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CHRYSANTHEMUM NOVEMBER- DECEMBER 2021, VOL 1. ISSUE 1.1 INR.350

Cover Story & Interview with Keran Pantth Joshi Fall/Winter ISSUE

Exclusive Poems from the theme: And I Ate Blueberries and not an Apple'

CHRONICLES

Indian Journal of Prose & Poetry Three Issues a Year

This Journal is a collection of an interview, poems, a short story and a vignette written by multiple authors who assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this journal. All rights reserved. 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.

Front Cover Image Credit: Kateryna Kovarzh from iStock Photos All the supporting images for the content are from Pixabay Website. Cover Story and interview images credit rests with the author Keran Pantth Joshi.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles 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...

MEET THE EDITORS Editor Senior Editor ( Fiction) Senior Editor ( Fiction) Poetry Editor Associate Editor Project Editor

Monalisa Joshi Deepak K Choudhary Nandita De nee Chatterjee Preeti S Manaktala Shristee Singh Neeru Agnihotri

Published and Printed by Chrysanthemum Chronicles : A Contemporary Publishing House Editorial Office A-57, Paryavran Complex, Shop 1, Lower Ground Floor, New Delhi-110030 Email: editorialmagazinecc@gmail.com Printed & Bound @ Thomson Press 18.35 Delhi Mathura Road Faridabad-121007, Haryana

Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November-December 2021

Autumn

Vasudha Pansare

Beautiful autumn, Colourful leaves and Soft breeze, Mellow sunshine, A season divine.

The earth is covered By a leafy quilt, A carpet of colours split, A scene so wondrous, The heart so joyous, Cheerful is the spirit.

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/ November-December 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS Know about the Issue 07 08 09 14

Editor's Note Interview

In Conversation with Keran Pantth Joshi The Autumn Muse

Short Story by Dr. Preetha Vasan 20 Autumnal Verses 21 22 23

Hymn for the Dead by Ria Das Mukhopadhyay Silence of the Afternoon! by Nitika Sawhney An Empress' Tale by

Monalisa Joshi

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November- December 2021

TABLE OF CONTENTS 25 26 29

30 32 35 37 39 41 43 45 46 48

Vignette by Deepti Menon

To Autumn by John Keats And I Ate Blueberries and Not an Apple (Exclusive Poems) Eve's World by Chandra Sundeep

Adam and Eve- A Twist of Fate by Nandita De nee Chatterjee How Eve Chose to Play by Preeti Brahmin Rise of Eve by Gowri Bhargav

Foiled Blueprint by Dr. Paromita Mukherjee Ojha What to do with Eve? by Zainab

M.M The Divine Blunder by Jyoti Nair

Book Reviews

Review of 'It Follows You'

Review of 'In Absentia'

7 Editor's Note 'Autumn is like another Spring of Colours' "There is something so special in the early leaves drifting from the trees–as if we are all to be allowed a chance to peel, to refresh, to start again." – Ruth Ahmed Autumn brings the winds of distant lands, along with the fallen leaves that bring another spring of colours. The warm breeze comforts and soothes us bringing back beautiful memories of many autumns gone by. The most beautiful season on earth, it has a sudden charm that entices the eyes, and makes way for creating those unheard stories, poems, and prose pieces resting inside our souls. And this issue holds such beauties in its most poignant form. But when Autumn cascades, winter doesn’t stay far, it slowly intervenes the warm breeze of autumn and brings those chills reminding the times of goodness, blessings, family reunions and season of love and longings. This issue is a special dedication to both the seasons and we wish to thank all our contributors who have submitted their special pieces on the theme. But there is another charm this issue beholds are the Exclusive Poems from the prompt ‘And I ate Blueberries and not an Apple’ where you will find some of the most bizarre yet intriguing takes on Eve and Adam’s love story. Extensively edited by Chrysanthemum Chronicles’ Senior Editor Nandita De nee Chatterjee, this issue will surely keep you good company this coming winter along with your hot cuppa that you can have while flipping through its pages. And don’t forget to read the Cover Story and Interview of bestselling author Keran Pantth Joshi that has been done by our Associate Editor Shristee Singh. Happy reading all!

Monalisa Joshi Editor

Interview Chrysanthemum Chronicles / November-December 2021

Keran Pantth Joshi was born and brought up in Delhi and has a degree in Physiotherapy and is an MBA. She moved to Melbourne after marriage in 2012 and has worked for various global companies in HR and workforce planning. In 2017 she turned entrepreneur and relocated with her family to Launceston in Tasmania where she owns and runs a hotel with her husband. Her debut novel, Beyond Forever in love was published in 2014. She has two more books to her credit entitled 'Check-in, CheckOut' and the most recent one 'It Follows You'.

KERAN PANTTH JOSHI

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Associate Editor (Cc)

Shristee Singh

In Conversation with Keran Pantth Joshi

from each other. But are they destined together? And is their love stretched beyond forever? Beyond

Cc. As an author, this is your third book. Would

forever is a powerful emotional ride of love,

you like to tell us about your debut book Beyond

friendship, betrayal and family ties.

Forever in Love? What genre is it and what does it

I did face challenges because I was too naïve and

talk about? What were the challenges you faced in

very new to this industry. It took a lot of time,

getting your book published for the first time?

energy and patience. Also being in Australia had its own challenges when I was contacting

Keran. My first book, Beyond Forever in Love, is a

publishing houses in India. But I guess in the end

romantic chick flick. It’s the love story of Kamna

everything worked out well.

and Varun. Kamna is a dreamy eyed girl next door. The type you see in your classroom, office or while

Cc. Let us talk about your second book Check-in

walking to a metro station. Varun on the other

Checkout. Though it is also of the horror genre,

hand is a Greek god, filthy rich from a

how is it different from It Follows You?

magnanimously powerful family. The type you see in a Hollywood movie or a daydream. Their

Keran. Oh, it is completely different. The only

attitudes and dispositions are different and so are

similarity I think is the fact that both of them are

their ways. But destiny brings them closer together

anthologies of short stories. Check-in Checkout has

all the time in the name of sweet coincidences. But

10 stories which revolve around a hotel, which is

some twists and turns in the story take them away

the backdrop of all the stories.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November-December 2021

