Branwyn is the Goddess of love, beauty, mischief and mystery. It also relates to genuine literature.

The name has been tossed by Lavkesh Kumar Singh.

Editorial :

Dear Readers,

Publisher and Director Vineeta Gupta

Founder and Editor-in-Chief Sneha Gupta

Branwyn is stepping in the second year of its publication. It is really moment of celebration for all of us. And these moments have been gifted by you people our readers! Our entire Branwyn Family stands obliged for this!

Mentor Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha

Managing Editor Parul Parihar

Tech Support Rahul Kumar Singh

After the immense success of Branwyns Anniversary edition, we present the March issue of Branwyn. In the cover-story we have come up with the soul-stirring story of Shaurya and his battle with cancer.

Legal and Financial Advisor Abhishek Singhania

Contacts: Email : snehagupta01989@gmail.com sneha@branwyn.in branwynmagazine@gmail.com

With the excellent contribution of our regular columnists and the gems of guest articles, the issue has itself become very special. Not to forget prominent author Nandita Bose whose interview adds wings to the issue.

I hope our readers would enjoy the issue very much. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome!

Website : www.branwyn.in
Sincerely, Sneha Gupta

Boosters
The magazine is eye-catching and very beautiful. All articles are very nice. Article in the segment Down Memory Lane by Koushik Gangopadhyay is best among all. The nostalgic feeling of the forbidden Air-force Life makes it an excellent read. A. Chaudhary, Dumdum, Kolkata

Anniversary edition was nice but I didnt like the article by Lavkesh Singh. It was very irresponsible and insensitive. Mihika Sarkar, Kolkata

Brother Subodh is my reason for reading Branwyn. Randhir Ahluwalia, New York City

I just love Branwyn. It is so beautiful and wonderful. Dharmesh Trivedi

Thank you for Branwyn. It is soothing refreshment in an otherwise tough life. Tejas

Daniels Diary was catchy. Issue was very nice . Betty, Toronto

Branwyn is my passage to India. It gives an opportunity to understand the beautiful customs of India. I love all the segments. Greetings! Susan Littlefield, LA

Madam, the issue was good but I was disappointed to see that my favourite segment Bourbon with Branwyn was not there. Please bring it back. Raushan, Patna

That story by Mr. Gaurav Gill made me cry. It was great! Princy Shukla, Moradabad

For two issues, I have liked Nitin Singh very much. His stories seem realistic. The Endless Wait was superb. It was a fine piece of comio-tragedy. I wonder why Heena Ahuja is a regular columnist. Her poems seem below the standard of a regular columnist. In fact the poems published in Amateur Scribbles are better than Heena. Girish Chavan

Three Questions : Nandita Bose

Nandita Bose is the renowned author of Tread Softly and The Perfume of Promise. She has gained a prominent position in the literary circles owing her impeccable approach towards both subjective and objective exploration of creative writing. Her books are often considered a referential vision towards the society. She is a source of inspiration for other Indian writers. Playing multiple roles in her personal life, Ms. Bose defines the aura of a woman in her different style. In spite of her over-busy schedule, she obliged us with an interview.

Branwyn : What is writing for you? A resultant of a serendipitous encounter with boring life or a long nurtured joy of exploring ideas and imaginations? Nandita : The question is a lot more imaginative than my answer will be, I'm afraid. I write. Often it is more a drudge than a pleasure. Often all that I write does not add up. Fortunately some of my efforts mysteriously fall into place and become cogent poems or stories. If I were to try and define what writing does, it is my engagement with the chaos around me.

Branwyn : How as a writer you decipher the marital discords of contemporary Indian society? How far does your books TREAD SOFTLY and THE PERFUME OF PROMISE relate to it? Nandita : I am disturbed by discord in society, whether marital or no. I think the solution to discord is stretching boundaries, greater understanding and empathy. Whether in my 2 published works, Tread Softly or The Perfume of Promise, or the other manuscripts that are still in the process: my concerns are about the grossly disparate natures of the world of a woman as compared to the world of men. My sense of justice makes me aware even in my plots that the world of a man is no easier or uncomplicated. In fact I think true love is when you begin to see the personal worldview and its limitations from the lens of the one you love. And yes I offer love as a solution, maybe a cure-all, for most of our issues.

Branwyn : What role does your family play in your being a woman and a writer? Nandita : I came to the world of writing and publishing quite late, after convincing myself that I had done justice to the other responsibilities of my life. Which means I thrust a change of goals and lifestyle upon a family that was quite settled in a comfortable, totally different gear. Now they deal with incomprehensible routines, weepiness and mild twinges of the social pressures of living with someone who participates in a public domain. All I get in return is unstinting support and so much love that it enables me to do what I want to do...

Thanks for being with us Ms. Nandita Bose. Branwyn Family wishes you all the very best in all your future endeavours.

SHAURYA FOREVER
Shaurya Forever is an initiative by Purple Pen Blogs. Shaurya The dictionary meaning of this word is bravery. Perhaps, after this story it might change and even go beyond bravery. Shaurya Forever is an E-Book based on real life of Shaurya Maingi, a 12th grader who was normal in all ways to the other students with the same specification. Only the difference between him and other students was the Cancer cells in his blood, multiplying with unstoppable speed.

Purple Pen Blog

Shaurya Maingi, 18 years old,was suffering from cancer (Diffuse Large B cell lymphoma) .He was undergoing treatment in Medanta hospital, Gurgaon. He was given 11 Chemotherapys in Medanta after which the doctors agreed to their inability to cure him further.Therefore, he was shifted to another reputed hospital - FORTIS where his treatment was started again. Later, the chemotherapy stopped working and his cancer cells, instead of getting destroyed started multiplying even more and spread to other parts of the body. Before the chemotherapies were given, his healthy 10 million stem cells were taken out for stem cell transplant (usually a person has 2 million stem cells in his body) and were stored by CRYO back (which is the outsourced bank of Medanta) in early stages of the treatment which were to be injected back in his body after the chemotherapy process got over. When he was shifted to FORTIS,he was given the proper treatment required and was on the verge of recovery . Before the transplant is done,a very strong chemotherapy is given which reduces WBC's to 0, and then the already stored healthy cells are put in the body so that they start multiplying and create fresh WBC's. He was given his strong chemotherapy and then his stem cells were brought from Medanta to continue with the process. However, it was found that the cells were not stored properly and had been destroyed beforehand and only 50,000 cells were found in the body.

