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Bidyut Bhusan Jena

Bidyut Bhusan Jena

The Gust of wind

The gust of wind rose from its slumber and blew
through trees, untrodden streets
and forgotten alleys it blew;
ruffling both black and grey hair,
brushing against tombstones,
over cremation grounds and graveyards;
extinguishing a lamp here and a life there it blew.

Kissing surreptitiously
his perspiration-smeared body
and over the surface of water,
unveiling vermillion-clad foreheads
and vermillion-departed ones it blew.
Depositing dust in old and new eyes,
stealing the fragrance of
memories, tears and smiles
from unknown corners it blew.

Taking the yellow leaf away
from the branch just outside my window and
tossing, turning and whirling it with
countless dead leaves
till it was lost forever it blew;
turning your pyre into embers
finally, it blew.

A Footnote on Waiting

Dusk it was;
dusk at the far end of
a non-descript town,
a place where partings are planned
under a deciduous tree with
unreadable names and symbols
engraved on its timeless body.

An old presence with wrinkles
on his body and
scales of time on his walking stick
was lost in an unnamable elsewhere.
Was he looking in the
direction of the leafless tree
that sheltered the
long-damaged body of the train –
a time-rusted relic, since that day?
I too was waiting for a train;
I have been.

Notes on a Relationship

The toffee-wrapper is still lying there,
half-buried beneath a pile of fallen leaves
and the growth of a history of sands
mixed with iridescent pebbles;
yes, there, where we used to sit,
unaware of the workings of time;
but I don't remember
who brought the toffee and
for whom?
I for you or You for me,
Or both for each other;
but the wrapper is
still lying there,
wrapped in history,
sometimes I think, just
like our relationship.

The Window was Closed Forever

The birds would
mould their voices
accordingly and
the trees would
burst into blossoms
as if for his sake
and the window was
open forever;
seasons stopped by and
departed to return again;
trees became deciduous
and put forth new leaves
in the hope that the
time-tired eyes behind
the railings of the window,
would be watching
the drama outside through
the inevitable phases of life.
But today all the
celebration on the other side
is history,
as the window is closed



Sunil Uniyal and Ranu Uniyal: In Conversation with Charanjeet Kaur

Literary Articles
A S Mohamed Rafee: Naipaul’s India
Anindita Ghosh: U R Ananthamurthy
Indrani Das Gupta: Bama’s Sangati
Rudra Kinshuk: Agha Shahid Ali
Swati Srivastava & Avneesh Kumar Singh: Rohinton Mistry & Vikram Seth

Book Reviews
Alka Dutt: God I Am
Ambika Ananth: Ink and Line
Glenis M Mendonça: Teresa’s Man and Other Stories from Goa
Gopal Lahiri: The Reverse Tree
K K Srivastava: Rotations of Unending Time
Pramod K Das & Narayan Jena: The Whispering Grove
U Atreya Sarma: One Year for Mourning
VVB Rama Rao: Emotionoceans
Payal Das: ‘De-Coding The Silence!’

Amibka Ananth: Editorial Note
Arnapurna Rath
B R Nagpal
Bem Le Hunte
Bidyut Bhusan Jena
Javed Latoo
K N Shivshankar
Murali Sivaramakrishnan
Nar Deo Sharma
Pranshu Prakash
R K Biswas
Shobha Narayan
Vijay Kumar Roy

U Atreya Sarma: Editorial Musings
Ajay Patri: God's Own Taxi
Bem Le Hunte: Divine Confluence
Indu Parvathi: Two
Narayan: A Mother’s Grief
Neera Kashyap: A woodpecker hammers at my throat
Sunil Sharma: A story told by a maid-servant’s preteen daughter
Sushrut Bhatia: At School

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