– Jack Kerouac 

the carnival gone. the lights and vendors, the spinning wheels and electric eclectic ephemeral fairground nocturne. my love and I. she has brown hair and walks beside, equal, perceptive, a beauty and intelligent, with lives and histories from continents southern and countries northern combined. and there are loans empty and just with earth, where I can see the distance. tree. farmhouse. brick house. lands lands lands. one day they were full, and another day they shall again be. but now, liminal, low, languid. I can remember things as I walk, old things, like the vascular nurse who became an addict, and she stayed up all night talking, explaining to me about how blood and veins work, her eyes like pin-pricks from the drugs. I helped her the best I could. or a rock concert for some reason, in high school, and there must be a hundred of us and we are late and it has begun and we run through the stadium halls to catch up with the song. Osho in his memoir discourses says that thoughts are strange things. and I remember a toy plane I had long ago, practically another lifetime. a plastic horse also. drawings of mountains. and a psychic says, ‘Did you draw the mountains?’ and another says, ‘Don’t come in here on drugs,’ to which I reply truthfully, ‘I’m not and I don’t use drugs,’ and she counters, ‘Yes you are, because that’s the only time someone turns my tape recorder off without touching it,’ and I tell her to believe what she wants, knowing she is wrong. she doesn’t like me overall. but she says, ‘Your first book try won’t work, but the second is on a bookshelf, succeeds that way…’ but I don’t like her either. she has some gifts but doesn’t understand me. she says many incredibly incorrect things. there will be more in the future much better, and some just as bad,- and I’ll use my own gifts anyhow. whatever. it was a bad neighborhood maybe she had become jaded from that. so long ago. then the present. the water runs through a creek or little river, cold and clear and it sounds well and gives hope. behind it there were before yellow buttercups throwing their bright colour to the day, some kind of poem amidst all this. I am inside and outside. I am back and forth. fans whirl to block out the world. good. electronic waves and rain sounds also. what will become of all of us? what will become of all of this? the secular world is a racket, a drag, full of mundane and mediocre responsibilities yet it must be navigated. I go by transfer stations and old churches, towns I don’t understand and the urban. love. what is love? a lady glances over. she is psychic. I know this. she is one of those highly psychic people in fact that doesn’t identify it as such. she is saying something. later I walk the path and am by water. but it’s getting dark earlier. once it begins it settles in fast like a god of the sky has purposely broken a dark pen and filled the firmament w/such ink. live. love. cycle and time. I pause. a shape is in the distance. it’s a coyote. it’s looking at me. it stands on autumnal leaves that have carpeted the terrene earthy way. will I find the words, the right words? I go. it goes. our separate ways as they say. settlers and after have tried to eradicate the coyotes by many manner…fire, poison, guns, so forth. but they are too adaptable and will travel, change their diet in accordance w/what is available, even procreate moreso when their population is threatened. I am like a coyote in that I am Mercurial and ghostly, moving, changing, flowing. I am w/the autumnal hues. and I have no horse, just my feet. I’ve made it far. you have no idea. the electric lights outside of there have blinked on. for the slightest of seconds, like a dream remnant or vision, they make me to remember the carnival. beloved. food and drink. good people if a bit strange. stands. colours. delights. crafts. the sounds of rides. signs. games. transportation. scents and sights a plethora. hand in hand. dimples. I know her eyes, her gait, her aura. yes the late summer carnival that comes before the fallow fall, the almost empty autumn of our life.

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I SEE GIRLS, I SEE DAUGHTERS 


I see girls but I also see daughters.
I still love to kiss them till they stir
I still remind them to always wear slippers 
I still comb their fresh-smelling hair.

I still love to kiss them till they stir.
I still call them my ‘pangga’ dear
I still pray for their little fears
I still show to them my utmost care.

I still call them my ‘pangga’ dear.
I still like to hear their loud laughter 
I still listen to their secret whispers 
I still keep their old, old letters.

I see girls but I also see daughters.

HELLO, AUGUST!
 

Behold! O, the mighty, daring Leo is coming!
birds are way up, up high;

the Sun in its setting;
this year is to its close; 

Autumn’s in the offing;
smell harvests. smell manures;

the heavy paws thund’ring;
this August dominance;

unfit for circus ring;
I wear my tangerines;

I wait for her, the queen!
Hurrah to the vivacious, Lion. 

