Chrysanthemum Chronicles, Volume 1. Issue 2

CHRYSANTHEMUM VOL.1, ISSUE 2

Cover Story & Interview In Conversation with Author & Poet Gopa Bhattacharjee

CHRONICLES

INSIDE THIS ISSUE

SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES RESURRECTED: POEMS / POETRY SEGMENT: THE DROWNING POEMS OF LOVE / SHORT STORY BY PREETI BRAHMIN / VIGNETTE BY DEEPAK K CHOUDHARY / BOOK REVIEW AND NEW BOOK RELEASES

The copyright of all the poems and story rests with the authors/poets, however Chrysanthemum Chronicles asserts the moral and digital rights to publish the content. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All the images in this Issue have been acquired from Pixabay Website.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles Chief Editor - Monalisa Joshi

In-House Editor In-House Editor Guest Editor Associate Editor Project Editor

Deepak K Choudhary Nandita De ne Chatterjee Prof. Swati Pal Shristee Singh Neeru Agnihotri

EDITORIAL OFFICE A-57, Paryavaran Complex, Shop 3, Lower Ground Floor, New Delhi-110030 Chrysanthemum Chronicles Journal Find us @ https://www.chrysanthemumchronicles.com/ Write to us @ editorialmagazinecc@gmail.com

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

July Issue

C O N T E N T S COVER STORY - 01 In Conversation with Author & Poet Gopa Bhattacharjee EXCLUSIVE POEMS EDITED BY PROF. SWATI PAL

SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES RESURRECTED-05 06. Portia Speaks Today- Prof. Swati Pal 09. This Juliet Shall Prevail- Daisy Bala 12. The Last Tempest- Nandita De nee Chatterjee 15. The Unrequited Love- Jyoti Nair 17. The Enigma- Paromita Mukherjee Ojha 19. Desdemona- Rianka Bose Saha 21. Vindicta Domina- Shristee Singh 24. Othello Shall not Lament- Monalisa Joshi 26. Cordelia- Deepak k Choudhary 29. Lady Macbeth's Damned Spot and the Kitchen SinkChandrika R. Krishnan 32. Voila: The Disguised- Lopa Banerjee 35. The Lady of Belmont- Jayashree Pillai 38. A Fathomless Love- Farheen Kazmi 40. A Coven of Cowards- Dr. Supriya Bansal

A SHORT STORY

43. THE DANCER Preeti Brahmin

C O N T E N T S THE

DROWNING POEMS OF LOVE-50 51. Broken Changes-Nisha Tandon 53. Supernova- Nandita De nee Chatterjee 55. What is True Love!- Deepti Menon 57. Siddharta and Yashodhora- Banani Sikdar 59. About Love-Rianka Bose Saha 60. Gone Forever- Shweta Singh 62.A Rose- Preeti Brahmin 63. Except in Dreams- Vasudha Pansare 65. A Welcome Stranger- Dr. Paromita Mukherjee Ojha 66. Eternally Soaked- Kokila Gupta 69. My Love for Thee- Gowri Bhargav 70. The Simmering Night of Ecstasy- Daisy Bala 71. Love Under the Gulmohar Tree- Preeti S Manaktala 73. Drenches & Quenches- Debashree Basak 75. An Eternal Love Song- Aditi Lahiry VIGNETTE

DEEPAK K CHOUDHARY (DARSHAK)

81. BOOK REVIEW

76. The Living Core: An Outlier's Perspective

REVIEW OF "UNTURNED VERSES"

86. NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

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COVER STORY

WITH

GOPA

BHATTACHARJEE

ABOVE

INTERVIEW BY MONALISA JOSHI

Cc. Let’s talk about your poetry collection Unturned Verses. While reading it, I noticed that this is the second impression of your book.

This implies that the collection has reached a wide readership. Do you still think your verses are unturned?

Gopa. Yes, I think even after reaching a wider scale of readership, my verses remain unturned to

millions of poetry lovers all over the world. I hope more and more people get to touch, feel and turn the verses of my book. You know a poet is always thirsty. Whenever I get a message from any of my readers telling me that he or she has been able to relate to my poems, I just wish more and more people globally unturned my verses.

'Writing poetry in English or Bengali now comes to me as a natural instinct.'

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POETRY AND THE LONGING FOR A NEW HARVEST OF READING Cc. This even makes me curious here as to why you chose to title your book, ‘Unturned Verses’?

Gopa. The feelings, the thoughts have been there within me since my childhood days. I used to scribble at the back of textbooks or rough copies.

But after people had started appreciating my work on the various social media platforms, close friends began to motivate me. I realized that the poems that were once hidden in a closed chest unexplored, need to get explored and that would be possible only by unturning the pages of my published poetry book by poetry lovers. Thus, I named my book UNTURNED VERSES. Cc. Tell me something more about your short movie 'Kolkata Cocktail’. How did the idea thump? What were the initial challenges or should I say, did you face any doubts whether a poetry film could be actually materialized?

Gopa. Well, it was a concept that my two friends, IpsitaGanguli and Lopa Banerjee (who are also very popular poets), and I came up with. We shared

this concept with our director, Shuvayu Bhattacharjee. This poetry film is based on short stories written by us and scripted by Aparna Ghosh. We had total faith in our director and since we did it out of our love for poetry and in doing something new, whatever challenges we faced remain insignificant today. After the final edit of the film, we knew it was going to be a hit.

Cc. What character have you played in the short film, ‘Kolkata Cocktail? Did you choose it yourself or it was the Director’s idea of placing you in a certain way in the film?

Gopa. I played the character of Paroma, who is a typical North Kolkata daughterin-law, one who balances between her dreams of reviving her poetry and keeping the values of the joint family system intact.

Infact, my short story on which this character is based is somewhat a reflection of my own life and so the Director’s idea of placing me in this particular character fits in superbly.

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Cc. You have been an entrepreneur and Director of a company for the past 26 years.When did the poet in you become alive? Or, do you think you were a poet from the beginning who wrote now and then?

Gopa. Writing poetry in English or Bengali now comes to me as a natural instinct, a soul- satisfying feeling. I love multitasking and my being an entrepreneur of a manufacturing company has never affected my love for writing. Maybe because of my brother who supports me and now takes more responsibilities of the company than I do. My son, my husband, my friend Ipsita Ganguli who

gave me confidence right from the beginning, and my social media friends with their appreciation helped me to build confidence. Then, I reached a point where I could realize that there was no looking back for me. As I have mentioned earlier, my love for poetry started from my childhood days, but I still consider myself to be an accidental poet.

Cc. In contemporary literature whose work you like the most and why? Do you draw certain inspiration from any particular writer’s work in your pieces?

Gopa. Gulzar, without a second thought. I must say I am a

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

diehard fan of his verses and to a considerable extent, my poems are a reflection of his thoughts. No doubt, there are many others who have influenced me. But Gulzar is the prime inspiration. What would I not do to just gift him a copy of my book!

Cc. How would you define yourself in prose? I am not talking about poetry, because I have found a lot of you in your poems. I would love to see Gopa in prose.

Gopa. Lack of confidence and motivation, though I have written short stories in Bengali, few in English and I also keep writing articles in several national and international journals.

Right now, I am writing news article for Get Bengal as a free-lance journalist.

Despite that, I can only say that I am not July Issue

4 Cc. In the Bangla pieces that you often perform as short videos on Facebook, I find a deep reflection of a Bengali household, a daughter’s agonies, a mother’s worrying heart and so much of the humdrum in which women are often lost. Do you try to portray some of those real emotions or you become the voice of many women?

Gopa. To be true to this question, they are often my real emotions that one gets to see in my short videos, but yes… my viewers can definitely connect with my thoughts in their personal contexts. Thus, it becomes a voice of many women.

Cc. Lastly, do you ever plan to write a fiction? If yes, then what would be your preferred theme and genre?

Gopa. I do secretly wish I could write a complete fiction, but I have no particular theme or idea in my mind at present. But if I ever write a fiction, it would definitely be something that people can relate with their own lives as my verses do.

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POEMS EDITED BY PROF. SWATI PAL

Shakespeare's Heroines Resurrected Image Source: Pixabay

Aptly named “Shakespeare’s Heroines Resurrected”, this section is dedicated to the female protagonists of the insuperable William Shakespeare, whose charm has dominated the proscenium as well as the reading gentry worldwide for over four centuries. This section includes a total of 14 poems penned by as many poets on some of the extraordinary females from the Great Bard’s galaxy of characters, still remembered and idolized for their great strength of mind, unflinching will and unbending sense of pride, candour, wisdom, sincerity, tenderness and determination. Each of these great heroines holds pivotal significance not only in the context of Shakespeare’s oeuvre as a playwright, but also in the much broader context of world drama. We sincerely thank our creative friends who have contributed so this section by writing brilliant pieces on some of Shakespeare’s most unforgettable female protagonists.

'A TRIBUTE IN VERSE TO THE MOST LOVED FEMALE PROTAGONISTS FROM THE GREAT BARD’S GALAXY OF IMMORTAL CHARACTERS'

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EXCLUSIVE

Portia Speaks Today Prof. Swati Pal

They came from across Many oceans and deserts, Rich of countenance, Noble of origin, Brave and bold, No lack of gold.

I dismissed them, All of them, Despite some who stood out Even in my blinkered vision, For on Bassanio I had set my heart And to secure him, I spared no art.

He came from simple stock His pockets were empty And his wit was not remarkable He had no tale of courage, Yet, the heat coursed through my blood And in an instant, I had made a God of mud.

I was the ideal wife Sparing nothing to make him happy, I saved his best friend's life While he fretted away, helpless, Truly he seemed incapable of anything Including giving away my ring.

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While we were young I loved him so, We wined and dined, Sang and danced and laughed a lot.

And I would lie if I say I was sad Quite the opposite, I was truly glad.

It is only now in my twilight years That I can see what a fool I was He frittered away his life Doing nothing save being charming, And I in blissful naivete Let myself be swept off my feet.

I can't undo my life, But to all young women I want to say, Please, don't be blind in love.

No, you don't have to choose wealth, But choose a man you can respect And remember always, nobody is perfect.

Portia has generally been valorised by readers as the woman who was upright and saved her husband's best friend. I have always had a problem with glorification and tend to find it suspect. So I was quick to catch on to her manipulation of the caskets and the telling song in the background when Bassanio made his choice. That was one very ' real' aspect of hers that made her more believable and likeable to me.

Thereafter I often wondered what she might have felt about Bassanio in her twilight years. Thus this poem.

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Dr Swati Pal, Principal, Janki Devi Memorial College has been a Charles Wallace Scholar (1997 and 2008) as well as the John McGrath Theatre Studies Scholar (2005) at Edinburgh University. She was the first Asian to receive the John Mc Grath award.

Dr Pal is the author of the book, Look Back at Anger: Agit Prop Theatre in Britain from the Sixties to the Nineties and a co-author of the books A Handbook of Academic Writing and Composition and Creative Writing: A Beginner’s Manual prescribed by the University of Delhi. She has edited a volume of essays on Modern European Drama: From Ibsen to Beckett as well as a volume of essays on Australian Literature. She has translated a number of Premchand’s stories into English published by Penguin. Several of her newspaper articles articulate her views on education and her research in drama. She also writes poetry.

She is a member of the Executive Body of the Indian Association for the Study of Australia (IASA) and Indian Association for Commonwealth Literature and Language Studies (IACLALS). She is also Editor of the IACLALS Journal.

Dr Pal has presented a number of papers at both national and international conferences including a public lecture at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival on the life and works of John Mc Grath.

She has been the recipient of several awards, the latest among them being the Dr S Radhakrishnan Memorial National Teacher Award , 2018. Recently her debut poetry collection 'In Absentia' has been published by Hawakal Publishers. She is also the Guest Editor for the collection of poems on the theme Shakespeare's Heroines Resurrected in this Monsoon Issue.

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EXCLUSIVE

This Juliet shall Prevail Daisy Bala

What’s love without fierce passion What’s love without enamoring ferociousness The one ready to smolder any impediments A rage that the world might slander You know you’re in true love When you can kiss his poison and die in his vehement love The one and only one, you adore In the religion of Erotomania. …This used to be my notion!

How regal and naive I was, to have that impression! but now I’m metamorphed reckless…

in my muse and contemplation Now I’m passionate about desires A hankering for many… a lust undying An unquenchable thirst for gratification The overmastering craving to be the alpha women On top of things like vanity and men My resurrection from dead to now nurtured lust To lust… the most powerful emotion in the universe Love isn’t enough now In fact it’s sacrilegious

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I chose Juliet because she epitomizes Shakespeare and his writings for me.

Exemplary Love and Juliet are synonymous and celebrated and hence I chose this character. I felt that resurrection should be a sharp contrast from the bonafide and hence I meta morphed Juliet into a seductress oozing with vanity, lust and alpha ness! This Juliet who isn’t willing to die in love, rather hunt and kill for charm and sinful indulgence! A Juliet without Romeo, who doesn’t wither, rather flourishes to prevail!

Why have only Romeo when I can have one too many?

