INTERVIEW 

RUPA RAO INTERVIEWS WORLD POET AND PHILOSPHER DR JERNAIL SINGH ANAND. 

Q — If you had a magic wand to change anything about your present or past—events, situations, people, views, words—what would they be and why?

Practically, it is impossible to retrieve even a moment that has slipped through our fingers. Yet, if we imagine possessing a magic wand capable of editing our past—our ideas, actions, and circumstances—I would change a few situations that proved deeply disturbing in my life. The first was the extreme poverty of my early years. It was dehumanising and filled me with a quiet dislike for the village I came from. I have very few happy memories, and those are tied only to my mother, my sister, and my father, who was helpless to provide for us because circumstances had forced him out of business. I certainly wish this had not been so.

We often believe that life has something in store for us and that we must abide by fate. Yet there was no wisdom in leaving Chandigarh and joining a post 250 km away in Mandi Dabwali. I also wish I had not accepted the Principal’s job at DAV College, Bathinda. I wanted to be a lecturer, and I became one. I wanted to be a poet, and I became that too. The overall drift of my life does not disappoint me. The end result is nearly satisfying. Happiness is an idea; satisfaction is another. I continue my pursuit of self-exploration and feel content with the journey.

Q — What would today’s Dr. Anand advise the child, youth, or adult Jernail Singh?

If you are born in poverty, the only option is struggle—single-minded devotion to your objectives, never looking sideways, always moving forward, and taking misfortunes in your stride. Scarcity taught me to fight for my ideals, and honest labour became my foundation. I would advise young Jernail to confront circumstances and achieve his goals. There is no shortcut to immortality; that lies in God’s hands. We must work within our powers and let God witness our honest efforts—efforts that harm no one, not even the cosmos. That is what I want my younger self to learn: stay focused, grateful, and responsible.

Q — If you were not a writer, what might you have pursued?

Had I not become a writer, I would have continued as a Lecturer in the Department of English and likely ended my career as a Principal, perhaps even a Vice-Chancellor. Writing made me disinterested in administrative roles, which felt like a drag. A VC has no time for himself or his family. Even as Principal, I was pressed for time and could not write much. My literary career gained momentum only after my retirement in 2015. In 2016, I visited Italy and Nigeria, and thereafter my work expanded rapidly, now crossing 200 books.

Q — What do you enjoy pursuing other than writing?

I enjoy walking in nature. I am a regular morning walker and often go to the fields and a small forest near my home. It is a joy to begin the day with the fresh smell of greenery, trees, and sometimes peacocks flying overhead. Occasionally, other wild animals appear, including serpents. Birds of many species accompany my walks. Earlier, before urbanisation overtook both sides of the slender road, there were birds of many feathers. Now, with bus horns, cars, and growing population, many have withdrawn. Still, squirrels, nightingales, and cuckoos remain and enliven my mornings and evenings.

Beyond this, I enjoy Urdu serials and browsing YouTube for news. I have organised around seven world poetry conferences and remain in constant touch with friends across the globe, inspiring young poets toward better work.

Q — What mishaps or mistakes guided you toward your destiny?

I recall one mistake that helped me move forward: forgetfulness—what I call memory leaps. Romantic people often suffer from it. I am reminded of Robert Lynd’s essay Forgetting, where he says players are the most forgetful people, and we are most casual with posting letters.

When I worked at Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, I typed a letter and sent it to the Head for signatures. He rang a long bell meant for me. When I entered, he asked the date. I answered correctly. Then the month—I hesitated but got it right. Then the year—1976. He showed me the letter where all three were wrong. I apologised, but he issued an explanation letter. I replied that I was sorry and added that stenos are allowed ten percent marks during selection. This infuriated him, and he wrote in my Confidential Report that I was “forgetful.”

Looking at the reverse side of this incident, it is clear I was not meant to retire as a stenographer. And indeed, by March 1977, I joined Panjab University, Chandigarh, in the office of the Dean Student Welfare, located in the most vibrant part of the campus—the Students’ Centre.

Q — What are you most proud of—personally or professionally.

Many moments have made me proud, though I believe in humility. The greatest was seeing my name inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. The Charter of Morava, Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association, the Seneca Award (Italy), and the Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky Awards—all were achievements anyone would cherish. The honour grew manifold when I realised Rabindranath Tagore too had been conferred Honorary Membership of the Serbian Writers Association.

Another proud moment was receiving the Honoris Causa Doctoral Degree from the University of Engineering and Management, Jaipur, at its 9th Convocation.

Yet the moment that truly changed my life was learning I had secured 55% in M.A. English, enabling me to join Lectureship—the dream I had pursued with passion.

Q — What would you like people to remember most about you?

