ASHVAMEGH… the literary flight!

2016

http://ashvamegh.net

January 2016 (Issue XII)

1/15/2016

ASHVAMEGH… the literary flight!

ISSUE XIIJanuary

1

ABOUT US: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

Ashvamegh

New Delhi, India

[email protected], +91 9709949971

Editorial Board on Ashvamegh:

Alok Mishra (Editor-in-Chief) Murray Alfredson (Sr. Editor) Dr. Shrikant Singh (Sr. Editor) Vihang Naik (Sr. Editor) Puja Chakraborty (Editor) Munia Khan (Editor) Dr. Sarada Thallam (Sr. Editor) Leilanie Stewart (Editor) Ravi Kumar (Editor) Ravi Teja (Editor) Charles McKinney (Editor)

Advisory Panel on Ashvamegh: Dr. Swarna Prabhat Ken W Simpson N. K. Dar Alan Britt

Ashvamegh is an online international journal of literary and creative writing. Publishing monthly, Ashvamegh has successfully launched its tenth issue in November 2015 (this issue). Submission is open every day of the year. Please visit http://ashvamegh.net for more details.

Find Ashvamegh on

Facebook Twitter Website

2

Table of Contents: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

What is inside to read?

Cover

About us

Table of contents

Editorial

Poetry Section

Short Stories Section

Interviews Section

Book Reviews Section

Find Ashvamegh on


3

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016From Alok Mishra

We have completed one year as an online literary magazine; this is our 12th issue! This one

sentence, though complex or combined (you are free to choose), has given me immense pleasure

as I have written it. When we started, some people personally told me that this effort would go

unnoticed and eventually in vain. Others tried to persuade me to make the journal a 'twice a year'

venture; so many other suggestions knocked my way. I took all them and yes, I had thought about

all of those suggestions. However, do you, as a reader or writer, think that the place that world is

offering today to the creative writers to display their creativity is adequate? At least to me, the

answer was, is and will be - no! I continued Ashvamegh as a monthly journal and thanks to our

contributors, readers and general viewers who kept the flame ablaze. Today, we have successfully

published 12 complete issues of Ashvamegh and thrive for more.

I recently came across a very motivational message of John Cena, a professional wrestler. "A long

road becomes shorter with every step. #nevergiveup #HLR." And he is right; the more steps you

advance, the shorter your destination is from you! I have come across a variety of writers and

authors throughout this one year journey. Through the interviews, I had the fortunate opportunity

to know more about writing and the flux of creativity. In this issue, you will get to read interviews

with Sydney Lea (the poet laureate of Vermont), Larry Woiwode (poet laureate of North Dakota)

and Apryl Baker (the New York Times bestseller author).

I congratulate all the authors and poets selected for the XIIth issue. Not only XIIth issue, also a

remarkable issue of Ashvamegh! I hope for your support and love in the future as well. Keep the

literary flight always at height!

Happy New Year to all of you!

Alok Mishra

Editor-in-Chief

4

Poetry Section: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

Who are the poets selected in Issue XII of Ashvamegh?

Mothi Bai

Ghulam Mohammad Khan

Kuldip Sinh D Jadeja

Shweta Sur

Rachana Pandey

Rishamjot Kaur

Beegam Rushda

Find Ashvamegh on


5

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016

Poem by Mothi Bai K. S.

MY VOICES

Oh! Mighty wind

You mighty laudable wind,

with an unbearable power boundless,

that uproots ever grown colossal tree,

a symbol of home for innumerable lives,

alike human expresses sudden anger

that suppresses innocent creatures

without a pinch of soothing mercy

topple down the fortune of human world .

But ,you, like Shelley’s west wind

an up lifter of dying vegetation

to the sudden spurt to twigs

calming them with tender drops

spreading hopes to each dependent

leaving behind every ill-will.

so, I adore ,worship and pray you

to sustain your placidness recoil

in endearing all the warm wishes.

6

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Dazzling Pelicans

I swayed languishly as a swollen cow

that strolls on the narrow muddy road.

bewildering all at once from my drowsiness,

I saw a dazzling host of silvery Pelicans

floating in the greenish lake before the building.

Diving in, floating on and soaring high over water

of the glorious world as the bunches of flowers

that bloom and blossom in varied shapes.

They huddled together hither and thither

amid the rustling leaves of huge woods.

Countless in a bunch of milky- white balloons

saw I at once, swaying to and fro In a lively dance

as the breeze blows the glimmering , glaring

Pelicans in glee mesmerized me to be in ecstatic

In such a glamarous romantic landscape

I watched and watched ,but never failed to deem

‘What pleasure the scene to me had brought !’

Often I would watch the scene

with an inward eye to muse

about the magical wonder

7

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 My LIFE IN A DEN

A shriek of dread gave I out

as I woke up from my slumber in a den,

not a heaven, but another cosmos

of fairy beasts ,birds and beings

among where nothing resembled my mother

in whose laps I dozed off.

Oh! Mother, shiver I severely in fear

of loneliness, a routine marathon,

to see you who haunts treasure

that dims my pleasure of freedom.

Oh! Mother, I feel, my feeble voice

is choked as I struggle to speak

to fairies dumb and deaf .

but I yearn to hear motherly tone

thrilling, tantalizing with blisses.

Oh ! mother, adjusting to the artificial world

I have learnt to eat dry salty bread crumbs.

I have learnt to drink juice or readymade milk,

I have learnt to sleep with the toys around .

I have learnt to sacrifice my innocent pleasure

of golden life for my modern globalized mother.

8

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Introduction to the Poet:

She is an assistant professor of English working in Vivekananda degree college in

the dept. of English. She has MPhil, PGDTE, Senior Dip. In German and she

Has submitted her Ph.D thesis on Woman characters in Karnad’s plays to The

Dravidian University, Kuppam. She has completed 25 years of service. She has

written more than 50 poems in English and they are being published on E-

journals.

9


A Smiling Portrait of Her Face

By – Ghulam Mohammad Khan

As darkness swaddles earth in her bosom

I feel wading wings of time

Waving sweet aromas into my soul,

Drifting it like a kite,

Against the fleecy clouds.

My heart, overflowing with memories past

Recounting the intricacies of your love,

A smiling portrait of your face

Your tresses clad in a scarf,

The velvet-texture of your countenance

And deep down in the depths of shimmering eyes,

I find the interpreter of my soul.

And the curves of thine eyes like a blade,

Tear into my heart.

I see the ‘words’ melting into your eyes,

Weaving a language of its own.

I find my soul wandering in their infinity.

Your face, an interminable expanse of bliss,

I sailed and sailed, lost in its eternal calm.

And I thought...

Nature has chiselled it with great care.

10


It is Raining in Kashmir

It is raining in Kashmir,

Nature’s fury is flowing,

In the ugly rage of Jehlum.

Sweet Spring songs and all those magical birds,

Nor seen, nor heard.

The drowned, deserted streets,

The pools, ponds, and puddles,

The white frozen cliffs, the gory dark clouds,

The trembling new-born greens,

The cold indifferent breeze, the calm listless trees,

Somewhere the ‘conventional’ gun shots,

Somewhere the usual wails and groans.

Come to my erstwhile, forgotten paradise,

And see the eternal anguish in frozen time.

You will see and you will feel,

My soul has suffered long under this suffocating siege.

Like a baby crying for some sweet,

I pleaded the sun to shine on us

My wail drowned somewhere in yonder cloud.

Come to my erstwhile, forgotten paradise,

And call out the sun shine for us.

11


Introduction to the Poet:

Ghulam Mohammad Khan belongs to the state of Jammu and Kashmir and

is currently pursuing PhD at Central University of Haryana, India. He loves

writing poems and articles in English and has an interest in literature.

12


Poems by Kuldip Sinh D Jadeja

Alone

Alone I was and alone I am,

Alone I am destined to remain.

The Supreme Being, being my comrade,

I need no mortal to be happy and glad.

Fear can frighten me no more,

Darkness dread me not any more,

For light is waiting for eternal light,

Having the sight of light so bright in sight.

Now I fear not doom impending,

I remorse not, ceased repenting.

For destiny has destined the destined fruits,

As per deeds, I did and seeds I saw in field.

13


Trust in Love

Trust in love, but a vessel full of milk,

Just a drop of sour lime,

Or any drop of sourish type,

Will result in the same,

And will make it a game.

Then try not to purify,

For all attempts will be in vain.

As no filter can filter it,

And trust will be ceased to be it.

Play not the game, for defeat is certain,

For love's, but a game, wherein

Either both win, or both lose.

Trust in love, but a vessel full of milk,

Handle with care, beware the tartish.

Be a true lover or love not at all,

For once broken the glass, no one can repair,

And thread, if broken, forever a tie knot will it bear.

