Influence of Indian Classics on World Literature

Dedicated and acknowledged to the memory of June whom I love endlessly and the repertoire of my dearest and fond mummy…

Brief Biography of the Author: Formerly Undergrad freshman English Literature Major hailing from department of English and Humanities (ENH) at Brac University. Presently of latest accord, Z I Mahmud is a fullbright Indian Council For Cultural Relations (ICCR) scholarship fellow Suborno Jayanti Scheme achiever-awardee and UG aspirant of University of Delhi’s Department of English. Z I Mahmud exalts in the glories of glamorous explorations with glowing sparks of somber sobriety lingerings in stirrings of literary criticism, literary theory and genres of narrative. 

Readers are heartily welcome in cordiality to intimate in correspondence through email: zi.mahmud@g.bracu.ac.bd   



A literary analytical essay and criticism of the postmodernist era in Indian Bengali Prose
 

The Indian Bengali prose writers and authors particularly postmodern novelists have embraced the Indian subcontinent with literature characterized by narrative techniques such as fragmentation, paradox, unreliable narrators, often unrealistic and downright impossible plots, games, parody, paranoia, dark humor and authorial self reference. Well, the purpose of the essay is to reflect the extraordinary chronicle… A tribute to the writer’s zealous and enthusiastic spirit that refuses to give up; to family love that persists in the face of desertedness, repeated depression, dismay and denial. 

A triumph… Here portrayal and foster of parental relationship with children and children’s attitude and behavior towards parents reflect to the audience that can reach across a nation’s mistakes, and offer forgiveness…. An amazing story by the distinguished novelist Chanakya Sen, whose spirit and creativity belie the unimaginably struggling and enticing endeavours in his life. “Putro Pitake” is a gift of understanding….A compelling story revealing the incarnation of love and peace and sharing of shame and pain so that others will do the same, and so awaken to themselves through exchanging letters.

What is remarkable and enlightening is how the contemporary biographical sketch in the novel describes the attachment of parenthood and children duties. The writer procrastinates in the prefatory note amidst the novel the contemporary world’s young minds blooming attempts to their fathers. In the ever changing and rapid time, fathers are failing to approve and understand their children; while the children have stepped into the perilous extinction of family connection and relationship. Thus the novelist takes an assignment while dwelling in New Delhi to prepare the manuscript of the adventurous and enchanting novel.

Today, dad, both you and I are aware of that fact that truth speaking persons are very much rare whose talks are very much limited. Confucius, declared, “it’s the duty of the children to abide by the commandments of their parents.” Even our religious scriptures denoted fathers as ‘heaven’, ‘religion’ and ‘divine or sacrilegious’; acclaimed international acknowledged establishment of empire from the ancient time.

Your struggles and endeavours are incomparable to us.. You guys have had accepted wholeheartedly and without rebellion; achieved peace and dreams.
We have questioned and despite alienating the protestations couldn’t reach further peaks. Why? Simply because you and we share a deep bond of love. We couldn’t accept your parenting; but without you our lives seem meaningless.

We understand the meaning of independence and sovereignty, would like to pursue; but failed since we aren’t truly independent and sovereign.
With those whom I have spent my four years of life are dwelling in North America. I have seen them in New York. Toronto. Having exchanging a discourse within three minutes they would proclaim crystal clear: My dad is a horrible man. I hate him. Or my mother…. Even the British people’s sons and daughters are the same with the same blasphemy attitude towards their parents. But we Indians wouldn’t ever dream of saying that I hate my parents.

I remember and feel nostalgic regarding the cigarette consumption incident that you had shared with me when I was a high school student reading in eighth standard. The writer intelligently creates dramatic colloquial linguistics in the tone and speeches hereby.

“Ketu, have you ever dreamed of eating cigarettes?”
I had said, “No.”
“Haven’t you tried a single one?”
“No.”
“Had you, isn’t it?”
“No, I dislike the smell of it.”
“If you feel interested, do tell me.”

You had thoughtfully expressed, “Sons start eating cigars secretly. They take cigars out of curiosity and many feel it as a privilege of bravado and heroism. They hide themselves while smoking because the elderly people forbid them. If you ever want to smoke, do tell and ask me. Do buy branded cigars from some good shops and share your experience of smoking.

I wanted to know when have you learnt the art of smoking.
At a very elderly stage. When I was a B.A. student, I had stick the hostel wallboard, smoking is restricted in this room. Then after finishing B.A. I had broken that ideology.

The characterization and twists in the plots delve the necessity of critical understanding as if some when some discourse and dialogues are being shared:
My study mate Ajitesh can be well in your remembrance. Last week he came from New York and visited me in Toronto; bringing with him few letters received from his father.

Sri Pranesh Kumar wrote, You have achieved education, visited abroad and having the thought of being free and independent; you’ve the full freedom and liberty of choice in your life. You aren’t understanding that this faith is very unrealistic and sinful. You are my blood and flesh; we both are equal and same but not different. The bond of family relationship should be maintained in the exactly same manner while I had the hereditary obedience towards my father; your grandfather having obedience towards your god-grandfather. 

