Tuesday, 1 September 2015
Short Story 2015, Featured Writer Debasish Mishra
The Insane Talisman
Whenever I travel back in time – sauntering through the lanes of my past, while standing leisurely in the balcony with a cup of coffee in hand – a strange kind of happiness overwhelms me. A smile prevails over my dry lips. The memories of that man flashes before my inner eye, uninterruptedly, as clear as a whistle. Here was a man who was by no means extraordinary; a man who was, in fact, a tad less than ordinary; a man who was a foe to his own fate; a man who was probably ignored by his own family. Queer yet cute. Silent yet eloquent. They called him the insane talisman. Yes, the insane talisman of Srabanpur!
Overburdened with the irritation of long hours of study, we sneaked out of the hostel, surreptitiously cleaving through the broken window and jumping over the not-so-high brick walls, and landed at the railway station, almost every night. Farhan – my best friend and my roommate in the New Hostel of Richardson University - always accompanied me in such dark adventures. The night view of the station portrayed the vivid panorama of life and refreshed our spirits. The to-and-fro of men signified the incessant and undying journey of life. Bodies sleeping helplessly in the platforms indicated the abject plight of poverty. Just outside the station, a few vendors – mostly selling tea, tobacco and cigarettes – waited sleeplessly in the pursuit of a customer, in the quest of some profit. They were a tad better financially in comparison to those who were sleeping inside. The big streetlights – there were just a few – sprawled their light to this obscure world in a bid to kill the darkness.
The crowd – only comprising of the night-travellers and the persons who were there to see them off, and a few insomniacs like us – was largely unsatisfactory from a businessman’s point of view. Yet, for most of the vendors, it was the extension of their hereditary profession or, in some cases, a lone source of livelihood. Some of them took up the business because they probably had nothing else to do. As a matter of fact, we rejuvenated ourselves with hot but insipid tea amid this trifling traffic, whenever we visited the station. On one such occasion, we came across a lunatic who speechlessly stood in a dark corner – in the mid of a dozen irate dogs - without even the slightest change of expression in his face; and who, after sometime, wobbled unsteadily from one point of the largely vacant area to another. The only constant agility that we saw in him was the endless flutter of his right hand, as though he was flying an invisible kite in the dark sky. Maybe, it was our first encounter with him.
Alternatively, maybe, we had never focused on this innocuous creature before, like the hundreds of passersby who passed him inadvertently as if he did not exist in their universe. After the hilarious discovery, we rummaged for him every night – strolling through the length and breadth of the area outside the station, waiting for him in the teashop, swilling two teas instead of one, and throwing a hundred questions about him to the tea-vendor who was hardly busy. Initially, the lunatic was an element of fun and humour for us. We laughed at his deadpan face, his unchanged dirty clothes, his torn and discoloured slippers, his dishevelled hair, his untrimmed beard, his shaking hand, his uncanny gait, his speechlessness….and, almost, at everything about him. Gradually, however, we were fond of him, as though our clandestine journeys to the station were meant to culminate with a glimpse of his countenance. We passed more of our time outside the station, either looking for him or, on the other hand, looking at him.
The vendors treated the lunatic with great love and affection. The owner of the teashop, a slender middle-aged man, occasionally handed a plastic glass of tea, which the lunatic promptly picked with his left hand, while his right hand continued to flutter like a flag dancing in the tunes of the breeze. The panwallah often tucked a paan in his mouth as soon as the tea was over. He chewed the paan rhythmically pouring out red spit in regular intervals. We stared at the indifference on his face – that never changed even by the slightest degree. There was neither a gesture of gratitude in return of a favour nor a grimace of dislike when someone threw a caustic remark.
“Is he always speechless?” I asked the tea-vendor, one night.
“He never says a word. Some say he is dumb by birth. Some believe that he was shaken by some incident, or accident, that had robbed him of his sanity and voice. I have never heard him producing any sound. Not even when the tea lacks sugar”, he laughed.
“Who is he, by the way?” Farhan asked with some seriousness.
“Nobody knows about him. He has no name to be specific. He comes out of the dark every night. Nobody has ever seen him in the day. He comes to this place only after midnight, stays here for an hour or two, and then, retreats to the same obscurity”, he delineated, while his eyes continued to search for a potential customer.
“Some people say he was a worker in some industry. The flutter of his hand bears testimony to that. After the industry ceased to exist, probably due to bankruptcy or enormous losses, this man was filled with utter disbelief. He had no idea what he would do. The sudden withdrawal of his bread and butter maddened him”, he added with a feeling of pity.
“Oh my God! Is it true?” I questioned with shock, as though my heart was coming out through my mouth. We had never imagined, not even in the wildest of our dreams, that the exhibition of humour had such a story of horror beneath it.
“They are several conjectures that I’ve come across. This is just one”, he quipped with a smile, probably directed at the passersby in a bid to impress them.
“What do the other versions say?” quizzed Farhan.
“Some people reckon that he is mad by birth and the movement of the hand is natural to him. Some reckon that he is a victim of one-sided love. Some others say that the destruction of life and property in the super cyclone obliterated his heart. He lost all his kith and kin and the house where he lived. This resulted in his madness.”
Before Farhan could put up the subsequent question, I gestured him to be quiet.
Too much of inquisition could have irritated the tea-vendor, just like the killing of the hen in the quest of the golden eggs as quoted in the famous fable.
I remember that incident when a drunkard – who was out of his senses – pelted a stone at the lunatic.
“Say something, you blackguard”, he yelled angrily.
The lunatic maintained his usual quietude, the flinging of his right hand to the air and the consequent dragging back continued. The face remained unchanged as though he was destined to swallow all the sorrow of the world without showing even the slightest expression of pain or discomfort.
Before the frail drunkard could hurl another stone – a little bigger one – we intervened.
Farhan held his wrinkled neck in the grasp of his palm and shoved him vehemently. He fell down like a broken branch. Despite the intoxication, he did not dare to meddle with us. He lurched towards the other side of the road, muttered incoherent abuses, and dissolved in the darkness. The receding noise of abuses dwindled with every step and, finally, melted with the silence.
The lunatic stared blankly as usual…but in the blankness of his face, we deciphered an unuttered ‘thank you’.
We accepted him as our friend. From that day onwards, we made it a habit to buy him a glass of tea and a paan whenever we chanced to see him. It was a strange kind of bond, which thrived on our one-sided-efforts to find him and please him as though he was the solace that we sought for, the panacea for our tedium.
As months passed, the hostel was renovated. The broken window was repaired. Security outside the hostel was beefed up in the wake of some untoward incidents that threatened the law and order of the university. A few guys had jumped into the ladies’ hostel in the night, on one occasion, and shouted extremely derogatory comments. In this regard, police-vans patrolled within the campus in a bid to nab the miscreants, especially the ones who broke free in the night. In a situation like this, our liberty, which previously extended to the station, was limited. Our trips to meet our speechless friend were hindered. We missed him a lot. Sleep evaded our eyes. Studies did not amuse us after twelve. The clock seemed to lose pace...its reluctant hands wobbled sluggishly. The nights appeared relatively longer. We were helpless. Unable to contain our impatience, we searched for the lunatic during daytime. Much to our distress, we garnered no clue at all as though he disappeared in the day, as though he was allergic to sunlight. Life without him became a boring entity. It is hard to believe how an insane fellow influenced our lives so much – defying logic, rationality and conviction.
Sometimes, the opportunity one craves for comes with the news of a tragedy. My desire to travel to the station was bestowed with a valid reason, though I would have never wanted the opportunity in the bargain of such a huge loss.
Farhan received a phone call just before midnight. He was petrified. The phone fell from his hand. I shrugged him. Tears trickled endlessly as if there was a painful leak, somewhere, inside him.
“What happened, buddy?” I asked.
“Abba is no more”, he muttered amid unending bouts of sobs.
Friendship is really a strange bond. My eyes became wet too in response as though I lost someone. I had never seen him in person, never talked with him over telephone. In fact, even Farhan talked excessively less with him. He was one of those persons whom we consider a man of few words. As we proceeded towards the railway station, a few policemen stopped us. Despite the moisture in the eyes of Farhan, and to some extent in my eyes too, they interrogated us, asked us for evidence, and hurled a hundred irrelevant questions. Farhan, against his usual demanour, joined his hands and implored them to cooperate. Before the impatience could lead to audacious intrepidness, another policeman, probably an inspector, intervened.
“Don’t harass them. Allow them to go”, he benevolently ordered. The other policemen saluted him at first and then agreed to his order. We thanked him and sped away.
As we reached the station, the tea-vendor announced in joy to the lunatic, “Your chums have come”.
The insane fellow wobbled towards us with a faintly changed expression, as though he was ecstatic to see us after a month or more. In contrast to our tear-smeared-faces, his face beamed under the huge streetlights that strove to kill the darkness. It was not exactly a smile but a little stretch of the lips forming a semi-curve. His right hand continued to swing in the air like an unstoppable pendulum.
The train towards Patna – the hometown of Farhan – arrived in Platform No. 3.
