I Do Wrong
I do wrong while going to draw a rose every time
Every time my absent mind flickers and falters
Back to the darkness
Swim on the bed
No sight of night queens
No scent of tuberoses
Touch my head or mind
Only in the vacuum I watch and fight
I do wrong every time, no chance of drawing my love bird
The light of the day sometimes covered with
The brown ashes of gunpowder
No greenery getting the pass
I'm standing here for long in chain
Can anybody come forward to free my chained condition?
Oh! The beauty I like most.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2022Riot
That started years and long years or decades ago
The insect never permits to bloom the flower
You can see no bud having any fruit
We live in such a place where we cultivate the land
But without any harvest back to home in silence
Not that the land is barren, watered or desert
Something unexpected always harms the crops
We frustrate and blame our fate
How should I go on such hungry life?
Life spoils the lives staggering on.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
30/12//2022
* Conclusion: Refreshment As A Means Of Merriment Or Merrimaking,Thus Food And Drinks Served By The Teachers Of *Medway International School* #MIS.
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Wheelchair
"Afia! My dear, why are you sitting in the dark room? Ayesha said while turning on the light in the room. "I love being in the dark, Mama!" Because this darkness hides my disability in itself.” Aafia said while turning her wheelchair towards Mama.
Mama, why am I like this? Why can't I run like other kids? I also want to play hide and seek like Raima, Ayeza, and Ahmar, ride a bicycle, play badminton like them. Aafia started crying about her disability while mentioning her brother and sisters. Ayesha quickly moved forward and hugged Aafia. Ayesha herself was saddened.
Twelve-year-old Aafia was the eldest daughter of Shahbaz and Ayesha. Aafia's parents were very happy when she was born. Allah Ta'ala blessed them with the happiness of children after five years of marriage. On Aafia's birth, sweets were distributed throughout the neighborhood. Aafia was the star of everyone's eyes in Dadhyal and Nanhyal. She used to walk around the house. When Aafia was two years old, she fell victim to the polio virus, due to which Aafia was destined to be disabled for life. Undoubtedly, it was a great test for Shahbaz and Ayesha. With the passage of time, Shahbaz and Ayesha had accepted the bitter reality that their beloved daughter Aafia could not walk again for the rest of her life, but Aafia was still unable to accept this fact. Aafia's uncle, who was a school teacher, started taking Aafia to school with her. In the beginning, Aafia was very excited to go to school, but gradually she started shying away from going to school. Now she used to try to skip school on some pretext.
"My dear daughter! If you don't go to school, how will you get an education? Ayesha said hugging Aafia.
"Mama!"
All the kids in school look at me strangely. Sometimes they make fun of me. Sometimes they copy me. No one wants to be friends with me because I can't run like them," Aafia said while crying.
"Hey! My daughter is very brave. Brave people face their circumstances bravely, they don't cry. The day you stop considering yourself disabled, people will also stop considering you disabled, and then every human being is tested by Allah Ta'ala. Allah Ta'ala wants to see whether His servant fulfills the test given by Him or not. Ignore the visible flaws and look for the hidden qualities within you. Then one day everyone's tongue will not mention your disability but your virtues," Aisha explained to her daughter.
Aafia also understood this very well. She had accepted the fact that this "wheelchair" was now a part of Aafia's life. Now Aafia not only started going to school regularly but also started participating in various academic and literary programs. He no longer cared about people's attitudes. Aafia had learned to be happy and contented. Day and night she started thanking Allah Almighty that Allah Almighty had blessed her with the ability to think and understand. He had given wisdom and consciousness. Aafia's painting won the first position in the International Painting competitions, and Aafia got a lot of recognition in the domestic and foreign media. Now everyone wanted to meet Aafia. Wanted to talk to him. Undoubtedly, the words of Aafia's mother had been proven true that one day there will be a day when people's tongues will mention Aafia's performance.
The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.
Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.
This month explores various forms of life and death, and how and when we pass through the veil or cross the famed Styx of Greek mythology. Our theme is quite appropriate for the solstice a week after this issue’s release, a time of natural passage from one season to another.
Natasha Leung explores the impermanence of seasons and sensations through a meditation on a burn from a candle. Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem celebrates the festivities of Christmas along with the opportunity for renewal presented by the new year.
Sophia Fastaia shows the sun and moon finding each other’s light in a joyful, childlike encounter.
Mary Croy voyages through the vastness of nebulae in space and also fields and meadows here on Earth. Channie Greenberg presents images of trees, a mashup of vista shots of the whole tree and closeups of a few branches or trunks.
