Culture Cult - Spring 2016 PDF

A Magazine of the
ARTS, LITERATURE & CULTURE
SHORT STORIES
MAY 1968: THROUGH THE EYES
POETRY
OF JACQUES LACAN
FLASH FICTIONS
THE BAN CULTURE: CIRCUS
THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH
THE PURPOSE OF EDUCATION
M A G A Z I N E
SPRING 2016
Vol.01, No. 04
PRESENTS
COMING SOON
THE SPIRIT PAGE
104 AUROBINDO GHOSH
A Magazine of the Arts, Literature and Culture

SPRING
06 08 ROUNAK CHATTERJEE
JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI
34
DIBYAJIT MUKHERJEE
FEATURES
66
42 HAL O’LEARY
VONNIE WINSLOW CRIST
50 Book: Fall Winter Collections

74 Book: Mrs. Dalloway

JACKIE CHOU
52 Cinema: Batman v Superman

THE BAN CULTURE
84 MAYURAKSHI SEN
04 CultureCult Magazine - Spring 2016

Editor JAGANNATH CHAKRAVARTI
Publishing Coordinator MADHURIMA BASU
LITERATURE
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CHAKRABORTY
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Published by Jagannath Chakravarti from 11/1, Khanpur Road, Kolkata -
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mission of the publisher. 27 REX BUTTERS
THANK YOU Basanti Chakravarti | Liton Bhakta | Durba Mukherjee
| Bipasha Chakraborty | Romit Bose | Pixabay | Wikipedia
29 ROBERT BEVERIDGE
CultureCult Magazine will have six issues each year, 30 CARTER VANCE
following the natural etiquette of the Indian cycle of seasons.
This Spring issue will be followed by Summer, before the 32 STEVE KLEPETAR
transitions of Monsoon, Fall Festive, Autumn and Winter.
33 SANJHEE GIANCHANDANI
13 49 JOAN MCNERNEY
CLYDE LIFFEY 71 JAMES VALVIS
72 DANIEL DE CULLA
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BIPASHA CHAKRABORTY
DIPAN CHAKRABORTY
96 62
THOMAS ELSON MIRANDA N. PRATHER
40 65
JASON CARNEY C B DROEGE
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MITCHELL GRABOIS SIDDHARTH PATHAK
CultureCult Magazine - Spring 2016 05

EDITORIAL
Tragedy and Turnover
My city has suffered this spring.
Terabytes of sympathy has poured in from all quarters, gigabytes more
spent in dissecting the course of events. Tagging and retagging
‘exclusive’ videos that lose their sheen with each view, some bullying
those that chose to virtually mark Kolkatans ‘safe’ despite the
overwhelming sense of palpable tragedy and insecurity.
There are those braves of heart who choose their defining moments with
grace. Those are the volunteers, the ones to queue up and donate blood,
the ones who desire to get to the bottom of the incident - not to indict
the perpetrators but to rescue those trapped under the rubble of the
fallen flyover. When Icarus loses his wings, they catch fire to burn down
Pompeii like nature’s conspiracy.
And yet an act of God it was not. Or so I hear. It is all hearsay at this
point. The exact number of dead, the ‘official figure’ clouded by the
informal guesses - three last digits of the lottery perhaps; a dice that was
rolled by Lady Fortune herself.
And yet an act of Fate it was not. Or so I hear.
I hear and I forget, tuning with the frequency of oblivion that is the
radio of the modern world. I change channels like a playboy changes
lovers, as frequently as a baby needs a change of clothing. It is the super-
power to forget that enables us to get busy with the upcoming electoral
process even as we blame the same faces for every evil under the hot
sun, even those that occur in the cool shadow of a flyover.
What remains, not in newsprints or homepages but in memory, are the

communications that fail to lapse. The tragedy takes a backseat to the
poem it inspires in the sensitive psyche of an English major student I am
fortunate enough to ‘teach’. The tragedy must remain in the background
to tell the tale of the miraculous survival of that fellow who got
magically wedged in the comfortable gap between a rock and a hard
place. The tragedy must be transcended by the sheer turnover of those
who lined up to give their blood, saving souls they might never meet,
unknowingly committing acts of God for reasons aplenty.
Let us not get delusional as Vitalstatistix. The sky is not falling, simply
because God is not up there.
Then who drops a flyover? []

NEW AND IMPROVED
www.CultureCult.in
Facebook.com/CultureCult.in
The plight of the receding spring not only affects the physical
world around us but has profound implications for the
psychological self too. As the harmonious spirit of life tends to
elude the best of humanity, the onus is upon us to resuscitate
the spirit of bygone spring, by making a pledge to no longer be
silent partners to its slow assassination.
… breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
- T. S. Eliot, ‘The Waste Land’
Modern poetry informs us of April being the

cruellest month. As temperatures throughout
India soar beyond every level of conceivable
tolerance at the onset of spring, April remains
a not-so-distant nightmare that can only be
approached on successfully surviving the offen-
sive spring – that which categorically promises
love, celebration of being, oneness with nature
– to ironically deliver the biting wrath of a de-
parting winter in times old & serve as a prelude
to a scorching summer in these melting times.
Spring has historically been associated with a

plethora of life-threatening diseases, outbreak
of plagues that went on to wipe off entire popu-
lations indiscriminately. The pockets they were
full of poises when the roses bloomed and the
kids they all fell down post a series of lovable
‘achoo’s (sneezes).
Arab Spring (Tahrir Square during the Egyptian revolution 2011)
The eradicated bane of the small pox may be a and reemphasizing the wonder of life via the
distant riddle in a child’s rhyme or a sepia memory blooming colours of the time, the season appears to
even as spells of mumps, the occasional measles or be the best time to attribute even a debilitating ail-
the common chicken pox manages to tie a walking ment to the divine grace of a God. It is that human
soul to a bed for the good part of a month even to fervour to look at the bright side of all things that
this day. Any associates who dare confront the tell aids them to create transcendental meaning out of
tale signs of ‘basanta’ (literally: spring. In Bengali, every little offending variable you put in their path.
the disease owes its very name to the season) with-
out having received a certificate of immunity from It is thus that spring becomes the season of resur-
the same affliction first is not spared either. gence – a time of renewing lost hope in a fit of
collective human passion. It is the time when the
It may seem strange that a good part of the popula- subjugated can decide to form a pact – to join hands
tion in this part of the globe, especially those living and bloom together into a kingdom of perpetual
away from the urbana, harbour a belief still that spring. It is the time of year when Prague decides to
the pox is a sign of blessing – a divine gift of the boil over, when French students draw the meta-
mother goddess Shitala – the one cryptically on the phorical line and strip the authority of its self-
back of a donkey with a chalice of rice and a kulo (a assumed authorship. It is when dissenting Arabs
contraption to separate the rice from the inedible spring to the streets to throw off an autocratic
particulates) for company. regime.
Spring being the season during which nature/God Spring standing for every nuance that defines a re-
is evidently more benevolent: showering opulence suscitating survivor, a question that each one of us
must ask ourselves is why we are indulging in EXCERPT FROM DICAPRIO’S SPEECH
actions that contribute towards shrinking the
… Making The Revenant was about man's relationship to
already brief seasonal burst of new life each year.
the natural world. A world that we collectively felt in 2015
As our activities steadily poison the environment as the hottest year in recorded history.
around us, we are presented with a briefer spring
each year, cutting short the cathartic benefits of Our production needed to move to the southern tip of this
steadily transitioning from deep winter to rising planet just to be able to find snow. Climate change is real,
it is happening right now. It is the most urgent threat fac-
summer. ing our entire species, and we need to work collectively
together and stop procrastinating.
Thus Maharashtra experiences one of the worst
droughts of the year, at the very onset of the season We need to support leaders around the world who do not
that was once known as spring. It is now a season of speak for the big polluters, but who speak for all of hu-
manity, for the indigenous people of the world, for the
despair. billions and billions of underprivileged people out there
who would be most affected by this.
The messages that are generated to stir the
cauldron of realization when it comes to matters For our children’s children, and for those people out
pertaining to the fate of the planet, are often there whose voices have been drowned out by the politics
of greed. I thank you all for this amazing award tonight.
received with genuine interest. Whether it is Al Let us not take this planet for granted. I do not take to-
Gore, the US presidential hopeful who introduced night for granted. Thank you so very much.
the overlooking media to the ‘inconvenient truth’

to a Leonardo DiCaprio, whose moment of crown-
ing achievement at this year’s Academy Awards
was marked by the most important green message
that concerns the fate of every single living being.
As the world is gradually robbed of green, the

central of the seven colours in our visual spec-
trum, the world becomes more grey every day,
losing the outer shades one stroke at a time, even
as we conspire to paint the world in our imaginary
and manufactured art/colours.
It is time that we become conscious of the respon-

sibility to preserve our source of imagination, of
art, of life and its infinite variations itself – the
responsibility to preserve the source of ancient
nourishment, the milk of survival that has
sustained us to this precipice of modern,
controlled existence.
The ground must be tilled so it helps us rise and

afford us a peek into what’s next – akin to the
blossoming buds that pierce the ground and raise
their humble heads to stare into a world of green,
and red and yellow – and blue skies and days of
seven colours with nights of the moon and stars
keeping them ceaseless company.
It is high time we realise the most fundamental of
all our lessons: there is no ‘us’ sans ‘them’! []
FICTION
Some Flubs
Clyde Liffey
“Do we have everything?” lapsed. The stagehands came out first, the sing-
ers are trying to give him space, ah, here come
“Yes, I checked and double-checked.”
the medical personnel. They’re bringing a
“Like last time?”
gurney.”
“Better than last time. I made sure your
“This is why the Met keeps a deep roster
shaving kit and toothbrush were packed or at
of understudies,” another announcer broke in.
least not in the medicine cabinet.”
“What kind of asinine comment is that?”
David started the car.
David said. “They’re not talking about a backup
“What’s that on the radio?” Lena asked.
shortstop. Speaking of shortstops, aren’t the
“NPR: it sounds like the live telecast from
Mets on?”
the Met.”
“I want to hear this. This is real drama.”
“I guess we’ll endure it.”
Lena thought for a moment. “That’s strange:
“I thought you liked opera.”
Wagner isn’t on for two weeks. The Met’s
“I like the costumes and the pageantry. I
performing Puccini today.”
can’t follow it on the radio.”
The light changed. When they got on the
“What – you don’t speak the Deutsch?”
highway, they heard Turandot.
Lena leaned back in her seat. “Wake me up
News of the affiliate’s gaffe of course
when the fat lady sings.” They stopped at a light.
spread quickly. Signora Sarno, the tenor’s
“That singer flubbed his line,” she said.
mother, heard about it that evening as she was
“I thought you couldn’t”
putting her dishes away. “Frau Sarno,” she heard
“I can hear, can’t I? Now shush – something
a knocking on her cottage door.
happened.” They heard a commotion as dozens
Her neighbor, who she hardly knew, was
of feet rushed about the stage and the audience
breathless, distraught. “Come in, Frau Pogner.
rumbled. After about a minute the announcers
This is a surprise. I was just cleaning up. Sit
came on.
down. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“We’re not sure what happened,” one of
“A tumbler of schnapps would be better.”
them said. “Signor Sarno appears to have had
“Excuse me? I’m not a great drinker. I
trouble breathing. He elided his part of the reci-
have a little Riesling and a half bottle of Primi-
tative then seemed to gasp and suddenly col-
tivo in the house.”
“I’m sorry.” Frau Pogner sat in a corner of media companies. The local Zeitungs routinely
the old cloth sofa, took a handkerchief from her review Saturday concerts and other shows in
purse, and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Call their Friday Arts sections. It’s done here too but
me Eva. I came to ask about your son.” not as much as in America.”
Frau Sarno returned to the living room, “This is all very confusing. Maybe I should
sat in an armchair near the sofa. “Eva, please call call Beppo.”
me Maddalena. What do you want to know about “Yes, of course, Maddalena. That’s why I
Beppo?” came over.”
“Where is he?” Maddalena got up. “The phone’s in the
“He’s in South America. It’s the fall there. kitchen.”
He’s playing Walther or some such role. I can Eva followed Maddalena, she wanted to
never keep track. Why are you interested in my hug her, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Beppo? I thought your daughter just got mar- “His voice mail is coming on,” Maddalena
ried.” said. “I talked to him last night. He’s probably
Eva suppressed a shudder. She couldn’t still performing that matinee. They have to leave
imagine her daughter marrying an Italian red- their phones with the security people before
headed or no. “She married last month. She and they go on stage.”
her husband just moved to Berlin. I won’t see her “Don’t alarm him,” Eva advised. “Just ask
as much now but of course careers take priority him to call you back.”
with the young.” “Call your mother,” Maddalena sobbed
“Yes, it’s the same with my Beppo.” into the phone. “I don’t want you to die!”
Eva stood up. “Haven’t you heard?” she Beppo, an adequate critic, a flawed per-
nearly shouted. “It’s all over the Internet!” former, was puzzled by the audience’s enthusias-
“I don’t keep a computer here. I have my tic applause. Had this been his first appearance
knitting, sometimes there’s a good show on TV. I at the Teatro Solis, he’d chalk it up to Uruguayan
don’t read as much as I should.” provinciality.
“Beppo is going to collapse and maybe die None of the other performers spoke to
in two weeks in New York!” him as they headed toward their dressing rooms.
“What?” Beppo didn’t think it was unusual: they hardly
“That’s why I came here, Frau Sarno, to knew each other outside of rehearsals. It would
see how Beppo is!” have been nice, he thought, to go out as a group.
“I’m confused. Doesn’t the Internet say?” He’d hardly explored the Ciudad Vieja, would
Eva sat down, hands on knees, composed have liked to relax with a thick steak and shared
herself. “The opera company in New York broad- bottle of wine, to hear tangos, to do whatever it
casts performances of their operas live. Mostly – is the locals or tourists do.
at least this is how the web news sites and my His dressing room was stark, empty.
daughter when I called her explained it – they Beppo slowly started taking off his makeup.
tape the live shows ahead of time. With all the Someone rapped on his door. Beppo ignored the
data they have about voices, medical histories, sound. “It’s urgent,” Sachs, his director, said.
living habits, and so on they can infallibly predict Beppo opened the door. “What could be
every aspect of a performance. This saves on la- urgent? Do you need me to sub for another
bor costs: they can tape two shows on a weekday role?”
without paying overtime.” Sachs looked at him aghast.
“Why do they talk about labor costs?” “I know this afternoon wasn’t my best
“My daughter put that in. She’s a com- performance but”
pensation analyst. Anyway the opera companies Sachs walked in, paused. “You know how I
also make money by selling the advance tapes to always tell everyone in the troupe to give their
all in every show, no matter how small the audi- call my mother. It must be almost midnight in
ence or how insignificant the theatre?” Bavaria.”
“Yes and I do that. Besides I love playing As if on cue the stage manager silently
in South America. There are a lot of Italians here. entered the room and handed Beppo his box of
It’s another pocket of the diaspora for me.” valuables. Beppo turned on his phone, saw the
“I’m not sure how to tell you this.” low battery signal, and watched the phone turn
“You’re replacing me? How could you? off. Sachs brought him an empty glass and a ca-
My acting may not have been the best today but I rafe of mineral water, wiped his brow with a
think my singing was satisfactory.” Beppo was on handkerchief. “Never mind that,” Sachs said.
his knees, tears welled in the corners of his eyes, “Pull yourself together. There are reporters all
half his makeup was washed off, his shirt was over backstage. I’ll escort you through a backway
open as though he were parodying a ham actor. to my office. I’ll stay outside while you use the
“It’s just that I’ve been distracted lately. My landline there.”
mother, my little deer, I call her that, has a bad His mother answered on the fourteenth
heart. She won’t see a doctor. I’ve been so wor- ring. “Beppo!” she said, “I couldn’t sleep when I
ried.” heard the news and yet you woke me up. Come
“Stand up or, better, sit down,” Sachs home, Beppi.”
commanded. Beppo winced. “I can’t, mama.”
“Yes, Maestro.” Beppo wiped off his pants “Why not? That tape was just a projec-
legs. tion. You don’t have to follow their script. It’s
“You saw how the other performers ig- better that you live your own life.”
nored you after the show?” “But singing is my life.”
“They’re disassociating from me because “You can sing here. The local troupe is
I’m fired?” putting on a new production, The Death of Saint
“No, no. Firing you would be easier than Gregory. I’d so love to see you perform it.”
giving you this news. You know how the opera “Did Frau Pogner tell you if I’ll survive?”
companies release tapes of their performances “How did you know Eva told me?”
weeks, sometimes months in advance?” “Because I know you don’t have a com-
“Yes. I read the trade magazines. That’s puter and I know Frau Pogner is a busybody. Do
been going on for years.” you call her Eva now?”
“And you know the technology they use?” “Yes, and she calls me Maddalena. She
“They base it on tendencies from recent was so overcome by worry about you.”
performances, rehearsals, and other data, some “That just proves my point. I know some
of it trade secrets.” things and can predict but I don’t know every-
“Correct. It’s not hocus-pocus. This after- thing. The radio knows I’ve been under stress
noon, one of the American radio stations broad- (and this is just adding to it), but they don’t know
cast your upcoming performance at the Met to- everything. That’s how I’ll beat this thing.”
day by mistake. You collapsed in the first act.” “Beppo, you’re so much smarter than me
“As I said, I’ve been under a lot of stress, but a mother knows things. If you won’t come,
that and the travel. I was OK of course.” I’ll fly to New York.”
Sachs looked at him blankly. “We don’t “But your heart, my little deer.”
know. The station realized its mistake and “Oh Giuseppe, my Beppo.”
stopped the tape. The U.S. has privacy laws not “Just rest, mother. I’ll call you every day.
so different from Germany and the rest of the I’ll rest too to keep my strength up. Sachs told
E.U. My God, Sarno, you’re whiter than your me they’ll have to film this performance live be-
makeup. Can I get you anything?” cause of the gaffe. It’s better if you watch it from
“Just some water and my phone. I should home. Maybe a theater in Erlangen will show it
or perhaps you can take a train to Bayreuth. You “The señorita will consider your offer,”
know my dream is to be a hit in Bayreuth.” the woman with the white blouse said.
After the call, Beppo slowly showered and “Señor Sarno, will you go to New York?”
changed into his street clothes. The performer the man from La Republica asked.
who was assigned his dressing room for the eve- “Of course. I’m a singer.”
ning performance used another. Beppo won- The next morning Beppo sat alone at café
dered if that was an ill omen. People were al- near la Avenida Gral Garibaldi nursing his second
ready entering the theater for the evening show. cup of coffee. This, he could tell, was not one of
Beppo was considering whether to exit via a side those charming cafés in which he could linger all
entrance or to just walk through the crowd when day. Knowing he had little money in his pocket
Sachs approached. and unsure of the bus route back to his hotel, his
“I know you need your rest, Beppo, but fingers tapped against the handle of his cup. A
management insists you address the press. It waiter attempted to pass between Beppo and the
could just be for five minutes but we need you to table behind him, nudged Beppo’s shoulder, the
see them if only to say you’ve just heard and coffee cup overturned, spilling its contents over
can’t comment yet.” the two place settings. The waiter, not noticing
Beppo sat at a table facing fifty or so the mishap, proceeded to the kitchen. Beppo
seated reporters. He poured himself a glass of ice blushingly leaned over the table, attempted to
water from the pitcher in front of him, drank clean up the spill with the two or three nonab-
half the glass in one gulp. I wonder how my pros- sorbent napkins untouched by the coffee. He was
tate will hold up, he thought. After all, I don’t still immersed in this task when a woman wear-
usually drink so much water, I’m nearing the age, ing white pants, a dark top, and wraparound sun-
it wouldn’t do to wet myself. He heard some scat- glasses entered the café. The few people watch-
tered tittering, a few coughs. Did he say anything ing Beppo struggle with his cleanup turned when
aloud; do people go senile in their forties? she entered then saw Beppo again when she sat
The public relations director of the Teatro at his table clear of the spilt coffee.
spoke, “Señor Sarno, we all realize you’ve been “I thought you wouldn’t come,” Beppo
under a lot of stress and the press will under- said as she settled in her seat.
stand if you don’t take questions today. Nonethe- “It wasn’t easy finding this place.”
less we’d all appreciate a few remarks from you, “I didn’t want to be recognized. Sachs told
even if all you have to say is that you’ll take me I’d be safe here.”
questions some other time, tomorrow say.” “You maintain anonymity by creating a
Beppo heard none of this. A short woman scene?”
in a dark skirt and a light blouse had entered the “The waiter bumped me. I’ve been nerv-
room, taken a seat at the back, extracted her ous and jumpy since yesterday afternoon and
notebook, and turned on a recording device. then worried about you not coming.”
“Señor Sarno?” María Teresa Crosetti opened her oversize
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear a word you said. handbag. “Shall I turn on my tape recorder?”
Though I’m used to singing in front of crowds of “I’d rather you didn’t. You can take notes
thousands I’m not used to speaking and of course or just remember or even make up the contents
listening is a harder skill. I hope you all appreci- of our conversation. It’s all the same to me.”
ate the sudden shock this is to me. I think the “Is that why you wanted a private inter-
press would get better information if I spoke to view?”
one person only, perhaps someone as, well I “I’m not sure why I asked. Maybe I just
won’t say frazzled and I won’t say distraught, but wanted to see you.” He reached for her hand on
someone under pressure, a compadre if possible, the table; she withdrew it, called a waiter to their
someone named Señorita Crosetti perhaps.” table.
The inside of the café was full. A waiter, but please don’t refer to Mozart: when was I
not the one who bumped Beppo, offered to seat ever, in life or in art, Don Giovanni? At length,
them outside. “That’s OK,” María said, “this too long said my mother’s relatives for she con-
wreckage is charming. Please bring us two cups sidered taking lovers, he found steady work in
of coffee and a menu.” Bavaria. He sent for us then. The week after
When he was gone Beppo said, “Since I mother and I arrived, he died in an industrial ac-
may only have two weeks to live I feel a responsi- cident. The authorities let us stay.
bility to tell my story. I don’t think I can tell it to “Mother took up the study of German for
the press. I can, however, speak to a beautiful the state granted her a small pension and she
woman.” didn’t want to go back and see the scrawny
Again María withdrew from him. boarder she’d taken in back home to help make
“I’m sorry. I’ve never been very good with ends meet. The broken German she taught me at
women, never been much of a singer, never been home and the little I picked up from TV ill-
much of anything. I just thought, Italian in Uru- prepared me for kindergarten. Of course my
guay to Italian from Argentina, that we’d have a classmates made fun of me. ‘I’ll miss you, Beppo,’
bond.” my mother cried as she left me at the door of the
“I don’t interject myself into my stories: school my first day. The kids immediately started
the Times doesn’t allow it. Nonetheless if you calling me Beppi or sometimes Bepsi, diminu-
think I have a special sympathy for your story, tives of a diminutive. Not only was I small for my
please tell it to me, no holds barred.” age,” Beppo stood up, knuckles on the table, he
“Do you know the history of not this but was less than 5’8” and paunchy besides, “I was.”
the New York production?” He stopped. María Teresa looked bored behind
“I’m a cultural critic and I did my re- her sunglasses.
search but please tell me.” “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s not manly to
“The director wanted a new, truer inter- whine.”
pretation of Wagner’s tale. To achieve that he “Go on,” she replied. “It’s manly to be
felt he needed a Walther who was not a profes- truthful.”
sional singer. Of course a nonprofessional can’t This only convinced him to dissimulate.
sing opera so he sought the next best thing, a “We of course lived in a poor section of the city’s
failed professional singer. And so, after twenty outskirts. Our school never took us on field trips
years of singing opera professionally my callow- to any of the numerous beautiful parts of Bava-
ness, not my competence, won me my first major ria. I grew up thinking that Bavaria was at best
role in a major production, a feat I’m not likely to nondescript. This, now that I think of it, may
repeat.” have sparked an interest in travel though the
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” María only far off place I thought of then was Napoli.
said. “You’ve made a living pursuing your art. Notice I say Napoli but not Bayern. I trust you’ll
You won’t reach the pinnacle but you tried how impose consistency.”
honestly I don’t know.” “I’m a professional and the Times has pro-
“You speak of me in the past tense. Does fessional editors.”
that mean I’m going to die in New York?” “I’ve never felt comfortable expressing
“I don’t know. Very few people, maybe no myself. At home I didn’t think I learned proper
one, knows. Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. Italian and outside I spoke Low German with an
You said you wanted to tell your story. Tell me Italian accent. Though Mediterranean, I devel-
how you became a singer.” oped slowly. This caused problems at the Gymna-
“My father wasn’t present when I was sium. Most of the native Germans shunned me. I
born in a suburb of Napoli. He was a journeyman made friends with the few Turks in the district
laborer. I think he was in Salzburg at the time but learned only a few Turkish words.
“The Gymnasium required everyone to participate in

an extracurricular activity. I tried out for all the sports
teams but never made it past the first cut. In the end I was
relegated to the chorus. Though short, I stood in the back. In
the spring of my last year in the Gymnasium, we were sent
to compete in a city-wide choral contest. We came in last.
“Never a good student, I was resigned to a career as a
laborer. A week after the singing contest, the headmaster
(he also directed the chorus) called me in. I thought I was
being expelled for a prank some of us performed before the
show. ‘Giuseppe,’ he asked me, ‘do you remember the thin
man with the gray turtleneck who was observing the groups
as they rehearsed?’ I hadn’t of course. ‘He’s a music instruc- “...A week after the
tor from Vienna. He noticed something in your voice, I’m
not sure what, but’” singing contest, the
María removed her glasses. “Hey, isn’t that María
Teresa Crosetti?” someone on the far side of the café ex- headmaster (he also
claimed.
“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” she said. directed the chorus)
The waiter, anticipating a big tip, appeared and deftly led
her to a back exit.
called me in…
The waiter returned with a full breakfast. “What will
the señorita have?” Beppo asked. He stared at his cooling
‘Giuseppe,’ he asked
food for a full five minutes until the waiter returned and me, ‘do you remember
asked him if the meal was satisfactory. “The señorita?”
Beppo asked again. the thin man with the
The waiter put a glass of red wine on the table. “She
asked me to give you this. It’s on the house. She sends her gray turtleneck who
apologies. Someone recognized her, she said. She didn’t
want your interview to become a circus.”
was observing the
“Ah,” Beppo said, suave as he could manage. He
picked at his food, drank the wine, his coffee, Señorita
groups as they
Crosetti’s coffee, and pushed his plate away. rehearsed?’ I hadn’t of
The waiter returned with the bill. “I’d like more
wine,” Beppo said. course. ‘He’s a music
“I’m sorry, sir.” the waiter said. “You’ve been at this
table a long time already. We have people with reservations instructor from Vienna.
coming in. If you’d like another drink, you’re welcome to sit
at the bar.” He noticed something
Beppo fished some bills and coins out of his pocket,
enough to cover the bill and leave a tip, a much smaller per-
in your voice, I’m not
centage than he usually gave. He left through the front en-
trance, found the bus stop for the return ride, and stood at
sure what, but’”
the stop squinting in the sun until the bus finally arrived.
When he returned to the hotel, Sachs was waiting in
the lobby. The director escorted him to the elevator, rode
with him to the top floor, and led him to a penthouse suite.
“Excuse me,” Beppo said, “the wine, the coffee at brunch.”

