The indus streams

Volume 1 | Number 1 | May 2015

The Indus Streams An International Journal of Creative Writing & Innovative Ideas

Poetry

Marie Hanna Curran Ann Daly R.W. Haynes Marianne Szlyk Samina Hadi Tabassum Yannis A. Phillis Matt Parter Anna Jakuvczak and 15 other poets

Short Story Alomoy Banerjee

One Act Play

Book Review

Kevin Rabas

of Alicja Kuberska’s ‘Moments’ By Tapti Roy

An Interview

with Pulitzer Winner Gilbert Anthony King

Paintings

Dibyendu Tripathi

School of Journalism & Mass Communication Apeejay Stya University http://university.apeejay.edu/school-journalism-mass-communication/ Email: sjmc@asu.apeejay.edu

1 | The Indus Streams | Volume 1 | Number 1 | May 2015

The Indus Streams Volume 1 | Number 1 | May 2015

INDEX

ADVISORY BOARD Professor Ashok Ogra, Director, Apeejay Institute of Mass Communication, Delhi Professor Pervaiz Alam, Dean, School of Journalism and Mass Communication, Apeejay Stya University, Sohna, Haryana Editor : Dr. Pradeep Chaswal Associate Editor : Tapti Roy Picture Editor : Swapnil Kumar Student Editors : Pushpita Dey Nehal Rajvanshi Cover Painting : Dibyendu Tripathi Layout Design : Rajeev Kumar COPYRIGHT NOTICE All poems/stories/art works © their respective authors, 2015.

Anthology copyright -The Indus Streams, 2015.

The Indus streams reserves first serial rights on the contents published in this issue.

Published online by: School of Journalism & Mass Communication, Apeejay Stya University, Sohna - Palwal Road, Sohna - 122103 Gurgaon, Haryana (INDIA) Email: editor.indusstreams@asu.apeejay.edu Website: http://university.apeejay.edu/ DISCLAIMER Opinions and views expressed by the poets/ writers/artists are not necessarily those of the editors or School of Journalism & Mass Communication, Apeejay Stya university. The contributors were advised to submit original and unpublished (both print and online) poems/stories/art works, if any contributor violates the condition he/she will be responsible for the consequences emanating thereof.

While information presented here was believed to be accurate at the date of inclusion, nature and circumstances are changing constantly. The Indus Streams does not accept liability for any decisions made or actions taken on the basis of this information, text, images, and other content.

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POETRY

Marie Hanna Curran Ann Daly R. W. Haynes Pankaj Gupta Anna Jakubczak vel RattyAdalan Samina Hadi-Tabassum Patricia Tapti Roy Deepak Chaswal Marianne Szlyk Malvika kaul Sadie Miller Yannis A. Phillis Allison Grayhurst Matt Prater Siddhant Aggarwal Sandra Kolankiewicz Krishnaswamy Rajagopalan Simon Perchik Peirson Lane Francesca Castaño Preeti Rani Sana Rashid Siddiqui

The Compass Maker 5 The Swan 5 Sailing among the Rocks 5 I am God: “Aham Bhramasmi” 6 Interlova 6 Happiness Will Come for Me 7 Adonis Waits for Me 7 Song to a Departed Muse 7 Bridge 8 Writing with an Empty Mind 8 Keep Smiling 9 Awake 10 Galapagos 10 The Aging Artist 10 A Painter of Landscapes 11 Running Wild 12 While on Hiatus 12 Song of a Squirrel 12 This Feeble Kitchen Match... 13 Never to Love Again 13 The Day Goes On 14 Our Relation 14 Love Transcends!

14

ONE ACT PLAY

Kevin Rabas

Among Artists & Thieves 15-18

SHORT STORY

Alomoy Banerjee

Robogirl?

19-22

An Interview with Pulitzer Winner Gilbert Anthony King

23-24

A Book Review of the Nature Poems in Dodruk (Moments)

25-27

INTERVIEW

Lakshmi Nameirapam

BOOK REVIEW

Tapti Roy

PAINTINGS

Dibyendu Tripathi

28-31

OUR CONTRIBUTORS

32-36

Editor’s Note The first issue of The Indus Streams presents before you fresh, powerful and polished works of poetry, fiction, and art along with a book review and an interview. The works of poetry, fiction and art are multi-layered. They exhibit diverse feelings of aspirations, frustrations, happiness and sorrow. Each work is an epic in itself.

The poem ‘Swan’ is an artistic celebration of love for the bird: ‘White bird flying Wings Sound like canvas Snapping Against a clear blue sky’ The feelings of awe and wonder touch zenith in ‘The Compass Maker’: ‘The compass maker For the Marie Celeste Did just that, He made the compass.’

The poem- I am God: “Aham Bhramasmi” is a profound reflection of the subtle nuances of the Eastern spiritualism: For I am Ego, I am everything!

For I am God, I need nothing!

‘Interlova’, ‘The Aging Artist’, ‘Happiness will come for me’ and ‘A Painter of Landscapes’ are fine reflective works. The short story ‘Robo Girl’ is an interesting piece of science fiction.

Tapti Roy’s book review of ‘Moments’ is an in-depth analysis of nature poetry by Polish poet Alicja Kuberska.

The paintings of Dibyendu Tripathi are a complex commentary on human existence in our time. Binaries of slave and master; war and peace; life and death; and darkness and light are dominant in these creations.

Enjoy innovative and challenging writing in all forms covering diverse themes. I hope that you shall enjoy the first issue.

Cheers for creativity!

Cheers for life!

Best wishes Pradeep Chaswal Ph.D. Editor

Email: editor.indusstreams@asu.apeejay.edu 3 | The Indus Streams | Volume 1 | Number 1 | May 2015

Poetry

Poetry The Compass Maker Marie Hanna Curran

The Swan Ann Daly

T

W

He was not In control of the ship, He was not In control of the seas,

Long-necked creature, Delicate head, Graceful neck,

he compass maker For the Marie Celeste Did just that, He made the compass.

hite bird flying, Wings Sound like canvas Snapping Against a clear blue sky.

