caesar and Elements of Literature. Edwina McMahon et al. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Inc. 1997. 9. Shakespeare, William. Julius Caesar. Elements of Literature. Ed. Edwina McMahan. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston.
Iftikhar Hussain Lone is a Teaching Assistant at Boys College Ang Anantnag Kashmir, India.
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book review
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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book review 15.
REVIEW ON VINAY CAPILA'S THE REVOLUTION AND OTHER STORIES
"Vinay Capila is a compelling story teller. Vinay lets his stories evolve on their own and never makes the readers feel he is bending the storyline. That is the power of him." – Khurshid Alam, Editor-in-Chief, Contemporary Literary Review India
Meenakshi Chawla Reviews Vinay Capila’s The Revolution And Other Stories Vinay Capila’s The Revolution And Other Stories is for the winter afternoons when the sun is old and mellow, and when the heart is seeking a warm refuge that envelopes, gently. The stories display a ripeness of perspective that comes from accepting the world—with all its flaws and flippancies. The readers can only conjecture that they are – from the author’s life – a full and rich life. The first story from which the anthology takes its title ‘The Revolution’ is a titillating read that takes the readers through college-style ‘revolution’, that first flush of idealism and righteousness. The lengthiest story in the collection, it stands its ground until the end – which, 64
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book review incidentally, does not come as a surprise! The author builds up the atmospherics in this one rather well woven story – the university comes alive in one’s mind. ‘One Summer’ is a heart-warming story. It handles two momentous events, first love and a loved one’s death, with the simplicity of life itself. Nevertheless, there is innocence in the interactions between Sunita and Vinod that touches the readers’ heart. Adolescents that they are have not yet learnt the wiles of the world of adults. Where the story falters is in dealing with the memory of that first love. First love is almost always tender, and its memory almost always clutches at the heart in the most unexpected ways, at the most unexpected times. But on second thoughts, the author probably wishes to leave this understated. ‘Behind the Scenes’ is where the author is within his comfort zone; a production has drawn to its close, the cast has silently drifted away and the emptiness of endings enfolds the protagonist. Words and sentiment are doled out with sharp sure jabs, as they would be in a stage production. The author has captured the somber mood without arc lights and cues. ‘Fish and Chips’ lays out the quirky paths wealth takes to reach the people who have little or no need for it. Beneath the word-layers, there also surges a question: what is real – that which the eye sees, or that which the eye misses? So, indeed, which of the two Dr. Slopers is the real deal? Which of them is the real inheritor of the millions of dollar left behind by one of his relatives? The story flows naturally with the writer’s ink with an innate honesty – no clever twists or showy turns. The usage of Indianism (for example, ‘A year back’) makes the language writer’s own, however sometimes it narrowly escapes slipping down to less refined language. Also, some stories lack clear destination, such as ‘Shepherd on the Mountain’ where the narrative is lost in multiple threads – the shepherd’s side, diary entries and a third perspective too. 65
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book review The story unfolds largely in the protagonist’s mind and the reader is led through a complex question-answer-wonderment plot. The essence of a poetically-underpinned story is squandered in too much reflection and too many questions. ‘The Battle Within’ might leave a reader puzzled in its wake – does it or does it not deal with schizophrenia? The change in voice leads to a disjuncture in understanding. The narrative tends to lumber in a freewheeling fashion. Remarkably the writer, Vinay, escalates his sharp story telling skill with ‘The Idealist’ – a nicely sketched story. Vinay sketches his characters rather expertly: a line here, a flying curve there. It is left to the readers to fill the details into a love story nuanced with life and living. Here is a collection of stories a dreamer, or a ‘straggler’ in the material world, might pen in his diary – a gracious framing of experiences, ideas and all those mundane days that made the man! The pieces resemble lyrical sunsets – bringing to viewers, and readers, a vague feeling of longing, a soft whispering sadness. The author, Vinay Capila, has been successful in his objective in that the reader’s thoughts linger on a story even after its last line has been read – just as the author’s mind might have lingered after his pen had moved on. He makes the stories his own and they flow on in their own rhythm – ebbing now and rising to a crescendo soon after. In this, his telling is vaguely reminiscent of Guy de Maupassant’s early work. It is a volume that every short story reader must add to his/her collection.
