The Wagon Magazine July 2017 Web (1)

1The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017



3NOTES FROM NEW DELHIOn Writing a Poem For poetry makes nothing happen...WH Auden famously wrote in his elegy ‘In Memory of WB Yeats’ in 1939. For a while now, I have been using this line to initiate debates over therelevance of poetry in our time. Every time, I arrive at the same conclusion:Poetry doesn’t need to make things happen. It’s enough that it exists. In a consumerist world where everything exists for a reason (to makesomething happen, as Auden would argue), the existence of poetry signifiesthat we are still in touch with the emotional core that makes us human. In India, particularly, in the last couple of years, we have seen aresurgence of poetry, in all Indian languages, including English. For this,the credit must go to the internet. This is the thing about poetry — itneeds readers to thrive. The internet, first the blogs, then the social mediasites, offered poetry a platform denied by the traditional publishing setup. Seriously, there is so much poetry in my immediate vicinity,sometimes I wonder if there’s enough readership for the amount ofpoetry being produced. This is not a good question. The good questionis, are these poems any good? Frankly, I don’t know the answer. I canonly offer my views on what makes a good poem. I have seen a lot of poets embrace Wordsworth’s adage about poetryas ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’, without botheringto listen to the next part of his argument that poetry is ‘emotionsrecollected in tranquillity.’ Since I studied EngLit, I prefer to listen toEliot, though selectively. For me, poetry is an act of letting go, a conscious exercise inerasure. You start like Wordsworth. You remember a powerfulexperience and jot it down. Here begins the craft of poetry. You startdeleting everything that’s superfluous, word after word, sentence aftersentence. Finally, you will have some stray phrases perhaps. Imaginepainting. These stray phrases are your outline. Now, start filling them The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

4 with colours. Follow Eliot. Make the references indirect, make them obscure. Create a colourful maze and hide the ‘powerful feeling’ which prompted you to start this exercise inside it. Let your readers find it; or let them reflect their own ‘powerful feeling’ inside the maze. In parting, allow me to share a poem which I have been erasing for the last three years. From 2,054 words, I have managed to trim it to 976 words. The goal is to keep the word count under 500. Happy reading! Dibyajyoti Sarma New Delhi, July 2017 In which we are born Hiranyagarbhah samavartatagre bhutasya jatah patirekesita Sa dadhara prthvim dhyamutemam kasmai devayahavisa vidhema 1. ‘Ex nihilo nihil fit: Out of nothing comes nothing.’ ‘Were they created by nothing? Or were they themselves the creators?’ 2. ‘Who created the world?’ ‘I have no idea. It was long before my time.’ 3. We do not remember our first cries. The blinding light; the first touches. Someone severed the umbilical cord. Who?The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

5Our divine Mother, who was she?Who was her consort?Whose seed did she nurture?This is the search for the umbilical cord.4.Who was the existence before the golden embryo?Someone was there; this much is certain, but who?5.The beginning was a void. The sky did not exist.There was no existence; there was no nonexistence. Nothing.Then something happened. What?Something stirred? Where?In the beginning, there was no death; so no birth.There was no night, or day. Everything was liquid,malleable, like molten gold, like melting ice.Someone drew a breath? Who?The beginning was measureless water.It was dark, though darkness itself did not exist.There was nothing to compare one with another.Then something warm appeared. Where?6.This is all but a conjecture.Who can tell what ensued in the dark void?Who could see through the dark voidbeneath measureless water?Who could claim to have witnessed the creation?Who could have known the one who created?The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

6 7. Everything came afterwards, even the gods, with this creation. So it was not them, they with powers, they with immortality. 8. In the beginning, the Earth was vast, empty and silent — like space, like eternity, like death. From this evolved two forms — a man and a woman. There was no forbidden fruit, and they copulated without guilt. Aeon passed. The woman gave birth to seven eggs. From the first two appeared the gods. The kings came from the third and men from the other three. The last egg to hatch was the largest and what came forth was ugly and evil — our despised twin. 9. No, they were not human, but two birds Aham Guru created, which produced three eggs. Aeon passed and the eggs would not hatch. In desperation, the mother bird broke one egg and lo, it was empty. Aham Guru wasn’t pleased. He was busy and could not decide what to put inside the shell. He asked the birds to take a flight and wait, for god’s sake, before he made up his mind. The birds carried the broken shells of the empty egg and scattered them over the empty earth. From these were born trees, worms and insects and the evil spirits who would hound us until eternity, for we are their kin. The trees covered the Earth and one day, the eggs hatched. Form one appeared a man and from the other a woman — our primal parents, an evolution from feathers to skin. 10. Much before that, there was only water. It impregnated itself and gave birth to a pair of boys, who floated and drifted. When hungry, they drank water and they peed and pooped in water. The poop gathered and created the earth. They were bored and they doodled on the sky, a sun, a moon, and numerous stars. They were bored, and they created a man and a woman and they were bored no more. 11. The two brothers were the masters of the sky and the only possession they had was a lotus plant. They threw the lotus stem down to the Earth and as the lotus bloomed, they created air to ferry the scent everywhere. With the scent, the air carried dust particles and spread it; land emerged.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

712.Then emerged the golden embryo,like the yellow sun,like kitchen fire during winter nights,like our indomitable desire to live.It was the moment time started to tick;it was the moment gods were made.13.There was a beginning; there was the golden instrument.And there was something else besides — someone.A man? A woman?Or someone with indefinite gender?14.Brahma appeared old. He opened his mouth, to cry, to suckle on his nonexistentmother’s breasts. A word left his oesophagus — bhuh, and land emerged. Hewas surprised; another word came forth — bhuvah, and there was air. Thenanother word — suvar, and there was the sky; as if someone switched on a lightin a dark cell. Surprised, the old man with four heads opened his four mouths,and gods stepped forth, one after another, from the sea of his saliva, crossingthe hurdles of his old, yellowed, broken teeth.15.And the gods, they left to live out their lives and forgot Brahma, as childrendo. And no one asked how exactly did Brahma come into being. And no oneasked what exactly was this golden embryo?16.And there she is, the Mother, the Absolute.She with ten thousand names, none of which she needs,because every name is her, everything you notice is her,everything you imagine is her, everything you cannot imagine is her. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

8 LETTER FROM LONDON 8 JOHN LOOKER Dear Readers, Well, my wife and I are temporarily here in New Zealand. In mid-winter while England enjoys a very warm summer! We are visiting two daughters and their families. Fortunately, they live close by each other, in Dunedin, far to the south – a city of grey stoneThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