14


Introduction to the poet:

Mr. Kuldipsinh D. Jadeja Bhimkatta has been

working as a lecturer in English at C. U. Shah

University, Wadhwancity, Gujarat, India.

Indian English Literature, English Language

Teaching, Translation studies, and Comparative

Literature are his areas of interest. He has been

constantly doing experiments and researches in

his areas of interest to contribute to the fields.

He has presented research papers in many

seminars and conferences and published the

same in different international journals. Above

all he is a student and worshiper of literature,

committed to relish and appreciate the priceless

gems of Literature written in different

languages. He writes poems in English and

Indian Languages and he has translated poems and short stories from Indian Languages to

English and English to Indian Languages. His poems and translations have been published in

different magazines and journals.

15


Poems by Shweta Sur DREAMY REALITY

Uncompromising Life, what do you want me to do? Like a river you change, I am mere a Boat owner, hold me! Where are you taking me to? Oh, I see some roads, Many roads,

Each leading to an untold destination… Please lead me the way... This bare foot has enough pricked by the thorns. You must be the essence of A basketful of Bougainvillea For this place Smells of

Human Jealousy& hatred. Open the gates of peace, Beauty, truth and Love will gush into our Barren land. Thirsty Earth & Humans!!! Blushful Life, Replenish us!!

16


BONDS Selfless, lovely, pretty Bonds, of human, With human.. Of a lover with his lover, Of a Tree with its leaf, Of a Child with its sleep, Bonds of trust, Bonds of Faith... Wait and Feel! One can see beyond reality, Bonds are a Blessed Entity. Earth is a Good place, As long as we have here still----The Bonds.

Introduction to the Poet: Shweta Sur is currently pursuing her MA in English Literature at Tezpur Central University, Assam. She has a keen interest in writing poetry. She also enjoys reading the works of other poets and writers.

17


Poem by Rachana Pandey

“I and They”

They called me traditionalist and conservative

When I follow the path of my elders

as if they were always wrong

And I started feeling ashamed of myself!

They called me emotional and extra sensitive

as if it is unnatural and weak to express loud

And I started hiding my emotions and opinions!

They called me a typical girl

And I started behaving like a tomboy,

having ‘masculine qualities’ and devoid of feminine weaknesses!

They started calling me a male in a female body

And I felt proud and uncomfortable simultaneously!

They laughed at me and called me a ‘feminist’ sarcastically

And I became skeptical towards my perceptions,

ideology and sensitivity towards women’s questions!

And at last, I found myself passive,

devoid of the SELF!

Then I decided not to bother what ‘they’ say.

18

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 They called me a ‘traditionalist’

And I will follow my ideas, anyway.

They called me a typical girl

And I will celebrate being ME, anyway.

I am not going to imitate others anymore

And I will celebrate and cherish my body, my soul.

They called me a feminist

And I will not stop working and presenting my opinions

on women’s questions until the change for betterment comes,

anyway.

They called me emotional and extra sensitive person

And I will not stop expressing myself anyway

And I will not stop expressing myself anyway…

A Brief note about the Poet:

She is a Senior Research Fellow (SRF) in the department of English at

Banaras Hindu University and her research areas are Indian English

drama, women and gender studies. She has been engaging classes at

Centre for Women’s Studies and Development (CWSD) at BHU for four

years (2011-2015). She has published some insightful research papers in

different journals like Muse India, Ashvamegh and Literary Quest.

19


Poems by Rishamjot Kaur

Paradise

"Blissful seat can be in halycon

Decide to be profound at heart"

"Assert all supreme art

Celestial light can be in your life"

"To make ourselves sovereign

Forget all grief of life"

"Heavenly chronicle cannot be told

"Oh thou don't vindicate miller"

If meditation of adventurous"

"Like boughs can make marvelous

No region to mournful gloom"

"May thou be aware of doom

So make your life cheerful

Do not make chronicle of tearful"

20

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Pilgrimage cycle

Chimes waving in breeze,

O lord, men freeze.

You are the puppet of grime

Stint can be fewer zest shrine

Recitation of you can be yours,

With you the moments will be few

Not monstrous stint go for sabath

O open the fountain of heart to reach the path

O men don't shudder by humped dry

Tear stuffed time of desolate don't cry!

21

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Introduction to the poet:

Rishamjot Kaur Sangha graduated in English. Currently pursuing MBA (hr),

she belongs to Jandu Singha (Jalandhar). She gets inspiration from her

grandfather who was a journalist. Her elder brothers & mother encouraged

her a lot. She draws inspiration from her father whom she lost at an early age.

Her brothers are much dear to her. Poetry is her passion. She published 3

poems in college magazines. She writes what she observes. With that, she gets

peace of mind. According to her – stand up again if you fall ever.

22

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 RE-INCARNATE

Memory Hammock

A rival of madness

A stench of pain

And a fragrance of gain

Under the trees

Below concreted roofs

With my lily buds

A time of togetherness

With intoxicating insanity

A time of alienation

Among the same species

A time of make beliefs

Bibled criticisms

Celebrated jokes

Every little thing was nourishment

To a seed in me....

That germinated by time

Rooted strong in the soil

Soil of indebted island-ness

Soil of rich friction

To breathe in a new life

Like a wand swished

A spell decoded

Quite unique

Unique to a world

Around me.

23

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 About the Poet:

Beegam Ruhda Ameen P M S was born on august 20 1990 in

manjeri, a town in Malappram district, Kerala. She completed her

schooling in a well reputed CBSE school in the city. She graduated

from Calicut University and got her post graduation from

IGNOU. Presently working as an Assistant Professor in

Department of English at Priyadarshini Arts and Science college in

the same district. She is a great lover of music and literature.

24

Stories Section: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

Who are the authors selected in Issue XII of Ashvamegh?

Sowmya Rajkumar

Sanjoy Dutt

Find Ashvamegh on


25


Justice Personified

By – Sowmya Rajkumar

The “Periya Veedu” is very famous not only for its colossal looks but for the surreal tales

surrounding it. The Sivapuram village had 6 bus services a day. But to reach the tenements of

commoners a 2-mile hike was daily routine. The residents had learnt the art of self-sufficiency,

bartering with each other for all daily requirements.

Electricity was not unheard of though it lit only the bungalow. Mobile companies never saw the

reason to venture business into this small sustainable community. The only known telephone was

in the bungalow.” Ayya “, the village headwas a man of few words and it was better that way as his

words normally meant peril. It was difficult to say if it was his looks or his deeds that instilled

terror.

Neelima though was from a traditional Indian family, was born and brought up in the US and

both Arjun and Neelima were professionals. But Arjun was emotionally shaken by the sudden

break up note and disappearance of his then girlfriend and when God had sent Neelima in his life

he felt so blessed and they clicked naturally. Arjun never once wanted to come back because of the

primitive conditions and his father’s attitude but his mother’s failing health had its own emotional

repercussions in compelling him to do so. Neelima was all excited like all NRIs born and raised

abroad, to visit an Indian Village which belonged to another world and time. Also she had read

somewhere that the goddess temple near the village could help her sire a child which was a dream

despite the innumerable advanced treatments they both underwent in the past 5 years.

Their car screeched to a halt when a very old puny figure crossed the road. The driver started

abusing and Neelima was jerked awake. It was almost nearing 04.00 AM by the time they reached

the outskirts of the village. Arjun jus peeped and the silence was pierced by a menacing laugh” End

will near soon” the old almost doll like woman looked straight at Neelima while shouting this , let

out another cold piercing laugh and disappeared into the cane fields.

Neelima was visible shaken at this scene like out of a horror movie. Arjun was afraid that she was a

very sensitive soft personality and may have been disturbed. He reserved his counseling and found

it better not to start a conversation at this point.

The car sailed smoothly into the gates of the bungalow. Esaki the servant opened the door and

Neelima alighted, the sight could be described only as pure elegance. Clad in a emerald green silk

sari, adorned in light golden ornaments her almond skin gleamed in the early morning sun. The

welcome party excluded Ayya but Arjun was not concerned.

Arjun rushed upstairs to see his mother’s room while Neelima marveled whatever she saw but was

shaken by the resilience of the people around. A hundred roving eyes surveyed quickly her but no

words were uttered.

26


Lakshmi Ammal once considered the banyan tree of this house lay tired and drifting in and out of

consciousness. Arjun could not bear the sight and cursed his father for deciding not to move her to

US for better care. He was a very stubborn man.

An unfamiliar voice reprimanded him from trying to wake her. “She is under sedatives, let her

rest”, curt but stern. Even in this situation he could not help but notice her voluptuous figure and

though not great but desirable looks. Mind gets partitioned to entertain itself when under stress he

reminded himself quickly.

“Who are you?”

“Ranjini, She is her care taker and doctor sir” the chamber maid replied.

Without another word he stormed out of the room.

