From Sex to Super-consciousness 

(Musings of an anonymous MAN on sex, spirituality and everything else in between)

As I am wasting my monotonous days, reminiscences began creeping in of those sex-full days of wondrous, wanton lust, languidly fueling up my torn-up moods of boredom with something magical. And I allowed these emotions to distressingly float along the milky way of guilt and joy, dreads and dreams, being and becoming, and the suppressions and exuberance of an immaturely coming of age man in the city of never-ending little circles.

It combines everything together in a banquet of marvelous delight. I remember my love for that cheeky, whore-like colleague, one with brown black hair, a white-like face, and not-so-soft skin, for the pain of pushing, pulling, falling, digging, eating, and at the end, throwing something from my pocket and something for my horse-like thing—no wonder they call me a real hunter; I was always loaded on with my pestle those days, ready for a fire. Too cool, I thought, or perhaps just a fool.

I allowed my life to remain as an itchy despair.
I, the Hunter, as my colleagues have marked me, am a lone employee in the financial sector of the economy, working in little boxes in big buildings, counting and recounting huge cash with nothing in the hand, kind of analogy, here, eating and getting nothing wearing a leather cap. This kind of situation is so easy to put me off. I would shake and spring out life every night. 

For those days, I considered myself a sex seeker; I was a sex guru's imperfect disciple, but out of resentment, the gaze of “the other” fixed me as a hunter or for some a Billy goat. Yes, I was addicted in sex, but what does it mean for a man of twenty-four to have this addiction in comparison to those horribly ugly things that everybody watches without any disgust? No, I never abused, manipulated or harassed any one for my lust, it was all straight or nothing, all my passions were congenial partners or affordable professionals.

My habit of chasing fantasies began during my college days. They, with rugged cheeks and a bit of soft, tight tissues, all had to come down to this dull valley to make something out there to survive for their families. For happy buck goats like us, we were a pack of four back then. It was the days of abundance; they were everywhere and we were pushing, pulling, and throwing, and they were grabbing, blowing, dunking, and bucking. It was all white and blue. 

Anyway, it all started in a small wooden box. She had a soft smile. I put my hand all over her and then sucked from her nipple. It tasted awfully sweet. I was already high. I emptied my pocket and walked home alone.

In those days of thoughtless sex, I was there almost all the time, at the intersection of seven distinct turns inside the old house. 
Sometimes even the prostitutes found it hard to take my push; her juices were not enough.

After some time, my lousy friend arrived from Australia—wow, it was already down under—to find a young girl who would sleep with him for his foreign gate pass. The first thing I said to him was, Have you done it yet? He was perplexed. I still remember that docile rat running away from his horny girl when she wanted to kiss her. It's vivid, and I wanted to take him to my place, a new and recent one I have found near the holy place. Shiva X, and what next? 

They were ripe from the village and falling down in the valley with soft and sharp breasts; it was too good to miss. Again, what next? As the white explosions continued, I told my lucky-less friend to join me in my exuberance, but he was a bit too human, not half a kind of animal. I was sure that he had come back to Kathmandu to sharpen a dull pencil on a virgin cutter. He had a magical card to juice up any girl out there. That magical thing works for every middle-class girl? 
I can’t understand the black line of separation between middle-class young girls and my better-loved prostitutes; they both easily give up, don’t they? One for the money, two for a show, and three for a pass to fly away. All the same, I am not mistaken between a few thousand and a hard card.

My friend said, I am in search of a life partner to work with and sleep down under. I searched with the face of a sober hunter and found a young woman who was bright, glassy-eyed, restless, and tired of her stepmother and a confused father. I asked her, Are you interested in traveling to Australia? I was not surprised when I got her close, and she agreed. After a few cups of coffee, the deal was done; things will never be the same again.

However, I the hunter was not called for the marriage; I was not bothered, and can’t you see it? What an embarrassment it would be for them to find the presence of a hunter when both of them were thinking about goating each other. 

