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Category: Nostalgia
Nostalgia Slices from Life
Joy Bangla: Memories of 1971
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Ratnottama Sengupta recaptures a time when as a teenager she witnessed a war that was fought to retain a culture
At the border of the two Bengals: Photo Courtesy: Ratnottama Sengupta
"Joy Bangla!"
I was startled by the greeting. I was sixteen-going-on-seventeen and — en route to Darjeeling — I was visiting Malda, my 'Mamabari' where my mother lived until she was married at sixteen-just-turned-seventeen. I had just finished my school finals in 'Bombai' and was enjoying the long summer break with my school friend Swapna, my paternal didi, Tandra, and my maternal didi, Nanda. My Mama's son, Shyamal, and his friend, Subhash, had graciously taken upon them the onus of taking us around Gaur, Pandua and Adina. All these are relics of the historical capitals that hark back to a glorious Bengal long past and — for most Indians – lost in oblivion. And here, in the 12-gate mosque of Baroduari, they were singing paeans to the Shahs and Sens and Pals of a medieval Bengal!
I was soon to face history-in-the-making. For, the rectangular brick and stone structure with three aisles, eleven arched openings, and so-many-times-that domes, built sometime in the 16th century and now in the care of Archeological Survey of India, was teeming with barely-clad men women and kids who were fleeing on a daily(or hourly?)-basis the gola-barood of the Razakars – the paramilitary force General Tikka Khan had unleashed in the eastern wing of Pakistan. This was May of 1971 and, even in the apolitical clime of the tinsel town in Bombay, we knew that the Pakistani President Yahya Khan was hounding supporters of the Awami League leader, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman.
I was therefore thrilled to hear the boom-boom-boom periodically rupturing the hazy horizon in the distant. Was it the spiteful army goons or was it the guerrillas fighting back? "How wonderful it would be to meet some of them!" the romantic in me spoke aloud to the red-eyed men and women who had greeted me with 'Joy Bangla!'
"Don't!" Shyamal Da and Subhash drew me aside. "Don't get close to them – don't you see they have all got 'joy bangla'?"
"So what?!" I retaliated, "They are all infected with the love for their country – that's why they are saying 'Joy Bangla'! Isn't that good!"
"No, they are all infected with conjunctivitis – it is highly infectious and spreading rapidly in the camps. So now, not only in Malda but all through West Bengal, 'joy bangla' is the name for conjunctivitis."
Mangoes. Raw, green, going yellow-orange-red. Stretch out your hand, pluck them off the tree, hit hard on them with your fist and bite into the sour-sweet flesh… But we girls failed to emulate what Shyamal and Subhash could do with such ease on our way to Singhabad, the last stop for our trains this side of the border in that part of Bengal. Nevertheless, the fragrances of Amrapali, Moutuski, Kishanbog and Fazli remain fresh in my memory years after Shyamal, Nandadi, Swapna, Tandradi have all followed Bangobandhu to a borderless land beyond the clouds.
Singhabad is where my mother Kanaklata owned some 27 bighas of cultivable land inherited from her father: Chandrakanta Ghosh had, in 1940s, apportioned plots to his city dwelling daughters, Malati and Ranjita too, worried that they might face difficulties if their 'job-dependent' husbands lost their all to the Partition! He had reasons to worry. He had exchanged most of his land in Dinajpur but the daughters were married into families that had their base in Dhaka, Munshigunj and Kustia. Before you turn to your Google Guru let me tell you – all these were part of East Bengal and are now in Bangladesh.
Much later, in 2001, I would understand my grandfather's angst when centurion Bhabesh Chandra Sanyal told me in Delhi: "This part of the subcontinent has seen three partitions – in 1905, 1947 and 1971." The doyen of modernism in Indian painting, who had moved from Calcutta to Lahore in his youth and from Lahore to Delhi in 1947, had brought alive another chapter of history that most of us in India or Bangladesh don't often recall. Yes, in 1905 the 'territorial reorganisation' of the Bengal Presidency by Lord Curzon was said to be for "better administration" since Bengal, for centuries, was spread right up to Burma in the East and well into Assam and Tripura in the North-East, into Bihar and Jharkhand in the West and in the South to Odissa. Noted: but why did it have to be along religious lines, separating the 'Muslim-dominated' areas from the 'Hindu-majority' ones? Because together the Hindus and Muslims had taken up arms against the goras in 1857, and starting from Barrackpore the mutiny had spread to Lucknow, Jhansi, Gwalior, Meerut, Delhi… After 1857, the last Mughal Badshah, 82-year-old Bahadur Shah Zafar, had to be exiled in Rangoon while in 1885 the last emperor of Burma, Thibaw Min, was forced to live in exile at Ratnagiri…
If it were not so tragic, it would have been ludicrous, this 'exchange' of emperors.
Nandadi's brother, Nirjhar, now 79, vividly recalls crossing the newly defined boundary to come away for good from Meherpur, in Dinajpur of East Bengal, to Malda with his mother — my aunt — Pramila, his three-year-old sister, Nanda, and a just-born brother, Nirmal. "We were coming in three bullock carts: the first one driven by a certain Mongra carried our eldest Mama, his wife Charulata and youngest son Subrata; and the last had our younger Mama's wife Gayatri, son Suvendu and daughter Maitreyi. Many people were coming just like us, there was no knowledge of the word 'Passport' and no concept of 'Visa'. Since our Dadu – maternal grandfather Chandra Kanta – had to stay back to wind up things after us, he took us to a dear friend of his, a Muslim named Sukardi Chowdhury, in Anarpur and asked him to accompany us since he had a gun.
"He was to reach us to Jagannathpur where Dadu had built a house on the newly exchanged land just six kilometers away from Meherpur. Sukardi Chowdhury lived two kilometers from the border but we had to cross river Punarbhaba on a boat and then we followed the road along the railway line. All of a sudden, we were startled by a piercing cry in a female voice. 'Who is this? Who goes there?' demanded Sukardi Chowdhury. He climbed on to the railway track and witnessed some miscreants harassing a woman. He fired his gun in the air and the rascals fled. He walked up to the woman and found that the malefactors had bitten off the nipples of the woman who was bleeding and writhing in pain.
"Sukardi Chowdhury had a gamchha tied around his head like a bandana. He took it off and wound it around the chest of the victim. He advised her companions to go along the railway track straight to Singhabad station, take a train to Malda and seek medical aid there. 'That will save your life,' he assured her. I will never forget." Incidentally Nirjhar's father, Makhan Chandra Ghosh, did not cross the border until 1980. Along with his ageing mother he had stayed back to care for his widowed sister since their land further inside Dinajpur could not be exchanged.
This 27-acre land in Singhabad adjacent to the No-Man's Land on the Bangladesh border was so dear to Kanaklata that she would not hear a word about selling it off although she lived far away with her husband, Nabendu, who was busy scripting films. "One should never forget one's roots," she told me in 1971 when she went around with a donation-book raising chanda for the Bangla refugees. She was delighted when – later – the government of India issued Refugee Relief stamps that had to be affixed to every letter, be it a postcard, an envelope, or an inland letter. Was it because deep within she identified with the uprooted people who were forced by history to cross borders?
