THE LONDON MISCELLANY SPRING ISSUE 2023

English heritage magazine first founded in 1825 Dedicated to literature, art & cinema.

Dance in the spring fire

THE LONDON MISCELLANY

a British heritage magazine first published on 1825 dedicated to international arts, cinema & literature

Dear Sir/ Madam This is to request you to kindly issue the Press Delegation Card in my name "Papia Ghoshal", International editor, The London Miscellany. The London Miscellany literary Magazine is an almost two hundred years old internationally operational British heritage Arts and literary magazine rst founded in 1825. We cover international cinema reviews in our magazine.

I'm based in London, Prague and Kolkata, where we also have our branch ofces.

We've covered Kolkata international lm festival in the past. I've just returned from London and would love to cover the KIFF 2022 personally this time.

Looking forward to review the KIFF lms.

Thank you.

Kind regards

Papia Ghoshal International editor & publisher The London Miscellany www.papiaghoshal.com +91 9830361033 +44 7731960544 +420 731086262

Indian Images, Golf Gardens, 60/128 Haripada Dutta Lane, Kolkata 700 033, India 32 Addison Grove, Bedford Park, London W4 1ER, United Kingdom

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THE LONDON MISCELLANY Spring Issue 2023

UK Address : 32 Addison Grove, W4 1ER, London Czech Republic Address : Elisky Premyslovny 414,

Zbraslav, Prague 15600 India Address : Golf Gardens, H.P. Dutta Lane, 60/128 Kolkata-700033 Publisher & Editor in Chief : Christopher Arkell International Editor : Papia Ghoshal Picture Editor : Piyu Front Cover Artist : Jan Mayers Back Cover Artist : Papia Ghoshal Designer : Sudipta Nayak ISSN : 1477 - 8726 Price : £ 20

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CONTENT Photographs : Jan Mayers Editorial

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Photographs : Jan Mayers

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Poetry A MODERN FABLE

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Richard Berkeley NICOSIA - MARCH 2019

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Christopher Arkell Photographs : Sourav Dutta

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MONSTER KID - A SPACE JOKE

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Sergey Lukyanenko Translated by Marina Wright PLIGHT OF THE PARTIALLY DEAF

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Anit Mukerjea Photographs : David Gibson

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Photograph : Supriyo Nag

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The Adventures of One Love Nation

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Michael Maverick Photographs : Jan Mayers

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AMERICA RETREATS - WHAT NEXT?

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William Dick Photograph : Jan Mayers Photographs : Marina Wright Photographs : Amit Dhar

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Photograph : Dipangshu Mahato

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Tantra Exhibition at London Nehru Centre

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A review by Martin Bradley Painting : Papia Ghoshal

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Painting : Prakash Karmakar

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Painting : Papia Ghoshal

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Painting : Helmut Thoma

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Painting : Papia Ghoshal

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TANTRA FESTIVAL

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Photograph : Chandan Debnath

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Poetry The Aghrana For Going Back

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Dipankar Roy Translation- Sridam Kumar CHRISTMAS EVE

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Richard Berkeley NEW YEAR’S EVE

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Richard Berkeley The Dance

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Uncle Jon I burnt fire

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Papia Ghoshal Translation - Christopher Arkell Painting : Kamalika Kundu Painting : Aninda Roy

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Photographs : Marina Wright

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Paintings : Rajarshi Chattopdhyay

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Modern Art Movements Beyond Kolkata Rajarshi Chattopadhyay Photographs : Liudmila Rudykh Photographs : Marina Wright Photographs : Jan Mayers

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Editorial

FRESH START

Demosthenes, the 4th Century BC Athenian orator, was fond of telling his audience of free fellow Athenian democrats (all men, no women, no slaves and no barbarians permitted entry) that at the very darkest hours in the city’s history, light – in the form of peace, prosperity and victory over the Macedonians, was only a moment away, if only the men of Athens would listen to him, follow his advice and sacrifice their present indolence for an instant’s hardship. A future of sunny uplands would stretch before them all (putting aside, of course, the women, the slaves and the barbarians) if only they would make a bit of an effort; build a huge navy; line up in squadrons with their best armour on; and go off to fight the Macedonian foe.

Alas – some might say “of course” but “alas” captures the shades of pity in the whole venture – events didn’t quite turn out as the Great Orator hoped. They never do, said Harold Macmillan, that mock-Edwardian relic in the age of the Beatles and James Bond, sadly. “Events, dear boy, events…….” The events that did for the Athenians were the defeat at the hands of the Macedonians in 338 BC at the Battle of Chaeronea; the theft of Alexander the Great’s Treasury and its deposit into Athens’ keeping; and the final determination of his survivors to crush Athenian democracy once and for all in 322 BC. All a long time ago, many will point out. Very true – but History (to give it a degree of Personality which it doesn’t quite deserve) has a habit of repeating itself, rather like an extra helping of pudding at the end of an indulgent meal. Russia devouring bits of Ukraine in 2014 and 2022? Russia devouring bits of Poland in 1772, 1793 and 1795 – oh, and again in 1939. A British Prime Minister confounded by intransigent unions and a great inflation? Choose from Rishi Sunak in 2023 and Edward Heath in 1974. A Prince of the House of Windsor married to an American rebelling against his family and nation? Take your pick from the Duke of Sussex from 2018 to date, or the Duke of Windsor from 1936 until he died in 1972. The point of these illustrations is to emphasise that History always repeats itself – or, more accurately, repeats on itself. And that truth also lies at the heart of Demosthenes’ exhortations to his fellow countrymen. Alexander Pope, the Eighteenth Century’s most refined poet, had it right when he wrote: Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never IS – but always TO BE blest:

(Essay on Man, ll 95-96) 7

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No matter how grim the present circumstances, we all instinctively look for something better. The springiness of hope, the leap of faith, the trust that tomorrow will be better than today, that dawn comes after the darkest night; this sense is – to use an ugly but useful current cliché – “baked into” the acknowledgement of History’s circularity. No matter how often it returns – like the Biblical dog – to its vomit; no matter how many times it repeats on the humans who endure its bad habits; the leap of faith, the spring of hope, is eternally in the human breast.

There is a fashion for denigrating this lively quality, this hope. Generation Z (“GenZee” as the infantile commentators label it) is presented as having no hope at all.

They are told they face a world which will eat them all up, fry them, drown them, gas them and generally expunge them from the face of the planet. Of course, “GenZee” is no more (or less) than a marketing tool, designed to sell to young people who know no better, as many toys and amusements as they can borrow the money to pay for.

Still, however factitious the label and meretricious the descriptions of its members, those born around the turn of the last Millenium are being given (or sold) some pretty grim prognoses. But it is easy to see where that instinct comes from, if one recalls the trait of History to repeat itself. Go back just 900 years (a blink of an eye for India and China) and a similarly bleak view of the world from the European point of view, was current. The whole of Western Christendom would go to wrack and ruin unless the Saracens were driven out of Jerusalem. It was that determination which drove men of all classes and stations in life, to Take the Cross, become Crusaders and get themselves out to Palestine to make a considerable mess there of the existing order of things (the Eastern Christians in Constantinople were largely appalled but powerless to do much to stop the disorder). Hope sprang then in many a human breast. GenZee are given their crusades too – largely grouped under the brand of Wokerism. Hmmm – one may wonder how they will turn out!

So each fresh start, whether motivated by a crusading instinct in 1100 or a wokeristproclivity in 2023, expresses a Leap of Faith, a Spring of Hope, in the face of the repetitions of history. The fact that these leaps and springs all end, like pride, in a fall, does not stop them being, each of them, a great kick against all that goads us into ploughing the same old field again and again. These are the twin forces – the Leap of Faith and the incurable Eructations of History – that shape our time on this planet. It is therefore worth quoting the two lines which follow those quoted above: The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Now, as Hamlet might say, there’s “a consummation Devoutly to be wished.”

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Poetry A MODERN FABLE Richard Berkeley

The lion and the tiger, They make a pretty pair When playing by the Niger Or strolling round Zaire But should they hire a vessel And paddle to these shores You might end up a mess, all A-mangled in their jaws.

Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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NICOSIA - MARCH 2019 Christopher Arkell

At that border, where light shades to a feeling For the spirit of things, no lines are drawn; There is no sand to mark them, no sentries wheeling Drill-duties about check-point towers each dawn.

Only the drift of a gesture, released Like an end-of-Party balloon, intended Never to land in this world till it’s ceased Being this world - bordered, quartered and defended.

Twilight whispers into darkness, light fades Even for inquisitive eyes; but the sense Of lightness - a touch hinted along skin, A glance set free, or a word breathed within A sigh - melts the most upright barricades: Against that, who would wish to make defence?

Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Love in the spring Photograph : Sourav Dutta

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Photograph : Sourav Dutta

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MONSTER KID - A SPACE JOKE Sergey Lukyanenko Translated by Marina Wright

I heard the clatter of sandals ring under my window and opened my eyes with a groan.It’s not easy to wake up with a hangover.

I had spent all last night with my old pal, Vladimir Vassilkov, the spacenavigator. His space-clipper, ‘Nematoda’, had crawled through the wormholes of time and space, visiting eight planets and returned to Earth the day before yesterday. The call and the flickering of the videophone had interrupted my work. I put aside a thick pack of graphpaper with a grumble and answered the call. You can only imagine what I would have said, had it turned out to be Zhanna, my assistant.

But it was Volodka. He was bearded, had that special lilac tinted “astral-tan” and he had a lively sparkle in his eyes.

“Hi, old pal”, he yelled, “I am back on Earth! Do you still remember where my dacha is, and what you’re supposed to bring with you?”

Would I not remember?

It took scarcely more than half an hour for me to say goodbye to the Transport Flyer (a jolly young man from the Caucasus looked at my jingling bag with a smile and wished me good holidays), walked up the overgrown garden paths and knocked on the familiar door. Volodka gave me a mighty bear hug and dragged me into the kitchen. There, the fire was already burning in the Russian stove, the

old samovar was boiling merrily, and Benia, the robot, creaking with old age, was slicing sausage and ham, opening oysters and chopping tomatoes. My friend inherited Benia from his granddad; the robot was old but my sentimental friend refused to send him offto be scrapped.

“With every year he is closer to becoming a Vintage”, Volodiasaid and kept on patching up Benia’s worn out mechanism.

