What We’ll Remember

Written by Zoe Younessian

you can’t remember the last time 
you saw something ugly, 
only lime-colored turf with plastic pointing
the right ways. you saw elms in a row with
the bark painted on. you watered fake plants
and missed the real ones: daffodils erupting
like daggers, the roughness of a cat’s tongue.
you scolded the sky for the prettiness of
sunsets. pollution a thousand floating dahlias.
the forecast responded, that’s just the way
things are. you know everything burns more
beautiful.

Meditations on Taylor Swift

Written by Kevin Jin

As we continue along the winding road of writing mastery, we must be mindful that the enemy is often far closer than we think. The eager novice (myself included) tends to gorge themselves on the buffet of writing advice and opinions available online, swallowing craft books, party-packs of anecdotes, maxim canapés, and junk food platitudes alike. This, like any exercise in gluttony, accumulates fatigue. The change is slow, but by the end the budding writer is tiptoeing around an abundance of red tape just to produce a single sentence. They measure every word, paragraph, and story against so many different guidelines that their story is barely perceptible beneath the noise, confusing technical proficiency for quality of fiction and mistaking the trees for the forest. I only recently put my pack down and realised how much of this baggage I had accumulated, and it was all thanks to Taylor Swift. Not the singer though—rather Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s contest-winning flash fiction piece of the same name. “Taylor Swift” was Remy’s ratatouille to my Anton Ego. Judge Steve Almond of the 2015 Barthelme award put it best when reflecting upon his selection of the story: 

“Full disclosure: I tried quite hard to resist choosing ‘Taylor Swift’… Why? Because all the stories I received were worthy and many were more technically ambitious when it came to language and form, …because I feared selecting a story entitled ‘Taylor Swift’ might speak to my literary deficiencies, or plain old drooling idiocy. But what the hell. In the end, I just wanted to read this thing again and again.” 

 That last line, obvious though it may be, touches on a simple truth about writing that is too easily forgotten. Good writing is subjective, but good fiction is reliant on one thing: the story experience. Somewhere amidst the ocean of exercises to pare sentences to the bone and compose witty wordplays, our idea of good writing morphed into a qualitative assessment. Good fiction “should” be deep and verbose, experiment with form, and say something about the human condition. It “should” revolutionise your life and leave a mark on the cultural consciousness. Almond’s conundrum is a symptom of this: technically ambitious writing feels like it ought to be “better”, but as “Taylor Swift” shows, your writing just needs to be fun and have spirit.

Almond mentions this when he talks about the story’s heart and love: “It extradites us to a realm of strange wonders and incantatory rhythms in which we are forced to acknowledge that the heart and its deranged pursuit of love cannot be disabled or even diminished by our neurotic defenses.” And boy, is he right about the neurotic defences. Ever the critic, I too had a knee-jerk reaction against the title, ready with all manner of sarcastic comments and weaponised feedback to tear the story apart, but I too was won over by the simple, funny, and above all, pure story that I had read.

“Taylor Swift” is a ridiculous premise, drenched in humor, and packaged neatly at 500 words on the dot, yet it is far more than the sum of its parts. It’s a pure fiction story in the sense that it doesn’t try to do anything but make you laugh and transport you to a fantastical world where Taylor Swift can be bought by the dozen. By nature of being a flash piece, it’s definitely been combed over meticulously and trimmed of unnecessary words like the many adages say to do, but the key thing is that at no point does the voice feel curated.

The story starts sentences with conjunctions, skips them altogether sometimes, and does away with quotation marks entirely, but these transgressions don’t matter at all. The wisdom imparted by the Elements of Style, On Writing, and other books on the craft have their place among the chorus of voices that can refine yours, but when you approach them as gospel your writing loses its earnestness. The output is homogenous in the same way ChatGPT can write a perfect, technically sound story, but it will never be able to move people in the way that a child’s scrawl can. Behm-Steinberg’s desire to take the readers of “Taylor Swift” on a journey is so dominant that even if the words are tinkered with, the story’s voice remains uniquely entertaining and its own. With its laid-back prose, the pocket-sized piece effortlessly surpasses my stuffy, meticulously reworded works, and that forces me to reflect. I look upon my own stories and see a mosaic of my influences, but can I find my own voice within my work?

“Kill your darlings” the old masters say, and the eager apprentice hacks their work apart. “Taylor Swift” has become a north star for me in terms of how to preserve the core of a story, and a wake up call for how stiff my writing has become. It’s so easy to get lost down the rabbit hole of the craft, which warps your perception of what great writing can and should be. “Taylor Swift” is a testament to the fact that, at the same time, writing isn’t that deep. There is a simple pleasure in reading a story that is merely here to entertain, and similarly, causal writing can—and should—be fun to do. If it’s not, then perhaps you’re also in too deep. Put your luggage down and rest for a while. Come gaze at the forest in all its beauty.