Only that I believed in cosmic wisdom and tried to accomplish the tasks assigned to me by the Muse. Poetry is an inborn passion; it cannot be acquired through training. I revived the epic tradition in a postmodern world. I am not a critic of science and technology; I welcome change. Just as we mine the earth for its secrets, we must mine the human mind with the help of science. But science and technology have no mind of their own; they are driven by those who wield them. I wish humanity to cultivate moral clarity and train future generations to remain focused. Science is a tool, not a replacement for human consciousness. The greatest possibilities lie not in machines but in the human mind—and in knowing its limits.

DR JERNAIL S. ANAND

Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit—including 20 epics—is a Chandigarh-based polymath and a leading architect of 21st-century ethical literature. His seminal work Lustus: The Prince of Darkness challenges the moral complacency of our era.

Founding President of the International Academy of Ethics and Laureate of the Charter of Morava (Serbia), Seneca (Italy), Franz Kafka (Germany, Ukraine, Czech Republic), and Maxim Gorky (Russia), his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He is an Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade. Anand’s poetics unite ethics, Vedic spirituality, social critique, and the philosophy of meaning. A moral philosopher, professor, and international speaker, he has devoted his research to the ethical dimension of language, the responsibility of the individual in a globalised society, and the relationship between matter, consciousness, and transcendence. Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com

Bibliography: https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home 

https://share.google/QtiWrcFr7Sca7v0qC

RUPA RAO

An army child, Rupa Rao is a biographer, poet, writer, editor, and curator who holds an MBA and a Law degree. She serves as an admin at LWG and is Chief Coordinator for the International Academy of Ethics. Featured in multiple global anthologies, magazines, and literary platforms, she enjoys hosting poetry sessions, author interactions, nature walks, and yoga. She has curated and authored anthologies—poetry, short stories, and interviews—and penned Dr. Anand’s biography. She has also edited a fantasy novella and three poetry collections for fellow writers.

Written by Dr Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi 

PAKISTAN 

Translated from Urdu by Neelum Waqar

PAKISTAN 

A Summer Evening In The Nature 

One summer evening, warm and bright,

I climbed a hill at fading light.

The day was hot, the air was dry,

And dust had settled near my eye.

Around me stood the forest trees,

They danced and swayed in gentle breeze.

The jambolan fruits hung dark and sweet,

A lovely gift for me to eat.

I picked the fruits with happy care,

And tasted nature’s goodness there.

Their juicy flavor, cool and fine,

Brought strength and joy to heart of mine.

A cuckoo sang upon a tree,

Its pleasant song delighted me.

The monkeys jumped from limb to limb,

While evening light was growing dim.

A peacock spread its feathers wide,

And walked with beauty, grace, and pride.

Then clouds appeared across the sky,

And little raindrops floated by.

The rain refreshed the thirsty land,

Like magic from the Maker’s hand.

My thoughts became so calm and clear,

And every worry disappeared.

Nature teaches us every day,

To love, be thankful, and obey.

Its beauty fills each heart with cheer,

And makes our world more bright and dear.

Translated 

عنوان ۔فطرت کی ایک گرم شام

ایک گرم اور روشن شام تھی،

میں ڈھلتی ہوئی روشنی میں ایک پہاڑی پر چڑھا۔

دن بہت گرم تھا، ہوا خشک تھی،

اور گرد نے میری آنکھوں کے قریب ڈیرہ ڈال رکھا تھا۔

میرے چاروں طرف جنگل کے درخت کھڑے تھے،

جو نرم و خنک ہوا میں جھوم رہے تھے۔

جامن کے پھل گہرے سیاہ اور میٹھے تھے۔

قدرت کی طرف سے میرے لیے ایک خوب صورت تحفہ تھے۔

میں نے خوشی خوشی پھل توڑے

اور وہیں قدرت کی نعمت کا ذائقہ چکھا۔

ان کا رس بھرا، ٹھنڈا اور عمدہ ذائقہ

میرے دل میں طاقت اور خوشی بھر گیا۔

ایک درخت پر کوئل گنگنا رہی تھی،

اس کی دلکش آواز نے مجھے بہت خوش کیا۔

بندر ایک شاخ سے دوسری شاخ پر اچھل رہے تھے،

جبکہ شام کی روشنی آہستہ آہستہ مدھم ہو رہی تھی۔

ایک مور نے اپنے خوب صورت پر پھیلا دیے،

اور حسن، وقار اور شان سے چلنے لگا۔

پھر آسمان پر بادل چھا گئے،

اور ننھی ننھی بوندیں برسنے لگیں۔

بارش نے پیاسی زمین کو تازگی بخش دی،

جیسے خالق کے ہاتھ سے کوئی جادو برس رہا ہو۔

میرے خیالات پرسکون اور صاف ہو گئے،

اور میری ہر پریشانی جیسے کہیں کھو گئی۔

قدرت ہمیں ہر روز یہ سبق سکھاتی ہے

کہ محبت کریں، شکر گزار رہیں اور فرمانبرداری اختیار کریں۔

اس کی خوب صورتی ہر دل کو خوشی سے بھر دیتی ہے،

اور ہماری دنیا کو مزید روشن اور پیارا بنا دیتی ہے۔

What Work Is

They routinely ask you, what else you have to do with your life?