Because of this, Shaurya's condition became critical due to absence of WBC's in his body, side effects of wrong stem cell transplant starting prevailing, and he suffered multiple organ failure.One year of his struggle to win over cancer had gone waste due to mere negligence of a hospital in storing cells properly. In spite of absorbing lakhs of money for their storage, they failed to store the cells accurately. An innocent life was taken, a long battle had gone waste because of negligence of a so called REPUTED hospital, MEDANTA.

Shaurya during Treatment

Writers from Purple Pen Blogs came to know about his story and were moved. They decided to make him eternal, and what is better than writing a book. The book Shaurya Forever written by Himanshu Appie Chhabra and Parul Parihar, portrays his journey of one year of struggle, fight, pain and tears. All the chapters of the book are available on the website: Purple Pen Blogs (www.purplepenblogs.in) and soon E-Book will be available all the online E-Book portals for download for everyone.

Parul Parihar

Himanshu Chhabra

Alpine Ambergris : Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha

Will there be RESURRECTION?

Wish you a happy And fruitful stay! Your words struck me Deep deep deep! Could I be happy? Could my stay Be fruitful? In the deserted place Deserted and abandoned! Forsaken and forgotten! Deprived of your August company? Can my heart Dare beat Even a bit Just a bit With choked throat And frozen pulse Sinking further and further? Cleansing and purging The souls abode Oh, the whispers, the murmurs Around me! What do they signify? Will there be RESURRECTION?
Dr. Subodh Kumar Jha has been a member of NCERT and UGC Workshops for the proficiency of English Language in various study streams! At present, he is a prominent part of Magadh University as the Head of Department of English in S.N. Sinha College! He honoured Branwyn with his special segment titled "ALPINE AMBERGRIS". Alpine means mountain peak which denotes Subodh Sir's intellectual persona and Ambergris means a fragrant substance found at sea level. Thus, "Alpine Ambergris" together denotes the combination of an intellectual person like Subodh Sir and novice writers like us who are just trying to make a difference!

Mr. Incandescent Speaks

Of Profanity. And Art.
I fear the day technology will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots. - Albert Einstein Are we approaching the era already? Yes, we have connectivity that is taking humanity forward. Yes, there are visionaries and dreamers who would have us believe that the humanity is at the brink of a all-inclusive revolution, where the best of knowledge will be disseminated to the lowest of the lowly; a day when boundaries will shatter, perfection will be omnipresent and empowerment will be easier than what we deem today. And yet, we also live in an era where instant gratification takes precedence in our minds simply because abundance causes the affluent to fall into the trap of believing that the prosperity they encounter is an all- prevailing one. The social fabric of the society is breaking. Whereas this enables individualism to prevail, and wherein an individual enjoys freedom to express and live the way s/he deems appropriate, it also causes the peer pressure to be wiped out of the equation. Thus moral decadence, if it creeps in the social fabric will less and less be subjected to social acceptance and will more and more be a liable to be judged by the individual who indulges in them. This will in turn have a dominos effect wherein every mistake that we make is but human, and every morally wrong deed will begin to be seen as liberation, unless it is illegal- in which case it shall be a covert exercise depending on the ability of the state to enforce the law. I am definitely not dogmatic in my approach to analyze the evolution of literature in handling Eroticism and Sensuality. In fact, I am a firm believer of the fact that the taboo of the yester years should give way to a pragmatic social acceptance. A rather important aspect of humanity indeed is brushed off in the undertones simply because of dogmatic prudence and profanity that our prejudices bestow it. However, I find the journey from D H Lawrence to E L James a disturbing one. Instant gratification, as I say, is becoming easier by the day. Adult stuff is available in phones carried by children, and thus what was once perceived as illegitimate is now perceived as liberation. Any attempts to counter that view is wither censured as archaic, or promptly termed intolerant. In the Bachelors course in Delhi University, English Literature, I had a chance to read Ismat Chughtais The Quilt, talking of a dame who fulfills her carnal fantasies through a female, in a relationship which would be viewed as illicit. The story was narrated through the eyes of a novice, who finds it unimaginable and surreal. I run the peril of challenging an established norm, and yet, I didnt find the story artistic enough to deserve the accolades that it was able to attract. Whereas it is (obviously) shunned by the old-timers as blasphemy, it was applauded in literary circles. Nothing wrong in that- except that it did not merit the acclaim it got. So a literary renegade got the advantage of being a rebel, and was able to make it mainstream literature just because it challenged everything that was either moral or outdated depending on the school of thought you belong to. Generations of writers and poets have refrained from discussing carnal innuendoes as a work of art. More so in India, where (much like elsewhere, where the concept of religion takes precedence) carnal desire is in itself seen as a sin, it has been less explored in art than it merits. And hence, with the break of the era of information, it is rather important that it is explored with less guilt, but remains a work of art and does not go berserk in the name of liberation. There may be profound art in exposure. And there may be barbarism and filth behind covers. And that is why it is so important to differentiate art from all that isnt art. After all, that is what is intellectual.

Lavkesh Singh [Branwyn Column name Mr. Incandescent] is an Investment Banker who works in the Realm of Mergers and Acquisitions for his living. He at present resides in New Delhi.