The final chapter

Written by Vanshika Srivastava

I walk down the empty hallways
Glide my hand across the doorway
Where there was once welcomed laughter and joy
And smiles that would last all day

The turns of the lips in the pictures
Still engulfs the tales
With people unaware of
The ending awaiting just beyond
Just before the credits roll in

I once watched that candle glimmer
With hope and poise
Now it the recalls how alone i would feel
When i face death in the eye
I once used to recite my stories
In a room full of awaiting claps and cheers
But now, no one cares
If the book ends, or the final chapter is that of fear

Chapters to Love

Written by Tia
T.W.: mention of the word ‘Blood’.

Time has been passing since I can last remember…

I have remained stagnant for quite some time now. Within these four walls of cement and brick, I witnessed myself succumb to numerous routines, heartbreaks, rhythms, chores, choices, and transitions. 

But none transformed me like an enzyme called Love. 

I remember sitting, waiting, and hoping to see light once again…

Pain felt like the closest confidant of my solitude. The zeal for life was withering away. Blindness was painting itself over my already clouded vision, and breathing felt like heavy strokes to suck in air. 

Love was watching me wither away. But it could not enter until I opened the door…

To be frank, residing in that darkness made me feel as though it was pointless to even look for a door, let alone open it. But I guess, pain has interesting ways of pushing you further. 

Inevitably, I reached for the door handle. Tricky this is, might I add. Because when you swim inside an ocean of dark and believe it to be your space forever, you forget the existence of light. More so, you are gaslit to believe that the light at the end of the tunnel is not for you. So, when I placed my hand on the doorknob, I was terrified. 

Terror made me make Love wait…

My fears convinced me that Love would lose its patience and leave me behind. But the still-existent humanity in me, albeit sparingly, decided to give Love a friendly chance. So, I opened the door, enough for it to make a crack- enough to see the stranger knocking on my door. Enough of a crack to spy for ill intentions from the other side.

I was preparing to be ‘inevitably left behind’. That was my usual after all, you see. What magic can occur now?

But the vision of light enthralled me. I felt instantaneously starved. 

A hidden hunger crept in that I never realised even existed…

The existence of my closest confidant, Pain, began to make sense. I never knew of its identity or origin.  But upon the incoming of light, darkness began to take its figure and body. And now I was beginning to distinguish the difference between light and darkness. I was sceptical and guarded. It is not that I would be saved, would I? And what does this door even entail? I didn’t know. So, I was cautious. 

But upon the sight of Love, my hunger grew…

I was beginning to feel greedy to leave my old ways behind. A hunger I could not make meaning out of, but I was certain it would change me. 

Was I ready for change? No. Was I ready for a change I had no control over? Absolutely not.

But this is the trap of Love, you see. The kind of trap one needs. 

The kind of trap that was going to make me feel…human perhaps…

The kind of trap that changes survival to living life.

But was I ready? No. However, this light felt warm. So, peeking through the crack of my door, I asked, 

What’s it to you, stranger?

Why have you arrived here?

What do you want?

I heard giggles. The warmest of aura enthralled me with its reply. 

Would you let me in, please?

I promise in my name that I will not hurt you. I just want to be your companion. 

I asked, 

What is your name?

Love. My name is Love. 

I feebly said alright and let this unknown entity in. I sensed safety, and it would be diabolical if it attacked me immediately after its promise. And quite weirdly enough, I did not want to question this trust that was building. I was hungry after all.

Mortally, time went by. I was still inside these four walls, and I grew by age. 

But I was finding myself melting at its presence.  As I did, I was also testing Love of its loyalty. 

Did you really mean it when you said you would stay?

You are asking me this again, dear? Yes. Yes, all over again.

Time passed. 

Do you wish to stay as my companion?

Yes I do. I do not doubt it.

Time passed.

Do you?

I would never say otherwise. 

I still was not convinced. 

You have not seen the worst of me, Love. 

And I heard,

What could you do that would possibly make it as bad as it is in your imagination?

 I showed. 

Meticulously, I displayed my thorns. I knew they were going to make Love bleed. 

And they did….

Blood spilled all over. It hurt, and I knew it hurt. Perhaps I was being evil. Indeed, this is evil. But I was proving what was in my imagination. I was doing the worst. The worst of what I saw. The worst of what I felt. The worst of what I knew. I was doing it.

See? This is the worst of my imagination.

Love wailed. And it was louder than the looming silence of darkness, but brighter like the light. It hurt my eyes hearing Love wail.

It hurt me….

Are you stupid?

I was asked. 

Are you seriously so stupid? You thought you would use your fears to drive me away. Do you really believe that the monsters in your head would convince me to leave you?

Y-yes.

I replied. 

Do you not realise that they were crafted to keep you entrapped in this darkness? They do not want you to leave this space ever. Even if it means turning yourself into a monster when you are not. 

I was left stunned. 

I….was never a monster?

No, you were never and are never a monster.

Love heard my thoughts too…?!

However, you will be accountable and answerable for the blood I have spilled. 

To whom I thought.

