__MAIN_TEXT__

Page 1


This e-magazine is a compilation of Poems, Short Stories, Short – Story Series, Non – Fiction, Photographs published on Writer’s Ezine. Cover Photo © Namrata (Privy Trifles) Image source Google Images, unless otherwise.

mentioned

The copyright of the work published in this magazine remains with the author of the individual work. Please contact the authors and Writer’s Ezine if you need to use the content. You are free to share the content as long as you retain and respect the copyright. Visit Writer’s Ezine for details Find us on Facebook | Twitter | Send us an email

Administrator, Editor, Promotions and Marketing Manager, Assistant Relationship advisor: Namrata

Administrator, Web-designer, Strategist, Relationship Advisor, Co-editor: Arti Honrao


Editor’s Note Fiction Poem Poem Short Story Poem Poem Non-fiction Book Review – I Author Interview – I Poem Poem Short Story Poem Poem Book Review – II Author Interview – II Non-fiction Poem Poem Poem

Follow Your Heart The Vrindavan Widow One More Day You And Your Shadow The Story of A Classic Swiss Pocket Watch Bent, But Not Broken One Day Parents And Children The Devil’s Gate: An Impossible Journey Mr. Deepak Kripal The Dance Puzzles Hide And Seek A Walk In Rain Her Equilibrium State Of The Heart Mr. Nelton D’Souza Two Years Until Forty Love Angel Of Death Last Words Of An Altruist’s Soul


Short – story Series Photography Poem Poem Whispered Words

The Old Man And I – Darkness And Beyond Behind The Barb I Belong To You Not Meant To Be Exhumed Expressions


Editor’s Note As I child I remember learning in school – eyes are to see, ears to hear, hands to do, legs to walk, heart to pump blood and mind to think. I grew up believing it to the eternal truth of life – heart pumps blood and mind thinks. It took a series of failures, fall outs, heartbreaks, tremendous breakdowns and worst nightmares coming true to realize that whatever I learnt then was so wrong. Apart from pumping blood heart has its own way of thinking and giving us different perspectives in life. And I learnt the biggest lesson of life.

FOLLOW YOUR HEART- 99.99% of the times it knows exactly what you want. And the remaining 0.001% times when it doesn’t mostly means you don’t want anything! ~ N When you decide to listen to your heart there will be many instances where you will termed an emotional fool, a person who is not rational enough in life to accept the harsh realities around. But what these people will never understand is that it is not about not accepting the realities, it is about accepting them and yet not being bogged down by them.


Always listen to your heart, for some day it might just stop saying anything to you. And that is the day you might exist but you cease being alive. ~ N Exist everyone does, it is living that adds meaning to life. And that happens only when you do all that you want to. Starting with smallest things like your dress to the largest things of life like marriage, job, relationships‌ it all makes a huge difference the moment you do it from the heart for the joy it brings along is unmatched. The best part about such decisions is that when they go wrong, heart itself gives you the strength to face the repercussions. Magically you have the ability to face your victories and failures with an equal Êlan. Every time you listen to your heart you give life a chance, a chance to make you smile, to surprise you and to make you believe in miracles, ones that began with you.

At times when you are surrounded by chaos, there is a tiny feeble yet firm voice that rings in your head speaking to you. Well, that is your heart talking to you,


showing you the way ahead just at the moment when you feel you have lost it completely. Rational thinking (one that comes from the mind) always leads to a smile on your face, undoubtedly one that comes from having touched the zenith of success but the smile which comes after taking a decision from the heart, that is the one that comes from deep within making you heart and soul smile together, one that resonates your entire being. And one that reinstates that LIFE is beautiful, no matter what.

WE hopes this issue of ours brings a smile your face similar to this one, for in every issue we listen to our hearts and follow them.


The Vrindavan Widow Akanksha rested her head on the window. Outside on the tarmac were two other planes & two buses plying passengers to & fro. Her bemusement continued. In her cloistered world at Vrindavan, she had never known anyone who had travelled on a plane. Of course she had seen these giant birds in the sky, but always believed that being air-borne was reserved for the high & mighty, not for the likes of her & her companions. Her worldview was limited. Married at 15, widowed at 17, her inlaws were convinced that their son’s untimely demise was a direct result of Akanksha’s misplaced stars. That the son was a dissolute alcoholic whose days were numbered were of no consequence. So one day when Akanksha’s husband had a drink too many & fell down in a stupor, never to get up again, it was this young girl of fifteen whose blood the family & the village bayed for. Her parents who were in another village to attend a wedding were not informed about their son-inlaw’s demise. When they returned after a month, Akanksha was no longer a daughter-in-law in her inlaws home. She was by then a Vrindavan widow.


“May I check your seat belt please?� The air-hostess’ friendly voice jolted Akanksha back to her current surroundings. She allowed the pretty, picture-perfect hostess to fit her seat belt snug and secure, smiled her thanks and watched her do the same with her copassengers who were also widows from the same Ashram in Vrindavan. Each one of them clutched on to the other as the flight began its run. When the plane finally took off, Akanksha was surprisingly calm. She had obviously acclimatised well. She was only twenty, and typical of her age and despite the difficult conditions of the last three years, she was enlivened by an anticipation that was like nothing she had ever felt before. The anticipation of being in Kolkata in the next two hours and being part of the Durga Puja celebrations immediately afterward was a dream she had never dared articulate - at least not in daytime, sitting outside the temple at lunchtime, waiting for the prasad, and then in the by-lanes begging for alms to feed the hunger pangs of a twenty-year old stomach unfulfilled with just one meal. Nights gave her no respite. Akanksha was not able to control her mind which hankered after wholesome food and the happy life of her childhood, and which foiled sleep from soothing her weary limbs. Mornings were better when she along with her widowed sisters went to the nearby temple and sang to the Lord. These few hours were the only silver lining in


her clouded existence. The lack of food & sleep did little to wither the enthusiasm with which Akanksha sang to her Lord, her Krishna, in generous, open, full-throated ease. This was her true engagement with the world, when she came into her own and sang with joy, with love, with abandonment. She sang of love, of parting, of good times & bad and finally of being forever united with the Lord. She sang with her eyes closed, opening them just before leaving, and then it seemed to her that her Lord was looking her full in the face with love & affection streaming from his eyes, his flute, his entire demeanour burnished with an ineffable incandescence. Akanksha often wondered whether it was the ambience and air of Vrindavan that engendered this illogical, yet spontaneous rush of feeling for Krishna. In her childhood, while Krishna was certainly in the scheme of her family’s divine pantheon, it was Durga who was her favourite and whose Puja she looked forward to, and participated in with extreme devotion & glee. The five days of Durga Puja in her village were the happiest days of her life. And she loved the idea of a female power vanquishing evil. How ironic, she mused, that in her life, she became ‘the evil one’ in the eyes of her in-laws. And now it seemed to her as if life had come full circle and Krishna was indulging her, as she was one of the widows of Vrindavan who were en route to be being feted at Kolkata’s Durga Pujas. An NGO had finally shattered the iron ceiling of oppressive superstition and in collaboration with many Puja Committees in Kolkata,


paved the way for the once-ostracised widows to take their rightful place in worship of the Mother in the Mother’s City of Joy, where the intensity, colour & devotion around Ma Durga’s worship was like nowhere else in the world. And how! These ladies would be inaugurating many puja pandals! For Akanksha who was hastily & summarily banished to Vrindavan, because of a superstitious belief in her ‘evil’, to be considered ‘good’ & ‘holy’ enough to inaugurate the Mother of all pujas which symbolised the victory of Good over Evil was like her personal victory of good over evil and something she cherished so dearly, she now – in the pressurised, ear-popping interior of the plane – felt her heart would break. Even more so, because of her deep, unexpressed ‘akanksha’ (desire) which cut through her soul, to meet her parents, a desire which - she knew in her hearts of hearts – was unviable. She recovered herself as the plane made a soft landing, and the passengers alighted to board the bus that would take them to the airport. At the airport, she felt a flutter in her heart as she saw the smiling swarm of people who had come to greet these special visitors. Young & old, men & women had come in considerable numbers to warmly welcome their widowed sisters from Vrindavan. The composure that Akanksha had managed all through the flight cracked at this overwhelming gesture of warmth and brotherhood.


