MOTHER
Have you ever been in debt beyond your ability to pay?
That's what I owed to my MOM!!!
First I took a life, then I got endless love, I got youth, health, a beautiful figure, and beauty...
How about a replacement??? Instead, I got on his nerves by being manly and capricious. And then I got all my black hair by talking about my ridiculous problems, pains, and expenses... In exchange for all that I got, my mother asked God in every prayer for me to laugh, not to feel pain, to be happy, not for herself...
My mother, what a miracle you are. We were happy for each age, not because you are getting older, but because my child is getting older. The only thing worth saying for what we have received from you is our love, we loved you very much. We can't pretend it's youth or stubbornness, but we love you so much, mom!
I asked God to stay with me all my life, bless us and make our lives beautiful. Today I praise God for creating me as your child, for giving me a mother like you... I'm fine... I'm fine Without MOTHER
Author Bakhora Bakhtiyorova Asliddin Daughter
MANTRI PRAGADA MARKANDEYULU, Litt.D.,Poet, Novelist, Song and Story Writer (The Scholar)B. Com, DBM, PGDCA, DCP,(Visited Nairobi-Kenya, East Africa) His honors and awards: International Achievement Award in Authorship from IPRH, Philippines and Bangladesh.· Birland Government honored me with a One Pound Postage Stamp as an official Poet.· Global Honorary Advisor, Federation of World Cultural and Arts Society (FOWCASS), Singapore.· CIVIC EXCELLENCE AWARD 2022 FROM UHE, PERU· Rabindranath Tagore Literary Honor 2022
(Government of Seychelles, Motivational Strips and SIPAY Journal)· CESAR VALLEJO AWARD 2021, 2022 and 2023 (3 Years) UHE, Peru for Literary Excellence WORLD WRITERS’ UNION Peru· Gujarat Sahitya Academy and Motivational Strips LITERARY EXCELLENCE Honor· Honored with “Royal Kutai Mulawarman Peace International Institute, Philippines”· Royal Success International Book of Records 2019 Honor, Hyderabad-·
The Silver Shield Award from UHE, Peru for my Literary Excellence 2021.· 2021 GOLDEN EAGLE WORLD AWARD FOR LITERARY EXCELLENCE, Peru.· The Scholar, Institute of Scholars Research Excellence Award-2020, Bangalore (India)· Hon. Doctorate in Literature from ITMUT, Brazil. (2019)· State of Birland at Bir Tawil Recognized Poet ………………· Mr. Mantri Pragada Markandeyulu, Litt.D., is a retired Public Sector Enterprise Officer from Hyderabad (India).· He is the Deputy-Editor-In-Chief of www.petruska-nastamba.com (Serbia/Belgrade) eMagazine.· He is the Editorial Committee Member of THE PANACHE, eMagazine from Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh, India
(https://www.aadhyapublication.in)· He has worked in few News Papers (English) in Editorial Department.· He is also the Trainer in Motivational Management Programs.· He has published 75+ books with ISBN (Stories, Novels, Poems, Articles, Short Stories, Quotes etc) English/Telugu.· His stories are useful for making Movies, TV series, Web Series.
Uzbekistan is a country known to the world for its interesting places of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva! The national dish of Uzbekistan is certainly Pilaf. Pilaf is loved and eaten in almost all regions of Uzbekistan.
The method of its preparation is different depending on the region. But the sweetest Pilaf is definitely prepared in teahouses and wedding halls of Tashkent city. Come to Uzbekistan and eat Pilaf, you won’t regret it!
After the Wake (originally published at The Gorko Gazette)
Yellow wallpaper
peels
behind faded pictures
in dusty frames,
falling to the floor
in ashen drifts—ephemeral—
of births and wakes,
stabbing
to the heart
like first kisses
or cold sips
of Orange Crush
but dulled
from memory
(and time)
like giftless Christmases
and old calico,
drying on the line.
What ghosts roam these halls,
haunting bowls
of waxed fruit
and glass doorknobs,
lingering ‘round chicken coops,
dust bunnies,
and jelly jar glasses
like palls
or the bitter of burnt almonds.