Remember that you are the heir of Sitapur’s Dotto family; you cannot simply forget that and detach yourself from the roots. I have given you food, education, love while parenting; you have the similar duties and responsibilities towards me, as I had towards my father and my father had towards my grandfather.

Ajitesh didn’t visit his motherland since three years and he was determined not to visit this year as well and the father had taken that he would never see them for an entire life.
Ketu had been saying, “Why don’t you visit your family for once?”
“Digress, what would happen if I don’t visit?”
“You could’ve met everyone.”

“I feel reluctant to visit anyone?”…after few moments silence, “Except mother.”
“Fine, visit your mother then.”
‘Not only she has been my mother but she is my father’s wife, brothers and sisters and sister-in-laws and nephews and nieces’ mother.”

“Aren’t you going back to India?”
“What would happen if I don’t?”
“What’s the big deal in staying in America.”
“Nothing….. But I am surviving! I am having freedom and liberty in my lifestyle here.”

“What have you been doing?”
“I drink when I am thrilled. Spend nights with girlfriends. I am taking pods when I am feeling agitated.”
“However, homeland doesn’t suit all these things. I have to consume job named opium and drink poison called wife.”

“Annoying.”
“Why did you leave your native and settle here?”
“Means? Being granted a PhD certification at Columbia University. Didn’t they offer you a fellowship in PhD program?”
“Are you doing PhD?”
“Didn’t you quit?”
“You had joined marshal, isn’t it back home?”

“I had been suffering from that kind of a disease. While studying in Patna, I felt suddenly that the poor farmers' distress and dismay cannot be eradicated unless I take arms to change the recession India. Middle class Indians would never revolt; even the labourers wouldn’t because they are always in the dream of living a middle class lifestyle. I felt that the hungry and deprived farmers are capable of taking the weapons and becoming guerilla.”

We were having seminar at the English Department while suddenly the news of buildings and halls capturing by the students was spread. A girl named Rose Mary Walcot was reading the paper. Suddenly she had stopped reading and began screaming, “Crude establishments, fuck all the deans.” The class was being tutored by emeritus professorEugene Velnde. He picked all the books and gradually very swiftly moved away from the class. Many students began to gather at the Chemistry Building. I went straight to the dorm. If I had known you were there, I would definitely had had strolled the Chemistry building.

Here postmodernism has become part of our lives and entertainment concerning those words that made ourselves home with everyday language. The postmodernists are embracing disorder and taking playful approach.
“Mr. Gupto! I am Helen!”

Handshaking was over. Approaching ahead, Helen Dalton said, her husband was cooking steak, so she had to come alone, her husband is good cook though she attends most of the cooking sessions at home. Robert Dalton worked in a weapons factory and returns late evening. Helen Dalton is a nurse at the neighbourhood drug addiction rehabilitation so she visits patients homes to collect statistics over discussions. Within a second of time Mr. Gupto was enchanted and thought the woman to be mesmerizing as because of her friendly and amiable nature. The Daltons had three children: the elder girl completed 13 years named Elen, 11 years middle son George and the youngest 9 years aged Henry.

A banqueting meal scenery description highlights the incident among the family members including the paying guests couple Rostum (a Muslim) and Sumona(a Hindu)… Quoted….
“I said, School and college history lessons we had been taught that Muslims had deep fond for Hindu girls. Grabbing the girls and feeding them beef as a lesson.”

The temptation and lamentation topic touches the hearts and souls of the readers when the visitation of the Hippie Village scene can be visualized.
While I was a learner at Columbia University I often visited the Hippie Village in the dusk of the evenings. And had met and befriended a great number of these Hippies village friends and acquaintances.
Cycloidal light sand poster decorative small café restaurant few hippies were gossiping. I often went there. They sang, danced, ate pod, laughed, loved, slept while sleeping, when hungry would satisfy themselves with few pennies from their pockets whatever was available, consumed teas and coffees several times and often discussed the mysterious lifestyle of destiny; I felt intoxicated hearing those stories as if I have arrived in a far away world…NASA, Johnson, Nixon, Vietnam don’t have any connection. Similarly there is lack of unity among Columbia-Harvard, MIT-Princeton and Cornell scientists where several years after years Johnson empire and society are being established.

Especially in the 1960s the unconventional appearance, typically having long hair associated with a subculture involving a rejection of conventional values and the taking of hallucinogenic drugs. The author met his first lovely damsel and admirer here through the vivid and enticing description of the character Cathy.

“Cathy, meaning Katherine, looked opposite to Peter. Five feet five inch body and absolutely white as if bloodless. The head was full of golden hair waving her back. Two small deep eyes as if bluer than the autumn’s sky…. These lines denote personification and enlivening spirit of the writers beautiful imagery. Cathy’s hair is very whitish body reflects the golden hair waving her back as if uncommon beauty found in New York.

