Reflection sept oct nov 2015 by Reflection W&R Mag

Editorial.................................................................................................................1 Raj Verma Magical World Of Cartoons & Cartoonists:...........................................................2 Ritu Suri Two Poems............................................................................................................13 Aarati Salian The One, Maybe...................................................................................................15 Jen Walls & Dr Ram Sharma Unpublished Poetry...............................................................................................19 Angie Blake It's Cold Here.......................................................................................................23 Arielyn L. Fernandez The Butterfly Wings............................................................................................28 Jonali Karmakar Quotes On Writing...............................................................................................31 Aparna Mukherjee Says The Alarm Clock..........................................................................................32 Priyanka Bansal It's Selfie Time....................................................................................................33 Suicide Decision Went Wrong............................................................................35 Sunil Sharma Few Poems..........................................................................................................37 Iram Fatima 'Ashi' Interview OfAsror Allayarov...............................................................................40 Rahul Raja The Mocking Apple.............................................................................................46

Yulduz Urmanova My Love Is For You.............................................................................................56 John Xu The Bridge..........................................................................................................57 Akash Sagar Chauhan The City Of Rumors............................................................................................64 Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra The Penultimate Show.........................................................................................65 Fahmid Hasan Review Of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest..................................................68 Avinash Pudota Ill Love...............................................................................................................72 Under 15 Zone....................................................................................................73 Upender Reddy Kankula Why Do I Write?................................................................................................83 Neelam Few Cartoons......................................................................................................87 Praveen Gola Under The Influence Of Liquor...........................................................................95 Guidelines...........................................................................................................96 Advisory Board Chairman Brian Wrixon (USA)

Research Director Ruchi Chopra (NRI, USA)

Members Angie Blake (USA) Elizabeth E Castillo (Philippines) Marilyn R. Ca単ete (Philippines) Sharique Jamal (India) Charles Darnell (USA)

Associate Editors Dr. Ruchida Barman (India) Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee (India) Dr. Indira Babbellapati (India) Dr. Ram Sharma (India) Jonali Karmakar (India) Dr. Sahab Uddin (India) Arnab Neogi (India)

Editorial Board

Art Section

Editor In Chief Iram Fatima 'Ashi' (NRI, Saudi Arabia)

Art Director Raj Verma (India)

Editor Vasanthi Papu (India)

Associate Art Directors Piyush Kumar (India) Neelam (India)

Research Editor & Magazine Coordinator Dr. Priyanka Mathur (India)

III

Dear Readers, Greetings! Firstly I would like to apologize with our readers for bringing this September issue so late because offew unavoidable reasons. This issue is on ‘comics & comedy’; we want to be experimental to see how our regular and new authors/artists depict serious things in a humorously exaggerated and satirical way with ease. We are overwhelmed to see the response ofchildren to grown up writers and artists and love to share with you and I am sure you will appreciate and encourage them by giving your opinions. This issue has interesting short stories, funny yet indulging poetry, colorful fascinating art section, contribution ofchildren under fifteen zone, an inspiring interview ofa poet, author & publisher. A humble thank you to each intellectual Advisory member, Editor Ms. Vasanthi Papu, associate Editors, Layout maker Mr. Vikrant and his team, all artists and art in charge Mr. R. K. Verma for fascinating pages and readers for their co-operation and making this creative endeavor possible. I am sure that our global literary lovers would enjoy every bite ofthis creative issue. Keep smiling and enjoy reading… Love and blessing, Iram Fatima ‘Ashi’ (Editor in Chief) Saudi Arabia (NRI)

Not a single child, either born in 70s-80s or even in the present era, is unaware of the word, ‘Comics & Comedy.’ Some of us are still living in that magical world of comics. It is very hard to scribe this vast subject in a few words, my innocent consciousness often takes me across the great waters and into the magical world of comics which was part of my childhood. Being the Art Director of the magazine I was insisted to write something on the subject of Comics & Comedy by Kumar Vikrant, one of the founding members of the magazine. Kumar is not only a good writer but also a thinker. I’m not a writer. So mistakes are inevitable. It was decided that whatever little knowledge I have about this subject, I’ll scribe in Hindi and Kumar will translate it into English. Whenever we think about comics & comedy, Disney’s cartoon characters Micky Mouse and Donald Duck flash in mind. I also started reading the comic books of these two cartoon characters during my early

childhood. During those days there were no TVs, only granny’s stories and a few books which were occasionally brought by my father. As far as the question of comic history, I think its history is as old as the history of art, no matter it came into its present form later. During the stone age man used to live in caves and they used to scribe their hunting adventure on the cave’s walls by making line art which was for the future generation to learn a little about their history. Cartoon is a form of 2D illustrated visual art, its definition went on changing during different times. Now a days it is defined as non realistic, semi realistic, painting intended for satire, caricature or humor. Cartoons’ present concept was born during the middle ages. It was first described as prepatory drawing for a piece of art such as a painting fresco, tapestry or stained glass window. During 19th century this humor illustration was used in magazines and newspapers. This art was developed in the form of comics stripes and animated films during 20th century. Great artists of 16th century,

Leonardo Da Vinci and Raphel also made cartoons. As far as I know cartoons made their presence in the Punch magazine. The cartoons were used in Punch magazineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 1843 edition. Fortunately I also have Punch magazineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s four issue which belong to that era which were given to me by my father as a present. These are the oldest magazines which I have in my

collection which were given by a father to his son as a present. The preparatory cartoons/ sketches were mainly made by John Leech in Punch magazine. News Papers Syndicate formed a panel of cartoon artists, where artists Mel Calman, Bill Holman, Gary Larson, George Lichty, Fred Nehar and other artists gave their contribution. Charles Addams, Charles 4

Barsotti, Chon Day also joined this panel later. Bill Horst, Jerry Marcus and Virgil Partek developed this form of art into comics stripes. Comic Stripe was known as Cartoon Comic Stripe in UK, which was being published in London based news papers as short series. Scott Adams, Steve Bell, Charles Schulz, E. C. Segar, Mort Walker, Bill Watterson formed Humors Comics Stripes and

gradually comics and cartoons evolved into a giant industry. First comic hero was Superman and later Phantom, who is called the ghost who walks and Vetal in Hindi, became a popular comic hero. Later Batman, Mandrake and Spiderman also joined them and there were innumerable comic heroes were dominating comic industry. These 5

great heroes ruled over our heart during our childhood and some of them are still around us to entertain us. We’ll talk about these super heroes some other day.

play with his books and other stationery. First of all he became annoyed at the mouse and beat it back but gradually he became habitual of it and started placing eatables on a corner of his table where the mouse So, now let’s go back to our sat and nibbled. He used to notice all childhood, in the world of Donald the activities of the mouse carefully Duck and Mickey Mouse. Walt Disney and went on writing whatever he was created Mickey Mouse with a lot of writing. He used to call the mouse emotions. Walt Disney was a creative Mickey, whenever he called it by the man with a lot of talent but whenever name Mickey, it used to come close to he sat on his table to write something Walt. Once the mouse got sick and it a mouse used to come on his table and didn’t eat anything which was placed

placed by Walt for it. It often came on the table but used to remain static, finally the mouse died, Walt couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do anything for it. Walt was sad on the sudden demise of the mouse, this tiny friend ofWalt had gone forever but Walt decided not to let it die. In memory of that mouse Walt created his character Mickey Mouse and wrote a comic stripe. That is how the little friend ofWalt became immortal forever. Later Walt created Donald

Duck, Goofy, Little Mermaid and so many cartoon characters, in fact he created the whole Disney world and this wonderful world made him immortal too. All these characters of Disney left a deep mark in our hearts and they have been entertaining us for fifty years. Gradually cartoon became so popular that the news papers and magazine started giving them space 7

on the their front pages and side panels all over the world. Soon these cartoons were expressing the thoughts of ordinary people. Newspapers started giving space to the political cartoons, sometimes these single framed cartoons became so dangerous that the governments all over the world started banning those annoying cartoons. London based Punch was perhaps the leading magazine in the world of comic. It’s political and contemporary society’s cartoons were amazing. Punch’s popular cartoon

artists were, Sir John Daniel, Linley Sambern, Sir Bernard Patriz, Revenhil Sprad, Fitz Patric. World famous cartoonists, David Lo, Vicky, Ben Thompson, Frank Reynolds, Sir Francis Gold, Sydney Stubsh, French cartoonist Trej, American cartoonist Daniel Roberts, Fitz Patric motivated the generation of Indian Renaissance period. Gradually through the news papers, Englishman, Statesman, Indian Daily News and Times Of India cartoons won their place in India also.

Comic art is a phenomena of contemporary art. But in India this art goes back to ancient ages where the artist used to make sketches to amuse people.

was Gagnendr Nath Thakur who made some impressive cartoons in 1921. He made cartoons on the adverse condition of those days, which were published in several newspapers of that time. Another contemporary Indian sculptural art is a fine cartoonist of that time Shanker had example of comical art in ancient gained popularity all over the world. India, absurd sculptures of fat people, Shankar was basically from dwarfs and monkeys were made to Travenkaur but his cartoons used to be amuse people. There is a stone published in Bombay Chronicles. inscription of an animal hospital in a Later he joined Hindustan Times and Mathura museum. One can see two worked there for many years. His monkey doctors who are seating on a cartoons were so intensive that some throne and two monkey doctors of his political cartoons were banned operating the eye of an owl. by the government. The father of Indian comics art

Other cartoonist in this line were Ahemad, Bal Thakere (who joined politics later), R. K. Laxman, Kutti, Samual (Samu), Anwar, Veereshwar, Shiksharthi, Mario Miranda, Kadam, Pran, Negi, Rangnath, Sudhir Dhar, Kaak, Puri and others who joined them. Other regional cartoonists were, Basu, Taanu, Gopulu, Ramkumar, Omen Piscal, Thackery, Prakash, Abid Surti. The contribution of these cartoonists was also remarkable in this field. In the modern era, Shekhar Gureara and Alok Bhargav are making commendable contributions.

In the field of comics and cartoons, the names of R. K. Laxman and Mario Miranda are worth praising. Political cartoons made by R. K. Laxman had always been a part of prestigious news paper Times Of India. His cartoons were an example of fine art mixed with sensitivity to the contemporary political scenario and people were often mesmerized by his art work. On the other hand Mario Mirandaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cartoons were clearly influenced by western art. He created popular characters like:- Bheeku, Miss Nimbu Pani, Fosica and others who were recognized in households as they

were published in many magazines and newspapers. R. K. Laxman and Mario Miranda dominated the cartoon and comics world for more than sixty years. Both these artist became necessary for so many magazines and news papers. Times Of India, Illustrated Weekly, Dharmyug and magazines of Taj Group used to publish their cartoons fondly. Laxman

made cartoons for TV serial, Malgoody Days, which was based on R. K. Narayanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s novels of same name. Those cartoons have become an integral part of the TV series. Mario Miranda made cartoons on the culture of Goa, Bombay and France. These cartoons became so popular that they are now a part of world heritage.