Neelima was awe struck by the kind of service she got. The domestic help was acting nothing short

of her slave, she would even jump from the terrace on orders. Standing from the Balcony she

could see the vast paddy fields surrounding the house glittering like gold in the rising sun. The

thought of the incident in the morning kept haunting her. But she did not wanted to bother an

already troubled Arjun. One thing certainly disturbed her, all the people working in the field never

once looking up from the work and there was no talking. This was nothing like the cheerful

atmosphere she had seen in the movies.

“What is your name” she asked her chamber maid. The rugged guy looking like a body guard

passed a glance but the maid never replied. Once the guard was out of sight she whispered in a low

voice; “I’mBommi and added never speak only hear the end is near” and left quickly. Now

Neelima was petrified and wanted to see Arjun at once. She was told he went to visit all his

relatives and she could rest after food.

The whole day was spent in silence and confusion. Arjun returned late at night and Neelima was

sound asleep exhausted…. He looked upon the innocent form of his sweetheart and not wanting to

disturb her snuck into the bed quietly.

The next day’s prayers in the house temple were peaceful. Arjun never once spoke to Ayya. Arjun

could not answer Neelima when she enquired as to why the antechamber of the temple was closed.

When they were dispersing for lunch suddenly a tattered middle aged lunatic ran to grab Ayya by

collar. He was swiftly hit severely and packed off by Ayya’s henchmen. Neelima noted him

screaming throughout “Give us back all you took, the end is near”.

She was decisive to discuss this with Arjun today. When she brought the topic up during the

evening stroll he swiftly waved her off saying they are leaving the next day. She could see the

people still working in the field but never uttering a single word, strange very strange.

27


Arjun was sleeping light and could not resist but peek through the window at the rustling noise in

the woods. He moved to the rear balcony for a better look. The two female figures were clear, the

thin one could be one of his servants and the voluptuous was the doctor? Not far from the house

he noticed Bommi and the doctor talking with 3 men, a full moon night was good for a clear view

he thought. The clock struck two. After a swift internal argument his decision was to leave this

place swiftly and settle back into his peaceful life.

However he never noticed the phone call made by the woman.

The day dawned with a wailing noise of the Chamber Maid, Ayya’s ferocious Blood Hound lay

slaughtered in the courtyard. A note written in blood read “The end is near”. Ayya never accepted

Arjun’s decision to call the police, he feared his dominance and the faith of the people would be

shaken. This never even made Arjun think twice before calling his Classmate, ACPRam from

Coimbatore.

Arjun was in a fix to stay or to leave. Surprisingly Neelima coaxed him to stay and resolve as said

she understood his love towards Lakshmi Amma. He could not describe what he felt for her was

pity, love, lust or guilt at this point but he felt warm in her embrace.

Ram was a charming man, late twenties almost 6. Something… Tan skin fit. Never once in plain

clothes his baby face and flirty demeanor could let people guess his profession. Ram had taken this

as a personal assignment for two reasons, this was not his judistriction and not to disturb the so

called calm as claimed by Ayya. He requested the local inspector to be involved.

The scene was unusually surreal. Ayya was disturbed but not shaken, Arjun wanted answers,

Neelima was shaken and never once stepped out of her room and the rest were trying to pretend

going through their routine. Arjun had briefed Ram on his opinions and the scene he witnessed

yester night from the balcony. Alas Ram being a true Taurus was never opinionated and weighed

each situations based on facts only and nothing ever escaped his observation.

As expected the weapon was never found but Ram did the usual, he preserved the note walked the

grid and spoke to the maid who was the first witness. Nothing more came up than the obvious.

The village watched with awe the first police Jeep after the British rule…. Inspector Kabilan did the

usual, sent the note to forensics and the body to autopsy. This would have been filed as one

amongst the thousand cases but for Ram’s involvement. Ranjani refused to give finger prints stating

she was in a lifesaving profession. She has to be reminded of the law. But what made Ram most

thoughtful was that no one ever spoke a word unless permitted and Ayya refused a search of his

room without a warrant. Even Arjun could not coerce him to change his decision.

She marveled at her father’s intelligence and being very precise in his detailing. The route was

perfect, the tunnel from Ayya’s room exactly filled one person and here she is in the permanently

locked sanctum of the goddess looking at what all eyes in her family craved to see for generations.

28


It was startling for Ram to find that the house and the fields were not with Ayya’s family three

generations back. It belonged to the last Chera Raja until 1840. The registrar informed that it was

bequeathed as a gift to Ayya’s great grandfather, Somasundara Ayya by the king for fighting the

British though the king was himself mortally wounded and dying when he gifted. The temple was

closed on the day Somasundara Ayya took over as the Jamindar stating that the famine was caused

by the direct vision of the deity in the temple and incidentally after the closure the harvest

improved to instill the thought strongly in everyone’s’ minds.

Ram was shaken from this thoughts by the sudden ringing of his mobile. Arjun? Again? It was only

7.00 in the evening .The news was shocking even for his experience in this field. Ayya was killed

the same way as the hound and Neelima was missing, presumable kidnapped. Ranjani was also

nowhere to be found. The same note was in both places, the end is near. Almost at the same time

a message from the doctor read that the autopsy revealed that the cut was skillfully done with a

scalpel and only a trained professional could do this. Ram thought he has solved the case at once

but Neelima was missing and when something was obvious something was amiss.

The leader of the upcoming revolutionaries Prabhu got the news when he was at his kalari, martial

arts practice. He could never comprehend what went wrong, they had planned to kill Ayya on

Pournami only and that was tomorrow. This would be the punishment Ayya and his family

deserved for enslaving them for 150 long years. His girlfriendBommi easily lured the doctor from

city with sizable smuggled gold to kill Lakshmi Amma a bit a day with slow poisons. He felt pity for

Lakshmi Amma but when there is wasrpersonal feelings never exist.

The whole village was busy harvesting and upon hearing the news had gathered outside the

courtyard. Arjun was almost going mad on his decision to come here. The note read like a puzzle

that the she was resting peacefully in her mother’s lap and will reveal herself on the luminous night.

A search of every corner available revealed that the leader of so called rebels Prabhu and Bommi

were missing and she was his girlfriend. The checkposts were alert. Hours past and no one ever

left the courtyard. Ram was convinced that Prabhu, Bommi and Ranjini would be captured within

hours, But Neelima’s safety? He could not handle Arjun and something needed to be done soon.

Prabhu and Bommi were snuck in the remote cave on the hills not understanding one bit of what

transpired in the last hours. Arjun was confused whether to grieve his father or search his wife and

prayed that this all be a dream and he will be out of this soon, mind was a weird creature. Ram was

in the temporary control room set up in the house to monitor any movement at the check point.

Ranjani’s thoughts disturbed him even in this situation, mind self-relaxing under stress or stubborn

women are always attractive to strong minded men?

The confused calm was torn at 03.15 AM by the same shrieking laugh. Arjun immediatelyrushed

to the balcony, the puny figure was clear in the full moon night. She said in the local dialect, “The

end is here moon is the proof then and now. Go to the mother of all” and she started walking

toward the sanctum of the Goddess temple.

29


Arjun and Ram ran to keep pace with her and immediately understanding her looks, Ram told

Arjun to break open the lock of the Sanctum.

The second was historical, the lock have way to 5 muscular men and 20 minutes of pounding. Eyes

wide, loud gasps, numerous wails and the doors opened to an empty sanctum, no Goddess

anywhere. It to sometime for even the ever observant Ram to notice the scripture engraved in the

wall and the note stuck to the wall. The base of the non – existing deity was a gaping hole leading

to stairs, the opening of a tunnel.

The note proclaimed itself to be a translation of the carving and took them back to 1847, freedom

struggle was in the high and being famous for its lush nature and beautiful women attracted many

British. The king was one of the few who refused to heed the rule and the British was waiting for

their time. Saravanan was the king’s personal guard had never once flinched to keep his head on

the guillotine if it was the question of the king or his safety. His wife and son came second he said.

The king also relied greatly on the intelligence of Somasundara Ayya,Saravanan’sbest friend and

the army chief to win battles. That fateful day when the British made a full on attack was

devastating.

To cut a long story short the war was won with Saravanan’s might and the king though mortally

wounded gave the first order to sculpt the fact that the village and surrounding areas are

bequeathed to Saravanan for saving his territory and winning the war. The sculpting served as the

proof and needs to be done immediately. Within hours the wall was ready and the palace doctor

had predicted the king not to live beyond days. The coming full moon day was fixed to unveil this

secret known only to the king, saravanan and the sculptor.

On the fateful day Saravanan went to Somasundaram Ayya’s chamber to deliver the good news.

The loving hug turned fatal when the knife plunged into Saravanan’s back, taken over by greed the

devil took his full form. Bribing the doctor and the sculptor with death threats as alternatives

completed the task. Taking a finger print from the deceased King was easy to fake the documents

and the sanctum was permanently sealed carrying the untold truth. In all the fury Saravanan’s son

who witnessed his father’s killing from behind the pillar clutching his ball was not noticed;neither

the fact that the body was recovered but the plunged knife was never found.