I’m young and impressionable Phenomenally attractive, prepossessingly fatal Insanities jolt for spaces when I walk around men They fall on their feet or swarm around me But I walk in decadence and bewitching sway My fuller hips and ripe bosom looking for its prey In coquettish charm and elegance Now this Juliet Capulet has transcended from a smitten soul to a hunting seductress Now, Verona, Capulet ball isn’t my charm I can open myself to one who tantalizes my alpha- ness I’ve gained my wisdom strength I don’t assume things anymore I’ve vindicated my soul of sweet sorrows I don’t let love act Everything is temporary indulgence that fans my narcissism I’m not simple, my mysterious inside makes me elusive and lavish My proclivity for death remains unaltered The only difference is that now I can kill instead of dying in tragedy Let many Romeo Montagues die in my detested affaires This Juliet shall live beyond and prevail!

EUSSI YLUJ/ SELCINORHC MUMEHTNASYRHC

RAISON D’ETRE

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Daisy is passionate about writing poetry and stories, serenading words with embellishments of thoughts and emotions! She pours her incandescent heart on paper scribbling about anything and everything under the sun! She’s a homemaker living in Chicago with her husband and 2 kids and has published her nature poetry eBook 'Blossoms and foliage's' on kindle, this year. She’s been published in a few anthologies and loves participating in writing competitions. Off late she’s been writing continuously in English and Hindi both.

MONSOON ISSUE

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EXCLUSIVE

The Last Tempest Nandita De nee Chatterjee

Adrift on the sea, a child not yet three, in father's arms set afloat at dead of night.

O what horrors befell the good Duke of Milan, the wise and learned prince.

How the traitorous brother, most perfidious, committed treason, snatching both crown and estate in collusion with the wicked King of Naples.

A cherubin was she.

Dark and rough the night.

But Providence steered them safely to a charmed isle.

Miranda, peerless princess was she, daughter of Prospero, rightful Duke of Milan.

Her noble grace had rare charm.

Laissez-faire she was.

Playing with the naiads dancing with the dragonflies.

Not once she asked how they came upon this solitary life..

Why only a half-beast born of a witch their sole company.

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The King's ship wrecked in the tidal waves.

All men and mariners missing.

Tossed upon the island, a sudden twist in destiny.

Providence and magic together spin a plot.

A fair prince, heir to the King stranded on the isle, sets eyes on the maiden of beauty non pareil.

Instant love so strong, besotted couple nobody can part.

Destiny takes charge.

Matchless Miranda, chaste and nubile.

Genteel and kind, harm not she the mayflies nor honeybees.

Innocent as the mayflowers, man she had never seen, except her honorable father.

Woman she alone was in this isle, inhabited by spirits invisible to the eyes.

The Duke a magician and Ariel, his prime spirit.

The wind, water, waves all followed their dictates.

Retribution there would be, all wrongs set right. Infidels of society, Caliban, the deformed slave, the traitors and usurpers, all brought to right.

But in this savage world purity flourishes amongst the puerile.

Miranda's love transforms all.

Prospero the wise spins more charms.

Winds subside, ship miraculously restored.

Master, boatswain, mariners all surface and a banquet laid.

The island is clad in mystique.

Bewitching music, nymphs dancing.

Juno and Ceres alight, celebrating true love, bestowing blessings.

Love's contract forever sealed Virtue triumphs over vengeance.

Penitence begs pardons.

Dukedom restored, Prospero sets sail.

Ariel and the spirits soar free.

But the gracious Miranda maid of the mists, sprite of the spring, is loathe to leave her life with sylphs so enchanted watching flies flirt with the honeysuckles.

She persuades her newfound love to forsake the grandeur and the glory and bid adieu to the royal retinue.

The man and his maid return to their charmed island a marriage most marvellous to make.

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A dozen odd years hence, a tempest such as none had seen.

Whipped out of thin air, terrifying in its madness.

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RAISON D’ETRE William Shakespeare's most innocent heroine, Miranda, is the embodiment of all that is natural and genuine in the world. Though brought up on an isolated island with sprites and spirits for company, she has the most humane emotions of sympathy and concern for all. Peerless in her beauty and character, she is referred to as a Goddess by Ferdinand and Alonso in the play. The gentle, kind and generous young lady charms all. She is the purest of all the characters in The Tempest. Trusting and comforting, she is Prospero's strength and pride. Completely guileless, she pronounces her love passionately and fearlessly.

Her pain at the suffering of others is acute. She is at once an untouched nymph of nature as it were and also intelligent, ingenuous and virtuous.

Her angelic presence in The Tempest is Shakespeare's seraphic element in the supernatural play of betrayal and revenge.

Writer/freelance journalist/housewife. Formerly with Economic Times. Cover stories and Feature Writer with Statesman, Illustrated Weekly, Economic Times, Telegraph, Times of India, Femina, Filmfare, Germany Today, Voix Meets Mode, UK, Frontier Weekly, Namaste Ink, Setu magazine, US, Innsaei International Journal, Plethora (now Chrysanthemum Chronicles),Literatureslight Magazine, Global United Renaissance magazine, Raven Cage Ezine, Germany, Taifas Literary, Italy, Our Poetry Archives. Co Author: Big Bang of Non-Fiction, Life in Reverse; 30 Best Poets; Sea; Coffee &Echos; Wrapped Up Feelings; Poetry Planet's Christmas in my Heart , Moonlight; ALS's Kaleidoscope of Asia & Bilingual Anthology of Poems; Poetry Planet's Writers' Haven; Rewrite the Stars; Love Thy Mother; The Real Hero; Heart of a Poet by Innerchildpress; Ashes; Arising from the Dust; Striving for Survival & An Indian Summer by Plethora Blogazine; Poetry Planet's Lockdown Diaries, Born to Dream Winner's Anthology & Words in Motion; Gems II and Gems III by World Pictorial Poetry & Art Forum; Macabre Tales by Chrysanthemum Chronicles; Poetry: Best of 2020 and I Want to Live by Innerchildpress USA; The Sounds of Spring by Silk Road Literature Series, Egypt; Golden Apples of God by World Pictorial Poetry Forum, April 2021.

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EXCLUSIVE

The Unrequited Love Jyoti Nair

Gazing at the starry sky with a sparkle in the eyes Waiting for the love of her life to bring back the night alive With beautiful thoughts and enchanting smile that adorned her face, she was the daughter of Senator Brabantio and was full of grace Smitten by his acts of bravery, lured by the Moor’s constant chase,

Desdemona, the charm and innocence inherent in her, never led her to realise the danger she was to face panting for breath and trying to gauge is it a mystery of some kind or, in reality, is she stuck in a cage?

‘No that’s me Desdemona, whom you can never blame’ Is all that played in her mind while Othello tried finishing his game

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Alas! What an end to the journey A betrayal never foreseen The world came crumbling down Hopes were shattered That pitiful soul brutally ousted the unflinching faith Of the mind that was so naïve.

Time, they say, is a good healer But time is all that existed not She was sure to see the light when her soul was set free The wickedness of Iago would no more mar her identity.

Looking back at her life that was beautiful and bright Ah! It was the one who stole her heart with all his might, Who took away forever, her charming smile There lay dead, the beauty, one of its kind Now, gone forever, leaving the faith behind The Venetian beauty succumbed to the deceitful mate Disappointed her father, and no wonder, suffered an ill-fate.

Raison D'etre

Every relationship is a two-way process where absolute trust should prevail on both sides. However, Desdemona's character proved how strong she was a how her love, completely unmatchable. Choosing Desdemona as the female protagonist gave an opportunity to put forth her side of the story and to highlight the emotions she went through in the journey of her life...from being a daughter to a rebel, a lover, and a devoted wife. The virtues of constant faith and perseverance she exhibits are beyond comparison. A warrior is not essentially the one who wages a war and emerges victorious but also the one who puts up a brave front amidst the adversities in life. The storyline displays multiple aspects of life in the background like jealousy, true love, deceit to name a few, which changed her course of life, thereby making her the most interesting character to portray through the medium of poetry.

Finally, the story of her life unfurled Love truly knows not the ways of the ruthless world When fear and doubt reign supreme A tragic end is an answer to a beautiful dream…

A postgraduate in Political Science, Jyoti Nair is currently working as an educator in a reputed school in UP. She has a vast experience in the field of education, training and administration. Her journey has been quite an interesting one with a diverse experience from the field of art to corporate sector and finally leading her to the field of academics. Her passion for teaching and her love for children make her an outstanding mentor and guide.

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

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The Enigma Paromita Mukherjee Ojha

Who am I? Will you ever know the real me?

Other than what has been morphed-?

In books of historyI am a relentless soul Protecting my sovereignty a burning goal Passion for my land furrows deep Every inch of it I intend to upkeep Through alliances of every kindWith blood, lust, sweat and grind I may not be drop dead gorgeous But my wit entwines all men Be it my siblings, Alexander Or one known as Dionysus the benefactor-

I am fire, I am storm I live in dreams of every form I am a warrior, Shimmering under the burning orb My self-belief, my garb Love is just a mind’s fallacy I never throw my heart callously Every move, I planned Weakness of heart I consciously banned I meticulously banned my seduction of Antony Later generations might name this as blasphemy But I had to do what I could for my progeny

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A voracious reader, dreamer, blogger, painter, mostly on the move having worked with corporate houses in the past, transitioning to teaching in Management and Engineering colleges post doctorate. Her poems and short stories have been published in Readomania, Learning and Creativity, Story Mirror, Café Dissensus, RavenCage, CLIC journal etc. She has published fifteen Research papers. A participating author of two short story anthologies ’When they Spoke’, and ‘Defiant Dreams’, conceived by Readomania. She regularly expresses her thoughts on paromitamukherjeeojha.wordpress.com Twitter Handle- @paromita2906 Facebook Page-www.facebook.com/paromita2906

RAISON D’ETRE It is an established fact that Cleopatra VII ruled ancient Egypt as co-regent (first with her father, later with her two younger brothers and eventually with her son). She was well-educated, witty and conversant in various languages. History and writers later have written more about her romantic liaisons and military alliances with the Roman leaders Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. Her exotic beauty and seductive prowess has become stuff of legends.

My admiration for this historical queen lies more in her ability to administer effectively her subjects despite all odds. Her romantic dalliances were more to secure her progeny’s future than to only satisfy her physical desires. As in ancient times, so in modern times, every man/woman in power seeks to establish a dynasty, a foothold for their offspring. So, can Cleopatra be judged for desiring the same for her children? It takes more than seduction and lust to convince invading rulers to form alliances and if a small dash of alluring beauty is added to it, the appeal is significantly higher.

Cleopatra was aware of her appeal, strength of her character and she did not shy away from using it to her advantage. She was least concerned about morality, right or wrong and we as readers are not fit to judge her.

She did what she thought suited her requirements and anyone in that position probably would do the same.

As a well-loved line says- ‘with more power, comes more responsibility’.

She wielded power and used it to secure her lineage. She earned my immense admiration amongst all Shakespearean heroines for being unabashedly a queen with foresight, grit and determination.

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I am fire, I am storm I live in dreams of every form I am a warrior, Shimmering under the burning orb My self-belief, my garb Love is just a mind’s fallacy I never throw my heart callously Every move, I planned Weakness of heart I consciously banned I meticulously banned my seduction of Antony Later generations might name this as blasphemy But I had to do what I could for my progeny I sailed to Tarsus bedecked in robe of Isis My seduction of Antony to onlookers obvious Antony never stood a chance

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EXCLUSIVE

Desdemona Rianka Bose Saha

Did your truth Save your soul, Desdemona?

Weren't you the sun Hidden seldom by clouds ?

Then why, This sudden eclipse All encompassing That sieved through the tender fabric Of your loving heart Squishing its veins That throbbed with life,

And left to perish, On the altar of faith, uncared for ?

Didn't you fight For the happiness of your own heart Letting go of pretentions Breaking open patriarchy Splitting it wide open Hitherto infested with a rotten core?

And as the world screamed and scattered one day

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Then why did you suffer, O Desdemona?

Why did your heart bleed Blood soaked under The sheer layer of belief?

Why does the pain of betrayal Sting the clouded eyes Of Othello?

You said love Would always be enough Yet it never was You forgot you were a mere woman A piece of flesh, And just like the slaves That arrive every morning On that satanic ship From an unknown port With eyes forlorn, dreams squashed, Weren't you a slave too?

Hence the passion to possess you So beguiling, yet so alluring No, don't you put the burden On shadows that lurked, Iago only brought out the darkness That already lay, deep within Masquerading as love and passion For, you see Love was never the question Your being a woman

With a mind of her own Valiant and strong Was the limit You crossed over Unbeknownst Oh ! Desdemona!

You could have been so much more !

RAISON D’ETRE Desdemona represents all that is beautiful yet wrong with the world.

Her selfless and unconditional love for a man who is loathed by her own father leads to only further misery for her. As I read the piece many years ago, she was one character that left a deep impression on me. She was the only character that was without any fault, naive even. And till her very last breath, her love for Othello never falters. Such a poignant and heart wrenching narration by Shakespeare and a finely etched character that stays with you long after you close the book.

EUSSI YLUJ/ SELCINORHC MUMEHTNASYRHC

You gathered all your courage And walked over to the moor ?

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EXCLUSIVE

Vindicta Domina Shristee Singh

Calpurnia lamented When lay Ceaser on death bed.

