A Poem by RS

 

        Volume - 1                             Issue -5                          March 2025     

Breaking the Chains of Childhood

Children’s laughter silenced by toil’s cruel hand,

Tiny shoulders bent beneath burdens not their own;

In fields of mud and factories’ ghostly lands,

Their innocence stripped, their dreams overthrown.

Bright classrooms left empty, chalkboards growing cold,

While little feet hurry down shadowed, grinding ways;

Their stories, unheard, in exploitation told,

On World Day Against Child Labour, lift up their praise.

No child was born to sow dust in the sun,

Nor to stitch seams late into the night;

Their hands belong to play, to learn, to run,

To paint the world with wonder and light.

Let our voices rise, a chorus fierce and bold:

“Education, not exploitation, is every child’s right.

Free them from chains of profit’s icy hold,

And turn their darkness into guiding light.”

Together we stand—families, cities, lands—

To end this silent crime, to break the chains of fear;

On this day we pledge, with open hearts and hands,

To give every child a future—bright, hopeful, clear.

-        RS

Elegy for Hungry Gaza

 

Elegy for Hungry Gaza

“And all the children shall lie down in silence, and none shall wake them but the wind.”

I. The Cry Beneath the Ashes

Gaza, thy name is now a wound unhealed,
A page of fire no sea can cool or shield.
Thine olive groves are graves of ancient light,
Now trampled under drones and endless night.
Once bread was baked where songs were sung at noon—
Now ovens cold, and silence swells the tune.

Beneath the shroud of smoke and shatter'd stone,
Half a million souls cry out alone.
“Catastrophic hunger”—not a phrase,
But lips too dry to whisper praise or raise
A crumb to tongue. A mother rocks her ghost—
A child she fed with hope, now famine’s host.

II. The Ruins Remember

The streets remember feet that danced and played,
Now rubble fields where limbs and names are laid.
Since Oct. 7’s black and bloody dawn,
When vengeance came and reason was withdrawn—
25,000 gone in Gaza's womb,
The land now mother, manger, and the tomb.

In Israel too, the mourning candles burn,
For 1,200 never shall return.
Each side has wept, and war has made them kin
In grief, though not in justice, nor in sin.
Yet still the blades of war are drawn anew,
And mercy fades where rockets split the blue.

III. Hunger’s Dominion

No fig, no grain, no milk within the cup,
The soil starved, and time refuses to sup.
The date trees lean like mourners dressed in dust,
And water sings with poison, rot, and rust.
The aid ships wait, but gates are iron-shut,
And mouths bloom open like a wounded cut.

There is no feast in Gaza, only fast—
A curse that binds the future to the past.
Children trace loaves on walls with bits of coal,
Dream meals that death erases from the soul.
And hospitals become the final bed—
For hunger feasts where angels fear to tread.

IV. Of Hostages and Haunting

Still buried deep within the city’s cry,
The captive moan, unseen beneath the sky.
One hundred thirty-six in shadow kept,
While nations watched and diplomats just wept.
And some—already lost—yet still unnamed,
Their stories swallowed, futures gone unclaimed.

And soldiers too—five hundred souls and more—
Who marched on orders, now are lost to war.
On one day twenty-one were cast to flame,
A building fell, and none returned the same.
What price is drawn in blood and broken breath,
That makes a home of sorrow, war, and death?

V. A World That Watches

O West, who dines while children chew on sand,
Who counts the votes but not the bleeding hand,
Who funds the flames and sends the fuel with pride—
Where is thy conscience? Where does love abide?
You speak of law, of order, and of peace—
Yet justice dies, and mercy finds no lease.

Gaza is not a battlefield alone—
It is a cradle cracked, a dying tone.
Its minarets, its churches, shattered eyes,
Its prayers now echoes lost in drone-filled skies.
Yet still it sings, though no one dares to hear—
A song of hunger wrapped in mortal fear.

VI. The Elegy That Will Not End

O Gaza, weep, but do not weep alone,
The earth must shake beneath thy starving moan.
Let poets rise, and prophets cry thy name,
Until the world can no more turn from shame.
Let every stone become a voice, a plea—
"Let bread, not bombs, befall my family."

