Reflection july 13 downloadable

Sweet Rains Bless Rain Of Love Indian Rain A Tribute To Indian Cinema Wizard Of The Words Counting Man A Promice Of Love Feminine Hues Three Phases Of A Woman's Life Art Section And More.......

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Editorial 1 Sweet Rains Bless Jen Walls 2 Love For Humanity Areen Abukishek 3 Rain Of Love Diwakar Pokhriyal 7 Wizard Of The Words 8 A Tribute To Indian Cinema Sundram Gopalakrishnan 14 Take Care Of Your Life Shahid Khan 16 Counting Man Chris Roberts

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Double Girl Fahmid Hassan 24 Indian Rain Shahid Khan 27 A Promice Of Love Diwakar Pokhriyal 28 Black Pearls Basilia 32 Free As A Bird Yamunai Thuraivan 33 Femenine Hues Arati Salian 36 The Residue That Lingers Arie 37 The Bright Side Tanmaya Krishna 43 The Unanswered Parsanna Venkataraman 41

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The Bright Side Tanmaya Krishna 40 The Unanswered Prasanna Venkataraman 41 Painful Reality Davinder Ranu 47 The Free Will Conundrum Yusuf Alam 48 Nature Has A Wide Within Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee 50 Why Can't We Richa Dixit 51 Why Do I Write 52 It's My Time Vasanthi Papu 54

Three Phases Of A Woman's Life Malvika Sridharan 56 Conceled Writers On Display Lisa Ayers

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You No There, Why? Gurdeep Singh Kohli 58 Under 15 Zone 60 Art Section Basilia, Heather Jephcott, R. K. Verma, Ashi 61 I Burn Ezhil Prasanth 73 Guidelines For Submitting Your Manuscripts 74 Associate Editor Speaks 77

Your Reflection 55

Managing Editor Iram Fatima 'Ashi' Associate Editor Vasanthi Papu

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Magazine Artist

R. K. Verma

Pages Layouts

Reflection Team

Email: reflection1 8@ymail.com

A big Hello to my beloved readers!

As we all know, rain is a beautiful blessing from our Almighty. Its sound is music for ears and the smell of the earth is the best aroma to feel fresh. It revitalizes all being with a new life. It not only quenches the earth’s thirst but opens the window of inspiration for all artists, poets, lovers to feel love. It nourishes all worldly being through eternal blessing and touches our soul to refresh it.

It is a season in which tourists pack their bags to explore the beauty of Nature, painters pick the brush to present its beauty, photographers take the position to capture the images and poets/writers hold their pens to create romance through words. A few of them relate it with sorrow by missing someone and a few find it a season to fall in love. I am capturing the Rain’s essence in this issue to shower beautiful poems on rain by Ms. Jen Walls (USA), Mr. Gurdeep Singh Kohli, Mr. Diwakar Pokhriyal and inspiring works from Ms Vasanthi Papu & Mr Ezhil Prashanth (India).

This issue also has to its variety a touching article on humanity by Ms. Areen Abukishek (Jordan), an impressive article,’ A Tribute To Indian Cinema’ by Dr. Sundaram Gopalakrishnan and the other which makes you realise the importance of yourself and your life by Mr. Shahid Khan. Brilliant stories by our emerging writers on psychological problems, daily life’s incidents, romance and a power packed interview of Mr. Joe Attanasio are added to boost you with love and life. Our regular column, “Why do I write”, “Under fifteen zone” and ‘Your Reflection” which reflects the views of the writers/readers across the globe is sure to enthrall you.

Our art section is sparkled by the artistic enchantment of Ms. Heather Jephcott (Australia), Mr. R. K. Verma (India) and many more. I am heartily thankful to my associate editor Ms. Vasanthi Papu for her constant support and layout designer Mr. Vikrant and his team for fascinating designs. Now summing up with my poem on rain­

Crazy Rain Drops Crazy rain drops are dancing in my garden, On the leaves, grass and petals of the red roses.

Clouds are moving with air to see their friends, You are in my mind with some subtle thoughts.

This is the moment I have waited years for, To watch this calm beauty of Nature.

I'm charmed with the picturesque surroundings, Pleasant breeze is blowing all my troubles away.

Rainbow welcomes us with a bridge of colors, As I explore heavenly pleasure in Nature's love zone.

Take care and stay Blessed With Love Iram Fatima ‘Ashi’ Managing Editor Saudi Arabia (NRI)

Sweet Rains Bless Jen Walls (Saint Paul, Minnesota USA)

Delightful and tender are the warm sunsets lingering scents lifting now from flower's blossoms. ... Still swimming so deeply off into delicious fragrant air, now cooling in night's coming carried on gentle breezes blowing.

Awakening into our light of millions of stars, we hope to shine on so brightly somewhere higher up above.

We know love is always there, in light's kindest care and twinkling.

He is only briefly hiding from us now, to linger more softly into his dance of a shimmering lamp that he keeps lit, inside our heart forever singing, to seek and find all love in his smiling loving eyes.

We watch as the sky begins to make a rapid changing.

As the sun sinks lower and goes on, to disappear into his abode beyond.

Puffing pillows prance so near, on parade, hiding out in clouds, dancing to float ahead so quickly by.

Wind now begins playing to sound out its operatic grace.

She is singing out so strongly in her high soprano shrills.

As mother begins her swaying, into steady rhythmic beats.

Shouting to all, that her lover is coming here in rain's dancing as he draws ever near.

Calling out in soulful caring to her tender shaking children inside leaves, telling them to quickly turn out on their backs.

Winds are rippling through her treetops as she's sounding out her soulful alarms.

The leaves become chiming bells, as they rattle to ring out her tunes for coming rain's blessing song.

Wet whispers arrive so damply to fill, and they do not keep us waiting too long.

Water begins to tap and spill upon us each.

Coming down in cooling dampening sheets.

Spreading out, she wetly covers so very far over her plants, grassy blades and flowers.

Rain's caring arms will stretch out wide leaving nothing left untouched, from her sweetest blissful drops.

In joyful openings, she offers us such caring.

Finding many ways to sing deeper into all.

Inside her lover's drenching kisses calling, sweet rains bless in tender water's falling!

Love For Humanity Areen Abukishek (Amman, Jordan)

I believe that the capacious and the dauntless mind can make such a change in a world that is crippled by the manacles of broken promises and appalling situation in which deterioration and tyrannical action took place.

What maybe expected in a world that is built solely around the concept of our reminiscence and dreams that keep us alive is vanished, replaced by the deadly weariness that had dogged around the corner. Wallowed in the valley of perversity with withering flames of justice and swamped with sudden swirl of fierce

emotions that imprisoned us in the shadow that lurks in the darkness, fusing with the fear of the unknown that surged upwards, blocking our way to reason and logic.

How come whenever I satiate my ardent curiosity with fervour answer, I would be around the corner that shaded my soul and shattered my dreams into pieces? I t is just not enough to sustain the guilt that scorched my heart and was washed over me in a suffocating waves, allowing the fear to settle in my stomach to seal the vow of commitment, refusing

to be firm with the echoes of silence that fluctuated my fantasy with the wind of reality that will brace my nerves and fill me with bitterness.

I have sensed the breeze dancing with the dust moats in the light of the last ray of hope furtively to compose the melancholic melody that has already engulfed my soul to its ultimate. Though I have tried to prevent an icy weight from making my hands tremble, I have completely failed just like anyone who would be induced to commence a journey that would

captivate him with the sheer of its great presence with sadness a child feels when he embarks in something that would traumatize him.

The chill of revulsion that can be sent down our spin, eating every guts of life encompassed remorselessly my heart with defaulted words that lurched my soul and sprang constantly to my desolate mind that prefers to retreat into darkness with lifeless eyes to become impenetrable and trigger such a strong sensation of isolation that is caused by the years of loneliness.

Our life nowadays is no more than a cynical faรงade with hectic tendency, hiding a soul that

is tainted to its core. Vigorously, you prefer to gloss over it and move on but instead you find yourself surrounded with the impossibilities that hinder your movement. Sarcastically, you will laugh with the power that is feeble to conquer the unknown and will nurture you with cowardice that enveloped you with vital impact.

Solitary became the prevalent mode that extended its hand to embrace the self with the meaning of true friendship rather than being accompanied with others in a world that claims its rights and its manipulative sovereignty to evoke the vivid and the anticipating eyes that would love to watch your downfall with

such an antipathy and ecstatic look, knowing that they justify their sly action in a great jest that surpassed the true reality in which hatred and bitterness quell and suppress you with their opulent and extravagant weapon against the mind .

Have you ever considered a malicious life in which you are surrounded with four walls? No one would accept that especially to be melded there with fleeting time that drifted your body into many heaps of obstacles and be prone to misery for the rest of your life.

In my opinion, I prefer to be injected with a smidgen of fantasy and illusion into this inescapable and slaughtered reality that prefers

to jeopardize your life and seize you with such an uneasiness to provoke you and arouse your hunger to posses such a sedative poison in order to hypnotize others with its hypocrisy and capacity to render the radical life.

We are living beneath a fake and manipulative breeze that plays upon us and unleashes a seductive power to enslave us all and unfold our nightmares only to force us live endlessly in this treacherous life, which savagely plays and displays the law of the intact nature upon us, conducted in a way that is considered inhumane whereas the time fleets in such a despicable way leaving you in such a paralytic state blabbering over your loss that untangles and jumbles the cruelty

together in a knot which perplexes your mind with infusing and persistent words that nudge their way into your broken heart.

How come we can`t remember how we feel when sad things happened to us. Do you think we should conjure up memories and start crying? Thus, I do not want to stir up any trouble or pumps into conclusion that prompts any infliction.

I have tried once to bustle round the maze of the mind, asking questions that need to be answered. Questions that are bound to our healing process and how can we find the light that will shower us with eternal happiness and perpetual splendour. After making many detours, I finally come across this light in a religion

Islam that evokes good qualities and intellectual minds that enable us to relish its beauty which triggers a great sensation. It is known for its purity and goodness that tranquilizes the self.

Therefore, it is the religion that stands against every obstacle we have to face in our life with such a greatness that embraces us gently with its warmth that igniting the soul rousing the peace from its deep sleep to come and enter our soul, vanquishing our distress that threatens our life daily. This religion has presented to us an absolute cure that will break the chains of our darkness and illusions which imprison us in the maze of ignorance and distorts our confidence with our hesitation that springs instantly to our

What can I say to others who termed Muslims as terrorist and tyrants? How come we allow others who did horrible deeds by the name of Islam, which teaches us love and care, to distort the beautiful image of our religion and flee away without a trial or even a punishment? Too many questions but one absolute answer is needed which is people`s love for humanity and unity. A unity that

binds us by the name of humanity to endure and tolerate the worst abuses of our captivity but mostly we have to keep fighting to the profanation and the accusations that held against it.

I know the words will keep floating to form such a richly allusive work. No it will form such a vigorous work that will capture the reader’s eyes with the sheer of its great presence that would peer

in the darkness to demonstrate a great stand against the accusations with our determination to indulge ourselves with the freedom that can only be provided for us only by our beliefs, because of our good deeds we will rise again like the phoenix who emerged from the ashes that is tainted by the dark vanity to white purity.

Rain of Love

Diwakar Pokhriyal (India)

Lost in the playfulness of rain, Love birds dissolved in love’s goal, Sharing same umbrella in fear, Like two bodies and one soul At times self Balancing or slipping, At times the other side, Under the same umbrella, Running from each­others stride.

But this playful rain, Is reducing our arena of fun, In this chilling breeze, Our hands are hugging being stunned, Suddenly the breeze became wild, Umbrella flew away like a dove, Droplets of rain created magic, We drowned inside the sea of love, Hugging each other with passion, Forgetting the presence of rain, Feel of chill disappears, Heated breaths continued their train, And then suddenly rain vanished, Wind stopped being dead, When our heat heated the breeze, We left our hug being red.