Piercing the air; Fear of flying Runs deep within me, Yet I soar with you Unafraid, Safe, Loved.

Meenakshi Sharma

He did not hear The sailors cry And so could not Save their lives.

He was the compass maker And just that.

Like our God perhaps?

Providing the code Pointing us up, But it is we Who travel our seas, It is we who Captain our ships, He the compass maker And only that.

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Sailing among the Rocks R. W. Haynes

A

ccording to the code of personal navigation, The Sirens’ song must fall upon deaf ears As the pilot’s mind in quiet concentration Preserves his craft from wreck, for all his years Of lonely vigilance have taught him skill To make the sea and shallows, rocks and sands, The elements of the consciousness they fill, Preserving the delicate vessel he commands.

Graceful gliding sea birds, gulls and terns, Performing aerobatics with breathless grace, Earn scarcely a glance; for they are not the concerns A dedicated navigator must face.

And if the pilot ever inwardly sighs, He’ll never show it, nor long divert his eyes.

Poetry I am God: “Aham Bhramasmi” Pankaj Gupta I am not the pain which fade Nor the emotions which pass I am not the mind which does not rest Neither the strengths which I bet

I am not the name in thy role-play, Neither the resting bed of thy clay For I am Ego, I am everything!

For I am God, I need nothing!

I am not the relations which die Nor the endless desires which lie I am not the thoughts which wheel Neither the senses which feel

This poem has been written as a contribution towards the Apeejay Stya University’s noble pursuit of “Who am I”

Interlova Anna Jakubczak vel RattyAdalan

D

o you remember e-flowers you were giving me every day?

Your e-triviality, wrote as a poem Love scheme, which we wanted to modernize.

Do you remember e-feelings caught by wind of keyboard strikes?

Face to face Only touching glass by kiss.

Petrarch didn’t know, what is Interlova.

He truly felt and didn’t need to be online.

Dan... I walk away, but please don’t forget I will love you, untill we lose our internet connection.

Your Sarah in love.

Lipika Aggarwal

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Poetry Happiness Will Come for Me Samina Hadi-Tabassum

B

ecause I could not stop for Happiness Happiness kindly stopped for me It softly rapped its knuckles on the door And gracefully walked in Happiness took off its winter coat While I made a pot of coffee It quickly sat down and listened to me Tell tales of worry and woe Of husbands and young children Of unhappy mothers and unkind bosses Of self-defeat and middle age angst Happiness gently held my hand And spoke of no more pain Of a deep sleep with no need to wake From the headache and the heartache

Adonis Waits for Me Patricia

H

e stands guard unfazed by the fierce sun Pale gold and glistening Impervious to the morning fog His ridges and deep valleys draw me into deeply purpled shadows A hands- free sculpture of the night winds Lift, sift and shift his position I find rest peace and protection in the hollow of his shoulder He, the custodian of shells Left behind by previous lives invites bands of travelers to leave footprints while listening to ancient songs of the wind late into the night He and I and the anemones have memories to share

Of dewy fields full of grain Of a setting sun A gossamer gown And a swollen mound

Song to a Departed Muse Tapti Roy

W

hat Lord do I seek and not find I call it vain, for my heart is blind.

Clouded with mistrust, I know not my love .... for Shams it was then, you still are love What verse do I quote Rumi, Attar, or Khusrau for your aroma fills my longing vows ...

Which God do I seek, what dost exist, but you and you in my heart’s midst Words fail and thought deceives, for in me my beloved lives,

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In form and essence, in death and birth, In my songs, and in mirth See my beloved, her fairy face, Pierce my heart, see that place, Those unfound depths, those secret spaces, my deepest wounds, my sweetest oases.

To seek some God the one far apart, My heart defies, takes no part To call my love, the love afar, To let her in, leave a door ajar ....

Poetry Bridge Deepak Chaswal

L

et us cross the bridge Said a voice to another The bridge cannot be crossed Said the other They are still standing there Telling others who come here Let us cross the bridge And when somebody tries to cross the bridge then they say The bridge cannot be crossed The voices get multiplied Nobody crosses the bridge Only voices are heard again and again from the hills and the plain Let us cross the bridge ……..

The bridge cannot be crossed ……..

Writing with an Empty Mind Marianne Szlyk

W

riting with an empty mind, I wonder what words will come up to fill this emptier page.

Reading, I find phrases to build on in the new fashion. Poets to quote.

I stop at one poem to a student in Carolina who would rather write about the body than about nature.

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I am reminded Of my students who are tired of trees in poems Of others who argue against birds when we talk about wind farms Of myself once pretending that the wood behind the house was a city and then walking every inch of it.

Poetry Keep Smiling Malvika Kaul

T

he lump will appear like a death sentence.

As fear grips you the pain will start eating you, and the mirror will soon lose you.

Friends will rush, lovers may run, family will endure, while your job will threaten to quit.

You will have new identities – victim, survivor, braveheart, loser.

Some will advise: Eat, Indulge, Pray Others will implore: Cut, Confront, Contain You will learn to forgive – the only way to heal.

As life moves from one scan to another poison pills will promise a makeover.

You will scream “Let me die,” before swallowing the bullets, For you will love yourself for the first time.

A few curses will hurt: smoking and drinking your way to hell.

Single/without children, Fated for a dismembered frame.

It can happen to anyone – you will reason on good HB days.

And then learn how to live by destroying everything inside you.

When new hair crown you You will smile, life will be a companion again.

You will feel more than perfect – hell and heaven will be inside you.

Dying is easy, you will laugh and say like a drunk dervish.

It may happen again, And again, But you will know how to cheat death, skip the chase.

Just keep smiling, And tell others to get their breasts checked.

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Lipika Aggarwal

Poetry Galapagos Awake

Yannis A. Phillis

S

Sadie Miller

he Sky was purpling like a bruise Survivor of darkness and eternal night.

The Sun pushes her way to light the day, Daughter of the Moon, Queen of all she surveys.

peech is brief in these parts: Finches that evolved into new species with the same chance and necessity that words evolve into song, giant turtles in the meadow – backs of islands in a green sea – volcanoes writing and erasing geography like winds writing and erasing scripts on the sand, three frigate birds that caught the wind in the morning behind a boat entering San Cristobal – the town gone with the tropical rain – the manner God speaks with fire and water.