Ma's love for her land had, perhaps, infected us. When she passed on in 1999, we dispersed her ashes in the pond on this land. In 2007, before my son, Devottam, was to depart for higher studies abroad, he visited this innermost corner of his land. In 2017, when Ma would have turned ninety, my husband, Debasis, celebrated by planting mango trees around the pond and released fish, the sales of which now pays for a Durga Puja on the land. Yet, just last December, we severed our formal ties by selling off the 'two-acre land.' But no, Kanaklata is not forgotten by the men and women – many of whom studied in the school she helped set up long before government aid came their way. They are setting up a temple in her memory…
But hang on friends, that's not the end of my story, "picture abhi baaki hai!"
On December 13, 1971, Tandra's elder sister Chhanda got married. She came from Patna where Nabendu's brother lived; the groom, Animesh, came from Delhi. But Kanaklata had organised everything in Bombay, in the same house in Malad where our family has lived since 1951. This Goan-style bungalow had a garden surrounding it and this tiny 'lawn' was to be the wedding venue. However, ten days before the event when the invitations had gone out and the baratis had already booked their tickets, aerial strikes on Indian air stations led to an all-out war with Pakistan.
This was ominous for many reasons. Six years before this, during another war with Pakistan, my grandfather had passed away in August 1965. This time around, the mighty Seventh Fleet of the USA had entered the Bay of Bengal to support Pakistan in the war. Sirens were being sounded at regular intervals and we joked that – since both the bride and the groom were trained musicians – these sirens were 'replacing' shehnai by Bismillah and party. Why? Because the police showed up to warn us that no conch shells or ululations that mark traditional revelry at Bengali weddings were to be sounded — and not even a single ray of light should evade the black-cloth-wrapped pandal that had to be erected to cover the house!
Ill omens? Never mind. You can't stop a wedding because a war was on! All the Bengali families of Bollywood united that evening to celebrate with bated breath. And on December 16, when the bride was being formally inducted into the groom's family in Delhi over the sumptuous meal of Boubhat, news came that General Niazi of Pakistan had surrendered to General Jagjit Singh Arora of India.
So Vijay Diwas is one day that unites India and Bangladesh in celebrating its actual secession from Pakistan. "Joy Bangla!" – we all said as Chhanda and Animesh led a chorus that sang,
Aamar Sonar Bangla, aami tomay bhalobashi!*
Oh my glittering Bengal, I love you…
Malda: Photo Courtesy: Ratnottama Sengupta
Didi – elder sister
Mama – mother's brother
golaa-barood — ammunition
Amrapali, Moutuski, Kishanbog and Fazli – Varities of mango
bighas – acres
goras – whites
Badshah — Emperor
chanda – donations
picture abhi baaki hai – The movie is still not over
Boubhat – wedding reception, traditionally
*Song by Tagore that became the national anthem of a free Bangladesh
Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
Tags 1971, Amaar Sonar Bangla, Assam Tripura, Bahadur Shah Zafar, Bangla, Bihar, Burma, Delhi, Gaur, Jharkhand, Joy Bangla, Lahore, Lord Curzon, Malda, Mujibur Rahman, Odissa, Pakistan, Pandua, Partition, Tagore, Thibaw Min, Yahya Khan
A Tale of Two Houses
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By P Ravi Shankar
I was extremely upset and howling my head off. My mother struggled to keep me quiet. My parents had just got down at the bus stop and it was raining. It was a short walk to Laksmi Nivas. My mother was dragging me along and I was trying my best to turn around and run back to my paternal grandmother. The bus journey to the village had been miserable. The bus had ploughed through heavy rains and waterlogged roads. There were occasional claps of thunder and the tarpaulin sheets covering the bus windows offered scant protection against the rain. The bus was crowded and leaking. Puddles were forming on the floor.
My maternal grandfather's house was a two-story mansion located in Thiruvazhiad (turn-away-goat could be a literal English translation) village, Palakkad district, Kerala. He had built it in the 1960s and had named it after my grandmother. The house was a combination of living space and granary. There were long passages which were used to store the rice harvest. Wood was prominently used in the construction. The house sat in a huge plot of land. There was a front yard and a huge backyard. The house was large, but the number of rooms were limited. There were only three bedrooms on the ground floor, and they were all dark and scary. There was a traditional dining room and a wood burning kitchen. A well and a huge bathroom completed the amenities.
There were three bedrooms on the top floor and a small attic above that. The rooms on the top floor were small with wooden windows and had excellent views across the backyard to the hills beyond. The rooms opened on to a common corridor in front. This offered excellent views of the road to Nemmara, the main town in that part. Traffic was sparse and our attention was captured by the buses to Palakkad town which ran at hourly intervals during the hot, lazy afternoons and at half-hourly intervals during the morning and evening. The village was situated in a cul de sac, away from the main hustle and bustle.
During the seventies, my grandmother had three to four helpers working in the house. Traditional stones were used to grind dough for idlis and dosas and we had a smaller stone to grind masalas or spices. There was a huge mortar and pestle used to pound grain. Physical labour and strength were important. I do not remember my grandfather (mother's father) much as he had passed away when I was very young. My grandmother was a religious lady who used to read the Hindu religious epics daily. Later (late seventies and eighties) she was mostly confined to bed and suffered from Parkinson's disease.
I enjoyed climbing the wooden staircase to the first floor with its curved wooden banister. I believed the darkness of the house and the rooms scared me and contributed to my aversion. As I grew older I grew more adapted to this house. The house was dark but stayed cool during the hot summers. The red tiles on the roof were charming. The windows had no glass panes and once closed they let in very little light. The long corridors encircled the rooms on the ground floor letting in very little light into the inner rooms. The furniture was mostly wooden, locally made, solid and heavy. My grandma's room had a massive valve radio. Evenings were spent listening to the news and other programs on the radio. Old houses had dark storerooms which both fascinated and scared me.
My father's house was located inside East Yakkara near to Palakkad town and the holy Manapullikavu temple was nearby. It is believed Brahmins performed yagnas (prayers) on the holy riverbed and the place was named yaga-kara (do yagnas) and eventually came to be known as Yakkara. In the seventies, this was a peaceful place with traditional houses. The narrow winding lanes and the paddy fields lend a rustic charm to the place. My father's mother had purchased a house after they moved back to India from Malaysia where my grandfather had worked as an estate manager. My grandfather had died when my father was young. The house was renovated and, to my childish eyes, was charming. There were windows with coloured glass panes in the drawing room. The floor was coated with a red oxide powder which had to be reapplied regularly. Pink bougainvillea grew over the welcome arch and the bright yellow front door welcomed visitors.