She is reigning!

About the Poet:
MARIA EVELYN QUILLA SOLETA gives thanks to prose and poetry! Motherhood is a calling and subject so close to her heart. She lives in Cavite, Philippines. Her poems are unadorned yet truthful, purposely warm, and witty. People, places, things, and even circumstances give colors to her rhythm and rhymes, stanzas, and lines. She began to write poems when she was six and has published three books on poetry, ‘My Twenty Poems’, ‘Finding My Heart’, (an Amazon bestseller in five categories a few hours after its launching in January 2021), and ‘Chasing Sunsets with You’ in 2023, also an Amazon bestseller. Her works can be found in many anthology books and journals. Evelyn has also won local and international awards. Her poems resemble the works of a woman poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Evelyn’s husband Danny, and their four girls Andrea, Guia, Daniella, and Laura, and three grandchildren Tala, Mayla, and Lucas, keep her inspired to continue this passion of hers– Writing!

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Bodily, My Precious Loss

The uniformity of a working day has a braided quality to it
Attaching its demanding strands to the valley between the shoulder blade
Intervals, intermittent: slowly shaping me into its impure accomplice

A sharpened and broken, worn down body
It rattles, it rattles, it rattles
Rusted ligaments no longer assist my plump flesh
Stuffing stiff pockets with crisp, hard-edged, hard-earned dollars
And suddenly, I recall my youth of four twenty-five cent coins
Inside small, disintegrating pockets only held together by motherly love
The desperate stitches, criss-crossing and knotting to prevent precious loss

The impossibility of breaking generational curses and its grinding grievances
I became what I never wanted, what my ancestral bloodline feared most
Corporate obedience intertwined with my corporal nerve endings

The body too busy gathering capital, stern like rope
And that sinister lifelong curse, seamless like cursive 
It binds, it binds, it binds

 About Words

Can’t help but thank the words
Yes, they separate but I’m thinking of

Times they tethered, with demanding grit
A group of peoples once threatened to go extinct 

Despite their form when laced with anger
Yes, they’ll later separate and reorganize

Once again, tethered with demanding grit
Here, to form a potent apology

About the Poet:
Heymy Patiño Martínez is a writer and educator based in Chicago. Currently, she is an undergraduate student at The University of Illinois at Chicago.

The post Poems by Heymy Patiño Martínez first appeared on Prachya Review.

Superstitions reside within us as long as we feel incapable of dealing with our never-ending desires which seem unachievable at times. Following these practices provide our mind with the comfort that we have ruled out the probability of the unknown hindrances that obstruct our path to attain what we wish for. One such superstition stayed rooted in our system, even after getting abolished hundreds of years ago.

It was about ten to twelve years ago, I had been to my uncle’s house in a village named Uruwa in the northern part of India. I was a young lad of thirty and so was my brother Ravi (uncle’s son). One day it so happened that after having a bath in the nearby river, he developed a high fever. Though healthcare facilities in the area were available, it wasn’t up to the level that could cure Ravi’s unknown disease. All the family members tried whatever they could—treated him with indigenous medicines, organised prayer ceremonies, casted magic spells with the help of mantras chanted by tantrics—to rid him of the high fever, but nothing worked, and at the end of the fifth day, we lost him.  

Ravi’s wife Sunayana seemed to have turned into stone—a scary figure draped in a pale green, soiled sari that she hadn’t changed since days, with dishevelled hair, dark caves around her eyes, sunken cheeks, face lowered onto her neck, as if in contemplation of something. While the whole family was mourning his death, inconsolable at the sudden demise of their eldest son, Sunayana remained unperturbed. Her appearance disconcerted me, indicated of something sinister that was bound to happen.