My friend slept with his wife, and that evening, without any disgust, I did the same with a girl in exchange for cash. It was relaxing.
After a while, a thought came rushing into my mind of that soft-skinned pale girl my friend was digging in all the while. What made her so lovely was that she was pretty and tall, like a slate pole. I wouldn’t reach for her hole; it seemed too tight and obstructed for me. Every time Prakash did something with her, it felt as if my spirit was being rapped through my asshole.

It was too much and too big for that girl, Sony, and my boy, Prakash. They traveled across the long lane to the filthy resorts to do that thing. Am I going to tell you more about Sony? Probably NO. Sony was among the girls I dropped for, but she was hunted down by my friend, and I would only say to myself that her grapes are tasteless and sour.

Still, I remember the day of her marriage; it was astrologically supported and arranged, and I even saw tears in her eyes. Her husband was dissimilar as my friend, but he was another kind of hunter; he was rich, round, dull, and bit of hairless in front. 
As I go through the news these days, I realize that sex has indeed become a bit too complicated and dangerous because people are too either curious or judgmental. It’s a looming disaster when sex ceases to become straight and spontaneous and begins as a point of abuse and bargain. What if you bump into a stranger who can trap you with lust and completely wreck you?

You may say I got away because I am not a celebrity; I was young and too fit, fine, smooth, and healthy, but I say to them I was an addict because without sex in that zone of quantity, I wouldn't have survived. I have never undermined a woman; even if I had bumped off a feminist, she would have never complained, because there were no tactics, tricks, abuse, false promises, or power involved; it was my nature; no betrayal. And thanks to my ocean guru I never turned into a suicidal man or a suppressed serial killer.

I don't know how I ended up in a marriage—from which side I don't know—but that was the day, around thirty-two, I realized the hunter also got hunted out and the Billy goat in me got castrated. I think to move out of sex addiction is something like moving up in the ladder of seven chakras, channeling that energy some more into the heart and head, and allowing those impulses to find their expressions on something else; there is no need to push or pull so much as these days, I paint, poet, music, focus more on math, and meditate; my guru would say take that leap from sex to super-consciousness.
 
Oh, my master, I have not touched it yet; I am hanging in between. But I have realized that in the cosmic scheme of things, a sage moon as he was, my master Rajneesh spoke that the urge for sex is an unconscious way of searching for your soul. Indeed, it gives a sense of transcendence to be with the mind, not obsessed with sex.

(Gaurav Ojha is a writer, researcher, and educator at different educational institutions.)

The Girl of Lugansk

Barefooted walking girl on the street
In prickly frost of morning hours
On icy slippery scald- head of the earth
With broken bloody knees.
Standing up and falling down,
Going alone nowhere.
Teared away from the world and herself.
Becoming more wicked.
Cold touching upon the bones
Of the kept silent victim.
Passers- by not finding any word.
Somebody tightly hiding the neck
Under fox collar,
Feeling sorry deep in the heart,
But not asking her anything.
Another one looks askance at the girl,
Expressing the contempt.
…O, Umpire judge!
Sometimes we can hang
The lock of indifference,
Not hear the dumb scream for help.
We are deaf, as caterpillars,
No demand from us,
And the conscience
Becoming blind,
The fire in the eyes is gone.



Nigar Nurulla Khalilova is a poet, novelist, translator from Azerbaijan, currently in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. She is a member of Azerbaijan Writers Union. She graduated from Azerbaijan Medical University and holds a Ph.D. 

ORIGIN OF THE QAQAN DYNASTY

Abstract: This article provides information on the importance of historical sources and the essence of the works of Kagan historiography in covering the history of the Kagan Khanate. The opinions of various authors of the source studies of the Kagan khanate on the factual information presented in the work are presented.

Key words: Kagan khanate, source, Fargona valley, "Muntakhab al-Tawarikh", "History of Shahruhi", "Tarihi Jadidayi Tashkent", "Tarihi Fargona", A. Fedchenko, V. Khanikov.