Morning challenging the sea, the only metaphor connecting death and life.

T

Red eyes, red fur She hunts for that in plain sight.

Red eyes, break lights Open and white, the curtains of the new day.

Train lines coarse through veins The sweat of strangers Her new perfume.

Striving to be the same, every day the same Mustn’t grumble.

Stains on his shirt.

Elbows clear the way No one sees the woman clothed in old skin.

The young ones shriek like birds, pecking for the best grubs.

The Sun watches, amused.

Every season in a day.

The morning lasts a lifetime She is awake.

The Aging Artist Allison Grayhurst

T

he breath of illness beating upon your flesh.

The dizzy and slow-paced walk causing you for the first time to know dependency.

A breaking down of smiles and thoughts.

A terrain, where even your hands can’t move enough to create the sculptures that inspire you to ward off the grave.

Your mind has weathered an age of nagging conformity, has risen, individual, brave in your isolation.

How lonely the trees must seem, peering from your cabin doors. How lovely the sounds of waves and wildlife, mingled in undying symphony.

What mourning, what wonder you must know, with your eyes as blue and clear as they are old, as you sit at your table those years of longing past

and the peace, at last, beginning.

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Poetry A Painter of Landscapes Matt Prater

B

etween a small house with its wild garden of transplanted bee balm and elderberry, where a retired school janitor lives,

England, though, knew of wild gardens.

But the Americans, more than the English, knew agriculture and diplomacy. What seemed unwrought was well designed, and

and a field of yellow feed corn below a green and white Georgian, is more difference of dimension than Dickenson could

all wild things reflected the order of God. The fractal tree a fractal fabrication of delight, the thatched longhouse

reconcile with Whitman, or than Calvin could stomach of Wesley’s hermeneutic of grace.

And there is a theology

a thesis in sustainable development.

Corn was never wild, but rather shaped by ten thousand years of cultured cultivation and tradition:

inherent in our way of seeing roofless buildings, or at least a sense or system of aesthetic politics.

What does the kudzu say

in this valley, red flakes; in this valley, variegations of pink and cadmium blue. Fed by what reflected soil and sunset,

as it binds and chokes old locust growth, green but costly in its life as the stubble of switchbacks? And then

the city of Cahokia and the towns along the Mississippi thrived, and their seeds have survived even homogenization.

But maybe this is all too on the nose.

what of the switchbacks, and then what of the transplanted deer and the elk, formerly native?

It’s too easy to dichotomize

Just consider the lilies of the field.

Consider the corn. Consider the morels growing tall in the second-growth mast.

Consider the phlox meadow, and all

the French and Irish gardens, the archetypal orchards of Versailles and the Innisfree cottage, drunk on wild honey and salmon.

the wild things near man-made lakes.

Consider the man-made lakes, laced with cottages, sporting wild gardens of important plants, and the kudzu

Before the English starved, they laughed at the twists of squash and beans and corn the Americans had cultivated and interstitched: “no rows as no religion as no language”.

surrounding the trees surrounding them, which all surround the plucky coyote and brown recluse. And then consider Origen’s single predestination of grace.

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Poetry

Running Wild Siddhant Aggarwal

B

eneath the skin of life challenges run wild Morning delights bring new questions for life Ravaging the rocky shores waves of mystery collide Sunburns leave marks that memories can’t hide Beneath the skin of life challenges run wild

Song of a Squirrel Krishnaswamy Rajagopalan

A

t about twelve each noon, She’ll coo for me in her shrill old voice, Down the Gulmohar tree I’ll run, And taste the warm cooked rice she kept on a leaf.

On and on for days at a stretch she came, Till by instinct I knew the hour and waited her call: That day she never came out to call: The day following I missed her voice; I climbed to the very top, level with her window, To find the frail old woman lying on bed; Her face was pale and her eyes closed: By chance she opened her eyes and they fell on me: A kind and gentle parting of her lips brightened her face, And she smiled that noble smile she alone can: By inner feeling I knew what the good soul Wanted me at that moment to know: “Don’t you worry my dear little squirrel, You will have your warm rice on the morrow.”

True to her nature, she called me at the hour: More than the rice her presence gave me joy.

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While on Hiatus Sandra Kolankiewicz

N

ight retreats, through with suffocating us, backing off, its cilia creating the breeze while we sit on this bench overlooking the rivers, waiting for something to happen as if the confluence below has more to do with sky and air than water.

The ground beneath our running shoes is still wet, the rain moved on.

A tug pushes two barges of salt, though the winter is over. At dawn, we hear an unfamiliar bell but can’t say which of eleven churches has the money to invest in its call to worship.

We were bound to find we were mistaken, the price of unusually good luck with no one to contradict us as we realize just how far we can fall into a park side view or bench, both dependent on the seasons, the result of what is beyond our control.

There is no reward for letting go except forgetting, like postponing the subject until after the verb or arriving long after the designated hour, full of excuses that mean we were afraid to attend so therefore noticed, stepped back and thus avoided.

Poetry This Feeble Kitchen Match...

Simon Perchik

T

his feeble kitchen match leans the way a magician’s cane strikes the stage in flames doves and all, shaking more dust from that same darkness each match shares with stars left behind, in there somewhere

Never to Love Again Peirson Lane

A

man stares into the flames of a Christmas fire.

With the fragrance of fir and the heartbeat of embers memories of times ago begin to dance in the flames with the slight chilled breeze.

He sees laughter and gaiety that once surrounded him.

As he leans closer a slight smile crosses his face.

He sees children playing and calling to him.

and your chest snap open for those jack-in-the-box flowers stretching out, confident the dirt is warm, has no other use

They dance away and are replaced by a face that brings him closer.

--you will explode, give up everything become an offering and the ice under you weaker and weaker set out for any minute now and your arm.

The face subsides back into the flames and he leans closer...seeking.

The face is warm and welcomes him with a smile and a kiss, the face of an angel.

The flames flare and past demons arise laughing, dancing and pointing towards him.