It was surreal, for she could only remember the black night of her departure from this beloved city, when she was pushed into the train all by herself to ride into an unknown future. Blinking back her tears, Akanksha returned a tremulous smile as she let herself be drawn into this happy & empathetic group. The journey to the hotel resounded with introductory conversations with the welcome committee, chatter amongst the widows, questions and answers about where they were going, their daily schedules and finally silence as they gazed at the Kolkata of 2013 (the oldest widow was returning after thirty years, Akanksha’s was the shortest gap – a mere three years) and then the tears came unabated, tears of separation, loneliness, humiliation & nostalgia. The welcome committee members wiped away their own tears and maintained an empathetic silence to allow these broken women to savour their experience of the city (that was the birthplace for many of them, and had a fond place in the hearts of the others who were born in other towns & villages of West Bengal) and revisit their memories of life in Bengal. The bus stopped at a West Bengal Government guest house. A small contingent of staff members emerged from the Reception to garland the twenty widows, and made them sit comfortably in the Lounge as registration details were fed in the computer. The group was then ushered into another hall which was completely dark, except for two focus lights which illuminated a table in the centre of the hall which seemed to holding twenty


odd boxes wrapped in red & white paper. They were made to stand in two lines on either side of the table. A voice thundered from the back of the room saying in Bengali “Namaskar, we welcome you to the City of Joy,

and we will ensure with every breath in our being that you have a joyful two weeks here”. This was followed by hushed footfalls and silence. Akansha’s heart thudded with uneasy anticipation. She felt as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice when the lights started coming on, one by one, as if in slow motion, till the whole hall was bathed in a soft, almost ethereal glow, and Akanksha found herself face to face with her father, who she had lost sight and sound of in the last three years, and who now stood two feet away, gazing at her with hot tears running down a glowing, loving, face wreathed in an ear-splitting smile. Akanksha stood rooted to the spot. She could not move an inch. Her mind refused to function, her eyes glazed over, as she felt herself about to fall. With remarkable control she held herself together and addressed her Dad directly in Bengali, “Baba, where were you all these years?” Her Baba strode across the two-foot distance that separated him from his long-lost daughter, grabbed her in his arms, & held her so tight that Akanksha made a small cry of pain. Being hugged was something she had all but forgotten, except in dreams & memories. That hug returned Akanksha to her not-so-hoary childhood days and she dragged her Baba down to sit on the floor with her head resting on his lap. Not another word


escaped the father & daughter’s lips as the dam of injustice, humiliation & forced separation finally gave way, letting silent, copious tears flow out and hopefully, away. Akanksha felt she had come home. Her deep, unspoken ‘akanksha” (wish or desire) had finally been fulfilled. Like Ma Durga, she had come to her parents. Her Lord, Krishna, was proof that love – pure, unspoken, and unconditional – did indeed exist. She more than ever, believed that this was Krishna’s wish for her. That he was letting her go to reunite with her parents, but that also, she would be back for Him, to sing her love, her devotion, her joy, in the town where He had lived His life with joy, love & merriment.

About Author: Leela Pal Chaudhuri Editor's Comment: A homecoming in the truest sense. The author has managed to weave emotions in to a heart-breaking story.


One More Day

Across the arch of years many a times I tirelessly tried to revolt against the bitter doom. There is a stab sense bleeding me white Each day when I hear a desperate cry of my soul to release itself from the mortal pain. A shadow of restlessness stealthily creeps in my heart. I shiver with cold fear Magic tears glimmer and with ever wakeful eyes I watch each day


the chaos dance of death-in-life. I wish to die but Death generously throws me in the arms of Life and life smiles crooked as I live to die one more day.

About Prachi Priyanka: Prachi Priyanka is the Creative Head at Morsels & Juices. She holds a doctorate degree in English literature and conducts creative writing workshops for young learners. She enjoys weaving articles on various topics – ranging from art criticism to book reviews and relationships to recipes. She is a contributing author at Crumpled Voices, Gargi Publishers. Her articles, stories and poems have also been published on several online magazines and journals. Conflicts and contradictions that emerge in human relationships fascinate her to the core; and her writings are often spilled with varying shades of experiences that intrigue her. Editor's Comment: If Darwin’s theory of “survival of the fittest” could have been a poem, perhaps this would have been it.


You And Your Shadow

Either dark or light Either day or night; Whenever I go I search you & your shadow... In parties; in marriages At home; in palaces Wherever I go I search you and your shadow.... So complex this world is With so many pretty and horrible faces Even then I am unable to find you and your shadow... Wherever I sit; wherever I walk With whom I speak; with whom I talk


Again I am unable to see you and your shadow.... My eyes just search for you My heart just waits to beat for you My hands just wait to hold for you But neither they find you nor your shadow.... God knows when will I find you & your shadow Day by day am feeling sad and sorrow But I will wait till tomorrow And a day will come; may be on this earth or beyond the sky; where I will fly And will finally meet....... You and your Shadow....

About Author: Isha Sharma Editor's Comment: The madness of love, justified in these words.


The Story of A Classic Swiss Pocket Watch Principal Father Percy Pereira was shouting at a kid non-stop. “Why are doing homework in the class. Don’t you have

time at home? Call your parents tomorrow. I need to talk to them. If they are too busy to come, you too stay at home. Don’t come to school tomorrow. You are an unnecessary problem in the class.” Father Pereira droned on and on. No he didn’t use a cane. His verbal assault was equivalent to a cane. Another father friend, who was in close proximity, heard Father Pereira going mad at the boy. Father Sam Walters, his friend, confronted him during the recess hours.“How could you yell so much, at such a lil’ thing, gosh dang it.” “I know I had overdone it. Sorry, if I had disturbed your

class. But, don’t you think kids these days are too much to handle. By the way, I inherited this explosive


behavior from my granddad from my father’s side,” saying this Father Pereira held the photo out. My grandpa, Mr. Collins was known for two things a] explosive nature. B] love for his goddam golden dial Swiss pocket watch. One fine day, the decrepit man had roared in his loudest voice. “Who the hell, touched my watch?” Though his shouting was not utterly out of character, the maid of our house crouched and cowered behind the bedroom wall. “Oh! Stop it Dad! Stop it! Hollered my father

condescendingly from the other end of the living room. She had simply stroked the golden dialed antique pocket watch, clean.” My parents, had often witnessed my granddad’s eccentric behavior, but had simply failed to see how dusting an old watch could make him go so freaking wild. Mr.Collin had taken a huge offense to it, although. And to punish us, though for no fault of ours, he would stage psychotic attacks and would bring the entire house down. (Couldn’t be otherwise, what with this vain gloriousness.) The antique watch was off-limits for the household members, much less the maid. The unwritten contract


between Mr. Collins and the family members read: No one, in fact, no one should touch his super sacred watch, much less clean it. Awfully, the maid being new, was unaware of this dictum. “The fault lies at dad’s end," my father reiterated. But my granddad gave two hoots to what my dad said and yelled at the maximum decimal point possible by him. “Keep that hideous, grim reaper of a maid out-ofmy-sight and out-of-my-room. I don’t want to see her anymore.” Since the death of his wife, Mr.Collins had allowed the maid to take care of all his personal chores. From washing his clothes and ironing them, to cleaning his room, and preparing breakfast, and lunch and dinner for him…anything and everything that made his earthly existence a little easier. In return for her services, the maid was paid a handsome sum. However, he had failed to inform her about the most treasured aspect of his life: the love for his holy watch and the sacrosanctity associated with it. The beautiful antique chain watch was his father’s gift to him on his 15th birthday. So, you see, it was pretty old, and he had precious memories attached to it. Now with 60st birthday looming round the corner, he knew it was that time of the year when every mean and the most mannered people in the family would flood the


house to wish him. But most of all, he was dying to see his 1-year-old grandson Percy. Both Percy and Mr.Collin shared the same birthday date, August 28th, so they would, in all probability; share the stage together as well. Now, what would he gift his lovely grandson on his birthday, was the big question, hovering on his mind. Toys…a mind-blogging number he possessed. What Next? Dresses…uncountable numbers. What Next? Shoes…infinite What Next? Games…his cupboard was almost overflowing with those. What Next? Watch…but what kinds? The cartoon ones. I had been staring at his pocket watch quite often. And, fortunately or unfortunately, my grandpa had caught sight of that.


So, he made up his mind: to gift his precious watch to his loving grandson. “He deserves it more than anyone else in my family and he’d take it care it, like he takes care of his superhero toys,” he bellowed. So, my grandpa made a big announcement on the day of his birthday about parting away with his watch. The new owner would be his grandson. There were oohsahhs all over the place. Many had set their eyes on the watch. But the watch, from that day belonged to me alone, the little Percy Pereira. (His children who always saw Hitler in their father, failed to understand his unadulterated love for me, his grandson) I, in my cute ba-ba-ba-ba-ba style took hold of the watch. And within next few seconds, I banged it on the floor. The dial sliced into several pieces. The old man didn’t know how to react. He simply stood there stunned. My father stood aghast, waiting for all hell to break lose. Then out of the blue grandpa pronounced: “Huzzah! Percy Huzzah!!! You’ve done the inevitable." Then he came towards me and took me in his arms lovingly and said. “Oh My God! Oh My God! What a strong boy you are growing up to be. You broke my watch.”