Contradictory and paradoxical statement shows as an exemplary one: “Robert Ashe belonged to the extremist wing of the Anti British Catholic Movement."
Prominent imprudent words and colloquial languages are abundantly used to entertain adult audiences and parents would decide whether to teach them sex education in the appropriate memorandum. “What’s the Bangla meaning of sex, dad?”

“…? I feel bad mouthed to utter that abusive word..I feel very much embarrassed. Men and women sex organs, the body’s hidden sexual organs, become the discussions in our homes and gatherings discourse. But these words are being used everyday not as Bangla but as English. We say, private parts, say penis, say breasts although know that these words have had some Bangla meanings as well as Sanskrit. Yeah, poet Joydeb and even before him epic poet Kali Das, thank goodness that they didn’t know English.

By enthralling spirit of the writer, the lyrical songs explain the philosophical Essay on Man which excited the writer saying that the followers of Pope belong to modern generation:
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flowery flood,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! Kindly giv’n,
That each may feel, the circle mark’d by Heav’n:
Who sees with equal eyes, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world,

The 18th century English Literature amazed the kindred spirit of the writer and inspired his fascination. I had spent innumerable evenings with English professor Santosh Vataya in her neat and tidy apartment; where she had the assistance of a domestic worker do attend the household chores; her personal library had a collection of more than 2000 books; a single sleeping bed was found in the bedroom; the drawing room had a simple sofa set; discolored, tattered and torn as if some cushion of animals observed as dead skin. We had discussions regarding 18thcentury English Literature, university politics, students social and cultural issues, criticism and rumors of different teachers; and sex; at first Ms. Vataya would simply used to be much diligent in speech, listen patiently and smile lucidly, but the topic of sex would make her face deepened and she felt restless. Gradually the hesitation and irritability disappeared and she had consented me to come closer to her silently; shared few talks personally and questions regarding sex had come to her mind too. She used to love a Kashmiri Brahmin, presently a government employee, their relationship was deep, she thought that he would marry her but he didn’t; instead he had married a Kashmiri virgin and Santosh Vataya felt desperate hesitation to embrace her beauty with uplifting spirit to entice loving admirers anymore.

Susan Ford wasn’t Elizabeth Barnstein, Emily Heart; she was only exceptionally Susan Ford. I discovered her while typing my thesis assignment for M.A. examinations. She had advertised in the Columbia University students oriented daily newspaper. Telephoning her one morning finally I came to visit her studio apartment downtown in New York.

While ringing the doorbell thrice she had opened the door. She just woke up wearing a sleeping robe.
Upon staring at me, she said with a drowsiness of hand, “Oh, you are that Indian boy whom was supposed to come this morning. Come get inside. Sit there and I am coming right away.

Susan went into the bathroom. Studio apartment offers a single room with drawing, bedding, cooking, dining, and everything. I looked and found scattered stuffs .. disorganized bed, there is a table at a corner with IBM typewriter, beside expensive music system: Fisher. Around the other corner of the room there is a piano and a great number of books were laid on the cover, most of them were art and photography. Around the third corner of the house there was a curtain wrapped in a steel framed a small dark room, Susan Ford must have printed and developed the photographs film there. The wall painting were of naked Picasso and three half naked damsels. Apart from these pictures there were many posters displaying contemporary antiwar rebellion’s different scenes and two of them were arts relating to women's liberty and feminism. The wall had contained daily, weekly, monthly newspapers and magazines articles extracts and essays. The worktable had accompanied a sofa set, which looks that in terms of necessity it can be changed into a bed; a love seat. Yesterday night’s fermented foods were laid down on the dining table and plate glasses were looking as if two persons had had dinner last night. Few yards from the dining table there was cooking gas stove and another few yards utensils; wash basin sink. There was a table lamp upon the working table, a table beside the sleeping bed. 

“Your English is very nice. American students don’t write these kind of language. They write strong and lengthy sentences. Many words but less meanings. You language is simple but meaningful.”
“Welcome. Within seven days I have to submit the thesis assignment.”
“If not, then?”
“Acquiring degree would be postponed for six months. To me such a length of time would seem terrible to me.”

Susan stared at the calendar very thoughtfully calculated with a pencil that was on the table.
Said, “You would deprive my sleep for seven nights.”
I said, “I absolutely don’t want that.”

“Okay. I never like reading thesis. Your thesis essays seem fond of reading. I would do it. But, one condition. You would visit me everyday in the evenings. You would sit here. Many questions would arise in my mind. Your English has got a little weakness. This happens to foreigners. If I phone you about the questions and commentaries then it would take a long time. You would stay with me everyday for 3 to 4 hours. I would handover everything on the 7th day.”