B E S T S E L L I N G A U T H O R O F H O R R O R G E N R E

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November- December 2021

Also, with Check-in Checkout I have tried to explore all the subgenres of horror with different stories. There are urban legends, psychological haunting, modern day haunting, cult, satanic practices, gore and revenge spirits. It will be such a treat for horror lovers. It Follows You, on the other hand, has 12 short stories which coil around 12 protagonists who find themselves in unprecedented situations where evil is following them. Here all the stories are linked to each other with the same theme. Also, the stories are interspersed across different cities and villages in India and happen in a time frame extending from 1957 to 2019. Cc. Since you have written two books, to my knowledge, which are in the horror genre, our readers would like to know what inspires you to write in this genre? Keran. In order to be inspired and to write something, I believe it's very important to love a particular genre. And I love this genre. I love stories which are thrilling and mysterious, which can keep me on the edge of my seat. My inspiration to write a particular story comes from the fact that I myself would like to read it. Stories which make me excited! I like to get scared and I guess a lot of people do. I like stories or concepts which can take you on a ride, where you can put yourself in the shoes of the protagonist and go to places, see unimaginable things and feel all the emotions of the protagonist, while you are in the cozy comfort of your bed in your home, safe. Now isn’t that exciting! As far as inspirations for the stories or ideas, I have a highly overactive imagination and I observe people, things and situations a lot. This gives me a lot of fodder for new stories. Cc. Each story in It Follows You has headers which give a hint towards what the readers are going to read in the story. It also adds a little poetic touch to the book. It also gives the readers a hint that you are a poet at heart. Do you also venture into poetry? If yes, can we expect a book on poems too? Will they be spooky poems, I am curious to know? Keran. Thank you for the compliment. But I have never considered myself as a poet. Regarding the little poems at the start of every story, you will find that in all three books of mine. I like giving a subtle something at the start of each story, something which resonates with the story but still does not give out the whole suspense. Can I say humbly that it’s my signature style? Also, your compliment makes me wonder if this might happen in future. If it does, it will be romantic poems as I am a true romantic by heart. And I guess people like reading romantic poems rather than scary ones. Cc. There was a little gap between the publication of Check-in Checkout and It Follows You. You wrote these two books simultaneously, one after another. With your pregnancy, having an older child and being a 'pet parent', how did you take out time for writing? What was your schedule like? Keran. Check-in Checkout happened only because of Covid. It was during the Covid lockdown and I wasn’t working. That gave me time to think and go back to my love of writing. And when Check-in Checkout was getting published, I immediately started working on It Follows You. Life was busy with kids and work but I was still able to manage a few hours in the day to think and write. Also, my husband is very supportive and that really helped a lot. With It Follows You I have written the book at night. I was pregnant and was not able to sleep at night, so I used that quiet time when everybody slept to complete the book. I do believe that if you really want to do something, you make time for it and it becomes your priority. For me, at that time, completing my books was the first priority. I was constantly thinking about my stories, characters and the next twist. That was something which lingered on my mind all the time.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Cc. In your acknowledgement I read that you wrote this book when you were expecting your second child. According to our culture and beliefs, during pregnancy we refrain from anything that is dark and gloomy. Yet you went ahead, writing on gory topics. I must say you are quite a braveheart! Would you like to tell us more about your belief system in this case? Keran. You are right, folk wisdom and cultural belief all over the world is the same. Pregnant females are asked not to watch horror movies or read such stuff… But that is only because anything that can lead to stress is detrimental for the health of mother and baby. To be honest anything that can cause emotional turbulence should be avoided. That need not be horror movies or books for everyone. Few females can easily get stressed just watching the news. It's all about the psychological state of the mother. To sum up, pregnancy is all about what gives you pleasure, if the mother is happy and free from any stress or anxiety, it’s good for the baby. I was very happy writing the book during the pregnancy, it actually gave me a good distraction from other depressing things going around - like the Covidrelated bad news everywhere and also from a few health issues I was going through. It was actually a good thing that I was able to keep myself motivated and happy. And if folklores are to be believed, I would like to believe that my baby will become a writer one day. Cc. In It Follows You there is a connection between the prologue and epilogue. Besides, in between the stories you have shown the readers quite a vast diaspora of protagonists from different spheres of India. Is there any message that you are trying to give to your readers? Keran. The main idea was to give the readers different stories spread across India and also spanning a few decades. It was an attempt to show different protagonists from different walks of life going through the same fear. Even though locations change, times change but the emotion of fear is constant. It affects everyone. Also, the start and end of the book will give the readers connecting dots to how the stories are connected to each other.

Cc. Though you have written a horror book, but reading your acknowledgements towards the end I got a strong feeling that you have a great sense of humour too. Can we expect a book in the humour genre too in future maybe? Keran. Yes, I like to believe that I am a very funny and witty person. Well, people tell me so! I definitely think that maybe in future I will write a lighthearted and witty chick flick. Cc. You are now an author of three books and with the dexterity you write I believe you will come up with a new book soon. Can you share with the readers your journey from your debut book Beyond Forever in Love to It Follows You? How have you grown as a writer? Any learning experiences you would like to share with us? Keran. Well, even though I wrote my first book in 2012, I guess my writing journey started way back in my childhood when I used to write my daily diary which then got replaced by my blog. It was on my bucket list to write a book someday. In 2012 when I shifted country, while waiting for my work rights, I found myself doing nothing! It was the first time in my life where I wasn’t working or studying. So, I started working on a story, hoping that if it turns out good, I will submit it to publishers. It finally got published in the year 2014 and received good reviews even though there wasn’t any marketing. But then life became very busy with a demanding job and personal commitments. It was during the Covid lockdown in 2020 when I again found myself not working, so I started working on another book. And since I was running a hotel here in Australia, I thought about writing a book on hotel horror. And the third book immediately followed. I have definitely grown as a person and hence as a writer too. This generally happens with all writers, with each and every book they become a better author. And of course, it’s true for any other profession too, with each passing year, there is a better version of you. Everybody’s journey is different but with me, the only thing I have understood is that I am at my happiest when I am busy writing something and my brain is thinking about the stories and the characters.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November- December 2021

Cc. Last but not the least, I would like to know if you experience nightmares or you just prefer giving others nightmares through your stories, as your stories have spooked me out a lot. Keran. Thank you. What else can be a better compliment to a horror author than this! If my stories have spooked you, then I guess the book was able to do what it was meant to. Regarding nightmares, unfortunately no nightmares for me. And I am very happy that I can sleep peacefully. Well, when my baby lets me 😉 (which isn’t often).

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

THE AUTUMN MUSE Dr. Preetha Vasan

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES/ NOVEMBERDECEMBER 2021

15 NOVEMBER- DECEMBER 2021

CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES

SHORT STORY

'HATE IS A VERY STRONG WORD', MOTHER SAID, 'BEWARE HOW YOU USE IT LEST…'

“The campus was awash with the soft light of the

In the choc-a-bloc classroom everyone was submerged

afternoon sun. I liked October. It warmed me with the

in your reading. It reminded me of people floating atop

tenderness of the leaves that cloaked the shrivelled

a lake made of maple syrup and honey. I squeezed

grass where I wished to lie and finish the John Fowles

myself between two grimacing elective students. Later

novel I had been poring over all through lunch.

during the discussion you’d insist this was one of those

Nonetheless, despite the cool air and the russet carpet

odes which had very little of the tactile; plenty of the

beneath, this was not the time to tarry. I could not

olfactory and the gustatory, not to miss the visual and

afford to miss any more classes. That was not, however,

the auditory images of stanzas 2 and 3, respectively.

the real reason I stuffed the book into my backpack

But, definitely, you maintained, no tactile. Yet autumn

and pulled out the notepad and my phone from its

covered my soul like supple silk and the stoles mother

dregs. The clock in the university tower boomed the

sent for misty winter morns. We waited, as you

hour. I was late. I rushed through the group messages

brought your reading to a soft conclusion, with jaw

(how much these people chatted!) to find the link to

dropping awe for you to take out your magic wand and

the text you would discuss during the afternoon’s

cast your spell that would hex us out of predictable

lecture.

boxes of interpretations. You did not disappoint us;

I don’t know when I first fell in love with you.

you never disappoint me.