“Can you imagine? He broke my watch. He actually broke my watch. Can’t believe it though.” He spoke cloyingly to the people present. Saying this, he took me in full embrace.

About Jini Maxin: Jini Maxin is a tech writer by day and a short story writer by night. Her blog Breath of Fresh Air is an eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction stuff. Nowadays, she is trying pretty hard to live by the mantra: One day at a time, one blog post at a time, one book at a time. She can be reached at jinimaxin@gmail.com. Editor's Comment: A beautiful story that brings out the beauty of relationships.


Bent, But Not Broken

That devil's night, with thundering clouds and flashing lightning I wishes the world may end For down with rainfall, swept the expectations And the etiquette cherished since generations Strewn were the melodies which achievements composed Never expected that to the brutal truth, would I be so suddenly exposed Those bombarding questions and endless curiosities Weakened my remaining strength Nothing serious but simply that the saplings Wished to sprout in a land away from the "old tree" Had no chance but to let them go Love lost to obsession


They left me to face the strong words With shivering trunk and quivering branches I stand on this vast island with hope as my only friend Though discarded and shattered I am bent out, not broken

About Anju Renjith: Anju Renjith is a Software Developer by profession for 6 years, working with QBurst for the last 2.6 years, mother of two lovely angels, blogger by passion, now at Kochi,Kerala. Editor's Comment: The strength of a shaken soul is the beauty of this poem.


One day

He knew she was lying. But her "I'm fine" hid an intense pain that he couldn't fathom. Her smile hid an ocean of tears that he couldn't save her from. Oh but how he wished! How he wished he could take her away from it all, And fade away together into an unseen world of their own. He knew she could never love him like he did. But alas, the poor human heart! He hoped, with all he had, That one day she will allow him to rescue her, Perhaps she will give him her heart too. Maybe they'll together discover the world of eternity he had imagined for her. One day....


About Jashodhara Mukherjee: The author,Jashodhara Mukherjee, is a 19 year old student residing in Kolkata, India. She a part time writer and an aspiring journalist. She has published a few of her works online as well. You can reach her at 'mamchi2325@gmail.com' or you can contact her via Facebook. Editor's Comment: Sometimes hope is the other name for love.


Parents And Children Children are very selfish creatures. From the moment we are born we demand our parents' love, attention, time and even earnings. We steal their hearts and become their pride and weakness. Along with us, our demands also grow. We ask and ask, but they never cease to give. But we should learn to give back too. Like the many traits we learn from our parents, we should learn the art of giving from them too. They go on making sacrifices after sacrifices for us. Then why cannot we make small sacrifices for them. Why do we not understand that while forgoing things we can do without, we are relieving them in our own small way! Many a times out of ignorance, instead of being thankful of our parents we complain of not having parents like someone else’s. But we forget that thousands of children do not even have parents. Our mothers spend most of her time in the kitchen preparing food for us. But at the table, instead of thanking her we complain about the food. We forget that millions of children across the globe do not even have a mother to provide for them.


I remember Deta (my father) telling my sister and me that we should demand things from him; that we should not be worried whether he has the means to give it; that as a father it is his duty to provide whatever we want. We both were deeply touched because during that time our family was going through a rough patch. Even if he wanted us to, putting demands never became our forte. I think we could not do that because we never saw them doing that. Our parents' world revolves around us. They strive relentlessly and tirelessly to give us a good life. They always work towards giving us better things and better opportunities than they had. Above all, they give us their unconditional love. All we need to do is to respect their efforts, treat them well, care for them and above all be thankful for having them. It is very natural that our parents hope that we would take care of them when they grow older. They give us all their lives. And when we grow up, it is our turn to take care of them. This is the cycle of life. But unfortunately many of us do not think so. Many of us think that once our parents make us capable of earning a living, we are done with them. I know of people who have their own families and still trying to take from their old parents in whatever small and big ways they can. I know people teaching their children to demand presents from their grandparents. It is really so sad and pathetic. But such children forget that life comes to a full cycle. We should


always remember that the way we treat our parents, is the most probable way our children will treat us.

About Natasha Borah Khan: Natasha Borah Khan is from Assam, India. After five years of corporate experience, she is presently engaged in teaching college students. She is a bibliophile and has a green thumb. She started to blog to give space to her thoughts and feelings. She has also done a number of creative freelance assignments. She maintains two blogs: Points To Ponder (http://natashapointstoponder.blogspot.in/) and Natashaz Words (http://natashazwords.blogspot.in/). She currently lives with her husband and family in New Delhi, India. Editor's Comment: The bond of a child and parents very well-articulated.


Book Review – I Writer’s Ezine would like to thank the author Deepak Kripal for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team for its first very issue and also agree for an interview with us. WE thoroughly enjoyed reading this book and it was a real pleasure interacting with her as WE worked on this.

:Intro: SIDELINED BY MAN, ANIMALS TURNED TO DEMONS. Plundered by humans of their habitats, animals take a drastic step when they decide to send a team of a cat named as Katy and a dog named as Dug, to an invisible island known, as the Island of 'Five Hundred Graves'. The island becomes visible only for a short time on the night of the full moon. Legend has it that the island is inhabited by the demons. Katy and Dug are supposed to negotiate a deal with the demons, convincing them to allow the animals inhabit the island. Majority of the animal community believe that tinkering with the other world could bring their wrath to the animals. The team is sent to the island


nevertheless. But can a deal with the dead be materialized? Are there really demons on the island? Is there any conspiracy involved? Will Katy and Dug be able to negotiate, or will survival remain their only question in the deadly island?

:Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover page is very eye catching and matches the theme of the story with an unmatched perfection. 2. Presentation: The presentation of the story is gripping in one word. The author has managed to create a brilliant base for this story-line right from the first paragraph. 3. Narration: The narration is simple with minimal use of heavy words. The author has largely relied on simplistic words to create the maximum effect. 4. Characters: Katy and Dug are the central characters in this story and the author has managed to make the optimum use of them in terms of narration and role playing. 5. Plot: The plot is excellently drawn, well researched and intricately written. The author has ensured there are no slip-ups in terms of the detailing.


6. Storyline: The storyline enticing. It makes the reader want to know what happens next. It is that anticipation, that makes it a page turner. 7. Story flow: Exciting 8. Language: Subtle 9. Pros: Gripping. Unique story line. Well researched and impeccable plot. 10. Cons: Some usual readers might not like the genre which is fantasy and hence could be a turn off for them.

:Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4 out of 5 for it is a wonderful attempt for a debut writer. WE team would like to thank the author for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish him all the best for all his future endeavours.


Author Interview – I Today we have Mr. Deepak Kripal the author of the latest book “The Devil's

Gate: An Journey”.

Impossible

The blurb of his book reads: SIDELINED BY MAN, ANIMALS TURNED TO DEMONS. Plundered by humans of their habitats, animals take a drastic step when they decide to send a team of a cat named as Katy and a dog named as Dug, to an invisible island known, as the Island of 'Five Hundred Graves'. The island becomes visible only for a short time on the night of the full moon. Legend has it that the island is inhabited by the demons. Katy and Dug are supposed to negotiate a deal with the demons, convincing them to allow the animals inhabit the island. Majority of the animal community believe that tinkering with the other world could bring their wrath to the animals. The team is sent to the island


nevertheless. But can a deal with the dead be materialized? Are there really demons on the island? Is there any conspiracy involved? Will Katy and Dug be able to negotiate, or will survival remain their only question in the deadly island?

In conversation with him: 1. A warm welcome to Writer’s Ezine, a blogger for quite some time and now a published author. How does it feel?

Thank you, pleasure is all mine. Well, what do I say! It feels unreal! I love blogging and it was an intensely enriching experience, and being a published author is like a dream come true; as I said, unreal! 2. We would like to hear your foray into blogging, then towards writing stories and then of course making the big leap to becoming an author. Was it a dream which is now a reality?

Writing a book was a long cherished dream, though I didn't think it will happen this soon. I had planned it somewhere in my late thirties. And all the credit for this (my debut novel) goes to my blogging experience, and also to my fellow bloggers who always encouraged and praised my writing and imagination, and therefore, motivated me to get published. I have told you already, it was dream that has become real.


3. How helpful it was to have been a blogger before becoming an author?

Helpful would be a mild word to describe the value of blogging in this context. I would rather say it was critical. I learnt the nuances of writing (I am still learning) through my blog, and simultaneously, I also developed the much needed confidence in my own writing. So, as I said, it was critical. Blogging was my graduation in writing and this book is my exam. Hopefully, I'll do good! 4. Your début book The Devil’s Gate – an impossible journey , tell us something about it. How was the idea for this born?

