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Panorama Golden Book Awards to Be Conducted Regionally in All Languages Starting From 2023

The Panorama Golden Book Awards, one of the most prestigious literary awards in the world, will now be conducted regionally in all languages, starting from 2023. This initiative aims to ensure the inclusion of all world languages in the awards and give more authors the recognition they deserve.

Entries will be accepted throughout the year and regional awards will be announced in regular time periods. The awards will be for the best book in the language and 10 books that show the highest quality in various categories. The judging criteria include various elements such as quality of the work, relevance, and overall design of the book. The awards will also recognize the best publishing agencies across the world.

“We are thrilled to announce this expansion of the Panorama Golden Book Awards,” said Preeth Padmanabhan Nambiar, President and CEO of Writers Capital Foundation and Chairman of the jury. “By conducting the awards regionally in all languages, we hope to showcase the rich diversity of literature across the world and provide a platform for more authors to be recognized for their work.”

In addition, the international awards will be announced during the Panorama International Literature Festival, which will feature the best books from each language. One book will be selected for the prestigious Panorama International Golden Book Award.

The Writers Capital Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to promoting and supporting writers and literature around the world, will be organizing the Panorama Golden Book Awards. “We are committed to recognizing and promoting the best literature from around the world. The Panorama Golden Book Awards will continue to be a hallmark of excellence in the literary world,” said Johanna Devadayavu, Chief Operating Officer of Writers Capital Foundation and a member of the jury.

Irene Doura Kavadia, Secretary General of Writers Capital Foundation and a member of the jury, added, “The Panorama Golden Book Awards have always been about celebrating the best of literature, and we are excited to now include all languages in this celebration.”

The Writers Capital Foundation invites writers, publishers, and literary enthusiasts from all around the world to participate in the Panorama Golden Book Awards and celebrate the diversity of literature. For more information, please visit their website.

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CANTO A LA NATURALEZA: Poem by Marco Antonio Rodríguez Sequeiros

Naturaleza que surge, desde lo más profundo de la tierra hacia lo más elevado del cielo…
Naturaleza que ofrece, abrigo, techo y cobijo a las especies que comparten su hábitat…
Naturaleza que brinda, diversidad en especies y colores…
Naturaleza que da luces y sombras, calor y frío, brisas y vientos, agua, nieve y hielo…
Naturaleza que aporta con alimento y salud, aire y vida, sensaciones y sentimientos…
Naturaleza que florece… en diversidad de fragancias y colores de esperanza.
Naturaleza que produce, sabores dulces y salados, sonrisas y alegrías.
Naturaleza que alimenta a la vida y a las emociones.
Naturaleza que suena… en risas de cascada, en zumbidos de grillos y langostas, en cantos de las aves y en las sinfonías del bosque.
Naturaleza que brilla, que refleja la luz de los astros, que es el espejo que refresca y limpia tu rostro en la mañana.
Naturaleza que ilumina, como el hongo “fuego chimpancé” o como luciérnaga que se enciende y se apaga…
Naturaleza que adorna con diferentes tonalidades de tierra, hojas, flores, agua y arcoíris que une dos corazones alejados…
Naturaleza que vive, que se mueve para adentro y para afuera para arriba y para los costados, que sube y baja, que vuela y camina, que salta y se arrastra.
Naturaleza que da vida, semilla que germina, huevo que revienta con un nuevo ser, plantas que se reproducen solas…
Naturaleza que protege, que regala sombra y agua al caminante cansado, que abriga en las noches frías, que entrega sus ramas como brazos para acoger los nidos…
Naturaleza que acaricia, agua que recorre suavemente besando las orillas, suave brisa que disfrutan las aves jugueteando sin esfuerzo en su viaje.
Naturaleza que ama, que muestra que los animales y vegetales tienen vida, que tienen sentimiento, que demuestran amor y protección por los suyos…
Naturaleza que sorprende, donde el cielo bebe el agua de ríos, mares y lagos, para devolverlo en forma de lluvia nieve o granizo. Que el vientre de la tierra genera millones de vidas de distinta naturaleza y especie… que raíces recorren su interior en busca de agua y alimento, que microorganismos participan en la descomposición de hojas secas, para devolver a las plantas el alimento que han dejado caer.
Naturaleza que siente, que se marchita o se desvanece cuando le quitan parte de su vida, que se ve obligada a migrar por falta de equilibrio en su hábitat, que se resquebraja por falta de humedad.
Naturaleza que envejece, que pasan los años y se endurece, se enferma y se va secando, se va muriendo…
Naturaleza que se empobrece, que va cambiando las especies que la alimentan… que se van alejando a medida que el humano se va acercando.
Naturaleza que se reduce, que hay menos flora y menos fauna, menos complejo los ecosistemas, causando desequilibrios que reducen la vida.
Naturaleza que se pierde, especies que han dejado de existir y otras que están en peligro de extinción…
Naturaleza que se acaba, que se seca, que se hiere y que muere.
Naturaleza que se enoja, que vomita saliva caliente en ríos ardientes que amenazan con mayor muerte…
Naturaleza que sufre y llora, que muestra su rostro ensombrecido y enojado, dejando caer sus lágrimas de dolor como gotas de metal…
Naturaleza que grita, que truena y revienta, que se rasga con dolor y mata…
Naturaleza que implora, que, al poner sus pesadas rodillas en tierra, hace temblar sus entrañas abriendo su boca y tragando sin piedad a la causa de su dolor…

