Interview with Sudhakar Gaidhani

by Yang Yujun

This interview with Sudhakar Gaidhani has been conducted by internationally published Chinese poetess Yang Yujun. The Chinese version of this interview has been previously published by China’s WeChat’s Poetic Platform. The world-renowned Chinese poet Yongbo Ma has taken the initiative for this interview.

Q.1). How did Devdoot the angel strike as image of your Epoch? 

Sudhakar–

First of all, I would like to thank you and dear poet Yongbo Ma for arranging this interview. To answer your question, I would like to tell you something different please.

As a child, I used to dream that I was a bird and flying. As soon as the dream broke, I would often fall off the bed. Later, I depicted this bird as Devdoot in the poem “Devdoot the Angel”. There is also an idea that an angel is a messenger of God. God is also a beautiful concept created by humans. Another thing is that there is a belief that God and His angels also free people from suffering. “Devdoot” is a  the main heroine image of the family of images of this epic poem. By the way, this angel is also like a hero in this epic poem. This bird, based on the wisdom of many previous lives, communicates with the people of this era and tries to show them the path to the supreme happiness of life. This giant bird also mentions that it was with them in the era of Buddha and Christ.  He warns them against the so-called spiritual preachers who frighten the naive people by spreading man made religious differences among humans. Because all religions are creations of humans.

Now let me add in short  about of my epic poem  Devdoot. The prologue of this epic poem contains the story of the creation of  Devdoot.

The first Marathi canto of this Devdoot was published in 1981.  The second canto was published in 1999 and the next three together, an epic poem of 555 pages, was published in 2004.  

Some Marathi critics tried to make fun of this bird by calling it surreal. But 6 years after the creation of Devdoot the angel, the American National Museum of Natural History Smithsonian Institution, Washington, discovered that a bird like this sea bird was alive on Earth.  This news came in newspapers all over the world. This is the incident of November 1987. 

News was like this – “A fossil excavated from a rock formation in southeastern United States has been identified as history’s largest flying seabird, an extinct and previously unknown species that has a wing span of more than 5.5 meters”. After reading this news, one of the  readers of my poem Devdoot immediately wrote a letter in the same daily, saying- “I am glad to state here that a visionary Marathi poet from Nagpur-India Mr. Sudhakar Gaidhani has depicted a similar bird in  his poetry book Devdoot published in 1981”. After this my enthusiasm increased. I immediately sent the translated parts of Devdoot and the prologue of the poem along with a clipping of the reader’s published letter to the Smithsonian Institute.

Then I received two positive letters from the Smithsonian Institute’s Department of Paleobiology Museum Specialist.  The first letter is dated 28th March 1988. 

Second letter is dated 10th  June 1988. Some of its lines are like this–

It is a rare occasion when science and poetry can meet with such a magnificent blend of serendipity.  Under the matter of both letters is the signature of Raymond T.Ray II.

Now what I am telling you here that is wonderful and true. After the publication of the entire Devdoot, the 16 incidents depicted in it have actually become true.  This is recorded in a Marathi book published on Devdoot.

 Q.2). What role should a poet play in the contemporary society? I mean, was a poet born with a mission (obligation)? 

Sudhakar–

In contemporary society, the role of a poet should also be linked to the feelings of the society. Because he is an integral part of the society. 

Once a poem is expressed, 

it is no longer the poet’s personal matter. 

Rather, it becomes a part of the collective human mind. 

Because the poet is also 

an integral part of the social brain.

A poet who says he writes and publishes only for his own pleasure is deceiving himself.

Poetry is also an art of communication. And the poet communicates with the society through his poetic expression. With this social consciousness, he can also communicate freely with nature.

ii – Although no poet is born with a goal, later his inner mind keeps suggesting him to take up the flag of a goal. And he can take a definite role as the need of the society, the world.  Because basically a real poet is a prophet, a philosopher. Poets who perform only for stage entertainment are performing artists. 

Que-3) Your poems remind me of EI viejo con las alas enormes by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (The Old Man with Enormous Wings) What do you think of this story? 

Sudhakar–

Sorry, I have never read this story. My reading of English literature is limited. The relationship of the bird in my epic poem The Angel is deeply moving to me. I had listened to the entire epic Mahabharata as a child. In it, the great warrior Bhishma, who fights for the Kauravas and falls wounded on the battlefield, touches Devdoot in the first canto, that’s all. There is nothing much beyond this. Because the giant bird in Devdoot is wounded by a hunter’s arrow and falls on a deserted island. 