While he was washing up, he noticed his toothbrush in the
holder.
“Sit down, Beppo,” Sachs said. He was already sitting in
a plush couch, his feet on a hassock. A soccer game was on the
wide screen television. The sound was off. “Have you thought
about what you’ll do between now and your performance in
New York?”
“I have Thursday evening’s show here. The following
Monday, I’m flying to New York.”
“Scratch that. An understudy will sub for you on Thurs-
“Maybe I can book a day. The opera company won’t allow you to sing. The lawyers
are afraid of liability.”
flight to Munich. I’d Beppo thought for a minute. “Maybe I can book a flight
to Munich. I’d like to see my mother.”
like to see my mother” “I’m sorry, Beppo. We can’t risk having you fly so much
or, much worse, not returning from Bavaria. As you can see,
we’ve upgraded your accommodations. You’re not to leave
these rooms till you fly to New York. There’s a treadmill in the
“I’m sorry, Beppo. We next room so you can exercise. The walls have been sound-
proofed so you can sing. If you need fresh air,” he pointed
can’t risk having you without looking to a spiral staircase behind him, “you can walk
fly so much or, much up to the roof. There will be three or four guards there at all
times.”
worse, not returning “Do you think I’ll jump?”
“It’s for your protection. Your meals have been taken
from Bavaria. care of. They’ll be delivered at nine, one, and six each day.
You’ll be eating good fresh food chosen by our health man-
As you can see, ager.”
“How do they know I’ll like it?”
we’ve upgraded your “Believe me we know. If you need companionship, noth-
accommodations. ing illicit, but if you want to spend time with a friend, just call
the concierge downstairs. The desk will try to arrange it.”
You’re not to leave Sachs rose. “Do you have any questions or is there anything I
can get you now?”
these rooms till you fly “I guess not.”
As soon as Sachs was gone, Beppo dialed María. “Where
to New York” are you?” he asked.
“In the helicopter. I’m almost back in Buenos Aires.”
“We didn’t finish our interview.”
“I’m sorry, Beppo. Someone recognized me and the pa-
per wanted me to come back. I have to work on my other as-
signments back here.”
“Maybe you can come to New York in two weeks. There
are a lot of Italians there. I can take you to Brooklyn.” Beppo
had never been to Brooklyn, had barely left midtown.
“I work for a New York paper. The people there will
cover your performance. I’ll see you next year if bag. Underneath the headline for the opera re-
you come to Buenos Aires and maybe if you review Beppo saw two columns that were com-
turn to Montevideo.” pletely black. He clutched his heart, reached for
“But” a glass of water, spilled it. Two men from the se-
“I’m sorry, Beppo. The pilot wants me to curity detail rose.
turn my phone off.” “What’s this?” Beck asked. “Sorry, Beppo,
Twelve days later Beppo sat alone at a big I forgot that the Times printed two editions to-
table near the back of a Latin restaurant on Co- day. The columns were a glorious blank-canvas
lumbus Avenue, the first restaurant he’d been to white in the review I read this morning. They’re
since he met María at the café. The security de- trying to be more avant garde I guess. I thought
tail was spread among smaller tables with easy Tina had the same edition.”
access to him should anything happen. At last Beppo eased up. The security men re-
he’d have a big dinner with the members of his turned to their tables.
company. He hoped it wasn’t his last. “What kind of place is this?” the woman
The bar was more crowded than the ta- at the next table said. “First that guy wants to
bles for it was not yet six. A couple sat at a table take my paper then his thug friends approach
behind him. The woman was reading from the him. I’m not coming here again.”
Times. “’He is possessed of a reedy tenor which “I’ve never seen anything like that here,”
despite or because of its weakness,’” she quoted. her companion said. “Let’s hope they settle down
The man was indignant. “Why can’t they just say so we can enjoy the rest of the meal. This pulpo
he possesses or, better, has a reedy tenor? They is delicious.”
might even take an ontological leap and say he is “I’ve lost my appetite.”
a reedy tenor but possessed of?” The people at Beppo’s table brought their
Beppo bent his head, ran his hands appetites. Those who were singing the next day
through his once red hair. Ever since he was drank moderately, those who weren’t drank ex-
young he wanted to be bold, to take life by the cessively. Beppo had a glass of Malbec and a lot
horns, but always something held him back. He of ice water. The table calmed down only when
thought of his childhood so incompletely con- the waiter asked if anyone wanted dessert. Beppo
fessed to María, she wasn’t a confessor, tell it to declined. He was surprised when the waiter
your shrink, she’d want to say, or be more ma- brought a plate of flan and placed it at the empty
cho, he was never macho, he was only reedy, as setting to his right. “Excuse me,” he said, “I did-
mentioned in the review that woman was read- n’t order, I can’t,” then he saw a woman come in
ing of his performance tomorrow. He turned to behind the waiter.
her, “May I borrow?” he asked, pointing to the María Teresa sat down next to Beppo and
paper. squeezed his arm. “What can’t you do?” she
Her eyes widened. “No,” she said. “Some asked him.
people,” she whispered to her date. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“What are you doing?” Beck asked. He “I would have been here much earlier but
and a woman sat down across from Beppo. my flight was delayed. I so much wanted to share
“I’m sorry. They were reading a review this meal with you.”
from the Times, a review of my performance, I “My last?”
know because they mentioned a reedy tenor.” “No one knows that.”
Beck laughed. “That’s a review of a rock The table quieted. No one in the group
concert. It seems the lead singer is past his mentioned Beppo’s collapse after Tina took back
prime. The Times didn’t actually review the her blackened newspaper. María tried to change
show. Tina, show Beppo the Arts section.” the subject. “It’s not far to the hotel,” she said.
Tina pulled the newspaper from a straw “Let’s walk back. You can tell me about Brooklyn.
I’ll have to write and file my story after your examined the stains. He took his pants off, lay
show but if you’re free you can take me to Ben- them on the back of a spare armchair without
sonhurst on Sunday.” cleaning them. Though irreligious, he wanted his
Beppo thought. He didn’t know any Ben- mother to be consoled in her grief by his final
son Hurst. The name didn’t sound Italian. “I’m devoutness.
sorry, María. I have to take the cab back to the Beppo closed the curtain, flushed the
hotel. The insurance won’t allow me to walk.” dirty pill down the toilet, and sat at the small
“Then let me ride with you. The insurance desk. There was a small pad and a pen on the
will let me sleep with you tonight, won’t it?” desk. He supposed he should write something, a
Beppo didn’t know. When one of the testament or parting shot. He didn’t feel confi-
women of your dreams falls into your arms, you dent in any of the languages he knew. He pre-
should take her but if I’m denied tonight, he rea- sumed the hotel provided small pads to encour-
soned, I’ll live to be denied tomorrow. age conciseness; anything he wrote would be
María blew him a kiss as she left the ele- prolix. He stood up, looked down at the pad. He’d
vator for she was staying in the same hotel as drawn a moon and star or the Turkish flag,
Beppo. The other passengers seemed impressed. poorly. When he was young his mother drew
“Who was that?” an elderly man asked Beppo moons and stars and talked to him about space
when they both got off. travel. She didn’t want him to be a laborer like
“A friend,” Beppo said. his father. I’m the mirror image of him, Beppo
“You must be quite a stud to have friends thought, an eternal journeyman unsuited for my
like that. Reminds me of when I was your age.” trade. If I have one distinction it’s that I didn’t
The man’s wife punched him lightly. “Harold, bring another Sarno into the world.
that man must be almost as old as us,” she said. Beppo showered, readied himself for bed.
Beppo ignored them, opened the door to It was barely nine o’clock. He couldn’t decide
his empty hotel room. Everything was as he’d left whether he should stay up all night as death row
it. He walked to the window, gazed at the lights prisoners do at the end or get a good night’s
of midtown, fingered the filched laxative in his sleep but how could he sleep knowing the night
pocket. His mother always kept a clean house. could be his last? What do great artists do on last
“We may be poor,” she said, “but we’ll never be nights? He thought of reading but his knowledge
dirt poor.” Though Beppo couldn’t keep his of literature was limited and he didn’t have any
things tidy he inherited his mother’s mania for favorite poems or thoughts with him. He could
cleanliness. He’d heard that people’s bowels play music, he was after all a musician, but his
loosen when they die. He didn’t want to leave a portable playing device wasn’t very good. To
mess. The thought of the newspaper’s descrip- hear great music poorly rendered didn’t seem
tion – María wouldn’t dirty her narrative with right. He thought of playing with himself but the
those details, he hardly knew her, knew her only stain, besides he didn’t feel virile, he was right
enough to idealize her – of him prone, smelly, not to accept María: a failure with her tonight
unmoving would sicken his mother, kill her. On would presage his final failure tomorrow. He lay
the other hand taking the pill would dehydrate on the bed, turned on the TV, found a movie
him, increase the likelihood of his final collapse. channel, turned the sound off, and watched the
He dropped the pill, knelt on the rug to look for images till finally, senses dulled, his torpor re-
it. He noticed every piece of dust, every bit of sembled sleep, it may have been sleep.
fuzz in the ugly red pile of the carpet. Finally he He was half awake at 4 am. He needed to
found the pill underneath the radiator. There pee, he didn’t want to get up. How will it be if I
were ineradicable specks of dirt all over it. Beppo live to 50, he thought. The TV was still on but the
stood up, inspected the knees of his pants. tenebrous light issuing from the screen illumi-
They’ll think I was praying, he thought when he nated little. He didn’t want to bang his knee on
something. After all he had to move on the stage maining faithful, I play someone untutored, a
tomorrow; he wanted to be graceful. He found jack of one trade, master of – enough! Beppo
the remote, turned the TV off, and lay in the al- turned to the arts section. A short article without
most dark thinking, trying not to think. The María’s byline mentioned the prices the scalpers
room was the same or nearly the same as the were getting. Beppo tried to convert the figures
rooms he’d stayed in on other New York trips into Euros, gave up.
when he’d played minor roles and failed to foray He looked at the counter. Half the milk
into Brooklyn. He wondered what would be done from his cereal was on the tabletop. The left
with the room. If he died today it could become sleeve of his shirt was wet. The waiter stood near
off limits or an attraction. If he lived the kitchen entrance eyeing him darkly. Beppo
His eyes were now accustomed to the signed a chit assigning the bill to his room and
dimness. There was always at least some light in abruptly left the coffee shop.
these rooms. If only he could make the room He returned to his room, took off his
pitch black this once. He’d have his fill of black- shirt, sat in an armchair, and closed his eyes. He
ness soon. In the meantime, there were the tried to visualize his performance. The beginning
things in the room, commonplace and yet unfa- of the show, his entrance and first lines, came
miliar things, an end table, a phone, chairs. easily enough. Suddenly impatient, contrary to
There was his awareness of the things. The his usual routine, Beppo tried to visualize the
things will remain or be replaced. He will go or second act. He summoned nothing. Perhaps it’s
change. He will go where because I’m not envisioning the show in se-
He felt quence he thought. He went back to the begin-
At six he peed. This was his normal wake ning but now he was so upset about his second
up time for matinees: he liked to slowly limber act failure that he couldn’t conjure that. Beppo
up and ready his instrument. He retrieved the turned the TV on. A pretty though vapid blond in
paper left in front of his door. It was a national a blue dress crossed her legs and recited some-
newspaper with a small arts section. His per- thing about the odds in Vegas, the first time peo-
formance wasn’t mentioned in it. He turned on ple bet on Opera. Her co-anchor sniffed some-
the radio. Someone was telling scatological jokes thing about elitism. Beppo turned the TV off. I
in between fund raising pleas. He sat at stool. will live the day the way I sleep, he resolved, like
Nothing came. He examined the front of his an animal, always wary of the death blow, only
stained drawers. He wasn’t sure of the cause. this time expecting it to come from within,
Why did he flush that dusty pill? maybe if I slept better, it’s too late now, I can’t
Beppo exercised languidly, showered, and help it, I’m just fodder for the algorithms, the
went downstairs to the hotel coffee shop. He sat only real rhythm I ever had.
alone at the counter, his security detail in sight. He put on a dry shirt and walked the few
He ordered his usual American breakfast – corn- blocks to Lincoln Center. Normally he would
flakes, coffee, orange juice. He thought of order- leave much later but this wasn’t a normal day, if I
ing prune juice but if he broke routine now or if could follow my normal routine, I’d. He stopped
the security people noticed. He opened the Times short at Broadway. An ambulance was set up at
he’d picked up in the lobby. A paragraph on the the far end of the plaza. Workmen were assem-
first page mentioned an international ban on bling some kind of field medical emergency facil-
mentioning his performance today. Beppo ity. Though it wasn’t yet nine, the plaza was al-
turned to the obits not from any Schadenfreude, ready crowded with curiosity seekers. Scalpers
that peculiarly German word, only the Germans, declaimed their prices nominally out of earshot
but that’s been thought before, on my last morn- of the police.
ing I should be original, I work as a mouthpiece Somehow Beppo crossed Broadway,
but I aim to interpret originally while still re- climbed a few steps, and pushed through the
crowd. He felt for his phone. It wasn’t in his pocket. He’d

forgotten to call his mother. He stepped on someone’s
shoe.
“Cut that out, buddy!” David shouted.
“Behave yourself,” Lena whispered. “Who was
that?”
“Just some random middle-aged guy.”
“Late middle-age, by the look of it. Come on, we
have our tickets, there’s nothing to see here, let’s have
brunch at that new place off Columbus.” []
POETRY
Noon
Is a great time
To wake up
The friends I made, in the dark
With the dark
Are ethereal and gone
Noon
Being paid PW Covington
To stay away
Leave the mornings
To car seat, Calvinist Noon
Sedans and pick-up trucks
As Catholic bells
I am coming off the Of Saint Joseph
Night watch Mark the middle
The night shift Of carpenter days
With my pen and scroll
Star-struck Noon time coffee
In my Texas
Moon burned by absinthe Solitude
The words I wrote last night
Await cold Poetry is a bridge
Daylight Between literature and art
Destruction I am crossing
Accommodations
Jagannath Chakravarti
I introspect,
And speak of the extant core,
And the bright lights that shoot through the narrow road towards the seat of mirrors.
I speak in riddles, high strung and reeking of truth,
While you play with lies until they shine white,
Beating down like a merciless sun to
Drown the frozen sentinels into a sea.
You know they will learn how to swim.
But I fear for their death,
Letting life die a belittled lie in a bid to accommodate their chaotic madness.
Canvas: An impression by
blind justice mug shots

POETRY
and charges of fraud
Desmond’s I identify her sad foto
fell on hard times
clothing store chain her saleswoman
elegant and crucial perpetual tiny frowned
Blind
in the forties prune faced Marie
in the fifties working past retirement
irrelevant also identified her foto
by the late ’70’s “that’s her
Injustice
clientele dead I’d know her anywhere
or dying off it was horrible
I met Hal Roach I see her face at night”
he still came in she said
me Westwood night manager worried Rex Butters
another glacially slow I’m briefed on the trial
weekday night my testimony
memorizing the carpet’s pattern witness for the prosecution
when noisy and extroverted seated in the court room
colorful bright Marie gasps and chirps and points the prosecutor recites
loud laughing his practiced prompt
flamboyant “that’s her
I’d know her anywhere “and do you see the woman
she took over who wrote this check?”
the women’s department enlivened it was horrible
electrified her face comes to me in the night,” I look at her
her scarves flowing she said balefully “I know
jewelry rattle indicating a black I’m supposed to say it’s her
heavy make up uniformed and armed because she’s the defendant
flirty funny outrageous female bailiff but her
piling up outfits I could see I’ve never seen before”
outer wear where this was going
stunned courtroom silence
under wear called to the witness stand she looks up slowly
a one woman I look down strangely full of hope
sale-a-bration at the defendant gavel slam
check out protocol slump shouldered I’m physically escorted
followed to the letter downcast sitting ejected
I took her check next to her lawyer from the courtroom
approved the IDs she’s jumpsuit prison dressed double doors
she packed up searching for a future closing on hateful attorney
crackly bags on the table top glare
left no jewelry
wigless convicted and jailed
party over by Marie’s impaired
smell of decay nappy spiky short black
hair toxic testimony
resettles she’s one ghost
she looks nothing
weeks later like the women I met who never visits
I’m called to a manager’s office whose check I approved sleepless
meeting with officers foto identified lightless
bearing bad checks for all I knew early morning
fake id’s she wasn’t wakings []
POETRY
a stupid way to stop suddenly
off light
off late
slow San Francisco
North
North Beach week night
wait shift over
bicycle home
rare southbound breeze
A
flies me through empty
financial district
gray concrete corridor streets
any intersection light not made
Stupid
run just the same
fat tire bike
balloon wheel bounce
the bumps
erase the fissures
Way ride the crazy wind orgy

speed scream me
to the Mission
quick cross empty Market St.
To flip bike slam

stopped
bike on top
Stop Harrison St. surface stripped

groove graded cement
probably pave tomorrow
Suddenly
no caution sign
of any kind
I’m meat on the street

bored yellow cab corners
fast reaction brakes
keep me alive
with his burn bright
white lights in my eyes
deep drawn breath two club doors

finds no immediate damage slant light shadows
slowly find my feet door men
swing my black jeaned leg at either end of the block
over the saddle one claps
remount and ride slowly []
POETRY
Two Poems
Robert Beveridge
Board
Mahimata Certified
She is everything, and we A mountain of scapulae,
her offspring, perfect in nothing
save our love for her. Mahimata, thighbones, papier-mâchéd
great mother, you nurture with signature pages. Your
your family with kisses, the kindest auburn lover gives you that
of words, hands and will of steel look, you know the one. You
when the need arises. You, the stone take up pen, bluetooth, dormant
foundation, the glue that keeps us Saint Bernard and head out again.
from spinning apart into our own
little orbits. None of us is perfect, There are few trails in the glue
true, but to us, you are perfect wife, but you know these paths as well
perfect lover, Mahimata. Great mother. as if you had threshed them
yourself. Until, that is, government
regulation or natural disaster
changes topography. Now you
are mired tits-deep in plaster,
heather, thistledown, and that
goddamned Saint Bernard has
half-emptied his cask. You
have him pour you an aperitif
for ennui, prepare for the next
conference call, await the arrival
of that slimy guy from Corporate.
Wonder, again, why you gave up
Artwork: Suhas Krishna

POETRY
How do you Feel

about Europe?
Carter Vance
I thought about kissing you in the Sandinista rain,

grey sky storming reflected in revolutionary sunglass,
trains carrying our tender skin, milk-white in shade
from Beirut to Buenos Aries and back, and
never had I known your touch from the opposite
side of a kitchen table.
I thought about you at a rooftop party in Brooklyn,

the dusk of August breezes dancing through strands
of your hair as hitchhikers and squeegee men through
a Don Valley traffic jam; you'd make the round,
red wine glass in hand and talk to me just the
same as the others.
My life seemed so bland to compare, colourless, eating

Tesco bread and jelly snakes in a County Tipperary
coroner's office, the sun tick-tapered behind about
six layers of concrete and piping, double that
for clouds and clinging indifference coming on
tight as turning hairpins.
I thought about your many-coloured coats streaming through

Prague's November snows and the breweries of Plzen,
standing still as Cubist lampposts on the side-street,
my legs shivered bone-deep beneath thin polyester pant,
reaching limit, stepped into the bar with the pivo place-mats,
neon flicked a second
off.
POETRY
Moments are
Meant to Pass
Carter Vance
Thinking about the captain's cliffs,

we were seeking out triangles of the
porous ocean light, literary watches
ticking bell hours in the damp night.
In the morning in the bathtub, waking up

soaked-sullen as ever, great Gods of the
Marianas Trench, rising deep between ourselves;
your eyes flickered as vineyard wine in monas-
tery
casks.
Reached out to hold lightly, your skin well-

known
as the New York skyline, traces well-trod
as the MTA map; forgotten faces flickered
coarsely as rocks on sandy parchment.
Blood was pumping, rising up swiftly

hearts melding cautious to elixir's dawn;
I never looked upon wind favourable,
tossing ship-ward aquamarine allusions, until
you.
Teeth chattered to the blanket warm-up,

glinting dull grey-yellow in the morning's
indifference,
floods of inevitability washed over
us, tearing apart and soaking through,
POETRY
Beyond Two Poems

Steve Klepetar
Our
Control
“Sometimes when we try to speak
we can’t even stammer.”
Sally Wen Mao
Inside the
Sometimes the sky is full of clouds and snow, Veins of
Cold
sometimes empty and blue as a candy dish.
Sometimes light scatters and we see flame
on the horizon, smoke pouring from the edge
of the world. Sometimes our hands are cold
Snow on rooftops glittering in pale sun.
and filled with rain. There are atmospheric
Eight below in early afternoon, so cold
conditions beyond our control, out past tides
the air seems brittle, each breath an intake
and gravitational waves. They say two black
of ice and pain, which hangs unmoving
holes collided more than a billion years ago,
like something hard. We turn inward
disturbed the fabric of spacetime. Sometimes
to night and dreams. An owl streaks past,
you have to wait your turn, be patient as ashes
its feathers a sodium flash against black
fall through the leafless filigree of trees.
sky. We peel off old bodies, step out
Sometimes, when no one is looking, you stare
where trees shiver in wind blowing
at your reflection in a dark store window,
through a garden strewn with white stone.
dream you see your father’s face rising
Statues lean at angles, chipped or broken
like a silver fish toward the gunnels of your
or fallen to the ground as if the dead
boat. Sometimes you feel the weight of his
had shoved them aside and risen, drilling
hand pressed against your shoulder blade.
their way from frozen earth. Who called
Then it’s gone and you’re alone again, standing
them here from dark alleys where they
on some shopping street or floating on a quiet
wandered alone, or in forlorn groups,
lake, gray and calm on a summer afternoon.
touching nothing with their ivory hands,
Sometimes you hear starlings chirp, the occasional
waiting to be dragged toward the gate of horn?
twang of frogs, but your own voice is choked,
chopped and reduced to some inhuman sound
locked in a throat so raw with years that no words
known to you would make a dent in the sullen air.
POETRY
Of Privacy and
Clandestine Writing
Sanjhee Gianchandani
It is ironical that this poem shall be sent for publishing

