——————————————————————————-

dying like elvis

took a shit so large this morning

i could feel my blood sugar drop

it made me laugh, reaffirm my

fears of dying like elvis

but with none of the money

or big house

had a friend wish that my poems

would make me a millionaire

i thanked her and told her i would

gladly take a fraction of that and

winning lottery numbers

and here come the holidays

here comes the depression

here comes the urge to drink

the entire bar dry

why couldn’t we evolve from

creatures that hibernated in

the winter

certainly would make christmas

easier to handle

just a thought on a random

monday

the week of thanksgiving

another test of what little

patience i have left

————————————————————————

with no soul

and you wake up from

a fever dream of a boy

who never meets the

girl yet the girl lives

happily ever after

a couple splashes of

cold water and you

know that boy is you

coming up on half

a century

still lining the walls

with loneliness

pretend someone cares

someone will save you

from yourself

in a world with no soul

no time for anyone other

than the precious mirror

torture is the morning

sun

a bird singing a song

joy on the children

down the street

your father warned

you

you were never special

and should never think

like it was even possible

sharpen the knives

still time to make

the evening news

—————————————————————-

the machines

searching for humanity

in a world that has fully

embraced the machines

before long, the humans

will be the machines

and then all hope will

be lost

somewhere, all those

science fiction writers

of my youth are asking

yet again…

still think i’m fucking

crazy?

————————————————————————-

two weeks before thanksgiving

had to drive to the store to get my pills last night

there was a number of houses with christmas

lights up already

two weeks before thanksgiving

assholes

mom is insisting the whole family gets together

this year for thanksgiving

while i’m secretly hoping she has some evil plan

to kill all of us

i think it is simply a punishment for me

but, i have never shied away from proudly

being the black sheep of the family

i’ll make a plate, place some bets, go to

my room and be by myself

punishments never worked when i was a child

they won’t work while i’m an adult either

the day after thanksgiving

i’ll put up our decorations outside

three wreaths around the three outdoor lights

which eventually will become nests for birds

that get heat from those lights at night

——————————————————————————-

figure out the truth

i haven’t shaved in weeks

the little girl that stays next

door with grandma tells all

her friends that grandma lives

next door to santa claus

it takes everything i have not

to break that little girl’s heart

but i figure, she will figure

out the truth soon enough

there’s a skeleton in the yard

across the street

i swear, when i look out

at night it is giving me

the finger

i guess the booze is working

not sleeping well yet again

i’m hoping to find a new

dealer

someone that has a decent

heart and will accept books

or baseball cards for something

that isn’t tainted with something

that will kill me

that’s for the next decade

https://evildelights.blogspot.com

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Crossroads Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days at his home in Ohio, taking care of his disabled mother and trying to hit another crazy 20 team parlay. He still has a blog, evil delights, although he rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet

The Great Buster Keaton

They called him Buster before he could walk,
a name bestowed mid-flight.

The small body airborne… tumbling across a tent floor,
Thud!
Landing against a wall.
Splat!

The crowd gasps.
His father grins.
His mother braces
for the next throw.

Little Buster learned the language of flight and fall,
of prat and pathos,
his bruises spelling destiny in slapstick form.

Even before the tiny tyke could talk
he knew the music of collapse,
how a tumble, timed just right,
could make the audiences roar.

A suitcase handle sewn into his shirt
so he could be caught — whoosh! — or hurled,
or lifted once more toward the lights.

Tossed and tossed again.

No wings held him aloft – only force.
Applied gently, they said.
He knew how to land without getting hurt, they said.

Whack! — the floor met his shoulder.
Clunk! — the chair gave way.

No one blinked
as he sailed through the air with the greatest of ease.
Whoosh! Crash! Oof!

Poor little beggar.
If he wept, he saved it for the wings.

Every gesture a theorem,
every stumble a lesson in physics.
He mapped the universe in pratfalls,
angles, arcs, impossible collisions.

The film sets became his instruments.
He built cathedrals of collapse,
stood ghostly-serene at their altars of debris.

The house closed around him — Boom! —
but he did not move.