Q.4). Numerous literary works can be traced back to the Bible, how about your poems?

 Sudhakar– 

I have already said that the message of compassion conveyed by the great human beings like Buddha and Christ awakens the consciousness of humanity in humans. The martyrdom of Jesus impresses me more than the Holy Bible. The Jaataka stories in Buddhist literature or the miraculous short stories in the Bible are like a crutch to help ordinary devotees understand the truth.

Since these stories are related to faith, they do not take away the faith of the devotees. I think that even a mature scholar should not snatch these faiths of ordinary naive devotees. If they do so, their ignorance will increase and they will become aggressive. Because both Buddha, who denies God, and Jesus, the only son of God, are very necessary for those who try to live a normal life happily. Most of the short stories about Jesus in my Devdoot are inventions of imagination.

Q.5). Is the identity of Character of Devdoot change with the unfolding of the five cantos?

 ii – Do you yourself grow (feel elevated) with your own works in the process of writing?

Sudhakar–

Devdoot gradually reached five cantos quietly. The first canto in 1981, the second in 1999 and the other three cantos together, the entire Devdoot, was released in 2004. It is because of these five cantos that Devdoot angel’s own identity and personality have been realized. 

ii—The poet’s mature poetry creation gives him the joy of inner satisfaction. As the seed of poetry blooms in his state of contemplation, he forgets the sense of his own normality and, as he unites with an extraordinary state, he himself experiences the creation of a poem. Like a pregnant woman and the fetus in her womb. This is the elevated state that the poet gains from the process of creating poetry.

Q. 6)–. How did Ramayana and Mahabharata influence you and your writing?

Sudhakar–

There is no such thing as the influence of these two mythological epics on my poetry creation.  But some of the characters in my epic poem Devdoot and my second epic poem “Shadows of Yoginis’s Dreams” are useful for expressing new content and beauty of thought. That’s all. 

 Q.7)— It seems that your five cantos are written from God’s perspective, that view of a philosopher than simply a narrator of world events? 

Sudhakar–

Your question is about the principle of God related to the human world on earth. In the fifth canto of Devdoot, the solution to this question is in the dialogue between the Awadhoot-pilgrims who has reached heaven.  God himself says that I am also the caring guardian of this world on behalf of the Creator. When these Awadhoots actually come before the Creator of the world, the Creator explains to them, 

O Awadhoot-pilgrims on earth, all the gods and all the religions on earth are the creation of you humans. 

Even God also says that  God is just a beautiful concept.  

Let it be beautiful. Anyway! 

In all these five cantos, Devdoot gently explains this formula to the collective consciousness of human. If materialism tries to snatch the concept of God from humans, the common people will be very hurt. The world has experienced this fact. I have used to refer some how the basic thoughts of Buddha and Jesus in connection with the previous question. Anyway, now world events, even if they are temporary, can have some impact on the world. But a poet or artist does not consider them as a means of creation, but only as an occasion, and is in the contemplation of eternal creation, taking note of them. Everyone has two minds. One is the inner mind and the other is the outer mind. The inner mind is pure, it is not muddy like the outer mind. This inner mind easily entwines the poet’s poetry in the thread of philosophy. That is why an ascetic poet is a philosopher. Poets who only entertain on stage are artists.  

Q.8)— Was there a particular event/incident in your early life that motivated/triggered you to start writing or you just naturally picked up writing? 

Sudhakar–

To speak in this context, this inheritance from my mother must have flowed into my genes to some extent. This arrangement exists in the genetic system. Our genomes travel through human sperm for thousands of years with the memories of past lives. During this journey, the memories of some are destroyed, while those who do not, continue to travel through the capsule of genes, taking with them new memories. It is said in Jaataka stories that Lord Buddha had the memories of five hundred such births. We bury a grain seed in the soil and see later the same seed sprouts on its grave. The formula of birth, death and rebirth is also applicable to animals, birds and plants. My insufficient practice from my past life must also be attached to this birth.

Q.9) Do you normally start writing with a plot as with a novel or you just write on pouring out what pops out from your mind? 

Sudhakar–

No. Not at all like a novel. While writing Devdoot the Angel, as I mentioned earlier, I took as a basis a small story hint in my mind. Later, as the journey of contemplation began, some small mythological stories got into the poem as needed. Something similar happened in the case of my other epic poem Shadows of Yoginis’ Dreams. You yourself are a deeply contemplative poet. Therefore, I do not think it is appropriate to say anything more. Here I am giving a recent poem of mine as an example.