There is no glory in this endless grave,
No honour left for those who will not save.
Let ceasefire bloom where famine had its root,
Let children grow where once we buried fruit.
And may this elegy not be the last—
But the end of hunger’s brutal, burning past.

– In memory of all lives lost and all lives still waiting to live.
World Hunger Day — Gaza, 2025

                        -rs

 Short Story

 

The Feast of the Forgotten

Once, in a world not so different from our own, there existed two great kingdoms—Plentoria and Emberlin.

Plentoria was a land of overflowing orchards, golden granaries, and rivers of milk and honey. Its people tossed bread to the birds and left plates half-full, for food was so abundant, they believed it eternal.

Emberlin, on the other hand, was a kingdom of parched soil and empty bowls. Here, children named the wind “Mother,” for it was the only thing that touched them each night. People here ate dreams more often than bread.

Every year, on the 28^th day of the Month of Sorrows, a mysterious fog would rise between the two lands, forming a bridge of clouds called the Mouth of Earth. It was said that only one person from each kingdom could cross this path—chosen by fate, not birth.

This year, Liora, a twelve-year-old girl from Emberlin, was chosen. She had never tasted an apple, only seen them in the drawings her mother etched in the dust. That same morning, from Plentoria, came Jalen, the prince who thought hunger meant craving chocolate instead of caramel.

As they met on the bridge, the clouds beneath them whispered, “Share or perish.”

Liora and Jalen walked together into a third land—the Forgotten Field—a place shaped by human memory. Here, food appeared only when summoned through understanding.

At first, nothing grew. Jalen demanded fruits by name, but the soil yawned. Liora, kneeling, whispered stories of her people’s hunger—of her brother who once ate petals, of her grandmother who brewed soup from bark.

Moved by the pain woven into her voice, the earth trembled and sprouted a single loaf of bread.

Jalen stared, silent. For the first time, he felt hunger—not of the body, but of justice.

He broke the bread in two. They ate, and the field bloomed—trees bore fruits with names neither had ever heard, and vines dripped with compassion.

Returning to their lands, Liora carried seeds of memory, and Jalen, the recipe for humility. Together, they built the Council of Tables, where Plentoria shared not just food, but wisdom—and Emberlin offered resilience, tradition, and the sacred art of gratitude.

And every year since, on World Hunger Day, the sky bridge opens again—not between lands, but between hearts.

Moral: Hunger isn’t just about empty stomachs—it’s about unseen stories, unequal hands, and the courage to build a table where all can eat, and be heard.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

 

John F. Kennedy: The Flame and the Future

A voice rose clear in freedom’s name,
From Boston’s winds to nation’s flame,
He dreamed not small, but reached the skies,
With courage born of truth, not guise.
In Cold War chill, he stood with grace,
And etched his will in history’s face.
 
Ask not, he said, what you might gain,
But serve with heart through joy and pain.
He walked through time with steady stride,
With vision wide and hope as guide.
A sailor bold, a brother brave,
He lit the path he could not save.
 
For civil rights, he raised his hand,
And dared to dream a fairer land.
Though shadows closed on Dallas day,
His legacy would light the way.
A torch passed on, his dream still burns—
In every heart, his echo turns.

-        rs

Ode on Bicycle

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -3                     April 2025     

Ode on Bicycle

Beneath the sun, a two-wheeled steed awaits,

Its chrome curves gleaming, eager to explore,

A frame of bones where motion orchestrates,

The pedals hum a tune we can’t ignore.

It carries dreams on spokes that slice the air,

A compass forged from handlebars and chains—

A silent friend who knows the roads we dare.

 

Through winding lanes where dappled shadows play,

It dances, light as laughter, swift as wings,

The wind conspires to steal our breath away,

As asphalt blurs to streams of fleeting things.

We climb the hills where gravity complains,

Then plummet, hearts unbound, to valleys low—

The earth becomes a song, the ride, refrains.