The General thundered beneath him,
Chuff-chuff! Hiss! Steam! Screech!

He rode its spine through fire and wreckage,
choreographing peril with the calm of a monk.

If the world was falling apart,
he would stand at its center – unblinking,
his hat flat as a crushed box.

He rose through skylights,
swung from cranes,
rode locomotives like comets through smoke —
Bang! Clang! Crash!

When sound arrived it struck him mute.

The clatter of words drowned the music of motion.
The studios – deaf to grace –
bound him in contracts and broke his heart.

Yet film remembers what men forget.
Decades later — click-whirr-flicker —
there he was, forever falling,
forever rising,
forever young,
the universe collapsing in perfect rhythm
around that impassive, ghostly face.

They said he was reckless.
They didn’t see the math —
the quiet calculus of momentum and grace,
the prayers murmured in angles.

The man was broken.
His body a grieving testimony
to fractured bones and battered necks.
Crack. Pop. Groan.

Fame has no loyalty.
The applause faded.
The wife who once adored him
bled him dry.

He gave her laughter;
she returned silence.

Yet his sons, God bless them,
saw the angel in their father’s battered frame,
the kindness behind the mask,
the gentleness no camera could steal.

It is said he lost a forefinger to a clothes wringer.
Whirrrr! Snap! 
Gashed his head with a brick that boomeranged —
Thunk! 
And was once sucked from an upstairs window
by a passing cyclone — Whoooosh! —
carried floating through the air,
and set down, unhurt,
in the middle of a street a few blocks away.

That face — oh, that face —
the stillest face in motion pictures,
an angel carved from exhaustion and grace.

Eyes like cloud light before a storm,
mouth a straight horizon line
against which the world could crash.

He did not flinch.
He never would.

In the twilight reels of his life,
Buster walked once more into the light,
a man stitched together by falls,
patched with laughter,
tempered in silence.

The world had turned to color and chatter,
but he remained black-and-white and eternal.
A ghostly flicker of silver
drifting upward through the hum of the projector.

Samuel Beckett once said he had
“the perfect face for the condition of being.”
And it was true.
His face a canvas
where absurdity met grace,
silence met survival.

Click.
Whirr.
Flicker.

And there, amid the hiss of the film, the shimmer of dust —
a single line escaped him,
soft as breath:

“I think I have had the happiest and luckiest of lives.”

He smiled — almost —
and vanished
into light.

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF LEGENDS IN FOLK THOUGHT AND WORLD VIEW

Rahmonkulova Gulsevar Samidovna

1st year student of the Faculty of Uzbek Language and Literature of the Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature named after Alisher Navoi

Annotation. This article analyzes the role and significance of legends and legends in folk thought and worldview. The scientific basis of the fact that these genres of folk oral art have played an incomparable role in shaping people’s views on nature, society, goodness and evil, life and death is highlighted. Also, the figurative expression of folk thought, philosophical layers in the relationship between nature and man, artistic interpretation of values such as selflessness, faith, love and goodness are analyzed in the examples of the Kashkadarya oasis “Legend of the Creation of Kashkadarya” and “Legend of the Girl Kashka”. This establishes the role of myths and legends in the formation of national historical memory, understanding of spiritual identity, and national worldview.

Keywords: Folk oral art, myth, legend, folk thought, worldview, Kashkadarya, faith, devotion, historical memory, national values.

Folk oral creativity is one of the oldest and most natural forms of human thought. The history, spirituality, life experience, aspirations, religious and moral views, and ways of perceiving the world of every nation are primarily embodied in samples of oral creativity. In particular, myths and legends are genres that hold incomparable importance in the formation of folk thinking and in expressing its worldview. They have served to help humans understand the world, explain natural phenomena, and express attitudes toward concepts such as life and death, good and evil, loyalty and selflessness. In this regard, myths and legends are not only products of artistic thinking but also unique sources that embody the nation’s social, spiritual, and philosophical worldview.