Other popular cartoonists are, Abid Surti and Pran. Abid created most popular Dhabbu Ji and Pran’s creation Chacha Chaudhry is world famous and is placed in world’s famous cartoons museum. All these cartoonists made us laugh. After the death of Laxman and Mario Miranda, cartoons have vanished from the news papers and magazines. Laxman’s common man is no more now and similar has been the fate of the cartoons of Miranda which were an integral part of so many

magazines and news papers. News papers have always been read and shall be read in the future as well but the smiles created by Laxman and Miranda’s cartoons is no more. The question is, is there someone who will fill the void created? Shall the cartoons ever get their previous place in the newspapers and magazines? There are no answers right now but there is still a hope that comics and cartoons shall regain their previous position in newspapers, magazines and of course in our hearts.

A word with the deepest meaning. A person with an affectionate feeling A simple touch ofyours is a divine healing A courteous smile on your face is so pleasing You are determined and always remain strong Showing us the path and walking along In dark phases, you show us the light Taking us out from the sleepless night While walking whenever we stumble You motivate us to cross the hurdle Whenever we are lost and cannot find our ways. You come as the sun and spread your rays. You deserve all happiness, it is your day. Live long, Stay blessed, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all we have to say.

While walking on a road… I met thousand people… Some were black… some were white Some were tall while some were worried about their height… Everyone moving in different directions, Some towards east some towards west… Some were deciding. . . Where to head, Some were confident… Some were bedazzled… Looking for someone who could help, Some were hit … and could not move. . . They were disheartened that they couldn't prove, Some had to slow down their pace … They were worried as they were losing the race, Some were fast… fast to run. . . . They were pretty sure ofthe direction, Some while walking met with mishap. . . They never knew that life would take this shape, I saw everything and learned from everyone That you have to move one, and choose a direction, Everyone is eager to move . . . Everyone is different … The human life… its a collection… Collection ofdifferent people… different situations. . A true human is one… who learns from every situation

6:30 a.m

The alarm rings as if it were on fire. Neel throws the bedcover off his face to slowly open his eyes. He was hoping to be greeted by a slim, tall woman above his head , brushing her damp hair and sprinkling the water off his face. After which, he would grab her into the bed and coochie-coo like sweet birds. Alas! he was greeted by the grey walls and the leakage of water on the ceiling from last night's rain. Yes, every morning when Neel woke up, this was what he dreamed of. Is dreaming of a perfect love story weird? No, not at all. So as he shut the

alarm off, he was already making a mental list of all the things he would do ( like going out for dinner , watching a movie together, holding hands and walking in the garden) if he managed to meet a girl today. 6:45 a.m

As he scrubbed himself in the shower, he overheard his neighbor Shimi sing a popular Hindi song in her bathroom. Strangely, it was common in most small buildings for neighbors to hear each other's voices while they were in the bathroom. The walls were that thin. He wondered, 15

how beautiful it would be if Shimi could be his live-in girlfriend and sing that song for him every day , as she prepared him his favorite breakfast Eggs and Cheese Toast. Sadly for him, neither was Shimi aware he had such thoughts about her and nor was his breakfast going to be so grand. He disinterestedly scrubbed Sunsilk shampoo into his hair thinking about the dry toast and black coffee that he would be having for breakfast. 7:15 a.m

He was searching for his pair of socks among the barrage of clothes strewn on his old wooden chair when he heard his mobile beep. He picked up his mobile and saw 15 messages on Whatsapp. He threw the mobile back on the bed and got back searching his socks. 3 minutes later, as soon as he got done with putting on his socks and shoes, he got back to his mobile to check the messages. Of the 15 messages, 5 were from his boss, Natasha. Natasha was a tough nut and a very strict boss. She had a reputation of insulting her subordinates for the slightest of mistakes. The employees working under her were petrified of

her, including Neel. Her message read as,' Neel, I need the reports of Rainbow Industries on my table/ the first thing as I arrive to work/ And please remember to check on Sonny/ about the packages to be dispatched to Japan/ Also, don't forget to get me my coffee before I arrive.' No hi or Good Morning, just straight out orders. However, Neel found it very complimenting, the way Natasha dominated him. She reminded him of his mother, who dominated over his father and him for the better part of his life. Now she has gotten old and does not possess the strength to do so anymore. Neel always wondered how lovely his life would be if Natasha could be his wife. Then, like any obedient husband, Neel would listen to all of her orders and be the perfect husband any girl could dream of. He almost imagined Natasha going to one of her kitty parties and telling tales of how dutiful and disciplined her husband Neel is. Unfortunately, that was far from happening. And so, he got up from the bed, picked up his office backpack and got walking towards the door to face another day of monotony.

7:50 a.m

mobile.

Neel ran towards the bus stop as Bus No. 38 had already halted there. That was the bus he took to work every day. As he neared the bus, he realized that the bus had almost started moving when a shrill female voice screamed at the driver to stop the bus. Panting and puffing, Neel got onboard the bus and sat on the nearest seat. The bus conductor came and gave a ticket to Neel for his destination stop. Once he was done, Neel looked to his side and noticed a girl sitting beside him, smiling. He smiled back and said a 'Hi'. She replied to his 'Hi' with a 'Hello'. Neel noticed that she had a shrill voice. He asked,' Were you the one who asked for the bus to stop?' She said, 'Yes, that was me. By the way, I am Renee ' and brought out her hand. Neel shook his hands with her and said, 'I am Neel'. After that there was no more conversation as Neel took out his speakers and plugged them into his ears, listening to Bollywood songs on the local radio station, over his

8:10 a.m

Renee conveyed her goodbye to Neel and got off the bus at her stop. She thought, 'Oh my God. I finally spoke to him today. After a month of continuously staring at him in the bus, I finally managed to speak to him today. Thank God the bus arrived a bit early today otherwise this would never have happened. Penny will be so excited to hear about this'. And saying so, Renee started imagining her and Neel going on a couple of dates to expensive restaurants and then finally getting married and having kids and a dog. She had a big smile on her face as she entered her office building. She wondered what Neel thought of her. Her colleague, Monty, thought Renee was smiling at him and smiled back at her. As he sat on his desk, he could not help but thank his good luck. After a month of her joining office, finally she acknowledged his presence. He started thinking about asking her out 17

for coffee in the evening.

something romantic about her but again and again he was reminded of 8:15 a.m her shrill voice. Finally, he came to the conclusion that Renee was not the type An old man came and sat next to of girl he could go out with. She would Neel in the bus. A romantic song be better off being someone like a played over the radio. The song made sister, maybe. His day had just started Neel think about Renee. He tried to anyways. It wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be long before he think about her features, anything that comes across another girl and then he had stayed back with him about her. would be able to do all the things he But all he could recollect was her shrill had imagined in his mental list. voice. He tried once again to think of

Unpublished Poetry

DUET POET/AUTHOR Jen Walls

poetry anthologies continue arriving from the USA, UK, India, and other countries.

Jen Walls is a poet of wide international appeal. She hosts a powerful voice in contemporary English poetry and is widely published and known worldwide for her devotional poetic corpus. Jen reaches inside and brings love into a joyful heart’s radiance; pulsating deeper within such a personality of rare positivity. Her words float into breaths; singing expressively heart’s song, as Jen delights in dedicating word-flows as soulful resonance within a caring touch from her pen.

She is a devoted nature lover, trained ceremonial vocalist, dedicated care advocate for elderly and youth causes, and a loving mother of two teenage sons. Jen Walls currently lives with her husband and family in Saint Paul, Minnesota, USA. Her heart’s passions continue evolving for expanding on love within world peace, cultural studies, spiritual studies, photography, public speaking and the performance of multi-media recitals.

Jen’s renowned first solo collection of poetry, The Tender Petals, has been widely recognized, since its release - November 2014, through inner child press, ltd. USA. Her second poetic collection, entitled OM santih santih santih Love and Peace Duet Poetry, lovingly combines Jen’s caring voice with the inspirational international voice of Dr. Ram Sharma of Meerut, U.P. India; creating a most exhilarating and unified poetic work, dedicated for uplifting the universal family inside love’s protection of Mother Earth. OM santih – recently released November 2015 through India Publisher, The Poetry Society of India. Jen’s love and peacefilled poems are published in many renowned print and electronic publications promoting world peace and harmony. These celebrated global

Contact Ms. Jen Walls: mywritegift@gmail.com http://www.innerchildpress.com/jen-walls.php DUET POET/AUTHOR Dr. Ram Sharma

Dr. Ram Sharma is an accomplished poet and writer who writes in English and Hindi; within his vibrant reach he also uplifts many within his magnetic appeal inside the field of poetry and literature. He is an inspiring and dedicated personality who is spiritually driven for utilizing his many gifts achieved within his studies, life-work and vast world travels. He was also an exceptional student, and ranked highest in his class from first up on his 19

M.Phil. Dr. Sharma’s completed doctoral studies have contributed an intense focus on PostModernist Trends in Indian Novels in English: A Study ofAnita Desai, Arun Joshi, Amitav Ghosh and Vikram Seth. A renowned poet, critic, reviewer and translator, Dr. Ram’s poetry remains vastly active today, and he continues stretching out for reaching many through his teaching beyond borders. Dr. Ram Sharma flows outside his current academic background and regularly inspires a vast readership of young and old from across the globe. He continues actively promoting to enliven and support healing through unity of world peace causes, while traveling extensively to meet and discuss resolution of challenges of need, and offering selfless service through humanity’s healing grace. Dr. Ram Sharma has written for research papers, articles, poems and reviews and has been

published within many esteemed journals, magazines and newspapers throughout India and abroad. His literary works continue to appear in prominent web journals and foreign e-journals and magazines, as well. To his credit, he has produced the following poetry volumes respectfully: Muse (2002), Serene Moments (2008), A String ofWords (2009), Poets for World Peace Volumes 1 and 2 (2010), Anthologies 1 (2011), Lamp of Love (2015), OM santih santih santih Love and Peace Duet Poetry (2015) Dr. Ram Sharma is presently an Associate Professor in English at J.V.P.G. College, Baraut, Baghpat, U.P., India; and remains active as Editor-in-Chief for two international publishing journals: RUMINATIONS and GLIMPSES. Contact Dr. Ram Sharma: dr.ramsharma786@gmail.com

Announcement ~ New Release: OM santih santih santih Love and Peace Duet Poetry Publisher: The Poetry Society of India Released: November 1, 2015 20

SearchÂLight ~ Duet Poetry We're lost inside each rising echo, as loving bliss-flows searching far and wide; over this world and beyond. Silence comes ever sweetly within all mesmerizing; unfolding into breaths, as the coloring blossoms oflove. Ifwe shall really open - receiving heart's voice inside going up from each darkness and mundane place, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll laugh freely clear into flowing light-glows; igniting lasting shine with a search-light within. How to keep on searching now for such a great light where divine comes singing throughout all eternity? Let us reach past the senses ofthis mundane body; coming far - searching mind's unfathomable light. Every wish is ofultimate joy - glittering honey to speak search deep on splashing wave-flows ofnectars running receiving everything within - soul's contentment ofheart enlightening search-light - glow strong - truth's art ofliving.

