Critically examine Amruta Patil’s Kari as a post-modern feminist graphic novel.
Comment on sexuality and gender identity as the two prominent themes in Amruta Patil’s graphic novel Kari. Does the text appropriate the act of looking or resisting the masculinist modes of seeing?
Amruta Patil’s Kari[2008] is the post millennial and new liberalization era hallmark of women studies and feminism testimony; graphic narrative that explores gender identity, feminine personhood and queer sexuality. This graphic novel is a bold and ambitious project
substantiating the retellings and recollections of the titular protagonist's memoiristic life as a queer lady of the allegorically Smog City or Bombay. Kari is exposed to the living hell and damnable existence both by her co-workers and her flatmates’ disparagement and derogation.
Kari is forlorn by Ruth after smog city’s insalubrious sewers transmogrify the site of “returning favours”; Kari adrift to ferry the raft to unclog and clean the darkest waters at night. Amruta Patil represents the black and white visual schema symbolizing the protagonist’s interior world; with colourful illustrations brought in sparsely to imply a sense of belonging and home.
This graphic novel is a fusion of magic realism and mythological subtexts. “There is no such thing as a straight woman” the controversial identity crisis of the graphic novel’s idiolect substantiates the reechoings of Olivia Laing in The Lonely City: The Art of Being Alone: Almost as soon as I arrived, I was aware of the gathering anxiety around the question of visibility. I wanted to be seen, taken in and accepted, the way one is by a lover’s approving gaze. At the same time I felt dangerously exposed particularly in situations where being alone felt awkward or wrong, where I was surrounded by a couple of groups.” “Don’t be scared [...] Death will always come to you as a friend” —----the birthday greetings to Angel reestablishes the framework of sapphic relationship through the reincarnated selfhood in the life-in-death as Kari’s acquaintanceship develops amidst looming deceasement.
Despair of a ruthless urban cosmopolitan dwelling is a decayed disfiguration except the boundless fluidity of the sea; a refuge of queer docks and beeches.
Amruta Patil’s queer gendered feminist graphic novel pictorial exposition illustrates self-exploratory adventure and fluidity of psychic spaces as the demeanour of ad-agency creative writer through heteroglossia and stream of consciousness. This experimental post-modern graphic novel resists and reprehends hypermasculinity and hegemonical heterogeneity through ink, marker, charcoal and oilbar, crayon and found images within-the-cross-over literary forms [...] the storylines/ diegesis/ mise-en-scene flows from voice over narrative style to visuals, then back to visuals again.
In this graphic novel the queer misfit heroine “trawls the drains dream after dream [and] can smell the sewers everywhere” recurrent image motif furthermore emphasizes and/or illustrates the “fluidity of her thoughts keep returning to the city’s lower intestines”. A dark cityscape having the back of Kari’s shadowy figure facing towards the readers and standing into the edge looking into the darkness of the overflooded canals with over-brimmed downpours. The serpentine space of herself ferrying the waterways as close-up shots of traveling, trawling and traversing magnifies the exploration of the self-hood and waxing and waning of her personal moons and/or the real and the imaginary.
The boatman mythical allusive subtexts interweaving in-betweenness of this earthy life and futuristic utopian reciprocates the assertion to Lazarus that “she had neither been an armchair straight, nor an armchair gay, except being an active loner.” She metaphorically espouses nothing but Ruth by her non-committal tagline to lesbianism and lushness of the peach epitomizes the fleshiness of feminine corporeality —the vagina. Grey-scale image of the panel
represents morbidity and mundanity while the colourfulness contrasts panel wit-in Smog City that offshoots epiphanic moment, reflecting subjectivity and interiority heralding the mainstream satirical gazes and alternative interpretative voices. After all, “there is no thing as a straight woman” herein, interiority as a narrative tool enables visualization of the subversive gaze of the female protagonist offering resistance to the symbolic gaze of the male order and masculinist modes of seeing.
Magic realism in the metaphorical depiction in the parting farewell of cutting romantic cords recaptures imagination and visualizes transcendental nostalgia, memory and longing through non-containment.”My time is up, boatman. I need you to ferry me over” the rhetoric of Angel is counterfeited by Kari’s unfathomable infinity that “Don’t be scared, death will always come to you as a friend”.
Amruta Patil's Kari is available here.
Haven of Hearts
In the tapestry of life, one thread stands apart,
Woven with love, stitched deep in the heart.
A circle unbroken, a bond ever true,
Family, the essence of me and of you.
Through laughter and tears, in moments of grace,
We find our sanctuary, our sacred place.
In the warmth of an embrace, the touch of a hand,
We discover the strength to bravely stand.