Poem by
Marco Antonio Rodríguez Sequeiros

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Colloquy: Poem by Naheed Akhtar

Can I utter what my heart does?
Lub-dub, lub-dub, the palpation sounds;
Noising like silent rocks sputter
On the Cliffs high,
Thundering the forest calm,
What, to many like me, science this is!
No passerby, no stopping by
The voices go unheard

I listen every beat unfurled
Volumes of an amalgamation of tunes
As of the Sitar that leaves
An ambience,
Whirling- in unforgetful of every other thing around
Shedding, otherwise, drops
Offering the tips of the fingers to be bathed with
So vivid for one who could
Listen, if not, read through the screens two
Transparent as water crystalline
That has; tiny, large and even the largest
Blue, white, black…..and green pictures so many
Dancing in mirth or weeping on burial
For the sky above to witness

Every beat;
So subtle yet so clear
Pronouncing aloud,
“I ache for none does:
Moving; strange, straight
In the rays their aspirations fall,
Avoiding images in darkness along the sides”

Naheed Akhtar
© Naheed Akhtar 2023

About the Author

Naheed Akhtar is an accomplished Assistant Professor of English, Writer and Poet based in Hyderabad, Southern India. She has published three poetry collections, namely ‘Phantasms of My Heart’, ‘The Earth’s Love’ and ‘The Morphine’. Naheed’s literary works have received several prestigious awards, including the Gujarat Sahitya Academy Award, which she was honoured with for three consecutive years from 2020 to 2022. Naheed has been actively participating in various literary festivals and her third book, ‘The Morphine’, was launched at the National Kolkata Book Fair on the invitation of the Sahitya Academy and the Department of Culture and Language in association with the government of West Bengal. Her poems have also been published in various National and International Magazines. Apart from writing in English, Naheed also writes in Urdu and has participated in Mushairas from different parts of India, receiving Certificates of Participation. She can be contacted at naheedakhtar123119@gmail.com.

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What constitutes? Poem by Dr. Molly Joseph

What constitutes
the peace
that prevails
the yard
where our
ancestors
sleep..
they who
sought
eternal
peace
after their
frets and
fevers…

time stands
still
rendering
relief…
sedimented
silence
speaks
volumes
of the
presence
of their
beings
that jostled
against
the vagaries
of time…

they who
had their
say on
things,
their way
of doing
things…

be it a poet
a man
speaking to
men,
the fretful
housewife,
the ploughman
who ploughed
and ploughed
and never
turned back…

the teacher
who could not
complete
her class,
the politician
evoking
uproars,
or the musician
who enthralled
everyone
leaving his
notes to
resonate,
or just
the ordinary
working
a lifetime
to pay off
the rent…

hah!
there they
sleep
in divine
symphony
so calm…

the sea bare
while the
last ship
has turned
a dot
on horizons
dim…

the sky
pale white
after
the storm
that left…

Yes, a calm
that passeth
all understanding!