That it ruminates of sequestration and yet bespeaks dissemination
Privacy of print is a fragile concept
Any work encloses the artist’s selfhood and motivation
yet seeks to enshroud the same
This is why a diarist is considered superior to a novelist
A diary decries of the most private of emotions
Especially in the modern era of textual and structural tumult
For instance the Woolfian trope of “street haunting”
Wherein she absorbed the happenings of urban life
While literally walking through it
Like the flaneur of Baudelaire
It draws from the melodies of lives and personalities
Her essays also delve upon the same
The words contained in their solitude
And portraying the sheer inexplicability of language
Draws from her epoch that all art springs
From a coherent latent inward self
Like her Jacob or Clarissa Dalloway
Woolf drowns herself in stream of consciousness
To reveal the innermost psychological working of the mind
Of her characters and her own in the process
Thus bringing back the notion of confidentiality
which is basically a state of mind
Rather than a law to be mastered
It is left up to the readers to unravel
Un-entangle and explain
The mysteries left uncertain by the writers. []
Through the lens of
JACQUES LACAN
Dibyajit Mukherjee
puts forth a Lacanian analysis of the French student
movement of 1968, evaluating the revolutionary zeal of
the times and inspecting the ideas that led to
mass rejection of an old order by a new generation
Photography: Bruno Barbey
“A good lycée is one which teaches patricide.”- A workers to protest against the prevalent economic
schoolboy (Bendit 45) crisis during that time. It was a thirst for liberty at
every level of life, an urge to throw off the cramp-
I would like to start by referring to this particular ing cant and petty tyranny of fossilized institutions.
statement made by a schoolboy to point out the It was what the French call a ‘crise de structures’-
particular mood with which the French student something quite new, perhaps the first student
Revolution of May 1968 was enveloped and my aim rebellion against the bureaucratic Stalinist regime
in this paper would be to make a Lacanian analysis of De Gaulle and also at the same time against the
of two slogans which were at that particular time morbid parasitic decay of Imperialism which
used as graffiti. I would specifically like to highlight according to Vladimir Ilych Ulyanov was the high-
the word patricide and interpret it to be the de- est stage of capitalism due to the establishment of
struction or the annihilation of the symbolic order monopolies, trusts and cartels which would further
as propounded by French psychoanalyst Jacques systematically stop the nature of competition and
Lacan. This bears close resemblance to rule by despotic measures. In this context I would
Lacan’s seminar “The other side of psychoanalysis” like to mention a certain event in the Life of Jacques
where he developed his “four discourses” that of Lacan where in one of his seminars he was attacked
the master , university , hysteric and analyst. by student of the revolution and he had formulated
that the act was an act against an old order to form
This paper talks about a particular time where the a new one. This can be seen in the documentary
revolution had thousands of School children film “Lacan Parle”1 directed by Francoise Wolff. The
marching to the slogan: ‘Power is in the street, student who had attacked Lacan and had disar-
not in Parliament’. This revolution was not only ranged the contents of his table phrased the follow-
confined to schoolchildren but also college ing words as the justification for his act :
and university students who allied themselves with “I chose this moment to have fun and to be like
lytic experience. What is this kind of experience? If

we see the documentary by Francoise Wolff we will
see that Lacan says that experience shows us that
“it is one language- which you have grown up with-
received from the family. It brought with it a con-
fused vibrant reality formed by the desires of your
parents. So the individual’s upbringing is influenced
by the mother, by the maternal language.”3 This is
not only a language but the formation of a new dis-
course which Lacan elucidates in his “The other
side of psychoanalysis”. There he tells us that “what
is S1 in the master’s discourse can be said to be S2
in the university discourse...” S1 is the master signi-
fier, S2 is knowledge, S is the barred subject
whereas ‘a’ is the objet petit or the surplus jouis-
sance. The formula which Lacan designs for the dis-
course of the master is S1/S à S2/a whereas the
formula for the discourse of the university is S2/S1
à a/S . The sign in the upper left denotes the
speaker of the discourse and the sign on the upper
right is what the discourse is addressed to. The sign
on the lower right is what the discourse has cre-
ated. It is the product whereas the sign on the lower
left denotes the truth. This is what the discourse
attempted to express. Thus we can see that in the
discourse of the university the agent is knowledge
and this discourse creates a product that is the
barred subject but its main aim was to create the
those guys who expresses themselves authenti- discourse of the master. Also included in his con-
cally”2. When Lacan asked him “by expressing your- cept of the symbolic order is a reference to a phrase
self in this way in front of this audience what is it in his terminology namely – “nom du pére” or the
exactly that you wanted to do” , the student was name of the father. The father is a name because
furious and replied that “this is the same question ultimately paternity always involves something
which parents, priests, ideologists, bureaucrats and beyond the biological reality of the man who gives
the cops always ask the growing number of people his sperm , something purely symbolic. There is al-
who act like me. My answer is, I want to do ways this disassociation between the Real side of
just one thing- make revolution.” Paternity and its Fictitious side and it is this
symbolic side that was being attacked by the
It is clear from this last statement that the student, students. Fictitious does not mean illusory or de-
is revolting against the orders of the state which ceptive as such. In Lacan’s seminar “The Ethics of
Louis Althusser terms it as the ideological and Psychoanalysis” he says that once the separation
repressive state apparatus. So it is evident that the between the fictitious and the real has been ef-
revolution is directed against what Lacan terms as fected, things are no longer situated where one
the Symbolic order and very interestingly the might expect. He further states that The fictitious is
student also said that he chose this moment to be not, in effect, in its essence that which deceives, but
like “those guys”. Who are these guys? It is here we precisely what he calls the symbolic.
have the imaginary order or what Lacan in his
“Écrits” defines to be the mirror stage as formative The basis of the imaginary order on the other hand
of the function of the I as revealed by Psychoana- is the formation of the ego in the "mirror
stage". Since the ego is formed by identifying with such as "presence" and "absence", there is no ab-
the counterpart or specular image, "identification" sence in the real. The symbolic opposition between
is an important aspect of the imaginary. The rela- "presence" and "absence" implies the possibility
tionship whereby the ego is constituted by identi- that something may be missing from the symbolic,
fication is a locus of "alienation", which is another the real is "always in its place: it carries it glued to
feature of the imaginary, and is fundamentally its heel, ignorant of what might exile it from there."
narcissistic. This is precisely the reason why the If the symbolic is a set of differentiated signifiers,
student said that he chose this moment to have the real is in itself undifferentiated: "it is without
fun and to act specifically like those guys. Basically fissure". The symbolic introduces "a cut in the
what he was trying to say is that he had identified real," in the process of signification: "it is the world
an image outside him and this identification was of words that creates the world of things." Thus the
the reason to become that imaginary being. The real emerges as that which is outside language: "it is
imaginary, a realm of surface appearances which that which resists symbolization absolutely." The
are deceptive, is structured by the symbolic order. real is impossible because it is impossible to imag-
It also involves a linguistic dimension: whereas the ine, impossible to integrate into the symbolic order.
signifier is the foundation of the symbolic, the This character of impossibility and resistance to
"signified" and "signification" belong to the imagi- symbolization lends the real its traumatic quality
nary. So we must understand that the reason which is almost similar to the resistance by the stu-
which the boy gives for attacking Lacan when he dents headed by Daniel-Cohn-Bendit who was
says he wanted “to have fun” points us towards against the bureaucratic regime of De Gaulle. The
the role of the pleasure principle. In “The Ethics of character of impossibility however is also in a posi-
Psychoanalysis”, Lacan says that the unconscious tion of claustrophobia because it is “impossible”
is structured as a function of the symbolic, that it from the context of capitalism which is a profit cen-
is the return of a sign that the pleasure principle tric system not caring about development of the
makes man seek out, that the pleasurable element human race but about the profits of the few bour-
in that which directs man in his behaviour without geois class. So in this sense the character of impos-
his knowledge because it is a form of euphony. sibility is doubly traumatised.
Thus language has both symbolic and imaginary
aspects. Based on the specular image, the imagi-
nary is rooted in the subject's relationship to the
body (the image of the body).
The second picture above clearly tells us about the

reason for this traumatic upheaval by the students.
It asks how to think freely in the shadow of a
In the first picture above we can see the slogan on chapel? What is the chapel? The chapel is an insti-
the wall which translates itself as “be realistic, de- tute with its rules and regulations. The chapel
mand the impossible”. It immediately throws light should not be read as a literal chapel but a symbolic
onto the “Real order” formulated by Lacan. This one just as Lacan mentions that there is a difference
order is not only opposed to the imaginary but is between the real or biological father (who gives his
also located beyond the symbolic. Unlike the lat- sperms) and the symbolic “nom du pére”. How does
ter, which is constituted in terms of oppositions this symbolic side of the father work or how does it
operate? Lacan tells us that the paternal operation is to de-

stroy this game with the mother to signify that the phallus
the child wishes to incarnate is lost, that it is out of the
child’s reach, that it is missing. This is castration. It is this
symbolic castration which led to the formation of “chain
gangs”, “action committees” and “student soviets” where
Daniel Cohn-Bendit, Rudi Dutschke, Alain Krivine and
Jacques Sauvageot were some of the key student figures.
This was the reaction due to the symbolic oppression of the
chapel. The particular oppression was also noted by the
Abbé Charles-Guy de Kérimel who came to believe and said
so in public that there was something a little indecent about
the sigh of relief which had followed the collapse of the
revolution. The Abbé was just one of the many Catholics
who knew that the May Revolutions had lessons for the
church.
As a conclusion it has to be mentioned that the revolution-

ary upsurge by the students was steeped in the vocabulary
of the worker’s struggle and in the ideal of workers’ broth-
erhood. From 3rd May onwards, the student leaders had per-
sistently called for a worker’s revolt. They had very clearly
understood that since the workers are directly associated
with the production process but are alienated from them
due to the fundamental contradiction (of capitalism) be-
tween production of goods for society and appropriation of
the same by the owner. It has to be noted that Stalin’s un-
Marxist doctrine of “socialism in one country” had made the
vitality of the proletariat suffer from senility. The student Works Cited :
revolution tried to awaken the revolutionary zeal of the pro- Daniel, Cohn-Bendit. Obsolete Communism:
letariat which had been long forgotten. The Left-Wing Alternative. Trans. Andre
Deutsch. London: Cox and Wyman
Ltd.,1969.Print.
Patrick Seale notes:
Seale, Patrick and Maureen McConville.
It was as if they were trying to revive in the proletariat for-
French Revolution 1968. London: Penguin
gotten traditions of militancy. Who can tell what emotions Books, 1968.Print.
they awakened? Old workers with memories of past strug-
gles may have been stirred by the combativity of these Lacan, Jacques. Ecrits. Trans. Alan Sheri-
young intellectuals and young workers, not yet reconciled to dan.Tavistock: Routledge,2001 Print.
the view that life is just the pay-packet, may have thrilled in
Lacan, Jacques. The Ethics of Psychoanalysis.
turn to cry from the Sorbonne. (Seale 153) [] Trans. Dennis Porter. W.W.Norton & Com-
pany, Inc.,1992.Print.
Notes: Lacan, Jacques. The Other Side of Psycho-
1. The film can be watched at https://youtu.be/YLYedUTSEuk analysis. Trans. Russel Grigg. W.W.Norton &
Company, Inc.,2007.Print.
2. This quotation can be seen in the 22nd minute of the film
Leader Darian & Groves Judy. Introducing
3. The above mentioned quote can be seen in the 27th minute of the
Lacan. London: Totem Books,2010.Print.
film
SHORT FICTION
Black
rejected.” “Unanimously.” “No, no. It was unani-
mous.” “Hold on, making a bet.” “What?” “It’s
real loud here, hon.” “Honey, I’m going. I can’t
have my phone at the table.” “Akron-Canton at
three, if there are no delays.” “Really. I'm fine.”
Jason Carney “Love.”
*
*
He slid into the cab. It smelled of Sandalwood.
“Beer? Cocktails? Cigarettes?” “Westin, by the strip,” he slurred. The driver
nodded. He watched the laser digits conveying
“Can I have that in original?” the fare. $3.30. $4.10. $5.60. Three lights turned
red. “Do you lucky night, sir?” the driver asked.
“No more bet. No more.” He put on mirrorshades. He made a thumbs up,
“Light only.” thumbs down.
“I've been playing that four all night.” *
“Four black!” “I want the smoked salmon pâté with mint and
capers.” “The fresh berries, please.” “No, the
“I'll take the light.” black.” “Frozen isn't fresh.” “Also, a bottle of
red.” “How much is the house?” “Unbelievable.”
“Four!” “Yeah.” “No, house.” “Also, I need the alcohol on
a separate tab.” “I need a print copy of that.”
* “No.” “No, everything else on the room.”
He slid the black rectangle into the machine, “Credit.” “I’m ready when you are.” “Well, I don’t
tapped his code. The machine whirred and then have either of those.”
delicately presented green notes. “Take Cash, *
Take Cash,” it ordered rhythmically. He looked at
the receipt and whispered his math. He folded She let him fall out of her. “Why did you stop?”
the notes, wedged them into his leather bi-fold, “40 to finish.” “Are you fucking with me?” “40 to
and finished the froth sliming the bottom of his finish.” “Is this even legal?” She stood, wiping
bottle. He tugged his tie loose. her mouth, wadding her clothes. “God damn it!”
She gripped her hair tie between her lips, began
* caressing her hair back. “Can you change a black
“Beer? Cigarettes? Cocktails?” chip?”
“Four!” *
* He gripped the lip of the bowl. Chives and caper

casings floated on the water with green foam. His
“The conference was ‘so so.’” “Frankly, I'm mask-like face wavered on the surface of stained
heartbroken.” “The adjective used was water. “Please flip light before you go, please.”
‘insubstantial.’” “Insubstantial.” “No, my design She did. He felt the light fleeing when the door
was reissued.” “Reissued.” “That means it was clapped.
*
“I return!”
“No shit. When’s your flight?”
“Beer? Cocktails? Cigarettes?”
“No, coffee.”
“Cream sugar?”
“No, black.”
*
“Come on four!”
“Four black wins.”

“Yes!”
He punches the air. He takes his stack of black.
He punches the air again.
*
He sways gazing at the black pyramid that glim-
mers blackly against the starless sky as the lights
and cars and bodies spiral around him. He fol-
lows the beam of white light issuing from its
glowing apex into the starless sky yawning. He
sees a point of flickering red move laterally. He
steps out his cigarette, crunches two white pills,
and swallows powder.
*
“My man, can I get a sip of that?”
“Have it, my man.”
“What kind you got?”
“Domestic something.”
He stared without interest at white tiles as he
“Draft or can?” pulled himself in the shower and could not come.
And then shaved. Brushed his teeth. Gargled and
"From a can." spit white. Flossed. He tried to but could not
completely empty his bowls.
*
*
"Sir, do you need help up to your room?"
He left without flushing. []
*
FEATURE
The Purpose
of Education
Hal O’Leary inspects how the education system through the years
has metamorphosed into a manufacturing unit of brains that are
meant to meet an ‘industry standard’, disregarding the element of
innovation and overlooking the unique potential of each individual
that must be harnessed to forge a better generation.
Our present system of education, with its emphasis

on “Standardized Testing,” is both a glowing success
and a colossal failure. The side one may come down
on depends on what we may perceive the purpose of
education to be. The current clamor calls not for
reform but simply for ways to increase the efficiency
of a system whose premise and purpose must be
questioned. The success or failure of an honest re-
form of the present system may well decide the fate
of the American experiment.
If viewed honestly, the purpose of the current sys-

tem of education is primarily designed to assure that
industry will be supplied with a competent work
force and that society will be made up of a stable
citizenry. The rewards for compliance are monetary
gain and social acceptance. In this respect, there is
no question but that our current system is a glowing
success, and nothing could better serve this educa-
tional purpose than standardized testing. With its
emphasis on retention rather than thought, it makes
for an unquestioning employee and an acquies- not be prevented from learning.

cent civilian. This, in turn, makes possible a con-
sumer-driven economy and society in which While the professionals continue to debate and
both value and achievement are measured, most we ponder the true relevance of standardized
often, in material gain. What we have in place of testing, a more complete understanding of both
education is indoctrination. Such a system may the pros and cons must be sought*.
instruct us as to the best way to “make a living,”
but little in the ways in which we might live. In weighing the arguments for or against, I
would like to add just two specific failings of the
Standardized testing has become the mainstay of current system that are too often overlooked and
both “No Child Left Behind” of the Bush era and ways in which they might be overcome. It may be
the more recent “Race to the Top.” The strat- well at this point to turn for the first to Socrates,
egy’s dubious success in terms of student and who said, “I cannot teach anybody anything. I
public acceptance has the professionals scram- can only make him think.” It should be obvious, I
bling for answers. What the public and the pro- should think, that the current system of instruc-
fessionals cannot seem to come to grips with is tion will, more than likely, actually discourage
the void in student gratification that comes from thinking and depress creativity. This approach
having little or no voice in the procedure. The stands in sharp contrast to the Socratic method
pride and joy of learning are replaced with an in which the teacher, by asking questions, guides
award for retention of data. This, unfortunately, students to discovery. Curiosity is another victim
diminishes the desire to learn, and it is my con- of the current system in which instruction be-
tention that the best teacher in the world cannot comes obstruction. Again, as Socrates reminds
teach a student who has little or no desire to us, “Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” Here is
learn, while the student with such a desire can- a concluding admonition from this great mind
that is well worth remembering: “The most important of all

knowledge is how best to live.”
The current system may instruct us as to the best way to

“make a living,” but it does little by way of enabling the stu-
dent to live a full life. The full life I refer to is a life in which
the individual has the opportunity to realize his or her innate
and unique potential as a human being. To inhibit this poten-
tial is to deny it. The harmful effect of this inhibition for the
individual student is incalculable. To paraphrase William
Saroyan, it takes a lot of learning for a man to get to be him-
self. In the present system, this aspect of what it should mean
to be educated and human is painfully ignored, and we
should realize that the only true happiness one can know
comes not from the acquisition of wealth but from the fulfill-
ment of individual potential, whatever that may be. The ob-
jective of the system should be to help the individual student
to find himself as something other than a lackey for industry
and a sycophant for society.
Then, of course, there is the corruption born of a system that

moves us from simple need to greed. It’s not only the system
that becomes corrupt, for ultimately it will pervade the en-
tire society it ostensibly serves. It has been sufficiently shown
time and again that standardized testing leads to an irresisti-
ble tendency to cheat. It begins with the student whose sub-
sequent life may be colored by what he scores. Then we have
the teacher whose very employment may depend on the
scores of those students. The same can be said of administra-
tors who supervise the teachers. But it must be noted that it
doesn’t stop there. An investigative report released in July of
2011 found that 44 out of 56 schools in Atlanta, Georgia
cheated on the 2009 Criterion-Referenced Competency Test
(CRCT). Guilty teachers and administrators all confessed to
cheating and blamed “inordinate pressure” to meet targets
set by district officials, saying that they faced severe conse-
quences such as a negative evaluation or termination if they
didn’t.
Who can doubt that such a tendency will inevitably carry

over into the society at large, and since cheating has become
so widespread, can easily be seen as not only an acceptable
practice but a mandatory one? Morality is undermined. Trust
is lost, and with the loss of trust, humanity is lost. This is a
dire picture indeed. Can there be any hope?
I cautiously suggest that there just may be. It will of course

demand a reversal of societal values with nothing short of

revolution. For those who may scorn the possibility, I would
remind them that it was not so long ago that women could
not even vote. It was not so long ago that racism was toler-
ated, schools were segregated, and everyone not a WASP was
stigmatized in some fashion or other. Admittedly, no less
than with the others, it will be a slow but inevitable process,
but I fear that the only alternative is anarchy and a failed
state. It will mean that the values of humanity, altruism and
brotherhood must replace the greed of a capitalistic econ-
omy that has lost its way--a capitalistic society that has
planted the seeds of its own destruction. We must adhere to
the Socratic admonition, “Prefer knowledge to wealth, for
one is transitory, the other perpetual.”
As with any revolutionary change, it begins with education.

To combat American exceptionalism, history must be revised
to reveal the excesses of American imperialism. Geography
must be reinstated to help us realize our global obligations.
The sciences must be approached from a humanistic stand-
point that allows for ethical considerations to keep pace with
technology. The arts can no longer be considered a luxury
relegated to the periphery. They are a necessity.
There is one last observation which I would like to make in

this appeal. Since most of our current curricula are designed
to meet the needs of industry and society, any meaningful
reform will require an alteration of focus in which the intel-
lectual and emotional needs of the individual student are
paramount and properly addressed. In this regard, I would
strongly suggest that the abhorrent standardized testing be
replaced with aptitude testing beginning in pre-school. With
the realization that each child has his or her own unique, in-
nate potential, it would seem that unless that potential is
recognized at an early stage, the child’s chances for the joy
of fulfillment as a human being become limited.
Such an approach will most certainly meet with powerful

opposition not only from an industry for which our current
system is, in reality, a training ground, but also from a soci-
ety that is all too comfortable with having us all alike. Before
we ask the question of how to increase the effectiveness of
the present system, we had best address the question of just
what the purpose of education should be.
*A comprehensive list of pros and cons of standardized testing can be found

at: http://standardizedtests.procon.org/.
SHORT FICTION
Home Mitchell Grabois
She says: Home is not where you were born. Home is where all
your attempts to escape cease.
I tell her: I’ve never had a desire to escape from anywhere. I’ve
enjoyed everywhere I’ve ever lived, whether it was in a ghetto
or a forest; in a sawmill camp along a highway; in an apart-
ment across from a minor league baseball field; in a shabby
room, sharing a kitchen with a forester where the ancient
burger grease was inches thick; in a house next door to a
prison where my wife was incarcerated; in a chamber of smog;
in a chamber of pulp mill fumes; in a condemned bar; in a bed
with the legs set in water pails to keep me from getting malaria;
in the servant’s quarters of a youth hostel in Tanzania; in a
commune populated by Tasmanian Devils; in the basement of
an avant-garde museum which featured plaster casts of vaginas
and sold “cunt soap” in their gift shop.
I’ve enjoyed everywhere I’ve lived, I told her, I’ve been

comfortable everywhere. I’ve never longed to escape. It was
only circumstances that sent me on to the next place.
2.
But he lied to her. He hugged melancholy to his breast as if it

were inherited farmland. He lacked success or satisfaction,
but melancholy was a vast ocean, much greater than the mill
pond across the street from his apartment, where logs
floated, barely submerged, waiting to be plucked and sawn
for the mill owner’s profit.
Under the melancholic’s apartment was a hidden stairway

which led to a small cellar where, during the Great Depres-
sion, a whiskey still created the amber fluid that sets our
souls soaring. But this melancholic doesn’t bring a bottle
with him when he goes down there and sits in the dark and
silence, his back against the cold stone wall, his buttocks on
the cold dirt floor. []
SHORT FICTION
Classical World
Mitchell Grabois
Rats colonized her piano. She’d already had