Down Memory Lane : Koushik Gangopadhyay

The Tournament
No sooner had I signaled towards the Air Force Dressing room for a drink, I heard a few catcalls from the crowd and a husky voice said Sale ko pani mat de. Bina pani ka marne de. I hung my head in shame, banged my helmet on the turf and decided to quit cricket forever. Suddenly, I felt a gentle pat on my back. I Come on Gang. After all its a game. You can still fight. You have that in you. I looked back and saw my Adjutant, Squadron Leader Rajeev Varshney, standing behind me with a smile on his face. I looked into his eyes and found tons of inspiration. He nodded his head and walked back towards our dressing room with a bottle of water which I refused to drink. My team was tottering at 25 for 2. And I was the villain of the hour. It was 1st April 1995, a windy and sunny day at Mount Abu. In the final match of the last tournament of the season. Air Force Station, Mount Abu was pitched against the mighty Cricket Club of Abu. In fact it was a clash of Titans. Both the teams were packed with quite a few seasoned and outstanding cricketers in their ranks and if I do not exaggerate we had an Indo-Pak rivalry on the field and off it, we were close buddies. We occasionally shared a drink or two at the local Rajasthan Tourism Pub. But today was the final match and we were determined to put in our best show. At the toss my captain, SK Sahu handed over the team list to the opposition captain, Daljit Singh, a Ranji player, which listed me as batting at No 1. As Daljit Paaji, (we fondly called him Paaji) crossed my path, he said Gang, All the best. You are batting first. But helmet zaroor dal kar ana.. I said Paaji todi adesh sar akhoN par. I opened the innings with Avtar Singh, a god fearing Sardar who continuously chanted Wahe Guru while batting. Avatar was one of our best batsmen and could score at a steady pace. I was asked to keep one end going so that we dont lose early wickets. I restricted my stroke play and wanted to give most of the strike to Avtar. Dinesh, the burly fast bowler of CCA was bowling quite quick and was pitching the short ones at regular intervals. Putting bat to ball was becoming difficult. Avtar walked unto me and asked me to avoid the hook shots. He knew that I was a compulsive hooker. All of a sudden, a short ball which did not rise as much as I expected, kissed my elbow guard and flew into Daljit Paajis gloves. There was a loud appeal and up went the finger signaling the end of my ordeal. I pleaded with the umpire that the ball had brushed my elbow guard, but he was not convinced. Dinesh bhai rushed up to me and showered me with some choicest expletives. As I started walking back to the dressing room, I saw the opposition captain, gesturing something to the square leg umpire. On getting the umpires nod, Daljit rushed up to me and said that he knew that I had not nicked the ball and it had indeed brushed my elbow guard. I shook hands with Daljit Singh and expressed gratitude for his sporting spirit. As I took fresh guard, I heard a few slangs being directed towards me. I was trying to concentrate hard but a cruel spirit was stopping me from doing so. My heart was burning to tear apart the opposition bowling. But I decided to give most of the strike to Avatar and in the process, I ran for a non extinct second run and Avatar Singh was run out by yards. Our regular No 3 Batsman, Rajesh Maskari was injured and was not playing the final. K Ravi walked in at No 3 and told me that the captain wants you to keep yourself cool and play sensibly. I and Ravi shared a wonderful rapport off the field and that reflected on our game too. He spoke a few Bengali words while I could utter a few Tamil syllables. While we were steadying the ship, another horrible mishap occurred and Ravi was run out. We were 25/2. Ravi left the ground cursing me in Tamil and slammed his bat on the ground. It was sufficient material to make me the villain of my team as well as the most hated person of the crowd. Sensing that it was going to be a one sided match the crowd started booing me. I was dejected and demoralized. I was telling myself that I let my team down and I should quit cricket. As I turned around to pick up my helmet, I saw Squadron Leader Varshney running in with a pair of gloves and a bottle of water. Once I looked into Squadron Leader Varshneys eyes, I gained some confidence. I was determined to make it my day. I said to myself, I am a soldier. A soldier does not quit. I may die but I will fight In came Tandon, the wily offspiner of our side. I was astonished to see him at No 4. He told me that he will play his natural game and try to get some quick runs and I should keep my wicket intact. He told me that as I was well set and Dinesh was not bowling anymore, I should relax and keep rotating the strike. Our partnership yielded some 40 odd runs that too at quick pace. In the meantime, Jaimin, the opposition vice captain quipped from the first slip position. Dada isko bhi run out kara de..aj ka party mai dunga.: But ultimately Tandon sacrificed his wicket in search of quick runs. At the drinks break, my captain patted me on the back and said, Dont worry. We are scoring at 4.5 runs per over. If we can manage something around 225, we will give them a fight. But keep your end intact. TV Rao, who came in at the fall of Tandons wicket was hit on the helmet by a rising delivery from Dinesh, whom the opposition captain requisitioned to break the back bone of our team. I rushed to Rao, and was shocked to see him writhing in pain. But he refused to walk out. Indeed, a soldier never quits. Alas Rao did not last long. His timber was shattered by a precision made Yorker from Dinesh. Sahu, our captain walked in on Raos departure. A seasoned campaigner and street smart cricketer, Sahu quickly adapted to the situation. We stitched a wonderful partnership, and gave Daljit bhai and his boys some wrinkles on their forehead. Sahu got out at the 40 over mark after scoring a splendid 50. We were placed at 180 plus. By that time, I too had crossed the milestone of 50 and was given a round of applause by my team mates. Daljit bhai and Dinesh too shook hands during the over break. After getting out Sahu sprinted towards the dressing room and stopped the next batsman from coming in. I was surprised to see SN Singh, a notorious Jat, our short tempered fast bowler walking out without a helmet. In the next few overs, SN tore the bowling apart while playing some cricket shots which existed only in his cricket manual. The hapless fielders were left to retrieving the ball from the boundary line. In the first ball of 48th over, I was dropped at short mid wicket while chancing my arm against the left arm spinner Raghav. But lady luck departed me on 89 in the last ball of the 49th over. I was caught plumb in front of the wicket by Dinesh. As I started walking back to the dressing room, Dinesh rushed to me and gave me a pat on my head and Daljit bhai punched my chin softly with his keeping gloves and said Yaar Fauji, well played. I hugged Daljit bhai and said You gave me the opportunity by showing sportsman spirit. As I removed my helmet and lay back on the chair, the be-spectacled, ever smiling, Squadron Leader Varshney tapped me on the shoulder and said I knew you can do it. Come on pad up for the next session. The war has not ended yet. We need your contribution as a wicket keeper. He seemed to be an

angel of God. An immense will power started gaining strength in me. It has been close to two decades now. I dont remember exactly how many runs we scored. But it was close to 240. SN Singh had set the Polo ground of Mount Abu on fire with his batting display. As we were having lunch, we noticed a spring in the stride of SN Singh. He hardly ate something and was warming up. He was egging us to come out and give him some practice. I read something in his eyes. He was breathing fire. I moved my chair closer to Sahu, my captain and said Why dont we open the bowling with SN? Sahu was reluctant. He opined that SN does not have control over the new ball. I suggested that let us give it a try as we had quite a few runs on the board. If SN gets hit we will go with our regular new ball bowlers. Sahu acceded to my request. Sourav and Mayank opened the batting for CCA. In those days the Dada of Indian Cricket, Sourav Ganguly had not made his mark. But the Sourav of Cricket Club of Abu was revered by all and sundry. A stylish right hander, he was perfect on the off stump, but a bit weak on the leg stick. As he took guard, I noticed from behind the stumps that SN was ready to take off like a wild bull eager to charge at the matador. Something played in my mind. I rushed upto Sahu, fielding at mid wicket and asked him to give the first over to Jyoti Ray who bowled fast off cutters. Sahu got annoyed with me. I said Look. Give Jyoti the first over with the new ball and lets wait for a miracle. Sourav is susceptive to the incoming ball early in his innings. Give the second over to SN. If we dont give him the first over inspite of giving him the new ball, he will be boiling like a fully heated steam cooker. Sahu called Jyoti and asked SN to come from the other end as he wanted SN to bowl to the lefthander Mayank. The first few overs were like mystery. Jyoti bowled the first ball of the CCA innings to Sourav who went for a classic square cut and the ball hit the top of his bat then his thigh pad and flew into the leg slip area. I dived full length and claimed a catch. Up went the finger of umpire Gulshan Makkar. My team mates jumped on me as I lay on the turf with the ball held in my left glove. Before our celebration had ended the flamboyant and heart throb of many a girl, Jaimin, jogged into the playing arena in his unique style, kissing his bat and gloves. He was immensely popular among the women folk of Mount Abu. A stylish young man, Jaimin, rode a cherry red Japanese Suzuki bike. The partisan crowd gave him a loud ovation. As he took guard, I shouted to Jyoti iska middle stump agar tor sakoge to sham ka party mai throw korunga. Jaimin turned