What’s your other job?

As if working split shifts, doubles, red-eyed with raging hangovers, running on depleted adrenaline levels, days and nights. Seeing The Future in a cracked shot glass, the amber liquid inside all the hours and minutes of those days and nights forming a hard, small viscous puddle in the middle of a cratered bar surface that looks like no man’s land in some nightmare film version of The Waste Land. 

So I say, “I’m independently wealthy.  Actually, I do this for fun, getting paid is just a bonus.”

And, if I’m in a real foul mood, I tell them something like the truth, “I’m doing in depth field research for a human science experiment.

My thesis is set for review and possible publication like in the next few days, keep asking questions and there might be a whole section devoted to you.”

And they laugh and laugh and laugh as if I were some kind of quick witted, one liner artiste, instead of a small piece in god’s plan for the human comedy that always has a tragic ending no matter what part you play.

Sometimes I even tell them the title of the Work in Progress, although it’s rarely the same one or the real one.

Somehow today sort of feels like, Show Me the Way to the Next Whiskey Bar

Last week it was Quiet Flow the John

Next week?

Who knows?

Face Down on the Barroom Floor Ramada Inn/Silo 1974

She pushes open the swinging kitchen doors,

eyes wide, hands shaking she said,”You’ve got

to do something, they’re tearing the place

apart.” 

In the rathskeller, below, it sounds

to the staff as if the dancing has gotten out

of hand as if all of the feet are in the

wrong part of the room and that there is no

music but a new kind of nerve ending

sound of glass meeting brick.  

Now, on the floor of the lounge, five brothers 

are putting the finishing touches to a twelve-hour 

day of solemn marriage rites and shots of 7 Crown 

with beer chasers along the bar, holding 

the night manager’s head inert, free form kicking 

his face in the darkness as a waitress weeps, 

they run overturning tables and chairs as they go

spinning table candles spread a thin hot sealing

wax over blood on the wash and wear carpet.

This year on the job training qualifies you for a merit badge in plastic surgery and seven days with a white batman mask, as the stitches heal. It’s a mask you won’t show off in public because Halloween isn’t for another eight months and you’re in no mood to answer questions.

Actually, there are some hidden benefits in a life threatening beating; a week off, no questions asked ,and the scars, later, to prove you’d done Mugging 101 and passed with three scars workman’s comp will fork over cash for.

Upper Management show their gratitude for blood and time loss with a spontaneous, in-depth criticism for all the things you did wrong in a crisis beginning with, “You should have nuked them with the fire extinguisher.”

Or, “call the cops first, ask questions, later.”

As if there was an operating telephone nearby to use.

As if one foam fire extinguisher could quell an indoor, no rules Australian football game involving all the players from several teams, their next of kin And their fans, a congregation of Assholes that gave new meaning to the word, Chaos

Walk On

He was up against

the side bar

and he’d been there

all of his life

touching him was

risking contracting

a fatal disease

but I had to do it,

“The bar is closing

down, you have to leave.”

His eyes focused

on a point no one

else could see.

“Leave?” He said.

“I have weapons

sanctioned by the Lord.”

“I hope they’re

registered in Albany

County or else you’re

in big trouble.”

“I have transmitters

locked into invisible

orbiting satellites.”

“I’ll pass up my best FCC

line, would you like

me to call a cab

back to CDPC or would

you rather walk?”

“I have no money.”

“You’ll have to walk then,

it’s not that far. Besides,

I’ll bet you could use

the fresh air and exercise.”

It was late November

and he didn’t have a coat.

That was his problem.

He should have thought

of that when he left

the Loony Bin with

his spare change.

I was being hard on

lunatics that week, and they

were being hard on me.

After this last assault, you file that claim with Workman’s Compensation despite strict prohibition of any such claims by management no matter what the cause or nature of the injury.

Compensation Board claims raise the Company’s premiums.

But after a complete, comprehensive late-night tour of all the Emergency Rooms in the Greater Capital District Area, for a wide variety of on-the-job related injuries and nothing to show for them but permanent damage and lost wages, you really don’t give a flying fuck about their higher premiums.

And Management says, “You’re developing an attitude.

A Bad Attitude.

But when you tender your resignation a couple of months later, they change their tune.

Offer you a modest raise.

After all they can’t afford to lose you.

Who else will do all the dirty work?

Working Stiff

They like

to work

you day

and night

until your

eyes start

to bleed

they don’t

care about

how you

might feel

unless they

think you

might not

make it

So you show up for work.

For now. They aren’t the only club in a tri-state area no matter what they would like you to believe.

You don’t like the job but it’s the work you do and despite all the heat, the stuff and nonsense, you take a certain pride in being able to do something no else can do as well as you can.

