When I recently read the book – “Hindu Studies: Foundation and Frameworks”, written by Professor Nandani Sahu, I thought, ‘What was the need to write this book in our country, where the majority of Hindu people are very well-acquainted with traditions, philosophies, histories, and cultural expressions associated with Hinduism, one of the world’s oldest living religions?’ But after having gone through it, I found that this book is very much essential in the academic field because it encompasses a wide range of disciplines, including religious studies, philosophy, history, anthropology, linguistics, and art, aiming to understand Hinduism’s texts, practices, and societal impact.

It is also true that our new generation is distancing itself from their religion, culture, scriptures, and even heritage of excellent arts. They feel ashamed to call themselves ‘Hindu.’ The main reason behind it is that neither are we very well conversant or have scientific attitude, nor have we made any arrangements to educate our progeny about our religion.

It is a ridiculous thing that the word ‘Hindu’ also is not our own word. It is found neither in Sanskrit nor in Hindi or any other Indian language. It is an Arabic word which means ‘Kafir’, ‘Thief’ etc. Previously, ‘Hindu’ was a geographical name derived from Indus for the people living beyond the Indus River to up to the boundaries of the Indian Ocean, but later on, it was colloquially converted to represent the religion of the people of this land. Due to this, Sage Vivekanand considered the ‘Hindu’ word insignificant because in this geographical area, there are also many other living religions. Presently, the Indus River is flowing through Pakistan, so how can Pakistani be treated as Hindus?  But modern Rambhadracharya blind Saint illustrate that word ‘Hindu’ is refered in Bruhspati Agam “ हिमालयात् समारभ्य यावत् इन्दु सरोवरम्। तं देवनिर्मितं देशं हिन्दुस्थान प्रचक्षते॥”- (बृहस्पति आगम) i.e. which clearly states that ‘Starting from the Himalayas till Indusarovar (Indian Ocean), this God-made country is called ‘Hindusthan’. Due to this situation, nowadays, there is a trend that most modern saints, including Dhirendra Shastri Bageshwar Dham are using the term ‘Sanatan Dharm’ in place of ‘Hindu Dharma’ in his book “What is Sanatan Dharm?”. But it is again not true as Sanatan means non-changeable, but old Hindu dharma, say, Vedic dharma, is quite different from present Hindu dharma.

Pt. Jawahar Lal Nehru had also pointed out in his book ‘Discovery of India,’ that using the word ‘Hindi’ was more appropriate for representing people living in this region, instead of the word ‘Hindu,’ in tune of ‘Gujarati,’ ‘Bihari,’ ‘Bengali’ for representing people as well as language of Gujrat, Bihar and Bengal, etc. But nowadays word ‘Hindi’ is used for one of the Indian languages only, whereas a few lines of the poem of Iqbal, ‘Hindi Hain Hum, Hindustan Hamara’ are noteworthy. Moreover, for the first time, Magasthenese wrote the book ‘Indica’ for representing communities of this area, which subsequently became the word ‘India’.  And our Constitution adopted this word, saying – “India that is called Bharat.” Still, there is a controversy that the word ‘India’ is a borrowed word, and ‘Bharat’ is the name of the Arya King Bharat. So, the Dravidians are raising their objections to this name. Thus, Hindu Studies has become a battleground for ideological conflicts in the past few decades. Some scholars are accused of being too sympathetic to ‘Hindutva’ (Hindu nationalist) agendas, while others are criticized for ‘demonizing’ Hinduism to fit secular or leftist narratives. The difference between ‘Hindutva’ and ‘Hinduism’ is explicitly shown in a recent book – ‘The New Icon: Savarkar and the Facts’, written by renowned journalist and former Union Minister Arun Shourie. This politicization can compromise academic neutrality. Professor Nandini Sahu wrote 10 chapters for this book.  

The first chapter is ‘Introduction to Hindu Studies,’ in which Nandini Sahu mentions about the history of Hindutva based on various articles and books of renowned writers such as Ranjeet Guha, Deepesh Chakravarty, Romila Thapar, Arvind Sharma, J.N. Mohanty, M.N. Srinivas, Wendy Doniger, Louis Dumont, including great Hindu Philosophers Vivekanand and Arvind Ghosh -whose contributions are immense in taking Hinduism to newer heights in the world scenario. As a result, Hinduism’s influence extended beyond India—through yoga, meditation, and cultural exchanges—this chapter addresses a globally significant tradition relevant to both practitioners and non-practitioners. According to Professor Sahu, Hindu Studies has emerged as a formal field largely through colonial scholarship in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, with European Indologists like Max Müller translating Vedic texts. It carries the baggage of Orientalism — sometimes romanticizing or misrepresenting Hinduism as a static, mystical’ tradition. Its roots are diffused, reflecting Hinduism’s lack of a single founder or centralized doctrine.

In the 2^nd chapter of the book titled as “The Hindu Texts and Contexts”, Professor Sahu draws from an immense body of texts — Vedas, Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, Puranas, epic Mahabharata and Ramayana and many more—offering deep philosophical and spiritual insights, with a broad scope covering rituals, mythology, philosophy (e.g., Vedanta), and social structures (e.g., caste). These texts, combined with oral traditions and lived practices, provide a treasure trove for scholars. Even she specifically penned down Dashavatar’s hypothesis based on Charles Darwin’s evolution theory. 

Prof. Nandini Sahu commented that historically, Hindu Studies in the West has been shaped by colonial scholars who sometimes framed Hinduism through a Eurocentric lens. Critics, like Edward Said – inspired post-colonial thinkers, argue that this led to misrepresentations —exoticizing Hinduism as “mystical” or reducing it to a monolith, ignoring its diversity. 

But in my opinion,  it is also true that above Hindu Texts and contexts are often prioritizes elite Sanskrit texts (e.g., Vedas) over vernacular traditions, folk practices, or the lived religion of millions. This skews the understanding towards the Brahmanical perspective, sidelining Dalit, tribal, or regional voices

In the 3^rd chapter,  “The Hindu Philosophical Schools”, Prof. Sahu has discussed in detail about two types of schools – Astik and Nastik.  In the Astik school, Nandini Sahu has elaborated on the details of Shankhya, Yoga, Nayaya, Mimansa, Vaisesika, and Vedanta.

Meanwhile, Nandini Sahu threw light on the philosophies of Buddhism, Jainism, and Charvaka in the Nastik school. 

Nandini Sahu expanded her views on existentialism and non-violence principle of Gandhiji as a global ethics by saying that –

“ Mahatma Gandhi propagated the Hindu principle of Ahimsa (nonviolence) as a political and ethical discipline, that eventually impacted Civil Rights Movements across this globe, most notably in the work of Martin Luther King Jr., or Nelson Mandela. Gandhi grounded his reading of Ahimsa in Jain and Hindu traditions, but framed it universally. He famously stated, “The law of love will work, just as the law of gravitation will work, whether we accept it or not… The doctrine of Ahimsa tells us that we may guard the honor of those who are under our charge by delivering ourselves and our dear ones from the oppressor. He who believes in Ahimsa is prepared to die for it” (Nandini Sahu, 92)”.

In the 4^th chapter “Rituals, Practices and Traditions of Devotion”, she has  vividly described about Sanskar, Puja, Pilgrimage, Bhakti Movement, Role of festivals in Hindu religious life, as well as key figures of Bhakti movement such as Kabir, Mirabai and Tulsidas etc. In 5^th chapter, “Hindu Social and Ethical Knowledge System”, she mentions four Varnas, four Ashrams, the caste system, the contemporary perspective, reforms, as well as gender roles and social hierarchy as per Manu Smriti.She says, 

“The Manusmriti delineates women’s roles, focusing on their duties in the family and home. According to the text, “a woman must always be a devoted wife and mother, and her primary duty is to serve her husband” (Manusmriti 5.154). This is a reflection of the patriarchal status quo, where roles for women are primarily indicative of being at home.” (Nandini Sahu, 128)

Pandit Jawahar Lal Nehru, in his famous book ‘Discovery of India,’ stated that the coming of the Aryans into India raised new social and political problems. The conquered race, the Dravidians, had a long background of Civilization behind them, but there is little doubt that the Aryans considered themselves vastly superior, and a wide gulf separated the two races. Then there were also the backward aboriginal tribes, nomads or forest dwellers. Out of this conflict and interaction of races gradually arose the caste system, which, in the course of succeeding centuries, affected Indian life profoundly. Probably caste was neither Aryan nor Dravidian. It was an attempt at social organization of different races, a rationalization of the facts as they existed at the time. It brought degradation in its terrain afterward, and it is still a burden and a curse, but we can hardly judge it from subsequent standards or later developments.

B. R. Ambedkar had elaborately given the details about theories for the formation of  Shudras  in his book – Who were the Shudras?

It is general proposition that the social organization of the Indo-Aryan was based on the theory of Chaturvarnya, and that Chaturvarnya means division of society into four classes

(1)     Brahmins (Priests)

(2)     Kshatriyas (Soldiers)

(3)     Vaishyas (Traders)

(4)     Shudras (Menials)

Unfortunately, more than this is involved in Chaturvarnaya’s theory.  Besides dividing society into four orders, the theory goes further. It makes the principle of graded inequality – The basis for determining the terms of associated life as between the four Varnas. Again, the system of graded inequality is not merely notional. It is legal and penal. Under the system of Chaturvarnaya, the Shudra is not only placed at the bottom of the gradation but he is subjected to innumerable hegemonies and disabilities so as to prevent him from rising above the condition fixed for him by law.  Indeed, until the fifth Varna of the Untouchables came into being, the Shudras were in the eyes of the Hindus the lowest of the low.  This shows the nature of what might be called the problem of the Shudras.