After the independence of Uzbekistan, the study of the history of the Uzbek statehood, the study of the history of the states that existed in our country from ancient times and the Middle Ages gained important scientific and political importance. It is one of the main tasks of all historians. As for the Khanate period, the history of the Khanate period is an important period in the history of Uzbek statehood.
Kagan Khanate, as a developed region in the 18th-19th centuries, has always attracted the attention of scientists. In general, many tourists entered Fargona Valley and recorded the available information about this area in their few works.

The history of the Fargona valley of the XVIII-XIX centuries is the legacy of many researchers. Depending on the time they lived and created, the sources can be conditionally divided into several periods: 1. Works of palace historians; 2. The works of local authors that reflect the history of the khanate; 3. travelogues and memories of Russian and European tourists, soldiers, ambassadors and merchants who visited the khanate during the XVIII-XIX centuries; 4. Archive documents.

The first "Qoqon scholars" are local historians who wrote works on the history and culture of Qoqon. These works are also considered important written sources because they were created using different sources, using the language of events and participants.

The history of the Kagan Khanate is organized primarily on the basis of primary sources, that is, historical works created in ancient times. Among such sources, the first work on the history of the Khanate of Qakhan is the work "Muntakhab al-Tawarikh" written by Khoja Muhammad Hakim Khan Tora Khaqandi. The author is a descendant of Makhdumi Azam, one of the representatives of the major sects in Central Asia. Hakim Khan Tora's father, Masum Khan Tora, was one of the most respected figures in the khanate, like his grandfathers. He married the daughter of Khan of Qakan Norbotabi and from this marriage Hakim Khan Tora was born (1221 Hijri). Masum Khan held the post of Shaykhulislam during the reign of Tora Olim Khan and Umar Khan, and was considered an advisor to the Khan in the palace.

One of the characteristic features of Muntakhab al-Tawarikh is that it contains original information not only about the Kagan Khanate, but also about the situation of Russia, Turkey, Iran and Iraq in the first half of the 19th century. such as cities, their inhabitants, trade relations in this city and the participation of Central Asian merchants in it. Tora sometimes does not give an objective assessment of Muhammad Alikhan's personality. According to SH. Vahidov, Hakimkhan Tora was one of the initiators of Amir Nasrullah's march to Kagan in 1842.

After the establishment of the Khanate, one of the valuable sources for us is "Tarikh Jadidai Tashkandi", written by Muhammad Salih Tashkandi. Muhammad Salih wrote "Tarikh Jadidai Tashkand" for 25 years. He wrote some parts in 1305 AH (1887-1888 AD). The author's manuscript of Muhammad Salih's work is a rare copy
The manuscript is stored in the treasury of the Institute of Oriental Studies named after Abu Raikhan Beruni of the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan under the number 7791. The copy copied from the manuscript of the same author in 1936 by the secretary Nabirohoja ibn Said Khoja in two covers (NN 11072, 11073) and copied by the hand of the researcher of this institute Abdulla Nasirov. copies (iiv.I 5732) also exist.

In addition to the lithographic copy of the work "Ibratul-khavoqin", which became famous in science under the name "History of Shahrukhi" or "Tarihi Shahrukhiya", one of the major historical sources, there are 12 copies. The description of these copies was not mentioned by T.K. Besembiev in a few research works and scientific research works and in his book.

The work "History of Fargona" is also one of the important sources in the study of the history of the Khanate of Kagan. The work was published in 1916 by the historian scholar Ishaq Khan Junaidullo ogli Ibrat. The work describes a great period from the rise of thousands to the conquest of the Khanate by the Russian Empire. Information about the military campaigns of each Khan of Qagan, socio-political situation, Qazgolans, the Russian invasion, its consequences and the largest cities of the Khanate is given. "History of Fargona" is a historical work of great importance for us. The work was published in Tashkent in 1991 in the "Heritage" series.

In the study of the history of the Khanate, historical documents, in other words, the works of Russian tourists, ambassadors and historians, play a key role. Most of such documents are now kept in state archives.

