Coffee Table Book, Volume 1

Editor Deepak K Choudhary

The Chocolaty Affairs & Scandals Coffee Table Book Volume 1

The Chocolaty Affair & Scandals With Cover Stories & Interviews Volume 1.

Coffee Table Book, Volume 1 (The Chocolaty Affair & Scandals) With Cover Stories & Interviews

By Multiple Writers First Impression: May 2021 Editor: Deepak K Choudhary Published by: Chrysanthemum Chronicles, New Delhi

This Coffee Table Book is a collection of author interviews and cover stories with theme based short stories and poems written by multiple authors who assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this book. 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.

Prolegomena “We are tiny dots spread across a page from a book with multiple blanks. Poetry (and for that matter, any form/genre of literature) is the line that joins us, lending new meanings and dimensions to our existence.”

The text cited above is an excerpt from one of my social media posts which I had shared with my friends about a year ago. The crux of my observation is simple and straight---a significant part of our existence per se remains largely monochromatic, recessive and inertial till a wave of creativity surges through its precincts adding more shades to it and expanding its horizons to the limits that may at times be incredible and unpredictable. This is what I call the magic of creativity, which to me has a genuine potential to transform a writer’s pen from her/his tool for writing verses or stories into a cohesive force of unique character that connects, binds and integrates her/him to the world beyond the frame of her/his own individuality and the mind housing her/his own consciousness. The transformative, cohesive-associative and integrative dimensions of creativity shine out with a distinctive brilliance, when writing assumes a collaborative dimension as well. A perfect fusion of these four dimensions of creativity is manifest when writing happens in togetherness, involving many of us within the inclusive ambiance of a shared creative space that readily ensures access to a vast reading gentry. Nothing exemplifies this in a better way than an anthology comprising the writings of creative folks from different cultural backgrounds, cherishing different dreams and holding different perceptions of the world around them. And this for you is The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book, the maiden collection of literary writings brought out by Cc. It embodies everything that makes any creative collaboration of creative souls phenomenal.

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Along with the inaugural issue of our eponymous literary journal (triennial), Chrysanthemum Chronicles, which was released in early January, The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book serves as a key stone in the course of an enduring cooperation among creative minds we are looking for. The objective is primarily to evolve a broad-based platform with multiple opportunities and prospects for the flowering of literary talent and the growth of a dynamic and progressive ecosystem of creativity.

The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book is, in the first place, a bold attempt to achieve what has been referred to as ‘a fusion of the various dimensions of creativity’. As the title of the book clearly suggests, it was conceptualized as a coffee table book or cocktail table book. However, if you go by the rich and variegated content of this book offers, you may easily notice that it promises to go far beyond the conventional to create its own category. Another striking aspect of The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book is that it is not a genrecentric anthology unlike most of those you may have gone through. Instead of being singularly focused on a particular form of writing, it is divided into two separate segments each having its focus on a different genre.

The first segment of The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book called “Author Cover Stories and Interviews” contains half a dozen extensive and illustrative interviews with some important authors and poets who are writing today. Each of the interviews consists of a wide range of engaging questions framed to bring into focus the oeuvre, world-view, thought process, style, creative preferences and cultural conditioning of the writer interviewed by the Founder of Chrysanthemum Chronicles. It

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goes without saying that all the interviewees have come up with engrossing answers that offer invaluable insights, perceptions and perspectives highlighting their own creative evolution as well as the challenges, trials and tribulations they faced in the process of becoming what they are today.

If the first segment of the book constitutes its perceptive crust, the second one named “Poems and Stories” builds its sensitive core. As the appellation clearly suggests, this segment contains a bunch of brilliantly crafted poems and short stories that add an engrossing imaginative dimension to The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book. The buzzword here is ‘chocolate’ and its significance assumes diverse contours in all the poetic pieces and stories. In some of them, it has been treated as the leitmotif even as the subjects dealt with are apparently diverse. In the end, the readers may feel compelled to realise that each of these poems and stories has its own distinctive flavor and shade that makes this collection fascinating, engrossing and thoroughly enjoyable.

While editing this book, I have observed again and again how an anthology becomes a memorable journey when a group of creative people come together to share their outputs on a theme that is deeply rooted in life and the topography of our day-to-day existence. Though I have had some experience of being a part of such creative journeys, this one with The Chocolaty Affair and Scandals: A Coffee Table Book is undeniably closer to my heart than any other I have undertaken in the past. As the editor of this book and a member of the Chrysanthemum Chronicles group, I can foresee its trail-blazing impact holding key to umpteen creative collaborations in future.

On behalf of the Chrysanthemum Chronicles group, I express my deepest gratitude to all our respected contributors who came forward to lend direction and purpose to our goal and chose to be co-travellers on our trail of creativity. They are like our creative partners in the process of evolving a broad-based literary platform for showcasing the oeuvre of literary talent across the country.

The brilliance and ingenuity they have employed to craft their pieces reflect their boundless profundity and perceptiveness, which we hope will sync well with the empathetic literati and perspicacious reading gentry.

Let me conclude with a few words about Ms. Monalisa Joshi, the founder of the Chrysanthemum Chronicles group, who acted as a perfect sheet-anchor, led us from the front, and took all pains to bring out this book in its present shape. Without her unflinching determination, sheer hard work and pioneering effort, this creative journey would never have become the one we had yearned for.

Thank you all, and best wishes for an absorbing tryst with this book…

Deepak K. Choudhary Editor

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Author Cover Stories & Interviews

4 Emily Dickinson There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry …

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6In Conversation with Author, Poet, Writer & Artist Nirmala Singh Nirmala Singh is a highly acclaimed writer, artist and poet based in Noida, UP. A multifaceted talent of remarkable calibre, she holds a Masters’ degree in English Literature, besides Senior Diploma in Textile Designing, Cosmetology, Pranik Healing and Yoga. She has taught for 5 years at the Women’s Poly-technique, Prayagraj (erstwhile Allahabad), UP. So far, she has held 22 Solo and 50 (+) Group Art Shows, besides 20 (+) Art workshops at prestigious galleries and art hubs across India. She has been a member of the Chandigarh Lalit Kala Academy where she held art shows at the Central Lalit Kala Academy, New Delhi, and all its regional centres in the country under the sponsorship of the Ministry of Culture, Government of India. She also held an art show under the sponsorship of the Indian Council for Culture Relations at its Azad Bhawan Gallery, two years ago.

A recipient of Union Ministry of Culture's Excellence Award, Kalakar Samman from the Ministry of Culture, Government of Uttar Pradesh, WOFTA (Women of the Future Awards) Lifetime Achievement Award and Khadi Village Industries Commission Award, she has been widely appreciated and acclaimed for her awe-inspiring oeuvre, original style of expression and perceptive experimentalism. She has also been honoured and awarded

by Pinkishe Foundation, A R Neelima Foundation, Naari Conclave and quite a few other well-known cultural organisations, in recognition of her outstanding work over the past three decades. She has published 6 poetry books till now and many more are likely to come.

Her poems have been featured in several anthologies and brought out by the sahitya academies of several states such as Punjab, Madhya Pradesh, Himachal Pradesh, Haryana and Uttar Pradesh; and the Union Territory of Chandigarh.

Many of her creations are in private collections in India and abroad. A number of papers focused on her art have been published in various journals across the globe. Some of the major projects she is working on at present include short story books and novels to be published by the National Book Trust of India.

Most of her paintings are based on the poems penned by her. A self-taught artist, she feels free to experiment in any medium any colour and it’s the echo of her poetic thoughts that resonate her works. Her signature medium is "Encaustic" which not only seeks a lot of hard work, but is also quite time consuming. Yet her mantra is: “No short cuts for me; I use ancient technique, wax, colour pigments & resins. Very few artists dabble in this medium because of its tedious processes.”

I am truly privileged to have interviewed such a versatile, personable, dynamic and inspiring woman whom I have held in high esteem as a huge fan since long. I am heartened to bring to you the true artist and a great human being that Nirmala Singh is, through this candid interview given to Chrysanthemum Chronicles.

Cc. Let’s begin with your recently published poetry book, Resham Ki Thaan Si. How did you feel inspired to write this book? In the first poem itself, which is also the title poem of the book, I have noticed that you speak about life being like silk threads that just slip by, the more you try to wrap it. Was this theme the main inspiration?

NS. You took me back to my memory lane. Well, 'Resham Ki Thaan Si' is all about the life of an elderly woman who drenches herself into nostalgia very often, as her sensitivity frequently hits at her sensibility. This simile of yards of soft slippery silk cloth with life is a pure metaphor. Poetry is not my tenant, it’s my family. It’s like a breath that goes out and comes back to me. The title poem of my book is my life. I started writing at the age of almost 10. Since then, 60 years have gone-by., During this period, so many dear ones departed, so many got added, and many settled far away. Course of life is like a river, so are friends and relatives!

Yes, slippery yards of fragile silk appeared to me like my life, but it happened just by chance. Tens of my paintings have gone up to the gallery walls during all my exhibits along with my poems, neatly handwritten on an A4 size paper with splash of colours on it. People often asked me, “which comes first...poem or painting?” ...It’s really difficult to answer; they are like Siamese twins!

Cc. In some of your poems, I have noticed the depiction of time in a way that expresses as though it never stopped but you were still there, while things kept moving around you. Do you ever regret that time never stops or feel perhaps that you wish to go back in those times which you still miss?

NS. In some of my poems, I really dwell deep within, I lost my 50 years old mom when I was married and was only 26 years old. That was when her 4th stage cancer was diagnosed. During her illness, I couldn’t even visit her due to my advanced stage of pregnancy. My dad never disclosed her serious condition to me, even when she was dangerously ill. That was a very sad period of my life, I became mother, but lost my mother. I can never forget that period of my life; it could have been so joyous with her presence.

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Cc. Which happened first----poetry or painting? Do you think they are interconnected for you?

NS. During my shows, a question, which I’ve already mentioned, often pops up, “Which came first----poetry or painting?” Reporters seem to be very keen to know. It is really difficult for me to answer this question.

When I write, colours start moving and floating around me, and words start taking shape in different forms. Similarly, when I paint, it happens the other way round, and each stroke shoulders a moving poetry all around.

Cc. Your latest book O Ree Chiraiya that is going to be released soon, is a collection of short stories based on your real life experience of counselling girls who sought your guidance. How much did it impact you in real life?

And what was the main thing you found quite common in the situations of those girls?

NS. My story book O Ree Chiraiya is based on real incidents; those counselling days still haunt me with scary eyes of the girls, fumbling dialogues, yet a ray of hope in their eyes and a sigh of relief in their hearts about sharing the secrets. The most common thing that inked them all was their joint family background besides their acquaintances. In spite of all that, I’m really happy that I had one-to-one conversations with each of them, in no one else's presence. I still remember that great sigh of relief and their calm-composed looks. Two decades have gone by since then and I’ve not met with them, barring a few really happy ones. Yet I reaffirm that those memories still haunt me.

Cc. Did you ever face any difficulty on account of being a woman gifted with a hand for both painting and poetry for which you needed to step out, given that women in those days were usually expected to stay within the four walls?

NS. I never really faced such situations. I was born and brought up in a family of educationists that attached great significance to progressive values and modern outlook. My grandfather was a civil servant and my grandma was the niece of Dr. Sir Hari Singh Gaur, Founder of Saugor (Sagar) University, which was the first university in the Central Province before independence. My father was a Professor in Saugor University. I had my upbringing in the extremely cordial atmosphere of a university campus where educationists and their wives of all age-groups used to be our role-models. I learnt and acquired so much from them, including different languages, different cultures, and different ways of life and all I received from them was so amicable!

Till today, I feel blessed and cherish those memories. I was married in a very progressive Rajput family. Most of my in-laws were lawyers. In my husband’s family, all the ladies were highly educated. And don’t forget that I’m talking about the late 1940 and 1950s, when my momin-law and my five aunts-in-law got married in their middle of teens.

Despite that, they were allowed to pursue their further education.

They went on to become lawyers, doctor, professor and environmentalist. My mom in-law (a niece of the well-known Hindi poetess Subhadra Kumari Chauhan) was the first lady law graduate from BHU. She was the one who encouraged me to pursue my passion.

Cc. You belong to a family of educationists and have also grown up during the time of the eminent poetess Subhdra Kumari Chauhan. Did you ever feel the pressure of being perfect or proving yourself to the illustrious people in your surroundings? Or was it only the drive of your passion that you focused on and rest of the things fell in place?

NS. Yes, I find myself lucky for the fact that I belonged to a family of educationists; and that my Dad was a professor and we lived on a university campus where all like-minded people used to live together.

It was like a huge family. People were simple and down to earth at that time.

NS. Yes, I find myself lucky for the fact that I belonged to a family of educationists; and that my Dad was a professor and we lived on a university campus where all like-minded people used to live together. It was like a huge family. People were simple and down to earth at that time. Most of the campus kids did very well in life. My brothers, for instance, chose a career in medicine and went ahead with it. I started writing at a very tender age. Saugor University campus was very scenic. As I’m a nature lover, its fascinating surroundings inspired me to write more and more.

When I started being appreciated by Dr Vijay Chauhan, second son of Smt. Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, who was a professor and an ace writer, living close-by, I got a real booster. He got married to an American girl and my parents played pivotal role by performing “Kanya-daan”. I recollect that when I was in the 9th standard; I won the school election and became the Editor of our school magazine of the Hindi section. Same thing happened in university days too. I was in touch with legendary poet Bhawani Prasad Mishra; we belonged to the same place. Once he judged a poetry competition in which I participated. My poem was highly appreciated and awarded. There are many memories like this.

No, I never felt any pressure of proving myself. I got married after finishing my post-graduation. My husband was an Air force officer. After our marriage, my stagnant life got wings in new arena. I did many diploma courses and later made use of them.

That gurgling stream within me was restless. While doing my Textile Designing diploma course, I got introduced to the world of colours and designs. It was an asset to my journey towards the art world. I acquired many skills during our various postings. Yet, poetry never died; it flew without interruption. The credit for this goes to my mom-in-law, who always encouraged me. Turning point came when my husband took voluntary retirement after 20 years of service. He opted for an industrial job as the CEO of an upcoming brand and we shifted to Chandigarh.

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Here, I came in contact with Fine Arts College and started painting in a different way. Encaustic medium was a very different and difficult one to work with, but I mastered it with the help of my Dad. I started holding my shows with my poems hanging and flowing along with them. I held almost 100 shows. I still paint, but I have decided to have no more shows now; it is tiring for me now. My poetry is my muse now and I am glad to notice that my books are appreciated immensely. I think Poetry shall remain my muse forever.

Cc. Do you believe that genes play a major part in determining a person’s career? I mean you belong to a family of great writers and artists. You are a writer yourself, and so are your daughter and granddaughter. Do you think it’s because of the genes that have passed on to you and to them? Or it’s due to the imbibing of the culture you have grown up in?

NS. Yes, it may be partially true, but I believe one’s surroundings and the kind of encouragement one gets from family and friends play a more significant part. My Dad was a scientist and my Mom, a housewife. She was a born sculptor; she used to create beautiful statues with mud, clay, cement etc. My daughter and granddaughter both adopted the habit of writing from their respective moms. So I feel, constant appreciation and encouragement play a pivotal role in carving one’s persona.

Cc. You yourself are a scholar of English literature, yet you choose to write in Hindi. Why? NS. My first love is Hindi since I studied in a government school where the medium of instruction was Hindi. I think in Hindi and feel comfortable to write in my mother tongue. My association with great writers like Bhawani Prasad Mishra, Vijay Chauhan, Ram Ratan Bhatnagar, Dr Prem Shankar and many others filled me with confidence to write more and more.

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For my Masters, I opted for English Literature to gain more wisdom and wide arena to wander and explore the imagery with a vast and prolific angle.

Cc. What difference do you see between the writers of the 90s or even before that time and the present day writers? Do you really feel that social media has worked as a boon for millennial writers?

NS. Social media has played an immensely significant role in offering broad platforms to less known writers. Even 40 years ago, there were many writers, including girls and women who used to write a lot. But the social conditions were entirely different then, especially for girls from orthodox joint families who were the most affected ones. One of my friends was an ace writer-poetess, but unfortunately, she could not pursue her dreams because of her conservative family background.

Cc. Have you ever felt that you have done enough and you must take a break now? Do you believe from your perspective in anything like writer’s block or artist’s block, when you keep staring at a page or canvas and stand totally blank?

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NS. I am really fortunate to be my father’s daughter. He always told me to pick up one thing at a time. I am a self-taught artist and as stated earlier, my signature style and medium is “Encaustic”, a medium which very few artists work in because of the rigorous process involved in it. I spent a lot of time practising this medium and steadily, I became confident about it. After doing almost 100 shows and winning many prestigious awards, I am at ease now. I still paint off and on for leisure, working on waste papers at present to keep my colours alive in the “Best from waste” series, but I’ve stopped doing shows now since it is very tiring and hectic. Many publishers ask for those images for their books, as book covers. Honestly speaking, when I pick up a canvas to paint, colours themselves come running and images start floating in my mind.

At times, I am amazed myself to see the flowing colours. I give them standing time so that they may decide on the direction they want to flow in. It is a Herculean task to choose and allow only those that can replicate your thoughts. I do not care for any block.

Poetry happens anytime, anywhere irrespective of the noisy humdrum of the daily routine.

In Conversation with Writer, Poet & Author Ananya Mukherjee It is sometimes said that writers can take you to different places and people altogether through their words, but only a traveler with a knack for writing will come back home bringing along stories of all the people and places in her heart and weave a story for you.

Ananya Mukherjee has done the same in her debut collection of short stories as she takes you to her beautiful and almost realistic world of many places and such characters that will stay with you for long after you have finished reading her book, Ardh-Satya: The Half Truth and Other Stories. This reminds me of the quote: “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” ― St. Augustine A former business journalist and ex-editor of HRM Asia, a leading business title in the Asia-Pacific Region, Ananya Mukherjee wears many hats and carries all her duties with grace, elan and prowess lending her the distinction of being an intelligent and effective woman among her peers and known. She is also an acclaimed writer with more than 1000 publications to her credit. Before moving to Singapore as the editor of HRM Asia, she had amassed years of experience in the Indian print and television media.

Her journalistic acumen covers a whole gamut of subjects including politics, lifestyle and business. Ardh-Satya and Other Stories, Ananya’s first book, is a collection of 20 short stories published in 2016. It has received rave reviews from both Indian and international media. Currently, she is working on her second book.

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“Ardh-Satya”, an adaptation of the title story of her debut coaction was also staged at Dastak, a Hindi Theatre Festival in Singapore and at the prestigious Kala Ghoda Festival in Mumbai, India.

Ananya also writes poetry in Hindi and six of her poems were recently published in an India-based literary magazine called Nazariya. She is a known figure in the cultural and literary circles of Singapore and India.

Ananya also wears a corporate leadership hat and leads Corporate Affairs in Asia and Europe for a US based multinational company.

Born in Jammu, India, she has lived across several states in her childhood and youth, due to which she has had a very rich experience of interactions with culturally diverse population of her native country. A passionate columnist, blogger, poet, theatre artist and trained dancer, she lives in Singapore with her husband and daughter. Despite that, she has not forgotten her cultural root that lends her the identity of a Bengali elite proudly cherishing the lineage of her forefathers and her maternal home.

Her appearance bears an unmistakable aura of ‘divinity’ with which she has kept the richness of her Bengali culture alive in every nook and cranny of not only her dwelling in Singapore, but also in her everyday life and day-to-day rituals. Through Chrysanthemum Chronicles, I had this intriguing opportunity to connect with her and interview her on some of the other aspects of her life and herself as a writer.

and loaned experiences in the book. And every story has at least one element of truth in it, be it the plot, the characters or the emotion that weaves the fabric.

To be absolutely truthful, Ardh-Satya and Other Stories happened over a period of twenty five odd years. One of the stories in the collection actually dates back to 1988, when I was in school. But if I were to put a time frame to collating and stitching them all together, I would say it took me five years to complete the book.

Cc. Let’s talk about your short stories collection, Ardh-Satya: The Half Truth and Other Stories. How did the inspiration for the book and the stories come? And how much time it took you to write and compile the book?

Cc. You have been a business journalist, an ex-editor of HRM Asia and a columnist associated with both print and television media. At the same time, you have been a theatre artist, a blogger and a poet with a remarkable creative presence. How do you think the transition from a creative being to a corporate one happened? And how have you been able to balance it all?

Ananya. Even as a proud preserver and fierce protector of my sovereign inner strength, I must unapologetically admit that I am vulnerable to emotions, deeply touched by sensitivities, and fragile enough to burn, bleed, laugh and love, just like any of us. Ardh- Satya and Other Stories is a collection of those delicate moments where I have allowed a pause to intervene into my roller coaster corporate life and questioned some of the sensitivities that touch our lives every day. There are both personal

Cc. While I was reading about you, I came to know that you had 1000 publications to your credit. What are those? Are they in the line of fiction, non-fiction or some other genre/form of writing? Would you like to throw some light on it?

