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.

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.

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.

“Next, the elegant indigo.” A fellow pupil in an indigo gown joins the previous one.

“Now, the charming blue.” Another peer in a blue dress follows them.

Succeeding the former students is Shruti’s turn. Her five-year-old heart pounds in her chest, accompanied by a multitude of flies bustling about her ears. 

“And, here comes the lovely green.” A sonorous voice announces.

Shruti lumbers onto the center of the stage, fidgeting with her green, frilled frock. Her teachers, seniors, principal—the audience—have their eyes fixed on her, unusually quiet. On the brink of tearing up, she recalls her mother’s words, “Remember all that is green, and you’ll know how to act.”

It’s the beginning of spring, and the fields are adorned with an abundance of green. Her mind ambles effortlessly down memory lane, reminiscing the mustard fields spread over miles embellished by attractive, bright-yellow flowers, amid the soft emerald, gently swaying in the wind. The entire earth dons a marvelous jade; fresh, salubrious leaves sprout along with the buds and flowers. Trees jubilant in the intoxicating breeze of the season prance, unified by delightfully chirping birds—familiar, yet nameless, to her world of consciousness. For a moment she forgets her assembled spectators, as she is mesmerized by the profound presence of the heavenly verdure moving towards her, steadily increasing in volume, like a flower embowered in its parent leaves.

Bathed in that blissful charm, she bows. A stream of applause transports her back to the audience in the room. Her eyes water, but now they embrace the tears of joy. 

About the Author:
Sreelekha Chatterjee’s short stories have been published in various magazines and journals like Flash Fiction North, Friday Flash Fiction, Borderless, The Green Shoe Sanctuary, Usawa Literary Review, The Wise Owl, Different Truths, Storizen, Five Minutes, 101 Words, BUBBLE, Indian Periodical, The Chakkar, The Hooghly Review, Bulb Culture Collective, Prachya Review, Creative Flight, Literary Cocktail Magazine, and have been included in numerous print and online anthologies such as Fate (Bitterleaf Books, UK), 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.

The post Greening Up by Sreelekha Chatterjee first appeared on Prachya Review.

            The back room of the seamstress shop served double duty as an apothecary. Jars of dried herbs, roots, and animal parts lined the shelves. Below them, an entire shelf crowded with leather bound books and sheaves of yellowed papers. A folio packed with diagrams and geometric shapes and lists and images and myriad other things covered the entire far wall. A few live plants sat on the small windowsill with its poor sunlight that struggled through the oak tree in the front yard. Outback was the garden, always with something sprouting, blooming, or dormant, depending on the season. The work counter faced the back wall. A small fire with a purring pot of water sputtered in the hearth.

Of the two women in the room, the Seamstress, the older woman, stood at her counter and crushed minced herbs with a stained wooden pestle. The rounded tip of the tool ground against deep sides of the mortar. The pestle droned a low base note as it circled around and around. The Seamstress gripped the protruding lips of the cavity and hummed a lullaby her mother hummed to her, and her mother to her, as far back as the family stories went. She brushed the ground herbs into a heavy-hewn wooden bowl.

“What are you humming?” the younger woman said.

She sat in a chair by the door. She held an empty mug in her hand. A pair of men’s pants hung on the back of the chair.

The Seamstress glanced over her shoulder.

“How long?” she said.

The older woman reached for a small container on a high shelf. She shook a few spoons of the content into the rough-hewn wooden bowl.

“Eh,” she said. “Did you hear me?”

She carried the bowl to the pot of water simmering in the hearth.

            “Three months,” a younger woman said.

            At the hearth, the Seamstress ladled the warmed water into the bowl. She returned to the workbench and stirred the steeping herbs with her fingertips. She muttered something, blow softly over the bowl, muttered again, tapped the workbench with her knuckles, then let out a sigh.

            “Are you praying?” the younger woman said.

            The woman preparing the tea shook her fingers over the bowl and sprinkled the brew with droplets that formed concentric circles that expanded until they merged with each other and disappeared. She wiped her fingers on her apron.

            “Worrying,” the Seamstress said.

            “Worrying?”

The younger woman began to stand up.

            “Sit.”

The older woman signaled for the younger woman to come to the workbench.

“Worrying and praying are the same,” she said.

The young woman sat back down, then began to stand up, then sat down again.

“You told me to—”

“Come,” the Seamstress said.

She nodded towards the workbench.

“I don’t worry God,” the young woman said as she stood. “I pray to God.”

“If you pray to God, then you worry God. Have no doubt about that.”

            The younger woman stepped forward, stopped, looked at the door, then at the old woman, again the door, and finally walked to the bench. The Seamstress took the empty mug from her client. She scooped the steeped black brew from the rough-hewn wooden bowl into the young woman’s cup. She smelled it with a deep and audible breath.

            “Drink this.” The old woman inspected at the stained wood of the workbench. She pulled her fingernails across the grains. Her fingertips were stained. “And rememeber—”

            “What is this, in my cup?”

            The older woman hmphed and stretched her arm towards the mug as if to take it.

            “If you don’t want it, then—”

The younger woman held the tea against her swelling breasts. 

            “Three months,” the woman with the mug said.

            “Three months what?”

            The pregnant woman bit her lower lip.

            “You asked how long.”

The older woman angled over the sitting woman and considered the youthful body. She felt the younger woman’s breasts.

“Three months? Humph.”

“My husband—”

“Always the husband.”

“The people, here, in the village.”

“The people? The people.”

The woman standing next to the workbench and holding the mug of black bitter tea struggled to speak. The woman who had brewed the bitter tea shook her head and waved her hand.

“You should have seen me sooner.”

“I didn’t know—”

“It’s been more than three months.”

The young woman began to cry.

            “Go,” her older host said. “Sit. Drink.”

            The Seamstress led her client back to the chair and forced her down. The client rested the mug on her lap until the herbalist gently guided the mug to the young girl’s lips.

            “Drink.”

            The Seamstress tweaked the young woman’s nose.

            “Do you want me to hold your nose and force your mouth open?”

            She smiled and laughed and stroked the cheek of a girl as if she were comforting a daughter distraught by a nightmare.

            “No,” the seeming daughter said and drank. At first, she wet her lips, then she sipped just a bit. She frowned.

            “It’s bitter.”

            “Better to remind you, my dear.”

            “Remind me of what?”

            “Of the bitterness.”

            “What bitterness?”

            “This bitterness.”

            The Seamstress put her hands under the young woman’s elbows. She only nudged the arms to rise. The woman with the mug braced herself then drank the entirety of the contents. She tiled her head backwards. The bottom of the mug faced the ceiling. She held as if she were a fertility lares set in the niche of a home alter.

            The Seamstress took the mug.

            “Rest here for a bit.”

            She poured just bit of the herbal brew into the mug then filled the rest with the warmed water from the hearth. She pulled a chair next to the young woman.

            “I drink just a bit,” the Seamstress said, “to remind myself.”

            “Of the bitterness.”

            “Maybe of the bitterness.”

            “Bitterness?”

“Maybe of the reprieve.”

            “Reprieve?

            “Only a delay.”

“From what?”

            “In ten, twenty years, you will know.”

            The woman who had made the tea sipped and winced.

            “It is bitter, isn’t it?” she said as she rested her hands with the mug on her lap.

            The young woman put on a look of contempt.

            “You never had children,” she smirked.

            The Seamstress smirked in return.

            “I never wanted children.”

            “Many women say that, but they still have them.”

            “I have my work.”

            The Seamstress surveyed her apothecary, waved her hand as much to indicate as to dismiss, and nodded, more to herself than to her guest.

            “What more do I need than my work?”

            Dim strands of sunlight stretched from the window to the floor, except where the taut bands settled on the lap of the Seamstress. She smoothed her apron, as if to capture the light. As her hands moved across the cloth, she seamed to strum the silent strings. She hummed the same lullaby as before.

            The woman who had drunk the entire mug of bitter and black tea let her head fall back and her eyes close. She began to rock to the meter of the lullaby.

            “You never said which one?” the woman with her face turned to the ceiling said.

            “Which one?” the woman strumming the transparent strings said.

            “Which lullaby.”

            The woman who had been humming picked at her apron as if she were turning the pegs of a lyre.

            “My mother taught it to me. My grandmother also sang it to me. Along with my aunts. All the woman of my family knew this song. It’s about love. The love a woman has for—”

            The young woman winced in pain, clutched her stomach, and bent over her knees.

            “It’s time,” the older woman said. “Go home.”

            “How long will it last?”

            “A few hours. There will be bleeding.”

            “What if I need you?”

            “I’ll stop by, on pretense of your husband’s crotch in need of mending.”

            The Seamstress lift the pants and stuck a finger through a hole where the inseams met. She wiggled her finger then let is fall limp.

            “I have some cures for this.”

            Her finger stiffened.

            “I have some cures for that.”

            Her finger limped.

            “And maybe even for . . . .” 

She laughed and pocked two fingers through the hole.

The young woman moaned, almost a growl, like a dying animal.

            “This won’t be as painful as childbirth,” the Seamstress said.

