Reflection may 13 downloadable

Summer In Ramallha A Salute To My Angel

Perfection Is A Flaw My Magical Garden

When We Cross Paths It's Never The End Tear Of Love

Let Me Live

Silent Storm

Another great story by Ava Rosien, Exclusive interview with a renowned poet, writer, publisher Brian Wrixon

Editorial

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My Magical Garden: Ava Rosien 2

Let Me Live: Parna Banerjee

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Mobile Phone And Our Society: Mohammad Muzzammil Shah 4

When We Cross Paths: Lisa Ayers 6

Summer In Ramallah: Nancy Konkar 7

Silent Storm: Tanmaya 9

Why Chinese Don't Like Art: John Xu 10

Gloomy Africa: Jerry Eke 13

An Interview With Brian Wrixon: Iram Fatima 'Ashi' 14

She Found Her Love: Dr. Ruchida Barman 19

Tear Of Love: Yamunai Thuraivan 20

Finding The Moon: Imad足Ul足Islam 24

Own House: Iram Fatima 'Ashi' 25

Free Weather Regime: Richa Dixit 28

It's Never The End: Basilia 29

A Salute To My Angel: Vasanthi Papu 32 Perfectionism Is A Flaw: Shahid Khan 33 My Freedom: Basilia 37 Why I Fire Love: Shaleheen

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War: Anam Arfeen 39 Art Section 40 Why Do I Write 48 Your Reflection 52 Guidelines For Sending Your Manusciript 53 Regular Columns 55

Managing Editor: Iram Fatima 'Ashi' Associate Editor: Vasanthi Papu Art Work: R. K. Verma Page Layouts: Reflection Team Magazine Email: reflection18@ymail.com

Greetings! My beloved readers, All seasons have their own charm with different reasons and summer is for holidays. Wish you all a happy summer; enjoy a break with your family and friends.

I am here with an article of our emerging writer/poet Mr. Shahid Khan (India) to cool you down dealing with the topic of 'Perfection' which often makes us restless attempting to give our best. Sure, his article will make you realise, ‘Is perfection really that important? And the other article is about our indispensable companion ,' Mobile Phone’' by writer/poet Mr. Muzzammil Shah (India) and a new teenager Master John Xu from China shares his views on ‘Why Chinese don’t like art?’

Few touching Stories by our writers Mrs Ava Rosien (Canada), Ms Basilia (India), Ms Nancy Konkar (Palestine), Mr Yamunai Thuraivan (India) and some thought provoking poems by the scientist Mr. Erk Jerry (Nigeria), Mrs Padma Banarge (India), Raven Snow (Jordan) form part of our magazine.

Mother’s Day is a celebration honoring mothers and motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society. It is celebrated on various days in many parts of the world, most commonly in May, so I would like to wish all mothers a very happy Mother’s day, it’s time we made our life’s lady feel special. On this splendid occasion I am presenting the poem “A Salute To My Angel” by Ms Vasanthi Papu (India) and my story “Own House”, which reflects the journey of a lady as a girl, daughter, wife and mother, the bitter realities of women’s status, changing relationships and their responsibilities.

Readers would also find our two regular columns ‘Why do I write’ and ‘Under fifteen zone’. We proudly present an exclusive interview of Mr Brian Wrixon (Canada), who is a writer/poet/publisher to inspire the budding authors. The magazine also includes the views of the readers in ‘Your Reflection’.

I am sure you will find this issue entertaining and thought provoking as well. I would love to hear from you, your opinion and suggestion.

Before I conclude my hearty thanks to Mr. R.K. Verma who decorates our ‘Art’ section exceedingly well.

My profound thanks to Mr. Kumar Vikrant and his team for designing the pages of Reflection so exquisitely and Ms. Vasanthi Papu (Associate-editor) for her strong support and co-operation.

Love you all, take care and stay blessed.

Iram Fatima 'Ashi'

Saudia Arabia (NRI) Managing Editor

My Magical Garden Ava Rosien (Canada)

I walk a path through the woods to a secret place I know. It is a magical spot where I find solace; a place where progress has not reached and no human, other than me, is there to disturb the tranquility of its natural beauty.

Tall pines and water oaks, along with vines that spread upward, displaying their tiny purples bloom; retreat as I reach the clearing that lies just ahead.

The moist and shady ground carpeted and made soft by bright green moss; while an abundance of ferns grow scattered about, flourishing in the rich and fertile soil. Toadstools, like tiny umbrellas, grow at the base of a large oak tree; rooting themselves in the moss that makes its way up one side. I tell myself it is where the fairies live, wood nymphs that dance and sing when no one is there to see them.

They flit about landing on the huge gray boulders that were once, centuries ago, part of a

great mountain of stone that has since crumbled to the ground.

Now, one serves as my throne to sit and survey this mystical kingdom that nature has created.

I look down to see a Jack in the Pulpit; a wonder of nature in its simplicity and beauty; catching dew in its tubular bloom. Not far away another plant, Jacobs Ladder, blooms.

A garden made by nature and tended by the fairies. No finer garden could exist; exquisite is its design, without the help of man or tools.

Just beyond the ferns there is a shallow brook that winds its way over slate rocks; forming miniature waterfalls, as the water flows over them. The forest is silent, except for the trickling of the brook.

Wild dogwood trees grow on the banks. A leaf falls gently down into the water and floats like a raft on the surface, around a turn and out of sight. A butterfly the color of a ghost appears; and

lights without fear beside me on the rock. Furling and unfurling its tissue thin wings as if to offer greetings to this stranger in its woods. Its greetings given, it flies away to a blossom nearby to drink a drop of dew that lingers there.

Suddenly, a Robin lights on a limb up high and joins in the chorus of the brook’s sweet melody. The wind chimes in, rustling tree leaves, and I close my eyes to listen to the symphony that is played in my ears alone to hear.

There, in my haven, I have peace within my soul; my mind has no burdens to keep it earthbound; I float away as did the leaf upon the water. Drifting thoughts of sweetest bliss; I am enveloped in nature’s arms; content to sleep while she sings her sweet lullaby. I feel the kiss of a fairy on my cheek; I dare not open my eyes to see her, lest she be frightened away.

let me live Parna Banerjee (India)

An act of suspense

chained behind bars

individual journey‐ make a complete "ONE" depth of meaningful scratches ‐

rewind back memorable desires

including residual waste of cramped crouching love lines need a delicate safe place in the "womb" words may perish‐

love will remain within silence

will speak self whispering love story in this eloquent quiet night.... a long kiss of suspense

spinning wheels on the move with destiny

ultrasound preserves ‐ glimpses of an angel secretly whispering ‐let me be safe

silently takes twisty turn in her mother's womb

to nail down her destiny ‐ before opening her eyes.

Mobile Phone And Our Society Mohammad Muzzammil Shah (India)

Everybody is familiar with mobile phones in the current age. Youth use it proudly, children are happy to see it, but the old are still surprised to see this magic box. It is a handset having some digits on one side with a screen. Now our kin and friends are not far away from us. Firstly, they were in black & white, big in size and coarse in appearance. Now they have been modified in a nice manner, light in weight, more handy and colorful. Dr.Martine Cooper would be perplexed to see the latest mobile supporting internet. A good variety of these mobiles are available in the market that attracts all in our society.

Some years ago, having a mobile phone was a matter of respect and prestige. Now you can see even a rickshaw­puller using a mobile while performing his task.

People who deserve it keep one, and those who don’t, keep two or three mobiles simultaneously.

There is a long list of people who use it in a different style.

The mobile phone can be recovered even from a person who is on the verge of death. But youngsters are excited in using it. I lament why it was not so common in my time when I had a good friendship with a girl and was turning into a love affair. I had to call on basic phone and often my calls were received by her family members. I had a little chance if she attended my call. I am young but the spirit of

talking to someone special on a phone is now no more. Talking on a mobile phone is an emergency sort of conversation. I always try to concise my talking because by talking quite often, one of my friends eloped with his relative and he was expelled out from his home. And another friend of mine was ready to do the same. I was almost dejected in this situation and I composed a poem “The Rimer and the Venus “ which justifies that love can’t be received by force or snatching.

In your society, even in your locality, you can see the poorest among the poor in the world. The most honest and dedicated slave., yes, it is the lover of a girl who sticks the phone to his ear, passing through narrow and wide streets, on uneven ways, on the roads in the scorching sun.

But these brave foolish people don’t care about these futile things. Perhaps they believe in “No gain without pain.” Some of them spoil their rest and spend their night by talking on phones to their beloved ones. Communication companies make their fortunes in their conversation. Companies do a favor by giving concession at night to these living Romeos. Some rich boys give mobile phones to their girlfriends as gifts so that no hindrance may come. But these girls use those phones talking to another boy.

If anyone comes to know about it, she takes him in her confidence saying “don’t you believe in me?” and all the clouds of uncertainty disappear and the sky is clear again.

I don’t know why they believe in a female voice. Once a man received a call. She began telling lies that she had made it by mistake. Then he was eager to listen to her voice, and rang her up, praised her voice and asked her whereabouts.

She replied that she was from Gorakhpur but had come to that particular town and was staying in her relative's house. A few days later, she informed him that she didn't have her own phone and she was ready to leave the place. She sent him her address. The next day, he bought a new mobile phone and handed it to his friend to send it to that address through the post. His friend would come to him daily whom he had told the whole matter.