9founded in the nineteenth century by Scots, carried forward by a short-livedgold rush, and today a regional capital with a port in one of the world’s mostbeautiful natural harbours. It is also designated a City of Literature. I feel very much at home here. Among other things, I have visitedthe offices of Landfall, New Zealand’s oldest and best known literary jour-nal which has just published its seventieth anniversary edition. It offerspoems, stories, articles and reviews – the same balance as in The WagonMagazine. The poem below celebrates sign language and the way in which thisliberates deaf people. Sign language is far more than a set of gestures that correspond to spo-ken words. It is a language with its own grammar as well as vocabulary – agrammar composed of physical movements in time and space. At the same time, I feel that the poem celebrates the invention oflanguage – and writing – generally: any language and at any time andplace. What could be more suitable for a transnational literary journal withwriters whose first languages are highly varied? One of our daughters is a teacher of deaf schoolchildren. Not deaf herself, she became very interested in the condition and tooka university degree in linguistics and deaf studies before going on to takean additional qualification as a teacher. My wife and I remember watching her as she entered an English pubto meet friends who were deaf. We could see the crowded bar through thewindow, and watched as immediately she engaged her friends in conver-sation over the heads of all the people there. That memory stuck in mymind and, years later, became the prompt for this poem. So, after this introduction, here is the poem: The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

10The Makers of LanguageUnder his hand the hieroglyphs emerge: bird and serpent, eye. Into the stone he chisels miniature pictures of his thoughts. Another time, another place, and the pale scholar sits, in silks, his mind moving with the brush.Now today and here: Friday night in the city and a crowded bar. In fact, it’s packed. Open the door and push yourself into the crush. From end to end they’re sitting, standing, squeezing. Leaning closer. Lips working.Seeing your friends at the far side of the crowd and seeing that they’ve seen you, it’s hi! how are you, it’s I had trouble parking but now that I’m here what’syours? your hands and arms inscribing signs in the air, pictograms, ideograms, flowing from mind to mind. John Looker lives with his wife in Surrey, south-east England. His first collection of poetry, The Human Hive, was published in 2015 by Bennison Books (through Amazon) and was selected by the Poetry Library for the UK’s national collection. His poems have appeared in print and in online journals, on local radio and in When Time and Space Conspire, an anthology commemorating the 25th anniversary of the Austin International Poetry Festival. His blog, Poetry from John Looker, is at https://johnstevensjs.wordpress.comThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

11PROVERBS & PROVIDENCEBy a lamp-post corner of cobblestone streets,December trick-or-treats,And unsung heroes of unfought warsIn classic slapstick shows,Run icy streams of melted winter-rooftop snows;Past tea parties and Disneyland parades,Moonlight serenades,Teenage lawyers,Bobby socks,And dancing bears on San Francisco sidewalks;To Elysian FieldsColored mint greenWhose annual yieldsPlay ducks and drakesWith bulls and bearsWhile drawing staresFrom passersby whose hearts and mindsAre left behindUntil they come to the end of the line. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

12 Long, dark shadows Fall like Autumn leaves, Settle beneath the eaves, And stay till Spring. But the muted lamp light in the street And the sounds of running feet, Icicles shattering, Dinner plates clattering, And stray cats tipping garbage cans Up and down the alleyways of Life (To be cleaned up by my Wife, If she’s still here tomorrow) Are like the Eagles on the Jukebox At the White Hart Pub Or a steaming tub On a Rugby Sunday afternoon. April raindrops fall and echo Pierce the night and splinter the dark; Sparrows return to the park, And the Sun returns from the South. I’ll lie on my back and count the clouds, Sipping cool spring air, With a foxtail straw in my mouth. Rabbi Yonason Goldson, keynote speaker with 3,000 years’ experience, lives with his wife in St. Louis, Missouri. He is a former hitchhiker, circumnavigator, newspaper columnist, and high school teacher. His latest book, Proverbial Beauty: Secrets for Success and Happiness from the Wisdom of the Ages, is available on Amazon. Visit him at yonasongoldson.comThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

13THE WANDERER Your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya She tied you to a kitchen chair She broke your throne, and she cut your hair And from your lips she drew the hallelujahSo sang Leonard Cohen in one of the most popular songs of the last twenty years or so, a karaoke standby, commercial radio favourite andX Factor standard, Hallelujah. Seeing and hearing some of the coverversions brought out in recent years, I wonder how closely a lot of thesingers listened to the song: one on the radio pronounced ‘overthrew ya’as ‘overthrew you;’ perhaps he thought he was cleaning up Cohen’s dic-tion, and apparently not noticing that the those words, in one of Cohen’sbeguiling blends of the sacred and the profane, was meant to rhymewith ‘hallelujah.’ One X Factor contestant sang the song with his fists The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

14 clenched, looking to the sky as if he were singing gospel or Christian rock. Whatever else the song is, it ain’t that. Cohen was a poet before he was a song-writer, and his songs are full of religious and historical references, but he also had the knack of writing a catchy tune, which is why so many people now find themselves singing along to a song that blends Cohen’s own romantic misadventures with those of a three thousand year old Hebrew King. According to the Book of Samuel, King David walked on the roof of his palace and from there saw Bathsheba bathing. He seduced her and made her pregnant, and to avoid her husband finding out, called back from the wars so that her husband could sleep with her and imagine himself the father. The soldier, Uriah, would not sleep with her as the law forbade soldiers from sexual activity while on duty, so the king sent Uriah to the front line where he was killed in action, allowing the king to marry his widow, though not without tragic consequences. Cohen uses the powerful imagery of the David and Bathsheba story to evoke those first, guilty stirring of lust in a relationship. In the 20th century sexual guilt and divine punishment were fast going out of fashion, but Cohen’s lust was apparently not without consequence: the following lines seem to suggest a relationship that led to a loss of dignity on the man’s part, and perhaps outright humiliation, alongside whatever sexual satisfaction it brought. In the late 16th century, the very same biblical story inspired one of the most sensuous lyrics in the English language, George Peele’s Bethsabe’s Song, actually a lyric from his play David and Fair Bethsabe. This song is what she is singing as she is being viewed by the King: Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair. Shine, sun; burn fire; breathe, air, and ease me; Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me; Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning, Make not my glad cause cause of mourning. Let not my beauty’s fire Inflame unstaid desire, Nor pierce any bright eye That wand’reth lightly.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