 

From cobbled paths where history still breathes,

To neon streets where city pulses race,

It bears the weight of commuters and wreaths

Of childhood joy—first freedoms we embrace.

A student’s grind, a merchant’s laden cart,

A wanderer’s escape to distant skies—

The bicycle, a kaleidoscope heart.

 

No fuel but strength, no voice but spinning gears,

It scoffs at haste, yet charts the quickest course.

A relic turned revolution through the years,

It threads the world with purpose and resource.

So praise this steed, both humble and divine,

Whose wheels, like time, turn past and future near—

A circle’s grace, where all our journeys twine.

               

              - Sivakumar Raman

                           -        

Elegy for Thirst: A Plea to the Polluters

 

         Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

Elegy for Thirst: A Plea to the Polluters

The rivers once sang in crystalline tongues,
Their currents a hymn where the heron had sprung.
Now bottles and wrappers choke their blue throats,
Asphalt and poison seep into their notes—
Will we heed the dirge of the waters unsung?

The pond was a mirror for dragonfly wings,
A cradle for lilies, a wellspring for springs.
Now sludge paints its surface, a greasy disguise,
Plastic confetti where minnows once rise—
What ghosts will drink from the ruin we bring?

The lakes held the moon in a liquid embrace,
Their depths nursed the salmon, their shores carved with grace.
But toxins now ripple like shadows unkind,
A debt left for children we’ve chosen to blind—
Will their parched throats curse us to history’s disgrace?

The oceans, vast vaults where the whales hymn and roam,
Now choke on our hubris, our apathy’s foam.
Microplastics glint where the starfish once clung,
Acid tides rise where the coral was young—
What wars will we wage for a flask of fresh foam?

You, who dump waste where the tadpoles once swam,
Who drain factory filth into wetlands’ sweet dam:
The earth keeps a ledger, each sin etched in mud,
Each choked stream, each poisoned well, each tainted flood—
Your grandchildren’s lips will bleed drought’s bitter jam.

For water is life’s final psalm and first vow,
A relic we’ve squandered—yet demand it now.
When taps cough dust and the skies withhold rain,
No wealth can bribe mercy, no tech rinse the stain—
The future’s cracked cup waits. What choice have we now?

So let the land breathe, let the rivers run clear,
Unstop the choked springs, hold the wetlands dear.
For every drained marsh, a thirst yet unborn,
For every oil spill, a harvest of scorn—
The clock’s ticking liquid. The end hovers near.

Rebuild what you’ve broken. Let conscience command.
The earth’s veins are bleeding; we hold the last bandage.
Or else, when the last drop is traded and sold,
Our epitaph’s ink will be rust, thirst, and mold—
And the tale of our drowning… will die with the land.

                                                - Sivakumar Raman

“Spectrum of Scars: An Anthem for the Unseen”

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

“Spectrum of Scars: An Anthem for the Unseen”

Beneath the sun’s indifferent, gilded eye,
we etch our skins with borders—ochre, coal, sienna—
pigments twisted to flags, then fists. History’s loom
weaves night and dawn to chains, dyed deep in marrow.
The earth, once a canvas of unclaimed light,
now parses its children by wavelengths of fear.
Watch how crimson tides rise when bodies collide—
the atlas of us, scarred by latitudes of hate.

They coded our worth in the math of melanin,
auctioned ancestors under HEX values of scorn,
priced souls by the gram in the database glare.
Schools, cells, sidewalks—algorithms of exclusion,
where “diversity” blooms as a corporate mural,
yet hands clutch purses when shadows grow tall.
The ballot, the badge, the gavel’s cold script—
all hue-cracked tools in a masterclass of lies.

You’ve seen the gallery: nooses hung like folk art,
the smirk of a headline that blames the deceased,
a mother’s wail muted to trending hashtag.
They pixelate riots but blur the cause,
reframe the fire as a failure of grace.
The museum of trauma charges admission—
gawk at the relics of breath stolen, spent.
Our grief’s curated, our rage under glass.