several nervous breakdowns.
{As he did so, he whispered in her ear: You are as
Like humans, the rats had various tempera- dense as Strontium-90, yet I pull out my box of
ments. Some were melancholic and kept to the mechanic’s tools and think that I can open your
lower registers. Some were cheerful and tinkled case to expose your inner workings to my skilled
the high keys. None of them yielded to the hands. Yet my skills are not suited to your tech-
pianist when it was her practice time. nology. I cannot find the carburettor, or the fuel
injectors. And you are not a car engine. You are
All of them, the melancholic and the cheerful, so far beyond that, inside your black case. Your
shat in her piano and didn’t think anything of it. guts whirl like a cosmos, or like the Big Bang
Her East Side apartment began to stink. She had itself.}
another nervous breakdown and curled up into a
fetal ball in her kitchen. At least she was close to The life of the rats continued unabated. Like a
food, but she didn’t eat. The refrigerator became monkey at a typewriter, they put aside their
a sanctuary for rot and mold. Neighbors began to differences and joined to compose a great
complain about the stench. concerto, equal in power to anything by
Beethoven. As a by-product of their efforts, they
The landlord, a Unitarian Universalist, came to evolved in consciousness and began to police
investigate. He had sworn to take action, but their own solid and liquid wastes.
compassion overwhelmed fiduciary considera-
tions and he wound up on the gritty linoleum of They developed a sort of ballet and surrounded
her kitchen floor, holding her. the pianist, helpless on the floor of her kitchen,
and attempted to comfort her. They danced, they
He was eventually overruled, and the firemen danced, they apologized to her for their trans-
came with a hose as thick as the penis of the man gressions. They were like alcoholics on one of the
who raped her when she was nineteen, a long steps, but the woman had hardened her heart to
time ago. They turned on the flood waters and them and had sworn never to forgive them.
inundated her piano with 1% of the Hudson
River. The downstairs neighbors were also The landlord supported her in this position. He
flooded but they didn’t care. had never forgiven anyone in his life and did not
intend to. He came up with the idea to transcribe
She slipped back into anorexia. The landlord the rats’ concerto. The pianist claimed it as her
forced her to accept a baby bottle. He came twice own work, and became lionized in the classical
a day to feed her. music world. []
POETRY
Eve Speaks
Although just one snake is well known

in that so-called paradise, actually
Eve
Three
there were tons of them.
Speaks/ When we ran away, I was never so

happy. My feet no longer touching
Poems
swarms of mushy poison.
Adam Fruit smelled to high heaven in Eden but
Replies berries tasted yum yum good as we filled

our faces hurrying happily to the east.
Joan McNerney
Adam replies On an impression of ‘Starry Night’
by Vincent Can Gogh
She’s so beautiful. I would have

followed her to the ends of earth.
I am her captive then and now.
Tree
Beach Whispers
Blue diamond rains
My mind is an ocean filigree of golden light
where swimmers, surfers, so many shades of green.
sun worshippers cavort.
Sun beams on a single leaf.
Long salty hair This small star pulsating
held between from my wet apple tree.
their teeth.
Flourishing Bright new leaf
wild flowered gowns fits hand perfectly---the future
…streams of silk lies in your palm.
waves of taffeta
splashy lace. After the long rain
pine trees bending
They sail through with cones.
my watery face
combing my eyes Sugar maple trees
whispering in my ears. sashaying with autumn winds
all dressed up in yellow lace.
Alone, under a pointillist sky.
Gulls flying around me. Branches etch evening sky
Black waters touched by turning razzle dazzle
moon of vague prophecy. purple red citron.
BOOK
Crystal
Showpieces Book: Fall Winter Collections
Jagannath Chakravarti Author: Koral Dasgupta
Published on April 28, 2015 by
Niyogi Books
“Not very far away, Sanghamitra is busy with sweet
nothings. Dark red flowers that locals call rudrapa-
lash have changed the texture of the soil by covering it
with their petals. Of and on, the tree disowns its over- setting) are confessional by nature, thus allowing
mature blooms and they fall on the ground to be Dasgupta to veil omniscience with individual nar-
picked up by pedestrians. Sanghamitra is busy pick- rations, which is turn allocates the author unique
ing up the better ones among them to be kept in the opportunities to apply the finer brushstrokes to
vase of her living room. She calls them her Fall Win- her two characters.
ter Collections!” It is a policy that certainly works in favour of the
At first glance, it is easy to mistake Koral Dasgupta’s novel. Even though the reader has a fair insight
debut novel ‘Fall Winter Collections’ as yet another into the world of Economics professor Sanghami-
piece of pink literature that doubles as a love story. tra, it is Aniruddh (a revered sculptor par excel-
The brilliant cover (co created by the author with lence) and his actions that bring out hues of
Dsgn-unplugged) with its generous sprinkling of the Sanghamitra that would otherwise only be subcon-
colour ‘basanti’ (reminiscent of the famous Basanta scious whispers for the natural delights of
Utsav of Shantiniketan) notwithstanding, it is Shantiniketan to listen to. At close length, it is a
criminally easy for any conditioned brain at hand to quiet study into the working of two minds that are
presume that the title being associated with the ‘destined’ to fall for each other. But that is merely
world of fashion & the author herself being a scratching the surface.
woman, one is about to walk into a realm of litera- Dasgupta’s novel essentially deals with matters of
ture adored by many but wilfully ignored by signifi- Faith and Art, of Love and the shuffles of Time that
cant others. make us architects of our own misery. The first
The blurb at the back might rope one in with its meeting of the two transforming into a debate of
promises of Shantiniketan and a subtle hint at the theological ideas is as much a trope of classic ro-
depth that the narrative will take one to, yet it fails mance (the ‘disagreement’) as it is an introduction
to do justice to the exquisite piece of epistolary to the mind of a gifted debutante. Dasgupta paints
writing that ‘Fall Winter Collections’ eventually an immaculate picture of faith through the Hindu,
turns out to be. missionary schooled Sanghamitra as the latter ex-
plains to her father when the man, finding her en-
The entries of both Sanghamitra Banerjee and thusiastically participating in various Christian
Aniruddh Jain Solanki (the two prime players in the rituals, asks her,
"‘Why don’t you convert to Christianity!’ That was a

shock! I said, ‘Father, I didn’t know that I am not a
part of it already ... and if these are not mine then I
don’t wish to own them today. I have inherited a faith
and I won’t disown my inheritance.’"
Such gems pervade Dasgupta’s novel as she boldly
treks into the tricky territory of a ‘successful artist’
with Anirudh. It is hard to paint such a character in
literature without infusing a degree of pride or mor-
bid ‘realism’ by sheer instinct. Then again, Anirudh
is neither Bengali nor French, and thus it is that scheme of earthly conquests. On the other hand,
much harder to categorise him in a straitjacket Sanghamitra gets the desire to return to the pre-
much like he does the Bengalis as a ‘race’. Interest- sent from the lifeless cocoon of a dead love,
ingly enough, Anirudh is what a Calcuttan would egged on by the sheer abundance of colours that
generally typify as a ‘Marwari’. Hailing from a family Anirudh comes to signify. Anirudh’s ‘conser-
that (in his eyes anyway) is straight off the script of vative’ family heads thus become a mere exten-
any Hindi soap opera about a joint family held to- sion of her fall winter collections; their unfamil-
gether by ties of both blood and commerce, his iar customs and ‘rules’ no different in her supe-
achievements not only appear astounding as an art- rior understanding of faith.
ist, it is refreshing to see a gifted individual ap-
proaching Art without the baggage of austerity at- At the end of the day, humans must find solace in
tached to the ‘subject’ since childhood or youth, fellow humans. Love is certainly the best excuse
thanks to a superior(?) cultural upbringing. to find that sweet spot.
Thus, Anirudh’s realisations are as profound as they Requited love is not often the stuff of classics.
are primal. His academic insights into the workings Whether or not Koral Dasgupta’s debut novel
of artists such as a Ramkinkar Baij or the art of makes that cut is for time to tell. What can be
sculpting itself can co-exist with the sinister shadow said without caving in to the fiction of time is
of an archaic mindset as evident when he berates that ‘Fall Winter Collections’ is a fascinating
Sanghamitra who returns home in a wet, clinging piece of literature that paints humanity in
outfit, after a bout of helping out the flood prone. shades that are beyond the usual barrage of grey.
The phrases ‘curves are explicit’ and ‘eyes feasting’ Dasgupta is a gifted fiction artist who has a long
could have been clear “signs” to any woman but the way to go. The lucidity of her language wraps her
one who is transitioning from the outlived collec- ‘truths’ in crystal showpieces that are to be revis-
tions of the summer and monsoon to the cacopho- ited in times of dark. Even as I am inclined to
nous, fallen but beautiful hues of autumn/winter. complain that her two voices are too alike to de-
ceive a discerning reader, it is the sheer depth of
After all, Rabindranath Tagore’s depictions of pris- her work which makes me wonder whether there
tine love would seldom mould two people to fit their might be a certain reason behind it too!
respective jigsaw mark-ups. It would rather be a
play of instincts buffered by reason/unreason and At times, reading a fine novel appears to be a
mutual admiration that is easier to observe or ex- task of creation itself. Approached in trepidation,
perience than be put in mere words, much like the uncertain but enraptured by its divine flashes.
short-lived perfections of nature itself. The final stroke is reached at the climax, the
brush-ups a melancholic traipse through the
Even though Sanghamitra’s detachment could mys- rituals of parting – the last few pages. What re-
tify Anirudh enough to make her a part of his semi- mains in the end is a memory to behold, that will
nal art piece ‘Krishna’s women’, she appears to be as outlive both you and that stone Michaelangelo
out of place as any Radha in Anirudh’s larger that you have come to create in your short life. []
CINEMA
The death of
God
Jagannath Chakravarti Film: Batman v Superman:
Dawn of Justice
Directed by: Zack Snyder
Written by: Chris Terrio,
When Batman begins to believe that God is dead, David S. Goyer
Released on March 25, 2016
despite the miracles of a perpetual woman and an all-
powerful being from space staring him right in the
face --- THAT is his first step into darkness! At the end of the day, after all, what matters the
most is how one chooses to colour the thread that
If a timeline of the art of storytelling be catalogued, lies under. It is meant to be a decorative covering –
it would not be very hard to pinpoint that there lies a superhero suit rather than a hijab of protection.
a basic thread – an underlying stream of informa- It is during times such as these when we seem to
tion and symbolism whose representational success forget, in the throes of temporal enlightenment,
has gone on to define which story stands the test of that truth needs not much of a mask to hide itself.
time and which struggles to find a place of conten- It is then that the princes of darkness, such as a
tion beyond its simulated framework and extant Batman, failing to rest their detecting brains, begin
timeline. to see the one without the mask as evil. One begins
to believe that the fall of THE ‘super’man must oc-
Layers of simulations have accumulated over this cur for the greater good of humanity.
thread through the passage of time. The mystery of
the surviving permeations seem to come to the fore The literal ‘fall’ of Caesar being a symbolic fall for
as we sit down to figure out how Shakespeare has Brutus himself, Batman v Superman is easily the
remained relevant and ‘popular’ even five centuries most poignant turn of play for the dark knight.
ahead of his time while a ‘Prufrock’ of T.S.Eliot shall From a primordial dream sequence that shows a
remained an acquired Hamletian taste to be dis- young Bruce Wayne being guided into the light by
cussed in friendly gatherings and classrooms in his fears, to the stellar act by Ben Affleck that fol-
bated whispers. lows, bringing into existence a brooding, war-
embittered Bruce Wayne who can effortlessly ad-
It is natural that a blame should befall the modern dress Henry Cavill’s Clark Kent as ‘son’.
age and what follows suit – a century of celebrating
knowledge and playing Prince Hamlet with equal Affleck’s gloomy, underplayed act stands as a per-
certainty and reverence. Hiding ‘it’ in plain sight for fect metaphor for the conundrum that often tends
it to be realized, therefore, has never been as monu- to afflict creative minds as they struggle to deter-
mental a challenge - a fact that Eliot’s J. Alfred will mine ‘how’ much is too much as far as ‘reveals’ are
happily testify to. concerned. Conceal it too much and you’ll be fash-
ionably obtuse – irritatingly so if ‘fans’ see a great seem ‘bland’ when put beside Snyder’s origin
detective mind dreaming of army-inspired desert story of the ‘Man of Steel’.
ops. Speak too much – as Snyder does through his
symbols – and you’re as shallow as that pulpit priest It is bereft of the charm that is inherent in the tale
trying to raise the cost of his midnight wine from his of a superalien making Earth its home. Batman v
delusional congregation. Superman is devoid of the glitzy science, disarm-
ing humour or the upright red-blue, black-white
‘Movie’ being a business, the economics of filmmak- fervour of the Marvel crop of superheroes. Bat-
ing cannot be ignored in most conversations, espe- man v Superman even lacks the dark ‘light’ as
cially when it comes to such big budget romps as painted on screen by the genius of Christopher
Batman v Superman. Even the most disappointed Nolan who will be credited in the annals of film
and bitter fanboy/critic of Snyder’s latest would history to revolutionize the art of telling the story
agree that his modern epic is doing just fine in that of costumed men in tights.
particular department, raking record-breaking fig-
ures from the get go. In fact, largely owing to the differences, Snyder
manages to sneak in at least one allusion to
Batman v Superman marks the first occasion in the Nolan’s trilogy when he revisits the very final im-
illustrative history of Hollywood and superhero age of the story arc (an inconspicuous ‘rise’ of the
films that two of the most popular and recognizable elevator from the bat-cave) to distinguish the
characters in the DC comicverse share the silver Bruce Wayne of Batman v Superman from Nolan’s
screen. It is no surprise that there remains a sense of version. If Christian Bale’s bat tells the story of
‘must see’ factor attached to the spine of this par- moving from darkness to light, Affleck’s post-
ticular spring offering. Marketed as yet another illumination/disillusioned, older vigilante is a
Spartan war film transposed in a make-believe, man on the other lane of the ‘two-way street’.
supermodern universe, it has rightfully captured the
imaginations of millions, and has consequently It is a different argument altogether whether su-
disappointed as many. perhero films are the best place to introspect and
propagate such a ‘far’ philosophy – to showcase
As far as the tropes of supernormal sagas are con- the plight of man marked as collateral damage in
cerned, Batman v Superman falls short of the the conflicting whims of higher powers-to-be; in
‘Marvel’ standard by quite a distance and may even case of the film, a near-absolute God of endless
power. It cannot be easy for admirers of the beloved biblical resurrection. Despite the staple of an ec-
dark knight to see him at his worst, dreaming sur- centric villain and aesthetic finesse of an artist at
real nightmares of gunfights gone wrong and living work (aided magnanimously by the efforts of cine-
through a 9/11-like early morning apocalypse on matographer Larry Fong), the film seems to lack a
Earth which happens to be just another day at work good ten minutes of storytelling that should find
for the man in red and blue. its way to an extended director’s cut someday.
Bruce Wayne is the enterprising Prometheus who is Perhaps it can be attributed to the makers’ insis-
relegated to play the part of the hapless Sisyphus tence to keep certain aspects of the story under
while his Rome – his paradise is lost to the decree of wraps so they can be exposed to a greater effect in
one who appears to be ‘God’. later DC films such as ‘Suicide Squad’ or the pro-
Redemption at such a time of abject confusion and posed ‘Justice League’. Especially compelling have
crisis comes from a source that is as universal in na- been certain images such as one with a battered
ture as any. Gal Gadot’s ‘referee’ act (as hinted in the bat-suit in a showcase with the graffiti ‘The Joke’s
promotions for the film) is actually a balancing on you, Batman’ scribbled in green paint, inside
tether at the end of the day. Her ‘wonder’ woman the Bat cave. The knowledge of what other hor-
act is reflected also in the revelatory ‘match’ as far rors drive Bruce Wayne would certainly make this
as the names of the two caped crusaders’ mothers particular celluloid piece more ‘telling’.
are concerned. The peculiar fact that both Bruce
Wayne and Clark Kent ‘s (earthly) mothers go by the Significantly short of essential sequences where
name Martha, is brought to the fore in a moment of Batman actually ‘fights’ Superman, however, no
great climax, orchestrated by a tried and tested vil- cut can conceivably save Snyder’s magnum opus
lain who has hatched the perfect, if over-simplistic, from being a disappointing fare for superhero
plan to pit an immovable object against an unstop- ‘action’ film lovers from around the globe – a dis-
pable force. appointing fare that has reappropriated an entire
universe to mimic few of the greatest stories of
The theatrical cut of Batman v Superman has a our own – the ones that aid us all, however little,
strange, unfinished feel to it and not merely because to move in either directions of the aforemen-
of the none too cryptic final frames that hint at a tioned ‘two-way street’! []
FICTION
Death
of
Valerie
Bipasha Chakraborty
Dipan Chakraborty
“Hello.
You can call me ‘The Voice’.
I am non-human. This probably makes the ability to avoid passing
judgements my most distinctive trait.
I live through the ages, in quiet observation, which probably
makes me a composed spectator.
I am here to tell you a story but be aware that I know all facets of
this story and so am not fooled.
However, I warn you – I can choose to tell you one side of the
story and stop there.
Having said this, let the story begin.”
Valerie pushed the chair behind with the back of her knees as
she slowly stood up, half sloshed and half drunk. Nevertheless,
her heels stood strong and firm on the ground. Years in the per-
forming arts had earned her the ability to mask her true state
or perhaps her seasoned self could now hold five pegs without
any difficulty. A server ran towards her asking if she needed a
last drink. She declined with a wave and pointed towards an-
other table, implying the figure seated, her manager, would
cover the bill. She headed for the club door with poise similar to
when she had entered. Being an ardent devotee of what she did
for a living, she never left any of her performances in disgrace.
I had witnessed ten-year-old Valerie play ‘Miranda’ of ‘The Tem-

pest’. I had heard her pacing heartbeat when she sank herself un-
der the influence of ‘The Love of Zero’ as a sixteen-year-old. Even
I stood still for a moment when she, in her late teens, performed
the role of ‘Estragon’ onstage and claimed her love for Beckett.
Later, whenever she appeared on the 70mm screen, she owned the
place where she stood. Her fame thus earned her foes framed as
admirers.
She looked stellar even when she walked with an empty heart
and a ruined soul. Her ever-present aura did its best to hide her
wounds. The gatekeepers, superbly dressed in tuxedos, bowed
and opened the door as Valerie left the high-society jazz club.
Her driver brought the car to the front entrance as in the back-
ground, a singer crooned ‘Cry baby, cry baby, cry baby, Honey,
welcome back home’. The door drew close as the line faded
away into thin air.
***
“You have probably made up your mind by now on how this story
unfolds. What happens next and how it ends, your mind has al-
ready created opinions without reading the story to its completion.
However, I won't disappoint you and yes; the story moves ahead
Human instincts reach just how you have imagined it to.”
certain extremes when As the car moved forward, Valerie sped down memory lane,
rather those dark alleys, where even now, she dared not tread.
life is at a crux, where
you either lose I had seen Valerie rush out from the premiere of her dream pro-
ject, ‘The Circle of Life’, as it ended. Like every other time, she
everything or there garnered accolades for her performance. Nevertheless, atypical to
her usual self, she came across rather disturbed, as if there was a
remains nothing to void, an emptiness that she could not explain.
lose. To make matters Next morning, the dailies read:

worse, escape eludes “The industry welcomed its newest star with wide-open arms,
you. at the premier last night. A supporting performance surprised
many, even threatened to overshadow the protagonist...”
***
The car slowed down and stopped before the gate that led to
her mansion. The driver opened it and Valerie strode towards
the front door without a word or signal. The driver closed the
gate after her and moved to park the car. Nobody could sense
what Valerie was weaving in her mind, from her blank stare, or
maybe she wasn’t thinking at all.
Human instincts reach certain extremes when life is at a crux,

where you either lose everything or there remains nothing to lose.
To make matters worse, escape eludes you.
It was New Years Eve and all household helpers were on leave.
Valerie opened the door to the house and let herself in. Her
home offered her a cold welcome.
Once she entered, she tripped on her heels as she was trying to
take off her shoes. After that, she stumbled and hurt her knees
on the grand sofa adorning the main living room as she walked
towards the stairs. And then, she fell on the first step of the
stairs as she tried to reach her room on the first floor.
Watching a body, which usually stands firm in front of the world,

tumble about in solitude makes for a funny sight considering that it
is easier to deceive the eyes surrounding you than your own.
She passed through the dimly lit living room gingerly, towards
the passage and the rooms on the first floor. Valerie didn't even
care to turn on the lights. The darkness soothed her. Finally,
she reached her main bedroom.
*** The drawer revealed

Moonlight entered her room as Valerie let out a long breath
and swept her hair to the left of her shoulder. She pulled and few letters from
removed the big solitaire rock from the ring finger of her left
hand. She put out the drawer to keep the ring inside. The admirers around the
drawer revealed few letters from admirers around the world -
printed pages of new ventures and dreams, but sadly not in-
world - printed pages
tended for her. Messages which breathed love drenched in pas-
sion, tied by unspoken vows, though written in a familiar hand-
of new ventures and
writing, bore the name of another. These took a part of her dreams, but sadly not
every time they came out. Still, she kept those near her. Maybe
the heart likes getting hurt more than being able to keep love. intended for her.
Valerie stood quietly by the drawer for some time, then put her
ring into it and pushed it close – maybe a bit too hard, for it Messages which
made an awkward screech. She turned around and gradually
made her way towards the bed. Her steady gaze pierced
breathed love
through the moonlight that ran over the creases on the bed
sheet and stopped upon reaching a lain figure. And there he
drenched in passion,
was, the love of her life, engrossed in sleep – the deepest possi- tied by unspoken
ble sleep.
vows, though written
Exactly a year ago, two hearts caged in doubtful minds and life-
less bodies, had stood against each other. Memories brought in a familiar hand-
back by series of confrontations, had crashed into each other
and shattered fragile glass walls as they ricocheted in every di-
writing, bore the
rection. The man who failed his words pleaded for one last
chance and appealed for forgiveness.
name of another.
“Every time you watch a story, you see this emotion called ‘Love’
behave peculiar enough to enslave your sense of logic. Once the
feeling becomes tarnished inside, it refuses to heal despite any
amount of sweet nothings. As a result, one can end up doing what

is beneath one’s morals.”
That heated conversation left Valerie unable to utter a word.