Not to anyone else. To yourself, solely. And may I warn you. It is perhaps the most daunting to look at your own self in the eye. But you have to. You ought to, darling.

A firm hit of truth replaced the numbness in my heart. It was no longer just an organ beating with blood. It was turning into a voice that synced with the voice of Love. 

And I began to have no control over the one thing I was sure I had control over. 

Myself. 

Stage 1 was hatred. I was taught to hate myself all my life. I learnt to hate myself because the ways of the world pushed me to. So, the sight of Love’s blood made me respond with self hatred. 

Self-hatred is the kind of burden that is going to pull you down with it. It is inherited and kept in the subtlest of spaces. And then with time, it takes its space all over.

I continued to listen.

You are a beautiful soul who does not deserve to be plagued by the disease of self-hatred. Not only are you going to pull yourself down, but anyone who is dying to love you too. 

Why would they love me?

I asked.

Silly! I love you!
Even after I-

Yes, even after you made me drown. In my blood. Pain made you do it. And I took your pain, so that you never have to drown in your blood, nor do you have to watch someone else drown in theirs.

For the first time in my life, I wailed. 

Like I was being born into this planet again-as though I was my newborn self….

“The last vestige of summer the autumn wind can’t blow away”

Written by Hailey Jiang

Colorful coral 
Fresh sea water 
Fireworks are tonight 
Wear red blue and white
Movie nights and sunsets
The popsicle is your best bet.
Don’t disturb the old potter.
Don’t lose your spark. Sand
in your hair 
Your own flair 
ou 
take 
thi 
ngs 
too 
liter 
ally.

Hungry Ghost Part 1

Written by Holly Wilcox Routledge

TW: Paranormal, mild allusion to injury

Every August since I left that place, I have had the same strange dream. 

I find myself back in my hometown—wandering through my old neighbourhood, on a loop that takes me through its back alleys, roads and bicycle pathways. It must have been at least a decade since I left that place, and yet it looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was there, untouched by the passing of time or weather. The houses are free of mold, the walls clean, the windows unshattered, the doors still whole, without age’s dark splinters running through the wood or cobwebs spanning over handles and letter box openings. The only signs of life are the lights that shine in every room, but no shadows pass by them or appear silhouetted against the windows. Bars of light stream over gates and fences, spilling into the roads themselves. 

The mountains are deep and dark and humid; even in my dreams the humidity is still there, cloying and thick enough to clothe me as I walk through the night. But the traffic mirrors remain empty as I pass them by. It shows only the streets, the houses, and the lights emanating from the windows. They don’t even show the stars. 

I walk around the neighbourhood—along empty pedestrian paths, over roaring storm drains, passing by the houses at the very edge of the block. And yet, for some reason, no matter where I go, what it is I intend to find; no matter my desire, sooner or later, over the course of the night, I find myself walking along the main road, leading out of the neighbourhood centre, directly towards the pathway that covers the largest storm drain, separating my neighbourhood and the one behind us. My trainers tap against the asphalt, loud in the still night, the lamplights pulsating above my head—

And then, he appears. 

He arrives as suddenly as the dream itself begins. A spark of green fire, directly in the middle of the pathway, the water that flows below momentarily becoming luminescent. There’s a brightness so powerful, it exposes the stubbled walls and strands of weeds that flow with the current rushing unseen beneath the concrete. His body emerges in pulsating tongues of fire, thread of scarlet intermingling with the limbs of his body as he comes into existence. I’ve seen him before, I think. Somewhere. I know it—as clearly as I know that he is a he—intrinsically. He never speaks beyond the words he utters, never anything more, never anything less. 

His figure begins to materialise—dark green against the light of the fire. The handle of his sword grows between his fingers as the flames slowly cleave away from him. His robes unfurl until he stands fully formed, floating inches above the bridge’s concrete His hair dances in the wind, his robes pulling away from his body to reveal the black characters painted across his legs, chest, arms, and head. 

Everywhere but the small space between his throat and jaw.

It takes his head a few extra seconds to turn to face me, his body moving separately. The wound gapes, and sometimes, if I look closely enough, I can see the first knob of his spine, ghoulish green amongst the plundered flesh. His mouth is wide, his lips full, and his eyes are a pale, misty white, devoid of pupils. When he speaks, his voice reverberates in sync with my heart beat, booming through my body, down to the marrow itself. 

“The mountains suffocate me,” hesays. “The earth weighs my throat. I’ve been sleeping for so long—youyou must free me. Free me.”

Every year, one night in the middle of August, I go to bed and have the same dream. And every morning for an exact month, I wake up entwined in my bedding, sweat pooling in my collarbones. TheAC whines in endless rotation above my head, the first strips of tender sunlight peeking through the blinds. 