After Benia had laid the table and settled, joints cracking, in the corner by the stove, to nurse his worn out thermoregulating system, Volodka and I had a jolly good chat. What great times we hadboth had. Volodkatold me about Outer-Space, the meteor storms and magnetic squalls, anti-matter vortices and mysterious crystallized killer-ships which fire at everything warm and alive which comes their way. I told him about my work. Our conversation grew more sincere, more cordial. From the corner old Benia’s oil pump made an occasional sobbing sound; the television screen flickered silently; cicadas chirped in the garden…..

Then I went to sleep on the veranda.

As luck would have it, I got woken up.

I looked at my watch and growled –seven in the morning! It was Saturday, it was only seven in the morning – and I was woken up!

What sort of bastard could have done that……?

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I got up from my bed and looked out of the window. Just you wait, you damn early bird – I’ll tell you what I think of you!

But the severe tirade I had prepared stuck in my throat. Under the window I saw a tanned fair-haired boy of about twelve, standing to attention. He had a red sun-hat on his head and brown sandals on his feet, his shoulders were scratched by the thorns of a blackberry bush, some fluff froma poplar stuck on his right cheek and he blew a huge bubble of gum from his mouth. When the boy saw my dishevelled head with its angry frown, his eyes grew round with fear and his bubble of gum burst with the sound of the first ten bars of a popular hit-song.

Such musical chewing-gum is highly popular among kids now.

“Who are you?”I enquired severely, “and why are you making that row under mywindow at such an unearthly early hour?”

The boy, though embarrassed, did not seem to be timid.

“Please, forgive me”, he said. “But I didn’t know somebody was sleeping here. I came to see Vladimir Vassilkov, the Outer-Space navigator.”

“You know what, kid… I mean it, seriously. It’s not good to wake up VolodiaVassilkov now. Let him sleep for another two or three hours. Volodia is very tired after the hum-drum grind of his routine space duties.”

“I see”, said the boy, also sounding serious. “What a pity. I came to ask him to go for a swim in the river.”And once again camethe clatter of hissandals: clickity-clack. It was amazing what unusual friends my severe spaceman-pal had.You thought you knew a friend for a good twenty years, then suddenly you’d 16

see him in a completely different light.

“You know what”, I said. “Go for a swim on your own and let Volodia sleep.”

“I can’t go on my own”, the boy said seriously, “I can go only with Volodia.”

“And why is that?”

“You see”… he lowered his voice and looked around just in case, “our river is very deep. I am too scared to swim alone.”

He said it with such touching sincerity that I didn’t know what to say. Where can you find a boy who readily admits that he is afraid of something?

The boy thought for a minute or two and then suddenly suggested:“Why don’t we go to the river together? I think it’ll do you a lot of good!”

“Well, but…”, I was rather taken aback, it was so unexpected, “Hasn’t anyone taught youthat you shouldn’t go anywhere with strangers?”

“Oh, that’s all right”, the boy smiled, “I am Vitia! So now we’re no longer strangers!” And he touched the window with his narrow paint-smeared hand, covered in iodine and with a plaster stuck to it.

“Sviatoslav.”

I shook his hand.

“Actually, I was planning….. oh, all right!

Wait a second!”

I put on trousers and a tee-shirt and came out of the house. Fima, Volodka’s cat, saw me off with a meow.

Vitia held me tightly by the hand and led me through the garden, explaining on the way: “We could leave through the gate and follow the road, but I know a short cut.

We’ll have to climb over a fence, but I am sure you’ll manage it...”

While we were walking, he was constantly stretching his hand over his back to scratch a mosquito-bite between his shoulder-blades. It must have itched

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a lot.Vitka was even squawking a little in frustration from not being able to reach the itching spot properly.

“Is it bad?”, I asked “Terrible!”, he said “Our mosquitoes are real beasts, bloodthirsty like tigers!”

We just reached the fence that was surrounding the dacha grounds.

“Press your hands to the boards”, I said to him.

Vitka did as I told and I gave him a jolly good scratch between his shoulder blades.He was so pleased that he started to grunt with delight. An old ice-cream sellerwho was passing by the other side of the fence, stared at us with curiosity.

She could only see the top of Vitka’s head over the fence, and it was completely impossible for her to guess what could have caused this grunting. The ice-cream seller adjusted the yoke of the pails on her shoulders and hurried off down the road, turning round from time to time to look at us suspiciously.

“I know only too well, what it’s like to have an itch”, I said. “Once, I caught a space itch from Volodka… Boy, were we itching until the scientists found the cure… By the way, how do you know Volodia?”

Vitka breathed heavily through his nose. I stopped scratching his back for a moment.

“Well…” Vitka hesitated.

I started to scratch his tanned back again – white lines appeared under my fingernails.

“He is my Dad”, he muttered.

“He’s your Dad?”I raised my voice with astonishment. “Wait a minute… It can’t be!

Spacemen can’t have children after they’ve been in space! Spacemen swear not to have children, because it’s not

known what these children might turn into. What if they grow into monsters?”

“Well, do I look like one?”, Vitka asked, insulted.

“No, you don’t”, I admitted. “But I didn’t know that your Dad was married.”

“You’re grown-up. Don’t you know it’s not at all necessary to marry for that.”

There was bitterness in his voice. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you…”

We climbed over the fence (I was first then Vitka climbed on top of the fence, before jumping into my arms. He was as light as a feather). We walked down the country lane, passing by the sleeping dachas, while Vitka told me his story in avery grown and quiet manner.

“Dad went to outer space thirteen years ago. He swore an oath never to have kids. Mum also was a spacewoman.

Their clipper got into a whirlwind of degenerate matter in the Alpha Godzilla System.They were sure they’d die, so, well…” he sniffed,“so that’s it.”

“But why did Volodia never tell me about you?”, I was horrified.

“He didn’t know himself”, Vitka grinned. “There was only one life capsule on their spaceship, the other one broke down. And then Dad left and my Mum stayed behind to repair the capsule, ‘cos she’s a mechanical engineer. She didn’t know then about me.”

“So for how long were you boththere?”I was shocked.

“A year ago, Mum repaired the capsule and we returned to Earth”, Vitka said.

“We landed in secret and found a place to live near Dad’s house.”

“And why in secret?”

“Don’t you know what they’ll do to me?”, Vitka looked at me with his big grey eyes. “They’ll put me into the Space Research Centre and will be testing me 17

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there for ten years to see if I’m a monster or not! I’ll be an old man, by the time they release me!”

He was silent for a while and then waved his hand with vexation: “Why on earth did I tell you? Now you’ll tell them about me, and they’ll cart me away.”

I felt uneasy. I sat beside him, hugged him by his thin shoulders and pressed him to me. I could hear his heart beating fast in his chest.

“Certainly not”, I said. “I can tell that you are real. You are alive. Don’t be afraid, I won’t betray you!”

The gate creaked. The ice-cream seller came out of the neighbouring house.

She saw us, then for no reason seemed perplexed and stalked off.

“Thank you”, Vitka whispered.

The river was a few steps away. It was quiet, not wide and had been a favourite spot with all the local kids. Navigator Vassilkov and I also liked to sit on its bank after a good samovar or two of tea or to go for a splash by the dam. In summer,the river would get a bit overgrown until it was completely calm and sleepy. You could also fish for roach and carp in it.

Vitka kicked off his sandals and jumped joyfully into the river.I sat on the shore, cradled my poor head in my hands and pondered about life: what a difficult, complicated thing life was, what amazing encounters happened to you, and what difficult decisions you sometimes had to make.

Vitka finished his splashing, ran out on to the shore and started merrily skipping on one leg, trying to shake the water out of his ear. I looked at him with approval – what a lively, sweet kid he was, no headache at all. It seemed Vitka had caught my look. He frowned, came up to 18

me and put the wet palms of his hands on my forehead.

“Bear up, uncle Sviatoslav.”, he said.

“It’ll hurt a lot at first, but then all the pain will go away.”And true to his words – it seemed as if my head had exploded from within! But hardly had I had time to scream, the pain subsided.

“So, what’s all that?” I asked. “Are you a psychic? Do you heal by laying on hands?”

“No, no!” Vitka shook his head. “I can’t heal. I just speeded time up inside your head, so your hangover cleared in three seconds!”

“So you are a monster, after all”, I said, “Shame on you, Vitia! You lied to me!”

Vitia blushed, “And what if it’s for doing good? Is that also being a monster?” he challenged me.

I thought to myself. Obviously, the severe rules and regulations of OuterSpace exist fora good reason. It was discovered back in the twenty-second century, that the children of those spacemen who went to the stars grew up into horrible monsters. They didn’t have to be wicked, but each and everyone of their childish pranks was paradoxically connected with cosmic processes. The first alarm-bell sounded for mankind when the son of spaceman Ermakov was denied ice-cream, leading to the whole of Venus becoming covered in ice as a result. And when Elly, the little daughter of spaceman Brinner, was not allowed to go the circus… To cut a long story short all these children were put into a state of deep-freeze, and all new spacemen are now obliged to take a strict oath never to have children.

“And what does your Dad say?”I avoided answering his question.

“He says, it’s Ok… that I am not a

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threat to the Universe…” Vitka lowered his eyes. “I promised him never to use my abilities. Please, don’t tell him… that I cured your headache!”

“All right, Vitka. I won’t mention it.

Go, have another swim.” I waved my hand at him. I was annoyed.

The morning got better and better! I took a pleasant stroll along the riverbank, having a pleasantchat about the weather with a shepherd who had brought a flock of rabbits to the water. Vitka, as any normal kid would do, was splashing in the shadows.

All of a sudden, I heard his scream of alarm.Quick as a flash I rushed to the spot on the bank where Vitka had already climbed out of the water. Blood was running from his left foot.

“It’s all right, it’s nothing.” Vitka was putting on a brave face.

But I could see that he had turned pale with fright!

He had cut his heel on a piece of glass.

Worse still, some silt had got into the cut.

“Sit down, you piece of trouble!”, I ordered Vitka. I took his heel into my hands and started to suck the silt out of his cut. I had to suck for a long time, until the stale taste of silt changed into the salty taste of the boy’s blood. I spat it out into the grass from time to time, muttering, “You’ll turn me into some sort of a vampire, you wretched monster…”

Vitka stopped grimacing and was now smiling. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the ice-cream seller with her pailscame down towards the river. She saw us, pursed herlips and took a lower path downstream.

“Why is she always following us?”

Vitka was indignant. “What a ghastly old bag! She’s been here since the day before yesterday…”

I bandaged his foot with my handkerchief. Vitka put on his sandals and hobbled bravely towards his father’s dacha. I put my hand on his shoulder and walked beside him. When we reached the gate I turned round.The ice-cream seller was hovering around the place where we had just been bathing. I smiled and helped Vitka over the fence with ease.