Ananya. Before moving to the corporate, I was a business journalist and columnist for many years, both in India and in Singapore. When you churn out a story (an article) everyday in our trade, you easily get to that number! Unlike my book, my blogs and the Bkhush Blog Magazine for which I wrote a popular monthly column called Shuddh Shakahari Desi for some years, 80% of my publications are nonfictional and hard-core business writing, mainly commentaries and features on human resources, global market trends and management.

Ananya. It’s always a fine balance between being a creative person and a corporate leader. The left brain would logically compete and confuse the right one. I think it was not all that insane for me, because I was always so much into the business arena even as a journalist that the transition to the other side of the table was a

natural progression of my career. Also, having been in mainstream media for over a decade in my early career helped me immensely to determine my role as a corporate in managing that responsibility in my portfolio.

But, for those who think that the corporate arena is all dry and creative industry thrives on romanticism, I must add that there is plenty of room for creativity in the former and there’s much to “manage” as a leader even in the latter. In the end, it’s about what kind of a leadership role you want to play and how want to do that. I still haven’t given up on my creativity, neither at work nor in my personal space.

Cc. You wander a lot and I must say you have a traveler’s soul, I guess you have been to some 42 countries so far. What was it that you found unique and similar at the same time in all the places you have been to?

Ananya. 47 as of now. I love my immigration stamps as a soldier loves his medals. It’s difficult to generalize what’s common, except that my travels reinstate my strongest beliefs in humanity and the mantra “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam”. Everywhere I go reaffirms my faith that the world is still a beautiful place no matter what news you read, that people are generally nice and if you open your arms to them, they usually reciprocate with equal or more affection and trust. For example, in these times plagued by xenophobia, it was absolutely blissful to see on my recent trip to Jordan how an Islamic nation was safeguarding and preserving the origins of Christianity. It left me speechless, reassured and hopeful.

What’s unique is of course, the history, the culture, the food, the landscapes, the traditions; and learning, absorbing and bringing some of those back with me are my greatest rewards from my travels.

Cc. While reading your book Ardh-Satya, I found references to some rare diseases like Kleine Levin Syndrome or Sleeping Beauty Syndrome. You have also mentioned another such rare condition called Hereditary Methemoglobinemia. Did you have to do research on these before writing the stories, or you already knew about them?

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Ananya. As a former journalist, I believe in doing extensive research on any topic that I write about. Fact finding and delving deep into the subject comes naturally to me. With reference to the two syndromes you mentioned, I chanced upon them separately on two occasions in newspaper reports. There was a story in a UK- based media house about ten years ago that reported a 14-year-old girl suffering from the Sleeping Beauty Syndrome. And I had watched a documentary film about the blue skin. I was curious and therefore dug up every detail I could on both the subjects.

Moreover, having a husband who is a medical doctor also helped because not only did he explain the syndromes to me, but he also recommended me to read the right literature and publications on both.

Cc. How did the journey from being Ananya Bhaduri Khan to Ananya Mukhejree begin?What is it that you feel has changed in you over the years? Also, would you like to share the history of your maiden name. As I know you belong to a Zamindar Clan, I guess there must be some history associated with it.

Ananya. My maiden name was Ananya Khan Bhaduri. Yes, I have seen many eyebrows rising at that surname, instinctively suffixed by a series of predictable questions. “Are you a Muslim? Bhaduris are supposed to be Hindus, no? Is your mother a Muslim then married to a Hindu? Oh, inter caste marriage?” On several occasions, the presupposed, self-assumed wise men or “Buddhijibis” as they are labeled in Bengal have crossed social and personal boundaries to even suggest I dropped the “Khan”.

My ancestors were Brahmins, feudal landlords in North Bengal; bordering East (now Bangladesh) and West Bengal. Devotees of Goddess Kali, they were bestowed with the prestigious title ‘Khan Bahadur” by a royalty in Bengal few hundred years back. The family carried the legacy for several centuries, and in what I assume to be a case of “lost courage” dropped the Bahadur somewhere between the

generations. Jokes apart, the original Bhaduri stayed as an extended suffix to the title Khan. The Zamindari in the early half of the 20th century retained the “misleading” seal of the Khan Bhaduris unshaken by the political divide of the country. In hindsight, it is perhaps what saved us from partition; physically, socially and psychologically.

Cc. You live in Singapore which is of course a foreign land, yet you are carrying forward that Bengali tradition with utmost proficiency. How are you able to manage it all? I mean living a modern life and yet staying connected to the roots, how do you create that atmosphere even though you are far from the main lands of your heritage and culture. And do you ever miss your native home in India?

Ananya. The strongest tree is one that stays connected to its roots. I am supremely proud of who I am and where I come from. I don’t have to carry the soils of my native land in my boots but I think it’s absolutely critical for my identity to preserve my values, my culture and my heritage. I live them everyday no matter where I wake up.

Since I live away from the original “home”, I have painstakingly and with very conscious efforts recreated a similar “home” environment in foreign shores.

Within the four walls of our nest, we speak only in Bangla. Outside, I stay closely involved with cultural and literary activities be it theatre, writing, dancing or anchoring. The food we eat, the clothes we wear, the music we listen to, the rituals we follow and the everyday life we lead either individually or as a family is very strongly rooted in our culture and values.

And it’s so very rewarding when I listen to my Singapore-bred daughter living in London speak Bangla fluently and utter “ Dugga dugga” every time I leave home.

Cc. Do you like to read? What kind of books you read and who are your favourite authors?

Ananya. I am a voracious reader. Though over the years, I have become more selective in what I read, I devour almost everything.

My favourite authors are Richard Bach, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Salman Rushdie and Khaled Hosseini. I am also a huge fan of Ghalib, Kabir, Aamir Khusro and Gurudeb Rabindranath Tagore.

Cc. How do you define yourself? An artist with a compulsive millennial life or a corporate with creative pursuits? Where is the fine balance that you feel more drawn to?

Ananya. Neither. I am Ananya. That’s how I define myself. I live each day to the hilt and don’t live with any compromises, neither in my professional nor personal life. My writing is exactly like me; spontaneous, intuitive, unapologetic and uncompromising.

Cc. Lastly, are there any other book/books that you are writing or planning to write in near future?

Ananya. Writing is akin to breathing for me. I am writing my second book and it’s nearly done. Concurrently, I am working on developing some of my short stories into theatre scripts.

Meanwhile, “Ardh- Satya”, the title story of my first book has already been adapted into a play.

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In Conversation with Poet & Translator Deepak K Choudhary Deepak K. Choudhary is a Delhi-based writer, blogger, editor and translator with a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University. A polyglot gifted with a flair for writing, 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, Indian Africanist, Samakaleen Bharatiya Sahitya, Gagananchal, etc. His two poetry books (solo collections of poems) titled BIRDS LIKE US and THE CITY NEVER SLEEPS came out in July 2018 August 2020, respectively. He has also translated more than 100 African poems in Hindi. His translation of a collection of Hindi poems titled LIKHA NAHI EK SHABD (originally penned by Amit Kumar Malla) was published as NOT A WORD WAS WRITTEN by Zorba Books in 2017. For his blogs and social media posts, he occasionally uses the pen-name ‘Deepak Darshak’ or only ‘Darshak’.

Deepak Darshak, Footfalls, Author Deepak Choudhary and L-Factor are his most frequented social media pages. As a blogger, he shares his creative ideas and writings on his blogspace, Pathetic Fallacy.

This engaging interview with him brings to light some interesting aspects of his weltanschauung as well as his perception of poetry as it’s being penned today.

Cc. hat inspired you to name your debut poetry book Birds Like Us? Deepak K. For a long time, birds have fascinated our fraternity of versifiers with their flight and this to me (as to a lot many others) suggests their inborn love for freedom. This is something that we can consider to be inextricable to their character. Essentially, it implies a

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deep, irresistible urge to defy cages and fly beyond all confinements, culminating in their discovery of new frontiers to their freedom in the limitless expanse of the blue every day.

During the course of composing and compiling poems for my first solo collection, I often felt motivated to draw a comparison between birds and poets. I realised that a bird’s love of freedom and penchant for discovering new frontiers are identical to what a poet ideally fantasises and dreams of. If you take a close look at my poems, you can notice that a deep longing for freedom from deterministic forces is at the core of almost all of them. The last of the 90 poems in my debut collection is actually the title poem where the bird-poet analogy becomes far more pronounced than in other poems.

to establish a natural connection with them. But I like them for different reasons. I like Baudelaire for his symbolic richness, Browning for his experimentalism and Spender for his progressive outlook. Similarly, I find Emily Dickinson’s poetry appealing due to the way she weaves melancholy, solitude and ostracism into her pieces. In the likes of Paul Eluard, Hart Crane and Dylan Thomas, I find amazing chemistry of the real the surreal which lend stupendous dimensions to their oeuvre. As a passionate reader of poetry, I can say I am influenced by them for different reasons.

However, as a poet, I feel my work is still unlike that of any of them primarily because I have never tried to consciously imitate their style, diction or world-view. After all, it is a reader’s job to see if my work bears any ‘influence’ or it has distinct flavour.

Cc. Are you an absurdist? If yes, who are your favourite authors in the same genre and why?

Cc. What difference do you find between the literature of Elizabethan Period and that of the contemporary period? Which one do you prefer both as a reader and writer?

Deepak K. I don’t how my poems are interpreted by readers and critics, but I can’t deny the influence of existentialist, absurdist and symbolist masters of the 19th and 20th centuries. Among the absurdist writers, Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet and Eugene Ionesco have influenced me deeply as generations of writers before me. Similarly, the writings of existentialists such as Dostoevsky, Kafka, Camus and Sartre have also had a huge appeal for me. As a writer, I have occasionally found their symbolic richness indispensable. But as we know, all absurdists were primarily playwrights and writers of prose. So when I look at myself as a poet, I feel that the influence of poets such as Charles Baudelaire, Robert Browning, Stephen Spender, Emily Dickinson, Paul Eluard, Rainer Maria Rilke, Hart Crane, Dylan Thomas, Pablo Neruda, T S Eliot, W B Yeats, Octavio Paz and Allen Ginsberg has been more lasting and significant not only in my own context, but in the context of all poets who have written after them. For a poet writing today (as myself), it’s easy

Deepak K. I think the difference seems to be humongous on all counts. In the first place, let us keep this in mind that the Elizabethan Period was the first significant phase of creative flourish in the wake of the European Renaissance. Numerous forms of poetic expression, which had been unknown before, saw their maiden spring in Britain during this period. One of the best-known examples is the ‘sonnet’, which had achieved popularity in Italy through Italian Renaissance poets such as Petrarch and Boccaccio centuries before Shakespeare used and perfected it in English for the first time. Furthermore, Shakespeare along with Christopher Marlowe, Ben Jonson and University Wits also played a major part in making different forms of drama in England for the first time.

Thus, in many ways, the Elizabethan Period was a formative period for different literary genres evolved with the creative legacy of the European Renaissance. On the other hand, our age marks a highly mature phase in the history of literature. We already have a grand

19 legacy comprising the outputs not only of the Elizabethan masters, but also many generations of their successors. A writer today definitely has a different outlook and worldview as also a completely different ambiance to operate within. What I find missing in the Elizabethan Period literature is the focus on the lives of common men and women, their activities, their dreams and concerns, their feats and failures. To be precise, a vast bulk of Elizabethan literature including almost all the plays written by Shakespeare, Marlowe and others has kings, princes, dukes, vassals and other royal personages as protagonists. On the contrary, a lot of creative pieces that are being penned today are about common women and men.

In some way, this shift in focus is natural because our social and political milieus are completely different from those of the Elizabethan Age. Kings and queens have been replaced now by democratic heads of government and affluent business tycoons. But we cannot overlook the fact that the ‘shift in focus’ had started in the Romantic Age only when monarchy was still in existence. Today, it has assumed global dimensions bringing common folks at the centre-stage. This is one significant reason for me to feel closer to the creative output of contemporary period. I can’t deny myself the luxury of occasionally going through the writings of Elizabethan masters; but my liking for poets, playwrights and novelists such as Neruda, Plath, Spender, Ginsberg, Brecht, Pirandello, Mann, Kafka, Camus, Dostoevsky, Borges, Grass, Marquez, etc. is definitely much more pronounced.

Cc. What is the poetic scenario today? Do you really think poetry is merely an expression of inner thoughts or there are much more elements to it?

Deepak K. As far as poetry is concerned, the scenario is very bright and full of prospects. Our fraternity should feel privileged to have inherited a grand creative legacy from our forefathers. This creative legacy always inspires our generation to keep writing with passion, urge and determination. While a lot many versifiers are experimenting with new forms, several others are modifying the old ones with their own imprint.

Due to this, the horizons of creativity have widened considerably further

motivating the practitioners of poetry to explore new idioms and registers, and set new benchmarks. Their writings often bear an unmistakable tendency to move beyond themselves and reach out to the world with some genuine concern, appeal and empathy. Inner, personalised thoughts no doubt have a role to play in poetic expression, but their importance cannot be stretched too far in an age when poetry is much more than bubbles of introspection propelled by the feelings, emotions, whims and fancies of individual minds. The poets today are primarily concerned about employing their personal experiences, impressions, perceptions and existential conditions in their writings in such a way that they closely represent the experiences, memories and conditions of ‘everyone’. This amounts to going beyond closets and cloisters to be accessible to a humongous reading public willing to be written about with sensitivity and understanding.

Cc. How much time did it take you to compile this anthology? Are you in agreement that the more the poem brews it comes out stronger, or it’s a fraction that turns emotions into a poem or poetry?

Deepak K. It took me around four months to compile and edit the poems for my first solo anthology. I started in the first week of March 2018 and was through with the job in mid-June. During this period, I also wrote some new poems which were subsequently included in the collection. In the light of my own experience as a poet, I can say that both the assumptions are valid. Sometimes, you need to work it out with a measure of consistency, depending largely on your insight, perspicacity and acumen. Occasionally, you may have to spend a lot of time adding or deleting some word or phrase before you feel that the fruit of your endeavour is in desired shape. Sometimes, however, the execution seems to have been achieved rather effortlessly. I think it is never easy to define the creative process as it varies in the context of different pieces of writing.

Cc. Why do you use the pseudonym “Darshak” under all of your writings? Is it because you see the world from an observer’s eye or is there any other particular reason behind it?

Deepak K. I appreciate your perceptiveness and endorse the reason offered by you for my using the pen-name “Darshak”. I think the choice of a pen-name or nom de plume ideally depends on how you relate yourself to your work and how you perceive your role in the broad context of its reception, reading and interpretation. As a writer, I have always felt that much of what I bring into my work to build its thematic warp and woof or its core content essentially comes from my observation of the world around my only. My pen-name thus defines one of the key aspects of my creative totality to a considerable context, while lending an appropriate significance to the role I see myself in as a writer.

Cc. Apart from poetry what other forms of writing you indulge yourself in? Is there any future project that you are working on and would like to reveal?

Deepak K. You will be a bit surprised to know that I had started writing prose much before I wrote my first few poems in English. Though the prose pieces I have written are few and far between compared to a 1000 odd poems composed over the past one decade, my passion for nonpoetic writing is still intact. Of late, I have written quite a few stories, articles and vignettes some of which are going to be featured in a series of soon-to be-published anthologies. Presently, I am working on my first book of literary articles and vignettes titled A Pen Pusher’s Scrapbook, which will be ready for print most probably by January-end. Besides, I have also planned one more solo anthology of poems, another of micropoems and a third book (overall my fifth in two years) of short stories for this year.

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Cc. Do you agree with the statement that fiction sells more as compared to poetry?

Deepak K. This assumption sounds quite plausible in today’s context and the reason is not far to seek. First of all, we need to take into consideration one significant factor which we bill as the rapidly changing literary taste of our age. A majority of common readers today want to read stories presented to them with catchy plots, colourful galaxy of characters and exciting incidents, thrilling twists and turns. As a result, they prefer fictional writings to poetry even when it is written brilliantly and with great power. That is why I sometimes feel the poets of our age should explore new ways to reach out to the reading gentry. In old days, some forms of poetry such as odes, ballads and minstrels were composed with unmistakable narrative approach and story-telling quality. Take for instance Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” or Edward Gray’s “An Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” which are poems with immaculately textured and poignantly appealing ‘stories’ woven inside them. Vikram Seth’s Golden Gate is another example of a story in verse. In my opinion, poetry books can also fare as splendidly as fictions in the market and among the readers if we explore new ways and techniques instead of putting too much stress on imagery and verbal ornamentation.

Cc. From your previous answer it is clear that you admire Pablo Neruda.

He is known for his soft sensual love poems more, how much does his writing have affected you as being more of an existentialist poet?

Deepak K. Yes, I am very fond of Neruda’s poetry and I have read many of his love poems. My debut collection does not have much to tell you about the extent to which Neruda has influenced me as a master of soft, sensual love poetry. But I think there is always a possibility to find some elements of love poetry in existential writing. In my next collections, you will see quite a few love poems where you may notice this synthesis to some extent.

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Having said this, I must however admit that ‘influence’ and ‘similarity’ in terms of style or subject or expression are different things. Occasionally, we may be influenced by someone and yet we may not look similar when we are compared. In many cases, the ‘influence’ may be tacit or inherent only depending to a reasonable extent on how it is construed and comprehended.

Cc. Do you agree with the voices of myriad women poets of 21st century coming forward with varied women issues most bluntly? What is the scenario and level of acceptance for them?

Deepak K. This is phenomenally path-breaking and awe-inspiring. As a keen observer of the developments that have marked the journey of Indian English literature over the last one century, I often wonder how brilliantly the trend set by the likes of Toru Dutt, Sarojini Naidu and Kamala Das has been carried on by the women poets writing today. While some of them have categorically admitted the influence of those illustrious predecessors on their oeuvre, outlook and style, some others have expanded and enriched this tradition by introducing new styles and forms of expression. The stream of poetry they represent is characterised by a fresh spate of determination, selfassurance, experimental boldness, strong will and courage to speak their mind with candor and intrepidity, while lambasting the retrograde facade of patriarchy. Going beyond this, you may come across numerous shades of sensitivity and multiple socio-cultural concerns that shine through everywhere. Many women poets are writing verses that are quite nuanced and layered with an opulence of allegories, metaphors and symbolic dimensions.

What is striking in this regard is the commendable change in the way they approach and dwell upon gender issues which not only brings to fore the depth of their perception but also their great strength to redefine their language and relocate their persona in it. There is no denying the fact that the power, insight, candour and subtlety with which a number of women poets have a lot to lend an inspiring and glorious new dimension to Indian English Literature.

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In Conversation with Author & Poet Sanam Sharma If writing has a cathartic dimension, as it is said and believed by many, then I can say that the poetry of Sanam Sharma exemplifies this remarkably. Sanam is a poet who happens to capture all things animate or inanimate that he sees around him--the places he visits, the people he comes across and even the cycle of time to seasons. He finds poetry everywhere and portrays them through his musings and video recitations. I happenstance on Sanam Sharma’s poetry book The Faint Trickle of the Sand Grains when I first heard his spoken poem ‘Rooms’ from the collection. I was truly enticed by the way of his reciting it, soon found out about the book and bought it immediately. I have to admit that it was a great reading experience for me last year as his poetry is fresh and unique at the same time. He has a different way of presenting the world that is flowing by, the mundane and even the nostalgia; and at times, it is so different that you would actually feel the words to be settling deep inside you and giving you a feeling of reading something truly intriguing and soulful at the same time.

As with his constant struggle to live with two identities in his adopted city Melbourne (Australia) while carrying the strongest essence of a Punjabi boy within his soul, he often fights this paradox and does justice to his feelings through poetry. He is seldom expressive of all the angst, pathos and even the social and political issues that are taking place in his birth country India and chooses to give them voice through his poems. This feeling of trying to be at peace with the present life in Melbourne as much as with those moments of nostalgia from his childhood days spent in Punjab that takes over him more often; or perhaps

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it stays within him all the time inside his soul, reminds me of this quote by Jhumpa Lahiri, a migrant herself.

“They were things for which it was impossible to prepare but which one spent a lifetime looking back at, trying to accept, interpret, comprehend. Things that should never have happened, that seemed out of place and wrong, these were what prevailed, what endured, in the end.” ― Jhumpa Lahiri(The Namesake) With two published poetry collections titled Tamed Words and The Faint Trickle of the Sand Grains, poet Sanam is also a romantic at heart and has dedicated many of his poems and his most candid feelings towards his wife in both the books. Born and brought up in Amritsar (India), Sanam migrated to Melbourne, Australia in 1999. It is this dichotomy of being a migrant, where the writer emerges in Sanam, as he grapples with a sense of his identity across two cultures.

Growing up, writing and poetry started as a fanciful hobby for Sanam.