Robert Stephens highlights the power of memory to contain a lush panoply of disparate scenes and to bring life to the dead. Norman J. Olson reflects on appreciating centuries of human history by traveling with his wife.
Lachlan McDougall sends us atmospheric moments of subtle natural or supernatural tension. Fernando Sorrentino crafts a compelling caricature of a man immobilized and slowly decimated by fear.
Ashley Mann’s pieces lament the artificiality of the culture that she sees as replacing whole natural foods and authentic human connection. J.J. Campbell reflects on the ways we anesthetize ourselves in an uncertain world: substances, eroticism, fantasy, perhaps even cynicism itself.
Marley Manalo-Landicho mentally dissects himself, wondering who he really is under the constructions of his ego and his physical body. John Culp’s poem describes the dissolution of ego to make way for loving connection with another person.
Vernon Frazer’s poetry pans out to the edge of human consciousness with a dizzying array of linked words. J.D. Nelson arranges words and syllables to evoke and distill meaning and thought in pieces specifically designed for our publication. Sayani Mukherjee draws on mythology, fantasy literature and nature to conjure a wild dream. Alan Catlin’s characters and settings teeter in and out of sanity, drawing on Ouija boards, psychedelics, fevers and outer space.
Jim Meirose’s surrealist piece draws on a children’s trope, with an anthropomorphized rat and mouse loose in the library, but then goes in a more adult and ludicrous direction. Daniel De Culla contributes his signature earthy humor to the issue, with a story of a gentleman’s bodily functions.
Beth Gulley renders ordinary life in short haiku-like poems, exploring weather, public swimming, and home repairs through wit and careful observation. Damon Hubbs sends up scenes of imaginative speculation and drama within domesticity, characters who stand out in pink earmuffs or flowing robes amid their daily environs.
Peter F. Crowley harnesses only slightly exaggerated humor to describe the end of dysfunctional relationships.
Z.I. Mahmud laments the tragedies of both Creon and Antigone in Sophocles’ famous play, highlighting the quixotic quests of each character for law and order or romantic or familial love.
Exploring family tragedy in a different way, Jaylan Salah probes the power of the calm, understated themes of loss and mortality in Satish and Santosh Babusenan’s new film The Husband, The Wife and Their Dead Sons.
Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem illustrates how war steals a society’s innocence as well as its people’s lives. Ahmad Al-Khatat’s dark piece also mourns wartime losses, so extensive the sun itself could lose its fire.
Alison Owings’ piece highlights the small and large hopes and dreams people have for a better world. Jeff Rasley looks to the work and lives of gifted but tortured writers and artists to explore how ordinary people might resonate and ultimately find their way to wholeness. Charley De Inspirator shares his journey towards spiritual healing and salvation through religious faith.
We hope that this issue represents a way forward for you, through curiosity, wonder, healing, dreams, connection, or transformation.
DreamBy Sayani Mukherjee
Fallen leaves ashen branches
Candy cream by nightswim high
Pinky promises candyfloss gardens
My beautiful headlines floor
Penguins swarm around
A lethe ward booking river
My mushroom floor
Icy clouds roadside shadows
Horses catching for the cherry blossoms swim
Newly renovated daydreaming gardens
Nothing to do with reality bites
For smacking paperflowers high
From the ceiling top
Little bunnies and Alice dream
Down the rabbit hole dream
For moonstone and ruins of paper work
My eyes fleck
Raining hard over the open skies
Purple hibiscus disc and tulle flowers
The nightstand of fallen leaves
Potential for the first time
Trying my Cinderella shoe.
On their after work Thursday TGIT happy hour (Friday was too crowded to bother), Ginny and Tina sat at their regular places in the Fiasco and conjured their regular theme: perfect lives. The Fiasco reigned as their perfect bar, and for several reasons. The barstools had backs. The peanuts were free. The bartender, Maribel, was strong.
She began working the Fiasco’s happy hour shift almost the same week Ginny and Tina showed up on their search for a perfect bar, two years earlier. Now, without being asked, she brought their usual first drinks, Bloody Mary for Ginny, club soda for Tina.
“Priming the pump,” said Tina every time.
By their second sip, the two friends started on what Tina called their “topic de jour,” a specific category that would contribute to perfect lives. This week was Ginny’s choice. “High end motels,” she announced. Or better than ones she had experienced, she added. “Where the fitted sheet, you know, the bottom one….”
“I know the fitted sheet goes on the bottom,” interrupted Tina, getting ready for her stronger order.