15 Peele’s poem is full of contrasts – the hot sun and the cool sweet airs of the outdoors, the white- ness of Bathsheba and the black shade she calls from her maid. In European literature, while darkness signifies evil, whiteness often signifies purity and innocence, but it is clear to the reader that Bath- sheba’s thoughts and feel- ings are hardly pure – hercalling for ‘black shade’ from her maid may represent a subconsciousdesire to spot her purity with sin. Her wishes seem to contradict eachother, as she asks at the very same time for the sun to shine and to bekept from burning, as if she is simultaneously relishing and resisting herown desire, and they even, with the ‘cool fire’ turn to paradox, a poeticsymptom of the confusions of love since Petrarch employed them in14th century Italy. This Bathsheba, far from an innocent, seems to beaware of the observer – the line ‘shroud me and please me’ is as much acome on to the king as an instruction to her maid. The sixth line ‘makenot my glad cause of mourning,’ too, is best interpreted as directed atthe king, asking that the cause of his desire – her beauty, not also be thecause of tragedy, which of course it would be. The ‘mourning’ refers not to the death of Bathsheba’s husband Uriah,but rather the death of the child conceived as a result of David and Bath-sheba’s affair. That, according to the Bible, was God’s punishment for David’ssin. But the couple’s second son went on to become the great King Solo-mon, known for his wisdom, which has become proverbial, and also for agreat love affair of his own. The story of his great affair with the queen ofSheba has little grounding in the Bible, but has become a rich source of extra-Biblical tradition for not just for Jews, but for Muslims and for EthiopianChristians: Sheba, it is thought, was an ancient kingdom that straddled both The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

16 sides of the Red Sea in what is now Yemen and the Horn of Africa. The figure of Sheba has also been a source of fascination to poets, most notably the Irish poet WB Yeats. Here is the first stanza of one of two poems he wrote about the couple, Solomon to Sheba: Sang Solomon to Sheba, And kissed her dusky face, ‘All day from long mid-day We have talked in the one place, All day long from shadowless noon We have gone round and round In the narrow theme of love Like an old horse in a pound.’ The relationship between Sheba and Solomon is sometimes treat- ed as a kind of synecdoche for the meeting of east and west, and one could certainly try an ‘Orientalist’ critique of poems such as Yeats’, if one were that way inclined – many people, for example, would be a little uncomfortable with the description of Sheba’s face as ‘dusky’ at the offset of the poem. But Yeats wrote in less racially sensitive times, and his theme in this poem is not race, nor the meeting of civiliza- tions, but the meeting of souls – that is, love. If David and Bathsheba’s love became a symbol of a transgressiveThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

17love that brings disaster, Solomon and Sheba’s somehow became sym-bolic of a love that can bring people from two disparate cultures into aunity. Throughout the three stanzas of the poem, Yeats circles aroundthe same words, the same image and the same idea: that love canshrink our worlds down to the size and nature of a pound, in which ahorse goes round and round. There’s something of a wry joke in there,I suspect, which I will come back to in just a moment. Sheba wasn’t Solomon’s only conquest. Solomon was famous for hismany lovers as much as for his wisdom. This is why that great long ode toerotic love that somehow made it into the Bible, the Song of Songs, was oftenattributed to him, and is sometimes known as the Song of Solomon. Jewishand Christian theologians have had to come up with some far-fetched ideasto justify the inclusion of the Song of Songs in the Bible, with Christians, forexample, making of it a metaphor for the love between Jesus and his church.But laymen have been free to enjoy it for what it most obviously is – lovepoetry. The Song of Songs is probably a mix of several poems by differentauthors rather than one but the most memorable parts concern two loverswho praise each other in strikingly pastoral terms, evocative of the landscapeof the valleys, vineyards and orchards of the land around Jerusalem. Pastoralbeauty aside, the poem is quite striking for its frank near-eroticism and forthe very equal relationship of the male and female lover, both wooers andboth wooed. Here is the woman singing of the man: (2.3) As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my belovedamong the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and hisfruit was sweet to my taste. And here is the man singing to the woman: (7. 2, 6-7) Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor:thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies…How fair and howpleasant art thou, O love, for delights! This thy stature is like to a palm tree,and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. The poet borrows the sensuousness of the surrounding countryside forthe attractive features of the lovers, and that is one of the most characteristicand influential poetic techniques of the poem– I can’t imagine, for example,Neruda’s best-selling Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair would read asit does without the enduring influence of Song of Songs in Western culture, The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

18 even if his conflation of the fruits of the nature and the body of the lover is, although if anything, more sensuous, a little less direct: Girl lithe and tawny, the sun that forms the fruits, that plumps the grains, that curls seaweeds filled your body with joy, and your luminous eyes and your mouth that has the smile of water. I also wondered whether Yeats, who must have been aware of the asso- ciation between Solomon and the Song of Songs, was having a bit of a joke within his poem: the central image of the poem, that of a horse wandering a pound lacks the exoticism we expect from a poem about a Israeli king bed- ding an Afro-Arabian queen – it is much more evocative of his own native Dublin than of the ancient Middle East. But I digress. It’s no more absurd for Yeats to put a bit of Dublin into Jerusalem than for Cohen to imagine himself King David in 20th Century New York. For Westerners, Jew and Gentile alike, much of our language of desire, as much as our spirituality, can be traced back to the Holy Land. Andrew Fleck, who has been a secondary school teacher, proof reader and EFL teacher, among other things, writes on poetry and history at sweettenorbull.com. Currently, he is working on a historical fiction set in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, a project that he hopes will come to fruition at some point in 2017. Originally from the north east of England, he currently lives in South Korea with his wife and two small childrenThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

19Ah! Of iridescent gems of timethe heavenly roadyou paved lightIn a kingdom of stars,I found my homein the golden cities.I opened the gates to the sun,to behold the Godly giants. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

20 At the royal jewel palace I read of prehistoric wonderful poems the enormous, gorgeous, ancient books. Carved with the golden words The amazing strange mystery tales, made my eyes drunk. Into a full new world I went, To witness the seat of the holy kingdom: even before the earth was born – the erstwhile home of human history. In the crystal garden I saw a crowd of youthful giants. Their eyes were bright and glittering in the aura of the sparkling body. Across Time and Space in crystalline glitter stood that moment, a platinum city – A ship drifted leisurely, like a bird, resplendent in variegated hues. They sang happy songs They danced a wonderful dance Lanky boys and girls in pairs as if to celebrate the splendid carnival. I saw a circular edifice high above the city giving out white-bright lights elevated ground to fly into the quiet space. A frame of platinum edifice creating a beautiful pattern. The whole city was a circle. Finely arranged structure.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

Into a bright hall I went. a21A strange instrument there I saw.A huge screen hanging on the wall,displaying a golden space.like bits of colourful crystal gemstones!Resplendent with dappled colours of the city!Those beautiful high-rise buildingsA sight better than all the myths of the world.I saw lines of strange letters.On one side of the screen flashed swiftlynumerous young and strong giants.It was an effort to concentrate on the changing images.Their gaze was quiet and peaceful.The learned flame flashed in their eyes.In a flash of clothesThe next was a whole.Their stature, unusually tall.Each one was well nigh seven meters high.Both men and women look dignifiedalmost no age difference apparent.Their skin was whiteWith a faint flashy shineBright eyes as naïve as an infant’sKindled with a strange flame.They manipulated the magic of the instrument.A picture of the changing space.Their language was artless and plane.Like an ordinary bell, but pleasant. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