After three days, he received a message, "Thank you, my dear. I've received your gift." Then they both began to move towards the culmination.

After three months, she stopped receiving his calls.

What to say except "love is blind" and it comes true to him because he did never see her.

Once a house caught fire and turned everything to ashes. When a press reporter asked the house owner the reason for not calling thefire station, he replied in anger that he had made nearly twenty missed calls, but nobody called him back from the fire station. The mobile phone is essential to communicate and stay connected with our loved ones but some misuse it.

As per my own observation, mobile phone has given us the facility that the kings of the time didn’t have. Everything is now on our fingertip, just like controlling Jinn with our hands. It is one of the most beautiful gifts that inventors have introduced.

Like most of the inventions of science, it is also misused. It is a boon for the society if it is used well otherwise none could check the disaster that would come along.

When We Cross Paths Lisa Ayers

Summer in Ramallah Nancy Konkar (Palestine)

If anyone had asked me about Ramallah 8 years ago, I would have told them that it’s a Palestinian city. I would have said that it’s located north of Jerusalem. I would have admitted that Ramallah felt more like home than my actual home, and I would have told them that I spent every year waiting for the first day of summer so that I’d spend it in Ramallah, with everyone that I loved. But if I was asked now, I would say that Ramallah is the city I fear to step foot in. I would tell the reason for this change if anyone wished to know.

8 years ago, and as usual, I spent my summer with my relatives in Ramallah. That particular week, my parents were there as well, and everything seemed perfect. I was playing with my cousins.

Everything was in place, and that is probably why I loved it. One of my cousins, who happened to be my best friend at that time, suggested going out for a walk one night. It was late, and as the sky was pitch­black, our parents didn’t

allow it. He told me that we must find a way to convince them. Why that was, I still don’t know until this day. We started a fight with our parents, and we were sent to our rooms. That did not stop Rami. He escaped from his window and came to help me escape from mine. He was only a

year older than me, but I always found myself trusting his every word and feeling safe around him.

So I went with him thinking that nothing wrong could possibly occur. On that cool breezy and beautiful summer night, Rami and I started our walk into a new life.

I spent most of my life walking those streets, yet I never felt the need to memorize our way. Rami was always around to guide me and take me places, and so that

night, as every other day, I let him guide the way. We started our walk away from home. We walked through a familiar street as I complained about my parents.

Then, when we were out of words to describe our family’s injustice, we realized we were no longer on that street. As I looked around me, I realized we were now in a dark alley.

The walls were narrow, and as my mind always liked to play tricks on me, I saw the walls closing in on us.

All lights were out, not a single candle was lit in that whole street. I heard a voice, and that was when I started to freak out. Once again, we hear footsteps, then a snap. My hands started to shake, and my knees felt too weak to hold me. I think Rami noticed for he held my hand and said with an attempt to humor “I’m sure it’s just a cat, silly.” I wanted so badly to believe him, but I couldn’t. He turned around, and stood still as if he saw a ghost. From the look on his face, I was too afraid to turn around and see what he saw.

However, my curiosity drove me to. There, two feet away from us, stood a tall and quite chubby man.

He looked a lot like death to my 10 year­old eyes. I heard Rami whisper “Run!” but it felt too distanced even though he was right next to me. My feet wouldn’t move, almost as if they weren’t mine anymore. I felt Rami grab my hand and pull me away as he ran as fast as he could.

Apparently, it wasn’t fast enough for now I was lying on my back with my eyes closed. I opened

around through my whole body until no strength to fight was left in me. One long second passed, and I chose to give in to the man. That was when the man was pulled away from me in a split second.

Now Rami was on top of him trying to beat the man to unconsciousness as he yelled “Run!” in my direction. When my feet wouldn’t move, he yelled “Now!” As I ran away from Rami, I could hear the man’s rough voice yelling at him. He sounded more like an

broke a few bones, and hated me forever. He was alive, but he never walked again, and it was only so that he’d save me. That night he saved me, but also, on that beautiful summer night, I left Rami behind. That night, both of us left a part of Rami behind. I went back that summer to see him, but I don’t think he wanted to see me. So, my visits stopped, I wish I could have stopped my fears with them.

It has been 8 years since I have stepped foot in Ramallah. I can

them only to see the man’s face two inches away from mine.

Looking closely, he was just a boy.

He had an innocent round baby face, but his wide black eyes emitted an evil from them. He even smelled of death. I struggled to free myself from under his body, and when I failed, I looked around me only to find Rami knocked down. Fear moved

animal with his growling at Rami.

Before I turned around a corner, I looked behind me once more; the man was on top of Rami now, but Rami wasn’t giving up his fight. I ran to get help as fast as I could as my numb lips were mumbling “Why couldn’t I have listened to my parents?”. Rami was never the same after that night. He fractured his nose,

still remember the fear I felt that night. Sometimes, I can still smell the man’s odor and feel my heart pounding. All that would not have happened if I had listened to my parents, but instead I went out to play. We had to change after that night, and nothing was in place anymore. Both of us grew up in one night, and if you ask me, I wish we hadn’t.

What has my life turned up to?

What am I doing to myself?

Why do I feel like I’m dying from inside?

Why has everyone given up on me?

Every single night I cry myself to sleep Happy! At least my pillow cares for me Why nobody understands what really my problem is?

And now there’s nobody who can comfort me…

Why am I leading a dual life?

How was I before?

Now every second I wish I were dead.

Scared of nights occupied by never ending dark thoughts Want to fly high, very high But my heart is so heavy and wings turning black May be I have to live with this As there’s no solution except ending up rotten!

Silent Storm Tanmaya (India)

Why Chinese don't like art?

John Xu (Hangzhou, China)

I remember it was in one spring outing I had this year, with the sun high in the sky and trees along the street so green as if they were painted with many layers of green paint, that I found one of the most memorable artwork I had ever seen. It was definitely not Mona Lisa because I hadn’t had the fortune to travel to Paris. Nor was it priceless Terra Cotta Warriors built thousands of years ago. It was, as humble as some people might see it, a personal art gallery.

Sitting in the middle of the town we were visiting, it radiated the elements of a fine art.

Built in finely proportional cubes and was surrounded with pebbles paths and bamboo trees, the gallery looked like a hermit living in his own world.

Inside the cube there was a broad room with paintings on four sides of the wall. There was a woman in her thirty sitting on a long bench with hands tucked in her pockets. Out of curiosity, I

struck a few conversations with her, and learnt that she was a friend of the painter and was helping him to host this gallery.

“You can see that on this side are works done by him when he was younger. " She pointed at one oil painting and said: “This portrait was done when he had to confront pressures in work and life after moving into a new city.

You see the strong contrasts with

the previous works he had done. " The conversation turned out to be so informing to me that I asked her: “Are there many people coming to see the pictures every day?” She shrugged: “Not really. There will be people coming but most of the time the gallery was empty. “Her eyes cast

down when she said so, as if withholding a bitter truth that she did not want to uncover.

It was true, despite the amazing quality of the work; I was the only visitor there. The broad and empty room echoed her voices if sighing in frustration.

What could have possibly caused that? Was it that we are not smart enough to understand the messages of art, or was that art has never been part of our lives.

The answer will be hard to find if we don't turn to history.

But even the history shows a different picture.

Since the beginning of the Chinese Civilization, countless works of art has been made by the hands of ingenious Chinese artists.

The Chinese calligraphy is famous for its aesthetic beauty and elegance. The magnificent palaces reflect Chinese architects' mature understanding of proportion. The simple and yet vivid Chinese

idea of simplicity. Chinese art is one of the oldest art forms in the world, and how can it be that we Chinese citizens living in the realm of art do not appreciate art.

The answers lie not on the surface but deep down in the bottom. It is not hard for one, if exposing those art from the mist of greatness and putting them on the table of reason so everyone can have a clearer view of it, to find some unavoidable traits. All art was made to serve the aristocracy, which was a monarch in every dynasty. The delicate porcelains with images of Francine

So what's the difference between the art for the people and the art for the aristocracy. Let's firstly define art. Art is characterized as a means for expression, communication of emotion, or other values. Art is a unique product of humanity as which it conveys artist's values in the society, his personal philosophy. It prevailed only when the freedom of expression can be guaranteed.

The requisite for the prevalence of art did not exist in ancient China, which locked itself in the southern and eastern Asia.

on them were made by local craftsmen to pay tribute to the emperor. The famous Terra足Cotta Warriors were painstakingly built just for the fanciful dream of Chin Shi Huang Ti to govern the world after the death, a futile and pointless actions that caused thousands of deaths of ordinary people serving as construction workers.

Though China claimed vast lands in the north where Russia locates now as its territory, nobody really attempted to build permanent colonies there as Britain did in the nineteenth century. The barren land was one reason, and the threat from Huns was another.

The Great Wall, another World Wonder in which China is so proud of, was ironically, a strong

evidence of China's self足restraint.

The extending wall across countless mountains was like a seal that isolated China from the outer world. Inside the wall, there was a world totally unaware of what was outside of the wall, It was a lonely world inside the quadrangle of rule and confinement.