He recoils in fear, regret and shame as they fade.

The angel returns once again only with distraught showing in her eyes and frozen tears on her face.

He thrust his hands into the flames to comfort her but she is gone.

He swiftly pulls his hands from the flames, not from the burn but from the cold.

As he continues to stare for more glimpses the fire slowly fades and is reduced to smoldering embers.

The chill in the air picks up but he remains staring... hoping.

The last of the embers die with the brilliant twinkle of a lost star.

The man remains, and in the glow of the moon a single tear shimmers as it streaks down his face.

He lowers his head and... is still.

Ekansh Sethi

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Poetry Our Relation The Day Goes On

I

thought a lot about our relation it’s just not casual, it seems to be an imagination so much close, so fast it’s never happened in the past it’s a gift of god to both of us to share our joys and sorrows and to think of a graceful tomorrow I care about you I think about you My heart often tells about you I want to talk to you While walking forever With no one else around Crossing miles and miles of distance In the sky of feeling Feeling that will be mutual Feelings that will be just feelings……

Francesca Castaño

I

cross the crowd at dusk, repeating the acts of the day as the light fades smoothly in the fog of an ordinary friday, walking home; rearranging storms in my head, so full of clouds stuffed with strange stuff…

My dream of last night, for instance: I’m at a lake, and step into its mirror.

Suddenly, the clear waters become a rug spreading over a wooden floor where I pace with frantic steps holding a glass of water in one hand, the other covering my eyes as if in trouble. The glass slips from my hand spilling a little river over the worn-out landscapes painted on the rug.

I lie on the floor and follow its streams with a finger; back inside the lake floating away, like a trunk.

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Preeti Rani

Love Transcends!

Sana Rashid Siddiqui

S

trange are the ways in which love blooms, The heart skips a beat, and fear no longer looms, The azure sky seems farther away and yet we, Wait for cloudless showers to drench us completely, Soaked in the blessings of love so true and pure, Wrapped in mystical incense we find every cure, The ailing heart no longer feels any worldly pain, Swift is the healing power of love’s blissful rain, Every word has many layers, every meaning lost, Every thought like a green leaf covered with frost, Moist eyes stir our souls beyond bounds of pleasure, Awakening dead calmness of feelings left barren forever, This majestic beauty and wonder of nature around us, Transcends happiness beyond the grasp of reality within us!

One Act Play

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One Act Play Among Artists & Thieves Kevin Rabas LIZ: I think you should take those back. They look more than gently used.

ARCHIBALD: Hand me downs. For impoverished artists.

LIZ: Who live with their mothers?

ARCHIBALD: Now now, Liz. You don’t have to rub it in.

LIZ: Archie, this is James. James, meet Archibald: artist, thief, man about town.

JAMES: Here, let me help you with that.

ARCHIBALD: My crime, my heft. I lift. I push.

JAMES: You sure you can’t use help?

ARCHIBALD: I’ve carted these stereos five blocks, buddy. I can make it a few more feet.

But if you don’t mind getting the door for me— JAMES: Sure. (opens door) (Archibald, James, and Liz enter Archibald’s house.)

LIZ: Good. Team work, fellas.

Deoyani Bharadwaj

CHARACTERS JAMES, 21 LIZ, 19 ARCHIBALD, 17 BURGE, 20s

ARCHIBALD: He’s helpful, sweetie. Where’d you find him, church?

LIZ: Archie, you know my face would start smoking if I even set foot in church. James here is a writer. Went to graduate school in creative writing.

JAMES: Well, went, but didn’t finish.

SETTING Kansas City, 1995

ARCHIBALD: Admirable effort, bub. B+ for stickto-itive-ness. What’d you learn?

JAMES: How to place commas.

Lights up. James and Liz stand together, holding hands, center stage. Enter Archibald, pushing a wheel barrow piled full of stereos.

ARCHIBALD: Uncommon learning. Progressive school system. What brings you two to my door, dearies?

LIZ: We thought you could use some company.

LIZ: New stereos?

ARCHIBALD: You know me.

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ARCHIBALD: Actually, I’ve got other company coming.

One Act Play LIZ: Hot date?

ARCHIBALD: Well, I hope he’s hot.

inside it. The true sound for this Dalmatian to listen to, the sound of its modern master.

LIZ: Oooo. Where’d you meet him?

LIZ: Brilliant, isn’t it?

ARCHIBALD: At the Writer’s Den. He was serving hors d’oeuvres from a shiny silver plate. Pâté. I almost licked it from his fingers.

JAMES: You’re right.

LIZ: And an ingenious way to repurpose borrowed goods.

LIZ: Writer’s Den. Sounds like your kind of place, Jamie. Wine and cheese. Sports jackets and slacks. Cocktail dresses and pearls. The hairflop, the nod, the turn-away elbow or shoulder.

(Enter Burge.)

BURGE: (to Archibald) Hi there, gorgeous.

ARCHIBALD: So good to see you. Burge, right?

With the lovely silver platter.

JAMES: I used to volunteer there, but I wouldn’t say I’m in there. I guess I’m just not country club enough.

BURGE: You got it, sweets. I’m here to serve.

LIZ: Oh, come on, preppy.

ARCHIBALD: I can see that. Excuse us, friends.

(Sound of police sirens in the distance.)

ARCHIBALD: That ain’t for me.

(Archibald takes Burge’s hand, and the two exit, stage right.)

LIZ: You sure?

JAMES: So, Archie’s a thief?

ARCHIBALD: So, how long have you two lovebirds known each other?

LIZ: Please don’t judge. Besides art, it’s what he does best.

LIZ: First date.

JAMES: Lives with his mom?

ARCHIBALD: So, what do you think, preppy?

LIZ: A kind of deal he made with the judge. Live at home until 18, instead of juvie. Remember that Kriegel’s diamond heist last year?

JAMES: I’m lucky to be with her. An intelligent, passionate woman. An artist.

ARCHIBALD: You bet you are, trigger. (to Liz) He’s not half bad.

LIZ: Told ya. He’s a keeper. (to Archibald) Show James here what you do with your loot.