WHEN THE POET IS GUILTY

In the abyss of the poet’s inner self, 

the seeds of memory flutter 

and fly like angelic butterflies. 

When they settle down peacefully, 

the embryo of poetry gradually 

takes shape from their divine eggs. 

The poet has to wait for the natural birth 

of this new creation.

But when, due to the poet’s excessive enthusiasm, 

the poem is born by cesarean section 

before it is mature –

The poem constantly blames the poet 

for its unnatural birth.

I also agree that poetry does not come out of the inner contemplation like an object coming out of a machine. It has to be shaped in a state of contemplation. For example – even if it is a diamond, it becomes brighter and more valuable because of its shapes. Every poet must be the first reader and critic of his own poetry. It takes penance to master all the arts.

Q. 10) Is writing part of your day- to-day life or something special or a project that you focus on?  

Sudhakar–

I often spend late nights thinking about what new things I can think of and in the morning it takes on the body and life of poetry. Every poem has its own personality and character. A noble poem also stand nude before her ingenious devoted reader.The needle weaves the clothes to cover the naked but it itself remains nude still no one objects it for its nudity. The poetry is also similarly.

Lately I have been more lost in poetic contemplation. Sometimes in this contemplation, the thread of new creation is found, of course this is very useful for a long-term poem. These days I am meditating more on Buddha. Mahayogi Buddha, that is, Epic Yogi Buddha.

Q. 11). Do you have much interaction with your readers? 

Sudhakar – 

Literature is a communicative art. There must be communication between the writer and the reader. But this is not mandatory. Still, one thing is very important. Speaking of poetry, the poet’s poem should communicate with the readers. Poem can be obscure but if it is self-obscure? Then it can be counted as mad poetry. And the self-centered poet wanders in the mist of self-sorrow searching for own tears; and beg before himself for it. 

The love of the readers is a very important issue for a poet. This is the respect that the poet receives from the readers for their creation. Therefore, every poet should treat his readers with great respect. One issue is that my low budget books were released easily, but I had to wait a long time for a six hundred page book. Today, for the new edition of my “Mahavakya” i.e. the complete Devdoot the angel, my friends, Marathi poetess and writer Mrs. Dr. Manjusha Sawarkar and Mr. Sunil Sawarkar, who love my poetry, came forward. They started a publishing house in Nagpur metro city under the name ‘Kusumaee Publication International’ and made my Devdoot epic available to English and Marathi readers around the world. Because other publishers did not dare to spend 5 lakhs (0.5 million) rupees. A poem can remain in the news due to positive or negative reviews, but it survives only because of the place it has found in the hearts of the readers.

Q.12). When did you start to take writing seriously ?  

Sudhakar–

I started writing since my school days. But I really started writing poetry seriously from 1968. My first collection was published in 1973, which I later had to study in the M.A. Marathi course from Nagpur University.

Q.13) What would you call your style? 

Sudhakar – 

For me this question is not easy to answer. In the Marathi poetry world, free verse is considered a type of style today. But in my opinion, instead of free verse, it is a type of verse free style. In my opinion, poetry is a beautiful outburst resulting out of deliberation of innermost thoughts. It becomes the nucleus of the poetry. It balances the surface, middle and bottom of the poem. I consider such an invention as an easy but free, with depth and beautiful style. In short.that  style is philosophical and mystical

Q.14). Do you think the identity of a poet affects your relationship with other people, especially your family?

Sudhakar—

No, I don’t think so. But in this poetic penance, my family is a little neglected. But Mrs. Gaidhani takes care of me. A few years ago, a leading daily newspaper used to have a column of my poetry. The honorarium I received for that gave me some support. In 1991, I lost my postal job to contest the parliament elections. I was defeated in the elections. In the later days, I had the support of my wife. At that time, the writing of the next part of the epic Devdoot was delayed. My readers love me along with my poetry. In 2004, when I had two major heart attacks, these friends helped me a lot. These friends collected the subscriptions and published the Marathi version of Devdoot.  My birthplace Khapa is adjacent to the metropolis Nagpur. There, with the cooperation of the people of the village and the municipal council, a public garden has been opened in my name on two and a half acres of land. 

Q.15) Do you normally write on schedule or write only when you feel like writing?