“Oh Brutus! Traitor in disguise Because of thee, on floor the first man of Rome lies.

Ceaser my love, in reprisal Rome shall rise, Revenge shall beget each and every eyes.”

Night fell, dark and gloom Tempest roared, calling for doom.

Drops of sorrow filled her lugubrious eyes, As sordid wind swelled in skies.

Into the woods she made her way, Where a wizard, in dark den stayed.

“I call upon thee, who shows light in the darkest night, Hear Calpurnia wailing, give ear to her plight.”

“My lady, I know what brings thee here, O braveheart, who crossed the terrain tenebrous sans fear.

This wizard wise is now thy slave, for valor displayed by you

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I’ll bestow upon thee powers, you never knew.”

In the darkness of the perilous night, He uttered words loaded with light.

‘Go Calpurnia, my spells shall shield thee Go… make your enemies bend on knees.’

A bleak ray of light from east filled the air.

Calpurnia rode, as revenge in her heart did flare.

Betrayal had taken the love of her life away, Beware conspirators, now in Rome a battle shall sway.

With the advent of a new day, Towards the Senate, she made her way.

The nobles of Rome turned cold, When they saw Calpurnia in a guise bold.

“Behold conspirators here I come…

Avenging Ceaser, whose absence makes my life glum.

Brutus, I challenge thee for a duel, Face my gladius, that shines like jewel.

Thou traitor, who betrays trust, I shall make thee return to dust.

Turf shall sip thy gore tonight Thou caitiff, if you have guts, come fight.”

With bellicosity Calpurnia roared…

Antonius by her side, a cohort poured.

Thunder raged in heavens, forecasting storm,

Tiber became untamed, taking monstrous form.

Swords clattered in the boulevards of Rome.

Vengeance… echoed every wall, every dome.

In the cockle of her heart, love for Ceaser echoed.

Spelling doom for culprits, her lips bellowed.

Charging the nemesis she went ahead, Her eyes seething with fury, revenge said.

Never had Rome seen such a day…

When a lady vehemently charged her prey!

Justice for Ceaser reverberated Rome, As Vindicta Domina was hell-bent to bring justice home.

RAISON D’ETRE When I think of Shakespear’s play, the play which comes to my mind first and foremost is that of Julius Ceaser. So, when I had to write about Shakespeare’s heroine resurrected I chose Calphurnia, Julius Ceaser’s wife.

I have resurrected her by giving her a completely new personality trait. In the play she was a meek wife of the ruler. I have made her a warrior in my poem. Where she plays a lead role in avenging the death of her beloved.

Shristee Singh is a believer of one world family Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam.” She is a postgraduate in Economics. While in school she had won copper medal for an All India Creative Writing competition.

She was also recognized for her contribution for English poetry in Youth festival of Lucknow Mahotsav. She had been a nominee for the Author of the Year-2019 at Story Mirror for her contribution towards English literature.

Her poems have been published in several anthologies.

Writing for her is not a race but a journey, a song which comes from the soul. Playing with words is her passion, Shristee Singh can write on any fashion!

Songs of the soul she sings, writing with beatific wings

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ July Issue

EXCLUSIVE

Othello Shall not Lament Monalisa Joshi

The casements of that kaput mansion, Shall open again, and the zephyr of fall, Shall flow from the sigh of the old king, Each year the autumn comes to my dwelling, In measured footsteps, when the old king, And queen sitting at the highest throne, Decides to lend some of it to my broken, Hearth, I stand for them the vagabond, Who couldn’t rise as their royal blood!

I chose Othello, a pariah, a rogue in, Their eyes, to fall in love with, as my man, Who could tear the skies and shake!

Even the thrones of Gods sitting in the, Seventh heaven, he had the heart of iron, For whom I lost mine away, I stand as the, Traitor to the old king and queen, but the, Autumn they couldn’t trap to reach me,

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RAISON D’ETRE What if history of a literature repeats itself and you feel that you have become one of those characters from one of Shakespeare’s Play. Desdemona is a story of a woman who carries the reflection of myriad such women who acquired the courage to go against their patriarchal family and hold hand of a man who didn’t belong to their Kin. Othello becomes the voice of that man who when found true love was manipulated against his own love and he destroyed it with his own hands. I saw myself as Desdemona where each layer of story seemed mine, disowned and not accepted I held the hand of another Othello who was the man on earth with the courage to fight. But I couldn’t create a love story with a tragic ending, this one had to be different, thus I have retold it in a free flowing verse style with an ending that is truthful and more comforting.

Tragedy is not the end always, but I wonder must how did Shakespeare create a story so truthful long before the births of many lovers to come upon earth.

EUSSI YLUJ/ SELCINORHC MUMEHTNASYRHC

It flows each year from those walls, The one season that still holds some part, Of my presence there, they offered me, The silks and gold, the sparkles and gems, All would be mine, but to leave Othello, And be the virgin Desdemona of their kind, That night I ran away into my lover’s arms, And never turned back, he fought with one, Hand holding mine, one doing bloodshed, We walked out of those citadels bathed in, The blood of my kin, I didn’t shed a tear, For that I still remain a perpetrator, The autumn now seldom brings news of the, Land where prevails eternal autumn, The foliage, the precincts they all stand lifeless, And the parapets that once were pride of the old king, Bear unmendable cracks, I listen to the silent plights, Yet my obligations are towards Othello who, Took the swords of myriad sovereigns upon his, Torso that night yet smiled, thus I shall serve him, Till my last fall here on earth, this time I shall live, Alongside him, for none can fill the ears of my lover, And he shall not be the one to murder me and lament, I shall not die in his arms; my innocence is what he loves.

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles /July Issue

EXCLUSIVE

Cordelia Deepak K Choudhary

By a rusty fireplace Inside her camp in the midst of A desolate Kentish wild, When the snoozing hours had begun for The bustling crickets and fireflies After their noisy congregation And screeches of the watchful owls were subdued, When the howls of restless wolves were receding And the night was on the verge of losing the Moon, The princess in exile, loaded with anguish and desperation,

Had a moment to recall what made her depart the world She had loved so much more than herself, And what took her away from her dear ones and Her rainbow wardrobe, her one hundred and fifty pets, The jovial parakeets, the cute little rabbits and angelic doves She had tended with so much of fondness, And midway through her prolonged retrospection, She could understand

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The princess recalled how For the fraction of a second, She had tarried and stumbled and Felt outstripped in a hesitant interregnum, But the paternal command was irrevocable And she had no penitence while obeying it, Even if it meant leaving everything behind for good She was in pain, carrying the burden of Disturbing questions in her heart, but greater was the will to be free From all fetters of subordination For the sake of what she had wished, For her decision to move on to save the glow of Her fearless truthfulness from the blow of An overweening falsehood

Before her, there was A realm of walloping darkness, an impervious Stillness housing unseen profiles of destiny, And staring through it she could visualise a little hut Dangling from the clouds, surrounded by the steep walls of A rock-tower, a longing to meet the sun-kissed dawn And its wings of gold, waiting for a bevy of birds To fly past it in search of their sky, And she felt she had always wished to be there With a heart that no one could ever buy for An assortment of compromising comforts Getting up slowly, she found That she no longer had the impatience to find Answers to her questions that used to make her Restless once upon a time, And she was not apprehensive of the heavy footfalls Reminiscent of the arrival of a visitor from her past, To tell her how she had turned into A freak to the world dominated by antinomies, To make her believe that there was a part of her Hidden somewhere within, a part that needed to be Conquered for the monochromes That defined her pertinence

EUSSI YLUJ/SELCINORHC MUMEHTNASYRHC

What her obstinate father would have thought of The clash between his supercilious egotism and Her uncompromising candor, She could hear the volley of biting pejoratives unleashed by The tyrant’s fools and sycophants, slaves and servile courtiers, All of them unequivocal in calling her A mad, ingrate scion of the magnanimous monarch, Far less sensible than her self-seeking siblings, The greedy Regan and the conspiring Goneril

28 RAISON D’ETRE William Shakespeare’s greatness lies not so much in the number of plays he wrote (Perhaps the most by any playwright in any language) as in the number of unforgettable characters he created through his plays. His female characters or heroines are a class apart, and there is no denying the fact that many of them have veritably ruled the proscenium since their first appearance before the Elizabethan audience. Cordelia is one of the Shakespearean heroines that have left an indelible imprint on generations of readers and viewers of his plays for more than four centuries.

There are people who may not find Cordelia as strikingly tender-hearted, accommodative, romantically engaging or fun-loving as many other heroines of Shakespeare. But there are some distinct traits in Cordelia that I find missing in almost all others. The most prominent among these is her unbending sincerity, which is as clean as a mirror into which one can see her whole being. It gets reflected in her self-belief and her determination to stand for the values of selfless love and piety which she holds so endearingly. I think she is the only tragic heroine of Shakespeare who has the strength and courage to fight for herself, for her stand, her individuality and her identity in a world that is heavily biased in favour of the patriarchal male ego, represented by his authoritarian father and eponymous hero of the play, King Lear.

When I read King Lear for the first time, I instantly realized that she alone had the integrity to be regarded as a complete embodiment of femininity who would not hesitate to stand up, fight for herself and even give away her life while defending what she genuinely believed in. This poem is my tribute to Cordelia, the woman who wanted to remain true to herself in a world

Deepak K. Choudhary is a Delhi-based writer, editor and translator with a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University. A polyglot, he has penned poems and prose pieces in English, Hindi and his mother tongue Maithili. His poems have been featured in some widely known journals and magazines such as The South Asian Ensemble, Vigil Pub Magazine, The Indian Literature, Samakaleen Bharatiya Sahitya, Indian Africanist, etc. His two poetry books (solo collections of poems) titled BIRDS LIKE US and THE CITY NEVER SLEEPS came out in July 2018 and August 2020, respectively. NOT A WORD WAS WRITTEN, his translation of a collection of Hindi poems by Amit Kumar Malla was published as by Zorba Books in 2017. For his blogs and social media posts, he prefers to use his pen-name Deepak Darshak.

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles /July Issue

EXCLUSIVE

Lady Macbeth’s Damned Spot and the Kitchen Sink Chandrika R Krishnan

Out, cursed stain! Out, I say!–One… two days to now ...two hundred days The Vim Bar* doesn’t do much to the Turmeric stained sauce pan Why am I the only one to scrub?

Reducing my hand to sand paper! ’Tis your time to do’t.– The kitchen sink is always full and to hell with you all….

Who wants to be either fed or pampered?

What we need is a helping hand in the absence of a maid;

Whose services this pandemic has brought to an end!

Who would have thought the Kitchensink, would do an ‘akshayapatra*?’

Always having dishes in them even before you turn away, happy and patting your back to have cleared them this once!

Here’s the smell of vim still: all the moisturizing lotion will not take away the stain of dishwasher from

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The lines of the hand that hasn’t had a manicure for months!

Oh, oh, oh!

The girl in me had a life: where is she now? – What, will I never be away from the kitchen? –No more my family, no more…I have had enough slaving over the stove or hanging over the sink.

As of now, you all are pitching in!

Lend your hand; look not so pale. –I tell you yet again, our life as we know them is buried; it cannot come out till the vaccine is found.

To kitchen, to kitchen! there’s clamour for food again: come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s needs to be done has to be done. –To kitchen, to kitchen, to Kitchen

Raison d’etre I chose Lady Macbeth because she is one of the most memorable of Shakespeare's heroines. I particularly liked the dialogue when she says, "Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!" When I had to resurrect Shakespeare's heroine for this poem and it being the time of pandemic when women all over seemed to be permanently at the kitchen sink; I decided to attempt a humorous way to recreate the monologue.

JULY ISSUE

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JULY 2021 MONSOON ISSUE

A Bangalore based writer, Chandrika R Krishnan likes all things that begin with a ‘T’ – talking, teaching, telling tales and Tea! Her two hundred odd published articles and stories are as eclectic as her reading and are mostly experiential. Her stories are featured in anthologies: Let’s Make stories, Arising from the Dust, Penmancy in collaboration with halfbakedbeans.in 'a fallen leaf', The Thinking Pen's “Mother's Day - A Collection of Stories & Poems dedicated to Mom”, Story Mirror’s ‘Book of Love’ and Story Artisan’s ‘Desi Modern Love’. She was adjudged first in Wordweavers Drabble contest 2020. She has been recognized in short story challenges conducted by Penmancy.com, Tell-a-tale.com, Pratilipi.com, Hive and Asian Literary society. She has been shortlisted thrice in Strands international flash fictions. https://chandrikarkrishnan.wordpress.c om/

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EXCLUSIVE

Viola: The Disguised

(1) “If music be the food of love, play on…”

[Dedicated to the charming, Duke Orsino’s orchestra of lovelorn words and music play on vivacious Viola of Shakespeare’s unforgettable And I, try to trace the faint outlines of the words, comedy. Twelfth Night]

Lopa Banerjee

The clamoring eruption of his desire And the despair of Olivia overflowing my shore.

I, Viola, my feminine wants gushing from within, Yet the confusion and chaos of my assumed manhood

Being Cesario, flickering and blazing at the cosmos of my being.

(2) “If music be the food of love, play on.

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.”

The refrain echoes in my tender recesses, But in my manly facade, I am the invincible, raw energy

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With the tug and pull of binary cravings.