As the lunatic tried to come to our way, possibly beseeching for a glass of tea and a paan, Farhan pushed him aside. He fell on the ground. Perhaps, a tiny drop trickled from his eye. But we had no time to stop for him. The lake that sheltered in Farhan’s eyes outweighed that lone drop, even if it existed. Catching the train was far more important for us than lifting the lunatic.
We ran. Farhan quickly climbed the moving train – without a ticket though – as I waved my hands in the air, as though it was an endeavour from my side to efface the pain that choked his interior. The train melted into the distance…in the darkness. The sound of the wheels grinding the rails gradually died. The smokes disappeared. I came outside the station after some time.
“What happened, babu?” the tea-vendor asked caringly.
“My friend’s father has expired”, I expressed with a feeling of sorrow.
“I understood the fact that something must be wrong. Otherwise, you may not have pushed the lunatic,” he enunciated.
Whenever I travel back in time – sauntering through the lanes of my past, while standing leisurely in the balcony with a cup of coffee in hand – a strange kind of happiness overwhelms me. A smile prevails over my dry lips. The memories of that man flashes before my inner eye, uninterruptedly, as clear as a whistle. Here was a man who was by no means extraordinary; a man who was, in fact, a tad less than ordinary; a man who was a foe to his own fate; a man who was probably ignored by his own family. Queer yet cute. Silent yet eloquent. They called him the insane talisman. Yes, the insane talisman of Srabanpur!
Overburdened with the irritation of long hours of study, we sneaked out of the hostel, surreptitiously cleaving through the broken window and jumping over the not-so-high brick walls, and landed at the railway station, almost every night. Farhan – my best friend and my roommate in the New Hostel of Richardson University - always accompanied me in such dark adventures. The night view of the station portrayed the vivid panorama of life and refreshed our spirits. The to-and-fro of men signified the incessant and undying journey of life. Bodies sleeping helplessly in the platforms indicated the abject plight of poverty. Just outside the station, a few vendors – mostly selling tea, tobacco and cigarettes – waited sleeplessly in the pursuit of a customer, in the quest of some profit. They were a tad better financially in comparison to those who were sleeping inside. The big streetlights – there were just a few – sprawled their light to this obscure world in a bid to kill the darkness.
The crowd – only comprising of the night-travellers and the persons who were there to see them off, and a few insomniacs like us – was largely unsatisfactory from a businessman’s point of view. Yet, for most of the vendors, it was the extension of their hereditary profession or, in some cases, a lone source of livelihood. Some of them took up the business because they probably had nothing else to do. As a matter of fact, we rejuvenated ourselves with hot but insipid tea amid this trifling traffic, whenever we visited the station. On one such occasion, we came across a lunatic who speechlessly stood in a dark corner – in the mid of a dozen irate dogs - without even the slightest change of expression in his face; and who, after sometime, wobbled unsteadily from one point of the largely vacant area to another. The only constant agility that we saw in him was the endless flutter of his right hand, as though he was flying an invisible kite in the dark sky. Maybe, it was our first encounter with him.
Alternatively, maybe, we had never focused on this innocuous creature before, like the hundreds of passersby who passed him inadvertently as if he did not exist in their universe. After the hilarious discovery, we rummaged for him every night – strolling through the length and breadth of the area outside the station, waiting for him in the teashop, swilling two teas instead of one, and throwing a hundred questions about him to the tea-vendor who was hardly busy. Initially, the lunatic was an element of fun and humour for us. We laughed at his deadpan face, his unchanged dirty clothes, his torn and discoloured slippers, his dishevelled hair, his untrimmed beard, his shaking hand, his uncanny gait, his speechlessness….and, almost, at everything about him. Gradually, however, we were fond of him, as though our clandestine journeys to the station were meant to culminate with a glimpse of his countenance. We passed more of our time outside the station, either looking for him or, on the other hand, looking at him.
The vendors treated the lunatic with great love and affection. The owner of the teashop, a slender middle-aged man, occasionally handed a plastic glass of tea, which the lunatic promptly picked with his left hand, while his right hand continued to flutter like a flag dancing in the tunes of the breeze. The panwallah often tucked a paan in his mouth as soon as the tea was over. He chewed the paan rhythmically pouring out red spit in regular intervals. We stared at the indifference on his face – that never changed even by the slightest degree. There was neither a gesture of gratitude in return of a favour nor a grimace of dislike when someone threw a caustic remark.
“Is he always speechless?” I asked the tea-vendor, one night.
“He never says a word. Some say he is dumb by birth. Some believe that he was shaken by some incident, or accident, that had robbed him of his sanity and voice. I have never heard him producing any sound. Not even when the tea lacks sugar”, he laughed.
“Who is he, by the way?” Farhan asked with some seriousness.
“Nobody knows about him. He has no name to be specific. He comes out of the dark every night. Nobody has ever seen him in the day. He comes to this place only after midnight, stays here for an hour or two, and then, retreats to the same obscurity”, he delineated, while his eyes continued to search for a potential customer.
“Some people say he was a worker in some industry. The flutter of his hand bears testimony to that. After the industry ceased to exist, probably due to bankruptcy or enormous losses, this man was filled with utter disbelief. He had no idea what he would do. The sudden withdrawal of his bread and butter maddened him”, he added with a feeling of pity.
“Oh my God! Is it true?” I questioned with shock, as though my heart was coming out through my mouth. We had never imagined, not even in the wildest of our dreams, that the exhibition of humour had such a story of horror beneath it.
“They are several conjectures that I’ve come across. This is just one”, he quipped with a smile, probably directed at the passersby in a bid to impress them.
“What do the other versions say?” quizzed Farhan.
“Some people reckon that he is mad by birth and the movement of the hand is natural to him. Some reckon that he is a victim of one-sided love. Some others say that the destruction of life and property in the super cyclone obliterated his heart. He lost all his kith and kin and the house where he lived. This resulted in his madness.”
Before Farhan could put up the subsequent question, I gestured him to be quiet.
Too much of inquisition could have irritated the tea-vendor, just like the killing of the hen in the quest of the golden eggs as quoted in the famous fable.
I remember that incident when a drunkard – who was out of his senses – pelted a stone at the lunatic.
“Say something, you blackguard”, he yelled angrily.
The lunatic maintained his usual quietude, the flinging of his right hand to the air and the consequent dragging back continued. The face remained unchanged as though he was destined to swallow all the sorrow of the world without showing even the slightest expression of pain or discomfort.
Before the frail drunkard could hurl another stone – a little bigger one – we intervened.
Farhan held his wrinkled neck in the grasp of his palm and shoved him vehemently. He fell down like a broken branch. Despite the intoxication, he did not dare to meddle with us. He lurched towards the other side of the road, muttered incoherent abuses, and dissolved in the darkness. The receding noise of abuses dwindled with every step and, finally, melted with the silence.
The lunatic stared blankly as usual…but in the blankness of his face, we deciphered an unuttered ‘thank you’.
We accepted him as our friend. From that day onwards, we made it a habit to buy him a glass of tea and a paan whenever we chanced to see him. It was a strange kind of bond, which thrived on our one-sided-efforts to find him and please him as though he was the solace that we sought for, the panacea for our tedium.
As months passed, the hostel was renovated. The broken window was repaired. Security outside the hostel was beefed up in the wake of some untoward incidents that threatened the law and order of the university. A few guys had jumped into the ladies’ hostel in the night, on one occasion, and shouted extremely derogatory comments. In this regard, police-vans patrolled within the campus in a bid to nab the miscreants, especially the ones who broke free in the night. In a situation like this, our liberty, which previously extended to the station, was limited. Our trips to meet our speechless friend were hindered. We missed him a lot. Sleep evaded our eyes. Studies did not amuse us after twelve. The clock seemed to lose pace...its reluctant hands wobbled sluggishly. The nights appeared relatively longer. We were helpless. Unable to contain our impatience, we searched for the lunatic during daytime. Much to our distress, we garnered no clue at all as though he disappeared in the day, as though he was allergic to sunlight. Life without him became a boring entity. It is hard to believe how an insane fellow influenced our lives so much – defying logic, rationality and conviction.
Sometimes, the opportunity one craves for comes with the news of a tragedy. My desire to travel to the station was bestowed with a valid reason, though I would have never wanted the opportunity in the bargain of such a huge loss.
Farhan received a phone call just before midnight. He was petrified. The phone fell from his hand. I shrugged him. Tears trickled endlessly as if there was a painful leak, somewhere, inside him.
“What happened, buddy?” I asked.
“Abba is no more”, he muttered amid unending bouts of sobs.
Friendship is really a strange bond. My eyes became wet too in response as though I lost someone. I had never seen him in person, never talked with him over telephone. In fact, even Farhan talked excessively less with him. He was one of those persons whom we consider a man of few words. As we proceeded towards the railway station, a few policemen stopped us. Despite the moisture in the eyes of Farhan, and to some extent in my eyes too, they interrogated us, asked us for evidence, and hurled a hundred irrelevant questions. Farhan, against his usual demanour, joined his hands and implored them to cooperate. Before the impatience could lead to audacious intrepidness, another policeman, probably an inspector, intervened.
