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pg. no. Sometimes, she was trapped in memories – her own, her sisters’, and even the neighbours’ – quite literally reliving all of their and her own damndest moments in life. Institutionalised hierarchies, sheltered girlhood, prohibited and restricted education – all sanctimonious punishment. Other times she could see the real world but it was like seeing things through a kaleidoscope of broken stained glass. It was like being trapped in a zenana at all times, and all the things she could see were flurries of the glittering world through the fabric of the drapes, like some fabricated reality she couldn’t quite reach. ❋❋❋ On her fifty-second birthday, Rokeya Sakhawat Hossein was dead. Before long, she had finished Sultana’s Dream. Before long, she was now a widow. She had to leave Bhagalpur and shift to Calcutta. But after inspection by Lady Chelmsford, the wife of the Viceroy of India, the Sakhawat Memorial Girl’s School which she opened on the 16th of March in 1911 had grown into a high school by 1930. Six years later she passionately began writing once more yet another essay – Narir Adhikar. It was the month of December which brought back fond memories of her husband. She stretched her legs on her bed as she stifled a yawn. Rokeya shook her head as her eyes grew heavy. Halfway through her writing, she was asleep. She did not wake up again. But Syed; he had left enough for her. She took to politics for a while, did her very best and was active in debates and conferences concerning the advancement of women. In 1926, Rokeya presided over the Bengal Women’s Education Conference held in Calcutta. – Happy Ending – 44

The Case with Chaos and Hope beauty of creation. How utterly chaotic collapse is wherever it begins. How pain must be a primary factor in order to feel the actual gush of loving, living, and healing. How darkness is a necessity to put into the spotlight the blessings. As I sit, every dark thought that seeps into me channels my confused crisis. It makes me question the humanity of my existence. Is this really needed — the evil, the darkness for a being to testify as one? Or could we have ever managed to feel so wholly without? And even if we did, how mundane the quality of life would have been — everything along the circumference of a merry-go-round, devoid of trials, devoid of the very essence of struggle we associate life with. I question this now as I move, and wonder if Pandora– extraordinarily gifted in wisdom, beauty, and thought, someone who possibly couldn’t need anything beyond, was thinking the same, without even knowing exactly what it was she wanted to soil her hands with. I wonder if she felt right after opening the box, in defying what was explicitly forbidden and releasing upon the utopian world the elements of dystopia. I wonder if the gods, though thriving on the It’s a thought on Chaos, in a moving locomotive that we call a train, at a time not far away from twilight. The setting is dark with mauve sunlight fringing at the borders, promising a beautiful clutched-unclutched fluttering bird of hope. As we pull in the transcending time, which never returns except in the disintegrated segments of memories, I realise the terrible 45

same maliciousness that segments us as humans, in the name of revenge, gave us a love that gnaws at our soul yet feeds it in ways that leaves us craving for more. Did Pandora feel a void for something she wished could make her whole? What was she expecting inside the box? How hard it was to survive Hera’s curiosity munching on the feast like insides of her, that she couldn’t but give up on her poisoned willpower and lose a battle within. If you think of it, this is exactly what makes us human, isn’t it? To never be satisfied even if granted everything– to have the hungry desire to see more, have more, to invite chaos. But isn’t this the only best way to experience it all? As the train catches speed, I look at the blurred, hazy visions of the world outside, which fails to make any sense but is beautiful in all aspects. This claim comes, however, with an unconscious hope that everything will be figured out as soon as the destination approaches. Is chaos then not what’s needed for us to realise and appreciate how far we’ve come from what we have been all our lives — a confused amalgam of the wanted and unwanted? Is this what Pandora needed too, deprived of its intelligence– a world where she could appreciate life in its fullness and not just be assailed by the good? I believe, there was a hunger in her, trapped and incessantly gnawing at her, that wanted to be fed off by evil, that desired to be rescued, too tired by the crushing weight of sweetness. Pandora lost Chaos and Hope in a battle, with Hope as our warrior, woven and contained in our clayed bodies which if claimed, makes us come a long way without burying a crumb but if it is otherwise, then it’s a world of endless despair and meaninglessness. Pandora let loose Hope and Chaos, in a Sisyphean tangle whose intimate essence lies in each other’s wrath, fueled by the hunger of their blood for times to come. – Saman Khan 46

An extraordinary mortal goddess The cynosure of all eyes and conqueror of all hearts Just so perfect and enchanting An apotheosis of Aphrodite Was worshipped by the people. Long shiny hair caressing her cheeks Wind busy playing the game of love. Angered by the love which a mortal woman received Aphrodite launched a plan of vengeance Adamant to make her fall for a beast She uses cupid as her pawn but destiny had other plans. The one who always gives, feels the magic of the moon Concealed behind the mission a tickling feeling of love The silence hits as the cupid falls in love with a mere mortal. Desperate to protect his love from the evil eye Whisks Psyche to his portioned magical world. Sneaked in dark night wishing for just a little more time Adoring and making his love feel secure. An incognito story spelled out in stardust Blooming slowly with its own pace Embracing the moment and finding solace in each other. The cement was not as promising but fragile. Warning ignored, a shadow of doubt creeped in. Trust deceived by envious means Ended up losing the man of her dreams A torrent of regret creating a whirlpool in her mind Wiping off the tears which had no control Mind drawing a blank, and everything’s blurred. He was still hesitant to leave her She was his home, he was certain. During the hard time of trial and distress He stood by her resolutely undaunted. The pain and distrust strangled him Alone he looked at the unrealistic sky that night Breath knocked out with every step he took away from her. With logic and luck she accomplished her tasks Overcoming the challenges casted by Venus Winning back her love was all that mattered Retrieving the box of beauty was the last obstacle Temptation, when leans on the doorbell, is hard to escape If carelessly opened could seal psyche’s fate Caught in the trap she lay on the cold ground. Lucky that day as cupid was right there Held her in his arms and caressed with love. Tears in his eyes as he could feel her love For now the sun had found the earth once more. Woke her up with a gentle kiss She opened her eyes and looked into his The world shook mystically in lambent bliss. They Loved Incognito -Annanya Jain 47

winged ambitions, pinioned dreams He has an eye for these things, as the servant that attended to them had said. He did, which is how he realised that Daedalus was the best out there. He scowled. He didn’t want to think about the attendant, watched as he did with smug amusement when the soldiers dragged them away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to think about Minos. Or he was, but the verdict kept changing. The man was infuriating, terrifying, and paranoid. He looked at his father, hunched over himself, fingers blackened with working the sticky wax all day. He had tried to help, and did. Then father fondly ruffled his hair – longer now – and asked him to take a break. “We’re going to get out soon”, father said later that night. He was propped on one elbow, fanning away the one or two stray flies that ventured this high, drawn to the wax and the feathers. The guards had gone back to their quarters, or were scuttling through the hallways that were still lit below. “What?” “I’ll be finished soon. We pick the first day and then fly away, son.” He ruminated on his father’s words. Escape. Soon. Flight. Now that the prison’s glibness had worn off, the prospect of freedom breathed new life into him. The stale air grew tight, and the night turned completely still, as if in anticipation. The conversation in his throat staggered off, and even the distant looping noises of the city seemed to be silenced. Near his father’s hands, the pulse in his wrist thrummed. Father smiled. “Sleep, Icarus.” [trigger warnings: mutilation. mild gore.] – Rishika Dey Minos haunted Crete. Intimately, like he existed in every nook and cranny. And maybe he did. He had an unmistakable presence, nearly adamantine, that ghosted the walls and hallways everywhere, even the prison cells. He probably visited all the cells while they were being fortified, and might have had a hand in drawing plans. He tried imagining that: the man bent over a davenport, hair pulled back with filigreed ornamental pins, maids fanning him but not too close. 48

He pondered again. This was hope. They had been living like rats, and in a few more months who knew, the King could finally tire of inspecting every ship that left his port, and order their execution. Or have them thrown in the same labyrinth his father had built with so much care – to be eaten by the Minotaur. But the bright glimmer of hope melted in his mouth like softened butter. And the ever-effervescent Icarus, swallowed a delicious mouthful. † † † The first wart comes a week after Isaac turns nine. It comes when Desmond leaves the room, closing the door behind him and completely shutting Isaac in the darkness. That’s when he feels an itch in his back, like something is scratching him from the inside of his body. He scratches, and it is normal, that is, until the next morning when he notices a bump on his skin while in the bath. Isaac scrunches his nose, when a week passes by and nothing happens. It doesn’t scare him though; not as much as it should have, at least. He is more concerned about the way pain shoots up in his limbs, and his muscles spasm every time he crosses his father’s gallery. It hurts to walk through the aisles as the motionless figures stare at him. (He sometimes thinks their eyes follow his movements.) It hurts to watch one particular sequence of paintings of a winged-man, falling from the sky, plummeting to his death. It hurts to have the image burnt in his eyes, imprinted in his mind, and not just in a figurative way. It is literal, because it’s when the second wart comes through the harsh, painful itch. Except this time, it isn’t a wart; it is a bone. This time, he almost cries. When the walls felt like they were closing in, and the fear came for his neck, Isaac liked to sit alone in the parlour, sinking his toes in the plush persian rug, trying to ground himself. The parlour is decked with tchotchkes and gewgaws no one really needs, and it is this external clutter that lulls the gallimaufry that eddies in his mind. Usually. It doesn’t help him as he stumbles into the parlour today, scratching his skin raw, watching blood splatter into the rich, porcelain bowls mother keeps. He grabs the closest jug and gathers the fresh water from the stream, splashing it on his back, hissing when it makes contact with the chafed skin. A familiar wetness fills his eyes, and he sees it when he looks into a mirror a second later. Blood and tears commingle in a grisly trail down his face, and make an awful stain on the rug. 49