Sudhakar—

I have also mentioned this earlier.  However, let me mention about a farmers movement I was also part of. Three decades ago farmers in Vidarbha region (of 11 district in Maharashtra state) were committing suicide due to debt burden and poverty.  And the peasant leaders were doing politics.  These pictures were disturbing me. In that mindset, I started a daily poetry column on behalf of farmers in a major daily in Nagpur.  That column continued for more than two years as it became a reader favorite. During that time I wrote almost 12000 lines. And an unexpected incident greatly affected my later life.

Q.16). Of course once appear in the form words, all works have broad orientations. However, do you have a particular reader in mind when you begin writing (the so- called reader consciousness)?

 Sudhakar—

I do not write with a particular reader in mind. It cannot be kept in mind in the creation of poetry. We don’t say the gold is beautiful, we say the jewelery is beautiful.

Poetry is not an easy – accomplishment. It require to bear the scorching of the meditation -energy, only then the picture language of the letters(syllables) possesses the essence with immortality. Using broken bricks of words,one cannot build castles of poetry.

In case of music,sculpture, painting, dance and acting it takes a considerable time to assimilate the minute delicacies of of arts. After that the flowers of those arts blossom.But about poetry, No! It’s very easy. Something enters the mind, oozes through pen and is mixed with words. That is called poem (for some).

YANG YUJUN

Yang Yujun, born in Beijing, now lives as an English teacher in Guangdong. Her poems and prose first appeared in 1986 and her own collections of Poetry  Garden In Winger and The Hand On The Mouse Is Turning Cold have been published in Chinese and English. She has translated work  of more than 5 million words including  collections by thirty Chinese poets and two collections of short stories by Alice Munro. Also she has translated Sudhakar Gaidhani’s entire Epic Poem “Devdoot The Angel” from English to Chinese. Her poems have been translated into English, Arabian, Spanish, Japanese, etc.

Evening Time

After a hot day,

The sun gradually moves to the west.

The heat of a summer day becomes cold.

The land and everything gets relief.

The big fireball in the sky.

Goes far and becomes small.

The giant white sun

Becomes a yellow ball.

A cold fresh air comes from the east.

To give a new life to the creations.

The leaves of the trees.

Dance with the cold wind.

The coconut trees spread their heads

Above, to feel the cold air.

After a summer day,

The trees want water from us,

To get a new life.

After a summer day,

They want water,

To release their tiredness!

The nature also feels happy,

When it becomes cool!

The entire sky becomes yellowish,

With the evening’s yellow sun.

The sun dives into the sea!

In the evening.

The sun goes to its home,

With a yellowish color.

The birds also go their home,

With the sun!

A summer’s day ends,

With a cold sky!

Summer and Rain

Summer is the time of heat.

It turns everyplace into desert.

A place which is not a desert,

But feels like a desert!

For the heat storm.

Which comes from everywhere.

The water everywhere, feels boiling!

The road works like a heated pan.

The room is an oven!

Where people being cooked!

Sunlight is like fire.

Which wants to burn everything.

It comes through the cloud,

By breaking the clouds.

This heat is intolerable.

General people feel it like hell!

In this hell,

Rain comes from the sky.

The hell gets water,

Heat become cold.

Cold air comes from the east.

Which gives a new life to mankind.

The animals also get a new life.

The birds also can fly into a new sky.

Finally, the desert becomes cold.

By the blessing of God.

Don Bormon is a student in grade ten at Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Ancient

The drunken swiftness of the waves
Calms me 
From a reverie of unpredictable marches
A lost song of victory and losses
As she possessed the divinity of all things
Things high and low lay bare 
The stratum of bounty Hastings
The unnameable spoken mantra, the soma of life
Lying all over the fringe of all things
Knitted in a divine mastery
I knew the ancient waters, the green scenery
As the rivers comingle with the ever chanting song fare. 

Heralding God’s Magnificence

Lord, thank you for grace
For you are with me always as I run my race
Inspite of my nakedness, you shield me with your lace
By faith, I can move mountains
For you’ve made me an ace
Christ is my base
I can’t be shaken by life’s rays
For in God’s presence, I’m more than all mays
And in Christ, I put my enemies at infinite bays
The Lord God is in charge of my case
For His word is greater than what anybody says
His death on the cross is greater than all my big pays
So, I’ve chosen to serve Him, Grace!

(D)

We Are Children!