Susan Ford didn’t shoot President Johnson, she hadn’t the wisdom and courage to attempt firing someone and murdering; but Vietnam antiwar protesting rebellion encouraged her to protest boldly. Susan was injured and brusied four times by the police and suffered three times imprisonment because of her participation in the antiwar protesting rebellion. The rebellion’s pictures had been taken by none but Susan because professional photographers were lacking.During the Chicago democratic party convention among the hundreds of people Susan tremendously shouted with them together: “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!!”

After enjoying the concert we had been to a serene restaurant of the 57th Street. The bill made my eyes to stare frowning forehead! Susan said, “Can I share?” I hadn’t paid heed to her words. I handed the four ten dollars note opening the wallet to the waiter.
At 11:15 pm we had arrived at Susan’s apartment.

I said to Susan, “Would you make me a coffee?”
Susain questioned, “For how long would you stay?”
I declared, “The whole night.” As well as added, “If you have n objections.”
Susan laughed a victorious laugh and said, “Most Welcome.”
I phoned my home.
You had picked up the call, Dad.

I said, “Dad, I am staying with Susan in her apartment tonight.”
You paused for a while and said, “Okay.When would you come?”
“Tomorrow Morning.”
“Okay.”
You had dropped the phone. I dialed once again and again you had picked up the phone.

“Dad, are you understanding what I am saying?”
You said, “Tonight you aren’t returning. Coming tomorrow morning.”
I said, “I am going to sleep with Susan Ford tonight, dad.”

I walked with Susan holding her hand towards the Jewish neighborhood so that the features could be understood as well as Italian, Polish, Irish and Dutch traditions and culture. Where drugs can be bought, who are the pushers; how to recognize the adulterous people on the streets, how do they trap and bewitch the male; happenings inside the massage parlour, who attend massage, which art schools showcase naked women; what happens at the harlem at night; which restaurants are buzzed by New Yorkers writers as a place of gossip for the whole night, Susan roamed around and showed me. Susan took me to “Gay Party”, where it was gatherings of homosexual personalities males, and lesbian party, where, homosexual girls get together. Both classes of people were friends of Susan; with whom I have mixed and made crystal clear regarding the doubts of homosexuality. I learned to eat Pot with Susan. Learned to be crazy and intoxicated while drinking wine. I never had appetite for drinking, one day getting drunk, I had vomited hilariously in Susan’s apartment. Susan cleaned and washed the vomit with her own hands. Bathed me, fanned my head and laid me sleeping.

Susan dislike the fact of my stay in Toronto leaving New York.We had debate since past few days.She had taken me to be deserting her. She could realize the victory of Indian parents and the defeat of her America love. She couldn’t tolerate the defeat of losing to these parents.

Kill Burn Avenue’s community was created by Susan Ford with the view of ideology. The entire house had 18 rooms; 48 boys and girls shared a communion established by Susan. Nevertheless, I was a foreigner so the communion members were sharing their talks with me wholeheartedly. Many of them had faith upon me. But few of them didn’t like me at all; they disliked the fact of my interference in their matters.

Susan told impatiently: A herd of foreign astray people’s mingling would make up your day? Not doing any job, left studies, not drinking wine and sleeping with girls, not consuming drugs. What have you been doing then?

I became hurt and said: You are aware of what I have been doing.
Susan said, “I know, because of me you are suffering this condition. You were better as adorable son ideal of parents, you could have earned your PhD degree in Columbia University by now. But you have mingled with me….

Susan’s letters arrived for the communion and dearest sweetheart lover. Susan had settled in California near the Mexico border..
I said June, “Have you come from London?”
June said, “No. From Liverpool.”
Very sweet voice. Very clear pronunciation.
“Would you read here?”

June said, “No. I am attending at University of York.”
“Freshman?”
“Sophomore.”
“What’s your subject?”
“Philosophy.”

“Then you are in the team of Mailini. Two philosopher friends would rock together.”
Robert Simson was becoming my admiration. Not only he was a sculptor, but writes poetry as well. It was decided that next week he would visit my apartment in Toronto to recite his poetry.
I said, “If June wishes, do bring her along. I cannot cook like Malini but whatever I cook never becomes distasteful.”

During the farewell she said, “I would love to”
June was being invited to a date. June said, “Let us do some work instead of it. I love cooking. I would arrange a meal preparation soon. Do you love lamb roast?Don’t you? With potatoes, beans, carrots boiled. It would be finished within an hour. Then lets visit to the movie theater. Downtown is showcasing Baryman The Silence. I love watching it. What do you say?”

June wrapped herself in an apron and I had begun assisting her.
There had been unending talks and discourse relating June’s personal life and taste of culture. She had promised that the marriage should be held in Delhi as a wedding destination. To the analytical conclusion there seems to be convention of ironic self reference and absurdity the way of manifested farewell. Hereby June bloomed a brimming full moon’s smile and the author describes with imagery and personification: “Firefly!” June has learnt few Bengali and asked the meaning of the word, “Firefly”.