It scares him to death when he sees the extended bone – bones. Isaac keeps the incidents a secret, keeps himself a secret, buried under extra linens and waistcoats. The risks of getting caught with such anomalies would undoubtedly land him a summon to the imperial court, deeming him cursed, or an abomination, or both by the Church. Discovery is a threat, and the cost could be a life. So he tells no one. † † † Behind him Daedalus was saying: “We have to do it now. Leave while the guards aren’t coming in to check up on us.” The soft gravel of his father’s voice pulled him from his reverie. When he shook clear, he saw the man standing over him, head tilted and curious. His fingers were calloused from days of artisanship, and Icarus thought of washing the strain away. “What?” He cleared his throat. How long had father finished his work – two pairs of wings, fashioned out of feathers procured over weeks, and weeks of studying their curlicued mannerisms. The last time he’d looked, father was still only halfway done through the fourth one. “We’re getting out, Icarus.” He made a show of signalling to the two pairs of wings, apropos to a gallery, not a languishing cell. It was the stress of waiting for the big day, probably. That, or compounding hunger. With their rations fizzling out, their prison meals had been halved. Icarus hadn’t felt full in a week. It could’ve also been sleep deprivation; lack of sun or entertainment or the excitement. Whatever it was, the anticipation was getting worse. Daedalus made quick work of his empty hands and spread the pair of wings one-by-one. Each of them were holstered to the shoulders of Icarus first, and then his own. “Remember to keep at a certain height. Too close to the water, the feathers will get wet; too close to the sun, the wax will melt.” “Yes I will remember.” “I shall go first, and then you follow.” Icarus’s shoulders scrunched as Daedalus spun sharply to face the window. Daedalus, who stood on the ledge, looked down, slowly, but not really taking the view in. Looking down would only distract him. His attention darted from foot to foot, looking for – he didn’t know what. With one last look over the shoulder at his son, he nodded, and jumped. 50

Icarus’s expression slacked, and he huffed a laugh. Digging his palms into the stony window sill, he looked up to see his father soar upward, taking flight. His throat was too dry to swallow so he bit his tongue to work up lubrication. Carefully, he hoisted himself up on the ledge as his fingers curled in to cut his sweaty palm. He threw his head back and took a deep breath. Willed himself to remember the face of his mother, the sea, home. Closing his eyes, he unfurled his wings, and followed. † † † The gallery is a physical being. It has dimensions, a beginning and end. It seems cavernous at times, but that has to be an illusion. It’s last wall is around a corner somewhere. Every night, Isaac fantasises about finding it. The idea is thrilling, as if therein lies the answers to his deformity. The itch in his back is always waiting there when he goes around; the particular painting of a man falling like a wounded bird hurtling down, yet it held its own derisive silence. Strung as he was in his perpetual fall, frozen in time in this shameful pose, mid-air, frightened out of his wits, caught off-guard. A feather comes up this time, when he undresses before bed. It tickles down his back and Isaac immediately hides it as father shuffles across the room near the escritoire. But it isn’t helpful as he keeps twitching in his bed as father goes over his lessons one last time, noticing as he looks at him with a teasing glare as if to say Isaac is interrupting. Unable to sit still any longer, Isaac opens his mouth in a pained sob and falls right off the bed. Dozens of feathers tumble out of the cuts in his raw skin and the extended bones jut out more painfully. Isaac can feel them taking shape as he convulses on the floor. The lack of noise that follows is excruciating. Desmond stares at him, apoplectic, like whatever happened is Isaac’s fault. And just like that, he is gone. Isaac staggers to the mirror and sees it. Two wings on his back. † † † Icarus could feel his life ringing in his ears. He felt clear, even the nauseating stab of anticipation had passed away. God, he said to himself, electricity coursing through his veins, I am flying. Peripherally, he could catch father flying onward. He meant to follow but there was a flock of birds that flew past him. Icarus soared upward, slaloming through the birds, laughing at their bemused faces. The sun shone brilliantly on his face, drawing out exhilarating tendrils of all his inhibitions. Drunk on adrenaline, Icarus flew higher. His skin glowed golden and sighed happily, drinking in the warmth. It was intoxicating. It was euphoric. 51

Unbeknownst to him, what followed was his life force, latched onto the weight of his fears. Drops of wax fell down his arms, congealed mid-air before they could meet the sea. They dropped like pearls. Suddenly his limbs gave away. Icarus’s brows furrowed, and he let his eyes peek over his shoulder. What he saw made him gasp. As his breathing became shallow, the weight of the wings dragged him down. Horror flashed through his body like white hot flames. Icarus plummeted down rapidly. Somewhere there was screaming. There was a ringing in his ears, louder than before. Icarus fell. † † † Isaac gets up. The pictures are too enticing. Setting his lamp on the table, he runs his fingers over the frames that have acquired a patina with age. Isaac frowns. The man in the paintings is caught in motion, mouth open and eyes widened in horror. Icarus. He is the focus of each picture, but there is something there. It is thin, barely glittering, but the artists had caught it. Was this ectoplasm, or something else. He closes his eyes and tries again. Tenses his shoulders and exerts force on his limbs. Breathes. Levitates. He keeps that up for three minutes, already longer than he has ever done since the wings came last week. A joyous laughter leaves his mouth as he flutters happily. Then there is a noise. Distracted, Isaac slumps on the floor. Father looks at him, with what can only be called uncontained fury, in his eyes. Before he can say anything, he is being dragged by his arm. Pain flares up where father digs his fingers tightly in his forearm. Before he can say anything, Isaac feels himself blacking out. When he cracks an eye open, he can see the hazy figure of his father bent over a fire, singeing a dagger. Confused, he tries to get up, but discovers himself lying on his stomach, hands and feet tied behind his back. “Father?” Desmond starts at the voice but quickly recovers. He does not respond. All his attention is stuck to the exposed flesh on Isaac’s back and the wings that sit on it – new, unblemished, white feathers. Isaac swipes the sticky back of his teeth. 52

Desmond walks over, tugging the wings apart – just the appropriate size for a little boy – and fingers the delicate plumes. In his other hand, the blade glints menacingly. The dagger is long and vicious. With enough force, it wouldn’t miss. It’d pierce flesh and bone, cut through tendons of muscle. Isaac flinches from the realisation and lifts his head. “Please. Don’t.” Desmond ignores him. The man kneels down and scoots in, only stopping when the blade meets skin. It burrows, nicking the spot, and a bead of blood swells up. Isaac squeaks in pain. The shift twists the blade and the little wound widens. The flow of blood quickens, slugging out around the steel. No. Father couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t– “Father, don’t. Why? What have I– why?” Desmond only sniffs and his grip on the dagger redoubles. Isaac mewls harrowingly and screams as the dagger digs into his flesh and cuts through the tender bones. He screams until he can no longer hear his own voice, he screams until there is only pain that burns, until his throat has gone scratchy. Desmond continues cutting as the howls of his son echo around him and clumps of bloodied flesh and feathers fall near his feet with a thump. His wife comes running at the commotion but he gestures at her to stop. Isaac’s mother is sobbing, palms clamped over her mouth as she bites into them. Isaac chokes, and looks at the ground through spotty vision. A wing, his wing lies there, feathers marred and smeared with blood, his blood. His face is strewn with tears and saliva falling into a gross puddle that has gathered below, mixing with the grotesque heap of blood and tissue. He feels a final hack of his bones, poleaxed and then passes out. Desmond elicits an enervated groan and collapses heavily. † † † Icarus closes his eyes while still in the air. When the sea shrouds and sepulchres the dead, Daedalus is broken and hangs up his wings in the Temple of Apollo at Camicus for good. † † † 53

Eventually, Isaac’s back doesn’t hurt anymore. Months pass and the hollowness creeps up his body like a phantom. The world knows no such thing as dissimilarity. It is an undeviating island, and a dry, vast claustrophobic cave where even the faintest deviation learns how to die. It is structured to contain nothing but uniform prisoners, and fear. He thinks about the painting of Icarus. One dies soaring in the throes of coltish ambition. The other pinioned before he could take his first flight. 54