We make the world go round

but we are taken to the ground

We make ourselves ready to be used

but we are abused!

We make the world a proud place

but we are pushed aside in many ways!

We make up the figure

but we  are not shown the gesture!

We make forgiveness our priority

but we are faced with cruelty!

We make the truth our watch-word

but we are influenced by the Liar’s Rod!

We make the world one

but we are treated as none!

We make freedom play out itself

but we are stuck in the growing years of  self!

We make ourselves happy at school

but we are not just cool!

We make our elders better brethren

but we are children!

I graze soft flesh and skin

of my face, and claw at 

the bones of my soul, give

it back to the earth, some

type of undivine truth,

atheism, repenting

The world offers itself,

to those who look deeply,

it prays simplicity,

(maybe the more whole we

make ourselves, the more whole

we will be)maybe it 

is that simple(maybe

The prairie animals 

do know best and)content-

ment really is that clear, 

I know simplicity,

I am able to feel

(hatred, joy, and disgrace the

people and things earth holds)

Though, through and through(truths, lies)

I am still a lone piece,

(of nothing but beauty,

as i see it)and I

taking pride, respect(earth),

that decision, which made,

shows life of intention

My dissatisfaction 

mocks the earth and regrets 

my existence, however,

beauty, irrevocably,

is seen in the conscious:

A mother can have sex,

(and just as similar)

a daughter can have sex,

and naturally, we

forget to surrender

(To the present moment),

and intervene the wild

family of worldly,

unaccounted for (moments)

When we were teenagers, our parents would take us to Maui every four or five months for an extended holiday. In charter school we could get away with bending the attendance requirements more easily than in public school.

     My father, Edward Crowley, was flush with riches from selling his software company, ‘ExQuizit,’ when he was fifty years old to some billionaire in Silicon Valley; my dad transitioning to high-end consulting for another few years. He was a superstar game maker with amazing brain power which was only overshadowed by my mom who worked as an aerospace Engineering Program Director at NASA; both of them retiring before they hit fifty-five. As soon as they retired, they purchased two luxury beachfront condos in West Maui.

       Sally and I were the luckiest two teenagers in Northern California. As twins, although fraternal we looked much alike except she had wavy strawberry red hair and I had bark brown hair, a dullish color. Sally got the blue eyes from my mother and I inherited eyes like my father, so dark brown that they resembled some exotic animal eyes, with light amber flecks dotted around the centers; eyes noticeable to everyone who met me. So much so that I often wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t start up every conversation with “Are you wearing special contact lenses to get that look or is that your natural eye color?” I felt self-conscious and wanted to deflect the focus on me. My sister was the obvious beauty but I got the attention because of my eyes.

          With the two Hawaii condos, Mom and Dad would stay in the spacious 2,000 sq foot one, while my sister and I would enjoy the cozier one next door. The condos were set so close to the sand that we could step out on our lanai and pitch ourselves over the short stone wall and be on the sand. It was a heavenly setting and allowed Sally and I to sneak out at night without my parents even suspecting. We’d be in Lahaina just down the road eager to catch a blues band or dance party in one of the local clubs, our favorite one just opposite the famous Banyan tree by the harbor. Our frequent trips to Maui as teens were during Lahaina’s heyday, years before the tragic fire which destroyed most of the town in August 2023.

               I sit in my parents’ San Francisco home looking at my sister as she stands on the other side of the granite kitchen island and prepares to bake cookies. Bowls filled with sugar, flour and butter all around her as she kneads the dough with a rolling pin on a grand rectangular block of wood. A half dozen plastic cookie cutters are set near the cutting board. A star, a pineapple, a plumeria flower and a few others make up the assortment. I pick up one of the three largest lemons I’ve ever seen thanks to her garden which sit in a bowl close to me.

                I pick up the biggest one and hold it up in the air. As if making an announcement at a competitive event, I say,
 “This one gets first prize. A State Fair record-breaker. The lemon to top all lemons.”

                Sally looks up at me with her baby blues, the last of her red hair peeking out from under a stylish multicolored black, beautiful custom-designed head scarf. She seems to force a grin. She’s not prissy now with her appearance like she used to be when dating some of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen. She wears tan or black loose-fitting clothes now but she still likes to wear color on her head. Her skin has turned a grayish tone.

