The Purity of Vivian Maier
Vivian D. Maier (1926–2009) was an American photographer whose work was discovered and recognized only after her death. During her lifetime she took more than 150,000 photographs. She is not known ever to have shown them to anyone.
No hail to fame, not even a shy
nod to sharing, it would seem.
Just her own small delight;
the tough love of light.
A photograph?
Not a serious thing
when she was young and taking,
as they say, pictures:
mere proof of fact,
magnet for fashion magazines,
hook on the local newspaper stand,
damning piece of evidence,
tool for advertising,
and glamour’s sinuous liar;
captive in a web of shadows,
bare, brutal, impossible
almost to deny.
The only one invisible,
the photographer,
capturing reality
in a little black box.
Maybe that was why
Vivian Maier, governess,
lover of children,
caregiver, one of the
perpetually invisible,
slightly awkward
with her black magic box,
took all those photographs—
the crowds, the streets, the mansions,
the disillusioned sidewalks,
the phantoms of the alleys,
the secrets blazoned to every sun,
the hands, the faces, the entire world—
in secrecy and stealth even
the shadow of herself;
the ephemeral caught
in amber—
to capture, to master,
in pure little rectangles of joy
with her invisible eye.
_____
Christopher Bernard’s book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.
Creation does not begin with a word, but with stillness a pause, before the rush, before the world insists on speaking. It begins with the quiet observation of a world moving without permission a leaf, stubborn in its fall, a cloud folding into another, a glance exchanged across crowded streets, never to be remembered.
Stories live in what is not said. The visible is but a fragment what matters lies hidden, beneath the surface. Like an iceberg, its strength resides in the unseen, where shadows move in silence and thoughts drift like forgotten tides.
To write is to observe, not merely to see, but to feel the weight of a shadow on a hot afternoon, the ache of silence between words, the whisper of wind through ordinary things, the sigh of trees that have witnessed lifetimes.
Language is not decoration. It is the pulse of the soul. Every phrase must earn its place, must be sharpened against the stone of truth, must tremble with meaning each syllable a heartbeat, each line a breath caught in the throat.
An ending should not close it should linger, softly, like a thought that refuses to fade, a door left ajar, letting the mind wander, finding its own way out.
There is no beauty without attention no truth without the courage to face it. No art without the risk of vulnerability, the surrender to what we do not know.
What we create is not for applause, but for connection so that someone, somewhere, feels less alone, when they find their own heart hidden in the spaces between lines.
The work is not to impress it is to remember, to reveal, to reach.
And if nothing golden is found, then let the ink bleed honestly. Let the silence speak. Let the page carry the weight of what we dared to feel.
Because in the end, what matters most is not how beautifully we wrote, but how deeply we made someone stop breathe and remember that they are not alone in this vast, unspoken world.
— Author Haroon Rashid
ABOUT HAROON RASHID
Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.
KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES • Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico) • SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights • National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation • Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece • Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy
AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS • We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou • Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections • Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.
GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS • Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025) • World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025) • Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany • 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024) • 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023) • Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023) • United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024 • REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India • Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022) • Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace • Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021) • Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages • Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence • Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico • Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago
GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION • Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show • Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine • Speaker at: • International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece • 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico • Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru • UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums • Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues • Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers
CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA • Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions • Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness • Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity
PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION
Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for: • Healing, empathy, and consciousness • Advocacy for: • Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience • Climate Action & Sustainability • Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony • Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation
He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.
GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE
Described as: “A movement of thoughts.” “A soul that breathes through verses.”
Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his: • Authenticity • Emotional depth • Literary brilliance Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.
TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY • Global Literary Icon • Award-Winning Author & Poet • International Peace Advocate • Global Educator of the Heart • Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader • SDG Voice for Education & Environment • Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose
QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID
“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”
CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID Follow and engage across all platforms: @AuthorHaroonRashid (Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Threads, and more)
It means a straight path—unbending and direct. Apparently, crows love to fly in straight lines. They aren’t troubled by bends or barriers, not like us earth-bound beings facing obstacles at every turn. And unlike airplanes, crows aren’t bound by strict navigation systems.