The 19^th Hymn of tenth Mandala of the Rig Veda – which is known by the famous name of Purusha Sukta. “The Brahman was His mouth, the Rajanya was made His arms, the being called Vaishya, he was His thighs, the Shudras sprang from His feet.”  

The Purusha Sukta is a theory of the origin of the Universe. In other words, it is a cosmogony. No nation that has reached an advanced degree of thought has failed to develop some sort of cosmogony. The constitution of society prescribed by Purusha Sukta in known as Chaturvarnaya. As a divine injunction, it naturally became the ideal of the Indo-Aryan society.

As per Hindu Shastras, the Antyajas should live and have their abode outside the village.  For instance, Manu says:

1.      The dwellings of the Chandalas and the Shvapakas shall be outside the village, they must be Apapatra and their wealth shall be dogs and donkeys.

2.      Their dress shall be the garments of dead; they shall eat their food from broken dishes, black iron shall be their ornaments, and they must always wander from place to place.

3.      A man who fulfils a religious duty, shall not seek intercourse with them, their transactions shall be among themselves and their marriages with their equals.

4.      Their food shall be given to them by others (other than an Aryan giver) in a broken dish at night, they shall not walk about in villages and in towns. 

5.      By day, they may go about for the purpose of their work distinguished by mark at king’s command, and they shall carry out the corpses (of person) who have no relatives; that is a settled rule.

6.      By the King’s order, they shall always execute the criminals in accordance with the law, and they shall take for themselves the clothes, the beds and the ornaments of such ‘criminals’

It reflected that the untouchables originally lived inside the village and that then when the stigma of untouchability fell on them, they were forced to vacate and live outside the village. The untouchability exists all over India. The transplantation of untouchables from within the village to outside the village is vast operation.

In the 6^th chapter, “Hindu Arts, Architecture and Iconography”,  Prof Nandini Sahu gives brief details about Murti, Yantra, Mandal, the Role of Dance and Drama, Concepts of Natya-Shastra of Bharat Muni, as well as architecture styles consisting of Nagar, Dravid, Vasara etc. 

Vedic Architecture and Temple:-  

Architecture in India was an extremely rich form of expression and highly developed science with a deep heritage of spirituality in it. It is evident that one of the primary purposes of much of the significant architecture was to display the prevailing spiritual consciousness of the people.

         The Mandirs were composed of various parts, which included the Garbhagriha or  Sanctum, the Sukanasi or nose of the structure, the Antarala or adjoining passage, the     Mandapa or main hall, the Dhwaja Sthambha or flag post and the Balipeeth  for the pedestal for the offerings.(12) The temple was the microcosm that effected the macrocosm or the symbol of cosmic being.

         The Atharva Veda contains several hymns on the topic in its Shala-Nirmana-Sutra. Additional Sanskrit literature that contained references to architecture included Agni Purana, the Brihat Samhita and Artha Shastra and the Vastu Shastra texts (a part of Sthapatya Veda, which is an Up-Veda of the Atharvaveda). 

In the 7^th chapter “Modernity and Hinduism”, Prof. Sahu has emphasized over contribution of Brahma Samaj, Prathana Samaj, Arya Samaj, Ram Krishna Mission and Theosophical Society in addition to the threats to Hindu identity, Synthesis of religion and Politics by Gandhiji, Globalization of Hindu spiritualism etc. But in the 8^th chapter, “Hinduism in Global Context”, she has covered the works of ISKCON, Transcendental Meditation, Maharshi Effect, and Art of Living. 

In the 9^th chapter, “Class, Caste and Gender: Critical Perspective and Discourses”,  she has given some illustrations about the law of Manu, Bhagavad Gita and Upanishad and some examples of feminist critique, subaltern voices, and recovery of women’s history, etc. Some chapters of Manu Smriti advocate – 

V.30 The eater, who daily even devours those destined to be his food, commits no sin; for the Creator himself created both the eaters and those who are to be eaten (for those special purposes).

V.56 There is no sin in eating meat, in (drinking) spirituous liquor, and in carnal intercourse, for that is the natural way of created beings, but abstention brings great rewards.

V.27. One may eat meat when it has been sprinkled with water, while Mantras were recited, when Brahmanas desire (one’s doing it), when one is engaged (in the performance of a rite) according to the law, and when one’s life is in danger.

V.35. But a man, who, being duly engaged (to officiate or to dine at a sacred rite), refuses to eat meat, becomes after death an animal during twenty-one existences.

But later on, Brahmins became vegetarian. As per Dr. Bhim Rao Ambedkar it was the strategy that Brahmin give up beef eating and start worshiping the cow.  It was adopted by Brahmanism to establish its supremacy over Buddhism.

Buddhism was at one time the religion of the majority of people of India. It continued to be the religion of masses for hundreds of years. It attacked Brahmanism on all sides as no religion had done before. Brahmins had lost all power and prestige at the Royal court and among the people. After the death of Buddha his followers started setting up the images of Buddha and building Stupas. The Brahmins followed it. They in their turn, built temples and installed in them images of Shiva, Vishnu and Ram and Krishna etc. – all with the object of drawing away the crowd that was attracted by the image worship of Buddha. That is how temples and images which had no place in Brahmanism came into Hinduism. I agree with this conclusion of Dr. Ambedkar. Moreover, it may be corroborated with the probable reason of idol-worshipping as given in Satyarth Prakash of Swami Dayanand.

In last chapter 10^th, “Navigating New frontiers : Critical reflection and Emerging Paradigm”, an interdisciplinary approach has been integrated by the writer with a focus on diverse perspectives, from analyzing Sanskrit literature to studying modern Hindu diaspora communities, making it dynamic and multifaceted.

At last, it can be said without any exaggeration that the 10 chapters of Nandini Sahu’s “Hindu Studies: Foundations and Frameworks” are important literary works based on a multidisciplinary approach to understanding Hinduism. She has analyzed various aspects of ‘Hindu Studies’. Readers can go through them critically to quench their thirst as well as participate in contemporary debates and diverse perspectives. 

REFERENCES

1. Suresh Soni, India’s Glorious Scientific Tradition, Ocean Books Pvt. Ltd., New Delhi, 2010, p. 199.

2. Kamlesh Kapur, Portraits of a Nations: History of India, Sterling Publishers, Private Limited, 2010, p. 401.

3.  Pride of India: A Glimpse into India’s Scientific Heritage, Samskriti Bharati, New Delhi, 2006, p. 130.

4. Bageshwar Dham- Dheerendra Shastri, Sanatan Dharm , Empty Canvas Publishing, New Delhi, 2024, p. 20

5. Arun Shourie, The New Icon: Savarkar and Facts, India Viking, New Delhi, 2025 

6. Sri Aurobindo, Foundations of Indian Culture, Arvind Ahsram, India, 1988 

7. Nandini Sahu, Sita (A Poem), The Poetry Society of India, Gurugram, 2015 

8. Arun Shourie, Worshhiping False Gods, Harper India, 2012 

9.  Myths, Legends concepts and literary antiquities of India – Manoj Das, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, 2024 

10. Discovery of India, Jawahar Lal Nehru, Penguin India, 2024 

11. The Secret teaching of Vedas, Stephen Knapp, Jaico Publishing House, 1993 

12. Dr B.R.Ambedkar, Who were Shudra?, Prabhat Prakashan, New Delhi, 2022

13.. Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, The Untouchables: Who were they and why they became untouchables?, Namaskar Books, New Delhi, 2023

14. Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, Castes in India: Their Mechanism, Genesis and Development, Arjun Publishing House, New Delhi, 2020 

15.  Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, Annihilation of Caste, Prabhat Prakashan, New Delhi, 2022 

About the Author:
Dinesh Kumar Mali is from Talcher, Odisha.

The post An Alternative Approach to the Hindu Literary PedagogyReading Nandini Sahu’s “Hindu Studies: Foundations and Frameworks” by Dinesh Kumar Mali  first appeared on Prachya Review.

