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Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


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

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Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Administrator, Editor, Promotions & Marketing Manager, Assistant Relationship Advisor : Namrata Administrator, Web-designer, Strategist & Relationship Advisor, Co-editor: Arti Honrao

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Editor’s Note Fiction Fiction Poem Poem Non-Fiction Photography Poem Poem Fiction Book Review – I Author Interview – I Photography Non-Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Poem Poem Non-Fiction Fiction Photography Fiction Poem Non-Fiction

The Story of a Timid Soul Possibility Lost in Thoughts I Wait Dreaming of Flying Remembering Partition The Taj – Unseen Beauty The One With Friends An Unexpected Call Vada Pao The Hidden Letters Purba Chakraborty The Other Side Entering the Acceptance Mode Blood Red Tears Verbose The Living Dead All I Need Absolution Whose Fault Is It? Out in the Field Shower of Light Pretense Nation Untold Waddabeparwah – The Great

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Poem Poem Fiction Short Story Series Book Review – II Author Interview – II Photography Poem Fiction Poem Fiction Poem Fiction Poem Photography Photography Whispered Words

Uncaring One Feeling That Left Unsaid My Glasses Truth Be Told, I Miss You The Ghost from Mud Lake The Bliss of Solitude Farah Siddiqui Peeping Out Somewhere Close and Near An Incomplete Love Story My Teachers, My God The Delivery Man Equation Smiling Tulip Farms for Sale I Apologize Silent Whispers Lord Ganesh Healing your Broken Heart

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Today I want to share a story with you. Not very long ago there was a timid soul who was scared of dreaming for a very simple reason, she was scared of failure. She hated the fact "what if ". She never realized that "what-if" had the power of being interpreted both ways. She just stuck to one interpretation till one day one of her secret dreams came true. For a long time she stood gaping at it in awe wondering when did it leave the realms of her mind and turn into the lanes of reality. Its magnificent beauty left her speechless so much that she fell in love with dreams then and there. Since then she never stopped dreaming. That is when she realized how much had she lost till now in calculating what ifs rather than thinking about the what if not's. The stakes were surely higher on this side for the pain of not having tried at all was much more than the hurt of having tried and failed. “Twenty years from now you will be more

disappointed by the things that you didn't do than Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ― H. Jackson Brown Jr. There will be chances that your dreams will be laughed at sometimes and at other instances will be completely ignored. At such times listen to your heart that is quietly whispering to you, "Maybe there

are not able to understand what you are saying. Why don't you make it come true and show it to them? Perhaps then they will." And embark on a long journey of running, falling, getting up again just to falter one more time.

Yes there will be roadblocks and pit falls but it never promised to be easy. For the smile that comes after all this is worth it all. Have you ever wondered what goes behind a smile? Tons of joy, loads of hardships, fistful of dreams, pinch of sorrow, sprinkled graciously with zeal to LIVE no matter what! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


=*=*=*=*=

Writer’s Ezine completes is 6 issues old with this

issue. It has been a journey full of ups and downs and yet every moment has been worthwhile. Even before WE started it got engulfed into a controversy but we didn’t let anything deter us. Month after month we continued putting in all that was needed to make WE what it is today. This issue is dedicated to all those authors who came together to add meaning to Writer’s Ezine and make it what it is today. It is overwhelming to see all those familiar names once again as WE tries to recreate the magic of their writings. Hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed compiling it. Here’s to many more such celebration issues!

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Possibility – Abhijit Nambiar The first shot hit his mother, before he could react and come down the stairs, the second shot fired. This one took his sister from a point blank range. He couldn’t decide whom he should tend to first. He came running towards them and that was when the third shot fired. The bullet grazed past through his neck and took a mound of flesh with it. It was a shot which would haunt him for the rest of his life. It was a shot he wished, had hit its target. He wasn’t trained to handle this situation, he was blank. It was then that one of his friends who came to celebrate his 20th birthday shouted to call an ambulance. He took his mother on his lap, she was conscious and was trying to tell him something, but she just couldn’t. One half of his wanted to rush to his father, snatch his gun and shoot him, but he had to rescue his mother and sister first. How he wished the shot hadn't missed. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


They were declared dead on arrival. He was immediately rushed to the operation theater to check on his wounds. He thought about his father, he knew he never meant it. He could feel his eyes getting heavy with the anesthesia kicking in, as he went into the slumber a last thought kicked in - he wished the shot hadn't missed. *** "Is this a dream? What is this gun doing in my hand?

Where did the blood come from? Where is my glass of scotch? "

With blood smeared all over his clothes, he sat on the bed. His thoughts were running haywire, he couldn't hold on to one single thought and then, the most prominent of the thoughts hits him- Did he just kill his wife and daughter? He realized it wasn’t a dream; it's the end of it. As the effect of alcohol started wearing away, his conscience got to him. He realized that there’s nothing he can do now to redeem himself. He can attain salvation only one way.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


He rested the gun at his temple, closed his eyes. The whole of evening rushed past him. He hoped his son was fine and...Before he could finish his thought, his conscience ridden index finger had pulled the trigger like a hangman waiting to get done with his guilt. As the piercing pain hit him, one last thought occurred to him How he wished he had never shot! *** It was a faint noise, very serene. Though my knowledge of musical instruments is restricted, I could easily guess that it was a piano. The tune seemed somewhat familiar. A faint female voice, not very mature started crooning; there was melancholy in her voice.

~~There's a possibility~~ ~~There's a possibility~~ ~~All that I had was all I'm gon' get~~ It was a voice, whose eyes have seen a lot of distressing scenes. It was a voice, whose mind was in search of answers to her questions. It was a voice, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


whose heart saw a glimmer of hope at the end of the road. It was a little louder now, though still I couldn’t make out where it was coming from.

~~ There's a possibility~~ ~~There's a possibility~~ ~~All I gon' get is gon' be yours then~~ ~~All I gon' get is gon' be yours still ~~ And then suddenly my eyes opened. At first, the bright light pierced through my eyes blinding me as if someone just flashed in a bright torchlight right into my face. It took a while for me to get used to. I was sitting on a lone bench besides a blooming cherry blossom tree with their pristine white with a pink hue flowers in full bloom. In front of me was infinite stretch of grassland. The sun was shining bright; a pleasant breeze was ruffling the blossoming flowers infusing life into them there by finishing their resurgence from the torrid autumn. It was a total picture of serenity; I was about to close my eyes to soak in the glory of the nature and the song was getting lucid with every moment.

~~So tell me when you hear my heart stop ~~ ~~You're the only one that knows ~~ Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


~~Tell me when you hear my silence ~~ ~~There's a possibility I wouldn't know~~ I heard a voice. “Beautiful…Isn’t it? I love spring, everything’s so fresh!” She said, almost talking to herself while running the white hair band through her curly hair which accentuated her forehead. She had a poignant voice with little sadness in it, but had an amazing child-like exuberant quality. “I used to love going to the school in the spring,

everything’s so fresh. The sun shining bright, the birds chirping, the blooming flowers…” Her recollection of school brought memories into my head as well. I used to hate getting up early for the school in the winters myself. It made me grumpy and the early morning maths class didn’t help the cause at all. “It is beautiful indeed. Even, I love the spring.” I added in an indifferent tone to mask the enthusiasm the spring has brought in me, in front of a stranger. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“But do you know what the best part of the spring is?” Before I could think of something pleasant, she started answering her own question. “It’s the early morning dew drops on the leaves,

sliding through the leaves as though it was a bead of pearl let loose from the string holding it”

That’s pretty intense thought for a young teenager, I thought. Before she throws another question at me, I wanted to know who she was and what was she doing here? But, she caught me again before I could act. “How did you reach here? Are you also a victim?”

~~By blood and by me, and I'll fall when you leave ~~ ~~By blood and by me, I follow your lead~~ That’s when I asked the question to myself. In a state of memory paralysis, I just couldn’t remember how I got to this place. I tried hard to recollect what was I doing and where was I, but I just couldn’t remember anything. “I don’t know. I just can’t seem to remember. How

did you get here? Probably, that will help me Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


recollect” I said, trying to get over the fact that I couldn’t remember how I have reached here.

“Even I can’t recollect. All I remember was darkness.

I think it was a pillow held tight onto my face. I tried hard to scream, but I just couldn’t open my mouth. I wanted to kick him and escape to the safety of my parent’s room. I wanted to bite him, but the pillow just didn’t move from my face. I kept trying, but to no avail. Then suddenly everything went mute; I couldn’t hear anything except for my rapid heartbeats. I couldn’t hear my own agonizing cry for help. My eyes began to droop. That’s when she offered me her hand. I held it tight and then hand in hand we walk up into the pristine bright light.” ~~So tell me when you hear my heart stop ~~ ~~You're the only one that knows ~~ ~~Tell me when you hear my silence ~~ ~~There's a possibility I wouldn't know~~ I felt a chill run through my spine. Her words took me back to the time, a range of images occurred to me. The chilling image of my father with his gun pointing towards my mother and sister, the image of my mother's eyes when she was breathing her last Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


on my lap, the serene image of my sister face before I placed the last log on her cremation bed, the image of three pyres burning and how I wished to run into one of them and just get done with my life. How I wished that the bullet had hit its target that day.

~~ There's a possibility~~ ~~There's a possibility~~ ***

~~ There's a possibility~~ ~~There's a ..........~~ His phone rang continuously, by the time he could gather his thoughts the ringing stopped. It must have been his wake up call from his girlfriend. He wondered where he heard the song before, that's when he realized his girlfriend had changed his ringtone. "This is the only way I can get you to listen to it" she said.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


He was about to call her back, when his dog sprung on his bed and handed him the newspaper, following the usual morning routine. As he was about to pat the dog, the girl's image on the front page caught his eye. She seemed so familiar to him, her image was so fresh. He felt a sense of déjà vu. The long hair, white hair band - Did he know her? Did he dream of her? What were they talking about? He just can't seem to recollect the details and that was when his eyes fell on the headlines..... Girl found murdered in mysterious conditions at Noida home TNN | May 17, 2008, 06.11 AM IST In Noida, a class 9 student of Delhi Public School was found murdered at her sector 24 house in Noida late on Friday. The victim, Aarushi was found lying on her bed with multiple stab wounds on her abdomen and injuries apparently inflicted by a blunt object on her head and face. The domestic help of the family, who lived with them in the house, was reportedly missing since the murder came to light. Aarushi's parents, a doctor couple Rakesh and Niranjan Talwar - were at home when the incident took place. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The suspect, identified as Hemraj of Nepal, was engaged by the Talwars barely 8 months ago. Police later traced two close relatives of the suspect and detained them for interrogation. Police refuted reports that she was sexually assaulted after the murder. "There is no comment in the post-mortem report on on this issue," clarified superintendent of police (SP) City Noida Dinesh Misra talking to TOI on phone. Asked if the doors of room.... *---* PS: Aarushi's story was long inside my head but never found a fitting form to be told. That's when a chance 'out of boredom read' led me to Kamal Sadanah's story. Two tragic stories had so much pathos in common. I believe, it was just waiting to be connected and then the beautifully sung with apt lyrics"Possibility" by Lykki Li seemed to be apt to bind them.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


About Abhijit Nambiar: Abhijit Nambiar is a vivid reader and a very moody blogger who in his full time job as a business consultant makes money out of dishing advises to businesses on how to run their businesses. He's not specific to any genre when it comes to reading or writing. He is a big fan of Stieg Larson, David Mitchell, and HBO style drama's kind of writing, where the characters are explored in detail and drive the story forward. Someday he would like to write his own book or write screenplays for TV. He can be reached at abhijitnambiar.sitm@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Spine-chilling, moving and heartbreaking.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Lost in Thoughts I am quite happy with the sylvan surroundings. The benches under the big trees and the cool shade they afforded make my afternoons pleasant. I like solitude. I keep thinking to myself of many things and events in my life. However if you ask me to share them with you, I cannot coherently articulate them. May be, it is because of my advanced years. There are many amusing thoughts that keep occurring in my mind and I cannot but laugh. The people around me look at me funnily. As I told you I cannot express my thoughts clearly when they ask why I smiled. Further even when I try to convey sometimes, people do not pay attention and go away smiling to themselves. The world has become queer these days. But I am at peace here by and large and do not miss anything. However I dislike the men in white uniform who roam around this place and who do not give me the due respect for my age. They order me about and Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


when I defy them, they use physical force to take me to my room. As you know I am a writer but they do not provide me with books or magazines or even newspapers. The fellows have the temerity to tell me that I was found reading the book upside down and when I naturally get upset with them I tear the books and magazines. I have become a back number and have only stale news to tell you. I see many men and women around me talking to themselves and behaving like lunatics. Luckily they do not come near me and leave me alone with my constant thoughts. I wish to pen them down and have been asking the men in uniform to give me the writing instruments. They kept promising for long but have not given me even a scrap of paper or a pencil so far. They have the cheek to tell me that I would hurt myself with pencil or pen as if I am a small child. One young lady comes here once or twice every week. I think she visits only to see me as she does not meet anyone else. She sits quietly by my side and offers some sweet delicacies to eat. Sometimes I accept but often I decline as it is below my dignity to accept everything given to me by strangers. I could Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


see she becomes sad at my refusal and stealthily wipes her tears. I like her very much for she is also like me a quiet person. I have a vague familiarity with her face though I do not remember where and when I met her. I like her coming though I cannot say why. When she is around, my mind stops thinking and I find that a still mind is more enjoyable. One thing that bothers me is that she is always morose and her smile is somewhat strained. May be she has some big worry that she is unable to resolve herself. Poor thing, what can I do sitting here. She often tells me that she would take me to her home if the white dressed men allow. I think they are not permitting me to go to a stranger’s place. I told her one day ’Take me to your home forcibly.

Seek the help of police if needed. I do not like this place and the people here. Will you do it for me?”

She looked at me intently with searching eyes and nodded her head. I saw tears swelling up again in her eyes. I consoled her saying “Do not cry. When I

come to your place, I will be a great support to you."