Perched on the lovelorn soul of Olivia, I lose myself In a maze of love unrequited, Duke Orsino comes to me, nursing my sacred, virgin passion, Albeit unknowingly.

Loving, yet reproachful and vain, my heroine is my own slain self As Cupid had been shooting darts at all the wrong places.

Cesario, my alter-ego calls out in impertinence…

But my love, this hide-and-seek of my sulphurous light And the dense dark of my destiny kills me softly, Ambushed in my delicious disguise.

(3) Who was it that wrote this cryptic saga of mistaken identities?

With all the earth and fire of my being, Womanhood in me has bled in love, the tectonic plates of life altered many, many times.

Drowned in the shipwreck, or in the whirlpool of deception and disguise, My soliloquies resurge time and again, to haunt me With the vanity and insolence of youth, The sudden, volcanic bursts of cadence and melody.

For once, I did become beautiful, unbound and whole, My façade coming off in the final act, all puzzles solved.

But then, good Lord, love manifests itself in the most eccentric ways.

“If music be the food of love, play on…”

The refrain echoes in my senses in its perpetual rhapsody, Yes, perhaps true love evades me still, Yet all is well in this topsy-turvy tale.

Raison d’etre Twelfth Night, the romantic comedy written by William Shakespeare around 1601-1602, has a magical appeal till today for its drama of mistaken identities, its intriguing love triangles and the romantic atmosphere of the exotic island of Illyria where the characters explore their myriad emotions.

Viola, the charming heroine of ‘Twelfth Night’ is uniquely represented, disguised as the page boy Cesario at the service of Duke Orsino who she loves secretly, but it is her inherent femininity, her romanticism and the uniqueness of her gender identity which is also at the core of the play which deals with romance as well as the transgression of stereotypical gender roles. Hence the poem dedicated to Viola here serves to portray her love and sexuality in a different light.

34 Lopamudra Banerjee is an author, poet, translator, editor with six books and four anthologies in fiction and poetry. She lives in Dallas, Texas with her family where she also teaches Creative Writing at Richland College and Texas Christian University. She has been a recipient of the Journey Awards (First Place category winner) for her memoir ‘Thwarted Escape: An Immigrant’s Wayward Journey’, and also a recipient of the Woman Achiever Award (IWSFF, 2018), the International Reuel Prize for Poetry (2017) and International Reuel Prize for her English translation of Nobel Laureate Tagore’s selected works of fiction (2016). Her nonfiction essays, fiction and other writings have been published in various journals, e-zines and anthologies in India, UK and USA. Recently, she has been an honorary poetry fellow at Rice University, Houston and co-produced the poetry film 'Kolkata Cocktail' directed by Shuvayu Bhattacharjee, where she has also featured as one of the lead actors. Her book of stories ‘All That Jazz & Other Pathbreaking Tales has released in Amazon Kindle recently and will soon be available in paperback. Her works are available on her website www.lopabanerjeewrites.com and also in Amazon.com and Amazon India.

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles /July Issue

EXCLUSIVE

The Lady of Belmont Jayashree Pillai

Speak not to me of my frailties A woman bore me.

Let the patriarchs rest their thoughts.

I shall spread my wings And soar across the unconquered skies.

I need no man to map my route.

My wealth shall be mine And I shall choose the one who journeys with me.

They come from afar, traversing desert trails And rugged mountain paths To seek my hand.

A casket will determine my fate?

My father willed it so.

He was a great man, But great men are fathers too, And their love is laced with fears.

He sought to cocoon his little one From vultures who stalked the earth.

Pardon me, dear Father, I am the daughter of a brave man And no demons shall break me.

You schooled me well And taught me the arts That equip mortals for life.

So I choose to put away the caskets And let a man seek me -

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Nerissa stares at me in despair.

A fool, she says I am.

She speaks of a dying man's wisdom: She sees not the yearnings of my heart.

A Venetian loves me, she says.

Does he have dreams like mine, I ask.

He whiles his time in idleness, I hear And an abyss is his treasure box.

I fear my wealth will be his enticement: My agents tell me so.

Come, Nerissa, draw the curtains now.

Let the caskets gather dust: You can bury them with me.

There are things we need to do Mouths to feed and naked bodies to clothe, And fight darkness that craves for light.

Messiahs of peace are needed In corners torn by strife.

Come, Nerissa, let us go.

There is much to do And time you see, flees by.

Raison d’etre Portia (The Merchant of Venice) is one of Shakespeare‘s most prominent women characters. She is intelligent, witty and sensitive. However, each time I have read the play, I have had a grouse. Why should she marry a man who is a spendthrift and perhaps, drawn towards her wealth?

Why should she hand over her wealth and possession to him? There is a speech where she refers to herself as ‘unlesson’d, unschool’d, unpractis’d ‘and wishes to be ‘directed’ by him.

Why is she so self-deprecating?With these questions in my mind, I decided to retell her story and give her character a different dimension.

EUSSI YLUJ/SELCINORHC MUMEHTNASYRHC

Not for wealth or beauty, But for who I am - a woman.

He maybe wandering in the wilderness, Seeking his own path.

I know not who he is.

A stranger whose dreams culminate In the very skies where mine reside.

A free spirit would he be, like me Searching for beauty in little nooks.

A brave heart would he be, like me, Striking through the murky clouds To wipe away the tears that drip.

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Jayashree Pillai is a teacher by profession. She teaches Literature and History. She loves to dabble in words. Poetry is a passion with her and she churns out verses and stories as and when inspiration strikes. Cooking is what she does, to de-stress. She enjoys travelling and photography, solving puzzles and reading. She is on a journey, discovering life each day. As each day comes to an end, she goes to bed with the belief that tomorrow will unravel a new chapter.

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EXCLUSIVE

A Fathomless Love

That is you my dearest Othello, Believe in us, believe in our life together, And destiny and history will be ours, A love story marred not with doubt, But written for those who aspire to be, truly in love and who trust in soul mates for eternity, Oh, my dear, my love, my Desdemona, I Othello, have a scarred heart, It had been marred, kicked, and darkened,

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Farheen Kazmi

I cannot fathom what lay in my future, But I can assure you my love, that, You have my heart and my trust, And my complete honesty, My soul is transparent, As clear and lucid as it can get, For you to see that I fell in love with you, You either believe me or not, But, I, Desdemona can never betray, Can never be disloyal, Can never be anyone else’s, Because I truly belong to my other half,

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By the moorlands that I have walked roughly on, You’re an angel, untainted, unsullied, Believe I do in you and your love, But my whole heart is not completely clean as yours, It’s hollow and without light, Which harbours the devil, nurtures evil thoughts, It’s going to be influenced and twisted by cunning tongues and mocking minds, But if at all any harm comes to you, Know that my soul is bound to yours, As you promised to walk with me, Along the damnedest deep alleys, And I give you my word of laying my life down, For you, for I cannot live a second more, And history will leave a mark of ours, A love that defined all norms of society, And eternally stayed linked forever…

RAISON D’ETRE I chose Desdemona as the subject of my poem, because she symbolises courage and independence of a person who can stand strong by her decisions. She doesn't get oppressed by people influencing her of what she has to do rather she chose her freedom and her right to choose her life partner. Her loyalty gets questioned and her character gets marred because she tries to go against her father's wishes. She doesn't back down by the society's pressure and stays adamant of her thoughts and decisions. She was more way ahead of her time and people found hard to accept for who she was and what she understood of being a woman of substance and not a gullible and an empty shell to sway by for what others thought of her.

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EXCLUSIVE

A Coven of Cowards Dr. Supriya Bansal

Almighty God, why, oh, why?

Did you mold men out of burned, bituminous grime, blighted ‘n bruised earth?

Did you braid a gossamer thread of passion within or mere mundane mirth?

Can courtly compliments, boisterous banter, ruffs ‘n frills make a man whole?

Can it cloak the blackness, the vile villainy woven into the fabric of their soul?

They gallivant around sporting their slender swords with a spirited stance, Billing ‘n cooing, willingly wooing, whiling away hours in a merry dance.

A sliver of silvery snow of January is but sown in the roots of their core, Bitter, biting winds blow at whim, severing 'n scraping every single pore.

O Claudio

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You turned out to be the lowest of those vicious, vain 'n vapid devils, The allegations on charms ’n chastity of demure Hero evince your evils, If a fleeting glimpse could turn you into a Cupid struck, beguiled beau, Hideous hearsay could surely rustle into you a monstrous merciless foe.

Not once did your voice choke as you burst into a burble of profanity, Not once did your steps falter as you set foot into the realm of infernal insanity, In a trice, you sullied her virtue, slandered her honor, squandered her grace, While my lovely lamb Hero, staggered ‘n sunk into a dreary, dolorous place.

Woe is me!

I have limited leeway, a pawn in the power-play; I play second-fiddle, all due to my gender, But I embroider revenge 'n rancor in my claws. Oh, Claudio! How I wish to splinter your splendor!

If I had the merit of being a man, I would have gladly unsheathed my dagger, Would challenge you to a duel, carve out your heart ‘n slaughter your swagger.

I spew the flames of fury. Raging to ravage you, I whisk wrath into the wind, I long to scorch ‘n scar your heart Claudio, for you have scourged ‘n sinned, Alas, I am a mere woman; I can only wear wreaths of dejection ‘n despair, My destiny- a dire, deadly doom; my muted mourns only moisten the air.

A coven of cowards, The valiant count and the virtuous prince, a masquerade with no grain of truth, Racy ribaldry laced their tongue, drunk on power ‘n youth, scathing ‘n uncouth, I don black, Not to bewail the torment Uncle braves, or to grieve Hero’s deceptive demise, It is to lament the death of dignity in men; I bemoan their deceit and their lies.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES / JULY ISSUE

42 A Doctor by profession, Supriya longs to live in a world with a constant supply of extra dark chocolate and filter coffee. She and her husband share their home in UAE with two extraordinary kids and a lifetime collection of books. Writing is her me-time, her 'happy place'.

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THE DANCER PREETI BRAHMIN

A SHORT STORY

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The Dancer Preeti Brahmin Gauri.

Yes, she was special. Her long hair restricted with a tassle, gently bounced off her buoyant form - she was in her trance.

Shankar, the performing arts scholar, on a post-doctoral research assignment from a prestigious university in the West and wellversed in Indian classical dance forms, was now looking to study the dance repertoire of his own country, Nepal. It had been a month that he had come to that Tamu or Gurung village, being drawn by the mine of authentic folk art that was kept alive through the walkway of faith and festivities despite serious cultural erosion.

He was certainly captivated by the smooth beauty of her young face, pleasantly punctuated by the slant of playfully bright dark eyes and an easy, contagious smile, out of the corner of which peepedan extra incisor. But what transfixed him were her feather –light feet; ankles made prettier with a silver kalli on each. He could watch for hours when the nimble frolic of her feet swelled to the exquisitely well timed swing of her hips and arms. The perfect execution of every mudra reflected unalloyed dedication to an unmistakably classical dance form. The controlled grace was deceptively soft and he could sense the difficulty in the way she tapped her energy.

The movements were suspiciously different from Bharatnatyam or Kuchipudi. His keen scholarship of dance forms was pointing towards a jaw dropping revelation. She was

performing something that resembled an extremely rare dance form- the ‘VilasiniNatyam’- the temple dance of ancient India- deep in the mountains of central Nepal.

The people in that mountainous village were equally bemused with the strange , seemingly self-taught outpouring of an unseen art form. She had started showing the traits when at the age of eleven, she trained for the ‘Ghatu’ dance of worship for Buddha Jayanti with her unmarried friends .

When the slow beat of drums and the lull of the singing voices led the group of dancers into a trance, their movement flowed free of restriction yet in coordination.

Gauri alone drew forward from the group and began an unfamiliar movement of such powerful subtlety and grace that the entire village fell captive to her charm. Of course , the natural inclination of the audience was to think that a Devi had seized her body.

Or, perhaps Queen Yambawati herself had come to reside in her - while they danced and sang in lamentation, her story of love, loss and sorrow on the death of her beloved husband, King Pashramu - during the Ghatu performance. Thence forward, for the next seven years, she was given a place of honour during the rituals.

Now, all of eighteen, and on the threshold of marriage, she would partake as a dancer in the rituals for the last time. Her special talents seemed only to have improved over the years. The village folk doted upon her.

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Shankar had been welcomed in the village and ready help with his research was forthcoming. The elders were happy to share their stories and draw him into the simple yet tradition bound complexity of their way of life. When he discovered Gauri’s strange disposition, having watched her rehearse for the festival for over a week, he was spurred by curiosity to know more. He sought permission for an interview with her, to which her parents reluctantly consented. He could ask her anything he wished , they said, but only in the presence of a family member.

Shankar approached their neat and well maintained dwelling the next afternoon.

Gauri’s grandmother took him to one end of the white and red clay patted veranda. There, next to the meal grinder and the beater- a heavy stone ‘janto’ and a wooden ‘dhiki’, she rolled out a straw ‘gundri’, inviting him to sit where the warm sunlight wasn’t so overwhelming. She and Gouri sat opposite him. A seemingly innocuous beehive, looked on from across the courtyard.