Sanjukta Dasgupta’s poetry book Eklavya Speaks describes the comprehensive story of the subaltern character Eklavya, outlined in the theoretical contexts of colonial and post-colonial discourses, highlighting themes of exclusion, resistance, agency and exploitation in the hierarchical social system of ancient India. This research re-explains Eklavya as a symbol of subaltern revolution, engaging with protest literature and challenging oppressive systems embedded in class and caste, while sustaining the existence and empowerment of disadvantaged individuals. Considering Eklavya as a subaltern voice, one must decode his account in the construction of colonial and post-colonial studies, highlighting the narratives of marginalized entities. Sanjukta Dasgupta examines Eklavya’s assertion on his silencing, the ensuing resistance, the subsequent exploitation, and Eklavya’s representation as a figure of contest with power structure in modern literary discourses. Eklavya, a character from the Mahabharata, is significantly scrutinized from various analytical stand points owing to the complex ethical and social problems innate in this narrative. Caste-based prejudice is one of the main topics in Eklavya’s story. Because of his caste status, Eklavya is immobilized to gain access to formal education and training, leading him to learn archery from a distance, primarily, self-learnig. Dronacharya, the royal guru, rejected him due to his caste , accentuating the social  hierarchies faced by disadvantaged individuals in ancient India. Ethical analysis of Eklavya’s choice of thumb (his teacher’s fee) as Guru Dakshina to Dronacharya has always been a subject of creative literature. Eklavya’s blind devotion to his guru is admirable, but writers and critics contend that his path of sacrifice was forced and unfair. Dronacharya’s demand for Eklavya’s thumb as a condition for his teaching, knowing well that Eklavya’s skill posed a threat to his favourite pupil Arjun, raises questions about the ethical responsibilities of teachers and the power dynamics in the teacher-student relationship. Eklavya’s story also raises questions about the meritocratic ideas of the teacher and taught. As Eklavya is not of the warrior class, he is not able to achieve recognition and validation despite his unresolved aptitude and perseverance. It juxtaposes the ideas of meritocracy, that anyone with the right skills and dedication can succeed in life, with a rigid caste system based on the status one is born into. That is the moot point in the poetry collection Ekalavya Speaks by contemporary Indian poet Sanjukta Dasgupta.

As a fellow poet of Sanjukta and certainly as a critic, I would prefer to read the collection Ekalavya Speaks and decipher Eklavya’s story by the routes of colonial and post-colonial theories. Eklavya is a symbol of those subaltern and underprivileged voiceless people  on whom  elitism has imposed a broad social structure that has completely subjugated them. Eklavya’s story serves as a critique on the domination of indigenous people and colonialism’s continuing impacts on local traditions. This poetry collection is a  timely commentary considering the present state of marginalized people in post-colonial societies. The tragic grandeur of his  character is now revered as a heroic figure who combines loyalty, selflessness and an unyielding spirit through adversity. For his guru’s dignity, sacrificing his own success and security, upholding principles of utmost dignity in the face of injustice, Eklavya indeed ‘speaks’. These multilayered  representations can be read as opening up an under-explored and perhaps unexplored ground for the perception and compensation of Eklavya’s identity, and his focus in the larger ambit of Mahabharata narrative, at the same time bringing forth timeless questions of caste, ethics, volition, world order and justice in hierarchy. Keeping that in mind, through these opening statements, Sanjukta maps the book’s overarching theme to trace:

“In my 9th book of poems titled Ekalavya Speaks I have tried to address these issues of intersectionality with special focus on caste and gender discrimination. The poem ‘Ekalavya Speaks’ perhaps defines the purpose, perspectives, resilience and relevance of Ekalavya in our times. Many of the poems in this volume address the deep-rooted prevalence of systemic marginalization of citizens of our country, based on caste, class, gender and religion, among others. Othering is the unifying theme in this volume of 100 poems, though some of the poems do not typically focus on issues of discrimination and ostracism.” (Dasgupta 12)… The well-known Mahabharata tale of Ekalavya, a black, low-caste boy whose prowess at archery rivalled that of the Pandavas, the noble heroes, may also have inspired the myth of the weavers’ thumbs. To preserve the Pandavas’ dominance as archers, Ekalavya’s teacher insisted that he amputate his right thumb. ‘An interesting parallel between Ekalavya and Karna, an illegitimate child abandoned by his Kshatriya mother and brought up by a charioteer. Like Ekalavya, Karna finds that his lower caste disqualifies him from an archery contest with Arjuna, again under Drona’s aegis;…”(Dasgupta 9)…‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’ Spivak’s rhetorical question initiated a paradigmatic shift leading to the emergence of the visible and vocal subaltern on the centre stage, spectacularly pole vaulting from the remote peripheries. The subaltern did not just speak after centuries of silence, the subaltern made her/himself heard. This game changing transformation revolutionised all the deeply entrenched discourse of pride and prejudice, hate and discrimination towards the ‘other’ who were at the receiving end of an often violent and cruel systemic marginalization. In this collection, the received ‘otherization’ of the subaltern who could never be one of ‘us’ has now been interrogated, deconstructed and redefined.” (Dasgupta 10) With this discourse in her cognizance and this fire in her soul, she pens down Ekalavya’s heartrending poem thus:

EKALAVYA SPEAKS

“Respected, Honorable Sir

I have travelled a long way

I have practiced night and day

As the wise say

“Practice makes perfect”

You saw the arrow leave my bow

Faster than any flash of light

Faster, Swifter, Speedier

Sir, I wished to make you happy

I wished to tell you

I worshipped you

As others worship God.

Sir, you were the God

Whom I worshipped from afar

You were the God whose image

I sat on the mound as my guide

Sir, though we had not met

I knew in my heart

Only you, and no one else

Could be my friend,

Philosopher and guide

Sir, I saw you from afar

Shining like a sword in the sun

Surrounded by the five Princes

The Pandavas, the invincible offspring

Of privilege and birthright

I stood behind a tree

Watching you with eager eyes

You had eyes for Prince Arjuna

As did the charismatic Lord Krishna

Privilege is such an accident of birth

I was born shorn of privilege

I was born to bend and cringe

I was born to suffer and cry

My being born a tribal prince

A matter of mirth and ridicule

I was born a slave they said

Slavery was my birthright

I was also born with a backbone

I was also born with a fearless mind

My head held high troubled you all

But my backbone, mind and head

Were incorrigible

They behaved Otherwise

…

‘Sir, What can I give you as gurudakshine

My revered teacher, my brilliant guide

What can I give you that a guru like you

Would consider worthy, dear Sir’

Your steady voice did not tremble at all

As you my remote guru, my inspiration

My icon, my God simply said,

“Give me your thumb Ekalavya”

No one protested, everyone watched

As with one unerring stroke

I severed my thumb

It quivered in protest,

Red with fresh flowing subaltern blood

I offered you my Gurudakshina

As you desired, how could I disobey you

My guru, my mentor and guide

You deleted me with

Such superb craft of words”

(Dasgupta 23-25)

With the same tone and tenure, Sanjukta poses a few questions to Guru Dronacharya, which are the larger questions of humanity:

DRONACHARYA : THE TEACHER OF PRINCES

“Dronacharya

The pet pedagogue

Of the king’s court

Neither a friend

Nor a philosopher

Not even a guide

Dronacharya

The glamorized bonded labour

Leashed to the regal court.”

(Dasgupta 30)

In the able hands of Sanjukta, Eklavya’s response to his marginalization demonstrates agency and resistance. He does not sit idly and accept his fate, bringing his own woes upon himself, but he seizes action, teaching himself archery, and the resilience and self-discipline he exhibits prove to be pivotal in his story. Eklavya’s evolution from a true disciple to an exploited subaltern illustrates the way caste hierarchies conspire to create injustice. As the price paid as an ugly truth, Eklavya was tormented  for his devoted training and skill at archery. Instead of guidance that he sought from his teacher Dronacharya, he received betrayal. Dronacharya sought nothing of proper training of his Dalit disciple, fretted only about positioning Arjun as the undisputed champion prince of war. When Eklavya’s inborn talents threatened Arjun’s fragile ego, Dronacharya callously demanded that the price of Guru Dakshina be Eklavya’s own thumb, thereby crippling the boy and securing his favourite with violence and oppression.  The story of Eklavya is one of resilience against harsh discrimination and shows that one’s worth does not arise from the arbitrary hierarchies enforced by birth but is derived from one’s spirit and inner character. The elite may seek to prove its superiority by breaking whomever they can take control of, but oppression never wholly destroys the humanity of the dispossessed. The panopticon and the counter-panopticon are at work in a multilayered way here.  Eklavya’s story has not just survived as a tale of subjugation, it has survived as a reminder to every single person at the mercy of a fallacious social architecture and institutional commanders that there is a way to struggle against injustice and get dignity even when so much is done to deny dignity to the deserving. Just like those who fight for social justice and equality, Eklavya cannot be defined or contained, and rather than being moulded by an intolerant system, he rebels against the establishment. Looking at Eklavya’s story through the prism of subaltern studies can help imply about the socioeconomic stratification and its historical remnants in the process of establishment of some classes. 

Sanjukta takes incidents from life, here-and-now, and writes poetry of social mobility. For example, the story of a raped girl is the point of concern for here:

“October 2nd is the birth anniversary of the Father (Bapu) of the Indian nation, freedom fighter Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. India gained Independence from British rule on 15th August, 1947. The incident happened in Ujjain Madhya Pradesh on 27rd September 2023. The accused is an auto-driver. His father in righteous indignation has disowned him. One such poem, voicing for the subaltern, the tribal,is :

“HUL: THE SANTHAL REBELLION, JUNE 30, 1855”

That was the first subaltern revolt

Bhognadih, the tribal village,

Was restless that night

No one slept, no one spoke

“Do and die” said their leaders Sidho and Kanhu

As their brothers and comrades cheered

Their rippling muscles and resolute eyes

Shone in the soft moonlit night

Ten thousand tribals, a voluntary army

Vowed to defend their ripening fields

Plundered and sucked dry

By the native mafia

And the white looters

Of the British East India Company”

(Dasgupta 47)

Sanjukta tries her hand at Dalit literature with compete social commitment:

THE CONSTITUTION MAKER: B. R. AMBEDKAR

Ambedkar, the meek Dalit boy learnt

He could not drink water

From a glass or tap while at school

Ambedkar, the Dalit boy learnt

If he touched them

They would be polluted

If they touched him

They would become impure

Ambedkar learnt the lesson of his life

So different from the books prescribed.”