He would often sneak into his dad’s library and stealthily feast on the works of many famous poets and writers. Published in 2016,Tamed Words (AuthorsPress, India), is Sanam’s first book where he takes the leap from being a writer, who kept losing poetry written on stray pieces of paper, to a published poet. A regular blogger with SBS Radio Australia (https://www.sbs.com.au/yourlanguage/person/sanamsharma), and HuffPost India (https://www.huffingtonpost.in/author/sanam-sharma/), Sanam passionately shares his opinions about politics, sports, and everything in between. In July 2018, Sanam’s poetic journey was featured by AMES Australia as one of the seven migrant stories to celebrate 70 years of migration in Australia (https://www.ames.net.au/australianmade/migrantstory-sanamsharma-90s).

Chrysanthemum Chronicles take this great opportunity to bring forth this exclusive interview of Sanam Sharma, revealing the real poet, his life story and more about him through his own words.

Cc. You have mentioned in your Bio for your first poetry collection Tamed Words that due to the dichotomy of being a migrant and somewhere coping with two identities, you started writing poetry. What is it that makes you feel more at struggle---- the feeling of being a migrant or the feeling of leaving your birth place behind?

Sanam. I feel being a migrant is a bit schizophrenic and as time passes, instead of making peace with this dichotomy, I have felt, it starts weighing on you even more. The struggle is not about getting used to the new place – I guess in my case, home for me now is Melbourne and I feel it’s the best city in the world to live. The identity crisis is more a product of the geo-social world around us which is increasingly getting intolerant by the day. It doesn’t take much for someone in Australia to let me know that “I need to go back where I came from”, and on the other hand, many a times when I write about India in my write-ups, I have been advised by Indian residents to not bother about the politics and issues faced by them as they feel I no longer have a right to do so.

I am strong enough to hold my own opinions in all of this and through my writings, I make sure I comment on anything that upsets me or bothers me from time to time – both about India and Australia. But the fact that people view you as a temporary citizen on both sides bothers me. People affiliate loyalties with religions, politics, and geographies these days – the sense of community is diminishing. That’s the identity crisis. I feel more strongly about it for our kids who are growing up in migrant households. So my poetry is usually about things in the society that I feel need to be condemned from time to time.

Cc. Your poems are mostly metaphorical and you make the seasons, the cycle of time, the mundane things from your life, your observation about the places you visit get into poetry. How do you see the world? I mean do you think poets have a different way to see things happening around them, or is it words that start playing their magic in a poet’s heart?

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Sanam. I don’t really consider myself to be a writer or a poet so I am not really equipped to comment on how poets would think. I usually write about anything that gets stuck in my head and compels me enough to write about it. I cannot (and I refuse to) write about breakups, heart-break, and like. I feel others do it better than me. My poetry is merely an attempt at trying to tell a thought that is stuck in my head and I have to get it out. Most of the things that influence me are thoughts that come to my mind when I am observe or experience anything – so usually I take a photo of that place or thing with my phone and then when I am sitting by myself later in the day, I revisit it and try to write what I have felt about that place or that occurrence.

Like most of us, I am riddled with the question about our existence too – where have we come from and what’s the purpose of our lives – hence, I try to find those answers in dusks, dawns, nights, time, and all such things that we associate with lifetimes. Lately, I have started doing a series on my Facebook profile called “Postcards” – here I write about places we visit during our holidays.

Cc. I have noticed that in a few of your poems, you mention the dreadful time of 1984 massacre. Does that incident still have an impact on your mind? Do you think it affected your life as well as the lives of other people back then in Punjab?

Sanam. I grew up in Punjab in the 1980s, when it was riddled with unrest and terror. Growing up in a little village, we were a minority Hindu family in a predominantly Sikh village. However, the brotherhood and care extended by our fellow villagers to ensure the welfare of our family in those days is the real essence of ‘Punjab’. Yet, the terror that ruled the nights of Punjab in those days was palpable and it has left a lasting impression on all of us who endured it. I did not suffer any personal loss (touchwood) but the innocent lives lost through that entire phase (no matter which religion) remains a dark spot in Indian history.

I feel very strongly about the innocent Sikhs who were mercilessly butchered by mobs in Delhi. I try and contemplate how their kids, and families would have put their lives back together after those horrendous events and how they remain deprived of any justice; it is not just disappointing but infuriating. I will never shy away from expressing my disgust about the killings in Delhi in 1984 and how successive governments have failed to deliver justice to these people.

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In Punjab, we grew up on horror stories from the days of Partition and then we had the entire saga of 1984 and the 1980s and early 1990s to contend with; that state and its people have suffered a lot.

Cc. You call Melbourne (Australia) your present city of residence, your adopted home city. Why do you still feel a sense of not belonging to the city and what is it that you miss the most about your birth place?

Sanam. I am in love with Melbourne – it's my home. It is the place where my son is growing up. I feel totally at home in Melbourne. Every personal and professional accomplishment that I have managed in life, have happened in Melbourne. So, I am forever indebted to Melbourne.

Melbourne is my happy place.

That said, I guess you never outgrow the places where you spend your childhood. I grew up in a village named Pakharpura in Punjab (and then in Amritsar) where life used to be quite simple in those days. My memories of growing up are made up of a rural lifestyle that was extremely uncomplicated, yet rich with culture and folk-lore – things that are fast becoming irrelevant. So, all I try to do through my writings when I revisit those days is to chronicle those things that I feel are fading away from those societies and communities. Punjab has moved on since I left, and it should – countries, and societies must all evolve. However, our references for the places we have known in our lives come from the things, the rituals, the art, the literature, and the lifestyles that used to exist in those places when we were there. So in a way, we all remain stagnant at some intrinsic level as we move through our lives. This stagnant bit is the childhood which tugs on you every now and then.

Cc. I read in your Bio that your father is a published writer? What does he write? Would you like to tell us about some of his works?

Sanam. My dad is genuine authority on literature in my eyes. He spent his working life as an academician teaching English language and

literature (he can teach entire Shakespeare in Punjabi for those who may not be well versed in English – such is his prowess). Dad can recite all the great English poets by heart.

However, he is equally good with Punjabi and Urdu literature. His maths teacher in the village school he studied in was the legendary “Shiv Kumar Batalvi”. I grew up watching my dad writing pieces for newspapers. He used to read a lot too. In the 1990s, he wrote three books in Punjabi---two poetry collections titled Cheesaan Kaseesan Aunsian and Nazraya Dudh; and a collection of female- centric stories, titled Aakhir Kad Tak. He has taught himself to use Facebook and Social Media, and is busy writing Haikus these days on various online groups and platforms.

Cc. When you are not writing, what is it that you love to do most in your solace?

Sanam. I am a cricket fan of the highest order. In Melbourne, I can be found at the MCG whenever there is a cricket game on. I could not play due to an injury so I went on to become a cricket umpire accredited by Cricket Australia. When I’m in Melbourne, I umpire district cricket games on Saturdays.

My son is 11 now and I spend most of my time with him. Together we do a lot of things, but our favourite pastime is stargazing at night with our telescope. As a family, we like to travel so we try and take little breaks from our routines and go around as well. I am self-tutoring myself in photography as well these days.

Cc. Which is the best book you have read so far by which author? Why did you like it?

Sanam. I am not much of a reader. In fact, I don’t recall having read too many books. I just wait for the good ones to be turned into movies.

Having said that, I have forced myself to read Khaled Hosseini, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Arundhati Roy lately – not because I am an avid reader, but

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because I am trying to understand the art of writing prose and fiction. I really enjoyed The Kite Runner but overall, I am very ill-read. I do read a lot of newspapers these days though, if that qualifies as reading.

Cc I read an article by you on your Facebook Page, where you have mentioned that you were a radio broadcaster for SBS Punjabi for 5-6 years. It means you must be writing in Punjabi as well? What comes easy and you feel more expressive through, Punjabi or English?

Sanam. Yes, Radio happened to me in Melbourne and I used to present a bi-weekly Punjabi Radio program for about 5-6 years on SBS Radio, Australia. I can read and write Punjabi very fluently (same for Hindi). My spoken Punjabi is better than my written Punjabi – I guess that is because of my rural upbringing in Punjab. I do not write in Punjabi as I feel I don’t have the vocabulary to write effectively in Punjabi. Punjabi is a muchnuanced language and to do justice to writing in Punjabi, you have to know the language in great detail, which I lack. However, I am a good orator and so, I used to participate in debates and declamations contests in Punjabi, Hindi, and English back in college days.

English is an easier medium for me to write in and I feel in control when writing in English. I must say I am not a natural writer – I am forever working on my writing to hopefully better myself in times to come. However, every now and then I get inspired by Gulzar and pen something down in Hindi/Urdu–-usually translations of my English poems. But that’s more for fun than anything serious.

Cc. During your childhood days in India, you read some of the famous poets from your father’s library, as you have stated in

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your first poetry book. Do you remember any of those writers whose writing style secretly settled within your soul and you still feel inspired somewhere by his/ her work?

Sanam. I would usually read all the poetry books in my dad’s library. I read a lot of them – Byron, Yeats, Keats, Milton, William Blake, Tennyson, Shakespeare, Shelley, Wordsworth. I would try and steal couplets from poems to write them to the girls I tried to impress back in those days. Then one day, I thought of writing my own couplets instead of plagiarizing and thus, a hobby was born.

I was most impressed by John Keats. I really connected with his poems. I remember I read his poem “The Human Seasons” and then penned my own poetic response to his poem during college days. The poem was published in the college magazine and was quite appreciated, but I have lost it somewhere over the years.

Cc. What are your future projects? Can we expect a fiction or a novella from Sanam maybe in the years to come?

Sanam. I try to juggle writing with my professional career so I am not as disciplined as I should be as a writer. I aspire to write one ‘good/memorable’ book in my lifetime and that’s the pursuit. I am writing a collection of short stories for now – I have written a few, but I am not satisfied with my story writing skills so far. So I will keep at it and hopefully, my next book shall be a collection of short stories. That will be my natural evolution from poetry. I also harbour desires to write a full-fledged novel someday. Far-fetched for now, but hey, never say never.

I try and write a short little poem every day. I need to do that for my own sanity. I find writing poetry very cathartic and healing. I share all my poems on my social media handles.

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In Conversation with Author & Writer Harshali Singh Story telling is an art form which has been prevailing since around 700 B.C. There is even evidence of the earliest recorded stories such as the Epic of Gilgamesh composed in the ancient Mesopotamia more than three millennia ago; and the Iliad by the Hellenic master of yore, Homer. These stories became extremely popular and spread widely because they were recorded in those times.

Apart from the oral tradition of storytelling which is popular till today, there is the written form of recording the tales and compiling them as books, which are popularly known as ‘Novels’ or ‘Work of fiction’. Novels are the gateway to a completely different world that a narrator creates through words. Great plot, characterisation, metaphorical sense, vivid description, imagery, idioms and many other elements combine to make a great novel.

A great story must be such that it should haunt one even after the book is finished; and while reading, it must compel one to read further and keep the readers hooked. Novels are a complete world in themselves which allows the reader to peek into the writer’s make-believe world, subside into it and slowly feel it to be true.

This reminds me of a great woman novelist of her time, Jane Austen, who has aptly said, “It is only a novel... or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.” ― Jane Austen (Northanger Abbey)

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Characterisation is a very important element of storytelling as it reflects the writer’s ‘thorough understanding of human nature’.

That is why it is considered to be the heart and soul of a story.

A great character makes one cry, laugh, think and even makes the readers restless. Characterisation is the sine qua non of a great narrative and our novelist Dr. Harshali Singh has used this element to her full luxury. She has created the most unique character who becomes the story-teller in her book, A Window to her Dreams, the first of her nine Haveli Series books. She has used the mansion or the Haveli as the old sentinel who narrates the story from ‘his eyes’ along with the other life like characters whose stories can also be witnessed taking place side by side in the book.

Dr. Harshali Singh is a New Delhi-based member of the Consumer Grievance Redressal Forum- BYPL, and a former member of the Consumer District Redressal Forum. But she is primarily an author, a poet, an academician, a teacher trainer, an occupational therapist, an avid reader and a passionate painter. Her oeuvre straddles across several literary genres ranging from poetry to fiction, columns to essays. She has been featured in several anthologies as the contributing author; and has been writing regularly for e-magazines. A Window to her Dreams and the recently launched The Anatomy of Choice form part of the ‘Haveli Series’ of nine books. Her poems have been featured in a woman-centric bilingual anthology titled She The Shakti. She has won the prestigious ‘Write India- Season 2’, a short story contest organized by The Times of India Group, on Chitra Banerjee Divakaurni’s prompt. The Times Group has launched her book at Times Lit Fest in Delhi and Bangalore, amid much fanfare. She has also chaired discussions with eminent personalities in their chosen fields of World Peace, Meditation, Infertility and Social Causes; and stalwarts in the field of writing.

In this exclusive interview with Chrysanthemum Chronicles, Dr. Harshali Singh reveals that one has to make time for the things one loves to do. However, she seldom feels a day should have

more hours and cringes for some extra time to do what she loves to do, for she is a multifaceted talent. Through this candid interview, Cc henceforth puts some light upon her both as an artist and writer.

Cc. You are more of a novelist. Do you apply any particular scheme or discipline to narrate your story? Like I have seen or even heard that novelists first chart out their characters, and make a rough sketch of how the story will take shape. Do you even do such things or you just let the quill flow and write the story as it keeps shaping into your mind?

Harshali Singh. Since the books A window to her Dreams and The Anatomy of choice that I have written and the one I am currently working on form a part of ‘The Haveli Series’, I had to start out with a story in mind which then gets divided into nine books.

Whilst I am essentially an organic writer and start my story with an idea or question or a topic that intrigues me; letting the characters speak and take me on their journey, I realise the importance of having a plot line in my mind. The first draft is a free-flowing story with a start, middle and an end.

It is in the second draft during which I re-write and cut out parts to make the story tight.

I don’t think an author can exclusively be only one kind of writer. As an author, one cannot let the story take over or the story would just ramble around endlessly. Nor can you treat the story like a formula, as that would lead to a story without a heart. It has to be a fine balance of the two. I too have had to learn the fine art of plotting while editing; and keep myself within the confines of the directives I give myself so that the story arch is clear.

As someone has said, ‘Begin in delight and end in wisdom’.

Cc. As I know, you are a painter too besides being a writer. Have you designed the covers of your last two novels of the Haveli Series? If yes, then was it the painting first that inspired the story or the story first that helped to shape the art on the cover page of your book?

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Harshali Singh. I painted the first cover while I was writing the story about

Aruna; and how the window in the Haveli is her haven. I found myself painting her standing there and thinking. As both the painting and the book progressed, I realized that both my creative pursuits were feeding off each other.

While I painted, I would imagine this young woman, Aruna, standing on the cusp of a new life looking ahead with trepidation and hoping for a simple future with her second husband, while looking over her shoulder at her violent first marriage.

While I wrote, I would visualize Aruna’s expressions as she thought of all that she had undergone, as she was expecting and grappling with her fears and her anxieties, as she was nurturing her hopes and her dreams!

The book took nine months to finish and when the publisher asked me if I had any ideas for the cover, I showed him the painting. The decision was unanimous and we went ahead with the cover.

The second book has part of my painting at the back. The front is designed by the Readomania team. It is a painting I had done some time back and it synced with one part of the book. Noorie, a long dead courtesan whose mausoleum rests near the haveli, waits still for her long-lost love and is tied inexplicably to the story of the second daughter, Bhavya. Her troubled life and her struggles form the backdrop of Bhavya resolving her own problems. We wanted the main cover to show the protagonist straddling both the eras and the design that was finally decided upon encompassed the story beautifully.

Cc. How do you balance it all? I mean you are doing so many other things like you are a teacher trainer, an occupational therapist, an avid reader and a passionate painter. Amidst all this, when do you find time to write and which are your most preferred hours to write or paint?

Harshali Singh. The one thing I would wish for is more hours in a day to do all the things I love doing. But I believe if you love something, you make time for it and prioritize it. Usually, I write in frenzy. Sometimes, I write through the night and my family supports my passion so we all work around each other’s schedules.

When women say, ‘Oh, we don’t have time to do this’, I hear, ‘This is not important enough’. It tells me that they put their own needs way down the priority pyramid.

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This need to put ourselves last can be sometimes justified. If one has small children, an ailing parent or family member, it makes sense. But even then I want to tell them, “Draw that picture, fly that kite, sing that song, meet your friends, have that cup of tea alone if it makes you happy, you will only come back rejuvenated from it.”

As I also work full-time, I write when I can, I paint when I can and the rest falls into place. I don’t think I am indispensable. So, barring a few crazy cleanliness drives (where my family hide into their rooms), I am mindful of the fact that this rigmarole of life will continue even when I am no more, so why stress!

Cc. Your novel A Window to her Dreams is a narration through the mouth of an old Haveli. Why did you choose a Haveli to narrate a story? And though it’s a fictional story, still is there any incident or any character in the book that has been adapted from a true life-event or a person’s behaviour you noticed at some point of time?

Harshali Singh. In college days, I once visited the streets of Old Delhi in winter. There, I happened to see this Haveli of hundred doors. When I entered the foyer, I saw a sunbeam with dancing dust motes fall near my feet. It was surreal, the tall columns, the peeping roshandans and curly grills. Those pictures got saved in my subconscious.

I have also always wondered what the walls of our houses see when they look at us, the people before and the ones that come after we leave.

What would they say if they could talk, would they have friends… and so many more questions? And that is how the Haveli became a character, the sutradhar of my books.

The first book talks about the underbelly of marriage, domestic violence, marital rape and emotional manipulation. The second book talks about live-in relationships, threesome and the consequences of their decisions.

We relate to a character, whether in a book or a movie, only when the character is authentic. This roundedness develops after hours of research or when we have met someone similar.

In my case, it was both. I knew people who were facing such situations

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and what it did to them. I also researched about the psychological aspects that come into play when one undergoes trauma or makes a choice that has difficult consequences.

There are several incidents that are from my own life, like the constantly flowing chai. Tea is our saviour. We drink tea because we think today was a good day; and we drink it because we feel today should come with a backspace tab.

While growing up, there were cousins who came and stayed at our house for years. They studied, worked and then moved away. I capitalised on my experiences of childhood to build the characters of Gaurav and Suresh Uncle. Many such small nuances are intertwined in the book, because either they happened or I wish they had happened in this way.

Cc. Do you feel that Indian literature from the time of women writers like Sarojini Naidu, Toru Dutt, Kamala Das, Anita Desai and then coming to names like Shobha De, Kiran Desai, Sutapa Bose, etc. has come to a great transition? How and to what extent do you think it has influenced the work of the present-day women writers?

Harshali Singh. Each generation leaves its imprint on literature. From the pioneers of poetry and literature we can only learn in reverence.

These are stalwarts of a time when people bled on paper. Each word evokes an unsurpassed emotion. We go back even today to draw inspiration from their work. The women authors and poets of our times only take the torch forward. Transition is inevitable as change is inevitable. The challenges that women were grappling with at the time have only multiplied and intensified today.

As women writers, most of us want to write books that are honest, authentic and responsible. This feeling of accountability comes from our understanding of the fact that we are carrying the legacy of the women who started on this path against all odds.

Cc. Which one do you prefer to read----the Elizabethan era, the Victorian one which is predominantly the rise of romanticism, or the Indian literature? Is there any particular era that can be seen more dominating in your writings or you simply find the millennial way best for expressing your feelings and thoughts in your work?

Harshali Singh. Reading keeps me sane, hence I read a lot, from the classics to the contemporary and most of William Shakespeare to the Philippa Gregory series. I found the series more engaging and pacier. There are still a number of books from the Elizabethan era that are on my wish list.

Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey is the one I open to get my fix of Victorian romance. Indian Literature is my life-blood so I buy and read Indian authors in equal numbers, if not more.

Though I write contemporary fiction, I find elements of all the eras in my books, from the Old Haveli that thinks with an era gone by, with a mind-set to the new age expressions that we hear all around.

Further, as authors, we learn from each book, searching for ways to express ourselves to garner greatest impact from the reader in 70,000 words. This takes some practice and a lot of editing.

I find myself using lyrical prose in my writing, which is most likely the influence of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or the more recent, ‘The Mountains echoed’. These books taught me the impact of good language to evoke emotions.

I read everything now. I found that a genre that I would never pick up surprised and delighted me. It was at that point that I switched gears and allow myself the freedom to read what comes my way. I go by recommendations of a select group of friends who read eclectically.

Book clubs help in leading you to books one would otherwise never approach.

Cc. Who are your most favourite poets and why?

Harshali Singh. Rumi is an all-time favourite. His insights into what love can be or should be, keeps me going back for more. I go to Sylvia Plath for the torment that drips from her words; and I seek out Gulzar when I am exhausted with life.

John Keats, Rudyard Kipling and Oscar Wilde are the other literary geniuses I have liked and re-read occasionally. Lately, a friend

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started translating Rabindranath Tagore’s poems from Bengali to English and she sent them to me. I find his writing ahead of its time and very lucid. Amrita Pritam is another poet who has had an influence on my perception.

Cc. Do you have any particular favourite corner too just like the protagonist Aruna of A Window to her Dreams has that particular window? Where do you like to spend most of your solitary time, when you are at home?