I wish to talk to her much but this wretched mind of mine again gets crowded with various thoughts and Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


I become silent. When I do not speak for long, she walks away with tears in her eyes upset surely by my silence. I could see and hear one of the men in white uniform approaching her one day as she was leaving “How was your dad today? Was he normal?” I could not make out what she said. I think the man in uniform is possibly her family friend and was inquiring her about her dad presumably living here. About K Parthasarathi: K Parthasarathi is a freelance journalist and regularly writes short stories in various genre in his blog random thoughts- www.kparthas.blogspot.com Editor's Comment: This story ensured tears in my eyes. Moving and beautifully narrated.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


I Wait

I wait…with breathed breath, afraid that my breath will dispel your ‘smell’ that announces your arrival. I wait…my eyes scans the landscapes, the horizon, the sky, trees and the moon, trying to steal a glimpse of you among these things. I wait…my lips parted in thirst… waiting for you to quench me, to drink from your well, and drown in it. I wait…my ears perked for your ‘aahat’, for you to call my name, and the joy I feel hearing it from your lips. I wait…for your touch to burn my skin and senses; For your whispers to tranquilize me For your kisses to transport me to an another world Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


For your warmth, to consume me and ignite me; I wait…for you to take me, ride me and drive me wild; For us to seal this love….in this act of love; I wait…for you. About Janaki Nagaraj: Janaki Nagaraj is an emerging writer who blogs at http://janakinagaraj.com/. A graduate in English Literature, she is a homemaker living in Mumbai. She mostly writes poetry and blogs about her personal experiences. She can be reached at janu.memoirsofahomemaker@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Waiting for your lover, is perhaps the sweetest form of romance. It has been beautifully captured by the poet here.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Dreaming of Flying

So it goes. I just wanted to write Something as beautiful as you are, So I listen to the wind While the moon eats up the darkness. You sing your sad songs, Improvising words, giving voice To our longings, as you move Through the days without me! Our lives are not lost though There are things I never told you. Remember, this is not time Forgotten, but time remembered Like ashes in the dissolving snow. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The universe narrows to this Before expanding into infinity! Finally we are one. So it goes forever. About Mark A. Murphy: Mark A. Murphy’s first full length collection, Nightwatch Man & Muse was published in November 2013 from Salmon Poetry (Eire). Murphy’s poems have been published in over 100 magazines and ezines in 17 different countries worldwide. He can be reached at marcomurcadagh@hotmail.com Editor's Comment: These words give form to the yearning which is a part of love.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Remembering Partition As a daughter and granddaughter of refugees from Pakistan, I have always been interested in learning more about Partition. But it is not necessarily the ‘official history’ about the events that led up to the Partition that interest me. It is the narratives of people whose fates were decided by a line drawn on a map. More specifically, it is the narratives of people that are closest to me that interest me the most. Growing up I heard many stories from both my grandmothers about what their lives were like in what is now Pakistan. Some of these stories were also about Partition and their families’ journeys to India. I wish I could remember much about those stories but memories about past fade as children grow up and get busy with the mundane and not-somundane of the present. I remember hearing some stories from my aunts and uncles, but sadly I don’t remember much about the pain in those stories. What I remember most are the stories I heard from my parents, because these were often repeated and discussed as details would often vary from one telling to the next. In these telling and re-telling, my Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


parents who at the time of Partition were only 13 and 7 constructed their stories from their selected and fading memories of that time and from the ones they had heard from their parents and other relatives. Listening to these stories would bring up different images for me – of an imagined home where my mother played gitte with her younger sister in the aangan, of the nicely scrubbed black slate she would carry to her school, of my naniji walking daily first to the mandir and then to the gurudwara in the morning, of the old haveli with a dark basement that my naniji grew up in, of my naniji trying to steal a handful of cashews and pistachios from the large gunny bags that my great-grandfather would store in the basement. Listening to these stories would also bring different feelings in me – of loss and displacement, of wondering if I would ever be able to see the place where my father was born and learned to play gulli-danda, where my mother first Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


learned how to cover her head properly with her dupatta when she went out, of wondering if my parents missed those ‘homes’ in any way, of wondering if they still carried any pain about what they had lost. I wanted to ask them more, but I couldn’t. I want to ask them more, but I can’t. These are not easy memories to bring to the forefront. These are not complete memories (which memories ever are?), these are perhaps not even truly true memories. These are memories that take shape as people tell them and then tell them again; these are memories that are incomplete, fragmented, and constructed. But these are part of my history, my story. And as I write them down, I too weave an incomplete and fragmented web of constructed memories from my listening and re-listening of, my remembering and forgetting Partition Stories. My Mother Remembers…. I was not even eight. It was just few days before August 15, can’t remember the date. Bauji (my father) told all of us to pack our things. I remember we had these four big trunks; we packed our clothes and some utensils. Jhaiji (my mother) Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


had these big copper handis that she brought with her from her father’s home at the time of her wedding; she didn’t want to leave those behind in case they got stolen while they were gone. But what to do? She could take only those few and smaller utensils that could fit in the trunks, after all who was going to carry those heavy trunks? She hid some of those under the charpai (cot) when we left the home. Bauji told us that we would be gone only for a little while and then we would return to our home. I think he didn’t want us to worry that we would have no home where we were going. I remember Jhaiji tying this piece of cloth around her waist. She had hidden some cash and her jewellery in the layers of that cloth. She also convinced Bauji that they must carry her sewing machine. It was also something from her dowry. When we started living in Jalandhar, she actually sewed clothes on that machine for about two years for many people in our mohalla (neighbourhood). The money she got from that really helped. But she also felt bad that she didn’t have much education, otherwise she could have done some other work. She always used to tell all of us daughters that we should at least have a B.A. and if possible also some Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


professional/vocational training. I remember her strongly arguing with Bauji when he didn’t want me to go and live in the hostel for my teacher training course. But I am getting ahead of the story. Back to that day…I remember this feeling of excitement that we were going on this journey. Jhaiji (mother) had told me that it would be a long journey. I wore my new salwar-kameez. My buaji (father’s sister) and her family also came with us in the same bus. There were seven or eight buses that left at the same time. I slept for most of the journey. One time I thought I heard these strange, loud noises. Ho-ho-ho. Dhum, dhum, dhum. Loud banging on the outside of the bus. Darvazakholo, sab bahar niklo (Open the door, come out all of you!). Angry noises. I was hardly awake. I remember Jhaiji’s face…she looked very scared, she and other women were shouting. Shouting in fear. Too much noise in the bus. Too much noise outside the bus. Noise of fear. Noise of fury. I wanted to sleep. The mobs didn’t do anything, or maybe they couldn’t. The bus drivers and the passengers were Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


shouting at the mobs. It was just too noisy, I was very frightened. I started to cry, cry real loudly. There were many children in the bus, some were still sleeping, but many were crying. I still remember all the noise and shouting, it was so scary. I don’t want to remember all that now. The bus left us at some place near the border. We had to still walk for a very long time; I think we walked for about two hours. There were all these kafile (caravans) along the road, with people carrying heavy luggage. But we also saw so many pieces of luggage just abandoned on the roadside, things being burned, things that people couldn’t carry on their shoulders, or heads, things that couldn’t be easily dragged. We also saw some people sitting on the side of the dirt roads, some just lying there; don’t know if they were dead. We heard stories later that so many women killed themselves by jumping into the wells - also difficult to be carried along. We had to cross some sort of canal to reach the Indian side. There were men there who were giving directions to people on how to get to the camp, where to register names etc. We lived in this camp Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


for about a month. There were all these kids running around all over the place. I remember women cooking outside the tents, men just standing, talking or walking around. It seemed like a picnic but it was not. Even I knew that. There was a strange kind of quietness there, even when people cried.

Bauji went somewhere on most days. Sometimes he

would go with other men from the camp. One day he came back and told us that he had found a house. We carried our luggage and went with him. But when we reached there, we saw that some other people were already living in house he had ‘selected’ for us. In those days, people were just occupying the houses that were abandoned; no claims or proper registry was being done. All that happened much later. Bauji went running, and found another house in the same street. We just started living there. I remember what our house looked like in Pakistan. We had two rooms in the house; it was a two-storey house. All the buildings in that row looked similar, with shops below and houses above. I also vaguely remember the path I used to take to get to my school. The school was inside the Sanatan Dharma Mandir. I didn’t have many friends, but I used to Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


walk to school with some other girls from our mohalla. I didn’t have any Muslim friends, but some of our neighbours were Muslims. In those days a lot of people kept cows at home for milk. When we were about to leave for India, Jhaiji had asked one of the Muslim neighbours who lived next door to take care of our cow. I don’t remember anymore. About Beloo Mehra: Beloo donned the hats of school teacher, university professor and researcher for many years, and is now happy to be doing what she does best – learn. Living in Pondicherry for the last 7 years and working parttime as an online educator for a private university in the US, she devotes most of her time to studying the works of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, blogging, reading, gardening and just being. She blogs at http://letbeautybeyourconstantideal.blogspot.com and can be reached at beloome@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Some memories are like precious stones so glittery that their shine makes you weep. This article is one such jewel, its shine is bound to make one shed a tear as they think of the times gone by. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Taj – The Unseen Beauty

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Story Behind the Photograph: I took this shot of Tajmahal in 2010 during the stay at National JALMA Institute for Leprosy and other Mycobacterial Diseases (ICMR), Agra where I was carrying out my doctoral research on tuberculosis and Tajmahal, the world’s most splendid creation was merely 500 meters away from my Institute. I used to see the glimpse of unseen beauty of Taj from the campus of our Research Institute but never saw it from close distance. Suddenly, in the wee hours of morning of 11th April 2010, I decided to catch the unseen beauty of Taj in my camera and fled from my research laboratory. I arranged the entry ticket for Taj at Shilpgram based counter. I am remembering, due to this random plan of Taj shooting, my next one week research activities was badly disturbed but I had managed everything for my internal happiness. I am also remembering, 11th April 2010 was very hot day and difficult to continuously stand in open sky but I spent whole day in taking thousands of shots of Taj. I started to catch the Taj from 7.20 am in my camera and this expedition ended around 6.25 pm. I was very happy at the return not for that I saw Taj from very close distance but for having an immortal Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


memory tagged with unmatchable beauty of one of the finest creations of human on the earth. About Babban Jee: Despite full time involvement in science as a medical scientist and editor, Babban Jee has equally contributed in Hindi Literature and Arts too. He is a very sensitive poet and photographer. His poems on one hand give the voice of under-privileged section of society and tell the truth of our societal inequality whereas on another hand sing the song of heart and love. His first collection of poems "Reet" came in light in 2008. This book was welcomed by a great mass of young people. His first poem was published in Hindi Daily “Aryavarta” a leading newspaper published from Patna. He can be reached at babbanjee_jalma@yahoo.com Editor's Comment: A perfect glance of the perfect masterpiece.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The One with Friends

A few more seconds if the time lends, I would love to spend them with my friends, But the more time i spend with you guys, The tougher it gets to say goodbyes, I miss the time when we were at school, Doing crazy things and laughing like fool, A single call was enough for us to gather, Nothing could stop us neither work nor weather, But the nature of time is a bit strange, Depending on situation everyone has to change, We meet daily or just once in a year, This friendship is forever it is more than clear, Last few days when we were together, I just can't forget them ever, Days were fun and those crazy nights, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Jokes and laughs nonsense at its height, Watching that movie alone will be boring, Even those stupid games were scoring, I relived the time I was missing for long, More words were added to a beautiful song. About Ompriya Tripathi: Ompriya Tripathi is a 2nd year B. Tech student at HBTI Kanpur and can be reached at ompriya.tripathi723@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Friends are a beautiful part of our life as they add beauty of it. A poem that talks about this beauty very nicely.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


An Unexpected Call

When heaven's train makes an unexpected call We go away, though people make a mournful squall Though they cry a thousand calls Our part is over though span is small Body a vehicle & soul a guide When He makes a call, there's no abide What we carry, is a good name, love & trust Cos bones are turned into sticks & flesh a dust Let’s make this life, an adventurous ride Before He calls us his besides Life, a beautiful bead of strings Who knows? When he alarms an unexpected ring? Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Life isn't about gaining worldly things But how many souls you heal & hearts you win Cos when we leave this mortal world Money wealth none matters, but few good words Let’s dream & live a pleasant dream Before souls rest in peace, get a call from supreme We all need to go in bare empty hands When we get an eternal knock in wedding grands Before He makes our call with fest Let’s finish our part, giving our very best! About Daneshwari S Mirji: Daneshwari is a student by profession currently pursuing her Engineering in Information Science. Writing has always been her passion & she loves to write at "Where the ink speaks...” Reading, watching movies & music are her favorite pass time. She is available at daneshwari.mirji@gmail.com Editor's Comment: A beautiful rendition to death.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Vada Pao The “Vada Pao” is often called the Indian Burger. It has between two slices of “ Pao” buns a vada or a potato cutlet. A quick and handy snack, it can be found in most places in Mumbai. My favorite snack, it keeps hunger at bay until I reach home. “Home” in Mumbai is a distant suburb where I usually reach around 7.30PM. I travel twice daily from this distant suburb to Church Gate by train to my office, every day- five days a week. It was on one of those journeys that I first met him a young boy about fourteen years old with dancing eyes and a lovely smile. He was alone as most street children are. He carried a bag with him and was whistling a tune. “Where are you going?” I asked him. “I don’t know...

Maybe, I will get off at the Mahim station and go to the Dargah. They serve free food there on Friday evenings.” He told me. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“Are you hungry?" I could not resist asking. “Umm ….a little bit” he said. I moved to the Vada Pao stall on the platform ordering two vada paos. “I like mine spicy” he told the vendor who glared at me for encouraging “riff raff” like this boy to come close to his precious wares! I paid the vendor and passed on one plate to the boy. “So… tell me what is your name” I asked him. “You tell me yours first.” he challenged me. “My name is Anupama. Now tell me yours” I said. “Mine also begins with A – Ashraf.” he told me. “Where are you from Ashraf?" I asked once again. “I

don’t have a home. I live wherever I can find shelter and where the police do not disturb me.” he said with a laugh. “But where are you originally from?” He seemed reluctant to answer.

Meanwhile, I spotted my train and got ready to push my way in through the sea of commuters. I saw him again the next week and the week after that. He introduced me the second time to some of his friends –other children living on the streets. A completely crazy lot –they seemed to find me very strange! The way, I drank my tea without slurping from the cup and the way I wiped my face with a Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


tissue. “You really do not know how to enjoy your tea.” said Ashraf. Ashraf and I became good friends over the next three months. Meeting him would always be a surprise as his appearances were so unpredictable. But his cheerful voice calling out “Anu Didi” was a welcome sound to the ear after a hard day’s work. I slowly got from him pieces of information about his life and put them together to form the complete picture. He was from a village in Bihar and a school dropout. His mother had died when he was about ten years old. He left home at the age of twelve after his father remarried. He got on a train from the railway station adjacent to his village and went on to a bigger station from where he switched trains going on to another station and yet another until he arrived at the Mumbai VT station. Once in Mumbai he joined a group of other street children involving himself in petty crimes and small trades like shoe polishing, selling small trinkets etc. He had been here for a nearly two years and behaved like a veteran street dweller. “What do you Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


do when it rains?” I asked him. “We go to the Mahim church. Father allows us to sleep in one of the buildings in the compound”. “But why don’t you join their program for street children?” I asked him The Mahim Church had a parish priest Father Brian Pereira who ran a program “Vathsalya” for street children where they were taught to read and write, some trades and often sought to be re integrated into their families. I knew Father Pereira from my college days when he had come to give a talk to the students about the problems of street children seeking volunteers to help him in his endeavor. I had always meant to sign up but never actually did. Today, working as I did for a leading ad agency, I felt guilty that I had not taken up this opportunity when I could have. “Oh he is a pain! He does not like our smoking and swearing.” said Ashraf. “He also wants us to have a bath regularly and he lectures” he complained. Typical adolescent behavior! We talked about other less controversial things- the movies and the stars! Ashraf was a movie freak and spent almost everything he earned in paying for the movietickets! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


I often asked him if he would come with me for a movie. Like all adolescents the question embarrassed him- being seen around with a woman twice his age in a cinema hall was not something he wanted. It was okay to chat with me at the railway station I guess. I continued to tease him about this giving him one day my visiting card asking him to call me if he changed his mind! He pocketed it and grinned saying “Let me see!!!” running onto to catch a train going in the direction opposite to mine. It always worried me –the way he got on and off moving trains. He obviously did not buy any tickets either. It was about 4.00PM when I received that call. It was an unidentified number. “Hello” I said cautiously, hoping it was not someone trying to sell me something. “Hello is that Ms. Anupama Deshmukh?” enquired the person at the other end. “Yes. Who is speaking?" I asked. “I am Inspector Pradhan from the Sion Police station” said the voice. “We got your visiting card from the pocket of a boy called Ashraf. Do you know him?” he asked me “Yes. But what has been up to?" I asked cautiously Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“He has met with an accident and has been taken to the trauma care unit at the Sion Hospital” said the Inspector. “I am coming there” I said as I started packing up my things from the desk. The Sion Hospital is one of the most chaotic places in Mumbai. A government hospital, in one of the Central Suburbs, it was constantly busy. After about ten minutes of running from one enquiry counter to the next I was directed to the trauma care unit. As I approached it I saw the huge crowd outside and wondered how on earth I was going to find out about Ashraf! I stood around the waiting area along with fifty others like me when I suddenly spotted Father Pereira! Running to him I asked him if he knew whether a street child called Ashraf was anywhere inside. “I have come to see him too.

Apparently he has been shifted to an intensive care ward. Come with me.” said Father Pereira as he led me out from there.

After some more enquiries we finally got to the “intensive care unit” where Ashraf was supposed to be. “Intensive care” was a misnomer as I found people running in and out and nurses shouting at Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


each other for equipment that were probably very scarce. And then we found him- lying on a bed with his head bound in a bandage and with tubes running up and down his arms hooked to bottles of liquid. “Ashraf” whispered Father Pereira gently touching him. Ashraf groaned with his eyes closed. A doctor made his way to the bed wanting to know who we were – “I am his sister” I told him. “Then please go to

the pharmacy and get these medicines. We need to give him pain killers. He has had a head injury” I ran down and came back with the medicines.