Joe P. Attanasio

Wizard Of The Words Exclusive Interview By Iram Fatima 'Ashi' Don’t write more than one story or poem at once. I have other writers tell me they are working on five novels at the same time. My advice is stay with one till finished. Along that same note, try to write 500 to 1,000 words when you sit down to work on a story. An 80,000 word novel will remain unfinished if you don’t have that much of a commitment.

Write what you enjoy writing. People will like it or not, but at least you will be happy!

Mr Joe P. Attanasio, 64 years young was born in Western New York State, U.S.A. He entered the U.S. Army at 17 and served three years, including one in combat in the Vietnam conflict.

Since his youth he writes poetry. He has also shared them on an internet web site for writers called Booksie. He has written over 70 poems and half a dozen short stories. His first novel was “A Butcher’s Tale”. This was released as an “Indie Book” on Amazon, both in print and digitally for the Kindle in September 2012. Then he published a collection of 90 poems called “Caboodle of Poems” and it is available in print on Amazon.” He writes on Booksie with the link Booksie.com/attanasio. He has just completed his second novel. It is a current day adventure involving his heritage and discovering a pirate map that had been hidden in a very old piece of furniture that belonged to his grandparents. It is called “Treasure Trove” and is in the final proofing stages and very near publishing.

Now he is working on his third novel, a historical romance from colonial New York circa 1660-1714. It is based on a real woman and her life. This will take a considerable research.

Joining the army is like getting a bucket of ice cold water dumped on your head when you are sleeping. Your old lifestyle is ripped away immediately and you become a soldier. You are forced to live and endure with strangers from all races and aspects of society. This is both scary and exciting.

Ashi: Greetings to you sir! At the outset, on behalf of the ‘Reflection Magazine’, I would like to thank you for accepting my request to interview you. May I know since when you started writing?

soldier. You are forced to live and endure with strangers from all races and aspects of society. This is both scary and exciting. Your eyes are really opened for the first time, sharing and bonding with all types of people. This exposure did a lot to wake up my Joe P. Attanasio­ I returned understanding and compassion for from the war in Vietnam 1969 and strangers. was twenty years old. I had Ashi: Oh that is quite experienced much in the past thrilling to know, at that juncture three years. I had been in the how did you manage to take out army and away from the comfort time for your writing? of my childhood home. The “hippie scene” was in full bloom Joe P. Attanasio­ I wrote in America and people were very little back then, just some expressing themselves openly in poetry. I was having trouble public. I wrote poetry to express finding a job and had more than my own feelings. enough time to write.

Ashi: Interesting, you Ashi: However, served the army of USA at a very young age of 17, would you mind poetry is a medium to express one’s inner feelings. Is there any sharing an exciting experience specific moment or event that during your service? made you write?

Joe P. Attanasio­ Joining the army is like getting a bucket of ice Joe P. Attanasio­ I wrote cold water dumped on your head from my emotions and my poems were mostly inspired by the love I when you are sleeping. Your old had for a young lady. We fell hard lifestyle is ripped away for each other and lived together immediately and you become a for five months and then got

married. I am still with that lady today, some 43 years later.

Ashi: I am really impressed to know about your love for a special lady, your wife more than 43 years. Tell us according to you 'love' develops compatibility or compatibility is developed because of love?

Joe P. Attanasio­ I have fallen in love many times since the age of 13. I am a romantic and started liking to be with girls while my buddies still preferred to hang out with each other. Love always felt real and was a strong emotion for me. However, I like to change girls frequently. When I met my current wife I felt jealously protective of her and possessive. I knew right away this was different, a deeper and more profound desire to stay with her always. Our love has changed from more impulsive to routine, but the passion never changed. I get the same feeling hugging her now as I did 43 years ago. I feel the love physically and emotionally. It was meant to be and has completed me in a special way.

I was working out at the YMCA and was casually talking to the man next to me. I was so excited about the book I had just read I wanted to share the experience. I asked him if he read much. I did not know this man was an English professor at a local college, and an accomplished writer.

He could see I was exuberant about my book which he had also read and liked. He recommended a few books I might also like and I found them at a used bookstore in town. I read book after book. I found some I liked that he had not read and shared them with him. He brought me some from his shelf at home to share with me and I was reading constantly.

Ashi: What inspired you to write and what is your favorite topic to write on?

Joe P. Attanasio­ I did not read or write again until I was sixty years old. My barber recommended Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett one day after I told him of my interest in medieval times. The book was 1,200 pages long and I thought I would probably never finish it. I read 20 pages a day at first. As I became more and more interested in the story, I started reading 40 then 60 pages a day. Before I knew it I had read the book and loved it.

I was working out at the YMCA and was casually talking to the man next to me. I was so excited about the book I had just read I wanted to share the experience. I asked him if he read much. I did not know this man was an English professor at a local college, and an accomplished writer. He could see I was exuberant about my book which he had also read and liked. He recommended a few books I might also like and I found them at a used bookstore in town. I read book after book. I found some I liked that he had not read and shared them with him. He brought me some from his shelf at home to share with me and I was reading constantly.

Although we only talked about 25 minutes a day, three times a week while exercising, my love for reading had been rekindled. In my youth I loved to write poetry. I only had a few poems locked away that I penned back then. I started writing poems again and sharing them on an internet web site for writers called Booksie. It was such fun reading other poems and writing my own that I wrote over

60 poems in two years. I read novels that friends of mine had started and most only got a few chapters and stopped. I have always had many ideas that I wanted to try put into a book. I started one and could not stop. It is my first novel, A Butcher's Tale.

Asahi: Do you have a specific writing style?

Joe P. Attanasio­ I write on the computer, not by hand. I rely heavily on the grammar and spell checker since English was not my best subject in school. For novels and short stories I write like I am reliving the story I am telling. Like a movie script where I relate what I see in my mind. I feel the story and laugh at myself and move strangely during action scenes. I can only write poetry when I feel motivated on a subject. I rely on an online rhyming dictionary to help with rhyming words since I prefer that over free verse.

Ashi: Who is your favorite writer/poet?

Joe P. Attanasio­ I don’t have a favorite poet, I like poems based on their intrinsic value to me. Many of my “Booksie friends” are among my favorite poets. For writers I like Ken Follett, George MacDonald Fraser, Bernard Cornwell, C.J. Sansom and Ellis Peters.

Ashi: When did your first poem/story/novel get published?

Joe P. Attanasio­ “A Butcher’s Tale” was published in the spring of 2012.

Ashi: That’s great!

According to you, what are the most important elements of good writing?

then write them like that.

masterpiece?

Ashi: Did you always have Joe P. Attanasio­ Two poems come to mind right away. full appreciation and support for “Not always a choice” and your talent in writing?

“Comfort”. I think the reason is Joe P. Attanasio­ I think all that these deal with serious and Joe P. Attanasio­ My wife good writing has to start with a emotional issues. They are both good story. If you have an idea that and my family have given me posted on Booksie and in my much encouragement.

Frankly, you think will make a good story, book of poems called “Caboodle most of my family was surprised get it down. Don’t worry about of Poems”. that I wrote a book. I never spelling or structure. Capture the mentioned it until it was done. My idea even if it is just a short story.

Ashi: Would you like to Feel your story, make it seem real wife makes sure I am not share one of your poems close to disturbed while I am writing and to you, live within your words as your heart? reads everything I write. I value you write. I don’t know if I am her input and have changed things explaining that clearly enough. If sometimes based on her opinion. Joe P. Attanasio­ I think your story is sad, dig down into poems are made for sharing. I will your emotions and feel sadness as Ashi: Wow! she is so co­ share the two I mentioned above. you write. Imagine the scenes as if operative and caring. According to They both have special meaning to you were watching a movie. See you, which poem of yours is your me. how they play out in your head

Comfort He looked in on her and he knew she was soon to die.

She was void of strength and resolve, listless and defeated.

She was baked dry and drained of color, bleached white.

Her chest heaved and rattled the moaning song of death.

He retreated, closing the door, shielding his eyes from her.

His heart was exploding in pain; his brain, crying for escape.

Her awareness held the door from being shut tight.

He succumbed and went to her bed reluctantly.

Not always a choice!

Sexual orientation is not a choice That people just decide to voice It is all a matter of how one feels Who arouses you, who appeals To yourself, you must submit Not always easy to admit Social and peer pressure felt Retributions, might be dealt Some accept, some feel strange And wish that they could change But inside; the way you feel

She reached, and he took her hand, it was cold and flaccid.

She confessed nihilism and apprehension.

He already knew; it was a rehash yet again.

He was defeated, surrendering completely.

Can’t be changed, just by zeal

Yet, her eyes enkindled loving memories, awakening his spirit.

He kissed her lifeless lips, infusing his consciousness.

He embraced her limp frame, lifting her against him.

His words of love filled her ears as her soul escaped.

She died in his arms, a peaceful smile on her face.

Forever we’ll be in conflict

We are all born a certain way Feelings we cannot betray If we try to contradict Embrace who and what you are Don’t shy away; grab that star You do; what you have to do To let peace and happiness come through

Ashi: What is the best thing about being an author?

Joe P. Attanasio­ I like being able to share my thoughts and ideas in stories. I like to entertain and educate them at the same time. I research many details and learn a lot myself when I write. I like to pass that on.

Ashi: May we have your opinion on our magazine "Reflection?”

Joe P. Attanasio­ In my opinion about the International Literary Magazine “Reflection”. I believe this publication to be true to this moniker as it is both international and literary in nature. Although published in Ashi: That is really English Reflection boasts talented interesting. What are your future writers from around the world. plans?

The initial concept was simply to give many good writers a chance Joe P. Attanasio­ My second to be heard and published in a novel “Treasure Trove” is only quality publication that could be weeks away from publishing. I shared electronically. The adept have some people looking over staff at Reflections has exceeded the final proofs for anything that this goal because they are artists might need correcting before I hit themselves. They have inspired the publish button. I am anxious writers to dig deep and give their to continue on my third book, I best work. The design and layout have 5,000 words written so far of this magazine rivals similar and I think this will be my best professional magazines. The story ever. Poetry has taken a back material is presented attractively seat to the novel writing but when making the articles a joy to read. inspiration hits, a poem must This endeavor is not funded by come!

commercial advertisers but is a labor of love given freely from all those involved.

Ashi: We shall be much obliged if you give us your valuable suggestion for its improvement.

Joe P Attanasio­ What can make this magazine better?

Continued support from writers as their submissions are the heart of the magazine. Be professional and timely with any shared or requested information. We should show our appreciation to the people giving their time, hard work and money to grow this publication by sharing it with as many people as possible. If you have any poems, stories or articles that you are proud of pass the information along. If you know a good writer, tell them about the magazine and encourage them to submit some of their work.

Ashi: My profound thanks to you from Reflection’s team for such encouraging words.What advice would you give your contemporary writers and poets?

the same time. My advice is stay with one till finished. Along that same note, try to write 500 to 1,000 words when you sit down to work on a story. An 80,000 word novel will remain unfinished if you don’t have that much of a Joe P. Attanasio­ Don’t write commitment.

Write what you enjoy writing. more than one story or poem at People will like it or not, but at once. I have other writers tell me they are working on five novels at least you will be happy!

Ashi: Well said!! So kind of you to share your wonderful experiences with us which have made this interview quite an appealing one. The aspiring writers are sure to get inspired from it and would stir up their ardency to create wonders from their magical pens.

Thank you!