The idea for this book was born like most other ideas do; just like that! This idea that animals want to negotiate a deal with demons occurred to me absolutely out of nowhere. This idea thrilled me no end, and when it continued to thrill me for some time, I decided to pen it down. It is then I developed the story layer by layer over the course of four months. I had no instant plans to write a book till that time, but with this idea being born, I felt I should tell this to the world. 5. Was fantasy always your favourite as a genre, something that you always wanted to write on?


I watch, read, write and love all the genres. I get excited by interesting plots and stories rather than genres. In fact, I had planned to write a drama based on real life as my debut novel, but when this innovative idea happened to me and my plans took little time to change! 6. If given a chance is there anything that you would like to change in your book? If yes, what and why? And if no, why?

See, if you are a creative person, you always feel you could have done this, or done that. But ultimately, you have to edit your ideas and give it a shape. I'll always have the thoughts that I could have done it some other way, but there is no point discussing it now since the work is already out, and also because there is no end to such thoughts. No matter how good you are, you can always improve! 7. When you talk about fantasy as a genre you limit yourself to a specific segment of readers for not all enjoy these books. But then the ones who do know what to expect. Having said that, do we see you experimenting with genres in your next books or you would still continue with the same?

I will always tell stories that will be exciting, unique and innovative, genre no bar! I am currently playing with 34 ideas of drama genre. I have some ideas of mystery thrillers as well. So yes, you will always see me experimenting (I did exactly that in my debut novel


only!). For me, only criterion is that the story should be imaginative, engaging, innovative and unique, and it should touch you emotionally and intellectually as well. Genre is irrelevant! 8. Any future projects you would like to share with us here about.

I am still playing with few ideas. Nothing is final as yet. So, you'll have to wait to know about that. 9. The Indian Publishing industry is going through a sea change in terms of the opportunities that are available these days for new writers. What are your views on it? Any particular challenges that you might remember from your attempts of getting published.

It’s good that writing opportunities are available to wider section of aspiring authors now. Its a positive change. My biggest challenge was the unusualness of my story, and six publishers rejected my script citing the reason that it did not fit into their publishing programme. But fortunately for me, Leadstart Publishing saw some merit in the story, and you know the rest! 10. What is that one advice you would like to give to all aspiring young writers of today?

Be patient! Take time in writing, refining and editing your story. Be patient while your manuscript gets


rejected, for rejections are bound to be there no matter how good you think your script is. Publishers get hundreds of scripts every day, so rejection is a rule rather than exception in publishing industry. Patience is the key for everything. Don't lose heart, and stars will shine soon enough. My best wishes to all! A huge thank you for sparing some of your precious time to be with here today, WE would like to wish you all the best for all your future endeavours.


The Dance

I sit by the window, Wishing to enjoy the weather! But something doesn’t feel right, It’s like I hear a poignant cry! There is a pain of separation, Which is evident in Mother Nature! She isn’t calm and serene, Neither does she care for any! She looks up to the sky, Begging for the showers to come by The wind begins to whirl wildly, As if mirroring her thoughts! Unable to watch anymore, The growing cries and desperation! The skies decide to open up finally And grant her redemption!


The rain drops trickle down to earth, Yearning for her touch! Taming her pain, sating her thirst, And washing out all the bitterness Thunder roars and lightning gleams, But they are oblivious of it all! They appear to be lost in each other, And rest of the world cease to exist! The dance unfolds beautifully, As they kiss each other passionately. They rejoice in their union Ecstasy clouding their vision! Nature smiles savouring the kiss Which is still lingering on her lips! Promising a life filled with hopes, The rain subsides into a quite drizzle. I sit there completely bewitched Enchanted by the beauty of it all! Unable to break away my gaze, From the display of Love so pure!

About Swathi Shenoy: Swathi Shenoy is a student by profession, singer by choice and writer by passion. Currently she is pursuing her degree in Engineering in Computer Science stream.


When she is not busy with coding, she can be found blogging at Flightless Bird Thoughtful Wings. What began as simple diary entries to kill time and find solace soon turned into blogging! She writes short stories, poem, experiences and sometimes inspirational posts. She is also an artist who loves to sketch and paint during leisure time. You can contact her at swathi.p.smg@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Beauty of nature enchantingly described


Puzzles

She had picked up the pieces and put them back, a long time ago. Yet, there were moments when she yearned to dismantle it all and just bleed the lingering chaos in her heart. That chaotic first heartbreak! Some puzzles really aren't solved, even when they seem to be so.

About Adishi Gupta: Adishi is a student and lover of English Literature. The latter because it lets her to chase the imaginations of her


mind and adds a spark of resonance in her life. Constantly chewing on new ideas that hit her, she is fidgety about knowing the depth of them. Lover of music and food. A flowering feminist.

Editor's Comment: Short yet profound


Hide And Seek Rohan, a school going kid, has many non human friends and he can converse with them. One of such friend, the school-bus, freaked out with all other school mates to enjoy the annual carnival and sports event of the inmates of the forest. However, the guardians and the teachers of the children traced them in the midst of the carnival and took them back. The disappeared school bus was granted a shelter in the forest by the King of Forest, Shri Modhusudan who is Modhu dada and also a friend of Rohan. Strange things would happen today and what a fool I am. I could not follow the words Modhu Dada or the chirpings of the Morning birds. Half an hour later, our school bus instead of crossing the bridge on the river took “U” turn and moved towards the bumpy meandering road of the reserve forest. Except me, all other schoolmates in the bus panicked and screamed “Has the Driver gone crazy?” “The steering, brake nothing is working.” The driver and cleaner ran out from the cabin and shouted “Jump out, better jump out, you lazy bums! The bus is slow now.” They did not wait for us and hopped out from the bus one by one.


Our school bus continued its slow movement in the forest road. By then all my school mates stopped panicking and got the smell of funny things ahead. We saw the fat bus driver skidded and fell on the ground. His tummy appeared like a live hairy hillock heaving up and down. The baboons from the trees on either side of the forest road giggled and roars of laughter from us encouraged them to continue further. Our bus also joined us in the laughter and then broke the long silence to me. Normally every other day, I and our school bus welcome each other as soon as I get in but today we both forgot. He frequently used to tell me that he got bored in plying from going and coming from the school daily and wanted a change. We also feel none the less but dared to do anything. Believe me, all objects around us talk in their languages but they understand our words too. They try to communicate to us which most of us fail to follow. But, only with few day's effort, all of you not only can understand their languages but speak to them easily. When I can manage, just try for few days and then tell me. Our school bus said “Rohan, are you afraid or enjoying my actions� “We all are enjoying buddy but what are your plans?"


“Soon I am going to stop just near the bank of the river. Your fun world is just there and waiting for you.” The bus stopped on a flat ground just near the bank of the river. Some of my school mates were scared to spot few bears hiding in the bush. We saw a big black bear came out from the bush with two leaf cones in his hand, “Hey friends, Welcome to our forest. Come on! The bees

sent these two leafy cones full with fresh honey to all of you." I embraced the senior bear. At first my school mates were scared but gradually they all stepped out from the school bus and snatched the Leaf-cones from my hand. I was surprised to hear the fluent but with a Hindi of different accent from the entire Beer family. However, only some of us could follow their Hindi nicely but others faltered initially but finally managed to some extent. The family of bears ushered us to a big banyan tree and we all sat comfortably under the cool shed. The senior bear told “We are glad to have you on our

festival day. Soon our king shall arrive to inaugurate the day long sports and carnival. Although he is visible to those who love and believe him but for today all can see him” One of my friend said in a trembling voice “Shall all the

animals of forest take part in the sports? Are there any ferocious and dangerous animal?” The senior bear frowned and said “Not animal, better call friend instead. This is King Modhusudan’s area and


nobody can be dangerous or ferocious. Due to his blessings, all our friends understand and speak each other’s language including yours also. For your kind information, our big cat friend’s family lives on milk donated by Bison friends.” One of us said in a hushed voice, “Big cat means Tiger.” Everyone forbade “Shhhh! Shhhh!” My heart thumped and hair’s raised on hearing the name of King Modhusudan. My Modhu Dada is also not visible to all. Once I missed my way from the tutor’s residence to my house. It was getting dark and soon I started weeping. Someone, a little elder to me and with a flute in his hand wiped my tears and showed the path to house. He told me “I am your friend. Call me whenever you want me to help you.” I looked at him, his honey colored complexion, a friendly ever smiling sweet face with thick jet black curly hairs on his head was very soothing to look at. I said “Your voice is so sweet and may I call you Modhu Dada?” “Yes please.” Since then, he meets me whenever and wherever I call him or need his help and nobody can object to his presence because none can see him or hear our talks, not even the whispers between us. Our friends of the forest started arriving. The Members of Monkey and bear family were the volunteers of the


carnival and they arranged everything for the guests as well as the participants of the sports. Various types of birds started landing from the sky followed by squirrels and monkeys through their tree route. The herds of Bison, impala and Jackal from various parts of the forest arrived one after another. A snob Tiger family arrived with fresh creamy milk smeared on their face but it appeared that other friends of the forest might take more time to accept them. The Elephants were the last to come and we heard from the whispers of our new friends of the forest that this time the Elephants were the official carrier of King Modhusudan. A family of Parrots opted to look for us and in fluent Hindi they were telling us the various events of sports and the rules. All participants might take part in any game but it must be out of their comfort zone. Impalas could not take part in long jump or race, they and elephants might compete with each other in swimming. Our class monitor laughed and pointing towards the chubbiest boy in our class said, “Include his name in the Swimming.” There was a roar of laughter but the head parrot cautioned us. “The yellow birds spotted the Tusker carrying Our King. Today the King is visible to all, he wishes so.” Within minutes, Yellow birds came down at bush height and a sweet melody from flute filled the entire big field.