In practice, this idiom often shows up when talking about routes—be it literal or metaphorical. But walking or living as the crow flies, my friend, is not an easy job at all. Sure, you know a straight line will get you to your destination faster, but can you really glide across homes, crowds, fences, and ponds just because you want to follow a straight line? Can you thumb your nose at every twist and turn in life and embrace the simplicity of the straight path?
It’s a familiar question. And its answer isn’t unknown. A simple life is delightful—but becoming simple is a terribly hard thing. And yet, sometimes, miracles happen. Like a sudden spring that paints black tar roads in fiery hues of Palash flowers. Then, and only then, the path becomes like that of the crow—straight and unhindered.
What’s that? Things are getting too tangled? Alright then, no more delay—let’s begin the story.
***************
That day, Prabir was getting ready for office, as usual. He was caught in a whirlpool of tasks and thoughts. In the middle of this rush, his phone rang. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Unknown number.
He picked it up, irritation evident in his voice:
“Hello? Who’s speaking?”
No response.
“Ugh!” He was about to hang up—when a low, grating, mechanical sound came through.
Then, a hoarse whisper:
“Prabir! Son, don’t go out today! Today is… different. Stay home.”
Who on earth calls to say nonsense like that during busy office hours? He was just about to snap back when the line went dead.
No time to waste. There was an urgent group meeting at work—being late could be disastrous.
He grabbed his car keys and left. But something unsettling had lodged in his mind.
Who had called? What were they trying to say?
The voice… it sounded familiar. But he couldn’t quite place it. His mind grew absent. A faint melody seemed to rise near his ears—first just a murmur, then clearer:
“Life’s no longer straight and narrow / Laughter today is just borrowed / I survived—but barely so…”
It was true. Life was tangled in needless complexity. Work, more work, and more work. Always running. No time to pause, to notice the magic in the ordinary.
Chasing deadlines and targets had left him drained.
Stuck in traffic, he reflected on all this—until suddenly, his senses snapped back.
The world around him had changed, as if by magic. No traffic jam ahead. No bustling crowd on the sidewalks. No weekday chaos. And he wasn’t even driving—but the car was speeding ahead on a silent, unknown road, straight as an arrow. Was this possible? Or a nightmare?
He pinched himself.
“Ow!”
Nope, he was wide awake.
Then, like a flash of lightning, he remembered—
That voice earlier? It had been his uncle Hari. Uncle Hari, who had died five years ago from a terminal illness!
A chill ran down his spine. Was danger approaching? He tried desperately to control the car—but it was no use. He had no control. No one around. Even if there were, who could stop this possessed vehicle? Still, by instinct, he screamed:
“Help! Help me! Please, for God’s sake—help!”
Just then, he noticed a young woman sitting beside him.
Masked.
Her eyes caught his attention—intense, magnetic. Even amid this chaos, they captivated him. Her gaze held sorrow. A deep, distant sadness. She reached out to the steering wheel. With a mere touch, almost magically, the car slowed a little. Still racing forward, but calmer now.
Prabir, voice shaking, asked:
“Y-you… how did you get here?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, sharp-toned:
“What do you mean how? You were the one yelling your lungs out—Help me! Help me!
And now that I’ve come, instead of saying thank you, you’re interrogating me?”
She pulled down her mask. Her face clouded with a storm of hurt.
Prabir cleared his throat awkwardly:
“Sorry, sorry! You’re right. I forgot myself completely. The way this morning’s been going—my head’s about to explode. Anyway, thank you. Thank you so much.”
She stayed quiet, lips pursed. Then said in a choked voice:
“Forget it. You’re only thanking me because I pointed it out. Otherwise you wouldn’t have.”
Then came the downpour. Rain matched her heavy sighs as she went on:
“I always try to help people. Always. But people… they misunderstand me. They say awful things behind my back. Smile to my face, then betray me.I don’t need anyone. I have no friends.”
Prabir was in a proper fix now. The haunted road. The possessed car. And now, this mysteriously appearing girl filled with sorrow and magic. But it was true—if she hadn’t slowed the car, he might have had a heart attack by now. Her sadness touched him.
Gently, he said:
“Hey… don’t be sad. We’re friends now.”