But the prism rebels. In the subway’s hum,
a Punjabi hymn tangoes with Bronx rap,
a trans woman’s laugh cracks the binary night.
Street murals bloom where the tanks once parked,
rewriting the concrete with ancestors’ ink.
Each protest chant is a chromatic scream,
scattering shards of the supremacist lens.
The marginalized spectrum refuses to bend.

We’re the ungridded, the riot outside the RGB,
the brown girl who fuses quantum and Qur’an,
the indigenous codebreakers unplugging the west.
Your algorithms can’t cage our crescendo—
we’re tongues of turquoise, vowels of vermilion,
the rogue rays that fracture their sterile white sea.
We name our shades in the teeth of their “norms,”
reclaim the language that sought to erase.

So let the labs of hate spin their pale theories—
we’ll drown their white noise in sunflower bursts,
in the roar of maroon, jade, bronze, and chrome.
The future’s a kaleidoscope we grip like a blade,
each face a frontier, each voice a new dawn.
No pigment is illegal, no lineage denied.
March 21st—we unsilence the spectrum,
and the world, in its blizzard of hues, finally sees.

        -        Sivakumar Raman

A Poem - International Colour Day

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

International Colour Day

 

The spectrum, split by God’s prismatic knife,
bleeds myths into grids—cerulean, rust, vermillion—
a taxonomy of light dissected for trade.
We name them like orphans, these orphans of fire,
while corporations patent the pulse of dawn,
sell back the sunset in aerosol cans.
The sky, once a covenant, now a logo;
our retinas scroll through branded rainbows.

In caves, ochre hands pressed rebellion on stone—
red not a hue but a verb, a we exist.
Now Pantone codes parse our grief into swatches:
mourning is #2B1B17, rage #FF0F07.
We’ve bartered the aurora for HEX tattoos,
let algorithms mute the bruise of dusk.
What’s left when we filter the wild from our eyes?
A world rinsed of awe, scrolling in grayscale.

Consider the politics of yellow—how saffron
stains both monk robes and riot shields, how gold
gilds temples and oligarchs’ yachts the same.
Turquoise: the scream of glaciers calving to nil,
a cyanide river’s Instagram shimmer.
Even green, that liar, sells us Eden
in plastic-wrapped sprigs. We’re baptized in dyes
that poison the wells where the earth once bled pure.

The screen glows: neon gamuts hypnotize
synapses. We’re moths to the backlit void,
our dreams pixelated, our longing outsourced
to VR sunsets that never burn flesh.
Children point to strawberries, call them #FF4D4D—
language itself unspooling to code.
The moon, that old poet, pales at the glare
of cities hellbent on outshining the stars.

Yet—in the cracks, fugitive colours rebel:
a weed’s violet spite through concrete, the flush
of two faces close in a subway’s dim hush,
the unscripted gradient of decay on fruit.
A street artist sprays midnight back into teal,
a widow dyes her sari the shade of his laugh.
Colour, that anarchist, slips its leash,
revives in the margins where control goes blind.

So let’s sing the unnamed—the tint of regret
after the phone rings dead, the tone of a scar
remembering its wound, the hue that escapes
when grief and grace blend in a mother’s last glance.
These colours resist the cage of the spoke wheel,
drip outside lines, flood the sterile with life.
To celebrate colour is to treason the grid,
to let the untamed spectrum devour the lid.

-        Sivakumar Raman

A Poem - A Symphony for World Poetry Day

          Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

A Symphony for World Poetry Day

When dawn ignites the ink of March’s pen,

And whispers thread through every shore and sphere,

The globe becomes an open page again,

Where syllables like seeds are sown in air.

From ancient chants to verses yet unborn,

The heartbeats of the world in rhyme are worn.

In every tongue, from deserts to monsoon,

The poet’s breath revives the dust of time—

A sonnet carved in moonlight’s tender swoon,

A haiku cradled where the snowpeaks climb.

In Urdu’s grace or Yoruba’s strong hymn,

The pulse of life crescendos, never dim.