Most of the documents related to the history of the Khanate are from Turkestan and Russian scientists G. Potanin, D.N. Romansky, V. Khanikov, L.F. Kostenko, A. Maksheev, V. Belyaminov-Zernov, V.V. Grigorev, A.P. Khoroshkhin, N. Pantusov, A. Nurekin, N.O. Petrovsky, It is possible to mention the works of M.A. Terentev, A.F. Mindendorf, A. Fedchenko, A. Kun, V.V. Nalivkin. S.S. Soodanbekov, Yu.Lunyov, N.Terletsky, Scott S, Levay and other scientists whose works have been published abroad, Russian researchers D.V. Vasilev, V.V. Korneev, A.I. Dubinina from the scientists of near and far foreign countries have written about the political, social, economic and cultural aspects of the khanate in their works. who covered his life, his colonial period.

In conclusion, it can be said that there are many problems in the issues of Qakan source studies. In order to study and edit them, it is necessary to know the Persian-Tajik language well, to be aware of the science of using manuscripts. In addition, it is appropriate to use foundation documents, documents and information stored in the archives of Uzbekistan, Russia, Kazakhstan and Tajikistan in the deep and comprehensive study of the history and cultural life of the Kagan Khanate, ethno-cultural processes in it. Otherwise, new works and studies will continue to emerge based on the information provided by previous authors. In addition, the history of the Khanate of Kagan was widely covered in the works of various genres written in Eastern Turkestan in the beginning of the 19th and 20th centuries, as well as in the historiography of Bukhara and Khiva. It is necessary to study the history of the khanate in a holistic and comprehensive manner, involving these data in the research.

LITERATURE AND SOURCES USED:
R.Kh. Akbarov. "History of the Khanate of Kagan" Instructional manual. Fargona, 2015.
Shodmon Vahidov. "History writing in the Kagan Khanate". Tashkent Academy, 2010.
3. Ikramjon Kuzikulov "History of the Khanate of Kagan". Namangan publication, 2014.
4. Mirzo Olim Makhdum Khoji. History of Turkestan" Tashkent "New Century Generation" 2009.
5. Vahidov Shodmon Husenovich"" Development of historiography in the Kagan Khanate at the beginning of XIX-XX centuries"""""Tashkent-1998.
6. Niyaz Muhammad Khaqandi "Ibratul Khavaqin" Tashkent"""Turan zamin zia" 2014
7. Fargona State University. Kokan source studies and historiography. Fargona -2010.

Sin

The spring sun kissed my face hard, this strange situation reminded me of a person...
I'm sitting in a black dress. Life is busy with itself. With my thoughts... Could it be that bright star mother... Could it be that she sees me... All those who know me will treat me as a mother, sorry, I have only one mother! My mother... I spoke only yesterday, at night, on a dark day...

- My daughter, get up! "It's time for prayer," my grandfather said.
I jumped up and got ready to pray. The meaning of my school life. When a person is left without someone or something, he chooses one of two ways, only two ways... Either to show everyone who he is in a good way or to show who he is in a negative way! Since I am a Muslim, I chose the positive. But I never forgot anyone, not even for a second... I just got used to it... I got used to it... ...

Moon. The sun.
I am sitting like a light in the darkness. My eyes fill with tears and I try to break the dam. My tongue came to the word, and suddenly the sound of "ooonaaa" in my voice covered my room like a storm. The dam broke, and now bloody and bitter water began to flow from somewhere like a waterfall. This process encouraged the storm. They were also bucking me like a disobedient horse, and it was as if the third world war was starting in my heart. NO!!! At that moment, someone opened my door saying that I was going to leave. Dad... 

The storm made my dad's hair stand on end, I think, but he slowly approached me:
- Mom, what happened?
- Dad, why, God will take my mother, why?!?! After all... After all... ...
- Mother, don't let the devil be a guest in your heart! Zinhor!!! You know, Allah is the most merciful and kind in the universe. My God, give or take. Suygan takes from his servant... Gives confusing tests...