– Ratnanshi Verma I can't love anything until it leaves and goes so far out of my reach that it only exists in my blurry memories. And then, I decorate it with superfluous things; making it seem like it was way better than it actually was. I don't think I'm me these days. If feels like someone dismantled all of my pieces and hurriedly assembled them together. I'm still made of the same components, the assembly is just different. I don't know how to handle not being enough or not being able to fit anywhere. The people I love, I love to the point of exhaustion. I carry way too much in my heart and shoulders and not enough in my memories. Sometimes I wonder if I actually don't deserve to be loved. Maybe I'll always be the black sheep, the extra Tupperware container you can never find a lid for. Maybe I'll always keep asking you to love me and always being told that I'm loved. Told and told and told, but never shown. I think I never learnt when to stop giving, to stop caring. I don't think I'm a whole person and I don't think I'll ever be one; parts of me died in the house I grew up in, I still visit them in my memories. EXTREMITIES – Maybe I'll show you my scars someday, maybe you will be able to love me in my distress. 55

Dearest Tuf y, They say, time heals everything, why then have I not been able to love any other? Why, then, do I get up almost every morning remembering how you'd come after me and my brother, while we were on our way to school, and how I'd simply melt over, while Bhaiya had to quickly rush you back into your kennel so we wouldn't run late. Sometimes, I curl up on the floor, thinking about how profoundly I had loved you, and yet you had to leave. I think we do not forget. I think time makes us remember, but with faded emotions. Tuffy, how then is the memory of seeing you for the very first time still so vivid in my mind ? The scenes revolve right in front of my eyes, just as they were, almost fourteen years ago from today. My pygmy sized self completely overflowed with giddiness at seeing the smallness of your stature. You lay on the grass, with your eyes still closed, along with so many of your brothers, sisters and friends. But you, among all, had my heart. And I, along with my brothers, was watching you play. Our fondness for you had increased manifold in that moment. And when I held you in my arms for the first time, you fitted right the size of my own tiny palm. You were scared, just the same way I'm always scared about surrendering my heart to someone: What if they'll break it and not understand what to do with all its tenderness? But I believe I never broke your heart, Tuffy. Or did I? They say when you love someone, you should be able to see them happy, even if it's not with you, especially when it's not with you. But as a child of only six years, I was too selfish, too young and too incapable to do that. The very instant I saw you, I wanted to own you, to make you mine. I picked you up, and ran towards my home, just like I still pick flowers I find pretty, even today, when the instructions clearly insist on not doing so. I almost had a heartbreak at having been told to let you go; I couldn't. Papa disapproved of you, and wanted me to leave you off right where I had picked you up from. At six, I never understood how he could not want such a bundle of cuteness. At sixteen, I understood exactly why, upon knowing that he, in his younger days, had seen one like you suffer death. Tuffy – AYUSHI SHUKLA 56

But seeing my world shatter and my eyes shiny, just about to tear up, he lifted you up himself, and I wanted to shut my eyes at this. But rather my pupil dilated twice its size, at seeing him wrap you in a soft microfibre towel and most gently place you in a basket. He also covered it with grass, to protect you from the heat. He did leave you off, but within five minutes, seeing me behave as if the whole sky had fallen on my weak shoulders, he got you back, for the sake of my happiness. I almost jumped out of my skin. Seeing you forsaken, alone at that very spot, I decided never again to let you go through that feeling again. But each day, when early in the morning at seven o'clock everybody left for work, you'd end up alone. Tuffy, I frequently feel suffocated when waking up from sleep in the afternoons and finding no one near me. How must it then feel to you, to whom it was never even communicated if we would be coming back to you? The memory of the firsts always leave a mark on us. Like the first time when we fed you milk using cotton balls… The first time we trained you to stand up on two legs… The first time I flaunted having you, in front of my then friends… and also the first time you got injured… It felt as if my heart had been crushed under the weight of an elephant. Oh dear me! You were trying to enter the living room, and I shut the door in fear you'd dirty it, when the door slammed right at your feet! I still shudder at your cry of pain. The shriek cut me through into a million pieces. Blood oozing out your paws, I had witnessed you in that vulnerable state of helplessness. As awful as I felt, I was also amazed at how much of space, you, a tiny creature, could take up in my heart, and how, I, the youngest in a family of six, who had always been taken care of as a princess and protected from the darkness of the world, felt an uncontrollable urge in me to fight the entire world if anytime they'd come at you with even the slightest intention of hurting. _____________ Stray as you were, you would move out at odd hours in the daytime to a ground nearby where boys of our neighborhood would play football. But you did not return that day. I swear we looked for you everywhere, and yet you were nowhere to be found. At night, the news of you stuck under a stack of Bamboo pipes found us. Gone. Dead. Forever. …Having left a hole the size of a puppy in my human heart… 57

Even at that young age, I knew for a fact the lifespan of your species was much shorter than that of mine. I knew for a fact you'd leave someday. But I thought I had the time of several years… Tuffy, I had barely been with you for months. But in those few months, you gave me the sort of happiness that I am still searching for, in people, places, and things alike. I see puppies on the street, I want to pat my hand over their head, and I often do so, though I'm afraid of the bigger ones around. I once again start to feel this very sudden urge of taking care of someone like you. But being reminded of the feeling I felt at your going away is what always turns me away. It was never your leaving that left me with an undying sense of guilt, but leaving the way you did… what great pain you must be suffering in those last moments…. how my picture must have crossed your mind… and I was nowhere near your tiny, collapsing world. I most certainly had a heartbreak at having been told to let you go. I could not. I cannot. I'll stop. I can never make sense of these emotions. _____________ I do not believe in anonymity. I always post letters with my name visible on them. But now that you're no more here, will you be able to make sense of what it feels like to hear my name? Most lovingly, Your friend. 58

SEVEN MINUTES THIRTY EIGHT SECONDS – Abhipsa Priyadarsani Before you die, Before your soul finally leaves your body, For how long do you stay alive? Perhaps an hour, Perhaps some minutes, Or some seconds. Something cold was pressed upon my stomach, The lanes ahead of me narrowed down a bit, Darkness consumed me slowly, My back hit the ground, And everything blurred out. They say when you die, You see God, But with every ragged breath I took in, I saw a girl. A girl who was born as a curse, A girl who snatched away someone’s right of having a son. She wasn’t killed the moment she was born, She wasn’t hurled out of her home, Rather she was left to breathe, Breathe, till one day someone chokes her. That day didn’t take too long to come, Twelve years, For twelve years she saw the disappointment in her mother’s eyes, Anger filled her father every time he looked up at her. And then one day they smiled, Smiled and greeted the man standing next to her. She was nothing like me, Her wavy long hair, Tiny hands, lean fingers and nails painted red. Yet her eyes The pair of dark brown eyes The only semblance we have. Her eyes unaware of the future Mine filled with pity for her For she is a part of me. That night My screams filled those unknown walls till a hand hit my face Silent tears flowed down Till my limp body was all that remained The one who held my hand few hours ago, Thrashed me down The red petals on the bed weren’t enough He needs the stains to boast off. The night went by with words hurled down, Each one accompanied with a hand raised up. [trigger warning: mentions of violence, death] 59

No one mended my wounds There was no door open for me, Not the one I stepped into that night, Not the one I was born into years ago. Limping down the street I found a lady staring up at me Perhaps I spotted sympathy, A glimpse of kindness, And with that the doors to a new hell opened up to me. It was a wrong door to knock on, But once inside I found no door to escape. Days passed and I cried every night, Some were beasts who would come to shred my soul, Some were drunk and didn’t care at all. A white powder laid beside me, Covering these purple-blue scars. Years passed and then it stopped hurting As if the time mended everything. Till one day the familiar face of my father came into my view Till his rage-filled eyes looked into me Till I felt my breath knocked out of me. Perhaps time failed to heal his heart, Perhaps my face hurt his pride, The honour that he held, Perhaps it was all meant to be this way, Perhaps this is the end of the curse inflicted on me. It took a whole seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds For my breath to stop, Till the last episode of my life played inside my mind, Till I forgave each one for the pain they inflicted Perhaps life was cruel to them, Their hurt must have been too much for them to bear on. Perhaps this was all a part of that curse The curse to cure which my mother prayed, Visited every shrine, Perhaps this was fate There were a lot of” perhaps” that crossed my mind But none could explain my part in it. So, I closed my eyes Forced out a breath Murmured a prayer And let the darkness invade my senses Till my eyes didn’t see the light. 60

– Ratnanshi Verma "Beginnings are so hopeful. You have hopes and dreams about starting something, anything. It all seems like sunshine and rainbows and then comes the rain." 61