The best part of the house were the two rooms in the wing adjoining the kitchen. The house had doors and windows which could be opened only half. This I felt was an ingenious arrangement. Both my mother's and father's houses had doorsteps which were massive, and I used to trip on these often. I was not used to them. There was a dark room that did not open to the outside. My cousin would study there. Wood was still the cooking material, took time to catch fire and burn. It was like an astringent to the eyes. I still remember the hot summer afternoons. We had lunch in the hot dining room and by the time we finished I would be soaked in sweat. The rice was hot, the fish curry spicy, the fish fry crispy, and the pickles incendiary. The roof had a few glass tiles to let in the light and I watched fascinated the path of the light beams being made visible by the kitchen smoke.
The rains were my favourite time of the year. In those days it used to pour in Kerala. The rains continued throughout the day, and I enjoyed creating and sending out flotillas of paper boats in the rapidly flowing streams of rainwater. The weather was cool, and the smell of the Earth (petrichor) was mesmerising. I also remember the smell of fresh paint as the windows and doors often would have a fresh coat of paint just before our visits. Now with the national highway (NH47) passing behind the house, the area has changed totally. So many new houses have sprouted. And there are two large apartment complexes.
These two houses had character and solidity. I regret not having the opportunity to interact with my grandfathers (the patriarchs). The houses reflected in many ways the matriarchs living in them. With their illness, being bed ridden and their eventual passing, an era came to an end. These houses no longer hold the same level of fascination they once exerted on my young mind!
Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
Tags Dr. P Ravi Shankar, Kerala, Malaysia
No Comments on Yesterday Once More?
Renowned film analyst Ratnottama Sengupta revisits a page from her past, weaving history and films into an eyewitness account of events that had occurred as chaos reigned on the streets of Cairo, Egypt.
Cairo. Courtesy: Creative Commons
Cairo Film Festival, November 27 – December 6, 2012
Cairo.
"This one week will change everything," Amir told Farah in The Winter of Discontent. Ibrahim El Batout's recapitulation of the Arab Spring had inaugurated the 35th Cairo International Film Festival (CIFF) on November 27 of 2012. "It will take them one week to find out who uploaded the protest on the net," the activist tells the journalist, "but one week later this government may not be there." These words were borne true in January of 2011. They had sounded ironic when the festival was flagged off on the sixth day of Tahrir Square 2 — by Egypt's Minister for Culture, Mohamed Saber Arab. He had hugged festival director Ezzat Abu Ouf who was in tears as he said, "In difficult times, it is important to protect one's freedom of expression."
It surely must have been difficult to host the festival that was paused following the Revolution. "I am Positive" was the slogan of CIFF that urged 'positive thinking' on revolution and freedom. Besides the inaugural film by Ibrahim El Batout, who mastered shooting in war zones for international channels, there was an entire section devoted to cinema of revolution. These documentaries included Good Morning Egypt that displayed people's mixed emotions on the eve of dismantling Mubarak's regime. The Road to Tahrir Square searched for the roots of the Egyptian revolution in the country's labour movement. Eyes of Freedom and Street of Death documented the demand to speed up Presidential elections and handing over of authority from the Military Council to a Civilian government. By the end of the day in January 2011, the police and army had attacked the demonstrators and forced them to evacuate Tahrir Square, outraging the world by the human rights violation.
All this would have been perfect material "to express the heritage of the past, the reality of the present and the dreams of the future" – to quote the city's Governor, Osama Kamal. For, "cinema records and relays to the world stories of our lives, our thoughts, feelings, social issues, principles…" And "meaningful art is one of the basic pillars of struggle and progress of a people," he declared. That is why the logo of the revived CIFF depicted the hawk, a symbol of the pharaohs, perched on the metal arm of the revolutionaries in the precious metal of gold.
But it had turned ironic as the awards were cancelled due to the reality outside the Opera, close to the Square and venue of the festival that seeks to empower the youth by providing a platform for their talents. On Thursday, Qasir el Niel bridge leading to Tahrir Square had been blocked off. The museum housing the treasures of Tutankhamen was closed as it was on the turbulent Square. People — reportedly paid by the Brotherhood — were being trucked in for Saturday's show of strength. Deaths were being reported from outlying areas where the Opposition was more restive as the channels were agog with news that the draft of the Constitution was ready and "any hour now" President Mohamed Morsi would sign it, pre-empting the opposition by the judiciary, intelligentsia, and the liberals who would lose much of their freedom if the Shariat laws would be enforced in Cairo's open society.
The "action replay" on Tahrir Square was protesting the President's move to arrogate himself extraordinary powers "until the new Constitution is in place." Their objection was that he had pushed out the Christians and liberals from the Constituent Assembly, in order to ensure a smooth passage of the Constitution and present it as fait accompli before its expected date.
Yes, that one week in November 2012 had once more changed the course of history on Tahrir Square.
Tags Arab Spring, Cairo, Cairo Film Festival, CIFF 35, Egypt, Mohamed Morsi, Mohamed Saber Arab, Mubarak's regime, Ratnottama Sengupta, Shariat Law, Tahrir Square, The Winter of Discontent, Tutankhamen
No Comments on Cyclists
By Mike Smith
Two men on cycles. Photo Courtesy: Mike Smith
This is a photograph from my childhood. It is of a roadside cottage and a fine, unidentified tree, on what was the edge of a Midland town, as they both were over sixty years ago. I'd guess it was taken in the mid or late nineteen fifties. It shows the front wall of the cottage I grew up in, and the road outside. It was a road that, when the photograph was taken, led out into the Staffordshire countryside. You might have called it a road to nowhere.
In the foreground on the left, if you ignore the old gaslight, is an upright object with a white top. You might recognise it as a petrol pump, probably a 'Shell' one.
The cottage had been the gate-lodge to a substantial house belonging to a successful Burton-upon-Trent brewer. That was demolished sometime between the two World Wars. A short flight of stone steps, overgrown, and the rumour of a lost cellar, both at the far end of our plot, were all that was left of what must have been the house and its ornamental gardens.
A pale blue gate, permanently open during my childhood save once when I recall cattle being driven along the road, stands out of sight closer to the camera than the lens captures. It bore the name of 'The Lodge' if memory isn't playing me false. A short drive led down past the bay window of the cottage – an oval rose garden edged with stone alongside – to old stables, coach houses and outbuildings. All had the same steep, slated roofs, blue weatherboards pierced with fleur-de-lis designs in which swallows nested, and tall, pointed wooden finials. You can just make one out on the visible gable of the cottage, not quite merged in the foliage of the tree behind. There's the shadow of another on the roof, presumably above that bay window. These were the buildings that I described in my only published novella, A Penny Spitfire, and the greenhouse that features in my daughter's animation Giant's Puddings leaned against one of them.
The photograph shows more, and pricks memory beyond what it shows. I can just remember that gas lamp being lit at dusk by a man who, Wee Willie Winkie-like, 'ran through the town', carrying his long pole, hurrying to light the lamps before true darkness fell, or at least, I think I can. I found a coal miner lying beneath it once, or the lamp that replaced it, and thought him dead, rather than dead drunk, and wrote a poem about it fifty and more years later.
The tree is in full leaf, beneath a Simpson's sky, which would have had no meaning when the photograph was taken. And the shadows are long and to the east of north if my internal compass points true. This makes it a summer evening, I guess, or maybe late afternoon. Those cyclists, small as they are, seem unhurried. I imagine them enjoying the warmth, chatting, side by side as they ride.