The unity, the sense of tacit consensus that every citizen was subject to his or her country in whatever way he did, was heightened in such a world. The cultural revolution which jeopardized China's economic growth in the mid twentieth century is a vivid example of how destructive the idea of unity can do to the sense of individualism, and the sense of art. During that time all valuable historical items like traditional paintings and Porcelain utensils were stripped down or shattered with big hammers used to build houses. The red books of Chairman Mao were recited everywhere people went. I'm not a heretic of Chairman Mao. He did make a lot of contribution in China's independence.

But it would be damaging when all words he said were treated as the sole truth, and everything he did be praised the ultimate rightness. In another world, it would be damaging be see him as a God, a born leader because it stopped the thoughts of people as they started merely to follow, to imitate things the " Leader " did, to praise everything the leader did, no matter good or bad.

The art stops flowing when minds become fixed because, like I've said, Art is a product of expression, a product of individualism. Now an inevitable trend is that that more and more Chinese students are becoming proficient standard exam takers.

This should neither be over criticized as a proof that Chinese students lack imagination nor be over exaggerated that Chinese students are smarter than their counterparts. Standardized tests are, after all, standardized. All results are extracted from individuals and dried and labelled so they are seen in a straight away manner: 100 marks, 85 marks, 92 marks... But what really is the difference between a 100 mark and 95 mark. May be the student who scored 95 marks put his own thought into the answer and didn't do step by step following the already set up rules. In this way, the student who confirms to the rules gained an advantage over the student who put his own thought into the answers.

Alright, fair enough. But does it really harm a nation whose citizens lack individualism. Isn't it a good news for government since its citizens are less likely to organize strikes? Not at all.

A society progresses on the ground of its democratic nature. Everyone can express his ideas, his individualism in order to craft the society into that which maximizes chances of the pursuit of happiness. If everyone was blind of his own need, his distinctive nature that individualism emphasizes, then the society will

fall into the hands of the minority.

It will be a nightmare to witness the democracy giving its way to dictatorship, the freedom giving its way to suppression, the society degrading into the old model it just managed to escape from.

The reason art is so great is that it is a representation of the liberation of minds, a representation of the idea that everyone can change the world around, to embed his own ideas into the world he or she is living.

The idea is the driving force of the world. Forty years after China opened itself to the global market,

individualities are suppressed, and without individuality, the imagination will drain just like fish will die without water.

Fortunately, China is starting to change. The art gallery is the evidence. Its cubical shape is, by no means, a product from the standardization. It is the product of the individual idea of art and of world. As I stood in the middle of the room surrounded with hundreds of fine paintings, I took another look at the woman in her thirty. She was busily talking with another viewer who had just come, making gestures while she

it still is relying heavily on the cheap labours and products.

Though still the second largest economy, China hasn't successfully transitioned its industries from secondary sectors to tertiary sectors. This is, largely due to the fact that the

was talking and pointing at the paintings exuberantly as if the paintings were no longer just paintings. The paintings were hopes.

I will water thee with tears oh! Africa, Thy soul is feeble and frail, Thy cities in Zaphon are in ruins Thy enemy has devoured thy sons And thy fortress is filled with the smell of death.

But now my soul is filled with melancholy And it is buried in the sand of time.

As I recall those glorious days of peace and war When we sat at the fords of Arnorn, Lo, they shout with voices like the roar of the sea; Like the flooding of the River Niger And the thunderous outrush of the Victoria falls.

Yonder the white Nile, beyond the rivers of Ethiopia.

I glimpsed the heart of Egypt I felt the pyramid crumble, And I saw the statue of the great Sphinyx Falling into everlasting oblivion.

The Princess of Zoan shall moan; The Lords of the Niger shall groan; The crocodile and the python, They all shall perish, and the great dynasty of the pharoahs shall end in the midst thereof.

Gloomy Africa Jerry Eke (Nigeria)

Interview Of The Month

Writing is a craft that is developed over time if it is done with love and only if you feel passionate about doing it.

Mr. BrianWrixonis apoet, writerandnot-for-profit publisherfromBurlington,Ontario, Canada.Heis aretiredbusinessexecutivewho,afterservingover40yearsin thefinancial servicesindustry,nowdevoteshis timeto creativeendeavors.Inadditionto writingand publishinghis ownworks,hehasbeeninstrumentalin assistingyoungandemergingauthors fromaroundtheworldgetpublished.

BrianWrixonBooks(Canada)is aregisteredpublisherwith LibraryandArchivesCanada andprintingservicesforit areprovidedbyBlurbInc. Brianis thefounderoftheinternationalwriters'group,"Poets with VoicesStrong"andis a memberoftheAdvisoryPanelof"WritingForPeace".

Hehasbeenmarriedforover40yearsto Dr. CherylWrixon,aneducationalconsultant, andtheyarefortunate to livenearbytheir childrenandgrandchildren.Hegraduatedfrom LaurentianUniversity in Canadawith adegreein ClassicalStudies,andis aformerfaculty member, onlinecurriculumdesignconsultantandprogramcoordinatoratMohawkCollegein Hamilton,Ontario.

Fromthefamily ofReflectionIhavegotthis goldenopportunity to interviewhim andexplore his dynamic personality andpoetic aurawhichin turn wouldinspireouraspiringwriters.

Reflection : Greetings to you sir! Brian Wrixon : Throughout At the outset, on behalf of ‘Reflection Magazine’, I would like to thank you for accepting my request to interview you.

May I know since when you started writing?

Brian Wrixon : I started writing in earnest about 6 years ago, a year after I retired from my job. I retired at age 60 and had done very little personal creative writing prior to that point. Obviously I wrote during my school years but that was out of necessity, not for pleasure.

Reflection : You gave your 40

years in the financial services industry, during that period how did you manage to take out time for your writing?

much of my 40 year career I had done a lot of commercial writing – presentations, speeches, training and education courses, scripts for training films, advertising, magazine articles and the like. Most of my writing was focused on sales, marketing and management concerns within the financial services industry. I spent many years as the director of training and development for my company and took an active role in the leadership of both national and international training associations. None of this writing was personal, however.

Reflection : That’s great!

However, poetry is a medium to

express one’s inner feelings. Is there any specific moment or event that made you write?

Brian Wrixon : Indeed there was a moment in time that led to my taking up the pen and writing for personal reasons. On November 10, 2007, I fell head first down a flight of stairs and destroyed my right shoulder and upper arm. Though my injuries were severe, I was thankful that I was not killed or paralyzed. My recovery was long and uncertain.

I am a naturally happy and fun­ loving individual and yet I found myself falling into depression as I attempted to recover from my accident. I could see it happening to me and I did not know how to deal with the dark clouds that seemed to settle

alternate back and forth between rhyming and non­rhyming verse.

I have experimented with haiku and find it very pleasing. I have also tried other styles but I keep coming back to lyric poetry.

Reflection : Lyric poetry,

interesting! Who is your favorite writer/poet?

Brian Wrixon : My favorite writer is Charles Dickens and my favorite poet is the ancient Greek writer Homer, author of the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Reflection : When did your first

settle upon me. I did not reach out for professional help because, like most men, I would have regarded that as a sign of weakness. For some reason I turned to writing and in particular, to poetry. I started to remember the good times of my life and I began to write about them. The more I wrote, the better I felt. Writing poetry was true therapy writing. That writing turned into a habit and that habit turned into a passion.

Reflection : Very well said.

choose, I support that I would say love, war and nature are favorite themes of mine.

Inspiration A flower seen, the wind heard The song-filled flight of a passing bird The setting of the summer sun Stillness when the day is done The rustling of the autumn leaves Squirrels foraging in the trees The coldness of the winter moon The faint sound of a distant tune People met, a smiling face A loving child's warm embrace Inspiration is all around Life is inspiration found

‘Writing poetry is true therapy’; please tell our readers what inspired you to write and what is your favorite topic to write on?

Brian Wrixon : I do not have a favorite topic to write on. I am inspired by my connections with people, places, events, things, Reflection : Do you have a feelings, emotions. Anything and specific writing style? everything can be an inspiration Brian Wrixon : I am a lyric for me. If you forced me to poet for the most part and I

poem get published?

Brian Wrixon : My first poem was published about 35 years ago in our company’s employee magazine. The editors had asked staff members to submit stories or poetry for a special issue of the magazine and I sent this one: Remembering Rolling meadow down our street Father, son run bare feet Happily discovering Butterflies, baby birds, wings Seeds, bugs, nature's things Quietly amazed Then noise Chainsaw, hammer, bricks, stone A single tree left all alone Progress?

Nature killed, meadow gone Father and son have walked on Only remembering (And then I never picked up the pen to write poetry for 30 more years!)

Reflection : Really nice piece

from your pen..According to you, what are the most important elements of good writing?

Brian Wrixon : To me, writing poetry is having the ability to express one’s feelings and emotions on paper. In order to do this one has to have a connection with the subject matter, one has to feel it deeply.

Writing is an art and too many people approach it as a science, in my opinion. You cannot take a writing course! Writing is something that is caught, not taught.

Reflection : I am really touched

by this­‘Writing is something that is caught, not taught’, did you always have full appreciation and support for your talent in writing?

Brian Wrixon : Most of the support for my writing comes from the Facebook literary groups to which I belong, and in particular, the group that I founded called “Poets with Voices Strong”. Members are most supportive and have contributed freely to the various anthologies that I have published which feature the works of our group members.