Cc. Do you recall any incident that has motivated you to a large extent to write the Haveli Series? And are those nine books still in the pipeline out of which you have already completed two?

Harshali Singh. I did have a window at my parent’s home with horizontal black bars out of which I used to look out and dream, while watching the world go by. In my house, there is a sofa on which I have my tea that looks out into the balcony and the sky. On most days, one can find me there practicing my sitar or finding a minute to wind down in that corner.

Harshali Singh. I firmly believe that things happen to us when they are destined to, and not a moment sooner. Some would say that thinking like this is a crutch, saving oneself from disappointment.

One can look at it either way.

Also, I think I am writing this story from a place of anger. I want to lay threadbare all the crimes against women that are not being addressed. I want to make people delve into their own selves and question their intents, when they judge a person. Who is to say what is right and what is wrong for another person, when in our own lives we move the line that separates right from wrong constantly?

So, there was no ‘one’ incident, but a combination of many small and big occurrences I had observed as a girl and then as a woman in Indian society that I feel compelled me to write the books. The fact that there are nine books, implies that we have a long way to go to address these important issues.

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Cc. Do you agree that you are a feminist writer? And why do you think that feminism is a phrase that is still considered to be a social constraint in our society?

Harshali Singh. I am very much a feminist author if by feminism, you mean equal rights, equal opportunities and not privilege. But more than that, I believe in humanism first. If we cannot be kind to our fellowmen or women, the point of this whole exercise of existence is lost.

People largely view feminism as a woman’s movement in which we are out to prove ourselves superior to men. Sadly, a lot of women too have fallen prey to this notion of male- bashing, equating it to feminism.

Hence, society views feminism in the light of a paradigm shift in the status of men. As a consequence, the word ‘feminism’ has become associated with aggression and belligerence.

In Conversation with Author & Poet Anju Kishore A poet always has a tender heart that feels more and sees beyond the surface; what appears on the surface is just the reflection of the things in the world. But a poet has eyes for those minute details behind the scene that are not visible to the world. Thus, they weave those magical words of truth, whim, defiance, and sometimes bring out their own emotions and feelings that they have experienced in their poetic heart. The world around the poet only observes the pearls of creative expression presented to them in a uniquely amiable manner that seldom touch the chords of their hearts but more often than not, fascinate and inspire myriad people. Poetry is the reason perhaps this world is such a beautiful place. The magic from a poet’s quill that the words create in a reader's mind have actually cured the insanity of human beings and their existence, somewhere making it more of a sane world to dwell in.

This reminds me this quote by the famous singer, song-writer and peace activist John Lennon: “You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will live as one.”

Yes! It's true all poets are dreamers and our poetess Anju Kishore is not an exception. She also has a tender heart with a dream that one day her poetry would affect ‘one heart, if not many’, because change always begins from one person. Thus, she has captured the most sublime and surreal poems on issues like war-affected people, children and areas that would without doubt touch your core. Her poems on nature particularly express her love for it and the way she feels about it.

Startling images of the Syrian civil war disturbed and jolted Anju

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Kishore, a (former) cost accountant by profession, homemaker by choice and poet by passion. Horror and anguish at the plight of innocent children caught in the crossfire between warring adults formed the subject of her early poems. Soaking in the challenges and pleasures of moving across countries, she traced her poetic journey from war to the love of the universe in her first book of poetry,…and I Stop to Listen that was published in 2018 and dedicated to the children of Syria. Many of her poems are part of various e-magazines and print anthologies. These have been featured in a theatrical performance in Mumbai and in the readers’ section of a Dubai-based magazine. As a poet and editor, Anju Kishore has contributed to various online and print anthologies. One of the winners of The Great Indian Poetry Award 2018 and Cc's Melange 2019, she is part of the Editorial Team of India Poetry Circle that launched two unique anthologies--Madras Hues, Myriad Views and Confluence 3 in August 2019. She is also one of the editors of Pinkishe, the print magazine of the Delhi-based NGO, Pinkishe Foundation.

Through this exclusive interview, Chrysanthemum Chronicles brings forth the lady with a kind heart, a true nature lover and a great poet.

Cc. Let’s start with...and I Stop to Listen, your poetry collection, which you have mentioned in the blurb. As you’ve stated, it was when the Syrian Civil War was going on that the inspiration came and you started penning down this book. Do you not feel that your book should actually reach those places where people are still living in so much darkness? Then the purpose of this book would have been served.

Anju Kishore. The book attempts to draw a man’s attention away from his ego and material struggles to redirect it towards nature, towards the realization that there is more to living than warring with oneself and with one’s neighbour. It is my fond hope that my book will someday help pull a person away from the brink of war of any kind and set him on the path of peace, a path that would begin with the realization of oneness with nature. Her gifts, her little messages, her

her lessons, her reprimands and her presence in our lives can be recognized and relished if only he ‘stops to listen’.

When my book inspires him to pause and observe how nature gathers, blends, flows and merges into endlessness and it helps him begin a journey inward, then the purpose of my book would be served. A man who has realized himself will never wage war for he would have discovered love. And this is what we need to do now as individuals, as communities and as nations.

In my case, as my journey began with the Syrian war, I have dedicated the book to all the children of Syria and other war-torn lands.

Cc. You have written in mix genre like random musings, love poems and poems on nature. How would you define yourself as a poet?

Which subgenre entices you more and you find yourself to be the most expressive through it?

Anju Kishore. My poetry tends to lean towards romanticism. The fact has been endorsed by a review of my book that appeared in the September-October 2019 edition of Sahitya Akademi’s esteemed English journal, Indian Literature. The reviewer says, “Echoes of the earlier doyens of poetry, especially the Romantics, are visible in quite a few titles and the text but they do not eclipse the freshness and fragrance of these poems.” I write about social ills, current concerns and environmental issues as well. Irrespective of genre, nature often finds her way into my poems and knits herself into my motifs as similes and metaphors in a variety of ways, drawing parallels to life in a language that is simple and relatable.

Cc. Since you write poetry, you must be having some favorite poets too? Which poet has or poets have inspired you the most and why?

Anju Kishore. Though I write poetry I have always loved reading the classics, especially the Russian ones. William Dalrymple has been my favorite writer for a few years now. His descriptive presentation of

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37 of historical facts and his astute understanding of socio-political scenario make his works a fascinating read. Rumi’s mysticism never fails to sweep me into a higher dimension. I enjoy the visual quality of Ruskin Bond’s writing, both poetry and fiction.

Cc. As I know, you are a cost accountant by profession. Then, how did the transition happen? Have you started writing poetry recently or have been writing from long? Would you like to tell more about your writing journey?

Anju Kishore. I dabbled in poetry as a kid. But it lost itself completely on my journey through education, marriage and work. When the war we were talking about earlier happened, it simply began to flow. The images of Syrian children caught in the crossfire between warring adults appeared daily in the newspapers.

That affected me more than the causes, political consequences and the proceedings of the war. All of that would have seemed senseless if only man had paused to look into the eyes of one bewildered, embattled, devastated child. But he did not. And the war continued.

We were living in Dubai at that time. My first poem inspired by the war won me the first prize in a print magazine. And I knew I had found my calling.

Encouraged by my family, friends and the extended community of Facebook, I launched myself into poetry. The more I explored the pathos of war, the more vivid was nature’s manifestation of herself. I set off on a beautiful journey that continues to enrich me. My book introduced me to the world of poets. I discovered the joy of reading out poetry that for me is as liberating as writing it.

Opportunities to edit anthologies soon came by and I am now happily engaged in the joys of not only writing but editing as well.

Cc. Apart from poetry, do you write in some other genre as well? And do you ever plan to publish a fiction book in near future?

Anju Kishore. At present, my focus is on poetry. In future, anything is possible. I might be open to all forms of creative expression.

Cc. Any reason why your focus is only on poetry at present?

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Anju Kishore. The world needs good poetry. It needs the power of pen, the clarity of thought and the sensitivity of a poet’s heart. Poetry in my opinion is one of the most sublime forms of expression and is the most suited to create change in not only the society, but also in the way we view ourselves. So, for now, I wish to explore this vibrant medium to the best of my ability.

Cc. From your first poetry book, it can be understood that you are a nature lover and have written a good number of poems on it. Do you think it works as a muse for you or you have become the artist to see the nature’s beauty?

Anju Kishore. Both. She is the muse as well as poetry. She is the goddess I surrender to every day. She is also the flame that sets my heart ablaze.

I hear it in the crunch of bronzing leaves, That which I listened for in devout hymns.

When a mizzle tickles a rug of flowers, I find what I looked for in shrines of rock.

What is placed as incense at Her door, Tell me if it does not burn in my soul and yours.

Cc. Before we end this interview, tell us something about your next book, The When and What of It. Anju Kishore. Let me sit here awhile And meet poetry of a different kind Till I am moved on again…to a newer life.

That was how I had signed off my first book. At present, I am in an exploratory phase, delving into different subjects and styles.

For me, launching a book is more than a personal milestone. It will happen when my poetry feels ready to make a meaningful contribution to the world. Appreciation from well-known poets has been keeping me motivated and assures me that I am almost there.

To quote noted poet Ravi Shanker N (Ra Sh),“Anju Kishore uses words not as tools to fulfill or express her individual desires but as a means to create a spiritually cleaner world for us to live in…

She employs poetry as not a futile exercise in manipulating… words, but like the bristles of a soft brush to wipe a painting clean…In that, her main tool is a sensitive mind which is rare among the new crop of poets…”

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Chocolaty Affairs & Scandals Stories & Poems

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Authors & Poets For The Stories & Poems

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AUTHORS AND POET'S NAME IN THE ORDER OF THEIR STORIES AND POEMS 1.Nandita De nee Chatterjee, 2.Dr. Pooja Gupta, 3.Farheen Kazmi, 4. Moushumi Bhattacharjee,5. Rohini Jayanti, 6. Sharanya Misra, 7. Amruta Sant Wadekar, 8.Anju Darshini,9. Deyasini Roy, 10. Neeru Agnihotri, 11. Ritu Taneja, 12. Anju Kishore & 13. Tina Sequeira

Bitter Chocolate Nandita De nee Chatterjee

Somewhere in the country…

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There was something different in the autumn that year. A palpable buzz was going around the station among the kids. Whispers of immediate transfer orders were circulating like a wildfire. We were at an instant apprehensive and excited. The world as we knew it was within those guard lines. A few km in circumference, surrounded by those mysterious

rocky hills, were dense forests ridden with snakes, where we dared venture on bicycles. We were the fearless kids, born on a staple diet of Enid Blyton adventures and spaghetti Western films. Practising a quick draw of an imaginary Colt was a daily feature. Cashew nut groves with snake pits did not deter us. Almost all of us had been brought up right there. We came and went from home at will. No real permission was needed. We were after all in an ultra-safe zone. And we thought of it as our playing field. Realities of an outer universe did not really touch us.

Our immediate reality was our only conceived truth.

Stepping out of this sanctuary was not something I had ever thought of.

Teenagers did go to residential colleges, but home was where our quarters were. Traversing the distance to school only reaffirmed our rights to return here forever.

But suddenly, everything was going to turn upside down in our perceived little world. I was all of 15 that autumn. Desperate to step into Sweet Sixteen, to cavort to 'I am sixteen going on 17' a la Sound of Music and springing on the culvert holding his hands.

But that birthday came with heartbreak. There was less than a month to leave the Air Force station. For good. Mass transfer orders had been received. The gentlemen did not bat an eyelid. In just a matter of fact manner after dinner, Dad told us we would leave soon.

I heard the crash. Thunderstruck, I saw the sky falling from above.

Numbed at the announcement, I looked around my room. My 100 posters of Clint Eastwood, John Lennon, Engelbert Humperdinck etc. They stared back at me, equally aghast. I don't remember when my sister and I had put them up. My bond with those poster people was rock solid. I had always slept in their company. And stared at the ceiling sharing my fantasies and fears with them in dark nights when my elder sister left for her boarding. Dad had painstakingly stuck our favourite heroes on the ceiling at our insistence. It was our girls' haven of childish dreams. Separation was just unimaginable.

My first boards were in a month's time. Our posting order came quick. Anxiety shifted to the exam schedule. Dad took leave to facilitate my appearing for ICSE that year.

In the hurly-burly of packing up and preparing for exams, many a thing was forgotten. Our curiosity had changed course. We were all keen to find out where we were heading.

The boys were a repository of information. We gleaned rumours from them on the best transfer options. Our rather stark and barren post never had anything much to speak of. The Mess was the centre of existence and enjoyment for us all. So, the news of a pool was extremely exciting. And the option for that existed only in two stations at the time that we knew of. On opposite sides of the country.

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I placed my bet and prayers on the western post with a pool. We all had our choices spelled out. The eastern post was not on anybody's list. Even now, I'm curious why. So my friends in typical adolescent cruelty told me I would surely go there. And in between my cramming for the upcoming exams, I desperately hoped that they would get that unwanted post.

But suddenly information drifted in. I first heard of the 'chocolate sorties' then. Rations in that far-off post included chocolates every week.

That little wonder world of ours in childhood was a world with very little chocolate. The sole tiny, makeshift store had more soaps than chocolates. A jar of Cadbury and a jar of toffee and coloured lozenges were our only gateway to Charlie's Chocolate Factory. Ice cream, chocolate or otherwise, were winter vacation indulgences when we holidayed somewhere.

This news kind of turned the tables. Visions of dripping chocolate and sticky fingers threw our equilibrium out of balance. I slept smacking my lips, floating in a chocolaty world in sweet bliss.

Surrendering to the sensations of being the ultimate chocolate queen in a confetti world.

Before I knew it, the days flew by between the pains of severance and sweet expectations. The military truck I made my last journey out from there, arrived. Tears flowed from my eyes, but my mind was blank. I saw everyone I had ever known gathered there, waving goodbye. I was off to an unknown world of unknown people for the first time in my memory.

One by one, all the families left soon after, leaving our common address till then. Different destinations and different destinies awaited us.

Somewhere in the North East

☆

It was a winter of uncertainty. Clutching an autograph book with

It was a winter of uncertainty. Clutching an autograph book with my life's few partners' wishes penned in, I entered that new place I would have to call home. The quarter entitled for us was at the furthest end and the last one on the street. We were, as it were surrounded by desolation. The sky was overcast and it was almost evening. I could barely make out the vicinity of our new home.

My heart was very heavy. My Dad had got that threatened eastern post in the transfer orders. My hard-hearted friend had got lucky. His father had got the western post with the pool. Yes, their information had been correct. Our posting was to that other station which had a pool too. The only redeeming factor, to my mind. But we were the unfortunate ones to be torn apart from our friends. Most of the other families got common posts in their transfers. And my sister was still away.

So began my solitary meanderings around the area. Being in-between school and high school, I did not get the opportunity of mixing around.

My focus centred only on my Dad. We took long walks through the empty lanes as a family. Introductions to new people did not interest me. The weather was severe, and at the best of times dreary. The clouds rolled and thundered.

Sudden lightning lit up the endless darkness around. Beyond our lane stretched a landmass of prickly grass that had never been tread on.

Mountains loomed around in the distance. No sound ever filtered through from the streets beyond our vision. Dad's scooter I could hear from a mile away.

The house was unfamiliar. The furniture new. I lay in my alien bedroom, unable to relate to its strangeness. No addresses had been exchanged, as we did not know where we were heading. I waited in vain for the mailman to bring me a greeting from a friend.

One day, soon after we had begun our lonesome stay in the new Air Force station, I heard a truck arrive. Dad had returned from a rather long trip. The usual rations of food were unloaded.

Baskets of eggs. Cans of tinned sardines and mackerels. Packets of soya beans. Fresh food was a rarity there. So hundreds of cans came in one go.

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A meat shop on the outskirts did good business, of course.

As Dad unpacked, my excitement pitched. Lots of other goodies rolled out. Honey, ghee and everything else that was regularly flown in. Also there was a different carton, sealed. As he opened it, I was dumbstruck. Bars and bars of Cadbury and Five Star stacked neatly inside.

My father could barely hold back his smile. His usual reticence was being challenged by my expression. 'These are from the chocolate sorties,' he explained briefly. 'These too', he added, opening up more cartons stacked with Amul cheese and condensed milk tins.

Wonder of wonders! We had got the chocolate sorties posting.

And we were just the three of us! No friends around! No school mates! No uncles-aunties, our dear neighbours! None of the people who were the only family members we had known!

I could see Mom going through the same emotions! For Heaven's sake! Even the cauliflowers that used to come home earlier came in multiple numbers. Everything was distributed and shared among our immediate neighbours. We had never learnt how to eat alone!

Whom would I show these to? Who would know I would have chocolates that night? Whom would I jump around in joy with?

It was a sweet and sour experience. Of course we delved into the chocolates in ecstasy. That goes without saying. But my sticky lips, sweetened by the delectable chocolate beans, had no viewer.

I was stunned and a little stupefied at the bounty. But my mouth wanted to utter those words, 'Dad's got chocolate rations' to my dearest friends. For even as I licked my fingers, I knew their postings was not anything as wondrous.

Thus began my chocolate days in that far-flung land. As the days went by, I waited for my results to come out. A short course in a nearby town as an interlude brought me new friends of my age group.

Town girls from civilian families, unfamiliar with military life. A train route nearby facilitated my journey to and fro. The road route passed through undulating terrains and tea gardens.

It was a stunning, verdant landscape. Incessant rain left the vegetation dewy, sparkling and bright. The air was fresh and clean and inhaling it on the occasional 'rickshaw' ride outside the Air Force station was rejuvenating and wonderful. I was not deterred by the solitary jaunts around the place. Being alone was something I had got accustomed to. After all, we have been brought up in an even tinier place, though the people were all familiar to us there.

I never had the inclination to mingle much there. The natural splendour of those virgin surroundings drew me into its thrall. I lost myself to its musings, discovering new phenomenon in the horizon every day. My books, magazines and craze for tailoring my own clothes kept me busy enough. And the rest of the time I gazed at the distance, day dreaming, writing in invisible ink my little odes onto the clouds.

The one constant there, were the chocolates which kept pouring in.

Cartons at a time. We would eat entire bars in a go, Mom and me. Dad used to be mostly away. And in typical fatherly indulgence, he refused to have more than a couple of pieces at a time.

I did take chocolates to my tailoring class for my special friends often.

So much that I got identified as the chocolaty girl around. Chocolates have a way of saying things words cannot. And evinces strangest of loyalties. I believe it gained me the quickest friendship in the new place. For soon I had not only made a friend for a lifetime, but the most aloof and arrogant girl around was also preferring my company to others.

They even started making the extra effort to visit my home, which was quite a distance away. I was settling in well now.

One day, I spied a bar of chocolate in this new-found friend's dress pocket. I ecstatically exclaimed, 'you too carry chocolates everywhere!

I do too!' She smiled, but did not answer. Much later on I realized my

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mother also filled their hands with these bars of joy whenever they came home.

That was a wonderful feeling indeed. A semblance of our earlier life was returning.

-3Back to school

☆

Another turn of events took me away to another vastly different world. I made my first entry into a city home soon after. Lack of educational opportunities displaced my mother and me. Hurtled into a strange society again with its separate set of rules and standards was a turbulent experience. The sound and fury inundated our senses. Communication seemed impossible. Strangers at every turn of the head bewildered me. Mom too was unused to the chaotic city life.

Public transport was an indomitable challenge. Living by us was another hard factor. But it must have been harder for Dad to return to a lonely home in that remote place. He started making regular flights to the nearest Air Force station deliberately, to meet us as often as he could.

And like before, he came loaded with chocolates. This time, there were even more cartons. I realized he seldom had any chocolates by himself. The chocolate sorties' rations were all saved for us.

My sister of course received her regular quota of magic cartons in her hostels. As did my fast friend from back in the mountains, who too was in college in Chennai by then. To the utter delight of their hostel friends, they unpacked those marvels.

The joy of receiving parcels by post in those days was singular by itself. When they contained such marvellous contents, their collective joy knew no bounds.

And sorrows too. For oft the parcels got picked somewhere in transit. And the inland letter informing them that a carton of chocolate was on its way, brought unending wait. And unrequited expectations. But on our part we did share our joy as much as we could. Of course, the regret of not being able to share with our former school friends lingered throughout. How could I partake of such pure bliss, un-quantified and incalculable in its immensity, all by myself? For chocolate was pure love! Relating to it in solitary wonder seemed strange and immoral.

Chocolate started giving me its pangs of guilt now. But only momentarily. It's special addictive qualities made them disappear like mist whenever we shared a bar after dinner.

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Then I gave myself up to the moment. And the sensuous, luxuriating sensations dulled all other qualms. A teenager's svelte form too was back-brushed to hidden precincts of the mind.

I need not have worried. The chocolates kept coming till Dad retired.

And my tryst with the tasty delight did not quite end. Nor did I put on the pounds. Chocolates were rather sweet to me. They returned generously all the love I lavished on them.

-4In the metropolis some time back

☆

It's been many years now since I settled into the city. My working life and family began here. My father is now my most cherished memory.