It was a bright July morning that seemed to have lost its physiognomy as our hearts and minds were ensheathed with the darkness of our grief. All the family members along with their relatives, eight to ten villagers, including women, in white attire (ladies mostly in saris and salwar–kameez and men dressed in white kurta and dhoti or kurta–pajamas), had gathered in the living room of the one-storied building, adjacent to the courtyard, from where the furnitures were shifted and arrangements made to start the funeral preparations. Ravi’s mortal body was kept on the bier, on one side of the courtyard—covered in a white shroud, with a garland of white jasmine flowers around his neck, white wreaths of flowers (mainly lilies) laid on top of his body and all around the bier. Some of the villagers, mostly men, were seated at one corner of the raised platform, while others stood there, conversing in low voices. The scent of flowers and the perfume of incense sticks wafted in the surrounding, creating an atmosphere of melancholia. The lone mango tree in the compound leaned over the wall of the courtyard—leaves and branches was still, as if holding their breath, silently mourning along with all of us. People were fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs in the hot, humid weather, sweltering in the sultry atmosphere, and perhaps getting impatient at the delay in the cremation ceremony.

Just when we were about to start the obsequies, Sunayana spoke for the first time bringing up the ritual of Sati. It was a Hindu practice (abolished at the time) in which a widow sacrificed her life by sitting on her deceased husband’s funeral pyre. On hearing her plea, everyone remained speechless for some time, stunned at the sudden revelation of her wish to be cremated alive along with her husband.

“Impossible.” My uncle said, sweating profusely, and vehemently protesting against her sudden wish to accompany her husband in his last journey.

“How could you even think of that? The practice is outlawed and illegal. Moreover, how can you decide on something that is horrendous…” I said, shocked to the core, feeling numb and paralysed, losing the power of comprehension.

“Being a sati (pious woman), I am left with no other option but to join my husband in his final journey,” Sunayana said, her eyes featuring an inexplicable stare. “I know women who had been sati had attained salvation, negating the cycle of life and death that one had to undergo innumerous times.” She continued, still captivated with the idea of being a sati, her imagination influenced by the previous narratives of absurd glorification of the superstition, with an unknown glare in her hollow eyes.

“If she wants to become a sati, who are you to stop her?” Someone from the crowd of onlookers blurted out from behind my back.

“Who is it? Why are you giving such  wrong advice?” I turned around to have a look at who the person was but met with silence, while all the staring eyes were fixed on Sunayana.  

The ancient Hindu tradition of sati where a woman performed the act of immolating herself after her husband’s death used to happen hundreds of years ago which was considered brave and heroic. In Hindu mythology, Sati was the wife of Lord Shiva (the god of destruction). Sati’s father disrespected Shiva and held a hatred for him. Registering a protest against her father who humiliated her living husband Shiva, she burned herself in the yajna (fire-sacrifice). While she was burning, she prayed to be reborn as Shiva’s wife. Her wish was fulfilled, and in her next birth she was known as Parvati (reincarnation of Sati). The practice of sati was justified based on the tale, but it was unrelated to it as when Sati burned herself she wasn’t a widow.

Additionally, the Hindu scriptures didn’t mention the act of sati anywhere and therefore was not justified. Sati was initially a voluntary act, as a sign of being a dutiful wife, following her husband to the afterlife. With time, it became a forced practice, drugging the widows and burning them. A widow was shunned, considered to be a burden to the society, and having no children to support her, she was often pressurised to accept sati. The practice of sati was prohibited many times between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries by rulers who condemned the custom, and finally, banned in the early nineteenth century.

There was no way I could permit such a heinous crime to be committed in front of my eyes.

“Being a sati is the greatest form of devotion of a wife toward her dead husband.” An elderly woman with a podgy face said.

“If Sunaya becomes a sati, it would be equivalent to good karma and she would have a much better life in her next birth.” Another peevish-looking old woman said, emphasizing

 the need to carry forward the ritual of sati, peering at me.

“You know that’s a superstition. Right? You attain salvation through your good karma, not by committing suicide.” I turned towards Sunayana to face her, and these were the only words I could utter, feeling a surge of emotions choking me, instigating the voices of women at the back—dissatisfied with my remarks—droning querulously.

“No, bhaiya (brother)!” My words never deterred Sunayana, as she continued in her usual tone. “The act would purge me of all my sins, release me from the cycle of birth and rebirth, and also, ensure salvation for my dead husband. If I stay back I have to go through all the pain and sorrow that had been a part of my life for so long. My father was a poor farmer who had to mortgage his land to collect money for my dowry. Now that my husband is no more, he will never ever get back the amount that he had spent on me. I have no children who can support me in the later stages of my life. Moreover, my in-laws won’t allow me to live in peace. They would constantly torture me by calling me a witch who has eaten her young husband. If I become a sati I will gain name and fame. A temple would be created in my name and people will worship me like a goddess.” She ended her monologue to glance at the faces of all those who were present there—her in-laws, parents, brothers, sisters, and their neighbours. Surprisingly, her parents, her own brothers and sisters kept unusually quiet.