around and said jagte hue vi kya khawab dekh raha hai? I said apna team ko pahle bacha le Jaimin bhai. Har gaya to larkiaya ro ro kat tera hanky gila kar dengi. For the next few overs, Jaimin sent us on a leather hunt. SN was over excited and got hit all over the park. My captain, Sahu tried to play the mind game and called Tandon to bowl his slow off spinners. He checked the flow of fours and sixes, but he went wicket less during his first four overs. The CCA score had quickly moved into the sixties without further loss. During the drinks break, we had a team huddle and we decided to bowl Ravi for a few overs. Although Ravi was a specialist batsman, he had the reputation of being an unpredictable bowler. God might have heard our prayers. Mayank was trapped LBW by Ravi. After a long wait, there was something to cheer for us. In very next over, tragedy struck us. Because Jaimin, was continuously steeping out of the crease, I decided to move up and keep wickets standing close to the stumps. Jyoti bowled a short ball to Jaimin. As he ducked, I was unsighted by the batsman and got hit on my throat. I almost missed a breath or two. I was compelled to leave the ground and seek medical attention. In spite of a nagging pain and feeling of a lump in my throat, I was itching to get back behind the stumps. I said to myself I will be cursing myself forever, if my team loses due to the absence of a regular keeper. In the meantime, Daljit Paaji came over and enquired about my injury. He expressed his affection and brotherly feelings towards me. I sent a message to my captain, that I wanted to take my place behind the stumps. He put it in the umpires notice and in the very next over; I sprinted back to the ground. Jyoti was starting a new over and Jaimin was on strike. Jaimin said something to me which I could not hear clearly as I was standing back. Moreover, I did not want to react because the pain was bothering me. Jyoti bowled a bouncer; Jaimin went for a hook shot. The ball kissed his gloves and flew towards the vacant slip area. My instincts sent me soaring into the sky and while I was in the air, I felt a thud in my right gloves. I stood on my feet and my eyes met Jaimins. He had an astonished look on his face. As he started walking back after scoring some 60 odd runs, I said Jaimin bhai, Thank you for making it my day. A young boy ran in with a half eaten ice cream and told me Uncle share karo na please. Kya catch pakra apne. I patted him on the back and told him that if I eat ice cream, my captain would scold me. The next 4 CCA wickets fell like nine pins to Tandon. Tandon mesmerized them with his off spinners. The author lent him a helping hand with 3 stumping and a

catch. Among the ruins, Daljit Paaji stood like the Rock of Gibraltar. My heart went out to Daljit. CCA needed some 40 odd runs in the last 10 overs to win the match, but except for Daljit Singh there were no batsmen left in the squad. But some more twists and turns were left in the match. Dinesh, the firebrand CCA bowler, played some lovely shots and almost took the match away from us. We failed to make any further inroads. CCA needed around 10 runs in the last over with Daljit on strike. But as was destined by the Almighty, Daljit was run out in the first ball of the final over while trying to retain strike. SN, our moody Jat, kept his cool and bowled 3 consecutive dots balls. Then he uprooted the leg stump of Raghav with a beautiful Yorker. The last two balls were a mere formality as the new batsman could not put bat to ball. As we were basking in the glory by hugging and patting each other, I noticed Daljit Bhai waiting to shake hands with us. I quickly broke off from the huddle and hugged him. He asked Ganguly..gloves me kya fevicol chipka kar laya tha ? I said Paaji yeh todi dua hai jo har catch chipak gaya. He ruffled my hair and said Well played. He then walked away and shook hands with the other players. Daljit Paaji is a true sportsman whom I will adore as long as I live. Our celebration was halted by the announcement of the organizers over the loudspeaker. After a brief narration, they announced the Man of the Match award. The author was declared the Man of the Match for his batting effort and for claiming six victims. As I write this memoir, I recollect those days, when in spite of an injury which needed prolonged treatment, I played that match. I am grateful to the Indian Air Force for imbibing in me that mental strength to overcome all odds for a common cause. The party continued well past midnight. Shortly after that cricket match which remains etched in my mind till date, I was transferred to New Delhi. In 2005, when I visited, Mount Abu, with my parents as a tourist, surprisingly, I was recognized by the little boy who had offered me a bite from his ice cream a decade ago. He told me that he wanted to be a wicket keeper like me. Its an honour for this author, that I could be a role model for a child. I believe all odds can be overcome if there is a will to kill the fear within. Jai Hind.. Kaushik Gangopadhyay is an ex-defense personnel presently working with State Bank of India. He honoured us by accepting our request to share his real experiences and anecdotes of Air-Force life in Down Memory Lane

PEEK-A-BOO : PRERNA VARMA

The boy who got late

How do you spell 'love'?" - Piglet "You don't spell it...you feel it." - Pooh Winnie the Pooh (A.A. Milne)

He was an orphan, been appreciated but never loved. And he was never late. Sultry sun, raging rains, wrath of winters never stopped him from picking up piles of newspapers in his hands and walking at least two hundred homes in different societies. He would neatly fold them up- keep them on the porch or against the railing. A smile would flash each time he saw a customer. He listened to their woes intently, asked about their well being, would bring milk when asked politely or fetched packet of bread if requested. And even when though he played with kids waiting for their school buses and cuddled pet dogs, he wasnt ever late for delivery. Not until one day when he noticed almost all homes closed in a building. Curiously, he walked five flights of stairs and saw a single home unlocked. As he delivered a paper, the owner summoned him to come inside. Walking past the entrance, he noticed at least 20 of his customers standing behind a shiny red colour cycle, a school bag and two sets of uniform on its back seat. It was then he realized that he no longer needed to walk and carry those heavy piles. Once he was done with the job, he was supposed to visit a school with all his fees paid. He felt love! That was the day he gleefully thanked all, rode the bicycle for a few miles and was half an hour late at delivering rest of the newspapers. Writers Note- This is a true story that happened in the locality where I stay.