Like walking out on a ledge and staying there, daring what will happen to happen

But you can’t shake the labels or the rap

The Attitude

You’ve got a Bad Attitude

Why bother, it’s true, you do: it comes with the job

It’s what distinguishes you from the rest of the crowd, the amateurs.

Mind Games

“Do you know

Mary Beth?” he asks

“Everyone knows

Mary Beth.” I sd.

“Why she was 

here just last

week.

We talked for

over an hour.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine.  Real 

fine.

Still working

in the same

place

Still hates

it too.

She was asking

about Joe.”

“Yeah, she would.

Do you know

Joe?”

“Not really,

I’ve seen him

though.”

“He’s a real

pisser, Joe is.

Did Mary Beth

tell you about

the time

Joe dropped trou?”

“Oh, no really?”

“Yeah, it was at

the New Year’s Eve bash

over at the Son’s Hall

Freaked everyone

right out in a hurry.

You should get to

know Joe, he’s a real

pisser.”

“I can tell.”

“Hey, man, when you

see Mary Beth tell

her I was by.”

“Sure will, dude.”

As if I knew

who any of these

people were.

You’ve cultivated this on the job trained self-image of a night time warrior in the trenches for so long you actually believe it.

Think that there’s a war being fought with liquor bottles, beer steins, insults and drunken tirades instead of hand grenades, horseshoes and atomic bombs.

When asked how you do it, the answer is always the same, “If everyone were doing it would be easy and then what would become of us?”

A line from a movie about a bomb disposal expert.

And what you are doing is a kind of bomb disposal; all those human atomic bombs you always ready and waiting to go off.

And they’re always at your disposal to deal with as you wish

Because you’re the head mad doctor,

The scientist with the rocket fuel

The magic cure

The liquid medicine

Cripples

They looked 

as if they’d

copped

their last

dimes out

of a blind

man’s cup

As if they

rolled old

ladies and 

infirm old

men for their

meals

There was

nothing wrong

with them

drinking

in my place

that a

couple of 

years

behind bars

couldn’t cure

You’re no better than they are

And you probably feel worse

But you can never show it

After all the show must go on

And you have your professional pride

Reference Question

“You see this guy?

when he came to

work for us

he had to look

Bud up in a

book-didn’t know

the difference

between a bottle

of beer and a

bottle of booze

and just look

at him now.”

I didn’t hear that

I guess it’s because

I know the boss man has

to score points with

the money men too

Just ‘cause he hasn’t any

thing better to do than

build himself up by knocking

someone else down has nothing

to do with me, I’m better

than that.  I mean I can

take a joke as well as

anyone, I’ve been laughed

at too many times not

to know a joke when I

hear one. So later, when 

the Boss Man asks me

for a Dewar’s on

the rocks I have to laugh

What’s he talking about?

He must be kidding me.

I might even have to look

it up in a book.

I don’t let the door hit me in the ass on the way out when I leave either

Or turn out any of the lights

I just make sure everything stops working the next day in a timed sequence like some kind of Alfred Hitchcock restaurant horror movie with those who remain as the unwilling characters.

I make sure all of my messages are put on Call waiting indefinitely or are misdirected to the back room of Rummy’s Bat Cave where the derelict who answers the phone has been on a non-stop binge since 1937 and will forget what he is doing with the phone in his hand, mid-conversation and leave the line open forever, phone dangling against the wall like the useless appendage that it is.

What the hell, it was only a job.

There’s always more work once you’ve summitted the plateau.

After all bartending is just something you learn to do with your head while your body is making drink, is watching what’s coming down in your world as it happens and surviving long enough to talk about it.

I guess that’s what writing is all about,as well.

But what would I know about that, man, I’m just the bartender.

A Pro-fessional with an Attitude

Or a character in a story

Or maybe even one who creates characters

Which one is it?

That would be telling and a bartender never tells

That’s against all the unwritten laws,

The Code of Ethics

Everyone Wants to Be a Bartender

It must be a

great life-

I’ll bet

all the girls

proposition you-

You must

overhear some

wild conversations-

I’ll bet all

the waitresses

are really wild

and all of that

free booze-

All that easy

money-

You must make

great tips

here

huh?-

You must be

a gambler-

Who do you

like in the-

You know

where I

can find

some easy-

I’m a little

short-

I know you

guys always

have bread

can I bum-

it’s a great

life

real great

and I’ve

been beat up

in some of

the best

joints

in town

too

Every word of this is true.

Everything I say is true.

Come to the Tavern where I work now and sample one of the cocktails from my bar book of recipes with a personality called Killer Cocktails.

Better be nice; remember who’s making those drinks you’re going to put into your body.

Better yet, just read the book

And see who gets the last laugh.

Or wait for the sequel, The Hair of the Dog That Bit Me.

That’s me on the cover, not Lon Chaney Jr. dressed to kill as the Wolfman.