All said in their hushed tone “He is coming, the King is coming” A Tusker appeared at a long distance flanked by baby elephants on either side. The flute player was on the Tusker back. The Tusker stopped in front of us, the King of Forest got down and all my schoolmates saw him clearly. In his royal dress; a light yellow royal gown with gold embossing and a gold headgear with Peacock feather on the top, he was looking little different but the smile on his honey colored face with flute in his hand, he was none but the same Modhu dada. The volunteers were about to usher him towards the small hillock type podium but looking at us he shook his head and said “I shall better be with my new friends”. The monkeys immediately tied few cane sticks with the hanging roots of the banyan tree and made a cradle for him. The bear and Monkey heads approached him to inaugurate the sports and Carnival. Modhu Dada said “We shall begin with the dance item. Tell everybody to prepare for the community dance.” Modhu Dada looked at us and said “I shall play few

dance tunes but how many of you can accompany me with supporting music?” Nitish Said “We shall manage but right here….” Modhu Dada said “Tell me what you need” “We need dholok, big drums, bongo, guitars and accordion”


“And here they are, just pick them up, possibly they are tuned also. Anyway have a look.” He played a tune and we quickly tuned up our musical instruments. It was quite a team, As soon as we started, the peacocks hopped in and started a “Chhou dance” with a loud applause from the entire audience. The squirrels could not sit anymore on the tree tops but joined the peacocks with jumping up and down matching with the tune. The chain reaction started first in the group of impalas followed by the bison and the tiger family leaving their respective places and joining the dance arena. Finally, the Herd of Elephants, standing at the outermost of the ellipsoid gathering, joined. The tremors were none the less than earthquakes. Now the entire community started dancing raising their limbs up and down and continuously chanting “Hey Modhusudan! Hey Modhusudan!” Modhu Dada from the beginning remained at the center playing his flute with tunes after tunes. The pleasure we got erased our all nagging, boring and ruthless monotonous daily routines and the immense joy filled our mind. We did not know when we also like others started dancing and chanting raising our hands. We heard heavy shouting from a crowd approaching us. We recognized these anxious voices calling us are from our Parents, Teachers and also our Principal Madam.


So much of human voice scared our friends of forest. Modhu dada raised his hand and with a smile forbade them to worry. Pointing to us he told them “Let these kids go back to

their worried teachers and parents. We shall continue here but shall be invisible to all of them.” Our school bus stared weeping and said "Hey Modhusudan! Save me from them. My owner shall tow me to garage and there the mechanics shall torture me for today’s behavior.” Modhu dada smiled at him and it relieved the Bus. Our parents and teachers located us and hurriedly reached there. Most of Our Guardians, our Principal Madam, some of our teachers along with the school bus staff were in that “rescue” team. Seeing us unhurt, they were relieved. Our Principal Madam said “From a long distance, we were hearing the

calls of many wild animals. Thank god all of you were safe.” Raising her voice she rebuked the Bus staff, “You people better replace that bus. I don’t want that bus again.” “Yes Mam. But that bus disappeared, we are trying to locate it. Perhaps, it has gone down the gorge.” “That’s your headache, we are leaving right now.’ We checked our smiles as we knew where the Bus is. Our guardians ushered us to a brand new bus. We were both sad and happy.


We were sad because we won’t be able to see our Bus friend and happy because Modhu Dada has allotted a new location for him. From now onwards, down the gorge, our Monkey friends shall have a good place to play hide and seek game. This bus has many places to hide, no one else knows better than us.

About Pradip Kumar Biswas: Dr. Pradip Kumar Biswas is a geologist by profession and loves writing stories based on real life experiences. He observes characters, which later on appears in his dreams and whatever they whisper he takes faithful dictations. A reason he prefers to be called as steno to characters rather than a writer. Editor's Comment: A story that will stay with you long after you are done reading it.


A Walk In Rain

To walk in rain with you, Clenching our hands, Could it be that whole world in under our feet? The rain drops falling in our face, The cold breeze playing with our hair, This was the world I was dreaming for long time‌ My spirit and soul encouraged and cheerful, As I celebrate each moment, I am grateful for this rain, I am grateful for this second, I am grateful for you, Being with me!!!


About Aruna Lakshmi Ramu: Aruna Lakshmi Ramu is a Psychology student from Madras University. She has her recent publication of her poem with TWJ Magazine. She loves to express herself with words and view Aruna Lakshmi's blog, "Journey" in arunalakshmi.wordpress.com. She loves chocolates, friends, music and movies but nothing beats books. Books were all time favorite for her and she is crazy for books. She can settle with a book at any kinda situation. Editor's Comment: Romance and monsoon magic weaved together.


Her Equilibrium

Her equilibrium is faltered by the parallels between her thoughts... The verses rise above the Absolute, leading to a labyrinth. You started counting backwards mystified by Her maze, a mundane repetition of your own Dimension!... And the scarlet Passion still holds Her crown!


About Anca Mihaela Bruma: Anca Mihaela Bruma is Romanian living in Dubai/UAE. Her love for poetry started when she was just 9 years old, when she registered myself to some creative poetry writing group. It was a turning point for her as she started to discover the mysteries of the written word and its impact on the readers. Since early age, she has always viewed writing poetry as the perfect medium which is able to depict profound unfathomable complexities of someone’s life or life itself, to render into words that which is unsayable, that ineffable, which can be truly deeper than the language itself. Through her writings, as well years of readings, she always looked to seek something beyond that which was apparent to others! She was fascinated to see how different aspects of truth were transfigured by different emotions, how experiences were poetized. She pursued seeing beauty expressed in all forms of art, not just poetry; creating a “thirst” within her to explore more and more for the knowledge of the mystery beneath and beyond it, as a symbol of something greater and higher with its own power to immortalize the expressions over the years. Editor's Comment: The poet’s thoughts mesmerize you completely.


Book Review - II Writer’s Ezine would like to thank the author Nelton D'Souza for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team for its first very issue and also agree for an interview with us. WE thoroughly enjoyed reading this book and it was a real pleasure interacting with her as WE worked on this. :Intro: Relationships, love and life are like the three legs of a tripod. Without any one, there is no balance. The same hold true for every human being. State of the Heart, through its collection of short stories on these key aspects, cuts across the social spectrum to present to you the lives of people whom you didn't think could be so interesting, but actually are. In short, it could be a story about you or someone like you. From ‘Addiction’ – the dark desire to ‘My Encounter with the Berlyn Wall’ – where your best friend becomes your worst fear to ‘The Love Letter’ – which reminds us of love and its various dimensions and forms to ‘The


Chief Ministers Independence Day Speech’ – where we realize how we and the CM see the state of affairs in our state to ‘The Greatest of the All’ – where love, boldness and intelligence get personified to ‘It’s not Easy’ – which speaks of bondage and the inability to break free from a bad relationship to 'My Best Friend' - which talks about the relationship between God and a human and many more, every story strikes a chord and delivers a punch while making every character relatable to the reader. :Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover page is simple and retains the simplicity that seems to be the trademark for this book. 2. Presentation: The presentation is very simplistic as per the overall theme.

3. Narration: The narration is emotive, one that tugs your heart and is rich on emotions. 4. Characters: As it is an anthology – a collection of short stories, there are no main characters per se. 5. Plot:The plots are very connectable in terms of their connection with the reader. They are like slices of life, stories that could be happening anywhere around you and yet you might be unaware.