            The young woman looked at her with scorn.

            “No, not that I would know.” The Seamstress snickered. “You’ll be the better for it in the end. Hurry, before dark.”

            The young woman took the door handle.

            “The shadows are already on the common,” she said.

            “Go,” the Seamstress said as she placed a palm on the other woman’s back and ushered her out the door.

            After the young woman left, the Seamstress poured the remainder of the bitter tea into the fire. The flames cackled, almost winked, as if it knew some hidden joke between only it and the woman who worked with herbs. It was time for sleep.

*                    *                    *

One morning, a young mother of one of the village girls stood at the counter of the local seamstress shop and begged for a new coat for her daughter. Sitting behind the counter on a stool, the Seamstress drew on her pipe, hmphed, and quoted a price too high for the poor woman.

            “We can barely afford food,” the young mother said.

“The good you pay for,” the Seamstress said. “It’s the bad you get for cheap.”

She tapped the ashes of her pipe onto the floor. As she was opening her tobacco pouch, the young woman reached across the counter and took the Seamstress by both wrists.

“The fall is coming,” she said. “I need a new coat to protect my daughter, for the cold and the rain.”

The Seamstress chuckled. She shook her arms free and refilled her pipe. 

“Protect your daughter all you want,” she said. “In the end, she’ll be both cold and wet.” 

The younger woman began to cry.

“It seems—,” she said.

“Seems? Seems?” the Seamstress scoffed. “A woman is she seems.”

The mother stopped crying. Her face screwed into a scowl.

“You’ve forgotten what it’s like to love,” she said. “You’ve grown cold in your own way while still alive.”

The Seamstress lit her pipe with a match. She watched the match burn down to the fingertips then tossed the match onto the floor covered with tobacco ash and scraps of cloths. It was true, the Seamstress thought. She had grown old, and alone, but not lonely.

She looked out the window to the dark and deep woods beyond the village fence. Once, she was a young girl, younger than this woman before her. In her memory, the Seamstress saw the dappled sunlight among the trees and the small yellow flowers along the path. And up, further, hidden behind a tree, she saw who she thought was her lover, the most handsome young man in the village, in the entire county! She would go, and kiss him. That was end of love for the Seamstress. Even now, she felt like a fool for what happened and hardened her heart.

Her pipe had gone out.

“Please,” the young mother begged.

The sound of another’s voice awoke the Seamstress from her daydream. She lit a second patch and puffed on her pipe until fully lit.

“Come back in three days,” the Seamstress said. “I will have a new coat for your daughter.”

            When the young mother left, the Seamstress hobbled from behind the counter. She deadbolted the front door and slid the drawbar into place. Through the window, she watched the young mother made her way down the side street. The sun was setting and the shadows grew long and the darkness deepened.

As she watched the young mother, the Seamstress saw one of the bad men of the village. Already drunk before sundown, he lounged against a tree in the common and watched the woman pass him. He wet his lips and ran his tongue across his teeth. His eyes glowed in the dimming light. The Seamstress knew this man. He looked at her. She, at him. He nodded and smiled. His teeth shown large. The Seamstress pulled the curtains shut.

            In the back room of the shop, the Seamstress poured herself a half cup of wormwood tea then filled the rest with clear liquor from a flask. Sat at her stool, she sipped from the bitter cup and smoked her pipe. When finished with both, she tapped her pipe out onto the floor and examined the dregs in the bottom of the tea cup then tossed them onto the floor, too. She staggered to her workbench.

            It is love, she thought, isn’t it, that makes us what we are.

A tightly-bound package of waxed butcher paper lay on the well-worn benchtop. With a pair of scissors, the Seamstress cut the twine and loosened the wrapping. She had bought the cape from another young mother dressed in black. This seller had folded the cape in such a way as to hide the tears and stains.

The Seamstress undraped the coat and held it up to the flickering lamplight so that it hung fully before her. So small, the Seamstress thought, to protect such a tiny body. She fingered the hole along the right shoulder.

“Here,” she said, “I will put crimson silk patches, epaulettes befitting a little princess.”

The Seamstress spoke as if someone were there, stood beside her.

“What do you think? Do I give it to her for free. No? People have contempt for things they do not pay for.”

She drew the loose threads at the neck until the edging began to unravel. These seams never hold, she thought, and showed the wayward thread to her companion.

 “And here, on the collar, I will fasten cutwork lace.” 

In her own mind’s image, she could see this used coat remade into what it should be.

“And the stain,” she said as she pulled the back cloth tight between her hands. “What to do with the stain?”

She shook the cape in the face of the person who was not there.

See, look here, her actions spoke.

Outside, the sounds of night began. The hoot of an owl. The softness that comes with the setting of the sun. Maybe, in the distance, the talk, laughter, and happiness from the tavern. And the whisper of the wild, both those things never tamed, and those gone feral.

“A good dying,” the Seamstress said, “then three days’ rest and this red velvet cape will be born anew.”

She spread the red velvet cape on the bench, her scissors to her right, her thread and needles to her left, and like a priest about to consecrate, she folded her hands before her, bowed her head, took a deep breath, and began her work.

Author’s Bio:

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), over forty poems in Michigan Quarterly Review, Faultline, and december, and others, nearly two-dozen flash fiction in Blue Mountain, Good Life, Typescript, and several scripts. He is a poetry reader for Ariel Publishing and a fiction reader for The Maine Review.

The post Seamstress by Richard Stimac first appeared on Prachya Review.

“Why am I acting like this? Exactly why am I ruminating over this case so much? Do I feel anything for this man? No… No. Obviously, that’s not going to happen.” With that realization, Rajika’s heart begins to ache with a new and unfamiliar sensation.  

The name of this client is Shanta. His demeanor is as pleasant and calm as his name suggests. It’s true that he’s a father of two and in his forties, but she found herself drawn to him because of his inherent dignity and the politeness with which he carried himself in conversation. He also has plenty of cash since he is the manager of a private company.  

“A man with that type of personality is not suited to be with a woman of that kind He is a man with  many gifts.”  

She feared what she would think.  

“Where did this come from? What do I even know about this man? What if this man discovers that I  have started to develop feelings for him? I don’t want him to see me as a woman without morals.  What will my reputation be like then?”  

An unseen dog darted in front of her car just as her mind was about to wander off into a tumult of  thoughts. She slammed on the brakes to avoid having her new car desecrated by the dog.  

“A crazy dog! Where exactly are they going? Bad enough if it wrecks the car.”  The dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere and dammed the stream of her thoughts.  

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to put on my wedding ring for this job. Now there is nothing else that  can be done.”  

The ring, in her opinion, wasn’t all that significant. The man she married is a lawyer as well. On occasion,  he also skips the ring. People who had recently gotten married exhibited a devoted attitude toward their rings. With a wry grin, she recalled the time the ring was lost during a picnic and the ensuing mad dash

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to retrieve it from the pool. She cried enough that day to fill a swimming pool. Kamal, her husband was at a loss for words, unable to console his young wife.  

“I want my ring somehow.”  

Rajika sobbed uncontrollably. Kamal made multiple dives into the swimming pool that day. After  spending so much time in the pool, he was beginning to wonder if he still cared about the marriage.  Rajika was a nuisance to the hotel staff and passers-by, as her constant sobbing gave them a headache.  After a long search, the ring was located. It was not in the swimming pool. They found it hidden under a  table in their hotel room. When she thinks back on it, she bursts out laughing.  

Kamal would say, “My head hurts even when I remember that incident,” whenever the topic of the incident came up in conversation.  

“But you must realize how much I love you.” Typically, Rajika would give a glib response in such a  scenario 

“I understood it perfectly. I nearly froze to death in the pool while searching for a ring, and it was all  because of a ring.”  

Kamal’s tone betrays his displeasure at the thought. These exchanges are constants in their conversations, regardless of the context. However, the memory of that event does not fade away like a  weed that grows to be removed.  

Thinking along, she went to the court grounds. Seeing her, her clients immediately began to follow her as she had about five or six cases to appear that day.  

However, she still could not make out his face. She forgot his face as she chatted with other customers and kept harping on the importance of remembering one’s case number to keep things moving along.  

“What on earth is going on with this person all of a sudden? I should call and see how he is doing.”  

She made an effort to reach him via her Apple smartphone. No one answered the phone after several tries, and the call eventually ended. Her chest felt weighed down as if it were bearing the burden of a  lost case. Her phone rang at that precise moment, and she answered it as hastily as if she had been racing to appear in a case number she had just heard.  

“Madam, I had a problem. My daughter fell at school and broke her leg. I took her all the way to the nearest hospital. I’ll deposit your payment in the evening. You can do today’s job without me, right?”  

There is anguish in his voice.  

“Okay. Sure. I have not even seen your ex-wife yet. She also hasn’t shown up yet.”  

It was clear that she was emphasizing the word “ex-wife” on purpose despite the fact that she was aware it was improper to do so before the divorce was finalized.

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“ Ma’am, my wife and I are here together. The school had also contacted her.”  The pain in Rajika’s chest was as acute as if a sheet of paper had slashed through it.  