Prerna Varma is a versatile writer who has been working with a number of organizations on a freelance basis. She is credited with a book titled THE DUMB AND DUMBFOUNDED. Her writing prowess is free of genre specification and that is what makes her unique.

A Million Universes : NitinSingh

Nine Days Wonder
The wailings of the owl were interspersed with the gut-originating shrieks of the buffaloes. The din of the Cable Televisions running in the houses was audible only as a distant semidelight. The stars gazed in full brightness from the dome in which they were embedded. A shanty dwelling with dim light stood at the corner of this village on the Banks of Satluj. Two cots were lying in the front of the dwelling occupied by two boys of eight and ten years of age. Do they feel hungry?, asked Sukha while pointing towards the stars in the sky. Lakha the elder sibling nodded, They must be fed to fatness to sustain their dazzling shine. Surely, Maa would be feeding them Yeah, just as she fed us here. They stole our Maa, said Sukha feeling the agony of hunger from his squeezed stomach. When I will become a Star like Maa, I will take revenge from them., retaliated Lakha. A rickshaw stopped near them and Bhola, the rickshaw-puller fell on the ground, as he tried to offload. Generally, children are delighted to see their parents coming from work. But destiny had been rather cruel to these children. They had only despair writ across their anemic faces when they glimpsed at their father who was inhaling dust. As was the daily ritual for them, they carried their fathers living corpse inside the house and placed it on a cot. They searched his pocket for some rupee but as always it heightened their frustration. They shifted their cots inside the dwelling and swamped their empty stomachs with as much of water as would drive then unconscious. For them, unconsciousness was better than hunger. Sukha retracted three steps back dumbfounded, while guessing the fault that he might have committed in showing his notebook to his high profile, city-educated teacher belonging to an urban middle-class family but compelled to work in rural settings after being recruited under the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan. Why do these filthy people must study? Silly policies of the Government! Uffoo..! He is smelling like a rotten egg., the teacher muttered irritatingly as she barged the notebook on Sukha who was now standing a good five feet distance away from the teacher. Get lost; you foul smelling donkeys seed. This time he was infuriated at his elite teachers malignant remarks on his parentage. He attended the school not because he loved studies but because of the mid-day meal served in the school. Teacher ji, there is no charcoal to cook the meal, reported the cook. What? And you are telling it now. Whose duty was it today to fetch it? Sukhas, replied the cook. Get out you Sukha and fetch the charcoal otherwise, I will throw you out of the school. Sukha, though burning from inside, silently moved out of the class-room. He got hold of the manual cart parked near a tree on one side of the schools courtyard. He drove the cart to a shopkeeper in the market, loaded it with a few sacks of charcoal and again drove towards the school. As he was un-loading the sacks in the school, a few students were involved in chopping vegetables while some others were washing utensils. The food was ready. The children were seated in the verandah in two rows on either side. Oye Lakhe! Just keep an eye on that Heroine. Signal me as she steps out of the class-room for the wash room, whispered Sukha. Why so? You just do it. But make sure that no one else is in the class-room. Ok! Of course, why not? he replied while looking at younger Sukha, who was still asleep and their senseless father who would not get up before the sun would have risen by a quarter-circle in the hemispheric sky. Heres the shovel, said Chhinda as he passed the equipment into the small but rough hands of Lakha. Lakha silently wielded the shovel and piled up the dung adjacent to the backwall of the dairy. He laboured for about two-hours and finished the work. Wahe Guru! You are a god-gifted artist, said Chhinda with his astonishing eyes. Lakha re-looked at the quintessential sun emerging behind the mountains that lead to a valley of flowers, fruits and crops. He had made cakes of all sizes to depict his imagery on the canvas of the back-wall. The moist dung-cakes would easily cling to the wall thereby assisting Lakha in giving wings to his imagery and simultaneously serving the purpose of Chhinda for the same cakes would dry up on the wall and become a cooking fuel. Take this! said Chhinda as he handed over a twenty rupees note to him. Lakha accepted the money not as a reward for the beautiful work but as a tool for mitigating his own and his brothers hunger. Look! What have I brought for you., Lakha whispered to Sukha as their father was seeming to regain his consciousness. Oh! Samosas!! Wah Wah Bhaaji, Lakha sprang off the cot in delight. Shhhhsh. In a low voice... we will not share anything with him. Why should we? When he doesnt care for us. asserted Sukha as they marched towards the village well for a hitherto illusive meal.

************************* Hey Lakhe! Would you prepare cakes today, a voice caught Lakha as he had just awakened from sleep. Chhinda, a dairy farmer in his creamy kurta and printed lungi was addressing him from the door of their shanty dwelling. ***************************** You, son of an idiot! Stand at a distance., yelled the teacher in loud make-up and suited in green salwar-suit embroidered with golden zari-design. She was wearing bangles from the wrist to the middle of her fore-arm symbolizing her recent marriage.

In about ten minutes while the students were having meal in the verandah the teacher left for the wash room. Lakha signaled Sukha about it. Sukha took a couple of pieces of the burning charcoal from the hearth and stored them in a small iron box which he hid in his pocket. He hurried out of the schools main gate and climbed above the schools side-wall into his class-room through the window. He put those pieces of burning charcoal in the teachers hand-bag and left the room from where he had entered. The teacher returned to the class room, shouldered her hand bag and moved towards the staff room for lunch. Just as she was having her home-cooked lunch her colleague spotted the fumes emanating from her hand-bag. She brimmed up in anger to the extent of insanity. She avowed to kill Sukha, her prime suspect. But a wise colleague of her counseled, You have no evidence. If you inflict any corporal punishment on him then it may become an issue during these election days especially when the media is so hyper-active. She had to bite the bitter pill. Sukha had revenged the insult to his parentage. ************************* Whats this? asked Lakha pointing to a cap worn by Sukha. Its the Aam Aadmi Cap Who gave it to you? The Sarpanch with a five rupee note, for sporting it for the whole day, tomorrow What? But what will the Sarpanch get from all this? I dont know. I agreed for the five rupee note. Hmmm . It looks like our inverted paper-boat. Will it float any better than those paper-boats that we try on the currents of Satluj. It should. Lets try it out. They went to the bank of Satluj. A large number of tents were erected there, where liquor and meat was being served to the villagers without any distinction of caste, creed or religion. Is it a marriage party?, Lakha enquired from a man who was swaying left and right under the influence of booze while holding a roasted chickens leg-piece in his right hand. Idiots! Dont you know, tomorrow is the Election Day, replied the drunkard. So its free for all, questioned Sukha with enthusiasm. while