Lifting Love; grow free and be ~ Duet Poetry Poetry is a tallest peak, finding way for us to climb discerning how we could see a pure vision oflife. Awakening in-flows to rise and pour us forth traveling with subtle might ofheavenly heights. Poetry is the flowing Ganges - giving to live as grace quenching all thirst, divine bliss gifts all knowledge. Surrendering care for every wish that will become free rolling Maa Ganga flows her sacred breaths to share. Poetry is a glimpse oftruth, rising air that's so fragrant flying fast love's wings ofmysticism and imagination. Invoking light's magnificence â&#x20AC;&#x201C; shine the diamond within swirling mirrors go glimmering tears ofstars' twinkling. Poetry is a growing Banyan tree - giving refuge onto all sheltering the tired mind with heart's infinite root oflove. Merging into a deepened silence with peace that's sung gifting love's compassion, freely loving one as everything. Poetry is an inside temple thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shining as an earthly body purifying emotions equally, sharing them all as blessings. Caring deeply for how we are to hear joy's flute playing on touching spirit within soul - lifting love; grow free and be.

It's dark in here. It's so dark. Where the hell am I? I closed my eyes for j ust a minute and now I'm here. Where the hell is here?

It's cold, too. Where's my jacket? I feel the fur around my neck, and try to huddle in a little ball, but I can't. I can't seem to move my feet. Then I remember, my jacket didn't have any fur. I screamed as loud as I could and whatever was around my neck scampered away. Thank God, I thought. I couldn't deal with that, too. My hearts practically pounding out ofmy chest already. Okay, breathe, remember the breathing exercisesMom taught you. Count from ten backwards and breathe.

1 0. . . 9. . . 8. . . 7. . . 6. . .

There is no need to get all freaked out about this. You're not two year old anymore. As a matter offact, your twenty first birthday is only two days away. Remember we made plans with Nadine to go out for the night. We're starting out at the pub right down the street from the house, and ending up somewhere in Oceanview. Some place we all have never heard ofbefore, but that's the fun thing about bar hopping- going to places that you've never been before. 5 . . . 4. . . 3 . . . 2. . . 1 . . .

Okay, I'm better now. I think. Okay, now remember where you were before you were here. The last thing I remember is taking a drink ofa guy's beer at the party at Marcia's house. I closed my eyes for a few minutes to rest, and now all ofa sudden I am here.

I know, it's a joke. Okay, guys you got me. You got one over on ole Shelley 23

here. Now the jokes over.

to the silence.

"Let me out!" I shouted into the Something touched my leg again. I darkness. My voice sounding muffled and jumped and moved my leg to the right and strange. hit my knee on something hard. I cringed. I remembered back to when I turned five year old. My aunt took my cousins and I to the coast. We stopped to feed the Sea Lions along the way. I'd somehow gotten lost in the small building, and couldn't find my way back to my family. Frightened and scared I screamed so loud I shocked myself. I hadn't thought about that for a long time, until now, but when I screamed that's what my voice sounded like.

Something touched my leg. I jumped. It dripped across my leg and behind my chin. 'What the hell is that?' I thought, while I tried to shake it off my leg. It finally dripped off my leg. "I can breathe again," I said outloud

"Water? Was that water? Did water just drip on me?" I shouted from my dark cave. The water slid off my leg. I moved my knee again, and hit something hard above me. "What the HELL is it?" I shouted again. I wiggled around trying to free myself, but it was useless. "Damn it! Let me out of here!" I stomped my foot. Another hard object blocked my escape. I stomped my foot several times in a row, each time a loud 'kathud' sounded. "What the...Am I in a box? A square

box? Why would I be in a square box

My throat grew sore from yelling

somewhere? What the hell did that crazy

and I felt very parched. My forehead wet

j ack ass do to me?"

with sweat sent chills up and down my spine.

Tears stung at the corner of my eyes. " You j ust wait until I get out of here you crazy ass nut. You j ust wait! I'm going to turn you over to the police and you'll get yours. If it's the last thing I do you will get yours. " I j ust can't believe you'd put me through this crap. I thought you and I were

What ifhe did want me to sit here and rot? What ifhe just wanted me to roll over and die? What ifhe's some kind of crazy, looney who just wants to kill me, and will come back later to use my dead body to please his own weird fantasies? My body shook with the craziness of the thoughts that went through my head.

friends. Some kind of friend you turned out to be. So what is it? You get off on this

I didn't believe it.

kind of thing? You like putting some young girl you'd never met in a box and

I couldn't believe it.

leaving her stranded? What the hell am I supposed to do you lousy, piece of crap? Sit here and rot? I can't do that. I've got shit to do with my life and sitting here rotting is not on the list! "

Who the hell would want me dead?

For Cripe's sake, I worked in a homeless shelter for over two years helping out the homeless people as much 25

I froze. as I could. I worked at the dog shelter for over a year, but couldn't hack saying goodMaybe they're coming to help me. bye to the dogs that got adopted into their Maybe, I'm finally getting out of here. I new homes. I had to quit there. A very rewarding experience, none the less and I yelled and screamed until my voice was nothing. I couldn't even get a squeal to enjoyed myself completely. come from my throat. Then what is it? What have I done? Great, well now I have nothing. I have no way to call for help. Small droplits of water landed on my leg. Not just one at a time now, they Tears welled up in my eyes and they were several. Dropping, dropping, dropping....I wiggled around to try and get slid down my cheeks. My chest heaved up and down while desperately trying to get a away from them, but I kept hitting my deep breath. head on the top of the box. A small bell sounded off in the distance somewhere. I could barely hear it, but it rang.

Nothing worked. Exhaustion took over, and I closed my eyes.

Two young men, stood in the middle The two boys uncovered the large of the dark graveyard. wooden box. They lifted the lid, inside the lay Shelley Olson. The sand had One had two shovels in his hands. box seeped through the holes in the top of the casket and Rob noticed how dirty her feet "I swear dude, I heard the bell. I and legs were. heard the bell!" "That bell has been there for sixty shock.Tim looked at Rob in complete years. No one has ever rung that bell. There is no way in hell we buried that girl "How could she have been alive? alive. She is dead. Deader than dead." There is no way in hell she could've been alive." "I don't care what you say, Tim. I am digging up that girl's grave and you "Well, she was alive. Dead people will see. That girl IS ALIVE." don't roll over on their sides like that all by After several hours of digging Tim themselves, now do they?" and Rob finally hit something in the dirt. Tim threw the shovel and slumped to the ground on his knees. "She's here! She's here!" Rob shouted at Tim. He shoveled faster and "I still can't believe we buried her faster until they uncovered the casket. alive." "Come on, Tim, you've got to help me lift the lid."

On a lazy morning, I happened to gaze at an ugly larva lying on a green wide leaf in my mother’s flowering plant. I almost jumped and screamed since I am a vermiphobic from the time I had accidentally touched a sleeping snake on my windowsill during my teenage years. My first instinct was to remove the leaf and throw it away to get rid of the hideous looking worm that seemed so calm and comfortable taking a nap while being swayed by the big leaf. As I watched that insect, I murmured a silly question, “why on earth did God create this terrifying insect that did nothing but scare children and eat the leaves of the beautiful plants in our mini-garden?” Then I left the insect and the thought without bothering to find an answer. The next day, the thought of the hideous larva crossed my mind again and I wanted to see if it was still there. And there it still, lay calmly on the leaf as if glued to it. I decided to leave it alone since my irritation was overpowered by my phobia.

Days passed and I forgot about the larva. Weekend came so I again got the chance to say hello to the flowering plants in our mini-garden. My heartbeat raced at the thought of the worm that lay on the leaf. Though scared, I looked at where it was before. But I didn’t see the hideous larva anymore, all I saw was a butterfly edging its way out of a cocoon trying to spread its wide wings. Its wings were so beautiful that I couldn’t help but stare. It was like a yellow kerchief with black lace at the edges and embroidered with black dots in the middle. Then it flew. It was so adorable that I whispered with awe, “what a beautiful creation of God.” 29

There are lots of hideous larva in life, but remember that it will turn us into butterflies with beautiful wings----- beautiful, adorable and flourishing. All we need to do is not to focus on the ugly side of life but overcome our fears and the world would reveal the beauty of life around us.

At that moment, I thought about life. And I thought about life’s struggles and trials. It’s like the hideous larva: it scared us; it drove us away from our focus; it terrified us; it drove us nuts; it made us silly at times; it discouraged us from pursuing what we need to do; it even made our worlds stand still and like the pupa that lay on the leaf, it sometimes lingered and we didn’t know when it would end or go away. But like the transformation of the larva into a beautiful butterfly, after long dark nights, a beautiful morning awaits. We wake up stronger and wiser. We wake up flourishing and ready to fly and face the world with regained optimism. 30

1. 'I write to let my soul know I'm alive.' 2. 'I write to let everything go.' 3. 'My heart is filled with words. I'm made of words. I'm word.' 4. 'I write to be the bridge between the said and the unsaid.' 5. 'My words are my wings.'

Tring tring tring When my sound rings Scares there my master Leaves me in wonder. When I sweetly say 'Rise and shine' to him Shakes my Lord From his lovely dream. My punky eyes Look not so pleasing My cheerful noise Seems to be threatening. I faint each day And be almost dead When I get his blow Every morning, on my head. Agitating creature I turn out to be When his grungy towel Tossed out at me. Resting on the bed-side table All day long Aches my butt Find no one With whom I can get along. Why does my master Shriek with my sound? Shows his grumpy face to me All day round. Mosquitoes in the night Hover around my head My owner basks in slumber On his cushy bed.

Raghav and Mitali was a newlywed couple. Today they were getting ready for a party and like every new wed she was taking a lot of time to be ready. ‘Come on Mitali. How long will you take? We are getting late.’Raghav called her from the other room ‘Just 5 more minutes and I will be right there.’ The poor husband waited and kept waiting for about half an hour more. Finally went in her room to see why she was getting so late. And to his surprise she was busy taking selfies in front of the mirror. A one with the pout, without it, open hair, tied plat with shades, without shades. His jaw dropped. He sat on the floor holding his head between the palms.