“You may find that those things work against you. Forget about it. I have to go now. Bye,” she said as she slid her phone into her bag and walked into the court.  

All the cases were postponed while she looked completely out of it as if she had been sedated. She left work and went home feeling sick, leaving her clients in a bad mood. Her husband was waiting for her when she returned home. He’s also a lawyer. He had to be in another court today. She recalled being informed in the morning that her two children would also be attending an extra class at school.  

The husband had a very serious look on his face.  

“If you are not tired, I would like to speak with you.”  

Kamal exclaimed as he emerged from his office.  

“Let’s talk later, Kamal. I’m exhausted now . Damn,” she snarled at Kamal, sounding like a sunburned traffic cop yelling at a motorist who has been ticketed for parking illegally.  

Kamal found it annoying. 

“I didn’t say anything to make you so angry. What’s that bullsh*t?”  

He attacked her while acting out the part of the frustrated motorist who has had it with the frustrated police officer. This sort of heated English debate is common in the lawyer’s home. However, their  Sinhalese neighbors do not grasp a lot of what they are saying. They can hear the neighbors’ Sinhala arguments, and some of them don’t even bother to hide their profanity.  

“Dumbasses who don’t know anything. Fighting is their job. They’re out of options.” The haughty statement was typical of how Rajika reacted whenever she overheard them arguing.  

Instead of trying to make peace with Kamal, Rajika started behaving like the police officer who had taken possession of the driver’s license, which infuriated Kamal even more.  

“Unlike you. I’ve appeared in many court cases doing much more work. You think you’re a great  lawyer, but you don’t have nearly as much work or clients as I do.”, she said as she tossed her file onto the coffee table in the middle of the living room, implying that she was too good for him.  

Kamal, like an impulsive driver who attempted to assault the police officer, hit Rajika on the cheek with his clenched teeth.  

“You’re not the type of woman I could ever be with. I am divorcing you.”  

All the villagers could hear him as he yelled it out in Sinhala.

3  

Rajika, acting in a demonic fashion, smashed the corner of her phone into Kamal’s face and forehead multiple times. Kamal covered his face with his hands and ran towards the gate like a driver trying to escape the angry policeman’s baton because he couldn’t take the suddenness and pain of Rajika’s unexpected attack. Rajika slammed her phone to the ground and began sobbing loudly, as if she had just lost a case she was sure she would win.  

About the Author:
Kanchana Priyakantha, a Srilankan author and an educator turned entrepreneur, currently lives in close proximity to Colombo. She was born on October 3, 1986, in Kalutara and attended Sri Sumangala Girls School in Panadura. She graduated from the Open University of Sri Lanka with an honors degree in English. She joined the government sector to serve as an English teacher in 2010. She co-founded KBOOKS in 2017 and then resigned from teaching in 2018 as she realized what her true passion is. Currently she is the head of publishing at KBOOKS and engages in writing while studying for her master's degree at the University of Colombo. She is a director of KAgroo Exports and Plantations Pvt. Ltd. She has been composing literature since school days and has authored eleven books in different genres, both in Sinhala and English. Some of her works have been shortlisted for literary awards, and her latest collection of short stories, Dream Catchers, won national literature awards. Her works have been translated into English, Tamil, and Nepali. She is an advisor and coordinator of the Foundation of SAARC Writers and Literature (FOSWAL) in India for Sri Lanka. Her educational publications are included in the curricula of international schools and semi-government schools.

The post The Divorce by Kanchana Priyakantha first appeared on Prachya Review.

Tara dreamt in gestures. Fast-moving hands, fingers, eyes, eyebrows, and lips – each contributed to the conversation as gestures flowed into one another, involuntarily, unhindered; and then they became jumbled up, like a long string of meaningless words, all incoherent, disordered. She woke up with a start and found herself sweating profusely. The loose top that she had changed into just before sleeping was dripping wet and the sheets lay crumpled at the foot of her bed. She knew she had to calm herself, soothe her nerves, strained and excited by the recent series of events. She tried to pray and lay down once again. But sleep completely eluded her this time. In its place, thoughts gathered. Wordless thoughts painted in images that her mind had picked up throughout her journey in this world.

In the morning ululating women, draped in their fineries surrounded her while her mother served her rice with an assortment of fries, vegetables, and fish in a round shining bronze dish. She felt special. It was her last day of maidenhood. She was supposed to feel special, and everyone tried their best to make her feel so before she ultimately left her familiar surroundings in a trade of love.

Yet looking at her weak and pale mother, struggling hard to support herself on her wobbly knees, she felt indignant. She did not let her mother do the strenuous tasks anymore, taking them upon her young shoulders. And who will support this frail woman now? Recently she had taken to accompanying her mother whenever the old lady had to leave the house. Her mother was incapable of negotiating the Kolkata traffic all by herself anymore and Tara had volunteered to be her chaperon. With both the other siblings engaged in full-time office jobs, Tara’s creative entrepreneurship gave her ample time for these chores. In fact, she looked forward to such evenings quite eagerly.

She thought of her own helpless and different childhood. She remembered how gently yet firmly her mother used to help her even with the simplest of conversations. Language of words had been a problem for her always. As a child, she could not understand how others got their message across by simply moving their lips while she could not. She communicated with her hands and facial expressions and her mother could understand her perfectly. But when it was a matter of conversing with the outsiders, she failed miserably. It left her frustrated as well as bewildered. With a complete hearing impairment, speech was an alien territory for her; a territory which left to herself, she found quite unnecessary. It was only when she had to step beyond her home, she felt a gap.

It was her mother who had taught her, painstakingly, to lip-read. It was she, who took little Tara to Rina Aunty, her private tutor, a special educator by profession. It was her mother again who discerned Tara’s love for sketches and nurtured her talent. In short, her mother had helped her to live and succeed. Now that strength was ebbing away from her mother in the autumn of her life, Tara felt a gush of affection towards that lady, replacing her earlier awe. As if, somewhere along the journey of life she had overtaken her mother, to mother her.

Now that she was almost successful, her venture of wall art raking in some plump money, she felt a more pressing need to be there for her mom. She was contented with her life; except for her professional goals which kept evolving the moment she arrived there, she felt she had not much to ask from life. But now she felt a tinge of unhappiness. With the solemnization of her wedding, she will perhaps not have the freedom like before to be there for this woman. Possibly, her mother too would start depending on her two elder sons, leaving this youngest child to concentrate on her new domesticity. Her heart wailed silently at such thoughts. Though she had made it very clear to Avik regarding her attachment and what she thought of her responsibilities towards her parents and Avik too had promised her his full support, doubt lingered in her mind, like a persistent afterthought. After all, this was an arranged marriage. Yes, true that it had been arranged by the two of them after they came across each other on an online dating site. Both of them were looking for partners to settle down and companionship with mutual understanding was their criteria, not love. Moreover, Avik was as stone-deaf as herself. Tara did not want anything more.

Of course, love had once been there. It had showered her young and supple body with many caresses. But that was a past, buried and sealed for good, though those touches still lingered in every fold of her flesh, the joints of her bones, and every nook of her body. Those touches still whispered to her in a language that she had once shared with a man with words. The man who was willing to forego the comforts of verbal language to take his place beside her. He was the one who led her by the hand as she took wobbly steps into the world of hearts and bodies. To her and him, both were important. Love meant absolute trust and complete sharing, or at least that was what she believed it to be.

Her thoughts went back to her dreams. With a half-eaten apple in her hand, she was desperately looking for someone and calling out loud. She was searching for a person with whom she could share it. The apple kept decaying in her clutch till it ultimately became a mass of fermented fruit pulp, oozing out of the closed fingers of her fist. She was trying to free her fingers off that thing and asking someone in the shadows for help. The sticky feeling along with rapid movements and her attempts to communicate had woken her up and she found herself soaked in perspiration.

The dream – why did it keep visiting her? She thought of it as her incomplete affair with the man of her dreams. Somewhere perhaps a trace of hope had lurked, slyly evading her self-scrutiny. That hope too must have turned stale by now, like that partially consumed apple. Just that she was not aware of it.

She knew that such thoughts were blasphemous now with her wedding just in a few hours. But she was happy she was going to marry another like her. The other that had come into her life as a burst of mango showers had proved seasonal. She had walked away from him. It helped her save her dignity and also spared her the looks of sympathy. What else could she do with a man who wanted to project his deaf and dumb fiancee as one with both ears and speech? He said he could handle everything post marriage and he promised to keep her happy. She knew he would, at least he would try in every conceivable way. But she felt uncomfortable, undignified. Her body demanded as much respect as any other. The subterfuges that he was trying to force upon her, pricked her like burning needles! She was at the crossroad of love and dignity. She knew if she compromised on this, she would lose her dignity and her self-respect. So, no compromise.

Even now, she could feel the void. The raw wound of separation was yet to heal. Those pleading eyes, the hurtful looks – Samrat had told her – “Why can’t you trust me just once? Let the wedding pass without any hassle, after that, we shall have a full life to carve out as we want to!”