6. Storyline: The storyline as mentioned is a mixture of relationships – love- friendship. In terms of uniqueness there is nothing new in the concept but having said that there are stories in there which will warm up your heart as you read the book. 7. Story flow: Smooth. 8. Language: Easy going. 9. Pros: Refreshing read. 10. Cons: The editing of the book could have been a little more perfect as there are few places where there are grammatical errors, typos and spelling mistakes. Also few stories felt a bit out of the place compared to few which were very well written. :Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 3.5 out of 5 for it is a decent one-time read. WE team would like to thank the author for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish him all the best for all his future endeavours.


Author Interview - II Today we have Mr. Nelton D'Souza the author of the latest book “State of The Heart� which is a collection of short stories on relationships, love and life.

The blurb of his book reads: Relationships, love and life are like the three legs of a tripod. Without any one, there is no balance. The same hold true for every human being. State of the Heart, through its collection of short stories on these key aspects, cuts across the social spectrum to present to you the lives of people whom you didn't think could be so interesting, but actually are. In short, it could be a story about you or someone like you.


From ‘Addiction’ – the dark desire to ‘My Encounter with the Berlyn Wall’ – where your best friend becomes your worst fear to ‘The Love Letter’ – which reminds us of love and its various dimensions and forms to ‘The Chief Ministers Independence Day Speech’ – where we realize how we and the CM see the state of affairs in our state to ‘The Greatest of the All’ – where love, boldness and intelligence get personified to ‘It’s not Easy’ – which speaks of bondage and the inability to break free from a bad relationship to 'My Best Friend' - which talks about the relationship between God and a human and many more, every story strikes a chord and delivers a punch while making every character relatable to the reader.

In conversation with him: 1. A warm welcome to WE, a blogger since so many years and now a published author. How does it feel?

Thank you; it’s an honour and a pleasure. Being a published author was one of the things on my bucket list. Am happy I was able to accomplish that. Even though it has been almost a year since my book came out, I can’t help but blush when people are taken by surprise that I’m an author too which is very different from my primary profession of Data Extraction and Analytics. Seeing my book do well even today, having reached #7 in Short Stories on Amazon India and the eBook becoming #1 in Short Stories on Amazon US gives


me an indescribable feeling and fills me with joy beyond bounds. 2. We would like to hear your foray into blogging, then towards writing stories and then ofcourse making the big leap to becoming a published author. Was it a dream which is now a reality?

Very much; ever since a child I have had a penchant for writing which later on, slowly and steadily became a passion. I vividly remember the day when my essay on My Best Friend, which I wrote on a toy robot I had, written as part of my English paper in Std. 1 was displayed across all the divisions for a perfect case of writing, creativity and imagination. 3. What role your blog played in this entire journey?

I don’t have any formal training in writing. The only mantra I follow is to write from the heart and with a seamless flow. Blogging got me into the habit of writing often. Like polishing a stone to make it a diamond, it made me a better writer. Reading books, blogs, writeups and articles gave me ideas and insights into story construction and other finer aspects of plot and character description. If I look at my stories written five years back I can see the huge difference between then and today. As it was my blog I had no pressure of following a particular style or having any goals to accomplish. That


flexibility helped me develop my own style which suited me and the stories I liked writing. My blog helped me connect with people, be a book reviewer at times and attend events which helped in other aspects. 4. State of Heart your debut novel , how did that happen?

State of the Heart was never intended to happen as my eyes were set on writing a full-fledged novel. Not having the right plot in mind I continued to write short stories over the weekends, which in turn kept me in the habit of writing and bettering myself. My stories were read by my friends on Facebook and office mates. Having found them interesting they suggested that I should try getting them published. At first I was hesitant, but later after a good amount of thought I found it a good idea. The book would help me understand the nuances of writing a book and the process of publishing. Moreover it would serve as a precursor for my novel. From that day onwards I guess a new chapter begun in my life. 5. Making your dĂŠbut book a collection of short stories, instead of a full-fledged novel. We would like to know the story behind it.

I feel the answer would be same as above. 6. Your stories revolve around love, relationships, life, friendship and other such facets of life. How important are they in one’s life according to you? Any specific


reason why you your début novel?

chose

this

as

a

genre

for

Relationships, love and life are like the three legs of a tripod, without one there is no balance. No matter how much we try we need them and can’t journey through life alone. Hence I chose this subject to base my book on. Also, the various forms and facets of relationships that can exist between people are so large that it gave me the canvas to mix and match colours and create the designs I wished. Be it with God, a super cop and his informer, an addict and his addiction, a daughter who wishes that her father be her valentine, a beggar on the street, the Chief Minister’s confession on the eve of Independence Day or the rivalry between Love, Intelligence and Boldness; just a few to mention from my book, relationships can have no end. 7. Do we see you experimenting with genres in your next books or you would still continue with the same?

I don’t think I’m done as yet with relationships. There are still a few relationships I would like to portray. But yes, I would like this to be a part of something larger, a suspense thriller possibly. 8. How is Nelton the author different from Nelton the person that he is in real life?


That’s a good question. I don’t think I’m any different. There’s just one of me and I like it that way. Multiple versions of me would make things complicated. 9. Your thoughts on a writer’s worst enemy – the writer’s block.

I remember this quote – Life is unfair. But what’s fair about it is it’s unfair to everyone. In the same way every writer faces a writer’s block, but how he faces it makes all the difference. 10. The Indian Publishing industry is going through a sea change in terms of the opportunities that are available these days for new writers. What are your views on it? Any particular challenges that you might remember from your attempts of getting published.

It’s very good to see many people taking to writing and publishing. Good for the art and the trade. But this means stiff competition for writers and adulteration of the standards of writing. I guess it’s more of a win some, lose some situation. 11. What is that one advice you would like to give to all aspiring young writers of today?

I’ll be a bit generous here. I shall give two. First, no matter what you write, write from your heart. It’s only then it shall touch the heart of the reader. Second, be selfish in your writing. Never write for the world but


only for yourself. That way you’ll save on the disappointment. 12. Any future projects you would like to share with us here about.

I’m working on an untitled novel which is a suspense thriller and which my heart is unwilling to put a date on for completion. But my brain hopes it’s done by the end of this year. A huge thank you for sparing some of your precious time to be with here today, WE would like to wish you all the best for all your future endeavours.


Two Years Until Forty The realization hits me like ink staining on paper, slowly and strongly. As I step into my 38th birthday, I have changed along with the people and things around me. First of all, only the closest ones call to wish. Ten years back my ears would have been stuck to the phone all day long! As you grow older, it is just that the number of people remembering your birthday becomes indirectly proportional to your age. Secondly, the gifts / cakes /other birthday identities ‌dwindle. The last two seem to drive a point for embarrassment (for example the number of candles) and sadly the first one still has its magic‌.so I gift myself. Now that I am aware of my much fussed and trained and cultivated tastes, why bother others! Next, I seem to recognize most of the medicines in the pharmacies I step into. The talks with friends are about children, family politics, work politics, (Not the real politics, that’s for the news channels), spouse and health issues. The cut-off score for my generation of people is to be married, have two children, reside abroad or at least to


have holidayed once abroad and own a property. I read only books by Indian female writers. A few years back, I could read any book and also used to get annoyed that Sidney Sheldon had not yet written his next book. I am not active on Face book and I do not seem to have the time to speak to my family, where is the time to write on someone’s wall or to poke (what a term!) them? I don’t want to know what someone’s state of mind is; frankly I don’t know mine……it keeps changing every hour. Slowly my feelings unfurl…..like how the lazy afternoon nomadic clouds clear to reveal suddenly a sharp ray of sun light, my goals and aspirations and even love seems lucid. With age, the What-ifs, Whys and Buts have been nicely replaced with positive self-talks. (Ok, another thing, yes, I do talk to myself, albeit softly). On a closer introspection (which I seem to do a lot nowa-days) I am much happier and content than what I was ten years back. What stares me at heavy phases of unhappiness is the fact that some things I can change and other things will never change. I shake off the flakes of life’s many uncertainties and complexities and try to live simple. Well, I am going to enjoy my forties!


About Archana Shivamani Rao: Archana is a student of creative writing from Writers Bureau, UK and a stay-at-home mom who is busier at home than when she was a working mom. She was banking professional for more than a decade and after a long pause, she plans to move completely into the writing profession. Be it writing on her blog or mailing a letter or even writing the shopping list, she is at her best at expressing herself through her writing. Editor's Comment: Love the optimism that reflects through this piece.