Afterwards I would convince myself it was when I

‘What is missing in the poem?’ your voice returned to

discovered that your eyes were in fact a dark grey and

that deep crispness when you sprung those unexpected

not black at all, as I had imagined. But deep within I

questions that sent shivers down my spine.

must have known it was always that baritone voice

A buzz filled the air, ‘What can be missing?’

reading with a viscous ease the first lines of a poem

Some of us tried to rapidly re-read the poem. Several

which would pretty soon, with an alacrity, unlike your

others - idiots, actually (as if you would ask a question

quiet voice, enter my to-be-read- again-and-again list.

whose answer was so readily accessible) - were

As I rushed down the winding stairs leading to the

impatiently letting their fingers fly all over their

gallery classroom where you always gave your lectures,

phones, the light from the screens lighting up their

I heard you pick up the I heard you pick up the

faces. The university had very strict rules about the use

rhythm of the pentameter with a mellifluous ease,

of mobiles in the classroom. There were jammers in

‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness...(1)

many classes. Never in yours; it restricted the flow of

(1)John Keats: “Ode to Autumn”

16 Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November- December 2021

My hand went up in slow motion. In the last two months, since I joined (certainly not for the extra credits) your course on Nineteenth Century British Poetry, your ways of thinking were beginning to unravel themselves, not very unlike the last pages of the third ending of the novel lying in my backpack. So that October morning when I would first pique your attention, I had guessed the answer you wanted. I did not meet your eyes; mine were fixed on the little specks of dust dancing in the light above your head. ‘Red’, I said, my voice unusually high pitched. You frowned. I was not to be deterred, ‘neither does the ode mention the other colours of autumn: brown, orange, or yellow.’ I said it as if I was drawing out a long, shrill whistle and was glad when it was done. Someone laughed. After you glowered at them and silence resumed, your eyes sought mine. When I discovered with a startle their grey-black hues I fell in love with you all over again. Your face turned soft like the words of Keats writing about a season that’s forever in transition. Was that when autumn, a season I always associated with Navratri and Diwali, became one about trees shedding leaves in colours Keats would not reveal? After that we, you and I, were on a roll. It was as though some magic potion of answers had been secretly fed to me instead of the watery, insipid gravy and the undercooked rice - the Mess’ unflagging lunches. That afternoon the tables were turned. You, for a change, were in a trance watching me spin out the answers to questions others were futilely taking a stab at. Pretty soon, much to Bohemian girl’s and many others’ jealous wrath, you were pitching your questions only at me. The tantalising smile,

the one everyone compared to Brad Pitt’s, told me you were confident I would get the answers. I was not going to let you down. When I stepped out of your class I looked at the mango trees and the peepals that lined the long, black road that sprawled and wound all over the campus. They, unlike the gulmohars in the courtyards, had no intention of shedding their leaves, even though it was “autumn” like you said. The humidity in the air meant only one thing – the annual storm was about to hit us earlier than usual. We, my friends and I, had to find our bicycles quickly and get to our hostels before that. The last suggestion was made by me; a sensible idea which ought to have been followed. My friends, on the other hand, are the reckless adventurists so typical of their age. I disapproved of most of the things they did but participated nevertheless. I did not need friends. I do not need friends; people are a waste of time. They will change eventually and leave, which was why I did not understand why you approved of Keats’ resignation to the changing nature of autumn. How could he move on so quickly after desiring the still eternity of the urn? There was no one to ask these questions to. My 'friends' (I always put them within air quotes) were discussing other things: dull 'gol gappas' we should fill ourselves up with considering what the Mess was likely to dole out for dinner. However, friends were important in order to fit in. Friends were important so one did not stand out like an odd thing. ‘You would not want that would you?’ mother asked, pinning the handkerchief to my school pinafore.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

I did not mind being odd, I protested. 'Ah! Then you would be found out and bullied’, mother said airily, almost as if it was a joke. It turned out that it was a joke; except I did not find it funny. The trees in the campus spinning their branches like many mad Medusas were enough to let us know that, for a change, the announcement the meteorological department had made the previous day about the cyclone was correct. Even before the clouds, rolling in from the oceans, burst all over our campus on the hill and the town it overlooked, a distant electrical explosion pronounced our dark existence for the next few days. They were like cause and effect: cyclones and power cuts; love and desire. Holed up in the hostel, the girls painted their nails, then each other’s faces when the charges in their phones died. In anticipation of the power cuts I rarely used my phone, including acknowledging text messages, especially from mother. I knew what she wanted to know and I was not going to cave in. I did not want my toes and face painted. Submerged in the timbre of your reading of Keats I had recorded on my phone, I desired nothing else. Alas! There was only that long even my well-preserved charge would last. 'Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter!'(1)Your sudden absence clutched me with the tenacity of despair, twisted my insides and crawled into me like a beast on all fours. The stillness within and the storm without, with the latter having no intention of slackening or waning! I thought I would die if I did not see you. There was only one thing to be done. I knew your quarters. I had chanced upon it during the spring semester when I, hoping to spot you walking down the hibiscus hedged trail in your favourite navy blue odd coat and brown beige trousers, had cycled down the avenues where the faculty’s lodgings stretched behind white and beige painted wooden fences. I had no idea what I intended to do once I got there. I partially skidded, nearly slipped and struggled to regain my footing as I rushed across the teeming mud and slush. I was certainly not planning, though I wished to, on marching up your cobbled front, asking me to be let in so I could hear you read Keats to me once again.

(1) John Keats: “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

You, when you found me, futilely sheltering under the thatch-eaves, chided me for daring to defy the wind and the rain to reach your quarters where I had found you reading at your shuttered, but, curtain-less windows, by candlelight. You told me later that you thought it was a wounded doe, cold and frightened, hiding in the shrubs. I was cold, not frightened. You tugged open your front door which had slammed shut in the wind. You held me, not wanting me to slip in the coat of water the wind had brought in. 'Hardly a Keatsian autumn?' I did not realize I had said that aloud. I must have because I could feel the warmth of your hands into which I melted after you drew the drapes. Another lightning, its white light filtered in around the drawn drapes and I saw your dark grey eyes light up. The morning sun fell on your kitchen walls, painted a pretty yellow with lime-green trimmings. Over coffee we formed a plan. Yes, I knew the rules. You could lose your job and I my degree. Yet we could not lose each other. We must see each other. But how? You pushed a strand of my hair from my face and tucked it behind my 'dainty ears', as you called them, and explained, with a tentative earnestness, the rules by which we would take 'us forward,' again, your words. In the lecture halls everyone settled into their usual roles: you the professor, I another anonymous student. As prepped by you, to keep things discreet, I answered less. You, painfully and purposefully, ignored me. Bohemian girl thrived. I hated it all. 'Hate is a very strong word', mother said, 'beware how you use it lest…' The evenings compensated for the despair. If there had been a Booker Prize for the worst house warden it would have gone to mine. Yet there was a way, you said. We were allotted library hours, weren’t we? You had pointed out, curling my locks around your long, crooked fingers. Behind the sprawling library, hidden

18 Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November-December 2021

behind the peepals, the tall hedges held a gap covered by brier and furze. Not many knew such a thing existed. Even if I learnt to break through them every day, they caught some part of me all the time. As the waves washed over me, you eased the bruises with your reading of your favourite ballad, at the end of which, rippling with laughter, you called me your 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'. I dreaded the title for fear of what it foretold. We walked the pebbled shores of the empty beach rarely frequented by the locals. It reminded you of 'Dover Beach' and you whispered the lines so softly I thought I heard you in the wind. For me the shingles called to mind Lyme Regis and the novel in my backpack I did not wish to complete because I have figured out what would be the third ending. I did not like people leaving. You explained that was what autumn was about too: the slow fruition of a later summer, followed by the abundance of harvest, then the inevitability of winter. For the dying Keats this transitory disposition of autumn reminded him of his death and hence life’s transience - a knowledge he rejected in the dialectics he paradoxically desired in the other ode, the one on the urn. I did not let you finish because I would not accept ‘the wailful choir the small gnats mourn’(3). No. People must not leave. Then suddenly as the waves ebbed, another tide soared causing it all to come tumbling out: my losses, my dreaded anxieties, and my need to hold on. The more I spoke the more you moved away till I thought the sea swallowed you,” she pauses,

continuing to watch him sleep under the influence of the Lamotrigine she had added earlier that evening in his wine decanter. In her hurry to leave before he returned from his office, she must have given him an overdose; he had slept too long. Her psychiatrist’s prescription requires her to take just twenty milligram in the night. The drug is wearing off. “Is that why you never wanted to see me again?” she asks his stirring self. “I waited and waited but you never showed up", she carries on, her voice acquiring that strange nervous pitch mother often said she should never speak in if she wanted to hold on to any relationship. She is glad he, who is still straining under the drug’s effect, could not have heard that. “Don’t!” she mumbles; the pitch is increasing. This is not good. But he is trying to rub his eyes, something he cannot do with his hands taped to the bedposts; it will only hurt more and she doesn’t want him to hurt. “You should not have left me”, her voice should not be raising but she cannot silence that part of her - the one mother calls the “shrew”. “Who the hell are you?” he screams. She moves closer. Her eyes take on a pleading yet menacing gleam, “'Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they?'” (4) He is wide awake; when he speaks it is like the lucidity of water. “You can take all the money in my wallet. There is no need to get violent.” Something is not right. He ought to be whispering her name and asking for her forgiveness. She