“Don’t harass them. Allow them to go”, he benevolently ordered. The other policemen saluted him at first and then agreed to his order. We thanked him and sped away.
As we reached the station, the tea-vendor announced in joy to the lunatic, “Your chums have come”.
The insane fellow wobbled towards us with a faintly changed expression, as though he was ecstatic to see us after a month or more. In contrast to our tear-smeared-faces, his face beamed under the huge streetlights that strove to kill the darkness. It was not exactly a smile but a little stretch of the lips forming a semi-curve. His right hand continued to swing in the air like an unstoppable pendulum.
The train towards Patna – the hometown of Farhan – arrived in Platform No. 3.
As the lunatic tried to come to our way, possibly beseeching for a glass of tea and a paan, Farhan pushed him aside. He fell on the ground. Perhaps, a tiny drop trickled from his eye. But we had no time to stop for him. The lake that sheltered in Farhan’s eyes outweighed that lone drop, even if it existed. Catching the train was far more important for us than lifting the lunatic.
We ran. Farhan quickly climbed the moving train – without a ticket though – as I waved my hands in the air, as though it was an endeavour from my side to efface the pain that choked his interior. The train melted into the distance…in the darkness. The sound of the wheels grinding the rails gradually died. The smokes disappeared. I came outside the station after some time.
“What happened, babu?” the tea-vendor asked caringly.
“My friend’s father has expired”, I expressed with a feeling of sorrow.
“I understood the fact that something must be wrong. Otherwise, you may not have pushed the lunatic,” he enunciated.
I gawked at the lunatic who stood at a fair distance from me, amid the throng of dogs who licked his dark legs and pulled his trousers with their teeth. His eyes were fixed on the opposite direction, and his right hand swung as usual. I ambled to him with a glass of tea. As I extended the glass to his left hand, he deliberately dropped it. I could see the clouds of tears in his eyes, the bruises in his elbow. But the feeling of sympathy was somehow smothered by the sentiment of fury.
“What is wrong with you? Do not you see that I am aggrieved? My friend’s father has expired! What kind of human being you are?” I fumed with rage.
The panwallah came to me and handed a paan.
“Give it to him, Sir. May be, he is not interested to have tea”, he said with his typical smile. Here was a man who had a smile for every occasion. Praise him and he will smile. Abuse him and he will smile more.
After receiving the paan, I tried to tuck it inside the untidy mouth of the lunatic. The lunatic spat it instantly with the same blank expression on his face.
“What the hell is this?” the panwallah barked with ire. I pacified him.
After sipping my tea, and watching his endless actions for some time, I retreated to my hostel. The tearful face of Farhan occupied the canvas of my memory. In addition to that, the weird demeanour and the undying diffidence of the lunatic filled my thoughts. I felt as if sleep eluded my eyes. When I tried my best to dispel the thoughts, they sprang back even more prominently. I missed Farhan. His grief was my grief. I missed his Abba. I tried to imagine how he looked because I had never seen him. I framed an imaginary picture within my mind. On the other hand, the lunatic, whom I regarded as my friend, showed some sense and sensibility for the first time. It seemed as if his repulsion to take the tea and paan was a reaction to the blunt push that Farhan had resorted to before hurrying for the train. Farhan….His Abba….The lunatic. Amid the various divergent thoughts and the migraine that followed, my eyes succumbed to slumber.
Being the only son, Farhan was entrusted to look after his father’s business. He, in fact, never returned to the hostel. I was puzzled at his decision.
“What kind of wisdom is this?” I queried indignantly, when we talked over telephone after almost a month of his departure.
“My mother is alone. It is not possible for her to look after everything, you know!” he said.
“I understand… but leaving your studies in between does not seem apt”, I added.
“Even I realize that…but anyway, I was always expected to succeed my father. I do not have a way out. I cannot escape this”, he elucidated.
“Okay! It is your life. But do remember lesser mortals like us”, I implored.
“Jatin, I will at least miss these two persons from Srabanpur”, he added with a sudden diversion of topic.
“Who are those lucky fellows?” I asked.
“You are one, you nuts!” he coaxed with a smile.
I was flattered. “And the other one?”
“The lunatic of course”, he chortled.
We both laughed for sometime sharing some unforgettable memories of the insane creature. I told him how his blunt push had aggrieved the lunatic and the latter denied receiving tea and paan from me. He felt sorry for the incident and asked me to apologize to the lunatic on his behalf.
“The next time when I visit Srabanpur, I will bring a gift for him. Tell him,” he said.
I had no idea what “the next time” denoted. Maybe, it meant after eons of time. The departure of Farhan accentuated my loneliness. Amid all this stress and mental instability, my examinations were ruined. When sleepless nights and solitude precede a paper, the outcome is often predictable. It is awful.
After a few days, the issue of insecurity in the university seemed to dwindle. The presence of the police personnel within the campus was done away with. It is a common thing in our society. Seriousness often fades with time, and erupts back only when a mishap occurs. Sustained activities are rare in the world. There are only a few examples like the unstoppable right hand of the lunatic. I often wondered if his hand rested when he was asleep. The other question that perplexed me – did he ever sleep? The lunatic lingered in my subconscious mind too. Maybe, I missed him more after the departure of Farhan. In order to counter the loneliness that filled my room and my heart, the migraine that occupied me like a sprite, and the psychological imbalance, I went to the station – the place that promised solace to a jaded soul like mine.
The tea-vendor welcomed me with an affable smile.
“Where had you been, babu?” he asked.
“I was a bit busy in my life”, I replied.
A few moments of silence followed.
“The lunatic? I mean, where is the lunatic?” I questioned.
The tea-vendor stared at my face and pointed a finger to a distant corner where the glow of the streetlights struggled to reach.
“Ever since your last visit, he stands there solitarily with those dogs, denying to take tea or paan”, he informed with a pensive voice.
I was utterly scandalized.
“Really?”
“Yes, babu. The last time you were here, you saw how awkwardly he behaved. The rejection of tea and paan was extremely bizarre. We thought he was somehow affected by your blunt push. But then, we expected him to behave normally from the following day. Alas! He is damn diffident.”
I went to the lunatic, caressed his head by running my fingers through the bushes of his hair, patted his cheeks and asked, “What is wrong, dear?”
He speechlessly stared at my face and continued to move his right hand.
Tears poured out from his dark and unclean eyes. I took out my hanky and wiped them.
For the first time, I saw the manifestation of human emotions in the face of the lunatic.
I gently dragged him out of the vistas of darkness and catered him with a glass of tea and a bun cake. Later, I tucked a paan in his mouth. Along with the red spit, he possibly threw the anger that he carried within him.
My room was akin to hell as it inundated with silence and loneliness. Thus, I visited the station regularly. On many occasions, I ambled to the station with a book in hand. I turned the pages of my book under the big streetlights while the lunatic swivelled his hand. There was a strange kind of symphony, a connection in the events. Under his influence, I, unexpectedly, did well in my last semester examinations and qualified for a post graduation degree in the Delhi University.
My last day in Srabanpur was an emotional one. Looking at my luggage, the lunatic probably gauged that I would be leaving the town. In his speechlessness, I heard the story of unbearable agony. In me, he had found that rare friend. I gave him a pair of clothes – a blue full-sleeved cotton shirt and a black trouser – and said, “This will suit you. Change your stinking clothes.”
Refusing to accept my farewell gift, he walked away, with his unsteady gait, to the same abandoned area of obscurity where even the streetlights could not reach. I followed him sheepishly. Maybe, he felt like crying,”Please don’t go!”
I embraced him with abundant love just to be withdrawn by the faint announcement of the arrival of my train. I promised him that I would meet him whenever I visited my home. I turned and walked towards the station and never looked back, leaving him with the dogs, his timeless friends. I gave the new pair of clothes to the tea-vendor and requested, “Please see that he wears these clothes in lieu of his stinking attire.” He responded with a desultory nod. I entered into the train. A coolie helped me to lift the luggage. Slowly, the train left the station. I craned my neck out of the door as long as the last glimpse of the station was visible. I imagined how the lunatic would look with the new pair of clothes and smiled. The relentless grinding of the wheels continued, the smokes overflew, and I lay in the upper birth, eyes gaping at the metal ceiling, heart meditating on the mist of memories – that I left behind in Srabanpur.
I went to Delhi for my higher studies. New place. New people. New friends.
I was engrossed in the aura of academics. I used to spend many hours in the library – going through fat yellow books that were withered with time, wrinkled in the corners. I turned to a typical research scholar, alienating fun and frolic from my life. I became a slave to my routine. I never realized when my post-graduation transformed to a PhD. However, to lift my spirits, I now had someone. She was Ananya – my colleague, an alumnus of the Jadavpur University from Kolkata. After her arrival in my life, the loneliness, which usually ushered in memories of my family, Farhan as well as the lunatic, disappeared. Longer hours of study did not disinterest me. Infact, studies enchanted me. We often met in the evenings. Unlike the other couples, we talked of Shakespheare, Keats and Elliot. We expressed our adulation to each other in the form of Shakespherean dialogues or Keats’ sensuous verses. Our friends called us ‘the crazy couple’. Amid the busy schedule and the new-found-company, the memories of Srabanpur moved to oblivion.