A TRIBUTE TO INDIAN CINEMA Sundaram Gopalakrishan (India) PART 1 The year is 1913 and a group of men set out, allegedly to work in a factory owned by one 'Mr.Harishchandra'. Little did they know that they were making history and would be celebrated, 100 years later, as the pioneers of Indian cinema. Indian cinema owes a lot to that man, DhundirajGovindPhalke, Dadasaeheb for us all, and more so to his wife. It is said that his wife cooked for the entire crew, washed all the clothes and costumes and also helped with the posters and production. And Dadasaheb had to contend with effeminate men as the female characters in the movie and as film making was considered taboo and it would be a heinous crime to ask a woman to act in one. And how do I know all this? There was a Marathi film released in 2009 called "Harishchandrachi factory" which told us this quite remarkable story. So that brings us to the point. Indian cinema, through these 100 eventful years has not only been about entertaining people and the livelihood of those making it. It has been education and inspiration for anybody who has cared to look at it. It has become part of our heritage and is deeply engrained in our DNA. You can take an Indian out of India, but never the love for movies out of

him.

DadasahebPhalke’s inspiration to make movies was borne out of watching a movie called 'The life of Christ'. This movie made him wonder, 'why not make movies based on our own Gods?' Thus happened movies like Raja Harishchandra, Lanka Dahan, Shri Krishna Janma, BhaktaPrahlada, Kalidas, based on stories which had been told us from time immemorial. That was a time when Gandhiji's Satyagraha had not reached its peak and revolutionary India had not yet woken up. And Edison was still to apply his sound recording technology to motion pictures.

The advent of Talkies in India heralded the era of 'socially relevant' cinema. Movies like AlamAra and AcchutKanyastarted capturing the imagination of the masses. Such movies were a reflection of the rising patriotic fervour of those times. In fact, a lot of them were censored by the British Raj for fear of a political backlash.

The talkie era brought into Indian cinema, its most significant and unique aspect足 song and dance.

These stories (musicals would be the right word) were told through a series of songs. They brought together two of India's greatest passions and the average Indian was hooked. One such movie called SantTukaram became the first Indianmovie to be screened at an international film festival, when it was screened at Venice.

All this while, South

Indiancinema's contribution was not much. This was until,S.S.Vasan dug deep into his pockets and made a movie for the ages. His Chandralekha is still talked about for its mind足boggling production scale and that unforgettable drum dance. One should also not forget the contributions of foreigners like Ellis R. Dungan, Marcus Bartley et al to what Indian cinema has become today. They taught us the craft and we are forever indebted. (not to forget the Lumiere brothers).

Independence happened and Indian cinema, the true 'Indian' cinema arrived. The wave of what we now call 'Parallel'cinema gave us gems like ChetanAnand's 'Neecha Nagar', RitwikGhatak'sNagarik and Bimal Roy's Do BighaZameen and the World started taking notice.

Nehruvian socialism brought with it the ideology of the farmer and common man and 'realism' in Indian cinema was born (with a lot of communist ideologies too). Mother India by Mehboob Khan told the story of a poor lady足farmer struggling to raise her kids against troubles like an evil money lender, fires and drought and brought India its first nomination for the Oscars.

(To be continued)

Take Care Of Your L ife Shahid Khan (Gujrat, India)

Whenever I read such stories where people commit suicide or go into depression for the reasons like a failure in relationships, troubled family relations, financial loss, disability, loss of job etc. I begin to ponder their reasons strong enough to justify depression or suicide? If this is true then I think I should have been long dead, buried and forgotten. I should have also committed suicide long time back.

It is the result season when the results of important examinations are declared. And it is also a time when the suicide cases among young boys and girls increase drastically. Along with success stories of young boys and girls who top the exams it is saddening to read about those who commit suicide because of failure or sometime just a fear of failure.

Just a few days ago I read in a newspaper that a young boy committed suicide after he came to know through internet that he failed his 12th board examinations. But when his parents got his mark­sheet he actually had passed with a good score. His online result was erroneous. Ah! What an irony and an anti­climax! That impatient lad ended his life needlessly.

Then there was another incident where a stock­broker committed suicide with his wife and two small children by consuming poison. The reason he took such an extreme step was that he lost a huge sum in the stock market and thus accumulated a large amount of debt which he couldn’t repay.

Whenever I read such stories where people commit suicide or go into depression for the reasons like a failure in relationships, troubled family relations, financial loss, disability, loss of job etc. I begin to ponder their reasons strong enough to justify depression or suicide? If this is true then I think I should have been long dead, buried and forgotten. I should have also committed suicide long time back.

Those going through such stress

would argue, “You won’t understand how we feel and what we have been through.”

To this all I need to tell them is, “I’ve been through such difficulties, probably the form may differ, but intensity is quite the same if not more.”

Here I would like to make a revelation to my readers; I’m a

young man with a physical disability. Due to polio my lower limbs don’t work from early childhood. I use a wheelchair to move around. I use a modified gearless scooter for traveling short distance of a few miles. Life with a disability is never easy. Moreover, many a time there were certain circumstances which were much worse than my disability and beyond my control. I could have easily blamed such circumstances as an excuse to go into a deep depression or an excuse to a commit suicide. But I never believed in such things.

Here I’m not going to discuss the difficulties faced by me in my life.

Nor would I try to prove that my problems are greater in nature than others. I respect everyone’s feelings and I believe that for each individual’s problem and grief is equally important. But the rising cases of depression and suicide has forced me to think why despite going through so much difficulties I never had a suicidal thought even for a second or why I never went into depression.

Why? My question becomes more valid because now­a­days people commit suicide for the

reasons which are actually very trivial in nature.

Whenever I come across such saddening news (and now­a­days such incidents have been rising phenomenally) I begin to search for answer within myself as to what is the difference between me and those poor souls who are eager to end their lives. Upon deep introspection I was able to find some reasons which in my view helped me in fighting all odds in my life. I would like to share those things with everyone so that if I could inspire even a single soul, I would consider my life to be successful.

Some reasons that I could enumerate are:

Whenever I come across such saddening news (and now­ a­days such incidents have been rising phenomenally) I begin to search for answer within myself as to what is the difference between me and those poor souls who are eager to end their lives.

Strict Adherence To Religious Beliefs : I grew up in a family where religion and modern values coexist. But religious values were strictly adhered to and highly cherished. Since I was a small kid I was taught, “ The Almighty has prohibited suicide and for Him hopelessness is akin to a big sin. We are just a caretaker of our body and our life. The real owner is the Almighty that created it. So we have no right to abuse or cause harm to ourselves for any reason whatsoever.” This strong belief never allows despair to settle in my mind. I was always fascinated by the stories of the Prophets of Almighty and those stories provided a lot of inspiration and inner strength to me.

“Almighty give a person only that much difficulty that he can endure and not more than that.”

These words have a great influence in my life. Whenever faced with difficulties I remember these words and I feel like: wow! I must be someone special in the eyes of the Almighty that every now­and­then He chooses me to endure such difficulties. This thinking gives me strength, confidence and patience to face all the difficult situations.

We are being tested throughout our lives. The Almighty may create difficulties, for us, to reveal whether we behave with patience or not. Usually in times of crisis people start complaining, “Oh God, Why Me?”

Contrary to this when in difficulty I pray to the Almighty, “Now that you have chosen me for the test you give me the strength to endure, bestow me with your continued support and help me come out of it successfully.” Then I leave everything to the Almighty and don’t give a second thought to my difficulties.

This prayer actually works for me.

Unshakable Faith in the Almighty’s Mercy “Faith can move mountains.” Strong faith in the Almighty and his mercy never allow hopelessness and depression to creep upon me. I never believe even for a second that He is cruel for putting me in difficult situations. Instead I see Almighty as the most Merciful who can dispel all our problems. Only He has the power to do so. So instead of complaining and whining I just pray to Him with utmost faith and He definitely answers. The only thing He asks from us is patience and perseverance. As it is said, “Time is the best healer” so when I can’t find a solution to any problem I leave it to the Most Merciful and keep patience to let the time heal everything.

I Remain Content And Accept The Truth/Reality I know I’m not a super­human even not someone with special abilities to handle pressure. I’m just a normal person. I do feel stress in times of difficulties/grief but the difference being I never let it take the form of depression. After the initial upheaval, which in fact is quite natural for everyone, I compose myself and try to solve the problem with the utmost practical manner. I never let my desires to fly wildly because I know that unreasonable and uncontrolled desires if not fulfilled lead to disappointment and despair. I accept the truth that I have my own limitations and strengths. So instead of complaining about my weaknesses I try to

achieve, with my available strengths, everything that is practically possible. Being a physically disabled, I can’t go out to every place. I’ve to remain at my home most of the time. Public places are inaccessible for me, especially in India where there are architectural barriers like steps, staircases, slippery floors, inaccessible washrooms etc. Even government buildings lack such special facilities for disabled so to expect such facilities from private buildings would be like asking for a moon. Well, instead of complaining I accepted the reality and I try to do whatever is possible from home. I don’t wish or desire to travel to inaccessible places. I don’t wish for anything which could bring nothing but disappointment and sadness. So I just concentrate on whatever I could do within my physical and mental capacity.

Tony Gaskins says “To be content does not mean that you don’t desire more, it means you are thankful for what you have and patient for what’s to come.”

Avoid Negative Energy “It is better to be alone than to be in a bad company and it is even better to have a good company.”

I definitely believe in this saying. I like to stay away from the people who transmit negative thoughts and keep complaining about little things. I prefer to stay alone rather than mingle with the people who keep reminding me of my handicap and weaknesses. Such people have a demoralizing effect and I always prefer to avoid them as long as possible. If I can’t avoid them I try to ignore what they say. I gel very well with the people who are lively, positive and cheerful. Such people are a great source of encouragement.

Get Inspiration I love to get inspiration from every possible way. I like collecting inspirational and motivating thoughts. I love to read the inspirational stories behind the success of great men like Andrew Carnegie, Reuters, Dr. A.P.J Kalam and many others.

Whenever I begin to lose confidence due to my disability, I try to get inspiration from the story of Nick Vujicic who despite being born without arms and legs could still achieve so much. His story gives a certain kind of assurance that at least my physical condition is much better than him and there’s nothing much to be worried about. I like to watch the reality show “Man vs Wild” on Discovery Channel. I’m a big fan of Bear Grylls. I’m inspired by his dare­devil survival techniques in the worst possible situations. He likes to challenge death and still always come out as a winner. That attitude works as a confidence booster for me.

Let Pain Be Your True Friend “Let pain be your true friend because happiness is momentary and only tough time lasts longer with you as a true companion.”

When nothing works I try out this method. Despite my best efforts when I fail to find solution to any of my problems, I rely on this method. I just take the pain or difficulties as part of my destiny which could be changed only by the command of Almighty. Though this may sound weird, impractical and extremely difficult but it is much better than taking a coward step of ending your own life. Once you have practiced this method it becomes easy to deal with unbearable circumstances. My poem “Tranquility in Pain” stands testimony to this way of dealing with life’s most unbearable situations though as a poet I cleverly hide the reality behind the veil of romance. I would like to end it here by quoting a few lines from the poem:

“I’m finding tranquility in pain; And unique pleasure in being insane….”

“The Pain so inevitable; The pain so incredible; Knowing well that pain is still a pain!

Now flowing through my veins;….”

“Filling me with pleasurable insanity And so much pain in tranquility.”

Conclusion: All those who are going through tough phase in their life should device their own way of dealing with their problems just like I did. If my way of dealing with life’s rough phase is of any help to anybody I would consider myself privileged and successful. If you think you still couldn’t come out of your problems then confide with your near and dear ones and share your problems and inner fears with them.