(Dasgupta 49)

Sanjukta critically engages with tribal literature when she writes about “Chuni Kotal, a Dalit Adivasi woman from the tribal community of Lodha Shabars of West Bengal, was the first woman to graduate from a tribal community… Chuni enrolled as an MA student in the Dept of Anthropology in Vidyasagar University. One particular male professor, continuously abused and disparaged Kotal from the very first day. He abused her and her caste during the lectures and marked her absent even when she was present in the classes and purposely failed her by undermarking her answer scripts. On 16th August 1992, Chuni Kotal committed suicide.” (Dasgupta 54) Gender discourse in tribal literature is a rich area of study that looks into the representation of gender roles, identities and power dynamics in the tribal communities. Tribal literature reflects traditional gender roles in indigenous groups. These roles might include distinct responsibilities for men and women in areas such as hunting, gathering, childcare and decision-making. However, tribal literature also showcases the diversity of gender roles in different tribes and encounters stereotypes by depicting women in roles traditionally associated with men and vice versa, which works as the backdrop of Sanjukta’s poetry in this collection. Her kind of tribal literature challenges patriarchal norms and advocates for gender equality. Sanjukta’s contemporaries emphasize women’s contributions to their communities, question gender-based violence and discrimination and push for women’s and marginalized genders’ empowerment. Her tribal poetry examines the interwoven nature of gender with other identity questions like race, ethnicity, class and sexuality. It analyses the ways in which colonization, globalization and modernization intersect with gender to affect the experiences of indigenous people, especially indigenous women. Tribal poetry of feminism by Sanjukta encapsulates diversity, constructing varied themes such as negotiating gender roles, subversion of patriarchal structures, intersectionality, oral traditions and indigenous knowledge systems, colonial and post-colonial outlooks and resistance and resilience. Tribal writers involve in deep dialogues via their creative expressions about gender, identity and social justice.

In Sanjukta’s poems, variety is beauty. The country, nationality and a feeling of belonging to a nation are fundamental elements of her approach. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, an innovative intellectual activist of 19th century Bengal, appeared as an unresolved opponent of embedded social prejudices, especially those based on patriarchy and caste hierarchy. His activism for widows’ rights climaxed in the Hindu Widows’ Remarriage Act of 1856, and this matter emphasized the social prohibition encountered by women and the continuing shame associated with those who had experienced trauma. Vidyasagar founded a ground in wisdom and rationalised Hindu scriptures, confirming an aptitude for combining progressive thought with accessibility and noteworthy texts to counter traditional opposition. He strongly encouraged women’s education, identifying its ability to change gender hierarchies. The action opposed prevalent critique; yet he instituted various foundations providing women a choice to follow their dreams of education. His disapproval of child marriage exposed the connection between patriarchy and religious beliefs. However, Vidyasagar’s mission faced strong opposition from orthodox factions determinedly aeverse to any change. Challenging such suppressive norms had not only helped bring about similar reform movements in India, but it also established education and reason as instruments of social change making Vidyasagar a fundamental yet practical reformer. Sanjukta talks about Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar as well as the communal blocks and how he opposed them:

THE PATH-FINDER

A Tribute to Pandit Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar on his 200th birth

anniversary (Birth September 26, 1820. Died July 29, 1891)…

Then the Sati Regulation Act 1829

Acted as a frustrating damper

It was no longer possible

To watch with hands folded

Young women being barbequed alive

On the funeral pyres

Of husbands thrice their age

Often victims of diseases

Unmentionable in those times.

(Dasgupta 78)

As a part of her social movement, the disparate faces of the people have been condemned by Sanjukta in the poem “Platforms Transformed”: 

“No pickpockets, no food-stalls, no bookstalls

Few legs, mostly faces and voices on video platforms

Platforms created by the Narcissus Corporate

Streaming of Selfie fantasies more potent than cocaine snorts

Platforms on tables and palms dictate, debate, disseminate

Alas, virtual platforms just transform methods not minds!”

(Dasgupta 113)

Often considered one of the most powerful and transformative poets of the 20th century, Adrienne Rich spent the second half of her life addressing the perils of a society that demands women to be complacent and subservient by breaking the structures of patriarchy in her work and championing feminist consciousness and social justice. Her poetry is laced with an uncompromising critique of systems of power, especially patriarchy, heteronormativity and structural oppression, while saluting the intricacy of women’s lives and relationships. Rich’s early verse, such as A Change of World (1951), displays her methodological genius as a formalist poet, but her later collections like Diving into the Wreck (1973) shine with her radical change into a poet of resistance and action. In Diving into the Wreck, Rich offers her readers language as a means of feminist reimagination, engaging with history to uncover antiquities of expurgation, of silencing piles of stones. Her preoccupation with identity and sexuality and the blurring of the line between the personal and political borders upon revolutionary territory (that certainly benefited from détente), an argument vibrant in The Dream of a Common Language(1978), so that her work is at once a clarion call for commonality and collective effort. Rich’s poetry is not just something beautiful; it is a deep critique of biases with an urgent belief in a brand new world that is not based in power and inequity. Her unflinching probing into the textures of language, the recesses of history and the measure of power reveals her identity not only as a poet but as a cultural and intellectual revolutionary whose craft, roaring against the backdrop of wars fought on gender, race and class, vibrates alongside the liturgy of time. Sanjukta seems to have been deeply inspired by Adrienne Rich. I particularly liked one poem by Sanjukta on Adrienne Rich: 

TO ADRIENNE RICH (May 16, 1929- March 27, 2012)

You said

“I make no claim to be universal,

neuter or androgynous”

No one but you could have been

Such an honest path-finder

The road not taken

Was your road

To push the boundaries

To walk beyond borders

To break free

To break in

To break even

To laugh at barbed wires

Was your freedom song”.

(Dasgupta 115)

Feminist literary criticism has made patriarchy a primary subject, and genres and narratives in literature provide material on the ways in which prejudice is constricted via hierarchical structures, which in turn constrain freedom and maintain rigid roles. In A Room of One’s Own, authors like Virginia Woolf show how women’s lack of economic independence and education limit their understanding and creativity. The Color Purple, by Alice Walker, is an example of subversion of masculine authority that reveals the triad of patriarchal, racist and class oppressions at work. The Quilt by Ismat Chughtai and Draupadi by Mahasweta Devi are two examples of modern South Asian literature that expose the oppression and exploitation of women in many contexts, including home, community and nation. They praise women for standing together in protest to patriarchal power structures. Literature can speak volumes about underrepresented realities, shedding light on patriarchy and opening dialogs about empowerment and equality. “Husband Ji” by Sanjukta exposes the multi-tiered deterioration of patriarchy. Thus, the narrative conveys a powerful message about the repression of marginalized voices:

“Good wives do not reply,

Good wives do not reason why a

Good wives just do and die

Patriarchy triumphs like a gas balloon

As good wives and their good husbands

Surrender to the lunar lie without a doubt.”

(Dasgupta 178)

The narrative of Eklavya speaks volumes about repressing the minority voices in an ancient India with a stringent social ladder. Even though his level of skill and commitment towards archery is enchanting ,he misses out on awareness of academic and contending. Sanjukta Dasgupta strongly voices this marginalization in this collection like that of the delinquents, philanderers, thieves, or even addictive criminals and rebels, admirers and imitators who never get to be present at the celebrations of the privileged circle of the Royal Court .To speak for the subaltern through poetry that is rooted in mythology and tribal literature and other marginalised narratives is a significant act of literary and socio-political resistance. Sanjukta rewrites canonical myths and roots them in the lives of the marginalized, at one stroke disrupting hegemonic narratives and reclaiming cultural spaces from voices that were historically forced to the periphery. In that reframing, mythology, with its implicit hegemony, becomes subaltern, a dynamic critique of the entrenched dominant discourses, discourses that can offer modes of empowerment by reinterpretations of Ekalavya, or Draupadi by writers such as Sanjukta or Mahasweta Devi where agency and resistance outweigh passivity. Sanjukta provides a living counter-narrative to the written traditions of mainstream/dominant groups that opposes historical epistemic violence of colonial and caste or philosophical historiography. She relies on her poetic expressions to bring together the personal and the political and enters a dialogic relationship with postcolonial and the subaltern theories to expand the parameters of literary scholarship. By interlacing myth and indigenous mythology into the very fibre of verse, subaltern poetics offer legitimacy to disparate forms of epistemology and subvert univocal narratives of history while calling for a radical reconceptualization of social justice. Sanjukta’s  reclaiming voice is not simply an aesthetic endeavour but an ethical duty, where poetry becomes both a site of resistance and also a statement for resilience from those who have been on the margins.

Works Cited:

• Ekalavya Speaks – A Collection of Poems by Sanjukta Dasgupta, Penprints, 2023.
• https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/other-states/12-year-old-rape-survivor-

            found-bleeding-on-street-in-madhya-pradeshs-ujjain/article67354079.ece”

•             https://feminisminindia.com/2018/06/29/chuni-kotal-essay/

• Guha, Ranajit. Subaltern Studies: Writings on South Asian History and Society. Oxford University Press, 1982.

• Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. Can the Subaltern Speak? Reflections on the History of an Idea. Edited by Rosalind C. Morris, Columbia University Press, 2010.
• Bama. Sangati: Events. Translated by Lakshmi Holmström, Oxford University Press, 2005.
• Limbale, Sharankumar. Towards an Aesthetic of Dalit Literature: History, Controversies, and Considerations. Translated by Alok Mukherjee, Orient Longman, 2004.
• Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, International Publishers, 1971.
• Guha, Ranajit, and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, editors. Selected Subaltern Studies. Oxford University Press, 1988.
• Ananthamurthy, U. R. Samskara: A Rite for a Dead Man. Translated by A. K. Ramanujan, Oxford University Press, 1976.
• Omvedt, Gail. Dalit Visions: The Anti-Caste Movement and the Construction of an Indian Identity. Orient Longman, 1995.
• Ambedkar, B. R. Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition. Edited by S. Anand, Navayana, 2014.
• Devi, Mahasweta. Imaginary Maps: Three Stories. Translated and edited by Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Routledge, 1995.

About the Author

Prof.Nandini Sahu, Vice Chancellor, Hindi University, West Bengal, the Amazon Bestselling Author, is a major voice in contemporary Indian English literature. She has accomplished her doctorate in English literature under the guidance of Late Prof. Niranjan Mohanty, Prof. of English, Visva Bharati, Santiniketan. She has been widely published in India, U.S.A, U.K., Africa, Italy, Australia and Pakistan.  Apart from numerous other literary awards, she is a triple gold medalist in English literature; she has received the Gold Medal from the hon’ble Vice-President of India for her contributions to English Studies in India in the year 2019. She is the recipient of the prestigious Michael Madhusudan Academy Award, 2024 and Lifetime Achievement Award(SAFE),2024.  She is the author and editor of twenty-one books, The Other Voice, The, Recollection as Redemption, The Post-Modernist Delegation to English Language Teaching, The Post Colonial Space: Writing the Self and the Nation, Silver Poems on My Lips, Folklore and the Alternative Modernities (Vol.I), Folklore and the Alternative Modernities (Vol. II), Sukamaa and Other Poems, Suvarnarekha, Sita(A Poem), Dynamics of Children’s Literature, Zero Point and Selected Poems of Nandini Sahu(Winter-2020), Selected Poems of Nandini Sahu(Spring-2021), Re-reading Jayanta Mahapatra, A Song, Half & Half , Shedding the Metaphors, Collected Poems of Nandini Sahu, Collected Poems of Niranjan Mohanty and Hindu Studies: Foundations and Frameworks. She is the Former Director, School of Foreign Languages, Professor of English at Indira Gandhi National Open University [IGNOU], New Delhi, India, is currently the Vice Chancellor, Hindi University, West Bengal,. Her areas of research interest cover Indian Literature, New Literatures, Indigenous Knowledge Systems, Hindu Studies, American Literature, Folk Literature, Children’s Literature and Critical Theory. She is the Chief Editor/Founder Editor of Interdisciplinary Journal of Literature and Language (IJLL), a bi-annual peer-reviewed journal in English. Professor Sahu has designed multiple academic programmes on Folklore and Culture Studies, American Literature, Postcolonial Literatures, British Poetry, Children’s Literature and Indian Philosophical Thoughts for IGNOU and many other universities. 

The post “Writing from the Margins: Ekalavya Speaks, A Collection of Poems by Sanjukta Dasgupta” by Nandini Sahu first appeared on Prachya Review.

I saw my son, your music teacher Alisherjon. I love you praised. I am so glad that you are taking it easy.
“Merciful has a juicy voice. It is necessary to educate him. You need to find a good teacher,” she said.

Rukhsor’s mother was tall, hot-tempered, and black-eyed.

He caresses his youngest son, whose black hair falls on his forehead.
“If you become a great singer, you will be excused by seeing Tashkent when you come, my son. God willing! It’s enough if I get into the study, the first one, I’ll do this. All I have to do is turn you around in the city.”

“I wish that. But… can I go to the conservatory, honey?”

“They will get it, my son, they will get it. Hearing your voice, they are also fascinated by you will remain.”

“Oh, you exaggerate. How many people are like me?”

“Never mind. God created everyone with His provision, my child…”

Rakhimjon could not go to Tashkent after finishing school. What would his mother find? He entered the school of music education with the help of his teachers. He learned to sing ghazals.

“To the point where you can still play big songs with ease, you can do it, my son,” said his teacher Gani, happy with his student’s ability.

At the Youth Festival held in the region in the year of graduation from the country of knowledge, Qora Ko’zim sung with Rakhimjon Navoi’s ghazals at the festival. He won first place by performing the songs Kelmadi. One of the well-known singers in his panel introduced himself as Muslim, an old, tall man. He hugged Rahimjon and pressed him to his bosom:
“My son, you have a bright future. This is my address. If you go to Tashkent, find me. I will help you to study,” he said.

On this day, Rakhimjon’s joy was boundless. He was flying in the sky.

When he got home:
“Mum, congratulate me,” he said. “They gave first place to me. After a month, we will go to Tashkent. If I get a place there, I will enter the conservatory without exams.”

“Learn from my smart son. Don’t let your eyes touch your voice, my child.
May God protect you from calamities.”

“What you say…”

Mukhsinjan, who won the second place at the festival, lights up a lamp inside. It didn’t light up.

“Will all my hard work and efforts go to waste?
I dream of singing in Tashkent, on big stages, after all…”

Mukhsin could not sit at home. Mother’s:
“Hey, hey, where are you going in the evening,” he said, but he went to his teacher’s house.

On the day he came home, he asked for a rug to hang on the carpet.
“I want to call…”

He tried to hum, matching the tune, but his voice did not come out. Then he cried.

“I can never sing again, honey? Why, why?! To me, what happened? What happened?”

Mental depression and illness overcame him. He was bedridden. Mukhsinjan was in Tashkent in those days. He took part in the competition and got a rank. After receiving it, he was accepted to study. He was extremely happy.

“Master, I have achieved my intention. I am very happy,” he said on the way back.

“Now be diligent. Good job.”

“Of course.”

“I heard that your friend is sick. Did you get the message?”

“If we can get there safely today, I will definitely go see him.
I couldn’t get a message because I was busy with preparations.”

“Do so. He is very talented. Get well, my God…”

“God willing…”

Muhsinjan said in his heart:
“He will never sing again. He can’t tell. He won’t get better,” he kept thinking. The villain who did it, he was calm because his work was clear only to God and to himself.

No cure was found for Rakhimjon’s pain. The old man brought by his uncle, the doctor, said that mercury might have been added to the drink because it is quickly absorbed into the blood. It is difficult to detect and treat maybe. It turned out that the young man committed suicide.

During autumn days, more precisely, on the twenty-eighth of October, Rahimjon passed away at the age of twenty.

There was no one left who did not burn and cry. It’s raining non-stop on this day. It poured.

Mukhsinjan’s popularity increased. In large gatherings, they invited Mukhsinjan to weddings. He was full and had a belly. He bought a car.

Tashkent became a step toward it.

On one of those days, it was snowing in January. In his twenties, Mukhsinjan had a car accident on his way home from work. The car fell into a ravine. What he was thinking in his last breath is unknown. But he was punished for what he did.

Many years have passed since this event. Rakhimjon’s mother is also getting old and has passed away. But his instrument and his picture are still hanging on the carpet.

About the Author:
Lobar RUSTAMOVA was born on January 1, 1955 in Yangikurgan District, Namangan Region.
In 1975, he graduated with honors from the faculty of Uzbek language and literature of Namangan State Pedagogical Institute.
Member of the Union of Writers of Uzbekistan. "Trails adjacent to the highway" co-authored (2000), "Telling Alla in the River" (2004), "Oymomo Smiles" (2004), "Ishq Azori" (2007)
"In the Spider's Web" (2009) "A Life of Virtue" (2011) "Tragedy on the Mountain" (2011) "The Address of Happiness" (2017) "It Was Still Winter" (2021) "The Scales of Fate" (2022)  )"Treasure at the bottom of the lake"( 2023),"Longing strewn road"  (2024) is the author of books. Examples of creations were published in newspapers and magazines and websites of Turkey, Azerbaijan, Kenya, Italy, Germany, Kyrgyzstan, Belgium.
In America and France, the stories "It was still winter" and the short stories "Scale of Fate" were published in English and French.
She has the badges "25 years of Independence of Uzbekistan", "Reputable Woman" and "World Talents" of Kazakhstan. Awarded the "Abay" medal of the International Association.

The post VICTIM OF JEALOUSY by Lobar Rustamova first appeared on Prachya Review.