As a pale pink echo
of rose
peeks through the air’s must,
a voice whispers, “Remember this. Now,”
leaving me to chuckle and smile.
How silly it is to mourn life as we live it.
Indigo (originally published at San Antonio Review)
The curtains pull ‘cross the landscape behind my eyes—the way they do on days like this—emerged from sleep, from splashes of water in the basin and black coffee past a sugared tongue. Silently, I praise drip-dried epiphanies that swirl and stir beneath drowsy lids, over smoking toasters and morning papers, rousing consciousness with gentle shocks like chewing aluminum foil and the last lick of a taser’s kiss. There’s a blue sky outside. A blue blue. The bluest blue. The kind of blue that bruises the sky before its skin splits, (re)submerging us with splashes (more) of an angry rain that dismantles but doesn’t drown, diminishes but doesn’t destroy. Indigo is its color—Indigo, the King of Blue.
It’s a violet field, trampled by God’s thumb and the hard souls of saints, raining down blessings of sweet water—like napalm set aflame by the perfumed blood of petals—upon waking earth and trees, parking lots and sidewalks, and skin, leaving scars and cold scorches and ghosts. It smells like cuts and mud and shit. It smells like indigo—Indigo, the King of Blue.
Longing is deep for the cold comforts of my walls and drawn curtains. The cool blazes of artificial suns in every room. The scent of dog and recycled breath coming from the AC. But I hear the call of the rain (I always do, it seems)—for all it takes and gives, for the cold it brings and the loans it calls in—and it draws me back, again, again, and again—a shade haunting the pane.
Today, I feel indigo—Indigo, King of the Blues.
Slam! (originally published at The Gorko Gazette)
Disturbing white calm,
lightning strikes
conjure storms
in coffee cups
and sleepy inkwells,
baptizing words
in snaps
and rolling alliterations—
obliterations—
of sweet ether
and strums
of liars’ strings.
Drops
of fire
on wanting eardrums
(and moistened seats)
sharpen sterling tongues
like whetstones
to a razor’s kiss
for a night’s slice
and dice.
How cuts flow, sweetly.
Sour Grapes (originally published at DED Poetry)
Crumb’ling truths
and destinies, entwined,
fray
and crumble
to dust
at the speed of
rushes o’ blood
to cuckolded cheeks,
boiling tears
and setting fire to the rain,
melting
souring
this love—
a wounded fruit—like
ice cream
left
in the sun
too
long.
Last Rights of Fire Thieves (originally published at Fahmidan Journal)
Moments
before the viewing,
before your newfound family piled in
and my aunts and uncles, dear (long gone
since the judge’s decree),
the black hole
between
us
collapsed
upon itself
to the silent ring of destiny
and cruelty of crossed stars.
How small (so frail) you seemed,
since Fate’s last kiss upon our lips,
like lint on God’s shoulder
or a water-colored echo
of giants.
And angry. So angry,
you were, to give up the ghost
with a scowl I’ve long since seen
no mortician’s palette
could ever begin to stave.
Funny
how true nature
rises
past the crud—a soured cream—
when one
decides, finally,
to get out of the way.
But,
here we are, again,
this time trading secrets,
eating crow
cold to the bone.
I’ll keep yours
behind our brown eyes,
‘hind latches and catches,
lock and key.
I’ll hold them close
like babes and beatitudes—
bullets and blood clots—
if you’ll keep mine.
Just look at us,
a couple of fire thieves,
carbon copies
left out in the cold,
forever looking,
looking for warmth,
forever looking
where there ever was none,
forever looking
finding none.
So,
this is “Goodbye”—
maybe
“See you later.”
Don’t try to find me
(There’s no point,
now.)
and I promise
I won’t call.
They walked on just like in the old days where windows and doors slid by bounded all over with bright sills and thick frames on the one side flat hard ‘men down the bottom and off’n that udder size the chainlink just flew egg yip the chainlink just flew so much and damned faster if ya pushed your hand in it it’d pop it clear off—left right left right booted-down solidly flowing, they flowed to the very Jai alai court’s entrance as every day lately but stopped up short again by the fact of a brand new shiny red super stock coinslot-drop machine on a post by the door and again this’ so new’s so worth saying through them about itself, What the hell is that?