ARCHIBALD: Want to see?

ARCHIBALD: Strong name, Burge.

BURGE: I’m a strong man.

JAMES: Who wouldn’t?

LIZ: Archie did that on a dare. But his eyes were bigger than his pockets, and he got caught.

JAMES: Seems like he’s picked up from where he left off.

JAMES: Sure.

LIZ: Oh, that’s just small stuff. Pocket change.

LIZ: Archie’s a real artist. An assembler. A collagist of technology.

JAMES: Do you ever help him?

LIZ: No. I just steal kisses. (She kisses him.)

ARCHIBALD: You see I take these antique shells, like this upscale 1940s hardwood TV casing and place modern components in them, like this DVD player and modern screen. I keep the original TV bubble on, but behind it, everything’s new. It’s retro turned state of the art. Notice how this Victrola has a CD player

JAMES: That’s my kind of theft.

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LIZ: Ok. I’ll close my eyes, and let’s see if you can kiss me gently enough that I don’t know where you’re kissing.

JAMES: Ok. Deal. (He kisses her lightly on the elbow.)

One Act Play LIZ: Elbow. Too easy. Try again. (He kisses her lightly on the ankle.) Better. Ankle. Try again.

(He kisses her on the forehead.) Way too easy.

Forehead. No lines there, you might notice.

JAMES: No worries?

LIZ: Not many. (He kisses her on the lips.) I wondered when you’d get around to that.

(Both kiss longer.) Not bad. My turn. (He closes his eyes. She kisses his ear.)

JAMES: Ear. (She kisses his forehead.) Forehead.

LIZ: Yours is wrinkly. What are you worried about? Is the rest of you this way?

JAMES: Uh. LIZ: Guess we’ll have to find out. (She gets up close. Sirens.) Shucks, the cavalry.

(Enter Burge, patting his wallet pocket.) That was quick. (Burge pulls out a switchblade. Liz and James freeze. Burge flicks open the switchblade and a comb appears. He slicks back his hair.) Oh, I thought that was something else.

BURGE: He said take any of these here stereos I want. (Burge puts a stereo on his shoulder and saunters off.) See ya.

(Enter Archibald.)

ARCHIBALD: Did he get away?

LIZ: Just now. And with one of your stereos.

LIZ: I’m sorry, sweetie.

ARCHIBALD: That turn-coat. That user. That frickin’ waiter.

JAMES: You know, there’s only one letter that separates a writer from a waiter.

LIZ: Which one?

JAMES: (writing on a notepad) Change the “a” to an “r,” and there you have it.

(Archibald looks at notepad, scans the letters.)

ARCHIBALD: Very funny. But that one, I can assure you, can’t write. Can’t spell. Can’t kiss.

Can’t— LIZ: I hear ya. And I’m sorry, Archie. (hugs him) They’re not all artists and thieves.

ARCHIBALD: But that’s the kind I like.

LIZ: Well, you’re not stealing this one from me. (about James) I’m keeping him.

JAMES: Don’t I get a say?

LIZ: No. I’m stealing you. Now. (She grabs hold of James, hugging both Archibald and James together.) You, I’m just borrowing, Archie. But know I’m coming back. James, you’re with me, tonight. We’ve even sealed it with a kiss. Come on. (stepping away with James) ARCHIBALD: Go on, you breeders.

ARCHIBALD: And my wallet. Frickin’ thief.

LIZ: Don’t worry, Archie. You’ll find a better thief. Or maybe an artist, next time.

LIZ: Guess there’s no honor among thieves.

ARCHIBALD: Honey, we artists are all thieves.

ARCHIBALD: Honor, my ass. He’s all up on me kissing me, then pulls out a knife.

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(Blackout.)

Short Story

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Short Story Robogirl?

Alomoy Banerjee 1 National Conference Hall, Canada (24th May, 2089)

N

icholas: “The society is at a crisis today. The sex ratio disparity has extended beyond imagination to 50 females per 1000 males.

To solve this issue my team’s new inventionThe Robogirl, an artificially created Girl in the Lab. She works on an artificial heart and we have designed an artificial reproductive system through which Robogirl can give birth to a human child. She is absolutely just like a woman with almost all qualities a human girl possesses. There lies just a couple of differences with a human girl. The beneficial difference is She will never complain and hence will NEVER CRY. Next, She can do anything and speak about everything, but her only drawback is that she will never be able to utter the phrase “I Love You”, as She is devoid of sentimental feelings. However, it is very beneficial to marry this Robogirl as a man just needs to write down the criteria his family wants in the girl and The Robogirl will be delivered within a week. It will be available in the market within the next 6 months.”

2

“Have you thought clear and hard before taking your decision? Don’t regret later.”

“Mom. I want a life-partner who won’t complain but can solve all my purposes. So why not marry a Robogirl instead!” exclaimed Sourav!

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“She’s devoid of sentimental feelings” “I don’t wanna a long play record beside me repeating “I love u”.”

Mom Smiled.

“Write what criteria and qualities you want in your Daughter-in –law? And I will place the order by tomorrow.” Continued Sourav!

“Ok. I’ll do it, tonight.” replied Mom. 3 “It’s ready Sir! Just as you wanted it to be…”, consoled the dealer. :”Ok. I am eager to see it.”

“Sir, before You take her home, better you know a few things. We give a 1 year guarantee on our product and any problem in the product in this period will be treated free of cost. However we are not responsible for any accidental damage caused to it. There will be a constant monitoring over her from the headquarters to ensure that she is functioning correctly.”

“Ok. Thank you. May I take it home now?” said Sourav.

“Sure Sir. You are the 1st customer. All the best!”

4 “Mom, here is your Daughter-in-law. Please have a look at it and introduce it to our family. I am tired after a long day” “I have thought about her name. She is Diya.

Short Story And Son, she is your wife. Robot or Human doesn’t matter. She is your wife. Respect her and refer to her as ‘she’ rather than ‘it’ now onwards”, replied Mom. That night, “How did You like my family?” Sourav asked.

“Awesome I liked each of them. Everyone here is too cute.”

Sourav smiled… contented ... his decision was perfect.