In the whispers of wisdom from those who have known,
The stories and secrets, the seeds we have sown.
From the cradle of birth to the twilight of days,
Family guides us in myriad ways.
A mother’s gentle smile, a father’s steady gaze,
The comfort of siblings in childhood’s haze.
Grandparents’ tales of times long gone,
Echoes of heritage, forever drawn.
Through trials and triumphs, through joy and despair,
In the arms of family, we are always aware.
That no matter the distance, no matter the strife,
Family is the compass, the anchor of life.
So here’s to the moments, both big and small,
The gatherings, the partings, the echoes that call.
To the love that is endless, the ties that bind,
Family, the haven of heart and mind.
Aminova Zebiniso Habibullo qizi was born on April 29, 2005, in the Gʻijduvon district of Buxoro region.
THE GARDEN OF LOVE
In the garden of love, an orchid blooms
Amid the scent of jasmine, a rose smiles,
While the sea quietly sings with its waves,
Swans dance, and the heart finds solace.
Seagulls soar high above the sea,
In white attire, you stand quietly alone,
Your smile brings me hope and longing,
Through the desert we go,
I wish to give you my love.
Heavenly horses gallop at night,
In our dreams, love lives,
I feel your touch from afar, whenever I wish.
With you, I would go anytime, anywhere,
Our world is a garden of love, stretching endlessly,
Where the desert rose blooms,
I've come to you with my soul.
Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle".
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.
New Uzbekistan
Every corner of my country
It is blooming
Changes are in full swing
The eyes are happy
The head of our country is the head
Support us
Change at every step
It will surprise you.
My country is rich in history
Every corner is sacred,
To such a great country
Many people like it.
Of great scholars
We are young people,
First at every step
Shakhdam takes steps.
This is my country in the world
There is no comparison, there is no equal,
Everywhere is rich in history
There are many holy places.
Sometimes this language is weak
One look is not enough
I will describe it again
I won't run out of words.
Mamadaliyeva Aziza is the daughter of Dilshodbek.
She was born on October 19, 2006 in the city of Chust, Namangan region. Her first book "Joy of Youth" was published in 2021. Aziza is very interested in reading books along with writing poems. She is the district and regional prize winner of the "Young Reader" competition. A number of his poems are published in district and regional newspapers. Aziza Namangan has delighted many fans with her poems on television.
A VISIT BY MY INNER CHILD
A child, in his innocence, whispers hope into my broken soul.
She said: trust the dreams long held onto, your dreams would soar, someday.
Thanks to the sense of joy and possibility felt as a child whose hope rises like the light of dawn though adulthood is a journey riddled with challenges and responsibilities.
Now, my inner child reminds me again and again of the magic that exists within me. It tells me to connect with my curious self and recapture that innocence that believes the sky is a touch from my finger.
I now know how to let go of my worries and bury my fears deep beneath.
I ride on the wind of courage and trust the light in me that buries the shadow of the darkness.
Today, hear me:
I have mastered visiting the whispers of my inner child as she reminds me that hope is a tray serving juice to forlorn dreams. Hope awakens my dreams and can do so for you.
Kande Danjuma
(Kdy)
Big Pharma Magic (Come Find Me)
I’m getting better just taking precautions.
Yes chickenpox covered my elementary body
raised spots inflammations I scratched
like hell & freed me from a classroom
for almost two weeks but now threaten
to reemerge since my years pass seventy;
hit me up with the shingles vaccine as I
diagnose health equipping myself with antidotes. .
Like today’s youth, I fell victim to an ADHD misdiagnosis
believed pharmaceutical product oracles that encouraged
overweight people to eat, dance and sing Jardiance jingles
pay a big pharma pipers to manage our personal A1C
sidestepping a professional cardiometabolic disease prognosis.
My breathing difficulty had nothing to do
with decades inhaling pot & tobacco smoke
no, no…, faceless voices convinced me
my malady’s simple: I’ve got COPD now I
respire steroids nursing seizures and sore throats
focusing attention on my impending Crohn’s disease
treating it and moderate ulcerative colitis with Entyvio
TNF-a inhibitors damaging my liver leaving plenty to rot.
An armchair pharmacologist I am one, tis true, tis true!
I write lists of disorders related to suggestive syndromes
while family and friends do crossword puzzles, turn off
television ads, and engage in gracious conversation
oblivious to my world of perceived ailments’ simple cures.
Apart from uncontrollable nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting,
Otezla surely medicates my dormant plaque psoriasis
Rexulti wards off all undetected hypertension
keeps my lurking dementia at arm’s length
as Austedo XR tempers quiescent body spasms
stabilizes my moodiness mutes self-expression
mitigates behavioral outbursts though it promotes
suicidal thoughts, suicidal attempts, and depression.