They could definitely help you. And even that doesn’t seem to work just don’t hesitate to take the help of experts like psychiatrist/psychologist. But don’t think about taking your own life. Because life is so precious that governments of various countries are spending huge sum of money on finding even a trace of life on the Moon and the Mars. They are unsuccessful till now. And here when the Earth has been blessed with life, people don’t have a second thought before ending it. Take care of your life as we get it once only.

The Counting Man Chris Roberts (Kent, England)

I came across the counting man, he spoke his words alone With eyes forced shut he stood upon, a plinth of broken stone Asking why he would not see, the spring blossoms in a morning breeze He turned to me and said ‘my poor sweet dear’…

Seconds make the minutes, whilst the minutes make the days All of this just forms the time you waste your life away From seconds of a ticking clock, to the beating of your heart It shapes and spins our wondrous world, in which you play a part They say I am the counting man, and yet I cannot see, A single thing I’m measuring, the world has blinded me Who will take me to the place, my heart has yearned to know And using all my other senses, strip away my woe.

I took him firmly by the hand, and helped him to the ground, I pulled him from the streets of the bustling London town I tried to ask him countless times, to see the world sublime, Each time he turned to me and said ‘my dear’…

Seconds make the minutes, whilst the minutes make the days All of this just forms the time you waste your life away

From seconds of a ticking clock, to the beating of your heart It shapes and spins this morbid world, in which you have no part I measure every moment, every second, every day, Yet there’s no point in seeing as the world has become grey The meadow where I met my love, now lost and overgrown My heart it was once full of joy, but now that in unknown.

I turned to face him, Took his hand in mind, A kiss to his forehead I said ‘your eyes aren’t blind’ ‘I’ll give to you a second, or eternity in kind But only if you see the world, from my state of mind The clock can stop it matters not, hearts can skip a beat, How about you just move on, and sweep me off my feet They say you are the counting man, I say it’s time to pause The world will be your stage, and to you I shall applaud.

So tell me Mr Counting man, may I know your name’ For with me here beside your side, the world shall become tame.

Seconds make the minutes, whilst the minutes make the days All of this just forms the time you give your life away From seconds of a ticking clock, to the beating of your heart I’ll let you be my whole wide world, no longer just a part.

I’ll measure every moment, every heartbeat from this day, Opening up my eyes, as the clouds are cast away No longer called the counting man, I can’t measure your grace, And I will stop the counting, to prove this is the case.

Double Girl­ Story About Split Personalities Fahmid Hassan (Bangladesh)

Suddenly, I heard the girl broke a glass. I felt that the girl was behaving strangely like a child but simultaneously, she ran away but weeping by saying “sorry”.

“Mad girl, forget her” said the grocer.

There are so many cases of Dissociative Identity Disorders such as mass murderers, childhood abuses and lots of other things. While I was in my chamber, reading the cases in the internet, the most I liked was Sybil (Shirley Manson) who struggled so much with her sixteen personalities that she became a role model towards the people who had the similar sufferings. Yet according to the sources, the origin was not appropriable because people used to think that she was possessed by ghost or witches until Sigmund Freud learnt about the mystery aforementioned. I also dealt with the similar case which happened to one of my trusted and best patients who was a girl indeed and her story is quite interesting.

People call her ‘Double Girl’.

I first met her while I went to a grocery shop. The grocer asked “How are you Doctor Abdul?”

I said ,“I am fine”.

Suddenly, I heard the girl broke a glass. I felt that the girl was behaving strangely like a child but simultaneously, she ran away but weeping by saying “sorry”.

“Mad girl, forget her” said the grocer.

After that day, I went to the field for jogging. Then I met an old friend of mine who was the professor of Literature. He mentioned me about a girl suffering for slight hysteria. I was

reminded of the girl in the grocery. When I asked about her, he replied “exactly”. Then I deeply realized that something was fishy about the girl in the grocery.

Few days later, the same girl came to my chamber. When she came in I asked, “What is your name?”

She replied, “My name is Antara” I said ,“Good name. Why did you come?”

Antara replied “I am here because of strange headaches and people.

I don’t know why they treat me like a child”.

Suddenly, Antara gave a big pause.

Her childlike voice said “Hi, I am Guli. I want to play with toys”.

Then I quickly caught her ‘disease’ that she was suffering for multiple personality disorder. I was not surprised because I had a feeling that I may handle these kinds of cases. I was so concerned that I told my wife and my eighteen year old son, Dhrubo about it. He revealed that she was also a young school teacher who used to teach him but due to her so­called ‘fever’ she resigned.

After I shared that, he realized that it was not fever. Another day, I put a glass goblet in front of Antara and her personality switched to Guli. She was so scared and cried “Aunty! Aunty!

Don’t hurt me! I will be a good girl! Please!”

“It’s okay dear! Nothing to worry about” said I. The personality switched to Antara.

Another day, I hypnotized her for the past­life regression. She revealed when she was a child, her parents died in an accident. After that, she was in the care from her own aunt from her father’s side.

She was neglected all along and abused by her cousins even her aunt thought her as a burden. As the orphanage noticed about it, one day, the aunt tied her in the

Another day, I hypnotized her for the past-life regression. She revealed when she was a child, her parents died in an accident. After that, she was in the care from her own aunt from her father’s side. She was neglected all along and abused by her cousins even her aunt thought her as a burden. chair and whipped her with the belt. After that the orphanage rescued her. The orphanage did not notice that she had another personality but she had her good education. Ten years later, she grew up to be a wonderful girl.

She met a man named Rahmat while teaching my son’s batch.

After she spent time with him, Rahmat walked away forever that made the childish personality grew worse than ever. From that day, everyone called her ‘mad girl’ or ‘double girl’.

I felt pity for her because all her past made her worse. Another day, I met Rahmat who was now the lecturer of a prestigious university. I recognized him because I sketched his picture as described: Tall and handsome with beard as he wears spectacles.

I told all about Antara but he refused to speak with her. I just got angered and asked him, ‘Why?’ He replied, “She ditched me!”

Then I revealed her illness and she was crying even in her hypnosis. Rahmat calmed down and went to Antara’s house.

Antara tightly hugged him.

Rahmat praised her for being beautiful. She spent time with him and I kept reporting her recovery.

My son and Antara became friends. One day, Rahmat and Antara went to the park. As Antara’s personality was switched into Guli, she was about to ride in the see­saw but the kids teased her. She cried. Rahmat tried to console her. At night she was about to commit suicide but Rahmat stopped her, consoled and kissed her.

Few days later, she went to my chamber along with Rahmat.

Then I introduced another personality, Guli. I hypnotized

Guli and made her grew of Antara’s appropriate age. I told them to share personalities. That was how she became more of a confident woman. She expressed her hatred towards her aunt and got relief.

Overall, I attended her wedding.

Rahmat reported me about Antara and he gave more love to her. I also got a relief that I spent time with my family and my son is now the student of the Literature department. He teaches Literature to students by choice. What a happy ending!

Few days later, she went to my chamber along with Rahmat. Then I introduced another personality, Guli. I hypnotized Guli and made her grew of Antara’s appropriate age. I told them to share personalities. That was how she became more of a confident woman. She expressed her hatred towards her aunt and got relief.

Indian Rain Shahid Khan (India) Music band in form of thunder Fireworks made of thunderbolts Announce the long awaited arrival of The grand wedding procession Where rain ties a knot with the earth And the bride gets a warm reception With a garland of colours seven In a new home, now she searches for a heaven.

Rain is well received by one and all Birds sing melodies from trees so tall Trees wave happily with exotic fervor And children relish its loving shower.

Village folks love and cherish the rain For it quenches their thirst, easing their pain They love rain like true love For their survival depends on its arrival from above.

City folks behave like typical in­laws Blaming and cursing the rain for their woes Not realizing – they are the victim of their own device And only rain could make their home – a green paradise.

A promise of love Diwakar Pokhriyal (India)

“Wake up my sweetheart”, a murmuring voice from two rosy red lips crossed my ears.

A smile rejuvenated onto my lips and hands hugged that body. Eyes were still closed refusing to leave their dreamland. Those rosy lips from my ears moved towards the cheeks. They pressed my cheek below my ear lightly for a good morning kiss. My smile enhanced but body refused the motion.

Mind was fully awake but heart still wanted to play. Her burning breath was inviting my passionate playfulness. Those lips travelled till my next cheek touching every infinitesimal point in­between. My

hand left the hug in excitement, overpowering the zeal of togetherness. “Wake up it’s time”, the murmuring continued. She ran away with a smile. Listening to her smile, my smile expanded and eyes opened. I looked toward the left half of my bed and it was empty. “I love you”, I thought inside my mind. I got up from my bed and opened the window curtains. The sun was about to rise from the sea and the sunlight was going to wash off the night completely. The smile was still subsisting inside my lips. I can clearly see the sea waves from my window glasses. The waves were moving continuously and couples were sitting there hugging each other. Few children were playing and having fun. My eyes again got attracted towards the waves. “The sea is like our life” I thought.

“Sometimes with light waves, sometimes so silent and sometime so brutal” and I closed my eyes.

“I don’t know what will happen” She said. A teardrop trickled down from her innate sea of emotion. Looking at her, anyone could sense that she was on the verge of bursting.

“Don’t worry, we will handle this” I said.

I hugged her tightly, the ice of perseverance got melted and the

teardrop turned into rain. She started crying. “No, I don’t think anything would change” her voice was shaking.

I want to make her realize my presence. My eyes were also wet and heart was on the verge of breaking away. “But in this situation I have to be strong” I thought. “If I too start crying then how will she believe that everything will be fine” A thought said. “No matter how worst the situation would be, we should not let the birth of disbelief in self” I thought.

She was crying continuously from.

Her tears were wetting my shoulder. I know that sheer darkness of bleak future was

while hugging her.

She shook her head in yes. The tears have stopped and she was in the state of listening to what I am saying.

Sometimes during outburst of emotions we don’t listen to even our loved ones. In sheer disbelief, greatest pain and utter excitement our ear buds forget their work. And even if they listen, our mind doesn’t accept that. It happens with everyone, was overshadowing our imagined bright future. Few of us call it destiny. She believed in destiny and I believed in perseverance.

My perseverance was still bright and may be because of it I was able to hold on.

“I will not go back to my house”, she was still crying. Lost trust is more painful than lost body. And that’s why she was completely broke into the world of shame.

“They didn’t want to listen to me”, she was still crying and murmuring. “We should run away”, she said looking at me.

I looked at her eyes. They were so wet with tears. Her eyes were looking as if two black pearls were swimming in transparent sea of tears. I wiped off her tears from my fingers.

“Do you have belief in me” I said

when anger blinds the senses we forget what we are uttering.

Our colossal pain wants to get transmitted into others, not because we want to, but because we can’t withstand that disbelief, that agony. We want to throw away that emotion as soon as possible.

Those moments at times turns our destiny towards the shallow death of soul and then we

live to die. But in contrast to it, there are souls who overcome incessant pain in hope of clear blue sky. There are souls, who dive inside sea of perseverance to find a pearl of success in depth of it. Such souls I have witness in my early childhood, not one but two.

I have seen two souls who knew that their child might die laying in I.C.U., yet whenever they met their child there was a hope of life. How can such parents smile?

Alone they might cry a lot but to make an atmosphere of hope they smile in front of their child. And such children lives, they don’t die.

Their body may die but their soul lives forever. I was that child, who has seen his parents smiling and trying to make him smile, that too in such an atmosphere of disbelief. May be that’s why I know the importance of perseverance and hope. “And now it’s time for me to show some of it” I thought.

“Do you believe in me?” I asked her again.

“Yes, more than myself” She said.

Now the tears have dried but Saul was still absorbing grief.

I held her hands in mine. “So listen to me. You have to go now.

Believe in our love. We will meet very soon. It’s my promise to you.