Above the stub wall, beyond the petrol pump, you can see the top of what used to be the front door. Unseen to the right of it, but the shadow gives the clue, steps led up to road level and an opening with, back then, a gate.
Further along the road, even at this angle, you can make out a window and beyond that another door. This didn't open into the house but was a yard gate through which you stepped down to outhouses, though I never saw it used: a washhouse with a boiler in the corner, a room with running water from a tap – dad fixed it up as a darkroom for photography. He was a hobby photographer all his life and taught me to develop and print in black and white. This photograph, of which I have several prints must be one of his. There was an outside toilet too, in that yard, lit by starlight and protected from frost by a paraffin heater, with a store shed alongside, both backing onto the road. The shed was eventually hollowed out, its roof left intact and propped up at the corner, and a fuel tank for central heating was installed in the space beneath.
The cottage was tiny. The room with the bay window had an open fire, and opened onto a short corridor, to the left of which was a scullery kitchen with a gas water heater by the sink. The bath was underneath the kitchen table, which was fixed to the wall and hinged up, secured to a hook. And yes, I was told, it did once fall down on me in the bath. The room with the window onto the road was a bedroom. The room with the window showing to the left of the petrol pump must have been some sort of reception room. I can remember it with a desk, being used as an office and shop-front, but not for long.
Because dad was an inveterate builder, and demolisher. That single pump turned into two, and perhaps three. Their swing arms carried pipes across the pavement to serve the cars. At the back he extended the kitchen, and added a bathroom and indoor toilet, nibbling away at other outbuildings to make space. He added a bedroom. Some called them the golden fifties, though I remember them as grey, and the sixties they called the silver sixties, because things got better.
Reminiscing about my mother recently, I realised what a catalogue of disaster blighted the first forty years of her life, and dad's. Born before the First World War, mum, the youngest child, was sent to queue for food at the shops – there was no rationing (until 1917?) in that war, and when it was gone it was gone. Then there was the Homes Fit for Heroes that didn't materialise, the inflation caused by the war, the crippling debt it imposed, the General Strike, the Wall Street Crash, and the next war after that. No wonder mum was content and counted herself lucky all the years of my life. She knew her place, and knew it was better than she'd had before, and bore it without aspiration, with the stoicism of some unspoken disappointment. She might have truly asked though, who could want for more?
The cyclists – there are two more in the distance – emphasise the emptiness of the road. I can just recall it like that, though I wouldn't have noticed at the time. Dad spoke of that petrol pump as being modern. Earlier ones were hand operated, and before that petrol was sold in two-gallon cans. But the times were changing. They started to build what was said would be the biggest coal fired power station in Western Europe a few miles up the road. Conveys of vehicles passed by in both directions day after day for years and several times a day, calling in for fuel. The private car was on the rise. By the time I left school they were predicting 20 million of them. Dad knocked down the extended cottage, put the pumps a little more than a car's width back from the pavement, and a new building a tad more than a car's width back from that.
There was a showroom, a shop, office and stores on the ground floor, a staircase bolted on at the back – overlooked in the original thumbnail sketch – and a four-bedroom flat with enormous rooms built on above. For a time, my old new bedroom had a steel girder down through the ceiling, a tarpaulin on the roof. I played on the scaffolding after school.
And not just our place: the road changed too. Just beyond the last tree on the right-hand side, a hillside we'd sledged down to the hedge was opened up. A road network spread over the ridge that we'd called the Cow Pastures. I learned to drive on it. Before that we had slid on metal trays down clay ski-runs where they later bumped out the hillside for houses. I went to school in a brand-new building on land I'd seen bulldozed flat, frogs, newts, plants, and water spilling from the ponds as they trashed them. The houses were slow to arrive, one by one over years, like reluctant weeds along the crest and on the reverse slope. After working hours, after school, we roamed the building sites.
Below them at the slope's foot, opposite to us, an Aunt and Uncle, dad's sister with her second husband, lived in a bungalow stuffed with dark furniture and suppressed resentment. He was a tee-totaller with a fine palate and tasted the beer for one of the breweries. It might have been Bass. A taciturn man, he told me once, that if I practised long and hard enough with a tennis ball in my pocket, I could crush it flat with one hand. And he demonstrated.
Dad fell out with her, over a petrol mower he decided to sell when the last piece of our grass was concreted over for the business. I've no money, my uncle had said, surprised to be asked. She crossed the road, threw banknotes on to the kitchen table and didn't speak to him again for years.
Next door to them, another bungalow, more modern and with a tennis court – both plots had been the grounds of the house you can catch a glimpse of at the photo's far right edge – and a retired policeman lived there. He always wore a fag, unlit, dangling from his lips. Offer him a light, dad said. I'll get one later, he'd reply. When they were too worn, I suppose, to dry out and re-use, he'd buy another pack. Twenty Players.
There's an old red phone box in the shot. We used it, until we got our own. What we see arrive seems always new. What is there already seems just furniture however recently it arrived. I recall our, first fridge, first image on a TV screen, even our first phone perhaps.
Go back there today and you'll find the road, I suspect, much as it was, save for the cottage and perhaps the tree. It's full fifteen years, as I write since I visited the spot. The pumps had gone. The showroom had substituted furniture for cars. The old red phone box might be a garden ornament by now. Cyclists will move a little faster, pumping Lycra, no doubt.
The power station's come and gone, been swept away, its working life complete. Built, used, demolished, all in the blink of a life's eye.
Mike Smith lives on the edge of England where he writes occasional plays, poetry, and essays, usually on the short story form in which he writes as Brindley Hallam Dennis. His writing has been published and performed. He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com
Tags England, Mike Smith
Me and Mr Lowry's Clown
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Mike Smith's nostalgia about artist Pat Cooke (1935-2000)
When I became a dealer in second-hand books in the mid nineteen eighties, I was briefly a member of the prestigious PBFA, which stands for the Provincial Booksellers Fairs Association, and not, as others have suggested for the alternative (which begins with Pretentious). That led to me standing a bookfair at Knutsford in Cheshire.
Into that fair one morning strolled Brian and Pat Cooke. They were interested in the Crimean War, and luckily, I had a few uncommon titles on that subject. I was a new boy on the block, but they were regular visitors to the fair. They made me welcome. They were, in fact, the sort of people who, even within a few minutes of first meeting, enrich your life. Brian was already working on what would be the first major study of the light railway built to supply the British Army outside Sebastopol during that war, which he went on to publish in two editions, the second benefitting from information flushed out by the first. You can still find copies of The Grand Crimean Central Railway online today.
The couple had joiede vivre that was infectious and heady. The world sprang into colour and movement and light when they were about, and especially Pat. But then, Pat was an artist.
The meeting led to a relationship that like many in the second-hand book trade was as much about friendship as it was about commerce. We sent Pat our regular catalogues, and she put in orders. It was always Pat that wrote, and the orders were neatly scribed in sharp black ink on small cards. They were illustrated with cartoons and sketches, with messages of goodwill to us and our daughter, often with the mention of a gift for the latter: '£5 to spend enclosed'.