A place to drop a coin. Like when buying something from a machine. You know. A coin-slot half zipper. Like that it is. And like that and like that.
But there’s nothing to buy there.
Oh well {ho hum} there is it anyway. Who cares? Go in, all clocks are ticking and, so; they passed by that mystery and went dear Jesus thank God and our into fling fly pop whizz catch slide big lucky stars we found Jai run look squeak, again alai fling fly pop whizz alai, Jai catch slide Jai alai isn’t it great, great run look squeak, again fun? { whizz alai w } Yes God fling fly pop damn it to whizz catch slide run hell, it’s great look squeak, again fun yes it’s fun—then then several slides in succession slid away all previous slides each slide’s a day seven slides are a week and about ten or less smaller tense intervals in the vast central in-between passed until one day on approaching the door of the Ja’a ‘lai center { whizz alai w } [ and more praise the son more timely and earlier even no sass ass be-frore, you didn’t know from before but you been told right now WHOOP ] there stood by the coin box a yellow-clad worker slash (/////) like that, attendant { whizz alai w whizz alai w } pushed out a hand.
Hold it and stop. Hold it. Stop.
Uh. Uh. What? Why?
Here, said the attendant, palming straight at them one single coin.
What’s that?
A coin. Take it.
Why? they said, as they took it.
Push it in the coin slot there.
Why?
Just push it.
And the coin got manipulated to the necessary angle ‘tween the necessary two fingers held totally correctly to get dropped smooth’d n’gone into the dark slot, and the attendant said, before even being looked at and asked, Okay there now, what Okay thanks, go on in. You can go right in now, have a nice day, a nice day, what the hell was that all about? Have a day, a hell of a nice day—and they did, but still, on in over’n, What the hell was that all about, hoo hoo, what the hell was that all about, anyway. But.
hoo hoo
But.
hoo hoo
hoo hoo
hoo hoo
And all, but; so that melted into the frame of every day after that the walk to the center the stop for the coin game the tip t’ th’ hen-tendant became an expected part of the frame of every day, until, now again. What the hell is this, again what the hell is this sᴉɥʇ sᴉ ןןǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥM Mɥɐ ɥǝןן ᴉs what the ʇɥᴉs siht hell is this now si lleh anyway what eht tahW the hell is this?
Slow down slow down slower and slower and : what the hell’s this anyway : ?? stop.
The attendant still stood and the coin box also but to the side got tacked up by s’buedy a type of vertical narrow control panel with three buttons | approx. | Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? arranged one’s top’d the other and as usual the attendant held out the coin but bu-they did say {which one’s say’d matteh? No which ones say’d matteh} Grovel Conical (wow what a corporately appropriate t’ – never mind that + my name is Kevin Seltzer and I’m happy to speak to you today about your brand new career with Grovel Conical * biggest single superior supplier of conicals to the military industrial quite complex community half the world wide already and growing beat ya to it beat ya did beat ya * uh oh + as the took the coin from them, What is this here? These buttons here? What is? What is it we are to do with these buttons here, or-r-r-r- are we to do nothing at all? Think ‘cause you’re telling us nothing it’s do nothing at all and the coin, slipping home, told ‘th its tinkly-tink the attendant to say that the new procedure is to press one of the buttons after depositing the coin’s teensy tinkly-tink and then the wide double doors will swing open and you may enter and be seated.
Huh?
Enter and be seated? This is a Jai alai court no no no show?
The attendant replied, This is the script I must follow to tell you I was told to do so and so do so I will here you go = the new procedure is to press one of the buttons : which button doesn’t matter any button why’s there three buttons my my aren’t you the busy brained little one aren’t you ha ha : ^ scratch the “cute child” up top o’ th’a’ad ^ after depositing the coin and then the wide double doors will swing open and you may enter and be seated.