Reflection : According to you,

which poem of yours is your masterpiece?

Brian Wrixon : I have yet to write a “masterpiece”, but I consider this WW1 war poem to be one of my better efforts:

The Kaiser's Man I have felt the ground tremble a thousand times

And I have tasted the bloody mud of Flanders I have heard the anguish of the wounded And have stared into the vacant eyes of the dead Through my periscope I watch the Kaiser's man As he stares and watches back at me Each waiting for the other to make a mistake Like a war game of cat and mouse and mouse and cat All is quiet for an hour and then the Kaiser's man moves He reaches across the trench top for a single moment One instant, one bullet, and the deed is done He slumps forth lifeless and I slump in relief The whistle blows and we go over the top I rush to where he lies in death and look with terror The Kaiser's man with vacant eyes is but a boy As is the King's man who stares down at him

Reflection : Wonderful! Would you like to share any of your poems close to your heart?

Brian Wrixon : I share with you the following poems. They are all family related and come from deep within:

What is Love?

What is love?

It is a feeling, a feeling deep inside It is a bright reality, from which you cannot hide What is love?

It is an emotion, an emotion deep inside

It is a paired duality, on which our lives do ride More than a recumbent pairing, our hearts, our souls are sharing You are me and I am you, hearts and souls together and true Link of Life The old man lies in final repose In his death, my link with the past severed A hand on my shoulder I turn, my sons behind me I am the new link In their lives, my chain is mended My Brother's Church O gladly did he stop and pray In the cathedral of the forest In the wind and waves he found his God The sound of birds an angels' chorus My church has bricks and his had trees In our different ways we fell to our knees Who am to question, now he is gone The wisdom of how he chose to worship He found his God in nature's glory And now God has taken him home

Reflection : Lovely poem for

our readers to remember. What is the best thing about being an author?

Brian Wrixon : The best thing about being an author is the joy that one experiences when the words come together on a page. It borders on the divine insofar as the writer gets to play the role of creator. Good ink provides the inspiration for more ink and every once in a while, the true miracle happens when my ink provides the inspiration for somebody else’s ink.

Reflection : Very well said,

through your publishing house you fulfilled dreams of so many poets and writers from different part of the world, When and why you did you decide to be a publisher?

Brian Wrixon : I decided to become a publisher early in 2012. I had written quite a number of poems on the subjects of war and peace and decided to put them into print for the benefit of my children and grandchildren. I had posted several of them on my Facebook group and had received some strong support for my writing. I

then formed the notion of putting together an anthology of poetry on war and peace and invited group members to contribute to the book. The response was overwhelming and this encouraged me to suggest other topics for future anthologies. I was impressed with the quality of the writing, the passion that people displayed and the deep feelings of gratitude that they expressed when many of them saw themselves in print for the first time. The natural extension of the group anthologies was to also offer my services to individual writers who wanted to bring their own collections to print. I have published almost 60 titles to date and do so on a no­cost, not­for­ profit basis.

Reflection : That’s great, What

are your future plans sir ?

Brian Wrixon : I somewhat neglected my own writing doing a flurry of publications but I have now returned to regular writing times for myself. I will continue to bring my own works to print and will also continue publishing group anthologies and individual writers. In addition to publishing my own group’s anthologies for

“Poets with Voices Strong”, I have also been recently approached by other Facebook literary groups inquiring if I would also consider publishing their collective works.

Reflection : What advice would

you give your contemporary writers and poets?

Brian Wrixon : My best advice for young and emerging writers is to first of all make sure you feel deeply about what you are writing about and secondly, just keep on writing. The more we all write, the better we get.

Writing is a craft that is developed over time if it is done with love and only if you feel passionate about doing it.

Reflection : Exactly! So kind of you to share your true words of wisdom in the literary field and making this interview a stimulating one. The budding writers are sure to draw nourishment from the radiance of your spirit and your gracious advice would boost up their enthusiasm to create marvels from their pens.

Thank you!

Interviewed By Iram Fatima 'Ashi' (Managing Editor)

She found her love

Dr. Ruchida Barman (India)

When she was born, All said she was lucky.

She would be the loved one always; She would be the blessed one always.

She was pampered and loved; She was blessed.

As she grew she realized she was lucky, To have a loving family.

She loved her Parents, She loved her Sibling, She loved her friends, She loved herself, And then the beautiful world crashed, She got married.

She got estranged from her Parents, She got estranged from her sibling, She got estranged from her friends , And got estranged from herself.

The only gift that helped her to live Was her little angel with broken wings.

She gave her the reason to live, She gave her the song to sing.

And then God suddenly took pity on her.

He gave her another angel Who understood her silence.

Who understood all her silent sufferings.

She now wanted to live.

Live for herself, live to be happy, Live to be loved, live to be understood.

She knew she found her soul mate; She knew she found her love.

She was thankful to God; She was thankful to her angel.

All the pain of her life vanished; All the trouble vanished.

With a little gesture, With a little word, He gave back her life to her.

Tear Of Love

SCENE 1:

“Sanjay, have you thought this through?” she asked, standing beside his chair, caressing his cheek slowly, sadly.

“Yes Sandhya I have. There is nothing more to think about it.” Sanjay replied morosely. “There is not much of a choice. I know I may regret this, but if I do not take this choice now, I don’t know if I will be sane enough tomorrow to regret any kind of decision” Sandhya nodded understandingly and snuggled his head protectively. She couldn’t control the tears. Not when the love of her life was sobbing silently, hugging her. The sadness in his silent shaking body penetrated her soul and lashed at her savagely causing more hot tears to roll down her cheeks.

“Don’t worry Sanjay. Tomorrow is sure to come and I am here to make it better.” She tried to cheer him up faking a smile.

“When are you going to tell your decision to your dad?” she asked unable to change the topic without discussing the impending decisions.

“No Sandhya. I can’t tell him that this was a decision I made myself. Let him assume that this was an unfortunate twist of fate. I don’t have the heart to break it to him but I will have to start tomorrow. I can’t put this off any longer. I have to tell him tonight I guess. I better start home now.” Sanjay stood up unsteadily and made his way out.

Seeing her lover leaving her home in such a distressed state, Sandhya couldn’t control herself. She hugged him from behind and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Take care dear” she said, barely managing to control her tears. She stood by the door and saw as he kick started his bike and zoomed away into the night.

SCENE 2:

“Amma! I have come” Sanjay announced his arrival. His mom made her way over from her room. The sight of her, instantly made his heart droop. As ever, with her disheveled hair and dirty clothes, she ambled towards him with a grin that seemed out of place in her shrunken face and her emaciated body. She had aged more in the last few years. She looked 70 when she was barely half that age. Her once healthy skin and body was reduced to a shrunken profile with a stoop.

“Ah! Yes you have come back from office? Good! Good!

Come inside I will make some Tiffin for you” she

mumbled to herself and slowly turned back to go to the kitchen.

Euthanasia was the word that came to his mind looking at his mother making her way over to the kitchen talking to herself and laughing at something that she alone knew. Biting back the tears welling inside him, Sanjay made his way into the house. After changing into his evening dress he came out to find his mom lying on the floor crying.

“Why are they doing this to me?” she was shouting hysterically. “I don’t want this. Make them stop.

You are responsible!” she shouted looking over at the other man sitting serenely in front of the idols of various Gods praying and fighting with them for his wife’s sanity.

Sanjay console d his mother speakin g in her ears softly and slowly her sobs reduced and stopped . He made her lie down in her bed and sat beside her till she slowly calmed down enough to doze off.

“Sanjay! You haven’t had your dinner yet!” she woke up with a start. He cajoled her back to calmness promising her that he will have his dinner. He wept as he sat beside her seeing her slip into her medicated sleep innocently, forgetting the world around her.

“Appa, I have to talk to you.” Sanjay informed his dad as he came out of his mother’s room an hour later. His father finished his prayers and made his way silently over to his son.

“Appa, I have been transferred to Pune. I tried avoiding but I could not” Sanjay said looking at the man who had shaped him from his childhood and has made him a man he was now.

“Hmmmm. Halfway through the training? They usually don’t do that, do they?”

No they don’t, unless a person himself begs for it, Sanjay thought to himself.

“Yes appa, they don’t, but I can’t refuse it even if it is unusual. It will put my job in jeopardy” Sanjay lied looking at the wall, unable to look at his father’s eyes.

“Ok son. I unders tand.

When do you have to start?” the man asked in a defeat ed voice.

“Tom

orrow” Sanjay said blankly.

“Oh! Ok son you go ahead. I will take care of everything here. Try to get a transfer back to Chennai as soon as you can. And if you can.” the man said standing up, signifying that he could not take any more of this.

No words of dissuasion. Nothing other than acceptance how much ever fate plays its cruel games on him.

But I cannot let fate decide everything for me.

Sanjay thought to himself fighting back his guilty conscience by justifying his action.

SCENE 3:

of the untraceable familiarity about her.

“TEA! COFFEE! TEA!! COFFEE!!” the sounds of the vendors filled the air in the central station as Sanjay entered the train.

“You seem to have a lot on your mind. Tell me what it is my son.” She asked looking at him with the soft eyes. The tone of worry and genuine concern in her words made every sense of confusion in Sanjay’s mind to vanish.