One day, I received a phone call from an unknown number.
“You have completely forgotten me”, the voice grumbled.
It took a moment to comprehend that the speaker was Farhan.
I did not realize that we had not met in the last six years.
“How can I forget you, buddy?” I asked emotionally.
“You have changed your number. But you are too busy to call me or message me, even once”, he whimpered.
“Not at all… I lost my phone. Some bastard stole it from me in the Metro,” I defended myself.
I waited for him to respond but the silence lingered in between us.
“I bought a new number along with a new phone. Thus, I lost your contact”, I added, hoping to convince him.
“Leave it now. By the way, when are we meeting? You owe me a treat.”
“Treat?” I asked in a voice gravid with confusion.
“I saw the picture of your fiancé Ananya in a social networking site. You both are getting married if I am not mistaken,” he gushed.
I was embarrassed. He was a close friend, a best friend. He deserved to hear those announcements directly from me before anyone else would know. He had the first rights to listen to my secrets… But Fate had spread the cobweb of distance.
“Why not fix a meeting somewhere?” I asked, in a bid to overcome the feeling of guilt.
“Hmmm… If you really mean it, we can catch up at Srabanpur. By this way, we will refresh our memories”, he said, “and if fortune favours us, we can catch a glimpse of the insane talisman too”.
“Sure”, I smiled back, as my eyes twinkled with the myriad memories associated with the place.
“Done. We are meeting next month, by hook or by crook,” he observed with an air of sanguine desperation. As per our scheduled plan, I arrived in the Srabanpur railway station at around ten in the night after almost a month. The train – going by the changeless attribute of the railways – was late by three hours. However, amid the huddle of the population – comprising of fatigued travellers, their receivers, a few coolies and possibly some pickpockets – I came across this gentleman who sported an elegant strip of beard to complement his well-combed burgundy hair. Six years of adroit professionalism had transformed Farhan from a meek college-chaff to a complete businessman. He was a clear contrast to me in appearance. Unlike him, I wore a loose black T-shirt with blue denims. My unkempt hair, untrimmed beard and sweaty countenance bore testimony to the world where I belonged. Most of the onlookers must have identified me as a research scholar. To the other illiterate ones, I was more like a lunatic. I hugged him instantly, unable to contain the effluence of emotions. We walked out while exchanging the anecdotes and travails of each other’s lives.
As I came out of the station, I turned my head to take a cursory glance of the outside view. The station glowed like a palace when seen through the entrance. It had grown in stature and grandeur. I then looked around at the array of small shops located beside the gigantic streetlights, which had now grown in number. The place seemed organized and well managed. The entire cluster of vendors had changed faces. However, the tea-vendor still existed in an obscure corner, possibly pushed by government officials or mighty men of his trade, with enormous deformities in his appearance. Every inch of his visible skin was smeared with wrinkles. Black specks had filled his face. His hair had become grey, his eyes looked subdued and his lips convulsed incessantly. I then realized that five years actually meant a long time.
When we reached his small shop – which boasted of no other security other than the plastic roof above him that was held tightly by four bamboo-sticks of unequal sizes – he asked indifferently, “Tea?”
We nodded our heads in unison hoping to garner his recognition.
When the old man showed no signs of recognizing us, I volunteered, “Don’t you remember us?”
He looked at our faces with clinical scrutiny and shook his head in denial.
“We used to come to this place before five-six years. We were studying in the Richardson University”, Farhan spoke with a softened voice, possibly trying to undo the effects of aging.
He was still confused or, maybe, irritated because we were eating his time.
“We were friends of the insane talisman”, I said with a sudden stroke of memory.
A smile flashed in his flappy face as the toothless mouth was wide open.
“Oh! Where were you since such a long time?” he queried with vibrant enthusiasm.
“Well, we were busy in our lives. This gentleman is doing his research in Delhi and I am looking after my business in Patna”, Farhan expressed with an air of pride.
“I am so happy that you people have come here”, he gushed with a genial smile.
“Where is the insane talisman?” I asked instantly.
The old man stayed mum. His smile was hijacked by a sinister frown. It seemed as if his mind meandered through the tunnels of sorrowful memory.
We looked at each other in utter dismay.
Farhan repeated the query.
The old man, after a few moments of silence, said:
“Nobody knows where he has gone. There are so many rumours regarding him. Someone said that he has regained his sanity. He has returned to his village to lead his life with normalcy.”
This inference induced smiles in our cheeks. We were happy for him even if it implied his absence in our world forever.
However, our smiles were soon challenged by the several other conjectures of the tea-vendor.
“Some people also believe that the lunatic has left this town and fled to some other place. Some say he has been crushed by a truck or something,” he said before asking, “Whom will you believe?”
We hushed as though silence was the best answer for the question.
“We can only hope that God will take care of him no matter where he is”, the tea-vendor added with a profound thought.
I nodded my head in approval.
“How is your business going on?” Farhan asked, probably in a bid to drag the conversation to a different topic.
“Don’t say babu! He was our lucky charm. Our talisman. After his departure, our businesses have been doomed. Not only me but also the entire queue of vendors have been affected. All my compatriots have switched to other jobs, other places. But I have a deep sense of affinity for this place, this profession. At times, I doubt if he was a God in disguise and we, somehow, displeased him.”
Farhan and I looked into each other wistfully as we recollected the idiosyncrasies of the lunatic. His departure, just like the story of his arrival, remained a mystery. Infact, the lunatic was himself a mystery. Sorry, he was not an ordinary lunatic. He was the insane talisman!
We left the place, moved to a hotel, shared wine and memories, and recollected the golden days of our graduation. After a couple of days, we returned to our respective worlds. Even in his absence, the talisman helped us to bridge our differences…
Standing in my balcony, when I gaze at the distance with a cup of coffee in hand, there are no streetlights, no dogs, and no vendors. But I can clearly see the insane talisman donned in the new pair of clothes – with his deadpan expression – swinging his arm with unending intensity and staring at me through the corridors of my memory.
Poetry 2015, Shortlist Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra
Subtle Sublimity
You were like some poetry, brief but intimate,
Like a clandestine hurricane of sorts.
Damaging me from the inside out-
Poetry lies in the nooks and crannies.
But you do not; a covalent contradiction.
Some words cut deeper than sharpened blades
Both of us shrouded in an impregnable blanket of depression,
I couldn’t help myself, let alone save you
So, I let go; sobered up from your addiction;
Suffering from sudden bouts of whimsical cravings
An unputdownable cobweb of thoughts;
Creating a Tyndall effect, set in the backdrop of lasciviousness
Like a clandestine hurricane of sorts.
Damaging me from the inside out-
Poetry lies in the nooks and crannies.
But you do not; a covalent contradiction.
Some words cut deeper than sharpened blades
Both of us shrouded in an impregnable blanket of depression,
I couldn’t help myself, let alone save you
So, I let go; sobered up from your addiction;
Suffering from sudden bouts of whimsical cravings
An unputdownable cobweb of thoughts;
Creating a Tyndall effect, set in the backdrop of lasciviousness
Why can’t you be a never-ending poem?
So I can savor you for eternity…
So I can savor you for eternity…
Poetry 2015, Shortlist Anuradha Sowmyanarayan
Weavers
Shakespeare’s Bottom is a weaver,
Spider is a weaver,
Weaver bird is a weaver
Nature and God are interwoven for ever.
Threads are woven into sarees,
Wool is knitted as sweaters,
Bamboo is braided as baskets,
Marvels of creators.
Wool is knitted as sweaters,
Bamboo is braided as baskets,
Marvels of creators.
Each strand gets life by a weaver,
Ornate twine blooms from beaver,
Artefacts add more colour in the life,
Outfits get glove fit in the life.
Weavers are bearers; weavers are savers;
Weavers are like busy bees
Hands and fingers toil to give us honey.
Artefacts add more colour in the life,
Outfits get glove fit in the life.
Weavers are bearers; weavers are savers;
Weavers are like busy bees
Hands and fingers toil to give us honey.
God is a weaver with a string
Puppets sing/dance and plait
As the weavers hand do might
Move off, if the string do stop
God can make us hop, drop and stop.
Puppets sing/dance and plait
As the weavers hand do might
Move off, if the string do stop
God can make us hop, drop and stop.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Simran Arora
Drench
On the damp soil
of the capital,
wet and praise-worthy,
water droplets meet
its long lost lover.
Paper boats sailing,
with dreamy childhood
of chirpy children
on board.
Splash of water,
Play of lives,
Missed feelings
of affection and ambrosia
in the words of wanderers.
of the capital,
wet and praise-worthy,
water droplets meet
its long lost lover.
Paper boats sailing,
with dreamy childhood
of chirpy children
on board.
Splash of water,
Play of lives,
Missed feelings
of affection and ambrosia
in the words of wanderers.
The wash
feels the coffin,
in the graveyard,
feels the coffin,
in the graveyard,
underneath the
pretty, homely earth,
of a dead,
decomposed someone
wishing to sail the
boats of his dreams.
pretty, homely earth,
of a dead,
decomposed someone
wishing to sail the
boats of his dreams.