(3)John Keats: “ Ode to Autumn”

(4) John Keats: “ Ode to Autumn”

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

pauses and a familiar confusion fogs her mind. “He is all in your head”, mother whispers, “and even he has left you!” “Shut up!” she screams, “I know you are not here, mother!” She turns to him, “No one leaves anymore. No one! I’m tired of people leaving.” The scream drops to a whisper. Gripping on to the tone like an invisible rope that will pull her out of an abysmal darkness she murmurs in his ears “you are hallucinating. The drug causes that…” “Drug? What drug?” He should not have interrupted; the “shrew” is not happy. But she continues to whisper, though the rope is slipping from her grip, “my drug…I know what it brings on…I take it…took it…I don’t take it anymore…” Her hair tumbles all over his face like a "cascade of dark waters”, as he called them. Did he? She is no longer sure of anything. A quilt like darkness binds her; everything turns misty and unclear like walks on beaches and yellow and lime-green kitchens. No! No! It cannot be! It is all true! She pounds her head on the wall. Her voice when she speaks sounds like a chant, “O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone?”(1) He watches her terrorized, “You are mad, aren’t you? Totally and absolutely insane!” Wrong thing to say; she doesn’t like mad. Father said everyone would call her that if they knew what was wrong with her. Is that why he left? Is that why mother never wants her home? “Is that why no one really cares about me?” When he hears her scream that and notices her drawing out the knife, he is almost hysterical, “My partner will be here soon. We had a date today and he must be on his way to find out what kept me up. Anytime now…” A partner? A loud crash, then a voice, “John? Where are you? Why aren’t the lights coming on?”

(1)John Keats: “ La Belle Dame Sans Merci”

19 He yells, “Up here Jack. This mad bitch must have cut the power.” She notes how the baritone has turned deeper. Loud footsteps are thumping up the stairs. Her knife is close to the vein on his neck. She watches, with a well-known pleasure, its terrified pounding. She knows a nick can cause him to bleed to death; she has watched how father almost sent mother to hers then blamed it all on his daughter and her borderline personality disorder. The knife moves. A little slit. Octobers are always special. It’s the month of colours. This year, like others, it’s the colour of red. It is everywhere, but it commences from beneath her window and spreads like an arcing river all over the campus leading her into, perhaps, another gallery classroom where tomorrow he will, probably, teach Shelley. The “partner” asks, “What in God’s name happened here? And who is she?” As darkness cuts off the light, she mouths, “If winter comes can spring be far behind?”(1)

(1) Percy Shelley: “Ode to the West Wind”

Dr Preetha Vasan currently teaches the masters program in English, at a premier women's college in Bangalore. She has been a featured poet at many portals. Her short stories have won several prizes and have been published in a number of anthologies and web magazines.

AUTUMNAL VERSES CHRYSANTHEMUM CHRONICLES | NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2021

21 Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November- December 2021

Hymn For The Dead Ria Das Mukhopadhyay The first speck of morn Heralds a mellow lament, That floats past veils of illusion To reach the dark crypts. Therein, lay decrepit coffinsStacked with yellowed memories, Like that shelf at the farthest corner Of an abandoned libraryUnkempt, yet cherished. Tiptoe, and you might hear The sorrow clad melody Of unfulfillment. Its notes entangled, in a mesh Of its own self. Its tune swaying, To the rhythm of its dolour. Its lyrics echoing a requiem, For all that remains buried ‘Neath your smile. The broken bits, the torn scraps Of dreams you once knew to be life, Are now resting, strangled By unfamiliar ambitions. Tiptoe, and you might hear Their cries, as you leave behind A moment of silence.

Ria works as a banker whilst nurturing her imagination and dreams of becoming a writer someday. The City of Joy does help in fostering her creativity. She also has this whimsical desire to visit Narnia.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November-December 2021

SILENCE

OF THE AFTERNOON! Nitika Sawhney In the silence of the afternoon, when the trees waver in the wind's mood I sit by the windowsill and brood about afternoons spent under the shade of trees How sunlight dripped from empty spaces between the branches and how, I often collected withered leaves fallen on the ground and took them home to make school projects or mere bookmarks! The silence of the afternoon always drowns me in disappointment for the memories I cannot turn into present

I keep repeating to myself, how I could relive those days more than a hundred times in exactly the same way and not once, think about what the future holds because that's where I want to be - in the present of this silent afternoon The one that reminds me, where I've come from and how I grew up under the shade of trees, from which sunlight dripped through natural filters and how I collected those withered leaves.

Nitika is a mountain lover, passionate about writing, reading, travelling, dancing and music. She has a writing page (@realmofnitinitika) on Instagram and her own website (www.realmofnitinitika.com). Professionally, she is into Internal Communications.

23 AN EMPRESS'

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November -December 2021

Tale Monalisa Joshi The empress had a bird, Caged inside her heart, Whenever she wished to, Smell the petrichor or feel, The rain over her skin, She would let it fly, And it would fly across, The pallid clouds, The rain would wet, Its whole body, And wet would get, The empress’ skin, She would feel the zephyr, Over her parched body, The smell of petrichor, Into her senses, And she would breathe and, Breathe the essence of, Freedom and be delighted, The little bird of her heart, Would return all weary, Bringing one season upon it’s Wings, the empress would, Again keep it safe inside, Her heart’s cage, and wait, Incessantly for another, Season to come, in summers, It would again fly over the, Heart of the Ganges, To other distant rivulets, Bringing along the cooleth, Of these waters to soothe, The ever thirsty soul of the, Empress who would wait, By the closed glass casement, To see the seasons, days, And time passing by, Waiting for her little bird’s return,

And again she would let it fly, In the winters to bring back, Some snow upon its tiny, Wings, as the empress, Wished to see how white, Was the snow? Whiter than her emotions, Whiter than her pallid, Tears or more than, Her pale skin that had, Started appearing white, Lately, she neglected her, Own reflection in the mirror, It showed nothing but, A pale skinned lady, Who felt the chills more! Even when the casements of, Her dwelling remained, Closed evermore in all winters,

Those had passed by, And how the empress, Would wait edgily for the spring, To arrive, for the little bird, Would then fly over the, Vibrant meadows, Making myriad flowers, Dance with its flight, Coming back at night, It would bring few tiny, Blossoms which the empress, Would lovingly adorn, Over her silk tresses, Humming few melodies, With the starry night, That chorused along, With its own orchestra Sitting awake by the, Window, listening to the crickets,

24 Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November- December 2021

Her tears of night, Would seep through the floor, And reach the heart of, Myriad shrubs, resting as, Dew drops in dawn, then one, Day she won’t let the little, Bird step out from her heart’s, Cage, it was autumn, the time, The goddess comes, She would for once, Step out of her confines, Breaking many pacts of, Her being the empress, And would stand in front of, The goddess to ask her, “Why! O! Why! Did you sign? The pact of silence, Neither you utter a word, Nor do I, I keep staring thy, Face and you stare mine, Amid the horde, it’s merely you, That is listening to my silence, And the silent bedlam of my heart” Then she’ll come back again, After their mute tête-à-tête, To the mansion where another, Autumn would just pass by...

