Tuesday, June 14, 2016

'Hobbies, and the meaning of life' --- sharing an article I loved

Although I don't usually "share" other people's writings on this blog, here is a piece I read yesterday which raised so many questions that I myself so often struggle with, ponder over. Why do we have our hobbies, passions, and "hobby-horses" which are utterly useless and unproductive, and which, are a mark of our elite bourgeois status which offers us the leisure time essential for our "hobby-horses". The piece discusses all these questions, and also tries to see how our passions can form voices of dissent and make us into better people. Okay, no more. Please please please read this. Suffice it to say that I find this piece amazing and would like to share it here, breaking the general rule. The "hobby" of the writer is bird-watching. From here he begins and goes on to questioning the nature, use and importance of our "hobby-horses".

'Hobbies, and the meaning of life'

Click here.

a poem 'Anagapesis' in The Literary Nest, and a 'queer' story by Queer Ink

A poem 'Anagapesis' has been accepted for The Literary Nest. The issue will appear in mid-July 2016. Thanks to the recent Helter Skelter listings through which I got to know about The Literary Nest and several other journals! The word 'Anagapesis' means "falling out of love", or losing the sense of affection for someone or something once loved. My poem questions whether this Anagapesis is possible at all. :-)

The next bit of news is that... well Queer Ink publishers publish errrm, queer stuff. LGBTQIA. They are currently working on a few anthologies of queer short fiction. I am copy-pasting below the mail I received from them. :-)

Congratulations, Shruti!

We are delighted to inform you that your story, 'The Trial', has been selected for Queer Ink's next anthology! Before we proceed, we request you to inform us if you have submitted this story to other publishing houses.

We really liked the storyline and found the characters interesting and complex. The other two stories you sent, 'A Corridor Moment' and 'Dream Desires', were clearly connected to 'The Trial' with the same characters and continuing plot. We thought it best if all three stories could be combined into one, with 'The Trial' being the main setting and the other two stories forming a part of the narrative, maybe as flashbacks or even narrative back and forths. 

We would love to work with you to further refine the story for publication. Do let us know if you are willing to work with our editor to make possible revisions and rewrites.

Thank you for sharing your story with us. We look forward to a fruitful collaboration. 

Thanks and regards, 
Queer Ink Editorial Panel

Thursday, June 2, 2016

A poem shortlisted, IIAS, and poems in SCRIPTS

So, I loved IIAS, I loved the conference, and I loved the hills. Who would not love to have the poet Sampurna Chattarji as their very own room-mate for three whole days?? I intend to brag about this for the rest of my life. She also happens to be the sister of one of our English deptt teachers-- well, just gives me more reasons to brag. My paper went well and was well received, hopefully it makes it to the anthology of selected papers!

Okay, in other news, there is a art, culture and literature organisation based in Pakistan which is called Umang, and is headed by Dr Nosheen Ali. This organisation held a competition on the theme of 'Liberation' for the Nasreen Anjum Bhatti Poetry Prize wherein I was shortlisted for my poem 'Kabir Das ki Nagri- Reclaiming My City'. The poem deals with Benares, where I was born and brought up. Nothing to rave about too much perhaps, as this was supposed to be an international competition but could not spread very far and wide, so they only got a few entries, and these were mostly from India and Pakistan. So, nothing to rave about, perhaps, and yet, something to still feel nice about.

Well, alright, I haven't posted any actual poetry in here for a long, long time now, so I am putting the two poems and the passage that appeared in SCRIPTS below.


You said I remind you of your sister
When she was very young.
Sometimes I think I could have been
Your littlest sister. Could have played
With you, read with you and
Grown up with you.
Sometimes I think I could have been Axomiya
I look at your sister, she is like you
But not a mirror image. Sometimes I think
I could be her. I could be her sister too. You, her,
And me too. I could sister-love you, sister-look-up-to-you
And sister-tease you then.
I could take that as fundamental fact
Before I took on the world.
Sometimes I think I could have
Called you Baidew.

An Illicit, Wicked, Scatological Love Poem

To lick salty sweat off your skin
To kiss your hot fevered body
To touch your menstrual blood
To smell it. Hair too. Pubic hair too.
To caress your wounds and itches.
To clean vomit and shit and then again
To love every part of you. To suck
Blood like a vampire or a suction pump.
Is that violent? I did not mean violence.
Is this poem violent? Is it blasphemous?
Is it grotesque? Does it talk about the gross parts
Of you, or rather, of me? But already,
It is becoming inseparable, you see.
You may feel repulsed by this poem. You may
Want to eject it. Vomit it out. My animal hunger.
Like morning phlegm spat out with toothpaste,
You wrote somewhere. Spat, that’s the end of that.
But all this is only fantasy. And I could make the climax
A little more gruesome, a little more profane
It’s just a different way of me being inside you
I could be inside you as food. Yes, you could kill me
And eat me, if you prefer to do.

You have taken residence within my brain, anyway.
In skin vein and limb, dream and whim, your name
the obsessive compulsive disorder of my tongue
I was just trying to get inside you. I thought
It might be a little less lonely.

a short excerpt from a short story 'Dream Desires': 


There were all the tiniest of wish fulfillment dreams, where so much happiness came at the cost of so little. Such as the dreams about the parties, for instance. Planning a party sitting on a side bench with Kopilee ma’am’s sister. Gatecrashing a party at Kopilee ma’am’s house and then struggling to find a way out. Sitting. Talking. Dreams about things much smaller than parties. Parties are grand, after all. These dreams were like Virginia Woolf’s “small matches struck in the dark … “, they were what made life go on. These dreams were about eyes, looks and glances, about  beautifully sweet nothings and random acts of kindness. They were “moments of being”, which get lost in the act of storytelling. The only way to keep these moments is to bind them tightly to oneself, as precious little secrets that can never be divulged or given away. To keep them like the last sweet morsel on the tongue which you don’t want to swallow. To live at night what you could not live during the day. To love the dreams, to rub them, caress them, to preserve their sanctity, to refuse to destroy them requires that they not be written down. Because the written word was rigid, and her dreams were small.