It happens to all us professionals after a while, The Metamorphosis

That’s what work is.

Alamgir Hossain Raj: A Bangladeshi Journalist, Musician and Digital Content Creator

Alamgir Hossain Raj is a Bangladeshi journalist, musician, digital content creator, YouTuber, entrepreneur, author, and independent creative professional. With experience across journalism, digital media, music, and online content creation, Alamgir Hossain Raj represents a new generation of Bangladeshi media and creative professionals building their careers across multiple digital platforms.

Journalism: A Key Part of His Professional Identity

Among the different areas of his career, journalism holds a particularly important place in the professional identity of Alamgir Hossain Raj. His work reflects the changing nature of modern journalism, where reporting, writing, digital publishing, social media, multimedia storytelling, and independent online platforms increasingly intersect.

As a journalist, Alamgir Hossain Raj is interested in communication, storytelling, and presenting information to digital audiences. His involvement in digital media allows him to explore journalism beyond traditional formats and connect with readers through online platforms.

His journalism-focused identity also complements his other creative activities. His experience as a content creator and musician gives him an additional perspective on culture, entertainment, digital trends, and contemporary online audiences.

Digital Journalism and Storytelling

Alamgir Hossain Raj is part of a growing generation of digital media professionals who use websites, social platforms, video, and other online channels to communicate with audiences.

Digital storytelling has become an important part of modern journalism, and Alamgir Hossain Raj’s work reflects this transition. His activities across digital media demonstrate an interest in combining communication, creativity, information, and technology.

Through his online presence, Alamgir Hossain Raj continues to develop a professional identity that connects journalism with the wider digital media ecosystem.

Music Career

Alongside journalism, Alamgir Hossain Raj is an independent music artist. His musical work includes Bengali songs, emotional compositions, folk-inspired music, contemporary digital productions, and various experimental creative projects.

His music has been distributed across major digital music platforms, allowing his work to reach listeners beyond Bangladesh. His musical activities demonstrate his interest in combining Bangladeshi cultural influences with modern digital production.

YouTube and Digital Content Creation

Alamgir Hossain Raj is also active as a YouTuber and digital content creator. His online activities include music, entertainment, creative projects, digital media, and audience-focused content.

His YouTube presence and music releases have contributed to his development as a digital creator. Rather than focusing on a single type of content, Alamgir Hossain Raj has explored different forms of digital storytelling and creative expression.

Entrepreneurship and Digital Projects

Beyond journalism, music, and content creation, Alamgir Hossain Raj has also explored entrepreneurship and digital projects.

His involvement with AHR Creation reflects his interest in building digital and creative ventures. Through entrepreneurial activities, he has expanded his professional work beyond media and entertainment into technology and online services.

Author and Independent Creative Professional

Alamgir Hossain Raj has also worked in writing and independent digital projects. His interests in journalism, writing, content creation, and digital communication have allowed him to work across several creative disciplines.

This combination of skills has helped Alamgir Hossain Raj establish a broader professional profile rather than being defined by a single occupation.

A Multi-Disciplinary Career

The career of Alamgir Hossain Raj demonstrates how journalism, music, digital content, and entrepreneurship can intersect in the modern creative economy.

While he has developed a presence as a musician and digital creator, journalism remains one of the most significant aspects of his professional identity. His work reflects an effort to combine journalism and storytelling with the opportunities provided by modern digital platforms.

Looking Ahead

As digital media continues to transform journalism and the creative industries, Alamgir Hossain Raj is building a career that connects traditional communication skills with modern digital platforms.

His journey across journalism, music, YouTube, digital content creation, writing, and entrepreneurship represents the increasingly multi-dimensional nature of independent creative professionals in Bangladesh.

With journalism at the center of his media-oriented identity, Alamgir Hossain Raj continues to develop his presence as a Bangladeshi journalist and digital creator while pursuing opportunities across music, technology, and creative media.

The Happy Refugee Who Had No Money for Cigarettes

Musa grandfather, who had settled in the city as a refugee,

was a very big man.

In his youth, he had strangled a wolf and killed it.

–

But the city children

filled the inside of a cigarette with marijuana

and gave it to him instead of a cigarette.

And that big old man,

thinking the mirage he saw on the asphalt was a lake,

rolled up his trousers, took his shoes in his hands,

and crossed to the other side of the road.

The city children laughed a lot,

boasting about their jackal ways.

Musa grandfather said goodbye to life that evening.

He was the only refugee

who had died from pleasure.

–

Musa grandfather had carried the burden of a house on his shoulders.

Even the movable belongings of his house were living a refugee life.

Ten people could barely lift

the weight he had lifted.

But he himself did not know that

the heaviest burden he had carried throughout his life

was the shoes in his hands.

–

He was the first resident of this village to die in refugeehood.

It was as if he had passed through that sea of mirage.

Just as Moses had saved his own people,

he too had saved his own villagers.