5 ‘A year has passed since your marriage and you two haven’t gone out for a single trip.

You may be very busy at office. I don’t know anything about that You have to manage. Next week Delhi! She has served us so much. She deserves a trip with you.”

“Ok .But for God’s sake please stop referring to it as ‘She’. It’s a robot after all! “ 6

Was he hurt now?

2 minutes had passed since their last meeting BOOM! The earth rattled as the entire hotel was engulfed by a huge ball of fire in a huge explosion. Sourav stood glued to the ground trembling. Somehow he gathered courage and headed blindly towards Diya’s room. As he rushed into the fire he realized his entire dress was burning..

There! There was Diya! Sitting idle on the bed.

Sourav rushed, grabbed her and headed for a jump from the 2nd floor of the hotel room.

7 “Where? Where am I?” “You are in Apollo hospital. You have survived the explosion miraculously!” said the doctor.

“Diya ... where is she?”

“That robot carrying a human baby?” laughed the doctor.

“She’s my wife!” shouted Sourav ”BABY!! Is she pregnant?”

“Did you like the Lotus Temple?” asked Sourav.

“She was. Go to the next cabin”

“ It was awesome!” Replied Diya without any expression.

As he was on his way to the cabin, he received a text message from the robot dealer “ Sir, due to the accident robot has been damaged and has stopped functioning. As we wont be responsible for any accidental damage. We deeply regret your loss.”

Even during that beautiful night, Sourav did not see a tinge of pleasure in her eyes.

One day after returning from India Gate, Sourav said “I love you dear! You stay in the hotel room. I will be just back in a jiffy.

She just turned back & headed towards the hotel.

Sourav thought, “Why did she not reply?

Doesn’t she love me?”

An inner voice echoed,”You didn’t want a longplay record” Something choked his throat.

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Is Diya no more?

Sourav entered the cabin with trembling legs.

“Diyaaaaaaa” Sourav shouted out in blind desperation!

Diya murmured “I’m sorry… our baby……”

Suddenly, it struck Sourav that she would be devoid of sentimental feelings

Short Story But contrary to the law, There were tears in her eyes, she murmured, “Please save me” & fell unconscious.

8 “That’s unbelievable”, claimed the doctor, while coming out of O.T, accompanied by Nicholas.

Nicholas: “This is our biggest failure. Since she was carrying a human baby, there has been a chromosomal interchange between the foetus and mother. Probably heat induced exchange.

The artificial chromosome chip is damaged in the explosion. So, she has transformed into human now”

9 There she was! On the bed. Face down! Eyes Closed!

He looked into her eyes. She murmured,” I LOVE YOU. I’m sorry…….. Our child…….. I realized it today only.. and before I could tell you”..

“Sshh, we are together, that’s all for me’, replied He Suddenly his phone rang.

“Son are you ok? How’s IT? What about The robot?”

“SHE is fine, Ma!”

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Interview

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Interview An Interview with Pulitzer Winner Gilbert Anthony King Interview by Lakshmi Nameirapam Gilbert Anthony King is an American author from New York City, who has written numerous books. He is known best for his narrative nonfiction; Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, the Groveland Boys and the Dawn of New America for which he won the Pulitzer award in the year 2012. He has also written about U.S Supreme Court history for the New York Times and the Washington Post and is a featured contributor to Smithsonian magazine’s history blog, Past Imperfect.

Your Pulitzer winning book is based on a historical fact. From a narrative historian’s perspective, what is the best way to identify a good story ?

That’s a really good question. I write narrative non-fiction, so my first instinct is I got to tell people what really happened. Before I write the book, I sit around with my friends and tell them: “ You won’t believe what happened next! You won’t believe what the Sheriff does next ! You’ll never guess what happened! It is very chilling!”

No one’s told this story before. And when you are telling people what happens in the story, it’s kind of fascinating and that’s how I know what a real good story it is. It blows your mind away!

Is journalism relevant to writing nonfiction?

Absolutely! Because journalism is like digging through records , you are telling people what really happened.

What brought you to the Literature Festival ?

Ah ... I got a really nice e-mail from my

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good friend- Mr. Dalrymple ( William Dalrymple) who invited me and you know I have never been to India before and if anybody is asking me to come to India, I am coming!

What advice would you give to young aspiring writers ?

The best tip I have is just get excited about the story and don’t try to get so excited ... like ... I know what my limits are as a writer. I am not a really good linguist. I am not really great with language. I listen to American writers Alan and Kate (Novac) and Adam Johnson and I am blown away by how beautifully they write. I don’t see myself as a beautiful writer but I know what my strengths are and I get it out of the way and just let my story develop and I really like my research. So, I think the answer is to find out what you are good at and what really moves you and pursue those areas. If you don’t want to write about farming, don’t write about farming!

Find out the stuff that moves you.

You have been a photographer as well. Which would you prefer — writing or photography?

Umm ... Photography is easier ... You can finish the job and move on to the next one.

These books I write take about five years ... so ... that becomes more ... it is much more ... It seems to suit me better. I really like sneaking around and finding things out, doing detective work and digging into things. I like writing better.

What has been your experience in India ?

I love it!! I am heart-broken to be leaving...

It is beautiful!

Book Review

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Book Review A Book Review of the Nature Poems in Dodruk (Moments) Tapti Roy Price: $13 Publisher: Lulu Press ISBN: 978-1304930262 Number of Pages: 120

D

odruk, translated as Moments, is a collection of poetry by Polish poet Alicja Kuberska. This collection dwells between the extremes of exuberance in the lap of Nature to the realisation of Impermanence as the only truth of life. Her concern for the loss of pure values and innocence is too evident in the poems.

In this section of Review, the Nature poems of Alicja Kuberska in the aforementioned work will be taken into account.

The nature poems of Alicja Kuberska have many recurrent motifs. One of the most important motif is that of autumn. On one hand she celebrates the fullness, fecundity brought about by the season, and on the other she reads the unsolicited messages of life in its harsher conditions.

Nature has been a recurrent theme in Alicja’a poems. She treats Nature as a muse which through its various manifestations infuses her with poetic emotions. The following lines from her poem The Winged Goddess would validate the statement: I rise above the limits of imagination, ...