I’m a wanna be apothecary. A chemical herbalist. Solemn,
Learned. Impressionable. Stern. Yet if I glimpse beyond
prescriptive magic, daylight’s dismal night time’s bleak
so I refill miracle Dosette boxes swallow pills like sacred hosts
still, I’m in pain. I’m so far gone. I’m living dose to dose.
********************************************************************************
Among Clouds
Savants claim everything begins with a dream
whether riding on horseback or dancing
en pointe, wearing holes in living room rugs
as you practice arabesques and pirouettes;
I envisaged your face grinning as I approached
your house for a visit, an expression
that broke into a genuine smile as you
opened the door and invited me in; as long as I
stayed, your eyes, cheeks, and mouth moved
in unison like the sweeping arm of a clock.
Nighttime and waking hour fantasies remained
hidden too often; I hungered for authentic emotions
to shift from my mind’s eye, evade sky castle
realty, make way for enduring meaning concealed
behind your mischievous yet incomparable glow
as inviting and reassuring as a flirtatious wink
when you grasped my hand and pulled me inside,
knowing our romantic growth’s a pipedream stifled;
once effortlessly conjured, I’ve forgotten your face
a dreamscape terminated among clouds with a whimper.
********************************************************************************
Midwestern Strip
Pick-up trucks line city streets
like zebra striped parking lot aisles
polished chrome bumpers
refract antediluvian light rays
dirt-covered windows absorb
silvery beams down main streets
where saloons outnumber markets, schools,
theatres, restaurants, and medical centers;
taverns attract residents like watering holes…
there they’d congregate to drink, dance, and argue
blaming climate change on mother nature, poverty
on laziness, mass shootings on unarmed liberals.
********************************************************************************
Kaijū Redux
Remembering Elji Tsuburaya and Ishirō Honda
Heatwave & harvests, August’s end
weary straining leaves, neglecting chlorine
maintenance, bacteria bred in a plastic vessel
we once scrubbed to eliminate slimy walls
yet allowed toes to dig into a peatmoss padded
visqueen bottom rather than slip on a scummy bottom
above its softened footing. (Thanks Uncle Conrad);
we emptied our round swim center down the driveway
left a half inch stagnating in the pool expecting swift
evaporation during sizzling sunny days & muggy Leo nights;
Debbie noticed movement beneath the moisture first;
as mosquito larvae wiggled & squirmed below
we scooped fetid water in dixie cups that cradled
maggot-like creatures for captive study;
examining malaria carrier progeny under my microscope,
we recognized how yōkai and nature’s grotesques inspired
Japanese sci-fi sensei as they created irradiated monsters:
Godzilla to Rodan, King Ghidorah to Gigan,
Hedorah to Megalon, their eyes evil, jaws spiked;
twisted frames and geometric writhing brought
backyard Kaiju to life—a feat we proudly cultivated.
********************************************************************************
Panoramic Platform
New York City’s MTA thrives
cold rolled iron tracks
wake as the
Hudson
Rail
Yards
absorb
crimson light
amber hues fill skies
as Dawn’s rays glance off glass towers
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Sterling Warner’s Brief BiographyAn award-winning author, poet, and former Evergreen Valley College English Professor, Sterling Warner’s works have appeared many literary magazines, journals, and anthologies including Lothlórien Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, and Sparks of Calliope. Warner’s collections of poetry/fiction include Rags and Feathers, Without Wheels, ShadowCat, Edges, Memento Mori: A Chapbook Redux, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light: Pandemic Poetry & Fiction 2019-2022, Halcyon Days: Collected Fibonacci, Abraxas: Poems (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories. Presently, Warner writes, hosts/participates in “virtual” poetry readings, turns wood, and enjoys retirement in Washington.
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Flowers
A splash of color in the green,
A silent whisper, life unseen,
A delicate dance, a gentle sway,
A bloom unfurls, a brand new day.
From bud to blossom, a wondrous show,
A symphony of petals, soft as snow,
A fragrant sigh, a sweet perfume,
A vibrant canvas, chasing gloom.
They stand in fields, a joyful throng,
Or grace a vase, where they belong,
A silent message, heartfelt and true,
A beauty shared, for me and you.
For in their presence, we find release,
A moment's peace, a heart's increase,
A reminder bright, that life's a gift,
A flower's bloom, a gentle swift.
Turdaliyeva Muxarram Baxromjon qizi was born in 2008 in Namangan, Uzbekistan. Now she is 16 years old. She can speak fluently in English, Russian and Korean.