Father Pereira and I sat there with Ashraf for the whole night. The pain killers did not seem to be working as my happy little friend tossed around screaming with pain. Toward 9.00PM we saw some other children – Ashraf’s friends come by. All of us sat holding our hands together as Father Pereira prayed. Suddenly his eyes opened. “Water..?" I poured out the water and helped him sip it as Father Pereira raised his injured head. “Didi... Father!” he said with what looked like a smile. “Lie down. Don’t strain yourself” I said. He closed his eyes and we went back Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


to praying. Then again they fluttered open as he said weakly “I want to eat”. I looked at Father Pereira questioningly as I was not sure what the diet instructions were. I was under the impression that they were giving him some sort of intravenous drips. “Please didi... I want a Vada Pao.” He said “You can’t have all that now." I said. “Please…...!” He said focusing his eyes on me until got up and went out to the hospital canteen. I paid the cashier and collected the parcel making my way back to the ward. Was I at the wrong place? Why were there so many nurses and doctors around that bed? Wasn’t that where Ashraf’s was? My hands squeezed the Vada Pao into a paste as I soon found out why. I ran out into the corridor beyond the ward and stood there panting. My eyes refused to fill with tears as I threw the now mangled pieces of bread on to the ground and stamped on them with all my might! Suddenly my body started shaking and I slumped into a bench nearby. I did not have the courage to go back into that ward to see the mortal remains of my dear friend. I stood against that wall until dawn when they wheeled out Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


the body. Father Pereira came up to me and asked gently “Are you alright child ?” I nodded numbly and continued standing there! I received a call from Father Pereira the next day informing me about Ashraf’s funeral. Needless to say I did not attend the funeral. I started going by bus to another railway station and boarding my train from there. I cannot bring myself to enter Church Gate railway station. I don’t eat Vada Pao and I do not look at any street child anymore! I just can’t deal with the pain! About Meera Sundararajan: Meera Sundararajan is a blogger from Chennai, India. She writes on various themes ranging from fiction to nonfiction. Writing for her is a consuming passion. Most of her themes revolve around life and its everyday happenings. Editor's Comment: We tend to take life so much for granted that such reminders wake us up with a jolt.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Book Review – I Writer’s Ezine would like to thank the author Ms. Purba Chakraborty for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team and also agree for an interview with us.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


:Intro: She is a successful author, a loving wife and the world’s best mom. Her doctor husband dotes on her, her teenage daughter idolizes her and her readers yearn for her writing. Shouldn't all that respect and love make her happy? Yet, she is devoid of inner peace. In the wee hours of the night, her slumber is disturbed by horrifying nightmares. All her harmony is abducted and lost amidst the bunch of hidden letters kept in her cupboard. Those letters were written long back by her cousin, presently a patient at a mental asylum in Kolkata. Haunted by her inner demons and tired by the longtime secrecy, she decides to put end to her misery by surrendering to her husband and daughter, the hidden letters. Will she lose her husband’s love and daughters respect? Can she forgive herself for her own selfishness which rendered her cousins fate malignant?

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


:Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover page is very poignant. The face of a woman which has been painted speaks a lot about the story and sets a tone for the reader. 2. Presentation: The presentation is nice, with a lot of globetrotting to various countries giving the reader a good enjoyable time. 3. Narration: The narration is simple, easily understandable, high on emotions and does manage to grab the attention of the readers till the end. 4. Characters: The main character of the story is Ms. Ananya Chatterjee, a leading author. The whole story revolves around her. Though there are other supporting characters like her husband, her daughter, her sister, her friend and other family members the ones who stay with you are the character of Ananya Chatterjee and her friend. It would be unfair to divulge more details about this friend but it needs to be mentioned that the friend is one whom any one would have wanted in their lives. The simplicity of the characters is what makes them easily connectable, there is nothing in them which Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


makes you feel such people are fictitious. The author has managed to bring them alive. 5. Plot: The plot is high on emotions and drama. The author has done full justice by tugging the right chords at the right place. 6. Storyline: The storyline is enticing so to speak as it is one that touches your heart. The high emotional quotient of the story ensures that the reader’s interest is piqued enough for him to be compelled to keep turning page after page and know what happens next, till the end. 7. Story flow: Smooth. 8. Language: Simple yet profound. 9. Pros: The story is a very simple, straight from the heart story that makes you believe in the power of live and it is this simplicity that is the strength of the book. 10. Cons: At few places the narration weakens a bit making you want to skip pages and reach further exciting portions. Apart from that there are a few Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


typo errors and grammatical mistakes which can actually be missed due to the smooth flow of the story with perfect doses of emotions and sentiments. :Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4 out of 5 for it is nice and simple read which is high on emotions and is entertaining. WE team would like to thank the author Ms. Purba Chakraborthy for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish her all the best for all her future endeavours.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Author Interview – I Today we have Ms. Purba Chakraborty the author of the latest book “The Hidden Letters." Purba Chakraborty is born to a Bengali family in Kolkata on 17th June, 1990. She is a freelance content writer, blogger, book reviewer and magazine writer. ‘WALKING IN THE STREETS OF LOVE AND DESTINY’ is her first novel. Her second novel is 'THE HIDDEN LETTERS...".Many of her short stories have been published in various anthologies namely "Stories for your valentine" and "Fusion-A mingled flavour mocktail". She is currently working on her next manuscript. You can read more of her writings through her blog: www.reverieofpurba.blogspot.in Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The blurb of her book reads: She is a successful author, a loving wife and the world’s best mom. Her doctor husband dotes on her, her teenage daughter idolizes her and her readers yearn for her writing. Shouldn't all that respect and love make her happy? Yet, she is devoid of inner peace. In the wee hours of the night, her slumber is disturbed by horrifying nightmares. All her harmony is abducted and lost amidst the bunch of hidden letters kept in her cupboard. Those letters were written long back by her cousin, presently a patient at a mental asylum in Kolkata. Haunted by her inner demons and tired by the longtime secrecy, she decides to put end to her misery by surrendering to her husband and daughter, the hidden letters. Will she lose her husband’s love and daughters respect? Can she forgive herself for her own selfishness which rendered her cousins fate malignant?

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


In conversation with her: 1. Writer’s Ezine extends a warm welcome to you and would like to congratulate you on your second novel The Hidden Letters getting published recently. Talking about your book– can you tell us more about it? What is it about and how did the entire concept come into being?

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Thank you so much WE. “The Hidden Letters� is a very special book to me. It is about a woman who struggles in her entire life to gain the love of her husband and right at the moment when everything goes fine, she gets a string of letters which changes her life completely and compels her to commit a sin in the form of a long-term secrecy. I have seen many people around me who has everything in the world to be happy about but still they feel that they have something missing in their lives. That something is mental peace. Without peace, happiness is short-lived. This very thing made me hatch the plot for this book. Also, I have seen how my mother used to manage her family and passion for music. Her sacrifice and personality also inspired me hugely to shape the protagonist of this book. 2. Love is the central theme in your book and you explore various angles of it throughout the story. What, according to you is the perfect definition of love?

As we grow up, our definition of love keeps changing with the level of maturity. Right now, I feel that love is a spiritual connection between two people who Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


always stay with and within each other despite separation, problems and fights. 3. Out of all the characters of the book who is the one most closest to your heart and why?

There are two characters very special to me: Anaya and Olivia. Their bonding reminds me of my mother. I believe that if my mother would have been alive today, I would have shared a similar bond with her. Especially the chapter Soul mate is so close to me. This book actually helped me live some moments with my mother while I was writing it.

4. How does it feel being an accomplished author with 2 books to fame? Was it always a childhood dream to be one? We would like you to take us through your journey till here.

I was extremely fond of writing since I was ten years old. I used to write poetries and participated in every creative writing contest held in school. Even my favorite subject was English throughout my school days. When I wrote my 1st book after graduation, it was like fulfilling a mere wish. I did not take writing seriously and never considered myself an author then. But as I completed writing Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


one book, I realized that I cannot stop writing anymore. Writing the first book made me discover that I actually wanted to be a writer always. Finally I got my true calling and after I finished writing “The Hidden Letters”, I was convinced that I can further improve my writing skills and can be a decent writer of this country. 5. If given a chance would you like to go back and change something in the book? Why?

If given a chance, I would like to further improve the narration. I won’t change anything about the story though. 6. Both your novels till now have been about love and relationships apart from having strong female protagonists as the lead. Any particular reason?

Love and relationships dominate everyone’s life. In “The Hidden Letters”, I have tried to show the relationship between a mother and a daughter as well as the relationship between a husband and a wife, married for over two decades. I feel that people can connect easily to the story when it revolves around relationships. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


7. So, do we see you experimenting with genres in future?

Yeah I would love to write a psychological thriller. I have the plot ready, just need to write it down. 8. One word that defines you perfectly?

I love to call myself a “Free Bird”. One word that describes me perfectly would be Optimistic. 9. How different is Purba the author from Purba the person in real life?

Purba the author is extremely sensitive, emotional and contemplative. Purba the person is fun-loving, pragmatic, carefree and crazy. 10. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on.

I am currently working on the next manuscript. It deals with human vices like ego and revenge which complicates our lives further and deprives us of happiness. After I finish working on this one, I will pen down the psychological thriller. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


11. Some words for your readers.

To everyone who has read my books, a huge thank you from the bottom of my heart. I treasure each one of you. Your emails and messages are so precious to me. It is your feedback and reviews that make my life worth living. I promise I would try my best to pen down better stories in the future. Inspire people around you to read books too. God bless you all! Thank you very much for your time

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The Other Side Story Behind the Photograph: This picture was taken on an evening during the onset of monsoon from a bridge connecting Goregaon East to Goregaon West. With abstract theme, I consider it "The Other Side" and will name it as "The Silver Lining". If one sees the picture, just above the man made lamp in the centre a silver lining of the cloud is making and throwing light in opposite direction making an Inverted lamp. So, while you wait and hopefully see towards man made lamp, God will open and give you light in some other form which you never thought. This happens in our lives too. When we are in deep negative thoughts and look for the solution at one end, we find our answers from the other end and so it is the other side of the outlook. Above veil of darkness, there exists bright shining silver line which will guide you.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


About Nishima Avasthi: Nishima, a self-driven and a go-getter, works with a renowned Financial Organization in Mumbai. Her job deals with processes, Operations and people. Most of the time is spent on Number Crunching Excel sheets. She loves to write, paint, cook & play with her little daughter at home and occasionally dabbles with photography. Music & Movies are her biggest passion. She can be reached at nishiema@gmail.com Editor's Comment: If hope could be captured in a photograph, it had to look like this.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Entering the Acceptance Mode Sitting at the shack by the sea, I see the coarse black sky. The wind blows against my face and a remembrance of the past hits me like the pangs of penury, but it doesn’t hurt. I am elevated, I feel open and free. As I decide to turn a page of my life, acceptance seeks further inside. I’m falling in lovewith myself, again. The world today encourages constant communication. Living the extroverted life now has newer connotations. These necessities have made it hard for me to keep up because I’m not somebody who attracts the crowd by my mere presence. Unaware of the gift I had of being an introvert, as a child I wanted to be one of those kids who had the other kids following them. When children my age were hiding and seeking the hidden, I sat in my room carving out personality traits that I needed to be able to titillate their interest in me. My family kept telling me that it was okay to go unrecognized in class, that there will be a time when they will all listen to me in anticipation. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“What do they know”, I kept underestimating their experiences. As I grew up, I secretly aspired to be like one of those plastics in my class (Let’s name her A). With my nerdy hairstyle and a bag full of books I planned to finish in one day, A’s flowy dresses and her straight, silky hair always had me going. I tried to adopt her gregarious personality, failing miserably of course. I couldn’t, rather wasn’t willing to be expansive like her and let loose. I had a clenched fist and an opaque shelter around me, which wasn’t open for people to enter. I cursed myself for being who I was and decided I would die in isolation. I rejected my qualities of being able to keep calm and be patient in every situation life brought me to. I wanted to create a ruckus like A did, to exaggerate and gain sympathies. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


As days passed, my shelter only grew smaller in size, now choking me inside it. Then came graduation. I stepped out into a superior world- a world where nobody knew A, where I, A, B, C and all of us had to carve a niche for ourselves. This world did not stop at the pomp and show of A. I realized this world was beyond the ramblings of a High School life. I felt stupid in this world. I gathered my childhood had been wasted behind unnecessary cravings that being an introvert could be my biggest strength. My shelter expanded and air blew in like the sweet fragrance of the spring. I now understood the quietness in my life. It wasn’t loneliness; it was a nice kind of quiet like the sound of a page being turned in a book. Normality that I was trying to achieve all this while was something to get away from. As an introvert, I am my best friend now. I watch movies and go on dinner dates with myself. I sometimes take trains to places I’ve never been before. I enjoy the party in my head. I’ve shared Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


some of the best moments of life with myself, my inner self. I’m not anti-social. No. I only need to get away to refill my energy. It assures me, no matter what may-hem is happening around, I can always turn inward. As I sit by the sea tonight, I steal a little piece of freedom from the water and the wind. About Soumyaa Verma: Soumyaa is a student, in every sphere of her life- be it her current under-graduation at a law college, writing at her blog or learning the bitter truths of life. She is a strong believer of hard work, idleness exhausts her. She writes to satisfy her need to share her experiences and thoughts with everybody around the world, hoping to be able to make a little (if not a lot) difference in their lives. She is intrigues by human nature and loves to explore it. You can contact her at- soumyaa.verma@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Alone but not lonely – the author says this through her post and redefines loneliness.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Blood Red Tears

Bombs. Battles and all those wars, Started in the name of all that is Holy. As I leaf through the holy scriptures, I fail to catch, again and again, Your motives and twisted reasons. Blood stains. Ruined lives. The haunting tears of motherless children, As I stood in front of the God, I hear His tender voice, Peace is love, So where did you learn Blood is piety? Blood is blessed? Bombs, the finger painted art of death. Did blood taste good to your taste buds? Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Did the cry of thousands lull you to sleep? Blame yourself. Your succumbed head. Why are you carting God Down to the mud with you? As you daub world with red, Gore. Dispatched head. God is looking down, shedding Blood red tears, and Promising Hades is near. About Ada Wiam: Ada is 24, married and she lives in a colorful plethora of dreams. Words are her safe haven - the only place she goes to hide when the world scares her. She is a self-confessed chocoholic and a bookworm. She published her debut novel 'How I Won The Love deal' on June fifth, finally. She blogs at 'The Bookworm's Harbor' http://ada2writes.wordpress.com. You can contact her @ bells.teddy@gmail.com. She is eager to hear your opinions. Editor's Comment: All the wars in the recent times have damaged more than just buildings; they have broken hearts and Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


shattered dreams. The poetess has tried to capture that pain in her words.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Verbose

I dig my eyes I dig them with curiosity One word, two words and Verbose These words reflect strange thoughts I peep into words I peep quietly and calmly One word, two words and Verbose These words are kissing the pieces of my soul I slowly unfold the meaning I unfold the meaning of these words One word, two words and verbose These words are divine letters that lure! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


About Alokita Jha: Alokita, 21, is a student of Psychology at Banaras Hindu University. She loves scribbling anything and everything that strikes her mind and blogs frequently at shemaunder.blogspot.in. She can reached at alokitajha@gmail.com Editor's Comment: A lot is said in these few words, and a lot is left to be understood.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The Living Dead Here I am a bystander. I see myself plunging into greater depth of this so called abysmal sea each passing day. I feel the pain that becomes harder to bear with time. I hear convulsive sobs every night in my head. I mark others for their doings even when I have no control over myself. I observe, very keenly, how abject my life has become. But I almost forgot this little fact that I am a wall. Some people like to cool down by victimizing me to bear the wrath of their anger. Some people like to rest by me. Some just like to bring me down, out of shear loathe because I get in their way. Sadly I can’t help any of this. The harder someone tries any of the above listed ‘ways to grind me down’, the graver the consequences one meets. I am the perfect example of Sir Issac Newton’s third law of motion (non-motion in my case). Just a bit of modification is required. I am hard with everyone, basically same reaction to every reaction though I am not accustomed to too many expressions. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


How much I wish someone showed me what is it to be loved, to be cared. More than that how much I wish I could uncap my bottled up emotions. Everybody comes and does whatever he likes and every little thing leaves a mark on me. This impression is the very root of the uneasiness that I have been feeling with all this standing and doing nothing. People come and see me. They see the deepest mark on me. They know who has made it but I am ever ready to condemn them. I am too rigid about these things. The acuity in words, the affronting expression, and this bellicose nature sometimes alienates them almost to the point of being termed as bestial. But I know I am wrong. Not in confronting others but cutting myself slack. I should understand that I am a wall. I am not supposed to feel anything. Trying to be something I am not will just make me go berserk and in the quest of becoming someone I Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


never deserve to be, I will lose what I was meant to be. Maybe I am destined to be Spartan about such things. Maybe this is the curse of being a wall. About Chetan Dubey: Chetan Dubey is a student by profession doing B.TECH in Electrical Engineering. He pursues his hobby of writing as a story writer and as a blogger. He can be reached at chetandubey1410@gmail.com and can be followed at lonerchetan.wordpress.com Editor's Comment: A short story that makes you go WOW in the end!