*** 

Dreams are surprisingly quiet in Singapore. I thought the dreams would be louder here—catastrophic—in the way I thought all big cities tended to be. Hundreds of people crammed into apartment blocks and four bedroom sharehouses, chasing something or someone, desire and want fuelling their every hour, awake or asleep. Literal and physical, stacked up and exploding over bedroom windows and doorways. Like water in an overflowing bath, across the tiles and into the drain, gurgling, dripping, running. Flowing. It was like that in Tokyo; flowing over balconies and out of office blocks, flashing in time to the signage in the night. Narita, too. 

But Singapore was surprisingly quiet, contained within itself. Every now and again, a dream would streak by as I passed a block of HDBs, silver against the night skies, or flash like neon in a curtained upstairs window as I made my way home. Some nights when I clocked out at 11pm, I’d hear them trickling down the corridors and stairway of my hotel—English, Japanese, Korean, Malay, Tamil, Urdu characters unfurling against lobby wallpaper like moths. 

Everything was so compartmentalised here. Perhaps, purposefully so. In the same way that they wrapped banyan trees with black and white cloth when their leaves started to reach for the ground, drew designs in rice powder outside doorways to new houses, and pinned red packets to door frames for lions to pick off.They did something to soothe dreams, settle them here. In this go-between for humanity, jumping off-point for anything, it took a lot to settle wild dreams. 

I saw it, sometimes on manhole covers, or painted on the concrete walls of storm drains—the aura of a seal, magic spanning the island, clamping down on the sheer weight of energy generated. It was stronger near Chinatown, Little India, Arab Street, the bigger temples, and shrines—the accumulated weight of people living, of the others who walked through them and saw it, tried to soothe it as best they could. There were probably home-grown wards, spells tacked down to keep households safe and stable, dreams picked up off the floor, folded up and tidied away in bedroom wardrobes and cupboards. Every now and then, I’d see someone making their way down a road, on the MRT, sitting on the pavement outside a 7-11 drinking a bottle of Milo, condensation running down their wrists—the flicker of magic just beside it. Charms. Sutras. Power, pulsing through them with every casual second. 

There were always certain times I could sense it grow island-wide, other times dimming to a weak flutter. But it was always there. Always a wave of strength, fighting back against the pressure of it all. I guess in almost two hundred years, humanity didn’t change that much. Offerings, chants, lanterns, shrines, and now, even now—setting out plastic chairs before empty stages, laying long dining tables with every nicety but food, getai singers crooning to nobody the living can see. 

I like watching the getai when I come back from late shifts on August nights. Peking opera has always struck a tender chord with me. I stand at a distance, watching them perform, sing, to the rows of seats before them. Not for me, of course. Never for me, or the others I stand shoulder to shoulder with.

They sing for the ghosts. 

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised. He started to appear once I arrived in Singapore.Perhaps he lingers here alongside his dreams. Or is it his dreams I see? A desire for the future and past—of being so far away from home yet never leaving?

I’ve never found it does well to dwell too much on the focus point of other people’s dreams. Dreams are cravings turned inward, pressed heavily down within ourselves like flowers, the pressure growing and growing until the only outlet for them to escape comes when the body relaxes and the mind is left to wander. Cravings linger in buildings, in some cities, to the very brick and mortar, long after they were generated, their owners passed on from this heavenly place to the next life; or into another cycle in Samsara. Dreams tend to linger sometimes. The bad ones, mostly. 

And always, every August, when the gates of hell are thrown open, the bad ones rise to the surface, as fast as fish, as eager as daggers, coating themselves along temples, tarmac, and roads. And always, every August, when I go to bed and close my eyes to the aria of a getai, I return home, and a ghost tries to live once more.

MISSOURI ELEGY

By Kurn Sundaram

river through skull
red wraps me 

never sisters 

castle 
becomes crown
becomes sun 

teach me 
as if 
it’s all you know 

light bends 
before i do 

my father 
never swam 

you drink 
i play 
coins in the dark 

snow 
unzips the eyes 

the river 
forgets 
nothing 

your smile 
my burning 

tongue to cortex:
shield. sponge. 

we bloom 
then fold 

the door 
closed 

never sisters

Ghar or The Home

Written by Kasturika De

T.W.: Drug Use (marijuana)

It’s 6:14 AM and I am still in bed”, I got up cursing myself. A chapter still remained. It’s my Political Science external exam. I hurried to the exam hall. The exam started at 11, and by 1 pm, I was out in the sun, struggling with my umbrella. Raja Nabakrishna Street looked at me with its strange, unknown demeanor as I covered my nose from the thick urine stench coming from its public toilet. It had now become a subconscious behaviour from a conscious practice.

In a rather familiar place, even the unknown impersonates the known. But what if your conscience is forced to replace and reprogram this whole system of familiarity? Will that not be difficult for most of you or will it be even easier?

My olfactory system rejected all except the smell of food. I had to visit Rupali Mishtanno Bhandar, a famous shop near my hostel that served Indian sweets, dosa, veg thali and all other vegetarian dishes. But it was still 7 minutes away, and by now, my body, tortured by the sun, desperately entered a small hotel that serves Bengali thali.