- Dad... ... ...
- My mother!..
The years have grown and I am very old, but I am fresh. My father, like my mother, entrusted me with his heart... But after that third world war, I did not cry even once! Because I realized that it is a sin to cry for those who gave their deposit.

Mulberry

Blackberries are my best friends.
I grew up by the stream,
I have pearls on my horns,
I am ready to eat the silkworm.

When I'm ripe, people'll look for me
They get very upset when I'm away.
I am very sweet, delicious, sweet,
I live a long time, I have a long life.

If you ask my name
I will tell you my name 
They say me sweet mulberry 
Now look forward to my ripe!

***
“Hello,” – the butterfly whispers quietly with the flapping of its wings,
The caterpillar moves its antenna in amazement.

“I was you,” – says the butterfly, – “
And I know what you are waiting for.
Your dream will come true very soon,
And you will fly into the sky, beautiful and pure."

That evening the caterpillar died, but the butterfly was never born.

***
The voracious phone is roaring loudly
Crocodiles of papers held together with a paper clip
Boss instructs to drink ink blots letters
Chitin grows on the back and computers glitch like rabbits
A piece of sandwich has dried up on my table
The head of the laboratory does not know that the work was paid for in blood
Another day when I have to report
Another day when I apply for a grant
Another day when I quarrel with environmental activists over laboratory rabbits
Another day I can't find a cure for cancer cells

***
the wind speaks
because someone knows how to listen
autumn gives birth to sensitivity

***
wife licks the spring wind
puddles of clouds cut in half

first part for death
second part for waiting for death

and the mirror is cracked
and the cracks are mirrorfull

the future is spreading over the sunday pan
the sun ripens like an apple
snakes twist like vines

the past burns out in the corner of the trash bin
cigarettes are the thing of the present
time flows off cheek like spit

birdsong awakens forgotten memories
lips trying to kiss silence
wife stealthily licks the spring wind

***
The noise that doesn't exist
Nobody came this time
As always

We have no choice but to let our shadows out into the street so that they knock on our door

Knocking on the door - sounds full of desperation
It is clear that there is no one there at the door
Obviously no one will come

***
black ridges of autumn
grow in the pupils of a bird
shot with a gun

***
The bread of black heads is getting stale
Someone is knocking on the door

The aluminum bird breaks all the hinges
Worms devour the remains of flesh

***
Let's pretend there's a blue sky overhead
Let's pretend that we live on a blue planet
Let's pretend that blue blood flows in the pipes
Let's watch the blue cats in the blue cemetery
Let's paint the blue people in the colors of the blue rainbow
Let's turn into blue butterflies on blue bushes
No words can convey the heavy blue sweat on the cheeks of the deceased

***
no one is born without a body
everyone is born without sin

weapons scream at the future dead
people don't fuck with strapons but kill each other with guns

man is a red triangle
the throat of the torn night itches with a ballistic rocket

***
night knocks on the back of the head and breaks the skull with a cast-iron finger
no one rises again
only the cemetery cries at the sight of flowers
flowers in turn dream of living without graves and mourning ribbons
and God's assistant presses the wrong button again

***
no one will crucify Jesus once again
because he will die

on the threshold of a silent tree
on the very first morning
of burning poverty

***
kitten in the red night sleeps motionless
abdominal dreams do not
bother the one who is not to be born

feline cat jesus went on vacation in order
to have a story

dead cat jesus went on vacation
to hang himself

***
the sky screams at the ant
because the ant is insanely small
and prays to the grass

grass is home
grass is glass
glass is a scar that will never heal

***
Dad came from the street and said that the air is red
Is it because the tulips are blooming? I asked my dad as I stumbled over my school bag.
That's why, dad replied.