We don’t have to run. We will marry with permission. Running away is never a solution. We don’t want to take down our love. We loved each other and we will cross this final barrier also”, I said.

She is now completely all right and a little smile was taking a birth into her dried rosy lips. She looked at my eyes which were continuously looking towards her.

She could sense little waves of hopelessness in my sea of perseverance. She said “I believe in you more than me. But I fear

the distance. You know I would be like a grave in this living world without you”.

“I love you and will always do. I can see both of us together sharing the same house and life. I will do whatever it takes to make it happen”, I said. “But right now you have to go”, with a heavy heart I said.

I can sense that uncanny fear in her. Who can predict the future correctly? No­one and maybe that’s why she wasn’t completely satisfied. I knew it. How can you believe in trueness of something that didn’t happen yet? But the life and relation rests on trust and belief. And because of these two things few achieve the unachievable.

“Her eyes were dry, her lips were dry. Her heart was beating a bit fast. How can I leave her in such a

situation”, I thought. As she turned I held her hand instantly.

“What did I do?” I thought. I don’t want her to cry again. But my hand automatically held her hand. She took a break of two seconds. Those two seconds were the longest seconds of our life. As if a soul had seen death and came back to life in two seconds. She again turned and hugged me. The tightness of our hug was the proof of our slight disbelief in future.

But that tightness was also for dissolving the feeling of togetherness, till it can. That hug had something strange, a drug or a thirst, a thirst to meet again forever. And after five minutes we separated from each other. She said “We will meet again soon” and smiled.

I looked at her eyes and this time I can see the belief. Her eyes were

showcasing a strong belief in self, in her lover and most importantly in their love. If a girl believes in something she gives her everything to make it happen. I knew that and she knew that too.

This last exchange of our eyes gave the belief which I wanted from her side.

“And then you have to bear me for whole life”, I said with a smile, which was replicated by her smile.

She laughed and started walking away. My heart was beating fast, but I knew the story hasn’t ended here. There is still more to it. She was walking away constantly looking back after few steps constantly. I was looking at her continuously hoping that someone can wake me up from this horrifying dream. My eyes followed her till she disappeared from my sight. I never knew

whether we will meet again or not.

But the hope was still swimming in the Dead Sea of disbelief. I closed my eyes and her picture was in front of my darkness. I opened my eyes in a hurry but nothing changed. A tear trickled down again and I closed my eyes.

As I opened my eyes, sea waves were still flowing at the same pace but the atmosphere had changed.

The spring of love has arrived and my perseverance has defeated our slight disbelief. Today we are together as one and every second we can feel the life. That tear was still resting on my cheek and suddenly a hand wiped it off. That was the hand which I always held in every emotion. Other than my parents and brother, I knew that this is the only hand which can wipe off my tears.

“Hello, now we are husband and

wife” She looked at me. This time, there were no more tears, no disbelief, no mistrust and no hopelessness. Yes we are now married and together forever. The only thing which exists is love.

There was a table just close to the window. My hand slipped into it and got a remote control. I switched on the music. The wind also started flowing to make atmosphere little colder. But the warmth of our love was enough to fight against anything else. The music started and we dived inside the world of love. We started dancing together forgetting the time.

This is a love which we got after an unwavering faith in togetherness and trust for each other. And now we are living every second of it for “We”.

Black Pearls They lay secure in a sweet bell Like pearl protected in sea shell.

In orange red hangings with rind They hold on firm with strings even in wind.

They resemble huge cannon balls Little in real, wrapped in watery shawls.

As dark as night, as black as my hair They grow in fruity womb in despair.

They are exposed with a deep incision Resting safe like valued possession.

Smooth like precious black beads Shiny black pearls are the Papaya Seeds.

Basilia (India)

Free As A Bird Yamunai Thuraivan (India) As I entered the park I heard the chirruping of the birds hidden in the canopy of the trees above. But the sounds which I usually associated with happiness and joy now sounded hollow and as if they were lamenting. The flowers drenched in the morning dew seemed to be crying for the irreversible loss that had occurred to my friend. She was more than that. I knew it in my heart, but I never voiced it. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing my most special relationship. Seeing her sitting on the bench; her back turned towards me and her body rocking, my heart ached. But what do you say to a person about the loss of someone close to them but you never knew? I knew . I needn’t say anything. All she wanted was my shoulder for solace. That had been the way for 8 years now. I could still remember how it all started.

“Hey Varun! Sit next to me. I know nothing!” the little boy pleaded to

his best friend.

“Sure Sanjay! Don't Worry” , Varun appeased his friend. The little boys and girls scrammed to their seats as their teacher walked into the class.

“Two in a bench. One girl one boy.

The test will start in two minutes.

No talking”, the teacher commanded over the tiny creatures of 5th standard.

Unfortunately Sanjay was stuck with the girl who never spoke to anyone in the class. “Silent Sahana”. He sat at the edge of the seat as if fearing some contagious disease may catch hold of him if sat any closer. And with dread, read the question paper.

1) There are 730 packets.

Each child will be given 3 biscuit packets. How many children can get biscuit packets?

Hurriedly Sanjay stared calculating in the rough column.

730 / 3 = 245

Realizing his mistake he searched for an eraser. The silent girl who sat next to him pushed a half eaten NATRAJ eraser towards him. He silently took it and erased his wrong answer. As he sat there scratching his head, the girl again pushed her paper towards him.

He looked up at the girl, but she had her head bent.

After the test, Varun steered Sanjay away babbling on about the test, while the “SILENT Sahana” sat alone in the corner as she always did. The day passed away in the usual noisy manner it always did in class V section C. “Sahana!” Sanjay panted catching up with the girl walking home, on his bicycle.

“Hi, am Sanjay. Thanks for helping me out today” he smiled at Sahana.

The girl nodded and with a strained smile resumed her lonely walk back home.

“But you can’t become a pigeon!”

Sanjay laughed.

“I know. But I sure wish I could be free as a bird flying in the sky,” Sahana told smiling at her best friend amused by her singular drawing.

On any school day Sanjay could be seen sitting right next to his best friend Sahana. He wore the “friendship band” that she bought for him for their first friendship day together. And Sahana still kept her half eaten eraser as a reminder of the blossoming of their friendship.

“You can play with everyone from time to time you know,” Sanjay intoned walking towards Sahana, who was sitting on the bleachers watching her classmates play throw ball, tennis and shuttle cock. She looked on with eagerness in her eyes. But never came forward to play, how much ever Sanjay begged of her. He was not going to take a no for an answer that day. He dragged the writhing girl by her hands to the middle of the ground for a game of “lock and key”. He felt his heart soaring as he saw her laughing and running about for the first time in his two years of friendship.

As it was customary for any friendship which spawned upon an act of innocent cheating in the classroom to flourish, with in the year the whole school knew that the Sanjay­Sahana pair was unbreakable.

“For today’s class I want you to draw a picture of anything that you want to be,” the art teacher informed the class. And instantly a babble of talk broke out as everyone discussed what they

wanted to be. And the class was filled with the sounds of pencil sharpeners and the little faces were skewed trying to concentrate while they drew their dream.

After half an hour, Sanjay proudly showed his drawing of himself as superman to Sahana. As he saw her picture he was surprised to see a pair of pigeons flying up in the open sky over the mountains and rivers into the sunset.

They walked along the road in the evenings after school. It was their tradition for the past two years since the inception of their friendship. They both walked the distance till Sahana’s street, while Sanjay hauled his cycle by his side.

“Thank you so much Sanjay. I have never played this much carefree in my life,” Sahana said keeping her hands on his. Her hands tightened

their grip as they both saw a flock of pigeons fly away. Sanjay could detect a sorrow behind the smile that Sahana gave. But he couldn’t understand what it was that caused it. As they reached Sahana’s street, they bid goodbye and Sanjay pedaled on in his bicycle, the mysterious sadness of Sahana already forgotten.

That was 6 years ago. We still continued our custom. And when I left her at her street end yesterday I didn’t know that such an unfortunate fate was in store for her. Now, as I stood there, behind the sobbing figure, I was still unable to come up with the words to comfort her for the loss of her father. I was stunned when she called me in the morning and told me the terrible news. I heard her crying. And I was even more surprised when she asked me to meet her in the park next to her house at so early in the morning and at such a time as the death of her father. I never knew the man.

I never knew how he treated her.

Whether he was good and loving towards her, or if he was a man who didn’t give her the love she deserved.

As I sat beside her, she silently leaned on to me. As I stroked her head, unable to put my condolence in words, she turned towards me. I was stunned. Not at the copious tears rolling down her cheeks, but at the smile on her lips. Her eyes held a peace that was never there before. The tears were those of happiness. And as a flock of pigeons flew by, she said in a broken voice, “Am free as a bird flying in the sky Sanjay.”

At that moment, I understood

her. I was no longer the little boy who didn’t know why my best friend always fantasized to fly off into the horizon like a free bird. It would have been no big a deal if her father never gave her the love she deserved, compared to the vile thing that he had done to her.

I understood the pain of “SILENT Sahana”, the reason for her years of solitude, the reason behind her sadness, the reason for her finding her greatest happiness in a little game of “lock and key”, the reason she always bid me

good bye at the end of her street, the reason why she never took me home to meet her father, the reason behind everything. I was a man who consoled her, who consoled the 10 year little girl the “SILENT Sahana” crying on my shoulders.

Feminine Hues – Lost Colors of Mankind Aarati Salian (Bahrain, NRI)

I can sense your dirty glare And feel the filthy, lustful stare.

Yet I continue to walk my road Because I believe there is more hope.

My kind is suppressed, always made to feel low We lay our dignity and our heads in a bow.

Nursing the great male ego whenever he wants Getting only jibes in return and a handful of taunts I know we are weak and can’t give you back We have to tolerate and endure your flak.

Don’t judge our strength based on our weakness For a woman can become the reason for your descent.

Learn to respect us and treat us as equals We too have feelings, we aren’t plastic usable.

Constantly tearing and ripping our souls Won’t make you a great man, to behold.

The day will soon come when our kind will be numbered And you will hang your head in shame and feel crumpled.

But then, it would be of no consequent use For the world will be drained of all Feminine

The Residue That Lingers Arie (India)

‘Brother, do you have tea?'

With an impeccable beam, he stopped his bicycle, saying, 'That's what I asked you. You were having your headphones on.' I smiled in return.

'How much?'

'6 rupees. Drink. It is good.'

Receiving tea in the paper cup, I fumbled for paying it. I gave him from my purse a tattered five rupee note and one rupee coin.

'Do you have a five rupee coin?'

'Err.' With the hot tea cup in one hand and my purse (wallet) in the other, I struggled to take out the coin.

'Ok, leave it. No problem.' He pocketed the five rupee note and the coin. He looked at me with certain magnitude while I sipped on the tasty tea. 'No business since morning. Nobody's buying. You are the third one since 8am today.'

I checked my wristwatch. It read 11.30. Poor man! For over three

and a half hours, only 3 cups of tea are sold! How pathetic! Even if all is sold, it wouldn't provide him enough profit to even buy a cake for himself.

'What are you doing?'

'Working. Completed B.E. Came here,' I pointed at the IGNOU regional centre (Indira Gandhi National Open University) and said, 'to do higher studies.' At the mention of the designation B.E., his eyes widened. I was not certain if it was admiration or admonishment.

'Studying further! Your parents are educating you. You are lucky.'

I sensed in his tone a longing; a defeat. He added, 'I have finished D.M.E.' Though it could be counted rude, though senseless, I couldn't control my overpowering curiosity. I asked, 'then why are you…' I let the question float in the air unfinished. Sensing his

uneasiness, I added, 'you can try lathes for your qualification.'

'Yes, but the salary is never enough.'

'Put your application here. You can study further.'