I washed my ink-stained fingers by the time till they brought the rice, dal and crispy fried potato. Famished, I would have hurled myself upon the cold food if not for Ravina’s call. Her voice sounded like that of a little child lost in a fair—unaware and tense—in a low voice she asked, “Where are you, Di?” (Di – used commonly for elder sister in India).

I told her my location, concerned. Then, I asked her what had happened, and in answer, I hadn’t in the least expected this.

“Di, Olivia ka breakup ho gaya kal raat.” (“Olivia broke up last night.”)

I didn’t know how to react. She had left our hostel just a month back, and I knew her better than anyone in our hostel. Room 400 had three beds occupied by four people half of the time. She barely entered her room when her roommate was around. I hardly gave credence to the theory of a ‘mirror world’ until I came across her caffeine intake habits. Coffee had to activate her sleep cells every day after dinner for a peaceful nap. But this was not all that there was! Her typical Christian attitude of praying before the first bite made me question her religion. Subsequently, the answer to this made me question my upbringing. A Hindu born, praying before her first bite is a rare sight. In particular, a Bengali girl like me can never make it a habit. The sweetest of all was that hug she gave us anytime she was extremely happy or sad. Her belongings that remained scattered everywhere in our room had left us with sweet memories of her stay. We used to smoke together, got drunk together, and danced and sang and even sleeplessly studied together before the exam. These months together passed by like years.

Without any progression of thoughts, I asked Ravina, my roommate, to bathe and get ready until I had reached.

Then, Ravina and I boarded an auto-rickshaw that almost flew us to her destination. She came running and hugged the both of us tightly, almost wanting to fit us in her small arms—me in one and Ravina in the other; they saw triplets dancing on their way home to reunion.

Yes, home—because they might have assumed the space to be filled with years, but to their assumption and our awareness, it was countless days wrapped in a countable month. As we entered, I witnessed a heavenly abode for insects—a huge garbage bag filled up to the brim that was centrally placed in a passage common to two bedrooms, ending in one kitchen beside a bathroom. “A home!” I exclaimed within. I entered her room, scattered as expected. We sat on a mattress laid out on the floor. She was happy to see us having brought her favourite dark chocolate without nuts.

The space a month made had depleted that connection between us. The elder sister in me was enraged on hearing her problems from a third person. On our way to her flat, all she said was, “He is no more interested in me. That’s all he said to me and how he lost it”. How can this be possible? Why are women burdened to figure out all of this early? Why can’t we just love like a man—daringly and expect loyalty no matter what. A woman holding tight, her notorious kid crying for a toy never really helps. You need to purchase it anyway and keep cool despite finding it perfect for the bin. Their demand never ends at one. Our loyalty and dedication are constantly proving themselves to a futile race of men.

You don’t challenge winter unless winter makes it challenging. As the story progressed I saw that woman in her struggle with her challenging consciousness of the present and her notorious past, as it left no attempts to make her cry out what’s inside. This battle slowed down when the first long puff from the roll got into her nerves. That day for the first time we witnessed the power of marijuana. I credited myself for smoking ganja and yet not being high enough to laugh or cry out loud. Meanwhile she was all soaked in tears, howling, while I held her palms tightly in mine, making no attempts to stop her.

Consciously, she wanted this, but her awareness of our presence and every subconscious reasoning against wasting tears had sabotaged all earlier trials of her conscience. This was the fine time to let her go, so that she could let go. I focused on the grey matter, not the one inside but the one hanging outside the bright end of the roll, trying to detach itself. With every millimetre of it burning a bright bachelor into ashes, her consciousness tried to reveal the subconscious life she had lived with him every night. I wished to have a whole of that roll meant just for me, since that one travelled among four of us, and was rubbed to death. I had longed for this sort of intoxication that Olivia was enjoying right now. No cry, no laugh—now I felt deceived by my high expectations of its reaction.

Why am I pushing sanity inside?
They are happy—who miss no chance to
live in this utopia.
Where nothing matters what you say, to whom you say;
Every why concludes in
“I was intoxicated”.
All your manners survive no judgement,
but enjoy the luxury of ignorance.
When the Multiverse of Madness kicks in,
Ethics of Brain helplessly lets
the Aesthetics of Heart take over.

She said “He kept his toothbrush here. When I had asked why why was he leaving it here, he had said, “Ab se yeh toh mera bhi ghar hai”. Di, usne toh ise apna ghar maana tha na”. Yes, he had accepted it as his “home”, but does that make any promise? A promise to stay together forever and build one? No, it doesn’t. Rather, it never did. But if there is no love, even building one is like a brick cage that lets nothing in or out. Just you, enclosed within yourself. But what disturbed me even more was her flatmate’s deliberate attempt to stop her from thinking about him in this mode of intoxication, while the very next moment, she dialed him and forced Olivia to talk. They talked in Nepali for 11 minutes as we lay staring at our screens. Finally, when all of us were awake, she regretted talking to him. Her body was still rejecting normality as she walked to the nearest snack shop. All gatherings among Bengalis are incomplete without chop, beguni, singara and other deep fries. Though I was the only Bengali in the room, Bengal lives through its evening deep fried snack culture, in any non-Bengali setting. After snacks and tea, we reached the terrace—the only place bounded by bricks layered with a mix of barren components that lets you enjoy abundance within a safe boundary. We watched the golden building of Kolkata’s ITC hotel and a few others pointing to the sky with all their might.