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


All I Need

I don't need your money; I am yours and you are mine, I have gold and diamond many; All I need is your Time....!!! Every morning you go at six; Every night you come at nine, 'O' Honey!! Your schedule is fix; All I need is your time....!!! Where are those days? When I was your heart & you were my spine, When together we laughed and played; All I need is your Time....!!! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


My life without you is dark; Honey!! You are my Sunshine, You are my life's only Spark; All I need is your Time....!!! About Isha Sharma: Isha Sharma is a third year B.Com student and has written nearly 33 Hindi poems, 5-6 English poems, 9 Hindi songs, 1 English fiction novel titled: Ohh Gosh! In Love Again. Editor's Comment: Pining for your loved one is a sweet pain.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Absolution

I stand exorcised Of the ghosts of the past, That haunted and hounded me, Through the corridors Of the path I had tread, And through the halls of time! I stand exposed, Shorn of the cloak of desire That had veiled my gnarled face, With not a stitch to cover, The nakedness that lay within The confines of my existence! I stand alone Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


In the midst of the swirling waters, Hugging the protuberance, Avoiding the final fall, And vanishing over the edge, To be swept away to oblivion. I stand absolved, Of all the guilt and shame, that eroded, The entrails of my conscience, As I shake the shackles from my ankles, Break away from the bonds That held me down. 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. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Editor's Comment: The poet has managed to touch a chord through his use of words that make your heart go out to the protagonist.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Whose Fault Is It? My Job makes me travel a lot to some places frequently. Offices, Stations, overall environment nearly remains same whenever I visit such destinations on the account of my job except one thing which is never similar and that is the crowd. People with whom I spend most of my journey hours are always different. Here is two of such train experiences in a three days time. My mind many a times subconsciously formulates opinions based on live conversations among passengers, few unknown expressions they make and some on the half information my mind can interpret. I could not conclude them. So narrating here for our readers and their further assistance: It was 9.30 p.m. Having boarded the two tier AC compartment I was sharing with an old aged couple I was looking forward to some sleep after a long tiring day. But there was something about them which made me sit and observe them. To make it easy we will name them Dada and Dadi. It seemed they had been allotted with the upper birth Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


and were requesting people for lower birth. One gentleman simply denied. (Observation: how can people be so rude to such old age, do they think they will never have this period to be faced). Dada had one leg real and one leg artificial and Dadi had severe cervical back pain with a fracture near her lungs. They started their story as one of the ladies has agreed to change the birth and were supposed to be from same community. Dada had four well settled Sons at four different cities and they were not residing with any or them. As per Dadi in order to give full time devotion to God and prayers they both have chosen to live separately from all of them. Questions clicked in my mind were: 1. Four sons together are unable to build/buy a separate 1 BHK for parents if they were adamant to live separately in near by location?

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


2. Why were they living nearly 600 to 700 kms away? Is it due to some social status/responsibilities problem? 3. Why was there need to select an ashram where food is given @ Rs. 1? 4. Why during the conversation suddenly they got excited while remembering sweets/fruits/icecreams etc. How that is a parent can manage the upbringing, education, food and perhaps all the requirements for their children simultaneously and four sons with their families too were unable to provide basic amenities to their old parents. The more I continued to listen to their conversation the more scary thoughts and feelings it lead to like what will happen when only one of these two will be remain alive? Will these brats ever realize the pain their parents are passing through? Will the law of nature calculate their sins and punish them? Error was from whose side I could not conclude and ended up praying for them before falling asleep.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Such incidents make me shudder. It is our “SANSKARs” and our “Upbringing” which is crucial to follow and we must fulfill our duty as a child. We are the only support to our parents. If our generation can think it nicely there will be no need for any old age homes. About Hima Mehta: Heading a state for a leading financial services company brings along loads of instances where you come face to face with life. Hima Mehta is one such individual who believes LIFE is the biggest teacher and she, still a student. When she is not doling out advices to gullible customers, she reads and attempts to write. She can be reached at himamehta17@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Point to ponder.

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Out in the Field He exuded over-confidence like a brimming swimming pool. Much to everyone's annoyance though, but he had the license. The world had him labeled as drop-dead genius. He inspired me. But when I let him have ounces of my thoughts, it rang constantly in my head that he didn't even know me. Who was I? Just another girl in the crowd? Perhaps, someone who wanted to know him, someone who wanted to uncover the million layers he pretended to own. He was a strange person. You'd often see him set himself up against the best of people. As speculation would have it, that was his mechanism of avoiding complacency. I remember the only encounter I had with him. He pushed me back getting uncomfortably close. His perfume, a top notch one, had the fragrance you'd die for. He whispered, "I don't talk to you everyday Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


but when I do, I want to walk away thinking you're worth passing by again!" I wrestled to release myself which could only happen when he was done talking against my contorted facial expressions. When he let go of me, the first thing I managed to do was to hate him, a few abuses inclusive. He was weird, in a very weird manner. I did not know what to think of him. I resented him for those few moments until I saw him walk down in the setting sun. He stopped for a moment. I thought he was about to turn around but he didn't. He continued walking forward; he wasn't one of those guys who could have given a glance back. I pondered over what just happened. If he would have thought it, I was making him not get complacent. That was a wonderful way to feel happy about an obnoxious experience. Realizing how sprinklers of optimism are placed in lawn we tread every day, I stepped out in the dusk. Irony as one may say, my day begin with a sunset.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


About Animesh Ganguly: Animesh Ganguly, 24, hails from New Delhi, India. Fascinated with the idea of creating a world with words, he feels writing and him have an open relationship. An engineer on records, an actuarial professional by choice and a blogger by love, he does not mind taking the alternate route. Blogging at http://penningdownthemind.blogspot.in/, he feels writing has that rush which can send the heart pumping one notch faster. Though his heart is conflicted between his love for numbers and writing, he doesn’t mind being called a geek. He can be reached at gangulygreen@gmail.com. Editor's Comment: Human emotions, all that can be said and yet not be understood completely. Through this story the author tries to show their complexity along with their beauty.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Shower of Light Story behind the Photograph: My heart filled with darkness, Clouds shadowing only sadness. In search of peace I wander, Little ray of hope begins to falter. My legs tremble and I stop, Tears roll out, drop by drop. I see then, sudden shower of light, Hope makes everything feel alright. About Nibha Gupta: Nibha is currently pursuing Postgraduation in Computer Applications. She gives wings to her imagination through the words which she shares with the world through her blog “Expressions”. Apart from studies and writing, she loves reading and indulges herself in her love for crafts. She is also a photography enthusiast and spends her free time capturing Nature through the lens. She can be reached at nibha.gupta91@gmail.com. Editor's Comment: Mesmerizingly beautiful Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Pretense Seema saw him coming in. A smile developed on her face, she knew he would be here today. He stopped to speak to someone at the door. Seema stared at him. He had lost a little weight, and his hair was cropped. Dressed in a complete black suit, he looked gorgeous. He caught her stare and she felt embarrassed. He was just about to walk towards her, when someone held his arm. Seema felt a deep pain down her gut. The lady by Dev's side looked stunning in a little black dress and complemented him perfectly. She held his hand in pride and looked around. Seema looked away. So, Dev really had got married, to someone else. Seema and Dev had been in love for four years, but when the time had come for Dev to commit; his parents had stood in the way. They did not want a girl from a different caste in their family and Dev had to give in to the emotional blackmail of his aging parents. Dev could not commit and hence Seema had left him a year ago. Dev had vowed to stay single instead of marrying someone else, but later had to give in to his parents drama. Seema had not believed it when she had heard of it first, but Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


now the truth stood in front of her, the love of her life Dev, with his wife. Today was the wedding party of their common friend Tej and Seema had decided to come. She wanted to meet Dev and tell him that she still loved him. She still was single and was waiting for him. But now looking at him and his wife she felt broken. She rushed to the wash room to dry her tears. Meanwhile Dev was searching for her in the room. Tej walked towards him. "Dev! Hey buddy." Tej screamed. Dev hugged him. "Congrats Tej, I'm really happy for you." Dev smiled. "Won't you introduce me to...? Ehm..." Tej winked. "Of course‌ Meet my wife Nina. Nina, this is Tej." Tej and Nina shook hands. Seema slowly walked out of the washroom, hesitant to meet Dev now. How would she react? What if she breaks down in front of him? No, she decided. She Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


would be strong and pretend that it did not bother her. She went back to the washroom to correct her make up. She re-did her kohl and applied fresh mascara. Her eyes were her best feature and she wanted to make sure she looked normal. Having touched up her lipstick, she brushed her hair and walked out of the washroom confidently. She walked to the bar and got herself a drink. A couple of other friends joined her and they made small talk. With the corner of her eye, Seema looked around. She saw Dev talking to Tej with his hands firmly around Nina's waist. Seema's heart ached and she tried to hide the tears waiting to drip down. The pain was unbearable and she regretted coming here today. She gulped down her drink and ordered another. The vodka some how seemed to help her and she remembered the first time she had tasted it. "Not much Seema, you might not be able to handle it." Dev had said. Today as she saw him across the room with his hands around another woman she felt she would need it, to get past this evening. With the glass gracing her bright red lips, she looked at Dev Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


intently. He looked really happy as he showed off his new wife to all his friends. Nina looked like a poised woman. She greeted everyone with a smile and people loved her instantly. Dev and she kept smiling at each other as she tightened her grip on his arm. Something within Seema was breaking as she drowned drink after drink to help herself. Dev turned and looked at her. Her eye caught his eye. She wanted to look away but couldn't. She could hear her heart beat loud. Dev excused himself from the group and walked towards her. She just sat there, simply watching him approach. "Hi Seema." He said and ordered a whiskey at the bar. It took Seema all the strength she had to put up a facade. Every part of her was hurting, but for Dev she was smiling. "Hello, Dev." She said nonchalantly. He did not reply. He just kept looking at her face as if drinking in her ambiance. She kept looking at him too. The bartender interrupted their moment. "Your drink, Sir." Dev took it thanking him."So how have you been?" He asked taking a seat beside her. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


"Good. What about you? Great, I'm sure....." She cursed herself for saying those last three words. He just smiled. "So what are you up to these days? Still with the old job?" He took a sip of his drink. "Yeah, I like it there. Peaceful." Seema signaled to the bartender for another drink. "Hey take it cool Seema. You might not be able to handle it." He said sounding genuinely concerned. Seema raised her eyebrows in awe. "The last time you said that, I had a whole bottle." She laughed. "You sure did." Dev nodded. "Your wife's pretty." Seema said pointing towards Nina. Dev looked at his wife for a second too longer. Seema was turning green inside. She was the total loser here. She left him because his parents did not want her to marry their son. He did not fight for them and instead stopped all contact with her. She stayed single, in his thoughts hoping destiny to turn somewhere in her favor. But what had he done. He had married someone else within six months of their split and looked totally smitten by her. She had lost him a year ago, but today she Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


had lost everything. She felt empty inside. The pain was unbearable. She grabbed her drink from the counter and gulped it down. "I'll be right back." Dev muttered and went back to join his wife. Seema wanted to scream out. Asking him not to leave. She wanted to tell him that he could never come back to her now. Never. She wanted to run away. She wanted to die. She looked at the empty seat next to her, wanting to cry out loud. When she looked up, she saw Dev approaching her with Nina on his arm. Seema was startled. She turned back and drained her eye drops on her tissue and steadied herself. "Seema, have you met my wife Nina?" Dev voice filled the air around her. With a proud look she turned and gave a bright smile. "No, I haven't. Hi Nina, nice to meet you." Seema said without any emotion. "Darling, Seema is an old friend of mine. We used to work together." Dev said and planted a kiss on Nina's head. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


A hiccup escaped Seema and she wished that she was dead at that minute. "Hi Seema, nice to meet you too." Nina said with a pretty smile. Dev asked Nina to sit on his empty chair as he stood next to her with his arms around her shoulder. Seema's head was throbbing now. "A drink, honey?" He asked his wife. "Wine please." Nina smiled. Dev asked for a glass of wine and a refill for himself. "So Seema, are you alone tonight? You haven't brought a guest?" Nina asked rather inquisitively. With blurry eyes Seema managed a smile. "My fiance had to work today. He shall be picking me up." She lied. "That's nice. I'm glad we get to meet him. Isn't it Dev?" Nina said. Dev was lost in his drink and did not reply. "Isn't it honey? Dev?" Nina repeated. "Oh, of course. Yes, yes. Sorry love, didn't hear you before." He slightly bent himself and gave his wife a hug. Nina brushed him off and sipped her wine. No one said anything for the next two minutes. Seema hoped that the earth would just swallow her. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


"What does he do?" Dev blurted out suddenly. Nina looked confused. "Huh?" "Not you darling, I'm talking to Seema." Dev said. "Hmm.. He has his own business. Automobiles." Seema lied confidently this time. Somehow this lie was giving Seema a hold within herself as she kept spinning tales in her mind. It was easy to lie and get away than too accept the truth and look like a loser. "Arranged marriage right?" Dev snickered. "No, love!" Seema said proudly. Dev coughed and spilt his drink on Nina."Oh, I'm so sorry darling; let me clean it up for you." He said and started wiping the drink spilt on her thigh. Nina felt uncomfortable and excused herself to go clean up in the washroom. "You need to have a control on your drink, Dev. You are a married man now." Seema said angrily. "Ah, Nina doesn't mind. She's an awesome woman you know. I love her so much." Dev said ordering another drink. It was too much for Seema to handle. She excused herself and walked away as Dev stared at her back as she walked. When Seema entered the washroom she heard sobbing. She turned to see Nina perched Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


on the couch, blowing into a tissue. Her eye makeup was spread all over her face. Seema rushed towards her. "It’s okay Nina. It was only a mistake. Nobody noticed, don't worry." Seema said with concern. "Thanks Seema." Nina gave a pale smile. Seema sat next to her and patted her shoulder. "You're a lucky lady. Dev loves you a lot." Seema said sadly. Nina burst out laughing. She stood up and continued laughing through her tears. Seems looked confused now. "How stupid are you Seema? Can't you see through it?" Nina said in between laughs. "See what?" Seema asked angrily. "Dev still loves you. This is the first time ever he has touched me. He gives a damn if I'm alive or not." Nina said sadly. Seema sat quietly, completely startled. "We have been married for six months now. I know

he married me out of pressure from his parents. I loved him, so I married him. His parents died in an accident a month later. And now he's stuck with me. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


He doesn't want to admit that he made a wrong decision by listening to his parents. He wants to show you that he's happy. It’s all a pretense." Nina sobbed.

"I'm sorry." Seema said. "No, no. I'm so glad that you have moved on Seema.