“Volodia!”, I reproached my friend after we had finished our tea with crackers, and Vitka had run into the garden to gather some raspberries for the evening meal. “Volodia! How could you?!”

Navigator Vassilkov lowered his head and pleaded with me: “Sviatoslav, don’t rush to pass your severe judgment! We were certain that we’d die!”

“I don’t mean you having a kid”, I waived my hand. “To be absolutely honest, a lot of spacemen break the law.

But why didn’t you tell me all about it?

Aren’t I your best friend? Aren’t I, after all, one of the heads of the Monster Kids Control Department?”

“That’ sexactly why”, Volodia sighed.

“Don’t I know your methods …. ? Off to the deep-freeze – that’s the only language you lot understand – till better times. But he is alive, he is warm… he wants to play, to swim in the river, to go fishing…”

“He cured me of my hangover”, I said gloomily.

“You see”, Vassilkov produced a bottle of ‘Old Bowsprit’ brandy and poured some into our glasses. “He is a good and kind boy! What… what did you say he’d done?”

“He demonstrated his monstrous abilities!” I rapped out the words. “It doesn’t matter that he did it with good intentions. Don’t you know how all this is interconnected?

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They’d announce the appearance of Black-Holesagain,or whatever ……. and it would be your Vitka playing with a catapult.”

“You make him into God knows what!” Vassilkov was indignant. “So the kid knows how to movetime forwards and backwards a little… strictly on a local scale! None of your Black-Holes…”

“That’s what you think.” I shook my head. “Wait a minute.”

I took my videophone, got the right number and asked: “So, what’s the news?

“The results of the express test show ninety three to ninety four percent of the monstrosity level. Be careful with him over there, will you?”The lab assistant’s voice faltered.

“So, you’ve already taken his blood for testing? That was quick!” Vassilkov was indignant.

“It was pure luck. He had cut his foot while swimming.”

Vassilkov took a swig of brandy and asked me in anguish.

“And so, what now, my dear friend?”

“To freeze him”, I sighed. “That’s the only way. He’s not a bad kid, but what’s a prank to him turns into a disaster for the Universe. What’s a pastime for them is a pest-time for us! We simply can’t take the risks!”

My friend looked at me with deep sadness, and was just about to say something, when suddenly we heard from behind the door: “I knew it! I knew it! You are wicked!”

Vitka was standing at the door clutching a sieve full of freshly picked raspberries. Red juice from his lips mixed with tears was gathering in drops on his chin.

“Vitia, please try to understand”, I 20

said with a sigh. “We can’t do otherwise.

You’ll just go to sleep. And then, one day,sometime in the future you’ll wake up. Just imagine, what fun it’ll be to wake up in the future?”

“No, no and no!”Vitka shook his head.

There was an ominous glint in his eyes.

“You won’t be able to do anything to me!

I know what….. I’ll age you now! You’ll die in three seconds, you wicked grownups! And then I’ll quickly turn other kids into grown-ups and we’ll conquer you.

And I’ll let out all the other monster-kids.

I wanted to let them out, from the very beginning!”

We froze in horror under the icy gaze of his eyes, They didn’t look like kid’s eyes any more. It even seemed to me that I began to age, though most likely he was merely gathering his forces.

And at this moment the stairs on the porch creaked under the heavy foot steps.

“Milk, cream, homemade curd cheese!”, drawled the old ice-cream seller in a singsong voice. “Yoghourt, milkshakes, ice-cream! Everything fresh and organic, everything straight from the cow!”

“Get lost, you old bag!”, Vitka screamed, without turning back. “Or all your milk will turn sour!”

“Ai, ai, God save us all!”wailed the old woman. “Have a chocolate covered icecream instead!”

“A chocolate covered one? I will, I will”, Vitka was nearly jumping with delight. “And a vanilla one as well…”

And in this very instant with one agile move the old ice-cream seller emptied her pail over the boy. We heard the hissing sound with which the liquid helium froze the monster kid. It whistled, it gurgled: a slight warm body at onceturned into a hard dark brown statue, resembling the

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chocolate figurines of little Moorish boys in the confectionary shops.

“Hold him, hold him, he is hard but he is brittle!” Volodka screamed on top of his voice, when the little monster started to topple backwards.

Luckily the ice-cream seller caught the body in time and arranged it carefully on a little rug.

“Well done, Zhanna,” I thanked my assistant, “As efficient as always and bang on time!”

“Remove his sandals, will you?”

Zhanna ordered us around and picked up another pail of liquid helium. “Now you guys, keep turning him round, so I can pour the helium evenly over him, until he’s well frozen all over.”

The three of us froze Vitka quickly and uniformly, then we put him on the sofa and called for the transportation team.

Zhanna pulled off her wig and then took a swig of brandy with relish.She looked reproachfully at Volodia and said: “Naughty-naughty!”

“I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Volodka was embarrassed.

Abram, his old dog, ran into the room from outside. He sniffed at Vitka, scratched himself ponderously and settled by the stove.

“Zhanna, was it on purpose that you waited till he”, I nodded at Vitka, “would be half turning with his hand outstretched so touchingly and with a smile on his lips?”

“Sure”, Zhanna nodded. “You know how they’re stored in the long-term storage-hall, poor darlings. It’s too sad looking at them standing at attention, arranged so regimentally. So I liven it up a little.”

We looked pensively at Vitka.

We all felt embarrassed and even a bit ashamed. But what else could we do? If the events on the cosmic level begin to depend on childish pranks, then we, the grown-ups, cannot do otherwise.

After all we were all monsters when we were kids…….

Photograph : Marina Wright

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SHORT STORY

PLIGHT OF THE PARTIALLY DEAF Anit Mukerjea

What would it be like to be saddled with a pair of ears impaired by a sense of hearing without fully absorbing the outer stimuli of sound in the world of the partially deaf? But only Akash and others of his ilk could tell, feel and experience this loss one had to bear in receiving aurally the muffled, indistinct noise vibrations within his immediate environs. The void created by his partial deafness which always cannot clearly register the nuances of the spoken word exchanged between people in a continuous stream of dialogues; a malady that can prove to be a source of some irritation and jest among his immediate family members, friends and acquaintances.

On the wrong side of seventy, perhaps old age was catching up on him, Akash sometimes felt. A Septuagenarian who still had enough pluck despite suffering the recent loss of his hearing aids to sustain 22

his presence of mind to forge ahead the conflicting situations of his life, come what may and, because of this special ability, his partial deafness, so to speak, did not affect the faculty of his speech. To make matters worse, his sense of smell too had abandoned him. This too, he got used to although, occasionally he did feel the pinch of being deprived of the perfumes of mother nature, it also came in the way of defining culinary delicacies which he put to the test in experimenting with novel and exotic dishes he would have a bash at in his spare time at home, entertaining guests who were overwhelmed by his cooking skills.

Being basically simple, righteous and honest, Akash was endowed with a smooth olive complexioned skin and handsome sharp features which somehow managed to hold back the ravages of time and looked ten years younger than his actual

calendar age without a trace of wrinkles except, for the thinning hair above his broad forehead.

Irrespective of the internal deficiencies, Akash somewhat managed to maintain a cheerful façade but, deep within him he sometimes felt the pang of loneliness and mental depression spurred on by missing two of his five senses enjoyed by all and sundry. It also gave him a childish streak at times.

His wife, Rajkumari is twenty years younger than him and, in consequence of Akash’s hearing inadequacy, would shout at him like a banshee which provoked her even further to augment her decibel levels to treble and triple tones to drive home the point of the nitty gritty of the bazar items to be purchased from the market for their daily sustenance. Although, in the past, Akash’s improved communication skills promoted his successful career as a P.R., but his

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public relations career had now to take a nose dive driven to the backseat of inactivity and, kept under wraps at least, for the time being till he received his new pair of hearing aids.

Both his wife, Rajkumari, and some friends told him to retire with grace and call it a day.

He had earned sufficiently in the PR career with which he was engaged for so many years to keep body and soul together by way of a lucrative income that kept his bank balance and wallet well heeled in order to see him through his retirement days for the rest of his life. But Akash would not hear of it, as he was always used to a lot of activitywhich kept him going rather than sit idle at home enjoying his retirement days.

He, somehow, could not reconcile himself to a life of total retirement which meant inaction, and, in turn, the latter meant death.

For Akash and otherslike him, irrespective of their age, kept themselves busy as P.R. consultants. One day, one of his close P.R friend, Probal, dropped in to inform Akash of an important event as the latter was only attending miscellaneous events

in Kolkata with his PR engagement tentatively stalled on account of his inability, but, instead he kept himself busy with consultancy work that entailed training and promoting young aspiring PR’s towards a successful career in this profession.

However, Probal was ushered into Akash’s small flat in South Kolkata and Akash welcomed him.

Probal, known during school days as Probal Chowdhury, was Akash’s classmate and a senior PR Consultant. Though in his mid sixties, his hair was still raven black and a body that developed a pot-belly which betrayed his once wafer-thin figure in the hey days. “Would you like a cup of tea?” queried Akash to his guest. Probal addressed his host’s query with the choice of his preferred beverage bearing in mind the cold climate.“There is apparently a nip in the air and I would be much obliged if you offered me a cup of coffee instead of tea. Coffee with plenty of milk and sugar if it is not a botheration.”

“Toffee? You care for toffee instead of tea?” inquired Akash betrayed by his hearing sense.

“I distinctly requested

for Coffee, (loudly) Akash!” Not toffee as you presumed. What do you take me to be, an overgrown kid or something hankering after toffee?” Probal mildly reproved. Akash reacted with a sheepish grin when, at this point his wife Rajkumari thought it expedient to shuffle her way into the kitchen and then promptly placed the desired beverage before Akash and his friend Probal. Sipping coffee and savouring the flavour, Probal expressed his delight with “Excellent coffee. Quite bracing for this January weather. I have some news for you.”

“What views? You just conveyed your views of the excellent coffee Probal!”

“Oh! For Christ sake (Probal being a Bengali Christian) I clearly said news and not views” blurted Probal at the highest decibel level with slight traces of irritation which would have been amusing if there was a third person sitting silently enjoying the spectacle of the interaction between a normal and partially deaf person with underlying sadistic delight.

“Oh! News” as though it were a revelation for Akash when he continued 23

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“What news?”

“I have been appointed as a PR to organize an event as part of Nehru’s Centenary Celebrations. I would like you to attend the function without informing the press. That is my responsibility. Okay Akash?” said Probal.