Love

I was more in love with the idea of love The first time it ever happened to me It sure was the most beautiful feeling Only wonderful things then my eyes could see Slowly the person came into the picture Love didn't look all so beautiful then It was not rosy nor magical It was only about how, why and when Walking away from love is always tough I struggled with the tears and the pain But the effort I put into letting it go Thankfully did not go in vain It was easy to get all cynical I could have turned into a misanthrope But I held on to myself and the feeling I never gave up on faith and hope


In a short while, I fell in love again It was beautiful and magic too With a different person the feeling varies It all depends on the point of view Although it did not last long This time it was easy to let go No more tears, just a lesson Love helped me understand and grow I have never been afraid to love Its something that has made me strong I shall stand by love no matter what With love, I shall always belong Today in love, I seem to thrive Life is wonderful and bright With a partner who defines love I know I shall always be alright It has the power to mend and heal It is the best gift sent from above No matter how many thorns in the path Never ever give up on love

About Soumya Prasad: Soumya is an avid reader and a passionate writer who works as a Test specialist in an MNC in Bangalore. A


hard core romantic, everything around her inspires her to write. She weaves poetry under fifteen minutes and spins tales from the experiences of life. No sugar coated words, she writes the truth and only the truth. Editor's Comment: An ode to the most beautiful emotion ever known to mankind, the language of the universe.


Angel Of Death

An unsolved mystery, Death hovers over us, Taunting and teasing – that He will soon pay a visit. An uninvited guest, Death comes and goes, As he pleases, and Collects all the souls. In the end, we all are Just a pawn, In his simple game. A name, In his long list. When the time comes, We have to go away, Nor can we resist, or can we pay, When he comes, We have to walk with him


To the endless tunnel and Become a lost dot in the Human map. Gone. Vanished. Ended.

About Ada Wiam: Ada is from India, 24 and she exists in a plethora of dreams. Words are her respite, her safe Haven – the only place she goes to hide when the world scares her. She is an amateur in writing, but the love and fascination for it prods her, time and again, to write, experiment and to indulge. Her first teen fiction ‘How I won the Love Deal’ is published by Cresco Books and she is working on a new short story collection. She blogs at http://ada2writes.wordpress.com, and can be reached at bells.teddy@gmail.com. She love to hear your opinions. Editor's Comment: The depth in these words is unmatched.


Last Words Of An Altruist’s Soul

The white sheet which covers my carcass, Have stains from the blood of my dreams. They’re carrying body, leaving behind me And all that I ever stood for. Alone, when I lived for them, they Shout my name when I ceased. Garlanding my dead body, they wail. Had they heard and followed me, Their pain would have ceased, not me.

They chose gains, quisling own soul, Worshipped money and ruined future of same blood. I was there all the time giving warnings. Some stopped, some ignored while some followed. But it demands courage, it demands sacrifice. For those who followed, later ignored and those Who once stopped, just disappeared. But I stayed. Optimistic that one day it would end.


Optimistic that God has given me purpose and people to serve. And I served, without gains, without profits. For I wanted to earn hearts, their hearts, and your heart. Alas! They and you too closed eyes like ostriches, When I showed the path and gave my hand. They buried eyes in sands of coins When I toiled and burned myself for them. Disrespecting mothers, they licked the dirt, Of opulence, power and position, While their kids played in the gutter. I cleaned the gutter and their kids. Your kids, But you ridiculed. Ridiculed my wants To change them, to change you and To change the situation. I changed. For them and for you cause I not Wanted to change my goal. The goal To bring change. So I changed. I took another route to my goal. Only for you. That too not enough, for they and you too not wanted change. Like a hog, they were content eating excreta. You were content eating excreta. ‘You won’t succeed,’ I was warned When this life of serving I opted. But,


I had faith in humanity, faith in servitude, Faith in God and faith in myself. But above all, I had faith in them. I had Faith in you. But they broke my faith. You Broke my faith. You broke my belief That you deserve not, the way you live. I failed in imparting that faith. Therefore I thank them and I thank you For pulling the trigger at me. Anyway I was done living a failed life. I was Done helping without being asked for. But feel sad too for I failed in my goal. I failed in bringing smile on their faces. Smile on your face. Certainly my mistake Not theirs not yours. They acted the way they were, You acted the way you were. For It was my job to change everyone. Couldn't change a single soul. Have gratitude for those who killed. Gratitude for you, if you killed. Even now I have a hope. How I couldn't have? Hope that looking at my soul-less body They would realize that, indeed I was a friend. That I wanted them to be happy, that I wanted


To create future for their kids. Now I leave. I leave them and I leave you At God’s will for I did what I was capable of.

About Author: Himanshu Shekher was born at Patna and raised at Ranchi. He has studied engineering and post that worked as a Sub-Editor in English daily ‘Morning India’ at his hometown. Presently he resides in Delhi and is preparing for UPSC exams. Editor's Comment: The poet has managed to conjure magic through his words and make the read ponder over a lot of things.


The Old Man And I – Darkness And Beyond Part 1 I entered the auditorium and found it nearly full. There were seats available only in the back rows and I wanted to get closer to the stage. I always do that for I like to see the artiste perform from close quarters; gives a better involvement and feel with what’s going on. As my eyes wandered across row by row, my attention was drawn to a hand waving at me indicating that there was a vacant seat over there. The owner of the hand was an old man. I sat down after he removed his handkerchief which was placed there as if the seat was reserved for someone that he was expecting to join him. He was perhaps at least twenty years older than me and that’s why I referred to him as ‘old man’; not that I was very young! The first thing that struck me was the person himself – lean, thinning white hair on the head, unshaven face, piercing eyes and acquiline nose. He was dressed in a white shirt and a dhoti; looked as if they needed a cleaning, I mean the dress. As I sat down I said “Thank you sir. But I thought that

you had reserved this seat for someone whom you were expecting. I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you”.


"Absolutely not, the pleasure is mine. I put my

handkerchief there as I did not want some idiot to sit next to me. Since you did not look like one, I waved you over” he replied. I was thrilled that here was one person who did credit me with some sense. But at the same time I was apprehensive that by the end of the concert he may come to the conclusion that I was one, an idiot. This was a classical music concert and though I always enjoyed listening to the music, most of my time is spent in watching the reactions of the audience. He continued “You see during last night’s concert I was

driven to exasperation by the gentleman sitting next to me. Not only did he applaud at the wrong moments but also started singing along and expressing his appreciation with loud grunts. I had to walk out in the middle of the concert for I could not bear it any longer. I only glared at him and did not say anything for we have grown up believing that we should not offend anyone through our words, that’s why I ensured the seat was vacant today. You seemed a decent sort of person and I took a chance”. “My God!” I said to myself. What an effective way of ensuring that I did not in anyway upset his enjoyment of the concert. This old man was shrewd. His piercing eyes said it all.


The concert was yet to start and the musicians were still busy tuning their instruments. The child in the front row stood up on his seat and directed his attention towards the old man. What a sight it was! Two pairs of eyes separated by at least eighty years staring at each other without either of them giving up. The child then started making faces at the old man and pushed his tongue out of his mouth and then said something, which I guess only the mother sitting next to him could understand. Twice or thrice she cajoled him saying “don’t do that darling, you should be

a good boy, otherwise the policeman will come and catch you”. When she found that this had no effect she turned her attention back to the stage. The old man visibly upset, turned towards me and said “See this is how they bring up the children nowadays.

Can you ever imagine such things taking place in the good old days? There is no discipline now, whether at home or in the schools. My mother would have smacked me on the butt and ask me to behave myself. And in the school the teacher used to wander with the cane in his hand to ensure no one misbehaved. Now neither do they discipline nor do they teach. Wherever you go it is only crowds you see and it is only money that makes up your life. In the good old days one could go to a concert, sit on the ground and listen to the artiste sing without the constraints of time. Sometimes the concert would go


late into the night. Now the concert ends before the artiste starts to feel the music”. I knew that I had to be careful with my responses and so I said “Yes, what you say is absolutely true. But I guess

we have to accept what is happening now. This is a different era and the world has moved on”. He gave me a thoughtful look and was about to say something when the concert began. He settled back in his chair to listen to the artiste singing. I watched him and it was fascinating to see the change in his expressions as he closely followed the nuances of the music that emanated from the stage. He appeared to know each and every composition that was rendered, for in between he would lean over and tell me the name of the raga and the name of the composer. During one such break he said “Why do they try to pack

in so much in two hours. By the time you get into the mood of the raga, it is over. Have you ever been to the concerts of the past greats? The alapana itself would take an hour. Have you attended a concert of MDR (M.D.Ramanathan)? What an artiste! He used to make each note linger in the air as if he was caressing them”. I did not answer for the next composition had started. I pondered over what he had said. In a sense what he said was true. I myself have been transported to sublime heights listening to Bhimsen Joshi’s abhangs late into the night. You can’t blame anyone. Who has the time now? One tries to pack in as many things as possible


within the time available to him. I thought that it was like having mini meals during lunch breaks. But one has to recognise that there is still enthusiasm among the younger generation to learn despite all the constraints and challenges that they are subjected to now. They have created opportunities for themselves and learnt to survive. So it is not always proper to talk of the ‘good old days’ for the reality is different now."