They stood blank, not just them, but that, also—this attendant’s ‘gun acting more like a that than an a t’ them—to be nice is always fine fallback when in doubt—being nice, say fine parents world-wide—being nice you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical always pays you will never get in trouble being nice—being nice, say fine parents world-wide—Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? being nice always pays you will never get in trouble being nice—{I am sorry I am so sorry but this is the way the management says we must push out into for a while “please be seated”} No. you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical the new procedure No—to be nice is always new procedure is to fine fallback when in doubt—being is {wrapped all in towels} to press one of the buttons nice, say fine Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? parents the buttons after depositing the coin world-wide—being nice always pays the coin and then the wide double doors will swing open you will never get in trouble being nice—will swing open and you may enter being nice, say fine parents world-wide—being nice you may enter and be seated you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical always pays you may enter and be seated will never get in trouble being nice—{I am sorry I am so sorry but this is the way you may enter and be seated and the show will start the management says we must push Kevin Seltzer? Who the hell is Kevin Seltzer? out into for a while “please be seated”} on time because No. on time because it is No. mandated that the show should start on time and you cannot go wrong with a career at Grovel Conical therefore—please go in and “be seated” since the show will start on time because the show always has and always will start precisely on time.
I first saw JM at a Caribbean Club Med. He was French, in his late twenties; full-lipped, tan, and charming. He was in charge of entertainment, on stage a lot, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I was there with my boyfriend. It was our last trip before I would fly to Paris for my final semester of college. We had been together for almost five years and my father employed him in his store. I wanted a break from him but wasn’t sure how to disentangle myself without hurting him.
Walking to our room one evening, I spotted JM slow-dancing with someone to a Peter Gabriel song. I tried not to stare; I thought: if only I could be her.
During a meal one afternoon, JM came to our table to introduce himself. He said hello and I became mute. My kind boyfriend said that I was going to study in France: “She is leaving me next week.” JM crouched down beside me. Up close his eyes were the color of caramel. “Do you speak French?” he asked. I nodded. He took a napkin from the table and wrote a phone number on it. “In case you need anything.” It was the number of his family’s home in Bordeaux. I slid the napkin onto my lap and put my hand on it protectively.
The day came to leave. I cried when I said goodbye to my boyfriend. But when I got on the plane, I was surprised at how relieved and unburdened I felt.
My older brother, Dorian, joined me on my flight. There was a German au pair he had gotten to know in New York, and he was hoping to meet up with her while in Europe with me. I was glad not to go alone.
A few days later, in Dorian’s hotel room, I unfurled the napkin like a precious parchment and called the number JM had given me. The person who answered said JM was in Paris and gave me his direct number. I reached him, and we made plans to meet the following night for dinner. When I hung up, I wanted to scream, but Dorian was a few feet away watching music videos on the tiny TV.
That night I wore heels. I didn’t usually wear heels, but I also didn’t usually go to dinner with sophisticated and glamorous Frenchmen.
At the restaurant, JM kissed me on both cheeks. Only when I opened the menu did I realize we were in a Lebanese restaurant. I ordered all my favorites, the foods my mom made at home: humus, lebne and pita, olives, kibbe, babaganoush, and taboule. We spoke in a mixture of English and French. The conversation flowed effortlessly. He made me laugh and feel charming and irresistible. His hair looked so soft. I shifted my seat closer. He smelled good.
JM asked if I was staying in a dorm. I said that I was living with a family, the Benchetrits. He paused and said, as if to warn me, “You know, they are Jews.”
Everything slowed down. I didn’t know where to look. My throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. Before he could say anything else, I croaked out, “I am Jewish.”
Disappointment and hurt washed over me. But I didn’t want to derail this evening, this evening that was going so incredibly well, possibly the most exciting night of my life. Maybe I changed the subject, or maybe he did. Despite his comment, I still wanted him, and instead of being angry, I felt ashamed.
We walked to a taxi stand. There seemed to be no one else around; the clacking of my heels made the only sounds. The skin on my second-to-last toe was gone, the toe stuck to the inside of the shoe. We got into separate taxis. In the semi-privacy of my cab, I took a deep breath and felt so many things, excitement and despair. I thought that I might never see him again. On an impulse, I twisted myself around to get one last look. In that moment, he had done the same. He was gazing out at me, and he waved.