‘Oh my God Mitali, you are such a selfies addict. Come on, grow up now. At least you can do this when we return. It is really late now.’ To this, she made a puppy face, clicked it and even posted. Grinned and said, ‘Yes I am coming. Let’s go .I am done.’ Raghav gave her a strange look. Yes Mitali was actually a selfies addict. Every hour she was busy clicking her pictures .No matter she was in kitchen, outdoors, in sari, pajamas; she was least concerned. Basically she was actually a selfies addict. Her husband was not wrong. ‘Mitali I am getting late. Where is my lunch? I have to leave for office.’ ‘Five minutes, I am coming with it.’ 33

Whenever she asked for 5 minutes, her husband had a great doubt on her. He stood up and went straight into the kitchen. ‘Oh this girl’! He took a deep sigh She was clicking selfies with the variety she had prepared for lunch. One with the whole lot and another one with actually tasting it with the spoon!! As soon as she saw her husband standing there she grinned. ‘Actually I was just checking salt.’ ‘I know, I know .Did I say anything? I know you were not taking any selfies.’He winked and left That day when he returned from office, he saw a bandage on Mitali’s hand. ‘What happened? Why this bandage?’ ‘I was out for some work and tyre got punctured and I had to change it.’ ‘But you have done that before also. Your hand never swelled up like this time. It is really bad. How did it happen? ‘I handled the jack with one hand only.’ ‘Why?’ ‘With the other one I was taking selfies while changing the tyre.’ ‘Oh God Mitali, I mean heights!! What fun you get in clicking selfies all the time? What is so special about selfies? ‘Common it’s a necessity these days ,for social sites.’ She grinned ‘Oh really?????Huh’ Ok so now, basically all this is because of this higher end phone with extra features. So madam, give me this phone of yours. And I will get you the

simplest one, and make sure it has no camera. ‘Oh no. Please don’t take my phone. I will take care and it is a promise of only one selfie a day. Is that ok?’ ‘Ok.This much I can allow.’ She joined a driving school to divert herself from the selfie thing all day. The best part was that the driving school sent her a female driver on her request. She was enjoying learning car until one day a small accident happened. ‘Now what madam, how did this happen?’ ‘Come on Raghav. How can you sound that way? I haven’t done anything. It just happened. I am still learning.’ ‘Ok take rest. Give me your phone I will inform your mother to come here and take care of few for a few days.’ She actually jumped out of bed and tried to pull her phone from his hand. He was shocked. ‘What happened? I don’t have her number na. Let me call from your phone. Why are you behaving like this? Leave the phone.’ He actually snatched the phone from her. While scrolling the screen for contacts, he mistakenly opened the gallery in phone.And to his shock; There were selfies with the driving school lady. She was posing the victory symbol, Mitali was clicking the picture, and they were holding hands tightly. Basically no one was controlling the steering!!

Abhinav entered the room he was sharing with Sahil.He was looking very upset. ‘What’s up bro? You look really upset. ‘Asked Sahil ‘I want to die.’ ‘And what made you take this decision?’ ‘Shikha broke up with me. I don’t want to live any more. She was my

life, only reason why I was living.’ Sahil stood up with controlled anger on his friend and returned back with two bottles. ‘So what do you want to consume? Rat poison or Phenol?’ ‘What!!You must be kidding Sahil. Please I am not in the mood for any kind of jokes. Stay away.’ 35

‘Na Na, I am damn serious. Please have at least one of it and get rid of your pain. Since your life, you girl friend is no more with you, your life is a waste, ya; I understand completely. No one needs you.’ He was sarcastic Abhinav kept quiet, laid on the bed and kept staring those bottles kept there. He slept very soon. In the morning when both woke up Sahil was tensed for his friend but did not show. Instead, he started again. ‘Oh Abhinav yesterday you slept and one important thing was left out.’ ‘I don’t want to discuss about my life, please leave me alone.’Abhinav was still low in voice ‘Who told you I want to discuss about your life? I am least interested!! I was saying do clear all the remaining bills before you commit suicide. I remember you owe some money towards me. I want all back.’ ‘You are making fun of me? I mean I am so upset. Instead of consoling me your attitude is a least bothered one.’ ‘Why should I be bothered about a person who himself is not bothered about him? Why do I need to show care and concern to a person who is sounding like a looser? Why should I show any attachment to someone who has no guts to face life’s realities? Why the hell on earth……..’ Sahil banged the door and left. He returned. ‘By the way together with the bills

thing please vacate the room as well. I mean pack up all your bags and throw them in a dustbin. I won’t use any of the stuffs of a looser. And moreover, I will look for a room partner who is more loving towards life. Has some sense that life is an important thing not to be finished just because of break ups. But you leave, you won’t understand all this. All the best for your suicide thing, Bye, Take Care.’ Sahil’s trick worked on Abhinav. He realized the value of life. He understood all that his friend wanted to explain him. He was now ready for a new beginning for life. All day he waited for Sahil to come back. Finally in the evening there was a knock on the door. He ran and opened the door, smiling. ‘Are you still alive? That’s what I was thinking, it’s been the whole day now, and no one called me saying your fried has committed suicide. Do you want to try some other method? Like, should I bring a rope for you or a knife or anything else you want?’ Abhinav stared at him for long and finally gave a hard punch and a tight hug, one after the other. Sahil hit him back. ’Huh! So? You want to die? Will you say all that again? Have you lost senses or what? It is just a break up you moron. She has a bad luck to leave such an awesome person. You are a hero; don’t you ever sound like a looser in future.’

Mumbai-based, Sunil Sharma, a college principal, is also widely-published Indian critic, poet, literary interviewer, editor, translator, essayist and fiction writer. He has already published three collections ofpoetry, one collection ofshort fiction, one novel and co-edited six books so far. His six short stories and the novel Minotaur were recently prescribed for the undergraduate classes under the Post-colonial Studies, Clayton University, Georgia, USA. He is a recipient ofthe UK-based Destiny Poetsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; inaugural Poet ofthe Year award---2012. Recently his poems were published in the UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree. He edits online journal Episteme:

An insect enters the Sixth-floor home on a Grayish evening ofMumbai Scrubbed clean by the rains Few minutes ago. It circles the dark interiors Ofthe room stuffed with So many things and clothes And finding no flowers or trees Inside the little cavern full ofstale air Flies out ofthe barred window instantly Into the sky waking up slowly to The golden sodium-vapour lights And continual torture ofhonking horns! I wish I were an insect! Thought the child coughing and waiting for Steps that will bring cheers in a lonely life!

The silhouette against the heaving desert With sparse vegetation and no footprints Visible on the shifting sands; The only human figure framed against its immensity A little shadowy being, gender not revealed by the visual That captures the subtle dualism ofwilderness and kinesis; The tiny guy carrying a guitar and a whole universe within those strings And talented fingers that drum out magical notes out ofthat instrument; The tilted guitar, phallic, extended The silent arm at rest but poised delicately Ready to strike at any minute in that hostile landscape Almost friendless, scorched, a timeless graveyard of The lost wayfarers and offabled Ozymandias The indomitable gypsy sick ofcivilization and its sins and hypocrisies And brutalities, Searching perhaps a buried trail that led to some El Dorado once, Or some dusty ruins that still haunt in dreams on solitary nights; Alone, yet not intimidated by the vastness, in elements with ecosystem, Strumming his fave guitar for the spirits ofthe desert eager For this rare concert by a travelling musician An artist not interested in riches and awards

Asror Allayarov is a writer, poet, journalist and translator from Uzbekistan. Now he is studying at the Noble School ofBusiness, Bangalore University. Asror participated in the 8th, 9th and 10th International Writers’ Festival in India. His short story and poems are published in India, Bangladesh, Italy, Cuba, and Serbia. His stories are broadcast on Yoshlar radio in Uzbekistan. He gained International Golden Pen prize with “Qashqadaryo” newspaper colleague organized by Uzbekistan Journalists Union and the first place local award “Youth life in Media’ in journalism. He also gained 2nd place ofthe National and Traditional prize among young photojournalists in Uzbekistan in 2010. Asror Allayarov worked as an Editor-in-chieffor a several newspapers in Uzbekistan. He is the owner ofthe “Eastern World” newspaper. He honoured “Sahitya Sree” and “Shan-E-Adab” literary awards organized by India Intercontinental Cultural Association in 2013, 2014. He edited “Uzbek Writers’ Anthology” published in India. His first short stories collection “A Decision” is published in the United States of America in 2014. This book is also translated into Japanese. His short story “Tombs A and B” included “A Decision” are translated into Spanish and published in Argentina in 2014. His stories are also published in the “Sayram Sabosi” newspaper ofKazakhstan in 2015. His works are translated into Spanish, Philippines, Hindi, French, Karakalpak, Turkish, Italian, Serbian, Albanian and Hungarian. Ashi: Greetings to you Asror Allayarov! At the outset, on behalfof ‘Reflection Magazine’, I would like to thank you for accepting my request to interview you.

about your mother. Please share your writing experience - the age you started writing and what inspires you to write.

Asror: Actually, I have read famous Asror: It is a privilege to me and I writers short stories and poems around really appreciate your consideration of the world from my childhood. I have my works to distribute to the literary learnt several writing styles, but still I world. am trying to create my own in literature. I always consider, it is the Ashi: Write something about the place rule of writing to create new ideas and you belong to, your childhood and styles to do better creative works. education. I started writing poems when I was 9 year old. Then some of my life Asror: I was born in a village called experiences appeared in my works. I Guvalak in Koson district. It is forgot life, literature became my life. situated in southern region of My first poem was published in a Uzbekistan – Kashkadarya. I grew up national newspaper “Bekajon” which with almost 2 000 books in my home publishes weekly with more than and my mother was my first master in 100,000 copies. It was the first literature. She taught me at home with inspiration for me to write more and some children, fiction books, in more School as her student. Because, my mother is an Uzbek language teacher Ashi: That is really encouraging one. and a journalist. Kindly tell us something about any Ashi: Wow, it is pleasure to know

other hobby ofyours.

Asror: Except collecting famous writer’s books, I love to learn foreign languages. Now I am attending Spanish course ofWisconsin academy in Bangalore. I am planning to read some Spanish writer’s novels in their original language. Ashi: Great! However, poetry or prose is a medium to express one’s inner feelings. Is there any specific moment or event that made you write?