Racked with guilt, her mother-in-law came forward, hugged her warmly, and trying to dissuade her from the act of committing suicide, she spoke, “I can understand your state of mind. But ending your life is not a solution. We are all going through the same crisis and we all wish to end our lives. Saying goodbye to my young son is not easy for me. But I am putting up a brave face and dealing with it.”

Sunayana maintained silence for some time, her body stiff in her mother-in-law’s embrace, exhibiting an unrelenting toughness—perhaps ruthless, with a penchant for ancient superstitions. She was at least 10 years younger than Ravi. I recalled having heard that her parents lived an underprivileged life, with economic drawbacks. She would have to lead a miserable life if she had to go back to her parents, and staying with her in-laws wouldn’t be that pleasant, especially when their son wasn’t there. Her in-laws would be engulfed in sorrow, constantly reminded of his absence, inviting what seemed to be a never-ending battle against their dissatisfaction about the irrevocable loss. Moreover, as far as I knew my uncle and aunt were orthodox type and believed that widows need to follow certain questionable customs like chopping off their hair, eating only vegetarian food, remaining secluded in one part of their home, and on top of that, never allowed to remarry. I realised it would be difficult to make them understand that those age-old customs that the widows were meant to follow didn’t have any significance and were meaningless in the present world. It would be tough for my sister-in-law to deal with them. But as people said time was the greatest healer and with time everything would fall into place and the shadow of bereavement and the necessity to follow the illogical customs would slowly be gone and taken over by new deliberations and activities.

“I wouldn’t allow this to happen in my presence.” I registered a protest, to which both my uncle and aunt, along with their youngest son and daughter, who were teenagers, nodded, in affirmation.

“No, it’s already decided. I’ll become a sati.” Sunayana said, adamantly, stomping her feet on the ground, her gait indicating a sudden change, her shoulders taut, opalescent eyes like that of one possessed.

As soon as Sunayana mouthed her decision, the womenfolk of the village intoned, being in the state of enthusiastic exultation, “Sati mata ki jai (all hail goddess sati).”

I couldn’t believe my ears when the sarpanch (headman of the village) started remonstrating with us, “If she wants to be a sati, why the hell are you disobeying her. After all, your sister-in-law is equivalent to your mother. As her son, you are bound to follow her orders. Sati mata ki jai.” I noticed his lips twisted as if in a sly smile, when all the villagers who were present there agreed in unison, further mouthing abuses and cursing us comprehensively for not allowing Sunayana to become a sati—what they termed a sacred tradition.

“Why aren’t you saying something? Your daughter is about to kill herself.” My head swam with nervous agitation, unable to overcome the terror that was slowly engulfing me under its firm grip, imagining the fatal consequence that the whole episode was leading toward, when I told Sunayana’s parents who had kept mum all through the conversation.

“You’ll go back to your own city after a few days but we will have to live in this very village. We can’t go against them. We don’t want the villagers to become our enemies, and be thrown aside like outcasts and treated like untouchables.” Sunayana’s father whispered, smoothing away with trembling hands the wisps of his dark-grey hair from his forehead, which housed beads of perspiration, his thin face and narrow lips had lost their color, while his pale, opaque eyes stared at me incomprehensively.

Assailed by worries, my uncle screamed, holding his forehead, “Shut up, everybody, or else I’ll go mad.”

But nobody listened to him as the villagers chanted themselves into a state of frenzy, dancing around the place like lunatics, which deranged my mental condition.

What followed afterward was unthinkable, people yielding to an illogical superstition.

Several women dressed in red saris assembled, with vermilion adorning their foreheads. Sunayana was also dressed like one of those, with red vermillion smeared on her face. She pretended to be endowed with the gift of prophecy and the power to cure and bless. A monotonous chant of mantras went on by the religious men and priests of the village. As people from all over the village came over and touched her feet asking for her blessings, she obliged them by placing her hand on their bowed heads. If she was really virtuous and pious, would she be worthy of being sacrificed?