On the border of the sky, the earth, the sea. ...

I am not a bird, do not break my wings ...

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There will be forces to cross the skies.

Similarly, in her June Poems , like stars are strewn images of the whispers of the night, jasmine bloom, and nightingale which instil poetic imagination in the poet and transfer her to a different dimension where such nonverbal attributes are translated into the finest of lyrics as captured in the lines: Sometimes jasmine blooms, And the nightingale sings in it.

Developing verses Likewise flowers on the shrubs.

In her poem, The Letter to Marie the poet establishes the possibility of Nature being the carrier of true love. She asserts the fact that unalloyed, sincere love is often carried

by Nature and can be felt when hearts are at synchrony with it. A parallel can be drawn here with Kalidasa’s Meghadootam where the Yaksha sends messages to his beloved via rain clouds. Consider the lines below: My far-away sister ...

The same sky is over us ...

But we dream under Different, silver stars ...

Our thoughts can flow From north to south.

After drawing inspiration and reveling in the excesses that the Nature has to offer the poet turns her attention towards the inexplicit philosophical message Nature tries to convey despite the overt plenitude it offers.

In her poem, The Flowers from Paradise, she

Book Review comments on the condition of human life.

One is destined to be born and die alone. Life is compared to the flowers which bloom and wilt on a periodical basis. It also concerns itself with the transfer of values from generation to generation just as flowers transfer seeds to ensure the birth and fostering of a new generation. The last stanza is most powerful and serves to sum up the meaning of life with utmost simplicity. It says: However, we must live alone, Slowly losing our colors and shapes.

We wilt in the loneliness.

Throughout, the Nature poems in the book one can spot a trend that of naivetĂŠ metamorphosed into seasoned maturity. The manner in which the poet finds reconciliation in the quotidian ways of Nature is the marker of an impeccable sophistication accomplished

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over time. The choice of subject and the loftiness of rendering is such that the target language sometimes finds itself unable to furnish appropriate words to convey the emotion as a whole. Therefore, the reader is always left intrigued with the mystery and ecstasy held by the poems in their source language.

Indeed, such was the vision of our great masters of Romantic poetry who sought beauty and guidance in the minutest aspect of Nature. It can be stated here that the poet has been able to revive the reverence that had been lost among distress and ennui of our Postmodern condition.

Paintings

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Paintings

The Burden of Humanity (1995)

Medium: Oil on canvas Dimensions: 48” X 60” Artist: Dibyendu Tripathi

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Paintings

Marketplace in Kolkata (1992) Medium: Watercolour on paper Dimensions: 18� X 22�

Artist: Dibyendu Tripathi

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Paintings

The Poisoned Chalice (1995)

Medium: Oil on canvas Dimensions: 48” X 60” Artist: Dibyendu Tripathi

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Our Contributors

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Our Contributors Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets who has over 500 poems published in 250 international journals and anthologies. She has published eleven books of poetry. Grayhurst is also a sculptor working with clay. She lives in Toronto with her family.

Email: allisongrayhurst@rogers.com Alomoy Banerjee has one of his short stories Hate Story published in a special edition of the magazine brought out

by CESC (Calcutta Electric Supply Corporation). He has a strong inclination towards writing and draws his stories from contemporary life. He has presented research papers in eminent places like IIT Kharagpur and Jadavpur University.

Email: alomoybanerjee@gmail.com Ann Daly is a Sister of Notre Dame de Namur whose interests range from choral singing and liturgical dance to acting and interior decorating.

Sr. Ann has taught at Emmanuel College in Boston and is currently on the faculty of Elms College in Chicopee, Massachusetts. She is a native of Boston.

Email: writeon@elms.edu Anna Jakubczak vel RattyAdalan is a young Polish poet. She has collaborated with Association of Polish Writers and a few Polish and international magazines. In 2013, she published her debut volume Ars Poetica. At present she’s working on her forthcoming projects which include a book of

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poem Conversation at Night, a novel Wind of Hope, and a collection of stories titled Gates of Subconscious.

Email: alinanoren@gmail.com Deepak Chaswal is a poet from the soil of India. His poems have been published in reputed international poetry journals and poetry anthologies like University of London’s Poetry anthology In Protest, Sam Smith The Journal, Pacific Review, Pomona Valley Review, Forge, Enchanting Verses, The Tower, Earthborne Poetry Magazine, Bicycle Review, Frog Croon, Red River Review to name a few. His poetry exhibits his perception of the universe from the perspective of an insider.

Email: dchaswal@gmail.com Dibyendu Tripathi is an artist, designer, and educator. He is an imagineer who draws inspiration from literature to fuel his creativity. He is responsible for the first ever animated poem of Rabindranath Tagore in monochrome.

The tales of Panchatantra telecasted in Doordarshan for kids are a part of his oeuvre.

Tripathi is a member of the Design and Visual Arts faculty at Apeejay Stya University.

Email: dibyendu.tripathi@asu.apeejay.edu Francesca Castaño is a Spaniard who writes in English.

Her poems have appeared in; Ygdrasil, A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Selected Poems

by Francesca Castaño, Unshod Quills, The Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Shot Glass Journal, Thefirstcut, The Foliate Oak

Our Contributors Literary Journal, Decades Review, The Stolen Poem, Mad Swirl, The Odd Magazine, Pirene’s Fountain and others. She lives and works in Barcelona.

Email: cheskitom1@telefonica.net Kevin Rabas has six books to his credit - Bird’s Horn, Lisa’s Flying Electric Piano, Spider Face, Sonny Kenner’s Red Guitar, Eliot’s Violin, and Green Bike. Selections from this list have also been felicitated with Kansas Notable Book and Nelson Poetry Book Awards. He coedits Flint Hills Review and writes regularly for Kansas City’s Jazz Ambassador Magazine (JAM). Rabas’s plays have been produced across Kansas and in North Carolina and San Diego.

Email: krabas3@yahoo.com Krishnaswamy Rajagopalan has a collection of short stories based on athletic and games’ situations to his credit. He won another International award in 2001 for rewriting the last chapter of the Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. He is the Founder Chairman of the Literature Club, Pune.