On a wintery night,
With rain and rainbow
greeting us, can we stop by?
For a moment,
Remove our chapals and
embrace the raw land?
For a moment,
let our mask wash away
and candidly live our beautiful life?
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Surabhi Chatterjee
Caged
You are caged,
In the facade that you created
With those plastic smiles, the vanity bags
And the faces so diligently painted
In the frenzy to win the never ending rat races
The need to be validated, the need to be accepted
You smile when you want to laugh and you hide when you want to cry.
You talk things, things about politics, may be fashion or sports or whatever
But, never your heart, Never!
You wake up every morning to make a living but never to make a life.
You strive and strive harder by every passing day to create a life which is approved by them.
Yes them, the neighbours, the aunts, the boss, the friend, that cousin...
you don't know them.
You log in and logout just to be present,
And not to really "connect"
You marry, you bear kids, earn money and that’s all you do,
Because they say that's all you are supposed to.
You pray but you don't believe.
You point those fingers at the demons outside, but don't ever dare to look inside.
You put up a brave face, when you are actually scared.
You achieve glory at the pretence, of being radical.
While you don't look beyond what has been shown,
You chicken out at the thought of doing beyond what has been done.
What if I tell you, there is no one looking?
No one cares how you look, talk, what you do, don't do.
No one is looking, listening, judging
It doesn't matters really...
Will you still wear that plastic smile?
Carry on with relations u suffer, stick to that job you despise
Will you still hide when you want to cry?
Will you still put up that brave face when you are scared deep inside?
Will you restrain or jump and dance out of joy.
You know what? It doesn't matter really it doesn't.
You are just another minuscule particle
Of this vast, very vast universe.
No one cares
And one day you will disappear
Just like smoke as if you were never there.
So breathe, at least breathe
Fill up your lungs with life.
It's not time yet.
You can't be dead...
Not now...
You have to live once at least once before you are really dead.
In the facade that you created
With those plastic smiles, the vanity bags
And the faces so diligently painted
In the frenzy to win the never ending rat races
The need to be validated, the need to be accepted
You smile when you want to laugh and you hide when you want to cry.
You talk things, things about politics, may be fashion or sports or whatever
But, never your heart, Never!
You wake up every morning to make a living but never to make a life.
You strive and strive harder by every passing day to create a life which is approved by them.
Yes them, the neighbours, the aunts, the boss, the friend, that cousin...
you don't know them.
You log in and logout just to be present,
And not to really "connect"
You marry, you bear kids, earn money and that’s all you do,
Because they say that's all you are supposed to.
You pray but you don't believe.
You point those fingers at the demons outside, but don't ever dare to look inside.
You put up a brave face, when you are actually scared.
You achieve glory at the pretence, of being radical.
While you don't look beyond what has been shown,
You chicken out at the thought of doing beyond what has been done.
What if I tell you, there is no one looking?
No one cares how you look, talk, what you do, don't do.
No one is looking, listening, judging
It doesn't matters really...
Will you still wear that plastic smile?
Carry on with relations u suffer, stick to that job you despise
Will you still hide when you want to cry?
Will you still put up that brave face when you are scared deep inside?
Will you restrain or jump and dance out of joy.
You know what? It doesn't matter really it doesn't.
You are just another minuscule particle
Of this vast, very vast universe.
No one cares
And one day you will disappear
Just like smoke as if you were never there.
So breathe, at least breathe
Fill up your lungs with life.
It's not time yet.
You can't be dead...
Not now...
You have to live once at least once before you are really dead.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Vasu Gangapalli
Untitled
O death,
Don't be heartless
like the wind,
Which tries to steal
the candle's breath!
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Vandana Kumari Jena
Wanting
No one can accuse you
of a display of love
You remain as forbidding
as ever
And yet when you walk
into my house
the flame of the forest
bursts into bloom
The wind chime flutters
and the cymbals clang
Fireflies dance around the trees
Butterflies cavort
amidst the flowers
Crickets chirp in welcome
and ladybirds somersault
I drop the cloak
of languor
shaken by an adrenalin rush
as though you are
a magical pill
that can
invigorate
energize
enthuse
and breathe life
into my somnolent desires
Put brush strokes
on the canvases
I left unpainted
Embellish the poems
I left unfinished
Complete the songs
I left unsung
Chisel the sculptures
that remained half done
I yearn for you with
a physical ache
debilitating in its intensity
and yet
do not want
this yearning
to end
For the pain of wanting
gives me pleasure
and this endless waiting
of a display of love
You remain as forbidding
as ever
And yet when you walk
into my house
the flame of the forest
bursts into bloom
The wind chime flutters
and the cymbals clang
Fireflies dance around the trees
Butterflies cavort
amidst the flowers
Crickets chirp in welcome
and ladybirds somersault
I drop the cloak
of languor
shaken by an adrenalin rush
as though you are
a magical pill
that can
invigorate
energize
enthuse
and breathe life
into my somnolent desires
Put brush strokes
on the canvases
I left unpainted
Embellish the poems
I left unfinished
Complete the songs
I left unsung
Chisel the sculptures
that remained half done
I yearn for you with
a physical ache
debilitating in its intensity
and yet
do not want
this yearning
to end
For the pain of wanting
gives me pleasure
and this endless waiting
Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Yesha Shah
Weaving Dreams (Pantoum)
I sit in a corner weaving dreams
picking up the stitch where I’d left unfinished,
the criss-cross knots give a soothing texture
little ups and downs in the fabric of life.
picking up the stitch where I’d left unfinished,
the criss-cross knots give a soothing texture
little ups and downs in the fabric of life.
Picking up the stitch where I’d left unfinished
I never did let go of the hope to complete;
the little ups and downs in the fabric of life,
moulding grainy patches into a wholesome part.
I never did let go of the hope to complete;
the little ups and downs in the fabric of life,
moulding grainy patches into a wholesome part.
I never did let go of the hope to complete.
Even as I was making a clay statuette
moulding the grainy patches into a wholesome part,
just then there was a heavy downpour.
Even as I was making a clay statuette
moulding the grainy patches into a wholesome part,
just then there was a heavy downpour.
Even then I was making clay statuette
it was meant to be me, carving my destiny,
just then there was a heavy downpour;
it was meant to be me, carving my destiny,
just then there was a heavy downpour;
and it all flowed down to a muddy puddle.
It was meant to be me, carving my destiny.
I chastise myself for not shielding wispy wishes
and it all flowed down to a muddy puddle,
colours of life bleed through amber eyes.
I chastise myself for not shielding wispy wishes
and it all flowed down to a muddy puddle,
colours of life bleed through amber eyes.
I chastise myself for not shielding wispy wishes
A gust of wind floated them away
colours of life bleed through amber eyes
Rainbow streaks of a wistful dream.
A gust of wind floated them away
colours of life bleed through amber eyes
Rainbow streaks of a wistful dream.
A gust of wind floated them away,
I begin again to brighten my hues, vivid,
rainbow streaks of a wistful dream,
essence of its presence lingers long after its gone.
I begin again to brighten my hues, vivid,
rainbow streaks of a wistful dream,
essence of its presence lingers long after its gone.
I begin again to brighten my hues, vivid,
the criss-cross knots give a soothing texture
essence of its presence lingers long after its gone
I sit in a corner weaving dreams!
the criss-cross knots give a soothing texture
essence of its presence lingers long after its gone
I sit in a corner weaving dreams!
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Sunil Sharma
Cleaning
After racing in the sky
The rains left in a hurry;
Drenching the meadows-n- plains
And leaving puddles that mirrored
A purified sky.
The rains left in a hurry;
Drenching the meadows-n- plains
And leaving puddles that mirrored
A purified sky.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Sufia Khatoon
Enchanted Garden...
Once upon a time,
She wrote of the
Enchanted Garden.
Its soul darker than coal,
Birds and beast strange and bold,
It sang to the insane, To enter its dark realms.
And feel the ecstasy of passions high.
Snails,Beatles,crickets,spiders creeping around,
When you crossed the devious crow,
Cawing and cursing your being.
Your dark soul binds with blood,
A story penned, a curse nursed.
I was no Alice nor did I have any malice,
To experience this unlimited pain,
I soon found my body,
Consumed by an ethereal being.
Soft was his hand, hungry was his soul,
Blood in his eyes,
Death in his love.
Cutting deep in my veins,
He dipped his broken pen,
And wrote his life's journey.
A poet was he, born of human indulgence.
Lost in the forest he had met his destiny.
Enchanted garden enticed his senses,
The Queen of Death had sensed his desires.
His pains, her bosom, His cries, her intoxication.
Soon he was one of them.
He longed for his verse,
His muse, his curse.
Now crippled in his arms,
She sang his favorite song.
Hear O hear!
The charms of enchanted garden,
A poet and his beloved.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Shubhada Pujare
Untitled
I am not dead.
I am decomposing like
so many corpses and carcasses.
But I feel good.
They taught me in school,
different types of soil,
peat, clay, sandy, siltI am decomposing like
so many corpses and carcasses.