He had missed the point. She kept mumbling, “It’s not about trust, it’s not about us too, it’s about me. Let me survive myself!”. Still, when he went ahead with his plan, thinking he was acting on both of their behalfs, she did the only thing that she could think of.

Before posting the letter to Samrat’s parents, she read it again –

“ I have known your son for the past three years. We were classmates in Art College. Now that we have decided to tie the knot, we thought I must introduce myself properly. Since I am both deaf and mute since birth, this is the only mode by which I could properly correspond with you. I am sure we shall evolve a language of our own too, just as Samrat and I have, when and if we get to know each other better. We have no intention of carrying out the wedding without your blessings…”

And to Samrat, she had written, “Perhaps we are yet to craft a mutual language where we both shall easily understand each other’s mind. It’s not the lack of trust but a huge dent in my dignity that I am yet unwilling to undergo. For a girl without speech or hearing, her dignity is all that she has to cling to. What else will she live for? Hope you understand some day…”

She knew she had killed all her chances of getting Samrat with the strokes of her pen. Yet she waited for the reply which never arrived. In her heart she knew that his parents would never respond; still, a small part of her kept waiting till the wait itself became a part of her. She did not even realize that it was there, the ache was there till she started getting those weird dreams.

The last time she met Samrat, he was devastated; he lashed out at her with all the bitterness in his heart, born out of an unbearable pain of thwarted desire yet he understood her need to be honest. She had held him close to herself, cradling his head upon her breasts, crooning softly in his ears. In those few moments, she had given him her lifetime of love. When he left, she felt strangely hollow, as if a part of herself was gone from her forever.

Even her ever-supporting parents were not too happy with her choice. After all, Samrat was the Mr. Perfect in their daughter’s life and probably their solace in their old age. Who would otherwise take care of this physically challenged girl after them?

“I cannot even die in peace! Why did you refuse Samrat? He loved you so much and was so heartbroken!”

“ But Mama he wanted me to pose as someone I was not! Wouldn’t his parents have felt cheated? Wouldn’t they have held me responsible for the rest of their life?”

Of course, there was no answer to her logic. They could not argue anymore and kept their silence but somewhere a thin line of sulk remained like that hairline crack on a piece of porcelain. Tara knew she had lost her chances of giving her parents a lifetime of happiness.

Dating Avik was partly her way of consoling her parents who were still reeling under the shock of the broken engagement. But partly it was also to find a companion for herself. She did not feel the need to love anymore, but like many other human beings, she too desired a family of her own – a man, perhaps even a child! Samrat was her past. A beautiful past, but one without closure. She wanted to keep it like that. Avik was present. The difference between the men was the difference between the self and the other. With Samrat perhaps she could have traveled in the exotic realms of existence but she knew Avik would be her home, the anchor that she needed to remain rooted. The flamboyance of romance had faded away with the aging youth. She cherished the common sense companionship and light-hearted camaraderie that Avik offered much more than the rush of adrenaline she used to feel each time she saw Samrat. She had promised herself that she won’t compare the two men but somehow, comparisons rose in her mind without any of her conscious promptings. But she was not unhappy with the resulting analysis. In fact, she had agreed to marry quite happily. Lightheadedness accompanied her since the wedding rituals began a week back. She was happy, but somehow those dreams with their faithful recurrence each night for the past few days had cast a shadow over her happiness.

She shook herself out of all morose thoughts and tried to think of happy things. Yet she failed again. Frustrated, she logged into Messenger and pinged Avik.

• Not asleep?

She felt comforted by his promptitude.  

•  You too! Why?
• Because we both are on the verge of a new beginning
• Yes.

She could not say more. But she was smiling. Avik continued the chat, steering it toward their dream project of expanding Tara’s wall art venture in various ways. His training in accounts and finance and his present job role as one of the auditors in a middling law firm had given him insights into the pragmatics of running a business.

With every message exchanged, Tara felt lighter until finally the dead weight of gloom completely fell off her shoulders. It was dawn when they finally signed out. The red sun, the ancient witness to so many beginnings since ages, saw another. And Tara felt love slowly embracing her heart in its fluffy, warm arms. The festered apple had completely disappeared from her clutch.

About the Author:
A translator, creative writer and academician, Nabanita Sengupta holds a PhD in English. She has 2 works of translation to her credit, one volume of edited anthology of critical essays and an edited anthology of poetry. Her latest publication is an anthology of poems Three Witches’ Songs, composed with two other poets. Her research articles, poems and creative writings have been published in various journals and anthologies, both print and online. She also has an e-book of short stories to her name. 

The post Apple by Nabanita Sengupta first appeared on Prachya Review.

He wasn’t a Bengali and hadn’t written any literature in the language as well. Yet during the Colonial era, he had brought about a new era of radical thinking. The intellectual maturity of Bengali thought had more or less arrived from the path he helped pave. He had laid upside-down the thousands of years of established thinking. Like the pied piper of Hamelin, he brought the children out of their old citadels, disregarding the affections of their elders and jumping into the waves of logic and reason. They had never to return the same. They were his disciples, who had molded the foundation of young Bangla’s literature and nationalist struggle. They came to be known as the Young Bengals or Derozians, after him. 

About two hundred years ago, he was born in colonial Calcutta to a Portuguese family. His father, Francis Derozio, was an office worker. Though a “Ferengi”, as the Portuguese were known in India at the time, his mother was a Christian Englishwoman who had died when Derozio was only seven years old. His father would later marry a second time. While the Portuguese had lost most of their ground in India by then, the family had a reputed standing due to their wealth. They were part of high society. Yet none of his five brothers and sisters could beat the pox, succumbing to the tragedies of the age. Even our Derozio only lived a mere 23 years. But the young man had won over time in the end. His dominant influence had transcended the wounds inflicted by two hundred years of English rule and was ever-present in the later liberation movements. 

More than a couple of hundred years after his birth, perhaps it’s time to reconsider where Derozio stacks up in our history. The Portuguese were, of course, the first Europeans to arrive in India. Trade had brought Vasco da Gama near these shores in 1498. There followed, after him, the arrival of the other Europeans bent on trade and eventual colonization. After establishing themselves at Calicut, they were a force to be reckoned with. Especially, the piracy at sea had made them unpopular with the Indians. Yet hundreds of years before Derozio’s birth, they had made themselves at home in India, with many of them marrying and living here in the subcontinent for good. The Portuguese in India had considered themselves part of the Indian land ever since the rise of the Danish and the English had taken away most of their dominance in the region. India’s reputation as a land of diversity and mixed cultures was only enhanced with their addition. They played a significant role in the development of the Bengali language. The Portuguese missionary Manuel da Assumpção was the first to write a grammar book of the language, titled, Vocabulary of Bengali Language and Portuguese. 

Though Englishmen like William Carey, Nathaniel Brassey Halhed had meaningful contributions to Bengali grammar and language, they were geared more distinctly in strengthening British rule, as evident by the formation of the Indian National Congress around the time. Moreover, they did not profess any claim of Indianness, having conserved themselves merely as either colonialists looking to rule their subject races efficiently or as missionaries bringing the Lord’s words to men and guiding them to the direction of Heaven. Derozio, however, considered himself a man of the nation he was born in. He hadn’t left this place his whole life. All his sorrows and anguish and disgust and respect were centered around his country. Born in Calcutta’s 155 Lower Circular Road, he had spent most his life within the kilometers of the city, except for a brief spell at Bhagalpur at his aunt’s. Here he had kindled fire into the minds of the young, a fire that still perhaps stays burning. 

It isn’t unnatural, then, to ask: What has he exactly done that has kept him relevant after two hundred years? The Ferengi society he had been brought up in hadn’t ever been able to assimilate within Bengali or in the greater Indian society. Moreover, the socio-political situation had obviously changed radically. During his lifetime, India was at a turning point. Even as the British had control over a large expanse of Indian lands, the Mughals were technically still seated on their throne. He had lived entirely before the great mutiny of 1857. A time when Hindus were still able to burn women in the funeral pyre of their husbands and widows were discouraged from remarrying. Ram Mohan Roy was alive at the time, but it had taken him years to establish his reforms. Derozio was born in this quagmire. This decaying, drowsy populace he had helped awaken with a jerk. He had provided the uproar Hindu society hadn’t seen since Chaitanya. Everyone had thought: perhaps this was the end of religion, the end of caste, that bigots will lay ruin to the country’s ancient religious traditions. 

If one is permitted to exaggerate, we could say that Derozio had the same effects on the young that Socrates had in his time in Greece. The world-famous philosopher we know of in Socrates is really an accumulation of tracts provided by his students. Socrates was accused of misleading the youth, of slandering their Gods. He was to be blamed for the moral degradation of the youth. A threat, even, to their civilized society. The Authorities of his time had forbidden him of teaching the young, but the great philosopher could not turn his back to the truth and had to sacrifice his own life for the crime. Yet he was alive among the students he was accused of misguiding and the world had forever forgotten those who had taken his life. 

