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Neelam Dadhwal

Neelam Dadhwal

Photo by Lucan Husac.

Current Events

A fairly inexperienced mosquito and housefly often can be intrude through mesh.
The net at night make them humbly wait for blood and finding no filth,
they carve their future estimates by irritating me to be a customized guest of their needs.
Morning newspaper carries always front page news of riots, scams
or some disaster and I take my frustration in folding it in cylindrical shape
and spatting a fly, though not available generally.
Then I read through title and mark it in my diary with date to wait for some days.
An occasional fly returns and vent out my anger by hitting with newspaper.
Dead, it is thrown to ground, to be later broomed to a burial outside.
The newspaper unfolds a new scam and last one sees its dust.
I catch a mosquito with my single hand, learning new mechanism of
its rotation and my force of gravity.
Blood and spores sticking to it are washed before I read through
and I start to imagine, have I really got bereft of stains.
I find the lines getting blurry before me, another distraction
I lift my diary and rewrite two past episodes and in between
how I felt about them and I forget now to evade both with
primeval instincts.

A Chair

Why a chair has to be silent
with four legs on ground
and its back support open like
peacock feathers with
a soft cushion, embroidered with
mirror work and cross stitch and I
perch on it on most days to keep
myself active and straight. It serves this
purpose so far.

Creative Journey

Our tongues are tied suddenly,
faced with questions of whole world destiny.
No brother or sister could we identify,
in our own land, our day end in deep gallows.
The form window is our case entry,
where we fill in details how to get penalized.
Umpteen rounds of office, files of worth gather golden dust,
on face freckles from understated strains.
Silvery crust of bribe, knots a noose on literary head,
where do we owe sentiments designed.
No one reads them, knowledge from old days lights
some passionate souls, and thus inks more history.

Light and Shade

It is the complexity,
in company of light and shade,
two flesh sought relief.
Both busy in their strife,
white is self but to light it seek vigor,
black is self but to shade it seek perch,
unassuming both envied.
For light is bright and holds what could sustain life,
shade is mild but to extend only vain,
for light is bright and holds claim to recognize,
shade is dear soothing scars behind.
Distancing souls emerge like calamity,
more flesh joined them competing,
some restraints there present,
unwisely privileges favored some.
Guiding one took turns but
under oppression,
fight for light and shade,
more than century lie commence.



Jayanta Mahapatra: In Conversation with Sachidananda Mohanty
Sarojini Sahoo: In Discussion with Kavita Arya

Deepali Yadav: Divakaruni’s Oleander Girl
Disha Khanna: Mahesh Dattani’s On a Muggy Night in Mumbai
Hampi Chakrabarti: Punctured Conscience
Koushiki Dasgupta: The Poetry of Mallika Sengupta

Book Reviews
Atreya Sarma: ‘Mystic Warrior’
GSP Rao: ‘Tapestry Poetry’
Jaydeep Sarangi: ‘Exchanges with the Thinker’
Priyanka Kakoti: ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’

Ambika Ananth: Editorial Note
Abin Chakraborty
Amreen B Shaikh
Ankush Banerjee
Charles Thielman
Jhuma Sen
Lora Tomas
Neelam Dadhwal
Rafiul Rahman
Rittvika Singh
Rob Harle
Rohan Dominic Mathews
Shanta Acharya
Simon Perchik
Sunita Raina Pandit

Shernaz Wadia: Editorial Comment
Anirudh Kala: ‘Mr Haq’
KL Chowdhury: ‘Tenderer than a Petal…’
Madhuliika Ghose: ‘Inspiration’
Prashila Naik: ‘The B.A. Pass Groom’
Sunil Sharma: ‘Dream’
Vempalle Shariff: ‘A Point of Nails’

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