Yes, replied the drunkard and then he moved awkwardly towards the lane that led to the village. Lakhe! What a wonderful opportunity. Lets get in immediately. Lets Oye! Stop!! Where are you both going?, shouted the organizer near the entrance of the tent. Food, Lambardar Sahab, replied Sukha. No you cant go inside But why? Because, you cannot vote. We will also vote. Please allow us in., pleaded Sukha. Get lost from here. You think I am a fool. Go first grow up to be eighteen to vote, Ok! The two moved away from the entrypoint to a side beneath a tree and stood there watching their co-villagers and electorate, coming out with their foodpacked burgeoning stomachs. Another hungry night? rued Sukha to his elder brother. No, wait. Let me see, Lakha went around the tent to the section where the meat was being cooked. Chhinde!! shouted Lakha as he spotted the dairy-farmer who was also his part time employer. Oye Lakhe!. You here, for the feast, right? reverted Chhinda. Yeah! But the organizer shooed us away. Let him go down the Villages Well. You have this. Chhinda handed him pieces of meat wrapped up in a newspaper. The sun had set. The darkness had intensified. The din of the birds hurrying for their nests could be heard. The siblings sat besides the river bank devouring the delicious food like the hungry dogs. Cant we have elections every day, asked Sukha. I think, the more we have them the better it will be for the people. opined Lakha. ArreyYou forgot. We havent checked whether this cap is better than our paper-boats. Sukha placed the inverted Aam Aadmi Cap on the gentle currents of the river. It started drifting in the direction of the current. The boys were watching it with interest. Hardly had it drifted by three meters that it capsized.

See! It has sunk. said Lakha with the audacity as if he had predicted its fate. Yeah! Our paper-boat is better than the Aam Aadmi boat., chuckled Sukha They embraced each other laterally around their necks and started for their home. As they reached the door of their house, Lakha asked, But you had taken five rupees from the Sarpanch to wear the cap for the whole day tomorrow, isnt it? Oh! Thats true. But now, I neither have that damn cap nor those five rupees from which I had some ladoos from the halwai. Lakha chided him gently on his cheeks and they burst into laughter. It was not going to be just another hungry night for them. Now they could sleep without waiting hopelessly for their drunkard father.

Nitin Singh is Assistant Commissioner in EPFO [Cent. Govt.] His freestyle write-ups often deal with day-to-day adventures of middle class people. Nitin is a resident of Ferozepur and considers his wife the inspiration behind his writing.

Sacrament Sobriety : Gaurav Gill

Gypsy Leaf

I was like a gypsy leaf blown by the vehement times, No bough ever clenched me in its fairer climes, You stealthily came in and the storm abated, Your disarming smile had my heart elated. This wandering leaf had found a refuge, Your moist eyes had embraced my eyes deluge!

TO BE CONTINUED

Mr. Gaurav Gill is a person of quintessential contemplation known for his kind and modest nature. He is a lecturer and lives in New Delhi.

SEMIOTIC BOND

. Beep, beep , beep the microwave started to call me and the fresh smell of baked chocolate cupcakes filled the air of my room, overpowering the lavender room freshener I have sprayed in the morning. Cream is always neat and clean and she prefers to use her strawberry perfume after her not-soentertaining bath and was rather in a very cheerful mood today finding me home , the whole day and kept me busy the whole morning with her pranks, which were actually stressbusters for me. She responded to the microwave, immediately and started to jump in joy, as I kept on wondering, the cause behind this sudden joy of hers, which I always notice when I bake something. Is it the food she is actually interested in or it is the whole process of baking in the microwave, which attracts her; the queer sound of the microwave , followed by the sweet smell of cakes and muffins is actually reciprocated by her smile and she wont let me get some peace till I take out the baked desert and give her the first piece. This whole event was something amazing for her and also was a bribe which she used to get after her not-so entertaining bath which actually she abhorred but dont know why , she would listen to me after a lot of nautanki. I went to the kitchen, wore my baking gloves, opened the door of the microwave and took out the cupcakes carefully. Cream was looking at me, her eyes bursting out, When am I going to get my treat? Dont you think you have tortured me enough today with that horrible water and soap and you didnt even let me play with those wonderful floating-ball type of thingy with air in it . The toppings were already there and all I needed was a little time to arrange them. Decorating the soft top of the chocolate cupcake with wafers and jelly beans, I took the cupcake and gave it to Cream. She was surely delighted and gulped it down. I dont know about others but she was my most sensible daughter, who understood me, respected me and loved me even though I was not her biological mother. I dont know how she could sense it or understand, but when it came to food, all she wanted was the first piece. When friends or guests came over for dinner, she would sit with us and eat the first piece of chicken from my plate and more, if only she was given. If somehow, I failed to understand that she was still hungry, she would look at her own plate with a very sad face and then would look at me with lachrymose eyes, as if , she was saying , Mommy, you forgot that your princess is still hungry. Ah, yes! She is my princess. I still remember the day when I had found her on the streets of Atlanta, crying beside her dead mother. She was barely a month old and without even giving a second thought, I had carried her to my home, while I was returning from Athens, and from then on, I became her mother. However, there is a certain bond, which I notice between us; dont know if it was related to our past lives or rather her past lives. No, she wasnt my first daughter, she was the second; I dont know if it would be wise on my part to call her the best but all I can say is that yes , she loved me back. Maybe, Lily did too and even after decades, I cant forget her. I should have realized that she wasnt happy, maybe she needed something more, which, being a girl of 22, was not clear to me. Lily was my first daughter. I still remember that day. I had just come back home after a very critical appendectomy and it was during that time, when, all of a sudden, she took a chance and flew out of her cage , while my aunt was cleaning and left me alone , forever. I had forgotten my doctors strict rules of not to walk fast, not to run and above all, not to shout. I ran to the roof, not caring for any medical restriction and I cried, Lily, Lily but she was not there to listen to me or come back to me. I wasnt her biological mother but I brought her up, fed her, cleaned her and listened to her endless speeches. But maybe, there was something lacking from my side and maybe, God took her away as a punishment. For a long time, I never had a daughter. I had sons, Lemon, Lime and Chuckles. I was Chuckles foster- mother but these days, I really wonder; are there any difference between biological mother, the mother who brings up a baby and a foster- mother ? I never made Chuckles feel the lack of motherly love and care but God too took him away when he was two and a half month old baby. After a long time, Cream came in my life and this time, I was independent enough to support her and this time, I was determined, not to ignore my duties and responsibilities towards her. Many women actually complain that it is difficult to be a single- mother. But I actually enjoyed it. After a long day of classes and research, I would seek Creams love, in her pranks, games, cuddles and kisses. Something inside me would say that she really loved me. Cream means everything to me, and I am her whole world to her. Thoughts reigned chaos in my heart as I decorated the cupcakes. For some reason, Cream sensed that I had lost myself in some other world. She hated it when I was silent. We both are chatterboxes and people would say that we are surely made for each other. Suddenly, I felt a jerk in the anchal of my saree. I looked around and saw Cream playing with it, bored with my silence. Yes, my saree, was another thing that fascinated her. Here, in USA, the Bengalis wear saree only on occasions. Cream would see me only, in a saree as I have the habit of wearing a saree, when am at home and would wear one on any occasion