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book review
Title: The Revolution and Other Stories Author: Vinay Capila Publisher: Angus and Graphers Publishers Pvt. Ltd. ISBN: 978-93-80254-05-0
Meenakshi Chawla is a book review writer with Contemporary Literary Review India, and her writings have appeared with many other journals.
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new book releases 16.
BOOK RELEASES
Book Title: The Revolution and Other Stories Author: Vinay Capila Category: Story Anthology Publisher: Angus and Graphers Publishers Pvt. Ltd. ISBN: 978-93-80254-05-0 Year Published: 2012 Pages: 293
Book Title: Machiavelli for Moral People Author Pavan Choudary Category: Politics/Management/Self-help Publisher: Wisdom Village Publications ISBN: 978938070112 (paperback)/MRP Rs. 125/ISBN: 9789380710303(Hardback)/MRP Rs. 175/Pages: 150
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new book releases Book Title: The Artist As Mystic Author: Alex Stein Category: Criticism Publisher: Onesuch Press, London. First Published: 2010 ISBN: 9780 9872760-4-9
Book Title: Making A Poem Author: Vihang A. Naik Category: Criticism Publisher: Allied Publishers Limited, Mumbai, India. First Published: 2004 ISBN: 81 - 7764 - 584 – 6 Edition: Hardbound
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new book releases Book Title: Lost In Seattle Author: Bruce Louis Dodson Category: Fiction Publisher: Shiva Delivers (May 6, 2012) Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc. ASIN: B00819TZVM Pages: 345
Book Title: IN THE HIMALAYAN NIGHTS Author: Anoop Chandola Category: Fiction Publisher: Savant Books and Publications, Honolulu, Hawaii, USA. ISBN 978-0-9829987-0-0 March 2012 Pages: 286 Edition: Pocketbook - 6" x 9" Price $16.95.
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new book releases
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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. CLRI is not limited to publishing the writings, it promotes the writers and their writings in many ways. CLRI also helps the writers by providing some paid services so they do not have any hurdle in their publishing career. Manuscript Editing: Publishers and printers do not read your entire manuscript. They read just a few first chapters and decide whether your manuscript is print-ready. If you go for self-publishing, readers will value you little which in turn, down rates your market value as a potential writer if your manuscript is not well edited. CLRI provides professional editing services to enhance the chances of your manuscript getting selected with the publishers. We have professional editors with vast experience in editing who prepare your manuscripts to suit the publishers’ requirements. Review Writing: The best way to promote your books is to get them reviewed by a publication. When you write a book it is very important that the concept of your subject and book is brought to the people with all its values. But to tell you the truth the scope of getting a book reviewed is too bleak. CLRI provides book review writing service so that all writers have their turn and their valuable works are evaluated in all respects. Digital Formatting: Given the fact that technology has permeated to all walks of life, traditional publishers are fast moving to digital publication. Many publishers have created their separate department for converting their already published books to digital formats to make them compatible with different kinds of technology-based devices. So that the techno-savvy people can also buy the books and read them on the devices such as ebook readers, tablets, slides, laptops, computers, smartphones, and other 72
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editor’s talk gadgets. CLRI helps you prepare your manuscripts for digital publishing. We convert manuscripts before the writers go for digital version either because they opt for self-publishing or get a publisher for digital version. Writers’ Promotion: Getting your books published is just the first step. As an author you need to promote your writing and concept. CLRI runs a column on Featured Author where we post a flyer along with a slug line about the book and a link to the book store. This helps you enhance the possibility of gaining popularity as well as sell your books. To enquire for placing ads, contact us at: contemporaryliteraryreview@yahoo.com
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