The young kid of 12 never once forgot the betrayal and eloped and toiled through the chapters of

life to finally end up in the USA as a doctor. The fire in the heart was passed on and two

generations later the family was gifted with a beautiful girl child, Neelima.

The note continued to translate the sculpting in the wall in detail and that as the rightful owner now

Neelima is setting the village free.

Arjun Froze, Ram was shaken and people did not know how to celebrate their new found

freedom. The old woman had vanished.

30


On hitting the airport, she disposed off the blood drenched knife after clicking a picture. The knife

was now drenched in the blood of killed and the killers heredity. Justice Prevailed.

But somewhere along this whole ordeal she had fallen for Arjun. She would live with his

impression, alive and growing within her for the rest of her life. This is our little secret she told her

tummy.

31


Homeless

By – Sanjoy Dutt

A thick coil of smoke from the steam engine was visible in the far horizon. The train loaded with

coal for the power plant came closer. The train slowed down on the tracks as it climbed up the hill.

We had to risk our lives to climb onto the moving train, fill our sacks and drop them before the

train moved too far away. My sister ran alongside the train below and collected our bags. The coal

kept our ovens burning and traded to buy food. There were many children like us. I was ten and

my sister eleven.

My father was a respected school teacher and our family was happy in Dhaka. One day I heard my

father and uncle talking about the changes Bangladesh, in those days called East Pakistan, was

going through. ‘Razakar’s’, the pro-Pakistani volunteers, along the Pakistani Army unleashed a

reign of terror against the freedom fighters.

“The country is too unstable, I am thinking about leaving.” My uncle told Dad. “Razakar’s are

destroying temples and raping Hindu women with the help of the Army. It’s getting worse every

day. I am moving to India soon. Come with us.”

My Father was sentimental and did not want to leave. He told my uncle, “I am not prepared to

leave my country and my ancestor’s house.”

32

Within a few days, my uncle and many others sold all they had and left for India. Things got

worse with each passing day. News of mass killing and rape by the army was heard every day.

Anyone associated with the liberation movement was tracked down and killed.

One day, my father returned home with a horrific look on his face. The Razakar’s came with the

soldiers and pulled all the teachers and students out accused of supporting the liberation

movement. They were forced to dig their own graves before they were killed. The others ordered

to bury them. That day father was nervous about our family’s security and changed his mind. It was

too late.

There was no time to sell our house; we took what we could carry. After a tiring journey in the

rain, we reached the Indian border. We had to pay heavy bribes to the security forces to let us slip

by and left with little money to start a new life in India. There were thousands just like us.

We went to a refugee camp close to the Indo-Bangladesh border. At the camp, thickly populated

with migrants, there was no drinking water, electricity or sanitation facilities. The rains and dirt

brought flies and mosquitoes. Soon a cholera epidemic broke out in the camp and hundreds died

including my father. The vaccines and good water from charity groups arrived, but too late for him.

33

Our resources were shrinking each day, mom had to take up work as a laborer in a brick factory.

The nearest school was seven miles away and there was no money to buy books or pay school fees.

My sister and I went to work, stealing coal from the trains, to support our expenses.

A year later our country was liberated, but it was no joy for us. We continued to live a life in

poverty as we did not have money to make the journey back home.

One summer night my sister came down with a fever. We had to wait until morning to see the

doctor. The doctor examined her and told us she had Diphtheria and advised Mom to take her to

Calcutta. We hurried back to the camp to borrow money for the train to the big city. We were on

our way to the railway station when she died.

One day I was at the railway station with some boys when I saw an old neighbor, Anil, from

Bangladesh. He recognized me and walked with me to our camp. He could not meet Mom as she

was at work, but before leaving, he promised to return again with my uncle. We were cut off from

our relatives when Dad stayed back in Bangladesh. The hardship of the refugee camp made us

forget their existence.

That weekend Anil came back with my uncle. After hearing our miseries, my uncle broke down in

tears, “I told my brother many times to come with me.” Uncle took us with him to Calcutta. I was

admitted in a school and my mother attended nursing, classes. Life got easier.

34

Twenty-seven years later, we are back in Bangladesh on Indian papers. We wanted to see our old

house. Everything has changed. My mother had a hard time recognizing our old house. She stood

there silently her eyes full of tears. An old man called out to my mother, “Are you not the

Mukherjee master’s wife?”

My mother looked at the man for a moment before recognizing him, “Tariq Bhai! How are you?”

Mom introduced me to Tariq as my father’s old classmate and best friend.

Tariq Bhai broke down in tears when he heard about our hardship in India and how my father

died without treatment. “It wouldn’t have been any better here,” He said.

Later Tariq described how our house was looted and burned, but he saved one thing and hoped to

return it to us some day. He handed over a framed picture of our family. All smiling; all home. It

was the best gift we ever got from Bangladesh.

Introduction to the Author:

Sanjoy, an engineer and sales professional is passionate about traveling to historical places and the Himalayas. For the last ten years he has been writing travelogues and short stories for various magazines. His stories have got published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Indus Woman Writing, Ashvamegh, The Red The Red Morgue, Dreaming Big, to name a few. Website: http://duttasanjay63.wordpress.com

35

Interview Section: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

Who are the authors/poets interviewed for Issue XII of Ashvamegh?

Apryl Baker

Larry Woiwode

Sydney Lea

Find Ashvamegh on


36


An Interview with USA Today Bestseller Author – Apryl Baker

Alok Mishra: How do you define paranormal? Is the one page paranormal different than the real

world paranormal?

Apryl Baker: Paranormal to me is anything outside the parameters of the real world – ghost, witches,

shifters. The things modern science can’t define. We tell ourselves it’s not real, but deep down, I

think everyone believes in the paranormal or supernatural as some call it. We can’t help it. It goes

back to those basic instincts we are born with, the ones that take over when we’re scared.

Alok Mishra: From where did you get this inspiration to write horror books? Did you read the

authors like Mary Shelley?

Apryl Baker: I’ve always loved horror – movies, books, scary stories told around a campfire. I’ve

read King, Koontz, Simmons, and Shelly, just to name a few. I grew up watching horror movies and

reading horror novels by flashlight when everyone else went to bed. It was only natural that when I

started to write seriously, I’d write some form of horror or the paranormal.

Alok Mishra: When did you first learn that you have become the USA today bestseller? Upon

realization, how did you react? Please share the experience with Ashvamegh readers.

Apryl Baker: I didn’t see it at first because I never look at those lists. I was in a paranormal box set

that hit the USA Today bestseller list called Pandora. One of the other authors checked that list

religiously and she told us all. I was shocked and thrilled all at the same time. We all worked so hard

to promote that set, to get it out there and show people who we were. I think I called my entire family

that night lol.

Alok Mishra: The orthodox people, very much like me, dichotomize mainstream literature from

commercial literature. In which category do you put yourself and your creations?

Apryl Baker: I don’t think I fit into either of those. I don’t write to be categorized. My books appeal

to the masses and to the niche readers. I have children as young as 9 read some of my books and I

have grannies as “young” as 92 read them I write to be unique, not to be categorized. I think

everyone should write in that manner, not worrying about where the chips may fall.

Alok Mishra: With the introduction of the digital platforms like Kindle and E-book readers, we have

witnessed a flood of authors and digital novels. In simple terms, the digital revolution has enabled

simply everyone to become an author. How do you see it?

Apryl Baker: Yes, it does allow everyone to fulfil their dreams of being an author. That’s a good

thing too. I remember when I was sending my book, The Ghost Files, to agents, my thoughts were

I’d get a great agent who believed in my book and then it’d land with one of the top 6 publishers.

Didn’t happen

37


Instead I went with a smaller publisher who focused on digital sales. My books are now international

bestsellers with a movie deal under the belt. I didn’t get the agent and the big book deal. I got

something better. I got a family of Indie authors who support each other and support the whole self-

publishing/small press community.

The digital world of self-publishing opened by Amazon has been one of the best things to ever hit

the scene. It allows books, really good books that agents won’t touch for whatever reason, to see the

light of day. That’s a win for readers when so many books published today by traditional publishing

houses are not worth the paper they’re printed on.

Alok Mishra: How much you see the role of book promotion in today’s writing profession?

Apryl Baker: It’s a vital necessity. I didn’t get where I am today by sitting there and just waiting for

people to discover me among the hundreds of thousands of new authors releasing books every day.

You have to go out there and sell your brand (Your name and Your books). Why would someone

pick up your book over their favourite author? You might have a kickass cover, but if they don’t

know you, haven’t seen ads for your work, they are going to pick up the author they know. Don’t sit

back and expect others to market for you, even if you have a publisher. No one knows your brand

better than you do so go out there and make yourself known!