Gauri, bowed her head of open hair. Her tender features were even more delicate with the shiny thickness of freshly washed tresses sliding over her shoulders, framing her face in unassumed perfection. She tucked a dark lock behind her ear. Her innocence was disarming. She seemed completely unaware of her own beauty.

Shankar had to handle the interview deftly. He couldn’t allow any discomfort or awkwardness to ruin his effort to induce her to share her thoughts. He had to be flexible yet firm with his approach.

“Gauri, you know that you have a special talent don’t you? Can you recall anything from your childhood that influenced you towards your dance?”

Gauri looked at her grandma. “I can only remember my grandmother’s fairy stories. The beautiful Apsaras of her folk tales . There were dozens of stories of them . The dance just happened to me.”

Her grandmother’s eyes lit up with a smile at fond recollections. “ Whenever we asked her what she would be when she grew up, her only reply since a tiny girl, was ‘Apsara’.”

“Gauri, you do understand that your dance is very different from your cultural form? Do you have any memory of how you learnt it?”

Gauri found a straw end poking out from the gundri and started playing absentmindedly with it. “It… started with the dreams…”

It was a barely audible mumble. She hung her head and fell quiet.

Her grandmother cleared her throat . “We haven’t spoken about this outside the family. We’re here because we feel you are different…educated…so might help.”

“I will of course do my best for Gauri. But I have to know everything.” Shankar emphasized.

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JULY ISSUE

“One more thing, can you make a small clay toy to symbolize the demons of your nightmares? Think of this as your homework.” “ Well, Gauri has always slept with me since a child. I’ve seen her trying to cope with very fitful sleep and difficult emotions. You can see the amulets she wears…well… they’re for protection from her terrible nightmares. It’s clear that the Devi wants to bless her by the gift of her dance.

But demons keep tormenting , wanting to tear her apart. She is ravaged in her dreams by inhumanly cruel fiends…the things she sometimes relates of her dreams is beyond anything we could ever imagine.” The old lady explained, trembling with the obvious effort.

Gauri looked at Shankar then and blushed in embarrassment when he caught her eye. “ Gauri, I don’t know if I can help you. But if I am to try, I need to hear your experience first hand.

Take your time, but it must come out of you.” “ I…I see a great temple in my dreams everyday…,” she finally ventured. “ In… my dreams I am a bride. My Lord is Our Lord. I am The Lord’s bride…There is great joy and worship.

I am happy and dance in his praise, glad to belong to Him. But…but…they don’t allow me the joy.

They break my body like bread and devour it without ceremony. I am left at my Lord’s feet to repent for their wrongs. I am taught to be grateful for this feast I can offer of myself… I am told it is My Lord who partakes of the feasting , not them.

But my spirit refuses and cries for help. Still I dance… taught by my mother…who had been taught by hers. She tells me that The Lord’s bride does not cry.”

Shankar was going to let his rational mind lie low and allow Gauri’s story it’s credibility. He wasn’t ready to miss a miracle if there was one here. She could have a perfectly explainable

medical condition where her nightly trauma was concerned. But how could any doctor explain her strange art form? Gauri had no idea what it was.

Yet she performed like one trained for countless years. She could very well be experiencing something similar to… her past life regression !

He had heard of past life memories haunting people. But to see something concrete manifest from vague dreams was invaluable. Her dreams were revealing what she might have been in the past.

She might have been, as shocking as it may seem- a Devdasi!

He felt an overwhelming, inexplicable urge to understand and do what he could for her. He might even be in love. But who wouldn’t? Her beauty and mystery were a heady concoction for anyone choosing to drink of it. She was eighteen and soon to be married. Just last month, Shiva, the scion of the Lamechaney clan three villages away, had been promised her hand in marriage.

Shiva, a youth educated in the city, shortly set to fly the nest and land in the West or perhaps even in India, with a reasonably cushy job in the information technology industry, had been smitten at his first sight of her, in a photograph. He agreed with the matchmaker that it was enough that she had completed her SLC at the village school itself.

Any furthering of her academics could happen even after marriage. The matchmaker had casually lumbered up to their door one day, bringing along that well- earned bearing of sagacity and practical wisdom which no one in the community could spurn. It had been on his aegis that many a wayward or disillusioned youth had finally found a stable hearth and home with a shrewdly sought out partner. Thus his parents had little to disagree with

47 CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/ JULY ISSUE

his recommendation of Gouri as their son’s match.

In this instance, however, the matchmaker had been especially supplicated by Gauri’s grandmother, for a discreet appraisal of her marriageability. In her heart of hearts she believed that a good marriage would make everything all right.

Shankar wasn’t a psychologist . But he was , after all, an artist. Every art form created by man or woman reflected the cadence of varied emotions. In the performing arts, especially, there could be stillness or tumult, anger or joy, grief or shame , submission or uproar in the act. Yet at conclusion, one was left with precious relief- the catharsis.

He could understand that Gouri’s evidently past life trauma needed to be addressed such that she could mourn enough to undergo her catharsis eventually. But the emptying of the grief could leave a vaccum ridden with anxiety. For a completely new start, she would have to hold on to what she genuinely believed was beautiful within herself. She would have to nurture that aspect and grow away from the dark towards everything that was positive and light. He had boundless faith in the ability of the mind to evolve , discarding debilitating memories. If there had been trauma, there was now hope . She had spoken about her troubles. That was a good start in her healing process.

“There is hope after such trauma Gauri.

Recovery is possible. It takes a lot of courage to reach out for support, but it is the first step in learning to trust yourself and the recovery process. ” said Shankar.

Gauri nodded mutely.

“Tell me- what is the thing that you love to do most ?”

“Gauri smiled, “Dancing of course.”

“Then your dance will now heal you.”

Shankar promised. I am not a doctor of medicine but a doctor of dance. Let us allow something we both love to help us shall we?”

“I will be your teacher and you my good disciple all right? You will have to learn with honest concentration, and act out all that I teach. The dance we will now learn is for all the pent up anger you may have, more for your own self than for those who wronged you. It also addresses the other emotions you have felt- shame, embarrassment and grief. It is time Shiva came to your aid. We will meet here tomorrow at dawn.”

Gauri was awestruck that Shankar would be her teacher. She felt trepidation on hearing his prognosis.

“One more thing, can you make a small clay toy to symbolize the demons of your nightmares? Think of this as your homework.”

Gauri gaped but slowly nodded.

The next morning Shankar arrived with an image of the Natraja. He showed it to Gauri, explaining how Shiva, as portrayed during the RudraTandav, was in the Bhujangatrasitakarana pose with his left leg held across his body at hip level.

Every element of the figure contained a deep meaning. Shiva was here at once seen creating and destroying existence; offering the escape hatch from this constant chaos; and, finally, revealing the clue to that escape hatch, which is to subdue ignorance.

“Do you see this little dwarf demonApasmara- under Shiva’s foot?” He pointed to the bottom of the figure. “It symbolizes ignorance. The demons of your dream also stand for ignorance.

They have been trying to weaken you

48 light over darkness. She knew her worth.

Gauri’s family was witness to the dramatic leap in self realization that had occurred just when her wedding was in the offing. The one development was a happy complement to the other. They sang praises to their Lord and couldn’t thank Shankar enough for his guidance.

But Shankar wasn’t so quick to claim that there were no loose ends. In fact an extremely important matter still awaited careful handling, and in this, none but her betrothed, Shiva, could help. It was true that Gauri had refused bravely to keep carrying the hurt of her past. But now that she was liberated from that pain, it was essential that the positive activity she identified with, was carried on even after marriage. She should never give up on her dance. A meeting with Shiva would have to be set up soon.

Shiva was pleasantly surprised on receiving the missive from Gauri. He had found her to be bashful and reticent on the day of their betrothal. Just when he had been looking for an excuse to visit her, and tell her about his appointment as a consultant with an IT company in South India, she herself had reached out.

An elaborate snack table was arranged to fete the son-in-law at tea, despite Gauri’s mild protest. Shiva was suitably impressed with everything he tasted. Gauri’s people were overjoyed. Later, Gauri and Shiva were left alone to talk.

“Thank you for coming over,” began Gauri. …

“I needed to speak with you urgently.” “ This must be true love my dear. I too am desperate to share something with you.”

Bantered Shiv with laughter in his voice. “ I need you to know that I would never do anything to dishonor you,” said Gouri . “ Now where does that come from? How could you ever dishonor me ?Are you all right?” Shiva looked anxious. “ Please tell me…Will you allow me to further my education later on?”

“But of course, you must!” “ I wish to study classical Indian dance…will you help?”

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/JULY ISSUE

The Rudra Tandav subdues the demon and that is what you will do to that clay demon you made yesterday. You must believe that you are defeating the fiends that haunt you when you trample your Apasmara.”

Thence, through the morning hours of the next few days, the teacher inculcated in the disciple, the basics of classical mudras and postures. His main focus was on explaining and enacting the key symbolism of the Nataraja. Replicating the Bhujangatrasitakarana pose, Shankar took Gauri through the hand mudras - the Damaru, in the rear right hand symbolizing Creation; Destruction, shown by the live flames on his rear left palm, that burn to only regenerate and tell us that there is no ‘being…there is only becoming’; Protection, indicated by the open palm of the forearm; Concealment, indicated by the hidden lower left palm, symbolizing ignorance , illusion or maaya and finally the raised left foot, combined with the closed hand, signifying the Option available before the seeker: Moksha or liberation from ignorance.

Gauri soaked in the knowledge like thirsty earth does water. Soon she was following, with single minded dedication, every step to the beat of the strotam sounding out of a music player. After several emotionally draining recitals, when the day dawned for the final stormy performance bristling with energy, Shankar placed her Apasmara at her feet to be trampled upon and subdued. With this act, the rage of years that had choked her, saw itself peter out of her system. She felt a peace she had never known.

She had disconnected herself from the pain and was now taking with her nothing but the beauty andjoy from her past-the inheritance of her dance.

Gauri looked up at her guru . He saw gratitude in her eyes. But there was something else too: the vitality of self confidence. Shankar’s heart swelled with love and pride for her. She didn’t feel so shy anymore, nor frightened. Her smile reflected the clarity of her mind.

That night, for the first time in all her conscious years, she surprised her grandma by sleeping like a baby. Gone were the fiends that had infested her memories. She had finally chosen

“ Hey…that isn’t something I know much about. But if it makes you happy, that’s what you will do.”

“Promise?”

“Pledge.” Replied Shiva. “And to make things easier for you, you know what I’ll do? I’ll take a posting in South India!

Happy?”

“Any particular dance form you’re interested in by the way?”

Gauri blissfully reached out to hold his hand. It was a reassuring grip. Not too relaxed, nor too insistent.

“Yes. I have a special interest in a particular form. There is a special school where I can learn it. I do want to learn as much of it as I can for as long as I live.”

“That’s beautiful passion! I won’t mind if you love me just as much though…and does this dance have a name?”

“I will love you, my lord, and my dance both,” said Gauri.

“And... it does have a name. It is called ‘ VilasiniNatyam

Preeti Brahmin is a teacher by profession and a mother of two girls. She is passionate about her work in school and at home. She believes education is a great equaliser. She loves all things sustainable in relationships and ways of life. She tries to keep up with some modest reading and attempts to speak up through poetry or prose whenever passion permits. She doesn't believe in competition. Her motto is ' In lifting others you lift yourself '.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES /JULY ISSUE

49

M O N S O O N

I S S U E . 2

50

The Drowning P O E M S

O F

L O V E

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Broken Dreams Nisha Tandon I sat in solitude on unsteady rocks, lost in thoughts deep Oblivious to the utter chaos that was now surrounding me The sound of ferocious storms left me unperturbed So did the cacophony of the waves traversing from the sea

I have often reached out to touch your tearstricken face A recurring nightmare representing my many fears Broken repeatedly at the crack of every new dawn As the splintered sunrays sneaked in slyly through the sheers

The news of your death brought my world to a virtual pause Shattering my bare hopes and all my vagrant dreams It has been a few decades since we parted ways You left abruptly amidst my muffled screams

Your dreams haunted me till I cried in pain and begged To spare me and set me free to lead a life of bliss Surreal nights are usually every dreamer’s paradise In contrast mine have only been a haunting abyss

Our broken relationship haunted me like a ghost from a misty past My life faded as a passing shadow where once passions dwelled Many a times I have seen your return to my lucid dreams As an urge to call out my name you oft times quelled

In the dead of night someone whispered “ let go of me love” “My broken dreams no more belong to you” Tears were silenced by the storms that raged within As I knew that the voice was of no one but the lost you

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52

I sobbed as I knelt on the sand and scribbled your name The waves swept away the final remains of my dreams Shattered and broken finally I laid you to rest My yearning soul entangled in life’s labyrinthine schemes

Nisha Tandon , currently residing in Dubai is an entrepreneur with an HR, Training Consulting firm. Having versatile experience in hotels, educational institutions and corporate entities, Nisha has had multi-dimensional exposure to the different arenas of work. Her exuberance and passion towards children led to a meaningful contribution to the teaching community and she worked for a significant tenure as an accomplished teacher in an elite school in Delhi.