I find, be it a conference or a party. The frills of the kuchi and the anchal, which I would leave freely, flaunting the typical Indian kalamkari, or kosha silk on my arms were her main sources of attraction and she enjoyed playing with them, least bothered to realize that she was tearing it. I never forced her to stop; rather I enjoyed it in my own way. I have lots of sarees and I buy lots of them from India. What was more valuable to me was our bond which grew with this game and food. I took a cupcake and putting the rest in the refrigerator; I went to the drawing room and sat on my easy chair, facing the balcony. Living in an apartment of post Strafford was a something I took out of my own volition. Traveling to Athens, was of course difficult, but I wanted to live in the memories of past. My brother and sister would visit me and we would talk about those wonderful moments we had spent with our parents and aunt here, more than a decade ago, when I visited them at the age of 20. Cream hopped on to my lap, now demanding serious attention. I took her in my arms, and kissing her, I started singing. Singing was another thing, which she loved, and the reason too, I didnt know. I am not a good singer; at least I dont consider myself as one. I would sing the Bengali Rabindrasangeets which I so loved and Cream would show gestures of happiness. She didnt understand the lyrics for I never bothered to talk to her in Bengali; raising her in this multi- cultural environment was a tedious task and I wanted to train her first in English and Spanish , the two languages people speak here and maybe someday, I am sure I will succeed to make her respond to Bengali as well. When I saw her responding to my Bengali songs, I was a little relieved and I realized , that before our next trip to India, I would be able to make her understand at least these phrases : edike asho, eta koro na , okhane bosho and others. The afternoon was a typical Georgian summer, warm with the wrangles of little drizzles. I enjoyed the weather here, specially my day offs, when I would do my research from my home; sometimes, I would go for a long drive with Cream, sometimes, we would take a stroll downtown or sit lazily by the pool. Cream has a very little patience holding capacity

and specially, when I would stay at home, it meant going out for her. She jumped off my lap and headed towards the door. I went behind her , shouting, Cream, wait. At least let me change first. She was not there to listen. She started sniffing around my scattered shoes near the shoerack. Opps. I remembered!! I forgot to clean it and had left it to Creams disposal. I went and took Cream in my arms. Before I could turn my head towards the bedroom, to change, my phone rang. I picked up. Hello maam, came a very polite voice of a man. Umm.. Hi , I replied wondering who could it be .It was definitely not from my university and it wasnt someone I knew. Maam, I am calling from BlueDart Courier Services. We have a package for you from India and I am waiting at the gate of your apartment. Can you please come and pick it up? Courier? From India? My heart skipped with joy. Yes. Please wait for a few minutes. I am coming down immediately, I replied, my tone, changing from a silent note to one full of happiness. Wearing one of the slippers, that was lying in front of me, I locked the door and rushed down the stairs, with Cream in my arms. I took the short cut through the pool and finally met the man from BlueDart, who was waiting for me patiently. He was holding a big box, which seemed quite heavy. As I signed in his file, I wondered, who could it be to send me such a heavy parcel from India. Once we were done with the formalities, the guy gave me the box, cuddled Cream and left. On the top of the box, in a familiar handwriting, it was written , FROM : SHUKTI ROY . The name in the bold letters seemed to remind me of the conversation I had with my Spanish maam a month earlier. She didnt exactly teach me Spanish. I learnt Spanish from Dr. Dibyajyoti Mukhopadhyay, the head of IndoHispanic Society, Kolkata, India. I was doing my post- advance course when Sir gave me the first break of my life and I got the chance to translate a few poems in a book which Shukti maam was editing. From then on, we became extremely good friends, she

provided me a motherly shelter and now, whenever it comes to translation works, she never misses to give me a call. It was only last month, she was telling me about getting some Spanish books and wanted me to work with her for the translations. I had agreed but I had no idea, the book would reach me so quickly. I didnt want to disappoint Cream. So I took her to the pool where she roamed around. A few kids were playing and she was quite famous in our apartment; everyone would cuddle her and pat her and some would even give her a treat. I sat on one of the wooden chairs, facing the pool, pondering over my parcel, every beat of my heart, counting the seconds that passed by and waited for the time when I would open my Pandoras Box and see the wonderful treasures inside. I realized that I was still in my saree but actually I didnt feel uncomfortable; of course, I missed my dive in the pool, but the parcel was worth it . I watched the kids playing with Cream and it gave me peace. When I see her running and jumping around, I feel happy; she needs friends and it was my duty to show her the ways to socialize. After half an hour, Cream came to my seat, licking my feet and wagging her tail. I knew, it was time to go home. She seemed to be in a very playful mood, and didnt bug me to take her in my arms or may be, she noticed the heavy parcel I was carrying. I have stopped thinking about this sensibility in her behavior. In the life of this lonely spinster, she is the one who creates the cascade of love and drenches me with her unconditional love and sensibility, fulfilling the space of loving and being loved back, of caring and being cared for. I returned back to my apartment. Giving Cream, a bowl of water and some food, I retired to my study with the parcel in my hands. Finally, the box of treasure would be torn open and I would become rich. I tore the parcel with a knife and found four books in it and an envelope. It was clear that Shukti di has sent some letter in that envelope. Leaving aside the books, I opened the envelope and started reading the letter. Dear Udbhaboni , it said. I could have told you about this parcel over phone, but I preferred to give you a surprise. There are two Spanish