Eventually, she gave in. The storm outside steadily withered
and silence alone prevailed. Valerie walked past the broken
walls with a raging tempest inside.
***
Exactly a year later, in a moonlit room, Valerie stood beside her
bed and reached towards the bedside table. Kept on the table
were her grandfather's gramophone complete with an Elvis re-
cord, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. One glass, a peg filled,
stood untouched on the table while another lay fallen and
Her glance soon shifted empty. They must have half emptied the bottle before making
love the night before. She placed the gramophone pin, and it
to her lover, still lying played 'Love Me Tender'. Valerie took the filled glass and threw
its content down her throat all at once as if she wanted the bit-
there without the terness to ruin her from inside. She then poured another peg
slightest of movements. carefully and sat beside her lover on the bed, pressing her back
against the backrest. She stretched her legs, crossing them one
Her eyes caught the over the other and started enjoying her drink this time. Her
glance soon shifted to her lover, still lying there without the
dark finger impressions slightest of movements. Her eyes caught the dark finger im-
pressions circling his neck. She smiled at herself and felt proud
circling his neck. She of the marks she left on the love of her life. She kept the glass
on the table. It fell on the table, aside the other one. Valerie
smiled at herself and bent down and kissed her lover intensely.
felt proud of the marks A cold breeze blowing in from the window broke Valerie’s
she left on the love of steely glances fixated on her lover. She rubbed her left forearm
with her right hand, then her upper arm and afterward her
her life. shoulder to comfort herself. Suddenly, Valerie experienced a
memory rush, a flashback of vast proportions – Being unable to
keep the vows taken for each other... The rise of a newborn star
with the fall of another... Falling in love, meeting each other for
the first time... Rise and rise of a star, the struggles to rise... A
young woman with a pocket full of hopes and dreams in a big
city... A pair of tiny eyes seeing ‘Zero’ falling in love with
‘Beatrix’... The magic of avant-garde... A little ‘Miranda’ deliver-
ing onstage “I am a fool, to weep at what I am glad of…” The
Circle of Life…
***
Valerie moved from the bed to the window. She held the bars,
closed her eyes and started taking deep breaths. A tiny droplet
of tear escaped her eye and soon hit the ground. She picked up
her handbag and walked out of her mansion as a grand old

clock struck twelve times, and the calendar flipped its last
page.
I fail to understand this deep love of Valerie. But hasn't ‘Love’

always been like that, driving you beyond the barriers of sanity?
Valerie left the room with Elvis singing "Wise men say...only
fools rush in...But I can't help falling in love with you”. The
gramophone played its final song as her lover continued to oc-
cupy the bed, motionless.
Next morning, the dailies read:
"Last night, we lost a beloved star from the entertainment in-

dustry. The body has been taken over by the forensics depart-
ment. It is suspected to be a case of murder...."
“I finish the story here, in keeping with my partial nature of story-

telling.
I know you probably have questions and rightly so.
However, I won’t interfere with your opinions.
Instead, I leave the story with you, to either bury here or to take
forward where your imagination leads you.
Goodbye.” []
I fail to understand
this deep love of
Valerie. But hasn't
‘Love’ always been
like that, driving you
beyond the barriers
Based on a concept by Bipasha Chakraborty
of sanity?
SHORT FICTION
On the Boardwalk
Miranda N. Prather
I could smell the sweet scents of cotton candy was not like it usually was. It took a second or
mingling with the friend foods that represented two before my mind puzzled out the problem. A
Summer, fun, youth and all the possibilities that child of four would have found it faster, their
life could offer. The board walk rippled in the neurons firing at speeds a fighter jet couldn't
heat, sending out a faint scent of baking wood. match, but when you are old, nothing moves fast.
Those around me barely noticed that odor, as A pair of feet peaked out from the mass of the
they dashed from spot to spot, laughing at one balloons that were no longer tethered to the bal-
another and believing in the infinite possibilities loon man's stand. Presumably, the feet attached
of life. to a body that also attached to hands, the very
Like the scent of the wood, I remained out hands that held the balloons captive.
of place, to the side, unnoticed. The boardwalk, I had a moment of déjà vu, indescribable
like all that Summer brings, belonged to youth. awareness that I had experienced this before, not
The rest of us were just witnesses to the unfold- exactly, but close enough. It could come, but
ing drama of the journey of life. Any one of those those messengers in my mind fired as fast as they
children, stepping fast to avoid the burn of the could without causing an overload
hot boards, could have been me, not so long be- They left me to stare in stupefied wonder at
fore. The boardwalk held many memories of the the dancing balls of red, green, blue and yellow.
best times of my life. The breeze played with them, taunting me to re-
Retired, alone except for my regrets, I member the day, the place and the name. The
spent my Summer days and into the nights sit- scene rolled out in slow motion only for me. The
ting there. While those around me were busy hand released the hold on the strings.
building their memories, I sat there replaying Andy
mine. The name appeared in my mind, and odd
How long does it take a memory to unfurl assortment of emotions drummed up at the
in the breeze of the mind and take flight to full- name, and as the balloons lifted off to heavenly
blown escape? heights, the woman attached to the name stood
I felt eyes on me, pulling me from the past before me.
into the present, just a sad old person sitting on a Her hair once a red-gold that I could only
boardwalk bench trying to remember what life call chestnut had turned the silvery-blonde that
used to taste like when the flavors used to be those with red hair always seemed to chose in
sweeter. I glanced around searching for whose defiance of the white that touched most of us.
eyes would guiltily flee mine when they realized Wrinkles mapped the life she had led since we
I knew they were staring. Still I saw no one, but had last stood on this boardwalk when she told
my eyes settled on the balloon man's corner. me that she was not happy and that she was leav-
Something had changed there, something ing me with an empty apartment and a useless
ring in my pocket.
Of all my memories on the boardwalk, those
belonging to her kept me coming back.
As fast as a speeding bullet, as fast as an air-
bag springs to save a life, as fast as a jet pierces the
sky, memories of us unfolded.
Fifteen years old. Is there ever a more perfect
and dreadful time of life?
I had come to the boardwalk since before I
could walk. My mother would bundle up my sister
and I and off we would go to the beach nearly every
weekend of my youth. As a child, ventures to the
boardwalk only happened when she wanted some-
thing there, but as we grew up, she let us go more
and more together and then on our own. The beach
could relax you, but the boardwalk held the real
excitement. From the dancing lights to the magical
music, I fell for the boardwalk's charms hard. I
never imagined I could love anything more than
the boardwalk until I met her.
I sat that day when she found me on a bench
sucking down the remnants of a rapidly dissolving
purple sno-cone. She deftly parted a nebula of
dancing balloons and stepped into my strato-
sphere. Gravity pulled me to those piercing green
eyes and something in my young heart told me that
life would never be the same. What was left of the
sno-cone fell to the ground, one more forgotten
casualty of lost childhood.
"Hi, I'm Andy, short for Andrea." She thrust
her had in my face, and I recall sitting there like a
mute. I could hear her asking if I had a name and
looking more puzzled. I shared her confusion be-
cause I had never had trouble talking.
Friendship started that day on the boardwalk,
after I found my tongue, of course, and eventually,
it would blossom into full-blown romance, with
stolen kisses and fervent promises uttered on
steamy nights as we strolled hand-in-hand on the
boardwalk.
Whisked away from those mostly happy mo-
ments, my mind played our final meeting on the
boardwalk. Each of us unaware of what the other
had in mind during that reunion meeting. Both of
us had been away at colleges hundreds of miles
apart.
For me, no distance measured in miles, time
or spirit would ever take me away from Andy. That
day when she had emerged from the balloons, my
heart knew where it belonged. As I shuffled from foot to foot

waiting for the much anticipated reunion, I bought a balloon,
all part of my grand plan.
I worked my way over to an empty spot on boardwalk
and carefully looped the balloon's string through the hole in
a small but flawless diamond ring. All through college, I had
given up on parties, booze and frivolous expense. Every spare
dime had ended up in the diamond fund. The result now hung
from a lime green balloon that bobbed playfully in the wind.
Then, there she strolled, down the boardwalk, like a
model on the catwalk. I could barely keep my heart from es-
"We need to talk," she caping my chest and nearly lost the balloon and its prize.
said, motioning to a "Hello, beautiful," I managed with a smile. She smiled
back, and in the replay, I saw what I had missed before. The
deserted bench near unease in the smile. The reserved air. The way she kept her
body at a remove, distanced from me.
the end of the "We need to talk," she said, motioning to a deserted
bench near the end of the boardwalk. The old heart in my
boardwalk. chest crumpled because we knew the outcome, but then I had
actually thought how wonderful, secluded it would calm my
The old heart in my nerves to ask the most important question of my life.
She ignored my attempt to take her hand and marched
chest crumpled to the lonely bench. I sat, but she didn't.
because we knew the "I'm sorry," she began.
"Whatever for?"
outcome, but then I "I've met someone. We didn't mean for it to happen,
but . . .. well you see, he's a lawyer, probably going to be a
had actually thought senator one day and he already has a house that his parents
bought just for him, well now for us. He asked. I said, 'yes.'
how wonderful, You understand don't you?"
I nodded my head, but I didn't understand anything,
secluded it would not at that second. The horrible moment of understanding
calm my nerves to ask would come, but in that second my mind refused to connect
the dots.
the most important "You do?" She asked hopefully.
I held out the balloon to her like some fool. Tears had
question of my life. started to stream down my cheeks, but I wasn't fully aware
why even then. I watched as she took the balloon and noticed
the small ring hanging from the end. I also noticed the huge
ring already in the spot where my small offering would have
rested. How could I have missed that all those years ago?
"Oh, no, no, I'm so sorry, but I can't take this, not now."
Her face had turned red.
I didn't say a word, but I rose and walked away, out of
her life, but all these years, I had never let her walk out of
mine. I had rejected all others over the years, hoping she
would come back to me.
Now that she stood before me, I wondered what to do
on the boardwalk. []
SHORT FICTION
The Fires upon

the Tower
C B Droege
Those who live in the surrounding villages

simply call them “The Fires”. They tell stories of
two invisible dancers who climb the tower each
night in robes of flame. The figures dance from
window to window, parapet to parapet, buttress ascent, and try to understand it. At night, when
to buttress. For miles around they can be seen, it is cool, and there is a pleasant breeze off the
but not from within the tower itself. ocean, hundreds of people come out and sit to
watch. Late night picnics are common on
Each night, as the sun sets, they rise from the moonless nights, as is outdoor lovemaking.
gardens at the base of the tower, and begin their
dance. Slowly, but with ethereal grace, they scale There are many theories about The Fires, of
the walls. At any given moment, they appear to course. Some say they are the spirits of lovers
be frozen in this bright dance, but they are who once lived in the tower, and whose affection
always a little higher when you look back later, for one another was so great that they are
and they never take the same path twice. forever tied to the tower and to each other,
dancing every night in celebration of their love.
At the end of the night, as the sun rises again, Others say they are fairies worshiping and
and shines upon the tower, they may no longer delighting in the darkness and beauty of the
be seen. On the longest nights of the year, they night. Still others say that this spot is the birth-
can be seen almost at the top of the tower just place of the stars, and that The Fires are two new
before they disappear, but in the summer, they lights being added to the sky each night; it is
barely make it past the balconies mid-way up. difficult to count accurately enough to prove this
wrong.
In the villages, many homes have benches in
their gardens or on their roofs, which face the All seem to agree, however, that The Fires are
tower. One popular inn has a series of sleeping- a beautiful, beneficial force.
balconies on that side. Tourists and scientists
come from all over the land to witness The Fires’ Is there any harm in letting them believe? []
SPRING MEMOIR
Country
Stroll
Vonnie Winslow Crist
for N A T H A N J. W I N S L O W
I went for a stroll on Sunday. As I stepped from

concrete onto grass by the nearly-spent purple
heather that had started to bloom on the eve of my
father’s death, I was suddenly aware a month had
passed in a haze of grief. I'd missed the snowdrops,
crocus, and first greening of the forest.
Daffodils by the brick border, some with or-

ange cups, some with cream petals, some with a
double ruffle of gold; nodded in the breeze. Their
fragrance was as heady as the sweetness of ar-
ranged carnations, mums, and lilies at the funeral
parlor. Behind them, variegated plantain had
pushed up bundles of curled leaves which were
striped like leprechaun stockings. To the barking
rhythm of a neighbor's dog, a quartet of robins
bobbed their heads searching for worms at the
edge of the lawn.
As I walked the last few yards on my way to the woods, my

feet were surrounded by hundreds of ivory blossoms. Their ro-
settes of leaves, downy stems, and fuzzy flower heads were fa-
miliar. Pussytoes. Dog toes. Pearly mouse-ears. Each name was
appropriate, and as magical as a childhood spent listening to
my father’s stories about a mélange of ancestors: those who
lived out their brief existence in America, fought in her wars,
and those long-ago progenitors whose lives in Europe were he-
roic, romantic, hardscrabble, mythic. It was an intoxicating
cocktail of Scots, Irish, Welsh, English, and Norman blood and
legend.
The drumming of a woodpecker in the upper reaches of
an oak drew my gaze skyward. Everything served a purpose:
bug-infested trees, carpenter bees that zipped by my head and
bored perfectly round holes in the split-rail fence’s posts, last
year’s leaves crunching below my shoes, ants swarming over
their newly constructed hill...
I knelt and examined some cranesbill. Its small mounds of
scarlet-veined leaves with pinkish centers were sheltered below
a tangle of honeysuckle. I spotted a salamander, picked it up. It
seemed as helpless as I felt when my father slipped from aware-
ness to that twilight place between consciousness and death. I
returned the dark amphibian to the leaf-litter. It squirmed un-
der the roots of some brambles whose red stems and long pale
thorns reminded me of roses.
I stood below tulip poplar branches tipped with small lime
buds clasped between two brown outer leaves. The moss at the
foot of the poplars was thick, velvety as hounds’ ears. The day
lilies along the path were up, eight inches, maybe nine. Mayap-
ples looked like a forest of collapsed umbrellas, and the sparse
olive ferns were splayed flat – lesser versions of the emerald
clusters whose lush fronds feathered the ground in July.
Last July had been a month of questions. Experimental
medication done-with, was there any hope for my father to see
another year? Was there a way to take him one more time to
the mountains?
We found a way. Oxygen machine plugged into an on-
board generator, air-conditioning running full blast, Dad
propped up in the RV’s double bed; we took him to Lost River-
State Park. He stayed in the cabin, visited with children, grand-
children, and friends, and watched the deer from his wheel-
chair. At night, he fell asleep, like we all did, to the lullaby of
the woods: chiming of cricket frogs, rattles of trashcan lids as
raccoons searched the garbage, muffled hoots and eerie cries of
owls, chants of cicadas, squeaks of bats swooping through the
air, the song of a rain-swollen stream, and the faces with this fluid. Colonists added alum as a mor-
wind worrying the leaves. dant to bloodroot juice, and with it, dyed their cloth
red-orange. Nowadays, few people bothered with
On Sunday, a month after my father’s death, natural dyes.
the wind was also blowing. Not much–just enough
to quiver a spider web strung from sassafras to I leaned against the trunk of a nearby cedar,
dogwood. A glint of sun highlighted the threads, felt its smooth sculpted bark against my back. The
but I saw no spider. I knew the arachnid was there, lower branchlets of the tree appeared dead, but its
just like the dogwood blooms that were still no top was still verdant, growing. I looked at my blood-
more than tight globes at the ends of twigs. Hidden root-stained hands and thought about the roots of
things, though easily-overlooked, were always the cedar. They reached deep into the hillside, deep
close by. into the earth, and held fast to their beginning
place.
Below a red maple, a scattering of fallen
crimson florets drew my eyes to a bloodroot. Its I began the trek back to my yard. Beside some
blossom was barely visible, still wrapped in a sin- scrub pines was the dog graveyard. Four dogs were
gle blue-green leaf like a cherished child swaddled buried there: Bambi, Melvin, Virgil, Emily. I'd loved
in a blanket. Not faraway, beyond several strands them all, held them in my arms as they took their
of wild strawberry runners, dozens of bloodroots final breaths. And on March 17th, in the dimness of
were in full bloom. Their greenish-yellow centers lowlight, I'd held my father’s right hand while my
with vivid lemon stamens were each surrounded mother held his left. When he’d exhaled for the last
by eight petals. The petals were pure white– morn- time and my fingers could feel no pulse, I'd kissed
ing cloud white–lace handkerchief white–bleached his forehead and called the nurse. He’d slipped
bone white. away while my mother slept, dreaming of their trips
to Ulster and Edinburgh.
I plucked a bloodroot. Its vermilion juice
oozed onto my fingers. Native Americans used to A squirrel scolded from a spruce, and I saw the
dye their baskets and clothing and paint their holly tree I’d planted years ago beside my children’s
tree-house, had blown over in a storm. Most of its roots were
torn, but a few managed to clutch the soil. I wondered how long
it would take till the holly compensated, began to grow towards
the sun.
Holly is the symbol of my family’s Scottish clan. Like my
parents, I own an Irwin pin with its cast holly leaves and wear
our clan’s azure and shamrock tartan at kirkings, highland
games, and family funerals.
A bagpiper led the procession at my father’s funeral. The
St. Andrews Society, in their kilts of many colors, bore my fa-
ther’s coffin to the altar, while their fellow Scotsmen marched
behind the pallbearers carrying clan flags. My family wore our
tartan. We filled a dozen pews. And the music, songs, and words
of comfort acknowledged my father’s love of his Celtic heritage.
When we arrived at the cemetery, the military honor
guards were waiting by the grave awning. Some veterans and
The St. Andrews Society stood at attention a little distance from
my father’s flag-draped coffin. The pastor said a few words. A
serviceman played taps. The soldiers folded the flag and gave it
to my mother. After the family had departed for their cars, the
Scotsmen, kilts and flags fluttering in the cold wind, surrounded
the casket. My youngest son was wearing an Irwin kilt, so he was
invited to join the men. They passed around a flask of Scotch,
each man raising it first to my father, then, to his lips. When
they’d all taken a sip, they poured a mouthful on my father’s cas-
ket–comrade still.
On Thursday, March 17th, my father died. On Monday,
March 21st, we buried him. On Sunday, April 17th, I sat on a con-
crete bench beside a stone gargoyle and remembered the day
three years earlier at the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games
when I’d knelt down and put on my father’s knee socks, flashes,
and gillies. Pulmonary fibrosis had won–even with the nasal tub-
ing and oxygen, he could no longer bend over. My mother and I
had helped him put on his kilt and Prince Charlie jacket. My par-
ents were still hopeful, but I saw the path leading to St. Patrick’s
Day as clear as the sky that day above MacRae Meadow.
The past is a learning place, and I have learned much from
the past, from the woods, and from my father. Country strolls
remind me of who I am. I can lean on thick tree trunks, crumble
humus in my hand, watch the chipmunks live their secret lives,
listen to the songs of birds, and search for the flowers of the for-
est. My father was not a perfect man–but I knew I was an adult
when I accepted and loved him in spite of his imperfections. I
was not a perfect daughter, but at the end, my father accepted
and loved me for who I was. I study my hands. Bloodroots have
left their mark on me–and I do not mind the stain. []
POETRY
Premonition Two Poems

Party James Valvis
Days before the Space Shuttle Columbia

exploded in midair, killing seven,
while attending his birthday party,
he predicted the disaster would happen.
Blowing out candles, opening gifts,
he told no one, of course,
but later, as he watched it happen, In a Box
he felt the special helplessness
of Cassandra, who had the blessing You watch your cat wiggle herself
of prophesy but the curse into a cardboard box on the floor.
that no one would believe her. It’s easy to go into hiding, vanish
His curse included himself. into something small. It’s cozy.
He heard but had not listened. You’ve done it, sitting in a closet,
Not that he could change tragedy. door shut, nothing but dark,
Given he’d just turned sixteen years old a blanket over your young head.
the day of the premonition party, Later disappearing into relationships,
as he came to call it, wife keeping you away from friends.
who could he have told? The dwindling of self, narrowing,
And let’s not forget the times, choice of walls over open sky.
before and since, he was wrong, Some prefer it, wedged
countless NFL games he couldn’t predict, in a corner of a simple 9-6 job,
endless end of nights down seventy dollars weekends in front of the television.
going into the last race, not the mention Not lives of quiet desperation,
the next Space Shuttle explosion but lives of quiet contemplation,
he didn’t foresee. No, though this might be overstating things.
he eventually decides, we only It seems impossible for the cat
remember the ones we get right, to contort her body into the box,
all of us psychics having our premonitions but she spins three times,
at surprise parties we never saw coming. finds an angle, and makes a square
out of her round feline form.
Me too, you think. In this room.
Canvas: An impression by
POETRY
Three Poems
Daniel de Culla
Bowie Me
Bowie Me
O dynamite Angel
Warm/Hunger
Let me sing Lazarus, Space Oddity…
Others with You We realize the No-Man
You, our High Reverence of the Star No-Woman land
Swimming in our ears Between Warm/Hunger.
Omnibenevolent Lord of Virginity It’s actually the No-thing
Dedicated to the Prettiest One That held us in bond
In Music and Life Without a concrete tense
The uproar of your hand clapping Straddling the precipice
Guitars Between Life & Death
Meaning behind Poetry. As a valid chasm.
Maybe You are just crazy Warm & Hunger are
Indeed! On the same plane
But do not reject these teachings As receiving blanket
As false In one hand
Because we are crazy! A basket and shovel
King Love In the other
Sit and dream Seemed together
On the floor of my Rainbow As ephemeral ghosts
Love has gotten me into In our miserable
All Your Channels. Ecstasy! Existence.
Everything I have waited for

–Birth, death, The Next Day
Is right inside this den
Of mine.
Doobie Or Not Doobie

Lovers look for this snowflake
From Victor Hugo’s Hauteville House’s Garden
Overlooking the sea
In St. Peter Port, Guernsey, Channel Islands
During his time in exile from France
From many ages ago
Precisely midnight
Dominique and Me reaching spiritual illumination
As the French author inspiration for many
Of his fine works
Including Les Miserables, and Toilers of the Sea
Teaching us
How to turn our miserable mess
Into a beautiful, joyful and splendid one “You are free”.
Saying to us from his statue: Dominique is a pretty whore
“There’s no tyranny in the State of Exile. An employee of shop of clothes
Fortunately, you have a handbook that shows me Her eyes were as soft as feather
How to discover salvation And as deep as eternity of shit.
Through the pineal gland”. Her body was the spectacular dance
Hugo described the Islands Of atoms and universes
As "fragments of France which fell into the sea Pyrotechnic of pure energy
And were gathered up by England". Opening her flourish haired vagina
A Nazi bunker built by Germans Her cunt was my chaos
In the II War goes round all the island Disappointed to uncover only reference
One said: To bloody Taoism
“Chaos and strife are the roots Revealing its scroll.
Of all fascist boots here” She was a diagram
I’m working in L’Ancress Bay Hotel Like a yin-yang with a pentagon on one
Today disappeared by a fire side
As a night porter, first And an apple on the other of her buttocks
And assistant of chef, afterward Losing consciousness
The Bay is a flash of intense light In her Bloody Mary’ period
As though its very psyche Being apparent that her experience
Is the fog returning Had been whore
As Hugo’ spirit laughing We discussing our strange encounter
In happy anarchy. And reconstructed from memory
I am alive and I can tell You as He: The chimpanzee’s diagram
Of our Asses in Love, as Lovers Lo…
And Me asking:
Doobie or not Doobie, “Marijuana”?
She’s answering:
- Give me Cannabis, not fucking Prick! []
BOOK
The Individual
Soul & the ‘Other’
Jackie Chou Book: Mrs Dalloway
Author: Virginia Woolf
Published on May 14,1925
Published by Hogarth Press
Created from two short stories, "Mrs Dalloway in Bond Street" and the unfinished "The Prime Minister," the novel addresses
Clarissa's preparations for a party she will host that evening. With an interior perspective, the story travels forwards and back in
time and in and out of the characters' minds to construct an image of Clarissa's life and of the inter-war social structure.
Clarissa Dalloway goes around London in the morning, getting ready to host a party that evening. The nice day reminds her of her
youth spent in the countryside in Bourton and makes her wonder about her choice of husband; she married the reliable Richard
Dalloway instead of the enigmatic and demanding Peter Walsh, and she "had not the option" to be with Sally Seton. Peter reintro-
duces these conflicts by paying a visit that morning.
Septimus Warren Smith, a First World War veteran suffering from deferred traumatic stress, spends his day in the park with his
Italian-born wife Lucrezia, where Peter Walsh observes them. Septimus is visited by frequent and indecipherable hallucinations,
mostly concerning his dear friend Evans who died in the war. Later that day, after he is prescribed involuntary commitment to a
psychiatric hospital, he commits suicide by jumping out of a window.
Clarissa's party in the evening is a slow success. It is attended by most of the characters she has met in the book, including people
from her past. She hears about Septimus' suicide at the party and gradually comes to admire this stranger's act, which she consid-
ers an effort to preserve the purity of his happiness.
[Plot adapted from Wikipedia]
Mrs. Dalloway parallels other novels about the hu- Peter sees Septimus and Rezia on Bond Street but
man condition like H.G. Well’s The Invisible never approach them. This shows the isolation of
Man. Clarissa Dalloway is the first “invisible individuals from each other. The final scene of the
woman” in the fictional realm—she is the individual novel represents the true human condition—the
soul amidst the crowd. The novel touches on the ultimate connection between three strangers—
idea of the isolation of the individual in the crowd, Clarissa, the old woman who lives across from
through the minor character Septimus, who is a de- Clarissa, and Septimus. The connection between
feated version of Clarissa Dalloway. Clarissa and Septimus is a spiritual one rather than
a physical one, and is the most mysterious connec-
In the novel, human connection is made through a tion in the novel. This final scene makes the con-
spider’s thread. Besides this spider’s thread, hu- nection between people in the party, which on the
mans are isolated from each other. For example, outside seems like a real and literal representation
through his flesh; their stiff leaves rustled by his

head.” This represents the counter-truth of the
novel.
Septimus’ madness serves several functions in the

novel. One function of madness is to present to
the reader the counter-truth of the novel, which is
a central element of Woolf’s fictional world. That
is, two people who are different in every outward
sense—social-economical, gender, personalities
(Clarissa is talkative and sociable; Septimus is
withdrawn), and most essentially, one is sane and
the other is insane—are actually connected to
each other, and not only that, connected to each
other in the end of the novel, as if Woolf were sug-
gesting to us that their connection is the ultimate
connection. All other important connections in
the novel—that between Clarissa and Peter, be-
tween Clarissa and Sally, profound and affection-
ate though they are, are superficial and secondary
compared to this connection. This juxtaposition
forces us to question the apparent difference be-
tween Clarissa and Septimus; it forces us to look at
the character Clarissa more closely and come to
the realization that she has an inner dimension
that is contrary to her public persona and the very
nature of parties—boisterous, public, social, and
intimate. As Rosenthal notes, “Clarissa has depths
unimagined by those whom she politely charms,
of life, seem superficial and dreamlike. There is an- and if Peter’s diagnosis of her as an incorrigible
other dimension underneath the plot of the novel, social being is correct, it is also true, though Peter
which reveals the true human condition. can never know it, that she ‘felt somehow very
much like him—the young man who had killed
In the end of the novel, Septimus dies and Clarissa himself.’” (Rosenthal, pg. 94)
survives. Perhaps the key to survival lies in the spi-
der’s thread of connection between people, thin Clarissa is not outgoing—as Peter notices, there is
though it is. This is shown through the scene on a shyness and coldness in her character. That is
Bond Street, when after Lady Bruton’s luncheon, one of the counter-truths of the novel. Clarissa
Richard and Hugh walk by Big Ben, connected by a has a secret self that is the opposite of what she
spider’s thread. They proceed besides Big Ben, seems to her friends, which only the reader can
which recounts the procession of life with its dis- see through her inner thoughts—she notices evil
tinct strikes. Their procession does not cease, nei- in people (her impression of Sir William Brad-
ther does the striking of Big Ben, because of the spi- shaw), judges people (like how she judges Miss Kil-
der’s thread of connection between them. Septimus man and her cousin Ellie Henderson), has covert
dies, or ceases to exist, because of “missing some conflicts with people (she and Peter), and is se-
connection,” which is illustrated through his mad- cretly unconventional (her homosexual love for
ness. Yet, he is able to connect to the universe Sally). Woolf might go as far to suggest that
around him, as Woolf indicates on page 68—“The Clarissa and Septimus are the same peo-
earth thrilled beneath him. Red flowers grew ple. Nonetheless, one is sane and the other in-
sane. This adds depth and dimen-

sion to the novel—perhaps their
only difference is that one is sane
and the other is insane. That is
one function of madness in the
novel—to show that people do not
necessarily survive or fail to sur-
vive because of outward differ-
ences like class, or personality
even, but sanity.
Another function of madness in
the novel is to show us the chaos
of modern life and the affect it has
on the characters in the
novel. Woolf does this by showing
us scenes of how a motorcar and
an aeroplane cause people on
Bond Street to stop what they are
doing and discuss what they see
with each other. Through these
scenes, Woolf is almost suggesting
that these modern things that
move—motorcars and aero-
planes—do not advance but halt
the public life. The chaos of mod-
ern life causes catastrophes and
complications, which force both
Clarissa and Septimus to be ex-
posed to cruelty. For Septimus, it
was the war, and later his domes-
tic situation (despite the fact that
they are not wealthy, Rezia has to
hire a maid, who laughs at the pa-
pers in the drawer and causes Sep-
timus to cry out about human cru-
elty, “how they tear each other to
pieces”—this scene represents the
complexity of modern life and its
maddening affect); for Clarissa it
was the death of her father and her sister. Clarissa,
though rich, is not spared of those catastrophes and her genius and to some extent her failure—it
the inevitable adoption of a pessimistic view of life. makes her relations to others superficial and
makes her unable to connect to Peter, the person
Clarissa Dalloway is “invisible” because she believes who would make her truly happy. “…it came over
in the privacy of the soul. Even though her outward her, If I had married him, this gaiety would have
appearance is striking, her soul is invisible to oth- been mine all day!” (Woolf, pg. 47) As Rosenthal
ers. She has depths that those around her cannot notes, “Clarissa’s obsessive concern for the pri-
see. Her insistence on the privacy of the soul is both vacy of the soul is a complicated feature of her
within her comfort zone. Margaret Schlegel in