Alok Mishra: As you stand an expert in paranormal and horror writing, do you think you can

accommodate the role of another genre writer? What else would you like to write?

Apryl Baker: Fantasy. I read tons of fantasy novels growing up. I love the world building and getting

lost in another world for a little while can sometimes be appealing where you can create magical

flying unicorns or trolls or some made up fairy-tale creature or plot to immerse yourself in. I love to

get lost in a good book.

Alok Mishra: Who is your favourite novelist from the English Literature and why? Tell about your

most loved novel too.

Apryl Baker: My favourite book is written by my favourite author. Pride and Prejudice by Jane

Austen. She gave women a voice in a time when women had no voices. Her words are moving and

her books are still classics today.

Alok Mishra: Do you have any books on the table that you are working on? Please tell me about

your favourite book written by yourself.

Apryl Baker: Yes, but they are all SECRET!!! My favourite book that I’ve written is the one that sells

the least honestly. It’s called The Promise, book 1 of The Coven Series.

Alok Mishra: What message would you like to give to the aspirant authors?

38


Apryl Baker: Never give up. I was told no so many times, I almost did give up. If you don’t believe

in yourself, no one else is going to. Just keep your head down, keep writing, keep getting better at

honing you craft, and keep trying. If you believe it, so will they.

Alok Mishra: Many thanks, dear Apryl for your time and this opportunity to have your views on my

queries about your writing and ideas.

Introduction to the Author Apryl Baker:

Apryl Baker is a novelist and USA Today bestselling author. Her

popular books are Touch Me Not, The Ghost Files, The Promise

etc. She is well known for her paranormal romance and horror

fiction. Grew up in a small town in southern mountains of West

Virginia, she enjoyed her days climbing trees and roaming around

in woods. Apryl learned the habit of reading books in her early

days when her aunt Jo gave a book, in fact, a romance novel titled

Lord Margrave's Deception. She enjoyed the book as well as

discovered that she had an inclination towards paranormal and

romance. She took the call and started writing to entertain her

friends. She used to feature them as the lead characters in her writings.

Presently, she lives in Huntersville, NC and a small town in WV where she entertains her niece and

nephew. She loves reading books and writing them as well. Her motive is to entertain people with

her stories.

39


An Interview with Larry Woiwode

Alok Mishra: I would like to start this session with a direct question, sir. How you came into

creative writing? What was the source of your inspiration?

Larry Woiwode: I was raised among a much older generation who had lived in upper New

England well before electricity, power equipment, and so on. They made their own

entertainment, largely by telling stories (and in some cases writing folk poetry). I longed to

capture their voices but did not want to write dialect, for fear that I would sound

condescending, when in fact these older men and women were my heroes. I decided that

poetry might capture the rhythms of their language without having to imitate the speech

patterns themselves.

Alok Mishra: Please tell us about your education.

Larry Woiwode: I took three degrees from Yale, a BA in intellectual history, an MA in

American Studies, and a Ph.D. in comparative literature, but I count the people I just

mentioned as at least equally important educators. They taught me many outdoor skills, which

have been very important to me, but also how to shape an effective narrative in prose or poetry.

Alok Mishra: Anyone who goes through your writing career can easily culminate that you are a

poet, an essayist and a novelist - no less important, a professor as well. My question is, how do

you manage or juggle all these professions?

Larry Woiwode: I am also the father of five children and six grandchildren. The effort to fill

that role in a good way has been as demanding, nay more, than the other things you refer to. In

my retirement, I have a lot of time to write in any case...and yet I write somewhat less than

when I was editing a magazine and teaching full time. Somehow I have always found time for

writing; don’t ask me how, save that university teaching is less demanding of one’s physical

presence on campus than, say, grammar or high school teaching.

Alok Mishra: What is the genre that you more often incline towards? Please specify your

reason as well.

Larry Woiwode: That varies greatly. I tend to write in one genre at a time only. There are

seasons in my life when poetry takes precedence and others when the essay form does. (I have

only written one novel and rather doubt I have another in me.) Since I will soon have

published my twelfth volume of poetry, the poem has been my chief preoccupation. I have but

four collections of essays in print, but I am currently working on another.

Alok Mishra: I was going through your productions and found one thing very interesting - the

titles of your works. For instance, Ghost Pain, The Floating Candles, Pursuit of a Wound, A

Little Wildness, A Place in Mind… how do you see it? Is there something special behind these

titles?

40

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Larry Woiwode: Well, except for the novel, which is all about how memory may retain a sense

of place even when that place has been greatly altered, the others are simply phrases lifted from

the texts of the books themselves, ones that seemed to fit the preoccupations that those books

presented.

Alok Mishra: In the context of present scenario, sir, where do you find poetry? You have

written a novel, essay collections and poetry anthologies; let me know how did the readers

receive these genres? Do you think poetry has been overtaken by other genres, especially

novel?

Larry Woiwode: In the western world, the novel has, almost since its origin in the 18th century,

had more readers than poetry. There are exceptions in our own nation like Longfellow and

Robert Frost, but for the most part poetry in America and Europe has always been a minority

art. Not every reader is drawn to it. I don’t think there’s any crisis now After all, his

contemporaries worried that Chaucer would be forgotten within a generation. My legacy is not

anything I can afford to dwell on, so I don’t.

Alok Mishra: My questions tend to become too poetical, sir, excuse my poetry! However, an

article in The Washington Post, April 24, 2015, states that according to the government data,

poetry is going extinct! Compared to 17% in 1992, only 6.7% of adult American population has

read a work of poetry in the past 12 month! What are your views about this?

Larry Woiwode: I mistrust such data. Surely, not even so eminent a newspaper as the Post can

have asked every reader in the nation what he or she has read in the last twelve months. So far

as I can see, poetry is more popular now than it was in the 70s, when I began my career. As I

say above, people are always bemoaning the death of poetry (and even of the novel), and yet for

some, there is no substitute for lyric, so it will abide in one way or another. Or so I believe.

Alok Mishra: I reserve a question for my guests like you. In this age of digital revolution,

people love reading fancy fictions in digital format. I see a sense of commercial fiction being

developed. Do you concur with this view?

Larry Woiwode: I am 73. The digital world is therefore largely unknown to me, though like

everyone else I am publishing a lot in online journals such as yours. There can’t be any doubt

that the explosion of technology will be—indeed already is, in ways that I am in no position to

judge—crucial in the evolution of all creative writing. How? Again, I am not the one to ask.

Alok Mishra: Let us get back to your work. I have come to know different spurs from different

writers that urge them to write. What makes you write? Is it a sudden call, or you plan your

writings?

Larry Woiwode: I do not plan anything when I write, unless it be a critical essay or review. My

novel, for example, began as what I thought would be a short essay. As for poetry, if I know or

41

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 plan where a poem is going, it is unlikely to be very lively. I need to feel surprise at where my

language takes me; if I don’t feel it, what is the likelihood that a reader will?

Alok Mishra: All I could collect from your works, on your website and other sources, I can see

that your poetry does not agree, at least necessarily, with rhyme. It has been an on-going

debate, sir. I want your views as a reader and as a poet, both, on this subject of rhyme in poetry.

Larry Woiwode: I have no firm position on this matter. Truth is, though, I use rhyme, or half-

rhyme, a lot in my poems. One of the ones I sent to you is in fact a villanelle, and if you inspect

closely, you will see quite of rhyme in all the poems I sent. I am attracted to rhyme, or at least

to flirting with rhyme, just as I am attracted to regular forms (though they tend not to be

received forms like the villanelle but ones of my own invention). This is no more than that, an

attraction. It enables me somehow. That’s all. I would scarcely insist either that poetry should

rhyme or not rhyme. Such dialectical debates, it seems to me, are silly and unproductive. Some

of my favorite poets use rhyme as Frost largely did; some avoid it, as Wallace Stevens did.

Alok Mishra: Tell our readers about your prose sir.

Larry Woiwode: I don’t know what I’d tell. I would ask a reader to tell him- or herself about it.

Alok Mishra: Have you any books ready to be published?

Larry Woiwode: I have a twelfth volume of poetry due in March of 2016. It is called No Doubt

the Nameless.

Alok Mishra: And at last, what’s your message to the students of literature and would be

creative writers?

Larry Woiwode: The secret to being a writer is no secret at all: it is, simply: Write, and write

regularly for an extended period of time. There are no tricks. If you want to get good at

something, you must do it a lot. This is as true of writing as it is, say, of becoming a competent

cricket bowler or basketball player.

42

Ashvamegh: Issue XII: January 2016 Introduction to the Poet:

Larry Woiwode’s work has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Harpers, GQ, The New York Times, Paris Review, Partisan Review, and others, along with two dozen stories in The New Yorker. His work has been translated into a dozen languages

and is included in four volumes of Best American Short Stories. He is a Guggenheim Fellow, a Lannan Fellow, a U. S.