books which we will be translating and I took the liberty of sending you this years Pujor Shuktara and Anandamela , knowing well how you love them and cant avail them. Tears rolled down from my eyes as I read the letter. For a second, I wanted to see her and break down in her arms, but sometimes, one needs to make sacrifices for a better cause. I have devoted my life to research, and was living the life of a spinster, working in the university, and along with that, continuing my writing career. These gifts meant to me more than anything. I have always loved books and they mean to me more than those stupid ornaments women wear. I pressed the letter with my hands, feeling the letters, written in blue ink. Truly, some people are there in your life to stay. Spanish brought us together and honestly, I am indebted to that language. I could hear Creams snore in my bedroom. I placed the letter in one of the books I was reading since morning and took out my new presents. The first book was , El Corazn , written by S. Rosevall. The very name of the writer struck me. It reminded me of some Rosevall, I had met at Frankfurt airport, when I was returning from Atlanta with my parents. The Rosevall, I knew, was a flight attendant of Lufthansa Airlines. I have always been a chatterbox and started talking with her. We were almost of same age and within minutes, we had discovered our love for Spanish. She was a German, who was learning Spanish and I was an Indian, learning Spanish. We started talking in Spanish and became so good friends, that she allowed me to call my brother , from one of the phone lines of Lufthansa, before our boarding, without charging any dinero. I could never forget her, not only because of the favor she had done for me in the foreign land, but also because of the friendship she had offered. Traveling with parents and a sick aunt was not that easy and she arranged everything for us so that we could take my aunt, safely to our connecting flight to India. Later, while coming to USA, whenever, I travel via Frankfurt, I always try to look for her, but apparently she couldnt be traced. All I knew was that she was studying tourism and I felt, she must have moved to a better place. For some reason or the other, my friend, Rosevalls memory, made me read this writer Rosevalls book.

As I went through the pages, I found the book, pretty interesting. It was more of a travelogue; however, Rosevall, instead of describing the places, was more interested in talking about human beings she had met in her life, the culture of places where she had travelled and her experience of speaking Spanish as a German and the reasons of her choosing to write in Spanish, a language, whose sign systems are completely different from that of German. I got completely engrossed in the book and when I came to the seventh chapter, I simply couldnt believe my eyes. The name of the chapter was: Udbhaboni : La Mujer de India. I rubbed my eyes and felt the page of the book to see I was dreaming or not. Ella es muy buena y guapa , she had written , followed by a lot of adjectives which meant that this girl, Udbhaboni is very cheerful and friendly. After a point of time, I saw , that instead of writing , Udbhaboni , she was referring to me as mi amiga . Yes, it was HER!! This Rosevall was my friend Rosevall. I immediately got up from my table and opened my laptop. It was written in the book that Rosevall has started writing and has made a name in the writing world. It wouldnt be too hard to get her number , I thought. Luck favored and soon I found her number, dialed the numbers, a little anxious to know what will happen. A lady picked up the phone. Hola ! , came a voice which seemed very familiar. I garnered my strength and said, Yo soy Udbhaboni . UDD- VAAB- OOOO - NEEE ? !Si! Como esta? Bien. y t? Muy bien. Tengo su libro en mis manos Qu? Si muchaasss graaaciiaaasssss . Our one hour phone call was followed by a plan to meet up. Yes, Barcelona was calling me. I felt like I am on the top of the world. I woke up sleeping Cream and hugged her tightly. Oh, how I love her soft furs. Cream was a little dumbfounded by my strange outburst of joy. I cuddled her and kissing her on her cold black nose, I said, Cream, shona amar; puchku amar .. AMI TOKEY

KHUUUUBBBBBB BHALOBASHI. She licked my faced, wagging her tail gleefully, reciprocating my words in Bengali.

- APARAJITA DUTTA, JADAVPUR UNIVERSITY, WEST BENGAL

Fragrance of Heena
Rediscover, She

Do you take her as a lump of mud? To smash her down with forceful thud Do you take her as a young flower bud? To force her to deck your clumsy bed Do you take her as a pool of water? To soak your sinful stains as a blotter Do you take her as a piece of furniture? To fill your homes null just like a denture Do you take her as your familys au pair? To whom you can control just by your glare Do you take her as an albatross? To hold her guilty for all your loss She is a woman of enlightened creator Lying beneath countless mystified layers She is the one who inhabits your soul Who chisels diamond out of the coal She has softness inside her strong shell A heart where you will always dwell Shes a woman with saccharine nectar Protecting you from terrifying specters Shes a woman with full of emotions Acting as your beloved loves potion To carrying motherly caresses ocean But against her you have sordid notions Seek and ye shall find her adorable Strong yet her gestures so affable The one who holds the miraculous seed Of giving birth and gratifying our need Treat her with your own equivalence And shell be the prop to your ambivalence You be her desired, inamorato wise man And she will be your heaven-sent Amen..!!

Heena Ahuja is a girl who loves to scribble the rhythmic melody of literature. She lives in Mumbai.

Mr. YouKnowMe Speaks

Then I met you
Day before I met you, I thought I am ordinary, My life is a complete waste, And no one is there, Who think of me sometimes, And world is a deserted place

But when I met you, I realized there is something in me, And I am no ordinary, I have a lot to do, And someone is there, Who think only of me all the time, And world is most beautiful place

You always have time for me, You always hear what I tell you, I cant think anything without you, Cant even breathe without you, My heart skips a beat, When I dont get to see you

You can count on me for everything, If it makes you happy, I dont mind to do anything, Your smile is all I care about, You can put all your trust on me, Because I cant even think of breaking it

Before you nothing was right, But you made everything all right, I know very soon I will be away, When I will be out of this place, When you will not get to see me often, But I promise I will be there for you, Always around you, walking silently with you

Mr. YouKnowMe is someone whom all of us know yet all of us are still to discover. He is a biker, an author and like all of us, a lover of life He is at present working with an IT Company.

Then I said to God- I Agreed

Your call came With same excitement I remained silent To speak What I thought to speak I was puzzled How to start and where to start Stillness for the fraction of second Made noise in your mind What I am thinking Why I am thinking Then your heart made decision To take a break A break from me Do I expect so? That you will ask for break A break of heart again Your words reminded me Of someone Of something I counted days Together we remained Then told to myself Asking you inside me Do you know me? Still you need to know me Yes, I was waiting For your call I knew it was you I could see without eyes But you couldn't hear What you wanted to hear So I remained silent Saying myself This is what God wanted to show That you were unable to know While your love kept mum And you created storm Then I said to God I agreed-I agreed Dr. (Ms.) N. M. Leepsa Assistant Professor Department of School of Management National Institute of Technology Rourkela Rourkela, Odisha

BRANWYN