From Sappho’s fire to Homer’s boundless seas,

From Li Bai’s moon to Angelou’s fierce rise,

The dead still speak in rustling parchment leaves,

Their truths embossed in constellations’ eyes.

Each stanza built on sorrow, joy, or war,

A bridge of light to realms unseen before.

A child who finds their voice in measured lines,

An elder stitching memories to verse,

The refugee who maps their pain in signs,

The lover spelling vows the stars rehearse—

In every cry that ink and parchment bear,

A million souls exclaim, ”You’re not alone there.”

So let the skeptics claim that poems fade—

No screen can replicate the hand’s slow trace,

The weight of silence where a comma’s laid,

The ache of metaphors no time can erase.

For when machines have drained their hollow songs,

The poet’s heartbeat still where it belongs.

Then lift the cup of stanzas to the sun,

Let every voice intone its sacred part.

The day is now—the old, the young, the ones

Who weave the world’s fragments into art.

March 21st, the earth in chorus swells:

“We are the poets. Nothing else compels.”

                    -        Sivakumar Raman

A Poem - “Ode to the Celestial Voyagers” (Sunita and Butch)

 

 Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

“Ode to the Celestial Voyagers”

(Sunita and Butch)

Beneath the ISS’s metallic gleam,
They watched Earth spin—a nine-month dream,
Where eight days swelled to seasons long,
Sunita, Butch, where stars belong.

Through fire’s wrath, the Dragon soared,
A chariot by cosmic roar,
Then plunged where dawn’s first blush unfurled,
To meet the waves of their own world.

As Florida’s tides embraced their steel,
A pod arose with phosphorescent zeal—
Dolphins, sleek in twilight’s glaze,
Curved like moons through ocean’s haze.

“The unplanned welcome crew!” they cheered,
While Meghan’s hull drew near, revered,
Harnessed tight from sapphire deep,
Nick, Aleksandr climbed from sleep.

Then Sunita emerged—her breath kissed air,
Nine moons of weightless nights to bear,
Butch followed, grounded, salt-rimmed grace,
The sky’s chill washed from every face.

For those who brave the void’s tightrope,
Where silence drowns and darkness gropes,
The sea, wise warden, sings its hymn—
A galaxy where stars can swim.

                       -       Sivakumar Raman

 Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025     

A STORY OF WEALTH AND WISDOM

Ahamed and Mohammed had been best friends since childhood. Growing up in a middle-class neighbourhood in Chennai, they watched their parents work tirelessly to make ends meet. Yet, their views on money were vastly different.

Ahamed was obsessed with wealth. He believed money was the key to happiness and security. From a young age, he devoured books on investments, stock markets, and business strategies. Always seeking ways to multiply his income, he was convinced that the more he had, the better his life would be.

Mohammed, on the other hand, had a more balanced approach. He saw money as a tool, not a goal. He saved diligently, invested wisely, but never let money consume his thoughts. To him, true happiness came from contentment, relationships, and personal growth rather than the relentless pursuit of financial success.

Their career paths reflected their philosophies. Ahamed took the high-risk, high-reward route—quitting stable jobs to start businesses, investing in volatile markets, and working tirelessly to stay ahead. His bank account grew rapidly, but so did his stress and anxiety. Every market fluctuation disturbed his peace of mind. He was always chasing the next big opportunity, never feeling satisfied.

Mohammed, however, chose a stable career. He lived within his means, invested conservatively, and never let financial worries dictate his happiness. He had enough to live comfortably, pursue hobbies, and spend quality time with family and friends. While Ahamed was consumed by the thrill of making money, Mohammed found joy in simple things like reading, traveling, and meaningful conversations.

One day, Ahamed invited Mohammed to his newly purchased penthouse, adorned with luxurious furniture and expensive artwork.

“Look at this, Mohammed! This is success!” he exclaimed. “All these years of hard work have finally paid off.”

Mohammed smiled and asked, “It’s impressive, Ahamed! But tell me, are you happy?”

Ahamed hesitated. “Happiness comes with more success. I still have bigger goals—a mansion, a luxury car, early retirement. There’s so much more to achieve.”