Like Socrates, Derozio, too, was mainly a teacher. He had shown that it was possible for a teacher to bring radical change in society within a few years. The authorities of Hindu College, too, had brought charges against him of leading the students to moral degradation, that the students of upper-class families were seen to be changing their conduct and engaging in anti-Hindu propaganda. Though he wasn’t forced to give up his life, Derozio was forced to leave the college due to these allegations. But the five years he had spent in teaching, he had managed to create a new generation, who had left a profound effect on Bengali thought and literature. Before we begin that discussion, let’s know a bit more about this great teacher. 

He was born in April of either 1808 or 1809. The Historian R. C. Majumdar had it on 1808, though most Derozio researchers agree on 1809. Though his Portuguese and English ancestry is well-known, one is hard pressed to find reliable information on how his ancestors had begun to live permanently in Calcutta. He had studied under David Drummond, who was not that older than him either. He had arrived a little after Derozio’s birth and established a school. He, too, was a born, poet, teacher and journalist – unlike the teachers of his time. He gave Derozio his first taste of friendship. It was from him that the young Derozio understood how man should not have to be chained, from whom he had learned about philosophy and literature, and read various European newspapers and periodicals. Drummond had survived his student, dying at the age of fifty-six in 1843. His grave is still at Kolkata’s circular road. One couldn’t deny his contribution in Derozio’s later teachings, which were motivated by a strong sense of free-thinking. Derozio, too, had been able to guide his students in areas of logic, truth, equality and friendship.   

He had been born in a society degraded by Hindu superstition and British colonial misrule and discrimination. Chained to the four-caste system, the country was ripe for a thriving colonial slave trade, as was apparent by the Derozio usage of the Campbell line: As the Slave Departs, the Man Returns as an epigraph in his poem. We can learn from Binoy Ghosh’s description about the brutalities of English rule around that time. In 1806, men named Moore, James and Boyer were sentenced to merely one year in prison for committing murder. Some whites were even granted a week’s prison. All the while many of the common folk had their hands cut off or burned for the crime of theft. There was a time when English whipped their colonial subjects publicly, and if that wasn’t enough, push them into a cannon and fire them off. 

It was against this colonial barbarism and indigenous superstition that Derozio’s youth had stood up. He had questioned whether the English could prolong their rule in these lands only with the power of their superior military, surmising that they’d have to bring in morality, justice, good governance and education if they wanted their rule to have any staying power. One could also find a rather vivid picture of Kolkata around that time in Bhabani Charan’s Kalikata Kamalalay or in Amusements of the Modern Baboo. 

After finishing his education, the fourteen-year-old Derozio took a job as a clerk at a mercantile office.  But the monotony of the job discouraged Derozio from continuing with it for more than two years. Before he entered the teaching profession, he decided to stay a few days at his aunt’s place in Bhagalpur. His Bhagalpur period is important to note because the leisurely, unemployed youthful life must’ve brought out the poetic inclinations present in the young Derozio, who managed to write quite a lot of poetry there and published a few in the India Gazette under the pseudonym of “Juvenis”. He had probably stayed there for a year or so, returning to join the Hindu College as its fourth teacher in 1826, according to the Samachar Darpan.  

The Hindu college was only established a few years before. This was the first college in Bengal (and in India) where English was taught. Before this, most administrative and office work was done in Persian. Though the importance of learning the Masters’ language was becoming apparent, the Indian population was still reticent in adopting it. The English had trouble even with the Royals and elites, who failed to be enthusiastic in this matter at first. The name “Hindu” reflected Hindustan, as in India, more so than people of Hindu faith, as most of its founders were Englishmen. However, it was true that Muslims were not allowed to study there. Later, of course, the name was changed to Presidency College, which still stands. The college was established mainly for the education of boys of upper-class families so they could earn a good living and create a docile class of people loyal to the British. Within a few days, the College went on to receive government patronage and were able to provide intellectually important knowledge on science and reason to the people of the subcontinent. This was in line with Derozio’s thinking. Around the time of his joining, there was about three hundred students there and the number was on the rise only to come down before Derozio’s departure. A reason for this is that he had come under fire in Hindu society due to his beliefs and actions.  

There were many teachers before and after Derozio at Hindu College. Perhaps they were of better credentials than him as well. But there aren’t many we know of. Ironically, it is Derozio and his rebel students who’ve had become a part of the College’s shining history. One of his students, Lal Bihari Dey, had said, “the young students of Hindu college were intimately acquainted with the works of Bacon, Locke, Hume, etc.” Their familiarity with the European enlightenment had brought a revolutionary upheaval to the otherwise conventional thinking. They would question every statement and debate them, coming away from the old generalities that restricted them from thinking alternatively. Derozio was the guru of this new form of teaching in the subcontinent. His main goal was to awaken the curiosity of his fellow students. In 1834, the reverent Lal Bihari Dey had said, “Derozio’s classes could only be compared with Plato and Aristotle’s Academy.”

He was only a few years older than his students; therefore, they saw him as one of their own – a part of their youth. The antiquated methods of imparting knowledge were breaking down. The students were swayed and transfixed by the personality of the teacher. They weren’t there only to learn but also to speak.

There was a novelty in Derozio’s teaching style that his students hadn’t seen before. There was no guardianship in play. If the class was too big, they’d take it outside or at his residence. There was nothing the students did not discuss or argue with their mentor. Within a few years, Derozio had side-stepped the college to have his own center for debate. A symposium was established at Shrikrishna Singh’s garden called “Academic Association”. The Association began to leave its mark on the Calcutta of its day quite instantly. Even the elderly could not resist joining. Debates and discussion were held on matters such as religious orthodoxy, moral hypocrisy, arbitrary ritual, racism, paganism, economic and psychological inertia, even against the existence of the Gods. 

Who were these students of Derozio? The Association was attended by many outside of the college, too. But the students we know most about are Krishna Mohan Bannerjee, Ram Gopal Ghosh, Dakshinaranjan Mukherjee, Rasik Krishna Mallick, Radhanath Sikdar, among others. Many of the students would bring up Robertson and Gibbons in the case of history, Adam Smith and Jeremy Bentham in politics, Newton and Dewey in science, Hume and Thomas Paine in religion, and Locke, Reed and Stuart in transcendentalism to serve their speech in debate. It is true, that in modern day Dhaka and Kolkata, capitals of the two Bengal, one wouldn’t find a conversation of this caliber. The teachers and students of today cannot free themselves out of the rat-race. Derozio’s youth did not confine their talents in radical discussions. They brought pen and paper to their reason. A journal named Parthenon was published. The Hindu society of the time was horrified by this sudden change. They began to obstruct the publication of the journal and prevent their sons from attending the college. Their main allegations were that Derozio had interfered in matters of their faith. This led to a shortfall of students at the College. Though the White Christians and the progressive Hindu teachers did not have any problems with Derozio teaching at the college, the Hindu student-body and local Hindu dissatisfaction led to the college authorities deciding to remove him from the faculty. A decision regarding this was finalized at a meeting on 1831. In a reply to Derozio’s letter asking if the decisions made against him by the college were true, the professor Wilson had put forward the three charges: “1. Do you believe in God? 2. Do you believe one should be obedient to their parents? 3. Do you consider the marriage of siblings a crime?”

Derozio was shocked by such attitude. But his answers to his predicament was as significant as Socrates’ defense of himself and Nazrul’s response to political prison. It isn’t of course possible to lay down his response in full in this essay. But from his speech we can know that he had never told his students whether he believed in God or not. That there were all sorts of people in this world who believed in various things. But he didn’t think that one shouldn’t be having a conversation on whether God exists or not. As a teacher, he was merely bringing light to all the perspectives available in society. 

As for the question of being obedient to one’s parents, Derozio was downright perplexed. He expressed concern at how someone could enjoy spreading such distorted and baseless propaganda. He said that if his father were alive, he himself would have answered the question. Moreover, reading about him, one could see that he was quite responsible toward his brothers and his step-mother. He had obeyed his father’s will to the word. 

In the case of the last charge, he described the marriages of siblings as ugly and wondered how one could think that he would talk of this with his students. He added that one could very well call a man “Godless” for not believing in God but to make up such falsehoods to ruin him is something he never thought was possible. He ended with the words: 

I’m not a greater monster than most people. 

Eight months after being let go from the college, he died of cholera at the age of twenty. The fire he created still flamed on. And perhaps this fire was his biggest achievement. The fire that provided light to the revolutionaries and literary figures of the nineteenth century. The modern Hindu society had benefited directly from his teachings. In this rally of language, literature and thought, even the Muslims would be benefited, if only a little later. It is noteworthy that Derozio did not look differently at Hindus or Muslim. He was the darling child of a world free from religion and sectarianism. We can notice this truth in his poetry. Derozio was a young poet, publishing his book of poetry at the age of only eighteen. But in this warring world, we do not put much import on poetry. Moreover, he wrote in English and wasn’t considered a poet of the country for many years because of it. Still, perhaps the first patriotic song of the nation was written by him. His poem To India – My Native Land was translated by Dwijendranath Tagore, Rabindranath’s older brother. Later on, many others such as Pallab Sengupta and Ramaprasad had translated his works as well. His The Fakeer of Jhungeera tried to unite the Hindu and Muslims of his days. It seemed like he did not know much about Muslim society. Back then, the Muslims hadn’t yet been able to break free into the intellectual sphere controlled by the Colonialists. Still he had written as much about dispelling sectarianism as about patriotic values. 