For the next few days I thought of nothing but JM. Against my will, the comment he made about Jews would find its way in, insinuating itself. I felt like a boxer, ducking and rolling like Dorian had taught me, to avoid the punch. I had to keep moving, shuffling my feet, bobbing and deflecting.
I loved Edith Wharton back then and declared her my favorite author. Had I cringed when I read about Simon Rosedale, Lily Bart’s suitor, the pushy Jew who was sloppy and coarse? Instead of slamming the book shut or throwing it out the window, I had kept reading. Maybe I thought that it was antiquated, that these feelings about Jews were from another time, not now, in 1986. Maybe Edith was showing how awful everyone in society was, even the Jewish newcomers. Maybe it wasn’t even her point of view. I’m not sure why I made excuses. I must have reconciled that good literature trumped blatant antisemitism. Maybe JM hadn’t meant what I thought. Maybe I’d read him wrong.
While pondering all of this, I went around Paris with Dorian, ate more crepes, and got ready for my classes at Dauphine. I didn’t mention JM’s comment to Dorian. We would have hashed it out for hours as we walked. Maybe my attraction would have been over then and there.
One day, about a week later, after Dorian had gone, I received a letter from JM. I unfolded the thin blue stationery. It was in French. He said that he couldn’t stop thinking about me, that we had had such a connection, that he felt this could be something.
It wasn’t long before he came to see me, and we finally kissed. We strolled around the city holding hands. I got to touch his hair. He took pictures of me; we got lost; we walked into a movie theater and saw Legal Eagles or maybe Heartburn. And then he was gone again.
He wrote me letters from Tunisia – passionate, consuming letters that left me breathless. As I walked to school and took the Metro, I whispered his words, words I hadn’t learned in school, saying them over and over until I could say them perfectly, like a French lesson.
After several impassioned phone calls imploring me to come visit him, I used my in-case-of-emergency credit card and bought a ticket to Tunisia. It was a mistake. I knew it the moment I arrived. JM had sent an employee to receive me. Frederic asked if I was “la copine de JM” and brought me to the resort.
Meals were at communal tables. I saved him a seat beside me. I saw myself jumping up and telling people that this seat was taken, even as time passed and my meal was nearly finished. He never showed. I felt foolish and pathetic.
Was I Simon Rosedale, unwanted and repulsive, pushing my way where I didn’t belong? He finally joined me. He must have eaten elsewhere. We went to his room. On his bed was a movie magazine opened to a page with a photo of the beautiful Emmanuelle Beart, who starred in Jean de Florette. I said casually that the starlet had been in my house. “In Queens?” he asked. I knew he didn’t believe me. I wonder if he knew that this movie star had a Jewish father who had gone to school with my father in Beirut. I wanted to go home, all the way home to New York. The balance was off; I left feeling much more than he did.
Back in my rented room a few days later, I was convinced that I had contracted AIDS from him. Le SIDA, as the French called it, was graffitied all over Paris, red spray paint on grey buildings, reminding me at every corner that I was in danger. In a panic, I called my older sister, Debi, from a pay phone. I told her everything, but I didn’t tell her about the comment. She calmed me, and a layer of embarrassment formed over my shame.
During my stay in Paris, I completed my classes and went to lots of movies. I finally got to see Jean de Florette. The actress who had been in my living room in Queens was blond and perfect, not Jewish-seeming in the least.
It was time to go home. My suitcase open on my bed, Les Rita Mitsouko playing on my boombox radio, my eyes fell on the pile of letters on my desk. I tied them together with string, the only evidence of this connection that had loomed so large, and put them in my suitcase.
After I returned to New York, I got a few more letters from JM, this time from Senegal, and then none. I was relieved. The grip he had on me loosened and finally dissipated in the face of his five spiteful words and the shame I felt for still wanting him.
I told my boyfriend what happened. I was sure that he would want nothing to do with me, but I was wrong. Still, this time I was certain that I wanted us to break up. I was sorry to hurt him.
A few months later, Dorian married the German au pair.