State Department Traveling Artist, and in 1995 was awarded

the Medal of Merit from the American Academy of Arts &

Letters for “distinction in the art of the short story.” Larry

Woiwode is the poet laureate of North Dakota.

43


An Interview with Sidney Lea

Alok Mishra: I would like to start this session with a direct question, sir. How you came into

creative writing? What was the source of your inspiration?

Sydney Lea: I was raised among a much older generation who had lived in upper New England

well before electricity, power equipment, and so on. They made their own entertainment,

largely by telling stories (and in some cases writing folk poetry). I longed to capture their voices

but did not want to write dialect, for fear that I would sound condescending, when in fact these

older men and women were my heroes. I decided that poetry might capture the rhythms of

their language without having to imitate the speech patterns themselves.

Alok Mishra: Please tell us about your education.

Sydney Lea: I took three degrees from Yale, a BA in intellectual history, an MA in American

Studies, and a Ph.D. in comparative literature, but I count the people I just mentioned as at

least equally important educators. They taught me many outdoor skills, which have been very

important to me, but also how to shape an effective narrative in prose or poetry.

Alok Mishra: Anyone who goes through your writing career can easily culminate that you are a

poet, an essayist and a novelist - no less important, a professor as well. My question is, how do

you manage or juggle all these professions?

Sydney Lea: I am also the father of five children and six grandchildren. The effort to fill that

role in a good way has been as demanding, nay more, than the other things you refer to. In my

retirement, I have a lot of time to write in any case...and yet I write somewhat less than when I

was editing a magazine and teaching full time. Somehow I have always found time for writing;

don’t ask me how, save that university teaching is less demanding of one’s physical presence on

campus than, say, grammar or high school teaching.

Alok Mishra: What is the genre that you more often incline towards? Please specify your

reason as well.

Sydney Lea: That varies greatly. I tend to write in one genre at a time only. There are seasons

in my life when poetry takes precedence and others when the essay form does. (I have only

written one novel and rather doubt I have another in me.) Since I will soon have published my

twelfth volume of poetry, the poem has been my chief preoccupation. I have but four

collections of essays in print, but I am currently working on another.

Alok Mishra: I was going through your productions and found one thing very interesting - the

titles of your works. For instance, Ghost Pain, The Floating Candles, Pursuit of a Wound, A

Little Wildness, A Place in Mind… how do you see it? Is there something special behind these

titles?

44


Sydney Lea: Well, except for the novel, which is all about how memory may retain a sense of

place even when that place has been greatly altered, the others are simply phrases lifted from

the texts of the books themselves, ones that seemed to fit the preoccupations that those books

presented.

Alok Mishra: In the context of present scenario, sir, where do you find poetry? You have

written a novel, essay collections and poetry anthologies; let me know how did the readers

receive these genres? Do you think poetry has been overtaken by other genres, especially

novel?

Sydney Lea: In the western world, the novel has, almost since its origin in the 18th century, had

more readers than poetry. There are exceptions in our own nation like Longfellow and Robert

Frost, but for the most part poetry in America and Europe has always been a minority art. Not

every reader is drawn to it. I don’t think there’s any crisis now After all, his contemporaries

worried that Chaucer would be forgotten within a generation. My legacy is not anything I can

afford to dwell on, so I don’t.

Alok Mishra: My questions tend to become too poetical, sir, excuse my poetry! However, an

article in The Washington Post, April 24, 2015, states that according to the government data,

poetry is going extinct! Compared to 17% in 1992, only 6.7% of adult American population has

read a work of poetry in the past 12 month! What are your views about this?

Sydney Lea: I mistrust such data. Surely, not even so eminent a newspaper as the Post can have

asked every reader in the nation what he or she has read in the last twelve months. So far as I

can see, poetry is more popular now than it was in the 70s, when I began my career. As I say

above, people are always bemoaning the death of poetry (and even of the novel), and yet for

some, there is no substitute for lyric, so it will abide in one way or another. Or so I believe.

Alok Mishra: I reserve a question for my guests like you. In this age of digital revolution,

people love reading fancy fictions in digital format. I see a sense of commercial fiction being

developed. Do you concur with this view?

Sydney Lea: I am 73. The digital world is therefore largely unknown to me, though like

everyone else I am publishing a lot in online journals such as yours. There can’t be any doubt

that the explosion of technology will be—indeed already is, in ways that I am in no position to

judge—crucial in the evolution of all creative writing. How? Again, I am not the one to ask.

Alok Mishra: Let us get back to your work. I have come to know different spurs from different

writers that urge them to write. What makes you write? Is it a sudden call, or you plan your

writings?

Sydney Lea: I do not plan anything when I write, unless it be a critical essay or review. My

novel, for example, began as what I thought would be a short essay. As for poetry, if I know or

45


plan where a poem is going, it is unlikely to be very lively. I need to feel surprise at where my

language takes me; if I don’t feel it, what is the likelihood that a reader will?

Alok Mishra: All I could collect from your works, on your website and other sources, I can see

that your poetry does not agree, at least necessarily, with rhyme. It has been an on-going

debate, sir. I want your views as a reader and as a poet, both, on this subject of rhyme in poetry.

Sydney Lea: I have no firm position on this matter. Truth is, though, I use rhyme, or half-

rhyme, a lot in my poems. One of the ones I sent to you is in fact a villanelle, and if you inspect

closely, you will see quite of rhyme in all the poems I sent. I am attracted to rhyme, or at least

to flirting with rhyme, just as I am attracted to regular forms (though they tend not to be

received forms like the villanelle but ones of my own invention). This is no more than that, an

attraction. It enables me somehow. That’s all. I would scarcely insist either that poetry should

rhyme or not rhyme. Such dialectical debates, it seems to me, are silly and unproductive. Some

of my favorite poets use rhyme as Frost largely did; some avoid it, as Wallace Stevens did.

Alok Mishra: Tell our readers about your prose sir.

Sydney Lea: I don’t know what I’d tell. I would ask a reader to tell him- or herself about it.

Alok Mishra: Have you any books ready to be published?

Sydney Lea: I have a twelfth volume of poetry due in March of 2016. It is called No Doubt the

Nameless.

Alok Mishra: And at last, what’s your message to the students of literature and would be

creative writers?

Sydney Lea: The secret to being a writer is no secret at all: it is, simply: Write, and write

regularly for an extended period of time. There are no tricks. If you want to get good at

something, you must do it a lot. This is as true of writing as it is, say, of becoming a competent

cricket bowler or basketball player.

46


Introduction to the Poet:

Sydney Lea's twelfth volume of poems, No Doubt the Nameless, will appear in March. He has recently published his

fourth volume of personal essays, What's the Story? Reflections on a Life Grown Long. A former Pulitzer finalist, recipient of

The Poets' Prize, and founder of New England Review, he lives in

the state of Vermont in the USA. He is also the poet laureate of

Vermont.

47

Book Reviews: Ashvamegh Issue XII: January 2016: ISSN: 2454-4574

Which are the books reviewed for Issue XII of Ashvamegh?

Candlelight in a Storm by Naveen Sridhar

Darkness Conquers by Dr. Pralhad Kulkarni

The Honest Season by Kota Neelima

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Find Ashvamegh on


48


Book Name: Candlelight in a Storm

Author: Naveen Sridhar (Germany)

Published by: authorHouse

Pages: 261

Reviewed by: Alok Mishra

Let me have the liberty to start it with a quote from the book:

“There are events in one’s life that one would like to forget the very next day but will linger and haunt the life for decades.” pp 185.

I would further my steps even more and would change the ‘decades’ to life! And it happens! Coming back to the book, I got this beautiful pile of memoirs in the form of a book Candlelight in a Storm from a very remarkable scientist (and now author as well) Naveen Sridhar from Germany, who, by this time, happens to be a good friend of mine. This is novel, no doubt; however, once you start reading it, it feels like you are taking out the different layers of shrouds and something is about to come. It is about the life of a woman, another woman, a man, another man and eventually every person who had ‘tough times’ during the aftermath of Nazi regime and thereafter. However, rightly sums up the author himself in the preface:

“The protagonist in this story is representative of all those, past and present, affected by difficult days at a young age.”

Once you begin the book, you feel with the flow; you suffer when the people in book suffer and you rejoice even with their smallest scale of satisfaction. To be honest, it is a non-fiction style of fiction; the author is narrating the true events with the least (or perhaps a naught) colouring up. That is why you connect with the pages as you move on. In a fiction, you might feel the thrill about what happens next. However, that thrill is limited in your conscious as you know things are in the hands of the lord on this land – the author. But in the case of Candlelight in a storm, you are genuinely engaged to know what might come next; you know very soon that the author is narrating something that really happened.