Poem by 
Dr. Molly Joseph

Painting
Peace Bomb by Laura Barbosa

About the Author

Dr. Molly Joseph is a Professor, Poet (Bilingual) from Kerala, who writes Travelogues, Short stories and Story books for children. She has published seventeen books -14 Books of Poems, two Novels (translation) and a Storybook for Children. She has won several accolades which include, the Wordsmith Award 2019, the India Women Achiever’s Award 2020 and the Best English Poetry Book of the Year Awards 2020, 2022 (ALS, New Delhi). She believes in the power of the word and writes boldly on matters that deal with the contemporary. With her Doctorate in Postwar American Poetry, she has won Galaxy Award in Experimental Poetry, developing an indigenous diction characterized as ‘Ribbon Poetry’. She can be reached at mynamolly@gmail.com

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MY LAMP: Poem by Laksmísree Banerjee

A lighted lamp in my corner
the universe aglow outside with
speed of reeling galaxies…

immeasurable stars criss- cross
scintillation whizzing past
the orioles, planets, comets

all across the multiverse
speeding inconceivable
through countless light years

born with the Big Bang
they say without a Creator
auto life and auto fire burning

with stupendous black holes
sucking in all illumination
yet ceaseless birth of light

Big Bang they say was the source with no architect
yet zigzag lights, shades, spaces,
time constant and moving in hourglasses

hope and faith wane with
the dying sunny day
my lamp still flickers in the corner

the planets and starry skies
fade under its shadow
a mini black hole right under its eye

I place my lamp at the shrine
vague, unknown in its existentialism
the black circular aura under its shine

the stupendous black holes swallowing
and theoretical Big Bangs call-out
searching for the arch Creator still

at last I hold my lamp up to the pinnacle
negating all darkness underneath
as appearance and reality twist and twine

the puny glow reflects now forever
the light of a zillion suns in my third eye
emanating from my heart of faith….

Poem by
Prof (Dr) Laksmísree Banerjee
India

About the Poet

Laksmisree BanerjeeProf. Dr Laksmisree Banerjee is an Award-Winning Globally well-known Poet, Litterateur, Editor, Writer, Vocalist, Ex Vice Chancellor and University Professor of English and Cultural Studies. She is a Sr. Fulbright, Commonwealth and National Scholar of the University of Calcutta. Widely published and anthologised, she has Nine Books of Poetry to her credit and One Hundred Research / Academic Publications including Books. She is the Recipient of the International Reuel Lifetime Achievement Award, Literoma Laureate Lifetime Achievement Award for Art and Literature, the UGC Grants Postdoctoral Research Award for her groundbreaking Work on World Women Poetry, the Kala Ratnam Award, Two Women Achievers Awards, Honour of Connoisseur of the Literary Arts (Tunisian Asian Society) and many more. She is a Sr. Rotarian, Multiple Paul Harris Fellow, and the Indian President’s Nominee on Boards of Central Universities. Dr Banerjee believes in using her Pen and Voice for Social Justice, Transformation and International Goodwill.

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The Journey: Poem by Montzerrat Licona

En este viaje de reencuentro y verdad,
Es tú amor mi experiencia y libertad,
Sumergiéndote en mi profundidad,
Soy polvo de arena de este universo en unidad.

Rió de amor y agua viva,
Estas destinado a fluir y llegar al mar de la vida,
Profunda tu mirada, vasto océano y llegada,
Quietud y viento de plenitud manifestada.

Me sumerjo y encuentro, vacío y silencio,
Dónde todo surge de nuestro encuentro,
En el rojizo cielo cansado del atardecer,
Te sumerges en mi humeda piel hasta el amanecer.

Libre cielo azul… Eres tú,
Impregnando mi cuerpo,
Con tu entrega y plenitud,
Nuestro es el mar, el viento y el tiempo.

********

On this journey of reunion and truth,
Your love is my experience and freedom,
Submerging you in my depth,
I am sand dust of this universe in unity.

River of love and living water,
You are destined to flow and reach the sea of ​​life,
Deep your gaze, vast ocean and
Stillness and wind of fullness manifested.

I submerge and find, emptiness and silence,
Where everything arises from our meeting,
In the reddish tired evening sky,
You immerse yourself in my humid skin until dawn.

Free blue sky… It’s you,
permeating my body
With your dedication and fullness,
Ours is the sea, the wind and the weather.

Poem by
Montzerrat Licona
Painting Courtesy: Amal Augustine 

About the Author

Montzerrat Licona is a Mexican Neuropsychologist, Researcher, and Writer, born in Jalisco, Mexico. She holds a master’s degree in Cognitive Behavioral Neuropsychology of Neurodevelopment. Montzerrat is the author of the Best Seller “Being, love and conscious sexuality; 7 arts of your mind” and “The voice of the wind in silence,” in addition to contributing to various anthologies and literary magazines. She is the Director and founder of the Conscious Neuropsychological Center in Human Development and an active member of the Royal International Academy and the National and International Institute of the Society of Arts. Montzerrat also serves as the Head of Communications and Coordinator in Mexico of the Writers Capital Foundation.