'No time to study. I'm married and children's education is priority. Their school fees­' He cut short his statement. I wondered if he felt his sharing his pain with me looked like begging and, hence he'd cut his sentence. I shouldn't take advantage. I mustn't feel as though I'm superior. I shall not advise him, after all, he is older and probably wiser than me.

I finished drinking tea. Crushing and clutching at the paper cup, I observed as he spoke. He said ,’I

already work day shift in a company in some place.’ Being new to the city, the name of the place did not register in my mind; the name of the company, too, didn't well enter my ears and I didn't bother to ask again. He reported that the salary he gets is not enough and thus, he sells tea at night everyday. He had come today morning—Sunday morning—as an experimentation so that he could have rest at night at least for that day. However, things backfired on him as the entire place looked forsaken, except for a few youngish people who were playing cricket in the ground opposite to where we were standing.

'Just wait for some time and they will buy tea,' I pointed to the scurrying, shouting, zealous silhouettes in the field. There were 3 different games going on in the same ground. Far ahead, was a seemingly professional team all clad in white—though it was not a test match—playing in cork ball. In two other places, two other parties were playing. He saw those figures

with a longing in his eyes. 'They won't buy, I've tried,' he said, his face hung down.

His grave haplessness stumped me out; it made me uncomfortable. I stood there awkwardly, unable to find an appropriate response. I even thought of feigning getting a call, leaving politely speaking a fake call such as "Yes, yes, I'll be there in a minute."

'This place has changed so much,' he remarked.

‘You live here?’

‘No, I live in Karappakkam.’A boy of 5 or 6 was on foot, alone, heading somewhere. Seeing the boy, he said, 'I left this place when I was that boy's age,' and then pointing at the ground, ‘sitting in this ground, watching adults play.’

An innocent smile filled his visage.

‘You don’t know how beautiful this place was. Pure air, clean nature.’

‘Even now, too, it looks the same! The trees and unpopulated streets,’ I said.

‘No, these litters,’ he indexed to the exceptionally piled

up old, worn out leaf wastes lying all around the banyan tree and added, ‘These litters were not present back then. It was so clean.

I used to live in the temple over there, you know, right?’

Letting out a nervous laugh, I said, ‘no, I’m new to these parts.’

‘What is your native?’He asked; a motorbike crossed us swiftly. He yelled behind the biker: 'Sir, tea!'

The biker didn't stop.

‘Coimbatore.’

‘Oh! I’ve a friend who has an undergarment business in Tiruppur.’

‘Tiruppur is not Coimbatore, brother.’

‘Yes, he takes clothes from Tiruppur and supplies it in Coimbatore.’

‘Oh.’ After a momentary silence, I added, ‘Why don’t you go to parks? You will see many people there. Business will be good.’

He smiled in return. I decided that it was time to leave. I said, not particularly focussing, but only looking at, my wristwatch, ‘ok, brother, then I shall leave.’

‘Ok, bye.’ He smiled.Another bicycle crossed us. He yelled again at the bicycler, 'Sir, tea! It is tasty, try one.' No response came back from the bicycler.

While I walked away, I sensed that there had been a momentary bond between us. His sharing his troubles with a stranger! Smiling to self, I walked off.

I realised that the taste of tea still lingered in my tongue. The tea was extraordinary. It saddened me

to think that such a wonderful tea should go unsold. Some distance off, I turned and looked at him. I thought he would pedal in his cycle and overtake my walking.

He didn’t. He pulled along his bicycle sluggishly. A shade of loss, of the utter cruelty of life, was visible in his slouching gait.It was as though he wanted to lead his life but was reduced to clinging along wherever life takes him.

As I looked back, there was a

huge distance between us—physically and emotionally. In his eyes, I’m a success; in my own, I’m but a lost bird.Before taking the left turn that would lodge me out of his view, I looked once again at that distant, faint outline that slowly walked towards nowhere.

I wished I could have bought one more cup of tea.

"THE BRIGHT SIDE" Tanmaya Krishna (India)

The day seems to be bright..

The sky seems to be clear....

But big storm inside my mind Covered with thick clouds & Thundering deep thoughts....

A fake smile on my face Pretending almost happy.

Did anyone notice?

Tanmaya Krishna Does anyone care to?

Or is it me who does not show it up..

(India) Why do I think too much..

Too much that it’s sinking me.

I need to come out of this I want to shine, very bright Brighter than the sunlight.

Vanishing the thick clouds.

Happier than anyone else Stronger than ever.

Yes, I can see the rain drops Nod the clouds fading away..

Yes, I can see the ray of joy And the rainbow of glory....

Waiting for the brighter side

THE BRIGHT SIDE

The day seems to be bright..

The sky seems to be clear....

But big storm inside my mind Covered with thick clouds & Thundering deep thoughts....

A fake smile on my face Pretending almost happy.

Did anyone notice?

Does anyone care to?

Or is it me who does not show it up..

Why do I think too much..

Too much that it’s sinking me.

I need to come out of this I want to shine, very bright Brighter than the sunlight.

Vanishing the thick clouds.

Happier than anyone else Stronger than ever.

Yes, I can see the rain drops Nod the clouds fading away..

Yes, I can see the ray of joy And the rainbow of glory....

Waiting for the brighter side

The unanswered Prasanna Venkataraman (India) “What is destiny?” asked the foxy toddler to his mother.

“Elders believe that God writes something on your head before you were born which determines your life and they call it ‘destiny’ my dear,” simplified the mother to the kid.

The little kid to quench his curiosity ran to a mirror, stared into it trying to get a sight of his forehead searching for his destiny.

It was a usual night and there was absolute solitude about it. The dark dead street he was making his steps through told, it was past midnight. The tall, hooded guy who looked like in his later twenties was fully engrossed into his weak singing to himself. Not a hymn or an elegy but something that comforted his heart and that soothed his wounded soul. He was dancing to the harsh beats and tunes of his life. The brisk steps he made tirelessly even at the end of the day which actually for others would be the start of their next day hinted that his day’s business was unfinished yet. One couldn’t have noticed the grief in his face due to the gloom but his gait explained that he was apathetic about his living. He surely had a stoic mind that drifted along the wild waves of life.

One could feel the despair in his eyes if only one cared to look into them. Yet, they also sharply wore the strength to endure the pain that came along. He made a few final hasty steps and entered a mucky lane. His long walk halted which said he had reached his destination. He opened the door of that small archaic style house.

The grief in his face deepened as he opened the door and he took a few hesitant steps into the house.

After all, endurance was his skill.

In the loud basses of the booming

he too was moving tirelessly to the well. Yet, he had to make his steps

speakers, he was dancing to the

loud music continuously fuelled by out to his car after performing

tunes of the rock metals. The

the drinks of heaven, which the

those rituals of exchanging kisses

extravagantly done interiors of

earth labels alcohol. He screamed

with his companions before

the pub built with the ethics of

the lyrics of the songs wildly that

leaving. He waded in his steps

keeping the space dim couldn’t

played with his dance counterpart that his unsteady brain didn’t

have prevented one from noticing

that delighted his already elated

help. He reached his posh machine

the euphoria in his face as he

soul. The minutes past midnight

that his parents’ richness had got

danced his heart out with his

only mattered to him as the

him. He had to drive back drunk;

companions. He too was a man in shutdown time of the pub neared. he dared to do it. After all, his later twenties but his

His day’s business wasn’t finished

shoulders carried no burden. Yes,

yet too and he didn’t want it to as

responsibility wasn’t his interest.

“Why are you so late? I was getting scared!” the mother asked timidly to her son.

Her haphazard attires were just enough to know her mind. He reached to her clothes to set them right. He gently cuddled her and said, “It is okay amma! I am back now. Relax!”

She was single and one of those women who failed in her duties of motherhood and it wasn’t her mistake. All he had to blame for it was her mind that was turned psychotic by force. Her better half

unfortunately turned out to be her worst part. It wasn’t her fault that she struck disequilibrium with her mind and neither was her son’s inability to set it right as a toddler.

That’s how her destiny was slated and he grew up maturing faster than typical to counter balance her disequilibrium. He endured the pain to be the bread winner for both of them. Life didn’t treat her right, but he tried to. He loved her, the only person in the whole world he could claim his relation; fought his life and world

for her but he couldn’t fight her health that couldn’t stand the test of time. The terms of hallucinations, delusions, suicidal thoughts, depressions, bipolar were the first in his dictionary to better support his mother by his arts of acceptance and understanding. He knew her, the conflicts she was fighting within her mind that took a heavy toll on her health too. He caressed her everyday fully aware of her pain.

He knew the mental pains that any other normal mind would find silly were slaying her peace.

He tried to give her the peace that clearly missed out from her life but the demands of his life to work till late night never let him do it dedicatedly.

“I am hungry. I finished the food that you prepared in the morning for me by afternoon itself,” She complained.

“Okay! I will cook for you now.

You sleep until then,” He instructed her.

“I am not sleepy. I am afraid. I feel everything is going to end today!” Her mind spoke.

“We will see that. Now that I am here, I won’t let it end so easily.

Okay? Sleep now. Love you!” he stroked her hair, gave a peck on her forehead and set her sleep on her bed.

He came out of the bedroom emotionless. Yes! He had gone numb to ‘his usual’ painful ‘unusual events’. He entered the kitchen. He wanted to prepare his child something to quench her hunger. He wasn’t drained out as that was his routine but life let him sleep only for 4 hours a day. He had an early morning the next day but that hardly bothered him.

sleeping. Okay? I am sure you wouldn’t have eaten anything. I have asked the maids to prepare your dinner. Food is ready already.” She informed him.

“Okay mom! I will help myself. Love you!”

The car was cruising out of control that was an act of alcohol fed brain but the empty road was the saviour.

The half shut brain enjoyed things that way. He never cared and so he did that time too. He enjoyed the thrill that came with it but never enjoyed the responsibilities that came with age. His brought up was only to be blamed but that made no sense as born with silver spoon was the reason behind his blithe attitude.

The faster he moved, the more he wanted to. He had a close shave a couple of times but he didn’t know that. And then his phone rang. He reached out for his phone which didn’t fail to flaunt his status.

“Hello! Who is it?” he missed the manners.

“Dear! Where are you? It’s so late already. Drank today also?” his mother interrogated sweetly.

“Yes mom! But I swear, not much,” he replied.

“It’s okay! But come home for

He had spent the next hour preparing to answer her satiation.

With his meagre salary and in his below mediocre life all he could manage was not letting her starve.

He fed her every night, taking a swap of roles that ideally should have been. But after all, he was proving himself and his world that men too can mother. It was 4 hours to alarm for him to start his next day but he wasn’t going to end the day without feeding her.

“Amma! I am hungry. Give me something to eat please” the toddler asked hugging his mother in the bed. It was right after his bed time stories. She never disappointed him with her stories and he loved them. But that was an unusual night when he felt hungry just few hours after a sumptuous dinner.

“Okay my dear. Wait for ten minutes” she said kissing him. She knew what he wanted exactly. As she went to kitchen, the child followed her and found comfort in hugging by her legs.

It was when he entered. He was the man who both the mother and the child feared; the man who failed as a husband and a father; the man who the child hated without any space for affection.

“What are you doing bitch?” were his first words.

She explained and his mind which wasn’t sober due to his addiction to alcohol wanted no reason to slap her. The child tried to protect his love but was pushed to the

ground. He knew he couldn’t protect her that night too, he quickly got to his feet, ran to his rescue behind his bedroom doors.

For the next few hours he stayed there, weeping in his inability to put an end to the turmoil his mother went through. If only, he had the strength to overpower his father.

The cooker squeaked in the high pressure and that’s when he was snapped out of his past.

“Amma! Food is ready. Get up.