Rushing through the paces today I look back with deep nostalgia at those wondrous times and happy moments with my family. Our innocent joy, lack of needs and undemanding lives. The packing box culture has given way to luxe couches and velvet drapes. Dining out is often and uneventful. Picking up chocolate Eclairs for the heck of it, is common enough. Foreign travels by family members keep relinquishing the supply in the fridge. Favourite brands now are Lindt, Ferroro Rocher and a variety of liquor chocolates. Chocolates have become a way of life. Birthdays and anniversaries come with the signature chocolate coating. But even today, I seldom munch on a chocolate on my own. Its essential creed remains the same – chocolates have to be had with someone special!

Lives have progressed from inland letters and morning-after newspapers to smart phones and instantaneous information now. Pouring through the news is my old journalistic habit.

And on one such unsuspecting day, when I was scrolling through Twitter, I saw it. The news. An IAF AN-32 had been downed in the precarious Arunachal Pradesh Mountains. There were 13 military personnel on board, including crew. No remnants of the plane had been located.

Shell-shocked, I shuddered at the news. For days, I could not recover. The search operations were on. The reasons for the mishap remained unknown. The only fact that emerged was that the flight was from the very same Air Force station that we lived in. I remembered my innocent query to Dad then, 'why do they give you chocolates in your rations? And why do you call them chocolate sorties?' Dad had replied, 'The mountains in the north-east are very treacherous. And it takes immense mental faculty flying here, especially with big planes. The chocolates are meant to replenish our energy instantly and keep us at our most alert.'

Suddenly, all those times he used to be away flashed through my mind. And the heavy dose of chocolates he brought back home every time. I suddenly understood the immense dangers he had smilingly taken on every single day. And the dangerous truth behind those boxes of chocolates.

47

Nandita De 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, FrontierWeekly, 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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49

Himalayan Chocolate Dr. Pooja Gupta

It had been really long since she felt so excited. Meeting Sameera, her best friend, after a gap of almost two years was nothing less than a celebration time. Sameera was very dear to her.

So, on the day she relocated to Mumbai for work reasons, Manisha fixed an extended plan. She planned a dinner followed by movie and then chilling out at their favorite hangout place...the River Ghaat.

The entire evening was all planned out.

Manisha was a little apprehensive when she started from home earlier, "I am meeting Sameera after two Years; this is a pretty long gap. I have heard that people change. I have heard that their outlook changes. Has Sameera changed too? Is our friendship as important to her even now as it used to be when we both cherished this bond?”

"Could Sameera see our friendship in the same way as I do?” She was afraid. She had every reason to feel skeptical. Of late, Manisha had started to feel that Sameera didn’t call her often or even chat enthusiastically as she would do earlier.

But after few bites now, all was good. They both were enjoying the evening and dinner.

They caught up with each other's career, personal life, gossiping about other friends. To top it all, they poked fun about each other. It was a laughter-filled dinner.

“Great! Nothing has changed. We are still the best of friends”, Manisha thought.

Dinner was over and they were about to head out for the movie, when the manager came and said, “Pardon me, Ma’am.

I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. It seems you are very close friends and are thrilled to meet with each other after a long time."

"Yes, we are. It’s after a gap of two long years that we are meeting,” Sameera answered smilingly.

"Well, here is our Himalayan special chocolate for you to enjoy your reunion day and celebrate in the house!"

Both were thrilled. They thanked the manager and started rubbing their hands with the excitement to dig their teeth in that nicely decorated chocolate.

"Let me go to freshen up and wash my hands. Don't you dare eat without me,” she said laughingly as she went away.

Manisha smiled and started waiting for her to come back so that they could gorge on their favorite sweet. After few minutes passed, she felt a little tempted. The sight of that cover as simply too tempting to resist. The aroma, the decoration, the perceived softness, everything invited her to have at least one bite.

"So what if I take just one bite; it’s such a big one,” Manisha contemplated and picked up the spoon lying near her.

The bite was heavenly; it was an experience which no other chocolate could top! It felt as if she had never eaten a chocolate before; it was so delicious!

After savoring the bite for few seconds, she looked down to have another bite. What she saw next widened her eyes in surprise, and few seconds later she giggled. She was so much into that luscious and moist thing that she had already finished most of it.

”Well… It’s Sameera's loss.

She shouldn’t have taken this long to come”. She justified herself.

After few long minutes, Sameera came and saw Manisha was already done with the chocolate. Manisha started laughing expecting Sameera to join her.

Little did she expect the reaction Sameera had.

"What is this?" Sameera said pointing to the plate with leftover chocolate.

"Sorry babes. I didn't realize what I did," Manisha said understanding she had upset her friend.

Sameera didn't say anything, but Manisha had now understood the gravity of situation.

After another apology, and to divert the conversation, she reminded Sameera of the movie they needed to head out for; the show had to begin in another 30 minutes. Sameera quietly agreed and they started for the theatre. Already 10 minutes into driving and Sameera had not spoken a word! Manisha on the other hand was talking continuously in order to ease the tension the chocolate had generated.

"Come on buddy. Don't act kiddish. It was just a chocolate," Manisha blurted out. "I'll buy you a new one tomorrow." She added.

Sameera stayed numb; she just nodded.

After a while, she said, "You know what. It’s too late in the night.

Drop me at the next traffic signal. I'll catch the bus and go home. I am not feeling well."

Manisha was just clueless about what just happened?

"Sameera, don't spoil the evening now. I was so excited and looking forward to our plan.”

"No, I am a little tired now. The dinner had been heavy," pat came Sameera’s reply.

"Then we can skip the movie and go somewhere else" "The only place I want to go is home."

Sameera's cold tone almost sealed the deal for both of them.

Manisha reluctantly dropped her at the next bus stop.

"Good night friend" Sameera walked off without waiting for a response.

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Manisha still couldn’t decipher what had just happened. In 15 minutes, the entire buoyant evening turned into a gloomy affair. Yet Manisha was hopeful that Sameera might come back realizing that she overreacted. It wasn’t still too late to salvage the evening. She kept waiting at the bus stop looking at Sameera.

Two minutes later, the bus came, picked everyone and left. Sameera was gone too. Dejected Manisha reignited the car and started driving back to home.

She just couldn't believe and wasn't sure of what went wrong. “How could a rectangular piece of chocolate spoil a well-planned evening,” she couldn’t stop wondering. “Is our friendship so fragile that a chocolate could break such a long bond?”

She couldn't help concluding. "Yes, people change with passage of time.

Yes, their outlook changes. Yes, what used to matter to them earlier doesn't matter anymore."

With tearful eyes, Manisha entered home and without talking to anyone went straight to her bed. Her mother, obviously worried, asked her from outside the locked door about what happened.

"Nothing," Manisha replied. "I am just sleepy." She then switched off the light to avoid the series of questions that could just pop up.

It was now 2 in the morning, but sleep had evaded Manisha's eyes for the past three hours. "Will she be awake too?"

"Will she call me to apologize?"

"Should I call her? But why should I? It was she who acted so absurdly, that too, over a mere piece of chocolate.”

But she wasn’t able to think of any way out of this weird incident. "This cannot be resolved!" She sighed.

She was now angry at the manager. "Why did the manager give us the chocolate? Did we ask for it? I am never going to that restaurant again."

She was still tossing on the bed waiting for her eyes to feel heavy, yet nothing was working.

Suddenly, she remembered a video she had watched 2 - 3 months ago of two kids; almost10-11 years old, playing in a park. They appeared to be very close friends; laughing, playing and pulling pranks.

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Suddenly, she remembered a video she had watched 2 - 3 months ago of two kids; almost 10-11 years old, playing in a park. They appeared to be very close friends; laughing, playing and pulling pranks.

A little later, one of them gave the other a small gift, wrapped in a beautiful cover.

The other kid was all too excited seeing that gift box; her beaming eyes showed it all. She couldn't wait to open the gift and opened it in a jiffy.

As the camera got closer, the words written on the cover became clearer, ‘FOR MY BEST FRIEND SONI.’ Soni hugged her friend thanking her for the gift.

Alarm went off and Manisha woke up. It was Monday morning and she had to get ready for office. But her head felt heavy. As she put on the slippers, the previous night's incident flashed in her mind again and put her off. But today, she felt a little optimistic and hopeful. It was a new and fresh morning. May be Sameera too is feeling the same way! But why do I need her to forgive me? Rather she should tender an apology from me; it was she who spoiled the whole evening and her mood with that inexplicable mood swing. She wondered.

She was quite confident thinking that by the time she would reach the office, she will get an apologetic call from her friend, or might receive an email from her.

Looking forward to rest of the day, Manisha started for the office. Every few minutes she ensured to check her phone in case she missed any call.

"May be it is going to be through email." Manisha justified her hopefulness.

Alas! There wasn’t anything there too. Manisha kept waiting. The whole day passed by in work and dilemma, still no word from her pal. Could a chocolate be the end of their friendship?

Friendships break over money, land, ego, love interests and all sorts of things. But Chocolate! Who knew! She thought to herself.

“Or maybe I am thinking too much. May be Sameera needs another day.

May be she is too embarrassed to talk or maybe she is engrossed in her work,” Manisha pondered all possibilities.

The next day passed too, so did Wednesday. But not a single call or message from Sameera!

Manisha's mother couldn't bear her daughter’s sadness anymore.

"What's the matter? Ever since the day you came back from that dinner, you are upset. I didn't ask on the past 2 days as I gave you your space. But now I can't bear your low spirits anymore.”

Manisha, after being quiet for few seconds, told her mother everything. Her mother was a little surprised with Sameera's behavior as she found 25-plus Sameera’s behavior too childish to accept.

A while later, she imparted wise words, "There has to be a bigger reason for her to be so upset. Go talk to her. Even though I agree Sameera shouldn't have reacted this way, if you value her friendship so much it doesn't matter who takes first step towards the other. Such friendships are too valuable to lose due to personal ego."

Manisha couldn't agree more. Rather, she was just waiting for the push from someone close, like her mother, to go and talk to her friend. She wanted to just salvage and save the friendship; which was an invaluable bond to her. She quickly finished her breakfast and got ready for the office. But she knew she had to take a detour on the way. She was already feeling better.

Before long, Manisha reached Sameera's home and rang the doorbell.

It was Sameera's mother who opened the door with a smile on her face, but she could also notice a sense of bewilderment.

Aunty knows, Manisha understood.

"Have a seat, beta. I'll call Sameera. It is good to see you after so many days."

Manisha patiently waited for Sameera. “How will Sameera react after seeing me? Will she even greet me? But why did she react so weirdly just over the chocolate?” Mixed emotions and thoughts kept bothering Manisha.

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After a few long minutes, Sameera entered the room with a little smile on her face. Exchange of greetings was followed by a long unpleasant silence afterwards. May be the silence was waiting for who interrupts it first. Remembering her mother's words, Manisha decided to set aside her ego and extended a gift to Sameera.

Sameera, with a questioning look and a touch of inquisitiveness, looked at the gift. "What’s this?" asked she. A childlike excitement was evident in her tone.

"Something for you that I am sure will uplift your sombre mood,” answered a hopeful Manisha.

Sameera, trying her best to hide her emotions, opened the gift.

Her eyes widened as she saw the cover, ‘FOR MY BEST FRIEND SONI’.

Even though time had passed for those two 10-year old girls; Soni has become Sameera and Monu has become Manisha, this trick of that Engraved CHOCOLATE still worked!

Soni aka Sameera had the same look in her eyes as she had when she was 10 years old. She lunged forward and gave a tight hug to Manisha. Manisha hugged her back. She was happy her best friend was still hers. She had already put the bitter chocolate incident at bay.

After a moment, Sameera initiated, “I am sorry Monu for my behavior. It was too childish of me to explain now. It looks like my emotions were bottled up. I had started feeling for the past few years that you were taking me for granted. You would call me at odd hours; you don't reply to my emails, you are late for anything I ask you to do.

"I know that you valued our friendship more than I ever did, but somehow I couldn’t cope with our personality differences anymore. That Himalayan Chocolate episode was the last straw. During the whole drive from the restaurant, I kept thinking how you couldn’t you wait for me! How could you not give me this respect! To be honest, I was still a bit upset till you gave me my favorite chocolate,” Sameera continued.

"I am sorry Soni. Perhaps I unknowingly nagged you. But it was all because I feel that you are part of my family. Over family and best friends, I feel we have the utmost right. You don't need to follow social conventions around them. You can eat from their plate and share your plate with them." Manisha justified.

"But maybe I went too far and for that I am sorry," continued Manisha.

"I am sorry too Monu. May be I shouldn’t have been so silly. I expect too much from you. But you know what... I am surprised you still remembered this." Sameera said pointing at the box.

"Yes I am glad my papa recorded those moments," said Manisha smilingly.

"But hey, not that I mind this, this patch-up happened all too easy. Can you explain?"

"I told my mother what happened that same night. She got a little furious at my behavior. She asked me to call you right away to apologize, but I was little too upset and egoistic to call you back. The next day I thought of calling you, and in fact ma insisted too, but I underestimated how quickly human ego takes over. I realized that I was throwing something too valuable by not calling you."

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After a pause, Sameera continued, "All I was doing from there on was waiting for your phone call. And then also, I wasn't sure how I was going to react. I am glad you came. You are a better friend than I am to you."

"Ha ha, undoubtedly!" said Manisha laughingly. "Don't worry. It’s just water under the bridge."

"Chocolate made our true emotions come out. And Chocolate perhaps made us better friends than we already were." Both quickly agreed upon.

"Hey listen. I need to go to office now. I am already late and may need to stay back till night. No thanks to you for that!" Manisha winked at Sameera.

"Yes, go to office. Don't use this incident as an excuse for not to work." Sameera got back at Manisha with a smile.

Manisha, feeling all better, reached her office where she saw an email that Sameera had sent moments after Manisha left.

"Let us meet at the Ghaats tonight. I am planning to bring something to eat. What should I? Maybe the Himalayan Chocolate that the manager gave!"

Dr Pooja Gupta is a clinical Microbiologist by profession. Writing came to her at the right time; when her twinnies were old enough! She enjoys writing fictional stories especially thrillers. She is glad to be a part of such amazing blogging circles and is constantly learning to be better!

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The Chocolate Fountain Farheen Kazmi

Riya prepped up the chocolates in a box. Then went on to decorate the chocolate mud cake. She wiped the counter after winding up all the work of her confectionary shop. It was called ‘The Sweet Heaven'. The only memory of her parents. The shop was their legacy. Riya continued to flourish it with ample customers. People usually flocked the place with so much delight.

Today was a special day though. The shop got a huge order of chocolate love drops which were made of chocolate ganache. It was put later in the refrigerator. The center of it was filled with raspberry jam.

It was molded into a heart’s shape and wrapped in a shiny golden wrapper.

There was another order from the same place-------A huge chocolate mud cake.

The particular order was so peculiar. The cake should consist of raspberry icing on top with a bit of red velvet inside. The deep layers there in the crevice should again be filled with dark chocolate.

The shop was now filled with so much of the smell of the freshly made chocolate bars. The aroma of it brought more customers to her shop. She invited them in with a wide smile.

People left the place happy and pleased with the services of the confectionary shop. Of course! Her team was very good. They were very efficient and hard working. Tonight though, Riya let them all go home early. They were impeccable with the order and they worked much late into the evening.

Riya took upon herself the job of delivering the huge order. Her team typed the order details in her tablet and also the address of the place.

Riya frowned with both of her eyebrows raised. Wow! It was located almost in the outskirts of the Shimla town. It was a chilly night and she was dog tired. She let out a sigh and got into her car.

Rakesh, the guy in the team who took the delivery, had helped her put the boxes in the back of her car. It was now her job to deliver the goodies. Rakesh was the newest recruited employee in the shop. He was one quiet fellow, but productive nonetheless. He told her about the place that was big, and mostly a watchman took the delivery from him. That sufficed the explanation of the place to Riya. She drove the car fast and hard on the road. It was a lonely ride and the way to the old mansion was too marooned. She wondered at the lack of the houses around. There was thick green forest everywhere. She shivered as the night's winter air slid into the car. Riya slid up the glass windows and cranked up the heater.

The warmth immediately hit into her senses and she stopped shivering after fifteen minutes. She ate the chocolate love drops that were made extra, while driving. The sweet and warm flavours burst in her mouth and she moaned in such pleasure. These chocolate filled candies were her favourite.

Riya reached the location on time, but what froze her in the car seat was not the cold this time. She literally turned into a statue as she saw what was there right in front of her. Her eyes rounded looking at the colossal display of around. The mansion was so

huge. It was a mixture of seeming white and dark. There was a huge gate and inside the lane was swanked either side with healthy lawn grass. The porch was brightly lit and there wasn’t any watchman around. It was strange.

Riya frowned at the weirdness of it all. Sure these people ordered a lot of chocolates from her shop, but Riya rarely paid too much attention to one particular customer . Every customer was dear to her. Only a woman talked most often with her about the order from the mansion.

Maybe, they were housekeepers.

The place surely would have numerous numbers of servants. Riya was sure about it now. She let out a huge unsettled breath and peered towards a camera installed on one of the pillars of the gate. She slid down the glass of her car door and pushed out her head.

“Uh...I’m here to deliver the order of chocolates from ‘The Sweet Heaven' confectionery shop.” She informed mechanically and a little awkwardly. The lenses of the camera focused on her face as Riya sat down uncomfortably on her car seat . She waited for a bit, but the huge iron gates didn’t move an inch.

The mansion was all Victorian and Riya was impressed how they managed to get the authentic vibe of the eighteenth century England.

It was too good and also creepy as hell. It looked ghostly. It wasn’t like Riya was a coward or that she was afraid of paranormal things, but this pushed to an extreme. Standing in the midst of thick green forest, the mansion seemed to be standing in the middle of nowhere! It was crazy.

The silence slowly started to get to her and Riya almost turned her car around to run from this godforsaken place, but at last the gates made a noise. The sound was close to a moan and a whine as if they weren’t opened until now at all for anyone and that the gates were rusted. She was going crazy. She was cooking up stories now. She gulped hard.

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The gates opened slowly and Riya felt an ominous feeling weighing down on her shoulders. This wasn’t going to end up well, was it? She said a little prayer in her heart and moved her car along the way towards the mansion. It took her exactly fifteen minutes to reach the actual mansion. Filthy rich people and their swanky places. Riya shook her head in disbelief. She was seeing this kind of lavish and ostentatious display of wealth for the first time.

Riya stopped the car and got out of it. She hurriedly removed the boxes one by one and placed them on the posh looking porch. It was so clean that she worried about her humble sneakers ruining the shiny looking floor. She dusted her shoes thoroughly and stepped on it. She walked towards the large, deep red mahogany door. She rang the doorbell instantly. The sooner she left the place the better it was for her sanity. The quiet around was too eerie and it was cold as heck.

The winter really seemed to have settled in this place. The forest added to the already frigid weather. Riya rubbed her arms and pushed at the doorbell button once again, when there wasn’t any answer. The door finally opened, and Riya sighed a huge breath of relief.

“Oh, thank god. I wondered if you guys all went to sleep. Thanks a lot for ordering…” Riya started to blabber.

But she stopped and her eyes widened looking at the emptiness in front of her. There was no one at the door. Riya kept blinking and peered inside. She looked at either side of the door. What in the world?

There wasn’t anyone at the door. She stepped inside the hall and her mouth hung open. Her eyes collided with a wide crystal clear glass chandelier. The decorative piece of madness was hanging by the ceiling and it looked so mesmerising. It looked like some raindrops from heaven escaped the place and were hung here for people to be in awe of it. The whole place was so expensive. It cried richness.

The walls were adorned with oil paintings from Victorian era. A fruit basket. The dead noble peerage of the eighteenth century women.

They all looked across at her dauntingly and Riya gulped hard.

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Had she finally died and stepped inside heaven because this place was so beautiful. She came out of the trance and her eyes fell on the large fireplace. The warmth coming from there looked so pleasing and inviting. The hearth of the fireplace was furnished. The carpet was deep maroon velvet. Either side of the stone wall containing the lavish space was filled with large maroon coloured sofa sets.

“Wow,” Riya let out a laugh, and a breathless whisper.

She resisted herself to rest her feet near the fireplace. It was time to put the chocolates down and run from here. The thought of no one opening the door clawed at her senses. It made her spine to straighten.

Something was gravely amiss here. She hurried once again and brought in the boxes one by one inside the hall.

“Uh…here are the boxes delivered from the shop. Thanks for ordering from ‘Sweet Heaven' once again…” Riya started to fumble with words.

She huffed and puffed as the boxes were a bit heavy and there wasn’t any help coming from these mansion people. How rude were the servants here! Riya didn’t care. She was tired and was ready to hit the hay. It was time for her to leave.

A sudden flicker of a flame drew Riya's eyes, towards the fireplace.

Her brows furrowed and she walked towards it. The light that was all yellow moved about and Riya followed its movements with a mesmerised pair of feet. She walked forward and her eyes widened.