ASTROPHEL AND I

 Some families only meet up at marriages
and funerals where astrophel provides
a bridal bouquet or wreath. You’d think 
I could content myself with greetings 
when you flower into the room, 
a blossom in the heat of summer,
delicate in your cotton sheathe, smiling
like while light as I present as the dark night.
“He’s after a lay,” people say, “But she’s 
too good for him.” Right twice over, 
I can validate. Lust is not romantic
nor is it her mind I mean to conquer, 
but sonnets, like neoclassical poetry, 
are for poetry affectionados and pop culture
is more "slam bam, barely a thank you 
ma'am. Time was a prom date required
a corsage. Now a Seven-Eleven rose passes
for sentimental. Granted, a grocery-store 
bunch of flowers with baby’s breath 
will do when you arrive to a family
reunion. Your cousin’s new baby, 
reeking of baby powder, bubbling 
 a map of breast milk is the prevailing
symbol of new love. A poem about 
how Astrophel loved Stella may have
been the poet Petrarch's trip, catalogued in
Cliff Notes and crib sheets. Once, all our
book shelves had the same texts we kept after
our degree to prove we were well read. 
Frat men who notched their bed posts 
for de-flowers, now emasculated by 
blood-pressure meds or prostrate 
operations, commiserating at wakes or
grandchild’s wedding, or avoiding 
the question who will go next.

About the Author:
Dr. David B. Axelrod was Suffolk, Long Island’s, and is now Volusia County, Florida, Poet Laureate (2015-continuing). He has been published in fifteen languages and hundreds of magazines and anthologies, and twenty-four books of poetry, most recently The Official Rules for Olympic Bed Riding (Bold Venture Press, 2023).  He is also author of Merlin Stone Remembered, chronicling the work of the women’s-rights advocate author of When God Was a Woman.  Dr. Axelrod is recipient of three Fulbright Awards including his being the first official Fulbright Poet-in-Residence in the People’s Republic of China. He is publisher of Writers Ink Press. He lives in Daytona Beach where he is the founder/director of Creative Happiness Institute, Inc., a not-for-profit organization presenting programs in creative writing and alternative wellness (www.creativehappiness.org). His complete CV is available at www.poetrydoctor.org/CV. 

The post Collab of Flash Fiction, Poem and Artwork by David B. Axelrod first appeared on Prachya Review.

Why don’t you see what Steve’s up to, said my mother. 

True, I was bored. TV was all Watergate hearings. Summer dragged, a lake being searched for bodies.

Pears in the yard, drooped on the tree, hard and bitter. 

The quarter mile to Steve’s house was nothing. Even barefoot. I scuffed the cuffs of my jeans, dusty traces of hippiedom.

As I crested the hill on Steve’s lane, his grandmother pulled up, navigating a big boat of a sedan. It was only another 100 yards, but she said, Get in.

Steve’s older brother Larry was in the front, smirking. In the back of my skull, a warning burr. 

Don’t Talk to Strangers.

Was his grandmother a stranger? Not really. Still, I paused before climbing in. Thankfully, no Nixon on the radio. Only “Shambala,” and the cool blue backseat.

I could toughen the soles of my feet, but always had that hitch in my step. Hesitation rarely served me well in future years. 

Missed rides, skipped chances.

Larry looked over his shoulder.

Now we can write the ransom note, he said.

I didn’t laugh right away. 

I hesitated.

About the Author:
Steve Saulsbury became intrigued with flash fiction during Covid 2020. Since then, his work has appeared in many online journals and several printed collections, including the 2024 London Independent Story Anthology. He lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

The post Hesitation Blues by Steve Saulsbury first appeared on Prachya Review.

The door knocker is a small girl holding a puppy. Admire the creativity. Who would make such a door knocker? Who would purchase one?

The Bird would. The Bird does everything in such a way that nobody else can believe what they’ve done when they see what it is. Door knockers. The way The Bird eats an everything bagel. The way The Bird drives a garbage truck. Each action shines a light on the action or the object The Bird is engaging with and brings forth new insight.

Knock on the door. The Bird answers. You begin your apology. The Bird closes the door. Closes or slams? The shutting doesn’t seem hard, but you can’t help but notice the pain in the eyes of The Bird. They did not squawk at you, but they were close to a squawk. Remind yourself that you were expecting this. There was no reason to believe an apology would be accepted the first time. You will return tomorrow. You do return tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. You are here. You will try again. The little girl holds the puppy. You grab the little girl’s shoes and knock robustly. Yesterday, your knock was hesitant. You had a sense of what was coming. You knew you were going to be rejected. Today you will be steered by hope, not fear. Optimism, not pragmatism. Today, you will be forgiven.

The Bird opens the door. You get out a few more words than you got out yesterday, but today, the door is slammed. It is not closed. There’s no denying it. The pain in the eyes is still there, but there is no sign of an oncoming squawk. The Bird does not even ruffle its feathers. Today you are surprised but not surprised. Hope must be adjusted. You must have days of hope. Weeks, even. You will be forgiven. You must be consistent. You will come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today. Today turns into a year ago. It doesn’t take long. Each day the door is opened, and that is why you continue to return. No words are spoken. The Bird can speak, you know it can. You’ve heard it say “Douglas Fairbanks.” You’ve listened as it sang “Moon River.” You’ve carried on a conversation with it back when you two had conversations. The last time you talked, you confessed your betrayal. You told it that you had gone to see the Nest. You had sat among The Eggs. You sat on one, then another. None cracked, but you had crossed a line. Many lines. The Bird listened, cawed a bit under its breath, and then asked you to leave.

You knew it would take time before you were forgiven. You gave it a year. Then another. It was five years before you showed up at the house of The Bird. You had gotten the address from a mutual friend.

“I don’t think you should bother,” the mutual friend advised, “The Bird is still very hurt by the whole situation. You saw the twigs in The Nest. You saw the sticks.”

“I’ve forgotten it all,” you lied, “Could you tell The Bird that I’ve forgotten–”

“I’d rather not get involved.”

You don’t blame them. How could you? They were still in The Bird’s inner circle. They were still invited over for Americanos on Thursdays. They were still taken on a yearly camping trip where The Bird would sit them around a fire and sing “Moon River” and reenact one or two films featuring Doulgas Fairbanks. It was not easy to become a part of The Bird’s life. Once you were in, you fought hard to stay in. You let temptation get the better of you. You chose to see The Nest.

The day you climbed up to it, you knew you were jeopardizing your friendship with The Bird. Each slice of bark that cut into your hands seemed to be a warning. Nothing in The Nest would be worth your transgression. You knew that. You knew that and you kept climbing. When you pulled yourself over the side, and landed on your back, the breath thrust from you, your first sensation was regret. People write poems about regret where it’s heavy and somber. Your regret was sensual. You tried to get air into your lungs as the regret cradled your head. It invited you to explore. It told you that The Bird was trying to be God. It was trying to prevent you from knowing the scope of the world. You believed regret, because you had no other choice. You were already sitting on an Egg.

A decade has passed since then. You no longer have a job. Your job is Forgiveness. Your job is to get something out of The Bird. A phrase. An acknowledgement. Now, when you delicately hold the little girl’s shoes and knock, the knocks are defeated. You can’t help it. Hope has decomposed. Your fingers are moss. Your palms are mold. The Bird opens the door. At times, you’re able to say seven words. Seven is the record. You dream of eight. You tell yourself the eighth word will do it. It will bring about the Great Forgiveness. You have never gotten to eight. Seven is generous, but you won’t admit that to yourself. Seven is, perhaps, when The Bird is simply too tired to close the door quickly.

For The Bird is aging. It is undeniable. Birds do not live forever. You entertain the thought of The Bird dying before it forgives you. This thought acts like a termite in the cedar parts of your brain. You ask your mutual friend how The Bird’s health is. They say–

“I’ve told you before, I don’t wish to talk about The Bird.”

Then–

“But between you and me, they don’t have much time left.”

Go to the house more than once a day. Go twice a day. Three times a day. Plant yourself on the doorstep of The Bird. Dare it to call the authorities. A Lizard walks by, but says nothing. Let the Lizard judge you. What does the Lizard know about friendship? Lizards eat their friends. Everybody knows that. A Lizard could never appreciate what it means to be friends with The Bird.

Late at night, after all the lights in The Bird’s house have been turned off, knock on the door. The little girl’s shoes have had the silver rubbed off them due to excessive knocking. Knock louder. Wake up The Bird. Wake up The Bird if that’s what it takes. Howl. Howl like a Coyote. Howl like a Coyote that needs a kill. Perhaps Forgiveness isn’t soft. Perhaps it’s hard. Perhaps it’s violent. Perhaps it feels like sliding a knife down a spine. Never stabbing, but the threat–

The threat is there.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Howl it. Howl for Forgiveness.

A light comes on in one of the upstairs rooms. It might be a bedroom. It has to be a bedroom. A shadow appears in the window. Wings. Those are wings. Those are the wings of The Bird. Listen to the window opening. Listen and you might hear “Moon River.” Listen and you might hear all about the dream maker and the heartbreaker. Listen and you might get your Forgiveness.

Instead, something hits you. Something wet strikes your shoulders and the top of your head. The window closes. The light goes out.

You got your answer.

What else did you expect?

Look at the little girl holding the puppy. She loves that puppy so much. Could that puppy ever hurt her? How bad would the puppy have to hurt her for her to put it down and never pick it back up?

About the Author:
Kevin B is a writer from New England. He has previously been published in Esoterica, Molecule, Havik, Qu, Havik, and New Plains Review. He is the George Lila Award Winner for Short Fiction, and the Barely Seen Featured Author of 2023.

The post Door Knocker by Kevin B first appeared on Prachya Review.