Perhaps Dev will do the same now and maybe he will start loving me some time. Trust me, if you were not engaged, I would have given up Dev for you, for his happiness. But now, I have some hope that he can be mine someday and that is enough for me." Nina said and walked out.

Five minutes later, Tej's wife entered the washroom and heard someone sobbing. About Soumya Prasad: Soumya is an avid reader and a passionate writer who works as a Software Engineer in Bangalore. Danielle Steel is her inspiration and she hopes to publish her own novel some day. A hardcore romantic, most of her stories and poems are about love and the various shades of it. She is also a fashion critic, baker, dancer and a painter and in Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


love with anything this gets her creative juices flowing. She loves spinning tales and uses her real life stories as an inspiration. Rhymed poetry is her perfect orgasm. Editor's Comment: Eye opening on human relationships.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Nation Untold

The apathy of nation untold, Where price of emotion is sold, Where women feel unsafe everywhere, Where people cry and no one cares, Where democracy is some kind of joke, Where people make news on seeing the smoke, Where economy is dipping day by day, Not sure what would one see today, The apathy of nation untold, Where price of emotion is sold, Where things take a turn when they are gone, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Where a child's fate is decided before, he is born Where girls are worshiped as god, And are also killed in the name of lord, Where power is bigger than the fame, Where people take shortcut for name, My motherland India is crying in shame, The apathy of nation untold! About Nidhi Chawla: Nidhi Chawla is a freelance content writer by profession and loves writing articles and poems. She can be reached at nidhs10@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Poignant and thought-provoking.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


WaddaBeparwah – The Great Uncaring One A Brief Reprise of Khushwant Singh’s Neo-Religion Khushwant Singh, the famous writer, was infamous in socio-religious circuits as a proclaimed agnostic. His intellectual mind continuously questioned the existence of God – the Creator, Preserver, Destroyer and Supreme Judge –and of the proclaimed spiritual superiority of gurus and God men. I have explored two of his writings on the subject – Agnostic

Khushwant: There is No God and Gods and God men of India – and created a summary of his proposition of a new religion.

Born and brought up in a traditional Sikh family, Khushwant Singh was exposed to traditional nuances of religion and its customs, since his birth. In college, Khushwant’s fertile mind “began to question the value of these rituals.” At the same time he read books of other religions and recognized common patterns and thoughts underlying major world religious philosophies. His thirsting heart absorbed the words and his inquisitive mind delved deeper into scriptures, but his soul remained Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


uninspired by religion. “No religion evoked much

enthusiasm in my mind. By the time India gained Independence on 15 August 1947, I had gained freedom from conformist religion and openly declared myself an agnostic.”

Yet, religion dominated Khushwant Singh’s life as he sought to meet men of religion, proclaimed spiritual gurus, religious practitioners, writers and followers on the subject, both in India and overseas. He grew to uphold the thoughts and philosophies of a few, like the teachings of the Brahma Kumaris, some of the ideas of Osho Rajneesh and His Holiness, The Dalai Lama, and the social service ethics of Mother Theresa. But none could answer his question on the existence of God. He sought a scientific answer and rejected the theory of Karmic debt and afterlife as non-scientific. He wrote, “Believers would have to fly

across to God on the magic carpet of faith. We agnostics would like a solid, concrete bridge of reason to cross over from the known to the unknown.”

In his opinion, the world was seeking out a God that was best described as the “Wadda Beparwah” else how could one explain the injustice, crime, poverty, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


unhappiness, illness and lowly human conditions around the world. And when men’s prayers were unanswered by the Great Uncaring One, man resorted to rituals, practices and communal prayer to stir the mercy of their Gods. It is interesting to note that while Khushwant Singh denounced established religions and their concept of God, he was not against the concept of religion. He asserted that the current religions practiced around the world were obscure and failed to fulfill any purpose, other than achieving material gains. He was in favor of starting a cult, a neo-religion that was based on individual goodness, social welfare and a back to Nature theme. Khushwant Singh observed, “Most men and women

who deny God are to my knowledge more truthful, helpful, kinder and more considerate in their dealings with others that men of religion.” He was trying to probably say that lack of bigotry, fanaticism, and single-minded devotion to a God or a religion made people more open to accept the Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


concepts of brotherhood and goodness of the human. His experiences showed that men of religion would commit sins – steal, lie, hurt others, even kill – in the name of religion and then go on a pilgrimage or ask forgiveness from their Almighty! It is the double-standards of men professing religiosity that never failed to amuse Khushwant Singh. The distortion of religious texts and of spiritual messages, to meet materialistic ends, remained his greatest grouch against men of religion and God men. His personal religious principles encompassed practical aspects like reducing the population and he endorsed harsh measures like sterilization after the birth of two children. He professed safeguarding nature, advocated planting trees and stopping the felling of trees to make houses and furniture. He spoke about abolishing the practice of cremation of the dead as it led to wastage of wood, and pollution of the “holy” rivers. He questioned observation of dietary rules, religious rituals and customs. He spoke openly against jagratas,satsangs, kirtans and chants over loudspeakers, religious processions, water immersion of idols, and religious individualism. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


He wrote, “… major religious communities of India

should strive so that various ethnic and other groups may live in peace and harmony.” He advocated

cultivating true silence as a means of connecting with your inner thoughts. He wrote that the government should prohibit the building of any more places of worship, which often become the cause of idealistic and then violent conflict between religious communities. The doubting Sikh wondered how mortal gurus could be considered immortal by their followers, how people could believe in afterlife without scientific proof, how God men rivaled each other and amassed wealth, often illegally, and how they professed detachment and renunciation but themselves wallowed in luxury and worldly affairs. Khushwant Singh rejected communal prayer with the belief that prayer was a purely personal experience. “… prayer has power to infuse self-

confidence but it can, and it’s often, known to achieve wrong ends…. Prayers are best said in solitude and should be addressed to oneself.” He says, “…stare into your own eyes and ask yourself, “Did I wrong anyone today?””Prayer does not create miracles but the reassurance to face adversities. Prayer offered with a pure heart and without a Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


desire to bargain can be effective. Laughter and joy can have the power of prayer and looked on the home as the only “legitimate place of worship.” He postulated a work-ethic based religion, where there was no place for holy men, sadhus, yogis and anyone who lived off the earnings of others, unless physically disabled to make an earning. Community worship should be replaced with one-hour of daily, mandatory, community service and ecological work. He rejected vanprastha and sanyas, for a healthy man must be compelled to work until his mind and body are able to do so. Yoga, according to him, helped to reduce stress and restore mental balance. In summary, Khushwant’s journey in seeking God and a true God man is actually the quest of each intelligent human being who follows the path of righteousness, goodwill, harmony, and seeks peace and quietude. His new religion is the religion of very genuine social activist, every animal lover and each individual who finds solace in the solitude and the beauty of nature. The agnostic Khushwant Singh was in essence a pronounced conservationist and avid nature lover with a deep faith in the goodness of human beings, who he believed were misled by the Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


selfish proclivities of religious bigots. His own life was an example in fulfillment of the belief – “… the

best way to spend your life on earth is to create something worthwhile which may live after you; nothing of lasting worth can be created except by ceaseless striving triggered off by an ever-active talatum mind.”(Talatum is Urdu for continuously crashing waves).

It would be interesting to ask him if he believed that each man had the potential to a God, to be a Messiah, a Savior and a Prophet, to be the Great Charioteer and to be the Ideal Follower of Rules. He would probably swirl the question on his tongue with a sip of Scotch and ask, “why not be honest and admit ‘I do not know’?” About Aneesha Myles Shewani: Aneesha Myles Shewani is a full-time IT professional currently employed as a technical editor. She is a voracious reader with a wide foray of reading interests - from historical literature to science fiction. This working mother is also an amateur writer/blogger and her blog - felinemusings.com is a reflection of the various facets of her personality. She aspires to have a published novel, one of these Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


days. She can be aneesha.myles@gmail.com

reached

at

Editor's Comment: In loving memory of Khushwant Singh, a beautiful memoir.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Feeling That Left Unsaid

Time was fairy and roses Flowering the heart Basking in the exuberance Of Love and ally Days flew with gusto Akin to a swarming river Nights went at an alarming speed To the analogous heartbeats of presence Stars glowed radiantly Came closer to the reality A 360 degree somersault Vacating the heart forever Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Soul mourned for a soul Too close to be far With cherished memories As heart’s rations The heart aches A forcefully ran machine Depleted Of oil and love Days linger Heart bleeds Only time A catalyst for better Those three eternal words Felt from deep within With agony ballooning A story left untold Different would it be Had I said The eternal words I Love You? How I wish so... Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


But the reality refuses To be back to fairy and roses Now only reminiscences Nothing would change The present being But still my heart fancy writing An ‘I Love You’ verse About Rohan Kachalia: A Sagittarian by nature and hence hopelessly romantic by heart (termed by his wife) which he begs to differ, a banker by vocation, a blogger by leisure pursuit and an aspiring writer. Having taken to reading and blogging since last one year and reading and writing romance seems to be his forte, along with poems, haiku and erotica. Success seems to have finally got a direction when within a year of writing; his poems have been published in an anthology called ‘Minds @ Work 2’. He blogs jointly with his wife at: http://ponderingtwo.blogspot.in. His mantra for life is: Cheers, Keep Smiling & Embrace Love. He can be reached at rohan.kachalia@gmail.com Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Editor's Comment: Romance draped in magic.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


My Glasses

It is the one with glasses two Hanging on nose for a clearer view It is the one guiding my eyes Hiding my blinks of my fear too shy It is the one the one preserving my beauty Showing my nights of imaginations on duty It is the one which get foggy in steam Adjusting it is like overlaying vex with attitude mean It is the one which get drenched in shining tears Cooking with me stories when none fit to share It is the one listening to my ears Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


With strands of my hair to settle there It is the one filtering your demeanor's sight So be careful it catches what's wrong or right It is a separable clung part of mine Revealing my identity and the spent on book time It is the one without which I feel incomplete As it serves as a knight for lusting freak About Viditi Bhargava: Viditi Bhargava is an engineering student passionate about writing, mainly short stories and poems. She is an avid reader, painter, dreamer, narcissist and a tea addict with a good sense of humour. She is also the author of her creative blog: http://viditibhargava.blogspot.in She can be reached at bviditi.93@gmail.com. Editor's Comment: A light take on something that is an integral part of our life and yet ignored.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Truth Be Told, I Miss You She didn’t reply to my ‘good night, sweet dreams’. She didn’t say ‘ditto’. Just switched off the lights and covered her face with the blanket. Perhaps this time she was not going to forgive and forget. She hadn’t talked with me for the whole day. Didn’t ask me for water, didn’t send me to fetch the newspaper, and didn’t even ask me to answer the door. I didn’t like her not commanding me. I missed her. Next day too was the same. We were getting ready for a party. She didn’t ask me to move aside when I was brushing my hair, or applying kohl. No competition this time. She didn’t show her distaste to my wacky nail polish designs, while she painted her nail baby pink. She wore a pink and purple salwar suit in spite of my suggestions to wear the white one. She looked beautiful, as usual. ‘This dress looks awesome on you…’ I tried to start a conversation for the tenth time. Again, no reply. She didn’t even ask me if her hair looked good. She asked Mom. Should I just say Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


sorry? No, why should I have to say it. Doesn’t she already know that I’m repenting? While walking to the car I was a few steps ahead of her. I slowed my pace for her to catch up. But she didn’t. She didn’t walk with me. She, who was always the one to tell me to wait for her, today didn’t like to walk along. Hurtful tears welled up in my eyes, but I tried to blink them back. I took the front seat with Dad. I knew she wouldn’t want to sit with me, or wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. Halfway through the journey I looked at her through the rear view mirror. She had faced towards the window, admiring the Gulmohar trees. Did she like it- not talking to me? Would she enjoy my absence? Was she ashamed of me? Again my sight blurred, and again I tried to stop the unyielding tears. In the party too, she chose to stay away from me. She would chat and laugh with one relative, but when I joined the conversation she would move to the next Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


person. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I broke down, in front of her, then and there. ‘I'm sorry, really sorry.’ I mumbled somehow, amidst the shortness of breath and messy crying. She looked shocked at first, but recovered and took me to the washroom. I saw she was in tears too. ‘It’s ok, now, don’t cry anymore,’ she said while wiping the kohl under my eyes. At least she didn’t like being angry with me either. Must have missed me too. The rest of the party we enjoyed together. About Pratikshya Mishra: Pratikshya Mishra is a self confessed dreamer who loves the world of fiction more than the real world. She’s currently pursuing her BTech in Electronics and Communication Engineering. A passionate blogger, she juggles her time between lab works, programmings and assignments; reading novels; watching Korean sitcoms and learning new skills to satisfy her curiosity every now and then. She dreams to own a big library, make a literary museum and eventually publish her work one day. In the years to come, she aims to sign off her name as- ‘Pratikshya Mishra, Engineer by profession; Writer and Blogger Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


by passion.’ She can be pratikshya.mishra72@gmail.com

reached

at

Editor's Comment: Touching tale of sibling rivalry.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The Ghost from Mud Lake Short Story Series (Entire story in one post) He asked me not to waste my time on him. But how could I not? I had already sunk too deep into the quicksand that his story was. Too deep to get out unsoiled. The only way forward was to stay still and delay the pace at which the thick semisolid would eventually engulf me. Because any movement at my end would only pull me deeper. Deeper into a dark, dense quagmire that would cloud my vision and leave me to rot alone. *** He came on a wintry morning, not without a warning. He had declared to the world with an almost obscene pride that he was moving to a hot, humid and overcrowded city where it rained half the year. I had one whole month to pay heed to his warning. But I hadn't known then. It was still too Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


early for me to fully grasp the peril of what I was getting into. Besides, I had spookier things to fearExams. University exams loomed over my head like a peaceless spirit that would rest only after slaying my soul and leaving my body for the vultures to feed on. That month passed with the fading sound of the last bell jingling on Rudolph (the red-nosed reindeer, of course). And the next month brought with it icy nights. It was after a fortnight of unusual chill that the winds finally managed to slap me hard on the face. I knew then that he had come. And I had only fifteen minutes to run back home. I panted after my sprint with my teeth clattering as I double-locked the front door and slammed my bedroom-door shut. It was futile. I couldn't escape by locking myself up. He had covered a thousand odd miles and one extra mile wouldn't be too difficult for him. Our upscale suburb was well into the season of spring by the time I realized he wasn't here to hunt. He was the prey. As the cold winds gave way to a soothing breeze, I set out to find him. I had to find out why I was restless. What was it about him that bothered me so much! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


*** I watched from my observation deck, disguised in an oversized T-shirt and glares. After days of peering into the blue waters of the Konkan coastline, I was finally granted my reward- I spotted him. I rushed inside my makeshift beach-shack and returned with my giant pair of binoculars. I fiddled with the lenses till I could focus on him. He wore a yellow T-shirt, wet with the calciferous sprays of the waves that crashed against the shore that stuck to his chiseled body and honored the hours he would spend pumping weights at the gym. He had his arms around a couple of tourists in string bikinis. I threw the binoculars in my duffel bag and started the engine of my red hatchback. I was heading home. I cursed the traffic as I honked incessantly with frustration. I was angry. And disappointed. At myself. What a waste of an evening! I should have gone for my usual jog instead. The world looked so happy as I perspired in an ugly T-shirt. My feet ached with every extra minute of maintaining the fine clutch-brake balance on the upward slope. And then I remembered to switch on the air conditioner. But how much would that help? How would the AC Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


cool the rage that was building up inside me? My car slightly slid backward as I shifted my right foot from the brake to the accelerator. The rest of the ride was smooth. The drive back home gave me plenty of time to go over the episode and reflect on how shallow I had become. Had I really stooped to the level of a spy? I slowed down as the guards opened the gates to my residential complex, turned the curve and parked between a navy BMW Z4 and a white Honda Accord. I got off the car and frowned. I was still a rookie when it came to parallel parking. My heart sank when I entered my flat and remembered I still had to work on my Final Year project. I was too tired to tweak the plugins of the jQuery library. Months of nothing but Java had put me off coffee for good. Why would anybody take something as aromatic as Java beans, misrepresent it in the cryptic world of computer science and haunt unsuspecting software engineers (in the making) till they loathe the very mention of coffee beans (Java or otherwise)! I showered and switched on my laptop. It was going to be a long night. *** Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