To cut the book short, it starts with exodus and ends with a rebirth. The story of a woman that eventually is shared with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. It is justified in the story why the author has subtitled it ‘Born to be a Berliner’. Some parts are there in the book that I must share with you. On page no. 155, the event that features a ‘dressed-up foreigner in company of a blond doll’ is something that strikes me. It openly attacks the ‘sheep walk’ mind-set of people who cannot trust a person even if it’s the question of a life! However, how much have we contributed to win this distrust of people? It compelled me to think! Another interesting feature that the book owns is its naming of the sub-chapters. For instance, you will go through the chapter named ‘man proposes’ and very next you will see ‘god disposes’! It keeps the humour of the book alive. I would like to hail Naveen to present very beautifully a foreigner’s account of visiting India. The experience and a way to present that experience:

“I never thought I would live long enough to have such a fantastic experience [visiting India].”

And at last, I would also like to sum up the book with:

49


“She had lived all her life within a radius of some 500 miles, but she had lived through all kinds of regimes and authorities. Born in Kaiser’s empire, she had seen its dissolution, the failed Weimar republic followed by the ravages of Hitler’s Reich, then fleeting to the East, she had caught up in the American occupied zone, succeeded by the Soviet occupation and had to witness the ascent or descent of the German Democratic Republic. Back in West Berlin, she lived in an occupied zone of three Allies. Her last years she had spent in the free State of Bavaria, a part of the West German Republic, and ultimately of united Germany. Wow!” pp 226.

The bottom line is, indeed, if you interest in Post-World War II, you will get the insights about conditions of India, Germany and the UK! Get a copy and have a pleasant reading of the true events peered with a beautiful narrative by Naveen.

50


Book: Darkness Conquers

Author: Dr. Pralhad Kulkarni

Reviewer: Alok Mishra

While fables have been in trend for so long, as ancient as Aesop, there has been a dearth of quality

fables in Indian literature in English. I remember reading a poem by Vikram Seth that told the

helplessness of a nightingale and the tyranny of frogs. I liked that fable, but it was limited, in a

sense (I welcome the criticisms). The height that Animal Farm has ascribed to the fable-fiction

perhaps limits itself to that particular work by George Orwell! Correct me if I am wrong. I have just

finished a book that I received from Dr. Pralhad Kulkarni, thanks to my ‘sometimes a friend’

Hitaishi Grover. The book “Darkness Conquers” is a fable-fiction that features the participations

from different Animals. However, the author has displayed so much respect for the

anthropological hierarchy by placing the monkeys as the leaders and future government runners. I

found genuine merits of a sharp satire in the book! It displays that how a good person cannot mark

a constructive presence in politics despite all his/her good will and determination.

The story of Lala, his land Markatstan and the nation Loharo Wanaro Des is all about (implicit, if

not entirely explicit) India and Indian population. The animals in this land do all sort of political

agitation for their freedom. Bandhs, morchas, andolans and even violence are the part of their

freedom struggle. The narrative presents a contrast amid two animals as well. Lala and Babhan are

kept in a direct contrast. Lala loves silent protests and non-violent ways of acquiring freedom;

Babhan loves animated protests and even murders in the name of freedom. This also connects

with the freedom movement of India that saw two different groups – garam dal and naram dal.

The novel is short and you can finish it in two or three reads. Attached with a gave importance, the

book presents a concern that ‘if there is politics, there will be problems; there will be opposition

party; there will be elections again and again and there will be the dirty game of decoying the

people on the ground level!” The novel has distinct qualities and it presents different aspects of the

freedom struggle.

The names used in the book might not be comfortable for the foreign readers. However, I support

this step by Dr. Kulkarni. We have finally seen some indianization of the mainstream English

fiction. Names like Athak, Gbur, Pkan, Raman, Dku and many more are typical Indian names

with symbolic meanings. It, moreover, relates with the ancient India as well.

To sum up, however being unsatisfied that what Lala sees at last, I liked reading the book and

especially the way in which Lala is able to persuade the agitating opposition party towards the

ending of the book. The short fiction is a simple read and likable narrative that even kids can enjoy

reading.

51


Decoding the Spaces of Power: A review of The Honest Season

The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

Category: Political Fiction; Novel.

Published by Ebury Press, Random House, 2016

The Indo Anglian literature has often been accused of being more of Anglian than Indian.

The pose by Rushdie in his introduction to Vintage Book of Indian Writing 1947 – 1997 that

the Indo Anglian writings have become a stronger and more important body of work than most

of what has been produced in the 18 ‘recognised’ languages of India, has only added to this

animosity. As a counter, the authenticity or the legitimacy of the globally recognised figures to

narrate the Indian realities has been questioned. Their lack of lived experience and the ease

with which they could transverse across multiple worlds were held as problematic as far as their

ability to be the voice of India.

The Indian English writing has seen a tremendous growth along with the growth in the

numbers of English educated Indians. The genre has found its own market and readership to

grow into one of the biggest sections in the Indian publishing industry. English has started

stepping down from the academic arena and the pedestals of nonfiction to the world of fictions.

What are the challenges when you speak to the masses who has at least a thousand-year-old

story telling traditions? Where one Ramayana could diverge into thousands of forms. Can

English handle the larger than life picture of Indian experiences? The answer seems to be in

the affirmative thanks to the adventurous writers of all genre. Indo Anglian literature has

become ever more confident in the use of English, tweaking it whenever required to describe

the Indian experience.

The Indian English literature became capable of expressing the Indian circumstances and it

became bold to come out of its localised descriptions towards addressing a larger canvas

addressing issues on a larger scale.

A host of writers have come up and a lot of them were women .But being woman was only a

part of their being and it never limited the host of issues they could raise. Some of the finest

pieces of the Indo Anglian writing came from women like Arundhati Roy and Jhumpa Lahiri.

The field is dynamic and one can find serious literary efforts happening in this field and the

new writers are emerging every day. The critic of the Indo Anglian literature has a hectic

52


though delectable task at hand. Persistent perusal helps which throws up occasional surprises

that work as an incentive to keep on the search. The Honest Season was such a discovery.

The author, Kota Neelima has already a best seller The Shoes of Dead to her credit. The

Honest Season is a political fiction and the entire plot unravels and plays out in the space of

Delhi, the power centre of the republic. The spatially rooted nature of power has often been

noted. Power cannot exist without spaces. An ideology cannot exist without a space ‘to which it

refers. Each space embodies a code which adds to its meaning and existence. As Lefebvre puts

it “What would remain of the Church if there were no churches? Churches are crucial for the

Church to exist1. This spatiality remains even when we construct Republican nations on abstract

ideals of equality and decentralised democratic power. Thus the closed gates become a

powerful metaphor to represent the nature of power.

Democracy cannot exist in the abstract and the denial of substantial democracy too cannot exist

in the abstract. The republic needs closed doors, VIP cordons, VVIP exclusive zones for the

practice of power. This is where the closed gates of the Parliament cease just to be a metaphor.

They are integral to the actual spatiality of power.

The spatiality necessitates that margins have to come to the centre to validate them. Observing

the power centre helps to make sense of the whole. Every issue has to make this pilgrimage to

the centre to get itself validated and dress itself in the colours required. The myth that it can be

done in the margins is what sustains the republic though. So The Honest Season brings all

these debates together in a way that makes it look natural. The Parliament is place where every

power has to realise itself.

Can anyone write what he or she could not experience? The horizons of fantasy are necessarily

guided if not limited by the extent of experience. Being a political editor for close to two

decades in Delhi has played a great part in forming the perceptions of the author. The lived

experience of the author resonates throughout the text. Media is a constant presence, the story

unravels in the newsrooms and there are some sharp observations about the media and the way

it mediates the reality.

The reader gets a close picture of what happens inside a newsroom or media house. The

paradigmatic shift that technology could bring to established institutions and the way how with

some simple strokes history itself changes is depicted. The shift makes a newspaper editor, the

doyen of the publishing house reinvents the ways to run journalism and there should be

1 Henri Lefebvre's The Production of Space, http://www.notbored.org/space.html., accessed on 5th January 2016.

53


something that goes beyond mere reporting. The technology often goes ahead of the old elite

and this gap brings out things which would be hidden otherwise. By the time they fix the loop

holes, something new comes up. Technology plays a crucial role throughout in the

development of the plot.

The ‘know journalists’ are the key players in the novel with their unique mental abilities. This

art of knowing is something with which they have to save the print media from extinction. From

what others see fleeting meaningless array of information, the ‘know journalist’ could derive

things which others could not see. Mira, the ‘know journalist’ of the newspaper is the female

protagonist and she is the central figure. At the other end is a political heir, the scion of an

established political family and a member of the Parliament Sikander Bansi who is the person

who has recorded the conversations that took place within the corridors of the Parliament.