Mohammed nodded but said nothing. He understood that Ahamed was caught in the endless cycle of ‘more,’ where no amount of money was ever enough.

Then, the unexpected happened. A financial crisis struck, wiping out a large portion of Ahamed’s wealth. His high-risk investments collapsed, and his business suffered heavy losses. The lavish lifestyle he had built began crumbling. The fear of losing everything kept him awake at night.

Desperate and disoriented, Ahamed met Mohammed at a quiet café.

“I don’t understand, Mohammed,” he admitted. “I worked harder than anyone else, took all the right risks, and still lost so much. How do you always stay so calm?”

Mohammed sipped his tea and replied, “Because I never let money define my peace. You built your life around accumulating wealth, always chasing more. I built mine around financial security and contentment. The difference is, I don’t need more to be happy.”

Ahamed sat in silence, absorbing his friend’s words. For years, he had believed that more money meant more happiness. But now, he realized he had been chasing an illusion.

Determined to change, Ahamed began reading about behavioral finance, human psychology, and the true meaning of wealth. He learned that financial success wasn’t just about accumulation but about security, freedom, and peace of mind. He started making wiser investments, focusing on stability rather than constant growth.

More importantly, he reconnected with the things he had once ignored—spending time with family, enjoying simple pleasures, and appreciating what he already had.

Years later, Ahamed and Mohammed sat on a beach, watching the sunset.

Ahamed turned to his friend and said, “For years, I thought wealth was about having more. But now, I see that true wealth is about needing less.”

Mohammed smiled. “The richest person isn’t the one with the most money, but the one who finds contentment with what they have.”

Ahamed nodded. “You were right all along, my friend. Money is important, but how we think about it matters even more.”

Moral of the story:

The psychology of money is not about how much you earn but how you perceive and use it. True wealth isn’t about endless accumulation but about financial security, peace of mind, and contentment. Money should be a tool to enhance life, not a goal that controls it. Happiness doesn’t come from having more, but from needing less.

*****

Author: APARNA G

Perungulathur, Chennai -63

Mail ID: aparnag171290@gmail.com

STUDENT IN WONDERLAND

 

Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025            

STUDENT IN WONDERLAND 

WOW! It was yummy! It made the rainy evening even better with a hot cup of tea.

I asked my mom,
“What’s special today? You offered me samosas?”

With a gentle smile, she replied, “Have fun, my dear son.”

And then, it was discussion time.
I started sharing my day’s experience at school with my mom.
“Our school is going to function without exams!”

My mom remained silent and didn’t react.

I asked her, “Mom, don’t you feel happy that I won’t have to worry about exams and homework anymore?”
I added, “Even you won’t have to stress over my exam results!”

Again, with a gentle smile, she advised me,
“If there are no exams, you will forget to study. Studying books gives us knowledge, and the more we study, the more we gain. Knowledge helps us think wisely, and through education, our thinking capacity expands.

If there’s no homework and no exams, you will forget how to write. Writing and learning help us think and improve our presentation skills. Through education, you can achieve anything in this world. The more we educate ourselves, the more literate and developed our society becomes for future generations.

So, exams and education are inevitable for students—they cannot be avoided. A school without exams can exist only in a wonderland.”

A SCHOOL WITHOUT EXAMS AND POOR ACADEMICS IS A CURSE FOR SOCIETY.

She continued,
“I insist that you study effectively until you complete your school days. On the whole, students should take education and exams seriously. Exams are not just for scoring marks and grades.

Answering a question at any stage of life is not as easy as you think.
Some questions need to be answered with education.
Some questions need to be answered with general knowledge gained from books.
And many questions need to be answered with life experiences and critical thinking.”

As a school student, you may wish for a life without exams. But you cannot judge yourself without them. You cannot plan your next step without knowing your level of knowledge and mental strength.

I AM TIRED OF MOM’S LONG ADVICE…

I THINK I SHOULD APPRECIATE MYSELF FOR THE PATIENCE I HAD TO LISTEN TO HER…

However, it was an eye-opener for me. I thought school life was just about fun,
But in reality, it lays the foundation for the next generation’s future.