As the train made its way out of the city the rocking slowly lulled him to sleep. It was well after noon when he woke up groggily looking at the still empty compartment around him. But the compartment was not empty. There was a woman sitting in front of him who looked awfully familiar and yet he was unable to remember who it was.

She was well over her youth and yet there was vitality in her face that made it look like it still had the vivacity of the prime. She was nattily dressed in a chiffon saree. And she was smiling at him benignly. Sanjay had a feeling she had been looking at him for a long time before he woke up.

“Sleep for some more time son. You look tired.”

She said smiling at him. Sanjay mumbled something about having slept enough. She smiled at him knowingly. Sanjay still had a nagging feeling

He hesitantly started telling her about his mother’s illness. How she had been a schizophrenic patient since as far as he could remember. About her hallucinations and how he never had normal childhood days like those of his friends, how he

was always jealous of the people around him leading normal life, how his father had become obsessed with God for curing his mother, how he no longer had a firm belief in God. And before he knew, he was crying literally and was sharing his feelings. The feelings he had himself not been able to confront till now. He explained her of how he had faked his transfer to escape from his home and how he secretly thought about euthanasia when he looked at his mother.

“I do not know if I am running towards a new life

no one in the compartment. Was it all a dream?

He asked himself. He felt his cheek tickle. And he felt a trickle of tear on it. Not his own. But it was there. How could it be if it was a dream? He thought to himself, confused.

or if I am running away from my own life which was destined for me” he said. He had his head on the woman’s lap. He did not know when she came and sat near him or when he had leaned on her lap nor did he care. He was crying out his heart, voicing his feelings openly for the first time. He felt like a small child crying his eyes out in his mother’s lap. She was combing his hair slowly with her fingers and listening to him silently nodding at the words which were now rushing out from his mouth involuntarily.

“I did not even inform my mom about my transfer. I could not bear to look at her turmoil.

But I had to come away; I was scared I may lose my mind. I could not put up with it any longer. I know my mom would never forgive me. I know I have sinned. I have been selfish” he sobbed uncontrollably. His words were garbled in his tears.

He felt a tear fall on his face; he heard the voice, “No mother will ever be angry at her own child for anything my son. Whatever is the state of her health or mind, make peace with yourself. You have to live your life. Your mother lived hers. You had to break away. I know. A mother knows.”

Sanjay woke up with a start suddenly. There was

“unnai naan ariven… ennai andri yaar arivaaaaar” [I KNOW YOU… WHO ELSE WOULD KNOW YOU MORE THAN ME…] his cell phone rang in his pocket. It was his home number.

“Hello Sanjay?” it was his father’s voice.

“Yes pa?”

“Hmmm. Get the next train back to Chennai.

Your mother passed away today noon in her sleep.” His father’s voice held the sadness of many years of memories, good and bad, that he has to live with, alone from now.

Sanjay suddenly knew who the lady in the compartment was. He felt a trickle of tear join the one that was already on his cheek. He felt the grief. But he also knew one thing for certain.

He had made peace with himself.

He had made peace with his mother.

Yamunai Thuraivan ( India)

Finding The Moon Tumbling through the dark in vain.

Lost in the trees with rain.

Trying to find the moon once again.

It's well said no gain without pain.

Moon is hiding and I cannot see.

Or are the clouds holding it from me ?

It isn’t like that or can it be?

Am I in a cage or am I free?

Bear the dark's rain and find it.

If you don’t succeed again you hit.

Mend it again if it did split.

If something goes wrong again you knit.

Find the moon before the sunrise.

Find it fast before it dies.

Find it before dawn if you are wise.

Find it before you lose your eyes.

What if the sun lits the day, it lits the night.

The Sun's mighty but it has to fight.

It helps in the dark by borrowing the light.

The Moon's better what if both are right.

Imad Ul Islam (India)

Own House Iram Fatima 'Ashi'

Lucy was trying to complete her packing with her shivering hands, but something was still left, it was embroidery kit and album, the photos were black and white but the golden memories were to be cherished. Few childhood pictures, marriage ceremony, children and……… the voice broke her thought chain, ‘Mom how much time are you going to take, we are getting late, the bus is yet to come.’ Lucy packed her bag and stood in front of the mirror to see her final look, before leaving the house, as it was her childhood habit.

Today she took more time, if she was looking perfect or not? But her old eyes were not perfect enough to give her accurate view, she cleared her specs and mirror too but the image was still faded. Again Joseph’s voice was heard with irritated tone ‘mom?’ And Lucy came out of the room with her bag and an excuse, ‘ Son, I was searching for the white bed sheet’, it was a lie since she had already packed it. ‘Oh please mother stop searching waste stuff’, Joseph said carelessly. Lucy felt sad to know that her treasure is just a 'waste stuff' for her son, but she silently came out of their house and Joseph picked her bag and moved towards the bus stop.

The bus came and Joseph helped her to get inside the bus and finally they got seated to settle down. The bus started moving and so did Lucy’s mind, it started travelling towards the past. Her journey started when she was born. She was the third child, after two daughters, when a son was expected by her parents and so her birth was unwanted and she realized that when she was brought up. She always got used to such things and unnecessary scoldings. She put her mind in studies but before completion of her school, she came to know that her marriage was fixed and she had to accept that unknown person as same as her elder sisters accepted their father’s decision. But she was not ready to leave her house for a stranger. When she told that to her parents. her father laughed badly and told her that husband’s house are lady's real house, and father’s house is just a temporary one. She was shattered from inside; this realization was disturbing her, she was born and brought up here and this house is not hers? How this could be? She tried to confirm this from her friends and all of them told

the same. She tried to digest this fact of life and decided to say yes to a new start, studies could continue from there too, she thought.

The Indian parents were in a hurry to get rid of their responsibilities and so they arranged Lucy’s marriage at the age of seventeen. The innocent being was transferred to another house. She got married to Mr. Abraham Thomas. Soon all dreams got shattered when that met with expectations of reality. Abraham was a clerk who used to think that less educated wives are good home makers and to clear all responsibilities to her in start would be less troublesome. Lucy was disappointed and feeling trapped in a social web, where there was no way to go. She decided to accept things and tried to be happy in her circumstances. From the title of Mrs. Thomas she adopted the whole routine of her husband. Her day started with the cooking of breakfast, serving Tiffin and saying bye to Mr. Thomas and the rest of the time for taking care of in­laws and the day ended with receiving alcoholic husband and his misbehavior. Sometimes drunken Thomas beats Lucy badly and sent her to her father’s house and after staying a few days, her parents sent her back. She understood that none of the houses is her own, no matter how much effort and life she put into that, she is unable to make it her own. She became a puppet in the hands of circumstances.. After a few years she became mother of a son, Joseph. But nothing good happened in her life. Whenever she feels drowning in depression she makes herself busy in doing embroidery, this is the only thing, which she used to do to make herself happy.

After few years, little Joseph became a young boy, who was good in studies and for further studies he had to shift to metro city. Retired Mr. Thomas decided to sell his house and move to support his son.

Before shifting to new place Mr. Thomas died because of kidney failure and so Lucy and her son moved to a new place. Lucy's responsibilities are now totally dedicated towards her son, she

starts seeing her dreams from son’s eyes. Josef became an engineer from a reputed college and got a good job. She still used to do embroidery, but now she feels happier with her creativity and talent.

Her happiness doubled when young Josef told her that he wanted to marry his colleague, she fixed the date and arranged all that to settle her son. This is beyond her imagination that a single addition of a person will again twist her life. She noticed Joseph and his wife’s changed attitude towards her, she started feeling alone even in their presence. Now she became a burden, occupying lots of space. Once her son Joseph came to her and told Lucy ‘mother you spend your day alone, as both of us go to the office, so………… we are thinking to sift you to………. there are so many of your age………you will be very comfortable there…………, we will come to you……….time to time…..’, Lucy was from a small town and unaware of the new fashion of shifting parents to the old home. So she didn’t understand anything as she always believed that finally her son’s house is her own, it is beyond her dreams that he would plan her to shift another’s. In this phase of life she again accepted that too, without any choice of her. Lucy’s journey was very long and now she was feeling tired and wanted some rest, she was absorbed in her own thoughts and slowly sinking in that.

The bus stopped and Joseph stood with bag saying ‘mom get up, now your new house has come. We have to get down……..mom ………mom.....’. Lucy showed no response, her head dropped in a side. Few people came to help Joseph and declared her dead. She left Joseph in surprise and went on a never ending journey; she may get a house there, her house…..her own house……

Free Weather Regime

I hold a part of summer’s warmth , I hold a part of winter’s cold, I hold a part of autumn’s shedding , I hold a part of spring’s bloom, They all make me a free weather, I follow my routine self, Care a damn! if sought to be hell, Can’t be molded, Can’t be imprisoned , Can’t be tamed, I follow my character self, Care a damn!, if painted black, I am a free weather , Fearless, honest, Unstoppable, unrevealed ….

I hold a part of life culture, I hold a part of music culture, I hold a part of dance culture, They all make me a free weather , Care a damn! If they preach it diplomatic, I am what I am, A free weather regime………

Richa Dixit (India)

It’s Never The End It was almost half past 11 in the morning when I hurried up to the hospital to meet the doctor.