He extended his right hand for a handshake. She looked at it suspiciously. Then wiped her eyes and took his hand. A soft smile spread across her lips.
“You seem like a good person. That’s why I came when you called for help. Okay, then—we’re friends from today.”
The car was now cruising gently along the straight road.
Another change:
Earlier, the road was flanked only by thorny shrubs. Now, silk cotton and gulmohar trees lined the path, ablaze with red flowers. Even the black tar seemed to blush with their hue.
Prabir hesitated a bit, then asked:
“Yes. Definitely—we’re friends. But tell me something. What is happening to me? The car is driving itself. You showed up out of nowhere. How did you hear my call for help? And how did you enter this locked car?”
The girl laughed, like a waterfall—clear and musical.
Then said:
“You really don’t know? Well, just like crows fly—Sometimes, humans get to travel that way too. Not everyone. But some. On very special days. Like today—you got the chance. As for how I knew? And how I entered the car? We can do that. Such things aren’t difficult for us.”
Her voice had regained its sweetness—but her words were strange.
Prabir stammered, “N-now w-who’re we?”
She replied, quietly, seriously:
“I’ve never told anyone this. I won’t again. We are the forms of consciousness—the Chaitan-rupis. Those for whom rainbows rise even in deserts. We are they. Keep this secret. You can’t trust everyone like you. Usually I lock my heart in a vault. Too many spoil it. Not everyone’s like you.”
Prabir didn’t fully understand. He just laughed awkwardly and scratched his head.
After that, they passed time chatting. Prabir lost track of how long. Then, suddenly, the car stopped. Grotesque figures—half-human, half-beast—stood blocking their path.
They circled the car, leering and making obscene gestures at Prabir and his mysterious companion.
Yes, Anamika—that’s what Prabir had decided to call her in his mind. Maybe she isn’t ordinary and somewhat uncanny. But she is good.
The grotesque cheers of those hideous humanoid figures had nearly deafened the two of them. Anamika had been quite composed until now. But suddenly, she seemed to shrink inward. Tiny tears streamed down her cheeks. Prabir’s heart ached too, but his jaw tightened with resolve. He held Anamika close with both arms.
A few words escaped his lips.
“Don’t be sad at all, Anamika. Why should you let people who hold no place in your life, good or bad, hurt you? Don’t let them make you sad. Just imagine you’re watching a film. They’re all acting. So don’t let it get to you.”
The girl wiped her eyes and softly said,
“Anamika… what a beautiful name! I really like it. And now I’m no longer sad. Because you’re here—as my friend.”
The car had started moving again, gathering speed. Those grotesque human-like figures had been flung far behind. A few tried to chase after the car—but failed to catch up.
In a tone of mock regret, Prabir said to Anamika,
“Looks like I’ve lost my job!”
Anamika replied,
“You’ll find another. But if you hadn’t come this strange way—like a crow in flight—we’d have never met. What would’ve happened then?”
Prabir gave a soft smile and nodded in agreement. As the crimson glow of the setting sun stained the horizon, his lips gently touched Anamika’s forehead.
The car kept gliding forward in a soothing rhythm—straight and steady. Just like a crow flies!
Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, and translator. He has authored 31 books, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poems are published across more than 150 journals and translated in 18 languages He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. He has received Setu Excellence Award, Pittsburgh, US, in poetry in 2020 and Ukiyoto award for poetry in 2022. He has been conferred First Jayanta Mahapatra National Award on literature in 2024. Recent Credits: One Art Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Shot Glass Journal, MasticadoresUSA, MasticadoresTaiwan, Amythyst Review, Verse-Virtual Journal, Setu Journal, Kitaab Journal and International Times.
My latest book is a lighthearted story about two rival groups of small-town teenagers set in 1968. At a deeper level it is about what makes and breaks community. It can be viewed at
Anyone who has survived the challenges of adolescent society and its cliques will be able to relate to this story about a failed teenage romance and a rivalry between church youth groups from different towns.
Jeff Rasley is a writer, Himalayan expedition leader, lawyer, president of the Basa Village Foundation USA and the Scientech Foundation of Indiana, and is a director of the Indianapolis Peace and Justice Center. Jeff has authored over 90 feature articles in law, travel, spirituality, politics,