Dreaming Backward                                                                                      

I was someone else, a younger woman who was polite and shy.

I was on a family vacation except it was not my family

I was looking for a dentist but he had moved out and his office was empty.

I was a male student in a comics class, not paying attention, and was called on to explicate a new superhero comic.

I saw an old friend pass by me, quite close, intent on something else. She had aged and her hair was uncombed.

I was a character in a book, but I was also trying to write the book.

I climbed into a treehouse that was carved into a great tree.

I discovered that my boyfriend had spilled something so I wetted two paper towels to wipe it up -- the spill was a yellow-orange color, as if it had turmeric in it.

I was in my sister’s office and her bookcase tipped over and hit her in the back of her head.

I was visiting a billionaire on his immense yacht.

I was crossing a plaza and saw my cousin coming toward me. I realized I wasn’t wearing a mask when I saw that she wasn’t wearing a mask. But I was embarrassed to put mine on.

I was piloting a small submarine in a sea the color of lime jello with a few drops of yellow food coloring added.

I drove with a man who had a wooden car to a factory where we were going to have lunch in the employee cafeteria, but when we arrived there were dinosaurs in the parking lot.

I had to protect a baby – a real baby and a fake baby – from someone who wanted to steal it. There was some question of whether the fake baby was in fact also real.

I was rewriting the Lara Croft film I watched last night, thinking about whether it was likely that she would kill Gerard Butler, her lover.

I was at a beach and someone was swimming very far out.

 

Mary Grimm has had two books published, Left to Themselves (novel) and Stealing Time (story collection), and a number of flash pieces in places like Helen, The Citron Review, and Tiferet. Currently, she is working on a YA thriller. 

FYI: Synchronized Chaos Magazine will hold an in-person event the afternoon of New Year’s Eve in conjunction with the Third Space Gallery in Davis, CA. Exact address and time to be announced.

This event is a concert, art show, and literary reading with the theme of Metamorphosis. What has changed over the past few decades? What can we learn from people of different generations about how to hold onto wisdom from the past while transforming and adapting to a new, and hopefully better, world? So far participants include the Davis High School Activist Club, speakers from Bet Haverim’s Social Justice group, and musicians Joseph Menke, Avery Burke, and the Electric Turtlez.

This event will be a benefit for Sacramento Take Back the Night and the Revolutionary Association of Women in Afghanistan, (which you may support online here) both of which are grassroots and anti-imperialist organizations working for all people to be able to safely participate fully in the cultural lives of their communities. We encourage attendees to donate what they can to support either or both organizations and then come enjoy the show!

For updates and reminders, please sign up here on Facebook or Eventbrite.

Also, Abdullah Al-Mamun announces Bangladesh’s search for high school creative talent.

Welcome, readers, to mid-October’s issue of Synchronized Chaos. This time around we explore the power and pitfalls of contemplation and various ways of understanding our world.

Henry Bladon harnesses insomnia to pose meandering questions about our existence. Similarly, Celeste Alisse’s protagonist ponders life by literally staring at the wall.

Yahia Lababidi relates the psychological insights he gained through his desert journeys. Mesfakus Salahin writes of embracing the mystery and the wildness of nature. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam highlight our inescapable connection to the broader natural world through images of light, water, and death in their poetic collaboration.

Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu finds his romantic emotions reflected by the beauty of the moonlight. Mahbub writes of a dignified love with an elegant sunset for a backdrop.

R.W. Stephens‘ photography dwarfs human subjects beneath trees and sky. On a more human scale, Kathleen Denizard celebrates the solace she finds in gardening and Channie Greenberg presents lush images of fruits on her kitchen.

Tanvir Islam presents a paean to birds, while the hero of Syed Tabin Ahbab’s science fiction tale harnesses trees to produce oxygen, the bane of robots gone wrong.

Gaurav Ojha opines that the best way to understand ourselves is through mindfully understanding our relationships rather than withdrawing from them, by isolating ourselves in the wilderness or anywhere else. Z.I. Mahmud probes a humanist way of connecting with the natural world along with our own society in his academic piece on Rachel Carson and David Attenborough.

Fernando Sorrentino’s short story takes a humane perspective as well. He humorously dramatizes the effects of rapid privatization of social services, in this case, criminal justice and mental health care, on a honeymooning couple.

Jack Galmitz observes the details of his kitchen as he cooks a fish stew. Maid Corbic presents a thoughtful paean to Prague and to Austria’s cultural heritage. Chimezie Ihekuna continues his countdown to Christmas with two pieces in which lovers and families eagerly await the holiday.

Oona Haskovec wonders about memory through an imagined photo. What might we be doing now, or soon, that will become important in the future? Sherzod Komil Khalil reminds modern city dwellers how foreign their lives and vocabulary would seem to outsiders in his short story.