Howards End, on the other hand, is able to con-
nect to people on a deep, personal level. She is
not afraid of “giving” herself to others. She is
bold and assertive compared to Clarissa Dallo-
way. This enables her to succeed in her personal
relationships and attain happiness and satisfac-
tion from her marriage. This is illustrated in
chapter 26 of Howards End: “There is certainly no
rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness,
and as Margaret descended the mound on her
lover's arm, she felt that she was having her
share.” (Forster, pg. )
Henry, a shrewd businessman, is extremely fond
of Margaret, which shows us how successful she
is. Here is Henry's perception of Margaret in
Chapter 31: "His affection for his present wife
grew steadily. Her cleverness gave him no trou-
ble, and indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry
or something about social questions; it distin-
guished her from the wives of other men. He had
only to call, and she clapped the book up and was
ready to do what he wished." In this respect Mar-
garet is different from Clarissa, who spends a big
part of her days in her room by herself, keeping to
herself.
Both Mrs. Dalloway and Howards End have a para-
doxical view on the creation of self identity based
on connection to others. Both works identify the
character, at once her genius and, to a degree, her
self as being made up of different parts that are
failure. Philosophically, her recognition of the
interdependent. There is the public self, which is
uniqueness of each human spirit and her refusal to
defined in relation to others, and there is the pri-
sanction any coercion of that spirit partake of the
vate, solitary self. In both novels, the female pro-
highest good for Woolf...(but) psychologically they
tagonist uses her understanding of and attach-
are more ambiguous…There is in Clarissa, particu-
ment to others to empower herself. The differ-
larly in her relationship with men, an instinctive
ence between the two novels is that in Howards
shying away from experience, a fear of intimate con-
End, Margaret’s attachment to others enables her
tact with another. It is a fact about herself which
to gain a clearer understanding of her own inner
she is quick to admit.” (Rosenthal, pg. 98)
self, whereas in Mrs. Dalloway, this attachment
Clarissa Dalloway’s belief in the privacy of the soul is obscures Clarissa’s sense of the inner self. Clarissa
to some extent her failure because it hinders her insists on keeping a comfortable distance from
from achieving ultimate happiness from mar- people in order to preserve the inner self. In
riage. This contradicts her love of success, because Howards End, Margaret’s understanding of other
marriage was the most important thing for women people’s minds enables her to connect with others
of her class during her time. It makes her unable to both physically and psychologically, whereas in
marry Peter, who can potentially be her soul Mrs. Dalloway, this understanding creates con-
mate. It limits her to marrying Richard, who is flicts between people and is a barrier to love.
The understanding of others as both an empower- gift. Nothing else had she the slightest impor-
ment and a barrier to love can be seen in the rela- tance; could not think, write, even play the pi-
tionship between Peter and Clarissa. “They had al- ano. She muddled Armenians and Turks; loved
ways this queer power of communication without success; hated discomfort; must be liked; talked
words. She knew directly he criticized her. Then oceans of non-sense: and to this day, ask her what
she would do something quite obvious to defend the Equator was, and she did not know.” Clarissa
herself…but it never took him in, he always saw gives parties so that she could be less conscious of
through Clarissa.” (Woolf, pg. 60) Their understand- the solitary inner self and focus on her social
ing of each other does not bring them achievements, which defines the self in relation to
closer. Instead it makes them feel more insecure others. This is manifested on page 170, when she
about themselves. Clarissa is unable to feel comfort- admires herself for making the party happen: “…
able around Peter because she knows that he under- for oddly enough she had quite forgotten what
stands the part of herself that she insists on holding she looked like, but felt herself a stake driven in at
private—the inner self. Peter cannot love Clarissa the top of her stairs.” Because of her need to re-
because in order to accept her and what she repre- serve a part of her inner self, Clarissa needs to
sents, he must admit his own failure. This under- have loose, superficial attachments with people
standing creates a vicious cycle—he is always criti- instead of with people like Peter, who under-
cizing her, which makes her defend herself, which stands her too thoroughly.
makes him criticize her even more. Though the
reader knows that Peter and Clarissa have enormous The superficiality of Clarissa’s attachments is
power over each other and are connected in a psy- manifested in Lady Bruton’s luncheon, which
chological sense, there is a gap between them that Clarissa is not invited to. Lady Bruton only
can never be bridged. “abruptly” mentions Clarissa in her lunch-
eon. “How’s Clarissa?” She asks abruptly, and
One reason for this gap is that Clarissa’s sense of her never even waits for Richard to answer. Then the
inner, solitary self depends so much on her public narrator shifts her attention to Clarissa’s impres-
persona, or people’s impression of her. The whole sion of Lady Bruton, as if even she thinks of Lady
novel is about her thoughts, which is her inner self, Bruton as being more important. This illustrates
yet a large part of these thoughts are worries about Clarissa’s invisibility and Lady Bruton’s visibil-
the impressions she leaves on other people. So she ity. But the reader at this point is more concerned
can only be with people who bring out the best in with how Clarissa is doing, which is purposefully
her. Here is Peter’s perception of her on page 78— left unknown in the scene. This is Woolf’s way of
“She enjoyed practically everything…She had a making Clarissa’s existence more important, by
sense of comedy that was really exquisite, but she allowing Clarissa to leave a stronger impression
needed people, always people, to bring it out, with on the reader than she does on any other charac-
the inevitable result that she frittered her time ter.
away, lunching, dining, giving these incessant par-
ties of hers, talking nonsense, saying things she did Part of Clarissa’s existence is based on her attach-
not mean, blunting the edge of her mind, losing her ment to others, and this attachment allows her to
discrimination.” In this case part of Clarissa’s inner survive. This point is further illustrated by Sep-
self, which is this exquisite sense of comedy, is en- timus’s failure to survive in the end. One of the
hanced by her attachment to others, which makes reasons he fails to survive is because he fails to
up her public self. Yet there are other incidents connect with others. As Ruotolo notes, “Septimus’
where her public persona is a disguise of, or com- incongruous perceptions prove destructive be-
pensation for, the imperfection and hollowness of cause he appears unwilling to translate them into
the inner self. This is evident in her self-reflection an idiom others can tolerate, much less appreci-
on why she is giving the party: “…it was an offering; ate. While we gain access to his richer vision,
to combine, to create, but to whom? An offering for Rezia does not. …Adding to his sense of detached
the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her indifference, Septimus, incapable of love or ha-
tred, sees himself as a half-drowned sailor alone on ner self. Instead of killing herself, she decides to
an ocean rock. His problem is not that he feels too lose that part of herself “in the process of liv-
much, but too little.” (Ruotolo, pg. 148) ing.” (Woolf, pg. 185) The novel ends with Clarissa’s
presence, and the immense power that presence
Another character who fails to survive in the story
has on Peter. This suggests that it is the connec-
is Miss Kilman. Even though Miss Kilman survives
tion with others and the ability to influence others
physically according to the plot of the story, she
that empower the individual and allow the individ-
fails to survive emotionally and fails to succeed so-
ual to exist.
cially. This is illustrated in the scene where she
cannot help but cry profusely when Elizabeth ap- Works Cited
pears to have snubbed her: “She had gone. Miss
Kilman sat at the marble table among the éclairs, Ruotolo, Lucio. "Mrs. Dalloway, The Unguarded
stricken once, twice, thrice by shocks of suffer- Moment." Virginia Woolf, Revaluation and Conti-
ing.” (Woolf, pg.133) This shows that despite her nuity, A Collection of Essays. Edited by Ralph Free-
faith in Christianity, she fails to attain happiness, man. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of
which is her goal in life. The character Miss Kilman California Press, 1980.
shows us the danger of self absorption. Because
Miss Kilman is ugly and poor, she cannot gain love Rosenthal, Michael. Virginia Woolf. New York: Co-
and acceptance from others and therefore cannot lumbia University Press, 1979.
easily make connection with others. This causes Virginia Woolf. Mrs. Dalloway. London: Harcourt,
her to become self absorbed. On page 132, Miss Kil- 1925. []
man is trying to connect with Elizabeth but is un-
able to because all she cares about is people’s im-
pression of her—how Mrs. Dalloway has made fun
of her appearance, how people never invite her to
parties. “…it was this egotism that was her undo-
ing…she could not help it. She had suffered so hor-
ribly.” (Woolf, pg.132) Even Elizabeth thinks that
“it was always talking about her own suffering that
made Miss Kilman so difficult.” (Woolf, pg. 136)
In the case of Septimus, his self absorption and his
inability to connect with others have caused him to
go mad and kill himself. “Mrs. Dalloway and Sep-
timus respond creatively to similar detail, (but)
whereas Clarissa allows the object she perceives to
grow in her mind, Septimus, fearing the collapse of
meaning, retreats from undefined experi-
ence. Confronting an existence in flux, he chooses
to see and hear no more. To allow himself to in-
dulge further such feelings is to risk going
mad.” (Ruotolo, pg. 148)
Perhaps it is the “spider’s thread of attachment”
between people that allows Clarissa to survive
when Septimus does not. In the final scene,
Clarissa drifts into her own thoughts and “felt
somehow very like the young man who had killed
himself.” (Woolf, pg. 186) Septimus, whom she has
never seen, has this mystical connection to her in-
SERIAL
Cross-Eyed Sleep
Siddhartha Pathak
Canvas on facing page: Jagannath Chakravarti
PREVIOUSLY
Initiated to a life of violence and crime at an early age, David Mondal has worked his way up from being a pick-
pocket to a professional assassin. David escapes the accidental revelations of the doctor in the train who kept coming
close to randomly pinpoint his real identity of a killer for hire and takes refuge in a chosen hotel that allows any ab-
ject decadence of its customers. David befriends an emissary of the hotel who promises him female company of every
single variety. David also checks the identity of his target in Mumbai and is dumbfounded to discover that his immi-
nent victim, Anita Bakshi is a teenage girl who happens to be a spitting image of the girl he had deflowered by force
when David himself was only a teenager.
SURRENDER
supposed to lie to a customer’s face. It was the
The ornate arrangements, the superficial pieces of same voice in which she disclosed her false name,
clothing that covered the prize within have been Julie she said she is called. Smart, urban, a college
set aside at the very beginning of the evening. She student by any guess and not too hard for David’s
was stripped down to nothing – everything – just hash-configured cells to assume Julie was short
as he already was. for Juliet.
She has been a delight throughout this extended She did disclose her real name before going off to
evening spent together. He had requested eight sleep. Sadhana, she was ordained.
hours which could be extended upon the man’s
marzi. However, she fell asleep in her seventh ‘An ancient name’, had been David’s initial reac-
hour, post an indeterminate conversation that tion, until her story gave him clues to the king-
could raise a pious soul but only served as a faint dom and to the omnipresent Sadhana, a dedicated
reminder of life for the two fallen lovers. practice of learning that defined every functional
soul.
They went on to have intercourse, of course. But
they did not have sex in exchange for money. The seven hours were rare minutes of high... high,
Even though David paid up front, they ended up useless philosophy served on the platter of laze to
making love. What Father Lucius may word to be be ultimately annihilated by the whims of a fo-
‘pure, unadulterated love’. cused buffoon.
It was a lucky beginning, orchestrated over a two- The seven minutes are the ill-shot commercial
person party of food, fancy drinks and the hash breaks of life that only aid your descent into
that came from the little prostitute. muddy consumerism. There is the occasional joke
to enjoy, message to receive or scantily costumed
How old could she have been anyways? She did girls to feast upon, but nothing constructive ever
say she was nineteen but she said it as if one was comes off those commercials now, do they?
No spark of lightning aids David in his job. That is viously is.

the purview of the logical, rational part of his brain. David lunges at the bedside table and retrieves his
However, David will be lying if he claims that he has cell phone. Putting it on camera mode, he begins
never wished to use his creative prowess to kill. to snap photos of the naked Sadhana. The flash-
light, coupled with the mellow light of the hotel
He tried hatching plans on marijuana, but it took room give the images a semi-real filter. David
him to a place where paranoia is a spillage of utter takes his sweet time and photographs Juliet like a
terror. It was weeks before he got back to his piper’s professional, aware of angles and play of lights on
rhythm. the bare, edible human skin.
Drinks made him create, yes, but they would be such It is somewhere during these precise moments
crass hyperbole of his suave rationale, it did not take that David ends up taking one decision that will
him more than a few sessions to realise intoxication change the course of his life significantly.
of any kind was a bane to sound planning, especially
when the stakes are sky high. *
Intoxication must be reserved, inside a gleaming David decides to shoot Anita Bakshi.
showcase, for the days of abject surrender. Those
were the days when you took a break from your ac- The camera would be replaced by a firearm on the
tive sadhana and meet its namesakes out in the cor- day of reckoning. It would have no less of an im-
poreal world. pact.
And a fine specimen of the corporeal world Juliet Both were deadly in hands that knew how to ma-
was. Innocent as a wispy autumn dawn, cold till you nipulate them to one’s will. One cleverly taken
shine sunlight to make it expose its coils. Like an an- photograph could destroy an upright woman’s
cient rope trick of an anonymous Indian Baba, her spine or a living legend’s veracity, even an abso-
innocence would transform into experience and lute truth!
back home again, as she sleeps like a fifteen year old
naked child in the loving, genuine warmth of an in- A single bullet aimed well, on the other hand, can
cestuous father. begin a world war. A hapless world searching for
The answer in all the wrong places.
As David finds the hands attached to his intoxicated
body reach the girl’s forehead and stroke it asexu- The answer that is hidden in plain sight... inside.
ally, several voices in his head began making a ham- All it takes for anyone to find it is to surrender to
mering sound nearabout the pituitary to which he its depths, fall back – far, as far as it can possibly
had no option but to adhere to. So he took control of pierce the veneer of the sky.
his body and subsequently, his hand, bringing it
down to her hips. David feels a primal necessity to find himself in-
side the biologically opposite specimen that lies
Julie, young as she is, happens to be an early on a senseless platter in front of his thirsty eyes.
bloomer. Matching her well-formed breasts and David’s insides churn in a feisty turn of the screw
sleeping nipples is her slender waist and shapely as he feels himself getting an erection.
hip. A sexy hip it was, alluring to the point of a
bloody throb in the nether regions of David’s body. David places the recording device on a reading
David quickly crosses over to the other side of the desk against his laptop, affording a clear view of
bed so he can properly view her rear. Julie ended the scene as David climbs back up on the bed.
this wild ride with one final burst of two back to
back tequila shots which shot her straight out of her He crosses over to face the back of Julie’s head,
senses. Now she sleeps like the drunk whore she ob- grazing his erected, transient manhood on the de-
sert dunes of the whore’s lower back.
David goes on to pick up her left leg and without

much ado, pierces her vagina with a superhuman
fervour, enough to put any pornographic henchman
to shame.
The passage, already wet and distended from a warm

night of lovemaking, facilitates David’s unprotected
device to dig for condiments. Man, ungrateful that
he is, mistakes loving facilitation for bland surren-
der.
A man fails to surrender himself unless he receives

in exchange the daskhat to lord over it all.
Performing an expression of abject dissatisfaction for

the eyes of the camera, David withdraws himself
from inside of Julie before immediately digging his
hand back inside of her for some readymade lubri-
cant.
The dripping fingers quickly move two spaces to the

south, cautiously entering and exiting the other hole
that is not as accommodating as the northern one.
David quickly checks to see if the action produces

any response from the living dead. Seeing as it does-
n’t, he quickly places the tip of his penis near Julie’s
arsehole and pushes with the might of putting a
wooden steak through the heart of a vampire.
As the clock moves past Sadhana’s scheduled eight

hours of escort service, David eventually begins to
recover his money’s worth.
...To be continued… []
The characters and situations depicted herein are fictitious.

Any similarity that may be found with any real life incident/
person is co-incidental and unintended.
A column that inspects what are sometimes regarded to be dying

blights on the extant cultural setup.
The magazine does not necessarily
subscribe to the views expressed in the article.
Remarks/counter criticisms can be mailed to
CultureCultin@gmail.com
for publication in our next issue.
The Greatest Show

on Earth
Mayurakshi Sen explores the history of the age old Circus Culture of Kolkata in a
tête-à-tête with the proprietors of two eminent circus companies whose roots
belong in the city. The canvas not only shows contrasting scenes of the circus
spectacle through time but evaluates the culture as it stands, bereft of the
zoological treasures that would attract the young and the old in days gone by.
Last year, during the “circus season” in Kolkata, I was

writing my dissertation on postcolonial literature as a
final year graduate student at the Jadavpur University
Department of English. It was then that I decided to
conduct interviews of the proprietors of two of the
thriving circus companies of the day so as to get a bet-
ter understanding of how these mechanized armies on
wheels function despite such distinct postcolonial di-
versity. In my paper, I have included excerpts of the in-
terviews which chiefly focus on their lifestyle, travel
and housing arrangements while trying to investigate
the peculiar kind of counter-colonialism that is mani-
fest in an industry where artistes from around the
world live together in a diasporic, multicultural com-
munity and represent India in each show. I have also
presented the insider’s perspective regarding the de-
bates about circus acts performed by animals and chil-
dren that continue to mire this already marginalised
and controversy-laden medium of popular entertain-
ment.
Come One, Come All:
"We bring you the circus — that Pied Piper whose magic
tunes lead children of all ages into a tinselled and spun-
22 CultureCult Magazine - Winter 2015-16
candied world of reckless beauty and mounting laughter;
whirling thrills; of rhythm, excitement and grace; of daring,
enflaming and dance; of high-stepping horses and high-flying
stars.”
Cecil B. DeMille – narrator and director to his 1952 Oscar-

winning film titled The Greatest Show on Earth – managed to
capture the very essence of the enduring enigma that is the
circus in the opening remarks to his masterful tribute to the
showmanship of the numerous men and women who work tire-
lessly to sustain the phantasmagoric illusion of this diasporic
entertainment industry. The “traditional” format of the circus
industry has had a rich and varied history of about 150 years
whereby a ringmaster conducts a series of acts that are choreo-
graphed to be performed with popular music. This structure
had its inception in the latter part of the 19th century and came
to be associated with the universal image of the circus till
about as late as the 1970s. Nowadays, contemporary circus fo-
cuses on acts based solely on human skills .e.g. the “nouveau
cirque” shows conducted by Cirque du Soleil in Quebec.
The history of the circus in Bengal laid down its roots with Na-
bagopal Mitra’s National Circus way back in 1883, which was, in
essence, purely a product of Mitra’s exuberant “Swadeshi” sen-
timent. It is relevant here to note that it was during this period
– more or less from about 1867 – that foreign circus companies
started coming to town with their state of the art equipment
and highly skilled artistes. Mitra was predominantly inspired
by these foreign companies to found a circus organisation of
his own. This, without a shadow of doubt, establishes the na-
ture of the circus in Bengal as purely a borrowed form of art.
Indeed, Debashish Bose – editor to Priyanath Bose’s Professor
Boser Apurba Bhraman-Brittanta (1902) – writes that Abanin-
dranath Tagore who was one of the first guests to be invited to
Mitra’s show had been quite mortified by the sight of Mitra’s
daughter dressed in stretchy circus costume and standing on
an emaciated horse trying to emulate the famous “horse-and-
girl” acts of the foreign circuses. Jyotirindranath Tagore, how-
ever, had commended Mitra’s efforts in doing something truly
groundbreaking from within the negligible means of indige-
nous resources – thus, appropriating a foreign art form as one’s
own. Mitra and a few other stalwarts had tepid success in cap-
turing popular enthusiasm for their indigenous acts, and due
to limited sponsorship they soon had to go out of business. Of
course, the one person who singlehandedly raised the status of
Bengali, Kolkata-based circus to almost world-class level is Pri-
yanath Bose whose The Great Bengal Circus (formally founded
in 1887) achieved international success throughout India and
Southeast Asia while boasting an enviable roster of indigenous
talent as well as foreign expertise. This tradition of travelling
around with a multi-ethnic cast and crew has been maintained
till the present day as can be seen by the shows put up by the
popular contemporary circus companies viz. Ajanta Circus,
Olympic Circus, The Russian Empire Circus etc.
It’s a Circus Out There:
When I first zeroed on this topic to do my paper on, the first

order of business I took care of was to actually see a circus
show after years of unintentional neglect. Luckily, the circus
company that is currently at the top of the food chain in West
Bengal (there are 5 prominent ones – Ajanta Circus, Olympic
Circus, Famous Circus, The Russian Empire Circus and Kohi-
noor Circus) – Ajanta Circus – was playing nearby and I wasted
no time in booking tickets for a night show. When I first heard
that the show’s duration was about 3 hours, I was honestly
taken aback. I couldn’t possibly understand how that much
time can be occupied by just human performers now that there
is a substantial lack of animals in the circus. However, I can say
this now with all sincerity that I was proven wrong. Act by act,
person by person, I was charmed and thrilled to the core. They
had thought of everything – trapeze acts, aerial acts, rope
twists, hula hoop manipulations, horizontal bar acts, archery,
acrobatics, gymnastics, bike riding – the list was pretty much
endless. And, of course, there were the dogs, the birds and the
star of the show – the elephant. The circus had truly become
cosmopolitan with a host of foreign performers. Though the
infrastructure left much to be desired, the company had mas-
tered the art of packaging their product as a remarkably varied
repertoire of both acts and performers.
What I found interesting was that now that the circus focuses
solely on human performers the show has become a more ma-
ture form of entertainment. Previously, the animals excited
and captivated the children while the adults looked on with
fond, mild amusement. Now, with the incursion of foreign ar-
tistes and increasingly innovative acts of pushing the limits of
human expertise, the circus has become an admired medium
even for the adult audience. It was almost like watching a show
on Broadway with its energy, precision, co-ordination and an
uninhibited celebration of human sweat and self-expression.
What was also notable is that while watching the show, my
mother reverted back to her childhood, forgetting all the trou-
bles of a longsuffering school teacher. Indeed, it is this compel-
ling, transformative power of the circus which still resonates
with people and makes it survive in spite of irreparable loss
and an infamous social reputation.
Wonder of Wonders:
My first interviewee was Vicky Sen – the proprie-
tor of the company that is currently at the top of
the food chain – Ajanta Circus (there are 5
prominent ones – Ajanta Circus, Olympic Circus,
Famous Circus, The Russian Empire Circus and
Kohinoor Circus). He was also the son of their
founder and with my month-long intermittent
contact with him prior to the interview, I had
already deduced that he is young, extremely am-
bitious and bears a fighting spirit. He disre-
garded any discussion about the perceived irrele-
vance of the circus medium. Yes, he was sad
about the 2001 ban on circus animals following
the 1960 Wildlife Protection Act passed by the
Supreme Court, but, he didn’t seem to be particu-
larly torn up about it. In fact, he was confident in
his ability to turn the tide around, had a re-
markably liberal worldview, and spoke with ob-
vious pride about the flourishing of Ajanta Cir- Vicky Sen
cus. What was also obvious was his blatant over-
use of the expression “obviously”.
Interview with Vicky Sen – proprietor and owner of the Ajanta
Circus – conducted on the 5th of February, 2015:
Mayurakshi: When was the Ajanta Circus company founded?