            The idea is that the actor, instead of striving to help everyone deduce their impersonation, rather tries everything they can to trip them up. For example, if the objective is to convey a “pigsty,” the performer wanders around tidying up, vacuuming dust, or straightening books. It all started because Madi realized that she and her classmates often walked around hiding their genuine identities. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a fun way to communicate real emotions as a vehicle to alleviate the anxiety attached to the stigmas they concealed? The original rules did not reflect their true essence. This was a more authentic representation of who they were. It was the reverse kind of exposure and confession that didn’t fit them anymore. 

            In the beginning, I thought the amusement would last a single sleepover, but ten years on, the young ladies still engaged in the activity. Last weekend, while each was home from their various universities, I watched the festivities play out in our basement. 

            Standing in the doorway, I observed Madi’s portrayal. First, she stretched out on the sofa. Next, she primly lifted and opened a book. She placed a pair of glasses on her nose, drew a deep breath, and melted into the cushions. 

            “Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder!” Colleen shouted. They’d been inseparable for over a decade and knew each other like their own reflections. 

            “Yes!” Madi squealed, hopping up and changing places with Colleen. If it were an Olympic sport, they’d be gold medalists. 

            Colleen had always been a delicate little girl but now had grown, or perhaps shrunk, into a woman so slight she could hardly walk upright on such twiggy legs. From neck to feet, she resembled a wishbone. 

            When it was her turn, Colleen walked to the middle of the room and stood perfectly still. For a while, I wasn’t sure if she had started performing, but then I noticed that Madi and Abigail were whispering on the side. They didn’t announce anything yet, but they were devising answers. Colleen slipped a finger down the front of her jeans, tugging them loose from her concave waistline and peering down into them as though she might find something she’d lost.

            “Body Dysmorphic Disorder,” Abigail said. She raised her hands and flapped them back down against her thighs. Abby is what I used to call fat but don’t have a name for anymore, her body so hefty and white that when she wrapped her arms around Colleen it looked like a polar bear hugging a kitten.             Madison joined them, and they embraced for a long time. Abby stroked Colleen’s hair while Madi craned to nuzzle their ears. A low cooing sound rose from their enmeshment. I thought maybe they were still playing the game, but I didn’t dare guess

About the Author:

Simon A. Smith is a Chicago teacher and writer. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Lit Magazine, Whiskey Island, Chicago Public Radio, and NewCity. He is the author of two novels, Son of Soothsayer and Wellton County Hunters. He lives in Rogers Park with his wife and son. You can find more of his work at his website: simonasmith.com

The post CONTORTIONS by Simon A. Smith first appeared on Prachya Review.

Rituparna Mukherjee teaches English and Communication Studies at Jogamaya
Devi College, under the University of Calcutta. She is currently pursuing Doctoral
degree in Gendered Mobilities in West African and Afro-Diasporic Literature at IIIT
Bhubaneswar. She is a published poet, short fiction writer and a passionate
translator. Her work has been published in many international magazines of repute.
She translates Bengali and Hindi fiction into English and is the chief editor at The
Antonym Magazine. Her first complete work in translation, The One-Legged, has
been published from The Antonym Collections in January 2024. She is also an ELT
trainer and an ESL author.

The post February by Rituparna Mukherjee first appeared on Prachya Review.

Namita met with her life’s great tragedy when eight-year-old Anubhav died in a fatal bus accident while coming from a school picnic. Several children were injured, and a few of them died on the spot. Anubhav was one of them. The sudden demise of Anubhav was traumatic for Namita like it would be for any mother. She lost her inner peace and began to talk less, distancing herself from people, even her husband, Manish. She was submerged in melancholy. Manish kept himself busy with office work and taking care of Namita. He and her parents were worried about Namita’s broken emotional state. Her parents would often come and stay with them. Her mother would spend much of her time during the day when Manish was not around. Life was racing, but Namita’s life was upside down. Her happiness was gone. A reversal of fortune, she was compelled to bear the loss of her only son. Namita would sit for hours in Anubhav’s room, arranging his books, copies, and clothes and keeping them in the cupboard. She would lay in Anubhav’s bed, crying her heart out at times and controlling her emotions afterward.

One afternoon, Namita dreamt of Anubhav. She saw Anubhav saying, “Maa, please, don’t cry for me. I want to see you happy. I am gone.” Namita was restless to see Anubhav and tried to pull him towards her. But he vanished in the air. She soon woke up shivering to find no one was beside her. Namita asked herself, “Was it a dream? My son left me. He wants me to be happy again.” She wanted to be a happy person like before but failed to feel tranquility after Anubhav’s death. She decided to stay home with her parents for some time to regain herself. 

Namita phoned her mother one evening and said, “Maa, I want to stay with you and Papa. I want to be myself again and get hold of my life.” Her mother replied, “Yes, dear, you are most welcome. Your father and I are always with you.” Namita spoke to Manish about her decision to stay with her parents. Manish said, “Alright, Namita. I welcome your decision. If your parent’s house were not in the same city where we live, I would probably not have liked you to stay with them away from me. But I want your happiness. I will come and see you often. Promise me, you will overcome melancholy.” Namita’s eyes were moist, and she promised Manish, saying, “I will be back home again with my happy self and live with you.” 

Manish would visit Namita at her parental home at weekends and sometimes after office hours in the evening. She was fighting a great battle inside and wanted to keep her son’s memories alive. But Namita did not want to hurt her dear ones and desired to retain her inner peace to bring happiness to her parents and Manish’s lives. 

One morning, Namita was sitting in her home garden. She spotted some tiny new fresh green buds at the edges of a few flower plants, marking spring’s arrival. The blooming of colorful flowers and luscious green creepers at the sides of her garden was attracting her eyesight. The chirping of birds and fluttering of butterflies around warmed her heart. She thought about how spring’s greenery everywhere was the new hope for dead trees to breathe life again. The old dry leaves had fallen and been replaced by new light green leaves that welcomed the spring. She remembered planting a jasmine plant some months ago. Anubhav was waiting for the plant to bear flowers. He loved gardening and used to buy small flower plants from nurseries. She missed him dearly that day, spotting the blossoming spring flowers and beauty of nature to which Anubhav was so close. She was thoughtful about the mystery of nature and its serenity and aspired to live her life like a growing plant. She softly touched a red rose, smelled it, and smiled. Namita’s mother saw her from a distance and felt eased at heart. Days passed, and Namita was healing and opening up. Things were getting normal for her. She would clean the rotten, dry leaves from the garden and water the plants early in the morning and evening. She began to take care of the garden and house like before. Her parents were glad to see her coming to her previous self. She was talking and spending more time with her parents. Manish was ecstatic to find his lost Namita again. 

One fine evening, Namita told her parents about her desire to live with Manish. Namita said, “Papa and Maa, I want to return home and stay with Manish. He is alone there. I want to care for Anubhav’s garden, plants, and other things. I am missing all of that.” Her parents were happy to hear that. Soon, after a few days, she left for her home.

One Sunday morning, Manish drove Namita home. She saw Manish had put some new flower pots in their garden. She went near the jasmine plant and was delighted to see tiny flower buds appearing all over the plant. Entering the house, she saw beautiful flowers adoring the crystal vases of their living room. Manish wanted to make her feel so very welcome back home. But Anubhav was still waiting to be found. She missed him dearly that day but did not lose her emotional control. She walked to Anubhav’s room and saw Manish had kept his room clean and arranged his things in order. He had put a giant photo frame of Anubhav on the bedside wall. Namita’s eyes were moist enough to see the photo frame, but those were tears of love for Anubhav. She entered her bedroom and fell more in love with Manish. He placed her favorite pink roses in a crystal vase on one corner table near the bed and a family photo frame. It was taken during Anubhav’s first birthday. She held the photo frame close to her heart, and Manish held her shoulders from behind. Within a few minutes, Namita was in his caring embrace. Manish said, “I want you to be always with me. Anubhav is in our beautiful memories. He is with us in our thoughts and hearts. I want you to accept the truth of life and let us move on.” With teary eyes, Namita replied, “You are right, Manish. I have realized the meaning of life today like never before. Anubhav is very much a part of our lives. I will not lose myself but love you more to keep loving myself and my dear Anubhav.” The warmth of the hug brings them closer to rejuvenating their lives with the new season of hope and love, the spring.

About the Author:

Meenakshi Gogoi holds a PhD from the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), Delhi, India. She writes short stories/fiction and loves to read non-fiction and biographies. Her works are published in Muse India, The Mocking Owl Roost Magazine, The Wild Word Magazine, Otherwise Engaged: The Literary and Arts Journal, the Literary Cocktail Magazine, Sunkissed Short Summer Romances: An Anthology by Red Polka Books, Shiuli Magazine, Double Speak Magazine. She is passionate about nature photography and gardening. She lives with her spouse and little daughter in Guwahati (Assam), India.

The post “Spring is Hope” by Meenakshi Gogoi first appeared on Prachya Review.

‘Baba, don’t touch that. I will make something interesting with it after returning from school.’

Caressing his hair affectionately with my fingers, I say fondly-

‘Why do you call me Baba, son? Don’t call your Ma, Baba, sweetie. Call me Ma.’