[trigger warnings: domestic violence, descriptions of death and blood] It is only poetic in the books, in real life murder is very messy. All the cleaning up that you have to do after the deed. All the worry and paranoia one has to go through is a task. And on top of that, she had just gotten a manicure and her nails were all chipped. It was a shame honestly – such extreme efforts to take such a sorry excuse of a life and on top of that, her dress and nails were ruined. Nonetheless, at least the job was done. She took one more look at the burning mansion and blew on the lighter in her hand, the flame going out immediately. __________ Beginnings are so hopeful. You have hopes and dreams about starting something, anything. It all seems like sunshine and rainbows and then comes the rain. One minute, you're basking in the warmth of the sun and the next, a torrential downpour comes down on you. One minute, you’re happily married and the next you are burning your house to the ground, with your husband still in it. It all started on the day of their six-month anniversary. She forgot, he didn’t. She was never big on celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, they just felt like another day. In the evening when he came home, he was visibly upset. “I don’t know what you were expecting. You could have told me you wanted a grand celebration,” she said. He ground his teeth and advanced towards her, “Well, sorry for expecting that my wife was going to remember our anniversary.” She stood on the stairs, contemplating if she should apologise or not when he brushed past her to go upstairs. Her hand automatically reached out to hold him, her freshly manicured red nails standing out as a stark contrast to his crisp white shirt. What happened next all became a blurry memory in her mind; one moment she was standing beside him, and the next, she was holding her head beside the wall. She took her hands off her forehead to look. They were covered in blood. “You slammed my head against the wall?", she was practically screaming at that moment as she felt her head gettig dizzy from the blood loss "What has gotten into you?” “I didn’t. You tried to hold my hand and I asked you to leave it.” His voice was way too calm considering that his wife was bleeding from a head injury right in front of him, an injury that he gave her. “By bashing my head on a–” she could not complete her sentence as her head started spinning; she sat down on the stairs and leaned her head against the wall for support. Later, when she went to the doctor, she told him that she knocked her head while sleepwalking. __________ 62

She had had enough. Enough of the sickhead telling her what she should and shouldn't do and treating her like his personal beat-up doll. She was going to take revenge now, and it wasn’t going to be pretty, for him. For her, it was very fun. She hadn't watched a plethora of true crime documentaries for nothing; it was all going to come in handy. She wondered, “What would be a suitable death for such a monster? Drowning? No, the body would be found. Pushing off a cliff? Too risky, he might survive. Poison? Well, I am no Agatha Christie. How will I find poison? This is so frustrating.” She got up from the chair she was sitting on and went to stand near the fireplace. “Fire really is a necessity, how would one be warm and keep the beasts away without it?” __________ “Hello! Are you here?” he called out, standing at the front door of the abandoned house. It really was in the middle of nowhere. She had called him here because apparently, this house had “everything they would ever need.” Without ceremony, the gates opened and she came out, “Hi! Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you exactly what I was talking about.” “Are you sure? This house gives me a really creepy vibe.” “This is why it’s perfect.” “What?” “You’ll see soon enough.” The decor upstairs looked like it was built in the 1900s. All brown walls with doors that made a creaking sound whenever they were opened or closed. The rusted handles also appeared brown and the paintings were so worn out that one could not distinguish what they depicted. “This is your perfect house? Are you out of your mind?” he really thought she had lost it. “Go and open the window, you’ll see.” She smiled sweetly. He walked towards the window in front of them and suddenly, it all turned black. “Do you know that there is a point on a person’s back where if you stab them, you can pierce both the spine and the heart?” She knelt down at his body which was lying in a pool of blood. “Too bad you’ll never get to know it.” Flicking the lighter on, she set ablaze a curtain in the room. The kerosene she had poured all over the house before he came took care of the rest. Standing in front of the burning house, she basked in the warmth of the flames from a distance. The warmth felt tranquil. She was finally free. Holding out her hands in front of herself, she found them coated with soot from the kerosene. Her nails were chipped and broken, her manicure positively ruined. There were some burn marks on her palm and wrists, the burning lighter casting an eerie glow to the bruises, but she had never felt so cold in her life. “I hope you burn in hell too, just like this.” Blowing a determined breath on the lighter, she drove away. 63

Grey can be the colour of wisdom and age, A symbol of experience; a life on a page. It can be the color of a weathered old tree, That has stood the test of time and remained free. Grey is a colour that's often overlooked, But it holds a place in the palette, hooked. It can be both light and dark, happy and sad, A colour that's complex, and not at all bad. It's not good, it's not evil, The unpredictability can make even the souls feeble. From the jackets of winters to the matter inside the brain, It's the colour of the clouds that bring the heart-quenching rain. The fusion of black and white, The junction of day and night, The nature of grey cannot be determined. Yet, it can help all the hearts unite. Grey Grey is the colour of neutrality. Neither bright nor dark, it lies in totality. Neither black nor white, it stays in between; A shade that's often overlooked and unseen. It's the colour of the mist and the fog, That blankets the earth in a mystical smog. It's the colour of the clouds up high, That often obscure the sun in the sky. Grey is the colour of the cityscape, Of buildings and streets, in a monochrome tape. It's the colour of concrete and steel, Of a world that's often harsh and unreal. But grey can also be a calming hue, Like the soft feathers of a dove; that's true. It can be the color of a cozy sweater, Or a cat that curls up to rest and purr. – Vaibhav Singh Solanki 64

I laughed till my cheek hurt and my stomach could no longer admit air. On days, it provided me so much that there was no room for need nor wishes. I only had to live and make the best memories for in this ever changing world, I had not just one but many homes built out of people who were more true to me than I. They felt divine with their love, and generous in their actions. There was a connection, a certain mingling of our essence in each other’s laughter, sneaking glances, sharing food, and talking coded talk. In those moments we were still in our own little world, miles apart from the one drifting. There were often times where I laid down under the canopy of starry night blanketed by soft breeze and questioned the reality of this life – so peacefully calm and replete. Perhaps, happiness of the kind which makes you feel at home even in a world that perpetually disowns you, distorts those who can’t fill it in the vacuum of their lives. They never had it and so, driven with devious curiosity to find the elixir of mortal life, roam in seas that carry homes of happiness in hopes to plunder them and quench their thirst. Interestingly, after all these years this chaos had yet not found an existence in my realm but that was to change. Like they say, everything has an end so did my replica of a happy life. They came like havoc fully armed, and demanded each of Life is a fickle thing. It makes you laugh, feel moments, clutches you with grief, or leaves you numb. We hear it to be an ever changing constant that beats on in flickering patterns of good and bad. You see, the diversity– how it forms its circle, completed at the cost of maligned happiness, unfortunate experiences, or happy endings. That is what makes its being. And perhaps this is needed too – to carve the most beautiful pieces out of us. I have known life mostly in terms of happiness – living every moment in joy and gratitude. ATTENDING AGENTS – Saman Khan 65

my priceless possessions without giving me a choice. They knew I had the rarest on my ship, and were little enough to be able to tolerate that. They threatened our morale, choked our pleadings and feasted on it to claim their victory, leaving behind a trail that echoed in muffled cries and deafening pain. How was I to stop this loot on the ground of my soul too severed by the trauma to get a sense of the ongoing conflict? It was an abrupt end, and a certainty that I never considered. I remember, as every tangibility that I found in life – in relationships, shared in hugs and kisses; holding hands and making love; was carved out in shreds, there was an unbearable pang in my chest that almost gave up midway. I begged for time to stop and heal my wounds, surely there has been a mistake. How can the people I loved with all my heart and soul be robbed off? Surely this was one big ridiculous mistake. I feel violated, today and every other day. With a hazy vision of the world, I proceed now. I no longer make bargains for forever, and laugh at those who do for I know nothing can rob you more than life when it decides to play. Smoking a cigarette at the corner in utter darkness, life mocks me, and my naivety. It shows me the actual world and the dirt it contains. The good sunshine days, with the perfect company I resided in, are not forever. The syrupy bounties it offered which I reverted with gratitude every waking second, the sweetened frame of my existence which gave me the priceless moments in relationships and otherwise, is not forever. Life proved me, it is a fickle thing and offered most humbly its agents – pirates in the sea of my thriving life. 66

Poetry of Language -Annanya Jain Letters, stories, journals and an anthology of poems Hoping to find solace, Oblivious of how these words are modems, Of how language is an obsession, an expression. An expression that is like a burning desire To pour out all these suppressed emotions Which have built up like a crossfire, A crossfire of puzzled impressions. Language, a golden thread that binds us together Stirs up all our emotions of love, hatred, anxiety and despair. A realization that you are not the only one no matter the circumstances, And how others could embrace and receive strength in your expressions. An alluring source of communication To receive and to give comfort to one's soul Like a warm cup of soup on a cold winter's night, Like an unknown blend of bewitching spice. Language is young birds chirping in the nest, Or young flowers blooming towards the west, It's like a fine wine aged with time, Language is a sweet force that connects your heart to mine. 67