I sat hunched over my favourite travel magazine on a Sunday morning, my cheeks resting on my knees, as I clipped my toenails. (Multitasking is one of the many things I do well.) I looked dazed as my eyes scanned the picturesque castles of Flanders. Click. It looked so much like Venice with all the canals that seemed to link the entire region. Click. I wondered how the gondoliers posed for the cameras without making the gondolas topple. Click. The chocolateshop windows that displayed the best desserts in the whole world gleamed despite the awnings. Click. The photos bore no trace of any language other than Flemish. The cursive font on every store only made the place more magical. Click. I collected the nailclippings between the pages of the matrimonial supplement and proceeded to the waste-basket. Each of the pink pages of Economic Times had a tip on saving tax. It was March. I was inching closer to my Project Presentation Day but I made little progress toward finding more about that mysterious guy. I counted all that I knew:• the approximate time he left his home in the morning • where he went to work • what work he did Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


• how he commuted • what time he got back • which watering hole he went to • landmarks that could give away the location of his home I chewed on the information with the aloo parathas that I had for breakfast and came up with an action plan. I spent the rest of the day glued to my laptop, creating tables with I-Grid. My eyes rebuked me for subjecting them to such torture for hours on end. And the mirror showed me how the windows to my soul had suffered all these years. I was diagnosed with myopia while I was still in middle school and my eyes were sentenced to lifetime-imprisonment behind clunky metallic frames that held a pair of concave lenses. I knew, however, that I was anything but myopic. Only a shortsighted person would give up on her quest. I softly placed the white china in the kitchen sink and turned the faucet on. I watched as the white water cleaned the dark green remnants of the spinach florentine. Dinner was good, as always. I drank from my bedside water-jug and switched off the lights. I needed to be well rested for tomorrow would be an eventful day. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


*** My face was flushed from its prolonged exposure to the blazing sun. I had been standing at the bus stop for almost half an hour, waiting for a bus that would take me home. Neither the heat nor the wait bothered me. If I was restless it was only because I was going to meet him today! I reached home at half past six and hit the shower. I stuffed a mini-granola bar into my mouth and tightened my shoelaces. I was all set to make my first appearance in front of him! It was 7:30 when I reached the park just outside his office. He would leave at eight. The buildings had two exit gates, 20 meters apart. The only way to run into him was to keep running from one exit point to another. I took off my crunchy and retied my hair. I did some stretches to warm up before the run that would last only God knew how long. I started running at 7:55. The sun had set by then, and this made my task of identifying him even more difficult. I ran faster as I saw the steady flow of office goers crowding up the street. It would be 8:30 in a few minutes and I’d miss him again! My pace dropped to a walk. And I screened every man that walked my Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


way. It was 8:35. I felt defeated. I went tired to the park and sat on a green patch of grass. My white Tshirt was damp with my sweat, but I wouldn’t let my spirit be. I was going to try and find where he lived. I knew where to start. I got up and started for Tipsy Feet. The doorman eyed me with contempt. I ignored him and climbed three flights of stairs, two steps at a time. I stopped before the ebony tinted glass door and had a good look at my reflection. Black ankle length socks peeped out of my white sneakers. My phone made the left pocket of my mustard shorts bulge out of proportion. White cords snaked across my white tee, split into two at my collar bone and culminated into a pair of earplugs that played Powerless by Nelly Furtado. ... This life is too short to live it just for you I stepped into the pub. It was still too early for the regulars to come in. There was only one group of three girls and two guys laughing at a corner table. I stood on my toes to see the faces of the guys. I could only manage to see the wild curls of the guy on the right. Nope, not him. And then, the guy on the left stood up. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


... But when you feel so powerless what are you gonna do Almost reflexively, I turned around and ran out of the bar with my heart thumping loudly. I did not stop till I reached home. I was too terrified of letting him see me to wait to identify him. I could only remember his dark hair and big forehead. Had I been running from a stranger? Or had I really seen him? I could not sleep that night despite the tossing and turning. I yielded and sat up on my bed. It was time to make use of my social engineering skills. I booted my laptop and searched for Tushhar Naipaul. His LinkedIn profile led me to his blog on Tumblr. I wasn’t interested in the Harley-Davidsons that cluttered his page. I had to read his private pages. I would have to hack into his account. I asked my conscience to shut up and launched a series of attacks on his account. All the workshops on information security I had attended over the years finally paid off; and after 27 minutes of battling against digital protection, I discovered Tushhar was a tech-virgin. It wasn’t fair to label him so. After all, most of my professors at the university couldn’t hold their own against my hack-attacks. I only hoped his private posts would be worth my effort. My eyelids Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


were heavy at 1:48 AM. My first lecture at college next morning was on Distributed Computing, scheduled for 9:15. I’d never make it in time if I went through the 18 hidden posts on his blog. I yawned loudly and decided to read anyway. His writing was slow, smooth and engrossing... like a John Williams composition. His was a story of unrequited love. He had met his object of affection at Mandarin classes four years ago. He would sit next to her every afternoon on the wooden bench at the extreme right corner of the room and watch her practice the 20 new characters they’d learn each day. He would struggle with the nib of his ink pen and speak to her on the pretext of borrowing hers. The soft touch of her fingers as they brushed against his; the dewy look in her eyes as she pitied his ineptitude in Mandarin; her gentle smile as she offered her spare pen... these made it easy for him to sit through the two-hour class that put most students to sleep. They spent an entire year learning Mandarin Level1, during which they advanced from sitting beside each other to sharing smoothies, with two straws at first to only one by mid-year. They would look into Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


each other’s eyes when Ms. Liu would screen a Chinese movie and ask the class to pay attention to the accent. He thought of her every time they made Chinese at the canteen, and also every time they didn’t. His mind drifted to her thoughts every time he held anything that was made in China, and almost everything was. It was on the day they passed their basic Mandarin test that he saw her kiss a guy who looked like he could be her boyfriend. He was shattered. He recounted the poignancy with no trace of bitterness for the girl. He told himself that it was an error of judgment on his part and the girl had never been at fault. He tried to forget everything but he could never forget how she had looked on Chinese New Year, in her red and gold qípáo made of silk. I wiped the tears from my cheeks as I finished reading his last post. I had a done a terrible thing by hacking into his account. *** The next few months passed as swiftly as my pocketmoney fled my wallet. I had survived the torturous exams and emerged a graduate. Farewells to homeward-bound friends and fr-enemies; Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


interviews with IT giants and start-ups; and scrounging the internet for dirt-cheap vacationpackages kept my summer occupied. The sun was strong but not enough to penetrate my heart that stayed frozen on the words I had read a hundred days ago. It was late in June that a phone call made my heart thaw. I was offered full-time employment at the firm I was longing to hear from. And the fact that my office was in the same building as his, worked like heat-therapy on a sprained muscle. The heavens pronounced their approval with a light drizzle the day I joined office. I was more nervous at the prospect of seeing him than I was about my first day at work. I had never been as alert in school as I was that day. I expected to see him around every corner. My breath stopped and ears pricked at every sound that floated by me. I was exhausted, despite having done no work, when I got back home. However, as luck would have it, I did not chance upon him. My black and white story would have a few days of colour when I would catch him in the lift across mine. My eyes would stay transfixed on his for the entire duration of seven seconds that both the liftWriter’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


doors stayed open, and I would not blink until the two stainless steel halves cut him off from my dazed self. I would also find him at the parking lot sometimes- lost, in a world so removed from the one we walked in, that it seemed impossible he'd ever come back. He was the ghost of the jilted lover, shrouded in the trauma that refused to leave him. Each time he passed by, the ripples of the his shock would reach me for reasons unbeknownst to me. I hadn't figured out my feelings for him but I knew he had sensed my presence at every chance encounter. He had held my gaze each time with an unspoken purposefulness, as if asking for something indecipherable. I had tried many times to begin a conversation with him to break the eerie silence that would wrap the two of us every time we saw each other, but to no avail. My throat would go dry whenever I had the presence of mind to speak, and he would have long gone by the time I regained my voice. We would have gone on with our deaf-andmute act had it not been for the divine intervention of Fate. Our golden chance to break our silence came in the guise of a fire-drill. All the eight odd offices in our Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


building were to participate in the drill that aimed to bring us out of our cubicles and into the fresh outdoors. The exercise was amusing, even if saving oneself from a life-threatening scenario could hardly be counted as a means of amusement. All the employees were made to stand in rows facing the security-expert as she explained the dos and don'ts in a fire-scenario. The corporate services team had the foresight to station water-coolers at the back of all the rows. I filled a paper cup with water that sparkled in the sun and turned to find Tushhar standing behind me. I moved to the left to make way for him. “Hi”, he said as he pressed the blue lever for cold water. “Hello”, I replied, glad my voice hadn’t deserted me. “I’ve seen you around. You must’ve joined a few weeks back.” His cup was almost full now. I looked up to make eye contact. “Yeah. It’s been a couple of months since I started.” He had brown eyes and his honey-coloured skin glowed in the sun. I sipped on my water as I noticed the skin around his eyes had caramelized into a darker shade of brown. Lack of sleep, I guessed. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“Do you live nearby?” Honey was not only the colour of his skin but also the texture of his voice. “Yes. My place is not too far. You do too?” Well of course, he did! I wondered why I asked him that. “Oh, my flat is 10 minutes from here!” He said with pride. I noticed how his pink lips turned thin as they curved into a smile. “See you, then!” I finished the last drop off my cup and proceeded to rejoin my colleagues. “Sure, Praneetee!” And yet again, he managed to make me go numb. How did he do that every single time? I didn’t remember telling him my name! The fire-safety instructions were of no use to me when I was burning under his glare. I walked towards my row with a heart that threatened to break out of my ribcage if I did not chain it right there. My eyes fell on my I-card that spelled out my name in big, bold, blue letters. That explained it! Had I really thought Tushhar needed help? I was in more need of it. I stared at the thick, white fumes that whistled out of the fire extinguisher, and pitied the poor volunteer who tottered about with the red, cylindrical apparatus. It looked like he was tapdancing. And that reminded me – I had my first Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


foxtrot session that day. I had realized I needed to get some fresh air and bring in some change in my life, so I had enrolled myself for a ballroom dance course on Monday. *** At half past seven, I found myself at Ricardo’s Dance Studio. I admired the spacious room that had mirrors on all sides and a steel bar fixed horizontally on one. For stretching before the dance, I thought. I saw a dozen other people waiting on the benches that lay on one side of the hall. “Good evening, everyone! My name is Ricardo Terez” – a baritone broke the din. “I am the foxtrot instructor here.” I traced the voice to a tall, sturdy frame with a cheerful face. His smile calmed my tense nerves. He started by making us count the four beats in every bar of the music he played. Then we did a round of introduction. We were a good mix of college-goers and working professionals. We learnt some basic footwork next. As we practised after Ricardo, he told us how foxtrot originated in the United States. It was a slow dance, quite similar to waltz. After six rounds of the basic footwork with Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


and without music, he asked us to take partners. To everyone’s surprise, the men outnumbered the women in the room. But that wouldn’t be too much of a problem as all the ladies would have to dance with every gentleman in rotation. Ricardo played I’ve Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra as he showed us how the dance partners were to hold each other. All the pairs on the dance floor clumsily held their positions and tried tuning their steps to Sinatra’s music. After every two minutes of dancing, Ricardo would holler – “Change!“, and the women would move clockwise to the next man. After several rounds of dancing, I felt elated and liberated from all the thoughts that had earlier disturbed me. It was only when we took a break that I realized it was 8:10. We formed three rows to copy the new steps that our instructor would teach us. This is when Tushhar walked in and muttered a quick apology to Ricardo. My legs turned into jelly. Two major coincidences in a day! This was more than my sensitive little self could take. The tranquil atmosphere that Sinatra’s song had managed to create did not even take a second to shatter under Tushhar’s presence. I Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


listlessly repeated the steps after Ricardo and was terrified when he said, “Take your partners, everyone.” We only had 10 minutes to go, and I prayed with all my strength for the class to be over before it was my turn to dance with Tushhar. And for once, my prayer was answered, I noted with some disappointment. I quickly made my escape before he’d have a chance to notice me. But how long would I keep up my game of hide-and-seek? He’d surely see me next Thursday! *** It did not take very long for the next Thursday to arrive. Ricardo started the class by revising the previous week's footwork, then showing us some new steps. As each of us started taking partners, he told us to keep our chin up and look over our dancepartner's right shoulder. "In ballroom dancing", he said, "we do not stare at our partner." He played Colbie Caillat's Bubbly. One of my favourites, I smiled. Ricardo offered me his hand. He was quite obviously the best dancer in the room. "Man, remember to give your lead. Only then will the woman follow." This was met with Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


giggles. "Change!" I glanced to my right to see who I'd next dance with. Tushhar! We exchanged smiles and took our positions. Caillat's song flowed through the air like a river gushing through a valley. It filled all the empty space between Tushhar and me till we were drenched in its melody. I breathed the musk notes that betrayed a hint of cedar. He smelled of deep, dark woods that make one lose one's sense of direction. His hands were soft and he held me gently. I disregarded Ricardo's instructions and stole a few looks at my dance-partner. His skin was smooth and his nose, aquiline. I noticed his eyes were the colour of mahogany when his met mine. "Change!" *** I leaped from one Thursday to another with the other days forgotten in office-work and eveningjogs. It always poured heavily at 7:15 in the eve, as if to deter me from attending my dance-lessons. But in the mirrored enclosure of the dance studio, foxtrot set me free, and I would look forward to my Thursdays with Tushhar. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


It was September before I even realized we were about to finish our course. I was amazed at the progress we had all made. Most of us had started with two left feet and could now dance just as easily as we could walk. Ricardo had invited us all to a club the Saturday after the next, to celebrate the completion of our lessons in basic foxtrot. The last session was the best of all for we danced for two straight hours to continuous music. When I foxtrotted with Tushhar, I noticed how much he had changed from the days I would see him in the office parking-lots and across my lift. Something seemed to have washed his sorrows away and he greeted me with open arms, if only to hold the foxtrot position. Ricardo played Can I Have This Dance by Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens. *** It was Saturday. And surprisingly calm and breezy. I finished pinning up my bouffant and twirled before the mirror. My midnight-blue evening dress went well with my sparkling black dancing shoes. I felt an immense sense of gratitude towards Ricardo, the dance-maestro, who taught me to turn with every Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


few steps and unknowingly showed me how to turn my back on unpleasant feelings. He taught me that "change" was inevitable and I would have to learn to dance in every new situation in life. I was glad to have danced with all my fellow dance-partners who patiently matched their rhythm with mine, offered their shoulder and gestured "I've-got-your-back" every time I finished a turn. But most of all, I was thankful to Tushhar, who stirred my heart, brought a sparkle in my eyes and gently danced us out of our loneliness. I beamed with happiness as I entered the club where the lights were dimmed. I joined some familiar faces on the dance floor with my eyes on the entrance. Tusshar entered, looking happier than I had ever seen him before. He held hands with a girl who smiled as she walked in. She flipped her long, black hair to reveal a white off-one shoulder satin dress that ended above her knees. I looked on helplessly as he led her to the bar after she whispered something in his ear. I felt tears knotting in my throat and a pain singeing my heart, but I gathered myself and walked out of the night club. It thundered outside but there still Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


was no rain. I walked as fast as my legs would carry me while thick, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. And then it started raining, and I stopped. But the raindrops miraculously missed me. I looked up to find a dark green umbrella shielding me from the sky. Tushhar had left the club and come after me. "Won't you hear my friend mix some numbers for you? She's one of the finest DJs here." I turned my face away from him and discreetly wiped my tears. I had no answer, and certainly no strength to deliver if I had one. I looked ahead- the road looked long, endless and dark. The rain fell mercilessly on the ground, dragged all the filth from the sidewalk with it and turned the street into a vast mud-lake. Tusshar and I stood alone, like two ghosts hiding from the light, on the pink pavement, protected by its elevation from the road, under the green umbrella that stopped not only the raindrops but also time. And then, he took me by surprise by folding the umbrella close and placing it on the pavement. The night poured on us like there was no tomorrow. Tushhar gave me a determined smile and offered his right hand, "Can I have this dance?" My left hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it floated over Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


to his outstretched palm. He lifted my left hand and placed it on his right shoulder as he held my right in his left. We danced to the music of the rain as it consumed us, body and soul. Tushhar tightened his grip on me as it got harder to dance on the wet sidewalk and he held me closer than he had ever done at the foxtrot class. Our clothes clung to our skin and outlined our shapes even in the dark of the night. We were ghosts no more; we had forms. Clear and distinct. We were alive. About Oindrila De: Oindrila is a 23 year old Computer Engineer at a global investment bank, and also a travel-blogger at http://oindrilade.wordpress.com/. She has an irrepressible urge to travel far and wide, and experience various cultures and cuisines of the world. She learns Latin ballroom dancing and salsa in her free time, and trains for various long distance runs to promote awareness of and raise funds for causes that affect the society. She also values education and helps local municipal school kids perform better at studies. She can be found at http://www.facebook.com/OindrilaGoesFootloose. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Editor's Comment: Haunting, one that will stay with you long after you are done reading it.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Book Review – II