The place beside the fireplace was now occupied by a large chocolate fountain. The deep brick brown liquid was flowing down from a shimmery silver fountain piece. Riya’s eyes widened. Her mouth hung open. Only minutes ago that wasn’t placed there, but now?

Riya got startled when the clock struck twelve O’clock of midnight.

The fireplace burned brighter as a deep delicious smell of the warm chocolate-melting filled the air. Riya’s eyes glazed up and her lungs took in the sweet concocted aroma of the chocolate fountain. The craziness of it penetrated into her veins and singed her blood. Oh, good lord! She needed it. She wanted it. The chocolate flowed down like a magical rivulet and it beckoned and called her spirit. The

craving filled into each cell of her body.

Riya walked towards it in a trance. She saw numerous bread pieces placed on the wooden table where the silver fountain sat perched. She took half a loaf of piece which lay uncut on the tray.

She needed a lot of chocolate to fill this crazy craving.

She placed the bread under the chocolate and the liquid dribbled on it. Her mouth watered. It smelled better than her shop chocolate. She opened her mouth and put the piping hot chocolate covered bread in her mouth and a moan escaped her lips. She munched on it and the wanting only increased more with every bite. She devoured the bread and licked the chocolate sliding down her wrist and hand.

“No!” There came an abrupt shrill of a cry. Riya dropped another bread that she just held. The door of the mansion cried a neigh and it snapped shut. The resounding filled the entire place. The walls started to move and the chandelier wildly swung to and fro. It looked as if the very life of the mansion had come alive.

Riya’s eyes turned into horrified saucers as an apparition closed in on her. “You shouldn’t have done that,” It mumbled in a sad whisper. Acute fear gripped her body and mind and she felt it slid down her spine. She shook because of the effort to stand still.

“Who…. who are you?” She asked shaking.

The apparition turned circles around her. The hallow dark eyes of it stared at the chocolate fountain and it cried.

“I tasted the chocolate before you. It was so long ago. It took my body.” The apparition groaned and whispered the last words in her left ear.

A chill covered her skin and her heart started to beat fast. Her breathing turned laboured.

Riya gasped and moved back. She tried to make a run towards the door. Just then a laugh so evil filled around the place and the apparition let out a loud shriek.

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“It’s here! It came alive! You shouldn’t have eaten the chocolate…” The apparition moaned.

The laughter continued to shake the place around. The whole being of the mansion mocked at her. The voice made her heart stop. She couldn’t breathe and her lungs constricted to take in any more air. She ran towards the door once again and screamed when a hand slid over her right shoulder. ***

Riya screamed and screamed and flailed her arms and legs. She hit something soft and her eyes opened wide. She kept gasping and choking on a breath. She looked down at her bed and her chest moved up and down.

What was happening? She blinked several times and her vision still focused around her room. Was it a dream? A dream? Really? Where was the mansion? Did she deliver the chocolates there? Her mind was so muddled now. Her body still shivered so much. Her throat felt parched and she got off the bed.

She walked towards the window and took the water bottle from the table.

She opened the cap and drank half of the cool liquid. Just then, the clouds cleared away and the moon light entered her room. The table now was illuminated and she stared wide eyed at a silver coloured chocolate fountain.

The chocolate was drizzling down and the fear so extreme hit her hard in the chest.

The smell of the chocolate filled her room and the same inhuman laugh penetrated.

The silence of the night was now pierced by a blood curdling scream. The full moon moved high and luminous. It was however shadowed by a crimson hue. A curse in its full affect grinned down evilly…

Farheen Kazmi is a newbie contemporary romance writer. She has her works published on Amazon as well.

Besides being a writer, she is a voracious reader. She also writes poetry as it is closer to her heart. She is a great fan of the novels written by Agatha Christie and Charlotte Brontë. An MBA graduate, she has worked in the field for a bit before quitting it to pursue what she loves the most. Writing gave her the needed liberty to play with words and characters. It is what inspired her to be herself. She plans to keep progressing and improving a lot in the field of writing. She feels it is a long way for her to go before achieving something big. Striving hard is her motto and her mantra.

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61

The Choco Lava Delight Moushumi Bhattacharjee

Zoze D’Costa entered his coffee bar excitedly. It was buzzing with people of all age groups. He looked towards the counter. Monik, his young and beautiful wife, was busy taking orders, her eyes monitoring the waiters and also interacting with the customers.

Gliding in between the rows of the coffee tables he went near the counter and lifted Monik in his arms in exhilaration. Tapping to the latest rock that was being played in t

the background, he asked the waiters to join him. Monik, embarrassed and totally perturbed at his behaviour, begged him to set her free from his clasp as everyone was laughing at his funny behaviour.

“We have won the lottery Monik”. Zoze shouted at the top of his voice in excitement. “It’s a trip to Seattle for five days for two persons. The entire trip will be financed by a chocolate company of the US.” Zoze was breathless.

He looked at the crowd in his coffee shop and cheered gleefully. The crowd cheered him back.

Monik was thrilled. She had grown up in a small town of Goa in a humble family.

From childhood, she had lots of dreams to rise in life and travel to distant lands.

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She was educated and smart, but she had never had an occasion to travel even to other regions of her country. She couldn’t believe her ears. It was her dream to visit a foreign land, but a US trip was certainly beyond her expectations.

“When are we going Zoze?" Monik's eyes twinkled.

“On 15th of this month sweetheart. It’s 2nd December today.

We don’t have much time in hand to prepare for the trip.”

“Yes, we have lots of things to do. We must do some shopping before we leave. Some warm clothes are must for this cold season in US”.

Monik said.

“But how can we leave our bar closed for so long? We may lose our customers.” Monik’s excitement diminished at the thought of the eventualities. “Perhaps we have to decline this offer dear.” She said in a sad tone.

“No, no we can’t forgo this trip at any cost Monik. We have to find out a solution.” Zoze muttered in a thoughtful voice.

Suddenly, the face of his cousin brother flashed before his eyes. He called John over telephone and requested him to help him out during their absence. Though John had his own business, he accepted the request to look after his cousin’s coffee bar for some days.

Zoze was relieved. He assured Monik not to panic as he had found out a solution to the problem. Pleased with the arrangement, Monik returned to her desk to attend the customers. She had to check the stock of kitchen stuffs too. She couldn’t shift the entire responsibility on John's shoulders, who had least idea about how to run a coffee bar. The couple used to cater baked items like cookies, cakes and custards along with coffee to their customers. So, there was enough to manage before leaving for the US. Zoze came out of the bar. He kickstarted his bike and went to the US embassy for the Visa. A lot of arrangements had to be done before going for the tour. The next few days were busy for the couple, shopping and meeting relatives and friends who came to see them after getting the news. Their visas also arrived. They received

the flight tickets from the chocolate company along with some necessary instructions for the tour. Zoze and Monik arranged all the ingredients that were needed to run their shop's kitchen and instructed the station chef, waiters and kitchen staff to cooperate with John in running the bar in their absence. They requested John to come to their bar before their departure so as to have an idea about its functioning. John assured the couple that they could leave everything to him without any hesitation and enjoy the trip.

Zoze thanked his cousin again and again for helping him out at this crucial moment.

With full of chocolaty dreams, the couple boarded the flight to US from Mumbai. Flying over the vast Pacific, they talked and talked about the different places they were going to visit. After a long journey, they finally landed at Seattle. The skyscrapers of the city fascinated the young minds. They were on cloud nine. The company booked a good hotel from which they could see a vast area of the city.

After taking rest for sometime in the hotel, they went out on foot to the nearby areas of their hotel. The whole city was decorated with lights and signboards of big companies. They were then taken to countryside by a company car to see a chocolate factory. The huge building with its sophisticated machinery astonished the young couple. The exquisite way of preparing chocolates of different tastes amazed them. The outlets of the factory displayed a variety of chocolates and other products made of chocolates or having a chocolate flavour. Their taste was delectable.

Monik took down some important information in her notepad regarding the preparation of different chocolate delights. She wanted to introduce different tastes at her coffee bar. After all, that was her ultimate dream in life. She and Zoze had toiled hard to make their little coffee bar a successful one.

Though their coffee bar was running smoothly, they felt the time was getting tougher for them as new such bars had cropped up in their vicinity. They had to think about innovative ways to be always on the top in Panjim. They used to research on ideas to create something special to attract customers beating the others in the race. They felt the

trip would be a blessing for them as they would get to know more about new recipes and newer ways to manage their coffee bar.

First two days went in visiting places and monuments. The third day brought a surprise for them. The company that was sponsoring their trip invited them to join a confectionery club as trainees for one day. They would get training in preparing different types of cakes and cookies. The couple were overjoyed to get the unexpected invitation. That was the delightful topping on their entire trip.

They got up early in the morning excitedly looking forward to attend their training on chocolate items. They took shower and dressed in jeans and shirts, hurriedly went to the breakfast lounge.

After a bowl of cornflakes and milk, they sipped the hotel’s special chocolate drink. The cup full of chocolate drink refreshed their minds and they were ready to start their day.

It was 8 o’clock in the morning. The soft sun of the morning hour enticed the young couple. Everything was looking fresh and calm.

Their car was speeding towards the destination. With dreamy eyes, Monik looked through the window glass of the car. The weather seemed bewitching. The leaves still holding the dew gently swayed with the cool breeze. Monik had never in her life dreamt of visiting such a beautiful place. Lord Jesus blessed her with that surprise trip. She looked at the sky and closed her eyes and said a prayer.

Zoze was watching her silently. He was glad to find that his wife looked so happy and excited. He pressed her hands a little. Both their eyes met and they smiled.

They reached the venue before time. Dahlia Bakery was known for its exquisite cakes and chocolates. They were directed to report to the kitchen where the chef was going to brief them. After the formal introduction, the chef revealed his plan for the day. A new recipe was waiting for them. Monik felt goosebumps all over her body. She was unable to control her excitement.

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The ingredients for the new item were laid down on a table. The name of the new innovation was ‘Chocolava Cake'.

“The crust will be solid just like a cake, but the core will be molten.” The chef explained further. “It’s a new innovation and let’s see how the people take it". The chef smiled gently.

The training began. Zoze and Monik with other trainees circled around the chef. With keen attention, Monik followed each word and action of the chef. A teaspoon of baking powder was shifted to a cup of flour and one-fourth cup cocoa powder in a bowl. One egg was whisked and added to the flour mixture. Half cup milk, half cup butter and half cup sugar were also added. The mixture was blended until it reached a smooth consistency. After that, the mixture was poured in small greased baking cups. Two pieces of chocolate were pushed inside each of the mixtures of the cups.

The baking cups were placed inside a preheated oven. After 20 minutes, the oven was switched off. The cake was ready. The chef took a cup and scraped the sides of the cake and inverted it onto a plate patting the cup gently. With a knife he sliced the cake. To everybody’s surprise the hot molten core flowed out just like lava flows out during volcanic eruptions.

Everybody encouraged the chef by clapping and cheering loudly. It looked marvellous. The strong aroma of hot chocolate was inviting.

They congratulated the chef for this new innovation. The trainees were asked to taste the cakes and share their views.

Monik scooped a portion of her piece of cake and asked Zoze to taste. Then she took another scoop and tasted it. The hot molten chocolate along with the crust tasted delicious. She clicked few pictures of the cake from different angles.

The chef observed Monik’s curiosity and presented her with a book of chocolate cakes and cookies. She thanked him profusely for this gesture.

There were many more recipes of cakes and cookies that were taught during the day in the confectionery club. Zoze and Monik took down the recipes in their notebooks and followed every single instruction given by the chef.

The day was full of surprises. They had a grand lunch at the club along with other trainees and the chef. The dessert was again a chocolate pudding prepared by the chef especially for the trainees.

The training ended with a presentation of certificates and a couple dance. Zoze and Monik came back to their hotel totally exhausted. But sleep eluded Monik. She was on top of the world reminiscing the moments she had spent in the club. She felt as if she had a bath in molten chocolate. The flavour of chocolate filled up the hotel room.

For a long time, she thought about the various items she was going to introduce at her coffee bar in Goa. Tired and exhausted, she fell asleep at the wake of dawn.

The couple spent the next two days in travelling to nearby areas and in sight-seeing. They indulged themselves in shopping too. After all, they had to take gifts for their friends and relatives from a foreign country.

The tour ended with lots of excitement and joy. The couple boarded the flight for Mumbai. The Seattle trip introduced them to the world that was unknown to them. They needed this exposure to develop their skills and experience.

Christmas was just three days away. Zoze suggested introducing the Chocó lava cake on Christmas Eve at their coffee bar. He extended every possible help to Monik to make the day a memorable one. Monik worked hard along with her kitchen staff arranging the ingredients for the cake and instructing them on the methods to prepare Chocó lava Cake. On 24th December, they displayed the name of their coffee bar’s special item on a board near to the entrance.

Customers started pouring in. A few amused youngsters inquired about the special item of the day to the waiters. The waiters gave a

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65 brief description of the item displayed. The youngsters ordered the cake in curiosity. The small cupcakes looked appealing.

Tension gripped Monik. She crossed her fingers in nervousness.

Silently she prayed God to save her from any disaster.

The youngsters were enthralled to see the overflowing hot chocolate from the cake.

They found it too delicious. They ordered for more such cakes.

Within an hour, the Chocó Lava Cake became a ‘hotcake’ in their coffee bar.

But some problems too aroused in which Monik had to intervene and manage the situation. A woman of around fifty yelled at the waiter as she thought that the cake was not properly cooked.

Monik came running in for the rescue of the waiter and explained the woman about the recipe of the cake. In a soft voice, she cleared the doubts of the woman and asked her to taste the item and share her opinions. The woman found it delicious and laughed at her craziness.

The Christmas Eve was a grand success for the D'Costa couple. In the evening, a number of orders poured in for the Chocó lava Cake for a big Christmas party. Zoze could never dream of such big orders in his life. Their coffee bar became famous in Panjim. They had to hire more helpers to meet the orders.

The Seattle trip changed their life's course. Zoze and Monik uttered a silent prayer and thanked God looking at the sky. Tears of joy rolled down from their cheeks.

Teacher, author and a passionate home maker, Moushumi Bhattacharjee has a knack for music and photography too. Her favourite pass time is reading and watching movies. She inherited her love for literature from her parents as both of them were avid readers and exceptionally good writers. She regularly contributes her poems, short stories and articles in national and international magazines. She is a contributing author of Indian Summer In Verses, Arise From The Dust, Macabre Tales, Coffee And Echoes, Roses And Thorns, Gems II, and a number of other anthologies.

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Memories At Choco Bee

As usual, I ordered my favourite Chocolate Lava cake. It had been my favourite delicacy all these 19 years. Suddenly, I felt a heavy warm touch on my shoulder and looked back. “Hey young man, lost in your dreams?” a bold voice came. It was Mr. Benjamin Smith, a retired army officer and my grandfather’s closest friend. He was standing behind me in a brown It was half past 2, in the afternoon and I was sitting at ChocoBee, one of the most famous leather jacket and rugged high shoes. His golden tooth sparkled as he chocolate and cake shops in Delhi. This place is a paradise for anyone with a sweet tooth. smiled at me. I got up from my seat with a jerk and wished him. “Uncle, I They have a great collection of chocolates, cakes, cookies, candies, coffee shakes besides have an extra class today, so I thought to have something”, I said wiping hot and cold chocolate drinks. It has a vibrant ambience and every passer-by enjoys the intoxicating aroma of fresh chocolate. The stylish interiors and the mouth-watering taste of my chocolatey fingers with a tissue. cocoa beans are a feast to the eyes of all the chocolate lovers.

Rohini Jayanti

Suddenly my eyes encountered someone standing behind Mr. Benjamin. I looked at her and immediately turned my eyes toward Mr. Benjamin with a questioning face.

“Oh, this is my granddaughter Jennifer. She came from Cape Town last week for my grandson’s wedding and Jenny, this is Rishabh, my childhood friend and Retd. Colonel Saxena’s grandson.” We shared a customary smile.

“I think your father might have told you about the wedding, Rishabh, are you coming? He asked caressing his white beard.

“Of course, yes uncle”, I tumbled over my words inquisitively sharing my looks with her. She immediately feigned to look at other things.

“Jenny, get all the stuff you want. You can take Rishabh’s help if need.

I will have one puff of my cigar in the meantime”, Mr. Benjamin said and walked towards the exit. There was a sonorous silence between us. I inhaled deeply and took the initiative to break the silence and showed her the menu card and told her about the special delicacies we get in that place. She was listening quietly, her eyes looking deep into the menu card and I was taking advantage of the situation staring at her. She was around 5’5”, fair complexioned with a glistening skin almost that of a milk chocolate and curly long brown hair. She slowly walked towards the counter and ordered all the most exciting and mouth-watering chocolates, cakes, grand cru truffles. There was absolute silence around us and I could smell the aroma of the freshly baked chocolate lava cake placed on my table. I sat down to finish it off. I was having every piece of it, while experiencing the creamy chocolatey taste. My taste buds danced in excitement, but my eyes did not miss a sight of her. She squinted at times, but again feigned. I felt little embarrassed by my behaviour, but still enjoyed the moment. She took the box and walked passed me with a gentle smile and in that moment, she smelt like fainting aroma of cocoa beans. Her dark brown, mysterious eyes held unexpressed emotions behind. I finished my piece of cake and left the place, but the taste of her thoughts didn’t leave me. I had no clue whether I would see her again.

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It was a week later that we were all at the Venetian Farms to attend the wedding of the Smiths -Thomas and Silvia. The entire venue was like a fairy tale charm, with elaborate florals making it dreamy and magical. It was decorated with flowers of soft shades like blush pink and peach, and ornate crystal chandeliers at the centre stage. The bride and the groom looked adorable in their wedding clothes including the bridesmaids and best men, who were at their best. There was music and finest food; in fact, I would call it a food station.

There were live food counters all around, but the entire fun and laughter was centred at the chocolates’ counter filled with candies, candy floss and chocolate fountains. Children and adults were standing there, dipping their sponge cakes, pretzel sticks, macaroons and what not in the fountain of chocolate. It was a perfect treat that brought back the joy of childhood.

Despite all this amusement and celebration around, my eyes were searching for someone whose looks haunted me every moment now. “Hello Mr. Saxena, how have you been? I expected you much earlier”, a voice turned my attention. It was Mrs. Katherine, youngest daughter of Mr. Benjamin and Thomas Smith’s mother.’ “Oh, you are Rishabh, right? So grown up! You look pretty handsome, dear”, she smiled, placing her hand around my shoulder and leading us inside the venue.

Suddenly, my eyes found her. There she was, dressed in a beige coloured lehenga and golden colour blouse and a heavy embroidered dupatta. Her outfit embraced her body and she made it look more beautiful. Her brown chocolatey eyes sparkled and her smile lit up everyone around her and all these caused my heart to skip a few beats as she approached us. She shared a smile as Katherine introduced her to my parents. I was eager to talk to her, but was waiting for a breakthrough.

“Why don’t you introduce Rishabh to your cousins, Jenny?”

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asked Katherine pushing me forward.

I was elated and wanted to hug Mrs. Katherine for her kind gesture, but controlled my emotions and maintained composure.

As we walked towards the garden, I mustered my courage and started the conversation “So how do you like the chocolates you brought from Choco Bee?” “Yeah, I loved them, specially the chocolate cakes. I might visit the store next week again, as I need to buy some more for my cousins too, before they leave”, she said in a graceful manner.

My excitement of thinking to meet her again was beyond my imagination, but I concealed it behind my eyes and smiled. We left home after the wedding. That night was the most indolent night I have had.

I strolled sleeplessly on my bed. Next few days, my mind was not in my control. Every minute was like an hour for me. Every day, I used to visit the shop to have a glimpse of her by any chance.

Finally, the day came. She got down from her blue Porsche car, dressed in white and brown jumpsuit looking as beautiful as always. After a few minutes, I entered the shop casually without taking any notice of her. I was nervous and my heart beats were soaring, as I pretended to look into the menu. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a chair being scraped against the floor. I moved my eyeballs and found Jenny standing right in front of me, glancing at me with a smile. I gasped a little as I saw her unexpectedly so near.

I lost my senses as she sat down in a chair in front of me. She called the steward and ordered for a chocolate lava cake and one dark chocolate sea salt caramel pecan brownie. “This is your favourite, right?” she asked me pointing to the chocolate lava cake.

I was touched by her gesture and said, “Yes, but how do you know?”

“I have seen you eating this last time, when I came here and also, every day when you were loitering around this place expecting me”, she said in a naughty voice.

I felt embarrassed and was taken aback by her words, but I countered her with a smile and asked, “How do you know that I had been loitering here every day? Have you been coming here too?”

She didn’t expect this question from me and blushed. I looked at her for a while and again removed my eyes off her before entering into an uncomfortable situation. She too looked at me sporadically as she ate her brownie. There was deafening silence except the aroma of the chocolate.

“How long is your stay here?”, I asked curiously as the chocolate cream slipped down her beautiful soft throat touching her pink glossy lips.

“May be a week more”, she replied trying to understand the motive behind my question. Her answer disheartened me. I don’t know whether it was love or infatuation, but her fragrance filled my veins and breaths too and it was choking me. She looked at my book that was peeping out of my bag and pulled it out. There was a surprise look on her face.