The Cooke's moved in elevated circles, compared to us! We were invited to a party at Tatton Hall. Bring some books to sell, I was told. It was a great party! And we sold more books, by value, in an hour than we would normally sell in a month. The toffs and celebs were at them before I could even unpack the boxes, like Whitby seagulls on a chip packet.
Pat Cooke was Mr Lowry's Clown.
Mr Lowry, as I'm sure you know, was that painter of 'matchstick men' that status quo sang about in the nineteen sixties. He painted much more. I can remember walking into a room at the Abbot Hall Art Gallery in Kendal and being overwhelmed by one of his seascapes – the first I had ever seen. Massive and deceptively simple, the horizon line at my eye level it was as if I had been cast into that empty ocean. I didn't even know it was a Lowry until I read the little card beside it, and when I did know it changed my whole perception of the man. I have a postcard of the painting and years later it still overwhelms and threatens me with extinction.
His friend from 1948 when she was 13 until Lowry's death, Pat published in 1998 a small paperback of a mere 63 pages in which she recalled that friendship. The book is packed with photographs of Lowry, here and there, with Pat and her husband. It's packed too with reminiscences of what they said and did together. Interesting by any measure, what strikes me, having recently watched the biopic, Mrs Lowry and Son, is the upbeat picture she paints of that often gloomily depicted artist.
L. S. Lowry(1887-1976) memorial, Greater Manchester. Courtesy: Creative Commons
Sketching or just looking, their jaunts together in the English countryside or at the coast, seem to have ended as often as not with a search for afternoon tea, or as Lowry is quoted: 'poached eggs on toast, warm scones with strawberry jam… perhaps some sponge cake or brandy snaps…'
My favourite quote is one that could be applied equally to writers, I think, and it is Lowry's advice to Pat, and other artists: 'Find out what subjects you like to draw and paint, keep a limited palette, don't be influenced to change your natural style and then work very hard for at least fifty years.'
The first third of the book gives us the history of Pat herself, and though Lowry is the more famous, I find this a bonus rather than a flaw. We might think she was lucky to have known him, but having met Pat and Brian, I know that he was lucky too.
I searched for the little book online while writing this. It comes up in large numbers, but all of them 'sold' or 'out of stock'. We took a handful, which we passed on over the years to people we thought might like them. We kept the one with the note tucked in, ordering from our October '98 catalogue,the one mentioning that fiver. 'Cheers from the zoo X X', it's signed. And on the front endpaper of the book itself, 'To Freya and her team…Good luck and God bless always…Pat Cooke'.
I think I was blessed already.
Photo Courtesy: Mike Smith
Tags Brian Cooke, LS Lowry, Mike Smith, MR Lowry's Clown, Mrs Lowry and Son, Pat Cooke, The Grand Crimean Central Railway
Summer Studio
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Jared Carter writes of a childhood in the mid-twentieth century America
Catalpa Tree
Shadows cast by different trees. Courtesy: Creative Commons
It was a white wooden building two stories tall — two long, high-ceilinged rooms, one on each floor, topped by a flat tarpaper roof that sloped toward the back of the property.
Where I grew up, such structures were called "storefront buildings." Surrounded by elms and maples, it stood a block west of the courthouse, on the northwest corner, facing east. Originally it had been a lodge hall. During the Depression years, the members of the lodge had gradually died off, and the building stood empty until one of my relatives, an uncle who was an artist, acquired it, a few years before the war, and had it fixed up as a studio.
My parents drove us down to this place to visit the artist's widow in the late 1940s. The town and the building were always the same. There were no sidewalks. My father parked at the edge of the lot. Out front, rising from its square of stone, was the cast-iron pump with the curved handle. Here we would drink cold water from our cupped hands, and refresh ourselves, each time we came to visit.
If the light slanting beneath the canopy of trees seems clear and steady now, it is not simply because I look back on that vanished building through a scrim of fifty years, so that all the wrinkles and irregularities have been smoothed out. We forget not only what certain trees mean to a landscape, to the profile they give to a town; we forget even the quality of light filtering down through their leaves and branches.
One kind of illumination reaches down when you are a small child playing beneath the limbs of a catalpa tree; another kind settles over you at the base of a willow, or a shagbark hickory. Later, it is almost as though hidden voices had been speaking to you, pointing out certain shadows and profiles — the outlines of small, undiscovered things, the shapes of beetles and lost marbles and blades of grass.
I say this because I know there were elms reaching over the summer studio, and I know they are gone now, all of them. But their handling of the light remains unchanged.
If you asked me to describe that light, I would say that it was notched, pieced together like the irregular swatches and squares of silk and satin and calico that interlock to form the pattern of an old quilt. The stitching along the edges of each of those pieces, even the smallest, would be minute and exact.
There was the light, and the stillness, and the simplicity. Inside, the rooms of the old building were always cool, even on the warmest days. Looking back, I sometimes think of it as an enormous block of ice cut from some snow-covered lake and mysteriously preserved until summer was at its height — a day in late July, with cicadas shimmering in the trees.
But it had been left in that grassy place, as though overlooked or forgotten, and it melted at a glacial rate. Ultimately it was doomed to disappear, but it was still so vast and impermeable that it would take years, or even decades, sitting there among the lilacs and the forsythia, to shrink away.
Most of that great sun-dappled cube of a building has dwindled and grown dim now, even in my memory, but here and there I can still see a milky patch, a section of white clapboard gleaming with opalescent light.
Or I will find myself peering into one of the windows, a square grown blank with sunlight, and gradually it will change, as though a cloud were passing over the sun, or as though tree limbs overhead had begun to stir in a cool wind, rearranging the shadows and reflections below.
At such moments each pane of the window turns clear, and I can see inside, and remember.
(First published in The Aurora Review)
Jared Carter is an American poet with seven books of poetry. He is the recipient of numerous awards, which include the Walt Whitman Award, the Poets' Prize, a Guggenheim fellowship, and two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Tags Jared Carter
Musings Nostalgia
Vignettes of Life: Unhurried at Haripur
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Debraj Mookerjee journeys into the heart of rural Bengal
The perpetually potholed National Highway (NH) 35 going onto NH 34 en route to Assam from Kolkata mercifully trots off on its own as we veer left towards Shantipur in Nadia district after an exasperating three-hour drive from the metropolis. Passing through Phulia where Bengal handloom saris and a prominent 'red light' stretch are distinctive, we drive into Shantipur, just short of Krisnanagar. This is 'klisht' (difficult) Bangla territory, the area from which Queen's Bangla, as it were, inherits its diction and tone.
From Shantipur, our sturdy SUV, a TATA Sumo, laden with as much family as it can accommodate, and followed by many other Sumos with much more of the same (family), makes the final left turn to snake the final five kilometres along a narrow lane (well-paved though) towards Haripur, where my ancestors from my maternal stock sunk their roots.