22 As I surveyed the length and breadth of the bright hall I felt powerful, Energy suffused with bliss and delight. As if I too am a giant in body and mind I seemed to understand their language. They were exploring the mysteries of the universe. There was a planet peopled with their various partners. Their mind they used to manipulate the instrument Also could transfer data Even thousands of miles apart Also to talk free to the heart. Many lines of text on the screen was but a message from afar. The whole universe was their home. They built cities in space. They used the spaceships to transport you to far distant other spaces. Into a lightning, in a moment, and you vanished into thin air, without a trace. I sensed the new civilization. They had magical eyes. They seemed to be able to see the future And could enter diverse times and spaces.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

Men and women were holy and loving a23superior to our world’s so-called loveThey didn’t understand ageingneither did they know about war.Time seemed not to existScience was exactly a wonderful artTheir happiness came from the creation ofa universe full of divine love.I saw a young giantOpening the door of a platinum –a round, magnificent hallpacked with rows of men and women.I saw a crystal stagegyrating at the center of the hallwhere a dignified and beautiful girlwas playing a huge musical instrument.A bunch of golden rays,Shifting with all kinds of brilliant graphicsA mysterious and beautiful musicLike the Dragon leisurely crowing.Thence I saw an enormous giantjump out of the dance onto the stage.His hands held a huge ballwhich flashed many colourful pictures.I saw a group of young girlswearing white dressseemed to float lightlyLike many giant cranes. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

24 The huge circular hall was resplendent with clear, transparent decoration like a full set of bizarre gems scintillating brilliantly in the light. I saw a young singer about the golden flame The sound was strange and striking Akin to a chanting. Their music was at once mysterious and blissful that shifted randomly like the lightning as though many planets of the universe shining bright and light in space. The crystal city, aloft in space looked resplendent, magnificent Countless wonderful golden flowers bloom and blush in that flawless space. I saw an image of a transparent smiling face, as if it were a colourful garden The golden light from the sky Turned it into a city of gold. I strode out of the circular hall Came to a wide street with a smooth pavement covered with precious stones and in line with the platinum edifice. There were no terrestrial trees there, but they were in full bloom. sparkling with rich incense, impression a garden at the center of the street.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

25Some strange flowers were there.The branches as transparent crystalFlashing all kinds of brilliant colours;and bunches of round golden fruits.I saw a huge statue.It was like a spaceship.Clustered around by shining stars,high above the centre of the street.I saw the column of a dazzling fountainIn a huge circle in the square;An elegantly modelled statueof a holy giant.A soaring magnificent edificeran round the circle square.There were some garden villasThere was a platinum steeple.I saw a wide riverGirdling this huge cityThe bottom sparkled with transparent gold dust,amidst scattered brilliant gems.The tall trees on shoreAnd a long crystal corridorA big multi-coloured birdfloated on the surface of the water.I saw a vast forestThe swaying tree, a tree of goldThe trees with towering spiresAnd a platinum pavilion. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

26 I saw some giants along the walk, some male and female bodybuilders at the water’s brink in the forest like birds carefree and relaxed. The wonderful space as bright as crystal embraced this platinum city; a giant, white and bright ball flashing boundless light into the air. It resembled a huge sun And like man-made planets The whole city was shining too, weaving a rare sort of magic. A strange speeding train circled the city back and forth; There seemed to be a kind of track in the sky Like a shiny silver curve.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

27With white buildingsit was a dreamlike mazeThis huge city was unusually quiet,could not even hear the sound of the wind.I bade goodbye to the platinum city.Near a golden spacestands another city herea huge city of Gold.The building here is also huge.But it is of another beautiful shape.The whole city is glitteringgolden edifice as beautiful as a sculpture.Here live some other giantsas if from another spacethey have boundless wisdomlike a golden, holy civilization. Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria Manu Mangattu teaches English at St George’s Col- lege, Aruvithura, Kerala. Besides translating from Chinese and Sanskrit, he also writes poetry in English and Malayalam. He is the chief editor of Aesthetique Journal for International Literary Enterprises The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

28 POETRY CHAITALI GAWADE Indelible In each line I sketch, each memory I draw, each word that mars my page you seep through. A bent curve, like old smiles, like poems pinned to the moon. The hazy shadow of an ear, a finger, the outline of a knee peep through. I twist and turn, rinse and wring words to wash you out. You remain a stubborn stain while my words fall away. The Loved Ones Caring can be grateful, warm as a thick blanket in cold weather. It can choke and smother and burn, leaving you gasping for air in a room filled with it. A empty scream floating in your mouth. How much is enough? A pinch, a teaspoon, the amount that fits in a closed fist? How many seconds, hours, days of caring are needed to measure it as love? Sometimes love leaves a body without limbs. Agni You walked around me with silence and a body stripped of shadow. It was raining that day. The torrents became one with the grieving house. It fell in different degrees, like the tears, soft and harsh and loud. The windshield wipers cry against the glass. They place you strategically on wooden logs to make sure the fire reaches every inch of you. You are coated with flowers their fragrance lost to you. The warmth from your shirt still surrounds me even as I try to get rid of the cold in my fingers from the dead embers.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

29 Baby ShoesYou come upon those baby shoes wrapped in soft cloth. You trace thepink velvet and the thick edge of fur lining its mouth. You feel its shal-low depth trying to reach for answers in the tiny grooves, rememberthe adorable warm lemon kisses, those garlands of tiny arms scentedwith baby powder around your neck, the taste of rice softened withghee, every hollow and bend of her skin, the shifting moods in hervoice and wonder what things you would have done differently if youknew all these gifts had come with a deadline. Happy AnniversaryYour indifference leaps across our bed and crawls all over my body. Itseeps into those wet cemented places that haven’t hardened yet. We usein love. My touch isn’t enough and yours sours by the time it reaches forme. We come to each other on borrowed words. I feel the sharp edge ofmisery in my mouth, dancing on my tongue. And I want to make youfeel it, taste it, fill you with tears. It’s the only way to stop my own. Chaitali Gawade writerly musings are fuelled by tea and coffee. Her work has been published by Unbroken Journal, Duckbill Anthology and Vagabondage Press, among others. She blogs at chaitaligawade.com The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