Let’s eat.” He tried to awaken her.

She didn’t respond to it. He believed her to be in deep sleep.

But it wasn’t that situation. When he tried the next 10 minutes in vain, he knew that she had passed out. He was anxious of losing his only relation. “Amma!” he screamed in his futile attempt to awaken her.

He struggled to stay with his drive.

He was pushing the moment of shut down. He was passing out too. His mind wasn’t going to hold on anymore. His throttling seconds before his system shutdown led his car to the median. He crashed and so did his racy beast.

“I want the toy now.” He was adamant to his parents. Being born rich is only a disadvantage in that

way that never lets you get to know that feeling which people call ‘disappointment.’

“Okay dear!” his father quickly left to get him the expensive toy. He cried not knowing that it was just minutes before he had his demand met. His mother couldn’t stand him crying even for few minutes. She hugged him consoling that he would have his toy soon.

“Amma!” he screamed that second before his car flipped in the road. It would have looked nasty to a spectator but there was none. It was a deserted freeway. The huge noise the crashed created fell in no ears. He had to wait for a passer­by to rescue.

There he stayed, trapped in the airbags losing his red for nearly an hour.

The emergency team of the hospital had to deal with two new admissions at the same time. An accident emergency and a vital signs drop resuscitation. When the first admission was given priority due to the background of the victim, the latter received secondary service. After all, money is treated better than human in this world.

“It looks not so severe. A small open head injury, he should be fine. We will do our best,” the doctor assured the parents.

“I had called him a few minutes back. I always asked him not to drink and drive.”

The mother cried in her husband’s arms.

“Don’t worry dear. He will be fine,” he reassured her gently.

“Oh dear lord! Please save him.

We want him with us. We can’t lose him,” she said dropping her tears uncontrollably.

He stood there looking at this scene. He knew the rich parents couldn’t even stand their son acquiring a minor injury. He wished in his heart that he was back to normalcy soon. Then he walked to the doctor who treated his mother.

“It looks serious. Her vitals have dropped badly. We can only try. It’s tough to promise

anything now’,” he explained.

And he took a second of hesitation to add, “But don’t keep huge hopes!”

He looked at his mother plainly. There she was, unconscious yet her face looked unusually in peace. He walked away and took a seat outside the room she was admitted in. He knew he was losing the only person he had in his life. He had in his hands, the food he had prepared for her that night neatly packed.

He looked at it and it wasn’t too long before the tears dropped on the box.

PS: This is an attempt to contrast lives of people that we live around with. When some people are born to live an easy life, some are born to toil their whole life.

The way people approach them may differ but the question of why such a difference is never answered. They simply prefer to call it, ‘destiny’.

Painful Reality Davinder Ranu (Canada, NRI)

Why should I open my eyes?

What is there good to see?

Except grim ghastly faces, Fighting hard over races.

Who’s better, who’s not?

The dispute still goes on.

All men finally come to dust still claim this world to be theirs.

Did we learn from history?

That’s no great mystery.

We live a big life of lie, And our minds so feeble We eventually give in.

How long will we be blind?

When will we think beyond This mortal body and mind?

When we come across true God, He will never let us come back Into this world of agony and pain.

Here there is no momentous gain; Just burning corpses full of woe And dead bodies buried so low.

The Free Will Conundrum Yusuf Alam (Bangalore, India)

Danish was sure that running was the only possible way to escape. The path kept narrowing down as he ran, he could feel a gaping hole growing stronger behind him, and Danish had no strength to look back…

“Run! Run, Danish Run!”

doomed”.

A voice echoed from the back of his mind, as Danish found himself running again, running into the dark alley that lay in front of him.

Without any clear idea of what he was doing, Danish was sure that running was the only possible way to escape. The path kept narrowing down as he ran, he could feel a gaping hole growing stronger behind him, and Danish had no strength to look back… All he was holding onto now was the tiny hope that there was an exit, a way out of this chaos which would lead him to a safe haven, a place to rest his tired mind and escape the shadows that had followed him all his life. He finally saw a gate at a distance which had a billboard saying, “Paradise of the

Without a second thought Danish entered inside, to find himself in a dimly lit room which looked like some 18th century bar. He had a feeling that he’d been there before, but he couldn’t remember anything. There was a counter and stacks of bottles neatly placed in the slabs behind it. The bottles were covered in dust, looked like the place hadn’t been cleaned up for a while. The cobwebs contributed to the eerie ambience of the place.

Danish sat on a chair, his mind all blank. He tried to remember what he had been running from, but couldn’t. As he reached for his coat pocket, there was a note in there which read:

Like what I’ve done with the place? Don’t thank me, just enjoy your time! I know you are wondering what this note is about and who wrote it and took the trouble of putting it in your pocket. This is my idea of a joke Danny boy! You don’t find it funny? Trust me, I’m laughing as hell right now! Someday you too will, I truly hope so.

subconscious. Unaware of the glitch, which is me. Ever since I cured him of his insanity, dying in the process, I have been stuck here.

P.S If I were you I’d stay away from the red door.

“Who are you?” Oh, the obvious question. Whoever said that human mind is unpredictable?

Confused, Danish put the tiny slip back into his packet. He looked at the east end of the room, there were seven doors; each painted with a different colour: Violet, Indigo, Brown, Green, Yellow, Orange and the Red. He walked towards the “forbidden door”, unsure yet curious. He stood there awhile, contemplating and then finally curiosity got better of him and he opened it. A blinding light covered the whole room; Danish felt comatose and couldn’t move a muscle, he tried to scream but nothing came out of his mouth. Slowly, his body started evanescing. And in a moment’s time, he was gone! Vacant, vanished!

“Run! Run, Danish Run!” The voice called out. And Danish was running for his life again just the way he was supposed to. The cycle repeats itself over and over again, nothing changes. I have watched this over a thousand times. How they have put his mind into this infinite loop. But who are those people? Why are they doing this to him? Is this their idea of a sick joke? All I know is that they are using my machine to access his

“Hello, Danny boy.” I greet him as I enter the bar; he’s holding a piece of paper in his hands. I light up a cigarette as I park myself on a chair near him.

“You know who I am. You just don’t remember it. Let’s say I am a friend.” I see the look on his face, he doesn’t trust me.

“A friend? Are you the guy who wrote this?” He gives me the tiny slip. And suddenly, everything is just crystal clear to me. The old school reverse­psychology maze, the sick sense of humour, this all points to only one guy, “Mr. Red”!

He always wanted a piece of my research, and when I refused, he turned to his powerful friends. I bet they helped him get my apparatus. I have to break the pattern; I have to help him get out of here.

“I didn’t, but I know who did.” I tell him. “You are in the midst of a maze right now. It’s no ordinary puzzle, but a loop. And that piece of paper is your tiny, little bit of clue.” He looks totally disoriented at the revelation. And I’m sure he understands nothing. But I have got to think!

“P.S If I were you I’d stay away from the red door.” What does he really mean by that? Why does he mention the red colour door

out of the seven colour doors? He obviously wants him to open the red door, you command a man to abstain from doing something, and it’ll be the first thing he would do. I maneuver the cigarette to the side of the table to get rid of the ash. I turn up to see him standing in front of the red door! Shouldn’t I stop him from opening the door?

As he opens the red door, I bring the table down and hide as the room is covered in the bright light!

I gave my life for him once, if anyone deserves a chance to live now; it would be me!

I walk to the seven doors.

Green, the opposite of red; I open it, and I’m swallowed by the white light myself.

I look up to see a group of doctors around my bed. There’s a mirror to my left, I see Danish’s face in it.

Mirrors are under no obligation to show what’s inside.

Alas! I am a free man… and I will have my vengeance!

Nature Has A Wide Within Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee (Kolkata, India) Rivers have ecstasies during the flood Heart overflows when men fall in love, Stones prattle melodious songs When the hills want to fly like a dove.

Sick philosophers are like mad poets Mad philosophers are never sick, Thank God that rivers are rivers The skies don’t ever leak.

I never understand nature I never saw birds flying in moonlight, Rivers would be mad philosophers If poets have their insight.

Life is strange like a paddy field The spirits guard the bourne, Nature has a wide within Sorrows all ripen like corn.

WHY CAN’T WE? Richa Dixit (India) The whispers of the silence, Chant to me so often, These free birds in the sky, With their wings spread, Going miles on miles, Seems as if racing against life, They don’t stop to mourn for, Nor do they complain, For the complexities of their lives, They have been given to lead, With enthusiasm they make it up all, If so could be they, Then why do we?

So many complaints, So many flaws, Always restrain, Feel pity at this, at times, Though they don’t possess intellects at self, Still they know the art of life, Seems they hold it to them, That happiness isn’t in craving, It rather lies in one’s behaving, Want to be like them, Phew away all ill, Want to behave, Rather to crave and Chirp to the new morning lights!

Why do I write?

Tanmaya Krishna (India) When it comes to writing everyone has his/her own perspective , his/her own views....

I write because it gives me peace of mind...

When I feel low about something and I can’t talk about it to anyone I WRITE..

Sometimes you know yourself better when you write...

Writing is all about exploring yourself.

It makes me feel good about myself...

Writing gives me satisfaction.

It makes me feel complete..

Sometimes when am sad I write..

It lets the sorrow out of me...

And the happiness I get after I finish writing something is worth more than anything...

As am a student and mostly busy with my work, I don’t have much time to write.

But when I write I feel good..

Maqsood Qureshi (Hydrabad, India) I write for so many reasons. My writing is a mirror image of what I'm ­­ or what I've become. I write autobiographical accounts. I write to influence people. I write to change their mind­set. My life has always been a game of Snakes and Ladders. There're more snakes than ladders. I write to tell my

comrades to watch out for Snakes.

That's my way of being a Good Samaritan. I'm a modern­day samurai. My writing instrument is my sword.

This is my warped and deviant thinking: I believe there's no real and absolute fiction. Its reality morphed radically. And, it's almost autobiographical or semiautobiographical always ­­ inadvertent or deliberate. It's so ­­

at least in my case. In my offbeat monologist poems, in my wacky soliloquies it's cathartic. It works just like medicinal leech. It's penance for unconfessed mortal sins. I don't know if this phenomenon is widespread universal ­­ or merely a personal idiosyncrasy of a schizophrenic wannabe writer like me.

An Exercise Backfired!

Bob Macmaster (Arizona, United States) Sometimes I write because I'm inspired.

Other times I can't, I'm just too tired.

My mind won't work, my thoughts are mired.

The voice in my head should just be fired!

But I take a breath, I know what's required, got to grab hold of life before it's expired.

I look at all the folks I've admired, the events throughout my life transpired, and the work and play through which I've perspired, but more, that which is left desired, and tell myself, that's how you're hardwired.

To use all the knowledge that you've acquired.

To spread new ideas like children sired.

Looking back, I think my brain misfired!

But we came, we wrote, we co­conspired.

Well, that wasn't so bad, I guess he's rehired!

IT'S MY TIME Vasanthi Papu (India)

Why is this world so treacherous?

Not letting me remain prosperous.

Every moment I escalate to rise, A few stare at me with wily eyes.

They extol me to get things done.

Their flattery is a bullet from a gun Whose intention is to yank me down And rejoice as they do with a clown.

Pain and patience tested me all these years, Which I wasted almost in shedding tears.

Life’s hardship taught me new lessons To bang the world for some rigid reasons.

Found now a huge bag of hidden treasure That has my skill and grit in large measure.

Holding perseverance my best companion, Never will I tumble or sink into oblivion.

It’s time I proved my supreme strength, My sturdy heart and mind at full­length.

When I am blessed to touch the lofty sky Why shouldn’t I dare to soar and fly high?