“Do you like Fine Arts?” She asked excitedly.

“Yes. I am pursuing my Bachelor of Fine Arts from the University of Delhi. I also want to do my specialisation in Visual Communication or Applied Art in future”, I said boldly.

“That’s great to hear. I too love arts, in fact I want to pursue Masters in theatre Arts from the University of California in future”, she replied.

She looked at her watch and stood as she spoke to me. I understood that she was leaving. I wanted to stop her. She smiled as if she understood my feelings and said in a low gentle voice, “Will you take me to the Art Gallery tomorrow, by any chance if you are free? That is the only place I miss every time.” I was enthralled.

“Sure, it would be my pleasure,” I replied in a very polite tone. She shook hands with me and slipped into her Blue Porsche, carrying the box of Butterscotch and Coffee Crunchettes and a Chocolate gift hamper. That was the most restless night I experienced with

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different emotions burning within me. I sat by the window to welcome Mr. Sun as early as possible. *** It was 10 a.m. and I was at the Delhi Art Gallery in my blue denim jeans and white polo t-shirt. I kept on looking at my watch, but felt the second’s hand was appearing like that of an hour’s.

Suddenly, I heard a voice from behind and looked back. It was Jenny in pink coutellte pants and cream coloured silk blouse, wearing an Armani scarf around her neck. Her long curly hair danced gracefully to the breeze as she walked. We entered the gallery. It was a beautiful place one must see, especially for us, who loved art of every kind. There was a huge collection that covered the entire history of modern art in India---contemporary, progressive, experimental, art of every kind. It was a memorable day in my life, visiting an art gallery with a beautiful damsel and the best part of it was, spending time with Jenny. She was the most beautiful and kind-hearted girl I had ever come across. We were so happy in each other’s company that we didn’t even notice when night fell. Jenny dropped me near my house that night. I got down from the car and looked at her through the glass window.

Sliding the glass of the window, she stretched her hand outside and caressed my hair gently with her soft long fingers and her gentle smile choked me again. *** It was 9 a.m. Monday and I called at Mr. Benjamin’s residence.

“Hello, Mrs. Benjamin here”, a firm voice came from the other side. “Hello aunty, I am Rishabh Saxena. Could I speak to Jenny, uhh, Jennifer?” I asked hesitatingly. “Jenny, a call from Rishabh”, Mrs. Benjamin called out loudly. After a few seconds, I could sense Jenny at the other end. “Hello Rishabh, what a surprise?”, she spoke, with a slight mischief in her tone. “Hello Jenny, I just .

called to find out if you can meet me at the Garden of Five Senses today afternoon?” I asked. ‘Hmmm, but I need to leave early as aunt Katherine is leaving for London tonight”, she responded. “Okay Jenny, see you at sharp 3 p.m.”, saying this, I hung up the phone.

We spent an hour at the park. She sat close to me. I could feel her lavender perfume and was chased by that fragrance. I wanted to touch her, but did not want to spoil the moment out of my foolish act. After a few minutes of silence, she placed her hand over my shoulder and rested her head. My heart beats got alleviated by her gesture. I became speechless. After a moment, she spoke in a low voice “I am leaving day after tomorrow. Dad has confirmed the tickets.” I was dumbstruck. I was not ready to accept though I knew it would happen, but not so soon. Regaining all my energy, I asked “will you be coming back again?” I knew my question had no answer, but still I had to ask. “I am not sure. I may be leaving for California to do my further studies as I told you before”, she responded looking at the pool of water lilies. I paused for a while. There was an agonising silence around. I looked into her eyes, those brown mysterious eyes. She gaped at me and came closer. I could feel her breathe. She took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead with tears running down her cheeks and walked away slowly. I didn’t call her back for I knew that wouldn’t happen. *** It was 6 p.m. Delhi international airport. I was standing at the international Departure terminal. I was waiting for Jenny, to wave a final good bye. I called uncle Benjamin yesterday and enquired about the departure time. Though it was summer, I could feel the cold inside of me. The pain of losing her forever. As I looked around, I could see Jenny with her parents along with Mr. Benjamin.

She came running to me as she saw me. Her face was pale as if she didn’t sleep last night.

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I gave her the Sweet Memories of India Chocolate Gift Hamper, her favourite chocolates and also a box of Chocolate Lava cakes. “This is for you Jenny, the first and the last gift I could give you”. She took them from my hand with a loving smile.

She was holding my hands embracing them out of care and love.

“Thank you Rishabh for everything”, she said, holding tears behind her brown eyes. I wanted to hug her and kiss her for one last time, but controlled my emotions, as her parents were around. She waved a final goodbye and walked towards the security check in. I stood there, lost in her sight till the flight vanished into the air.

Jenny, a beautiful fairy whom I met at the Choco Bee, created magic in my life with her beautiful charm and disappeared, but she always remained fresh in my memories forever like an intoxicating aroma of fresh chocolate.

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Rohini Jayanti is a lady who loves experimenting anything she finds new and works hard towards achieving it. A story teller and a budding writer who finds true happiness in writing short stories, articles and poems.

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The Perfect Plot

##

"Poison".

I smile as I place the steaming hot cup before him on the study table, careful to use his favourite coaster. The table is strewn with papers, books, letters.

The perfect cup of hot chocolate, with the dreamy, steamy swirls rising from its Max looks up at me, his brows meeting each other in a frown and I decadent depths, making their way through the bubbly, frothy, marshmallowy surface, is automatically feel tense for a moment, before reminding myself that I have no easy game. It requires precision, and patience, a wait for the ideal moment to blend no the thick, gooey, brown, molten chocolate in. Do it right and you get a drink, lush and reason to. He takes one last hard drag on the cigarette dangling from his rich, fit for the Gods. And for men. But for a Hot Chocolate fit for the Devil, the kind mouth and then puts it away, reaching for the cup. that I make, you need one extra special ingredient.

Sharanya Mishra

He nods at me and I sit in the only chair in the room. Crossing my legs, my back upright, the way he likes. He takes a sip and gives me a grin.

"Perfect. My poison," he declares. "Thank you, Rhea."

My name rolls off his tongue in a drawl. The same drawling voice that had drawn me to him many nights ago. ## It was a new year's eve. Does the year even matter? I think not. That it was a long time ago should suffice. Enough time for my crow's feet to become apparent and for my wrinkles to become pronounced. I was in Goa with my friends, partying, hard. With booze and dance and shack hopping, there had been no stopping us. No stopping me, when I had drunkenly waltzed into the arms of a handsome stranger and giggled about it. Max turned out to be a gentleman and steered me good naturedly towards my group. The act had been enough to rouse my interest in him. So when he walked up to me on the beach the next day, I had glided onto the pillion of his bike with no inhibitions. Goa had unleashed my inner animal. I was a free spirit, unfettered and wild. That night when we had headed to my hotel room after a very romantic dinner, Max had called in room service for some hot chocolate sauce. I had raised my eyebrows outwardly, but inside, I was melting...just like chocolate.

That New Year's eve had turned my life around. And I, Shaina, had fallen utterly and irrevocably in love with Max. ## We live in a centuries old Portuguese mansion in Goa. Max inherited it from his parents, when they were killed in an accident. He was only 15. He has lived alone since. The house is at the edge of the Candolim Beach.

Surrounded by a dozen coconut trees, we are forever privy to nature's secrets - the sound of rustling leaves, the lashing waves, the squawks of the

gulls. When I first stepped into the house as a newly wedded bride, I was unnerved. Just the two of us in a huge space. I asked him if we could move out, but he refused. He said he was too attached to it .

"What is it that you fear, Shaina?" he had asked.

I couldn't put my finger on it. "The house always weirdly smells of chocolate," I said.

Max had laughed. ## I stand on the ledge jutting out from our roof. It is the only part of the roof that completely opens out onto the sea.

Daring. Defenceless. In the initial days, I had tried to stop Max from going out there, it scared me. But he said he felt free there, on top of the world. Smoking there let him think and unmuddle his busy thoughts. Eventually, I gave up trying to get him to stop. But I never came here myself.

Today, though, is different. Today, my mind has been revisiting old memories. There is a growing restlessness in me that I must cater to. The water seems too inviting.

I feel the melancholy begins to creep over me. When did it all begin to change? What made everything unravel so? Yes, I know. It was that evening, about three months after our wedding. I remember it well. Max was nowhere to be found at home and I had been frantically searching for him all through the mansion. Finally, I had decided to go to the cellars. I had always avoided them. I had taken the stairs down and for sure, I could hear voices. I had hurried towards them and peeked into the room at the end of the corridor. The smell and sight had made me recoil.

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"Rhea. You should get back inside."

The piercing voice jolts me back to the present. I find myself on the precipice and take quick steps back. Max grabs my wrist and pulls hard. I feel a searing pain. But I know better than to resist. I follow him into my jail. ## "Rhea. I will have to go away for a couple of days".

He places the cup down. He looks a little tired. There are dark circles under his eyes.

"Oh." I look at him with trepidation. And yet, I cannot stop the tiny flutter in my stomach. I wonder if he can hear it and I begin to panic.

He looks at me curiously.

"Will you be alright in the house?"

His eyes bore into me. I know the hidden message.

"Don't you dare step out".

I nod. ## It's 8 p.m. I take a deep breath and knock twice. Room no. 211.

The door opens and Amit is hidden behind a massive bouquet of orchids. He remembered.

"Happy Birthday, Rhea". He plants a kiss on my cheek.

I blush. I must be mad to be doing this. If Max finds out, I am dead. I hurriedly enter the room, looking over my shoulder out of habit.

We sit across each other in silence for a bit. This is strange.

Unusual. The usual would be meeting in a friend's place or a far off café, as had been the norm the past few months each time Max went out of town. This...is different.

Amit gets us some wine. I take a sip of the red liquid and feel it burns down my throat and into the pit of my stomach. The warmth makes me relax. For the first time in the day, I smile.

"You look lovely, Rhea."

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He places his hand over mine and our eyes meet. I know that today by choosing to come over, I have given this relationship my unsaid consent. He knows it too.

Our lips meet. An inexplicable feeling of love flares up in me. When was the last time I had been kissed this gently?

My resolve to exit the dismal world I have been living in intensifies. I have scattered away half my life, waiting. Waiting to be rescued from the clutches of a demon. Waiting for someone to hear my silent pleas and get me out of the muck. But now suddenly, this new found love seems to have given me the strength to pull myself out. I still have a life to live! Why have I been foolishly wasting it?

I place my head on Amit's chest and tell myself, “I have chosen the right path”. ## "Poison".

I smile, as I place the steaming hot cup before him on the study table, careful to use his favorite coaster.

He looks up at me and I can see his face is drawn, tired. He seems to be contemplating telling me something. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak.

"I have been a little unwell."

"Oh?" He looks towards his hand, it is shivering. He clenches it into a tight fist to make it stop.

He picks up his cigarette and I can hear the rasp in his breath. He hears it too. For the first time, I see fear in his eyes. He looks at me...and it stuns me, his usually steely grey eyes looking at me for support, expecting my compassion.

Something in his face, combined with the smell of the chocolate, takes me back to that room many eons ago.

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Max had been there with three of his friends. There had been boxes in the corner of the room stashed one on top of the other. The men had been sitting on the leather loungers. The place had reeked of alcohol, chocolate and...something else...Max had looked oddly blank. On the table in front of him lay packets of some white powder and a little away, a gun. I had felt myself freeze. A tiny whimper on the other side of the room drew my gaze there. A woman lay there, naked, dishevelled and gagged. Her muffled voice seemed to be saying, "Please". Max jumped up like a crazed animal. In a fraction of a second, he picked up the gun, turned towards her and shot her to silence. A shriek pierced the air in the room and it was only when all the men had turned to look at me that I realised that the sound had come from my mouth!

That day had lowered all barriers. Max now no longer had to pretend. He had wasted no time telling me that I had to keep my mouth shut and listen to him. And if I dared speak up, I would meet with the same fate as the girl. Drugs. Rape. Murder. Simply put, Max was a gangster. My husband was a dangerous man. The knowledge had thrown me. I had cried for days on end. I had no one to go to, no family, and I had lost touch with friends after my marriage. They just hadn't seemed important enough. And now I was more alone in the world than I had ever been. Little by little, I had realised the trap I had willingly walked into. He controlled my every move, who I met, where I went, what I ate. I had walked into a life of no return.

Until now.

I look at the man in front of me, my husband, seeking my love in his difficult times. Could he be so naive as to not realise the joy his suffering gives me? His ill health seems to have made him vulnerable, I almost smirk.

My eyes betray the hatred I feel for him. He sees it. His face hardens and he asks me to leave him alone. I remind him to drink up the hot chocolate before I exit the room. ## Through the window of the kitchen, this morning, I watch the seagulls soaring above the sea. Free, unfettered. The thought of a life like that with

Amit makes my heart jump in glee. I shake my head remembering the day this very view had almost convinced me to give my life up. Years of suppression can do that to people. Years of being trampled upon by a ruthless man. Years of living with no emotion other than fear and regret.

But now I know. I deserve to enjoy this too. I hum as I make the hot chocolate today. One almost always enjoys the last time of doing even the most mundane task as much as the first. I pour the hot chocolate into his cup. And then, from the hidden depths of a cupboard, I pull out a small bottle and add a spoonful of the powder within it to the cup, my special ingredient for the devil, I tell myself. But today, I add another spoonful for good measure. My patience is running out. It's time to end things.

I step into Max's room brimming with defiance and confidence. And then I stop. Something's not right. Max is not at his desk as usual. He stands in the centre of the room with his back to me. Puzzled, I call him by name. He turns around, his phone in one hand and his gun in another.

"Rhea, who's Amit?"

The cup falls from my hand, shattering into a thousand pieces, but none as tiny as the shards of my dead dreams. ## Writers are a strange beings. They all have their quirks. Some write lying down, some standing up. Some write on colour-coded papers and some hang upside down to make their minds work. And then there are some, like my husband, who blur the lines of fact and fiction, who in the earnest eagerness to do justice to their work, put their characters to test in the real world, by actually living their lives.

I place two cups on the white round table in our garden and sit down at my usual seat. He comes about a minute later and sits opposite me, holding newspaper in his hand. It is a gorgeous morning. The sounds of the birds, the trees, the waves. This house continues to awe and mesmerise me, even after all these years. As does the bespectacled man sitting in front of me.

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"So, Author Max, or should I say Character Max or Character Amit?

Who are you today? One of these days, I am going to forget the real you!"

He looks up with an amused expression.

"Well, now that Rhea is dead and I am stuck with real-wife Shaina, I better return to my role of the author, don't you think?"

I roll my eyes.

"Rhea, Shaina, you make me do this for every book. Do I look like an actor to you?! So much for your writing 'process'."

He smiles at me indulgently, refusing to rise to my bait. I change tracks.

"Why did you have to name your character on yourself?"

"Well, why not? For all you know, he may be the legacy I leave behind for the world. Every writer dreams of that."

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"Yeah, but...he is a negative character!"

"If I may recall Mrs. Shaina D'souza, you had in fact fallen for a 'bad boy' in your own words."

I blush.

"Also, talking of bad boys, I really do think I must explore the chemistry between Rhea and Amit a little more in the hotel room. How about we re-enact the scene once more today?"

His eyes gleam mischievously.

"Why not! Only, I demand a more handsome Amit to enact it with," I reply cheekily.

We look at each other before bursting into giggles.

I shake my head and take a sip of my heavenly hot chocolate, even as he disappears once again behind the papers.

A software engineer by profession and a voracious reader by passion is how Sharanya often described herself in the past. With time, and acquired skills and quills, she now acknowledges the other facets of her life - being a new mother, a die hard foodie, a travel enthusiast, a fierce feminist and an emotional writer - that makes her who she truly is.

She has been published in the anthologies "A Fallen Leaf" from Penmancy and HBB, "No Apologies" from Women's Web, Issue 5 of the "Unbound Emagazine" and "Poems from 30 best poets" from Literatureslight. She was named finalist in the "Parenting Category" of the Women's Web Orange Flower Awards 2020 and is the recipient of the Women's Web 'Orange Flower Award for Social Impact - Winner, Popular Choice 2018'. She is also an author on 'Women's Web' and 'Momspresso' online platforms.

Sharanya can often be found sharing her thoughts on her personal blog "https://sharanyamisra.com" and her FB page "https://www.facebook.com/SharanyaMisraBlogger"."

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The Chocolate Room Amruta Sunil Sant Chapter 1 The Woods

The sun was high in the sky and the surrounding terrain was brought into sudden and sharp focus. He was in a valley; ringed by snow-capped mountains each of which had a white peak, like the neat line around a chocolate waffle cone.

The mountains lay in a great line as if long ago a great beast lay down and never stood up. Perhaps, it fell into an enchanted sleep and its soul is still resting there.

The trees are ghost-like, the silent observer of the snowy mountains. They are grown so thick that there is no underground at all. The branches are protruding upwards-the canopy above is distant, like clouds of green.

Ron trudges on, taking in the fragrance of the minty grass and the damp earth. Each breath is like water---fresh and flowing freely into his lungs. The forest hums to life all around. He gazes up at the canopy to search for that

bird which is singing sweetly making the leaves rustle in its tune. The sun breaks through the cracks, lighting up the path ahead, decorated with outgrown roots, wildflowers and fallen leaves that crunch beneath his feet.

He had been wandering in the forest, for a few hours now and the city life seemed to be a phase he left behind in another era.

Though the city life dwells in its strange way, it is no way match to this countryside he was in. In the city, the trees are in pots and humans in concrete towers. There are laws and rules, a community of each species.

They all are slaves of the monstrous piece ticking constantly, which hangs on the wall. They eat, walk and sleep at its command. Everyone is in a hurry, running like maniacs-to reach somewhere. It is the same mantra everywhere. The same music played in the stores; the same food was served in mean portions, the only smiles worn by the corporates were on their identity badges.

He was almost there, the place he intended to visit. This shortcut through the woods had worked wonders in uplifting his spirits enormously.

He could see the town street and hear the faint murmur of the human life, clicking of DSLR, parked bikes and bicycles, and yes the unmistakable aroma of chocolate.

He was now walking slowly, very slowly with his nose held high in the airtaking long and deep sniffs of the gorgeous chocolaty smell around him.

Chapter 2 The Chocolate Room There was a quaint place in the middle of woods surrounded by the snowcapped mountains. It was an old-fashioned Cafeteria built in the 1800s. It smells like Charlie's Chocolate factory, and he so much wants to savour it.

As Ron entered through the glass door, half a dozen customers who had been sitting cosily inside glance at him, as the cold breeze gushed inside.

The inside of the café was warm and cherry with a soft Jazz being played in the background.

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Tables were square, lined with a honey-coloured laced tablecloth, cutlery neatly placed near the napkin; a small vase with fresh carnation and the cushioned wooden chairs gave a comfortable look.

A few paintings and old-fashioned lamps dominated the beige painted wall. An antique chandelier hung over the ceiling in the centre proudly. The terracotta rustic tiled floor and its large windows gave the café a warm and welcoming structure. It looked like a small corner carved in heaven.

The café was double storeyed. The ground level opened to the street and the top storey overlooked the woods. Ron climbed the rickety wooden stairs in a desire to find his niche and the café server swiftly came into focus.

Some folks wear a smile, and this guy had a smile. French beard, strong build, smartly dressed in black and white, he greeted him warmly.

“Hello, Sir. How may I help you?” he asked smiling.

“Thank you. Would you guide me to a table?” Ron said smiling in return.

“Certainly. How many people?” he inquired.

“Table for one. With a beautiful view.” Ron answered.

“Perfect Sir. Kindly follow me,” saying, he took Ron to Table No.8, near balcony overlooking the woods. The mesmerizing view of the woods and the mountains took his breath away. Ordering hot chocolate, he sat enjoying the music and the view.

Chapter 3 She Arrives He was 22, when he started working for Him. And now, he has travelled all over the world at the age of 38. But his job did not allow him to stay in a particular place for a longer period. Once the job was done, he would be in some other place on earth for another one.

Sometimes, he thought of himself as a nomad. But no more now as he was tired of running, hiding.

He wanted to settle down and own a small cottage treat himself as a

regular tourist- going to museums, art galleries, and parks. This was his last job, a favour he was returning. Though he never felt the need to know Him or see Him as long as his bank account was flooded, he now intends to retire.

He had been in this town for a week now, waiting at the hotel for further instructions from Him and today he got this, “Stay put. Explore the place. Chocolate is good in this chilly weather.” He said leaving a message to the bellboy of the hotel where he was staying.

Ron was lost in his thoughts only to be interrupted by the café server, “Hello Sir, hope you are comfortable. How’s the hot chocolate?" He inquired with a grin on his face.

“Thank you. Hmm. Jason. It is wonderful” Ron said reading his name from the badge pinned to his suit.

"Jason, would you suggest something to bite? I’m famished.”

Ron said.