Monalisa Joshi is a writer and a poetess. As much she loves to write poetry, she also relishes in writing prose and fiction. She is presently working on one of her fiction book and writes poetry more often. She enjoys blogging and is quite active on social media platforms. She is an active member of an International poetry group called ‘The Awakening poets’ and also can be found on Face book and Twitter. Much of her writings and poetry are showcased in her blogs and can be visited at https://monalisajoshi105.wordpress.com/and http://monalisa-wwwlisa.blogspot.in/. With a Major in English Literature she feels deeply inspired by Elizabethan poetry and Victorian women poet like Christina Rossetti and thus loves writing ballads and folklores. She is also the Founder, Director and Chief Editor of this Journal.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November-December 2021

Autumn Leaves by John Keats

VIGNETTE By Deepti Menon "As the autumn leaves continued to waft in the balmy breeze, Sujata smiled at her reflection in the glass as she rolled it down. Life did offer second chances, after all."

Image Source: http://www.keatsshelley-house.org/en/writers

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November-December 2021

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.”

TO AUTUMN BY JOHN KEATS

“Could there be a season as beautiful as this?” Sujata pondered, pressing her nose against the window of the car. The trees whizzed by, resplendent in their colours of orange and red, ablaze with the hues of autumn. When had autumn turned into her favourite month? When she was younger, spring had played its magic on her – fresh, green and tender. Maybe she had been influenced by the Romantic poets and their Nature poetry. How lush their descriptions were, and how their words flowed over her verdant mind, right up to the present day when she was on her way to an important appointment, if one could call it that! The phone rang suddenly, and as she picked up the call, Sujata steeled herself to listen to the strident voice at the other end. This was not going to be a pleasant call. “Where are you, Sujata? I have been trying to call Nitin since morning. He has not been picking up my calls.” The tone was accusatory, but Sujata was

used to it. Sona Mausi had never ever approved of her, even when she had been a bride. No girl could be good enough for her beloved Nitin, whose late mother, Bhanu, had been a special favourite. The love had flowed over Nitin, but it had obviously not gone across to the girl he had fallen in love with and married. Those initial days had had their ups and downs. Both had taken time to get used to being married, and life had fallen into a rut of domesticity. The children came soon after and the rut had continued. Sujata sighed inwardly as the tirade continued. Sona Mausi was in some mood, and she let the words wash over her as she let her thoughts run riot. Thank God Mausi had no idea of the latest situation! The call finally ended, and Sujata sent a message to Nitin. “Sona Mausi on a rampage! She chewed my ear off for almost twenty minutes.”

Nitin’s message flashed across her screen. “Don’t let her get you down. Suju! You know how she is. Stay focused!” Sujata smiled to herself. Nitin was being such a gem. Of course, he had once been difficult, but now… Back at the office, Nitin stretched wearily as he prepared for his next meeting. His mind was not on his work today. He knew how important this day was to Sujata, his Suju, the beautiful young girl whose radiant smile had captivated him instantly. Their marriage had been tempestuous, as both were hottempered, and even after two children, who were now adults, and had opinions on every topic. If Geetica was the responsible older child, Amar was the typical

27 Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

irrepressible young brat who knew he

leaves wafted down on the ground

could get his way if he played his

which was already covered in orange.

cards right.

She was almost at her destination.

Nitin smiled as he thought of them.

Sujata looked at her tiny mirror as

They were good kids, and he had no

she touched up her makeup. It was

doubt who was responsible for that.

important that she look and feel her

Sujata had been a hands-on mom,

best for this appointment. The car

always present to kiss them and chide

stopped in front of a posh restaurant.

them, whenever required. He himself

She patted a stray hair down and

had been away at work, only able to

made her way inside, butterflies in

tackle their teenage problems long

her stomach.

distance, but Sujata had never failed

Nitin was busy at work when his

them. Now of course, the situation

phone rang. He picked it up and

had changed, as had his own life.

listened intently. Things had gone

The car had been going along the

just the way he had envisaged.

highway for a while now. The breeze

“Congratulations, Suju! I am happy

blew gustily, and a few more autumn

for you.”

He put the phone down and for a moment, there was a wistful expression in his eyes. Meanwhile, at the restaurant, Sujata had just finished her appointment and was on her way out. She was glowing and had never looked so beautiful. The man by her side opened the door for her and walked her to her car. “Good night, Sujata,” he said as he kissed her gently on her cheek. “I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than having you by my side forever.” Sujata smiled at him, her heart in her eyes. After she and Nitin had separated, she had lived only for her children. They were now grown up and when she met Akash, in the autumn of her life, it seemed almost like a miracle. He was everything that she had ever wanted, a good-natured widower with two children who doted on him. Her special ‘appointment’ had been a rendezvous with him, and he had set it up at her favourite restaurant because he wanted to propose to her. Everything had to be just perfect. As the car drove back along the highway, Sujata called her children to break the good news to them. Both were thrilled as they had met Akash and had instinctively known that he was the right man for their mother, who had gone through some tough times in life. Now it was time for her to let go and live life on her own terms with a man who adored her. As the autumn leaves continued to waft in the balmy breeze, Sujata smiled at her reflection in the glass as she rolled it down. Life did offer second chances, after all.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

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. In 2020, the pandemic year, she brought out 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. In 2021, she continued her ‘Shadow’ series through her latest eBook titled ‘Shadows Never Lie’, again an anthology of thriller short stories, which has been well received by her readers. She is currently working on stories based on ten Shakespearean plays, which she hopes will pique the curiosity of young readers.

And I Ate Blueberries and Not an Apple Chrysanthemum Chronicles /November-December 2021

When Gods created the Forbidden Apple, Eve the first woman on earth wasn’t aware of their deception. But My O My! There was a tree full of blueberries smelling so sweet that Eve forgot to even look at the red luscious apple and straight away went and ate the Blueberries. All the Gods were staring at each other in awe, what had she done, she ate the other fruit and not the Apple.

POEMS WITH SOME TWIST AND GREAT HUMOR!

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Eve's World Chandra Sundeep The conference in the cloud concluded Minutes of the meeting typed and mailed The Gods had arrived at their decision Juicy red is for Eve, Adam is to go for the blue Insider trading commenced, it’s a fair deal they deemed For he was one of them; a man Born to rule, meant to conquer Unknown to Eve, her future decided, her path charted Gods led the duo into the garden of Eden Verdant greens brimming with life Laden with fruits, swaying with joy Lust and desire filled in one; while the other infused with power This’ the garden of life, Gods mansplained.

Chivalry is a virtue, they thought as they held the door for her Not realising the blatant sexism beneath Eve listened to all while Adam sauntered off free to roam as he pleased Countless watchful eyes bore into Eve Watching her every step, judging her every move They knew she’ll go for the luscious reds Uh! Women are so vain! Smitten by outer beauty The Gods snickered and rejoiced As she fell into their trap Yes! We knew it’s bound to happen. It’ll be a man’s world. Alas! If only they knew and understood women! The biggest puzzle; The greatest mystery They high-fived and cheered, watching Eve picking at the apple Rejecting the power packed berries; she had gone for beauty! The ground beneath them gave away For the moment next was unexpected, unimagined

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Batting her eyelashes, she gifted the luscious fruit Smitten by her beauty, Adam bit into the juicy delight While Eve enjoyed the puzzling blueberries, the forbidden fruit A fiery rush ran inside; an unknown strength gave her delight All hell broke, and a mayhem engulfed the Gods Stupid woman! What have you done? The apple was for you; they groaned and moaned Well, well! Giving and nurturing That’s how I am deemed to be Tempted though I was, but how could I eat it first Without giving to Adam To the one who’s meant to rule & conquer With all my heart, I wish him well But even as she spoke, her aura had changed She wasn't the Eve of before. She wasn't what they had wished her to be! This isn't how the world was meant to be Gods rued and whimpered and watched with trepidation A renewed Eve, teeming with strength Bestowed with a power to move heavens and earth What have we done! Our canvas is now her foray! Foolish Adam, he let us down! They whined and wailed