Working in hotels and coming across people with different perspectives towards life, got her a lot of experience which she uses in her poems quite appropriately. As an author, she has successfully released compilation of poetry of her emotional journey of life through her maiden venture, entitled 'FOOTPRINTS'. Recently her third poetry book 'Myriad of Dreams' has been published by Notion Press.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

July Issue

53

Supernova Nandita De nee Chatterjee Eyes like golden honeydew Heartstopping her glance Cheeks aglow with the adulation Raw seduction from the centre page.

Every move she makes Sears the silver screen Such oomph never has been seen Wispy chiffon billowing in the wind Tossing men's hearts into the torrent Wet curves swaying their passion A temptress with killer moves A diva demure and dangerous.

A Devi she was hailed A goddess with a never-ending trail Besotted idolisation Her beauty and fame ricocheted beyond all borders.

Secretive and enigmatic She shied away Secluding her private space Immersing herself into his life.

Robust their love Committing to his charm for life.

But stardom and hero worship Had its sabre edge Pricy the premium To be paid.

Nicks and tucks Far too many Self-destructing obsession

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Debut at 4 Hypnotising audiences for five decades Fanatically fans lavished love Nearly 300 films She whispered and crooned Twirling and chuckling Her bangles broke box offices She was supreme.

No.1 she was The highest paid.

Disdainful of challenges A flutter of her eyelashes Cutting competition with cutlasses.

A billion plus people Besotted with her beauty Love lavished unreservedly Swearing undying devotion Following her surreptitiously.

54 Self-destructing obsession With popularity Fanatical attempts to arrest fate To remain the cynosure of all The ultimate lover with the coy gaze Acting acumen that threw a spell Audiences enthralled with her comic gaze.

Mom of two lovely maidens Finally she made a fearful transition As a vigilante she made her return In 'Mom' she clinched her command.

Holding her trophy on stage she gushed " Thank you dear Love for making me a real Mom".

The hushed audience gasped Tears dampened her honey eyes Sincere salutation to her lifelong love, without disguise.

How much more could she be loved?

From far and wide her fans swore Dazzled by the vision conjured.

Sensational at every stage in her life She laughed and danced Her bewitching self Arms around her loving mate Living life to her heart's fill.

Dinner and drinks flowed Wedding revelry and wishes exchanged Blowing kisses to family and friends A special kiss in all her allure On the hotel corridor And a blinding smile at the camera.

'Mom' got her the National Award Her tragic curtain call it was.

Heady with the intoxication of her life Charmed and magical at every step From films to family She ruled all the way Never once she belied expectations Life gave her the red carpet freely Her spell would never go, verily.

Vivacious and bubbling with life She filled her bathtub with perfumes and warm suds Stepping into it cheerily She slipped into oblivion unwittingly.

Her still heartbeats broke a billion hearts The impish laugh which had held them spellbound Now tears flowed unendingly.

Getty Images

At 54 she bid adieu In characteristic aplomb as only she knew.

Mysterious as always She left without a clue.

Enchanted was her existence Enraptured were the people.

A love that shone true.

A Superstar had been born A luminous Star in the sky she'll remain.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

July Issue

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

What is true Love!

DEEPTI MENON

What is that onrush, deep within, that sets your heart beating?

Palms turn clammy; the breath quickens, engine-like, relentless, The sight of someone sinks a thunderbolt into your stomach, Eyes widen and lips quiver; the world lights up, incandescent.

Is that what true love does to you?

When the world gazes on with an enigmatic smile, Having seen the same reactions ten thousand times before, You flounder in a sea of emotions, each wave threatening To pull you under; to pull you asunder; and yet, you hang on, Desperately wanting to hold on to every passing straw.

Is that what true love is?

When one strong sinewy hand, held out, pulls you ashore, You gasp in relief, hang on and then let go, safe on the shore, Where a lighthouse beckons, its lone eye casting its glance around The treacherous waters to guide you and myriad others to safety.

Now that must be true love, no doubt.

Yet, once the shore is reached you are on your own, Dry and protected, you stand on the sand, your feet a-quiver, Waiting in anticipation, unsure of how to move forward, The hand stretches out, grazes your fingers, a gentle caress, And in a blinding flash that lights up the sky and earth, You know the truth…this is true love.

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Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Deepti Menon has always loved the written word. She began to write at the age of ten and was lucky enough to have travelled around the country as an Army kid. Her experiences during those years helped hone her interest and her flair for writing. Her first book, 'Arms and the Woman', published in 2002, takes a light-hearted look at the life of an Army wife. 2013 and 2014 were lucky for her, as many of her short stories were chosen for myriad anthologies. She also has a book of poems, titled 'Deeparadhana of Poems', lovingly compiled by her mother, herself a talented writer and ‘Shadow in the Mirror’, a psychological thriller published by Readomania in 2016. Her latest offerings are an eBook of thriller short stories, titled ‘Where Shadows Follow – Tales that Twist and Turn’ and ‘Tales from the Panchatantra’, a set of four eBooks, all

by Readomania. She is currently working on stories based on ten Shakespearean plays, which she hopes will pique the curiosity of young readers.

Writing has been an endless journey with its twists and turns, often leading Deepti on to the myriad mysteries of life, love and relationships.

The thrill of seeing her name in print has only intensified over the years. She believes that Mark Twain had the right idea when he said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.” There has never been a dull moment, never time to regret, according to her, as life is truly worth living.

57 Siddhartha and

Yashodhora

Banani Sikdar

He was a Prince, she a Princess, Sounds like an ensuing love-tale priceless.

The Prince had a mind holistic, Not at all lured by the Royal antiquities.

Aware of the distinguished mental trait, His parents thought of nuptial rites straight.

Hopeful that their son would be transformed surely, From holistic to familial, post marriage gradually.

The Prince, however, was not enchanted, The marriage had little or no effect on his thoughts sorted.

Both were fresh youngs of sixteen sweet.

The Princess acutely aware of her exuberant spirit.

Married to her childhood companion, She was certain of conjugal love and affection.

Thus began the story of Siddhartha and Yashodhora, Siddhartha being oblivious of his amorous signora.

Who grew more pensive with time, Yashodhora couldn't be his attention prime.

Neither material nor physical wealth was desirable, A saintly Siddhartha failed to notice his wife's plight miserable.

For the young, bubbly bride, her youth was her accused, Her expectent heart, waited for eons to be cajoled.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

58

Composition of poems is her favorite hobby.

Banani Sikdar feels honoured, inspired and obliged for a number of her poems and articles were published in various on and offline magazines.

The bride naturally confused by dreams and desires, The groom ever, lost in ascetic state of affairs.

Yoshodhara, a spritely, young, beautiful bride, Siddhartha didn't bother about her feminine pride.

A marriage progresses with time and togetherness, Trust and loyalty comes later with seasoned closeness.

This odd couple was like two different travellers, Sharing the same space only to be separated sooner.

The wedding eventually got consummated, Mystery, how a noncommittal Siddhartha got committed.

Both at the age of thirty seven, a son Rahul, was born to the couple, For Yoshdhara, it was the most wonderful miracle.

Alas! Her rejoice came to an end soon, Just a week after the birth of her son, Siddhartha renounced everything that meant worldly, And left the palace, at the depth of the night silently.

A saint who left his home for Enlightenment, Couldn't visualise his abandoned wife's predicament.

Dejected, disgraced, Yoshdhara was devastated, fragmented, And suffered equal penance as her husband had experienced.

Siddhartha went on to become The Buddha, The Enlightened Avatar, Rahul, the tender, beloved son was Yoshodhara's only succor.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

A B O U T

59

L O V E

RIANKA BOSE SAHA

With raw hope Attempt, again I look in vain For the long shadows Cast by yesterday's walk Through the woods But they have disappeared The sun shines brighter And I take a dip Inside my head Scrounging for memories Instead scraps of yesterday As my fingers bleed Crimson love Drowned voices of insanity Looking for love ain't the only trouble Ain't the only thing wrong here Rather the utter lack of it Rianka Bose Saha is a published writer and a poet. Four of her stories have been published in various anthologies including, 'A Fallen Leaf' an anthology of fifteen stories, 'Arising from the Dust' an anthology of 32 stories, 'Tea with a drop of honey' anthology and an Anthology by the Book Buzz, 21 Stories for ’21.

Her poetry pieces have also found space in a few poetry anthologies and commas and half strokes writing platform. She loves the written word in any form and loves to experiment with various writing styles. She is a full time mom and a day dreamer, mostly lost in the suspense thriller novels strewn around her. She dreams of owning a little library some day.

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G O N E F O R E V E R

She was gone forever!

Oh! How I missed her.

She was a waif of a girl With a sunshine smile.

Though I am Sun, It was her face that shone so bright.

She would close her eyes And look up at me I would gently caress her face, My warm fingers would tickle her Under her chin, and she would giggle And my fingers would tingle As if dipped in warm honey.

She was opaque and would twirl And play with her shadow Full of laughter and love For who she was.

But as time went by She looked at me less and less And smiled with a cloudy smile Slowly her shadow dimmed Alas! She was losing herself Tiny pieces given away To others around I blew hot and blew cold I tried to entice her with Gentle zephyrs.

Come and play with me Sink into your shadow And watch it dance with joy For you are together once again.

Sadly, she paid me no heed And now she casts no shadow.

I shed hot embers at her loss For I cannot touch her now.

Piece by piece, part by part She dissipated in the winds Of life Now Her spirit’s evaporated Her soul is gone Her energy is cold She no longer glows or burns Only an empty shell remains Oh! How I miss her.

She is gone forever!

eussI yluJ/selcinorhC mumehtnasyrhC

SHWETA SINGH

61 Shweta is a podcaster with a difference. She writes beautiful short stories and poems too. Her work has been published in more than ten anthologies and has been appreciated by her peers. She has won numerous awards for both her stories and poems. Shweta has her own website www.shwetasbasket.com, her basket of happiness as she likes to call it.

Her podcast shwetasbasket is available on six different international podcast platforms. Right from the start when she warmly welcomes her audience, to her relaxed mannerism, voice modulation and her sharing her thoughts about the stories and poem, makes her connect with her audience. It is this intimacy that she creates with her listener is what makes them come back to her podcast again and again.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/ JULY ISSUE

62 A rose is for your beloved.

The perfect whorl encloses Secrets.

A ROSE PREETI BRAHMIN

HearA lover's heart Blindfolded skid Riding oblong on The silk of the blades In mute absorption Of happy hormones Filling the grail of life And headlong With concentrated plummet The pulsating self falls Seeking the thrill Of new answers Into the nesting whorl SmellThe dark hopelessness Inseminate with lightExploding on The odour thirsty nerves.

FeelBlindfolded love, All millions of atoms of it Stumbling in busy rush Reacting to that emotionFalling and sinking Upon thorn and petal.

Requited or unrequitedBonded or boundless Pain protests into pleasure

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July issue

E X C E P T

I N

D R E A M S

VASUDHA PANSARE

You, my first love!!

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

You were the sun Of my sky, The moon of my night, The flowers of my spring, The cool breeze of my summer, The warmth of my winter, The comfort of my dreams, The smile on my face, The music in my heart, The song on my lips, The solace of my mind, The ecstasy of my soul, The rainbow of my being, The river of my arid life, The colour of my imagination, The rain on my parched lips, The oasis of my desert, You made me feel alive and vibrant, You erased the sorrow of my days,

Where have you disappeared In this crowded world?

Years have passed, And we haven't met, Except in dreams, Will we meet in this life Or the next

63

64 Vasudha Pansare is a retired professor of English. She has recently published her first volume of poetry on Amazon Kindle. She is working on her second volume. She enjoys reading, writing poetry and short fiction and reviews of novels and films

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

A

WELCOME STRANGER Dr. Paromita Mukhejree Ojha

The crashing waves undulating before my eyes Echoed the surge churning in my mind, Droplets of faded memories of every kind, Of past deceit remind My wounded heart pined still for someone, How do I mend my broken heart?

Oh! Love is not a lark, Each stab of deceit Peeled my emotions layer by layer, Did he care?

My whole life was crumbling in front of my eyes, All those sweet nothings, Was there nothing but a pile of lies?

I was sinking In the quagmire of my susceptible heart, He still lived on in my heart, I was failing to pluck his memories apart

A slight nudge, liquid eyes staring at me, No words were spoken Yet all barriers were broken, Drop by drop the pain oozed out, My wails resounded across the hollow world, Her paws around my wounds curled, A dog who didn’t know me Sat silently beside me And became my esprit A silent companion, She that day rewrote my fate’s decree, I rose above my miasma of pain To rise in love again, Together we rewrote our future In companionable harmony.

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CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/JULY ISSUE

Meandering through by lanes in markets glittering like Aladdin’s den, I swirl in your thoughts In food gulleys of Lahore and Delhi I breathe you in spiced aromas and bursting flavours In cacophonous quiet of Humayun’s Tomb I hear you Chirping of birds rustling of leaves, Love speak in thousand languages abstruse On sun-kissed sea shore where waves like wishes crash their heads in mad despair On tranquil beaches where water rolls out, Unfurling like a carpet in Persian colours Of cobalt indigo and turquoise blue Your words float over ripples Wetting my soul Carried by salty winds I bask in seraphic sunshine of love

Eternally Soaked Kokila Gupta

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Issue 27 | 234

In the snow white silence of Pir Panjal of the mighty Himalayas At lapis lazuli of Pangong lake You sway In subconscious Somewhere between languor and dreams Between sleep and awakening Amid huffs and puffs of an uphill trek In smiles amid smooth ride of verdant slopes

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/JULY ISSUE

67 I inhale lung-fulls of crisp mountain air Scented with pine woods and oaks... reminding me Of you These are your footsteps In season’s loitering feet Turning forests of russet red Chinars white Under first snowfall...as if a Christian wedding!