They also started a Kali Puja (a tantric variant of annual prayers to the goddess Kali) some 400 years ago. Kali is perhaps the most well-known of Indian goddesses, having made her way into poetry and song, most notably perhaps by Allen Ginsberg in his Planet News collection of poems, where he compares the destructive powers of the divinity to America's cruelty towards the world, ironically embodied in the Statue of Liberty! The family may have preserved the tradition since, but the greater truth is that it is the tradition that has held the family together. Traditionalists, believers, non-believers, NRIs, apartment owners in Singapore, hutment dwellers in Haripur, pujari (priests), Bengali middle-class small towners, all somehow connected to the family, gather at the commodious, albeit somewhat ramshackle, house annually to partly pay obeisance to Ma Kali, and partly to charge their souls from the sap that flows up those ancestral roots.
I visit when I can. The visit under the description year marked my third. The show remains more or less the same. What changes is the nature of the attendance. Some are regulars, like those settled in Kolkata or other parts of Bengal. Also regular is the unlikely patriarch, my uncle from overseas, a much travelled, successful and sushi-loving internationalist. He is the star of Haripur. His half-German kids prefer to call the place 'horrorpur', but that's a story we won't get into. He pours his everything into Haripur, including trying to gather grants from his internationally renowned automobile casting company for the local school. The sight around the house on the morning of Kali Puja is enchanting, with about 200 kids falling over each other to collect one of those famous 'Garman' (German) balls. Let me explain this Haripur legend.
Some fifteen years ago, my uncle decided the tennis balls discarded at his tennis club could be useful in Haripur. Thus, began a year of collecting balls of the best make – Slazenger, Dunlop, you name it. Unfit to be used in matches, these were nevertheless better than anything these kids of Haripur had ever used for their game of cricket. These balls are the stuff of many a legend, their fame having spread far and wide. They last a year or more, they have great grip, the woolly fluff layer never really wears off, the bounce is consistent, and they never really pick up too much dirt when used on clay, and so on and so forth. It takes five able-bodied and very committed (I included when I'm there) volunteers to manage the crowd of intrepid cricketers in the making who storm Sovakar Bari (the Sovakar home) — my maternal side goes by the name Sovakar — for these legendary balls. The cousins coo about the lovely lessons their Nike-sporting kids learn from the humbling experience of having to watch these scrawny kids battle with each other for a mere used tennis ball.
I slip away one evening astride of a 'thela' rickshaw (fully pulled by the rickshaw driver — the only type available in rural Bengal) in the company of a locally acquired sidekick to watch a football match some two km from the village.
The game is good, save that all the action is on one side, the other having been turned into a veritable lake thanks to an unseasonal downpour. Tickets sell at Rs 3, and there is a 400 strong crowd. But for the rains it would be a 1000 strong. There are snack trolleys lined up just behind the touch line. 'Ghugni' (boiled green gram), 'phuchka' (puffed hollow patties stuffed with masala infused mashed potatoes) and something I'd never seen before completed the menu.
Bael tree with the fruit
The last mentioned is a unique chutney, made by cracking the tough shell of the bael fruit, also called Bengal quince, Indian quince, holy fruit, stone apple, etc, and mixing the green innards with salt, sugar and green chillies (number to be specified by buyer). This is one great chutney and very good for the belly. If village water gives you the runs, the bael fruit guarantees a healthy stop to overenthusiastic bowels.
Then there is the waterfront. Actually, there are many. The Hooghly itself is narrower than the Bheel lake, some 500 yards behind our house. There a little fishing community lives along the embankment, with the waters washing into their homes on stormy nights. Tanku Halder is a mahajan (moneylender or simply put, the one with cash to invest) among the fisher folk. He has a 800-feet long fine net (for still waters), which on a good day can fetch 500 kg of fish from this very lake. And when you consider that a 4 kg carp sells at close to Rs 180 per kilo ($2.5 per kilogram) even to the wholesaler who drops in to lift the catch, you realise these people are pretty well off.
Of course, the one ubiquitous feature of the village is the household loom, the famous rigs where the well-known 'Shantipuri' sarees (Bengal handloom sarees have a unique history and celebrated provenance among buyers across India) are woven. Thread spinners make Rs 50 per day, weavers about two fifty (two saris per day at Rs 125 per sari). Of course, the mahajans make the big bucks and live in fancy homes. One wonders why the government has so far not stepped into the business of supplying thread at concessional rates, besides providing design support (controlled by the wealthy mahajans).
The two days surrounding the actual puja are spent in food, festivities and fraternising. The food is good, the festivities enlightening since local stage talent is a revelation, with the stage presence of some simply outstanding, and the fraternising, well, welcome after the hiatus of many years (for those who visit once say in five years, or friends of family dropping in for their first visit; like this year there was this lady who flew in from Dubai to be in Haripur, and a couple, related to some cousin, who, along with their daughter, dropped in from Mumbai).
Forty-eight hours in unhurried Haripur slows your clock down to an almost meditative tick. In these COVID-induced times, time itself is the subject of intense reflection. The torpor of quarantine does the work of a yoga mat. It stretches your mind out flat, receptive to anything happening to drop onto it. Into mine dropped those 'bael' fruit from Haripur. And these thoughts sprang out!
Debraj Mookerjee has taught literature at the University of Delhi for close to thirty years. He claims he never gets bored. Ever. And that is his highest skill in life. No moment for him is not worth the while. He embraces life and allows life to embrace him.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Tags Debraj Mookerjee
Lounging through Lucknow Lore
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Nidhi Mishra takes us on a nostalgic journey through the syncretic elements of Lucknawi culture
"I know you are from Lucknow, but must our daughter lose marks in your mother tongue for some whimsical assertion of your Lucknawi roots?!" my (Kannadiga) husband asked incredulously. He was even more stunned to see the hesitation I had in giving the obvious answer categorically.
I had barred my daughter to use the (correct) word 'main' in Hindi, a perfect translation of 'I' in English and all its variations (mera, mujhe etc) and instead had raised my girl to refer to herself as 'hum' (literally translates to 'we' in English). Her Hindi teacher had rightfully pointed out that it was not the right usage. In my mind I agree, but in my Lucknawi heart I think, "Why not?"
My brother recently pointed out that it is not to do with the interweaving of Urdu, since Urdu ghazals liberally use the word 'main' and its variations. Like so many other things about the city, this is another 'unreasonable' characteristic of belonging to Lucknow.
It will be exactly two decades since I left Lucknow now, but the immense assimilation of cultures, language and location has not dulled the city's flame in me. I recall these beautiful lines by the two-times Man Booker prize winner, Hilary Mantel: "We can't excuse the past, just for being over and done. We can't say, 'all water under the bridge'…The past is always trickling under the soil, a slow leak you can't trace."
I find it hard to define Lucknow, as must be the case for any city, for that matter. Yes, you can always sum it up in its Ganga Jamuna tehzeeb and lehza (syncretic culture), but sometimes it is hard to keep things brief. I depend heavily on people, incidents and anecdotes to illustrate the spirit of the city, as I had known it.
In Lucknow, boundaries were blurred.