30 FLASH FICTION Jerry Vilhotti TToommTmoym Years ago, my older brother Tommy Tom Tom, a future doctor in psychology who would make house calls too, analyzing most of the people as latent homosexuals and lesbians, brought his col- lege friend Raja Bombay up for the weekend. My older sister, Alice in Wonderland, who would pronounce our last name Sanque in such a way that would hide our ‘race’ as the people of the town not very far from Salem where people were hung as witches for their prop- erty called one’s ethnicity, got the message confused. So she called the newspaper, The Burywater Simpleton to notify them that the In- dian ambassador was visiting us and needless to say we kept getting calls from them to see if ‘Christian Guy, Nehru or Gandhi’ or was it ‘Geronimo’ or some other redskin chief had arrived? Alice finally had to confess that she had gotten it all wrong; it was only a college friend of her brother’s, who worked at the United Nations part time. They still kept calling, thinking we were hiding the truth from them. As they believed a rich, rich guy from New York City who was telling the truth about all the bad immigrants killing great Americans, who was ready to take our democracy and republic, which were hiding in the closet, not yet ready to come out and be killed by the truth saying, as the guy himself who would often say, ‘What de ya gotta lose?’ Jerry Vilhotti ([email protected]) has had two collections of works accepted by a publisher: Gods Depicting Pastime which has the Greek gods discovering a game once played by people; a collec- tion called Specs in the Eyes of Seeing that follows a little boy’s journey from childhood to manhood The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

31BIO-FICTIONBen stepped out the south door of the little cabin just to take a quick look outside. He hadn’t yet put on his coat and the cool airfelt refreshing, he was glad there was no wind this morning or it wouldreally be cold. Ben could see his breath in the cool crisp air and thefrost covered the ground. It was quite this morning except for the oc-casional crow of the roosters. He started to turn to go back in, but hejust then caught something out of the corner of his eye. Slipping backin he grasped his colt that hung in its holster by the door then eased onout. Taking cover behind the nearest tree. It looked to him as if they hadplanned to ambush him when he came out this morning. It was a goodthing he always expected the worse and kept his eyes open for trouble.His precautions had saved him countless times. Being a lawman and justsupporting law and order could make you some enemies. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

32 They must not have expected him this early or they would have seen him. Most outlaws were cowards and they would have shot him as he relieved himself off the edge of the porch this morning. What he had seen was someone’s or something’s breath float out from behind one of the out buildings. This was a lot like hunting and evolved patents. Ben shivered in the cool air. He hoped that they would grow impatient and make their move. He waited until they stepped out to move in close. They would probably be right next to him before they knew he was there. Ben had been right and once they were standing in the open he said ‘ drop your guns and put your hands up’ both men shot in the direction of his voice, but didn’t live long enough to pull the trigger again, both died thinking they had hit their target. They had come close both had knocked splinters of bark from the cedar tree he stood behind. Sheriff Ben Josephs had just been elected a few months ago. He had been first a soldier. After that he became a deputy and had been for years. He planned to run for sheriff, but the last sheriff had gotten wind of it and let him go. Most of the citizens of the county liked him so when he put himself on the ballot he became a land slid win. He was bringing law and order to the county and the outlaws didn’t like it. The bootleggers were getting run out of the county. They were unhappy and starting to fight back. He recognized these two they were bootleggers. The outlaws in this county were more than making shine. This was an organized gang. The leader was now pushing up daisy and a fight was going on among those in the gang for control. The leader had been recently killed when he made a brutal at- tack on an armed citizen. He had been so full of himself he never con- sidered someone would fight back. His name had been Pat Hughes. Ben now looked down on the two dead men there was no joy in killing. He had seen it in others the social pathetic type. He had ar- rested several most tried to manipulate you with wit and charm. When they found that wouldn’t work that’s when they would get ugly and there true colors would show. That’s the way it had been with Pat Hughes the last time he had arrested him. These two smelled of alcohol they had probably drank their selfThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

33into having courage. That was one thing a lot of those sum bags diddip into there on product. Ben left the bodies and went in and got acup of coffee and made breakfast. He cracked a couple of eggs, friedthem and some bacon. Once he had finished he put his plates in thesink he would clean up later. He washed up and grabbed his coat and headed out. He walkedto the barn and got the horses that had been lift there by the two deadmen. Leading them up to the hitching rack by the cabin. ‘Whoa thereboys’ Ben said in a quiet voice. He put both men across their horse.Then walked out to saddle his own. Gregory Doc Patton was born in Parsons Kansas on a farm. His parents have always had horses and it was just a natural thing for him to become a cowboy. Although he does not work as a cowboy full time, it is the cowboy code and lifestyle he loves. He is a graduate of Parsons High School and Labette Community College. He hasraised and rode horses all of his life. He and his wife Debbie live on a small ranch the South Branch Ranch east of Parsons The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

34 TALESPIN It all started at the school master Arumugam’s house. Early in the morning, Arumugam Master’s wife opened the door at the backyard of the house to throw away the malodorous water after rinsing the fish taken for cooking. It was then her elderly neigh- bour Bangaru entered with an empty tin pot. ‘May I have your kitchen leftovers for feeding my buffaloes? They relish your cooking, it appears’. Bangaru said in a shrill tone sounding like at a feeble attempt at flattery. Arumugam Master’s wife would never tolerate a show of insolence of being called a cook for satiating the bovine taste buds, indirectly though. Yet she remained composed as she said in a sonorous voice, ‘Bangaru, your lost calf will return home in an hour’s time from now’. Bangaru was rearing cattle at the backyard of her house. Some- times they were tethered to the pegs on the pavement at the front, off the busy thoroughfare. Four buffaloes and a pair of calves constituted her dairy that mainly catered to the requirements of the tea shops around. Her clientele would include the establishment in the bus stand, that opposite to the veterinary hospital and the one on the rail- way feeder road. She would often think of expanding her dairy with acquiring a cow but was not sure whether buffaloes and the cows could be herded and maintained together. Moreover, the tea shop owners were demanding a delivery of only buffalo’s milk as it is highly viscous and can freely be diluted yielding more cups of tea, than with cow’s milk. A dash of diluted milk, a spoonful of jaggery laced Demerara sugar, a tea filter made of thick cloth that never went through any washing and a process to have the concoction served piping hot did the trick to keep the demand high for ever. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

35 Any remaining milk after delivering to the tea shops was usuallymade available by Bangaru to her neighbours, in exchange of their kitchenthrowaway that included discarded vegetable slices and the draff strainedoff the cooked rice. Though strictly not a win-win arrangement of barterfor both the parties, it somehow worked, perhaps with the exchange ofneighbourhood gossip also bundled with the transaction. Thus it was a happy co-existence of the buffaloes, Bangaru and herneighbours with a collateral felicity for the customers of the tea shops,prevailing for quite long. The happiness quotient went for a toss a coupleof days ago, with a calf Bangaru owned that went for gracing, going astray.Nothing was heard of it from then on. The mother of the calf stubbornlyresisted all attempts by Bangaru to milk it and the milk supply to the teashops was considerably reduced, thereby inducing the vendors to add alittle more water to the tea they vended, to tide over the situation. ‘Four tall, heavily built middle aged men with blue bandanas tiedto their head came from the northwest quadrant and have driven thecalf away. It will be extremely difficult to retrieve it’. Iyer, the astrologer threw a fistful of cowrie shells on the floorand after carefully studying the pattern they formed, shared a piece ofastrological information privy to him, with Bangaru. Bangaru was pained to listen to that prediction. A calf lost oncefor all would eventually result in a steep loss of revenue accruing fromthe tea shops. That would have a cascading effect on the maintenanceof Bangaru’s tiny dairy which again would make a still heavier dent inher income. She did not want to analyse that any further lest it wouldpresent a gloomy picture of her own future that would soon constitutethe final few years of her existence. Of course, she was not reluctant topay Iyer, the astrologer for his services, though his prediction was notof the kind that would bring her cheer. Nonetheless, she visited a few nearby villages in the north east inan attempt to elicit information about a buffalo calf and four well builtmiddle aged men wearing blue bandanas travelling with it. Her effortswere of no avail, though. And now Arumugam Master’s wife is offering Bangaru the hith-erto elusive solace quoting her kerosene stove, free of cost. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