“… where management ordered the right size, not too small, so a top corner doesn’t creep off the mattress in the middle of the night and whack you in the mouth.”
“Once,” said Tina, “I encountered someone’s sock.”
“Ewww,” they said in unison, drawing the attention of Maribel, who walked over and put out a second bowl of salted peanuts. “The theme tonight is perfect what?”
“Motels,” said Ginny.
Maribel, nodding, leaned on the bar briefly, stretching her Achilles tendons, first her left, then right “What’s with fluorescent lights by the bed?” she asked. “I’m all for lowering my carbon footprint, but can anything make you look uglier?”
The two women shook their heads.
“My least favorite kind of motel,” said Tina, “has the outside hallway by your door and the window, the only window, next to it. So if you open the crappy curtains an inch, anyone can see in.”
Ginny announced, “Perfect motels have windows, plural, overlooking a real view. That is,” she added with some passion, “a window that opens.”
“Bliss,” said Tina. “Bel, when you get a chance? Bloody M now for moi?”
Tina was using bliss often these days, thought Ginny, rattling her ice cubes in irritation and watching the drink disintegrate into an unattractive color. A perfect world would have Bloody Marys made with frozen tomato juice cubes.
As Maribel prepared Tina’s drink, Ginny whispered, “We could ask Bel about her new tattoo, back of her neck, looks like. But that would be off topic.”
“Agreed,” whispered Tina. “And would a perfect world have tattoos?”
Maribel returned. Placing Tina’s Bloody Mary down, she said, “How about, if the motel advertises `continental breakfast,’ it’s not the phony kind.”
“Fake orange juice, bleh,” said Maribel, “Brown liquid labeled coffee.”
Ginny, wishing to escape the imperfect for her weekly dose of perfection, spoke up. “The perfect motel, let’s even say hotel, has fresh squeezed o.j., real coffee, and a great carb whatever. Not one of those pop tart things.”
“Under duress,” asserted Tina, boldly, “They do the trick.” She returned to her drink. “Actually, this motel one is even more challenging than last week’s.”
Ginny winced, remembering. A perfect world meant that the things you pick at get better. “I liked the one a month ago,” she said. “Non-medical behavior by doctors in a perfect world.”
Tina swirled her drink briskly, quoting the clincher. “Doctors who do not pat us on the head.”
“If only,” said Ginny. “Like employers who don’t make you feel all affirmative actiony.”
“Amen.”
“Affirmative actiony. Cool phrase,” said Maribel smiling, as she moved off to open someone a beer.
By the time Tina finished her second happy hour Bloody Mary, a virgin for Ginny on round two, and Tina paid and tipped their agreed upon 50 percent, for it was her turn, the two friends had conjured a perfect world’s motel. Its wide entrance door opened automatically, real plants, even if they were ficus, lived in the lobby a perfect continental breakfast was available as room service, the room’s carpets were not too dense and very clean, the bathroom, like the room, had a wide door and lots of space. Good soaps were provided and the motel’s notepads had more than two pages left on them.
The fractionated piece of a perfect world complete, Ginny and Tina clinked their empty glasses in accord, and said, “Done!”
At the familiar signal, Maribel excused herself from other customers, came around the bar, and unfolded both women’s wheelchairs. With practiced motions, she helped Ginny and Tina descend from their stools and land upright, as earlier she had helped them ascend.
“Thanks, doll,” they chorused.
“Decided next week’s topic?” she asked, leaning down to adjust their footrests.
“You give us one, Bel,” said Ginny.
“How about,” said Maribel dreamily, standing back up, “in a perfect world men have a sense of humor about themselves?”
“Be still my heart,” shrieked Tina, as she rolled toward the door, which opened automatically, another positive feature of the Fiasco.
Ginny shook her head, hearing echoes of Be still my heart, I hate when that happens, Bliss, Tell me about it. Tina also had taken to saying, “It is what it is.” In a perfect world, thought Ginny, people would invent their own expressions. ###
The Husband, The Wife, and Their Two Dead Sons Review Satish and Santosh Babusenans’ Winter of Discontent
The world of Santosh and Satish Babusenans’ cinema lures me in. Their lush cinematography, toned-down visuals, and deep philosophical undertones make their films a train of thought for the soul. Their newest film, “The Husband, The Wife, and Their Two Dead Sons” uses scenery resembling Korean and Japanese cinema masters of manipulating time. Asian cinema is a breed of its own, leaving spaces for breathing between shots, and allowing characters to grow through a scripted dialogue that feels rich and compressed. The Babusenans always create a sense of presence in their films. They are not concerned with the past or the future but with what is in front of the camera.