~ To be continued

About G.S.Subramanian: G.S.Subramanian or gssubbu chose to continue his passion for writing, painting and music after his retirement in May 2010 Though a Banker, he is by qualification an electrical engineer having graduated from the Indian Institute of Technology, Kharagpur in the year 1972.. He now lives in Chennai. gssubbu is a regular blogger and writes on his blog ‘Sublimation’ at subbusg.blogspot.com. His writings reflect a search for a meaning in life and how little things which appear inconsequential contribute to a greater understanding and help us discover the joy of living. Editor's Comment: Simplicity of life brought out in the best manner.


Behind The Barb


Story Behind The Photograph: Behind the barb Is not the mere sun Nor a drop of all the galaxy cluster But the radiant, never ending muster The fiery combustion The melodious Harp. More than a flesh and blood of light It is a chained free soul.

About Hiten Solanki: Hiten Solanki, by profession a teacher, has passionate hobby of capturing creativity in camera. He can be reached at hitensolanki82@gmail.com Editor's Comment: The picture speaks about the turmoil of heart in a magnificent manner.


I Belong To You

Sometimes I wish I was a tree ~ Dancing in the breeze Singing with the birds Sharing secrets with the clouds Talking to the sky Drenching in the rain Shining in the sun Whispering to the winds Romancing the moon Playing with the lightening Twinkling with the stars Smiling to say I belong to you


About Namrata: An investment banker by profession and a child woman, a dreamer, a dancer, a bibliophile, a poetess, a writer, a painter, a singer, a go-getter, a doer and an achiever by passion is how Namrata can be described. She is a prolific blogger and ardent reviewer since past 3 years under the name Privy Trifles. Her short stories have been published in various anthologies titled 25 Strokes of Kindness, Time’s Lost Atlas and Stories for your Valentine. She can be reached @ privytrifles@gmail.com.


Not Meant To Be

She remembered him, still She still smelled his cologne, She still felt him, Warm against her body As he held her tight in his arms. She remembered him, still It was unfair Their relationship was not meant to be. He had moved on, he thought, He stopped using cologneIt reminded him of her He felt cold insideHis body ached for her warmth He had moved on, he thought It was not fair,


Their relationship was not meant to be. You are not meant to be together People around them always reminded them Having sex a couple of times Did not meant they were in love. They could not be in love, people concluded. But of course, how could they be? She was a hooker and he was her customer. At least, that is how it was - the first time. The first time for both of them. She had heard terrible stories, Of how the customers hurt the first timers. But he had been gentle. That's when she fell in love with him. She should have not. He had heard how hookers were professionals, Money was all they cared for. He had never been to one before. He had expected her to throw him out Once they were done. But, she held him close to her chest. Ran her fingers through his hair and made him relax That's when he fell in love with her. He should have not. They met a couple of times more, He visited and always chose her. They did not have sex,


They made love to each another They should have not. Her pimp did not let him meet her, Once he got the hint. His friends pulled him out of that place. He dated many women, none like her. She had many customers, none like him. He remembered their conversations, She remembered them too. They should have forgotten. Their relationship was not meant to be. He stopped dating She stopped taking customers Both were tired of meaningless relationships. He did not marry She left the brothel for good They grew old, remembering each other They should have not. Their relationship was not meant to be. One day They will grow very old and die Hoping to be with each other forever. They had met by chance the first time, Fate would bring them together for the last. Because their relationship was meant to be.


About Arti Honrao: Author of fiction books titled 'My Life story' and 'Is This Love & Autumn - The Last Leaf' and novel 'Resemblance - The Journey of a Doppelganger' Arti enjoys writing short stories on Relationships. She has attempted writing different form poems but most enjoy writing Prose poems where she get to express without the limitations of words or rhyming. Most of her writings depict human feelings and emotions, which she tries to bring onto the page and into the minds of the reader. She believes that essence of writing lies in not only entertaining the reader, but speaking to them through words. She can be reached at contact@artihonrao.net


Exhumed Expressions

Wish life was this simple as it seemed to 10 year old Jack always. He is so clear about what he wants in a relationship and what he can do. I guess as we grow we tend to get confused ourselves and then confuse the other person too regarding what we want and what we can do in a relationship. Over a period of time in a relationship or even marriage we tend to forget one very important fact- there was a time when we loved each other. Today everything else seems to be overlapping that love and we forget the affection we had. We need to at least sit up once and think, that person loves me he/ she cannot do this. There must be some reason behind it. More often than not, it turns out that other person is also echoing the same thoughts. It was only about who made the first move to talk. Everything else gets sorted automatically. Many times I come across couples who when asked about love in their marriage reply very nonchalantly, ours is an arranged marriage. Arranged marriage so


what? Does it anywhere say that such marriages are love less? Even if it an arranged marriage we need to remember the fact that the opposite person must have liked something in us to marry us. It could be as trivial as our smile, our hair style or something as deep as our nature. Marriage is not a shopping session in the nearby mall wherein you buy something that you like in the first instinct and by the time you reach home the liking gets evaporated. For each one of us marriage is a life changing decision and we would not take it unless we are thoroughly sure about it. Sometimes I wonder what the base for strong relationships is. Is it mutual understanding, trust, love, respect or plain and simple attraction? I have seen 17 year old marriages crumble for the choice of a younger partner and have also seen childhood love affairs culminate into marriages only to break a decade later. What changes after so many years is something beyond my understanding. I used to always feel that once you spend so much time with each other you kind of get used to each other’s habits. It only strengthens your bond. But from what I see around me I completely disagree. A marriage / relationship is equally vulnerable to break ups as much as it was maybe when it just started. Time no way assures you that it is forever. Strangely enough people decide to move on without letting the other person know. The result is the other person is just waiting with a tiny hope of their return flickering somewhere.


When we fall in love with someone the feeling is so different. We feel giddy one moment and on top of the world the other. It is such a wonderful state to be in. We want to scream from the roof tops and let the world know about our love. We even constantly like saying those three magical words to our loved one. Unfortunately it happens many a times that we also fall out of love. Somehow the magic vanishes and we realize things are no longer the same. Though sometimes we choose to work on it, sometimes we choose to avoid it altogether and look for various ways and means to keep ourselves occupied. I strongly feel that if we could confess our falling in love we also need to confess our falling out of love to our partner. I am sure however difficult the current phase would be in any relationship we might have had some share of beautiful memories together. We need to do this for the sake of those memories. We owe at least this much to the other person. Sometimes we reach a stage where the heart refuses to listen and we still continue to care for that person despite nothing that we get in return. At such times for us the happiness of the other person is important – with or without us does not matter any more. I agree love as a feeling demands reciprocation. And if it does not get that it dies a slow death in the hands of time. But if we cannot reciprocate we need to let that person about it. I know it will hurt. But believe me the hurt of this truth is much better than a life time of a lie tied to the hope of getting reciprocation. It is perfectly fine if we cannot


love them back; let’s not play with their feelings so badly that they can never love anyone ever again.

Hand in hand as we came till here to reach a crossroads; Let’s part ways with love and luck to see how life unfolds. We might not be destined to be together forever; so be it.


About Writer’s Ezine: When Alfred Hitchcock said “Ideas come from everything” little did he know that everything would mean literally everything in this world. Taking inspiration from him, two fellow bloggers and friends – Namrata and Arti debated one day the exact meaning of Freedom of Expression and its rightful usage is today’s times. And so was born Writer’s Ezine, a monthly literary online magazine (E-zine) with the intention of providing platform to emerging as well as established writers from around the world. Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place where writing and creativity come together to ensure a wonderful experience to the reader. As you read along and turn a page you will find your mind wandering into places you never thought of before, making you sit up and question the biggest mystery of all times – LIFE. This is one place where readers, writers, poets, photographers, idealists, thinkers, atheists, believers and story-tellers all will be in sync with creativity. We accept submissions in poetry, short-stories, non-fiction, author interviews; book reviews etc. (Please read Submission Guidelines for details).


So what are you waiting for, unleash the artist within and paint the palette with colours of your choice!

About the Administrators We are readers and writers madly in love with the written word. To know more about us please visit us at: About Namrata About Arti Honrao Submissions for the June issue of Writer's Ezine are now open. Please do read Submission Guidelines before submitting your entries using the submission form. The closing date for Submissions is 20th May.

Designed by Arti Honrao

Profile for Writer's Ezine

July issue  

Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place w...

July issue  

Born out of a need and a necessity of solely being able to express all that one feels, thinks and understands Writer’s Ezine is one place w...

Advertisement