These familiar sights felt different from there. We kept watching, trying to find a star. Was it her mistake to date a man? Yes, she knew very less but still she considered him her home. Was it normal to feel so in just two months into a relationship for both of them? That day, the person whom she thought she knew, she was familiar with: now holds no relevance, no importance, no name. She failed to recognize, but the question is who—herself or the man—did she consider her home secretly.

Yet another ride, back home, the autorickshaw came out from its stand with flying colours of a dupatta. While reflecting on my own relationship with every passing billboard and house, the dupatta added a feminine touch to everything it brushed on its way. “I have to see for myself, I need to survive. I can’t expect someone else to fulfill my part of work”. These words from the driver floated casually but felt deeply personal. Yes, we are designed to think of ourselves first, or even if someone distinguishes themselves as a selfless person, the society leaves no chance to bring their focus back on self. But how true is it? How selfish are we in reality? Or are our selfish actions a byproduct of self-centered societal expectations?

She made no trials. She wanted none. She was clear about leaving. She chose to leave him without a second thought. There was no point in stretching this relation when he has lost his interest is what she said. Can a woman leave just like this? How can she be this selfish? Is she at all selfish, or is this decision of hers a byproduct of his self-centeredness? If I am down with these doubts, then am I the one who believes in women surviving for the sake of a man. Do we really need them to survive this world? Now that is debatable. Maybe we have the right to think of ourselves and make conscious choices selfishly, but ninety percent of us fear to make our own choices. Her twenties will live free with this choice to leave but this won’t be the same cage as her forties. Now that Olivia has made her decision, she is a million steps ahead of them and closer to enjoying her right to choose.

Can we live alone? Can humans survive happily all alone without a human partner, except a bunch of friends, available only when they need you? The question haunts us all when we realise the loss of a person—talking to whom had become a habit.

How do you get rid of a sweet habit, an obsession just by intoxicating yourself and crying for hours and partying with friends? Her then‐conscious decisions made no sense to me eventually because I know she is suffering inside, even if she denies, her body is holding the pain with care. The man who left was happy initially, but with decaying time he will slowly realise what he lost. He might not admit it but something will burn dormantly.

All of this was possible just because she was familiar and aware of this situation from her past. Subconsciously, she was prepared to tolerate this pain. Aren’t all women machines designed with inexplicable toleration dynamics? That day, more than us, that intoxication became her home. That escape from the so-called home made her realise where her real home is.

She can’t count thousand sparrows
But she lives like one.
Migration? A fallacy, she says
Even if the destination is far.

Unbound

Written by María Juliana Ramírez Cabal

In the quiet dawn, she’ll labour alone,
A myriad of dreams where rivers once flowed.
Soft-calloused skin, now cracking, 
The reassurance of love, collapsing. 

“You do not do, you do not do”
Nurse, Muse, Servant,  yet nobody knew.

But I am here to elucidate, 
To those who are yet to understand 
That Medusa was no monster 
But they turned her into one. 

Girls, I rather be dead, done, deceased, 
For I am not the first or last to stand here and plea,
To be heard not under a pseudonym;
But as myself, through my own lips.

But much to my dismay, 
The Gods become the source of my disgrace. 
Because as Eurydice once said ,
They act as publishers, usually male. 

In the mirror’s reflection, I see women bound by time
Years in the shadows, stuck to the night. 
So carve my name where theirs once were,
On the pages and temples the world made decay.
I’ll raise my voice for those denied fight,
For Medusa, Eurydice, and every muted light.

Against Cautionary Literary Practices

Written by Harsh

The writer has employed he/him as universal pronouns for everyone. The writer is aware of expressing gender neutrality in the written expression. However, the text was getting more and more complicated, not only because of the theme but also due to the non-gendered language. Hence, the choice to use he/him as a universal pronoun was made. However, wherever possible, the writer had tried to retain neutral gender expressions in this essay. 

Of all kinds of freedoms that a person enjoys, exercising the freedom to choose a book of one’s own interest is the most pleasurable. A reader, in this sense, is truly a free being. A reader prepares an exhaustive list of books to-be-read, writing down the names of books that are worthy of their attention and to be mentioned in the list. A reader chooses, with utmost care the titles of the books, scrutinizing them, as he stands on the aisle in a book store. When a reader visits a book shop, he ponders over the blurb of the books he takes in his hands, checks the spine of the book, taking it in one hand to another as to determine how well it fits in his grip. He looks at the quality of the pages, weighing it against the words printed on them. He ponders over the first few pages of the book, as on those thin pages lies the responsibility to evoke any sort of excitement, thrill, or feelings of joy in him. These few first pages determine whether any book will go home along with him. At last, he looks at the information given about the author of the book. He frowns at the utter humility, or in contrast to it, with the boastfulness an author has tried to give an impression of himself or herself.