31 Tender berries changed the fate of the world Foiled the grand plans of the ones above Women strong and sensitive found their place Giving and demanding as they pleased A kinder world, saying no to wars and yes to love Gods rejoiced from above For her creation was far better than they had ever imagined it to be The Gods hushed, better to be on her good side For we might never know what her plans are A quick meeting, and a power packed brainstorming session Out went a note; meant to seek apology Oh! Eve, not stupid, but wise you are Kindness runs in your veins, knowing you'd choose to give first The berries filled with power were left just for you We approve of your decision; we offer our unconditional support The Garden is yours; the world’s yours to rule; they signed off Handing over the reins to Eve, the Gods went off to the putting greens

Chandra Sundeep is an accidental writer. She discovered the passion for writing on one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong! In the complex puzzle that life is, words came as a breath of fresh air and rescued her. Having worked as a social worker across cultures and classes, her stories reflect her understanding of society and issues faced by people. Through her words she tries to bring in awareness and writes with the hope that if her words impact even one person’s life, her tiny drop may not be so tiny after all. In a brief span of time, her thoughts have found a place in many anthologies and various online forums.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles, November-December 2021

Adam and Eve- A Twist of Fate Nandita De nee Chatterjee

But Master such as He Predictable He could not be The Book of Genesis He left open. The End of the Story would be a mystery.

Oh Beauteous Eve! O Whimsical Eve!

The protagonists would write the final testimony.

Oh First Woman! What do we make of thee? Of Adam's rib were you born In God's image He made man and woman Golden locks he borrowed from the Sun An ocean of blue in your eyes A cherry for your lips A heart of gold forever pure. O Gentle Eve! O Virtuous Eve! A masterplan was His. An Universe laid out flawlessly Never a thing out of place. Humanity would be born, He ordained And Adam and Eve further His legacy.

The Serpent lurked in a distant thundercloud. God's plans will I undo, thought he. Frail and fragile is she Her voice a tinkling melody. Blushing pink and downcast eyes Skin so smooth like silken mulberry Pearls of emotions glisten on her cheeks Her breath short and startled at the fall of a leaf. Adam so broad and strong His baritone shakes the reefs Thunderbolts bend away at his approach And steel arrows shoot from his eyes deep.

Chrysanthemum Chornicles/November-December 2021

Her I will prey on, the Serpent cunningly conspires. In malevolent intent he slithers. The Garden of Eden, a veritable paradise it was A Garden of God Glorious and bountiful On the east the Terrestrial Paradise Where Adam and his belle reside Two rivers run in gentle grace Trees hang heavy with their fruity treasures Flowers bedeck every bush with bridal fervour. Golden apples and purple grapes, Pomegranates beaming red Pears and plums for divine palates Cherries and berries in profusion merry… Love-infused Paradise was it For Adam and Eve to tarry awhile Into love's charms surrender with a smile. The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil The Forbidden Fruit it bore, the Apple The Fall of Man now inevitable, Malicious Serpent made the plan lethal. O Whimsical Eve! O Wilful Eve! Were you made ingeniously unpredictable? The Apple never mentioned was it Forbidden Fruit could it be? Never revealed! Always speculated. Devious snake skilfully unearthed. With wily ways Serpent lured Eve The Original Sin now she will commit Of innocence will they be bereft By God banished from His Heavenly Summit.

33 O Enigmatic First Woman! With what did he make thee? Fig leaves in place An aphrodisiacal place Juicy ripe apples hanging in plain sight Genteel Eve with winsome grace Reaches out her lissome shape Caresses the apples with their green capes Serpent smirks Eve turns with a jerk. The blueberry bush below Unknown to the guilty fellow Lures the fair maiden How beautifully they grow Luscious they look Delicious for sure. And off she takes a few And pops the plump berries Into her mouth cherry. The Serpent gasps! A deadly conspiracy gone bust! No Fall of Man hence With God he will remain. Innocent of Evil A doer of Good perpetual. Adam and Eve will write the chapter Of Book of Genesis hereafter. The perfect crime The Serpent devised By this First Woman foiled. An anticlimax such as this Never did the snake wish. Hissing in fury He lashed at the lady angrily. The delicate damsel She snatched the nearby vines And lassoed the Serpent into the Sunshine. Scorched in the angry rays

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

To naught came his evil ways. With a shrug Eve shyly smiled Intuition is my birthright. A saviour for mankind God indulgently opined.

Nandita De nee Chatterjee is a 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 International Blogazine, Literatureslight Magazine, Global United Renaissance magazine. 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 Inner Child Press anthologies; Ashes; Arising From the Dust; Striving for Survival & An Indian Summer in Verses by Plethora Blogazine (now Chrysanthemum Chronicles); Poetry Planet's Lockdown Diaries and Born to Dream Winner's Anthology, Gems II and Gems III by World Pictorial Poetry & Art Forum, Poetry: Best of 2020 by Inner Child Press USA, The Chocolaty Affairs & Scandals a Digital Coffee Table Book from Chrysanthemum Chronicles and editor of a recently released fiction book 'Demigods Are Alive' under the same banner of Cc.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

How Eve Chose to Play Preeti Brahmin

She wouldn't have believed Had the Lord even told her

The greatest of the great Gods Whose fame precedes his name Once conceived a Paradise Where the elements were all tame While on a chariot with wings of light Between multiverses he rationed flight, Casting order on the chaos Reining in orbs of fire with his laws. Thus occupied without time to spare Or look after the Garden of Eden with care He conjured up, to live there a human, In his own outward image and named him Adam. Then in moments of intense quietude So Adam could share his solitude He shaped powerful creation Which was Eve, God's feminine version.

What forethought responsibility Rested on her slender shoulder. Grandly the good Lord showed them the land "Eat these fruits," he said. "You can do no harm." The juiciest of citrus and tartest of peach Ripened and sweetened next to vineyards within reach. "But remember ,my children, Two fruits are forbidden The apple and blueberry That I have with care hidden." Adam lay basking in the sun on the grass. Eve explored the nooks to make time pass. God smiled thinking of new complexities planned, To trigger which required Eve's curious hand. The ordained day dawned For new tidings to turn. Tempting Eve, the well honed serpent fawned. But Eve unimpressed, his advances she spurned.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

The serpent ensured artfully that the apple was discovered. Yet the thought nagged Eve that the elusive blueberries were not uncovered. And nothing would quell her angst But only a taste of the latter, not simply a glance. What a shame! God frowned. The will within her gentle frame He had discounted. And now she defied her fore-planned destiny Of planting knowledge in poor Adam, with impunity . Had they two by turns, bitten into the forbidden apple, God's mirth would have been quadrupled For Adam would have awakened with newfound ambition, Staking claims over everything within vision. His golden boy was denied his stomp, With rippling muscles and proud pomp, Upon the fecund blue planet formed, Justly for his pleasure and romp. Eve sat pondering by a pool near a fall. Unbeknowest to her, the blueberry shrub grew behind the cascade wall. But soon fatefully anon into her palm Floated the prized fruit with all its magic charm! God held his breath, For it was quite an outrage. It seemed the feminine principle would rule -

36 Eve was not one he could easily fool. His foreplanned actions For Adam's mindless traction Gunpowder, fear, seven sins and guile Were stored away in a file. Slavery, sickness, poverty, pollution Were not likely to ever be Eve's resolution. Adam's future sons as chessboard pawns, Would not be checkmated with God's baffling norms. Thus Eve chose the blueberry Of eternal youth and bonhomie She loved Adam with pride And told him it was not a thing to hide. And her children grew wings Just like celestial beings, Flying with grandpa God To reach planets yet untrod.