“Oh! Sure Sir. Would you like a chilly cheese toast accompanied with a cinnamon butter bagel. It is today's special.” Jason said smiling, pointing towards the daily specials chalkboard.

“That would be great,” Ron said to him.

Moments later, after Jason was gone and Ron was gazing at the view of the woods, he saw her or rather smelt her. She walked with a confident air and took a table next to him.

Her scent was intoxicating. She smelt something entirely different, a scent that reminded him of a damp forest after a rainy day. Her aroma was like a drug to him, and he couldn't get enough of it.

As she walked into the room, he thought the world had slowed down. Her hair was long, silky, honey blonde tied high on the back of her head swayed left-right as she walked. Her perfect brown skin looked fragile and soft.

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She wore a mustard color coat-fur trimmed that fell perfectly on her curves. Her long, slender legs were covered with the brown boots just exposing her knees. And the yellow scarf sat beautifully on her long neck.

Jason was quick to attend as he did to everyone who walked into the café. But he seemed to know her, as they exchanged pleasantries, and he walked from her griming “The Usual I suppose”.

She settled down, placing a book on the table and was engrossed in it sketching.

Soon Ron was served his toast and bagel, and he quickly hogged them down, ordering another hot chocolate.

She was head down on the book and sipped her hot chocolate.

She would blink her eyes time and again allowing her long eyelashes to flutter like the wings of a butterfly.

Ron had no plans for the day, so he decided to stay and gaze around. His DSLR kept him busy.

It was already noon. More people were pouring in. Jason was on his toes and the waiters kept going through the swung doors of the kitchen now and then.

People came and went. But she was still there. Each time she took a bite of the croissant and sipped the creamy liquid, her cherry red lips would move in a rhythm.

He tried to divert his mind on the view, but it came back to the same girl sitting at the table. He couldn’t take his mind off her.

Ron knew before he leaves his chair. He would be back here tomorrow for another hot chocolate and a bit of gazing. Some things are too good to have just once.

He looked at his watch; he had been here for a while now. He asked Jason to get his bill and left the café feeling refreshed and decided to take a longer route through the market to the hotel

Chapter 4 Guilty or Not?

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Next morning, Ron woke up cold. The blankets, sweater, gloves weren’t helping. He stood in his hotel's balcony, gazing outside. The day was illuminated with a pale light that was coming from the winter sun. It had snowed last night and the street was decorated like a cake with frosting.

It was the same dream again, the same face as that man. He never hesitated to take a life; it was his job, nothing personal against him or the others. Like everyone, it was his bread and butter. He was very young and all alone in this world. And that is when He found him. Gave him food, places to stay, the luxuries of life and showered all his love, just like a father who enjoyed spoiling his son. He grew up with him, learning the tricks to treat this mean world we all live in. He was happy; contented everything was going fine, until…

This last one had gone wrong. There was something in the eyes of that man whom he did with by mistake. It was just an accident, he tried to convince himself, and he never intended to hurt him. It was the other man he was after, but the innocent one came in between, saving the other man’s life. That face, those still, cold eyes haunted him now. He could see him and the others in the past, whom he had done just with a snap; they were now staring at his back everywhere he went.

He couldn’t continue with this anymore. This has to stop somehow, somewhere, someday. And so, after a lot of pleading and arguing with Him, he was here. With a heavy heart, they both had decided to part ways and now he was here for the last final job. And then, he would be gone, somewhere no one would know to live peacefully.

He would have loved to stay indoors in this cold, but a new message came from Him saying, “Go shopping. And treat yourself something warm.”

Ron was aware that His messages were never to be ignored, so reluctantly he got going.

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After a few hours, pulling his cardigan close to his body, rubbing hands together and breathing the frosted air through his lungs, Ron was on the street. It was slippery and each step was to be watched. The chill was seeping inside him making his teeth clatter.

He made few rounds going through the shops doing aimless shopping and his sharp mind making a mental note of the hustle bustle in the streets. After doing all the mental work, he decided to walk in The Chocolate Roomfollowing His instructions and considering the rumble in his stomach.

The air inside was more delicious than any other flavour. Somehow the aroma there captured the best of everything; the freshly baked cinnamon rolls, the Danish pastries, choc-chip muffins. The sweet smell had engulfed the air.

"This place never ceases to be mesmerizing." He murmured.

As Ron climbed the stairs of The Chocolate Room, he was met by Jason’s signature gleam.

“Welcome Sir, again,” Jason said.

“I hope you enjoyed the view from Table 8.Would you be wanting the same today? Luckily, it is vacant at the moment,” he suggested.

“Oh, that would be lovely and kind of you,” Ron said excitedly.

Settling down, with a nice big cup of hot chocolate, a generous helping of pie and a buttered toast, Ron savoured on his meal.

He held the hot chocolate cup between his freezing fingers. The sweet milky liquid was working tremendously on his senses; hence, it took him a few minutes to notice her. She was the girl he had seen yesterday in this same place.

Today she sat at the table facing him. He had a clear view of her. She must have just entered, as she was making her mind on what to order.

Her deep blue eyes looked like the sea-- calm and emotionless. She wore rouge- a hint of pink making it shine under her eyes. Out of habit, Ron’s eyes fell on her hands--perfectly manicured and then on fingers, to look for a ring.

There were none. He let a sigh of relief and silently thanked his luck.

Today, she wore a red cardigan, black long boots, and the same yellow scarf.

It must be really special, as she had worn it today as well.

J

Jason was at her table now. Ron could not catch their conversation, just a word here and there. She looked deep in thought and smiled briefly to Jason’s wide grim.

She was lost in her sketchbook as Jason left.

Ron’s profession did not allow him to make friends, but that did not mean he couldn’t have acquaintances.

He stood up, straightened his hair and the mug in one hand walked towards her, “Hello, Am I bothering you?" Smiling, he asked.

Startled, she looked up from the book, “Oh! You scared the hell out of me,” she said laughing.

“I’m so sorry.” He said apologetically.

“That’s alright.” She said waving her hand in the air.

“Would you mind, if I join you?” he asked “Please do”, saying so, she let him settle down.

“Do you mind, if I look at your sketches?” he asked “Sure.” Saying this she passed the book over to him.

“These are amazing.” He said.

The pictures were of the woods that he had been yesterday and was already in love with them.

“I’m in awe of the beauty here too.” He said with a mischievous smile as he closed her book.

With a straight face, she said, “Okay.”

“I meant the beauty of this place. Don’t get me wrong. And the hot chocolate”, He added lifting his mug in a toast and smiling slyly.

“Yes. I can’t agree more. As they say, Chocolate contains serotonin, an antidepressant that can elevate one's mood. Works best for me.” she said with a smile.

“By the way, I’m Raven.” She said, holding out her hand.

He said, taking her hand, “I’m Ron. Nice to meet you.”

“You know chocolates and cocoa go back in history for almost 4000 years?

Isn’t it amazing? It was once used as a currency. Just imagine, cocoa-or the chocolate as money.” She said giggling.

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She kept filling his brain about interesting facts of chocolates and each time she did that her deep blue eyes would sparkle. She had a childlike excitement that would infect anyone around her. They had been sitting all afternoon there.

Ron was only physically present. Time and again almost their knees collided in the gloom of the cafe almost under the narrow table and current would shoot right through his body.

His brain wasn’t capturing any signals of her words. They were lost in transit between Raven’s eyes. Words that were leaving from her curved lips- now played a melodious song hypnotizing him. He kept nodding his head, occasionally saying amazing, absolutely- that kept her going.

And they sat, ordering hot chocolate that kept them company and forgetting about the world around them.

The early evening lull had now come to the streets. The sky was getting dark. The chill in the air was beginning to hurt. The fireplace mimics the warmth of the day. The wood-fire, blazing cheerily in the ample fireplace, sending its warmth and light far out into the room.

They moved, their hands over it to feel its gentle warmth.

Sitting cosy by the flame, their features were now illuminated by the flickering orange and red light. Though the air wasn’t smoky, the smell of pine was filling the café, a faint fragrance to reassure the senses. They found comfort in each other’s company in that long winter evening.

“Excuse me, for bothering, but would be requiring anything else, Sir, Ma’am. The kitchen is about to close.” Jason came into view with his signature politeness.

“That’s kind of you Jason, but that will be all,” Ron said taking approval from Raven.

As Jason was out of sight, their eyes met, and they stared at each other and Raven said, “Would you be interested to come along? I stay not far from here.”

“Sure. Sounds cool.” He said.

Settling the bill with Jason, they bid good-bye.

The ground was laid white with frost and any water that had been liquid under the winter sun had become ice. Wrapping their coats tightly, they walked alongside each other in that dark, wintry night.

Amruta Sunil Sant is an MBA with experience in HR and customer service in the corporate world. After her son was born she made a deliberate choice to quit her full-time job and took up mommy duties.

Teaching happened by chance and she enjoys every bit of it. Each moment spent with the children uplifts her mood. Every night bedtime story ritual inclined her towards storytelling and finally, she found her true calling in that. Carrying forward her art of storytelling ahead under the banner Tete-a-tale she now has a page dedicated to the same is https://www.facebook.com/tete.a.tale/ where she conducts activity-based storytelling sessions.

Taking the art forward she now is learning to write stories. She writes regularly on many online writing platforms and has contributed to a few anthologies, “The Big Bang Of Non-fiction”, “Poems from 30 best poets” and “I’m not in stories only”. "Sleepless Sunflowers" She is an avid reader and finds solace in books. Though she enjoys kid's books the most, mystery and crime remain her favorite.

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85 The Land of Brown Anju Darshini The sorceress In her fortress Searched for him Far and near For a long, long time, She could never find him And at last, when she found him, He had found another And made her ‘his queen’ Unrequited, The love remained In the shallow end Of her heart Years rolled by, The sorceress Moved on, Or that’s what she said, And built the land of chocolates She brewed the brown To dim the love in her heart, To lift her dampened spirit, Rumours said, “He loves the chocolate” And hope fired the flames,

“He may come after it If not for me”, She thought Over and over again He is now On his way To the land of brown, Fascinated by the tales Of brewing chocolate, “Is there really a land by the name?”

He wonders The aroma Fills him up Of cocoa, Hazelnuts, almonds And vanilla, Dipped in choicest liquor Of unknown worlds, Roasted, layer by layer Slowly melting away Those tempting treats Etched in mind, Wanting more, “Oh! There truly is a land of brown”, He confirms Her senses, Sharp as always, News of his arrival Startled her

For a moment, But only a moment, She is tough with Her strength regained, Revenge in her blood

“Not the queen’s”, She repeats And, that’s a relief

He looks at her, His past in disbelief, She was no angel, He always knew Caught in her spell, His end was near, His curious mind Brought him here, His downfall certain They met eye-to-eye, The sorceress laughed Warrior by heart, Yet he called her ‘evil’, Bitterness engulfed The dark of the cocoa Took over, Flames within About to burn She lets him drown, The love of her life In the river of chocolate, The muse melts, Neither hers Nor the queen’s, The sorceress sighs,

Anju Darshini likes to capture everyday moments which she thinks encapsulate umpteen engaging stories. She believes that life is much more vibrant and colourful than how we usually imagine it to be. She has over 15 years of corporate experience in Brand Management, and Internal & External Communications. She currently leads the Corporate Communications Department of a well-known Chennai-based Automotive IT - MNC and is also part of its Business Leadership Team.

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My Melting Romeo Deyasini Roy It was a melting morn of raspberry autumn frost brewing, The silhouette of Filbert-Hazel Catkins waltzing around As Swiss roll-waterfall against the wild blue yonder.

Autumn in its Chaucerian-chocolate mirror-glaze bloom Coiled inside the womb of gold-speckled molten-walnut Cinnamon rolls as slithering terra-cotta serpent.

The searing smog of daffodil-caffeine sailing on the sylvan table glade, Chiming in a red-violin cup, dried Maple-Meringue And a dash of Torta Barozzi flecked with amber, Tickling my senses as crimson-velvety icing On the ribbed-Rehrucken, fused in a celestial twilight Of its own Arabian Nights, carrying mists and camphor.

In twirling airy bounds pierced I, as the tender whiff Of Peach-cobbler Zephyr into the dark skin of Soufflé mansion Melting behind the lilting chocolate gates, Plopping onto the mist of my visions.

Flanked by vernal summer bars of glazed cinnamon apple fritters Dripping gently to the coy wetness of cherry-autumn frost.

The flowing tenors of bittersweet tambourine Pecan-pie fount The beguiling aroma of Campfire-chocolate fondue as I mount The forlorn windings of unmown Ivy vine.

Yonder beacons my tickled love, apparelled in half-melted, Burnt-seinna Ibarra coat and chocolate-seude pants.

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Its dreamy-decadent pollen-chestnut feet strumming The chords of Mahogany floor, arresting me with The fleeting glimpses of its sultry chocolate glare Softened at the edges like rose-petaled peanut-butter, Twinkling as Daisies in satin-scarlet chocolate pools.

Stirring me up at every pore, making me want to bask In the flowing-kingdom of my love before It all melts away with me in its deepest core.

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Deyasini Roy is a budding young poet who hails from Chandannagar, a small town in the Indian state of West Bengal. She has recently pursued her Postgraduate degree in English and Comparative Literature from Pondicherry University, India. She has contributed to various Anthologies and International Online Magazines of repute. She loves to set recourse to the idyllic and pastoral and record her impressionably sensitive response to the lilting cadence of nature rendered in a swirl of lurid slashes and subtle brush strokes.

Sinful Addiction Neeru Agnihotri You are my damsel Dipped in chocolate Aromatic and glossy, So smooth, So sumptuous, You are such a delicious delicacy Hey! Listen, I close my eyes, You kiss me and Melt in my mouth and Stay on my lips, Like a hymn For ages that my lips Forget not the flavour of your youth Sweetheart, There is no one But you in my mind, I soften my soul with your thought Perceiving your mellowness on my heart, I miss the fragrance of your touch Whenever you are not around You are my damsel Dipped in chocolate, Come, I want to taste you all day long, Come, I am addicted as it's wrong, I want to taste you all day long.

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Neeru Agnihotri (neer agni) is an engineer turned litterateur, versifier and nature lover. She turned to poetry at a tender age of 15. Since then, her poetry has been published in various magazines and has got appreciated on various online poetry sites, earning her many awards.

Her initial work of art revolved mainly around love and positivity. Having learned from the experiences of life, she started writing about relationships, heartbreaks, feminism and the beauty of nature. Love and romance, warmth and chills of relationships have always reflected in her poetry. She is passionate about beats & thrills of music and is currently learning guitar.

She got her debut poetry book, Phuhaar (The Drizzle), published the previous year. It is a poetic voyage of ineffable human emotions soaring high in the serene supernal. To her, it’s soothing to read heart-warming and heart-breaking poetry at the same time, just like love itself.

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You the Chocolate & You my Wife Ritu Taneja How do you change my mood?

From fiery to sobriety, Turning my mood from wild to tender, I want to take away the credit from tinder Why do I always surrender To your soft velvety satiny cuddles?

How's your skin as mushy silky squashy and spongy As hers?

Why do you make me go trippy with just a peck?

As non-alcoholic as I am, you are my only drug, yet divine!

The assorted pack of emotions That you are!

I couldn't have been more sorted with you around How easily you keep my blood pressure in control With your tender embrace and aromatic vibes and stripes all around!

Few sips of hot chocolate and a smile of yours Share equal powers to pump me up With fuel flowing towards my eyes through palpating heart

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In cold Weatherly moods, Few sips of the melted wanderlust That you are, Shift my focus From heavy earthly want of a warm hug To your power And when those intense emotions catch hold of me, Your aroma rescues the highs and tides Of my jitters You the chocolate and you my Wife!!

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Ritu Taneja, a poet who loves and adores nature and people for what they bring to her as a person. A poet whose work has been featured in a couple of anthologies including 1000 women book which holds Vajra World Record. A poet who believes in the balance in power of self expression through written and spoken words. She writes mostly on Instagram, Mirakke and Yourquote by the name of @Writer_HerSoulSoothes. Writing is her soul food which makes her as happy as a fish in the pond.

After Eight Anju Kishore Meet me.

Meet me then, true to your name, in those heavens, Earthy brown yet other-worldly, elegant In their slender manifestation Of chic, chilled indulgence, Let me in, to their mildly resolute realms That soon yields into leniency Welcoming my dessert-driven tread Take me Take me beyond worldly vexations, Beyond oughts, ought-nots and their repercussions, Descend into my senses, Melt in me like a dream coming alive Leaving me awash with the fresh breath of dew, The innocent effervescence of a drizzly dawn And a promise that the night would gather all its stars To hurl them into the sky, Setting off a festival of sparklers in my heart Leave me Leave me dead to what the morrow will bring for the night has dissolved into my being.

Sinking everything that had been, might have been...

Your cocoa-mint fragrance lingers like the mist of tender hillside mornings

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Whispering secrets of pepper minty longings And sugary sweet dalliances, Let me die breathing and leave living for another of life’s pretences Bury me.

Bury me in the earth of your chocolaty embrace Dense with the luxury of minty satiation till nothing remains of me That is not you, Till nothing reminds me of anything That is not you, Till nothing…is not you

Anju Kishore’s poems have been featured in numerous journals and anthologies. They have won prizes in poetry competitions as well. Her book of poems inspired by the civil war in Syria, ‘…and I Stop to Listen’ earned her a glowing review in Kendriya Sahitya Akademi’s English journal, Indian Literature. She has been part of the editorial teams of five anthologies with India Poetry Circle and Kavya-Adisakrit Publishing.

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Ballad of Bark Tina Sequeira

Tender sweet kisses, Flaky flights of fantasy, Treading the off beaten track Privileged—Unapologetic My Fair Lady stands tall The Universe at her feet.

Shooting stars come and go, Circling orbits of clamouring suitors, Desperately seeking Zen Found in a lost space Rooted and winging it— A haven in the Milky Way. Slivers of earthy dusk, Like fine gold dust.

Kohl-rimmed, beady-eyed Dangling conversations, smoky undertones Satin strokes, smeared lipstick, spilt wine on the floor Stars twinkling in the black hole.

A melee of melodrama, Dripping in velvety fruitiness, Icy mints cast a chilly spell— Whacked out by a riot of nuts, Crackled laughter fills the air Bubbly spirits dance in tandem.

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Salvation rests upon Her crown of thorns, When the world is humane, And basks in its glorious hide of White, brown, black, or queer— Like the sinful indulgence of chocolate!

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Tina Sequeira is a marketer, moonlighting writer poet and award-winning blogger. An MBA graduate, Tina has worked in elite corporations such as NCR Corporation and Microsoft. It was during her corporate sabbatical that she ventured into freelance writing. She has two books, Soul Sojourn (2017) and Bhumi (2019), to her credit. Soul Sojourn tops the 'Best Ebooks Ever 2017' on Goodreads. Her blog 'The Tina Edit' is among "Top 100 Indian Lifestyle Blogs" by Feedspot!

Tina is the founder of 'The Write Away Program,' a creative writing workshop where she mentors her students on the subtle nuances of creative writing. She is also one of the mentors for Blogchatter's annual #AtoZChallenge. Her articles are regularly featured on India's leading online platforms like YouthKiAwaaz, Momspresso, Women's Web, Blogchatter, Indiblogger, etc.

She has many achievements to her credit, such as 'Top 35 writers of 2017′ by YouthKiAwaaz; and Orange Flower Award 2017 in the category of 'Writing on Work' (2018) by Women's Web. She was among the top 5 Finalists in the category of 'Humour' (2017), 'Poetry' (2017), 'Parenting' (2017), 'Personal Blogging' (2016). She was shortlisted in the category of 'Creative Writing' (2018), 'Humour (2018), 'Parenting' (2018), and 'Writing on Work' (2018). She was on the list of "Top 100 Debut Indian Authors of 2019" for Bhumi, her debut fiction book.

Chrysanthemum Chronicles Chrysanthemum Chronicles is the 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 journals.

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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An Exclusive Limited Edition Book Glancing at the cover, you might be getting an idea that this must be either a recipe book or something related to chocolates. I don’t blame you! Because we have captured some tempting chocolaty stories and poems that will surely make you drool. The original names of various chocolates used in the content are not intended towards doing any kind of publicity or for promotional purposes; they are actually the honest feelings of the writers who have shared their beautiful stories and poems on the theme of this book, i.e. CHOCOLATE. Nevertheless, travelling along, you would read some candid conversations and life stories of authors and poets, who have dreamt big but kept it simple. They go with the flow of life, and believe that writing is a journey and one must enjoy it.

Honestly, I significantly love to capture the true essence of a person when I interview her/him. I therefore presume with a measure of self-assurance that the answers coming from the interviewees, whom you will read in this book, will take you to their souls. I hope you will thoroughly enjoy the concoction of cover stories as well as some of the most brilliant fiction tales and poetry that our ‘First Signature Coffee Table Book, Volume 1’ has to offer.

Keep safe and have a thoroughly enjoyable reading.

Monalisa Joshi Director & Founder Chrysanthemum Chronicles

https://www.chrysanthemumchronicles.com/