I came to visit my dad with a bunch of flowers
I said to the grave photo: the air is green now
Is it because the tulips are blooming? - asked the father from the grave

For some reason I kept silent
A bird screamed on a lilac branch
It was still dark around
Morning still hasn't been invented

Reprint: The Wise owl

***
The loneliness of antiquity befell the cemetery
Butterflies played a symphony of heritage with their wings:

They were once in a cocoon
They once cocooned themselves
They were once their own parents

Flowers tickle themselves with playful wings
How much is the life of a butterfly if thanks to a butterfly spring comes and the cemetery lives again?

Reprint: The Wise owl

***
The sky is strangled without a noose
The word death is almost the same as the word deal
Who knows how to control death?
How competently does someone use their talent?
Body that belongs to Nobody

In the middle of the road, the body that was allowed to go to waste
Where does the unpronounceable road lead?
The gold of the red walls scratches the throat
Where does the path lead us along the night?
Black mother-of-pearl coffins underground
The wooden vision of a dead man blooms like a rose
Nobody knows what the word dead means
And overhead the black sky
And overhead the dawn of darkness

Reprint: The Wise owl

***
The child is looking for bruises
The child is looking for knees
The child is looking for legs
The child is looking for a torso
The child is looking for himself

A broken ladder rushes upwards

Reprint: Тriggerfish critical review

***
The weather forecast deceived
Tears instead of rain

Nobody is resurrected
Dahlias have blossomed

In every petal a breath of air
In every breath of air

God was called by his patronymic
Couldn’t imagine it as a feminine

They believed in God according to the national
Calling a patch of unfortunate land a state a country

Ripe apples in the garden
And tomato juice floated through the veins

In the spring, lips kiss
Because they can’t stand their ugliness

The weather forecast deceived
In the spring, bones come down on the grass

And nothing happens

Reprint: Тriggerfish critical review


***
belly torn in half by the birth of love
I'm leaving you kissing your leaving shadow

distance is the castle in which I placed myself
my love is your gift to me

you kiss in the dark with others and then fuck and I'm happy for you
you will forever remain unimaginably beautiful on the other side of the castle

I build distances so as not to harm you with my love
we say goodbye to each other like trains that never dare to approach each other

you will love and be able to make anyone happy
you can give anything but not to me

Reprint: Ouch!  


***
Three fingers crushed us with emptiness
A knot has wrapped the air around my neck
The alarm siren and explosion fatigue are drawn to the eyes

We fuck like corpses that will never be separated from each other again

Reprint: Ouch!  

ENDLESS LOVE

You are altogether a wonderful damsel
Like a shed of flowers over me
So much soothing and ecstatic
Like a rain of moonshine splendour.
So much full of lovely-look like butterflies.
Ever  charming like the songs of a cuckoo
Endless love and timeless beauty have embraced you.
Your sweet embrace is life-giving
And voice is like a boisterous brook.
That flows dancing and jumping on solid rock.
Life has become a miraculous beauty for you.
Your endless love has surround  me from all sides.
It has glorified my mind
And filled me with unforgettable memories.


RESURRECTION

The pangs and pain still vibrating the air.
The hilltop was tinged and soaked with blood.
The sun hid away in shame, not to face, the cruel act.
Thus the darkness descends swiftly
Although, it was mid-day, in fact
The barbarians never left him to nail down
In his foot, palm, heart and waste.

There was tremendous roaring of the wind
The wind could not bear the torturous work.
There was a cry all over nature.
The butchers finished their works
Took away the clothes even, leaving him
almost half-naked.
Jesus prayed to the Almighty to bless the sinners

After hours
Jesus again came back with golden colours
Blessed the miscreants who were no more.
He blessed  all, the depressed and deprived souls
Nature changed again.
There were scents of flowers and greenery all around 
Nature was filled   with fragrances sweet and soft
Zephyr began to blow
Few of the blessed saints could see the resurrection
of Jesus
Jesus blessed the whole of mankind.
And left for the heavenly abode.


SPRING

Oh, Spring
With an intermittent  symphony 
As the sweet spell of cuckoo comes
From the dense trees
I remember you.