I did all my schooling in Lucknow, at the famous now 148-year-old old Loreto Convent, fluent in every Christian hymn and lover of every Christmas carol. My brother, who went to St Francis, grew up in a similar ethos. My best friend in Junior School was Saba and my brother's was Danish. We lived a stone's throw away from the iconic Hazratganj area. But we were never raised to notice religion in our surroundings or friends. How I wish I could make my kids unaware of these distinctions as well.
My grandfather was a very respected person. Legend has it that the level of his anger could be measured by how deep his transition was from conversational Hindi to Urdu. So, when he opened the conversation with "Barkhurdaar, aap nihayti ahmek insaan hain (Sir, you are a scoundrel; spoken in Urdu)," it was a red alert for anyone planning an escape from a beautiful sounding reprimand.
When my father talks of poetry, there is a special flicker in his eyes. He is a prolific writer himself and listening to Begum Akhtar with him on his long-playing record player, has been one of the finest pleasures of my life. It is no wonder that my mother is a naturalised Lucknawi who joyfully watches Urdu poetry gatherings, mushairas, on You-tube. My father still displays extraordinary pride when he shares that the bungalow in which Begum Akhtar resided, was leased out by our family. I think he relishes the fact that in some distant, dreamy way, there is a piece of paper which houses both his and the Begum's name.
In Lucknow, everyone had a poetic tongue.
"Muskuraiye, ki aap Lucknow mein hain (Smile, now that you are in Lucknow)," greets the billboard as you enter the city.
What happens when you end up brushing past another vehicle on the road? Freezing glares, verbal assault, even a fist fight? In the Lucknow of my time, you would hear the other person say, "Gareeb aadmi hain sahib, gaadi chadha deejiyega? (I am but a poor man sir, run me over?)" You would have no option but to hand over your melted heart to that person and drive away.
Cycle rickshaws were ubiquitous in my time. The rickshaw pullers, who would physically pull our weight (though with the help of wheels on the vehicle) and had to put in so much manual labour, would always cheerfully ask, "Bataiye janaab, aaj kahan le jaaenge? (Please tell Sir, where will you be taking me today?)"
The Nawaabs of Lucknow
We grew up with not just love for the good life, but also respect for it. 'Shaukeen' (aficionado) is a word which I find hard to translate but synonymous with Lucknow life.
My Dadi (grandmother) was the highlight of my growing up years and in my mind carried the charms of the city in her personality. Unlike most women from her time, she was extremely well-educated for her time (and even for today) with a master's degree in literature and having joined my grandfather when he went for higher studies to England. It was not rare to hear her casually weave some Latin phrase, like Nil nisi bonum* into a conversation. She was responsible for my (rather early) transition from Nancy Drew and the likes to Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca, opening up the gates of romantic literature.
Many years later, on my grandfather's Shraadh (annual death ceremony), while conforming to the traditional brahmin rituals and serving of traditional food for the supposed appeasement of my grandfather's soul, Dadi would also make sure that the holy cow was also served his favourite burger. She brushed aside stereotypes with little pomp, much panache and a lot of understated elegance. And in all of this, she personified the spirit of Lucknow to me.
Another differentiating trait was about taking life easy. While my kids are often told, "Early to bed, early to rise…," I remember hearing the saying, 'Aaram badi cheez hai, munh dhak ke soiye, kis kis ko yaad keejiye, kis kis ko roiye (Comfort is a big thing, relax and sleep peacefully. is there any sense in remembering and crying over people)'. I would love to trade a little bit of my 'fast forward' with a little bit of that pause.
This love for 'the good things of life' was not restricted to a certain class or community.
I remember hearing that the vegetable vendors would sell their goods with very unique descriptors- 'Laila ki ungliyan, Majnu ki pasliyan (Laila's fingers, Majnu's cartilage)' uniquely referred to ladies' fingers and gourds. There was a love for culture that transcended classes and income levels. Another vegetable vendor was famous for his claim 'Begum (Akhtar) ke bag ki sabziyan(vegetables from Begum Akhtar's garden)'. No wonder literature and music were literally fed to us!
Culture was not something which was curated by and for the elite. It was on the road, it was in the offices– it was everywhere.
Well before I read about Keynesian theory in B-school, the tourist guides at the marvelous Bhool Bhulaiya (meaning labyrinth) had regaled some wonderful lessons around unemployment, wages and labour. It is said that around 1780, the region was badly affected by famine. The fourth Nawab of the Awadh Province, Nawab Asaf-Ud-Daula Nawab thought of building this structure as a way to generate employment as well as provide food to people in return for their services. The people were too proud to receive compensation from the Nawab without earning it (equating it to alms). Hence a part of the monument would be constructed during the day by part of the labour, while the other part brought it down at night. This ensured that the Nawabi pride of the common man was intact, by earning his living. It took fourteen years for the monument to be completed.
Things change, places do too
I hear that now the rickshaw pullers of Lucknow (like in any other city), come straight to the point, "Itna paisa lagega. (It will cost you so much)." Not that there can be anything wrong with that statement — to the point, upfront and efficient. But poetry never cared about efficiency, nor did the Lucknawis of yore.
Migration, politics and so much more has changed the fabric of the city a lot. William Dalrymple devotes a full chapter to what 'Lucknawi' used to mean, in his book Age of Kali. Notice the past tense in this whole piece. Sometimes I wonder if we are just romanticizing the idea of Lucknow. Did it really exist or was it just a dream!
Khwab tha shayad!
Maybe it was a dream
Khwab hi hoga!
It must have been a dream
Sarhad par kal raat, suna hai, chali thi goli
Have heard that last night across the border, some shots were fired
Sarhad par kal raat, suna hai
Have heard that last night across the border
Kuchh khwaabon ka khoon hua hai
Some dreams have been murdered.
-Gulzaar Sa'ab
Disclaimer: I know no conversation on Lucknow is over without a special mention to its culinary delights. Unfortunately, I disappoint as a vegetarian there, with little meat to offer. Though I can swear, you would not get better kebabs in the world. Apologies for all the Hindustani in the piece for the English only readers. I found it difficult to talk of Lucknow without a splash of Hindi- Urdu.
* Latin for indicating that it is socially inappropriate to speak ill of the dead as they are unable to justify themselves.
Nidhi Mishra is the founder & CEO of Bookosmia (smell of books)-a global movement for kids to be heard! An ex-banker, she pivoted from a 10 year banking career to her passion for reading and luring others to read to start Bookosmia. Nidhi is from Lucknow and we challenge you to have any conversation with her where she doesn't bring it up. She went to Lady Shri Ram College, Delhi University to pick up an Honours in Mathematics and a feminist flair on the side. An MBA from IIM Lucknow took her to a decade-long career in the financial sector, finally quitting as VP, HSBC as she suffers from a (misplaced) sense of satisfaction and a drive to do something meaningful with her time. Outside of Bookosmia, Nidhi spends much of her time complaining there is not enough time, overindulging her two beautiful daughters, organizing dastangoi/ghazals at her place and asking (unsuspecting) people to gift her all kinds of books-from Faiz to Kahneman to Tina Fey.