David Topper honors his artist father’s memory by making observations about his life from his last painting. Christopher Bernard contributes a more ambiguous tribute to both Queen Elizabeth and to the earth in the time of climate change.

Ridwanullah Solahudeen acknowledges that the gifts of nature and the divine come and go, in our unpredictable world. Md. Tanvir Hossain reminds us that even our own actions are to some extent out of our control, while Faroq Faisal writes of human frailty and mortality.

Chloe Schoenfeld illustrates the senselessness of real-life violence through the metaphor of mangled dramatic productions.

In her other two poetic collaborations, with James Young and Kimberly Kuchar, Christina Chin draws upon fall, death, and Halloween imagery, again reminding us of our inevitable journeys to the grave.

Babatimehin Asiwaju’s poem relates the psychological distress of a lonely man who has barely survived great trauma. Mobarak Saed’s piece is of a trapped soul’s quest for escape.

James Whitehead’s intellectual poems probe mortality, innocence, and the development of a person’s character.

J.J. Campbell returns with a mixture of psychological determination and resignation, while Adepoju Timileyin writes of prophecy and destiny, concepts which may sound exciting, but also convey a lack of control and choice over one’s own life.

Sayani Mukherjee’s piece regales us with its bold life force, triumphant over misunderstanding and ignorance. J.D. DeHart’s speakers declare their own intellectual identity in the face of the obvious and subtle dangers of everyday life, including the pressure to conform. J.K. Durick also writes of social contracts and conformity, of self-expression through traditional and sanctioned channels.

Md. Nurujjamman’s detective tale shows a crime solved by one brave, conscientious and observant person. Richard LeDue shares his personal dreams of transformation, of building a better world.

John Culp sends up Dickinsonian odes to laying fear to rest, while Patricia Walsh urges us not to overlook the power misfits and introverts have, whether for good or ill.

Sayani Mukherjee, in a second piece, takes solace in her poetry and in the passage of time.

Aisha MLabo shares her artistic inspiration and aspirations, while Jaylan Salah celebrates the eccentric genius of loner and film director Jim Jarmusch.

Jim Meirose’s writing takes an unusual approach, with a surrealist reflection on the pope fish, while Peter Cherches renders up writing prompts as “not quite stories.”

Alan Catlin gives poems of discovery: found poems from book titles and postcards. But also pieces of minimalism and loss, of the power and cruelty of cultural and aesthetic erasure.

Robert Fleming creates “mathematical” renditions of human relationships and Queen music, while Kenny Johannson presents a stained and typed manifesto as a work of art.

We hope the diverse artworks in this issue will inspire you to contemplate and create as well.

Not Quite Stories


1.	My name is Sampson. Chester Sampson. People call me Sampson.
	“But how did you know about me and Danvers?” the conniving little blond called back to me, as they were taking her away.
	“It wasn’t difficult, sweetheart,” I told her. “Considering.”

2.	Daisy hadn’t given him a second thought, yet there he was, on her doorstep, carrying a potted plant.
	“Remember me?” he asked.

3.	“Things was hard back then,” the old man told the visiting nurse. 
	The nurse, who hadn’t asked a question, didn’t bother to wonder when “back then” was.

4.	The brothers hadn’t seen each other in over 20 years. Identical twins, they’d had a falling out, and they lived far from each other, on opposite coasts. This particular day, Tom had gone to shop for khakis at the Banana Republic in the mall near his home. When he entered the store, all eyes turned to him. He wondered why. 
	Tim came out of the dressing room to look at himself in the full-length mirror, in his new khakis. As he looked into the mirror, Tim noticed Tom behind him, in the distance. 
	Tim wondered how the reunion would go, but to his relief, still staring into the mirror, he saw Tom turn around and leave the store. 

5.	My son-in-law found me in the kitchen, after my husband was gone. I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. He sat. 
	We sat together at the table, drinking coffee. Not another word passed between us.

6.	“It was after the war,” she told him.
	“So, all of a sudden everything changed?”
	“No,” she replied, “not all and not so sudden.”

7.	After weeks of indecision, Cora finally decided to call that number. She pulled the piece of paper out of her purse and made the call. When it connected at the other end, she was surprised to be greeted by one of those pre-recorded menus. The choices were very confusing. She relied upon her instincts to tell her which path to choose. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.

8.	“Mr. Thorndike will see you now,” the secretary told the man sitting on the blue-upholstered bentwood chair in the anteroom. The man’s palms had been sweating, and he’d been rubbing them along his slacks above the knees.
	The man got up and knocked on Thorndike’s door.
	“Come in,” Thorndike yelled, in a neutral tone of voice.
	The man went in.
	He never came out.

9.	He was driving. On the freeway. He looked up at the sign, above and ahead. Belford 20 miles, Grainger next exit. He got off at the next exit. 
	She’d just have to wait.

10.