Ayon does not reply. With the same grim face, he throws his school bag over his shoulder and boards the school bus. The horrifying news comes around three hours later. A gang of gunmen charged through the school gate and went on a shooting spree on the school grounds, killing many kids and their teachers. Straight after seeing the news on the TV, I, terror-stricken, bolt off to Ayon’s school. Panic grips my lungs on my way, and I start huffing for breath. Upon reaching the school gate, I find the surrounding area teeming with police and journalists. There isn’t even a fingerbreadth of space to step in. They have closed all the doors and are not letting anyone enter the school premises. I ask around about Ayon, but no one knows his whereabouts. The ambient air has already grown heavy with the loud laments of people grieving and bracing up to face the fact.  

‘No one goes inside. Please let us do our job, ‘ cries out a police officer at the top of his lungs every few minutes. 

I keep ferreting out for Ayon, shoving through the crowd. A few boys stand in line at a distance, but Ayon is not to be seen among them. He may not be inside the school, either. Bereft of a single clue about how to find Ayon, I broke into a cold sweat with a resounding muted cry-

‘Where should I look for my son? ‘

Right on cue, I see the school’s Vice-Principal speed walking to the parking lot, wiping sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Tearing out of the crowd, I fly into a full-on sprint at him. Barely managing to get a hold of myself and with my heart thudding in my chest, I breathe out apprehensively:  

‘Sir, do you recognize me? I am Ayon’s mom. Ayon is my son. Class two, section B.’

The Vice-Principal stops dead, swabbing sweat off his forehead the second time. Tears welling up in my eyes, I burst into a sob, and quivering with foreboding, I continue-

‘Did you see Ayon? Is he all right? The police are not letting anyone inside the school.’

He is about to say something but suddenly stands stock-still. His mustache bulging above his upper lips, he eventually replies, in a cough-stained voice: 

‘Ayon’s mom came and took him home. They live in the immediate neighborhood. Ayon was in the first group of students who were escorted out of the school compound after the shooting had ceased.’ 

‘What in the world are you saying?’ 

I howl in dead fright as a silent crescendo of fear reverberates up from the depths of my stomach-

I am Ayon’s mom. I am…’

‘Please go home. It is not safe for you to stay here long.’ 

The vice principal’s words spurt out in short bursts, laced with a pang of compassion. 

Without further ado, he resumes his rapid march to his car. Utterly distraught and beyond frazzled, I feel stunted to the ground for a moment. After a while, without much forethought, I make a headlong dash for my apartment complex. As I walk over to the main gate of the complex, the security guard, Gofur, hands me the guest registry book with a pen, saying-

‘As-Salamu-Alaikum. Which flat do you want to go to? Please write your name and address here.’

‘Gofur, it’s me. I want to go to my flat. Flat number seven-A.’

Hearing his name from my mouth, Gofur looks visibly shocked, but only momentarily. Quickly regaining his composure, he turns extra alert, darting a brisk, suspicious glance at me and saying-

‘I am calling the owner madam over the intercom. In the meantime, you, please write your name and address in the guest registry book.’

Gofur’s audacity throws me into a fury. I can feel my thoughts racing like a storm. Mumbling under my breath, I remind myself that I must head to my flat by any means. If anyone has already picked Ayon up from school, I must ensure they have safely dropped him off at home. The good thing is Ayon knows his home address and should be able to make it home himself. In fact, he should be home by now if he has already started from school. Besides, he is well aware that I keep the spare key to our flat under the money plant tree, right next to the staircase. 

‘Hello, madam, here is this lady who claims that flat Seven-A is hers. Yes, yes, that is what she is saying again and again. No, I have never seen her before.’ Stealing a surreptitious glance at me again, Gofur returns to the conversation on the intercom. All livid, I feel like smashing his skull with a heavy object, and eventually, I go off on him- 

‘Gofur, whom did you just speak to?’

Gofur responds sternly, ‘I cannot let you in even if you write your name and address.’ 

‘Just tell me whom you just spoke to on the intercom, ‘ I insist stubbornly.    

‘I spoke to the madam of seven-A. She made it very clear not to let anyone in her flat today.’

‘This is my flat. Don’t you recognize me, for heaven’s sake? Don’t you see me leave for my office every bloody day? Don’t you even see me drop off Ayon at the school bus day after day?’ I bawl out. 

The barrage of questions hurled at him has Gofur gaping at me with overwhelming astonishment. His eyeballs have grown so large that they may bug out of his eyeholes any minute. Clueless about how else to convince Gofur, I soften my voice, peer directly into his eyes, and make an earnest request-

‘Please let me in. My son Ayon is waiting for me.’

Gofur stands rooted, not even moving a muscle. After a while, he speaks in a desperate yet unyielding tone-

‘But I cannot let you in without the owner’s permission. You can talk to her on the intercom and ask her permission to get in. I will of course let you in if you have the owner madam’s permission.’

He dials on the intercom again. This time, I take the receiver from him: 

‘Hello.’

A harsh, unfamiliar voice blurts out irritably from the other side: 

‘See, I do not think I know you. This is not your flat. You are surely mistaken. Your flat may be one floor down, I don’t know. Now stop bothering me.’

My world is torn asunder, and it feels like I am bundled into a chilling void of silence. After a bit, gathering my senses, I look at Gofur and apply my last-ditch resort-

‘Can you please connect me to flat-six A?’

Nodding his head fervidly, Gofur concurs readily and dials the digits for flat-six A.

‘Hello,’ an unknown voice comes floating from the other side.

‘Is this six-A?’

‘Yes, it is. Who is this?’ the voice asks gently.

I utter my name in trembling, adding that the flat is mine.

“You must be misguided, somehow or other,” the voice sounds kind but firm as if dissuading a child throwing a tantrum, and continues-

‘I have been living in this flat for the last nine years. This is my house. I haven’t even heard your name before.’

I want to scream my lungs out but feel downright smothered the next moment. It feels like someone has stifled my throat with their iron fists. I put down the receiver listlessly. Frustration, anger, helplessness, and a slew of unknown feelings wash over me as I mutter to myself-

‘Where do I go now?’

Gofur has been studying me keenly all this time. After a while, clearing his throat, he remarks in a somewhat mortified tone-

‘If I am right, this is not your building, madam. Yours may be the one on the other side of the road. Please go check out the seven-A flat in that building. I understand you are in trouble, but this is not your address.’

‘This is not my address,’ I whisper to myself, preparing to leave. I exit the building complex, lurching towards the street next to it. Suddenly, Ayon’s face surfaces in my mind, giving me a rare wave of comfort. As I reach the main road, I shoot off to the other side in no time, even before the signal turns red, 

All at once, I am struck, perhaps by an epiphany, that I indeed went to the wrong building. Those people must have been right. Maybe I do belong to the building across the street. Upon arriving at my destination, I discover the building has no security guard. ‘This is even better! No one can stop me now.’, I tell myself. When I walk over to the lift, I find it stuck on the third floor, which means it will not come down to the ground floor anytime soon. Who knows if the lift is out of order or if there is a power outage? Whatever the case might be, what difference does it make? Taking the stairs at the rear end of the building, I start clambering up, reminding myself one more time that I must return to my flat. I start sweating profusely but feel relieved that my sweet home is just a few more steps away. Three-four-five…I am almost there. I start hyperventilating at this point and decide to take a brief pause. Soon afterward, I resume my slog upward.  

Good heavens! The building ends right where the seventh floor is supposed to have branched out. I end up on a colossal rooftop and find a water reservoir there. Also, there are a few flowering plants scattered about. This does not seem to be my building at all. Was I at the correct address prior, then? Suddenly, I hear a wheezing sound passing through my ear. It feels like someone is calling me from a faraway place. Following the distant call, I start edging toward the abutting guardrail on the rooftop. 

Once familiar but now estranged, the building on the other side of the road stands arrogantly with its full weight. On the balcony of the seventh-floor apartment stands a little boy with a car tire in one hand and his mother’s hand in the other. I do not know any of them. All at once, I find myself under the spell of a momentous moment that seems to forge the entire universe to hold its breath when I hear the far-off voice murmuring, ‘ This is not your address, either. You do not belong to this world anymore.’ 

About the Author and Translator

Author’s bio: 

Mahrin Ferdous is a novelist, short story writer, feature writer, and translator who writes for adults and children. Her works have drawn heavily on surrealism and magic realism and deal with contemporary social crises. She weaves her story in vivid language with literary flair.  She has authored eleven books since 2010. In 2019, Banglalink Telecom honored her as one of Bangladesh’s five most promising young writers. She is the current Vice-President of the Pencil Foundation, a non-profit organization. Mahrin lives and works in NY.  Email: mahrinauthor@gmail.com

Translator’s bio: 

Rajib Mahmud’s official name is Mohammad Mahmudul Haque. Former Assistant Professor of English in the Department of English and Humanities, BRAC University Dhaka, Bangladesh, Mahmud is a translator and a fiction writer. A two-time recipient of the prestigious Fulbright Scholarship, funded by the US Department of State, he studied and taught in Dhaka, NY, Washington DC, and Toronto. His translations were published from Dhaka, Delhi, and Manchester, and his short story collection titled ‘Hya othoba Na er Galpo’ was published in Dhaka in 2019. Mahmud lives and works in Toronto. Email: mahmud.rajib@gmail.com

The post The Chakra by Mahrin Ferdous (Translated by Rajib Mahmud) first appeared on Prachya Review.