There is certainly some sense of freedom in standing still among the large number of books and choosing only a  few to take along. The ultimate sense of freedom lies in spending one’s time consumed in things or an activity that one honestly cares for–an idea very much against the societal expectation of continuous achievement and attainment of ultimate success. In this sense, a reader appears like a rebel too. And like most rebels, he insists on his freedom and individuality, sometimes too much, in order to preserve the sense of freedom that comes along with the perks of being a reader. However, as it goes ‘there is no absolute freedom no matter how much one searches for it’, a reader’s freedom is curtailed with cautions as he reads at the top of the cover of book ‘Trigger Warning’ or ‘Reader Discretion is Needed’. Nothing makes a reader happy more than exercising his freedom to choose a book. And nothing irks this lover of freedom than these warnings or cautionary literary practices.

A reader’s frustration and dismay at the appearance of the words ‘Trigger Warning’ at the cover of a book or at the beginning of an article, is taken as an attack on his curiosity. Let us all agree that a reader, by virtue of his nature, is a curious being. The suggestion pertaining to the ‘much needed discretion’ humbles the curiosity of a reader. Simultaneously, it cools down the enthusiasm that a reader holds as a self-proclaimed adventurer. Reading a book is like venturing on an adventure unknown, or perhaps even knowing of some of the dangers on the way that lie ahead. A blurb of the book is, thus, to be understood as a gateway to the adventure. It should tell the reader, the worshipper of freedom and individuality, about the adventure lying ahead without scaring or frightening him. It is this sense of mysteriousness that works to  give enough information to hold a reader’s attention but not enough to make him feel satisfied, and propels a reader to venture on the adventure called reading. In choosing a book, a reader chooses his pain, his suffering, his excitements and his sympathies. What marks an adventurer and a reader identical is the desire to  choose their own dangers. What distinguishes them from each other though, is the utility of a warning for each of them. The adventurer might need cautions and warning in order to comprehend the severity of the adventure undertaken so as to save himself from fatal accidents. Whereas, a reader gets upset at the idea of warnings because it limits their reading experience.. A blurb is sufficient for the reader to get a peek into the world an author.. An additional note of exercising discretion is a warning unwanted and uncalled for. And whatever is unwanted and uncalled for, is a limitation on the exercise of freedom by an individual. 

Venturing into the nature of freedom that a reader exercises and vehemently defends at the face of an attack, many argue that such freedom does not exist. It is also argued that a reader in exercise of his freedom to choose a book or a text might be under the influence of public opinion on literature, literary politics and social media. It is also argued that the pursuit of reading as a hobby is an elitist vocation. That books are essentially cultural capital and are accessible to a certain privileged section of society. These arguments fail to acknowledge the fact that since absolute freedom does not exist, the pursuit of freedom is only possible within limitations imposed upon it. It is only when one acknowledges the limitations and restraints upon one’s own individuality that one deals with one’s notion of freedom in a better way. So, it might be true that a reader might be under the influence of public opinion on literature, literary politics of his own time or the social media; but in responding to a text or book he is free, absolutely. He chooses his own interests, likes and dislikes. He chooses what he wants to retain and memorize from a book. In choosing a book he chooses the way he wants to get influenced too. Self-education as a goal of reading particularly fosters individuality and critical thinking. And in preserving his own individuality, a reader ultimately asserts his freedom. To the latter argument of seeing reading as an elitist vocation, it seems that the upholders of these arguments are not aware of the existence of public libraries, digital and publicly available archives and markets, the one where one can buy used books at much affordable price. But then comes the question of the reader’s responsibility in responding to a text. Does responsibility limit the freedom of a reader? What if the much-needed discretion and trigger warning is nothing but a responsibility in the guise of cautionary literary practices? 

In my opinion, responsibility could be seen as an extension of exercising freedom. Seldom could it be seen as a limitation on freedom. In the realm of discussion over enjoyment of rights, it is imperative that one’s right is another’s responsibility and vice-versa. A reader in exercising his will to read a text already showcases responsibility. From choosing a book to read it meticulously page by page, word by word, is an act of being responsible. As discussed at the beginning of the article, a reader chooses all that he wants to choose by choosing a text or book. In one’s choice of a book or text, one ultimately stands responsible to oneself. As selfish as it sounds, a reader is accountable and responsible to himself. A reader does not care to change the world rather a reader changes his own perception of the world. His way of influencing or molding his own mind is a deliberate act of choice. This deliberate act ensures responsibility against his own self and since the reader emphasizes on his freedom, this paves a way for extension of exercising freedom, rather than limiting it. But can a reader not go astray while exercising his freedom? Do not the literary cautionary practices such as Trigger Warnings help in sensitizing the readers by reducing distress and sense of overwhelmingness?