Asror: Yes, definitely. I have heard a lot in life, nature inspires most of creative thinkers to take a pen in their hands. My first poem was about rain. At this time, as If universe hah stopped moving and only rain demonstrated it’s a beautiful dance. Suddenly, a poem appeared in my mind.

short stories. My short stories are published in the USA as a book – “A Decision”. Now it is available in several largest book stores. But I really want to change my writing style to very short . We know, the American short story writer Lydia Davis who has won Man Booker International Prize in 2013. If you analyse her short stories, you will see some of them in one or two sentences. They are also compared to poesia. In my opinion, we must read a lot, and must write short. Because, in this century writers should be more intelligent as masters of technology. Ashi: Would you like to share something about your personal life with our readers to know you more closely?

Asror: Of course, I live with my family in Karshi city of Uzbekistan. Ashi: What is your favourite topic to My parents and my sister are also write on? And do you have a specific journalists. My father is a director, writing style? my mother is editing materials and my sister is a correspondent. They are Asror: All my stories are based on our working for our newspaper “Eastern tradition and mindset of people who World”. live in my country. I love to write

In my opinion, we must read a lot, and must write short. Because, in this century writers should be more intelligent as masters oftechnology.

In my opinion, describing the character ofpeople is one ofmost important elements in fiction.

Ashi: Your entire family is contributing to writing world, great! Who is your favourite writer/poet?

great painter and you can recognize it through black letters in this book. Ashi: According to you, what are the most important elements ofgood writing?

Asror: Gabriel Garsia Marquez. â&#x20AC;&#x153;One Hundred Years of Solitudeâ&#x20AC;? is my favourite novel. After I read this novel in a translation of Uzbek, I decided to Asror: In my opinion, describing the write something in fiction. He character of people is one of most described Latin American life as a important elements in fiction .

Ashi: Well said. Did you always have full appreciation and support for your talent in writing?

Ashi: According to you, which poem and short story ofyours is your masterpiece? Kindly share any ofyour poem which is close to your heart.

Asror: Yes, I think I am lucky. From my first poem till the last story, all has Asror: My poem ‘Moon Lights’ is been recognized in several publishing close to my heart. It was written in St. resources. When I left Secondary Mary’s island in 2014 School, I directly started my job in journalism as a correspondent. Then my talent has taken shape.

Moon lights Moon lights caressed your face Suddenly, You closed your eyes happily I stayed there forever in your eyes!

I suppose it is talent. Actually, everything is based on an experience. Every writer must work on their talent. It would be an experience in future.

Asror: You know, I never give up if I try to do something. When I complete my every new story or poem I send it to my friend in abroad. Some of them Asror: I suppose it is talent. Actually, are editors and literary critics. They everything is based on an experience. published my work in their countries. Every writer must work on their talent. And I attended some International It would be an experience in future. Writers Festivals. During the events I have met a lot of foreign writers and Ashi: Your work is published in India, they wrote articles and published my Bangladesh, Italy, Cuba, Serbia and poems in their countries. But most Uzbekistan and translated in Spanish, important thing is some writers read Philippines, Hindi, Turkish, French, my book on online book stores, like Italian, Serbian, Albanian and amazon.com, lovereading.co.uk. Then Hungarian. Kindly share how did you they decided to translate my stories in got all these opportunities and how their languages Ashi: Short and beautiful. According to you what is the best thing about being an author and poet?

you feel on being internationally recognised by your creations?

Ashi: That is really big achievement Asror. You are not only a writer but also a publisher and Editor. What advice would you give your contemporary writers and poets?

Asror: They are all based on striving to gain achievement. I would ask all my contemporary writers to recognize their talent first, then take an adventure to reach the most wanted achievements. Talent will lead on to the goal. Ashi: True! Give your opinion on Reflection magazine and would you like to give any advice for improvement.

Asror: I am reading “Reflection” magazine for

the past 6 months. And I was surprised when I saw its authors, materials and design of the pages. So, “Reflection” is one of the best international literary online magazines. Most important thing is its aim to introduce new talents to the world. I wish Reflection Magazine to reach globally published and distributed. Ashi : Thank you for sharing your true words of wisdom in the field ofart and for improvement of our literary magazine. The budding artists are sure to draw nourishment from the radiance of your spirit and your gracious advice would boost up their enthusiasm to be creative. Profound thanks to you!

I am reading “Reflection” magazine for the past 6 months. And I was surprised when I saw its authors, materials and design ofthe pages. So, “Reflection” is one ofthe best international literary online magazines. Most important thing is its aim to introduce new talents to the world. I wish Reflection Magazine to reach globally published and distributed.

Well, this is a story about how ‘foolish’ some wise men can become, with due respect to the world of elite men who are wise!

One night.in the life of Razeshedan ......

It was around 8 PM when the closed. The curator locked all Not so long ago, in the province gallery the gates, took a long sigh, yawned ofAloha, there was a splendid art entered the main hallway. This gallery – Panaroza. The people of the and hallway lined with exquisite nearby lands called it the abode of all works – was of David, The rare and priceless artefacts. Pieces of Minotaur,statue the Damozel, lost and found art from across the globe found an crockery of the Inca Civilization, the eternal resting ground in Panaroza . crown of an Egyptian There was something else too, which jewelled Mummy pharaoh and finally the people knew about in Panaroza, but ‘Mona Lisa.’ never cherished- Razeshedan – the eccentric, half-mad, half-sceptic “Ughh...Ughhh…” a coughing curator cum janitor of Panaroza. Razeshedan entered the hallway, with duster in his hand and walked People thought that Razeshedan atowards David. Cleaning and dusting was a curse that befell upon the artall the sculptures artefacts for abode just like an eclipse that casts its over three decadesand was the daily gloom over the lovely moon. routine after dark. Starting from David Whoa...the last line just rhymed! – he dusted all the sculptures and finally courtesy Razeshedan. arrived at the portrait of Mona Lisa. His coughing had increased two-folds. The eclipse is a dark Suddenly he was vexed and threw the phenomenon but in a way it only It flew past the Mummy’s helps in enhancing the beauty of the duster. crown and landed on poor David’s moon. Similarly, Razeshedan was face. eccentric but none could match his commitment to the art gallery.

“Arrgh....to hell with this job! These dead pieces ain't got anything for me. I clean their bloody dead souls and in return I get this dust cemented into my soul. What the hell? I should drink booze to get rid of this dust brought here by stupid men’s feet and also by their dumb minds. What crap and what a pity!”

I pity these patrons! Sympathies my friend David,” saying this he draped him with his duster again! “Look at the crockery all broken and in tatters, and still people throng in to see them and fill them with their praises. And here goes the Mummy!

Hello Mr. Pharoah, you have “Look at the patrons who visit enough bandages to cover your head, everyday! What do they find in these what for the crown lies with you? dead souls? NOTHING! These statues Waste....total waste!” are dead crap and the living souls who praise them are crap too!” His vexed state finally got him hungry and he picked up an apple to “Look at poor David...his munch upon and again stomped on the sculptor left him like that only! Not a floor. Agitated, he finally reached single piece of cloth to drape him. He Mona Lisa. shivers during cold nights. And what do the patrons praise him for? His “My good heavens! Finally this nudity! is the crap which surpasses all glory. Crooked in art and ugly in appearance. 48

Look at her! People throng to decipher her intriguing smile! Let me see! Is she smiling.......NO......frowning .......NO....NO....crying perhaps ......not even that! Ha ha ha...she doesn’t even have eyebrows!! My goodness, she is the ugliest thing that found its way into my heaven. “You Idiot, uncouth fellow! Don’t you have any manners?” a frowning voice yelled back at Razeshedan. His bursts of laughter ceased totally and he turned around. To his utter dismay and amazement, he saw that Mona Lisa was yelling at him. He couldn’t hold on and tumbled down like a skittle in a bowling alley. “Hooooooly Chhhhhrist! In the name of Christ, you damned spirit.....get away....get away from me! He started to pray to cast away the shadow of the devil which fell upon him. “Stop mumbling like a lamb! You idiot! Get Up....Stand and face me like a man!”

“Please, Mrs. Devil....leave me! You can take Mona Lisa... for free of course! She is not valuable to this place! Take it but please leave me!” pleaded Razeshedan. “Shut Up! You uncouth fellow. How dare you mock me, call me ugly and abuse me? I am The Mona Lisa! The mistress of beauty and mystery personified. How dare you?” Gaining a bit of his senses and his weak caricature, he exclaimed, “Are you...are you really THE MONA LISA?” “Yes I am! And how dare you!” Razeshedan’s eyes split wide. But soon he regained courage and also his cynical attitude. “Aahh...it is you! I thought the Devil himself was here. Anyways leave the Devil in his Hell! Now let me get back to you! What were you accusing me of?

Aaah...I get it! You ugly monster...whatever I said ...I still stick to my words and as a matter of fact, every bit of it is true! You are indeed the ugliest creature that surprisingly drives people crazy for nothing!”

They are self-proclaimed wise-men who are indeed fools!” “How dare you criticize them? They are fools! You...You are a fool to mock them. They are not fools. How can you say that! You cannot even prove your statement. Can you?” an angry Mona Lisa exclaimed.

“Stop right there! You layman, you petty layman! I am the most beautiful woman on this earth and people admire me, praise me and place “Proof! You want proof! Of their me in their heavens. I am the one foolishness! Ok...OK...I shall prove it. which every man desires...And......” And in the end truth shall prevail!” asserting his intentions he started “Ha Ha Ha,” interrupting her fiddling here and there like he was with his cynical laughter he said, looking for something! Finally he “admire you! Praise you! came across the apple that had crawled hahaahahaha...the patrons are dumb! away into a corner when he had fallen They admire anything and everything! down.

“Here, take a look. This is an apple, as you can see from there. A plain simple apple and clearly not so valuable. I am placing this at the pedestal and make it look like a piece of art. Tomorrow five patrons are scheduled to visit the art gallery! And the rest will be a proof of my aforesaid words dear Senorita!” he said, with a pun. With thus he bid adieu to Mona Lisa and retired to his chamber. The next day the sun was shining with an absolute radiance and its gleaming rays found their way into Panaroza’s hallway. It seemed that today the apple was basking in the full glory of its radiance. The initial chirping of birds eventually graduated into the faint murmuring of the art patrons.

Within a few moments the first patron came. She was Lady Vanelessa of Florence and famous for her love of art and her own beauty. Tales of her astounding beauty spread across far lands. Each of her steps was delicate and each sight of her was filled with absolute romanticism. Walking down the hallway she even blushed at the sight of David! Finally she came to a halt near the Apple. “My Goodness! What a marvellous piece of art! My heart beats for it now. The redness in it speaks of the love which is in my heart. It symbolises life – the red blood, the passion and love that runs in my veins. This apple symbolises ‘me’ in all respects. 51

I wish to take it to my kingdom. I shall surely bid for this fine piece of art,” gasping, she lost her senses in the apple and stood dumbstruck. Still admiring its beauty she went into a state of trance.

shall surely bid for this fine piece of art!” – saying this he also went into a trance. Blow No. 2 for Mona Lisa!