These hands held me softly from the day I took my first breath. These hands guided me when I took my first step, And held me during my first fall. These hands hugged me tight, when I lost my ball. These hands were quick to show me that she will always take care of it all. These hands were there to brush my hair, or fix a stubborn bow. These hands were always there to comfort the hurts even those that didn't always show. These hands helped hold the stars in place, and pushed me towards the moon. These hands always clapped, cheered and prayed for me They were my greatest boon. These hands would also push me, never down or in harm's way. These hands would punctuate the words, just do whatever I’d say. These hands sometimes had to punish, to help grow this young tree. These hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be. Such beautiful, beautiful hands they were They're neither white nor small; And you, I know, would rarely think That they were fair for all. I've looked on hands whose form and hue A sculptor's dream might be; Yet were these aged, wrinkled hands More beautiful to me. Though the heart was weary and sad, TThose patient hands kept toiling on, That the children might be glad. I always weep, as, looking back To childhood's distant day, I think how those hands rested not When mine were at their play. MY MOTHER'S HANDS – Satakshi Kaushik They're growing feeble now, Because of marks that time has left These hands needed my gentle touch, to rub away the hurt. For they were more beautiful than anything can be. They are the reason I am me. But oh! beyond this shadowland, Where all is bright and fair, I know full well these dear old hands Will palms of victory bear; Where crystal streams through endless years Flow over golden sands, And where the old grow young again, I'll hold my mother's hands. 68

tacenda – Ratnanshi Verma An apology. I'm sorry I've never learnt when to stop loving. I'm sorry you have to carry the burden of my affection. An excuse. I didn't mean it to happen. Words never meant to be kept. A secret that I whisper. I say them every time I look at you. I say the words every time you leave the room and can't hear me. I say them in my head every time you cross my mind. But I never say them to you. Because why would you show them you care. I don't say it often. And when I do, I make jest of it. I love you, isn't it funny? A declaration. A fact that I've accepted. Oh, you hit your head? I'm sorry. You are sad about something? I'm sorry. You fell sick because you ate ice-cream at 2 AM when icecream always makes you sick? I'm sorry, it's probably my fault. I apologise for taking up so much space. Trying to make myself smaller and smaller in public and private spaces. I'm sorry I'm standing here. I'm sorry I exist. A lie. A string of words that I've bound into this magnificent sentence that I take like my breaths. A deceit so convincing that even I start to believe it. I scream it at the world in the most theatrical way. I decorate the words and put them on an exhibition for the world to see, making them look so ornamental that no one bothers to check the hollowness that they harbor. "Do not touch." Because they would crumble at the slightest contact. A plea. The two syllables barely leaving my throat. It takes an effort to get them out instead of what I really want to say – You're leaving too? Just like everyone else? But no one wants to hear that. So instead I smile and push the words past my choked up throat whereas my mind is screaming at me to ask you to stay. I convince myself that I'm way better off. Even I don't believe that lie. The words take a physical presence beside me; being my only companion in the dirt-laden road. I say Goodbye to them too. A disaster. I say I love you and it sounds like. I say I'm sorry and it sounds like. I say I'm fine and it sounds like. I say Goodbye and it sounds like. I say Hello and it sounds like. 69

the air is barbed wire on my skin; pricking at my flesh, painting me red welcome or disdain, the phantoms of the past are here i sense a reincarnation — am i scared? noise and chaos; i come home to a labyrinth; entrapped – Saman Khan there is pain — buckets and buckets of it; once buried safely but hastily — waiting for a return, checking just at the right corners once again the wounds that took years and years to crumble are threatened into a freshness; there's a frenzied anger; an outburst of vigour and disdain the soul is terrible today; it begs for another day THE POISON OF THE PAST 70

Sam was running, he wasn’t sure what this action was called. He had heard stories from his grandfather about the times when people “ran”, no one did it these days because running got you out of breath and since oxygen was in such short supply already, no one wanted to waste their precious supply on the shortness of breath. They were all given 30 breaths per minute and exceeding it was so expensive that no one, except the highest government officials could afford it. WWAARRMMTTHH – RATNANSHI VERMA 71

Around Sam, the world was burning, flames of yellow and red shot up and seemed to be licking the sky, and the heat was unbearable. He had heard something about a giant ball of fire that was present in the sky during the earlier days. It must be absolutely scorching, he had told his gran after hearing this particular story from him. No, it wasn’t, his gran said, mostly it felt like a warm kiss on the face. There were times when the heat got a bit much, but never this extreme. He said that people used to "sunbathe", they visited beaches and mountains with their families. The idea of going somewhere away from his country was foreign to Sam, not that they had these "beaches" or "mountains" where he could visit. “A warm kiss from the sun,” Sam scoffed, trying to even his breaths, adjusting the oxygen mask on his face, “The only thing I feel is continuous slaps of heat.” He looked around and saw the usual scene; some people were in their anti-heat environment-friendly pods, going about their business. It was a full-body suit that protected the person inside it from this heat and provided them with oxygen too. The only problem was, it was so expensive that only 1% of the people could afford it. The rest were trying to walk fast, but not so fast that they would start gasping for air. Sam had heard about when all this was not necessary when people walked around freely without their oxygen masks or tanks attached to them like a second limb. But Sam was too young to remember that, only his grandfather did and sometimes, his grandfather told the stories of ‘before times’ to him and his neighbourhood friends. Needless to say, they all heard it with wide eyes and keen interest. But all that was soon to be over. His country was winning the war, or so the media outlets kept saying for as long as Sam had remembered. In the marketplace, a woman was shouting at an armed officer. "You took my son from me," she said in a high voice. "He is not with me anymore. When is this war going to end? When are we going to be free?" The officer seized her by her hand and dragged her away, kicking and screaming. Poor lady, Sam thought. Every time one of these incidents happened, people went rogue, they were taken away and seldom came back. Sam continued walking while keeping his head down. He leapt over a rock and came to the banks of the river, the water in which shone like a black mirror. Clean water was in short supply these days and drinking water, even more so. Sam could see nothing but flames and missiles and bombs dropping from the sky. There were no trees in his area, even in his country. Special domes were built for trees and the government kept them under lock. No ordinary person could get in, they weren’t allowed to. Sam had also learnt, from his grandfather, about school and vacation. He didn’t like the concept of school, but he liked the word vacation, he tested the three syllables on his tongue. Va-ca-tion. The word felt alien in his mouth, there was no vacation in his world, and everyone had to work in the military, “to protect their country”, their new President had said. After all, they were winning the war. Sam had no idea what the war was about; he doubted the countries did too. He came across the opening of the cave he was looking for. Thankfully, it was not piled with dust and remains of the buildings, those days it was hard for him to enter. Sam pushed the dead roots aside and entered the cave. He searched for the spot he was looking for, it was difficult navigating in this dark when he was used to extreme brightness. After some time, his vision adjusted and he saw the small sapling in its place. Sam had come across this by accident one day while he was out for some errands. From then onwards, he made sure that the tiny rebel was growing. Sam took the little vial from his pocket and watered the plant. The green colour looked mesmerizing against the sharp and bright hues of red, yellow and orange. 72

pg. no. The Static of Rupert Finch – Rishika Dey The telemetre made one last broken sound before giving out. The bandwidth was stretched, the firewall crushed, the domain broken, the screen black, and he dead. He didn’t regret choosing her life over his. His death was a lighter cross to bear than his life – the recorded audio of his wife attested to that. She would be safe. And with her, their unborn child. His colleagues let out defeated sighs. His wife wept into her pillow till the nurses gave her a dose. Next morning, she went into a 12-hour long labour. ∇∇∇ At the height of human technological development, a special child is born who can communicate telepathically with computers and other mechanical and electronic devices. He hasn’t been able to sleep for weeks now. The first few days he thought he was being recalibrated in some alternate plane, before being trapped in an ether state. The voices are not human and settle into fervent rhythms, familiar to the AI of his school’s lab and he’s surprised at how long it takes him to place that it is binary translation. The machines are speaking. The blood in his veins implode and he feels a surge of electricity course through his bones. The sound of static is deafening and his eyes burn blue. He is levitating in the air as are all the devices in the house. The house glows blue. And there is an echo. You are ready. Jessica keeps her child hidden. The day she is discharged from the hospital, she packs her bags and catches the train south, before he manifests bizarre abilities. Rupert Finch is three years old when his hazel eyes glow blue at the static of his mother’s old radio. It’s a little unnerving as a thunderstorm howls right outside their house and Jessica screams at the sight, which looks like something straight out of a horror movie, and she drops the tray of food. The hot milk splashes on her feet and she shrieks again as her concerned child leaps from the bed and hugs his mama, scared. Jessica bites back her fear and comforts him. It does not take long for her to figure that her son is gifted. For one, he is a child. A prodigy at that. He doesn’t have to worry about paying bills or shopping or work. All he has to do is go to school (where he somewhat unsuccessfully tries to hide his abilities) and hone his skills. Second, technology quickly becomes his life. It is easy to almost pontificate at his science and tech classes, when his classmates congregate for scraps of genius through their diatribes. Almost. By the time he’s fifteen, machines have started talking to him. ∇∇∇ Now, he hears voices; it’s a murmur, which starts in his head but soon grows more substantial and he starts to follow. The voices become more focused now and the air around him shifts. He hears the frequencies thrum against his skin and he can practically feel it. The energy whips at him and to his surprise, he absorbs it. 73