Because immediately after this, many refugees died and were saved.

Thus,

Musa grandfather went down in history

as the only happy refugee.

The happy refugee who had no money for cigarettes

dragged behind him

all the unhappy refugees

and took them to the cemetery of exile.

–

Strangely,

a lot of wild marijuana bushes

have grown around his grave.

Musa grandfather is probably enjoying himself there too.

–

He should be thankful that he died.

Otherwise, because of these wild marijuana bushes,

they would have taken a lot of bribes from him.

They would not have cared

that he did not even have money for cigarettes.

Bloody Pains of Life

Our salary is like menstruation,

İt comes once a month and lasts 3–4 days.

Our living conditions are like labor pains.

If we manage to live until retirement,

a heavy menopause awaits us.

And our name is “man.”

Steering Clear of That Summer’s Noon 

That summer was truly beautiful—a song once sung, 

its voice faded, yet trembling still at the heart’s edge. 

I wander now outside that summer, 

passing through rows of rising and falling black-and-white corridors. 

I am mature enough to face winds from every direction. 

Steering clear of that summer, this noon, 

I guard alone a small window steeped in philosophy,

dust still quivers among the broom flowers, 

panels of light lie collapsed on the ground, 

butterflies cling to pollen’s bright lexicon, flying through shadows. 

I adorn the window lattice with branches purified by white foam, 

fold a 1919 newspaper into a pale stallion, 

let it be encircled by wary, scattered seeds. 

Let geckos ignite golden lanterns; the clam king, post-climax, 

clenches the spider plant’s slender fingers. 

I am arranging a simple rite, a nostalgic atmosphere, 

hand beneath the pillow, caressing the roar of waves. 

I remember us walking hand in hand through white seaside alleys, 

the profound dreams we shared and deepened, 

shadows panting over blossoms, 

the dense illusions and voices around us. 

I remember that summer, a many-eared stalk of wheat falling into water, 

the secret pricked by your finger, the bathtub’s hue, 

the color of your eyes when you loved me, 

how you always closed my eyes with a hint of worry. 

That summer when everything slipped away

I kept hearing water’s escape: 

from our hands, our eyes, 

between junipers and cattails, 

from my big black comb and noon’s thirsty slumber. 

That summer left us behind, our love 

like two white stones risen from water, radiant, pure. 

Still, it is the same tranquil noon, you lie awake in dreams, 

a leaf adrift on time’s waves. 

I tiptoe through extinguished constellations; a small window 

unfolds like a butterfly’s blood-filled wings. 

In your distance, I become your beautiful and solitary bride, 

poised in May’s silent candlelit stillness, waiting for you to wake. 

Late Autumn on Paper

Between hands, paper and brush, between soul and flying birds

lie shadows drifting in silent transition

White crags, white winds, and figures in the water

splash foam against the boat sides, keeping a sober distance

from the drinkers aboard

Heartbeats beneath the waves ring clear and plain

late autumn, mountains loom high, the moon dwindles faint

Beneath damp heavy curtains, sleepers lost to day and night

bend their knees slightly, bracing against the core of dreams

In woods bathed in crescent moonlight, wanderers returning from revelry

hasten home with hats pressed tight, clinging to lingering warmth

Lost travellers shout across the stream

echoes mimic one another, like a man and his own inner self

Thick mist drips down bamboo leaves

leaning a staff by the water’s edge

weeping eases the ache of the soul, yet silence stretches boundlessly vast

No one may cross its realm, nor add to nor take from its essence

from beneath the hat spill endless lingering doubts

Doves spread wings and fly away

while crows plunge headlong to the ground, upsetting water flasks and gauges

Still some will climb higher peaks through pouring rain

drink deep the darkness of a whole year, and meet pure solitude

When trains rumble past the valley, verses flow unbidden from their lips

heedless of unseen listeners

or swarms of stars swirling before their eyes

Where history lies laid flat

place lamps, letters, and a few worn old garments

Such days are few, the fragrance of roses still lingers amid dust

while heavy frost and shadows settle upon dark treetops

Things in May

Things in May come all too sudden,

as if they have not yet learned to keep balance,

surrounded by country folk, they are questioned again and again.

A red-breasted bird flies from weeds to treetops;

all things far away keep it warm.

Trains cut across the damp countryside,

passengers sitting with their backs to the way ahead.

Once past a certain age,

to go forward is to retreat — this truth he knows well.

After farewells, the station sinks into instant gloom,

empty and clean, as if just washed by water.

Two friends head home side by side, chatting softly, 

will someone call them back suddenly?

All overlooked scenes mirror on the window pane,

noon has not come, nor the despair of midnight.

How long must we watch for something to emerge —

things stir, then fade away: trees, people, drifting dust,

tiny fragments yet always tinged with warmth.

Before long, all books will be read through,

before long, even drinking wine bears its cost,

before long, rain drifts like wispy white steam,

hovering above treetops shrouded in deepening dusk.