Few moments later saw the This proved to be Razeshedan’s advent of Sir Richard Archer of Blow No. 1 to Mona Lisa! Nottingham. As was his title so was his love for the sport. He took Few moments later saw the immense interest in archery and incoming Baron Octavious of patronised it like none other. World Belgium. World over he was famous class archers lived under his umbrella for his measures in keeping his and brought him both name and fame. kingdom in an absolute healthy He always carried a bow and a quiver condition. His state was free from all full of arrows and customarily used to the ailments and diseases which aim at anything in his line of sight. grieved the rest of the world. He Nothing changed in the hallway of always promoted good health. He even Panaroza either. He was aiming choked while passing through the diligently when his eyes caught a mummy. But as soon as he came glimpse of the Apple. His bow fell to across the Apple he was completely the ground and in utter delight he ran rejuvenated. “Goodness Gracious! towards it. “Marvellous! What a piece What a marvellous piece of art! An of art! I am sure that it will inspire my Apple a day keeps the doctor away! “ archers too in the process of becoming Sir William Tell who could pierce an “Hmmm....this will behold my apple kept atop a person’s head. Then I principles and serve as an example to would have hundreds ofWilliam Tells promote good health in my land. I in my kingdom. Nobody can surpass shall place it in the town centre where me then. Surely, I shall bid for this fine the people would see it and get piece of art...!” inspired to live a disease-free life. I

Needless to say he too lost himself into the abyss of oblivion. Blow No 3 to Mona Lisa.

After yet another time interval, came the fourth patron. Lord Evan Bottom – the eminent scientist from London. “This statue weighs 55 pounds and 12 ounces...approximately,” exclaimed Lord Evan Bottom while looking at the statue of David. “And this one is probably 3000 years old,” he asserted after examining the foul stench that the poor Mummy imparted. . And then he stopped and finally stooped before the Apple, looking in utter amazement.

Very slowly the smile on Mona Lisa’s face was getting re-defined. Now it was taking the shape of a frown. With her changing expression came the last patron – Bishop Attenborough from the Vatican.

He was a devout catholic and at the same time a great patron of art. He wielded great powers and had influence over lot of people who catered to his doctrines. Numerous museums and art galleries in Rome were established mainly due to his efforts. He was a man of faith and authority. Nobody questioned his judgement. He marched into the hallway, admiring the statue of David, the Mummy, the remains of the Inca “Aah...the light of the New and finally Mona Lisa. World! This must be the same apple Civilization Staring at her he smiled and turned that inspired Sir Isaac Newton to his gaze forward, into the hallway. discover the law of gravity. Placing Suddenly his face grew red in anger. this beside his statue would surely Out of utter disgust and bring honour to the great man. disappointment, he cried, “Holy Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! In the name of Christ, what on What a marvellous piece of art! I shall Christ! earth is this unholy thing doing in this surely bid for it and take it back to God’s place?” London!” 53

The other patrons returned from The other patrons started their trance with the deafening cries of murmuring among themselves, “Curse the Bishop. it!” The murmur continued. “Brothers and sisters,” the And with a loud thunder came, Bishop continued, “this is unholy! This “CURSE IT!” represents the ‘forbidden fruit.’” “This was the fruit that the Devil offered Adam and Eve. They were lured by its redness and they fell into the Devil’s trap. They ate it and this was the first sin committed by Man. With its first bite came hunger, jealousy, pride, gluttony and other sins were unleashed unto this beautiful Garden of Eden. This is devil’s embodiment of sin. Curse it!”

With this everybody was convinced of the Bishop’s word and nodded in agreement. “Let us throw this out of this holy place and burn it at the altar.” Saying this he took away the apple from the pedestal and went outside with fury and rage. Others followed him.

Mona Lisa was now in tears. their stupidity, their foolishness! And But there were cheers for Razeshedan still they call themselves wise. What a who burst into laughter. shame? Crap.....all crap!” All this time he had been watching everything from behind the curtains.

“So Senorita ...now you see the proof. These are men with no brains. They are irrational and flow with the tide. Never have they dared to swim “Life’s grace...ha...ha...ha....haa! across and find new horizons – the “ true enlightenment. They are good for nothing.” “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away ......whoaa....haaa...haaa!” “They dishonour wisdom by calling themselves wise! Yes, I mock “William Tell ..... my them and I mock you!” goodness...hahahahahah!” “Now, three cheers for my “Sir Isaac Newton ........God take wisdom.” saying this he fell me into your arms now down.....like a skittle in the bowling ...hahahahaha!” alley...again! “Forbidden Fruit......now please I But this time it was due to his cannot bear this any rejoice and Mona Lisa’s remorse! longer....hahahahahahahahahah” Now-a-days, Mona Lisa never “Christ...please for your sake ... smiles! crucify these men and women. They are stupid. They are dumb. Yet again But Razeshedan does. they have set a new benchmark for

In my eyes live the joy and luck, In my heart lives the great love. Through my vein poetry flows, My world is word, my land is paradise. The proud boils at my chest, And my pencil is excitement. Flourished that in my eyes My love is for you, Motherland! You are my root and I’m your star, We are together the whole heart. Well, I need water and air, But I need you more than all. Oh, my country, look at my forehead, There’re ten golden letters like the sun. With the signature ofmy God It is written like “Uzbekistan”!

day. I would wait till my grandma was just far enough to be out of reach, and then, like a deft welder grabbing hold on his equipment, press on the little button on the top. The remote became an extension of my body. I leafed through all the channels, news, advertisements and talk shows like a code breaker. Then, as if having My mother would still be teaching her 4 pm chemistry class at detected my prey, my attention locked on the screen. The circuit that had the school that was twenty minutes been open was closed. For the next away from where I was by trishaw one hour the room I inhabited would and my father would be working as well, the details of his works. I would be given a new life and meaning, have had no idea by then. The point is growing upon the radiance of the that for that brief interval of one hour glowing TV screen like a firefly. The TV was playing Doraemon that day, a or so when the sun climbed down Japanese anime about a cat-like from its pinnacle, something would happen that changed the tempo of the humanoid Doraemon who comes to 4 pm was the time. It was etched on the right corner of the clock face with the number four on it. It was when the sun started to dip from its 2 pm frenzy and when my grandma grabbed dutifully her wallet from the drawer and set off for the market.

the aid of a distraught fourth grader who would otherwise be a total loser suffering in abject terror and humiliation from most of his experiences in school without flicks of tricks from under Doraemon sleeves, or under his belly pocket. As if the God had spoken back to our prayers and, with a stroke of his majesty, conjured out of thin air, the material, concrete and yet fluffy manifestation of our three wishes. If you are given three wishes, what will you wish for? Transfixed as Doraemon pulled out a pink teleportation door more than his size from his belly pocket, Nobita Nobithe, fourth grader and I,the second grader both sat speechless in our own dimensions, but our minds started floating around like balloons pumped with fresh nitrogen. Up and up they would go, like the Flying Dutchman blasting through the choked bay. Then snap.

The ritualistic one-hour session would come to a halt as afternoon ticked away when grandma came back with her groceries. She was a caring lady and a devout Christian in a largely atheistic China. Her one hour session every day would be spent in herpitch-dark bedroom upstairs with her Bible and her fiery devotion. “What would your three wishes be?” said God in a faraway voice. Amid inaudible mumbles sealed in her bedroom, grandma would recount all the wishes she’d collected in life: “prosperity, sons and daughters leading good lives, fishes being fresh…” They were all good wishes. But I knew on the top of my mind that she didn’t include Doraemon, the pink teleportation door or the Flying Dutchmen stranded on the bay. Neither would my parents who were not Christians remember. Like dreams that were so real that it left their scents after you awoke, the dream of

Doraemon, as well as of Optimus Prime in his trademark blue-and-red freightliner whipping out of the old alley where people hanged their laundry. Of course, that would never happen according to mom. W-O-U-LD-N-E-V-E-R-H-A-P-P-E-N.Mom was being playful. She patted me gently as I lied sideway on the bed. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Those things are just cartoons. They are not real!â&#x20AC;? For most of the day, the circuit that switched on and off the connection between the world where I lived and the world Doraemon lived would be off. The pink teleportation door would open for only a split second of time, where threedimensionality and twodimensionality formed a bridge. Only I knew the exact timing, when the sun was about to dip. Mom kissed me on the cheek, a wet kiss leaving its wet mark, like the anchors Captain Flying Dutchman casted. I wiped it off.

there was a world far beyond the tight-knit confinement of our four quadrangle houses that define us who lived in it. The bridge that towered over the sky connecting the two worlds was fuzzy and transient like the rainbow after the shower, soon to be evicted by the sunlight as if it had never really existed. Most people like grandma don't believe in the world of cartoons. She squeezed that mentality firmly in her handjust like she did with Christianity with her one hand and with her other hand placing on her torn-out Bible. She paged through it like a cryptographer standing in front of an ancient Egyptian edifice, blowing off the dust that lay on top of it. For most people what was inscribed on the ancient Egyptian edifices was nothing but mumble jumble, and while embracing this idea with both their arms, they coined itto the stone to be remembered.