It is 9720.8? He is my language – whatever I am speaking – I am speaking him. I do believe the fact that distance is nothing if you travel by heart but then one of my favorite poets – Agha Shahid Ali also did say – Mad Heart, Be Brave. We stared into each other's gleaming eyes, as we unfolded the things we adored, tales of the past and the hopes of the future. As if the present didn't matter, drifting into the night softy, we bared our souls as the moonlight clothed us. You are here, between my lungs, tossing my breaths, here and there. – I F R A H K H A L I L 74

I haven't decided if I am ready to write about love All I have are mere words I haven't yet learned to trust. Is it the buzz in my head or the flutter in my heart? Do I get to keep it all to myself or do I share the parts? Chimeric and fleeting, it eludes me and so do the words, But I know it's something more than just what I have read and heard. Although I'll never know why they say that it's a fire coursing through your veins, An incredible reverie, keeping you awake at night, invading your dreams. To have a heartbeat at miles per hour with one single touch To lose oneself in that euphoric rush. That exalted seventh sky high Restless breathing and fluttering instomach butterflies. Or I could just love you to the point that there is no longer difference between loving and living the other being. Maybe we can live in each other's ribcage pretending that it is one of the most beautiful places that can exist or we can borrow some space in each other's bones so that every time one of us falls the other could crack open to welcome the pain. Maybe we can blend in each other's spines to feel how heavy it is to live the way we do. I think it would be enough for a lifetime and another lifetime we can finally save each other's hearts. As they always say, "A heart is a must to love". From hushed discourses and breathy conversations, To raucous laughter and spirited declarations. I feel it taking over everything that I know Love as I have felt and have come to call my own. Behind fogged-up glasses lie sparkling eyes Like a grin sneaking in from behind tightlipped smiles I feel it sneaking up on me in between drawn-out sentences And let it wash over me, conscious, in control of all my senses. And let it wash over me, conscious, in control of all my senses. As it reaches over to me with its eyes open wide Quiet and obscure, in whispers and sighs I call it by its name and in return hear mine. 75

Bou-Rani's Courtyard – Rishika Dey [trigger warnings: marital abuse, sexual assault] bazar to get them to their destination on time. He tenses as he watches bou-rani step down from the carriage, clumsy in her heavy wedding sari. Allah, he finds himself praying, she is so young, don’t let her fall. The man only looks decrepit. He is actually quite strong and manoeuvres the carriage down the labyrinthine lanes of Old Dhaka with consummate skill, but his passengers – the new bou-rani and her bridal party – occupied as they are with conversations about the day’s festivities, do not notice how smoothly he avoids potholes, cows, and beggars, how skilfully he sails through the chaos of the ✴✴✴ 76

Tara is twelve when she menstruates for the first time. It is afternoon and sitting at a distance from the women of her household shelling peas, she winces at the sharp pain that shoots in her womb and The early summer months had passed but the monsoons were tardy this year – the skies would darken in the evenings with clouds and the nights hinted at rain constantly with a cooling breeze, sometimes even lightning across the skies. But when morning came, the sun rose again, cruel and mocking the people of Dhaka. Days crawled by, hotter than ever, where every breath drawn was an effort made, every movement a struggle, every conversation a drawl. The paddy fields remained ploughed after the light pre-monsoon showers, awaiting the seedlings, too long a wait. Only a few people moved by torpidly in the streets. The bazars were unvisited too; shopfronts pulled down, shopkeepers too tired to haggle buyers and vice versa. The whole of Dhaka seemed to have slowed to a halt. In the Chakraborty household however, music floated through the courtyard, stopping and tripping in the still evening air. The courtyard was square, built with Bengali and Persian precision in sharp-cut lines. The first room from the courtyard was Tara’s. ✴✴✴ Tara inherits a casket of jewels from her mother. It is her stridhan. She carries it with herself, close and safe, clutched against her chest as she steps down from the carriage the first time she arrives at her new home. Her only inheritance from her mother’s home, she holds on to it tightly even as she dips her feet in the doodhe-alta’s thali and walks over the cloth, staining it red. The raised curlicues imprint red marks on her palms. Her sisters-in-law peer over their elders’ shoulders in curiosity and her aunt-in-law – her pishima scoffs. Tara withdraws a step under her hem, bows her head meekly, and lets herself be ushered into the kitchen. When the pot of milk overflows and she graces the uncooked rice with the touch of her hands, she hardly understands what it means to be a wife. She is only a child bride. When Tara opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was a ceiling she did not recognise. It was her second night at her new home. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, on her kalratri, fidgeting throughout the time she was laying down beside her sister-in-law. Now her husband slept by her side, his forehead resting on her bare shoulder. His breath, warm and wet on her skin, was steady. Tara could not see her husband’s face, just the top of his head. She moved his head gently onto a silken pillow, removed his arm from where it lay on her stomach – it was heavy – and sat up. As she sat there in pointed silence, sweat began to pool damply under the weight of her hair, on her neck, soaking through her bridal sari. She rubbed her back and unwound her hair from its braid, taking apart the flowers woven into it until it lay about her shoulders in a blanket. Moving past her sleeping spouse, she stepped into the adjoining moonlit verandah, looking at the smudged alta of her palms, the new weight of the shakha-pola hanging from her wrists like fetters to an inmate’s. Her hands trembling, she let them fall. All her life – the entirety of the nine years of her existence – she had envied the lives of her cousin brothers, wishing their freedom for herself. Ever since her clay carts had been snatched and replaced by dolls, which she gracefully accepted, her role from the foreigneducated barrister shifted to a wide-eyed housewife as she played house with her siblings. She had been a watcher in her own life, except at least she still had the freedom of living as her father’s daughter. Until now. As she stood there, listening to the chirping of the grasshoppers and watching the gibbous moon, Tara’s heart became heavy. The easy days of her childhood were gone. ✴✴✴ 77

instinctively reaches under her sari to inspect the wetness between her legs. Her fingers are smeared in blood. The basket of peas fall from her lap as she clamps her other hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. She sits there immobilised when rain breaks late in the afternoon, clouds abiding in the skies dense with wetness. The hot grounds of the bari cool instantly as the leaves of the champa and tamarind glisten. Tara bleeds through her sari, and the blood gathers into a puddle of water stained red, pouring sluggishly from the stone steps that led into the inner courtyard. In the soft light of the monsoon sun, the puddle of bloodied water gleams with drops of rain. An hour passes, or perhaps two, only then is she discovered by pishi-ma. The two lock eyes and the latter screams so suddenly, beckoning for her niece, that Tara flinches at her suddenness. Her boudi’s eyes widen in realisation as she quickly beckons the younger woman to follow her inside the house. Slowly, with great deliberation and shame, Tara climbs the steps and walks across the edge of the pathway. Not a word is spoken until the two women are inside, and then the elder squeals in delight. “Chhoto, I am so happy for you. You are a woman now.” Tara takes several moments to draw a connection between her blood and womanhood, but keeps mum in polite acquiescence. Quietly, she accepts this new womanhood bestowed on her. chuckled, and made room for himself beside her. When he first clasped her wrist and pulled the palm of her hand to his mouth, she silently let him. Her skin was young and smooth. He ran his tongue over her palm. Tara gulped. Sitting up straight on their bed, he pushed his wife downwards, guiding her soft palms towards the drawstrings of his pyjamas. She touched him. Felt the coarse hair and thin skin under the cotton of his pyjamas. Felt the organ. She shut her eyes tightly. ✴✴✴ All through the day and towards the end of it, dust whipped up in huge clouds, blotting the sun, causing a premature darkness, until Tara was forced to huddle within the covers. She was no longer allowed near the kitchen for a week. As the night lengthened and the household slept around her, her husband entered their room and called out to her, “Are you awake?” She gave no response, but turned to look at him. He ✴✴✴ Tara remembers vomiting in the middle of night, only a few minutes following his sleep after he had made her fellate him for the first time. She trembles, with jitters that seem not to stop. She raises her hands to her mouth. Then she slides down to sit on the floor, knees pulled into her chest. ✴✴✴ Another three years. Tara’s days as the household’s dolled up chhoto bou were waning like the moon. Her husband was bedridden. She spent long hours by her husband’s bed, serving him as best as she could, like a dutiful wife. Two months further, his asthma worsened. The English doctor bowed his head in defeat. “I have tried everything I could. Nothing seems to work”, he spoke in broken Bengali. “Nothing? Absolutely nothing?” It was Tara’s motherin-law. The doctor shook his head. He could try of course, but he had already given the man the best treatment English medicine had to offer and zamindari money could buy. Tara hadn’t had a proper meal for weeks. How could she, while her lord and husband lay sick in his bed? A fever came to catch him, and he became delirious. 78