Self-Realization

Gaurav Ojha

My quest towards understanding the concept of self-realization ran along circles of debates, discussions and doubts before I read the writing of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Before my encounters with the works of J. Krishnamurti, I also used to think of self-realization as a spiritual experience of the inner spirit or soul that culminated in the eternal spiritual quest of a seeker. And, as a free thinker with my non-theistic world-view, I was always a bit skeptical of all those ideas that relate self-realization with inner spiritual awakening.

However, J. Krishnamurti’s insights on self- realization emancipates the concept of self-realization from the narrow dimensions of significance it derives from religious dogmas, spiritual exercises, mystical experiences of spiritual seekers, and from spiritual masters, gurus, saints, sages and their esoteric interpretations.

With the radical insights from his works, I have come to realize that it is utter nonsense to think that one can know one’s self significantly, completely and fully, through isolation, exclusion, through regular practice of some kind of spiritual exercise and introspection in some solitary state away from all the hustles and bustles of life.

Similarly, it is not at all necessary to be a religious or a spiritual person, practice renunciation, give up your social life, live in caves and monasteries, and perform ascetic rituals regularly to comprehend the notion of self-realization.

To put it in the words of J. Krishnamurti, self-knowledge is a process, not an end in itself or a conclusion; and to know oneself, one must be aware of one’s actions and reactions in one’s relationships. Further, he argues that you discover yourself not in isolation, not in withdrawals, but in relationships: in your relationship with society, your wife, your brother, your mother, friends and family, and with other beings. Hence, self-realization is neither a spiritual achievement nor an isolated mystical experience; rather it’s an endless process of learning and re-learning where one becomes aware of one’s own self in relationship with others. Therefore, it’s nothing more than a self-illusion or ego-trip to transform your identity, take up a spiritual title and boast one-self as a self-realized person.

Besides, nothing exposes us wide open than our relationships. Our relationships provide us a mirror to observe our being along with its pretensions, denials, fantasies, inner torments, selfish desires and unconscious motives, inner insecurities and repressions by allowing us to see the projections of these hidden aspects of our inner lives in our relationships.

Hence, it’s our relationships, how we relate with our self and with others, and how we unveil our thoughts, emotions, actions and reactions in our dialogues and encounters with others that truly allows to us discover, acknowledge and understand ourselves better than any form of spiritual exercise, solitary meditation or religious escapism. 

Yes To Life

Gaurav Ojha

 Being a one-world and one-life person, I don’t like to think of my life as a rehearsal or a preparation for something better, behind or beyond this world that awaits me after I die. As a biological creature, I know, I am not going to be here forever. Hence, before death removes my character from this world, I want to play my part, become more conscious of this world and its exhilarating beauty, pursue knowledge, understand myself better and improve my character.

And, finally, when this brief drama of my life comes to its close, I wish to depart from the stage without leaving behind a sack full of burden, guilt or regret.

Human life is utterly transient. Hence, my life is only a brief spark in this vast universe, and soon the spark I am carrying will flutter and fade away. But as long as the spark lasts, I have promised myself to carry on with my passionate commitment to taste all the impulses of life in its utter recklessness.

I have come to realize that I am part of a universe that is utterly unpredictable and indifferent to human concerns; however, I can’t remain indifferent because for me my life, my search for knowledge and especially my relationships with other people really matter to me. Life has been unfair to me many times, and there are those usual days of languid confusions and vast sorrows, but I keep up with my constant solace knowing that the universe lives its life with me.

Moreover, human life is rather plotless. And, with all the tumbling experiences of life bubbling around us, we might feel that our human life is utterly meaningless without the presence of another world or an afterlife beyond this world. Similarly, we imagine a supernatural being that constructs and directs the narrative of our lives. And we also like to project unscientific, superstitious and meta-physical beliefs like destiny, laws of karma, sins of past-life, God’s will or grace, damnation and predestination to make meaning out of our lived experiences. 

However, our life only appears to be meaningless only if we consider the source of meaning to be outside of us. Whereas, our life is a continuous dichotomy of joy and sorrow, gain and loss, presence and absence, perfections and follies put together in a single package. Human life has poured itself out from this world, and it also passes away here. Hence, to live, enjoy and understand our human life authentically, without mere pretensions, prejudices and projections, we need that courage to say yes to life in all its shades and shadows and also embrace its utterly transient, random, unpredictable and contingent nature.

Waking Up

Gaurav Ojha

Many people are languidly happy with their religious beliefs, superstitions, hollow and insensitive rituals, hence it’s rather difficult and at times even dangerous to challenge and question their unscientific and irrational assumptions about human nature, human life on earth, laws of nature and about the mysterious universe. Therefore, I must confess, it’s not easy being a naturalist, humanist, free thinker, skeptic or non-religious in a culture context where many people take the concepts of spirituality, religious values, beliefs system, rituals, myths, astrology and the esoteric ideas like reincarnation, liberation and salvation for granted without ever doubting or making an inquiry over their validity.