Time is an integral part of the Babusenan brothers’ cinema. Events stretch and extend, shots are long, and cameras are left rolling and absorbing whatever events are happening onscreen.
Kaladharan Sika is no doubt the Babusenan Brothers’ muse and inspiration. These two use him for the essence of what their cinema wants to say; wisdom, philosophy, the passage of time, sickness, and death.
Ever since the first film I saw by Satish and Santosh Babusenan, I’ve known them to be explorers of major themes and complex topics through the lives of simple people. Through a dissection of the day-to-day Indians going on with their lives, intertwining and mingling through various explorations of sexuality, existentialism, mortality, and morbidity.
Death in the Babusenan world is neither created nor destroyed. It is not a challenge to be conquered nor a feast to be celebrated, but like many Eastern Asian philosophies and religions, it is present as a parallel to life. They coexist in harmony and lead others through and through. Talking to dead people, accepting death, or questioning it does not seem like a part of a gigantic Western epic but more of a natural part of the course of life. That is what Narendran does with his dead sons. A conversation is still a conversation. The fact that half of it is in the land of the living and the other is not part of this world doesn’t change a thing. There’s no eeriness or creepiness in the mood. Death is just there and so are life, sexuality, birth, and mythology.
In this mystical tale of spirituality and modality, Narendran is a man who has come to terms with Death. Like Bergman’s “The Seventh Seal”, Narendran plays board games with Death, and has existentialist conversations with the Grim Reaper, as represented by his two late sons. He seems to have solved the ultimate dilemma of life. He made peace with the ones who left and the aftereffect of loss and grief. But even as Narendran’s world harmoniously unravels the equation of death, his morality, philosophy of life, dreams, and aspirations are challenged as he faces the epitome of challenges, a death beyond his capacity for acceptance, a void more prominent than his burden to bear.
Satish and Santosh Babusenan dissect Indian society, touching on heavier stuff such as familial ties, financial struggles, and patriarchy. Absent fathers who traveled to secure a better life for their children who -in turn- were not appreciative or celebratory of their parents’ decisions. Mostly the Babusenan brothers rely on familiar worlds, familiar territories, and faces. Their heroes and muses are usually the same, their stories doused in the local flair. The Babusenan brothers do not fear voicing their passion or dissatisfaction with the world. Their characters are highly opinionated, expressive, and thoughtful. Their films reflect deep thinking and a technique that relies on realism and minimalism. Conversations in “The Husband, The Wife, and Their Two Dead Sons” are crucial to the plot dynamics and they are left unscathed, unedited. Richard Linklater script types where people’s dynamics are at the narrative’s core while heavier Bergman philosophical questions immersed in French realism are in control of the stylistic aspects of the films.
Ever since their first film, “The Painted House,” the Babusenans have been asking questions they seek answers to along with the viewers. But as their filmography progressed they stopped inquiring and became more introspective, more intrinsic in their quest to decipher the big mystery of the world. Their fiery spirit might not have died, nor has their fights with artistic oppression, but their nature has become more docile and forgiving, their technique more confident.
A different color palette dominates throughout the film, from shades of dark blues to orange hues, greens of the outdoors, and open spaces to dark shadows as Narendran faces his deepest fears and existential wonder. Forced into a corner when his wife’s death looms on the horizon, Narendran confronts his faith and the so-called harmony he has made with Death.
“The Husband, The Wife, and Their Two Dead Sons” is a movie for all the senses. This movie demands feelings and empathy. It projects its themes through a lens of humanity and understanding. Characters are going through crises of faith, certainty, and disillusionment, replicating their feelings through a series of events and sequences well crafted by the Babusenan brothers.
In a particular scene, an unseen character is quoted as asking one of the dead sons, “Do all poets love to be sad?” This question got me thinking about what defines the Babusenan brothers’ films. Is it melancholy? The eerie inevitable feeling of finite possibilities and endings to a life rattled with questions and accusations. Is it the monotony of rotating time or the familiarity of actors’ faces interloping from one film to the other? But I realized that it was all of the above. Against all odds, fighting a systemized global opposition to alternative art and artists, the Babusenan brothers carved their names as veteran filmmakers and authentic creatives. From their hearts and minds came a series of films that map out a world so intricate in its simplicity. For viewers from different parts of the world, the Babusenan brothers will stand out as proud artists who have refused to mold into more approachable moviemakers and auteurs, and for that alone, still they rise!
– *5th Anniversary* & *1st Major Graduation*.