Suddenly, my dad entered the room.
OMG! How did I not notice that he was working from home?
When my mom gave me samosas, I should have guessed that Dad was at home! HAHAHA!

With a stern voice, he said, “Go and study, my son.”

Finally, I came to a conclusion—this society, including my parents, relatives, and dearest friends, will value me only if I am educated.

My parents are my inspiration. Both are Ph.D. holders. In the future, I should also reach their level, no matter the challenges.

LEARNING IS A TREASURE THAT WILL FOLLOW ITS OWNER EVERYWHERE. 

Author: APARNA G

Perungulathur, Chennai -63

Mail ID: aparnag171290@gmail.com

The Phoenix of Sarveshnagar - A Short Story

 Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025             

The Phoenix of Sarveshnagar

In the heart of a vast land lay Sarveshnagar, a humble village whose soul was forged by the calloused hands of countless laborers. Here, hod carriers, framers, drywall installers, masons, plumbers, electricians, field workers, harvest crews, livestock handlers, irrigation technicians, assembly line workers, machine operators, quality inspectors, garbage collectors, street sweepers, sewer workers, tree trimmers, groundskeepers, gardeners, coal miners, ore miners, and heavy equipment operators all toiled day in and day out. Their lives were a symphony of sweat and persistence—a mosaic of human effort that kept the village ticking.

Yet, as the sun rose over Sarveshnagar each morning, its golden rays fell upon faces worn by labor and eyes dimmed by despair. In a cruel twist of fate, the very vigor that drove these men and women to build their community also left them vulnerable. The bitter relief of alcohol, sold at the solitary wine shop that flickered like a forlorn beacon in the village square, offered a temporary escape from relentless fatigue. But like a siren’s song, the drink promised solace while slowly draining their vitality. It was a poison cloaked in the guise of comfort, inflicting grave wounds—brain damage, heart disease, liver disease, and cancer—upon those who sought refuge in its embrace.

As the toll of addiction mounted, the village bore witness to a growing tragedy. With each passing day, the number of widows multiplied like shadows at dusk. Bereft of their partners and burdened by the unyielding demands of survival, these women watched helplessly as their children were forced to abandon dreams of education and instead take on odd jobs to keep the flame of hope from being snuffed out. The laughter of youth was replaced by the quiet resignation of sacrifice.

Amidst this somber landscape emerged a single, bright soul—Sarvesh. Unlike his peers, Sarvesh dared to dream beyond the confines of hardship. With eyes that sparkled like stars against a darkened sky and a heart filled with unquenchable hope, he journeyed to a nearby city to attend college. There, among books and lectures, he discovered the transformative power of knowledge. His mind became a fertile field where the seeds of change were sown, nurtured by the belief that education was the antidote to despair.

Returning to Sarveshnagar, Sarvesh carried with him a message as urgent as it was profound. In the village square, beneath a sky painted with the hues of a setting sun, he addressed his fellow villagers with the fervor of a prophet. His words, imbued with the clarity of truth and the warmth of hope, cascaded over the crowd like a healing balm:

“My dear brothers and sisters, the wine that numbs our pain is the very poison that dims our future. Look upon your children—your priceless treasures! Let us not allow their dreams to wither in the shadows of our sorrows. Instead, let us cast aside this bitter brew and embrace the light of education, for it is only through learning that we can rebuild our lives and reclaim our dignity.”

Sarvesh’s words were a clarion call, resonating in the hearts of those who had long been silenced by defeat. Like a tender sapling striving towards the sun, hope took root in the hearts of the widows. They saw in his message a path out of the labyrinth of misery—a promise that the cycle of pain could be broken. With courage born of desperation, they began to send their children to school, daring to imagine a future where the legacy of labor was not one of sorrow, but of success.

The transformation was neither immediate nor effortless. The widows, now the steadfast pillars of their families, toiled with renewed purpose. Every sweep of the broom, every brick laid, every tool wielded in the fields, was imbued with the determination to create a better tomorrow. In the eyes of the children, once dulled by hardship, now burned the fierce light of ambition. They studied diligently, driven by the memory of their mothers' sacrifices and the promise of a life free from the chains of poverty.