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/November-December 2021

Rise of Eve Gowri Bhargav

The cerulean sky beamed with an unusual glow, The Garden of Eden bloomed with flowers in infinite rows.

The stage was set by the Gods of heaven, Their prying eyes watched her every second, Eve shall be deceitfully lured into the trap Of choosing a luscious fruit that grew in nature’s lap. She was naïve and unfortunately gullible. The Gods proclaimed themselves to be infallible; They guffawed; “She shall fall, definitely fall,

An ambrosial fragrance wafted through the air, Accompanied by songs of symphony everywhere. An irresistible urge lured Eve towards the opulent tree, She could not believe what she did see. A serpent coiled around a branch hissed at her, Sensuously inviting her for the delectable feast like a lover. Crimson red apples swayed right before her eyes, She raised her hand to pluck one that seemed the biggest in size. Plonk ! An apple fell right on her head, Which made her gaze shift to the undergrowth in the bushes instead. Mesmerized by a cluster of blueberries with a purple hue, Unable to resist the urge, she gobbled up a few.

And it shall be rejoiced by one and all”. And then the destined moment did arrive, The Gods waited to see the outcome of the plot they had contrived.

As she chewed through them delightfully, The Gods, taken aback looked at her frightfully; “Oh No! This was not what was meant to be,

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

How do we reverse the outcome, how do we?” The Gods blamed each other for having overlooked the act, The inconspicuous blueberries had foiled their plan in fact. Within seconds the Gods had lost all their power, Their nectar of immortality had turned sour. Rejuvenated by the forbidden purple orbs, Eve levitated before the heavenly Gods; “I foresee a future that you have devised for the women, A world where they are made to suffer by the dominant species - men. I shall admonish them all to a perpetual hell, In unending darkness they shall unsympathetically dwell.” The Gods cringed with absolute fright, They had unknowingly plummeted into a dangerous plight. “Oh Please forgive us ! We can always amend the laws”, “Rethink your decision,” they pleaded “Please give it a pause.” “Then listen to all that I have to say,” she bellowed, Being at her mercy, they diligently followed. The Gods did obey with their heads hung in shame, It was Eve who was celebrated and rose to fame. A future favourable to women was written by her, All men remained subservient to women forever.

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

Foiled Blueprint Dr. Paromita Mukherjee Ojha

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Eve happy with her quest Held the precious blueberries close to her breast Each juicy blob an elixir drenching her juicy lips

God sat in ether holding his head

Dripping deliciously on to her fingertips

His heart brimming with dread

Adam watched exhilarated

Oh! What blimey

His want suitably baited

Look at Eve and her tyranny

Serpent was right

O! Woman capriciousness is thy name!

Red apples does not satiate

Your fickleness waxes and wanes

It is the true blue

How perfect I had created my blueprint

That holds the passion’s brew

Adam and Eve lusting for a delectable

Oh! Adam come, sip this juicy manna

apple

For once forget your entire dilemma.

would pave the path for their earthward topple

God appeared and thundered

With dust and sand they would grapple

You two, how you blundered?

To create a land of marvel

You were led asunder

Their progeny would sweat and toil

By that vile serpent

To help earth, her bounty uncoil

Why did you have to eat blueberries?

Now all possibility foiled

Were you created to only make merry?

Origin of species now a saga of turmoil,

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Eve rolled her eyes and held God’s gaze See! I learnt about your maze I refuse to be part of your predetermined ways I do not want to menstruate, nor partake Of that apple, putting my future at stake Your script can undergo a re-take I am a woman, no less than a man I am not here to only serve and say ‘I can’ I am foiling your entire plan I will choose my destiny and my man You can take Adam; take as many ribs as you can Recreate your entire designed stage While I in this paradise laze Blue is my color I love the blueberries’ tranquil pallor See how it oozes from every pore Satiating my hunger to the core Making me want to gorge more I am not at your bid and call anymore So dear God!! Take a detour Plan some more Adam, can stay here and blueberries savour Or he can submit to your lure. Adam, sensing the right moment Held out his hand to Eve to reassure That he would prefer lazing in Paradise Than serve on Earth paying a hefty price God, dumbfounded at travesty of his plan Retraced his steps to his heavenly clan Well, tomorrow is another day I will surely find another way To recreate story of Genesis Eve, cannot be my blueprint’s nemesis.

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

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

What to do with Eve? Zainab M.M

"Throw them in the pits!!" said One, "and rot forever!!" "Leave them in the depths and burn!" said Another. "Shall we make them drown in the deepest of waters?

So this was a conundrum. You see the problem arose when the Gods couldn't decide, Where Adam and Eve should now reside, The choice She had made had created such a stir, It left everyone scratching, from Zeus to Lucifer, All was made ready for the tempter and the teacher, Pens poised, tomes open, to begin Mankind's future, Both the fallen and the risen had their wings in a wangle, When Eve decided not to eat the Apple.

Or make them roll stones to the highest of peaks?" They caused a right noise, coming up with a solution, For the Sin that never happened, and the crime that wasn't done. So who should be the ones sentenced, And who should bear the brunt? All the aged scripts were consulted, but no clue was found, For the last time, a female had dared to turn around, They were beautiful nymphs or holier than thou, Perfectly coiffeured, flawless to a fault, Known only as a seductress, or a devoted mate, Straying males from their duties, or protecting from a disastrous fate, Very rarely was there a chalice without its blade, Heavens forbid that the fairer kind is superior made.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

Eventually, the multitudes came to a conclusion, That a Female's destiny will never be subject to question, She will be born of the womb, not of the ribs, And rule the Universe as an equal, not as second limbs, Treated with same respect, free to fulfil her desires, She will no longer be a burden, but do as her heart bids, With proportional power to both, the Earth shall be better, Joy and ecstasy abound, no more living with fear.

Zainab M. M. is a part-time writer and a full-time mom, both jobs she loves to the dearest. An introvert by nature, good books and good music are food for her soul. Loves to travel, and hopes to one day visit London and touch the graves of the greatest writers buried there! Secretly wishes to one be good enough to win a Nobel Prize. Follow her on: Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/zainabmm1 Instagram:instagram.com/one_n_only_zainab Twitter:https://twitter.com/onenonlyzainab?s=08 LinkedIn:https://www.linkedin.com/in/zainab-m-m-467955111

The Divine Blunder! Jyoti Nair

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

What! Look at Eve who murmured to herself, ‘And I ate a blueberry and not an apple’ In the eyes of the divine, this blunder was fatal.

The vision of the new planet faced the

Gods were shaken, so was Satan.

storm.

The whole storyline got altered.

The future foreseen didn’t take the

The exquisite role of the Serpent was completely erased

desired form.

Watching Adam and Eve in control, everyone was shocked and

The script got completely shelved

dismayed.

No wonder, the Gods yelled.

The earth could not be set in motion

The beautiful garden of Eden was set.

leaving heaven in utter commotion.

Waiting for that moment to occur,

The future seemed quite bleak.

Heaven saw turmoil and complete

What’s more, even Gods turned weak.

unrest.

Everyone kept gazing at the Tree of Knowledge,

Adam and Eve looked at the sky,

all the sad thoughts adding to the baggage.

then the Earth beneath, the trees,

Satan retorted the world has gone upside down

flowers and butterfly.

The day had come when Gods were praying

Their eyes stuck on the apple.

And Satan was persuading Eve to bow down

But no, the Berry was brighter from

The heavenly beings running in haste

every angle.

All their plans turned out to be a sheer waste

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November-December 2021

Their dream project, Earth, came crumbling down Their evergreen smiles turned into a frown Adam and Eve lay fast asleep Unperturbed by their own actions And, the effect so deep The scene of heaven completely changed With another heaven, the Earth will be replaced Now Adam and Eve shall be immortal beings No more worries about their deeds Let’s wait till Gods proofread another story Surely, the next attempt will bring back their glory.