After Derozio’s expulsion from the college, his students Krishna Mohan and Dakshinaranjan were doubly motivated to bring upheaval to their old society. They began to do a lot of arbitrary things as well, which turned out to be embarrassing. Such as they would lose control talking against caste and the gods and begin to consume beef and alcohol, even going as far as to throw bones of cows at the homes of Brahmins. One of his students was brought to a Puja by his Brahmin father and he had addressed the Goddess Kali as “Good morning, Madam.” But the biggest strength of these students were their honesty. They could never be made to lie. They would like to test everything through reason. 

The people who had thrown Derozio out of the college are now nobodies. We only remember them because of this incident. Such an unchristian boy was taken away from the cruel world just like Christ. What remained were the rationalism, truth, love of literature and the nation that Derozio had instilled in his students. This had surely come to fruition generations later in the rebellions of Bangladesh. Peary Chand Mitra and Michael Madhushudan Dutta were among those who were brought up in that mode of thinking. 

Even in this age of indiscretion, many a teacher dream of becoming a teacher. Yet to break out of the deadlock of conventional thought, bound against the multifaceted interests of society, religion and state, one still wonders if there is any other way out of our social predicaments without endless renditions of free-spirited teachers just like Derozio. 

About the Author:
Mozid Mahmud is a poet, novelist, and essayist based in Bangladesh. Some of his notable works include In Praise of Mahfuza (1989), and Rabindranath’s Travelogues (2010). He has been awarded the Rabindra-Nazrul Literary Prize and the country’s National Press Club Award, among others.

The post “Derozio’s underrated contribution to India” by Mozid Mahmud first appeared on Prachya Review.

I woke up at 11 am and lay in bed, crying for the next two hours until I finally talked to my friend at 1 pm. There just seemed to be no meaning in living life on this planet of misery and cruelty. There seemed no point in getting out of bed. At this point, my friend and I decided that this was going too far. This seemed to be something like clinical depression, which would probably require medication as well as psychotherapy. It was early January, five whole months from early July when I had become obsessed with a particular question that had eventually sucked me into the black hole. 

The question which had obsessed me with requires a bit of explanatory background. I had been in love with a woman for ten long years (eighteen plus now and probably lifelong). She also happened to be my teacher. A daughter of divorced parents, I had come to college as a super naïve eighteen-year-old in this huge metropolitan city of Delhi and had fallen head over heels in love with the one person who seemed to understand my predicament, my problems, and who had taken it upon herself to be kind to me. Two years before this, when it had been eight years of being in love instead of ten, I had gone through the most harrowing experience of my life when I had been accused of stalking her and had disciplinary action taken against me in the college. This had followed a long sixty-four-page handwritten letter that I had left outside her house. Incidentally, this was also the time of the 16^th December 2012 gangrape in Delhi. Everyone on my Facebook newsfeed was talking about how it all began with an attitude of harassment, and rape was only the culmination of such an attitude. They wrote Facebook statuses on how sexual harassment was the root of the act of rape. I, thus, had a reaction to this incident that was probably different from everyone else’s reactions in the entire country. I thought there was no difference between the gang rapists and me. I did not know whether it behove me to go for a protest against the gangrape or not. I had ridiculous thoughts of Modi starting a WW3 and of the college, building falling down like the London Bridge in the nursery rhyme before I could frequent it the way I used to. 

 I had been idealizing, idolizing, adoring, and loving this woman for a long time now. I had the commitment of a lifetime, the kind seen in marriage. The biggest compliment you could give me was to liken me to her. Now one day, in that fateful early July, two years after the sequence of events mentioned above, I happened to realize that someone had apparently put up the picture of a cut goat’s head on Facebook, where she had commented saying that the goat “seemed to be smiling”. The discussion was about certain Right-wing people who said that eating meat was not “Indian” and, according to the discourse these days, was something “anti-national”. Now, I, as a vegetarian, could simply not understand her comment about the dead goat smiling. Did the stupid woman really think that the goat enjoyed getting killed and would smile at the idea of it? Wasn’t she trivializing death, which was, after all, death? I saw another girl writing that although she was a vegetarian, she was beginning to understand that the industry gave a lot of jobs to lower class and lower caste people who would have no place to go to otherwise, and therefore justified the practice of eating meat, especially in a country like India where most animal breeders were still small farmers. And the woman, as in my teacher, had “liked” this comment. 

That was all. That was all that happened, outwardly, at least. Inwardly, it triggered off a series of events that eventually led to clinical depression. The reader must remember that this was the woman whom I idealized. My psychotherapist told me, much later, that the way I looked at her was the way a very small child, say two years old, would look at his/her mother. It made sense to me to be told that I looked at her the way a two-year-old looked to its mother. I also knew inwardly that this was very selfish child love, it was probably not the way an adult loves another adult. According to the therapist, traumatic and stressful events can make us regress at times, and my parent’s divorce made me regress from the age of thirteen to something nearer the age of three.

 Anyway, I, as a vegetarian, simply couldn’t believe how this woman I adored could say something like this. At this point, I think I went a little mad. I had no contact with this woman. My mind started playing games with me. My mind started telling me that this woman was a cruel, unfeeling woman, that I had naively fallen in love with her and had got trapped into the net, that the kindness she had shown me earlier was only a garb. I also wondered how a passionate bird-lover like her could not understand such a thing. It was then that I really got obsessed with the issue of eating meat. I voraciously read articles on the internet, and I read J M Coetzee’s books that deal with this topic. I began to understand that this occupation gave jobs to thousands of fishermen and butchers and leather workers and silk-weavers. I began to understand that this system of being a vegetarian had been used to oppress Dalits for centuries. I understood that animals do eat animals. I read that animals die even during farming when fields are ploughed by tractors and when pesticides are spread on crops. I realized that for certain parts of the world, it was perhaps not really possible to become a vegetarian. Though emotionally, my gut instinct was still that of a vegetarian, I cerebrally and rationally tried to understand the opposite perspective. And yes, I desperately tried to tell myself that the woman I loved, adored, and idealized was not wrong. All this, however, changed when I realized that there is something called industrial farming of animals. These industrial factory farms are mostly owned by multinational corporations in the West such as McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Domino’s, and Pizza Hut, which then spread out their branches to other developing countries of the Third World. I learnt that there was something called debeaking, where beaks of chicks were cut with a hot flame by a huge machine so that they could not peck. But it was the birds’ nature to peck! I learnt that they were kept in something called “battery cages” where they had no room even to turn their neck, let alone walk. I learnt that pigs and sheep had their tails cut because they took up space. I learnt that pigs were hanged upside down from something called “production lines” in order to kill them. I learnt that there was something called “foie gras” where ducks and geese were force fed with pellets to such an extent that they became ten times their usual size, and sometimes, the ducks and geese even burst with the amount of food that were made to eat. I learnt that there was something called artificial hormones for which horses were killed so that the hormones of the horses could be injected into the bodies of the pigs. I learnt that all over the world, they killed seals for fur, and trapped horses and elephants in narrow enclosures, and a hundred other things they did for … for what? For-profit. For that God of mammon called money and wealth, which we humans worship. This might only be natural to expect from humans, who oppress even their fellow human beings in the most vicious ways. We human beings can make unions can raise our voices and protest, but these animals would never be able to communicate to these human beings what they wanted to say. 

 I thus decided to make a difference between production and consumption. The consumption of meat was not wrong in itself. But the way it is produced made it a torturous process. So much so that I became guilty even of the eggs and milk, I was consuming as a vegetarian. I felt guilty because of this entire process of violence in which I was implicated without choice or wish. I realized that this process of production is violent everywhere, in the production of our clothes as well as our chocolates, and was not confined to animal farming alone. I was angry at being made a pawn in this circle of cruelty which I did not want to be a part of. Violence is ingrained in the production of Maruti cars, against which the workers have been fighting for years now; there is violence in the way women in clothes factories in Bangalore are treated, and perhaps nowhere does this oppression and violence show itself more strongly than in the inhumanity of manual scavenging. Violence is implicit in a hundred other things which I do not even have any knowledge about. Once, I spent the entire night imagining that I was a chick and that my beak was being cut by a hot, hot flame. How much would it hurt me the rest of my life to eat with a cut beak? I was so depressed on Christmas Day that I did not buy the cake I wanted to buy, because cake has eggs in it. By New Year’s eve I had fallen down even deeper in the pit of depression. I knew I somehow had to get out of this. On New Year’s eve, I allowed myself to buy a cake. (Being a huge lover of bakery products, it made me angry to think that my consumption, which was in itself not a violent act, was being made into a violent one.) I read that Starbucks had stopped industrial farming because of the pressure put on it by NGOs etc. I wish we could do the same with MacDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, Domino’s and Pizza Hut. 