Years passed, and as the seasons turned, the fruits of their labor began to ripen. Those once-forced laborers’ children blossomed into accomplished individuals, securing respectable positions in government offices and multinational companies. The specter of poverty that had once haunted Sarveshnagar receded like a fading nightmare, replaced by a vibrant tapestry of success and well-being. The wine shop—once the emblem of a dark era—was now but a memory, its doors closed to make way for institutions of learning and community centers where hope was nurtured.

In a grand ceremony that shimmered with pride and renewal, the village of Sarveshnagar was honored with a Governor’s Award for Purity. The accolade celebrated not only the transformation of the village but also the indomitable spirit of its people—a testament to how a single spark of enlightenment could ignite a revolution of change. Today, Sarveshnagar stands as a beacon of prosperity and health, its streets filled with the laughter of children and the hum of progress. Government employees and professionals now work alongside the very hands that once carried tools of labor, a living reminder that resilience and education can transform even the darkest of chapters into a story of triumph.

-        Sivakumar Raman

*****

‘She, Unbound’

 

       Volume - 1                             Issue -2                     March 2025             

‘She, Unbound’

I. Daughter
She was the first monsoon rain—
a giggle in a cradle of sky,
her father’s vaanam held in her fist,
her mother’s lullaby stitching stars to her eyelids.
School ribbons tied dreams into braids,
while her knees scraped the earth,
learning to rise.

II. Wife
They called her manaivi,
but her crown was woven of silence,
her throne a threshold between homes.
She became a bridge—
carrying his storms in her sari’s pleats,
her laughter a lantern in his darkest corridors.
Yet, in the mirror, she still traced
the girl who once climbed mango trees.

III. Mother
Her hands grew rivers—
one to cradle, one to cleanse.
Midnight lullabies blended with dawn’s alarms,
her voice a pendulum between kanmani and Excel sheets.
She traded sindoor for sanitizer,
kumkum for keyboard smudges,
her love a hybrid of old hymns and WiFi passwords.

IV. Grandmother
Now her spine curves like a question mark,
her wrinkles mapping forgotten wars.
She fries vadai in coconut oil,
stories simmering in her throat:
“I wore my first jeans at forty…”
Her arthritic fingers, once jailed by kolam rice powder,
now swipe TikTok, teaching grandsons
how to unlearn caste.

V. Mother-in-Law
They painted her villain—
a dragon guarding generational vaults.
But beneath her stern pallu,
she hid letters from a lover lost to Partition,
her sighs echoing in the daughter-in-law’s coffee cup.
One night, she whispered:
“Break what I couldn’t.
Make peace with the ghosts.”

VI. Sister-in-Law
Neither friend nor foe,
she’s the hyphen in family trees—
borrowing lipstick, sharing side-eyes,
her WhatsApp forwards a ceasefire treaty.
In Diwali group photos,
her arm hesitates before resting
on shoulders that once stiffened at her name.

VII. Housewife
Her mornings are algebra—
budgets balanced on grocery lists,
monsoon leaks quarantined by buckets.
The pressure cooker’s hiss
synchronizes with her fraying breath.
Yet, in the nilavilakku glow,
she paints landscapes no gallery will hang,
her art folded into lunchboxes.

VIII. Officer
In stilettos that blister,
she marches through glass labyrinths,
her ID card a shield against “Can you make chai?”
Boardrooms flinch when her Tamil-accented English
detonates data like grenades.
She signs memos in red ink—
the same hue as her long-erased maang tikka.

IX. Herself
Beneath these roles—
a girl still hums,
her voice a tangled radio frequency
tuning between aadi thapi and snowstorms.
She is the hyphen in “woman-kind,”
the footnote in epics,
the edit button on history’s rough draft.
When the world demands, “Which are you?”
She smiles, a thousand mirrors reflecting:
“All. None. Beyond.”

                                                                -RS

*****