                The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a month ago when I took her to see ‘The Lion King’ musical in San Francisco. It was three days after her sixth dose of chemo this time around. She wanted to see ‘The Lion King’ specifically to get ideas for creative and colorful head scarf fabrics. I surprised her with front row seats during breakfast the same day as the performance. The experience paid off as now she has at least ten African-inspired scarves to cover her almost bald head.

 “So, Dizzy,” she says, “what shape of cookie would you prefer today? Star fish? Plumeria flower? Pineapple? Wait, how about this Dolphin?”  She holds up the powder blue cookie mold.

              Sally was the only human on Earth that I permitted to address me as ‘Dizzy.’ To everyone else, I was Desiree, whether I was at work or socializing. But since I grew up as ‘Dizzy’ in our family household, Sally still had the a-ok to use the nickname except as we agreed, never in front of other people. She respected my wishes most of the time. But Sally was a sassy girl and woman, and on occasion would slip up and shout out “Hey Dizzy” in a crowded department store or movie theatre, and then make fun of my soured reaction.

“Oops,” she’d claim.  “I totally forgot that you don’t like that,” then flash me her apologetic protruding top lip.
                I look at my sister as she dances around the kitchen, Blondie playing on Alexa in the background. Sally is twirling holding up the dolphin cookie mold in one hand and the starfish in the other.

“Which one strikes your fancy, Dizzy girl?” Both of us are thirty-six years old now, and both of us, unwed. Sally was engaged two years ago until the uterine cancer entered the scene. And then our parents were killed shortly thereafter in a small plane crash off their treasured island of Maui.  Dad’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk, which he called ‘Kitty,’ went down in the Pacific Ocean close to a beach in Hana which was situated at the far Eastern end of Maui. He flew his plane at least two or three times a week, and on that fateful day had taken Mom with him, something he rarely did since she frequently got migraines when flying.

                  The shocking tragedy occurred on one of their trips to the island where they’d typically spend more than half the year. Dad possessed a pilot’s license which he had for over fifteen years when the fatal accident occurred.

                  We never really found out the exact cause of the crash. Operator error or mechanical failure? The results of the NTSB investigation were fuzzy at best.

                   A part of me thought maybe Dad, who was almost 77 years old and my mom who was a year older, had actually pre-planned their demise. Why would they have done such a thing? I struggled thinking about it.

                   But I was good at puzzles and this one I felt I had figured out. For one thing, they had done everything there was to do in life; toured the world several times over, owned a beautiful spacious house in San Francisco and two luxury condos in Maui, donated and led charity events for endangered animals throughout their retirement and were committed to their marriage until their dying day; including renewing their vows in a formal ceremony.

                   They knew that Sally had uterine cancer which was diagnosed a year before Sally’s planned wedding. It crushed them to see their daughter in constant pain and going through half a dozen surgeries as the cancer spread from her uterus to her stomach. But Sally went into remission for a few months until the cancer came back with a vengeance. As soon as she found out she broke it off with Doug, her fiancée, a successful high-tech venture capitalist, a few weeks before Mom and Dad were killed. She said she had fallen out of love with Doug but I knew the resurgence of the cancer played a key role in her decision.  

                    As her twin, I felt what she felt. I knew she was secretly broken-hearted and didn’t want Doug to be tied to her long-term health issues. He didn’t seem shattered enough to beg her to re-consider. The wedding was cancelled and she gave back the two-carat engagement ring.

                     Mom and Dad were worried sick about Sally; both of them, eyes red with grief every time I saw them, fighting tears in front of their sick daughter. Away from my sister, I sat in their living room one afternoon and tried to comfort them which proved useless.

“You guys doing okay?” I asked. “What can I do to help you through this? It’s tough on you, I know.”

“She’ll be fine,” Mom said. “We just know it.”

“Sally’s strong as an ox,” Dad added. “You don’t need to worry about us.”

They didn’t want to admit the degree of their concern but it was written on their faces. I suspected that they thought that if they talked about it too much, it might be a jinx to Sally getting healthy again. And I knew that Mom in particular, although brilliant, was superstitious.

So, in family gatherings they both smiled, and talked about everything under the sun, avoiding Sally’s cancer. Yet Mom accompanied Sally routinely to her doctor’s appointments and Dad to all of her chemo sessions. He’d hold her hand as he sat for hours in a side chair while she received the chemo. He’d talked to her about trips he’d like Sally to go on with them to places like China, Africa, Rio de Janeiro and maybe even Lithuania. Sally told me about their chemo conversations and how his bad jokes made her smile while the infusion pump did its job.