“What, Nehru’s Sanitary celebrations! Not a bad idea really. I think that would be a welcome idea if implemented considering the lack of sanitation and public urinals in Kolkata.

It drives the public to the call of nature piddling out in the open, making a nuisance and spectacle of themselves which is most un-hygenic” revolted Akash in disgust.

“I said Nehru’s ‘Centenary’ not ‘Sanitary’.

Please listen carefully Akash!” shouted Probal.

Here Rajkumari, Akash’s wife giggled and was beside herself with laughter when she addressed herself to Akash’s friend Probal.

‘Look what I have to cope with (with mild irritation).

Ofcourse I have kind of got used to him. His misinterpretation can be quite amusing sometimes.

But not all the time. He is just like my father-in-law who was a bit deaf himself, you know.”

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“His father was deaf too? Akash is a chip of the old block. I daresay it is hereditary. It comes down the line, boudi (a term usually addressed to a Bengali housewife).

You should take him to an ENT specialist for proper treatment.

Neglect may cause further deterioration.” Suggested Probal. On hearing this Akash revolted at the idea “What take me to an ET those weird extra terrestrials from another planet? But that is a figment of Spielberg’s cinematic imagination. Have you gone clean out of your mind. ET’s in this concrete jungle called Kolkata?”

Both Probal and Rajkumari were shaken with comic hysteria on hearing this at the very absurdity of Akash’s assumptions when his wife broke in and spoke close to his ears “Your friend meant ENT, aEar, Nose and Throat specialist. Not ET of Spielberg’s creation.

On hearing this Akash woke up to realize how deaf he had become and welcomed the proposal.

“I have long been telling my wife to take me to a ear specialist but, my pleas had apparently fallen on deaf ears.”

To this, his wife, Rajkumari reacted sharply “What do you take me for? You only think about yourself. What about my ailments one after the other and more complications than what you ever suffered that landed me at the ICU a number of times.

Do you forget those days?”

Here Akash’s friend Probal intervened with a compromising stance.

“Boudi! Don’t worry your head over this. I have a close friend, London trained ENT specialist who is really good and, I think you should go to him. He will be of great help to your husband’s deaf condition.

I will personally speak to him. Both of you should go and visit his chamber at Gariahat and get Akash treated before his condition gets worse.”

Before calling it a day,Probal requested Akash with these words“Please bring your wife to the Nehru Centenary celebrations.

Both of you are most welcome.” But hard of hearing Akash with his customary reaction said “Bring my life to the celebrations. How can I be present without bringing my life, it sounds absurd.

Do you expect me to kick the bucket and bring my dead body?”

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Probal heaved a sigh of relief when Rajkumari interrupted whispering into Akash’s ears the word ‘wife’ and not ‘life’ much to the amusement of the trio. After a couple of days, Akash visited the ENT specialist’s chamber but, without being accompanied by his wife who was down with a virus infection. He was accompanied instead by his sister-in-law, Uma, who had come to tend to Rajkumari’s sudden illness. Under medical treatment, Rajkumari would not hear of Akash going alone to the ENT specialist as he would make a blunder given his partial deafness and absent-mindedness.

So Uma had to tag along to explain to the medical practitioner regarding Akash’s aural malcondition. The ENT specialist, Dr Utpal Jana, after careful reading of the symptons with his medical instruments, came to discover the real cause behind the blocked passage in both the ears that disrupted external sound in the patient’s hearing ability. Ofcourse, after much deliberation weighing the pros and cons and, on probing the ears with thin needle-fine

instruments to cleanse the dirt blockage, Dr Jana finally came to the conclusion of his diagnosis while maintaining his customary silence of a few seconds.

The ensuing pause managed to stir Akash’s hope that it would be a minor problem of blockage owing to dirt accumulation and, that it would finally relieve him of donning the hearing aid when Dr. Jana broke the spell of silence with the words that dashed Akash’s expectations.

“You will have to wear a hearing aid. I have thoroughly examined your ears. The nerves have dried up. You ought to have come to me much earlier.

What have you been doing all these years, neglecting your ears. Your have only to blame yourself for this stamp of neglect, Mr Akash Chakraborty” declared Dr. Jana. Uma, his sister-in-law drew close to his ear drums and explained what Dr. Jana had just said. “What do I do now doctor?”

Akash queried somewhat apologetically.

“Does this mean my hearing condition borders on stone deafness?” he asked in desperation. Dr. Jana on perceiving the plight of his patient consoled

him sympathetically with the much needed tenderness capable by a medical practitioner some of whom have psychiatric qualifications.

“Don’t worry unnecessarily. It’s nothing like that. Your will have to get used to wearing one hearing aid on your right ear for the rest of your life.

Buy these from the Pearl Hearing Aid Centre and Clinic. I am writing you a prescription that you may avail yourself the benefit of better hearing facility. In the meantime, use the ear drops I am prescribing” with which he concluded his diagnosis.

Again Uma took the initiative to explain to her brotherin-law of what transpired between doctor and patient, drawing her face close to his ears.

A few days later, he and his sister-in-law, Uma, headed towards the hearing aid clinic in South Kolkata. The noise and bustle of passing vehicles whizzed past honking their ear-splitting horns which mercifully seemed muffled and less piercing to his nerves while, the conversation of passerby’s seemed distant and less articulate to his blunted hearing sense. He thanked Providence for sparing 25

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him the sound and fury of the chaotic city which seemed to him in the least jarring as his impaired hearing sense had taken the edge out of its noisy impact emerging under normal conditions.

After a through diagnosis of his ear condition at the hearing aid clinic both business partners, Subrata and Sreenjoy Guha, who are behind the management, the father and son duo came to the conclusion that Akash will require to wear hearing aids in both the right and left ears. They ushered both Uma and Akash into their consulting room for further discussion. Akash’s sisterin-law whose namesake carries one of the many names of Goddess Durga and, unlike the Goddess was not at all fair complexioned but, she had a charming, wide smile somewhat like a Chesire cat and remained fixed no matter what the situation may be deemed an asset in these difficult times.

Her skin colour betrays a cross between a Durga and Kali combination, assisted Akash in his hearing difficulty whenever there was a communication gap. The father and son duo were very helpful in 26

easing Akash’s tensions in tiding over his depression over suffering from a complex inherent in the partially deaf. The price of the hearing aid products from Denmark was quite exorbitant andcost half a lakh. Akash had to shell out ploughing through his savings to cover the cost earned from his long career as a PR consultant and manager of events managed to salvage him by dint of such emergencies.

He wrote out a cheque and presented it to the senior partner who was benevolent enough to make a discount probably overwhelmed by the simple charm of Akash.

When Akash and Uma were about to leave the hearing aid clinic, the father son duo gave Akash a warning after packing and presenting Akash with the hearing aid instruments.

“Always wear these at least eight to ten hours a day (pointing to the packed products) said the senior partner Mr Guha.

“It may be a bit pricey but your ears have to be saved from further deterioration.

Wearing these in both ears, you will now be able to register more clear sound than our so called locally manufactured hearing aid

instruments” put in the younger business partner.

“What did you say?

Dicey! Why did you say dicey? Is there a risk factor wearing these hearing aids?” exclaimed Akash.

Both father and son duo were in stitches when the latter intervened “I said pricey” (loudly) into Akash’s ears as he was not wearing the hearing aids. “Not dicey from what you heard just now. However, you must put it on always except when bathing and sleeping. It must never be taken off when you are going about your outdoor work” forewarned the son.

“Otherwise it may become ‘dicey’ as you put it, if ever you take them off by mistake and leave them somewhere. There are no honest people to return these precious gadgets.

These may well be good as gone. Don’t take that risk and blunder.” he cautioned.

After they both left the clinic, Akash heeded the warning, at least for the moment, being the absentminded person he is by temperament; the fact of loss as a consequence had to be constantly dinned into his head by Uma, his sister-in-law, and, later by his wife, Rajkumari. But

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the plight of the partially deaf may be an awesome experience for an absentminded person like Akash.

The fear of loss of the hearing aids constantly haunted the minds of both Rajkumari and Akash in case these were misplaced somewhere.

However, getting used to wearing them was another ordeal and botheration but, it took almost two months to make Akash adapt himself to the new situation. It must be admitted that it provided the key which opened the doors of perception to a whole new world of clear sound all round.

Everything was now more frightfully audible and well articulated in the dialogue exchanges of both human and animal and moving objects coupled by the miscellaneous noise from both outside and within his immediate environs.

His ten day trip to Goa to escape the drudgery of humdrum city life, stirred the worst fears in his wife,Rajkumari. But when Akash returned safely from his vacation with his hearing aids in tact caused his wife to heave a sigh of relief. But this was not the end. There were two other incidents in Akash’s life when the worst fears

of losing the hearing aids, which was least expected, was confirmed in rearing the ugly head of this negative emotion. It took place at the office of an old Auction House in the city while negotiating with its owner, Jamaluddin, for some PR work of the establishment when, Akash lost one of his hearing aids. At that time he was listening with rapt attention to the interview of the auction owner conducted by a press reporter of a renowned Bengali dailywhom Akash had arranged for the promo and publicity of the auction house as a senior PR consultant. Akash dispensed with the left ear hearing aid as it was giving him trouble in rendering him a clear reception of the sound waves of the verbal exchanges, and, placed the instrument inadvertently on the table and, later clean forget about them.

The proprietor of the Auction House disclaimed later of any such object in his possession when Akash called him later over the phone to enquire about his missing hearing aids.

The information shocked Akash to discover the terrible loss of money gone down the drain. Perhaps, the tiny instrument ended

up in the waste-paper basket or could some sly character knowing its value pinch it from the table to sell it off later?

Two months later while on a visit to his wife’s native village in Basanti amidst the greenery of Sunderbans, Akash was relieved of his second pair of hearing aids at a seedy roadside hair dressing saloon where he had gone for a shave. .

It was while the barber was applying the shaving lather on his face which impelled him to remove his right-side hearing aid and keep the instrument just below the dressing mirror.

His mind was elsewhere as usual apparently engaged in entertaining the 8 year old child being, the son of his brother-in-law, Madhumoy, when the boy was taken to the village fair organized by the State Govt. The sinister, seedy looking young barber refused to admit the possession of the hearing aid left behind in his saloon when Akash returned to the same venue to enquire about it.

Ofcourse, Akash’s wife Rajkumari was genuinely horrified on discovering the missing instrument.

Being basically cool headed and pragmatic 27

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she gradually came to grips with the reality of the situation and, took a compromising stance in comforting her husband who felt handicapped without both his instruments which were literally his hearing crutch.