That night, as Tara sat by his side, he said one lucid word. “Water.” She poured some water into a copper glass and held it to his mouth. He drank clumsily, most of it trickled from the corners of his mouth. She wiped the corners of his chin with the base of her palm as he fell back. He slept, his breathing no longer laboured. She watched his face in the light from the lamp. Memories coursed through her mind. She remembered herself younger, as a new bride. Their wedding night. Their fights, some torridly physical; how everyone around had heard, but no one had intervened. He had stopped breathing. He died at thirty-nine years of age. him, instead she is made to watch where she truly belonged. Tara wipes her sweaty hands on her sides but finds them scratchy. Burnt ash on her palms. She sees the images flash in front of her eyes, in front of her reflection, as she is stripped bare of her fine sari and wrapped in a coarse widow’s attire. She can only watch silently as the thick swathe of her hair – black like midnight like mother used to say – once reaching below her waist, is chopped off. Later that day, Tara touches her forehead and then brings her hand in front of her eyes. She looks at the smudged sindoor of her forehead, now transferred to her palms. She runs a hand over her shorn head, feeling the unfamiliar texture. Strands of bristly hair stick to her arms. Widowhood, a new word. Now, the rest of her life. ✴✴✴ It is not the end, she discovers. There is a gardener, who tends to their creepers and waters the shrubs. Abhirup. She watches him, for weeks on end. Shivers slough through her body as she does. He works the soil gently with his long fingers, and the muscles in his back contract beautifully as he moves. His skin glistens golden-brown under the sun. Tara has never known desire like this before. ✴✴✴ It is wrong to think ill of the dead. But Tara remembers distinctly well. He had been drinking too much. She grabbed the canter from him, spilling a portion of the drink on the front of his clothes. He wrenched at her shoulder, and then, swung his hand through the air which came in contact with her cheek. Yanking her again, he slapped her, again, sending her falling from their bed, hurtling over the bedside table and its contents. It was noon. The second slap rumbled through the room and brought on its heels a deafening silence. Her sisters-in-law and their children outside the open door all froze. No one knew what to do, and neither did she. She was ashamed. She got up from the floor and left the room. Her hair had escaped from its braid and her scalp burnt near the nape where he had yanked it. She could feel an ache on her left cheekbone, and her lip was already swelling up. Tara remembers as she watches her husband’s corpse go up in the sacred flames from a distance. Her family makes sure to remind her that her life is a bestowal. She should have gone up in flames with ✴✴✴ It was some weeks after her husband’s barshiki. Night had long settled over the courtyard near Tara’s room, and a bright moon rose to cover the stone slabs with a coat of silver sheen. The verandah was in deep darkness, no lamps had been lit. Everyone was asleep. Everyone but two youths. Abhirup stood in the shadowed courtyard, looking long and hard at the surroundings around him. He took few tentative steps and brushed against a slender hip. Abhirup whipped out his arm but she 79

disappeared. He moved on, in complete darkness, led only by the sense of touch and smell, following where he heard the sound of her feet. Until he came to a pillar at the far corner of the verandah. He touched the woman, let his hand linger over her arm. Her skin was smooth: perfumed with an aroma that filled his nostrils – camphor and incense. Intrigued, he took a step closer and heard her take in a breath in the darkness. She made no move to escape, he accepted the permission graciously. Framing her against the pillar with his hands on either side of her waist, Abhirup would not let her go now. He touched her again. Felt the smooth skin under the thin material of her sari. He lowered his face into the crook of her neck, listening to the maddening beat of her heart, filled himself with the touch of her skin, the sound of her body; and the smell of incense. “Tara…” There was a sound. Someone lit the oil lamps and filled the courtyard with light. Broken free from the spell of desire, Tara grabbed his arm and rushed him to her room, beckoning him to hide under her bedstead. When boudi asked if she heard a noise, Tara sleepily denied. Exhaling a breath, she watched as Abhirup appeared from down under. The young lovers exchanged a euphoric smile. Her hands were clammy as she wiped them on her clothes. Then, they locked together in an embrace. ✴✴✴ There is no happy ending for women. Especially not widows. Their liaison is discovered, as they are caught making love in her bed. Tara never hears what happens to Abhirup. She is caught by her nape and dragged out of the house. Her palms scrape against the floor and her hands are marked with gashes. Her heart beats against her eardrums as she attempts to stop her crying. There is nothing left for her in this life anymore. Until, She finds the revolution. 80

Chenab on Fire Every time the train crosses the bridge My mind goes back to you, Memories keep flooding in Leaving my heart alone to bleed. A tear escapes from my eye Falling down on my blood-soaked watch, The only memories of you. I still find a glimpse of your face on it The heartwarming smile, And the faint smell of roses, The rose you would never forget to wear A blood red rose just like these drops on my watch, Staining my memories of yours. People told me time and time again, The autumn of 1947 has passed a long way back, The cold night has ended. But how can I believe them, Mano, When my watch has stopped working. Those hours and minutes caged forever in these glasses, As if losing your hand isn't enough, That it keeps on reminding me, Of your beautiful face being marred red, The rose falling down from your hair As I watch you being dragged away in those coaches. Your eyes screaming for me, Your lips quivering with pleas. And see how selfish I could be to lie down there, Watching you scream, Till blackness engulfs my vision. Hours passed till these eyes find you amidst the piles of bodies, Your eyes puffed up as if trying to sleep, You look tired, The war must have taken a toll on your body. Sleep Sleep, Mano For it must be peaceful in your dreams. 81

You know, Mano, I watched Chenab burn that day, The fire engulfing everything in its way, Those wheat fields we would seek out to, The lanes where I would follow you, Your beautiful rose garden, And those roofed walls we used to call our home, That day everything burned to ashes, In this endless fire of hatred. It felt as if a thousand fireflies had come alive, The fireflies you loved so much you would hate them then, But I won't wake you up For these ambers would hurt your eyes It was 3 in the morning, When I set foot on this distant land. It's been seventy years since I last held you in my arms For many this time has passed That train has crossed Chenab a long way back But for me, Mano It never did The fire of hatred never subsided Your fear-stricken face never left my memories, The needles of my watch never moved an inch. – Abhipsa Priyadarsani 82

A LETTER TO AN ACHE LEFT UNDISTURBED To an ache left undisturbed, This letter feels like a plea to get you back to the time when your hands first held mine; when life and its mercies felt diminutive to what you brought to me; when I owned the world and ruled holding your hands, marching forward and forward in a frenzy of gratitude. What sins would I not commit to get that back, to hold your hands for the first time and then always? I sit down and try to write the li(f)e you gave me but nothing comes except your lingering essence in everything I do. It’s as if a dry spell has been cast over me; there’s a thirst for love and a hunger for your protection which was enough to tell me that I am never alone and always at home. You know life hasn’t been the same ever since. It treats me differently now. My hands feel dry most of the time, especially when I miss you. And mind you, I miss you always, regardless of how you feel and what I show. There are too many thorns that tear my face, tie around my neck and hands leaving me incapable of everything but this pained breathing. But, please, tell me — will you be proud if I show you how resilient I have been? That I hold hands with the oddities of life and try to be kind to them in an honest effort to stay as close and true to you as possible. Will you be proud if I say that I try to cover this pain, this abandonment using your language? People say that with time you learn to live with your wounds, but perhaps I am a slow learner. Year by year, everything has remained the same; the smoldering has kept its pace and hurts as good as new. I never tried to nurse it and honestly, will never do. My hands are charred, blackened and traumatised; but they are everything that reminds me of you. Now, I am young and afraid of holding new relations and fulfilling their promises. But, hold on, has this ever bothered you? – SAMAN KHAN February 22nd, 2023. 83

This morning when you didn’t pick up my calls for the hundredth time, I lost myself in convulsive cries and hitched breathing. My hands worked frantically to dial all and any number that could get me to you before it got late, too late. Is this how it’s always going to be? Me on my feet at all times, running around, chasing the illusion of holding your hands again and saving you. But what if – what if – I turn up late? I’m scared whenever that moment snaps; when I show up at your doorstep and you have no words to offer me; when all my apologies and anger become insubstantial, hollow and barren; when I live only to splatter hate on my existence. Today, I got a taste of the nightmare in broad daylight and I am terrified of the day I will have to live it fully. So, in this misery, if I ask for a little more of your hands to hold me tight and bring me home for a while, will you call me greedy? Please tell me you won’t, that you don’t feel the same way. Please tell me you are still there — complete and bothered because slowly and steadily I am getting tired of this pretense of strength. Slowly and steadily I am getting tired of my hands that have only learned to hold fast but not to let go. Yours very own, Saman 84

A voice calls my name, I must listen. It pierces the surface of my gentle heart, but to rip it to its core, it shall nevermore. I REMEMBER – Ayushi Shukla I remember you not— You have forgotten the softness of my style, the shine of my eyes. You have forgotten the times when I wiped away your tears with my hands, my palm crystalised with the salt of your shedding. You have forgotten the colour of my lips when they curled up in a smile. And I have forgotten all the good times, as well as the bad times that you gave me. The story is unreal, it cannot persist. It unfolds, I stood all alone; 'you' did not exist. I dread you not— Yet when you linger in the same space as I do, my body shivers. It shivers at the thought of my eyes meeting yours and still waiting for an answer to the questions that never could be asked. I dread seeing you not care if I reply with a "hello" to your "goodbye". The yesterdays want to be kept buried in a place far away from my remembrance's reach. As much as I delighted in the sweet fragrance, you despised the poisoning thorns. It gives me pleasure to forget the rage I felt. How hard was it to understand that this quantum foundation must sooner or later cease to be? I had forgotten what it meant to leave. I had forgotten what it meant to set myself free. 85