Vicky: More than 70 years ago.
Mayurakshi: Who was the founder?
Vicky: My father Ajit Sen!
Mayurakshi: And is this a Kolkata-based company?
Vicky: Yes. The head office is located at 89/3 Ripon Street.
Mayurakshi: When the company first started out, did the roster of
performers include international members or was it strictly lim-
ited to Indian artistes?
Vicky: International talent has come around now! We didn’t have
the kind of legal permit from the government to invite artistes
from outside the country when the company was founded.
Mayurakshi: So, I think back then you couldn’t really commission
international artistes to come and perform with your company.
Vicky: Not even in our dreams! However, circus entrepreneurs
back then had the now unimaginable freedom of buying a tiger at
New Market at the very reasonable cost of 400 rupees.
Mayurakshi (gobsmacked): Okay...
Vicky: It’s a long history.
Mayurakshi: I see. So, currently, international artistes from which
countries have been employed by your company?
Vicky: We had previously commissioned artistes from Argentina,
Canada and the U.S. Now, we have performers from Belarus, Mex-
ico, Vietnam, Mongolia, Ethiopia and Kenya.

Mayurakshi: So, I always wanted to know – does the circus
company organise shows all year round?
Vicky: Obviously!
Mayurakshi: Okay. Then why is there such a commonly held
notion that the circus only “comes to town” in winter?
Vicky: Actually, Kolkata is my homeland. And every winter
having shows in the city is like my way of showcasing what I
have achieved and what I am passionate about. All the per-
formers I have been able to employ in my company are the
absolute best in their respective fields of expertise. Even our
acts are leagues ahead of our contemporaries. You will see
many circus shows in your lifetime, but you won’t see any-
Kolkata is my thing like Ajanta.
Mayurakshi: Which places in India does your team perform
homeland. And in? You must hold shows at all the major cities in the country.
Vicky: Obviously! We have performed in Delhi, Mumbai, Chen-
every winter nai, Bangalore, and Hyderabad... But Kolkata is the place I
come back to every year.
having shows in Mayurakshi: Does Ajanta come from a place of love?
Vicky: Absolutely. You are talking to me today. Tomorrow you
the city is my way might talk to your friends about this interview and tell them
that you spoke to the proprietor of the Ajanta Circus. This hu-
of showcasing man connection is what I value the most – not the money that
I can make out of this company.
what I have Mayurakshi: Do you employ the international artistes on the
basis of contracts? How long do they last?
achieved and what Vicky: Yes, and they last for three years.1
Mayurakshi: And all this time they perform in every show? Do
I am passionate they travel with the company?
Vicky: Yes, every show. They travel with us.
about. Mayurakshi: How do you communicate with the foreign ar-
tistes when they are working with your repertoire?
Vicky: None of us have any training in foreign languages. We
mostly rely on kind behaviour, general hand signals and a
keen sense of understanding. This is something we have had
years of practice in. Even if we don’t understand their lan-
guage, we make sure we treat everyone with love and respect.
And ultimately, it is this universal language of humanity that
transcends any and all difference of. Sometimes, of course, we
have to use Google Translate for written transactions.
Mayurakshi: And is the food prepared for everyone in the
camp simultaneously, or is there a separate arrangement for
the foreign artistes?
Vicky: When they are travelling with us, we need to make
separate arrangements for them as their palettes are accus-
tomed to less oil and spice. But when they are in Kolkata, we
usually rent apartments for them in and around A. J. C. Bose
Mayurakshi: Where do you train

Vicky Sen with his team
the indigenous performers em-
ployed in the company?
Vicky: They are trained by expert
trainers who have been a part of
Ajanta Circus for years.
Mayurakshi: I recently found out
that presently there is no profes-
sional training academy for aspir-
ing circus artistes in the country.
Do you think we should change
that?
Vicky: I would like to. But, you
see... (chuckles bemusedly) I love a
challenge. But there is a flipside to
such an initiative. I would take
such a huge, advancing step that
can potentially change the whole
face of the industry for the better
as an entirely personal undertak-
ing, and then, there would be oth-
ers benefitting from my hard work
and essentially mooching off me...
that thought is kind of unaccept-
able to me. Even during the Patna
fiasco2, I was the one who resisted.
Road. They come with their families sometimes They3 wanted to turn the circus into a farm, a veri-
and they cook on their own in their separate home table zoo. But we could not meet the requirements
units. We make sure somebody gives them a run- demanded of us and we had to give up our animals
down of the local market and the standard prices to the dubious care of the park officials.
of food items so that they don’t get robbed out of Mayurakshi: What do you think about the rele-
house and home. vance or appeal of the circus today?
Mayurakshi: And where do the animals live when Vicky: Obviously! I don’t see why not. We are still
everyone is in the city? pulling crowds.
Vicky: They stay at the venue till the shows are Mayurakshi: But then why is there no formal re-
done. After the run, everything is packed up and cruitment process associated with the industry?
the animals leave for the next venue where we Vicky: All I want to do is represent the industry in
have people hired to set everything up before- front of the general populace in its true glory.
hand. The artistes follow after a few days of rest. Every day I get around 50 calls from people clam-
Mayurakshi: And now that the exhibition of wild ouring for my attention. They continually ask
animals has been banned, have you come to de- questions about how I’m running the business. Out
pend more heavily on human skills? of nearly 375 circus companies in the world, we
Vicky: As a matter of fact, there is no difference are the only circus from the humble origins of
between animals and humans in my eyes. This is West Bengal that has reached this stature. It is
purely my opinion; so, please don’t take it the something to be proud of. If I can make Ajanta Cir-
wrong way. They are both my children. I treat both cus the best and the most beautiful of all the cir-
with equal kindness and hence, I have experienced cuses in West Bengal, wouldn’t I feel proud? And if
no difficulty in handling this change. I can get people to talk about it, to appreciate it for
its qualities online and in everyday conversa- there. In fact, I think we are better! This is not a
tions...that is the end I’m striving toward. movie. Just like Raj Kapoor said, there are no re-
Mayurakshi: Let’s talk about marketing strategies. takes in circus. It’s a dangerous game requiring
We see countless posters all around the city adver- impeccable finesse. Just last night I had to rush a
tising the show timings as soon as the season rolls boy to the R. G. Kar Medical College as he had
in. But is there any other, more modern and effec- fallen down and broken his femur. He is a trapeze
tive, method of publicising the shows – something artiste. Any little mistake can be fatal.
that is easily accessible and will also capture the Mayurakshi: Do you think audience members of all
interest of the young urban crowd? ages fail to enjoy the thrill of the circus?
Vicky: There is a Facebook page online titled Vicky: Definitely not. It is an evolving medium that
Ajanta Circus, which I myself manage. It is very has adapted to the changing times. We will only
active and I regularly update it with relevant in- continue to grow.
formation. It has my entire history.
Mayurakshi: And we can get full updates from “Tyger Tyger, Burning Bright”4
there?
Vicky: Of course. I take great care to keep our po- The second interview I took was only a few days
tential audience interested. I also have my own later and this time the interviewee was the pro-
branch company called Pravhat Circus, which is an prietor of another major circus in town – Olympic
international company. It has travelled Europe; in Circus. This circus used to be the top dog in the
fact, we did a show in Italy last year. Also in Po- city before Ajanta Circus stole its thunder. Shyam-
land. We also won an award there! It was my sundar Banerjee – the proprietor of the circus and
dream to bring the company here, but I could not the old master of Dakshineshwar’s “Circus Bari”
bring all the equipment. turned out to be the polar opposite of Vicky Sen in
Mayurakshi: Is there any difference in equipment terms of personality. He was older, less hopeful
when it comes to this international branch? and even borderline resentful about the present
Vicky: Obviously! There is a huge difference. But condition of the circus industry in India. Instead of
there also I make sure to spread the word about sidestepping the question of the ban on animals
Ajanta Circus as that is the mother-organisation. like most would expect the so called “circus-folks”
Since I cannot take Ajanta outside the country ow- to do, he instead tackled the issue head on and
ing to countless complications, I’m keeping seemed quite vocal about his dislike for Maneka
Pravhat Circus up and running to represent the Gandhi and her social activism. When asked about
former. the need to adapt to help the circus industry over-
Mayurakshi: What is your opinion about the cul- come its current obstacles, he seemed resigned to
tural significance of your endeavour? The fact that the slow and steady decline of his company.
you have brought together so many international
faces and talents on one stage where they are rep-
resenting India should be immensely noteworthy. Interview with Shyamsundar Banerjee – proprietor
Despite that, why is there still this pervading no- and owner of the Olympic Circus – conducted on
tion about the circus as a “dying industry”? the 8th of February, 2015:
Vicky: I feel like it’s a cop-out. This entire percep-
tion of working in the circus industry being Mayurakshi: How old is the Olympic Circus?
equivalent to a protracted death sentence is sus- Shyamsundar: It was founded in 1967.
tained and popularised by people with no back- Mayurakshi: Who was the founder?
bone. They are willing to give up their livelihood Shyamsundar: My father – Subodh Banerjee. It is
without a fight. I like to fight. an off-shoot of the older International Circus. We
Mayurakshi: Do you feel that the circus industry is also have another branch called Famous Circus.
being under-appreciated by mass media? Mayurakshi: When the company first started out,
Vicky: I honestly think that we are in no way any did the roster of performers include international
less than all the other entertainment sources out members or was it strictly limited to Indian ar-
small-scale fairgrounds, nobody really thinks

that they are worth their time. That’s why the
principal focus remains on the winter season.
Mayurakshi: Where do you normally get the
most enthusiastic audience response?
Shyamsundar: It depends on the show really.
In actuality, audience members belonging to
Kolkata proper have largely lost their interest
in the circus. It has been greatly diminished
despite the aggressive marketing campaigns.
On the contrary, people from the suburbs
flock together in great numbers to see our
shows.
Mayurakshi: But isn’t the publicity generated
for the shows more concentrated in the city?
Shyamsundar: Here too the majority of the
audience consists of people from adjoining
areas and not the actual metropolis. Winter is
a great time to visit Kolkata for its various en-
tertainment staples.
Mayurakshi: What means of transportation do
you use while travelling?
Shyamsundar Banerjee
Shyamsundar: We carry the equipment and
the animals by truck. And for the performers
tistes? we rent buses. But, say, if we’re going to Chennai,
Shyamsundar: There was virtually no international we take the train.
talent. The circus was very different back in the Mayurakshi: What about training?
day. Everybody came for the animals. I used to Shyamsundar: Some people come with training, for
keep multiple tigers in my home – in this very example, the foreign artistes. Others we train here.
room, in fact. But this practice has lessened greatly with time.
Mayurakshi (looks around shiftily): So, currently, We used to create and mould performers from a
are there any international artistes employed in very young age in the past. We do not have a for-
your company? mal school here, so, all the training is done with
Shyamsundar: We have artistes from Nepal, Nige- our own personal expertise by means of our in-
ria, Tanzania etc. They generally come with work house masters.
visas via agents. Mayurakshi: So, this is almost like a hereditary link
Mayurakshi: Does the circus company organise amongst performers. Those who came before will
shows all year round? the show the ropes to those who are coming in
Shyamsundar: We do shows every month – mostly now.
3 week runs. Shyamsundar: We used to have such an atmos-
Mayurakshi: Then why is there this popular notion phere where the circus was like a second family.
that the circus “comes to town” during winter? This tradition too is dying down. I will invest my
Shyamsundar: You never get to know about the time, money and energy on one performer and
non-winter shows because they are always held then, after a year or two, they will inevitably pack
outside Kolkata on a really localised level and are up their suitcase and leave. The circus has become
almost never reported on. Sometimes the likes of a transient profession. All of them are contract-
Anandabazar Patrika will write one or two short bound, and leave as soon as their stipulated time
articles about them but since the shows outside periods come to an end.
Kolkata are mostly held at suburbs and that too on Mayurakshi: How long do the foreign artistes stay
with the company?

Shyamsundar: Mostly 6 months. Sometimes a few of them will
come for a full year. It depends on what kind of visa they get.
Mayurakshi: Is there any formal recruitment process for per-
formers in your company?
Shyamsundar: Not at all. There is absolutely no interest
amongst our people with regard to becoming a circus per-
former. That is why we rely on foreign professionals. Kolkata
residents never in their wildest dreams imagine such a thing
as joining the circus. There is a small trickle of interested par-
ties from outside Kolkata. But they mostly treat the industry
Our strengths have as a way of making a few bucks.
Mayurakshi: So they are not interested in it as a professional
diminished vastly. occupation?
Shyamsundar: Not at all. Previously, we had Kolkata-dwellers
We now only have like Reba Rakshit who became famous for being able to with-
stand the weight of an elephant on her chest. She performed
an elephant, a with us from 1957 to 1963. Her remuneration was a whopping
sum of 450 rupees even back then. After ’63, she left for The
camel, a few dogs Great Bombay Circus.
Mayurakshi: Do you need less space now, because most of the
and birds. Back animals have been banned?
Shyamsundar: Indeed. Our strengths have diminished vastly.
then, we used to We now only have an elephant, a camel, a few dogs and birds.
Back then, we used to keep tigers in this very house. My fa-
keep tigers in this ther kept a tiger as a pet just for the sake of it. It used to have
two rooms at its disposal – each one for every alternate day.
very house. My Mayurakshi: When did the acts of the wild animals get
banned?
father kept a tiger Shyamsundar: Around 2000 and 2001. Tigers, leopards, lions,
bears and monkeys – these five species got banned.
as a pet just for the Mayurakshi: Has this affected popularity of the circus?
Shyamsundar: Indeed, the popularity has been affected
sake of it. greatly, and not for the better. And the situation will only get
worse. The circus had been designed mainly for the children.
Parents used to accompany them to shows and point out the
various animals to them. That was the most engaging element
of the circus. Human skills are not enough to captivate a child
for long.
Mayurakshi: What is the average shelf-life of a circus per-
former?
Shyamsundar: The concept of a shelf-life becomes pertinent
only if the performer has immersed himself/herself well and
truly into the craft. And that is very rare nowadays. Most girls
stop performing after they get married. And as for boys, there
too we see a severe lack of passion.
Mayurakshi: And how do you communicate with these foreign
artistes?
be shut off for him/her.

Mayurakshi: There is a con-
stant social stigma attached
to the circus industry in In-
dia. And it is also grossly un-
der-represented in main-
stream media. Do you think
this should be changed?
Shyamsundar: Actually, the
elementary nature of the cir-
cus has changed now that the
animals have been banned.
Even the term “circus” does
not seem to be suitable any-
Circus Bari
more to describe the show.
The circus is nothing without
Shyamsundar: We don’t need to communicate with animals.
them beyond a rudimentary level. We give them Mayurakshi: Do you agree that the circus indus-
accommodation in the form of apartments and ho- tries outside India are faring much better and gar-
tels. We also provide them with gas, stoves, cook- nering a lot more respect from the general popu-
ing utensils – but they do the cooking themselves. lace?
Mayurakshi: Do you have orientations for them Shyamsundar: Absolutely! India was one of the
once they reach the city? first countries to ban animals. And many foreign
Shyamsundar: We usually have one person who countries, like Russia, still happily exhibit animal
knows a bit of their language stay with them for 2- acts in their circus shows. The government repres-
4 days and guide them in our ways. sion in India is absurd and I never understood
Mayurakshi: What is your take on child perform- Maneka Gandhi’s agenda against us. Nobody dis-
ers? Are you for or against the potential banning cusses the plight of the circus industry in the Par-
of circus acts done by children? liament. They never try to resolve our issues. All
Shyamsundar: There will be some inconvenience if they seem to want to do is essentially shut us
they do get banned, I admit. But I, personally, am down. They continually claim that we are tortur-
against the practice of using child performers. I ing the animals – starving them, neglecting them.
feel like below the age of 16, no child should be co- They took away almost 40 tigers from me and
erced or, even, expected to perform circus acts. shipped them off to a reserve in Vishakhapatnam.
Mayurakshi: Do you think they should be trained After the deed was done, almost every day we used
from a young age in acrobatics and gymnastics so to receive notice that they are dying off one by
as to cultivate their flexibility? one. Had they stayed with us, we would have dou-
Shyamsundar: That is also the same as actually bled their numbers! In here, we used to check on
performing. The child still has to expend valuable them every day since we used to own them indi-
periods of time at the cost of his/her education. vidually, but in a reserve or a zoo, animals are kept
Also, the issue of consent remains dubious. The en masse and nobody bothers to care for one ani-
child is given no choice about whether he/she mal specifically. Even half the money allotted for
wants to perform at all if the training starts from their food is pocketed by the officials. How do they
an early age. In our circus we have no child ar- expect an animal that has spent most of its life
tistes. If we take away the fundamental right to cared for in a certain way to acclimatise itself to
education of a child by keeping him/her busy with such a drastic change? And when it dies, they
training, all the child will ever learn to do is per- write in their reports that it was sick or old.
form circus acts. All the major avenues in life will Mayurakshi: And what about the familial atmos-
C u l tCuur let Cu ur letC uMl at gMa az ignaez i-n eW i- n St ep r i 2n 0g 1 25 0- 1 6 91 53
phere of the circus that we have all read about? the circus as something more than “tired chil-
Does it still exist? dren’s entertainment”. The dwindling social rele-
Shyamsundar: It has become practically extinct. In vance of the circus can, indeed, wreak havoc on
the old days, circus performers used to encourage the livelihoods of the people associated with it.
their children to join their trade. Now, each per- The future of the show is unclear; there are too
former works to earn money, and sends away their many odds and too many versions of the same bit-
children to bigger and better places. ter arguments. But I have hopes about the “more
Mayurakshi: What kind of social background do humane” form of entertainment that today’s cir-
they have? cus industry is engaging in – namely, the humans-
Shyamsundar: Apart from the foreign artistes, only medium as evident in Cirque du Soleil. And
most of them belong to the lower rungs of the so- despite the encroachment of modern, faster modes
cial ladder. Some of the management people come of entertainment, I believe in the sustainable na-
from a slightly stronger background. ture of the spirit that insists that “the show must
Mayurakshi: Is that why these artistes never ex- go on”.
pect any genuine audience appreciation? Because
it is all flatly professional for them?
Shyamsundar: Yes. They do not attach any artistic Bibliography:
credibility to what they do. Bose, Priyanath. Ed. Bose, Debashish. Professor
Mayurakshi: Have the company expenses de- Boser Apurba Bhraman-Brittanta. Kolkata: Karigar,
creased now that you don’t have to care for so 2013. []
many animals?
Shyamsundar: The ratio has remained more or less
the same. Now, we need to employ foreign talent
quite extensively to make up for the loss of the
animals. In a 2 and a half hour show, back then, I
could fill 1 and a half hour with just animals. And
they didn’t even ask for wages!
Mayurakshi: The pay scale for the foreign artistes
must be way higher than their indigenous counter-
parts. 1
They have all the legal papers at their disposal; they claim that
Shyamsundar: Of course! They have much better
they don’t do anything off the radar. They also pay their taxes.
expertise also. They also take this not so much as a Their agents contact the artistes via the Ministry of External
form of artistic self-expression, but as a vacation. Offices and draw up their contracts with the help of translators
via the respective embassies and they are also each given a
brief orientation on arrival.
Curtain Call:
2
Lastly, I would like to say that this whole exercise A reference to the Ajanta Circus versus the Union of India le-
gave me a much clearer picture of this industry gal battle of 2001 when the officials of the Sanjay Gandhi Bio-
logical Park (Patna) seized a total of 24 animals from the cir-
that celebrates the human body as well as human
cus on grounds of the ruling of the Supreme Court that bans
ingenuity in all their glory despite its continual exhibition of wild animals in circuses. In their resistance, the
under-representation in the media (not to mention circus had the partial success of at least being able to drive
the atmosphere of intense privacy and subterfuge away Maneka Gandhi’s emissary.
that has become synonymous with the slightly
3
condescending term of “circus folks”). In spite of The Circus Federation, which was on the side of Ajanta, was
also planning to build a very big natural zoo for all such ani-
problematic labour relations and a slew of contro- mals of the circus with a radius of about 25 square miles for
versies, the circus industry has survived the on- visitors interested in sight-seeing, in order to earn from main-
slaught of new age technology and instant enter- taining the animals.
tainment. In this context, my aim was to bring the
4
unbreakable spirit of the circus as the “underdog Blake, William, “The Tyger”, Songs of Innocence and of Ex-
industry” to the fore, and also, to try to envision perience, London: William Blake, 1794.
FICTION
Limestone in
the Winter
Thomas Elson
Shirley and Jacob Lawson had been alone and cold since
the evening of their third anniversary, when she was buried for
the first time.
Jacob knew Shirley was engaged in an extramarital af-
fair. He witnessed one of her assignations while hidden inside
their bedroom closet, then planted bugging devices in their
bedroom and discovered the truth of her camping trips; never-
theless, he resisted his wife’s demands for a divorce unless they
first attended marriage counseling. She chose a marriage en-
counter weekend.
Years earlier, Jacob, a master carpenter with cropped
black hair and a clean-shaven face that announced he would do
anything for acceptance, had latched his eyes onto Shirley’s
classic mid-western face, Irish breadth and Norwegian strength
common in that area. To Jacob, this tall, intense twenty-six year
old was unique. I had to have her. Insatiable.
Shirley, tall with flawless hair and teeth, more socially
adept and ambitious than her husband, worked as a paralegal at
a large law firm in Berdan, the county seat. Six months earlier,
she enrolled in a seminar in Kansas City, Missouri. Her five foot
ten inch glide across the meeting hall caught the eye of Dan
Bierley, a senior prosecutor in the County Attorney’s office. He
maneuvered himself next to her just as the opening speaker be-
gan.
The evening of the seminar, Shirley and Bierley made an
attractive couple at the Restaurant on the Plaza. The owner de-
signed it to resemble a club he visited in Canterbury, England.
Nothing like it in Kansas City. Probably nothing like it in Can-
terbury either; but to Shirley, it seemed glamorous. She was
flattered by Bierley’s attention; he basked in the change of pace
from his marriage. They remained together the entire weekend.
II
She was always a quick learner, and learned the one
thing men wanted most when she lost her virginity at the age of
fifteen. That one thing may differ in specifics among different
men, but, in the end, it could be reduced to a single, crystalline