Bowers bearing marks of our meetings Indelibly inked sigils on boulders and stones On mossed walls thatched cottages Once burnished by warmth of our love All draped in white now Yet frozen memories glint like frost...

Ah! the sweet pangs of love At home the kahwa Boiling over samovar in a dark corner, Hisses at me reprimanding The rainbow embroidery on phiran kurta, silver jewellery Shimmer of gauze dupatta; argent blue like Jhelum All deny to twinkle!

The heart petulant, remembers each word, every gesture So vivid like crimson strawberries growing on island The soul is drenched by moments of mad love, crazy laughter Ah! The shenanigans of conspirators!

Partners in crime these too have left me To sulk?

Instead, I walk with a graceful step; with a wavy bounce in my dark tresses And one more time I wonder How come, when you are gone I seem to have more of you?

All for myself!

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

In pining for you, longing to be with you Am surrounded By your thoughts, words, gestures Of our brief love Before the war snatched you away I remember every moment with nuances and undercurrents In living apart am not just being with you every moment, Am Living You Rapt So much that this heart beats as yours Soul feels your eyes watching me I hear your cackling laughter when I trip on my sharara Your smirk catches me spilling things Your admiring glance caress my waist As I drape six yards of your .

favourite fyrozi silk And I turn fuchsia under the warmth of it Your gaze follows my rickshaw threading its way to college through alleys And I find you sitting in an unlit corner through the lecture Smiling behind my back as I turn to write on board In cafeteria, you raise your eyebrows in funny disdain As I add more sugar to my coffee, And then beckons me to pin one yellow bloom from the dangling creepers In my carelessly done chignon I feel your gaze Lingering at my nape and I blush deep Forgetting the change I dash out from cafeteria While you guffaws at my flustered bumbling mien I punch you mentally and you embrace me In the cashmere folds of your shawl Taking me home wrapped up in warmth of You

Born in literary environment of AatmvatSarvBhuteshu, with poems as lullabies; philosophy as bed time stories, Kokila Gupta was brought up amid mountains and valleys nurturing a deep love for nature and simplicity. She chose Immuno-Parasitology as her field of study and later resigned from a Government job to pursue her other interests. Her prose, poetry, musings or Haiku, all express a natural affinity for life in mundane spontaneity. She is an artist by nature, a reader by birth, a lecturer by profession, a traveller by passion and a writer/poet by choice.

As amma laments your loss like all Frivolous words of condolences roll down the valley Agitating the doves; they too fly away in protest!

Hollow phrases echo and bounce from crags Plummeting into deep ravines Washed away with the mocking stream I caress the tiny life fluttering inside me And look at life through you- a diaphanous veil around me Making sadness blurry Like watching world through a rain-washed windowpane Curlicued patterns of Kashmiri dastarkhwan seem to float Are these tears? No, just an unending mist in my soul To nourish me with hope and strength and undying love Beloved, am eternally soaked in you.

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69

My Love for Thee Gowri Bhargav

As we lie ’neath the moonlit sky,

Thou ask me who I am…

Thou ask me how much I love thee.

And this is what I say; Mon Amour! My love for thee is a burning flame, It is; Deeper than the ocean, Infinite like the stars, Vast like the universe, Never ending like the sky, Sweet like honey, Pure like snow, Tender like the rose, Precious like the diamonds, And gentle like the zephyr.

I am the one whoSings with the birds, Dances with the rain, Yearns for the moon, Dwells in a land of dreams, And pens verses everywhere.

I see thee everywhere, in everything, I feel thy fragrance with every breath of mine, My heart beats for thee, And my soul is entwined with thine, Hark! I am not myself anymore, ‘Cause I have become one with thee.

And know that I am soaked in your love…

Like; The dusky sky ethereally lit by the full moon’s glow, The cold earth warmed by the rising sun, The longing shore drenched by the undulating waves, The parched ground that has unconditionally surrendered to the falling rain.

Gowri is a storyteller from Chennai who has an absolute passion to tell stories to young children. She is an avid reader and also enjoys weaving words into short stories, blogs, poems and micro tales. Having won in many contests, her works have been featured in several literary platforms, magazines and anthologies

Chrysanthemum Chronicles /July Issue

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/ JULY ISSUE

THE SIMMERING NIGHT OF ECSTASY The simmering night of ecstasy Lit under the cold mellow moonlight Persevered to permeate the lull stillness strewn all around.

The lilac silence slumbering in the darkness Arose something inside me Protruding emotions My desires, cravings gaining momentum Uprising in a fervor for love and you.

I binge on the decadent night of desires Your pristine thoughts, unspoken, unrequited resurfaced Your soft subliminal face, your luscious smile embedding into me, etching something vividly Diffusing like bewitching scents.

My beauteous quintessence, your magnetic aura Melt in unison, in cascading indulgent dreams I unfurl like the virgin midnight rose Scintillating with my cold sweat dew drops.

Daisy Bala

You clean your feet on the doormat Before entering the enthralling heart You remold me putting my scintillating pieces together I burn like a descriptive poetry Under the glazed moonlight .

Your love lingers on my pillow Like the lustful creamy gardenias I’m stoked in love , winding up between the sheets Oozing in the superfluous feelings I try incessantly to control the spill.

Condensing in the warm blanket of your surreal thoughts I finally subside in sleep in the primitive hours of morning.

You promise a visit tomorrow again In the subdued silvery night With the unlabeled warm intimacy I accumulate all the unspoken, unheard pearls of tenderness In the jar of profound romanticism To be splurged tomorrow again, in the noon of the night When you clandestine love will blaze the night of allure!

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Love Under the Gulmohar Tree Preeti S Manaktala That summer evening of 1994 whilst the sky was a purple bruise; I waited with bated breath under that Gulmohar tree.

You came riding your Kawasaki taking out a red rose from inside your shirt holding a vintage song cassette, you had said..

“This has songs that I would love you to hear, the last song on side A, the second song on side B. Pay particular attention to the lyrics my dear and do tell me once you hear them what did you feel inside?”

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I was naïve and just seventeen But you didn’t yet confess that you love me.

Yet I felt the zephyr bring it all to me.

Blushing like a rose that you gave me, butterflies made my stomach their home thereon; fluttered the insides of me as soon you came to my thoughts.

Locking my door ~ hiding my thumping heartbeats; like a trembling leaf I opened your love from that box.

‘Annie’s song’ played me a beautiful fragrant dream soothing and palmy, oh did I let myself drown in those lyrics, imagining as if you sang me that song.

He loves me, yes, he does those thought made me blush blush blush!

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You choose to confess your love through Mr. Denver’s song George Benson confirmed your love to me all night long As ‘Nothing’s gonna Change’ played in a loop The music and your love made me swoop.

Our love blossomed over the rotary telephone Often, I would dial your number and let it ring just once.

A signal for you to pick up the next call at once.

One rupee coins in my pocket I ran to the public telephone booth just to hear your hello and that is the only truth!

And today, twenty years of playing some tom & jerry stunts.

Love intervals ergo some egos and fights. mélange of episodes of care and sacrifice.

We changed and evolved as we welcomed two souls, who made us complete, and our life Well! isn’t it still on a roll!!

You are my solace, you are my pride.

You are the reason my day dawns and there is light.

You infuse life in me with your ginger tea each dawn.

You are my dream catcher, my only soothing balm We have let go, ignored each other’s foible Thus, our run is no less palmy perfect and paradisal.

Preeti S Manaktala resides in Bangalore, India. She is a published author, poet, blogger and a contributing writer to various online sites. She has won many accolades and recognition for her poetry contribution to various online contests. She calls herself a writer in progress and believes that life is a melange of learnings. She is inspired by everything beautiful-like Life itself. Verse fill her with fragrance of a different kind, the colors on the butterfly, the shimmering sunlight through the trees, the sunsets, the clouds, raindrops and it’s petrichor, the mountains. Nature itself beholds her ~ inspire her and her old soul.

Forever in love with herself and with a heart filled with gratitude, she sits down to write a new song on days when her laid back soul is less languorous! A firm believer in the age old saying “My Life is My Own Making.”

Her Latest books – Indian Summer In Verses- A Poetry Anthology.

Macabre Takes – A Thriller Anthology.

You can find her scribbling her thoughts on her WordPress site https://preetimanaktala.in

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Drenches and Quenches Debashree Basak

In the shimmering moonbeams Drenched in your hypnotic glow, A symphony built.

Hands entwined, we tread our utopian destination Surrendering in that fleeting moment Nurtured by fervid passion I delve into your eyes Ahhh.. the silent beacon of steadfast serendipity.

I bask in my new found exuberance With the mystic moon celebrating our oneness In a hide and seek of emotions Silencing my inner whispering of doubt I savored the brightest hues of emotions inside out My soul seeks that ambrosial fragrance That seeps in to spread sweetness of a dreamy bliss Real, pristine and inebriating Incarcerating me in the bondage of love For eternity!

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A doting yet imperfect mother, a published author, a total logophile at heart and an erstwhile banker (Finance and accounts professional) other than numbers, Debashree Basak believes in the power of words. To her, they can heal the world and herald a change. Therefore, she does her bit by contributing in her own minuscule way!

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An Eternal Love Song ADITI LAHIRY

My love song is full of hope Its an eternal song, that I have composed I dedicate it to you my beloved It will remind you of our meetings by the lake The glorious, bygone days when we danced in rain Drenched in the downpour of love, we forgot every pain Our love song is eternal It will be remembered for days immemorial The woods, the birds, the winter zephyrs will stand as a witness to our eternal love song The Heavens and Earth would bless us forever and ever The soulful song, will arouse our memories The days of twilight, too would be filled with glory Our love song will give hope to many Together, we will continue to shape many romantic story.

C H R Y S A N T H E M U M

Aditi Lahiry is an English and French language teacher. She is passionate about writing short stories, penning poems and storytelling. She lives in Hyderabad with her seven-yearold son and her family.

C H R O N I C L E S / J U L Y

I S S U E

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THE LIVING CORE: AN OUTLIER’S PERSPECTIVE A VIGNETTE BY DEEPAK K CHOUDHARY (DARSHAK)

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As I am about to share with you a piece of my observation that has occupied my freaky, maverick mind for several months, I think I must admit at the outset something it actually relates to. In my professional circle, there are a lot many people who love to be seen and talked about as aficionados and connoisseurs for their refined, richly informed perception of high-profile gadgets, stand-out party wears, continental cuisines, European wines and Japanese androids. But I am completely different from them in my understanding of what constitutes the core of living. Unlike them, I have a strong liking for the ordinarylooking, unpretentious components of everyday life, which I believe have extraordinary potentials to change us for the better. I know how people on

on the other side of the wall feel about me. On many occasions, I have noticed some of them pointing their fingers at me mockingly. I have also heard some others calling me a lunatic, a shallow thinking pot, a deviant apostle of superficialities, a dealer of shenanigans, an embodiment of countryside buffoonery and so on. There are still others who perhaps think that I am too obsessed with an implausibly over-glorified picture of the ‘ordinary’, which I wish to employ like the secret arm of a sharp, skilled trickster to grab quick public attention and popularity. But I don’t give a damn to all that tripe. Reason?

Pretty simple. I am sure you are

"The case of a peg, a veritable minnow among them, is particularly interesting".

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78 are going to come up with a fairly positive take once I reach the end of the trail. At least some of you will be there to acknowledge that the crux of all I have tried to say is entirely rooted in life and as such, unquestionable and pertinent to the hilt.

Let me first try to make myself more intelligible and start with a simple piece of observation before touching upon the core, which is about the existential conditions (or, conditioning) of objects as common and yet as significant as a peg, a doormat, a chest of drawers, a bucket and so on! It goes without saying that all these objects as also many others in our houses, which we bill as the ordinary components of day-to-day life, are also the ones we depend on rather too heavily. In fact, we have always depended on them in the recorded past, often without knowing the extent of our dependency with a convincing precision. They are actually the face of our inanimate yet active, committed citizenry always ready to contribute their mite to making life better and more beautiful for everyone. So, there is definitely no need for us to wonder why it is not possible to overlook their stark presence around us. This is something self-evident even though they do not appear to be unique, distinctively eye-catching or spellbinding from any angle. Aren’t these objects indispensable? Yes, they are because we cannot think of replacing them with any other things.

At the same time, however, isn’t it

true as well that their vital presence in our life almost always remains unnoticed and unrewarded? A close look at these objects alone can tell us why and how these questions are relevant.

The case of a peg, a veritable minnow among them, is particularly interesting. I have absolutely no doubt that many of you have grown up seeing pegs of different colours and curves fastened to the walls of your house. The most generic feature of a peg is that its position is static and fixed. But we can still imagine

Like pupils of the utilitarian pontiff Jeremy Bentham, we actually feel their presence only for the brief period of time when we use them how sensitive this small object is to our convenience, and how efficiently it handles the humongous task of carrying our sweat-soaked shirts, vests, pantaloons and undergarments.