Desperately trying to convince myself that my bird-loving teacher would never have condoned such atrocities or would have approved of them… after all, weren’t chicks, geese, pigeons and ducks birds too? I had, however, no contact with her and could not completely be certain of something I so wanted to believe. Had I been able to ask her that, I do believe that I might not have fallen into depression at all. I told myself that her bird love and my problem with industrial farming were both just different ways of connecting with nature and that even if the means were different, they both basically showed a connection or communion with nature.  These were the convoluted ways in which I desperately shirked from saying that what she did or believed in was wrong.  The difference in our ideas then was something I could not be comfortable with. If the ideas seemed to be at odds, I had to desperately find a meeting point. Then, slowly having almost convinced me that she would not have condoned it, I realized that the issue itself was haunting me.

I have had psychotherapy sessions as well as depression medication regularly for years. I was slowly able to better contain myself and work on my inner self on my own. The experience of depression is like this heavy-weight rock that is tied around your neck, which you are constantly carrying around. It is a deep black bottomless pit through which you are falling. It is like this blackhole with its magnetic, gravitational pull, which is sucking you in. The first few days after I started medication was weird. Unfortunately for me, this was exactly the time when I had my annual PhD presentation. My presentation thus was so abysmal that my supervisor even threatened to resign from the post of being my supervisor. 

Depression is a time when I think you need love, care, attention and affection over everything else.  People will advise you to exercise; people will advise you to not think negative thoughts; people will advise you on many things, as they always do. But nobody in your entire circle of friends and family will understand just how much love and attention you actually need. There is this aching need for affection that never gets filled, just as the bottomless pit never ends as you keep falling through it. Then you realize that perhaps people are not capable of giving you the kind of attention you need and that you must go to a psychotherapist to seek that. If you, however, have a good batch of students to teach and have a good rapport with them, it just might give you more attention and affection than anything else in life might. However, this is conditional, as one never knows the sort of batch one will get to teach or whether one even has a job at all in the precarious atmosphere these days.  

What made me begin getting over this depression was perhaps the experience of depression itself. I had been there, done that. I had known the helplessness of being sucked into that blackhole. I had known the mental collapse and the complete inability to do anything productive. It is then that I began to think that perhaps confusing intensity with sensitivity was not the right thing to do. Earlier, it had seemed to me as if being happy meant you were not concerned or bothered about the violence in our world. Now slowly, I began to think that getting into depression doesn’t take you anywhere either. I made a few resolutions for myself at the beginning of 2017. These are basically geared toward making me happy. So my resolutions included giving time to things I “want” to do, over and above things that I “must do”: to write, to dabble with colors, and to listen to Tracy Chapman and Assamese folk music. I decided to meet friends more often and to live with gratitude. I realized that experimenting with different kinds of beverages, like herbal teas, gave me some sort of peace and “me-time” in life. Perhaps this is because several herbal teas are known for relieving stress and promoting calmness. I have realized that your mood depends a lot on the kinds of things you eat and drink. 

I made a rule for myself in life which bans thinking for more than two minutes. I slowly began to realize that perhaps one must control one’s thoughts instead of the thoughts controlling us. Once again, I regained the ability to be left alone in peace and happiness. I have always liked being alone, even as a small kid at the age of seven or eight. However, during the time of my depression, I lost this ability. I constantly wanted people to be around me. Now, I am once more becoming self-contained and have no real need to be around others all the time.

I began to realize that intensity and the capacity to feel emotion are not necessarily good things. Yes, we need emotion and intensity in order to be empathetic, in order to bring about change or create something. But too much intensity can block our own view of seeing something holistically from various angles. I realized that I will go crazy if I tried to live another’s life, be it my teacher’s or the world at large. I do not have any control over her life, I cannot think of ways in which the world needs to change because I have no control over the world either. I can only take whatever steps I can as an individual and leave it at that. Focussing actively on doing something also brings back to you the agency that depression has completely eroded with caustic acids while creating a black hole inside you. I had become phobic about the violence that surrounds us in our everyday lives. Once, talking to my mother at night, I burst into tears and a frenzy of emotion because of the violence which surrounds us. Guilt-ridden, I thought we should all become activists and social workers and fight it out with the perpetrators of this cruelty. Slowly, instead of being guilty of what I do not do, I felt it might just be better for me to realize that everyone is different and can contribute with their own strengths. So if what I can do is write and teach, that is what I should do and try to change the world through that, instead of being guilty of not being a social worker. Similarly, lawyers, judges, doctors, engineers and people in every sort of profession can, in their own ways, make a difference to the world if they are committed to the cause of making the world a more equal, egalitarian place. 

 The same thoughts about meat eating and my teacher have been circulating within my mind. It is important not to give these thoughts too much importance.  Sometimes I wonder about other things regarding my teacher. I totally understand the need for caste-based reservation, but sometimes I wonder why my teacher, being so intelligent and so talented, availed of reservation when she could have, in all probability, managed without. But I do not know what she or her family have suffered on account of being Dalits. As in the case of eating meat, I talk to people, try to read and to find out other perspectives on this and truly understand why we need reservation for middle-class Dalits— I intend to do my post-doctoral research on this! However, I understand these thoughts are obsessive and often emotional, and irrational, even with reasons and explanations, they may come back again and again and I have to fight them. I often make the mistake of overthinking, thinking it may lead me to answers. I have seen often, though maybe not always, that obsession precedes depression. I have talked of being obsessed with animal slaughter and the caste question. There was another period when I was obsessed with the marking system, as in how to mark and grade students in the new current education system. This fraught and frantic obsession over marking again led me to a phase of depression. It may be a symptom, not necessarily a cause. I have been on anti-depressant medication for over eight years. Every time I try to reduce or stop the medication, I have a relapse, and the depression comes back again. So I have no idea how to actually come out of this thing in life now, and even my psychiatrist has admitted defeat, asking me to look towards other means and sources. I still have therapy sessions. The chance and possibility of falling back into depression remain, and one has to be ever-watchful and vigilant. 

For example, I have again been in the throes of depression. I think it came back towards the pandemic time. The depression probably got worse because of isolation and loneliness and also because of the stress of unemployment. The stress of unemployment has also become a major source of stress in life. I must also mention co-morbidities here and how many psychosomatic illnesses are fuelled by stress. I have had chronic migraines since the age of 10. In childhood, I could still relieve these with medication, but ever since I had the first initial fall-out with my teacher, which was at the age of 18 or 19, my migraines have been absolutely incurable by anything at all. I have been taking preventative migraine meds for years now, along with the depression medication, but although these did seem to make a lot of difference initially, that seems to have been short-lived. So, coming back to the relation of stress, unemployment, depression, and migraines, I have had migraines which have gone on continuously for one or two entire months and then, have gone away half an hour after I got news of getting some measly part-time guest faculty job. My migraines, however bad they are, usually go away if something makes me extremely and intensely happy— there are only a few of such things, and they usually happen by chance, they are not within my control. Chronic migraines and clinical depression are co-morbidities that often go together. To add other stress factors in life, I now have other psychosomatic stress-related conditions such as hypothyroid and chronic perineal pain syndrome. And these are things that nobody around you understands. People just don’t get it. If you have episodic migraines, people may show concern. Ironically, when you have migraines 24*7 for months and years, people give up on you and take it for granted because they have absolutely no idea how to live with this thing. Because it’s just a headache. Though the internet tells you that migraines are the number one most debilitating neurological disease in the world. They don’t get it because we have learnt to live with it. Had I not learnt to live with it, I would have killed myself a long time ago. Or still might. 