Doctor Shetty was an elderly man, kind comforting. I locked up the door and finally started to his clinic. It’s too hot outside, summer had just arrived but I felt like it’s mid summer. I could never withstand such hot temperature. Well…I reached the traffic signals, it took ten minutes to reach my destination but traffic is the thing I hate the most. Now, that was where I lodged myself. It seemed to be some rally. Seeing that I was certain that I would meet the doctor at the end of the day when he was about to leave the hospital. It was too frustrating

Basilia (India) to wait too long in the scorching sun inhaling all the polluted air released from vehicles, listening to screeching noises and people shouting at the peak of their voices in protest. I exactly did not know what was with the rally so I asked a lady beside me who was eagerly waiting just like me for the traffic to be cleared. She said to me, “It is in support of a girl and protest against the culprits who are the cause for her mother’s death.”

Some rich spoiled brats pushed the lady towards a lorry which was heading with a top speed that way when the lady tried to protect her girl from them. She was spot dead. I nodded my head and turned towards the rally. It was

getting late. I also had to buy flowers for him so that I could give him when I meet him. How could I go empty handed after a gap of four years? Exactly four years ago I could still remember how hard it was, every day of mine, I was bed ridden almost with no hope of recovery. One evening after my school I was feeling weak and gradual increase in my body temperature. So dad took me to a hospital. Dr Vijay was the son of my dad’s friend.

Actually we had to go there because our family doctor Mr Shetty was abroad then on some critical case which he had to take up. Dr Vijay examined me and said ,“These days viral fever is so

common, let me give her an injection”. I quietly took the pain of the needle. We came back. I felt better than before. As the days passed I could presume the changes in my body. I had a fever every day, I could hardly eat anything. My body used to be heavy, my legs were no more strong enough to bear the weight of my body. Once again we were at the hospital. Dr Vijay prescribed to undergo several tests, they turned out to be negative. So he gave me some pills saying, “Take them and you will be all right, nothing to worry”. I returned home with some hope.

Every time we returned from the hospital , Mom used to eagerly wait to know about the

bunch of lavender tulips, paid the guy and left in a hurry. I was already late by half an hour. I got into the street where the doctor’s clinic was. It was a busy narrow road mostly occupied by pedestrians. People were pushing and shoving near the shops. I managed to get out of the crowd.

Aaah! It felt like heaven. I was at the hospital finally!! As I was late I had to wait for the patient’s queue to be finished. My turn was to be the last. After all I was the doctor’s special patient so he might call me inside if he saw me. Thinking this I sat smiling holding the flower bunch. I hope these flowers will remain fresh as the guy at the flower shop sprayed something onto them and assured me they

teacher liked me that was the reason why I had so called friends. People left me when I was in adversity. I was mentally feeling low. I could not take a step forward. My stomach regurgitated if I took something. Dad got to know that Dr Shetty had returned.

He took me there , I was moving forward with great difficulty.

Dr Shetty on seeing us smiled and said “You’ve grown up! I saw you when you were very little didn’t I? “ My dad explained him everything. He studied my case every day. He was a senior most doctor, 60 years old. He said “Your case is challenging. Girl!

But don’t lose hope. I’ll fix it”.

These words of his gave me inner happiness, mental peace. Till then

complication. Slowly I started turning pale, paler. Day by day my condition became miserable.

Bony prominences of my face became more prominent. I was bed ridden!

A loud horn brought me back to consciousness. The road was clear. I headed towards a flower shop. I entered and to my astonishment, it was flower world.

Though it was small shop almost all kinds of flowers were bright blooming in there. Fragrance spread everywhere. I always admired Tulips. So I chose a

would remain fresh for 12 hours.

But the flowers slowly drooped. It might take 40 minutes or an hour.

Dr Shetty brought me back to life.

I was bed ridden for nearly two months. I used to feel isolated and secluded because none of my friends whom I called to be , came to see me or rang me up. I couldn’t see my mom cry in her prayers every night. I used to wake up every night and could do nothing except crying. I understood, people make bonds for the sake of their own benefits.

I was a bright student and every

I thought, “It’s here, where my life ends”. That was what I used to think every second that I would die... I would very soon die”.

Every alternate day I visited the doctor, he used to tell me, “You have to believe that you’ll be all right. Never go into depression, your thoughts will surely reflect.

Your body is not healthy now but make sure you have a healthy mind, it will help you make miracles, it will pull you out of the ocean. Ocean of pain which you are submerged in. You need to be strong, my girl! See…you are

Remember my girl, things are always under our control, it depends on how we take them”. The doctor was a shrewd man. He built up my confidence when I was shattered. His words nourished my soul. It was Dr Shetty who showed a speck of light in bleak. I adore him, I remember him with great reverence for he’s the one who made the miracle. He healed my pain with his comforting, inspiring words and with less medicine.

strong! You can overcome any obstacle if you have made up your mind. Never think of people, they come and go. Think of what you can do, how far you can go. Your deeds are long lasting…be brave, face anything that comes your way.

Just hit the thing much harder than it has hit you. Remember my girl, things are always under our control, it depends on how we take them”. The doctor was a shrewd man. He built up my confidence when I was shattered.

His words nourished my soul. It

was Dr Shetty who showed a speck of light in bleak. I adore him, I remember him with great reverence for he’s the one who made the miracle. He healed my pain with his comforting, inspiring words and with less medicine.

“Stop it!” a lady shrieked at her mischievous child which welcomed me to this world from trans. To my surprise very few patients were left. Doctor noticed me and beckoned me. I moved towards the doctor’s room. He smiled as I greeted him offering

flowers. He said “mystery is solved, isn’t it?” I giggled and said “Yes! Doctor.” He was overwhelmed when I told him “I cleared the entrance and joined medical school “. He taught me whatever your life may turn up to “Never ever give up! Keep fighting because it’s never the end!”

A Salute To My Angel My Angel has a heart so tender,

A helping hand ready to render.

Her insight of wisdom escorts my way,

Clearing out the crap and making me gay.

An epitome of patience and benevolence,

She maintains a high standard of excellence.

She dissipates the clouds of darkness,

Dazzling the world with her brightness.

She is so kind, selfless, and supportive,

A symbol of sacrifice with no comparative.

When failures and frustrations make me cry, She consoles and wipes my heavy eye.

She is so special and friendly,

Whom I can rely and trust fondly.

Her unfathomable love is like the holy sun, A source of stupendous energy truly won.

She plays a vital role in shaping my mind, Such an ideal paragon is rare to find.

I embrace her as soft as a feather,

For my Angel is my lovable Mother.

Vasanthi Papu (India)

Perfectionism Is A Flaw Shahid Khan (India)

“Aim for success, not perfection. Never give up your right to be wrong. By doing so you will lose the ability to learn new things and move forward with your life.”

Once, I had a chance to attend a Self –Awareness and Personality Development program. The program was organized by M.G.L. Institute, a government organization at the behest of local employment exchange. There were about 25 people who attended the program.

There were some reputed academicians from different fields like Civil Service, Education, Human Resource and Social Service. First of all, the program organizer gave a welcome speech and informed us about the aim and the intent of organizing the program.

After his speech concluded, an employment officer from the employment exchange explained us in detail the whole job market scenario and also made us aware about various opportunities in self­employment. He informed us about the various types of self­employment opportunities which were lucrative and respectable as well.

Then a lady Professor from the Institute gave a very inspiring speech on self­awareness. She focused on how to know ourselves and our potential; how to develop and improve our level of confidence. Her speech was very useful and it was so inspiring that it generated a new wave of brimming confidence in me.

Next was a lady Principal of a B.Ed college who also gave real life examples on the importance of having good level of confidence. As always I attentively listened to them and tried to grasp everything. Then she conducted a personality test in which there were about 30 questions with four options each. Apart from that there were three questions which required answers in about 100 words. I answered the questions as per my understanding and knowledge.

After the test was , it was time for the results. Before declaring the results of the test madam said, “There is nothing like pass or fail in this test. There were no right or wrong answers as such. The intention was to know your personality and to identify whether any of you need help or advice pertaining to the development of your personality or attitude.” I was a bit surprised when they singled out the results of two persons in which I was the

one of the two. They considered others to be normal.

These words made my heart sink as it was kind of shock to me because that meant I was different from them and how! Then the Principal took over to give the explanation.

She told us that we (i.e. I and there was the other guy sitting adjacent to me) were perfectionist. When I heard those words I didn’t know whether it was a positive compliment or negative one.

She continued, “Look, it is good that you seek perfection in your work. To strive for perfection is a good thing. But have you ever thought that in order to make your work perfect you sacrifice time?

Sometimes we need to do the work as per strict schedule where time and quantity is more important than quality. You compromise on time for quality and perfection. But you should realize that there should be a proper balance between quantity and quality.”

I began to realize that what she said was absolutely true and relevant in my case but I was not aware about those things until now. So I continued to listen attentively.

“Moreover, you lose not only quantity when you strive for perfection. You keep yourself always on the edge and unhappy with yourself. You remain stressed regarding your work thinking whether the work you did is perfect or not. You think your work should be so much perfect that no one should be able to find fault or error in it. This thinking affects your productivity negatively. Instead of thinking like that you should just do your best and set the high standard of work without thinking about others. You have to accept sooner than later that everything doesn’t have to be perfect. And no one is perfect in this world. Be confident about your work and think that as long as you gave your best it is good enough. As Les Brown says, ‘Perfection does not exist ­ you can always do better and you can always grow’.