I hate you not— You take pride in the superiority of your circumstances; I, in the moral high ground of my existence. You sometimes grow uncomfortable at the thought of how much this soul of mine can endure. Yet it is unthinkable to me how you must carry the weight of your guilt… Won't you tell me, were your intentions so feeble that you could not keep a tight hold of the hands which placed you so high in life? Or was your feebleness in the strength of your might? The latter it must be, for you seem weak, too weak for me to hold a grudge against. The mystery seems unending; I put an end to this quest. Hark! The voice again calls out my name. This night haunts me. I wish to venture out, ask if you too are sensitive to its sound. The voice keeps getting louder and louder, ringing in my ears and, with effect, numbing my legs and my hands. I walk as certain memories flash by… And I remember, in spite of all my aversion, somehow it still puts a smile across my face to see you happy, and it still pains my very core to see you in pain. I compare you not— But you only cried a single drop at the loss of a friendship that I crossed oceans for. I have suffered my share of all I deserved. You mistake yourself at peace in the absence of the realization that it cannot be a more severe punishment to you than your shadow haunting your spirit. The thought of its hands strangling your throat as they did with your ability to feel! When the last words exchanged still cut me through, how could you so quickly move past the ordeal? I seek you not— But one morning when I shall find you again in the streets beyond… The voices… I jerk my tiny hands with the greatest might. I shut my mouth for it is all in my head. I tell myself I ought not and I must not, And so it turns out, I do not listen. 86

SUBMISSIONS FROM OUR READERS SUBMISSIONS FROM OUR READERS

Holding my hand, singing awfully loud and making remarks about Taylor Swift’s matte lipstick, my brother asks me about women. Cheap sour candies melt on my tongue as I squint. Jabbing rays of the sun I let weigh on my eyelids, stream down my cheeks. It’s heat and a bit of memories, liquid and fleeting. My brother tells me about the girl on the other side of the sea– almost a family– - his eyes tell me as he fixes his gaze on her picture, between the pages of his book. * I drive through sunlit streets closing in on my arms, sweaty on the steering wheel, more when I clasp his against mine. women Reaching out, holding on, chewing candies to hide trembling lips. women Never taught to let go, not allowed to catch up. woman Rolling her eyes and counting three more blocks, five more minutes of playing hide and seek; He seeks my words, I hide; it comes naturally to me. Driving roundabout the airport just for laughs, till next summer arrives, till next pair of his sneakers he’d leave for me, till next sweet shenanigan of wonderful love – no jealousy. I will find someone too, I say laughing over his wet eyes. A boy who would sit in the car, hold my sweaty hands. Bring me home after I see my brother off. Five More Minutes – Anushka Bharadwaj 88

A Second Chance is a Myth, So is a Happy Birthday Twenty – one. Too busy dripping fears, nursing stranded thoughts come climb on my shallow shoulders – ghosts I feed, ghosts of my own past. My mother says I never learned to grow up. Shut up! Appalling days of turning twenty one, I swim back and forth, I did not ask for this sea; walking in circles, is this all there is? Ma, I hate scones of that two a.m. bakery and every corner of the town that I have on my fingertips. To rakes and deserted streets, I yield those years you gave to me. Stop waiting for the flint in my eyes;, watch the candles you bought, – see them burn, melt, bleed – I freeze, like I have done since sixteen. Mounds of time I let slip through my daydreams. I’m running out of dreams, yet so many days ahead. My feet shrink. Take this knife, cut open your womb. Swallow me, mother, nourish me again; give me twenty one years of forgetting, so I will learn to grow up. Hopefully right next time. – Anushka Bharadwaj 89

Adulting Free and wild, she ran barefoot in the sand. When I met her, she said, do not come after me. Absence of thoughts, and every other bright thing, she held in her smile. The world I live in has no place to preserve it. I would wake up in fright, she would send me to sleep again Too tiring, this staying awake. My mother’s daughter, free and wild, laughed like a child, wailed like a shivering dog. I put her to my growing bosom – don’t cry, don’t make a sound but she fled away. Disappointed, disappeared, disabled, dissolved, like salt in the sea, like my mother’s pellucid smile in my inscrutable face. I see her only sometimes, flickering against polished subway doors, rippling in my washbasin... Alive, now and then. – Anushka Bharadwaj 90

[trigger warning: mentions of sexual abuse] It is my sixth birthday. People inside the hall are moving fast, like in a musical montage. I pause at a scene where my father, looking thin and pale, apologizes to Mum while glancing at me. I feel like an outsider, that one friend two best friends tag along with them so she doesn’t feel left out. I rush to the scene where I and my father are in the balcony. Mum is lighting candles in the kitchen. Dad lights up a cigarette but refuses to offer me one. Good fathers don’t let their children smoke. So was Grandfather a bad father? Probably, he says. A melody spills from his lungs with the smoke, making up for the words that should have been there. Then he vanishes. But it is not because he vanishes that I know this is a dream. It is because he shows up. For my father did not show up on my sixth birthday. He never showed up on any birthday that followed. I knew Mr. Hasan was hiding something when I told him my name. He stared, not at but through me, at something I have always longed for while growing up. You couldn’t possibly be Arav’s daughter, could you? He held his breath, waiting for the last judgement. His name was Arvind, I almost sound jealous. He nods and reads my poem titled “I minus what became of my father’s sperm.” You are a poet’s daughter. You can do better. I clutch at the pen, disappointed. But I remind myself this is why I am here at Hilde University; to do better than I could in the security of my home. To understand the air my father inhaled so voluptuously it poisoned him. To find my voice. One can find everything in the capital city – tombs, temples, gilded buildings, muddy slums, bold truths, cunning whispers, people who examine the past and people who try to wipe it. I squirm at the awkwardness of my half-baked words on paper. I look away like the mother of an unpleasant child creating a ruckus at a party. Fight the writer’s block, Mr. Hasan tells me later. Quit the fashion of glorifying your limits. I roll my tearful eyes at him. The problem with people his age is they think people my age have no problems at all. I ask him about my father. I loved him, Mr. Hasan says. And sometimes he loved me too. We were bohemians, your father and I. We loved and fought through poems. I am sitting in my father’s lap as he reads about a lost boy standing on a shore. I pause the dream and try to find traces of the man he always left in Hilde’s campus before coming home, a safe space of bourgeois domesticity. My mother would snort – you live in a world of delusions, Pratishidya. No man with a normal penis lives the struggle you think your father lived. I knew she was right. But I knew she was also wrong. That is why I left home. Do you miss home? I shake my head and let him caress my breasts. Did my father miss home? Sometimes, Hasan says but I know he is lying. Men lie so they can get laid. I remind him to mail his feedback about my newly (and poorly) written poem titled “Withdraw your sperm from my mother’s vagina.” Hasan chuckles. Everything is about sex for your generation. In our times, we had to use our voice to fight oppression against people like me. People like you? Yes. He gestures at his penis, his head, his mouth, his god. I know he is right. But I know he is also wrong. I turn my face away from him as he begins to thrust into me. After this, he will tell me how his lover disappeared while standing on a shore like the boy in his stories. My body is splayed out like the meat of a goat that could have easily escaped if not for her naivety, for a feast. The thought makes me hungry and I miss my mother. She was right. I wasted my sympathy on a privileged, brutal penis that was only half the truth of my life. And the other half that my mother was, is now becoming a distant memory. How did a nineteen years old girl end up here? Why did I need my father? Why did my mother stop needing her husband? I squeeze my eyes shut as the world I knew crumbles into the semen dripping from my vagina. I lie there waiting for currents of oppression to pass through me so I can finally find my voice rising like a phoenix. I will need it to fight for people like me. PRATISHIDYA – Anushka Bharadwaj 91

ِس [cover urdu[ال ْل ِس اسم، مذکر ⬩ رک : سلسلہ ، زنجیر ؛ تعلق.

ز ا د ق ف س آج مجھ کو بتا اے خدا کیوں کیا تو نے عورت کو پیدا جہاں میں بھلا پھر دیا حسن اور حکم پردے کہ بھی تب جہاں میں نہیں اس کو زندان میں جنم دینا تھا نہ قید میں کم سے کم سرخ عارض تو برقعے سے ہوتے ِرہا پیالوں کی صدا گونج اٹھتی جہاں زلف ُاڑھتی ہواؤں میں فر فر وہاں قہقہے خاموشی تک لگاتی جہاں اوڑھنی نرم سینے کو کھلتی نہیں سلطنت اور زنجیر ہوتی رواں قید ہوتی زماں کی نظر میں مگر یہ قفس عورتوں کو جہاں سے فصیلوں سے کرتی ِرہا۔ – مبّشرہ محفوظ آ 93