Writer’s Ezine would like to thank the author Ms. Farah Siddiqui for sending in such a wonderful book to be reviewed by our Editorial Team and also agree for an interview with us. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


:Intro: Bliss of Solitude is Farah's maiden book, a collection of 50 poems with a strong feminist voice. Her poems are engaging and socially conscious making the reader reflect and assess through their conscience. :Book Review: 1. Cover: The cover page is subtle; its simplicity sets a tone for the poems that are to follow in the book. 2. Presentation: The presentation is beautiful and smooth. 3. Narration: The narration is touching, if I can use that word as every poem touches a raw nerve somewhere. 4. Language: Deep and profound is how the poems can be described. 5. Pros: The poems are a rare combination of emotions and powerful thoughts making them a thoroughly enjoyable read. Some of the lines on Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


social issues actually give the reader goose bumps. I like the way the poetess has maintained the same tone throughout the book not jolting the reader as the topics taken by her are a huge jolt enough in a way to awaken their soul. 6. Cons: Few typos and grammatical errors which could have been avoided. :Overview: The overall rating for the book would be 4 out of 5 for it is nice and simple read which is high on emotions and is soul stirring.. WE team would like to thank the author Ms. Farah Siddiqui for sending across this book for review and would also like to wish her all the best for all her future endeavours.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Author Interview – II Today we have Ms. Farah Siddiqui the author of the latest book “The Bliss of Solitude" The blurb of her book reads: Bliss of Solitude is Farah's maiden book, a collection of 50 poems with a strong feminist voice. Her poems are engaging and socially conscious making the reader reflect and assess through their conscience.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


In conversation with her: 1. Writer’s Ezine extends a warm welcome to you. Talking about your poetry collection– can you tell us more about it?

Thank you so much for your warm wishes.My poetry brings out a bold voice born from my conscious mind, towards socio-cultural scene in the contemporary age. Society's discrimination against women is echoed strongly in my poems and could be categorized as feminist poetry addressing the issues of women in various roles in the society. It also dwells on the dynamics of love, emotions and relationships. 2. The Bliss of Solitude is a unique name- any story behind the same?

As most people infer that writers reflects their personal life in their writing, but in my case this is not true. I have just inscribed my emotions that what I feel for the society and its problems, and tried to reflects it through my poetry. I have used the title "The Bliss of Solitude" in one of my poem and liked it Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


alot. The essence of the title reflects in most of the poems. So, no stories behind this but only facts. 3. Touching and moving are the first words a reader thinks of the moment they read your works. Is that the impact you had in mind when you worked on the book?

Not exactly. When I started writing this book, I simply thought to imbibe everything that was hovering in my mind. I always think of women, their problems, their rights and many other facts that exist but are always ignored in our society. And I pointed out those major issues through my poetry. 4. Do you agree to the general belief that poetry books don’t have a wide acceptance or readership? What has been your experience about this?

Composing poetry was not possible before 6 months, as I am very new in poetry writing, so am unaware of the coverage and acceptance of any poetry books. I got my first experience at the inauguration of my book in Delhi. A total of 50+ books were sold that day and many onwards. And the appreciation, encouragement and support I have received after Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


the release of the book was really prodigious and satisfactory. So, I don’t believe that poetry books don’t have a wide acceptance or readership. 5. Can you please our readers through your journey of becoming a published poet?

Well! I don’t consider myself a published poet, but off course I can share my 6 months-old journey with readers.I started writing short stories in 2008-09 when I was an undergraduate student at Ewing Christian College, Allahabad. My short stories became very famous at college level and we did many plays and dramas based on that. When people started liking my writing, I felt that I can write and could be a better writer in future. My writing skills and enthusiasm gradually increased with time, and after being enrolled in Ph.D in the University of Allahabad, in English literature then I thought of writing seriously and professionally. I wrote one poem and simply posted on Facebook on 29th of January 2014. And I was amazed when I got more than 200 likes within few hours. I also got motivated with the comments of many established and published poets. The same poem l shown to my supervisor, who had corrected minor mistakes and Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


influenced me to write better. After that, within a time span of 2 months, I wrote 49 poems and added the first one to make it 50. I approached with the raw soft copy of my poems to a publication company Butterfly & The Bees - New Delhi, India, and they accepted to publish it in the first look. From then a girl next door become a POET. Now I am working on two more books and may be many more in future. 6. Any intention of moving into fiction / non-fiction from poetry?

Yes, I have few stories in my mind that I wish to pendown as novel/ fiction, but presently I am concentrating on the poetry and have decided to publish at-least 5 more poetry books before trying my hand in some other genres. 7. What genres would you like to write on and why?

I will keep on composing more and more poetry on issues related to women, love, life. etc, and it has become my passion now. My main focus is only on poetry and l love to share my feelings through my poetry. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


8. One word that defines me?

Empathic 9. We would like to know about any future projects you are currently working on.

Same as answer number 6. I am working on two books now, and both are accepted for publication by good publications agencies, and may be out for sale within few weeks. 10. Some words for your readers.

Don’t be scare to share your feelings, just speak up against major problems and illegality. Your feelings may work as guide and strength for others. Just do your work with much dedication and enthusiasm and your hard work will surely be pay off. "Farah Siddiqui (2014)" Thank you so much for your time

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Peeping Out Story Behind the Photography: This picture was taken in the middle of the afternoon when it had rained only for 10 minutes and then the sun came out. It was a clear sky with this single burst of cloud floating in the sky with the rainbow just peeping out from it. I thought of capturing the play of nature at the opportune moment. About Susmita Shroff: Susmita Shroff is MBA (Finance). She is a homemaker and freelance mentor. She writes for pleasure and is a voracious reader and is passionate about writing. She is currently pursuing a creative writing course. She can be reached at susmita.d.dash@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Breathtaking.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Somewhere Close and Near

Words in whispers Caress my senses Feeling you around My heart, it wrenches The dreams at night Bring along, your lively chatters I wish to be with you, Nothing else matters I still listen to your songs With keen delight Not for the tune But to escape the plight Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


In every ageing face I see your glimpse Missing you dearly, My heart gives out a wince Wishing that you had stayed A little more This greedy self, It pines for your stories and lore Words in whispers Caress my senses Feeling you around My heart, it wrenches About Srishti Singh: Currently pursuing graduation in Psychology, Srishti aspires to be a writer. Words, she feels have the power both to sooth the heart and rip it apart. Other than investing her time in dreaming, she blogs at Life...as it is. http://srishkuk.blogspot.in/2014/01/ascream.html She can be reached at itsrishti@gmail.com Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Editor's Comment: Touchingly beautiful.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


An Incomplete Love Story I still remember the day I first saw her. It was a beautiful rainy day and the weather was so romantic. The rain had just subsided into a quite drizzle and I was playing with the dew drops that had accumulated over night. The sun was rising slowly over the horizon and the dew drops turned a brilliant golden colour as the sun rays penetrated through them. I had thought the morning couldn’t get any more beautiful but I was proved wrong. It was on such a lovely morning I saw her. She was fragile and small; yet her beauty was breath taking! I was charmed just by looking at her. That day I had sworn I would take care of her and protect her from everyone. She was everything I was not – beautiful, charming. Her beauty attracted everyone. There wasn’t a single person who hated her. They were just waiting for her to grow up, so that they could covet her. But I had sworn I would make sure that no one caused her any harm. I stood by her day and night as her guardian angel whom she trusted blindly. I guess she understood my love for her. We spent every minute Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


together; enjoying the rain or the sun light or sometimes the cool breeze that tingled our senses. And soon came the day when she grew up into a beautiful maiden. If she was beautiful before, now she looked enchanting. Everyone would stop by to appreciate her charm and some even tried to take her away with them. But I taught them all a lesson. After all I was her knight. Our love story was flourishing beautifully until he came by. I recognised him in an instant. He was my enemy; he had taken away the ones I loved even before and now he had come yet again. I wouldn’t let him take her this time! I fought and I fought with all my might. I cut through his fingers and saw little beads of blood ooze out. He cursed me and took out his weapon; the one he used to kill my kind. In a swift motion of his weapon, we were separated from each other and I lay on the ground taking my last breath. I saw his victorious smile as he took her with him, leaving me behind to Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


die. I had known all along that this would happen someday. After all, everyone wanted her, the beautiful Rose. Who wanted me, the Thorn, which would prick their fingers! I could just hope that the Rose will remain safe, for I could no longer protect her now! 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 http://swathishenoy.blogspot.com/ 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: Beautyl and simplicity woven together.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


My Teachers, My God

I remember of the day when my mother told me There is a God, who has solutions to all my odds He is the former of this world Nothing can go wrong or down to curled He is always there to preach me with blessings His spiritual guidance of painstaking A divine light of knowledge and wisdom he threw She told, he will bless me with as I grew Out of curiosity I asked, where does the God stagger? Where does he live? Any evidences? How to believe? When she was getting me ready I, excited and steady It was to be my first day in school Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


An unknown place and I mere a fool Ma told me it's the place where God dwell Finally it was the time to get my all answers well I found different God in the temple of knowledge They punished me for my impish obstinate acts Corrected when I did mistakes Inspired me when I was all deceived He stood beside me and perceived A lonely stage of despair Thousands of mocking laughter in air He told me to be strong Never to choose the path that seems easy but belongs to wrong He wrapped my inner soul with divinity Blessed my heart with generosity And mind with sincerity The day came when my own child asked Out of curiosity where does the God stagger? Where does he live? Any evidences? How to believe? I smiled and cherished that moment To remember when I asked the same to my mother Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


My child, he is there to guide you And bless you ample of wisdom and vow He is your teacher, your God Respect the knowledge he give you It would help you in life, best among all the swords About Simran Kaur: Simran Kaur, a 17 years old teenage from Gorakhpur,Uttar Pradesh, believes that simplicity in thoughts, words and behavior is what makes one beautiful in a true sense. She has a great passion for writing poetry and has inherited this talent from her Grandmother. According to her '' Writing is best way of powerful expressions and only lucky ones are blessed with it''. She can be easily read on her blog 'My Friendship' where she frequently pour down her thoughts and feelings especially about 'Nature, Love, Relations and Friendship'. Besides that she loves doing photography,cooking, art,making friends and travelling. Bloglink: http://myfriendshipsimran.blogspot.in/ She can be reached at simrankaur606@gmail.com Editor's Comment: A perfect ode to our teachers! Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The Delivery Man The people who remember the old times call the Earth a living hell: a ruthless, inhospitable world of fire. They can remember the mild warmth of a gentler Sun, the caress of winds that did not dismember flesh in minutes. They can remember green verdant grass bedewed with morning sweat, tall lithe trees, and the solitude of cool nights, undimmed by falling radioactive ash. I have seen these fairy-tale things in pictures, and listened to their stories in wonder and disbelief. But for me, this burning magma-encased Earth is merely my world. I have known no other. Is it possible to miss what you have never had? I cannot feel homesick, because this cabin of two rooms is the only home I have ever known. It is a well-built radioactive shelter, shielded from radiation and insulated from the heat of the Earth’s core. I was told that it would last fifty years at least. It has a tolerably good Ethernet database, and the well-drum in the bathroom supplies me with two buckets of water-substitute every day.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


My mother used to complain that it had no windows. She remembered her old house, with bay windows overlooking a beach, and a little square garden in front. My mother died five years ago, leaving me the sole occupant of this cabin. She had stringy grey hair that never strayed from her bun, and veined knotted hands, with stubbly arthritic fingers. Sometimes she would hold my hand in hers and laugh at the difference, calling my long fingers beautiful, “My hands are an old woman’s hands,” she would say, “I wonder when I became old.” The day she died, her hair had come out of her bun and there had been blood on her cheek where she had cut it. I had found her slumped in the bathroom, hair and clothes askew, dappled with blood from the shallow cut. She must have scraped her cheek on the well-drum. Apparently she had died of a heart attack. I was told that she did not feel any pain. I wonder if it is possible to die painlessly. Even a slight scrape on the finger can well up with blood Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


and sting in pain. It seems to me that death should be accompanied by the bodily unwillingness to die, by the race-consciousness agony of generations. I have often tried to paint her, to somehow capture the image of her soul in something closed and immutable. It is no good; I have not mastered the art of capturing the essence of a defined personality. My specialty is abstract art, and surrealistic imagery. It seems that I have no talent for painting reality. My time is consumed by the dribbling of paint and the slippery slickness of oil, blocking out the opaque whiteness of the blank canvasses. There is something about how blank and empty the canvasses look, which makes me think of eye whites turned upwards in sightless groping. I paint the images of my mind upon their grasping blindness, filling their visions until I am drained. I suppose that I am talented, in my own fashion, for people often ask for my paintings to be delivered to their cabins. Of course I receive no payment for my work. What would be the point? But I like to think of my paintings hanging in someone’s room, and becoming part of a life I can never share myself. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Every week, I get deliveries of food capsules and painting equipment, and orders of paintings. The Delivery Man comes with my weekly rations every Monday afternoon, braving the radiation and searing heat of the partially shielded tunnels. They are too dangerous for civilians to travel. I sometimes think about why I am alive. Every day is exactly the same. I could die today and no one would even know until the Delivery Man comes with my deliveries. My body would be removed then, and the cabin would be allotted to someone else. Or perhaps it would stay empty. Our numbers are dwindling. Our race is doomed to die. It is difficult to have children, and the populations have become too inbred. There is talk of the Moon Base, and of being rescued some year, but it is my personal belief that the Moon Base has been abandoned. We have not received any communications from them in the last ten years. I see no future for myself or even for the human race as a whole. We kill time and ourselves by inches, hiding in underground tunnels and living on scant resources gleaned from past explorations. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