                And then my mom leaked it to me privately that Dad was in an early stage of Alzheimer’s and had wanted to keep it from us until after Sally’s wedding.  

                 When my parents booked a trip to Maui halfway through Sally’s run of chemotherapy sessions, I felt ambivalent. But Sally encouraged them to go, not to worry about her. I promised to sit in for Mom and Dad, and take time off from work which was part of my company’s benefit plan. So, off they went. Mom hadn’t told my sister about Dad’s Alzheimer’s since she felt Sally had enough to contend with in the coming weeks. Eventually, she’d share that with my sister and requested that I be quiet about it in the meantime.

                  With Dad’s Alzheimer’s and Sally’s cancer, it felt unnatural for them to leave California, and frankly, it wasn’t like them to disappear during such an intense time in our family. And so, the whole picture led me to consider that perhaps my parents were done with living and wanted Sally to inherit their fortune including their spacious home in San Francisco, so she’d be set for hopefully a longer life. I didn’t think either of them could bear to see their daughter die or go through Dad’s descent into his illness. Sally didn’t have solid medical insurance because of her self-employment, thinking she’d be healthy forever.

                   Sally and I never discussed my hypothesis about our parents’ deaths but I knew this possibility had also crossed her mind, especially after I told her about Dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. My parents left almost all their savings and one of their Maui condos to Sally who moved back into our birth house within a couple of weeks after they were killed. I received $150K, and the smaller condo. I understood what had motivated their decision-making process. And, my career as an employment law attorney was flourishing. I was up for full partner in a high-profile firm in Silicon Valley. My townhouse in Palo Alto was more than two-thirds paid in full. At 37, I felt more than financially secure.  

                   When Sally and I locked eyes at the funeral there was that unspoken understanding between us. The crash may have been intentional, pre-planned. She was my twin and we often communicated without spoken words. 

In Sally’s San Francisco kitchen where my mom had prepared all of our holiday meals and baked us lavish birthday cakes over the years, I watch my sister rolling out the dough for the cookies she’ll bake, while her body is filled with cancer.

“Dizzy girl, which cookie shape do you prefer? She asks.  You listening to me, Sis? We’ve got all these choices, so…”
“Wait, I have something for you,” I blurt out. Rushing to my purse sitting on the sofa, I pull out a small flowered paper bag, and hand it to Sally.

“Chocolates for me?”

“No, something better,” I say.

She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and opens the small bag.
“A cookie cutter. Oh!” She places it on the counter-top. “It’s a Banyan tree. Wow.”

“Just like the one in Lahaina,” I say.
“Yeah, now destroyed.”
“No, I heard it’s growing back little by little. It’s still fragile but it even has some long branches now.”

“Well, thank you. I love this.”

“Me too. I saw it in a shop in Santa Cruz last weekend, a shop full of Hawaiian products called The Banyan Tree. I had to get that cookie cutter for you. It’s a sign, Sally.”

“A sign, she says. “I think it’s a Banyan tree Dizzy girl, not a sign.” She looks down at the dough, sprinkles more flour and pushes the rolling pin back and forth.

“It’s a sign of hope for your recovery. Your wellness,” I say.  

             She looks up at me, her moist blue eyes glistening.

“You want this one, then?” She holds up my gifted blue metal cookie cutter.

“Yes Sis,” I say. “Bake me a Banyan tree.”

Linda S. Gunther is the author of six suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach and Death is a Great Disguiser. Most recently, Ms. Gunther’s memoir titled A Bronx Girl was released and is available on Amazon. Her essays and short stories have also been featured in a variety of literary publications across the globe. In April 2025, her play titled Listen While You Work was produced and performed by Inclusive Theater in Buffalo, New York. www.lindasgunther.com

‎Who AM l

‎Who is there?
‎A shadow.
‎Who is here?
‎A simple shadow.
‎Who is in my heart?
‎A complex shadow.
‎Who is in your heart?
‎A compound shadow.
‎Who is all around us?
‎Shadow, shadow and shadow!
‎Where is man?
‎He is absent in everywhere.
‎Where is woman?
‎She is absent in………. .
‎Where is humanity?
‎It was buried before civilization.
‎Where is conscience
‎It was killed before dawn.
‎Where is property?
‎It is in our breath.
‎Where is life
‎It is always past.
‎Where am l?
‎I don’t know.
‎Who am l?
‎A mummy of time.