Numerous examples among myths and legends clearly demonstrate how deep and figurative folk thinking is. For instance, ancient myths and legends related to the Kashkadarya oasis are vivid examples of such folk thinking. In the “Legend about the Creation of Kashkadarya,” the emergence of water is depicted as a source of life, embodying the people’s desire to live in harmony with nature and their religious views. According to the legend, in ancient times, the Kashkadarya region consisted of vast deserts and dry plains, where life was full of suffering due to the lack of water. At that time, a kind old saint living among the mountains, seeing the plight of the people, prays to God for mercy, and by God’s grace, a powerful spring bursts forth from the earth’s bosom. This spring flows through the valley, restoring life. The people call this water “kashka,” meaning white, clear water, and name it the Kashka River. Based on this event, the entire region is called Kashkadarya.

This legend reveals important aspects of folk thinking. First, natural phenomena are linked to divine power. That is, in the folk worldview, water is perceived as God’s mercy and a source of life. Second, the legend expresses the people’s sense of goodness and gratitude: people regard the appearance of water as God’s mercy and treat it with respect. Third, the metaphorical (symbolic) form of folk thinking is clearly evident in the legend: the word “kashka” signifies not just the whiteness of the water but its purity and life-giving quality. This demonstrates the artistic and semantic richness of the folk language and the ability to express deep meaning through words.

In folk legends, along with artistic fabrication, moral and educational ideas are strongly expressed. The “Legend about the Origin of the Name Kashkadarya” is one such example. Through the image of a beautiful and selfless girl named Kashka, it highly expresses the people’s spiritual values, humanity, selflessness, patriotism, and ideas of love and kindness. According to the legend, drought engulfs the land, all springs dry up, and people are left in despair. At that time, Kashka girl does not abandon her people and sacrifices her life to provide water for the homeland. She prays to God to save the people, saying, “Take my life, but let water flow here.” As a result, a river bursts forth from the earth’s bosom, but the girl herself merges into that river. For this reason, the people begin to call the river Kashka River and the region Kashkadarya.

This legend embodies several layers of folk thinking. First of all, it shows the people’s affection for nature and their perception of water as a symbol of life. At the same time, the legend sanctifies the image of a woman, her selflessness, and placing the people’s interests above her own life, which are important virtues in the Uzbek people’s spiritual worldview. Through the symbol of Kashka girl, the people have embodied concepts such as “selflessness,” “loyalty,” and “goodness.” Thus, in folk legends, one can see the people’s moral ideals through artistic images.

In both of these examples, we see that folk thinking is formed based on metaphorical expression, religious views, and social values. Myths and legends are historical sources that preserve various layers of the folk worldview from different periods. Through them, we learn how ancient people perceived the world, what beliefs they held, and how they understood life. In this sense, myths and legends are the people’s “oral philosophy.” They appeared before written sources but preserve deep philosophical content within them. For example, in many Uzbek myths, natural elements like water, trees, mountains, sun, and moon are depicted as symbols of vital force, blessing, and purity. This shows that folk thinking was formed in harmony with nature.

Furthermore, myths and legends express universal values such as the struggle between good and evil, the connection between humans and nature, labor, patience, and selflessness. For instance, in legends about “Koksaroy Spring” or “Aral Sea,” there lies a philosophical content warning about disasters resulting from human indifference or greed toward nature. This reveals the moral-didactic nature of folk thinking. Through their oral creativity, the people have taught lessons to generations, shaping feelings of goodness, patience, love, and respect for nature in their minds.

Another important aspect of myths and legends is that they serve as a means of preserving historical memory. Behind every legend stands a specific historical event or person. By expressing them in artistic form, the people have strived not to forget their history. For example, legends like “Bibi Seshanba,” “Girls’ Fortress,” “Chortoq Water” are connected to events in folk memory, religious beliefs, or ancient customs. All of them hold an important place in preserving folk thinking as social memory.

In today’s folklore studies, myths and legends are studied not only as artistic heritage but also as a source for researching “national identity (selfhood).” Because these genres are a unique model of folk thinking, expressing the people’s attitude toward their history, nature, and human values. By analyzing them, the people’s ancient philosophical worldview, social ideals, and aesthetic views are restored. For example, through the legend about the Kashka girl, we understand that the people depicted women not only as beauty but also as a source of life, a symbol of love and selflessness. This, in turn, shows the ancient respect of the Uzbek people for women and their sacred place in society.