Perfectionism can be detrimental to your confidence too. Besides, there are many situations which are beyond our control which may come in our way to do the things perfectly. All of us are prone to make errors. To make mistakes is not a shameful thing or something bad as long as it is not due to our carelessness or foolishness. So in a sense Perfection is a flaw when it affects your confidence, capability and effectiveness negatively.”

Then she took out the answer sheets in which we wrote descriptive answers. She began, “The aim of the first question was to know how you feel about

yourself and how much you know about your personality; the second question aimed to find out what is your attitude towards and thinking about the people around you; the third one was aimed to know what you know and what’s your outlook towards the society as a whole.”

Again she separated the answer sheets of two of us.

Then she proceeded referring to us, “You two are very similar in personality and thinking.

I’ve already discussed your personality traits. So far it was fine that you were perfectionist at your own level. I mean you were seeking perfection within yourself. But from the descriptive answers it seems that you seek perfection from others too especially society as a whole. Though it’s good to know that you appreciate and accept the limitations of the people around you, you want the country or a society to be perfect. It is quite possible that such thinking could be the result of your overall general awareness level and your education. You seem to be quite vocal or concerned about social issues, if I’m not mistaken.”

She just paused for a while to drink water, then after a moment she resumed, “Again there’s nothing wrong in thinking like that.

In fact, I must congratulate you for being so concerned about the society. Now the problem is that society

consists of a huge population with people having varied mindset, understanding, background, culture etc.

You must have experienced that sometimes it becomes too difficult to bring consensus on certain topics within a small group of 10 people.

Similar is the case with the countrymen. It is very difficult for a single person to bring remarkable change alone. A different group of people has different thinking, different views, different feelings and it brings strong contradictory responses.

Let’s assume that we are successful in bringing consensus, but the most important thing is that there are numerous external factors (natural or otherwise) which sometimes are beyond one’s control. You must realize and accept that.

The world keeps moving and you should move forward with it. Keep doing whatever you can for the benefit of society. However small your contribution may be, just be satisfied with whatever you did.

Sometimes in cricket we see that the batsmen who keep gathering single runs are able to make a perfect score. And the one who aims for huge score from the very first ball perishes early without contributing much. Social change can be brought in a similar fashion. We can’t expect it over­night.

As Leo

Tolstoy says, ‘Moral perfection is beyond reach but this is the law of human life. ’ Utopia

exists only in an imagination.

Last but not the least; remember a Chinese proverb, ‘Were

I to await perfection, my book would never

be finished’. ”

Madam ended on a lighter note, “Whatever I just said is for these two guys and not for others. Otherwise you may start to take things lightly and it may happen one day that we have to conduct a lecture for you on how to be perfect.” And all broke into a light round of laughter.

Since that day I kept each and every word in mind and tried to change my perfectionist attitude. I’ve been able to bring about change in myself and am still trying my best. There is still a strong element of perfectionism in me, but I never let it affect my confidence and capability in a negative manner. I also keep one thing in mind that as a human being I’ve the right to make mistakes unless it’s deliberate.

Karen Nave

“Sometimes we strive so hard for perfection that we forget that imperfection is happiness”

–

My Freedom Basilia (India)

Walls of words built, winds howl Twiners of grief creep onto my soul.

When my efforts to break wall Remain useless, many hands pull me, I fall.

Wounded, which nothing else can heal Except freedom, to live, to speak, I appeal.

Please! Take me not for a lifeless thing I want to be free but not with a broken wing I’m oppressed, I’m abused yet I’m quiet.

I’m fed up, I’m tired, and I can’t fight.

Let me do but you don’t let me, You take me for a curse, leave me free.

I’m little, I’m dependent, and I’m lame You think, you can put on all the blame?

For I’m a GIRL, pointing out at me Cursing me, that I can never be free...

Walls of words built, winds howl Twiners of grief creep onto my soul.

You can't fire Love, though you have weapons and ammunition, But you don't know where love lives and exists, And how Love twists with heart and soul!

Though love is a puzzle and misty game, I have been moving with love since my springtime.

Why I Fire Love

I know how love burns and melts with body and soul.

I had no gun but I made a song of hope for Love If I have a gun it will not be fun.

I will fire love without any compromise, Because I love you, Because you could not try to love me.

Never , ever.

Shaleheen (Dhaka, Bangladesh)

War

I can hear the cries of the innocent, None stop the bleeding of a soldier, Broken and damaged bodies, Difficult to see, hard to accept.

Injured, hurt, wounded innocent, Screaming widows and orphans, Loss of lives, pain of humanity, War! you have the ugliest face.

Anam Arfeen (10 years old, India)

Women Art Section R. K. Verma

Recently two different incidents where a girl and a girl child become the victims of male atrocities, caught the attention of the whole world. And India again became the most dangerous place for women. When all the country was agitating against the cruelty inflicted on the innocent rape victims, there were some so called intellects debating on this issue on the various news channels.

In such a debate one woman activist expressed her views that the rapist are mentally sick men they need proper treatment not the capital punishment. Every person has a right to express her/his opinion but they should use proper comparison. I don't want to criticize anyone, but she clearly insulted mentally challenged people and women folks of this country.

Women and girl child safety is a very sensitive issue at the moment, we ought to ponder over the subject and force the government to take this issue seriously and make this country a safe place for women and girl children.

Women used to have a very high place in this country but circumstances changed everything and she has been degraded by male dominated society with the passing time.

Another shocking incidence which I came across recently, revealed that how insensitive our society has become towards the girl children. A doctor friend of mine told me casually that all the hoardings on the doctors clinics indicating that, 'they don't do gender test,' are fake. Most of the clinics which have ultrasound facility do gender test after making sure that the people are genuine and have money.

He further told the way they used to abort a girl child, which is gruesome and inhuman. This society is falling with the passing of the time people are afraid of having a girl child to see the present condition of girl and women.

Mr. Verma did several series on women of India, which he has often done to show the various shades of their characters.

Last time we saw his paintings which he made for Damini Issue. His paintings for the ' Damini issue'

were thought provoking and gained the admiration of all readers. Here we find his paintings with a better outlook.'

I see the basic essence of this series is the beauty, the beauty of women. All the paintings have a soft and tender feeling in them, which I think is the basic nature of a woman.

At the end I just want to say,' If there were no women, there would be no meaning for the words beauty, love and compassion'

Vikrant

Why do I write?

I never knew I had a latent writing bug in me. I despised books as a child. When I received my first Enid Blyton book you should have witnessed my expression for the thickness of the book made me almost faint.

Now even though I would love a book for a birthday gift no one gifts me one because they assume I have read them all!!

Really? Life is just too short and books are too many.

I did have my poem published at the age of 14 in a UAE youth magazine called Young Times. To see my name and poem in print was an unfathomable feeling as it was unprecedented. Then I began writing more and circulating them among my classmates. That time I was mesmerised by Nancy Drew and Goosebumps. Thanks to my

school library. In school I rarely participated in any cultural events and that left me depressed. Most of my friends excelled in almost every field!! Be it academics or sports or dance or music. I knew I had to find my thing and soon. In the 12th grade just before passing out I decided to give the inter­ school short story competition a shot. And I was in for a surprise!!

I won two times in a row!! Those trophies for me were like weapons in defence of my writing. That’s when I realised it was the best feeling when you’re awarded something you’re best at than at everything. I had finally found my thing but I was still not known as a writer. (I guess) After my board exams, I surfed online for writing competitions and came across Flow for all

writing competition 2009. I sent in my poem ‘Every Cloud has a silver lining’. It won eventually.

In college, I was surprised by the sheer number of competitions I was exposed to. I won fresher’s contest in poetry, then a string of awards followed. An English lecturer having read my fresher’s contest entry complimented me on my ‘extraordinary talent’. I didn’t know how to react to it. It was a whole new world I had stepped into. That’s when I discovered myself. I mainly wrote rhyming poetry. I signed up for a creative writing course in college and that was one of the best decisions I took because my mentor shaped my writing skills.

Being from a commerce background I always felt inferior in comparison to my arts

competitors. Even though I had no reason to feel so. I felt inferior mainly because I was deprived of different genres of poetry, classic novels, literature basically. But out of experience I can say that even if you don’t have a background in literature you can make it. Make it big.

I eventually began writing free verse poetry. But in college I thought I never could. Never say never. And people only knew me as a poet. Now I’m glad they say that they prefer my stories to my poems. A writer must be versatile and should have the ability to gracefully step into someone else’s shoes. That doesn’t mean plagiarism. There is nothing graceful about it. A lecturer from our college English department who taught us Additional English complimented me once in class front of all my class mates that I wrote on ‘complex things’. I never felt prouder. But that didn’t make me fly too high. I was still sceptical of my talent. I’m sure all writers are. At some point or another.

That’s what being a writer all is about. Looking beyond the barriers.

Just before passing out of college I met Assamese author Jahnavi Barua at The Lekhana Literary Weekend and when she signed my copy of her novel ‘Rebirth’ I realised that’s what it felt like to be a published writer.