You can write to her at nidhi@bookosmia.com or visit www.bookosmia.com to know more.
Tags Bookosmia, Nidhi Mishra
Nostalgia Poetry
Re-collection & More
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By Melissa A. Chappell
Something Right and Lovely
In the mornings I grind my own coffee,
which comes to me from ridges stranger still.
I watch the panes of light break on the wooden floor.
Shadows of you linger and pass through me,
your face fluid in Richard's lion-hearted kindness and
the terrible courage of the tree swallow.
Like flowing water, the questions
shall not allow an escape,
but they penetrate every hesitation,
every "no," every passive voice.
Am I guilty?
Yes. Yes. I am guilty on many counts.
I did not do well enough.
Yet I will say this.
Our loving was honest
and pure.
In the mornings I grind my own coffee.
I listen to the news, the news that is
stranger still,
and I know that
though I am
alone, I will do better.
Yet I know that together,
after so many white lilies
have fallen from the stem,
something right
and lovely
in this world,
and for this,
perhaps a wayward blessing
may sail to you upon
some following breeze.
And justice and passion shall lie in the unharrowed field,
at rest upon the breast of the Lord.
Melissa A. Chappell is a native of South Carolina living on land passed down through her family for over 120 years. She is greatly inspired by the land and music. She plays several instruments, among them an 8 course Renaissance lute. She shares her life with her family and two miniature schnauzers. She recently published Dreams in Isolation: The World in Shadow: Poems of Reconciliation and Hope with Alien Buddha Press.
Tags Melissa A Chappell
In Memory of Spring
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By Nishi Pulugurtha
The Morning Glory
A green mossy wall
Broken glass pieces
Some thread, a used bottle, cut –
and the green
that flowers.
On some days
in the cloudy light it
smiles.
The small droplets cling
And shine bright.
The tiny yellow bud
That blooms this morning
just for a little while.
Fleeting . . .
Drops on a Periwinkle
Jutting through masonry
from small cracks and crevices
the small green plants crop up
breaking through.
In a few days the violet flowers
that dance in the wind
and shine in the sun, bring more colour.
The little drops of rain
beaded and full
cling onto the bright green leaves.
on the bent stem
that still holds on.
Burdened, yet strong –
The dim, dull light causes patterns
in the drops
that flash at times too.
Dr. Nishi Pulugurtha is Associate Professor in the department of English, Brahmananda Keshab Chandra College and has taught postgraduate courses at West Bengal State University, Rabindra Bharati University and the University of Calcutta. She is the Secretary of the Intercultural Poetry and Performance Library, Kolkata (IPPL). She writes on travel, film, short stories, poetry and on Alzheimer's Disease. Her work has been published in The Statesman, Kolkata, in Prosopisia, in the anthology Tranquil Muse and online – Kitaab, Café Dissensus, Coldnoon, Queen Mob's Tea House, The World Literature Blog and Setu. She guest edited the June 2018 Issue of Café Dissensus on Travel. She has a monograph on Derozio (2010) and a collection of essays on travel, Out in the Open (2019). She is now working on her first volume of poems and is editing a collection of essays on travel.
Tags Nishi Pulugurtha


The Arctic has held people mystified since the 1400s. The descriptions of an Ancient Greek who is now believed to have crossed the Arctic Circle were disregarded by his contemporaries. Even in 880, Vikings were pushing further and further north. The intrigue continued well into the Age of Discovery. There is some controversy about when the North Pole was finally reached and who reached it first. A realm of ice and water, frozen land and sea stretch for miles and miles. This is the kingdom of the polar bear, reindeer and arctic fox. In the surrounding waters, belugas, narwhals and other whales; walruses and a variety of seals reign supreme. The arctic landscape is one of the most remote and untouched in the world – there is great effort going in to keeping it that way.
Travel to the Arctic for an experience you will never be able to forget. The stark white ice, imposing icebergs, nearly-freezing seas and marvelous animals will not leave you even after you leave. The mystical Aurora Borealis will give you goosebumps and make your heart soar leaving you feeling at once calm and serene and incredibly excited.
Since the Arctic is a region comprising Alaska (part of the USA), Greenland (Part of the Kingdom of Denmark), Finland, Sweden, Iceland, Norway, Russia and Canada, the currency and official language differ based on where you are. The only time that travel to the Arctic is possible is during spring and summer and this is from July to September.


Last week, the PGA Tour took a hard line against one of the most pressing issues in golf – slow play.
Well, that should have been the takeaway after Corey Pavin was slapped with a slow-play penalty during the final round of the PGA Tour Champions' Dominion Energy Charity Classic. But like all things that involve pace of play, the incident was much more complicated than that.
Pavin was given a one-stroke penalty for violating the tour's pace of play policy and the infraction nearly cost him a spot in the second postseason event for the over-50 circuit; but instead of a chorus of approval from those who have anxiously awaited a push to stamp out slow play, the reaction was, well, confused.
At issue isn't whether Pavin violated the circuit's policy. He did. What Wadkins and others struggled with is a system that allows habitual offenders to circumvent the desired outcome - faster play - while continuing their sluggish ways.
Ames also pointed out in his social media missive that he played behind Bernhard Langer, who has a reputation of being a slow player. Rounds that last five hours or more is the biggest point of frustration for players on both the PGA Tour and the over-50 circuit.
It's become a broken record for both players and fans. People complain, pundits point out the flaws in a system that includes warnings and a healthy degree of leeway when a player is timed, and nothing changes. At this point, complaints about slow play have become little more than white noise.
But before you tune out and dismiss this most recent episode, consider that slow play is much more than a mild annoyance. It might be aggravating to fans that have grown weary watching a Tour-type run the two-minute drill on a tough putt, but next week's Shriners Hospitals for Children Open offers a glimpse into the cost of slow play.
For those who study pace of play at the highest level, this is a question of simple math. The PGA Tour policy allows players from 40 to 50 seconds to hit a shot depending on the order of play within a group. According to information provided to players by the Tour, the average amount of time taken to hit a shot is 38 seconds, but that number allows for a great degree of latitude. All pro-am rounds (such as Pebble Beach and next week in Las Vegas) are removed from that equation as are any shots that require a drop, penalty or provisional shot. That average also removes 10 percent of each player's slowest shots.
But the biggest hole in the Tour's policy is that players are normally timed only when their group has fallen out of position – which means they have exceeded the allotted time to play and reached a par 3 that is "open" – and they're told they're on the clock. And if somehow all of those warning signs aren't enough to pick up the pace there is no penalty for a first offense. Only after a second bad time is a player penalized a stroke.
In other words, play faster or we're going to tell you to play faster again.
Tour officials have shown no interest in putting some teeth in a policy that is ineffectual at best and, if Pavin's penalty on Sunday is any indication, misguided at worst; and there's no chance this recent incident will be the tipping point for a stronger and more robust policy.
But for the handful of players who don't get into the field next week in Las Vegas because of the reduced field size, pace of play is no longer a talking point, it's a point of contention.