“Your life is much more precious to me than your prized possession.

Money lost something lost, character lost, everything lost. Don’t worry I will buy you a new pair from my own savings. And, mind you never take them off whatever you do this time. I hope you hav e learnt your lesson from this mishap.”

Rajkumari, Akash’s wife had a heart of gold that drew upon reserves of loving compassion and

sympathy, the rallying point in allaying much of her husband’s dark despair and inner conflict of suffering and agony derived from the loss incurred. As every cloud has a silver lining, Akash gradually braced himself to the situation and was awaiting for the silver lining after the removal of the dark clouds of despair in hope of the new pair of hearing aids to be gifted by his wife for his use in the near future.

In the meantime, he bore in mind the hidden potentiality of instant humour that lies at the root of the comedy of errors as a result of his impaired hearing sense and, ofcourse at his expense the jesting by

others. Misinterpretation of the verbal exchanges by the partially deaf offer different amusing dimensions to the meaning of the spoken word substituting it with a similar sounding words drove Akash to break into an ironic smile at the very thought that provoked laughter, the deaf person being the butt end of the joke, of course.

Keeping this in mind, Akashendeavoured to overlook from momentto-moment the complexes and plight of his partially deaf world and learn to look at life from the brighter perspective for the very purpose of his survival.

Photograph : Marina Wright

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Photograph : David Gibson

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Photograph : David Gibson

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Photograph : David Gibson

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Dance in the fire Photograph : Supriyo Nag

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The Adventures of One Love Nation Michael Maverick

Book One The Grand Remonstrance.

As the divine magic duo in the band of two called One Love Nation, a husband and wife team of spiritual engineers, travelled two thousand years into the shared past from the year 4027.

They used the yin and yang of opposite but interconnected electro-static fields.

They violated causality, to place themselves into the period of spiritual lockdown, from the year 2020 to the year 2027.

With the attention of mankind as the slack-jawed audience, they stepped into the Golden Age as Merangel and the Grandson of the First Light Eternal.

The time travellers had a John and Yoko get modern moment, that captured the imagination to rock the world.

The Shakespeare Reggae of One Love Nation caused the eternal peace of the vital life force, to be the everlasting one drop, to descend over all to come.

And the never-ending carnival of things that can be seen, was perceived.

Chapter One The Great Bird.

In a dream, I saw the awesome sight of a great bird with several wings.

I explained the dream to my mom, because the sensations were so vivid.

The terrifying wings on the bird flapped for all they were worth.

But the bird, flew nowhere.

The wings were too fat, to be of any use to the bird.

And although the wings were essentially useless, they threatened and made noises pretending to fly every day for years and years.

But for years and years, the bird never went anywhere, except into a worse state than the day before, and the months before, and the years before.

Over thousands of years to stay alive, the terrifying wings appeared to feast on the endless source of the great bird.

Being unable to fly, every part of the bird was clearly in pain.

The depth of pain experienced by the bird was physical.

The pain was also psychological.

But most of all, the pain was pseudoreligious of a political persuasion that crushed emotions.

The torture was projected as something unseen, which could not be mentioned, to provide an answer, with a lasting cure.

I didn’t know what the dream meant in the moment.

But in the dream, compassion for the creature moved me to end the bird’s suffering.

It was at the sight of the extreme distress, that I gained the strength to go to help the great bird.

To my surprise, as I conquered my fear and moved towards the terrifying 33

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wings, a razor-sharp sword came out of my mouth.

With it, I cut the heart of the fat greasy wings away from the bird without harming the creature.

As soon as the last tendon was severed, the fat greasy wings lay dead, and alone, and thoroughly disconnected.

And miraculously, the great bird soared effortlessly.

Chapter Two. Checkmate.

Within realms beyond the imaginings of the carnal mind of mortal man, the dark angel Lucifer said to me in a well private one to one, “It is all your fault.”

I said, “You know what Lucifer?

That is the first time you have told the truth, while lying at the same time.

I know you did not mean the words, from how they vibrated out of you.

As I reverse engineered the frequency of your words to their dark energy source, you sound exactly like you do not want the answers I will provide, by owning my fault.

Because when I own that everything is my fault (especially you Luco) where does that leave you, apart from being the instrument and perennial co-efficient of sanctity?

From within a fantasy, the negative entropic intelligence was told to shut down.

Else within the realms of dreams, it was my pleasure to fill the ears of demonic minds with the good stuff.

When the human being awoke out of the dream (after I had banished their demons) they always saw wha gwaan, when they saw themselves mirrored by heaven for the first time.

Whenever dad and I played a game 34

of chess, as we progressed into a wider knowledge of the art, before the game commenced, we had to state the rules that we knew.

The royal law and the golden rule are the timeless statues of One Love Nation.

All that One Love Nation said, as we consciously broke our silence, was, “Behold, the Silence.”

After being quiet for ages, we thought people would have guessed that we waited ages to say what we said.

Despite all the madness that had gone on in the world, some people really thought Kalyani and me were big headed show-offs.

Proof of time travel in a way that could not be disputed, I would not have called showing off.

As it was revealed at the event horizon, we could not please everyone.

Personally, I believed we were not even big-headed when we dispatched the dark angel Lucifer.

During one of our morning peace rituals, Kalyani said to me that she felt great, that there was a well-practised angel by her side.

I looked into her face into the thought behind her smile.

Within her eyes, I felt the weight of the balance within the gravity of the payment of her words to me.

In silence I whispered to Kalyani, “Namaste.”

This peace that is here with us, was always with me when we lived in the world two thousand years ago.

Because of the grand illusion they could not perceive, deaf ears and hard hearts refused to acknowledge this eternal peace.

Granddad was so cute back in those days.

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He said, “Do not tell anyone that One Love Nation is Christ.

Let them all tell you.”

The truth from my mouth was brutal.

As a child I was not fully formed psychologically or emotionally.

I thought truth was for everybody.

To remove the varnish placed over lives, was a skill acquired along the road of progressive unfoldment.

Long before the event horizon, I was conscious of being watched from the screens of the Galactic TV, all of the time.

Before I came out, the thought of Kalyani having to work in the fallen world of pseudo-religious politics, was a lot for me to balance.

The gravity of our lives was revealed by our friend Colonel Red, when he said at the home of my human parents, that we were waiters at our own table.

To live to the royal law and the golden rule is to attain Christ consciousness.

We had a spy placed inside a secret meeting of the nefarious souls that worked for Lucifer. They insisted on a worldwide dictatorship.

They said, “Make sure that working classes have no access to books of celestial knowledge.

Close down all of their libraries and make the new normal of their lives bitter.

If they read and put together that we deny them knowledge on purpose, they will step into their rightful places in society, and then where will we be?

That is not the type of equality the aristocracy prepared for us, as their children, to hold over the help that we tax more and more every year.

We cannot allow the sheeple to realise they are cannon fodder, for our Luciferian ways of life.

What is forever truth, we need to add

glamour and prestige to promote as a complex lie.

Let us really go for it in the year 2020, and show that the world fits right into the butthole of the dark lord Lucifer.”

Once chained by One Love Nation, the lying blue tongue of the dark angel sang the truth. Why was it easier for souls to believe the words, I placed into the dark angels mouth?

It was not because of the celestial skill I possessed required to achieve those miracles of sound manipulation.

It was because souls believed Lucifer sounded good.

Sounds attached to words, could deceive the narrow mind in those times.

Why was it so hard to believe the same words out of my mouth?

It must have been because of my Brummie accent and blue Afro.

Lucifer said around the fallen world of pseudo-religious politics, that the dying stood before my Grandfather.

The living stood before my Grandfather.

And the dead could no longer be heard by anyone.

Why did evil not stop itself, even when this knowledge of truth poured from its lying blue tongue?

The lies told by the pseudo-religious politics of Lucifer’s fallen world (that prevented mankind from soaring from ignorance) are easily uncovered.

Whenever anyone back in the day broke the great silence without joy, it was a clear cry for help.

From the level of peace, this came to be known by all.

Three weeks before the step into the Golden Age, I was tempted to say, “What was learned by children from adults, was used by the spirits of demons within adults, to defeat the innocence of 35

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a child.

Children, learn from my Grandfather, and remain undefeated throughout the endless corridors of time.”

There were a series of six emails which explained the broad strokes in fine detail, of when heaven assumed control of the fallen world, into the elegant order.

Lucifer did not know what form the energy of heaven would manifest into the fallen world, although he knew it would manifest.

The negative entropic intelligence did not wait around to allow heaven a graceful entry, into the fallen world.

Hell entered the world in a rage within the year 2020, and went on the attack after the period of spiritual lockdown began.

Around the world, agents of the dark angel tried to kill as many as possible.

Kalyani and me had something to say about the state of the world during the period of spiritual lockdown.

To show off with divine science (so that human science would take a back seat) we orchestrated the peace of the past, from this present.

To those who believed my Granddad had taken so long, I apologised on behalf of heaven.

It was all the fault of One Love Nation.

Time was taken because we did not want any demon to escape the pivotal moment.

During that time, the battle for hearts and minds was won, when One Love Nation played evil off the planet.

It was the year 1968, when the spirit of Jon Pilger caused a mix of his words to be within my timeless essence.

I had never seen anyone else from my childhood into his eighties display such considered consistency.

The images of Biafran children that 36

suffered from an acute protein deficiency, haunted me for a very long time.

It was the heartful sound of Jon’s voice over the situation, that gave me hope to sleep at night.

Outside of One Love Nation, what would it have taken for the human race, to free itself from a modern form of demonic slavery?

And how was it achieved without of the use of human tools?

How were the most basic human rights of all of us, defended in the war against all of us, by people with next to nothing?

The democratic pretensions of the pseudo-religious world of fallen politics, lay in tatters.

The Grand Remonstrance by One Love Nation was performed in a way, that stunned the mind into an absolute halt.

When the eyes of the heart looked at what was done, the spiritual pulse of the planet was switched on.

The apocalypse was not what anyone thought it would be.

The party into the Golden Age was beyond what people dared to think.

Fear caused most to see the world through the eyes of the powerful.

Yet the rise out of the tyranny and oblivion set for the human race was spectacular.

It was spiritual warfare for the souls of the scattered children of men have no doubt.

Since it was, in silence I said to every demon.

“Do your thing where you are now.

And I will do my thing from here.

Tell me when you see the furious colours of the fires of my face in your dreams, and I will tell you what I do not see of you within mine.

Let’s meet up within the air of

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understanding and compare notes.

With demons out of a profound wisdom, I love to be brutally honest.