In conclusion, myths and legends are one of the oldest sources expressing the historical layers of folk thinking, religious and spiritual worldview. They illuminate the stages of humanity’s artistic perception of the world and embody the people’s inner spiritual world, aspirations, beliefs, and views on life. Myths and legends are also highly valuable for modern humans because they remind us of the Uzbek people’s spiritual roots, living in harmony with nature, and values such as selflessness, goodness, and devotion to faith. Thus, myths and legends are a living bridge of folk thinking continuously extending from the past to the future.

References:

Jo‘rayev M., Saidova R. (2002). Bukhara Legends. A. Qodiriy National Heritage.

Imomov K. (1989). Myth. Essays on Uzbek Folklore. Volume II. Fan.

Uzbek Folk Myths. Uzbek Myths, Wisdoms, Legends. Ten-volume set. Volume 3. A. Qodiriy National Heritage.

Razzoqov H., Mirzayev T., Sobirov O., Imomov K. Myths and Legends.

Uzbek Folk Oral Poetic Creativity. Textbook. – T: O‘qituvchi

Rahmonkulova Gulsevar Samidovna, 1st year student of the Faculty of Uzbek Language and Literature of the Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature named after Alisher Navoi

Preserving National Values — Our Duty

National values are the elements that make a nation truly itself and ensure its identity as a people. They distinguish us from other nations and, with their unique charm and originality, arouse curiosity and admiration in people.

Through our values, we come to know our roots and our true identity. National values are the spirit of the nation — the heartbeat that keeps it alive. Their sincerity, uniqueness, and inner beauty captivate every human heart.

What differentiates one nation from another are its language, traditions, clothing style, celebrations, and moral values.

For instance, our national values include the Navruz festival, the Uzbek people’s unique hospitality, respect for elders, and strong family unity.

Unfortunately, in today’s era of globalization, some young people are influenced by foreign cultures and begin to forget their own national identity.

The excessive impact of the internet, fashion, and foreign lifestyles can weaken our national values. Mixing languages in speech, ignoring national attire, or considering ancient customs as “old-fashioned” are dangerous tendencies.

Therefore, preserving national values is not merely about remembering the past — it is about protecting our future.

Young people play the most crucial role in safeguarding these values. If today’s generation deeply understands its history and culture, the future of our nation will be bright.

National values are first instilled within the family. Children learn from their parents’ behavior and their respect for traditions.

In educational institutions, subjects such as history, literature, and culture help awaken a sense of national pride among students.

Hence, every family and school must firmly uphold the fortress of national values.

In the age of globalization, national values are our greatest treasure. They not only distinguish us from other nations but also serve as a source of inspiration for the entire world with their unique beauty.

Our values are the bridge connecting us with our ancestors.

If each of us contributes to preserving them, future generations will take pride in their roots and heritage.

To preserve national values means to protect one’s homeland and one’s people.

Matnazarova Munisa Mahmud qizi was born October 2, 2006, in Xonqa District, Khorezm Region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently a student of Urgench State University.

Scale Theory

The fish is dead,

  but the armor is still holding.

   A mosaic of silver coins overlapping

     like roof tiles on a flooded house.

My mother hands me the knife—

a dull, rusted thing—

and teaches me the art of subtraction.

Scrape.

The sound is a zipper being forced open.

The scales fly off in a wet confetti

  sticking to my wrists

   decorating the sink

   in sequins of gray light.

We are unmaking the swimmer.

We are stripping the ocean off its back

until it is nothing but white, shivering flesh.

I push my thumb into the gill—

that red, feathery fan

that used to sieve oxygen from the dark—

and I pull.

The gutting is the honest part.

It is a wet, heavy sound. A release of secrets.

The heart   /   the liver   / the empty balloon of the stomach

all the machinery that made it alive

is piled into a plastic bag.

My mother washes the body until it is clean.

Until it forgets it ever had protection.

We burn it in oil and call it dinner.

But later, in the shower,

I find a single silver scale stuck to my collarbone.