36 ‘Our stove is also like Iyer, the astrologer with its acquired astro- logical prowess. It can’t stand the smell of meat or mutton. If you try using it to make fish curry, on its own it will be extinguished and will not light up again. Since the past two days, this stove of ours is giv- ing me predictions like Iyer, the astrologer. It communicates with me while I am cooking. The stove only prophesied that your calf would return. Go home. It will be there’. When Bangaru reached her home with trepidation, she saw the mother buffalo feeding the calf that came back, with a soft grunt, shaking its enormous body in a fit of ecstasy. It was at that very moment the kerosene stove in Arumugam Master’s house became a business competitor of Iyer, the astrologer. The astrological sessions of the stove would normally take place in the afternoon, after Arumugam Master’s wife had her lunch followed by a brief siesta. She would have reclaimed by then all washed clothes left on the cloth lines for drying, neatly folding them up. Arumugam Master would be at school then teaching the students in Class Seven about the properties of oxygen and the process to make it in the class- room using peeled potatoes, hydrogen peroxide and jars of clean water. The kerosene stove based astrological sessions became a regular feature soon. It became a daily occurrence with a break on Sundays, when Arumugam Master would be at home availing complete rest after elaborate oil massage and a hot water bath. Also, there would not be any sessions for three consecutive days in a month, when the Master’s wife was having her periods, as she herself was keen to keep the environment ‘unpolluted’. She was a little embarrassed to indi- rectly make a public disclosure of the onset of her periods every month though, but with the menopause creeping in, she was confident that the three day off could soon become a thing of the past. As the session begins, all women from the neighbourhood would sit in a circle around the kerosene stove in the front hall of Arumu- gam Master’s house. Near the stove without blocking the view would be seated, the wife of Arumugam Master. Sitting erect with both her hands stretched out and the fingers touching the outer rim of the stove, she would appear to be in complete command.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

37 To counterbalance her hold on the stove from the opposite direc-tion, a neighbourhood woman would be selected on a daily basis, asper the discretion of the Master’s wife. Anyone would be welcome to pose a question to the kerosenestove and anything under the Sun can be asked about. However ques-tions of the following nature constitute a different lot altogether: ‘When will the lass Pushpa at the corner house down the streetattain puberty?’ ‘Ranganayaki ammal’s daughter even after completing four yearsof married life is yet to be blessed with a child; is there a problem withher reproductive system or does it relate to her husband’s potency?’ ‘Did the youngest daughter of the bank cashier elope with thecowherd Gopalan or the lawyer’s clerk Kuppusamy’s son, the one witha persistent stutter?’ Arumugam master’s wife as a proud owner of the stove decreedsuch questions are ethically wrong and are strictly unwelcome. It wastrue that the bank cashier’s family was related to her by marriage,which could explain the ban on rising questions about an elopementin the family. However in the case of other queries in the banned itemslist no such conclusion could be arrived at as the families involved wereremotely connected with Arumugam master. Whatever it is, Arumugam master’s wife was not expected to ex-plain the rationale behind her decision. The stove belonged to her.The right to decide upon what to ask and what not to ask the stovewould entirely be hers. The neighbourhood women grudgingly ac-knowledged this and were content to be the participants in the sessionswith minimum privileges. When will my son get a job? This would be a permitted question. The mother of the boy sit-ting at the far end of the crowded hall would ask this in a tremblingvoice. The query would be relayed loud with the details about theperson rising the question added. As everyone knew everyone else, thequestion would be sufficiently enriched with additional details evenwithout asking, with the sole purpose of keeping the stove appropri-ately informed to enable it to respond: The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

38 Dhana Textile Shop proprietor’s wife Ganga from the third house to the left of the radio repairer’s shop asks when her eldest son will be gainfully employed. Her son Jagan is 20 years old this February and has completed his Bachelor of Science graduation in the third attempt. Arumugam Master’s wife would be taking the final decision about how the question should be framed and conveyed to the stove to enable it to come out with an appropriate astrological prediction. She would in a soft voice full of pride and affection whisper the question to the stove, looking at it with all affection and pride like a breastfeeding young mother glancing at the new-born, She would smile at the stove immediately after asking the question. The stove then would lift one of the four legs of the overall frame and bring it down on the cemented floor of the hall. For this question about the boy getting employed, it would gently tap on the floor, once or more than once. The woman facing the Master’s wife and holding the stove with her hands would count the number of taps the stove would make as well would ensure that it would not tumble down while in action. ‘The stove has struck two. That means the boy will be employed in two months’, Arumugam Master’s wife would announce solemnly, a little louder for the benefit of the anxious mother at the far end of the room. ‘Amma, will it be two months or two years’? The visitor would be anxious to get a precise answer. The supple- mentary question would be phrased appropriately by the master’s wife and would be posed next - ‘If two years, strike once; if two months, strike twice’, she would cajole the stove and after a minute apparently of deliberation within, it would raise its leg to strike one or two. ‘The stove has now struck twice. That means it would be two months from now, the boy will be employed’, the Master’s wife would announce majestically being the harbinger of good news. In the case of the lost buffalo calf, the Master’s wife was able to coax out additional information also from the stove. She asked, ‘from which direction the calf would come back walking’. The stove lifted the leg to the east and came down smooth on the smooth cemented floor. The calf indeed reappeared from the East.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