When the great silence was not understood, Kalyani and me communicated within the medium of the world of art, while we secretly used music and football.

A barrier was needed to be placed between the different states of awareness of the fallen world and ours .

In public until the 7th day, of the 10th month, in the year 2027, I remained silent about my knowledge of heaven.

The simplicity of how we moved through time was misunderstood.

Within my internal dimensions, I rocked through the ages faster than the speed of life, by more than human thought.

When the results from out of time were seen as energy returned and reused, it was said I was being clever.

I believed the clever label was a subtle deflection, as the point of the simplicity of time travel was missed.

Within the timeless point of emotional and psychological freedom at point zero, this is me leaving simplicity behind, while being really clever on purpose.

The fallen world of pseudo-religious politics felt the red, gold, and green vibe of the one drop of One Love Nation.

All those years ago, who rocked, and who rolled, and who did not fall over?

Who stayed on their feet, to groove within the celestial movements, of the dance inspired by the harmonic pulse of eternity?

At the time, there were so many bills to pay, there was so little life was lived, and with no time for rest, the self-inflicted burden on the soul was vast.

There was so much life filled with junk, that replaced the latest gadgets that turned to junk, as soon as they left the shops.

That was life in the fallen world of pseudo-religious politics for many, before the event horizon.

No tears were shed for the powerful who chained humanity for thousands of years, as the simple words of peace, caused them to be powerless.

It was asked within hearts and minds, were souls heralds for my Almighty Grandfather?

Or were they jewels in the crown of the dark angel Lucifer?

Could the choice be any simpler at the end of the fallen world, once my sword was drawn before it was laid down?

The completion of any mission is a sweet place to be.

Before the full awareness of heaven struck the fallen world like lightning, souls who could not see their own nakedness, wanted their words to be seen.

For all of my life as a professional in showbusiness, I had the awareness that people wanted my words, and my music, more than they ever wanted me.

One Love Nation caused it to be that no man, would have the words to instruct the scattered children of men out of negativity.

Because no man would ever have words, that are greater than One Love Nation.

When the fallen world of pseudoreligious politics took instruction from us for their benefit, it smashed apart their tired old paradigm.

What One Love Nation presented to the fallen world direct from heaven, was of minor importance.

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Disclaimer In order not to cause offence, the author wishes to employ artistic and poetic license as an exercise to demonstrate his technical skills and imagination.

The author states that metaphors and descriptions of heavenly powers in the story, are expressions and products of his own meaning, from similes within his imagination.

He iterates that no one is to be fooled by this beautiful and profound fantasy, which removes the mask of the profound lie, that was placed over the simple truth of reality.

The author states that celestial beings are beyond the expressions and descriptions of any human thought, represented or explained by human words.

By use of an abstract form of epic sacred poetry, a veil of reality is placed within a fantasy for the sake of storytelling.

The author has created a science reality pseudo-religious mystical fantasy comedy, designed to remove ignorance from the world within a light-hearted manner.

The story is not politically motivated in any way.

The story does not use football or music to promote pseudo-religious politics, or to speak adversely of the monarchy on the Angel Isle.

The story is a dramatic light work of amusing character, where the motives of logic and reason triumph over adversity.

Photograph : Marina Wright

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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AMERICA RETREATS - WHAT NEXT? William Dick

In August 2021 the USA surprised its allies with its precipitous withdrawal from Afghanistan. This left a power vacuum in Afghanistan, which was swiftly filled by the Taleban, who soon took over and have been in power ever since.

Was this just a temporary step back, or does it signal a strategic retreat, a collapse in American self-confidence and an abdication from its role as world leader?

If so, it will leave a gaping void, that others will want to step in and fill. Let us see who the candidates could be.

To be a world leader a country needs not only muscle (economic, military, demographic) but also a mission – a “mission statement” – which can give it cultural hegemony. It needs to be willing to take on the role of world top dog, and it needs to be the bearer of an idea which it thinks will give all mankind something worthwhile.

The USA has had all of this. Its massive, muscular, intervention in WWII alongside the forces of Britain and the British Empire, as well as the Soviet Union, was decisive for victory against the Axis of Germany, Italy and Japan. And the attraction of its “mission” – to defend and if possible spread “Freedom and Democracy” – together with its military and economic prowess, was what won the Cold War against the USSR.

“Freedom & Democracy” is a “universalist” idea, which, in theory, could prevail over the whole world.

Indeed after 1989 and the Soviet collapse, some (Fukuyama) thought it had so prevailed. And indeed, so it seemed, until 9/11.

Almost all those alive today in the “West” grew up and have lived their lives so far under America’s umbrella. Not just military, not just economic and political: think also how American culture has seeped through our days and populated many of our dreams – music, films, images and icons, language and literature, humour, clothing, food, the internet…

It has carried through the world the idea of representative government based on universal suffrage, and economic prosperity based on free enterprise, and a general notion of human rights and liberties.

Now it cannot be denied that since WWII US foreign policy has been sometimes clumsy and misguided, occasionally perverse and even brutal.

Indeed it has not always practised what it preached.

Yet if America retreats from the world stage, withdrawing into itself with a neoMonroe doctrine, and is ousted by some other power, even her most severe critics will miss her. Amongst other, harsher, 41

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deprivations, the Afghans will already be missing the chance to listen to American music, banned by the Taleban… together with all music.

Who are the potential candidates to step in and fill the vacuum left by America if she retreats and abandons her current role as world leader? Which of them has what it takes?

Russia had and still has considerable military muscle. It also had a “universal mission” when it was Communist – its flag said, “Proletarians of all countries unite, you have nothing to lose but your chains!”. It doesn’t say that now. Actually if you look at history, Russia’s big wars (against the Mongols, the Swedes, Napoleon, Hitler) were defensive.

The Communist idea aimed at world domination. Russia as a country did not, although it has always liked to have a ring of amenable buffer-states round its extensive borders. Its present invasion of Ukraine is an attempt to re-establish its old empire – first Tsarist and then Soviet: Putin surely expected to obtain Ukraine’s capitulation in a week, as when the Soviets sent their tanks into Hungary in 1956 and Czechoslovakia in 1968.

When Russia invaded Afghanistan in 1979 it did so as the Soviet Union, to carry the Communist universalist message to another country (governed at the time by a “brother Communist government”). Its invasion of Ukraine at present appears to be faltering – by all accounts the morale of its own troops is low. The war aim that they have been given by Putin, “to denazify Ukraine”, lacks any credibility.

His real aim is surely that he wants to establish a Tsarist-style autocracy in 42

Russia, and so cannot tolerate a much freer, more democratic, regime for a nation of culturally very similar people, on his door-step.

Germany had a mission statement when it was Nazi – “We will govern the world because we are the superior race”, but this had no attractions for other peoples, so was one reason why they failed. For example when they invaded the USSR they could have set up a Quisling Ukrainian anti-Soviet government which might have attracted support amongst the many Ukrainians who had suffered under Stalin. They failed to do so because they believed the Ukrainians, like the Russians, belonged to the “inferior Slav race” (Untermenschen).

China? They were Communist, and so carriers of the Communist universalist message to all mankind, as was Russia, albeit “Communism with Chinese characteristics”. But now? Their Communism has become a very thin facade. They have adopted authoritarian private and State capitalism, with a totalitarian flavour not unlike Nazi national socialism. They have an insufferable superiority complex (a bit like numbers of Brits used to have!), and their “Belt & Road” initiative aims at penetration and economic control in many places (watch Africa). But China is closed and opaque, too concerned with itself. Also they have a notion of racial superiority (the Han) which makes their proposition much less attractive to others.

It will be interesting to see what the outcome of China’s attempts to “reeducate” the Uighurs will be. Apart from the inhumanity of their methods,

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their problem is, re-educate them, wean them away from their Muslim beliefs, but in order to make them be... what?

They cannot become Han, (nor can the Tibetans), so they will just become a subject “race” – this will not make them want to enthusiastically join in and support any Chinese attempt at world supremacy.

So Communism has lost its main vehicles - Russia and China - and is now a spent force.

The Roman Catholic Church once had a “mission” to convert the whole world.

It had inherited the mantle of the Roman Empire which indeed did rule almost the whole known world two thousand years ago: to this day the Pope is styled “Pontifex Maximus”, which was a title of the Caesars. The eighteenth-century historian Edward Gibbon described it as the “ghost of the Roman Empire, perched on its tombstone”. “Catholic” in Greek means “universal”. A 16th century Jesuit Matteo Ricci went to China and converted a few thousand Chinese.

Today’s Chinese government resists any such attempt by setting up their own domesticated “Chinese Catholic Church” whose bishops are appointed with CCP approval; the Roman Catholic Church in China is practically illegal. Their main vehicle in an attempt at world domination was Spain, which created an empire on which “the sun never set”. However they failed to bring England back into the fold (Spanish Armada). In Europe the Church of Rome was seriously undermined by Luther’s rebellion and the Protestant Reformation, and they faced rivals in the Eastern Orthodox churches. Ultimately

Spain’s Latin American dominions rebelled and won independence, although remaining Catholic. The Church failed to have “Christian values” included in the EU’s draft Constitution in 2003.

The Church of Rome always had a cohesive mission statement with potential universal appeal, since anyone can become a Catholic. The Jesuits have been described as their intellectual shocktroops. Even today the Church has a vast population of followers (over 1 bn).

However they lack military muscle. Stalin once said, pithily, “The Vatican? How many divisions does it have?” Recently the Pope was calling for “dialogue” in Afghanistan – with the Taleban...(?!)

Weakened by the paedophilia scandals and the general spread of non-confessional attitudes in Western society, like it or not, their influence is on the wane.

The European Union aspires to becoming a world-leading power, as an alternative to US hegemony. There is talk of the need for a European Army. But is there any agreement as to what an EU foreign policy should be? There is even disagreement as to what aid to send to the Ukrainian resistance against the Russian aggression, in their own backyard.

First the EU would need to set up a single State with its own government. Yet to do this, and then to become the vehicle of a universalist message of value to all mankind, it needs to overcome its own historical divisions, the deep cultural fault-lines that cross the continent – separating the Slavic, Orthodox, postCommunist East, the “Club Med”, Catholic, Romance-language speaking South, and the “frugal”, largely 43

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Protestant, Germanic, North. It needs to weld all these into a single “People”, sharing the same basic values, and even a common language, if there is to be a “European public opinion”, which is an obvious pre-requisite to forming a single nation. “Vaste programme”, to quote the late General De Gaulle. The three great conflicts of the last century were all intraEuropean. And in the last armed conflict, none of the winners were European, unless you count the UK, which has now broken away from the EU project.