But I feel good.
They taught me in school,
different types of soil,
and so on...
I do not know which one I am.
The farmers, they put me
into some potion and worms today.
The worms are good.
I am not grossed out by their sticky skin
as I used to be when I was a human.
Another girl came and took a handful of me.
She planted a sapling.
I sway to the winds as a pretty rose,
blooming with fragile petals on a sole branch.
She may give me to her boyfriend
when they meet over brunch.
I hope I make him smile.
And then parts of me are in the farm
down some flourishing region in north.
It rained and they ploughed into me today.
It felt more better and comforting than it had felt
when he entered into me on that fifth date.
Harvest is near and I will soon be reaped.
One grain makes no difference,
in the tons of output that spreads out.
I may fall out when they transport me to cities
or I may end up in someone's hearty meal.
And there are so many million possibilities
that I could tell you.
For all I will tell now is,
I am yet to live so many lives,
and unlike humans I am not going
to figure them out ever.
All it matters is,
I am alive.
And I will live.
Something which I forgot to do,
when I was a human.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Shreya Naik
Untitled
God is..
Not in the Himalayas
He is residing
In the slums,
On the borders,
In the beggar’s bread
In the Cancer patient’s strength
Do not search him
In the temples, churches
Or mosques
Gone are the days
When he could peacefully
Sit on his throne
Listen to your prayers
Wipe your tears
And attend your fears
Go after him
If you want to be blessed
Give the hungry
His share of bread
Add life to the life
Who is already half dead
Spend that extra penny
Not on your luxury
But the comfort of
The child shivering
On the road
Seek God
Not on his throne
Gone are the days
When he was not begging on the road
Not in the Himalayas
He is residing
In the slums,
On the borders,
In the beggar’s bread
In the Cancer patient’s strength
Do not search him
In the temples, churches
Or mosques
Gone are the days
When he could peacefully
Sit on his throne
Listen to your prayers
Wipe your tears
And attend your fears
Go after him
If you want to be blessed
Give the hungry
His share of bread
Add life to the life
Who is already half dead
Spend that extra penny
Not on your luxury
But the comfort of
The child shivering
On the road
Seek God
Not on his throne
Gone are the days
When he was not begging on the road
Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Shobhana Kumar
Hand Me Down
or even the spices.
it’s about patience—
like a well-worn kanjeevaram.
it is about how you watch it bubble
into a simmer as it leaves behind
thin, sun rings around the rims.
into a simmer as it leaves behind
thin, sun rings around the rims.
it is about knowing that moment
when it just hushes
into a murmur—
like a lover, spent.
when it just hushes
into a murmur—
like a lover, spent.
and then, when you inhale its completeness,
you’ll know your rasam is ready.’
you’ll know your rasam is ready.’
abstract nouns aren’t good for
teaspoon-ounce-measured
sensibilities.
teaspoon-ounce-measured
sensibilities.
‘you’ll know when you’ve made it
a thousand times.
it’s like meditation.’
ma said.
a thousand times.
it’s like meditation.’
ma said.
i’ve lost count of the atempts,
but i am still trying to retrace the epiphany
to that day.
but i am still trying to retrace the epiphany
to that day.
Poetry 2015 SecondPrize Shloka Shankar
Stock Exchanges
What time is it?
Did you ever see my eyes?
Can you see me?
Time for love?
What does that mean?
You ask me what?
Why don't you kill me?
What was that?
Alive?
Well, half alive, shall we say?
What normal woman wants affection?
You feel normal?
What is it to be at home?
Don't we laugh?
No phone calls?
What have I done to deserve all this, what, what?
What did we do yesterday?
And is it Saturday?
Why this farce, day after day?
Have you not had enough?
Did you ever see my eyes?
Can you see me?
Time for love?
What does that mean?
You ask me what?
Why don't you kill me?
What was that?
Alive?
Well, half alive, shall we say?
What normal woman wants affection?
You feel normal?
What is it to be at home?
Don't we laugh?
No phone calls?
What have I done to deserve all this, what, what?
What did we do yesterday?
And is it Saturday?
Why this farce, day after day?
Have you not had enough?
Let's stop talking for a minute, do you mind?
(Note: A found poem composed entirely of questions from three plays by Samuel Beckett)
Sources: All That Fall, Endgame, Waiting for Godot
Prose 500 2015 FeaturedWriter Shashi Angelee Deodhar
Quo Vadis?
A brisk breeze stirs grasses on the sand banks
of the Holy River, a hymn to it reverberates on the IPod as I walk
barefoot into the shallow water, offer it up to the sun while wild
ducks call and a vee of gulls flies across the rising orb, silvering
the sand.
water- worn boulder
so smooth now
against callused feet
Cows coming down the stony path to the
river, stop wait for us to pass.They are better behaved than the
commuters during rush hour on their way to nowhere pushing shoving
heedless of the aged or the slow ,while this gentle rusty brown
creature pauses to one side, looking at me with questioning soft brown
eyes, not skittering away nervously but waiting quietly for me to pass
her on this narrow incline back to the ashram. Having learnt from her
courteous patience I bow to her bovinity and mindfully wait and allow
other cows to go past me .water- worn boulder
so smooth now
against callused feet
footsore -
outside the temple, I try on
a comfortable pair
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Shakya Bose
History
The history of the world is written in sex.
Walk on the old earth, and
We see intense copulation-
That kept their naked bodies warm,
And their races alive.
Walk on the old earth, and
We see intense copulation-
That kept their naked bodies warm,
And their races alive.
Walk with the prophets and mad men,
Born of divine libido,
And archaic chastity-
Born of divine libido,
And archaic chastity-
Lost somewhere in the dictionary of time,
Spilling blood and white on rocks, gardens, and chessboard rooms of grey shadows.
Walk in battlefields,
And we see spies traipsing through dead bodies,
And seducing men of wounds and hurt,
Lonely and drunk, and eager to spill;
Kissing generations with the blessing of death.
Walk in brothels of the ages,
In filthy whores and barren paintings;
We see broken men of tears and flatulence,
Of pity and shame;
Prostituting happiness and children.
Spilling blood and white on rocks, gardens, and chessboard rooms of grey shadows.
Walk in battlefields,
And we see spies traipsing through dead bodies,
And seducing men of wounds and hurt,
Lonely and drunk, and eager to spill;
Kissing generations with the blessing of death.
Walk in brothels of the ages,
In filthy whores and barren paintings;
We see broken men of tears and flatulence,
Of pity and shame;
Prostituting happiness and children.
Walk in adultery,
Young love in cold and hot barns.
Fear, and love, and soiled shirts.
Eloped villages and immaturity.
Who lived to tell?
Walk in marriage,
Carnal duties, and bad poetry.
Taunting mockery and sanctioned ties.
Songs, and shocks, and muffled shrieks.
Dimpled embarrassment on blood-white sheets.
Young love in cold and hot barns.
Fear, and love, and soiled shirts.
Eloped villages and immaturity.
Who lived to tell?
Walk in marriage,
Carnal duties, and bad poetry.
Taunting mockery and sanctioned ties.
Songs, and shocks, and muffled shrieks.
Dimpled embarrassment on blood-white sheets.
Walk in the speculation of Alois Hitler’s sex life,
Walk in Picasso’s will, dedicated to his million muses,
Walk in Neruda’s affair with clean houses,
Walk in the history of men-
And we see that we carry each other around in our pockets.
Walk in Picasso’s will, dedicated to his million muses,
Walk in Neruda’s affair with clean houses,
Walk in the history of men-
And we see that we carry each other around in our pockets.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Satyavathi Vadlamani
Voyage Began
Travelled and travelled till we were tired,
but we couldn’t find our journeys end
like a nomad we did go
found a curve, we would slow
Day, night we can’t care
Cos’ once when we
but we couldn’t find our journeys end
like a nomad we did go
found a curve, we would slow
Day, night we can’t care
Cos’ once when we
hit the road,
we only
Rove
we only
Rove
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Saptarshi Dutt
dear destroyer
i wanted to write a poem,
remind you
that there was once
remind you
that there was once
a young girl
whose whole world sat
in the nicotine-stained
palms of your hands,
that i was the one
that placed my world
into your grasp-
it’s not your fault,
i did not ask
tell you that it’s okay,
that gods are sometimes
destroyers too
and even lords
have jobs to do
but even words are fickle
in my fingers;
clumsy meanings
can only get mixed up
feelings linger
in a place
that time and i
can’t seem to touch
there’s so much
i cannot say
and even if you were
the type to read poetry
you wouldn’t read mine
anyway
and maybe i should ask
why i’m persistently pretending
i can write a poem about you
with a happy ending
whose whole world sat
in the nicotine-stained
palms of your hands,
that i was the one
that placed my world
into your grasp-
it’s not your fault,
i did not ask
tell you that it’s okay,
that gods are sometimes
destroyers too
and even lords
have jobs to do
but even words are fickle
in my fingers;
clumsy meanings
can only get mixed up
feelings linger
in a place
that time and i
can’t seem to touch
there’s so much
i cannot say
and even if you were
the type to read poetry
you wouldn’t read mine
anyway
and maybe i should ask
why i’m persistently pretending
i can write a poem about you
with a happy ending
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Sanhita Baruah
After Death
You're all words,
When it is your death.