Email: sarojarj@gmail.com Lakshmi Nameirapam is an art and literature enthusiast.

She is an avid reader with serious concern for Human Rights issues all over the world. She desires to fulfill her dreams of becoming a globetrotter and a travel journalist. She is currently pursuing her Masters in Journalism and Mass Communication from Apeejay Stya University.

Email: whitelilies.7@hotmail.com

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Malvika Kaul has been a journalist in leading dailies such as The Indian Express, Hindustan Times, and Times of India. Her comic book Minty, the Dog with Many Tales, was selected by the National Book Trust for the Beijing International Book Fair in 2014. She is an Associate Professor at Apeejay Stya University.

Email: kaulateral@gmail.com Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The Song Is .... She has recently published her first chapbook, Listening to Electric Cambodia Looking at Trees of Heaven, with Kind of a Hurricane Press.

Her poems have appeared in ken*again, Of/ with, bird’s thumb, Bottlec[r]ap, Silver Birch Press’ Where I Live Series, and other online and print venues. She is a Professor at Montgomery College.

Email: thesongis@gmail.com Marie Hanna Curran is a prolific writer who likes to be addressed as a farmer of words. Over 60 of her poems have appeared in The Galway Review, Poems from Conflicted Hearts, Literature Today, JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, Ropes 2015. Her first poetry collection, Observant Observings is currently nominated for The Griffin Poetry Prize. She refuses to allow illness Myalgic Encephalomyelitis to impact her quest to fill the world with words.

Matt Prater is a prolific writer whose work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in journals throughout the English speaking world. Much of his work concerns itself with life in the Appalachian

Our Contributors mountains. His first chapbook, Mono No Aware, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He is a writing instructor at Emory & Henry College. He lives in Saltville, Virginia.

Email: mprater@ehc.edu Dr. Pankaj Gupta is an admirer of the literary and creative art works. He is a much sought after speaker at top business schools across the globe with numerous books and research papers to his credit. Dr. Gupta has over 25 years of professional experience with several top organizations such as IIM Kozhikode, IMT Ghaziabad, Symbiosis, Educomp Raffles, University of Washington, S P Jain (Dubai & Singapore), Jaipuria Group, ICSI etc., He is currently the Vice Chancellor of Apeejay Stya University and is a PhD, Fulbright Fellow, CMA, GCPCL (Harvard), Fellow of ICAI, and an alumnus of Lucknow University and IIM Ahmedabad.

Email: prof.pankaj@gmail.com

Preeti Rani is an accomplished architect and educator. She has a passion for literature and incorporates it in her poetic creations. She has also designed a monastery school in Nepal and has immense knowledge in Mughal landscaping. Rani hails from Dehradun.

Email: preeti.rani@asu.apeejay.edu R. W. Haynes takes keen interest in composing poetry which can be found in a number of places online and in a variety of print publications.

His current project is editing of an anthology of criticism on the playwright/ screenwriter Horton Foote. Haynes is a Professor of English at Texas A&M International University. He pursues scholarly interests in Renaissance literature and the literature of the American South.

Email: dustiest@gmail.com

Patricia George has published her literary creations in Dark Matter, The Scapegoat Review, Penduline Press and others. She believes that writing is the art of life, the vessel for all creative arts. She writes in her spare time and paints in the summer when school is out. She is a trained pianist and teacher.

Email: patricia.george91@yahoo.com

Sadie Miller has had her literary works published by Aurum Press, Gothic City Press and Oddville Press. She has been nominated for the Glass Woman Prize for Fiction. She has also had poetry published by the Red Booth Review, Clockwise Cat, and The Commonline Journal.

Email: siam_king@hotmail.com

Peirson Lane writes from life experiences and hopes the whomever reads his work may find a meaning that may help them in their own lives. He lives in Swansboro, NC. Email: plane@thelmc.com

Samina Hadi-Tabassum, Ed.D.is the author of Language, Space and Power which focuses on dual language education. Her poetry has been published in the Journal of Postcolonial Writing, Eastlit, and Soul Lit. In 2014, she released a second book on the topic of

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Our Contributors majority minority schools. She is an Associate Professor at Dominican University at River Forest, Illinois.

Email: shadi@conceptschools.org Sana Rashid with a Masters Degree in English, has been working as an Instructional Designer and Training Needs Analyst for more than a decade. She has been an active volunteer for The Times of India’s ‘Teach India’ campaign in Delhi. An avid nature and music lover, she gives vent to her innate creative abilities through poetry.

Email: sanarashid31@gmail.com Sandra Kolankiewicz’s poems and stories have appeared in reviews over the past 35 years.

Most recently they have been included in New World Writing, BlazeVox, Gargoyle, Fifth Wednesday, Prick of the Spindle, Per Contra, Prairie Schooner, and Appalachian Heritage.

Her work Pif. Turning Inside Out won the Black River Prize at Black Lawrence Press. Her novel Blue Eyes Don’t Cry won the Hackney Award.

She lives with her family in Marietta, Ohio.

Email: sandra.kolankiewicz@gmail.com Siddhant Aggarwal has a knack for creative writing. He experiments with meters and rhythm. He has been a fellow at Toastmasters International.

He is a Software developer by profession. Siddhant lives in Jaipur, Rajasthan.

Email: siddhantmanik@gmail.com

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Simon Perchik’s poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.

His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). Perchik is an attorney by profession.

Email: simon@hamptons.com Tapti Roy is an Assistant Professor, Department of Journalism and Mass Communication. She has presented and published research papers on various fields like Cultural Theory, 18th Century British Literature, Films and Literature.

Email: taptiroyc@yahoo.co.in Yannis A. Phillis has published eight poetry collections in Greek and one in English. He has twice received the Harry Kurnitz Literary Award at UCLA and numerous awards in Greece and the US for his literary works. His poetry has appeared in literary magazines in Greek, English, German, Chinese, and French.

He is also a member of reputed bodies like Greek PEN and Poets and Writers, USA. Email: phillis@dpem.tuc.gr