For the time being I thought that Cartoon for most of time was I was the only person with the key to knocked around like a boat caught up the treasure chest on my hand and in a storm, on the verge of being everybody else was oblivious, that sunken or casted thousands of miles

off its course if there were no lighthouses showing the path. For me and later I would find out many of those who together with me would be singled out as the community’s unruly descendants, watching cartoons became a gesture above its face value. Like watchmen standing on those lighthouses, we could see the boat rocking back and forth with our own eyes as it balanced precariously on the waves, ready to disintegrate into a million pieces. Yet its precariousness could only amplify the sound of its existence at the moment, the sound made in split seconds where the pink teleportation door swung open. Throwing ourselves into the world constructed by ninja like the world in the anime “Naruto,” or in the world where time-traveling was the reality in “Steins gate” made them more real to us. It was a step closer to an alternate reality left out of the majority’s book, a niche defined and shared solely by us. By the time I was in junior high and later in high school, I started to live on campus, away from home and from my parents and their world. It was in there that the subculture of

anime and cartoon really started to bloom with ferocious force among our adolescent and rebellious minds like a caged-tiger who found its prison door open.It would also begin to move from a single story and single memory to a kaleidoscope of sensations that swung wildly from its mild fairytale-like predecessors. It turned more charged and sensual with posters of flamboyant school boys and girls dressed up in their immaculately-conceived images, intense, fierce and almost psychopathically self-aware. As the school year wore on, its tremendous power started to close in on us, aligning every one of us to its format. It became a world that opened up and closed off to us at the same time. As if the guardsman of the checkpoints suddenly became too lazy to do his job and decided to just have the entrance open twenty-four seven instead of one hour per day, and as if the residents from the other world all of a sudden were given a crash course on how to get rich from shrewd real-estate brokers, they decided to upscale their properties, making them spicier, fancier, with more neon-lights and roller coasters and chain stores. While 60

tearing down the candy joints and grocery stores, they built from the smoldering rubbles arcades and souvenir shops. The alternate reality that used to be as frail as a boat tumbling on the waves became the waves themselves, carrying us on their backs, rushing endlessly forward towards somewhere. That moment was in itself exciting. Drowning in the world of cartoons was like riding on waves and being able to see other people doing the same thing. It became part of our identities as individuals tied with a bond that was both strong and weak, the strength being its specificity: the unquestionable love and loyalty towards a character whose attributes and personalities were not to be doubted in his circle of admirers. On the flip side, its weakness came to be equally jarring like the opposite poles of a magnet. As the world of cartoon fleshes out its skeletons, genres catering increasingly to more specific taste cropped up like boxes within boxes. Far back the world behind the pink door from Doraemon’s belly was

unknown to us. Now it became so over-labeled with jargons that it needs its own field of expert: Shoujo, Shounen, School Life, Slice of Life, Mystery, Action, Fantasy, Supernatural… The list goes on and on like different kinds of keys leading to different kinds of doors labeled with different names only those few could grasp. It turned itself into an alternate reality that was partitioned and compartmentalized. It pulls us together into its maelstrom and cuts us off into different strands, each belonging to a specific box, labeled, filled with barcodes and price tags. Overcome with the urge to belong to a group, we bought posters, dolls, CDs and shirts so we could be us, till a smaller box from the box was built and the cycle starts again. When the niche grows big enough, it grows out of its own definition and metamorphoses into another world. Like matrix from “The Matrix,” the world we used to look above became the world we now live in, choked with cartoons and anime, 61

costumes and theme-parks where experiences are bought and sold with hard cold cash. It was an irony that the dream world of cartoons and anime was piled up with cashes and premium packages and VIP cards. First come first serve, the old earthly and swanky Capitalism rang true even in dreams. The business of dream-making fleshed out the dream itself, giving it forms and boundaries and turnstiles to collect money, buy ticket. Hoho bellboy, let’s lead those in and kick those out. Hoho, let’s keep the amusement park on, twenty-four seven, twenty-four seven. You know what’s awesome about it? They keep coming back.

forever flamboyant. As years creep through and as spring passes to summer, to autumn, to winter, and then back to spring again, I found myself asking the same question: “What was I really looking for when I switched on TV for those seemingly forever-onlyone-hour moments?” It was the time when the world was yet to have conceived separate cartoon genres for boys and girls, genres with sexy girls being intimate with each other and with effeminate boys being intimate with each other. The world behind that tantalizing pink door was yet to have a shape and value. It was a clean slate waiting to be filled with possibilities, its shapelessness shaped in a form of “It will be great to travel far three wishes. Nobody really believed away,” said Captain Flying Dutchman. in god in China and yet people still He lifted the anchors and bellied out make wishes from time to time. There the sails. The wooden hulk creaked was magic in its formlessness, its past the bay like a convertible with capacity to take on infinite number of half of its engine left. The destination shapes, like the sky. In Doraemonone remains uncertain, but it may as well gadget stood out as the trademark of be the best outcome. Stay, said the the series, the bamboo-copter that manager of the amusement park, the allows characters to fly wherever they machine in Matrix, the flamboyant want to, away from the neighborhood schoolgirls and schoolboys who look that defined Nobita and his identity.

There werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t so many episodes that featured bamboo-copter and flying scenes but when there were I would stay by the televisions religiously waiting for that consummate moment to arrive. As I look back from hindsight it was as if the waiting itself rather than the content was arresting. There was youthful defiance in the air when I wiped away momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kiss, almost petulant. The world I saw

through the 4 pm gap became more real and more alive as it is simultaneously being rendered more transparent and illusory, like the distant star overshadowed by sun and cloud. Its inkling presence was and has always been deposited at the back of my mind, like a seed hoping to become a tree, a vine, a flower, a grass, anything imaginable.

I am a genius, Spotting out a hole in Obama’s shoes; In a party ofmelancholic untouchables, Attention Please… !!! God would drink bitter alcoholic soup today; All floating in cloud number 666, Orbiting in a group across the milky-ways. Kissing a cliffin the city ofrumors, We find our green earth; Looking more verdant again. Back there Osama has risen, From his grave today, To plant more saplings humane. Herein a haphazard time run, Across an extra-terrestrial mile in Pluto; We meet all dead cold souls, Living in an icy planet. Under Chaplin’s presidential rule, Hitler is one big fool here; Delivering sermons full ofjokes, Mandrake is a night watchman, Playing his magical bagpiper; To cast a spell ofbeautiful dreams.

All dead and static superheroes ofEarth, Live an ecstatic life ofsuper-cop here; Shielding the people and planet, From their innermost fears. Everyone is a master here, Taming their own slavish Soul; Living and dying at the same moment. It is a kingdom ofjesters, Where life breathes; On sarcastic humor, And playfulness is their personal pride. Hello and here I live again, Learning to crack a smile again; Sprouting my thoughts; To burst as laughter, Because nothing sustains in vain.

“Ronojoy stand up!” The words echoed in my ears, almost having a ringing effect of sorts. I made up my trademark pleading face but even before I could attempt to speak, PS shouted out, “Get out, you dirty prick…” Shaking off my lethargy, I stood up. This had become a daily routine for me. “Asshole!” I muttered under my breath. The mellifluous tune that I was humming in my head was lost as I heard another scream. “What! Master Ronojoy, did you say anything?” he roared, speaking in a typical archaic tone. Promothesh Sen, aka, ‘PS’. We called

him Police Station (you can guess why!) because of the air of authority he carried around himself; almost like a bio-suit. He hated defiance like any other teacher; I being one of such defiant boys always received his curses. “Did you say something, Ronojoy?” He inquired, staring queerly at my eyes through his big, black, round, primordial spectacles. I felt him almost gorge up my soul. “I was going out, as you asked,” was all I could muster at that moment.

After 40 minutes of agonizing pain in the Tiffin period

Someone grabbed me by my collar and my eyes met the same pair of eyes that had gorged a part of my Shilajeet: Man, I saw, rather I soul earlier- PS, the Coordinator in heard and saw, Devjeet deliberately charge of the whole floor our class was make a sound so you received PSâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on. Though getting caned was no good wrath-you have been getting that a lot after an exhausting session, Dev got recently. He wants to be in PSâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s good the exact same lashes as me and that books, I could clearly see. made me somewhat happy. Beaten, Me: I was watching Sujata broken and after four more classes and concentrate on Julius Ceaser, her locks three strenuous hours later, Shilajeet of hair disrupted her concentration; and I decided the day called for some she slowly removed the locks behind refreshments and refreshments meant her ear which I think isâ&#x20AC;Ś chilled beer and a few fags. My sentence remained incomplete, just like my love for her because no one could evoke such feelings when a quarrel was going in the class. Shilajeet was my best friend; we were men in arms, brothers from different mothers. He had already instigated Devjeet to fight and by the time I ran and went beside him, he had already taken a punch on his face. I jumped on Dev hitting him with random, arbitrary shots. He did not miss any opportunity to return the favor and I was hit a few times too.

At the bar Me: You took one for me, thanks man… Shilajeet: We’re brothers from different mothers man, I am sure you would do the same for me… Hard to tell, I would not have taken such an extreme step until necessary. Anyway, he took one for me and it was my duty to make him feel comfortable, and feeling comfortable only meant another bottle. Abhinav, Charan and Gokul joined us at the bar. I had already extracted extra hours from home saying I had a mock test at my tuitions and convinced my everworrying that mother I would come home late tonight. The penultimate show It was 7:47 pm and we all had time until 9:30, give or take ten to fifteen minutes, and we had to pass the time. As we were discussing about everyone’s theory of how to kill time, Gokul suddenly screamed out, “How about a C-grade movie trip to Chitrakatha?”Chitrakatha was famous for its B and C-grade movies and only the best of the best were shown there. No one could deny such a proposition after being pumped up with beer. Anyone would want to see a couple of juicy scenes from ‘Julia ki jawaani.’ It would be more than what anybody

could possibly demand for a thirtyfive rupee ticket. The penultimate show was from 8:00 pm and we had about enough time to buy ourselves the tickets. Our anticipation shot high as we saw the posters leading to the hall. These posters knew exactly how to target the audience by using steamy and juicy clothes revealing just the right amount of flesh. Propaganda used the right way. Tensed and full of fear, we managed to enter the hall, keeping detailed accounts of our surroundings. There was always risk involved, especially in places like this. D-1, D-2, D3, D-4 and D-5 were the seats allotted to us by the kind fare taker. The hall was dark and gloomy inside with classic ‘Vicco’ advertisements going on. As the five of us huddled into the little gaps in the arrangement of chairs offered, I handed out the strip of tickets to the ticket checker. Flashing the hand held torch he pointed out the fact that we were in the C-row and that our seats were in the D-row. As he flashed his torch for us to indicate the D-row, the torchlight fell on Promothesh Sen. He cowered in his seat and covered his face in shame and desperation. Bless Gokul because from that day onwards we were never punished!

It’s a masterpiece! Even though it’s not for the family audience, it has a lot of things to provide for. The word ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ came from a cage but someone who flew over it was none other than Jack Nicholson’s character McMurphy. It won all five major Oscars including Best Actor, Best Screenplay and Best Picture. It was based on a novel of the same name by Ken Kesey.

The plot is about a criminal who was sent to the mental asylum due to his depression as he also assaulted a girl. In the asylum, he attempted to escape along with his other inmates because literally he does not like to be in a cage. Will McMurphy be set free? Would he change the lives of his inmates?

It really made me emotional because it not only tells a story but also a view of the character. It creates the awareness that we all have a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Murphyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; inside us. We all want to be a free bird. All of us have mental illness as some of them are extreme. Therefore, even the people who usually watch commercial films will

like it because of the environment, the acting and the screenplay itself. What made me watch the movie is the screenplay and the acting with the best presentation of studying mental illnesses. The characters I loved-to-hate-to-love is Nurse Ratchet because as a nurse, she was hard but 70

watch the ending part that will make you sympathise with that character. Jack Nicholson, his performance reminded me of an old friend who was carefree, youthful and joyous who never overtly expressed his mental illness. One more character to mention is the chief whose acting is not only superb but also a part of a punch-line. But there is only an annoying character which everyone can relate to is Martini-delusional but lovable but in the second half, he was brilliant. All of them have done well.