Your Reflection MAGAZINE "REFLECTION" MAY EDITION... TODAY MARKS A MILESTONE IN MY LIFE... Yamunai Thuraivan (India)

Congraulations to all the writers and artist who were published in this issue of Reflection W&R Mag. What a talented group! I encourage all to submit your work. The editing team is kind and supportive and does such a fabulous job. Check it out!

Lisa Ayers (USA)

Thanks to Reflection for publishing my poem and the issue is a wonderful one!!!! So creative and congratulations on providing such a wonderful platform to creative people around the world!!!! You have proven art recognises no boundaries. Dr. Ruchida Barman (India)

Congratulations, This issue is a huge success. I love it. Arun Kumar (India)

Great issue! You are giving some wonderful work a fantastic new venue. Bob Macmaster (USA)

MY STORY HAS BEEN PUBLISHED IN THE ONLINE

Great job Reflection! My hearty congrats to everyone who got their works published :­) Great paintings and lively page designs.

Interview with Brian Wrixon is inspiring. Magazine has become more interesting. Thanks to Reflection team :­) Ashi di especially. I truly loved this month's publication :) I read your "Own House" there on magazine.

A great message in the story which is to be realized by current generation.Great one! Verma ji’s paintings are awesome. Brian Wrixon's interview is too good and motivating not only readers but also writers got many to look at on Reflection!!

Congratulations..... Basilia Leva (India)

I have a feeling that The Magazine, REFLECTION has changed my life. Fahmid Hassan Prohor (Bangladesh)

My Best wishes are with the entire team of Reflection who took such an endeavor! Keep up the great work. God Bless! Shahid Khan (India)

I will be sending one soon .. and congrats on yet another lovely publication .. it warms my heart to see many talented writers unleash their talents and you guys at Reflection are doing a great job ....

Aarati Salian (Bahrain)

Thanks Ashi for incorporating my poem. I have decided to send 500. I like to suggest you to go off line also and get published. I know this needs money. God will help you. Just think about it. I like the title REFLECTION. God is with you. Go ahead. Best wishes and regards always. Ramesh Rai (India)

It feels great to be associated with Reflection. Thanks to reflection team. Richa Dixit (India)

I browsed the latest issue and was really impressed with the content, art­work and layouts. Simply beautiful and wonderful! Kudos to all involved. I will return to read all the stories carefully!

Joe P. Attanasio (USA)

Phases Of A Woman's Life Malavikka Sridharan (India)

Phases of a Woman's Life As a bud she leaps out of the womb To behold her first sunlight, Encased with love and ready to delight足 The world with her tranquility.

She germinates with fragility And blooms with redolent fragrance.

Nestled and rejoiced, Reflects her vigilance; Clandestinely she begets Her inflammation in her transformation from a worm to butterfly, Diluting her uneasiness With ameliorating pulchritude.

To pollinate she flies, Aroma too encompassed, To fill her beehive with honey.

As a queen bee she infuses reverence From her family with Her weapon of patience.

To cascade her love and Sustain her maneuver of goodness Another angel debuts the earth From her womb to get her first sunshine!

Concealed Writers On Display I discovered writing when I was about nineteen years old. I fell in love and gained a passion for it immediately. Expressing my personal inner most thoughts reveals such a freedom inside me. I want to help make a difference in the lives of people.

So I redirected my writing to encourage and inspire. While I still continue my self­expression through writing on the side, I created a Booksie account to accomplish just that, poetry with a purpose.

My experience on there has been more than I ever hoped for! I gained new friends and receive positive feedback including some read my work when they are feeling down.

I met Ashi through the site. She encouraged me to check out their Facebook group Reflection W&R Mag and to submit a piece of my work. This meant the world to me! My goal to become a writer is to create positivity and make people feel

good through my writing. But I was unaware of any avenues besides a global platform such as Booksie.

Until I was introduced to Reflection W&R Mag. They provide the opportunity for all writers to get recognition. Making all writers feel so important and worthy. Making all feel equally as good as the next writer. This in return encourages them to want to write more. They are a team of selfless, encouraging and supportive people. They set aside time, with no compensation, to make a difference in the lives of writers. They take special care with reaching out to writers and artist. They display their work in such a beautiful and detailed fashion. My reaching out to others was definitely recognized and returned to me through the caring editorial team. Thank you all for what you do.

You are changing writer’s lives, one issue at a time.

Lisa Ayers (US)

You Not There, Why? Gurdeep Singh Kohli (India) Across the deep wet woods I look for someone My eyes gaze through dark But could find none.

And silent drops of rain Are increasing my pain Lonely me ........., You not there, Why? You used to be there Looking at me Eyes full of love Smile on your face Where are you now?

I cannot trace.

Two little drops of tears On your cheeks and Arms wide open like sky.

But now, you not there, why?

In this dark night No moon no stars No wind no sound Just leaves on ground.

I search for you Across the deep woods Under the shadow of Fearful dark sky.

And you not there, why?

Sound of my trembling feet With each step I take Towards you.

And those drops of rain Sounding something new.

My heart beats fast And I like to cry n' cry But you not there, why?

Murmuring lips Trying to say something So Quietly, like fall of dew.

Soundless Speech

My pale face searching eyes Telling something new.

I look at deep dark sky My thrust getting deeper To quench your love I know, I'll not find you Still, I like to try And you not there, why?

I was always yours O friend, O love of mine I always lived in your heart Not changing by time.

You promised to be there Always, I would be where But this not now true.

I am alone and Nowhere you, Love!

Me, wandering In deep woods Looking for you, Love!

It seems not long left The day when I will die.

And you not there, why?

Bushes of hurt Thorns of neglect You knew this well No one is perfect.

Still Your quietness And my madness Not let me rest a while I feel as living in exile.

No smile on my lips now ever Since long in life, there is no joy.

I walk in Deep wet woods like A spirit,

UNDER 15 ZONE Manju Lekha Singaram 15 year old (India) Bharatanatyam is a classical Indian dance form originating in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu. This dance form denotes various 19th and 20th century reconstructions of Sadir, the art of temple dancers. Sadir in turn, is derived from ancient dance forms that include some acrobatic karanas. Bharatnatyam is usually accompanied by Carnatic music. It has its inspirations from the sculptures of the ancient temple of Chidambaram. Bharatanatyam, as the name depicts is the combination of: 'Bha' ­ Bhavam (means expression), 'Ra' ­ Ragam (means music), 'Ta ­ Talam (means beat or rhythm) and Natyam (means dance) in Tamil.

Bharatanatyam is a reworked dance­form from the traditional "sadir" known for its grace, purity, tenderness, and sculpturesque poses. Today, it is one of the most popular and widely performed dance styles and is practised by male and female dancers all over the world.

BHARATANATYAM Kohl­lined passionate eyes voicing lovely thoughts while concealing lies.

Sandalwood fragrance flying for miles Vibrant attires fascinating even evils.

Traditional ornaments adore the slender woman; Whose flawless skin possesses a fair hue of lemon.

Wavy hair plaited as smooth as silk, And beautified with jasmines as pure as milk.

Lips lined with glossy red pain shines; As she dances alluringly with hand signs.

Being a staunch devotee of the cosmic dancer She proves to be the ancient art’s answer.

Art Section

Hut A pencil sketch Basilia (India)

Art Work

By Heather Jephcott (Australian, living in Indonesia for 25 years)

Batik flower

I was learning to paint. Heather Jephcott

Master Of Shades

Pencil Sketches By R. K. Verma

Day Dream

Smile

Kit

House Lady

Innocent Smile

Mysteriou Lady

Alone

Lady In Blue

By Iram Fatima 'Ashi'

I BURN

Ezhil Prashanth (India) I burn in my lane, To make you insane.

I come with a death mark, All I need is a spark.

My effort never goes in vain, My victory lies in your pain.

I am in black, I am in white, Till my death I glow bright.

I am there always round the clock, Just to give your heart a block.

Your death moan has been sung, Rotting in hell is your lung.

I am there between your fingers, Dancing ignorantly your life lingers, I burn in my lane, To make you insane.

“THE ONLY TIME WHEN QUITERS WIN, QUIT SMOKING” SMOKING IS INJURIOUS TO HEALTH!

Guidelines For Submitting Your Manuscripts 1­ You should have a proper pen name, pen name like girlie2000, lifeisadream, will not be accepted. If you use your real name, it will be highly appreciated.

2­ You can send us stories, poems, essays, interviews, reportage, novel summaries etc.

3­ Be original, plagiarism in any form is unbearable so it will be your responsibility to deal with, if someone claims or complains about your work the editor and the publisher will not be responsible for any of the published work.

4­ It is necessary to provide your contact details with your manuscript. But if you like your contact details will be published under your work so that it will enable the readers to interact with you directly.

5­ You can write in any genre but vulgarity, erotica, profanity is not allowed in any form. Besides propagating any religion, an ethnic group or terrorist group in your work is strictly prohibited. Our magazine is for general reading so the use of four letter words is not permitted.

6­ It is advised that you must send your manuscript fully edited and grammatically checked. Our editors will not be able to edit or amend it so they have the right of rejecting your manuscript.

7­ This is a free online magazine so we shall not pay any money for any of your published work.

8­ Presently we are doing only six online and three printed issues in a year.

9­ Our long term dream is to publish unpublished writers, please do your best to provide us with your best work. It may go to the printed version of our Magazine.

10­ Our publishers MOPH are determined to publish the print versions of your novels too. If you have a novelist in you please send us the summary of your novel for publishing it in the online version of our magazine. If our editors and critics like your novel we will send it to our publishers for printing it free of cost.

11­ By sending your manuscript to us you simply give us the right to publish it in our magazine. You continue to own the rights of your work in your name and Reflection does not make any claim or restriction on the ownership of your work.

Information To Be Provided With Your Manuscript Please include the following information with every manuscript.

If you are submitting as a word processor file, such as Microsoft Word, the best approach is to add points 1 & 2 to the top of the manuscript and the bio information to the end of the article. Please supply a separate file for the image captions or add them to the end of the article after your bio: 1) Your complete name, mailing address and telephone number, which will not be published without your approval.

2) Your e­mail address, which will not be published or disclosed to anyone.

3) Supply captions for all images, illustrations or photographs you supply.

4) Supply a short biography of yourself in about 40 to 50 words, if you like we’ll append it to the end of your work.

Important Some writers show their reluctance to provide their personal details. That is okay, you can still submit your work to the editor of the magazine. It will be editor's sole discretion to accept those entries or not. Besides such entries will only be entitled for the online issue of the magazine.

A building cannot be raised without skillful sculptors. The sculptors behind the success of this fabulous magazine' Reflection' are our beloved writers who have their massive contributions with their splendid works.

My cheers go to all those who have taken this opportunity as a platform to showcase their talents.

It is a wonderful feeling to be one with the Reflection team and enjoy the pleasure of its success. What began in enthusiasm has now grown into commitment as we forge ahead towards wider avenues and higher goals to reach..

All great journeys start with a small step forward. 'REFLECTION' is blessed to have a fertile path in the years to come.

My heartfelt thanks to Ashi and Kumar Vikrant for their relentless effort and total commitment to make this magazine worthy and grand..

Vasanthi Papu Associate Editor (India)

Reflection In my opinion about the International Literary Magazine “Reflection�. I believe this publication to be true to this moniker as it is both international and literary in nature. Although published in English Reflection boasts talented writers from around the world. The initial concept was simply to give many good writers a chance to be heard and published in a quality publication that could be shared electronically. The adept staff at Reflections has exceeded this goal because they are artists themselves. They have inspired writers to dig deep and give their best work. The design and layout of this magazine rivals similar professional magazines. The material is presented attractively making the articles a joy to read. This endeavor is not funded by commercial advertisers but is a labor of love given freely from all those involved.

Joe P. Attanasio