thing – an illusion. She possessed a preternatural skill to dis-
cern which illusion a man craved. She thought of herself as
merely delivering her part of the bargain – exchanging goods
and services. To Shirley this was the price of living among in-
trusive men.
Her first husband wanted the illusion of the helpless vir-
gin – Shirley wanted the freedom to be away from her parents.
He granted; she acceded. Two and a half years into their mar-
riage, he committed suicide. She consoled herself that he was
mentally unbalanced - plus there was his insurance.
Her second husband, Jacob, wanted a strong, authorita-
Bierley wanted a tive woman, and treated sex as if it were a cabinet project with
freedom-loving colt assigned steps to be completed in strict sequence.
Bierley wanted a freedom-loving colt willing to roam
willing to roam anywhere. Over time, however, his passion descended into pos-
session, then a sense of entitlement, and then into an almost
anywhere. Over time, cold exercise of power, which, at first, mesmerized, then fright-
ened, and recently repelled her.
however, his passion
III
descended into
For their third anniversary, Shirley arranged to meet
possession, then a Jacob at the Ninnescah Restaurant in Berdan.
sense of entitlement, Shirley planned this dinner for weeks, even to the point
of calling Jacob to remind him. He drove to pick her up; they
and then into an almost had an argument about which car to take, and took separate
cars arriving at the restaurant within minutes of each other.
cold exercise of power, At the table, Jacob shuffled his cloth napkin from left to
right, the said, “Are you still planning to take that camping
which, at first, trip?”
Shirley was silent. She had discussed this multiple times.
mesmerized, then Her camping trips were her business. Whom she went out with
frightened, and was her business. Her dwindling interest in Jacob was her busi-
ness.
recently repelled her. Jacob then brought up their marriage counseling. “We
had that marriage-counseling weekend just a month ago.” She
heard the eagerness in his voice. “When we checked-in that
first night, I was surprised that you made reservations for us to
share a room.” She remembered that first night, they had made
love; she made sure their second night was even more intense.
When she met his eyes, Jacob continued, “I thought we
were there because of marriage problems. But you acted like we
had none. Like it was our honeymoon.”
During their sessions, she had told the marriage coun-
selor, “Things are improving. And we’re getting along better.”
When the counselor asked about their intimacy issues, Shirley

said, “No problems there,” blushed, and added, “Ever.” She
smiled as she recalled her strategy.
Shirley looked at Jacob, then she looked for a waiter, and
said, “Don’t. Don’t spoil this dinner. We’ve been over this be-
fore.”
“It’s already spoiled. Spoiled by your camping with other
men. Who are they?” He looked down at the saltshaker, caught
her silence, hid his hands under the table, and joined her in
searching for a waiter.
They both flinched when the waiter arrived with
menus, a water pitcher, and a steady patter of questions. Spe-
“It’s already spoiled.
cials? Drinks? Appetizers? How would you like that prepared?
Which vegetable? You have your choice of ... And for the gen-
Spoiled by your
tleman? camping with other
“When did it start?” Jacob asked after the waiter left.
“Don’t” men. Who are they?”
“When did it start?”
She had been determined not to talk about her affairs. He looked down at the
Now she sensed an opening. “Right before you hid in the
closet that night.” saltshaker, caught her
Three to four months earlier, Jacob had secreted him-
self in their bedroom closet. Her calendar had an underlined
silence, hid his hands
note – DB. In fact, her calendar had the same initials under
multiple dates.
under the table, and
I need to tell him. Just get it over with. She started joined her in searching
talking, and within five minutes, Jacob shot from the table,
his chair hit the floor, and he abruptly walked-out. Shirley, for a waiter.
calmer than she thought, remained seated. That wasn’t so
hard. She watched as he stomped flat-footed over the snow-
covered parking lot, and smiled as he scraped ice off the
windshield of his truck.
Thirty minutes after Jacob drove away, she gingerly
walked outside. The wind burned her bare legs. Inside her
Toyota, she turned on the engine and then the heater. She
hurried over the slippery streets to meet Bierley at their
usual spot – a little-traveled street a few blocks from the res-
taurant.
Inside her parked car, she heard a crunching sound,
her door opened; she felt the repercussion from a slap on the
roof of the car. A gloved hand clasped her left shoulder. “Dan
– What are you-”
He interrupted, “Why the hell did you take so long?”
His voice strained, “We were supposed to be together.”
“We need to talk. Can’t we just-“
He interrupted again, “Tell me why the hell you
stayed in there so damn long? You start sleeping with him

again?”
“Dan, let’s talk.”
“Of course, we’ll talk – in my car.” He pulled her out of
the Toyota, shoved her into his Lincoln. Once inside, she
hunched forward, then huddled silent and quivering with her
thighs pressed against her chest.
Cemented behind the steering wheel, Bierley demanded
a justification. “Well? Tell me,” he said in a baritone whine,
then hit the steering wheel. “Now,” and hit the steering wheel
again.
That evening, twenty Shirley tried to swallow. Throat too dry, she coughed,
repositioned herself, kept her arms around her legs. “I can’t- I
miles from Berdan, can’t be with you,” she said.
Bierley’s eyes fixed on her exposed legs, then his finger
temperature below 30, pointed directly at her, “And, don’t doubt for one damn second,
wind above 40, one way or another,” he spit out his last four words, “we will be
together.”
limestone in the winter Her jaw tightened, “I can’t be the other woman.” Her
voice barely audible, “I won’t do it.” As if that would alleviate
cold, inside a grove of the situation.
trees, under the fallen That evening, twenty miles from Berdan, temperature
below 30, wind above 40, limestone in the winter cold, inside a
leaves, and beneath the grove of trees, under the fallen leaves, and beneath the up-
turned soil, Shirley was buried for the first time.
upturned soil, Shirley
was buried for the first At Shirley’s second burial, the minister droned his sol-
emn words - repeated as if inside a cathedral. The smell of loam
time. drifted from the upturned mound a few yards behind the cas-
ket. Russian thistles grasped the cemetery fence as a whistle of
wind slapped the canvas, surrounded the open grave, then
spread like a rug and circled the casket. The sun ricocheted off
the whites of the men’s eyes as their pupils darted. Women in
black, heads lowered, readied their white handkerchiefs.
Her dark casket shone beneath the mesh canopy under
which her family sat - recognized but unknown to Jacob, who
stood a safe distance apart.
Dan Bierley was also a safe distance apart as he leaned
against his Lincoln parked on a cemetery road fifty yards from
Shirley’s casket.
IV
Weeks later, at five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.

“Mr. Lawson, Mr. Jacob Lawson, you are under arrest. You have
the right to remain silent. Anything you say ... You have... If you
cannot ... Then one will be ... Do you understand?’”
Nothing.
“You do understand?” More declarative than interroga-
tive.
“You are under arrest for murder-in-the-first-degree of
Shirley Lawson on or about the ...”
His wife dead. Police in his house. Arrested for murder.
Too much confusion. A burial. An avalanche. From that point
on, Jacob heard only white noise.
Inside the courtroom with its raised judge’s bench, in

front of the spectators’ gallery were long counsel tables. The
lead prosecutor sat next to the jury. To the right of the prose-
cutor, at a separate table, sat Jacob Lawson and his court- It had taken
appointed defense attorney.
“Are you ready for the charges to be read?” The judge Dan Bierley
asked the assistant county attorney who nodded, but did not
bother to stand. Neither Jacob, nor his court-appointed attor- one phone call and
ney was asked. The judge read from the white sheet of paper
prepared by the assistant county attorney. two exchanged favors
It had taken Dan Bierley one phone call and two ex-
changed favors to be assigned as prosecuting attorney in the
to be assigned as
Jacob Lawson criminal trial. prosecuting attorney
“As death is a part of life, so decomposition is a part of in the Jacob Lawson
death. The autopsy revealed Shirley Lawson’s death was
caused by three gunshot wounds to her head and throat, criminal trial.
which produced massive brain injury. Her stomach held rem-
nants of the same food served at the Ninnescah Restaurant,”
said the pathologist as he began his testimony before the
jury.
The pathologist responded to Bierley’s questions,
“When discovered, her tongue resembled a gray-brown that
looked like the bottom of a dried-up, dirty leather shoe sole.”
Jacob’s court-appointed attorney sat mute.
When asked about the rest of Shirley’s body, he said,
“Her hand had decayed into putrefied, parchment-like skin
that looked as if a glove had been peeled halfway down.”
Bierley asked, and the pathologist described the pur-
ple-red purge fluid that flowed from her oral and nasal pas-
sages. He paused, wiped his forehead, and continued, “The
bloating from the accumulation of gas pushed Shirley’s eyes
and tongue outside their cavities.” He waited again, then
said, “After that her body broke open and released gas and
fluids.” The defense attorney remained silent.
The pathologist’s testimony culminated with a photo-
graph of Shirley’s skin at the time of her discovery, accompa-
nied by a description of the enzymes and bacteria that began
to self-digest Shirley’s body. Then he said, “We know she had
been dead for several days, because of the color of parts of
Shirley’s neck, abdomen, shoulders, and head, when her body

was discovered.”
Bierley asked his final question of the pathologist, “Is it
correct that, when discovered, parts of Shirley Lawson’s skin
looked like the golden brown skin of a freshly roasted chicken
these jurors might sit down to eat this evening?”
At this point, the defense lodged its only objection; it
was sustained, but not erased from the jurors’ memory. The
photograph of Shirley’s roasted chicken skin was not with-
drawn.
No words. He raised Next, a waitress testified she served the couple dinner;
and that Shirley sat with her skirt hiked up past mid-thigh. She
his right foot onto the also testified that while Shirley remained seated, she saw Jacob
first step. He needed slam his palm on the table, knock over his chair, and leave the
restaurant.
assistance. Left foot, At the conclusion of the trial, the Court guided the jury,
“There is little, if any, doubt that Shirley Lawson was murdered.
then right foot. Left, Three bullets were shot into her head and throat. The only
question for the jury is the identity of the murderer.”
right, left, right, left.
V
He stopped. An element
A few years later, unable to concentrate, the prisoner
of irrationality was drifted. His mind wandered to images of people unseen for
required to continue. years. His brother, now over sixty, his niece at least thirty-five.
He saw old friends, imagined their children, grandchildren. He
saw Shirley look at him, then disappear. He had experienced
enough. Now just forget. No point. No hope. No escape. Fall
asleep.
Inside a metal building with closed, unmarked doors on
each side, the shackled prisoner walked past gray metal racks
holding the institution’s purchased food items – cans of peaches
and lard, bags of beans and spaghetti, gallon bottles of ketchup
and mustard. Strong hands guided him into a connected build-
ing, a smaller metal warehouse with cold floors. Straight ahead
was an opening the width of a loading dock door. He stopped.
The door descended.
Hands pulled him to the right side of the closed door. His
eyes widened. The guards tightened their grips. Six men wore
dark blue or darker gray suits; another wore a black cassock
with a Roman collar and held a Bible.
No words. He raised his right foot onto the first step. He
needed assistance. Left foot, then right foot. Left, right, left,
right, left. He stopped. An element of irrationality was required
to continue.
He heard a gentle, male voice. “Son, let’s go.’ A moment
later, the same voice, “Can you do it by yourself?” No move-
ment. Hands lifted him to the next step. Right, left, right, left,
right foot, followed by left. Both feet now on a level surface.
“Wait.” His gasps and shallow breathing were familiar to
the dark suited men.
One man stepped forward, opened the manila envelope,
and read, “State vs. Jacob Lawson. Denial of Writ and Order of
Execution.” His final appeal denied.
“Last words?”
None came. Jacob’s mind rushed. No more time. No place
left to go.
“Any last words?”
Nothing. Only the sound of the trap door as it slammed,
and the weight of Jacob Lawson descending whipped the rope
tight.
A lifetime later, Dan Bierley, his face as weathered as an

abandoned shack, arrived at a grove of trees. He stopped his
car, grabbed his pea coat out of the back seat, opened the
door, walked to his car trunk, pulled it open, put on gloves, He chopped at the
then picked up a box.
He inventoried its contents, placed tape in a cross pat- ground to loosen it;
tern over the top and bottom of the box, and rested it inside a
black trash bag. With his left hand, he held an entrenching
stopped and
tool; in his right, the black trash bag.
He chopped at the ground to loosen it; stopped and
repositioned the
repositioned the entrenching tool, then dug into the loosened entrenching tool, then
dirt. After a few minutes, the box lay in a four-foot rectangu-
lar hole covered with dirt, leaves and branches located dead dug into the loosened
center within of the grove of trees where Shirley Lawson’s
body was found. dirt. After a few
Back in his car, entrenching tool wiped clean, tape
buried under the box, Bierley looked at Shirley’s nude photos minutes, the box lay in
– the ones he shot after the pistol fired. These I keep. He felt
her echo. His breathing was deep, then deeper. He felt ten-
a four-foot rectangular
sion, relaxation, release. He exhaled, wiped his hands, placed
the car in gear, and drove home. []
hole covered with dirt,
leaves and branches
located dead center
within of the grove of
trees where Shirley
Lawson’s body was
found.
A column that proposes to switch

theological prisms in each issue to
understand life as we know it in a
light unseen as yet.
Sri Aurobindo was an
extremist revolutionary turned
spiritual icon who left behind an
extensive body of academic &
literary work. In this issue,
we present a selection of his poems
for your perusal.
Poetry of Sri Aurobindo

PONDICHERRY (C. 1927 - 1947)
Sri Aurobindo, known as Sri Aurobindo (Sri Ôrobindo), (15 Au-
gust 1872 – 5 December 1950), born Aurobindo Ghose, was an
Indian nationalist, philosopher, yogi, guru, and poet. He joined
the Indian movement for independence from British rule, for a
while became one of its influential leaders and then became a
spiritual reformer, introducing his visions on human progress and
spiritual evolution.
Aurobindo studied for the Indian Civil Service at King's College,
Cambridge, England. After returning to India he took up various
civil service works under the maharaja of the princely
state of Baroda and began to involve himself in politics. He was
imprisoned by the British for writing articles against British
rule in India. He was released when no evidence was provided.
During his stay in the jail he had mystical and spiritual
experiences, after which he moved to Pondicherry, leaving
politics for spiritual work.
During his stay in Pondicherry, Aurobindo developed a method of
spiritual practice he called Integral Yoga. The central theme of
his vision was the evolution of human life into a life divine. He
believed in a spiritual realisation that not only liberated man but
transformed his nature, enabling a divine life on earth. In 1926,
with the help of his spiritual collaborator, Mirra Alfassa (referred
to as "The Mother"), he founded the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. He
died on 5 December 1950 in Pondicherry.
Sri Aurobindo - From Wikipedia’s entry for Sri Aurobindo

The Bird of Fire

Gold-white wings a throb in the vastness, the bird of flame went
glimmering over a sunfire curve to the haze of the west,
Skimming, a messenger sail, the sapphire-summer waste of a
soundless wayless burning sea.
Now in the eve of the waning world the colour and splendour
returning drift through a blue-flicker air back to my breast,
Flame and shimmer staining the rapture-white foam-vest of the
waters of Eternity.
Gold-white wings of the miraculous bird of fire, late and slow have
you come from the Timeless. Angel, here unto me
Bringst thou for travailing earth a spirit silent and free or His
crimson passion of love divine, —
White-ray-jar of the spuming rose-red wine drawn from the vats
brimming with light-blaze, the vats of ecstasy,
Pressed by the sudden and violent feet of the Dancer in Time
from his sun-grape fruit of a deathless vine?
White-rose-altar the eternal Silence built, make now my nature

wide, an intimate guest of His solitude,
But golden above it the body of One in Her diamond sphere
with Her halo of star-bloom and passion-ray!
Rich and red is thy breast, O bird, like blood of a soul climbing the
hard crag-teeth world, wounded and nude,
A ruby of flame-petalled love in the silver-gold altar-vase of
moon-edged night and rising day.
O Flame who art Time’s last boon of the sacrifice, offering-flower

held by the finite’s gods to the Infinite,
O marvel bird with the burning wings of light and the unbarred
lids that look beyond all space,
One strange leap of thy mystic stress breaking the barriers of mind
and life, arrives at its luminous term thy flight;
Invading the secret clasp of the Silence and crimson Fire thou
frontest eyes in a timeless Face.
The Life
Heavens
My spirit sank drowned in the wonder surge:
Screened, withdrawn was the greatness it had sought;
Lost was the storm-stress and the warrior urge,
Lost the titan winging of the thought.
A life of intensities wide, immune
Floats behind the earth and her life-fret, It lay at ease in a sweetness of heaven-sense
A magic of realms mastered by spell and rune, Delivered from grief, with no need left to aspire,
Grandiose, blissful, coloured, increate. Free, self-dispersed in voluptuous innocence,
Lulled and borne into roseate cloud-fire.
A music there wanders mortal ear
Hears not, seizing, intimate, remote, But suddenly there soared a dateless cry,
Wide-winged in soul-spaces, fire-clear, Deep as Night, imperishable as Time;
Heaping note on enrapturing new note. It seemed Death’s dire appeal to Eternity,
Earth’s outcry to the limitless Sublime.
Forms deathless there triumph, hues divine
Thrill with nets of glory the moved air; “O high seeker of immortality,
Each sense is an ecstasy, love the sign Is there not, ineffable, a bliss
Of one outblaze of godhead that two share. Too vast for these finite harmonies,
Too divine for the moment’s unsure kiss?
The peace of the senses, the senses’ stir
On one harp are joined mysteries; pain “Arms taking to a voiceless supreme delight,
Transmuted is ravishment’s minister, Life that meets the Eternal with close breast,
A high note and a fiery refrain. An unwalled mind dissolved in the Infinite,
Force one with unimaginable rest?
All things are a harmony faultless, pure;
Grief is not nor stain-wound of desire; “I, Earth, have a deeper power than Heaven;
The heart-beats are a cadence bright and sure My lonely sorrow surpasses its rose-joys,
Of Joy’s quick steps, too invincible to tire. A red and bitter seed of the raptures seven; —
My dumbness fills with echoes of a far Voice.
A Will there, a Force, a magician Mind
Moves, and builds at once its delight- “By me the last finite, yearning, strives
norms, To reach the last infinity’s unknown,
The marvels it seeks for surprised, outlined, The Eternal is broken into fleeting lives
Hued, alive, a cosmos of fair forms, And Godhead pent in the mire and the stone.”
Sounds, colours, joy-flamings. Life lies here Dissolving the kingdoms of happy ease
Dreaming, bound to the heavens of its goal, Rocked and split and faded their dream-chime.
In the clasp of a Power that enthrals to sheer All vanished; ungrasped eternities
Bliss and beauty body and rapt soul. Sole survived and Timelessness seized Time.
Earth’s heart was felt beating below me still,

Veiled, immense, unthinkable above
My consciousness climbed like a topless hill,
Artwork: Jagannath Chakravarti Crossed seas of Light to epiphanies of Love.
Jivanmukta
There is a silence greater than any known
To earth’s dumb spirit, motionless in the soul
That has become Eternity’s foothold,
Touched by the infinitudes for ever.
A Splendour is here, refused to the earthward sight,

That floods some deep flame-covered all-seeing eye;
Revealed it wakens when God’s stillness
Heavens the ocean of moveless Nature.
Shiva A Power descends no Fate can perturb or vanquish,

Calmer than mountains, wider than marching waters,
The Inconscient Creator A single might of luminous quiet
Tirelessly bearing the worlds and ages.
A face on the cold dire mountain peaks A Bliss surrounds with ecstasy everlasting,
Grand and still; its lines white and austere An absolute high-seated immortal rapture
Match with the unmeasured snowy streaks Possesses, sealing love to oneness
Cutting heaven, implacable and sheer. In the grasp of the All-beautiful, All-beloved.
Above it a mountain of matted hair He who from Time’s dull motion escapes and thrills
Aeon-coiled on that deathless and lone head Rapt thoughtless, wordless into the Eternal’s breast,
In its solitude huge of lifeless air Unrolls the form and sign of being,
Round, above illimitably spread. Seated above in the omniscient Silence.
A moon-ray on the forehead, blue and pale, Although consenting here to a mortal body,
Stretched afar its finger of chill light He is the Undying; limit and bond he knows not;
Illumining emptiness. Stern and male For him the aeons are a playground,
Mask of peace indifferent in might! Life and its deeds are his splendid shadow.
But out from some Infinite born now came Only to bring God’s forces to waiting Nature,
Over giant snows and the still face To help with wide-winged Peace her tormented labour
A quiver and colour of crimson flame, And heal with joy her ancient sorrow,
Fire-point in immensities of space. Casting down light on the inconscient darkness,
Light-spear-tips revealed the mighty shape, He acts and lives. Vain things are mind’s smaller
Tore the secret veil of the heart’s hold; motives
In that diamond heart the fires undrape, To one whose soul enjoys for its high possession
Living core, a brazier of gold. Infinity and the sempiternal
All is his guide and beloved and refuge.
This was the closed mute and burning source
Whence were formed the worlds and their star-dance;
Life sprang, a self-rapt inconscient Force,
Love, a blazing seed, from that flame-trance.
Trance A naked and silver-pointed star

Floating near the halo of the moon;
A storm-rack, the pale sky’s fringe and bar,
Over waters stilling into swoon.
My mind is awake in stirless trance,

Hushed my heart, a burden of delight;
Dispelled is the senses’ flicker-dance,
Mute the body aureate with light.
O star of creation pure and free,

Halo-moon of ecstasy unknown,
Storm-breath of the soul-change yet to be,
Ocean self enraptured and alone!
In Horis Aeternum
A far sail on the unchangeable monotone of a slow slumbering sea,
A world of power hushed into symbols of hue, silent unendingly;
Over its head like a gold ball the sun tossed by the gods in their play
Follows its curve, — a blazing eye of Time watching the motionless
day.
Here or otherwhere, — poised on the unreachable abrupt,

snow-solitary ascent
Earth aspiring lifts to the illimitable Light, then ceases broken and
spent,
Or on the glowing expanse, arid, fiery and austere, of the desert’s
hungry soul, —
A breath, a cry, a glimmer from Eternity’s face, in a fragment the
mystic Whole.
Moment-mere, yet with all Eternity packed, lone, fixed, intense,

Out of the ring of these hours that dance and die caught by the spirit
in sense,
In the greatness of a man, in music’s outspread wings, in a touch, in
a smile, in a sound,
Something that waits, something that wanders and settles not, a
Nothing that was all and is found.
Artwork: Jagannath Chakravarti

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A Magazine of the

ARTS, LITERATURE & CULTURE

THE PURPOSE OF EDUCATION

A Magazine of the Arts, Literature and Culture

50 Book: Fall Winter Collections

74 Book: Mrs. Dalloway

52 Cinema: Batman v Superman

THE BAN CULTURE

04 CultureCult Magazine - Spring 2016

CLYDE LIFFEY 71 JAMES VALVIS

CultureCult Magazine - Spring 2016 05

And yet an act of Fate it was not. Or so I hear.

What remains, not in newsprints or homepages but in memory, are the

Then who drops a flyover? []

- T. S. Eliot, ‘The Waste Land’

Modern poetry informs us of April being the

Spring has historically been associated with a

Arab Spring (Tahrir Square during the Egyptian revolution 2011)

the overlooking media to the ‘inconvenient truth’

As the world is gradually robbed of green, the

It is time that we become conscious of the respon-

The ground must be tilled so it helps us rise and

“The Gymnasium required everyone to participate in

“Excuse me,” Beppo said, “the wine, the coffee at brunch.”

crowd. He felt for his phone. It wasn’t in his pocket. He’d

blind justice mug shots

Way ride the crazy wind orgy

To flip bike slam

Stop Harrison St. surface stripped

I’m meat on the street

deep drawn breath two club doors

Artwork: Suhas Krishna

How do you Feel

I thought about kissing you in the Sandinista rain,

I thought about you at a rooftop party in Brooklyn,

My life seemed so bland to compare, colourless, eating

I thought about your many-coloured coats streaming through

Thinking about the captain's cliffs,

In the morning in the bathtub, waking up

Reached out to hold lightly, your skin well-

Blood was pumping, rising up swiftly

Teeth chattered to the blanket warm-up,

Beyond Two Poems

It is ironical that this poem shall be sent for publishing

Photography: Bruno Barbey

lytic experience. What is this kind of experience? If

The second picture above clearly tells us about the

operate? Lacan tells us that the paternal operation is to de-

As a conclusion it has to be mentioned that the revolution-

“I've been playing that four all night.” *

* He gripped the lip of the bowl. Chives and caper

“Four black wins.”

Our present system of education, with its emphasis

If viewed honestly, the purpose of the current sys-

for an unquestioning employee and an acquies- not be prevented from learning.

that is well worth remembering: “The most important of all

The current system may instruct us as to the best way to

Then, of course, there is the corruption born of a system that

Who can doubt that such a tendency will inevitably carry

I cautiously suggest that there just may be. It will of course

demand a reversal of societal values with nothing short of

As with any revolutionary change, it begins with education.

There is one last observation which I would like to make in