Recommendation: • Forrest Gump • Pursuit of Happiness • It’s A Wonderful Life • The Terminal • Cast Away • Life is Beautiful

Yes, there were Bollywood remakes but it did not capture the charisma of the original but if that movie was remade today, it could have been much better. The movie itself is a personality that gave me the feeling of empathy with the characters. It is also one of the movies which helped me penetrate into the new environment of reality. It is a must watch for those who are tired of action movies and also for those who want to seek knowledge. 71

The very first time I saw her In deep crush with her Conditions became tough In making my dear feel my love. Morning wishes, evening calls Caught no attention Silly poems, crazy songs Always annoyed her Regular cosmetics, weekly facials Repeatedly irritated her My colorful dress scared her Cooling glasses boiled her Gifts and flowers fired her Bouquets bored her Proposals peeved her Foolish tricks grilled her Ultimately my pockets ended up nil With full ofbills, made me fall ill.

By Kavita Singh Date of Birth: 03.01.2004 Class VII

Kavita Singh My name is Kavita Singh. I read in class VII A. My school name is Kendriya Vidyalaya Ordanance Factory Dum Dum. My hobby is drawing and dancing. My aim in life is to become a doctor or dancer. My father’s name is Kanhaiya Singh. My mother’s name is Bibha Devi. My brother’s name is Himanshu Singh. 73

By Monalisa Dutta. CLASS: VII DATE OF BIRTH: 07.06.2000

Monalisa Dutta. My name is Monalisa Dutta. I read in class VII-A. My school name is Kendriya Vidyalaya Ordanance Factory Dum Dum. My hobby is drawing and painting. My father’s name is Tarun Dutta. My mother’s name is Mithu Dutta and my brother’s name is Rishav Dutta. 74

By Simran Roy

Hi! My name is Simran Roy. I am 14 years old. I study in class VIII in Kendriya Vidyalaya. My fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name is Barun Roy. My motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name is Aneeta Roy. I like to read story books. My hobby is singing and drawing. My aim of my life is to become a good scientist. My favourite cartoon is Doremon. I like to draw cartoons. The picture of fairy has been drawn by my own imagination. 75

By Sudarshana Banerjee Class足XI DOB足15 MAY 2001 HOBBY-Reading cartoon strips, drawing,playing chess and reading books etc.

By Anshuman Panday

Hi, I am Anshuman Pandey of class III. My Date of Birth â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 21/04/2007 My hobby is playing cricket, drawing, painting, reading story books, watching cartoons etc. Kendriya Vidyalaya O.F. Dumdum, Kolkata 700028 pushuveena@yahoo.co.in 77

By Barnali Roy My name is Barnali Roy. I read in class IX. I am from kendriya vidyalaya of Dum Dum my hobbies are drawing, singing, studying I mean reading historical books my favorites subjects are history, chemistry and biology . 78

By Neelabjo Pal Neelabjo Pal, a13 years old chap is obsessed with Badminton,though his favourite pastime is drawing and net surfing. He studies in class 8 and very interested in different cultures and food habits . He is indeed a great foodie. He is from City of Joy - Kolkata.

My head was spinning furiously like a top, the heart was pumping unbelievably fast and chest was pounding as it had been never before. I seemed to be riding through the jungle at top speed, frightening roars of ferocious lions and wolves were piercing my eardrums. I was taking sharp turns stuck in my bogy, feeling immensely sick and the only thing I kept thinking was “is this the end?” Suddenly bats came whizzing across the golden sky. It depicted a perfect scenario of the apocalypse. Ow! A sick moan slipped my tongue. "I cannot bear this!" I kept saying to myself.... ! I kept praying. Then suddenly, out of the blue, a jaguar with razorsharp glistening set of teeth lunged in front of the wretched and cranked bogy, but luckily it slipped aside at the last moment. But my worst nightmares turned true when a moment later, I heard a hiss. No! I screamed at the top of my

lungs. A giant rattlesnake prepared to attack me but I don’t know how and why but then, suddenly all the drama ended. Where was I? It was eerily dark around the room as I lumbered to an illuminated crevasse which I’d spotted soon. I wanted freedom. I wanted life but then, a young lad came over, took something off my eyes and then the whole drama unfolded and I realized my innocent mistake as I saw some young boys waiting in line for their turn.“Hey! I shouldn't have paid to watch this bollocks. Seriously! A waste of precious time.” I said out loud as I pretended that I thought it was silly but in reality, I got heck of a scare, but in a 3D motion ride! I came out of the 3D ride and out to the open air... Aaah… Yeah! I really paid twenty bucks to watch this but now I am frightened, I mean really frightened!

Upender Reddy Kanukula (Hyderabad, India) Short BioI am Upender Reddy Kanukula, 26 years, a banker by profession working for a Public sector bank in Hyderabad. I recently found this new passion for writing. Apart from writing poems and lyrics, singing is what I do whenever I get time. I may not ride a bullet But my thoughts race like a rocket Useless wearing a helmet Because my ideas hit you like a comet My obsession with the alphabet Turned me into a poet All I need is a little kismet For me to pocket The whole planet

I would like to share a quote which I penned about life. Life starts with a tinkle Ends with a wrinkle In between it’s all twinkle

After the completion of my graduation, I was totally free doing nothing. One day a friend of mine invited me for lunch at his home. While we friends were seriously indulged in talking, my eyes fell on the books in the shelf. One of them was “Are you afraid of the dark?" by Sidney Sheldon. I picked it up from the shelf as the title was catchy and immediately told my friend that I was taking this novel with me. He said yes. After I reached home I started reading it and to my surprise I started loving the novel, a feeling I haven't experienced earlier. I always had wrong notions when it came to reading books. I thought people who read books are worthless. And what kind of satisfaction or enjoyment do they get reading books, I used to wonder. But once I started reading novels I was totally intrigued and engrossed in them. I could visualize every scene described and I started living in a different world. I almost travelled with every character I had read in a novel. It’s a wonderful feeling."Books are man’s best friend" is hundred percent right I felt. The more you read the better you write. Reading books widens your thinking and it was the major reason behind my writing. If books wouldn't have come into my life I wouldn't have written anything.After reading novels a voice in me awakened and I started writing. And I never looked back. 84

To write better,I thought of writing every day. I wrote a small paragraph on how my day went. After I completed writing it, I shared it with few of my close friends and was appreciated. Their words really made a difference. The appreciation motivated me to write more and made me discover a writer in me. I would like to share that work with you. I walked all the way from my room to the central bus-stand. It's already 8. 45 and I'ld be late to the office for sure. To my surprise the bus was pulled into the stand at nine. I got into the bus and just looked aroundfor a vacant seat; I finally found one beside an old man and I propped up on the cushion. I was 40 minutes late to office. With a smile on my face I greeted the manager. He said, 'Wow! Man!Surprise visit eh? I was thinking about you. ' Did you?’ I thought to myself. We spoke about the opening ofa new shopping mall and finally he left the cabin. I stayed back. After few minutes, I too left the cabin and went to the manager who sat at the counter and asked him, “Shall I go out to canvass??” He said, “What will you get ifyou go out?” I asked ifhe had any internal work with me. He just went into a long silence. . . . Finally I decided to sit in the branch itselfand watch the rumpled faces ofour staff.

I thought of writing everyday but somehow I couldn't write. To my surprise I started writing poems on my phone; mostly rhyming poems with an idea behind it. It was summer season and the sun was blazing. I started to sweat and there wasn't any air at all. This particular incident has touched my heart and these words popped in my head. Air oh! Air.. That's how I wrote my first poem:

Air Oh! Air Though you there Have become so rare Air Oh! Air You don't care? It's unfair Do spare Be fair

During summers hot winds blow and life seems to be pathetic for all of us. Drenched in sweat and dehydrated. At that point of time all we want is cool breeze to touch our soul and make us happy. I wanted to convey the same through my poem. I write because it's my passion. I want to bring a change in people around me. Anything in the environment can trigger my mind to write. It may be an ant,a pen, papers fluttering,a movie, emotions etc. Initially I started writing on whatever I felt to write. Later I used to ask my friends to send an image/a scene/ a theme on whatsapp. I took it as a challenge and started writing on them. I never knew that I could write poems on images. Later I started a blog calledvoiceurmind.wordpress.com

and started posting poems. My work has really got a good response. Readers thoroughly enjoyed my poems and their comments really motivated me to write better.Writing is something which "doesn't happen to everyone". And when it happens it opens up new avenues in our life.It's a pleasure to see your creativity in the papers. Helps you cheer up and also makes a reader feel all the emotions through words. Bringing Change in them in a way, while a lot in us in many ways. 86

Mrs. Praveen Gola is an online Freelance Writer and Journalist for the last three years. As writing is her passion she always tries to provide something new and unique to her readers. Poetry is her hobby and she always tries to eliminate the society evils through her poetic version so that a common man too can understand the same and follow it. She writes "Shayari" for the youngsters so that they can overcome from their depressed Love. Three men were speaking, Under the influence ofliquor , The first said, "Ramu broke the finger ofShamu . . . . . . . I chanted the mantra and joined the same . " Another said, "Lallu broke the hand ofkallu . . . . . . . . . I joined the same without chant any mantra . " Now the third waved his tongue, "Why do you speak like a kid brother?" Just telling you a story ofyesterday . . . . . . . . . . a live commentary ofthat day , Trains were crossing on the railway line , Trains were coming and going . . . . . . . . . . . . going and coming , Suddenly Mr. Guard saw a buffalo. . . . . Ohh Yes . . . . . . . . . . a buffalo , was stuck between the railway lines , and the problem was too large , Mr. guard was a kind person , and a stout one from body too , so he left to save the buffalo , at last the buffalo cut , and so Mr. Guard too , all the spectators got shocked at once , and the color oftheir faces went off, when the upper part ofMr. Guard and the bottom part ofbuffalo rejoined automatically , Now a days Mr. Guard looks like a Cartoon yaar , In the morning hours he hoisted the flag in front ofthe trains , and in the evening he lactates five litre milk to the villagers.

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 issue a year. 9- Our long term dream is to publish unpublished writers, please do your best to provide us with your best work. It may go to the printed version of our Magazine. 10- Our publishers MOPH are determined to publish the print versions of your novels too. If you have a novelist in you please send us the summary of your novel for publishing it in the online version of our magazine. If our editors and critics like your novel we will send it to our publishers for printing it free of cost. 11- By sending your manuscript to us you simply give us the right to publish it in our magazine. You continue to own the rights of your work in your name and Reflection does not make any claim or restriction on the ownership of your work.