A piece of the armor.

A fragment that refused to be swallowed.

Prototype_v1

00:00 [Fade in]

The project file is heavy.

I drag the timeline cursor back to the start.

We are trying to build a woman

out of mp4s and jagged pieces.

00:12 [Clip: Mother]

Zoom in: 200%

There is a track of water running down her cheek.

A silver tear / high definition / too sharp to look at.

Action: Add Text Layer.

I type the promise in bold font:

I will fix this. / I will carry the roof so you don’t have to.

I crop myself out of the frame

so there is more room for her comfort.

This is the First Daughter preset:

edit everyone else’s sorrow / until your own timeline is blank.

01:45 [Effect: Green Screen]

I stand in the center of the frame / head high.

But looking at the monitor / I know it is a trick of the light.

Opacity: 50%

I feel like a fraud in every scene / a special effect / a glitch in the system.

I am holding my breath / waiting for the error message.

Waiting to mess it all up.

If you turn off the filter

you will see I am just a scared girl

standing in front of a blank wall

waiting for the director to yell “Cut.”

02:30 [Import: New File]

My hard drive is full of corrupted footage.

Hearts that failed to export. / XYs that turned into static.

I was ready to shut the system down.

Drag and Drop: Him.

He appeared out of the blue / no color grading needed.

Suddenly the audio is clear. / The waveform is steady.

But I am hovering over the “Delete” button.

My hand is shaking.

I am terrified that if I press play

he will shatter into pixels like the rest.

Please, I whisper to the screen, don’t crash.

04:00 [Rendering…]

98%…

99%…

The fans are spinning loud / the laptop is burning my thighs.

I am waiting to become something permanent.

To be exported into a format that cannot be hurt.

But the cursor blinks.

Error: File still in use.

I am not finished yet.

[Cut to Black]

THIS LAND SPEAKS WOMAN

They found our bones beneath grinding stones,

hips wide as hunger,

ribs bent like spoons

from feeding everyone else first.

Our skulls still had hair in tight rows,

as if we were plaited even in death.

We did not die wives.

We died witnesses to how

the earth split for men

and swallowed women whole.

We were the cloth on the table,

the table,

the floor beneath it,

and still, we were asked to kneel.

You want to heal this land?

Then start with our names —

the ones stitched shut

into the hems of our mother’s wrappers.

We are in the dust,

the scent of turaren wuta and ash.

We are in the rivers,

flowing like truths too old for tongue.

We are in the cracked heels of ndị nne,

who crossed war zones

to pick pepper for soup.

Our voices grew sideways,

through floor cracks,

through the hum of songs,

through pestles beating yam to tears.

Our silence is not consent.

It is fury wrapped in ìrọ́ and bùbá,

a scream ground into millet

and spread in the sun to dry.

So when we speak, do not flinch.

For we do not knock.

We bloom through the rocks,

we crack the earth from inside out,

with bosoms plumped by famine,

and stretch marks like thunder

across a waiting sky.

Glossary

ìrọ́: Yoruba — a traditional wide wrap skirt worn by women

bùbá: Yoruba — a loose-fitting blouse, usually worn with an ìrọ́

ndị nne: Igbo — “mothers” (plural form of nne)

turaren wuta: Hausa — fragrant smoke used to scent homes and clothing

Farida Yahaya Tijjani is an 18-year-old Nigerian poet, scriptwriter, essayist, and spoken word artist. Her work explores themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, using creativity as a tool for healing and transformation. Her writing has appeared in national newspapers and is forthcoming in Aster Lit Issue 15. She also lends her voice weekly to NTA’s Nigerian Navy in Focus, where she scripts and edits the “Operation Delta Sanity” segment. Merging poetry with powerful storytelling to inspire change, Farida has performed across diverse platforms and has been recognized in both poetry and short story competitions.

THE PATH TO HAPPINESS 

Imagine a world where every morning smells of gratitude,

where hands are raised not to harm, but to embrace.

Where words are not weapons, but seeds of understanding,

and every glance becomes a prayer of silence and peace.