Let me tell you about the rocky side of my journey. Remember to have faith in yourself. Every writer at some point is desperate to get published. I was too. And I almost fell into wrong hands in the publishing industry but my Mom saved me. That’s why it is very necessary to keep your parents posted about who you interact with especially when you’re just starting out. You should believe in yourself and don’t hurry into publishing.

My Mom has been my constant critic. That helped me when I used to pen stories and imagine they were my masterpieces. You will eventually find your way. You think I am where I am because of luck? Yes I would say luck helps but also support from my friends and family and constant practice.

Which would make you feel better? If you inherited your talent or you discovered it in you? Of

course I do feel lost when I want to discuss about writers and books. But I have my friends for that. I have nothing against writers having a literary lineage. I’m only stating my opinion. I am proud that my family is proud of me today and I’m proud of them too for having supported me­ a writer.

And publishers will look for you not vice­versa. Rejection doesn’t stall me it only drives me to work harder. With every creation (prose/poem) I feel rejuvenated.

Do not underestimate yourself.

Keep writing. Keep Submitting.

You will not get published if you don’t submit. Submit to recognised magazines/publishers.

Do not be in a hurry to get published but in the meantime keep writing. And the more you write the more you get better.

I have composed a poem with the title 'The Hymn of Mercy'. It is a long poem.I composed it just on the night when buddha’s statue was destroyed in Afghanistan. My office colleague Shri Joydeep Mukhuty at Asansol first read it and commented that after Geetanjali he was reading my poem. This inspired me and I kept it safe. I would like to put the whole poem in a piecemeal so that readers may not feel bored. I have also composed several poems in Hindi, Bhojpuri,

Bengali and English.

acute pressure of my office work, I spare some time for poems. . I am very much grateful to my all friends who have been sparing their valuable time to read and comment on my poems. Really too much obliged. God may bless them and their family. . I must like to convey my heartiest thanks to all my readers and well wishers for reading and commenting on my poems.

I like to urge all youngsters and new comers to continue writing. It will be a great achievement for the

Regarding my biography I would like to edit more about myself. I am already getting good appreciation, your love and affection which inspire me to create more and more poems. I have been composing poems since childhood and was thrown to dustbin saying it is of no use to mankind. But now I can realize that only poetry can do everything. it can change life, it can change the society. Despite

I hope my story inspires you.

Don’t give up. Writers (living or dead) are icons of perseverance.

You are one too.

I would like to close my story by quoting my Dad. ‘I’m proud to be the father of a poet.

Michelle D'costa (Bahrain)

Really too much obliged. God may bless them and their family. .

I must like to convey my heartiest thanks to all my readers and well wishers for reading and commenting on my poems.

I like to urge all youngsters and new comers to continue writing. It will be a great achievement for the entire human society. They must not think what they will get in return. It is my dream to publish a poetry magazine 'POETRY WORLD'.

Regarding my biography I would I have been composing poems like to edit more about myself. I since my childhood but none am already getting good inspired me rather I was told, your appreciation, your love and poetry cannot give u bread, it may affection which inspire me to be true but only poetry can lead create more and more poems. I have been composing poems since life and make it perfect otherwise life will be the worst. So carry on childhood and was thrown to and I know creating poetry is dustbin saying it is of no use to much more difficult than creating mankind. But now I can realize that only poetry can do everything. prose because in poetry u have to express your full thoughts within a it can change life, it can change the society. Despite acute pressure few lines which is not so in prose.

I would never advise that you of my office work, I spare some time for poems. . I am very much keep your other job and study grateful to my all friends who have aside and do poetry but whenever been sparing their valuable time to u get spare time, devote it for read and comment on my poems. creation of poetry. was destroyed in Afghanistan. My office colleague Shri Joydeep Mukhuty at Asansol first read it and commented that after Geetanjali he was reading my poem. This inspired me and I kept it safe. I would like to put the whole poem in a piecemeal so that readers may not feel bored. I have also composed several poems in Hindi, Bhojpuri, Bengali and English.

I have composed a poem with the title 'The Hymn of Mercy'. It is a long poem.I composed it just on the night when buddha’s statue

Why I write?

I got a task, A very tough task, Why do I write?

I have been writing since my childhood, Completed all tasks whatever got Ages have gone, But task is not completing, ... How can I stop Now I can understand She gave me a solution too, With her great task, Thanks to Ashi with my heartiest pleasure.

Ramesh Rai (India)

Writing is a part of an art which describes pictures in words. It is also a part of literature but in my opinion it is to share feelings and messages as I do with my stories. I received a prize in an essay competition on the ‘World Environment day­2004’ from the Prime Minister. My writing was ‘inherited’ from my mother.

I used to dislike books when I was a kid back then. I used to collect them but could not read them until the age of nine because a book did change my life. You people can guess who the charming wizard is. She is none other than J.K. Rowling whose ‘Harry Potter’ inspired me to write. Other than that; I read books like Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, Wuthering Heights, Scarlet Letter, David Copperfield and many more.

I used to write fantasy stories that were not so coherent and much stereotype until I learnt about social reality and odds about our post­modern era. I write for those who also inspired me in real life.

They were my teachers, my family and my friends. No one used to understand me because I could not talk properly and also an introvert at a time until the age of sixteen plus even the seniors used to mock at me except family and friends. As I shared my feelings indirectly towards people, they understood me within my stories.

I wrote stories when I was sad and depressed in some situations. I remember, when I visited USA, probably 10 years ago, being mocked by some people because

I could not talk properly. As I proved them wrong, they started to understand me. I was also a hot­tempered person because I did not understand the reality as mentioned in the essay. I watched movies like 3 Idiots, Taare Zameen Par and serials like Tarak Mehta Ka Ooltah Chashma to understand reality plus English movies like Batman Trilogy, Evil Dead and some other movies to understand the message and Bangla movies like Runway, Monpura and Dipu Number Two to picture the reality.

My first novel, ‘Sergio Maria’ had a moderate response. I used to write short stories in English and now in Bangla. I realized what the books need is their social messages and I started to write with ‘A Journalist’s Fun House’ which got mixed to negative reviews. I came back with the ‘Vampire Soldier duology’ which had good response at the first volume but mixed response at the second. I researched about the society all along and some tragedies of our country in Bangladesh plus the history itself made me fight against the odds which you would see it in ‘The Rebel Trilogy’ which has separate

names in each three books of it such as ‘School Protection Army­ The Rebellion Begins’, ‘Unsatisfied Soul­The Rebellion Continues’ and ‘Riots­The Rebellion Ends’.

I will be writing a new trilogy ‘The Crows’ and the theme is about loss of innocence, greed in politics and pride that underestimates other people. It will also have a prequel focusing on the villain origin. I am also writing the ‘Savar Tragedy’ in a storytelling manner but not autobiographic because there are loads of people who have their lives to tell.

Overall, I write to help people understand the message what I really want to say. I want to encourage people to fight against the odds plus also I want to help other people to get a solution to their problems. Therefore, I write to create originality and know the uncommon things in life.

My message is: “Write but never get derailed by it. Understand each other’s feelings and help each other.

Learn to lead life so that you can move on”.

Fahmid Hassan Prohor ( Dhaka, Bangladesh)

Your Reflection

Incredible work is done with colors by Mr Om Dutt and Mr. R K Verma .Their thoughts on the canvas

make us feel rejuvenated and we just lost ourselves in their canvas beauty. Great pieces of artwork. Good luck & keep it up !

Vikas (India)

These two Sir Om Dutt ji and his son R K Verma are stunning with the brush. Nothing can use big words in honors of them, because all the words in the whole world are small in respect of those. I salute them.

Siraj D Khan (India)

Thank you team reflection, for providing a platform to the budding writers. You have made dreams of many

come true. March issue is just amazing, It reflects how hard working people are, in team reflection. Thumbs up! It feels great to be associated with "reflection". Richa

Dixit (India)

Congratulations to one and all who got their works published here and I would like to thank Team

Reflection for their relentless support and encouragement to all the budding writers, poets and creative minds. The Magazine has versatile content with great artistic paintings and writings. This magazine is

absolutely unique!! and a true blessing to every creative mind aspiring to portray their talents. Long way to go..Reflection!! thumbs up! Basilia

Leva (India)

I agree with Basilia Leva that Reflection is a great platform for budding artists and it provides relentless support and encouragement to them. Absolutely true indeed.

Great work, Best of luck to the entire team of Reflection. Keep up the great work!!

Shahid Khan (India)

Awesome magazine ! The arts and layouts and articles are great. I'm subscribed.

Heraldine

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.

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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.

Regular Columns Of The Magazine Why I Write

Use this column to tell your readers and fellow poets/writers, what inspired you to write.

Under Fifteen Zone

This section is particularly for the people under the age of fifteen years. They can send send stories, poems, novel summaries etc.

Art Section

This section is for the artists and photographers. They can send their paintings and pictures for this section.

Your Reflection

Reflection is your own magazine, please express your views regarding the contents of the magazine and pages layouts etc. All the constructive comments by you shall be published in the next issue of the magazine.

Please use magazine email, reflection1 8@ymail.com to submit anything for the above given columns.

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Canvas is as important as pen, because it reflects the creation of an artist in his

absence....designing and color combination of each page is so compatible to the themes that while reading this magazine sometimes the character of the story became alive in readers mind ...as an author I am proud to be a part of your committed efforts...Well done reflection team...keep it up!

Dr. Priyanka Mathur (India)