Our universe is outside-less, and we human beings are finite creatures placed against a vast, infinite and mysterious universe.  I find it rather ridiculous to believe that we get thrown into the infinity of additional existence judged from our less than a century of human life we spent in this tiny speck of dust among millions of galaxies dancing in the sky. We human beings like to expand the briefness of human life with the concept of eternal life because we are still too afraid to confront our mortality. Without our fear of death and nothingness, it seems rather unconvincing to argue and believe that our finite human existence and its experiences, errors, memories, imaginations, actions and reactions, choices and decisions have those lingering impacts that last infinitely.

There is only this flux of life and nothing else apart from the sparkling sensations of being alive. I find myself living in an ever-changing world that is vibrant and alive. For those people who wait for eternal realms, heavens, Shangri-La, mystical worlds, paradise and other spiritual planets after their death, human existence may appear less meaningful to them than their ultimate destination. However, I recognize my death as my final destination. Hence, for me, the journey of my life is far more meaningful, exciting, vital and vibrant than my destination. 

As a finite being, I want to live my life with utmost care, joy, gratitude, creativity, courage and understanding, as I find little pieces of delights that keep on pouring out from the immediate experiences of my life. There is always music, dance and poetry in the organic rhythm of life. Whether it's paradoxical, complex, confusing, mysterious, painful, unknown or overwhelmingly beautiful, nothing can be as delightful as to wake up from the slumbers of our self-conscious delusions, to express our thoughtful love for actual life and to be alive, here and now.

At the first meeting of a fiction workshop
with Lydia Davis, one of the students asked her if
she believed a short story could consist of three
sentences or fewer.  Lydia said, “Yes, I do.” He
nodded, stood up and without a word walked out
of the classroom and never came back.  We all wondered if something happened to him.

	
	Fact or fiction?


 
Dark comes early in the mountains. They were climbing up there, bushwhacking as they went. Their headlamps cutting zig zag patterns
into the night. Gladys gave me a corkscrew once.
She insisted, “You never know when you might need of those. Tonight, was one of those nights.
 
In the wake of the storm, the night was charged by downed electrical wires. The streets sparked and the few remaining trees ignited shooting fingers of flame along the branches. The air smelled wet and feral, alive like an animal no one had known of before.

 
	
536-

Tour Concentration Camp   Erased

	I have carried
The United States          the gas chambers of Auschwitz
A splendid visit

		small white-		wood oblong
mausoleum			   white oven knobs

				       switched off
lights.  Darkness killed as much as the gas.

		I went in

					Right away I
   Attempted to escape
			Hid in a niche
I veered
the crowd climbed			, doubly mourning
yesterday’s anguish

				everyone joined in a sad
funereal picnic

		Helene Cixous
 
538-

Random. Boring Post Cards. Phaidon.
Atomic Post Cards. The Lochgelly
Centre Complex or SAC Headquarters
Offert Air Force Base. White Rock Los
Alamos County or Actual Pictures of
Dreaded Bomb Blasts. Frenchman’s Flats,
Nevada. Convalescent Home Broadstairs.
Looking Across Solway Firth, Silloth
(With coffee ring stain) The City of the
Atomic Bomb: Cedar Hill Elementary School
Oak Ridge Tennessee. Dead Men Reading
Post Cards.
 
558-

Dream on with Joseph Cornell

The Parkway Dream. Utopia that is.
Film strips. And air guitars. Monsters
in a Box. Neither black nor white.
Gray. Domestic tableau. Not an 
American Tragedy. My Brother’s
Keeper. Dreams of old toys. Broken
music boxes. Jack (s) in. Scrapbooks.
Vandalized, 1906 Sears Catalog.
When is a Franklin Stove not a Franklin
Stove. When the canary from the coal
mine escapes. Sings. Like a jailbird.
Vonnegut. Shoeless Joe. All those
boxes filled. Many times, over.
		


561-

Back List Book Titles Arranged: a found poem

If Night Is Falling. The Moon Rises
in the Rattlesnake’s Mouth. Night Farming
in Bosnia. Weightless Earth. Carbon Dating
Hunger. Infinite Days Teaching Bones to Fly.
Travel Over Water. The Sky’s Dustbin. Light
from a Small Brown Bird. Blue Swan, Black
Swan. Kissing the Bee. Painting the Egret’s Echo. 
Reembrace of Water. Ancient Maps and a Tarot
Pack. All the Beautiful Dead. Bitter Oleander.


		562-

The perfect fiction is reality.
(Life). Gilbert Sorrentino asserted.
In a book of poems.  A day book.
Of sorts. Perfect fictions. All. 
A deck of 52 involved. Not 
necessarily playing Cards. Weeks.
Are. Not in an Orangery for sure.
That book with the word orange
embedded within. Not a rhyming 
Simon, he. El Gilberto. Le gran 
orange. Trusty Rusty. Not the poet.
The ball player, “Everything invented
is real.” Flaubert.