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.

Book

Reviews

Review of Poetry Collection 'In Absentia' by Prof. Swati Pal and of Horror Genre Collection of Short Stories 'It Follows You' by Keran Pantth Joshi

November-December Issue 2021

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

‘You can’t run, you can’t hide. It knows where you reside. It knows your smell, your breath. It wants to see you through your eyes, and speak Through your throat Sucking you bit by bit, it stays till your existence ceases.’ These lines from It Follows You by Keran Pantth Joshi are good enough for a faint heart to freeze. However, as you flip through the pages of her story book you will realise that the book is not just about horror stories but has something more to it. The stories written by Keran not only reflect the mindset of Indian society residing in different regions but also bring out the hidden fear factor residing in them. As a child looking for thrill and excitement many a time I would order for Alfred Hitchcock and return the book even without finishing it. After ages, I picked up another book from the horror genre written by Keran Pantth Joshi, thinking that having grown up I will have the heart to not take the horror stories so seriously and sail through the book. However, I was wrong… To read this book you need to have a brave heart, a strong and fearless one It Follows You, by Keran Pantth Joshi is a collection of twelve short stories written in the horror genre, published by StoryMirror. One can think of all the frightful things that can happen in a horror book, but what is the beauty of this book is that the author has conscientiously made an effort to make the lifestyle and culture of India come alive through her stories. Integrated in her book are many stories from the different parts of the country that can petrify the readers. Keran with her dexterous use of simple and plain words manages to create an eerie and sinister environment. Her stories take you

from the abandoned cottages in the jungle to the overcrowded cities like Bombay. She has a tale coming from a household celebrating a marriage ceremony to a painter's dilemma. Reading the stories, one might dread chatting with unknown people on social media and restrain buying second-hand stuff. She brings out the horror elements out of anything that can be found anywhere in the society. It is absolutely amazing to read how the tittle-tattles about ghosts and spirits talked under the hushed tones come into life. The stories are heavily loaded with paranormal

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

but that is what horror stories are about! Stories in It Follows You transport the readers to the land of mystery and enigma where anything and everything is possible. Neil D’Silva has aptly said about the book that it is a treat for the horror lovers that deserves to be on the screen soon. The language of the book is simple and lucid. Peppered with local dialects, readers can easily relate to the region and era the stories are set up. The stories are fast-paced, set in a different environment. Each protagonist is unique from the other. Each story has a different element of horror and fright hanging along with it. The paranormal creatures have been referred to as 'chal,' 'baak,' 'nishi' as the locals would call it in the region. The author begins each story with a header which not only lends a poetic touch but also gives a synopsis of what the story contains. Preparing the reader to hold their breath as they go further.

They defiantly provide a thrill factor and many a time readers may find themselves chewing their nails reading with bated breath. Though all the stories from It Follows You live up to its genre, I particularly liked Don’t Turn Back and The Payback. Keran is an astounding storyteller. As a writer of the horror genre she has successfully managed to create fright in the minds of the readers. Reading her book, one can easily see characters walking and talking. If you are looking for things that are dark and unearthly, then It Follows You is definitely waiting to titillate your senses.

Review By Associate Editor Shristee Singh

‘It will follow you… And then slither into your dreams… The dream! Where you are trapped… You can’t run… you can’t scream…’ The cover of the book is very captivating too. There is a beautiful Bengali bride, holding betel leaves in the foreground of a mansion standing aloof under the silver moonlight. But her hands are not normal. It’s the devil hidden behind this beautiful face that is there to deceive the protagonist and the readers. The stories are in the horror genre but interspersed with different emotions. Very beautifully Keran has expressed the sentiments of different characters. We have a mother who is concerned about her son who is about to get married. There are dreams of a poor girl longing to own her mother’s wedding saree, the only saree her mother has who wears it on all special occasions. A grandmother, worried for her only grandson’s safety after having lost her son in a road accident and many more. Reading the book, one may feel that the author is giving air to superstitions and fallacies. Some stories are gory and gruesome but nevertheless, they are not to be taken very seriously. They

Keran Pantth Joshi Author & Hotelier

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

‘A mother’s heart can ooze merely love even in absentia, the feeling of being present yet lost within the real world. Lost for the love of her son, lost for finding that presence of hers in a world where they still reside together, one as the shadow and one as the form. And being absent is what she feels with her presence in the physical world but her soul is wandering alongside her son who has gone nowhere but walking in her shadows. Writing a review for this poetry book In Absentia naturally brings tears to my eyes, as I am a Mother too and I could feel each word, each poem and each emotion falling over my soul. I could not only understand the verses from the place they have come from, but it was as if I walked alongside each moment of hers which she had captured in this book through her poems. Clearly, her son is present in each of the poems and she has poured her burdened emotions which she is always carrying inside her on each page of this collection. Bleed a poet must, to carve a poem that will be so melancholic that the reader should see the poet’s tears even from beyond the book. Prof. Swati Pal has rightfully said that she can’t write the merry and joyous poems that would only soothe the reader’s mind. She is unapologetically candid with her emotions in this collection and one has to fall in love with all her poems because they never at any point of time sound monotonous. The poems are rather a peek into the depths of the otherwise standing firm on her grounds, a woman I know who inspires many others around her each day and this time she has brought forth the most lamenting poems that sit gently over the soul. In Absentia will take you into a world where we find a poet still

looking out for her son in every drop of nature’s creation, be it a bird, the plants, the flowers; she sees him in each and every mundane thing around her. Will you call her a gloomy heart or a melancholic soul? No, absolutely not; because she has spoken to us all, she has shown her twinge that devours her each day, each night and it takes huge courage to bring out the true emotions in public. For this I would call her a brave soul who has found some respite to talk about those sour emotions through her poems perhaps to let out that burden which still sits over her jaded shoulders.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/November-December 2021

She won’t be able to get rid of those, not in this birth but she has hope that she will meet her son again in another universe. A feeling that I am a strong believer of, perhaps this is what makes a poet a poet! The world in their minds is different from the others and here they talk, they smile, they laugh and perhaps this is what absentia would mean to be doing all these in a world that is invisible to many eyes but a poet with her ailing heart finds hope within it. I must have seen The barren tree On one end Of the field A countless times With you. The above lines from the poem “A Mommy in a Tree?” portrays it all. Said in a few words the emotions are intense, of how the poet feels the absence of her son in each thing that she did with him in the past. There are many such emotions you will find on each page hanging as heavy as her heart. The burden seems incessant, it doesn’t go away or weighs itself less, for every nook of her soul house is filled with his memories, his laughter, his innumerable waits that he did when she went to work. The wait is equal on both sides; a son is surely waiting in a space for his Mommy to return home again. This analysis is the emotions that came brimming in my heart, but if I have to talk about the poetic style and about the book in a nutshell, I would say that the flow is lucid and simple. Every poem is short and effortless to read and understand the true feelings of the poet. There were no hidden emotions or heavy diction that will make one remain bewildered as to what the true sense of the poem was or they are written in which light. The poems are flowing and so will you flow along. A collection that has broken the cocoon of the poet and has metamorphosed her into a new

49 mother, who longs more now for her son to come back to her. The entire collection is like a conversation she wishes to have with her son, those words which will remain unsaid if she doesn’t carve them into poetry. In the end of the book there is a poem titled “AE (Drastic Altar Ego) that her son has written and it’s the sweetest thing that a mother could do, to bring it to life along her presence in this physical world through In Abesntia.

Review by Editor Monalisa Joshi

Prof. Swati Pal Author & Poet

Chrysanthemum Chronicles/ November- December 2021

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