39 When Arumugam Master would be back home at five in the eve-ning, riding his rickety old bicycle, the hall would have become vacantafter the session for the day ending a few minutes before his arrival.He had decided upon to address the captive audience who would as-semble in his house, about the necessity to have a scientific outlook.He should return home at least half an hour earlier one of the days, hereckoned. Many nights he was tossing in his bed thinking about whathe had to speak to win over the neighbouring crowd against the unsci-entific and illogical occurrences like that of the kerosene stove makingastrological predictions. On Sundays, he would stand in the empty hallrehearsing his speech diligently. However, as it always happened, hehad had to conduct the last session for the day at school always andas such, he could not put his plans to practice. He necessarily had topostpone his lecture until the vacation, it occurred to him. The Master while cycling homewards made a reckoning in hismind about how long he would have to wait for the annual schoolholidays to commence. It was barely a fortnight away, he was happyto reckon. Reaching home, as he locked the bicycle feeling contended,his wife restored the stove to the kitchen to prepare the cup of pipinghot coffee for the fatigued Master. One afternoon, the sessions had a new visitor – Iyer, the astrolo-ger. Arumugam master’s wife had all along held the stove sessionsstrictly as a women-only participatory programme. Once in a while,when men accompanying their wives or sisters would show signs ofstaying back for the session, she gently goaded them to leave. But shewould not like to mete out that treatment to Iyer, the astrologer, as hewas an elderly person and quite learned too. As Iyer, the astrologer arrived somewhat earlier, the Master’s wifetook the clean stove she brought to the hall for the session, back tothe kitchen to prepare coffee for him. The stove appeared keen on be-ing present in the hall for the session rather than beating a retreat tothe kitchen at that juncture. It showed its impatience by lifting one legalmost tripping the pot of milk on it being heated. It was then the mas-ter’s wife admonished the stove for showing bad manners. She categori-cally told the stove that it had to confine its intelligent interactions to the The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

40 hall and should behave in the kitchen as a stove would behave. Iyer the astrologer watched the Master’s neighbourhood woman bringing a cup of coffee for him closely followed by the Master’s wife carrying the stove on her arms like an infant fresh from the bathtub. He told the Master’s wife that it would be pertinent that she should always face East while interacting with the stove and that the place where the stove is placed should be sanitised with a fresh mix of cow’s urine, cow dung, milk, curd and ghee, before it is seated there. He also suggested that decorative geometrical patterns using rice floor (kolam) should be drawn on the floor before the stove arrives at the hall. All the suggestions were immediately implemented by the Master’s wife. When the stove was in session, Iyer the astrologer, for each of its astrological predictions, was taking a handful of cowries out of his handbag and was casting them on the floor to arrive at his own pre- dictions through reading the pattern the cowries formed on ground. Comparing his predictions with those of the kerosene stove, he ap- peared satisfied as they were in concordance with one another. When he bid farewell at the end of the session, he did not forget to ask the Master’s wife where the stove was bought and when. He also asked whether the kerosene was filled up to the brim in the storage compartment or was it partially filled up. He took a few steps home- wards only to return and ask the final question – where were the wigs for the stove purchased. The Master’s wife was happy to make him fully knowledgeable of all the facts about her prestigious possession. The street folk to one person lauded the professional honesty and good-at-the-heart nobility of Iyer the astrologer for his providing suggestions to the Master’s wife on enhancing the efficacy of the stove sessions, even if that would amount to helping his business competi- tors out, leading to a loss of revenue for him from his regular custom- ers who might have switched over their allegiance to the stove. They all wished he should be blessed with many more years of healthy life. When someone attempted to pose a question to the stove as to how long he will survive, it was immediately vetoed by the Master’s wife. The questioner profusely apologised to the stove holding both her ear lobes with her hands and executing ceremonial push-ups in the prox-The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

41imity of the stove, begging for divine forgiven. In that atmosphere of overall goodwill the stove commencedmaintaining a stoic silence while at the kitchen and confined its inter-action only to the hall, that too on being asked more than once. Close on the heels of Iyer, the astrologer, other old men likethe retired post master, the retired railway station master, retired subinspector of police and all other men who retired from Governmentservices started to troop in for the stove sessions. Arumugam Master’swife was in a predicament by their visit. She would never send themback or would welcome them wholeheartedly though. However, she and the neighbourhood women did not like onebit these cranky old ones posing questions about the general politi-cal environment in the country, the polling forecast, global terrorism,political sanctions and protectionism, though the stove appeared tosavour those queries. ‘Don’t they have the newspapers discussing this dull and drabmatter for pages together? These pensioners read all those local broad-sheets from beginning to end right from early morning, hold parleysamong themselves to discuss for hours together and would visit thelibrary in the evenings to read those newspapers published elsewhereto keep themselves updated on all the insignificant subjects. How arewe to tell them the stove sessions are to be utilised for very importantpurposes only?’ The Master’s wife and other women of the street la-mented, thoroughly disgusted. It was then the reputation of the stove sessions reached the ad-joining Temple Street, the Canal Street, the Cathedral lane, GroveStreet, Grave Street and other areas. Men and women from all thesestreets and even a few from the adjoining town taking the town busstarted gathering for the stove sessions at Arumugam Master’s house.The Master’s wife began to look worried as this was gradually becom-ing a major inconvenience to her and the family. ‘Shall I collect an entry fee for the sessions?’ she enquired thestove in the privacy of the kitchen when she was making coffee forArumugam Master in the evening. The stove however made a pointnot to provide a response. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

42 The Master’s wife became more irritated to find a huge crowd block- ing the entrance and spreading onto the street with the tailenders trying to push their way in. One afternoon, a pumpkin from her garden was stolen by someone who came for the sessions. On another day, her sari washed and left for drying on the cloth line in the front yard vanished without trace. The next day the betel nut cutter performed the vanishing trick. She could have posed a few queries to the stove to find out whose handiwork this could be but she felt embarrassed to ask in front of a large audience about the missing pumpkin and betel nut cutter. It could be quite possible this might be taken as wasting the quality time of the stove on trivia like international politics. Arumugam Master looked with content at the large crowd going back from his house after the stove sessions, as he alighted from his bicy- cle. In another six days time, the annual examinations in the school would be over and the summer vacation would commence. He would be at home throughout, all days. He would be explaining in detail to this huge mass of humanity who throngs his house for the stove session on the necessity to have a scientific outlook and would wean them away from everything illogical. He would as a grand finale demonstrate to them how to produce oxygen using peeled potatoes and Hydrogen Peroxide. There could be a remote possibility that his wife would also get sufficiently enlightened and shun her unscientific outlook in all earnestness. As he was tossing in bed late at night trying to give a final shape to his discourse to the masses that would visit for the stove sessions, his wife nearby was having a sleepless night attempting to find a way out of the stove sessions. Both being at their late forties, would not have done anything better, together that night, they knew. A day before the summer vacation commenced, the stove became totally silent. It stopped lifting its leg whatever be the question posed to it. No amount of cajoling by the Master’s wife would bring it out of its ascetic trance. When Arumugam Master alighted from his bicycle conducting in his mind the final rehearsal of the lecture he would be delivering the next day, the house and even the street was looking awfully empty. His wife briefed him of the developments in the astrological frontThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