So it seems that the main potential challenger for world domination today is militant Islam. If the USA, and with it the idea of “Freedom and Democracy”, retreats, militant Islam will surely want to advance to fill the gap. Its theologians give its stated aim as world domination.

America has now retreated in the face of Taleban aggression, and the Taleban are aggressively Islamic. It might also be remarked that the contingents of the Russian forces that are most highly aggressive in the invasion of Ukraine are the Islamic Chechens, who go to war with the battle-cry “Allahu Akbar!” Putin’s propaganda is now saying that the enemy is not just Nazism, but Satanism.

As regards muscle, there are over 50 Islamic States in the world, forming a bloc with heavy influence at the UN. Eight of them practice strict Sharia law to the point of making apostasy a capital offence. This is an uncompromisingly flat negation of the Western value of religious toleration, acquired after centuries of suffering and bloodshed. The Muslims in the world number up to 1.5 billion. At present there is not any single Muslim State with sufficient 44

military and industrial clout to aspire to world dominance. However, many if not most Moslems consider themselves to be first and foremost members of the Umma, and only secondarily citizens of this or that State.

They have a universalist mission statement – anyone can (and they think, everyone should) convert and become a Muslim, regardless of race, nationality or cultural origin. It is a complete, totalitarian, world-view, covering everything from religion to politics to eating, drinking, and dressing rules, to family life. They can be ruthless and they are organised, and they have plenty of money - there is immense wealth in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States; much of it is used to spread the message. There have been extreme Islamist infiltrations right across the sub-Saharan African belt of countries from Somalia (Shebab) in the East to Nigeria (Boko Haram) in the West, with a strongpoint in Chad. The Taleban in Afghanistan have been funded by some accounts with $500mn p.a., and all sorts of other manifestations have received money – over to the Islamic preachers radicalising young Muslims in mosques in the West, and down even to the Oxford Islamic Centre with an imposing building in Oxford city centre and an impressive array of academic connections.

We have noted that so far they have lacked a major State with a large population and a strong military as their vehicle. In recent years we saw ISIS which proclaimed itself a “State” and controlled territory. The expansion of ISIS was stopped by US-led military intervention. However now they have a

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real State, albeit small and undeveloped – Afghanistan under the Taliban, which stands once more quite openly as an extreme Islamist stronghold. Next door is Pakistan, enthusiastic in support, and a nuclear power. And on the other side Iran, soon to be nuclear too, supportive, very pleased with the US discomfiture, even though Shiite, not Sunni. Not far away is Sunni Turkey, also supportive, with the largest military in NATO after the USA, turning more and more Islamic under Erdogan, and anti-Western since their rejection by the EU and the USA’s refusal to extradite Erdogan’s opponent Fetullah Gulen.

Of course the country at the centre of the Islamist worldwide network is surely the Guardian of the Holy Places, Saudi Arabia, which has always played on two chessboards at once. On the one hand its royal family has ostentated a smiling face towards the West, in particular the USA, selling us its oil, getting hugely rich, buying up assets in the West. Indeed was it not the first foreign country officially visited

by President Trump? Yet the country is really governed by its Wahhabite clergy, which controls the education system, so indoctrinating all the youngsters, raising fanatic believers, savagely repressing the women, and applying strict Sharia law just as ISIS did in its territories. Only whereas public beheadings and mutilations by ISIS caused alarm and horror in the Western media, the same behaviour passes almost unnoticed in the Saudi Kingdom. We should not forget that 15 out of the 19 hijackers on 9/11 were Saudi citizens, as was Osama bin Laden himself. At present their current government could be seen

as a sort of chrysalis enclosing a radical Wahhabite “butterfly” (perhaps more like a dragonfly), which one day may break out of it shell, and rise up to lead the whole Umma, from Marrakech to Manila, in a global jihad against the infidels.

I’d say that the country to watch right now is Pakistan. There have been hundreds of thousands, maybe more, of Afghans fleeing over the border into Pakistan, as refugees, amongst whom there could be any number of terrorists or Taleban agents. By many accounts the Taleban themselves were nurtured, if not invented, by Pakistan’s secret service, ISI, which seems to be a State within the State.

Pakistan protected and hosted Osama Bin Laden for a number of years. It was once said that while other States have an army, Pakistan is an Army which has a State... It is already run by a pro-Taleban govt; will it transform into an openly militant Taleban-style State itself? And if so, what will it do next? It wouldn’t be surprising to see a heating-up of the troubles in Kashmir, and more targeting of India and Indian interests with military provocations and perhaps worse.

Many say, “But the Taleban are not representative of Islam, they are a perversion of Islamic doctrine.” One would hope so. But then where are the authoritative voices of ulemas, imams, mullahs, raised to condemn them? They are certainly giving their religion a very bad name. What are the theologians of Al-Azhar university saying about them?

What are the custodians of the Holy Places in Saudi Arabia saying? Where are the words of condemnation and rejection?

What indeed is the prevalent opinion in 45

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the Muslim enclaves and communities in Britain, France and other Western countries?

What the West needs is leadership, with a broad, clear vision and a sense of purpose. The USA in recent times has expressed some blusterers and bunglers.

But it may surprise us yet. Its humiliation when the US Embassy in Iran was invaded and occupied by an Islamist mob was followed by a resurgence under Ronald Reagan who led the country and the West to win the cold war against the USSR. Might there be a successor to Reagan

waiting in the wings?

They do say, Cometh the hour, cometh the man - or indeed the woman. We can only hope. __________________ An uncle of the writer’s great-grandmother was Sir William Hay MacNaghten, the British Envoy who led an ill-fated and misguided military expedition to Kabul in 1839. They were all slaughtered in 1841 (including Sir William) save one who came back to tell the tale,

Photograph : Marina Wright

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Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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Photographs : Marina Wright

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Photograph : Marina Wright

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Photograph : Marina Wright

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Photographs : Amit Dhar

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Photograph : Dipangshu Mahato

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Tantra Exhibition at London Nehru Centre

A review by Martin Bradley

In November (2022), the Kolkata artist Papia Ghoshal held her solo Tantra exhibition ‘Tantra, the infinite,’ in the gallery of the Nehru Centre. That centre is part and parcel of The High Commission of India, in London, and operates in accordance with the Indian Council for Cultural Relations [ICCR], established in 1950.

The Nehru Centre is within walking distance from the deeply spiritual London retreat of Hyde Park, originally bought by King Henry VIII from the Benedictinemonks of Westminster Abbey. Across from that park, and down the road from the 18th century Grosvenor Chapel (church), the16th century building situated at West London’s South Audley Street, number eight (acquired by the Government of India in1946) is the de faco Indian cultural wing of the Nehru Centre, engendering displays, performances and screenings of Indian arts and cultures, established in 1992.

It comes as no surprise then that, amidst the innate spirituality of the area, the Indian artist/poet/singer/actress/ performer Papia Ghoshal (based in Prague [Czech Republic], London [UK], and Kolkata [India/Bengal]) should frequently choose to have her works, like ‘Gandhi the Practitioner’ which ultimately celebrates the spiritual in humanity, shown at the Nehru Centre, and in that area of London steeped in spirituality.

Over time, Ms Ghoshal has created a fresh ‘language’ with her works, some harness more figurative aspects, like ‘Tantric Practitioners’, some are reflective and enhance our understanding of rural and tribal Indian art, such as ‘Shavia Shaktis’, while Ms Ghoshal constantly edges towards a deeper understanding of ‘the spiritual’ with ‘Tantra the Infinite’, ‘Shuya’ and Cosmic Energies’ all the time bringing her fascinated audience so much closer to the ecstatic with her insightful intimations of the ancient, the mystical, and eventually with Tantric abstraction reaching out to touch, and reflect, ours souls with mystic spiritual love with intimations and allusions of a Sufic/Baul tradition.

Within that aforementioned esteemed gallery, under the watchful eyes of exquisite busts representing Rabindranath Tagore and Sri Aurobindo, Papia Ghoshal’s artworks, such as her series ‘Tantra Trees’, dig deep into the sacred earth while simultaneously stretching into spiritual heavens fairly scintillated within the enraptured atmosphere of that cultural centre. There to witness her solo exhibition of vibrant, highly personal, yet significantly esoteric Tantric works of art were gathered a coterie of collectors, supporters, friends and art enthusiasts, close friends and art lovers, who were understandably present to be spellbound, intrigued and delighted by Ms Ghoshal’s 53

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Tantric works on show. The stage (literally) had been set to welcome artist Papia Ghoshal (aka Papia Das Baul, and a regular at the Centre) to present her solo exhibition of spiritual Tantric paintings, significances and symbology.

Ms Ghoshal, in her artworks, shuns Western nomenclatures such as ‘Modern’ or Contemporary’ art in favour of reaching out past both and forging ahead with Baul inspired sufic Tantra-based visualisations, seen in this solo exhibition as part of the Nehru Centre’s Tantra Festival.

Later, in that Nehru Centre Tantra Festival, there was a second exhibition of artworks held within the two glorious white-coloured(Bharaiv and the Sarang) exhibition halls, which is where Papia Ghoshal curated the group exhibition, titled ‘De-constructing Tantra’.

This fresh exhibition included works

by Papia Ghoshal herself, as well as art works by Richard Bagulley; Martin A Bradley; Bijon Chowdhury; Jatin Das; Milada Ditrichova; Lee Johnson; ‘Radha Khrishna’ by Prokash Karmakar; Pablo Khaled; Robin Hydar Khanr; Melvyn King; Robert Lassenius; Jan Mayer; Millie Basu Roy; Assem Al Sabban; Sudeep Ranjan Sarkar; Jan Strup and last but

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not least one glorious ‘Tubist’ work by Helmut Thoma (1977).

The wall works, in the first white hall, were accompanied by long antique banquet tables (fulfilling the role of display cases within that ‘safe’ and exclusive atmosphere). Those rich, polished, brown, tables displayed a variety of artworks, including delicately coloured Indian scroll works.

In the second hall, other scrolls hung from the walls and were accompanied by a bronze ‘Dancing Shiva’, wall hanging paintings and window aggregations of smaller artworks. The whole, respectful of the antiquity of the building itself, was reminiscent of those intriguing private collections, or the small museums which London is famous for, in the intimacy of collection brought about by the juxtapositions and placings of the very varied works of art connected to Tantra, in it’s broadest sense.