At times, it shows the determination to carry more weight than its little, indistinct physical frame suggests.

This is something we rarely notice in case of a mechanical device like the lift, which automatically stops functioning with the OVERLOAD sign flashing right above your head once the weight of people inside it crosses the limit of its carrying capacity. What is even more interesting is the fact that it remains

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quiet, patient and composed adopting the same posture for years on trot. Yes, the peg never resists the insensitivity shown by its users who don’t hesitate to put as much burden on its delicate shoulders as they can.

It never really demands anything in lieu of the great service it renders, save a little space in a distant corner of our room.

Obviously, none of should have any qualms about the terrific piece of work performed by a peg that serves as one of the most productive components of our household.

As such, it deserves a lot of attention, care and respect. But does it ever get anything it deserves? Do we ever talk about its great contribution? The fact is that the pegs are also among the worst victims of our negligence and selfishness. Like pupils of the utilitarian pontiff Jeremy Bentham, we actually feel their presence only for the brief period of time when we use them.

Even then, we don’t actually care for them, but only bother to feel their presence by touching or holding them with a clinical detachment and cold, calculated precision.

Fastened to the wall or doors, the pegs are nonetheless relatively lucky to have got a somewhat decent location. This becomes evident only when you take a close look at the existential condition of the doormat. It brings to an observer’s mind the bleak picture of a tireless worker who is assigned the task of absorbing the dirt and filth of the world passing through its stagnant, unchanging professional life-zone. As you know, its work starts at dawn when every house has its many feet waking up to the call of the day; and lasts till late night.

During this period, the poor doormat remains exposed to hundreds of slippers, sandals and shoes running over its smooth, hairy physique. A lot many of them that it encounters at regular intervals contain so much of dust and mud that the doormat gets almost blackened in its attempt to accommodate their deep marks all over its

C H R Y S A N T H E M U M

body. Sometimes, some feet are in such hurry that their swift movement shakes and jerks it violently leaving the hapless doormat in great pain. Obviously, it is never allowed to have a siesta or even a moment’s respite during the day. By the time the night arrives and the pace of feet movement dies down, it has so many wounds on its body that it is unable to sleep. This is the kind of tragedy that it is subjected to every day, but we can’t understand it. The reason is not far to seek. After all, a doormat lacks the glamour and appeal of objects like a chandelier or a flower pot or a bonsai which always capture all attention and praise without doing anything to ease our burden.

Let me now talk about the third important member of the group of objects that play a major part in making our socalled ‘sweet happy homes’ really sweet and happy. It is the poor, faded, age-old bucket! Have you ever felt how much pain it takes to look after our needs and keep us in good humour? And what does it get for all that? I’ve never seen anyone cuddle or hug the bucket after using it for bath, to wash his dirty clothes or to attend the calls of nature. I’ve never heard anyone say ‘thanks’ to the bucket after using it. But the bucket never protests against the ingratitude of its users. When a person pushes or places a bucket under the tap with a careless jerk of his hand, it does not refuse to open out and receive water. When a person, after a long session of watering plants with a bucket, leaves it in the hot, scorching sun and forgets it, the bucket never threatens to blow up, disappear or go away. All it does is make screaming sounds when it collapses on the ground or collides with something else. If you are truly sensitive, you can read different shades of feelings and impulses into those screams.

C H R O N I C L E S / J U L Y

I S S U E

Just imagine what would have happened to us if there were no buckets around. Could some of us (clean-clad politicos, glitzy mannequins and corporate tuxedoes intended) have still afforded to be as proud of their cleanliness (at least apparently) as they are now? Could the skin of some others be so fair and glowing? Could our clothes be so shining and bright? Sans the close company of buckets, water alone would not have made all that possible.

I have had the opportunity to watch from close quarters the lives of the ubiquitous but perennially neglected pegs, doormats and buckets. Time and again, I have felt their anguish concealed behind their silence. They often ask us why they are discriminated against and are not treated at par with many other objects in our houses. Today, I want to ask you if you too, like me, believe that we should be more appreciative of their great work and be more sensitive towards their needs.

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JULY ISSUE

BOOK REVIEW

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REVIEW OF "UNTURNED VERSES"

ALL LACED UP

“A book of mundane verses flowing like a brook that will soothe your soul, making you fall in love with contemporary poetry” Unturned Verses by Gopa Bhattacharjee is not a typical anthology, rather I would prefer to call it a chapbook of poems with some 61 odd poems that majorly are the candid expression of the poetess and it has much more to offer. Thus, I would love to take you to the journey of my feelings that I experienced while reading this book. To begin with I would say the first poem itself is the most intriguing one entitled ‘I am not a Poet’ that clearly portrays the innermost feelings of the poet and how unpretentiously she is admitting that poetry doesn’t come to her so easy while weaving a poem out of those raw emotions with so much ease. As the few lines from that poem go like this: No! I am not a poet.

She doesn’t knock my door everyday.

But sometimes, when I have stomach filled nights Few jumbled words do cloud my mind.

A poet who believes that words are not her game but yet she has played them wisely is what this poem reflects. Soon after her confession we see the poet becoming a metaphor herself where she has found meaning and many other emotions sometimes from nature, from life, from people, from love and from her own existence. She is that mundane poet I would say who has turned all the above things into metaphors of pleasantness and resonation.

Each poem would fall on the parched soul of yours and you would feel how easily you are connecting with the poet through her book.

But if you read her poem Burning Emotions, you would know that even a roasting Brinjal has a poem to offer, because it is all about seeing and feeling the verses that are everywhere around us and how a true poet sees them and captures them is all

that matters! Gopa has done that with great opulence and the poem sits most contentedly in your soul. I am sure myriad women readers would resonate with the poet’s feeling here.

Largely, you would see a quagmire of desires, emotions, some unanswered questions and reflections of her love filled heart. The poet has expressed them in few of her poems, her qualms of the pangs in love, some untold words that didn’t find their way out and many silenced emotions lost somewhere in time. A poet has to be a lover first to feel the twinge more and Gopa seems to have done it in the most sublime manner.

She has found a bag full of her unsaid words and has spread them across the pages of this chapbook, without failing to convey her gratitude to her teacher, to her Baba (Father) and to those as well whose pain she feels or had felt in the process of compiling this

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JULY 2021, ISSUE 2 CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

book perhaps. The bouts of nostalgia that has often groped her, the bygone time that she still misses, those old letters and postcard days, her childhood to her youth and many things of her essence, you would see it all under one roof called ‘Unturned Verses’.

Another of the most intriguing at the same time a poem that I particularly liked is My Father, A Cobbler, where the poet has portrayed the most humble and honest feelings towards what her dad taught her, ‘that no matter what work a person does, he needs to walk with his head held high’.

Her verses say it like this in the book: I ran to ask him “What do you do?”

He smiled and said: ‘I’m a cobbler, I make people’s shoe”.

This poem here abruptly reminded me of Syliva Plath’s confessional poem ‘Daddy’ addressed to her father only.

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Although the similarity is only in terms of dedicating the poem to a Father, but Gopa has certainly ended the poem on a wiser note with a life lesson she has revealed to have learnt over the years.

Now if I have to talk about the narration, style and poetic elements, Gopa’s style is undoubtedly contemporary with free verses flowing with ease, language is lucid and uncomplicated, prosaic style is more dominant in each poem and this is what makes it an interesting and a pleasant read. We don’t see any strong influence of any particular poetic style or poets if I have to say it most bluntly but the verses are straight from the heart, uncompromised and purely raw.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles’ Verdict: ‘Unturned Verses’ is a book of which I am pleased to receive a signed copy from the poet herself. It is more of a privilege I would say not only to read, but to journey along the poet’s petite world of carefully woven words. I believe that we get to know a writer/poet more from reading their works as much knowing them in person, and from this chapbook I would say that we have a hopelessly romantic poet here who has captured herself in the book, now all you have to do is turn the page and her verses. This poetry collection I would recommend to every reader/writer and I would like to rate it 4.5 on the scale of 5 for its novelty, mundane vibes and simple yet very good poems.

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Why does one face sorrow and problems in life? What can allay the anxiety and stress inherent in the materialistic modern society? How can one get in touch with higher consciousness and strike a balance between the spiritual and worldly goals?

If you are looking for answers to questions like these and searching for ways to empower your life, begin the quest with this volume, which presents the essence of one of the world’s most sacred texts in a simple and easy‐to‐ understand manner.

The Bhagavad Gita, a treasure trove of divine wisdom, was shared by Lord Krishna with Arjuna, the Pandava prince, at the battlefield of Kurukshetra, right before the Mahabharata or the ‘Great War’ began.

“Myriad of Dreams” is an emotional journey of yearnings that lie deep inside. Dreams, as they say, are a window to your soul. A life without dreams is meaningless and unfulfilled.

Nisha’s poetry has been inspired from her own life experiences and she makes an appropriate use of metaphors, narrative and voice, keeping the sentiments of poetry intact. Every poem is a very beautiful storytelling medium with descriptive imagery. She has tried to present and preserve some of the most unforgettable memories of her lifetime which will touch the hearts of the readers.

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/JULY ISSUE

Nisha Tandon

Richa Tilokani

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Are these stories, or scenes out of real life?

The human mind is often the most dangerous place to be within, especially when it houses emotions like hate, prejudice, rage, and above all, envy. Shadows Never Lie is a collection of thrilling stories that have a hint of menace patterned on the mysterious outcome of envy and rage.

Get ready to delve into the dark recesses of the human mind, that can be twisted beyond imagination.

Fear always doesn’t have to be an apparition or a ghost! It can have an altered guise altogether; perhaps a living sociopath is more than enough to give you the chills. And what if in dense forests you hear the ulutations of dead women warriors whose presence is still believed by the locals. Not all unearthly beings are appalling, they have a purpose and reason to be on this earth and around you, they might be either protecting you or perhaps want to devour you. Macabre Tales will take you to such a riveting roller coaster ride where fear in each story will have a different face and meaning. The labyrinth of 17 odd stories from different households will give you the mixed feelings of fear, sympathy, contemplation, doubts, anxiety and much more. Horror is not the thing this year, macabre tales are!

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/JULY ISSUE

Nandita De nee Chatterjee

Deepti Menon

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From The Editor When we wake up to a new morning each day, there is so much to be grateful for! Life itself is a gift and in the monsoon season it seems even more blissful. Rains have cascaded everywhere, far and wide to myriad lands and across. And in such ambience I feel elated to bring forth our drenched and soaked with literary rains, the significant and most fabricated raging issue for this year, the Monsoon Issue 2.

This issue will take you to the exclusive poems on the theme ‘Shakespeare’s Heroines Resurrected’ and you will find brilliant retelling and recreation of few of his most celebrated heroines from the inside out of other poets.

Likewise, love poems never fade away, no matter how you write them or portray the emotions in them. ‘The Drowning Poems of Love’ brings the same essence in this issue where drowning in love has found new metaphors. An intriguing tale by our story teller Preeti Brahmin and a vignette by one of our In-House Editors, you will feel the vibes of the monsoon sinking within you.

Nevertheless, I wish to express my heartfelt thanks to our Guest Editor Prof. Swati Pal who has spread her expertise over all the poems from Shakespeare’s Heroines Resurrected'. Much thankfulness goes to our Editor for this issue Mr. Deepak K Choudhary, who has been a guiding light throughout the process of its making assuring the content was error free and smooth flowing. Lastly all the contributing writers/poets are our precious gems who always support us and make each issue see the dawn of this world and I wish to thank them from the bottom of my heart.

MONALISA JOSHI FOUNDER & CHIEF EDITOR

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ July Issue

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/July Issue

Chrysanthemum Chronicles is a sanctuary where tales from across cultures, barriers and regions breathe as one mottled tapestry.

This is the utopian land of contemporary fables, folklores, whimsical tales, stories and verses. It is the candid expression of a literary journey in abundance. It is an endeavor to fracture the shells of coyness and bring out in upfront the true feelings of human emotions through verses, prose and stories that shall touch the deeper core making you want to read more from our books and magazines.

Chrysanthemum also chronicles myriad women writers' journey but it does not depict any pessimistic thought about feminism. It speaks and expresses gallantly about the female desires, her feelings and emotions that often remain confined within the four walls of her existence. It reflects the aura of womanhood and feminine energy that dwells in her presence through her diversified roles within this universe through literary fiction.

Yet however, Chrysanthemum Chronicles is not solely about female desires or her innermost feelings; it vividly reflects the importance of her opposite in her journey and depicts the beauty they create together in their purposeful existence as each other’s soul mates or lovers.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles gives shape to myriad unspoken, unheard love and romance stories, from Asian subcontinents and across the globe through its literary voyage. But it shall also homage those untouched themes, genres and sub genres with eclectic voices that are still waiting to be heard with narrative styles that will grab the attention of our editors.

Modern nymph tales, fables, literary fiction and magic begin here...

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Visit the Utopian Land @ Image Source: Pixabay

H T T P S : / / W W W . C H R Y S A N T H E M U M C H R O N I C L E S . C O M /