Those most casual trifles lean close,

like ears pressed softly against your door.

Things of May, near and far, gather at once

on the moving glass. A rain dissolves them all,

as if someone has just wept silently,

only the breath of fish lingers still in flooded fields,

it feels as if we still sit in late-night taverns,

drinking wine and reciting poems,

while your fair wives lie fast asleep upstairs.

Passing Through a Real Summer

Passing through a real summer, the clouds lingering in the mountains

are dyed with the colours of forests and wildflowers

before flood arrives, a glimmer of light

has already pierced through the darkness of that marsh land

Between the marsh and the cliffs

on that dazzling desolate beach

when the sunlight deepens the mole on your face

I’m willing to let you come closer, I’m willing to be acquainted with you

When rocks fill the empty evenings by the seaside

the sea water is limitless, thunder rumbles in the eagle’s nest

our floors are filled with the white marks of snails

those who pass through the marsh before the wind rises will become our first guests

A summer passes in an instant, the murmuring of gentle water on the left side of night

is the continuous offering of the earth to the ocean

the south wind, carrying soil, transforms hidden happiness

the losses of a summer will gradually be settled

The red flag hangs low, in the reflection of salt on the marsh

damp newspapers are curling, hiding summer’s insect eggs

the oysters trodden underfoot turn into lamps on our heads in the blink of an eye

we are the only humans in front of another world

Herding rocks into the sea, the ears underground

hear the impending silence, on evenings when no bottled messages arrive

we will collect brown driftwood, put away blurry diaries

and when cold rain brightens the lamps, termites will swarm in our home

Autumn will leave us with vast vistas and contemplation, clutching a handful of seeds of death

at high noon, the shimmering waves will reflect on the wooden fence

I will lean against the door, drinking water, too tired to speak

a child will be granted to me, sleeping peacefully behind the shimmering waves

Living Through an Imaginary Summer

To live through an imaginary summer, trees begin to take

the bearing of rocks. Those cherished shrubs of yours

are lit time and again by car lamps, draped with tassels

up where sunlight rolls down, toward the close of September

bees and butterflies wage scattered skirmishes beneath a monotonous clear sky

the last cicada chirps are chased away, then turn into rain

glimmering mist and ripe fruits amid the drizzle

Hands stained with grass sap, you stand in an old courtyard

a soft drizzle takes you by surprise

making you cease plucking poisonous berries with your lips

you watch birds flying low, bereft of their bounty in rain

and learn that weariness is never an excuse

ere long you shall compose poems of flawless grace

as if placing humanity’s finest children among thickets

leaving supper behind, then walking far away

Time scatters your fancies, hesitation settles in your hands

wrinkles cover all your garments

red buoys dot the summer river

half-filled wine bottles slant on the water like resting trout

all along, we have taken our own heads as paths

treading toward heaven’s journey, yet all we reach

is merely the backyard of the age, an idle factory cold and still

we scatter petals in the name of love, believing the lanterns 

dragged underwater by fish at the source of dreams shall light up the future

Yet the future is nothing but a soft drizzle. Gnarled old trees

cast down billowing waves; sallow flesh lies prone

upon trays of fallen leaves

in the empty courtyard, only silence settles accounts

as a fading soul extinguishes the last lamp

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, Ph.D, representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of Difficult writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese, focusing on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, Rosanna Warren.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 including 9 poetry collections. Ma Yongbo’s complete Chinese translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies.

The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.

In August 2026 he received the American poetry award: New Generation Beat Poet Laureate (2026-lifetime) China, from The National Beat Poetry Foundation (NBPF) in the United States.

THE BOTTLING PLANT SYNDROME: Looking for the Lost Space for Freedom and Creative Imagination in Educational Institutions

Dr. Jernail S. Anand

Is everything well with our education? There was a time when India was justly proud of its education. It produced minds who filled Silicon Valley, yet remained grounded in a sense of right and wrong. What has changed? Is this decline India-specific, or part of a worldwide phenomenon of erosion of value systems?

Successive changes in education policy were meant to meet the necessities and complexities of modern times. We have retained the high, moralistic vocabulary, but the spirit has devolved. Five decades ago, education had a moral quotient at its core. Even after professional degrees, men and women found their hands tremble  before committing a wrong deed. The other crucial feature of that era was time – abundant, unstructured time – for teachers and students to think, debate, reflect and wander. That vacant space was the breeding ground of  philosophy and creativity were born.

The Disappearance of Noble Intent

We have inherited the verbiage of our great tradition, but lost its essence while drawing the blueprints for the present system. The National Education Policy is an ambitious document, and its attempt to decolonize the Indian mind is welcome. Yet while correcting the colonial past, we risk losing some vital aspects of human development.