During the Tantra Festival there were also performances of Papia Ghoshal’s Baul music, and one fascinating Tantra documentary‘The Story of Tantra’ from The Czech Republic’s director Viliam Poltikovič, featuring the artist Papia Ghoshal.

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Painting : Papia Ghoshal

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Painting : Prakash Karmakar

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Baul Kali Painting : Papia Ghoshal

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Painting : Helmut Thoma

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Painting : Shunya, the infinite Artist : Papia Ghoshal

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TANTRA FESTIVAL

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Khowab Gaon II Acrylic on paper Chandan Debnath

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Khowab Gaon III Acrylic on paper Chandan Debnath

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The Aghrana For Going Back Dipankar Roy Translation- Sridam Kumar

On coming back yearly, As usual in cycling order, The Aghrana wending to the way of departure Whenever ready on the eve of bidding Farewell I, Just one day or two days previously, get chilled and filled with fear....

Looking forward for the sunshine I startle and become as tensed As a housewife, pouring oil Into the holy lamp With hasty hands yet carefully At the eve of evening....

Birthday Wishes come in torrents Flashing n’ Waving me one after another..

Hardly , now- a-days , There can be seen anyone Standing with a lit up welcome lamp held in hand, even in the daylight , awaiting for Towards my Busy schedule days...

Yet there remain few, those few Who, perhaps , once dreamt of arranging family for me N’ got adorably done it, thereby getting settled, Still there grows passion to start Keeping Me as nucleus with Domestic love flowing n’ glowing around..

How many dear ones are there?

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How many to keep themselves moving in their own orbits?

While getting closer and closer to each other, Do we really ever count, at least once, All the last days concerned ?

This Sankranti day of the Aghrana, being auspicious and special, Still keeps the Boat Baich racing around me ,even today vividly, I too get pricked with the peak of its mast, Thinking of such days gone by...

On its way of memory thereafter, Is it possible to remember the songs of Itu’s glory ?

Is it possible to remember the faces who were waiting for ?

Is it possible for me to recall How many of them have sent their messages of one -or- two lines Good Wishes for On my living of this thornly existence ?

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CHRISTMAS EVE Richard Berkeley

On the stable floor In front of the God-horned man (Joseph, forever by a door, An accidental in the Immortal Plan) Is the mother and child: Even if once, no more A Virgin, yet forever styled “Virgin-Mother-of-God” in holy law.

This is the beginning Of life, death, resurrection Of innocence, and of sinning Of acceptance at the last, and of rejection.

So, on the Mass of Christ, Feast of Blood and Wine Segueing into blood and bread - what is priced Into the bargain - but your soul, and mine?

NEW YEAR’S EVE Richard Berkeley

On the cusp of the New Year, the Old Year sighs “For everyone born, there’s one that dies” As the Old Year fades, the New One glows “The young man reaps what the old man sows” Young and old on the cusp of the year, No more to lose; naught yet to fear; Raise your glass to this trick of Time Which has no meaning - unless in rhyme.

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The Dance Uncle Jon

You better swallow your pride and do my bidding Or I will turn you around You better cancel the truths you’ve been living Or I will bring you down I will show you the way that we deal with clowns We’ll bring you down We will bring you down down down we’ll bring you down Yea we’ll bring you down We will shame you in your office We will shame you in Gods house We will shame you when your walking your dog We will shun you all around We don’t need no religion We don’t need no cops Hanging around We don’t need no his story We’re goin to set up this new town Where anything goes And everything’s good Yea it’s all good All good I said it’s good All good yea You just listen to me and everything’s Cool We don’t want to have to deal with fools You see we’ve got this here plan And we know that we can Make a quantum shift in the mind of man Where no one is rich And no one is poor And everyone eats Out of a can Yea we know that we can Now the only thing here is that We must All adhere to this Old New plan But if you step out of line 66

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With old ideas don’t rhyme Then bud you’re out of time We will cast you out Like a dog from its home Till you come back like a dog for a bone Remember when jobs gone for this view We’ll comrades now We play the tune And you better dance I said dance You must dance And dance the the night away Dance the night away

Dance in the spring fire Photograph : Jan Mayers

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I burnt fire Poetry Papia Ghoshal Translation - Christopher Arkell

I burnt fire Burnt one dead body on a pyre Burnt six demons hidden inside that flesh. * Burnt the wood that burnt it, Burnt the wooden death bed, Burnt the bier Burnt the shame Burnt the public blame, Burnt all trace of fear. ** Burnt the beginning; burnt the end, Burnt self, and burnt the graceful hair, O Excellent O wondrous fair. ** The sky touched each of the nine holes The air touched the breath Body touched soul; soul touched love Soul touched the way; the way touched the guru The guru took the treasure; and the treasure took the soul. ** Papia flew from herself, beyond herself on high Holding the guru’s prow Here, here am I Vivid, simple I Terrific sound, terrific fire Terrific burst, terrific life Dauntless; detached.

Dauntless; detached.

Dauntless; detached.

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Painting : Kamalika Kundu

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Artist : Aninda Roy

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Photograph : Marina Wright

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Photograph : Marina Wright

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Painting : Rajarshi Chattopdhyay

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Painting : Rajarshi Chattopdhyay

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Modern Art Movements Beyond Kolkata Rajarshi Chattopadhyay Contemporary fine artist & writer

The ‘Shilpi Shibir’ is being organized by an 82 year old association . Devoted to the 138 year old Bally Sadharan Granthagar.

The unhurriedly flowing Hooghly river as been joyfully witnessing a unlikely assembly of artists and art lovers for last thirty years in the locality of Bally, Howrah district in west Bengal, India

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It was rather a modest beginning by a group of art lover members of the Bally Sadharan Granthagar Karmisangha with their intence creative wish. The first exhibition in 1990 was a blende of photography and drawings by the group members and their friends of same plume . With the support and participation

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flow in slowly from the inhabitant of Bally, Belur, Uttarpara who had a common dream of founding a platform for practising and showcasing their creations in the locality. After an untimely demise of Soumendra Nath Mukherjee, the main brain behind, in 1992, the exhibition was dedicated to his memory as Soumen Charukala Utsab. The logo of the Ustab was created by well known graphic artist late Bishan Mukherjee, local mentor.

Master painters Bijan Choudhury and Prakash Karmakar, founders of Kolkata Painters group, acted as the guardian gods being residents of Bally. The sculptor extraordinaire Debabrata Chakraborty and talented artists of the Contrivance group helped us keeping the creative spirit high in organising the Utsab perpetually since beginning.

We received blessings from the esteemed cartoon artist late Rebati Bhushan Ghosh, also a local resident.

This year’s Charukala Utsab was dedicated to his memory on his birth centenary.

The first ever healthy sponsorship was extended by the Victoria Memorial Hall authority in 2004 with

the valued patronage from Sri Chttaranjan Panda, the then curator. The Shilpi Shibir (annual art camp), as the focal event of the Utsab started expanding with the regular participation by the famous contemporary painters of Kolkata like Robin Mondal, Sanu Lahiri, Ganesh Halui, Gopal Sanyal, Anita Roy Choudhury, B R Panesar, Uma Siddhanta, Partha Pratim Deb, Nikhilesh Das, Hiran Mitra, Jawhar Dasgupta, Anup Roy, Debabrata Chakraborty, Chandi Lahiri, Narayan Debnath, Nripen Nath, Subrata Choudhury, Nirmalendu Mandal, Bikash Mukherjee, and several others. The camp is sincerely inclined towards bringing the young budding painters in closer interaction with the stalwarts and even the art loving spectators in general. Through years of efforts the one day art camp has successfully created a niche for the painters of the district and surrounding suburbs and thus an effective art hub outside Kolkata. Local faces like Animesh Biswas, Pradip Sur, Dipankar Mukherjee, Dr Pradip Choudhury, Udayshankar Hazra, Indrani Bag, to mention a few.

Soumen Charukala Utsab crossed another threshold when it started receiving grants under CFPGS from the Ministry of Culture, Government of India since 2006. The Utsab started spreading over new horizons by bringing several other events of visual and performing art and culture targeting mainly the children and youth groups of our locality. Events like sit-and-draw, recitation, handwriting, extempore speech, storytelling, essay writing and debates bring in the valued participation of the budding generation and students closer to the library and orient them towards art and culture beyond school education in tune with the library traditions.

Since then few days around 25th December every year the riverside ground of the Bally Athletic Club, adjacent to the library, becomes lively and colourful with the cheerful participation of around 1500 to 2000 participants and spectators. For last few years folk artists from rural Bengal and Jharkhnad perform, showcase and sell their traditional arts and crafts like patachitra (scroll painting), wood crafts, chhau masks etc. At 77

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the same time, a group of under privileged children are invited in the workshop offering hands on training in paper crafts etc.

Conventionally, the Utsab is launched every year with an exclusive photography exhibition ‘Frame by Frame’ with intermittent workshops on digital editing. Best lot of photographs are selected by the eminent jury members for display and awards are given accordingly.

In the process local budding photographers get exposed to works of experts and develop skill. Among the famous photographers Sri Sunil K Dutt, Sri Tarapada Banerjee, Sri Soumendu Roy, Sri Sushanta Bandyopadhyay, Sri Sabyasachi Chakrabarty, Sri Tapas Basu and many

more have extended their active support as judges and mentors.

Organising seminars, lectures, felicitations, and staging cultural programmes e.g. drama, music, recitation, etc have also become a part of this venture. ‘Barshiki’ the annual house magazine of Karmisanhga has become a vital organ of this Utsab publishing and documenting every activity.

It portrays contemporary literary, artistic, historical, academic, environmental issues and events contributed by respective doyens. Last issue of the magazine was dedicated in memory of late Robin Mondal.

Srimatee Sunanda Shikdar, the much awarded writer of ‘Doyamoyeer Kotha’, also

a member of the library, is closely associated with the publication as a patron.

We, in Bally Sadharan Grathagar Karmisangha, feel proud in following the path defined by our predecessors to hold our fundamental objectives alive because “We believe that our library is a podium for rendering the service to the nation. We can truly take part in the service if the job is performed with honesty, purity and aptness even being into one’s own sphere .” – reads our plaque of pledge. The completed continuous journey for three decades will take us to newer horizons in spite of unknown hurdles to come but we never paused even during the pandemic though excluded children events.

Neeldiganta A Half-Yearly Bengali Magazine

Literary manifestation of new generation 14B, Purbalok, Kolkata-99, West Bengal, India Contact : 8777039122 78

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Photographs : Liudmila Rudykh

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Photographs : Marina Wright

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Photographs : Marina Wright

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Photographs : Jan Mayers

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