Now all this would still be incomplete if I did not mention my autism, at least briefly. So I never knew that I had autism until we discovered this in the middle of my psychotherapy sessions, and later I went to an autism foundation and got it properly diagnosed. Of course, I cannot write everything about my autism here— I have another long piece dedicated solely to that— but perhaps it is good to mention certain things, some of which are also intertwined with my depression. Autism is a wide spectrum, and every autistic person has different traits. Some autistic traits I have had strongly throughout my life: difficulty with social skills, with includes issues with recognizing emotional boundaries, whether one’s own or other people’s, and a certain kind of attachment style which I can’t exactly describe here, among other things. I was an overly shy creature in school but that changed after coming to college. I have had trouble with motor skills as well, in the sense that I’ve been pretty bad at them. My sensual hypersensitivity is with regards to touch— not being able to wear certain kinds of sweaters, skivvies, tight jeans, and a whole array of other things, actually. So as my therapist pointed out, it is the emotional aspects of autism that have affected me more than the physical or biological ones. For example, it is the inferiority complex associated with bad motor skills or the fact that I found myself unable to dress the way my peer group in college would, actually affected me more than the actual biological facts. I have had a supermegaphobia of change since childhood, another hallmark of autism, though it is reduced now as compared to childhood years. Change of plans, sudden plans, but also, very significantly, change of place. As a child, I used to be scared of even spending the night at my grandparents’ house! Having created a home for myself in Delhi, I have had a super-mega phobia of shifting from this place for many long years, which people around me absolutely fail to understand. Although I have now brought myself up to the level that I can shift from the place if I am required to do so in search of a job, I do not think “normal” people can fathom the amount of effort that this has taken. I am also very, very phobic of differences. I want everyone to be the same. For me, difference means conflict. I understand that this may be quite impractical, but then, this is me. The phobia of change and of differences may possibly be connected. Autistic people are known to “rock” and I have realized that something I have always done since a baby age can be described as rocking, though I never thought of it as such. So there are all these “weird” things about me and I never knew that they actually have a name. I also have prosopagnosia, which is the inability to recognize faces. All my childhood, I could not watch TV or movies for this reason. Even now, I do not remember people’s faces unless I have seen them at least 200 times. I am also forever lost in my own world. Most of the people who have ever seen me know this about me because it is very apparent. I also keep talking to myself practically all the time, whether I am out on the roads or in my room or at my workplace or any place at all. Perhaps this goes hand in hand with being in my own world. One of the most significant things about autism that affects me is autistic obsessions and special interests. It does not help to say, either, that I get obsessed with people. I also get obsessed with anything I do; for example, I wrote this 3-lakh word PhD which is thrice the size of any normal PhD, I will get obsessed with the same music and listen to it on repeat for centuries, I never know when to stop when I do any activity so there is this compulsive sense of more more, resulting in a kind of hopeless perfectionism that I never reach. I may never clean my room but when I do finally clean my room or my clothes or anything at all, I am obsessed with each and every molecule and atom of dirt and dust! I similarly tend to get obsessed with people. And tend to idealise people, believing them to be, well, if not perfect, then somewhere nearer the divine, in any case. My therapist and I have been discussing how I want a perfect, idealistic world—like everything should be perfect, including the people and the relationships. So, in the sense of obsession and boundaries, whatever happened with my teacher can be a result of autism, as well as, as my therapist said, of my parent’s divorce. Now if I speak only of my own personal experience, I have always tended to be emotionally dependent on someone or the other— my mother, or my friends, or, teachers. In my case, I have a history of getting emotionally attached to how many teachers by now. So autistic people are known to have intense emotions (yes, people think autistic people have no emotions but our kind of people also exist), and yet are not good at regulating those emotions. Autistic people are known to stim to relieve themselves in overwhelming situations. Stims are usually repetitive actions, or even repetitive words. In my case, my stim is to repeat my teacher’s name over and over.  I think all these things are linked to each other, in some sense, as because I am not centred in myself, I cannot regulate my own emotions, so I end up falling over people. These are complicated issues which cannot be dealt here within the space of this piece in any kind of depth or detail, but they create a lot of issues. I am seeing this in almost all my relationships right now. But I do not find what I seek from outside, so I feel an absence of connection. Now imagine what happens when you are the most intense person you know, when you get overwhelmed practically all the time, and then you cannot regulate your own emotions! 

One thing has led to another, has spiralled into darkness quite literally, in the sense that the amount of huge rejection that I have faced, especially after the charges of stalking and disciplinary action mentioned in the earlier part of this piece, have only intensified the need for acceptance, belonging, and kindness. But this is again a spiralling cycle, because when I fall over people, after a certain amount of time, at some point or the other, they cannot take it any more. So the cycle becomes self-perpetuating. I don’t think I can end this piece with any real solutions to any of these issues, because I don’t think I have any. I do have ideas of trying out my hand at different activities such as art and crafts which perhaps help to stabilise one within oneself, but then I have this yearning for connection and meaning and intimacy which I cannot find, so then it is also at that point of alone-ness that I get suicidal— what I the meaning on life on earth if you cannot find intimate connection with other humans around you? Something I do find meaning in is in connecting with people like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Tracy Chapman, Alice Walker… the list is long and there are several others. So my current project is to read their letters, diaries, watch films – theirs, and also other figures connected to queerness and mental health— and then write letters to them. I am, currently, writing letters to anyone on the planet that I want to write to. So I feel I can connect with them way more than with people around me, though it doesn’t exactly help to know that they are either dead or otherwise unaware of my existence. Beyond that, the search for answers and solutions still continues. 

Finally, as I conclude this piece, I would like to thank Prof GJV Prasad and Prof Simi Malhotra, for more or less similar things: kindness, acceptance, and the lack of judgement. Prof Prasad for being the exceptional human being that he is—for his kindness and forbearance with incessant, random and not so random text messages that I send him, showing him perhaps the innermost layers of myself as well as my never-ending insecurity. I have raved and ranted at him, — at a time when I have been suicidal, he has been the only person that I have spoken to. For his forgiveness and for not choosing “sides” even though he is a friend of my teacher’s (and a member of my PhD advisory committee) — something that a lot of people are unable to do. And finally, for what I call his “dispassionate compassion” and sense of humour which again show me how it is possible to be a deeply sensitive individual and yet to simultaneously keep a distance from that intensity which consumes me. Prof Simi Malhotra for simply being the kindest and patient-est person on the planet, who has basically borne with me and my incessant messages and my crying and my insecurities and my tantrums… despite all her very substantial professional and personal concerns, some of which I happen to know of, and not only that, but also despite all my past history which she knows about, but has never judged. I have had autistic meltdowns in front of her. Autistic meltdowns are something like a mixture of crying and screaming when you’ve lost all control over yourself. Such people are rare, as my own experience with people has shown me. People mostly reject, block, and judge you for far, far smaller things. It was not necessary for her to do any of this at all in her official role as my PhD examiner and my employment-supervisor. But then, as I said, the cycle is self-perpetuating so even she has had too much of it by now. So it continues. I can perhaps best sum up everything with this: I am the most insecure person on the planet after all my rejections. I assume blockings and rejections all the time. There is a very real term in autism called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. I know that she is mad at me. She has asked me not to message her. I still message her sometimes. Currently, her WhatsApp account neither has a picture nor shows her “last seen”. Even in this situation, I have come to realize that she will not block me. This security in this situation for as insecure a person as me, who constantly imagines all sorts of things, is absolutely astounding, and I never thought that this could happen to me ever. So currently, I feel a curious mixture of rejection and acceptance that I never knew I could feel in life.  Kindness is something that I have come to respect a lot in people. Kindness is a common factor among all the teachers I have fallen over in my life! The usual words might be “fallen for” or “fallen in love with”, but I think “fallen over” is also quite apt in this situation. There are, of course, other people whom I need to thank, again people who have shown kindness and acceptance instead of rejection, or even certain instances of kindness, but then I have mentioned the names of the two people whose heads I have eaten to the maximum extent. I write too honestly— perhaps this is my autistic trait of honesty and my inability to lie. I don’t think neurotypicals would have done it. Perhaps someone will kill me for it someday. But then, I’ll risk it. I don’t mind dying, I guess. I end with two poems. 

To Sir With Love 

(for Prof. GJV Prasad) 


Because you had the kindness of a tree
And patience enough for eternity 
To care so much for a random student 
When family friends and all thought it imprudent 
When all else had turned away 
Irritated, frustrated, at the end of the day
Look, we have our own life too
We can’t all be therapists for you! 
Knowing the history of Autistic obsession 
Too scared for themselves to show compassion 
You suffered my tantrums, read umpteen texts
Always patient, always calm, to deal with the next 
You suspended judgement beyond belief 
My grieving heart found immense relief
You always took my hopes and fears into account 
Before giving any advice, just the right amount 
Unlike others, you did not expect 
me to change my innards at your behest 
Your suggestions were always tailored for me
Not forcing me to become what I cannot be
You helped from airports and distant lands
To stabilise my feet in shifting sands
You’ve heard me panic and seen me cry
All those times when I was scared to die
You’ve seen my worst and made me calm
When a single line from you was a balm
Your goodness flows on like a river
All my love and gratitude forever. 

Kindness-- a Blood Group 

(for Prof Simi Malhotra) 


For a fairy: is she a sylph or a nymph,
Whose name is synonymous with love.
With the generosity of heart which forgives
my tantrums. Which does not harden itself, 
or thicken the boundary wall of its auricles
and ventricles. With patience that deals
with my insecurities, abundant as rain flowers, 
without quickening blood flow, or rising temper. 
With a very rare blood group in which
kindness cells abound. With a heart which has ears, 
and lends them to the baggage of my traumas. 
But mostly with a heart that circulates pure love 
This poem comes in lieu of a much-craved for hug.

About the Author

Shruti Sareen, born and brought up in Varanasi, studied at Rajghat Besant School, KFI. Graduating in English from Indraprastha College for Women, University of Delhi, she later earned a PhD from the same university, titled “Indian Feminisms in the 21st Century: Women’s Poetry in English” which is now forthcoming from Routledge (UK) as two monographs in 2023.Her debut poetry Collection, A Witch Like You, was published by Girls on Key Poetry (Australia) in April 2021. She is currently seeking publishers for her novel,The Yellow Wall, and is working around an epistolary manuscript around lives of queer artists, on themes of queerness and mental health. She was an invited poet at global poetry festival, hosted by Russia, Poeisia 21.  She has taught in Dyal Singh College, University of Delhi, and at Jamia Millia Islamia, another university in New Delhi. She may be reached at shrutanne.ipcollege@gmail.com.

The post Spiralling into Darkness by Shruti Sareen first appeared on Prachya Review.