For people by then
Would have forgotten
How to love you, again.
They would remember
You not, for your deeds
Were forgotten too soon.
You lived on the smell
Of ephemeral cigarettes,
On the taste of bitter beer
And the whiskey that burns
Your guts as it vanishes.
When it is your death.
For people by then
Would have forgotten
How to love you, again.
They would remember
You not, for your deeds
Were forgotten too soon.
You lived on the smell
Of ephemeral cigarettes,
On the taste of bitter beer
And the whiskey that burns
Your guts as it vanishes.
What is it that you'll leave behind?
Your beauty was forgotten
When you succumbed
To the wrinkles of aging.
Your smile is no longer charming
When you hide the gum
That misses a tooth.
So what is that you'll leave behind?
Probably, those words,
Never spoken,
Only written down,
On the bark of a tree
To be read by strangers
Who know nothing about your struggle.
Your beauty was forgotten
When you succumbed
To the wrinkles of aging.
Your smile is no longer charming
When you hide the gum
That misses a tooth.
So what is that you'll leave behind?
Probably, those words,
Never spoken,
Only written down,
On the bark of a tree
To be read by strangers
Who know nothing about your struggle.
And when the tree dies,
And the soil embraces your words,
Probably it is then
That your soul will rest
As your words will finally leave love
For the soil,
That you couldn't.
And the soil embraces your words,
Probably it is then
That your soul will rest
As your words will finally leave love
For the soil,
That you couldn't.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Sana Tamreen Mohammed
Discreet Bubbles
Absurdly, midst the crowd,
My mouth opened for
A microsecond perhaps.
Fish gape quite often.
What thoughts they yield, I wonder.
A multitude of thoughts
Refuge in bubbles, escape,
Only to lose the identity
In the seamless sea.
Less confident ones
Die at their birthplaces.
Fat, arrogant bubbles
Surface with pride, ignorant
Of the caustic truth
My mouth opened for
A microsecond perhaps.
Fish gape quite often.
What thoughts they yield, I wonder.
A multitude of thoughts
Refuge in bubbles, escape,
Only to lose the identity
In the seamless sea.
Less confident ones
Die at their birthplaces.
Fat, arrogant bubbles
Surface with pride, ignorant
Of the caustic truth
That all bubbles face
Same inescapable fate.
My restless mind wanders off
To the day mother braided
My hair, both un-identical.
How I snapped at dear mother
In a voice spoken only
With the closest ones,
Unafraid of it’s
Quality being judged.
Later that day my teacher
Displayed flashcards of fish.
I noticed my reflection
On the pane of the window.
Strangely, I eyed discreet
Bubbles mutedly spurting,
Ceasing, disappearing.
To the day mother braided
My hair, both un-identical.
How I snapped at dear mother
In a voice spoken only
With the closest ones,
Unafraid of it’s
Quality being judged.
Later that day my teacher
Displayed flashcards of fish.
I noticed my reflection
On the pane of the window.
Strangely, I eyed discreet
Bubbles mutedly spurting,
Ceasing, disappearing.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Salvwi Prasad
Blood on the Blackboard
As I watch the world,
From my room today,
I see a tiny shoe under ashes,
A blackboard dripping blood,
I hear cries, loud and deafening,
Pristine souls preyed upon,
What I see the most is?
Morality, stripped naked,
While cowardice smirks us all,
This day is evidence of,
When “Shame” as an epitaph
is written on humanity’s tomb.
Every day there is;
A coffin buried,
A pyre on fire,
But if this is an offering to pseudo faith,
Then the coffin is heavier,
And the fire rages higher,
Now cruelty musters up,
Hope stands helpless,
From my room today,
I see a tiny shoe under ashes,
A blackboard dripping blood,
I hear cries, loud and deafening,
Pristine souls preyed upon,
What I see the most is?
Morality, stripped naked,
While cowardice smirks us all,
This day is evidence of,
When “Shame” as an epitaph
is written on humanity’s tomb.
Every day there is;
A coffin buried,
A pyre on fire,
But if this is an offering to pseudo faith,
Then the coffin is heavier,
And the fire rages higher,
Now cruelty musters up,
Hope stands helpless,
We, the common, need to hold together,
Beyond numerous barriers,
To protect the lives of many
and memories of the dead.
Beyond numerous barriers,
To protect the lives of many
and memories of the dead.
Poetry 2015, FirstPrize Salil Chaturvedi
The Way of Rain
1
A mother calls from a thousand miles
and tries to swallow her daughter whole through the earpiece of a phone.
Amidst the cacophony of frogs, her silence is borrowed
from the trees, as are the mauve flowers
A mother calls from a thousand miles
and tries to swallow her daughter whole through the earpiece of a phone.
Amidst the cacophony of frogs, her silence is borrowed
from the trees, as are the mauve flowers
that sprout regularly in her hair.
2
I have never seen moss growing on words.
Dead branches, too, are alive in this rain.
For three months the forest comes up all around you
and then it disappears under your
feet again. This is a good time to plant the Moringa: a woman’s best friend.
You dig a hole, put a branch in and let the darkness take over.
I have never seen moss growing on words.
Dead branches, too, are alive in this rain.
For three months the forest comes up all around you
and then it disappears under your
feet again. This is a good time to plant the Moringa: a woman’s best friend.
You dig a hole, put a branch in and let the darkness take over.
3
Trees may lie on the other side of language, but
there is nothing wrong in standing in the rain
and reciting a poem to a tree.
Trees may lie on the other side of language, but
there is nothing wrong in standing in the rain
and reciting a poem to a tree.
4
Childhood memories fall on your skin as silver drops
and in a short time you are completely soaked.
Ripples intersect each other all afternoon.
At night the rain falls at a slant
dragging you slowly to the memory of your first kiss
while the leaves nod knowingly outside the window. It’s slippery everywhere.
The world has turned into a mirror:
Anywhere I look I find myself thrown back at me.
There must be a way to talk to everything with faint outlines.
Some things survive only in the rain.
Childhood memories fall on your skin as silver drops
and in a short time you are completely soaked.
Ripples intersect each other all afternoon.
At night the rain falls at a slant
dragging you slowly to the memory of your first kiss
while the leaves nod knowingly outside the window. It’s slippery everywhere.
The world has turned into a mirror:
Anywhere I look I find myself thrown back at me.
There must be a way to talk to everything with faint outlines.
Some things survive only in the rain.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Ruchi Rai
Behind The Smile
You see the face, smile and eyes;
Draws winged liner like a novice.
Her smile? Damn! Eye catching;
Untied long hair is breath taking.
Draws winged liner like a novice.
Her smile? Damn! Eye catching;
Untied long hair is breath taking.
Eyes that possess unignited sparks,
In so many friends' love she basks.
In this world somewhere deep inside-
A whole world she carries and wants to hide!
In so many friends' love she basks.
In this world somewhere deep inside-
A whole world she carries and wants to hide!
When the sky pulls the blanket black,
She lets herself in her world back;
A few pegs of wine and whiskey,
Just enough to escape the reality.
She lets herself in her world back;
A few pegs of wine and whiskey,
Just enough to escape the reality.
When she lets her conscience submerge,
She fights strolling memory lane urge.
Finally gives in and walks down,
She fights strolling memory lane urge.
Finally gives in and walks down,
In her memories she drown!
The last good bye she wanted to say,
She has rehearsed in a million way.
Inside her, in dark dungeons she meets,
Her scarred ugly dark soul that weeps.
She has rehearsed in a million way.
Inside her, in dark dungeons she meets,
Her scarred ugly dark soul that weeps.
Breathing pain in darkness' solace,
It has given up in life's race.
Trapped inside, stuck in past,
Leaves her in fake robust.
It has given up in life's race.
Trapped inside, stuck in past,
Leaves her in fake robust.
She has silenced her howls and cries,
Pushing herself ahead in constant tries.
Pushing herself ahead in constant tries.
Weary inside, pretending outside,
That's why she wants her world to hide.
That's why she wants her world to hide.
Poetry 2015 Longlist, Ronak Jain
The Storm
An unsettling storm,
Sparked up from the dust,
Holding on a lifetime’s rage,
Turned daunting with every swirl.
Speeding winds gushed,
Passed through in a flash,
Resonating
The darkest fears. Forever.
Sparked up from the dust,
Holding on a lifetime’s rage,
Turned daunting with every swirl.
Speeding winds gushed,
Passed through in a flash,
Resonating
The darkest fears. Forever.
An unsettling storm,
Is rising within.
Is rising within.
An unsettling storm,
Triggering a forlorn memoir,
Emotions projectile beyond control,
Demanding elucidate to this catastrophe.
Some in the back of my head,
And some hidden deep in my heart,
Reasons,
They linger on. Forever.
Triggering a forlorn memoir,
Emotions projectile beyond control,
Demanding elucidate to this catastrophe.
Some in the back of my head,
And some hidden deep in my heart,
Reasons,
They linger on. Forever.