“I’ll call the police.” I hollered at the top of my voice.

I took a long knife from the kitchen and brandishing it, I threatened everyone, “Whosoever doesn’t listen will be killed by me.”

People who had gathered around Sunayana started retreating, and only the family members were left in the room along with her.

We tried our level best to calm her down and asked her to think rationally about the whole situation. She kept quiet for a long time and then agreed not to end her life in that manner.

Convinced that things were on the right track, we relaxed a bit when my uncle’s house was thronged by a large group of villagers who came inside with long sticks. One of them hit me hard on my head, and another punched me in the ear, sending me reeling. I suffered a stinging pain in my head and soon fell into a swoon.

When I regained consciousness with a throbbing headache, I found myself, my uncle, aunt, their son and daughter on the floor, locked in the living room with our hands and feet tied. I somehow propped on my elbow and tried to get up. It was late afternoon, the sun obscured by a heavy dark cloud, and the bright sunlight turned pale, as if it had been suddenly polluted with seamless despicable thoughts and evil ambitions of those who lay beneath the sky.

Heaving myself onto my feet somehow, I reached the window from where I could see the courtyard where the womenfolk dressed in red saris with vermillion on their forehead had gathered and were in a state of delirium. Sunayana was already draped in a red sari and sat in the middle of them on a chair, wearing a garland made up of marigolds. Her eyes were blood red, her hair neatly tied in a bun, her head swinging from side to side in a strange fashion, as if she was in a state of trance. Amid the furor, Ravi’s body lay on one side of the courtyard, with a smiling face as if feeling amused at the unexpected drama that was going on. The menfolk in white also joined them as Ravi was carried by four men on the bier and taken to the cremation ground near the Ganges river that flowed through the village.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Please don’t do this to the young woman.” I kept shouting but no one could hear me as they kept repeating some mantra, like zombies focused only on their goal to put an end to the young life of my sister-in-law.

While we tried to unfasten each other, the ceremony had begun. From the window, we could see the orangish-red flames of the funeral pyre, accompanied by drumrolls and exhilarated voices reciting “Sati mata ki jai.” Like a hideous and merciless engine of death, the horror of the untoward incident gripped me in its swelling mist, while tears poured down my cheeks up to a point that I could cry no longer. The state of my family members was no different—all had succumbed to the terror that unfolded in such a horrifying manner—as they lay on the floor smitten by grief and remorse, witnessing a gruesome murder in the name of an illogical belief. After probably a few hours, the violent flames died and thick black smoke originated from the site and reached the sky, veiling it in its superstitious gloom, indicating the end of the funeral. She was immolated amidst huge fanfare, with great veneration.

After that, someone came to release us from captivity—unlocking our door and untying our ropes. But it was too late, as the mortal body of Sunayana had already turned into ashes.

The villagers started building a temple in her name and within a day it got constructed. We couldn’t bear it any longer and to prevent any further incident to happen in that area we called the police. They visited the site and gave strict instructions to the villagers not to fix any deity inside the temple and that Sunayana under no circumstances would be considered as a goddess. Though the police couldn’t destroy the temple as it would hurt the sentiments of the people, but a fear lurked among the villagers who dared not to think along those lines ever again.

Further, there wasn’t any such incident of sati in that area, but the guilt stayed with Sunayana’s in-laws who thought they could prevent her from being one of them if only they hadn’t held other practices—like that of dowry, customs followed by widows—dear to them. The idea of being a sati had nested in Sunayana’s grief-stricken mind, burdened by the socioeconomic crisis that compelled her to take the fatal decision, which was fuelled by the ignorant villagers who instigated the act of ending her life. If only they had been more reasonable.     

About the Author:
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various magazines and journals like Borderless, The Green Shoe Sanctuary, Storizen, Indian Periodical, Femina, Indian Short Fiction, eFiction India, The Criterion, The Literary Voyage, Writer’s Ezine, and Estuary, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul series (Westland Ltd, India), Wisdom of Our Mothers (Familia Books, USA), and several others. She lives in New Delhi, India. You can connect with her on Facebook at facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/, on Twitter @sreelekha001, and Instagram @sreelekha2023.

The post The Irrational Belief by Sreelekha Chatterjee first appeared on Prachya Review.