And yet, every week the Delivery Man risks his life to keep me alive. My life must mean something then. Someone, somewhere, in the administrative department, believes that I have the right to live. My life is defined now by the paintings I give away and the visits of the Delivery Man. He cannot be more than thirty, as navigating the rickety tunnels requires great agility and strength. I know that he is a man and not a woman, because once he asked for some water-substitute and shifted part of his head gear to drink it. I had seen the slight scratchy stubble of a twilight beard, not yet flecked by grey or white. But I have never seen his face. I do not even know his name. I know that the same person comes every time, because his voice is the same, as he ritually wishes me good afternoon. And then I say thank you, in reply, trying to put all of my gratitude into those two simple words. And sometimes he asks me how I am doing. I wish I could talk to him, really talk to him, or actually tell him how selfless I think he is, to be working every day of the week to bring supplies to useless civilians like me. I wish I could tell him how much those simple greetings, which cost him nothing to give, mean to me. I wish I could tell him Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


that his visits have become the only truth in my life, as I wait for nothing at all. I am twenty one years old, and yet all I have to look forward to in my life are his weekly visits. I wish I could tell him about how lonely I feel, when I suddenly remember my mother and wake up sweating at night. I wish I could tell him how many times I have stopped myself from simply removing the air-lock of my cabin and jumping out into the scorching death around me. I wish I could tell him how much I wish that someone would come and talk to me, hold my hand. I wish I could tell him how afraid I am that I have lost the power of communication in my isolation. I wish I could say something besides “Good afternoon”, and “I’m fine, how are you?” If people’s lives and memories are given shape by the people who remember them, then I am a ghost already. I am merely waiting to die in this tworoomed cabin, marking time in my blind paintings. But today is different. Today is my mother’s death anniversary. And today is a Monday. Today I will talk to the Delivery Man for sure. I have mouthed the words a thousand times. I have thought out every possible scenario. I have taken a bath, and worn my cleanest and most becoming dress. My Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


mother always said that orange suited me the most. I have arranged my hair around my face, and even pinched my cheeks for colour. I am sitting at my table, with the paintings packed in paper and cheap foam. The foam is flaking all around me, and my palms are sweating. I have never felt so nervous. There is a screeching beep. The Delivery Man has come. I open the air-lock carefully, from the control panel. There is a hiss of steam and squeak of creaking machinery as he walks into the vestibule, securing the automated door behind him. I can see him striding through the insulated gravity chamber, towards my living quarters. He looks tall and impregnable, in his clunky heavy suit. My heart is racing, and my palms are slippery with perspiration within my shielded gloves. He removes part of his suit, and slides the hatch down. Only a transparent half-wall separates us now, shielding me from the left-over radiation of the suit. “Good afternoon ma’am. How are you doing today?” he says, politely, like always. His voice is quiet. I am Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


afraid that he can hear my heart trying to leap out of my skin. “I’m fine, thank you. Would you like something to drink?” I say, a little too breathlessly. “No thank you. I should be going now.” I swallow my words in silence. I have forgotten all the things that I wanted to say. I hand him the paintings mutely, and I take the supplies from him. His metal-sheathed hands are much bigger than mine; they could have enveloped mine so easily. He turns to leave. I am desperate now; my throat is burning. “I just wanted to thank you…” I say, hating myself for the banality of the words. But there is no way I can stop now. He half-turns, looking at me with his blank charred head-mask. “It’s just…you risk your life to bring me my supplies…I know it’s your job...But still…” I am grasping for words now, “It makes me feel like my life means something.” He has turned around to face me now. “Delivering

supplies to all of you is my purpose. It’s the reason I’m alive.” he says. There is a brief, awkward silence, clotting like congealing blood. I had not expected him to say that. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


“What is your name?” he asks finally. And then I tell him the name my mother gave me: a name that had died from disuse. “That is an unusual name,” he says, “My work code is Apollo-324. People who know me call me Paul.” He turns once more to leave. “See you next week.” “Goodbye Paul.” About Amrita Goswami: Amrita Goswami is a freelance poet, writer and digital artist. She is a student of Chemical Engineering who enjoys skating, blogging and reading in her spare time. She is also the cover designer of her college magazine. You can reach her at amrita16thaug646@gmail.com Editor's Comment: Moving is the word!

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Equation

My mind is clear As a cloudless day, And like the mountain Each day I age. Time becomes a calculation Part of the overall equation! What have I done with this life? Live with my eyes and with my heart. Building the walls that make good neighbors And keep me prisoner, make me feel safe. Maybe one day, I’ll step into the world, innocent As a newborn babe, my earthly sins forgiven, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Somehow washed away, but a man can only assign so many Xs There are a limited number of Y's too and the answer wavers Like Einstein’s hair because I wrinkle with age Not quite like a raisin similar to the prune. About R.D. McManes: R.D. McManes is the author of seven poetry books. Mr. McManes has had over 300 poems featured in 100 world-wide publications. He has been a featured speaker, poet, and conducted poetry workshops for the Kansas Author’s Club. Mr. McManes has been writing poetry for 47 years. He currently resides near Scranton, Kansas. He can be reached at mcmanes@yahoo.com Editor's Comment: The harsh reality woven in words.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Smiling Tulip Farms for Sale December 7, 1941 There was lot of commotion in the neighbourhood. Known faces were peering from their window panes. People were scuttling across the road. The news was that U.S. forces had barricaded the area; and Takashi Mori's house was their target. And in no time, they barged into Mori's house. From the door left ajar I could witness the army handcuffing Mori. Probably, they were taking him away to some undisclosed camp location. A camp recently set up by the U.S. government in San Francisco. Felber, his friend, hadn't failed to figure out the whole thing. It was expected; the arrest, the sideeffect of being a Japanese. *** “Felber” Mori said, and then choked up. An eerie silence had engulfed the farm space. Only Mori’s hiccupping cry could be heard now.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


No, he wasn’t expecting any help from his Swiss friend. Only a nut case could think of confronting the self-aggrandizing U.S. army. Felber could only gather so much courage to mutter,” Friend this would also pass.” Teary-eyed Mori looked at him. Felber could see that the arrest had sucked the marrow out of him. Felber kept murmuring, mostly to himself “Oh! God help him, Oh! God help him, Oh! God help him," over and over again until the chant unhinged from its meaning. He was still saying it when suddenly Mori spoke: “Felber, my friend, goodbye forever. If possible, sell off my flower farms.” “I’ll do whatever I can. And don't you worry; you'll make it back, safe and sound.” Felber assured Mori amidst flashing guns and thumping black boots. (Thank heaven the army however, did not bullshit him, and spared him from any kind of serious torture.) *** Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


The following day Felber logged on to a site called, “Your Estate, Your Price” to post an ad there. “Orphaned Flower Farms Looking for Owners.” offered Felber’s wife, Vienne. “Beautiful Tulip Farms in San Fransisco for sale.” said Felber. Finally both got together and crafted this: SMILING SCARLET FLOWER FRANSISCO FOR SALE

FARMS

IN

SAN

Ten acres of beautifully landscaped SMILING FlOWER FARMS, exclusively growing scarlet tulips, for sale- Our farms specialize in both regular and rare tulips. You’ll find lovely purple, yellow, red, pink, orange and green tulips. The flowers have been planted and nurtured with loads of love and care. They’ve brightened our lives and have taught us to SMILE always irrespective of the setbacks in our life. Welcome this Smiling Flower Farms into your life and welcome joy into your life, forever. When Felber checked his email an hour later, he found out that there was a maze of suitors to choose from. He got excited and started responding to their mails. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


But the price quoted by the potential buyers was way too low, given that the farmland was owned by the Japanese. Disheartened, Felber made up his mind; he’d take care of his friend’s farm land too. *** Their friendship had got many heads turning. Takahashi Mori from Japan and Christopher Felber from Switzerland were next door neighbors who lived with their families in San Fransisco, U.S. Both Mori and Felber were into the same business: flower farming. Anyone seeing them interact would feel that they their friendship was eons old. Their flower farming business was going great guns. Tulips were their favorites. Their farms, in fact, were a dizzy kaleidoscope of color as tulips burst into life: Vivid purple, yellow, red, pink, orange and green tulips flooded their farm space. They planted, tended, harvested, priced, and even sold beautifully cut tulips together, to flower shops. Both friends were the Alpha and Omega of each other’s lives. Their dissimilarities in language and culture and physical appearance never came into the middle of their friendship. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


But then suddenly the arrest happened. *** The news was that the Imperial Japanese Navy had bombed United States naval base at Pearl Harbor. The attack had sacred the living daylights of the U.S government. The stats read something like this: 188 U.S. aircraft destroyed; 2,403 Americans killed and 1,178 others wounded. The attack put America in disarray. Within no time, it got its act together. It entered into World War II. All the Japanese citizens in America came under direct threat. All of them were herded into camps. Mori was one among them. Year 1944 Mori spent around 3 years in the camps. When the World War II came to an end, he and his family were released. While journeying back home, he kept thinking about his farms and his former friend. Whether he was alive? Whether he was taking care of his farms? Or whether he had forgotten him and kept the farms for himself, thinking that he would never make it alive? Only one-fourth of his mind agreed with him that Felber won't cheat on him, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


while three-fourth of his mind kept fighting against the one-fourth. As he stepped down from the train, to his utter delight and dismay, he found Felber and his family standing to greet him with a bouquet of tulips. Mori was overwhelmed with emotions. He knew those flowers. They were his. “Welcome home Mori” said Felber, “but your farms are in RUINS.” “I bet.” Mori said and gave a flowery laugh. But when Felber presented him the cheque earned out of selling flowers from his farmland, Mori simply couldn’t resist his tears. He let his tears fall through. “Why are you crying, dear friend.” “Simply.” he said He then hugged Felber and said, “Your friendship is

priceless. Like an insubstantial wisp of smoke you could have easily chosen to forget our friendship and could have kept my farms for yourself but then you didn’t do that.” ”Stop this haranguing.” said Felber, “I just did what my conscience prompted, nothing more.” 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 Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


eclectic mix of fiction and non-fiction stuff. After two kids and two blogs, 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: Friendship as they say is a relationship chosen by us, but one that is made through hearts- A story that testifies these lines.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


I Apologize

I saw you searching my eyes, for me, within me For my heart, you thought I had. All I could do, but turn away. The heat of your gaze I couldn’t stand, Blame the conscience. Call it my guilt, if you want. I saw you polishing my shoes The perfect black you paint. And I throw at you a coin, as the books you crave for, Burden my satchel. I was there when you were fed on tears Waiting for the pizza I ordered. Salt was to blame. I was there when your tent was run over Too comfy inside the AC car. I saw you at the crossroad, Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Longing for a helping hand Blame the sun, I couldn’t walk up to you. I saw you there, lying in the dirt. Flies feasting on your wound that bled I could only stare. My new sneakers, snow white. I heard him thrashing you and could’ve rung the bell for you The shackles but kept me moving past you. I was there when they stripped you A cry away, with ears mine shut tight. When fire of hatred burned down the sanctum of love I was there. Shut safe in a coffin. A pitcher away from water that could kill the flames…. I saw them blow off your dreams but couldn’t move A castle of mine I had to cling to. I apologize for being there but not there. For hearing your pleas but not listening. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


For having thought of you a moment And tossing you into nothingness the next. For having seen your tears and heard you wail, Too stagnant to wake up for you. I was there when darkness swallowed you And evil overpowered you I heard you mourn your miseries I saw you fighting endless darkness. I could’ve chose to speak up But silence had me in its grasp. I could’ve stepped out of the glass walls But chains had me stead fast. World, but I awed at it all. I talked of it to curtained ears, The only revolution I could think of. Born with senses five yet grown up not to feel any, Sorry world, all that I was just another human. About Parvathy Satheesh: Parvathy, a girl of 18, hails from Thiruvananthapuram in Kerala. With a deep passion Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


for writing, she gives words to her innate thoughts at her personal blog http://silentdrizzleparvathy.blogspot.in. She has her world pivoting around her brother, pen and music and can be reached at parvathy296@gmail.com Editor's Comment: The harsh realities of life have been portrayed so well in these words.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Silent Whispers Story Behind the Photograph: Since the time I have had a camera I always saw the world in a new light. When I visited this place I was speechless for a long time as I basked in its beauty. Slowly the wind began to blow, rustling my hair, giving me goosebumps as the place began to narrate it’s tale to me. All was heard, all understood and yet nothing was said. 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.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Lord Ganesh Story Behind the Photograph वक्रतुंड महाकाय सूयक य ोटी समप्रभ

निर्वयघ्िुं करुमेदेव सवयकायेष सवयदा Photograph of the Lord Ganesh Idol at our home. Every year we eagerly await HIS arrival. This festival of ten days infuses strength, hope and joy in us. If looked at closely I see the smile on the face and I feel the divine presence inside my heart and know that HE is always there to look after us. More about the Ganapati Festival: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesh_Chaturthi 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 gets 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 Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


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 writes at www.artihonrao.net and can be reached at contact@artihonrao.net

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Healing your Broken Heart To trust someone after being betrayed once becomes difficult. Trusting the same person again seems almost impossible and in addition to that we often find ourselves unable to trust anyone easily. We are humans and we tend to protect ourselves from being hurt again, we tend to envelope ourselves into a vacuum we create to keep people out of the full trust zone and hide our vulnerable self from the world. In doing so we end up pushing away the people who really care for us and those who are actually worth being trusted. A broken heart takes time to heal. And, unless and until it is completely healed; it would be difficult to move on. There are different kinds of people in this world 1. People who do not trust anyone. 2. People who do not trust easily and even when they do trust someone they keep check of the trust level. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


3. People who do not trust easily but when they do they trust completely. 4. People who trust very easily and trust completely. The last group of people are more susceptible to being betrayed, that does not mean that the other three groups remain untouched by betrayal. Where there is trust, there always is a risk of betrayal. And once it happens, there is ought to be pain and lingering doubt. It stays there somewhere at the back of your mind, how much ever hard you try to get rid of the thought. How do we save ourselves from betrayal? How do we know whom to trust? Would we find the answers in some book? No self-help book or article is really going to answer these questions for you. Search for the answers within. The second group of people who keep check of the trust level actually activate their instincts, which guide them in trusting the right kind of people and to the right extent. It is only when doubt arises, the instinct fails and they are exposed to being betrayed.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


There always is a voice at the back of your mind telling you that trusting a particular person in particular circumstances and with a particular matter is not a good thing to do, it involves risk and it is important for you to be alert. Always heed to that voice. Once betrayed does not mean that you should not trust again. We must not only continue putting our trust in other people, we must also learn to trust again the person who has betrayed you once. That is, if that person is an essential part of your life. Either on a personal front or a professional front. You have to trust yourself to be capable enough to trust that person. You must trust your instincts to guide you appropriately. We are often betrayed by those whom we trust and we trust those who mean a lot in our life. Letting them go is not always the option and is not always easy. When letting go is the choice you can make, you are better off without the negative influence in your life. However, when the concerned person is someone from your close circle, letting go is not really a option. We must learn to survive against the negative influence. Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


Healing your broken heart does not necessarily mean getting rid of the lesson learned from the betrayal of the past. It simply means moving on, in a way that helps to get rid of the negativity attached to the betrayal. The more we think about it, the more we talk about it, the more pain we feel. To start the healing process, it is essential to detach yourself from the pain. First and foremost step is to stop thinking about it. It is equally important to stop talking about it. Stop telling others how you have been betrayed by someone and how much hurt it has caused you. Each time you re-live the betrayal, you are allowing the negativity to gain control of your thoughts. And by doing so you are blocking the positivity that would sharpen your instinct and guide you in future. Second step of the healing process is to forgive the person who has betrayed you. Whether the person is deserving or not deserving is another matter Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


altogether. Forgive the person for yourself, for your peace of mind. You cannot move on without forgiving the person who is the cause of the pain. You need not forget the lesson the person has taught you. Forgiving the person will help you get rid of a lot of negativity that feels likes a heavy weight on your chest. It will clear your mind and make you alert, sharpening your instinct. The third step of healing process is to open your heart to all the positivity life has to offer. Imbibe as much positivity as you can. Look around you, there are people in your life who are worth being trusted. People who really care about you. People who want you to be happy. People who have positive influence in your life. Spend time with them, share with them and learn from them. Bathe in their love and positivity. The final step of healing process is to start trusting again. Open your mind to new opportunities... to Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


future. Free yourself from the bondage of doubt and believe in your strength - your instinct. May your heart be healed.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


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.

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


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, nonfiction, 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. WE is celebrating its half birthday in September by publishing already featured writers in the September issue. If you are one of the published Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue


authors of Writer’s Ezine do send in your entries to admin@writersezine.com on or before 20th August. The submissions for October issue will continue to be accepted as usual. The last date for submission for the entries is 20th September.

Designed by Arti Honrao

Writer’s Ezine | Volume VI September 2014 Issue

Profile for Writer's Ezine

Writer's Ezine - Volume VI September 2014 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 wh...

Writer's Ezine - Volume VI September 2014 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 wh...

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