In that world, the old walk upright —

for the young have not forgotten them,

but follow their steps with respect.

Children play on green fields, pure of heart,

while bees whisper to them the secrets of flowers,

and the trees grow tall,

toward a sky that finally breathes

without smoke or pain.

Rivers flow clearer than ever,

carrying songs of gratitude to the earth,

each drop of water knowing its name,

each spring shining like a prayer of life.

No one measures the worth of life in gold,

but in kindness that glows from within.

Hunger is a forgotten word,

for every table is sacred,

and every heart an open temple.

Imagine cities that sing softly,

where streets smell of hopes

planted by human hands,

where people have understood that the earth is a mother,

not a servant.

That the bee is an angel,

and the forest — a cathedral of light.

And if we decided,

just once, all together,

to be thankful for every breath,

for every drop of water,

for every living being —

the world would change.

Evil would lose its home,

and happiness would find its path —

among us.

For the path to happiness does not

lead through struggle,

but through understanding.

Not through power,

but through gentleness.

Not through walls,

but through hands that plant,

and eyes that see the good.

Let the poem come alive.

Let it echo softly,

in every person who dares

to believe —

that the world can still be beautiful.

Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform. Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.

First Flight 

The plane races along the runway

like a blue-eyed stag bounding step by step,

its beak raised, wings unfurled,

rising straight into the sky.

Through the window—

high-rises, trees, roads,

shrinking into toy-like shapes,

fields spreading like flat plates,

ponds boxed into tiny squares,

sheep and goats no bigger than ants.

The earth recedes behind

as the aircraft tilts its wings

to take a sudden turn—

just as we stray off a path

onto some slanting trail,

towards Fork, towards trail.

At thirty-three thousand feet

I peer downward into the haze:

black mist hides winding threads,

surely they are rivers,

holding in their flow

the innocence of our hearts.

Clouds appear—

flower-clusters, white, azure,

soft as carded cotton;

hills draped in blue veils of mist,

summits locked in embrace with drifting vapors,

and far beyond—

snow-mountains, ascetic, still,

their serenity like sages in meditation.

Overhead stretch white canopies of cloud,

and when the plane strikes them

its wings glisten, damp,

as if even the passengers’ souls

had been washed in a secret rain.

Then—enter the air hostesses,

voices honeyed,

words spilling with laughter—

smiling lips, eyes alive,

whispering through the hush of turbines,

fragrant as fresh jasmine.

At night, midair,

I glance below—

scattered glimmers blink back,

like stars shining

from the depths of earth itself.

Descending into darkness,

the city spreads in long-shot frames:

a dazzle of lights,

shimmering, blinding,

pulling you into wonder,

but also planting

an unfamiliar dread,

like a lone wayfarer on a highway

who, hearing a vehicle thunder close behind,

instinctively edges

toward the safety of the curb.

Lakshmi Kant Mukul is an Indian writer, poet, critic, rural historian and serious scholar of folk culture, born on 08 January 1973 in a rural family in Maira village, District Rohtas, Bihar province, India. His literary journey began in 1993 as a Hindi poet and since then, he has published three books in Hindi and has been published in more than two dozen anthologies and hundreds of journals. Apart from Hindi, he also writes extensively in Urdu and Bhojpuri and also translates them into English himself. His two published poetry collections are- “Lal Chonch Wale Panchhi” and “Ghis Raha Hai Dhan Ka Katora”. His published book on rural and local history is- “Yatrion Ke Najriye Mein Shahabad”.

He has received many awards for his work, including Aarambh Samman for his poetry writing in Hindi language, the prestigious Hindi Sevi Samman of Bihar Hindi Sahitya Sammelan. His English poetry has been published in many international anthologies and translated into many languages. The notable achievements of his literary career are – recognition as a farmer poet and expertise on the changes taking place in the rural environment in the global era. Having studied law, he has adopted the modern style of farming.

Postal address -LAKSHMI KANT MUKUL Village _ Maira, PO _ Saisar, SO _ Dhansoi, Buxar, Bihar [ INDIA] Mob.no._6202077236 Postcode – 802117 Email – kvimukul12111@gmail.com mob.no