At dawn, when the soft sunshine touches the earth with beauty so bare
I remember you.

When birds-flock fly in the sky with so much glee
Leaving the foot print of their chorus  in the wide sky
I remember you.

Often seeing the bees and butterflies
in the lush green bush at my
barn, I know, you have arrived with all your splendour and beauty.
I remember  you.

When I see the vernal beauty
With  so many flower- bunch hanging in the  creepers and trees 
And there is festival  of flowers  and hues.
I remember you

My heart  thrills  with  joy in your  presence,
I remember the Almighty  for  this beautiful arrangement  for his creation.


Thy Songs Divine

Something thrilled the whole being
The sky and earth resonated
With the sound of your flute moving from sphere to sphere.
Thousand years have passed 
Yet, the voice of your flute is still creating sensation beyond reason.
Enlivening  the hearts of zillions, with celestial joy and splendor.

Still, your memory is so vibrant everywhere in space
Even, the story of your love and the teaching of Gita on the battlefield
Propitiates the dry heart like charging again with beauty and ecstasy.
In the lane and bylanes  of cities and villages
The subtle vibration persists in the minds of the people
The story of celestial love is alive like a radiant ray.

Thy legacy, thy teaching, thy love
Is a symbol and shining elixir of life.
Thy vibration of the teaching of the Gita is still an aspiring flame in the heart of all the Yogis, seers and seekers
The flame of the message of the Gita is the shining sermon of the world. 
Everywhere thy voice is heard as sweet melody
of life, enlivening the whole world.
Thy sublime message is the elixir of life zillions in the world

In the desolate sands of Yamuna
On the wide roads of Mathura 
And under shady fragrant groves of Brindavan
In all the dusts of Gopa Pura
Everywhere is heard; thy voice, thy flute.
Oh Lord, your flute is the symphony everywhere.
As a symbol and sign
The whole vast space is  filled with verses of your love 
And your love for the  whole creation

Thousands of years have passed
Yet, zillions are moved by the love and  songs of the divine  
The enchanting chanting of the sermons of human life. 


Dr. Maheswar Das
-------------------------------
He is a bilingual poet, translator, editor, and story writer. He writes in English and in the Odia language.

He has been pursuing his creative writing for the last twenty years and has authored more than one thousand English poems. All of his poetical exposition centers around Nature, God, love, and relationships. Some of his poems have been translated into international languages. He has co-authored three English anthologies of poems with his two friends.  Besides he is the co-author of more than fifty English anthologies of poems of many literary groups.

He holds the degree of M.A. in both Economics and History. He has accomplished a Ph.D.  degree in sociology from Utkal University. He also holds a law degree from M.S. Law College, Cuttack. He hails from Mallipur in the district of Cuttack, Odisha, India.

His English poems have been published in several national and international journals and Anthologies and have gained worldwide appreciation. He has received so many accolades from various national and international literary groups. He is a recipient of the Gold Medal award from the World Union of Poets, Rome.

Sprout

As I looked at the corner of our yard, I visited the distant paths of my memory.
When I was still in middle school, my grandfather brought me a bunch of sprouts and books. He looked at me while he was planting the seedlings and handed me the books he brought and said:
- I’ll play with you. Surprised, I said:
-I don’t know how to plant seedlings, of course you will win. My grandfather laughed and said:

- I will plant the sapling, and you will read these books. If you finish reading the books before this sapling grows and blooms, you will win me.
- Who needs this game? I don’t read books. I ride Salih’s bike.
- Don’t ride your neighbor’s bike. If you beat me in the game, I will give you a new bike. I was so happy that I didn’t even know that I agreed to the game. My grandfather, who had not come from the yard, tended to the seedlings in the morning and in the evening, and watered them lovingly. I read a book without looking up. Months passed, months gave way to years. Today, while proudly holding my bachelor’s degree, I looked at the fragrant roses in the corner of the yard and the dusty bicycle that had not been ridden. If I count, it has been seven years since my grandfather left us…

Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina's «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.