Around 2010, a decisive shift became visible in India, as it did globally. The good old values of honest labour gave way to a cut-throat world of competition in which survival itself became the only virtue. The only mantra was success. Those who believed otherwise were pushed to the margins. The belief systems of the old world of values were given an irreverent burial and replaced by a new worldview based on success and survival.

Education and the New Value-less System

When society consecrates success, educational institutions are pressed into service to deliver it. Today, no child studies a story whose moral is ‘Honesty is the best policy’. To say that honesty is outdated would hurt ancient wisdom, so a new, more acceptable word was coined to mask deceit, double-dealing and the ‘hell with it’ syndrome. The word is ‘smart’.

In the contemporary world, you are not required to be good, because goodness is seen as a passive virtue, unviable in a competitive world. Today everyone wants his offspring to be smart, which indirectly means they can be flexible with honesty. When a prospective bridegroom tells his prospective bride that he believes in honesty,  she often smells disaster and walks away. This small social anecdote reveals a profound ethical inversion.

The Modus Operandi: No Vacant Spaces

To make students success-oriented in order to produce traders, professionals and consultants with high packages, it became necessary to abridge those vacant moments that provided space for the romance of creativity and imagination. Those recesses helped in the evolution of the human mind, leading to intellectual athleticism, freedom to think and to expand. Can we imagine another APJ Abdul Kalam emerging from today’s system to become the first citizen of the country? He was the byproduct of a system based on self-discipline and vacant time at the disposal of teachers and students for free talk and unguided discussion.

In the new system, that vacant space has been deliberately removed and filled with enforced administrative decisions. The role of teachers in deciding what to teach, how to teach and how much to teach has been compromised. All these initiatives have been arrogated by authority. Teachers are kept perpetually busy and students are left with no time to be with themselves. Universities and colleges now mimic bottling plants where students are produced like marketable finished products, carrying price tags. The cost is mentioned and the package is mentioned. Universities have to teach a uniform syllabus, in a uniform way. Higher bodies give sermons – sorry, seminars – on how to teach and how to prepare students for a busy tomorrow.

Academics and Formalism

The latest systems, proudly called knowledge systems, have converted studies into an act of formalism. Teachers remain overworked completing formalities rather than teaching. They are overloaded with files, reports, NAAC data and compliances, while students are overloaded with syllabi always in excess of their capacities. In this messy situation, we have made a faulty bargain. Our products are good for the market, but they are on slippery ground when it comes to performing well as human beings. Education is not simply about jobs. It goes beyond jobs. It is about human conduct, which has been entirely ignored.

Creating a Literati Elite

This knowledge empire is aimed at creating a literati elite. As education is increasingly privatized and the state withdraws from funding public institutions, only the affluent can send their wards to private schools charging exorbitant fees or to highly priced professional courses. Society is thus being sharply divided into haves and have-nots.

It can be conjectured that with money power, the under-qualified offspring of the rich will soon become architects, engineers, teachers and doctors, and we will have a second-rate elite in ruling positions, while the poor who had the capability  to become true doctors and engineers will be pushed to ministerial positions like computer operators, or teachers on contract in private institutions. The second-rate will become Principals and Vice-Chancellors while those who truly deserved these positions will not even be on the faculty. Individuals may gain, but society as a whole is the ultimate loser.

Knowledge and Wisdom

Perhaps this is why ancient wisdom warned man about the fruit of knowledge without wisdom. Knowledge without an ethical anchor is a dangerous power. The vast empire of knowledge that has spread far and wide has little connection with the good, the honest and the righteous. It is often the world of the ‘smart’ people who can bend rules, break faith and twist the features of mankind. 

The worst part of our current trajectory is that knowledge has remained confined to academic discussions and marks in examinations. We grant degrees, a formal exercise though necessary, but students lack the accompanying wisdom which must reflect in thought and action. We are creating a generation of efficient robots who listen to no music other than that of wealth, power and success.

In this industrial ecosystem which has grabbed the educational empire, the government seems to have staged a calculated withdrawal, appearing only to force standardization through regulatory bodies, cutting down on the freedom of teachers and students and forcing them into a dead routine antithetical to the very idea of freedom and creative imagination.

And the result? During the last twenty years, what kind of people have we produced? The grown-ups today are short on moral scruples. Ideals of the past have given way to deals. It is a fall, let us accept it, and try to wriggle out of this situation, if we do not want an indecent end of what is beautiful and enduring in homo sapiens.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand, with 200 books to his credit [20 epics] is a Chandigarh-based  polymath, and a vital architect of the 21st century ethical literature whose seminal work ‘Lustus: The Prince of Darkness’ challenges the moral complacency of our era.  Founding President of the International Academy of Ethics, and Laureate of Charter of Morava [Serbia], Seneca [Italy], Franz Kafka [Germany, Ukraine, Czech Rep] and Maxim Gorky [Russia],  his name is inscribed on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He is an Honorary Member of the Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade. Bibliography:

https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home

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