An unsettling storm
Is rising within.
Is rising within.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Reeta Gandhi
Shackles
She is a wild flower unhindered in her ways.
Giving her directions,
I feel I'm turning a banyan tree with all its potentials into a bonsai.
It drains me with guilt but I'm with my own shackles,
The shackles of parenting a child.
Giving her directions,
I feel I'm turning a banyan tree with all its potentials into a bonsai.
It drains me with guilt but I'm with my own shackles,
The shackles of parenting a child.
Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Nivedita Narsapuram
The Soap Bubble
It is a slow, cathartic process.
First you do not see them and
then you don’t hear them.
First you do not see them and
then you don’t hear them.
Your mother’s shrieks like the cooker whistle;
your father’s shouts like the
kick of a Kinetic bike– loud and smoky;
your siblings’ fights
like the cat fights that
purr all day without purpose
and then..
slowly, the morning noises –
paper, papppar.. or Amma sabzi or
a Yeah doodh main pani kam hain
diminishes.
your father’s shouts like the
kick of a Kinetic bike– loud and smoky;
your siblings’ fights
like the cat fights that
purr all day without purpose
and then..
slowly, the morning noises –
paper, papppar.. or Amma sabzi or
a Yeah doodh main pani kam hain
diminishes.
The friendly rickshaw-men
don’t stand near your lane anymore.
Even the trees are no longer
Asoka but
exotic ones like American witch hazel.
And the gardens don’t host nervous lovers
who whisk past the swings.
don’t stand near your lane anymore.
Even the trees are no longer
Asoka but
exotic ones like American witch hazel.
And the gardens don’t host nervous lovers
who whisk past the swings.
But…like a soap bubble
they enter your ears and when you’re asleep,
slip into your dreams.
they enter your ears and when you’re asleep,
slip into your dreams.
Poetry 2015 Shortlist, Neelamani Sutar
Tale of a Peasant
He lives there, where people love
Land as mother, worship agriculture
Land as mother, worship agriculture
People of his nation, after independence
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
He tills his mother earth
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
After a year of severe flood,
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
Flood stricken cornfields
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
In his motherland
where people worship food as god
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
The experts do research on cropping
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
The sun does not dissuade him,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
drowns into the deep sea of loans
beaten by poverty.
beaten by poverty.
He feeds the nation,
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.
Poetry 2015, Shortlist Navya Jain
Linked Haikus
They chaperoned well
Fireflies and their magic spell
-Alas, they could not see.
Fireflies and their magic spell
-Alas, they could not see.
The ladybirds blushed
As their fingers brushed
-Visions in their minds.
As their fingers brushed
-Visions in their minds.
Slender stalks of green
Lovers nestled in between
-Like tulips they kissed.
Lovers nestled in between
-Like tulips they kissed.
The young bud flowered
And they took a step forward
-Lovebirds and their nest.
And they took a step forward
-Lovebirds and their nest.
The waves teased the beach
She moved far beyond his reach
-The hourglass of life.
She moved far beyond his reach
-The hourglass of life.
Alone in his grief
The old oak shed its last leaf
-Lovers reunite.
The old oak shed its last leaf
-Lovers reunite.
Poetry 2015, Featured Writer Namitha Varma Rajesh
Carcass of a Self
I cringe when I touch it.
Shrivelled,
crumply,
putrid remains
of a self.
crumply,
putrid remains
of a self.
Wandering in the corridors of my inner being,
this was the last thing I thought I’d see.
I watch amazed,
amused,
appalled –
unsure of how to react to the rotting remains
– a part of me I never knew existed.
amused,
appalled –
unsure of how to react to the rotting remains
– a part of me I never knew existed.
Transfixed, I sit
in a corner, staring at this carcass,
too scared to leave,
too afraid to touch it.
in a corner, staring at this carcass,
too scared to leave,
too afraid to touch it.
Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Muniza Tariq
When Time Bled
She heard his roar from last afternoon.
She saw his eyes, the two dark moons, swallowing her gaze, licking her face.
She felt his two hands like two hearts, beating all over her, inside and beyond.
He was right there, as was the mole on his nape, glistening like a misplaced crown.
There, she saw him blowing her a kiss.
With a lazy smile, she lifted her hand to catch it and rubbed it on her heart,
waiting for the dawn and him.
She saw his eyes, the two dark moons, swallowing her gaze, licking her face.
She felt his two hands like two hearts, beating all over her, inside and beyond.
He was right there, as was the mole on his nape, glistening like a misplaced crown.
There, she saw him blowing her a kiss.
With a lazy smile, she lifted her hand to catch it and rubbed it on her heart,
waiting for the dawn and him.
When the dawn did knock, it was all alone.
Crisp blank like a blind gaze, it brought no one along.
It bore nothing like a baby’s mind but for a butcher’s cleaver,
and struck her down.
Crisp blank like a blind gaze, it brought no one along.
It bore nothing like a baby’s mind but for a butcher’s cleaver,
and struck her down.
A dagger scraped her bubbly throat, two nails were hammered in her eyes.
With every blow, they burst into white fireworks.
A scimitar freed her hands from her shoulders, her nails were twirled and pulled.
Her chest exploded like a fountain of raw shreds.
She could see her bits and pieces raining down on her.
Sloppy, sticky and slow, they dripped to the floor - a squishy mess like a vulture’s left overs.
With every blow, they burst into white fireworks.
A scimitar freed her hands from her shoulders, her nails were twirled and pulled.
Her chest exploded like a fountain of raw shreds.
She could see her bits and pieces raining down on her.
Sloppy, sticky and slow, they dripped to the floor - a squishy mess like a vulture’s left overs.
Two knives flew into her ears, and clashed in the centre of her head.
She could hear her nerves twinging apart, cascading from her nose.
Soon, her breath smelled like a slaughter house as she lay butchered and spilled.
Slowly, life leaked out of her as time bled.
She could hear her nerves twinging apart, cascading from her nose.
Soon, her breath smelled like a slaughter house as she lay butchered and spilled.
Slowly, life leaked out of her as time bled.
Poetry 2015, Featured Writer Mansi Jikadara
Spaces
I lie
there
spaced
out— exhausted
between
those red creased sheets.
And
it hurts
to
know that
I only exist
between the spaces
of your heartbeats.
Poetry 2015, Featured Writer Manik Sharma
Cage
My manor is the purchase
of my time; and it is cadenced
in bricks, as if
to drive, every sound, out
the door. My design
exists, because it perfects
ideas of unlimited thought,
as scrapings on the inside, where
reclined against the walls,
are broken wheels of spring.
of my time; and it is cadenced
in bricks, as if
to drive, every sound, out
the door. My design
exists, because it perfects
ideas of unlimited thought,
as scrapings on the inside, where
reclined against the walls,
are broken wheels of spring.
Poetry 2015, Featured Lohithakshan Koichi Koran
Birth
There are so many birthsin my mind
like benches rowed
in a class room,
and each of them
born as children of silence.
When I don’t forget
about somebody else
like my father’s life
between birth and death;
he never ate
chopped onions in raw.
The layers of seven lives
rained on me
sometimes like
frozen smell of dead fish
flights of crow
over my bald head
crush of sugar canes
in a class room,
and each of them
born as children of silence.
When I don’t forget
about somebody else
like my father’s life
between birth and death;
he never ate
chopped onions in raw.
The layers of seven lives
rained on me
sometimes like
frozen smell of dead fish
flights of crow
over my bald head
crush of sugar canes
flowing to disposable
glass tumbler,
and, displacement of time and space
in a broken slate disfigured
alphabet of my birth.
glass tumbler,
and, displacement of time and space
in a broken slate disfigured
alphabet of my birth.
Poetry 2015, FeaturedWriter Linda Ashok
a poem on ravage
We discussed
metastasis
discussed sanitization
in popular poetry
we discussed
the difference between
poets and poetry
running into each other
on heavy traffic
only to be
replenished the way
death in his milk jaws
chewed Jibananda
regurgitated
into cosmic cud
And swallowed againmetastasis
discussed sanitization
in popular poetry
we discussed
the difference between
poets and poetry
running into each other
on heavy traffic
only to be
replenished the way
death in his milk jaws
chewed Jibananda
regurgitated
into cosmic cud
We discussed roots
not tap
not fibrous
not any other kind
but a kind with the sense
Of ants
We arrived not fibrous
not any other kind
but a kind with the sense
Of ants
after a night’s long talk
over Kyber and
the silk route
that runs between
the cliff of small and the big red toe
We realized
we had turned
bird bone hollow inside
thus floating
like two skeleton silences
on a plate
of blue, blue, blue ocean
in a while
like two Chinese
gypsy librarians
we earnestly asked each other
if the path ahead
leads to infinity, chaos
or stasis in our little radios
We discussed the map of emptiness
landfilling and eventually
disappearance
where the two of us
are islands exiled
in different current
like two Chinese
gypsy librarians
we earnestly asked each other
if the path ahead
leads to infinity, chaos
or stasis in our little radios
We discussed the map of emptiness
landfilling and eventually
disappearance
where the two of us
are islands exiled
in different current
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