43which made him feel sad. Such an important and interesting lecture heprepared would be of no use to humanity. He thought of the positiveoutcome of this sudden turn of events. He was relieved to observe thestove would then on be a stove and would fully be utilised for the pur-pose it was procured, namely cooking. His wife had a smile radiating inher face, as she was making coffee for her husband. She was happy withthe thought there would not be any mob at her house and the pump-kins, drumsticks, brinjals, sarees and betel cutters would not disappear. ‘Have you heard the news, Master’s wife? The kerosene stove in thehouse of Iyer the astrologer has commenced making astrological predic-tions. He and his wife are sitting in the central hall of their house withtheir stove cleaned and decked with chrysanthemum flowers, kept beside.Iyer, the astrologer has blessed their stove with a few divine chants and hadbroken a coconut in its proximity to ward off any evil. They are chargingtwo rupees for a single question posed to the stove. If three questions areasked together, there would be a concession. It is enough you pay only fiverupees’, Bangaru said, when she entered the Master’s house the very nextmorning through the back door looking for draff for her buffaloes. ‘Is it not a steep tariff to charge five rupees for three questions?’.The Master’s wife was trying to obtain her stove’s opinion about itspeer in Iyer the astrologer’s house. Her stove said absolutely nothing.It was emitting a low flame as the fish fry was getting golden brownin the frying pan, on it. Arumugam Master stood at the patio of his house on a woodenstool, facing the house of Iyer, the astrologer. He commenced recitingin his mind, his grand address on the need for scientific temper. Murugan Ramasami is a techno banker and project management professional heading large banking IT projects in UK, Thailand and USA. As a novelist, short story writer, poet, tech- travel-humor columnist (in Tamil and English), he has 28 books to his credit. Ramasami has also written plays and movie script, dialogue in Tamil and has translated from Malayalam and English to Tamil The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

44 POETRY GAYATRI MAJUMDAR Twin Flame My twin flame lives on a floor above mine. We are not on talking terms anymore. Moreover, he does not know this yet – this conspiracy of mine half-aware of my existence or of earthly matters and creatures. Anyway, he sleeps all day and plots my murder through nights disregarding all my pleasantries and attempts at cleansing his godforsaken corrupt soul, with scorn and inane mutterings. The wind from the bay and gold-rust play with his hair and forgetfulness piercing his airs in a blue universe His body map unnamed constellations all day hemmed in formlessness inside airless four walls with peeling paint. I leave little notes for him dabbed with musk and patchouli. He will not read them.The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

45His will be tomes, you see –written across his broadening foreheadTurning pain and callousness into lotushe tears at with utter scorn.My twin flame flickersseparating the darknessgroping for the lightmillion years awayswallowing stars and stuffed veg pockets,his ears strain to hear the big dippers’ drumbeatsand the rhythm of my marchpast his longings and atrophied hours.We spent so many nightsarriving and leaving vestigesof pain and other unmarked territoriessettling for no less no more.I gaze with utter love at the fading lightin his dull eyeas he looks away towardsfaraway ships sailing in his white reckless seafollowing one evening starand sea creatures.He will notreturn all that I offer to take back.He often forgets he lives on a floor above mineand that I wait for him to raise the deadAnd flood my heartsink my ship The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

46 water flowers dance in the rain For my twin flame only will set my body alight with the fire of his infinite sadness and sagacity. Several storms brew inside me lashing streets, bazars, and stories, but he will remain unmoved; a gentle giant playing the flute and tugging at the strings of my consciousness. My Burning Heart (L’amour Feu) – Readings from Satprem by Norman I found myself at this place still hoping to find a spark when the light on Norman dimmed; the auditorium turned chilly with sea-thoughts lashing incessantly as backdrop. I followed and completely lost the trail across oceans, deserts, and savannas where snakes and mermaids sleep undisturbed. Norman does not even so much lookThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

47at the white sheets from whichhe explores his several beingskeeping pace withnaked sadhus and ochre-clad sadhaksdiscarding allthis and that garmentsarrivingby the seaabove boarddeclaring, ‘Ido not believe in any religion!’Extricating from this gaze and thatand from other concentration camps,intent upon losing all.I hold on tightto the conditioned-cold seat,lest the swaying ship sinks.After all, these are some very rough waters.Norman politely denies he’s Satprem incarnateholding firmly onto his crutchand his other beliefs.The auditorium liftsoff the groundaway from pebbled minds;nothing, he said,nothingwill erode with time. The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

48 Dolphine’s Nose, Kodai Following endless pine forests, blue misty mountains, and waterfalls I arrived At unmarked territory on the way to the trekking-trial of Dolphin’s nose, a trek I didn’t take or was it the other way round. The April sun beat down on a patch of a few rhododendrons, an abandoned bath tub brimming with yesterday’s rain and a still-smouldering burnt log, Kingfisher cardboard boxes and a large tree trunk with ‘Boom Shiva’ etched across it. Outside the locked ‘hut’ Birds of Paradise squabble and I am momentarily lulled to sleep on the steps to heaven; In the misty view of the blue mountains and birdsongs, I’m hoping all this is as real as it gets. A black-and-white cat appears as if from nowhere mewing for affection and food; let’s me rub her neck and just like that, disappears! Meanwhile, my companions take the arduous adventurous way to Dolphin’s noseThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

49to arrive at a better viewof whatever that is out there.I remain rooted to where I amchasing yellow-lemon butterflieswith my eyes;they rise and fall suckling honey,fluttering to the conversationsbetween swaying Casurina and the wind. An Ode to Emily & DylanAll day we play thiscat-and-cat gameThe rolling over,whistling and pawing.When all else darkensand the flowers cannot be heard,Emily emerges from under the brambles,her large green eyes heralding possibilities.Emily and Dylan jump in and outof make-shift blue screensfor mouthful of Whiskiesand occasional petting;narrating tales of horror and hopefrom another world.Only in their cat-heartsthey know how to break downwalls and defences,banish all demons from the soul,manifest rats and fish from nothing –make magic! The Wagon Magazine JULY 2017

50 At the heart’s clockwork hour, the game resumes with great vigour and breathless anticipation. Dylan, the much-maligned, and with the indomitable spirit of another furry world, will wait, sleep-pretending – with his ear twitching, and half-slit blue Brando eyes and his ginger tom ways watching tailing my every step. At other times, he will paw my face and sing a song (or recite a poem; I can’t tell). Only they know the way to all that aches my heart and to the food bowls and tricks to discipline my unkempt hours. It’s a new day all over again and Emily and Dylan know, nothing is ever lost and as long as we work in tandem, play this game of belonging – we can make this dysfunctional world, our home. Since 1995, Gayatri Majumdar has been running the critically acclaimed Brown Critique, a literary quarterly and a blog. She worked as a journalist at PTI, The Independent, and Debonair (editor, Poetry Page) in Mumbai. In Delhi, she managed teams of copyeditors at Macmillan and Cenveo. Her first book of poems Shout was published by Sampark. You can reach her at browncritique@gmail comThe Wagon Magazine JULY 2017