The answers go many ways and in neither of them, I, as a reader, agree that trigger warning sensitizes the readers by reducing distress and sense of overwhelmingness that could be a result of text’s engagement with difficult or distressing themes such as violence. As I already mentioned, a reader is absolutely free in choosing a book and simultaneously in choosing the pain, suffering, empathies and embarrassment and other emotions. Literary cautionary practices such as trigger warnings do not leave space for such feelings of enjoying absolute freedom. In appearance these practices appear to be sensitizing, but in substance it is a limitation on the curiosity of the reader. Furthermore, rather than sensitizing, sometimes, it paves way for sensationalism, i.e. there remains a chunk of books that make one feel so heavy at heart that the emotional experience of reading those books takes precedence over the literary qualities in the books. An example of such sensationalism could be the book A Little Life by Hanya Yanaghiara, whose depiction of the themes such as violence, abuse, suicide and a survivor’s will to live against the odds of difficulties in life took readers to blogs and social media to show the experience of reading. Whereas while depicting the suffering of the protagonist, the writer had fallen into the trap of generalization, such as rendering truck drivers on national highways as potential pedophiles. However, these literary choices remain outside the purview of discussion as the book and the experience of reading it supersede the discussion on literariness of the text. A Little Life has stood out as an epitome of the literature that requires trigger warnings. But could such sensationalism ever be equated to the practice of literary criticism? In my opinion it could never be the case. Literature has always offered a heightened sense of feeling and emotions. Could the lovers of literature ever agree to trigger warnings on the most beloved of the books that have left deep impressions on their mind? Books that have left them sympathizing, empathizing, weeping and agonizing in their thoughts, without compromising the literariness of the text. I cannot ever imagine Woolf’s to the Lighthouse with a trigger warning, despite the extreme emotions a child feels at the hands of an authoritative father has been depicted so passionately. The same is with Kunju’s Hungary Humans, a novel that depicts the hypocrisy of men living in temple-town of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu in India, living a religiously pious lives on one hand and indulging in passions of all kinds on another. The novel had instances of child-abuse and sexual exploitation among men. The trigger warning would only elude the sensory pleasure that the book evokes in the reader, as the reader is about to share the humiliation, dilemma, exclusion and depravity of humanity that characters go through in the novel. What would Rebecca by Maurier look like if it would be given a trigger warning for the crime that happens in it and the moral corruption that it promotes in the name of preserving love between the nameless female protagonist and Mr. Maxim. Should Roy’s depiction of child abuse, the tragic death of Sophie Mol, the murder of Dalit character Velutha at the hands of the police and ultimate climax of shared incestuous intimacy between twin siblings in The God of Small Things bring the trigger warning? I hardly agree. The argument is that literature softens humans by exposing them to the extreme of emotions and experience. And anything that limits this experience, is certainly a limitation on curiosity, creativity and freedom of thoughts and expression. Then, the question shall arise, what about those who are readers but at the same time survivors of the cruelty of our times? And those are the ones who are often shown as beneficiaries of the literary cautionary practices. But is it enough caution to lessen the uneasiness or discomfort felt through reading?

Against this question, I propose the moment of catharsis that a literary text can produce between the characters of the story and the reader. Sometimes, at some level, each story, the fate of some characters, touch a delicate yet fundamental part of the reader’s personality. Such moments of catharsis are often moments of consolation and relief as the reader could relate to any character or event in the book. Such moments of catharsis forge solidarities that defy the concepts of time and imagination. And for those who could not experience a catharsis, they will find themselves thinking, pondering and culminating over the characters and events, leading to a sense of enhanced understanding and empathy toward humanity in general. It is particularly true for the literature that is written by or from the perspectives of the marginalized in society. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath has illuminated the path for the aspiring artists, comforting the artists exactly when there is no one to share their fatigue, a result of their creative imagination not finding a way of exposure in any way possible in the society. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger has been a classic on the theme of teenage angst. It has provided the readers with an insight into the agony and turmoil going on in the mind of a teenager oppressed by the school and family system. Such depictions and themes often lead to development of empathy and understanding among readers. It also opens the possibilities for change in the existing system through a change in the inner realms of an individual. Is it then possible to defend the cautionary literary practices at all?

I conclude by saying ‘No’. Sensitization or softening of the heart is inherent in the act of writing and reading. Any value that is inherent in something cannot be coerced from the outside. If one does so, it renders it null by logic of internal contradiction. If literature, as argued throughout the essay, has sensitization and softening of the heart as its aim inherent in itself; then the need for cautionary literary practices stands nullified. Moreover, the imposition of any such practices, thus, can only be seen as a barrier or a limitation on the enjoyment of literature and freedom of such enjoyment. As I suggested, a reader is both a free being and a responsible being in the act of engagement with literature. If freedom is what constitutes an essential part of literature, author and reader, then let us hold it to save the humane aspect of writing culture and keep it free from anything that limits its potential.