The huge gap between the reality and its representation creates a gap in perception. Societies

are often collectively ignorant about the realities. This perception gap is instrumental in

sustaining the legitimacy of the political class. The author is trying to address this gap and what

she puts into fiction appear like facts. The form frees her from the necessity to footnote her

writing. Thus fiction becomes an opportunity to freely explore the world around.

Moulded by concrete experiences, The Honest Season throws up many interesting facets of

our system. The book goes much beyond the usual trite narrative of 'politics is all corrupt' stuff.

It forces us to rethink and makes some intelligent observations. It examines the power relations

and political machinations that determine the fate of the polity. The book manages not to sway

under the weight of the subject it handles. The book traces the spectacular journey of a

journalist and a political heir to bring out the truth behind the institutional facades as they face

the wrath of political parties and yet continue to be honest.

Direct connect of the author with the object of her fiction is palpable. Too much grounded in

reality could be a hurdle to freely float in imagination as one is bound by a commitment to the

truth. This lacuna is addressed by the strong characters who are down to earth human in flesh

and blood.

There are quite a few beautiful illustrations which reflects a keen sense of colours like when she

says,' rain as painting the day silver' or 'the rain making the blue car of Mira appear grey' and

some of the metaphorical expressions are powerful like when she writes 'Delhi itself was

restless, as if had it not been tethered to the power centre, it would have wandered away along

any one of the national highways that crossed it.' One could immediately connect with the

restlessness of the city dweller as well, and the propensity of the city to run into the village. Half

54


of Delhi would have run away into rural Bharat if the tethers of political and economic

establishment were not there.

Apart from the spatiality, the novel explores the aspects of popular power closely. The era of

virtual reality is also an era of illusions and disillusions. Politics even its most radical forms have

become more of a performative act. That gets expressed in lines such as this ‘When people

organize on the streets for personal gain, we have arrived at the end of history, my friend. What

follows is various stages of the epilogue.’ The end of history finds a different meaning here. It

represents that hegemonic view of the impossibility of change. Yet the whole thrust of the work

is at countering this narrative of despair.

The book revolves around through the tapes recorded secretly at the Parliament with one of

the speakers being completely oblivious of the conversation being recorded. The one who

records the conversation on the other hand is doing it deliberately and being the scion of a

political family as corrupt as everyone else, he is never doubted. Corruption has established its

own economy and even the act of being exposed and being in the prisons are considered as a

part of the life for a politician. The acquisition of money or the avarice is considered as a

desirable quality and the flexibility of the self, the ability to tweak one’s ideals for personal gains

is appreciated.

The book successfully communicates to the emerging class of English educated Indians who

are spread across the country and it is a serious contribution to the Indo Anglian fiction. It tries

to explain that which cannot be reduced to fact or news through the medium of fiction. There

could be counter to the narratives of truth from various vantage points and the discursive

mode in which the book is written invites the reader for such an enquiry into the truth.

55


FOREVER CLASSIC: EMILY BRONTE’S ‘WUTHERING HEIGHTS’- A REVIEW

By – Dr. Puja Chakraborty Wuthering Heights, which has become a celebrated classic, is set in the 19th century Victorian England. But interestingly concerns only heaths and two isolated nearby neighbouring manors namely, Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange. The novel has a rich exterior as well as interior, aesthetically speaking. The picturesque unruly moors and the haunting old world charm add a special flavour to the reading. One can actually feel the pulse of the novel, however, careless a reader. The book engulfs the reader in a web of mysteries with its bleak, macabre, uncanny and oppressive settings. The protagonist Heathcliff appears at the centre of this puzzle. The beauty of the characters, Hareton and the younger Catherine is able to keep the ghastliness of Heathcliff at bay. The other most adorable character in the novel is the old faithful Nelly Dean. As a matter of fact, she is one of the prime characters, who is also the sole observer to witness two generations come and go by. Lockwood caters to the predisposition of a naïve, presuming and sober observer; an outsider. He characteristically reflects the general reader’s fears and suspicions. The book has a rich cinematic appeal, with its Gothic features, recurring flashbacks and emotional extravaganza. The only drawback that the novel suffers from is probably the slow narration and the strange gibberish uttered by the servant Joseph, which is quite a turn-off for reading. The story begins with one Mr. Lockwood having come to live in Thrushcross Grange. Its landlord is the mysterious Heathcliff. On the first night of his tenancy, he encounters the spirit of old Catherine and is terrified. The old nurse Nelly Dean recounts to him the previous happenings and he is stupefied. Old Earnshaw, the previous owner of Wuthering Heights, goes to town and brings home, a dark-skinned, desolate looking boy, who is also a destitute. The Earnshaw children, Hindley and Catherine, at first detest the boy. But later, Catherine grows fond of him and the both often play and spend time together in the moors. Old Earnshaw loves Heathcliff as his own child and favours him more than Hindley. Hindley comes to despise this. When Earnshaw dies, Hindley who has been living abroad, returns home now with a wife (Frances). He takes control of the household and tortures Heathcliff in every form. Heathcliff is made to work in the fields and is treated like a servant. Heathcliff suffers all his blows without once flinching. Once Catherine and Heathcliff whisk into the neighbouring manor, Thrushcross Grange, hoping to mock the fashionable Linton children, Edward and Isabella. Upon chase, Cathy is bitten by the housedog and is forced to stay there for weeks until recovery. During this time, Cathy takes a liking for Edward Linton. In an opportune moment of conjugal alliance and social upgradation, Cathy chooses Linton over Heathcliff. Heathcliff is heart-broken. He leaves Wuthering Heights and returns back favourably rich after a few years. He now lends money to Hindley, who has taken to gambling after the death of his wife, well knowing that it will only propel his ruin and push him further into debt. He also marries Isabella Linton and begins tormenting her. Hindley dies, leaving behind a son named Hareton, whom Heathcliff turns into an illiterate buff by stopping his education and making him work in the fields. Old Catherine is also near death after giving birth to a daughter, young Cathy, but vows to remain with Heathcliff forever. Young Cathy grows close to the sickly Linton, the only child of Heathcliff and the deceased Isabella. Knowing this, Heathcliff tricks young Cathy into marrying Linton. Linton dies soon after and so does Edgar, Cathy’s father. Cathy is forced to stay in Wuthering Heights and is ill-treated by Heathcliff. Heathcliff now inherits both Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross

56


Grange, and rents out Thrushcross Grange to Lockwood. Over here Nelly’s story comes to an end. Apparently overwhelmed and taken aback, Lockwood leaves Thrushcross Grange and returns to London. However, he returns again after some months to learn of further developments. Nelly accounts for the lost time and says that young Cathy and Hareton, who were once poles apart in terms of education, civility and manners have now grown to love each other. Heathcliff sunk more into moroseness and insanity, and after a walk in the moors at night has died. Hareton and young Cathy now own Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange, and plan to get married on the next new year’s day. As peace finally descends, Lockwood pays a visit to the graves of Heathcliff, Edgar and Catherine. Technically, the novel is infused with plots and sub-plots. Too many plots loosen the structure, which is a defect. Furthermore, the reader’s vision is limited to the narrator’s version, which can well be biased and misconstrued. As a romance, Wuthering Heights immortalizes the love story of Catherine and Heathcliff. It exhibits the physical and emotional turmoil of Heathcliff, who suffers inconsolably for his lost soulmate. His own confession to Nelly is a testament to this: “…for what is not connected with her to me? And what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped in the flags! In every tree- filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day- I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men and women- my own features- mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!” Wuthering Heights also reveals Catherine’s unprecedented love of Heathcliff, who confides in Nelly: “…My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always in my mind: not as a pleasure anymore than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being…” Wuthering Heights is a wonderful verse in the form of a text. It has ample allegorisms, analogies, memorable lines and philosophical thoughts. Wuthering Heights also delineates the avenger’s tragedy with the rise and fall of Heathcliff: “Heathcliff came upon the two reading together, and their resemblance to his love with Catherine Earnshaw confused and quieted him. With these two in love, Heathcliff could hurt them both and finish his revenge against their parents. But he told Nelly: “I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.” He felt that a change was coming, as he slowly lost interest in earthly matters. Despite the memories each child brought up, he cannot get rid of them. They, and everything, reminded him of Catherine; and Hareton’s previous degradation recalled his own youth! He was not ill, nor in body close to death. But his continual torment, his constant wishing to be with the dead, made him certain he could not stand living much longer.” Altogether, Wuthering Heights is a cherishable read and justifies the title of a classic.

57


References Bronte, Emily. Wuthering Heights. Project Gutenberg (Last accessed on 1996/12/25). Originally published by London: Thomas Cautley Newby, Publisher, 1847. Retrieved from: http://literature.org/authors/bronte-emily/wuthering-heights/

58

ASHVAMEGH… the literary flight!

Documents

Transcript of ASHVAMEGH… the literary flight!