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The Inevitable Love-Pain Duet: Why Love Triggers Both the Greatest Joy and Inescapable Hardship

No far-and-wide search is to be attempted for one of the most unfailing interactions between two seemingly contrasting concepts to be discovered; Love and Pain lay an unbeatable claim to such an interaction as anyone that has had this experience bears witness to it; it is impossible to love without experiencing the rigours of occasional doubt, jealousy, frustration, long wait for the much-sought after response, effort of proving worthy, making up when relationships are at a low ebb and generally every hardship incident to keeping up with the standards and circumstances of a love relationship; the sheer reason-dictated question of how it is possible for a feeling like love which triggers off the greatest joy to engineer inescapable hardship and pain, can be answered by realizing that it is exactly because Love spawns the most exhilarating joy and most relieving feelings that we are all extremely susceptible to anything compromising that highly valued state and we are ready to go on an all-out bid to fend off such menaces; it is the most valued and treasured conditions like Love that necessitate the most impregnable lines of defense against anything putting such conditions at stake, even to the cost of other highly treasured conditions, like our career, property, health and on occasions, even our own life.

The more important and irreplaceable the state in danger, the more we all suffer in our bid to avoid its loss; the more we realize how unique for our love the person we love is, the stronger the pain we feel if the danger of losing them looms high and the more willing we are to risk everything to keep that person in our life.
However, Love has nothing to do with possession or control; Love is treating the person we love on a par with ourselves or even as someone of a higher calibre; Love is a lot more about giving than taking, about self-denying and sacrificing with a view to rendering our partner happy; and of course, Love in its two-way traffic should always be marked with the ability to back off to avoid further friction and above all to grant forgiveness. To put it poetically, Love tiptoes at a featherweight step along the rope holding us aloft from life miseries, feeding on the joys it breeds and the pain accompanying the effort to keep its footing stable, always confident it will reach at the other end, regardless of the perils and ravages in its way, leaving behind the petrified vista of loneliness and stepping into one of shared Bliss and Peace where each moment serves as the well-deserved wages of our successful efforts to reach that Haven.

Dr. Steven V. Roy
Dr. of Philosophy at the University of Glasgow, Great Britain, permanent Member of the General Council of the University of Glasgow and of the International Academy of Social Sciences, Florida, USA, Vice President of the World Philosophical Forum

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On Valentine’s Day

I love you without knowing how, or when, or where from.
I love you straightforwardly, without complications or pride;
This is how I love you because I know no other way of loving than this:
But in this way in which neither I, nor you exist; so close that your hand
on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda – 100 Love Sonnets

Love is the ultimate drive, the most powerful force in the whole universe, for, since the beginning of time, Love has been the driving force behind all creation – first and foremost, the creation of man himself. Ancient Greek philosopher, the first to delve into this existential issue being Hesiod, maintained the following depicting concepts, qualities and notions as gods. And the god of love was, of course, Eros:

According to the Hesiodic interpretation, the creation of the world is based on a divine trinity – Chaos, Gaia and Eros. Chaos pre-exists the other two, symbolizing the infinity of the universe. Gaia symbolizes the material side of the world. Finally, Eros symbolizes creation. Eros is the driving force. Without him, the primordial trinity would not have created the world, the gods and life. The reason he is winged is that he is elusive. When you think you have caught him, he slips away. Eros has no interest if you are in chaos or order. He is lonely and likes games. Throwing an arrow does not necessarily mean that a second will follow. Love unites, transforms and transforms what is seen. As long as you do not look for him, because he will disappoint you. He will find you and then all your chaos will make sense again.”[1]

It is indeed so! Love is the reason for our coming into this world, besides the force that helps sustain us in our everyday lives. When we surrender to love, we find a way of overcoming problems and worries, since sorrows that are shared with the beloved one are halved and joys shared are doubled. Love puts a permanent grin on our face, makes our eyes sparkle with a divine gleam, and sets our hearts on fire. If we surrender to love, our whole life makes sense, for it is the reason why we were born – to spread the light of love upon this planet. Loving another like your own self and even more is so difficult and easy at the same time, so bitter and sweet, so utterly rewarding for the soul. Selfless and unconditional love is unique and almighty! Love is the power that can even “move mountains”… Love is all someone needs to make everything shine wonderfully all around, and also make it through any difficult phase one may encounter. It is undeniably the essential element that leads to bliss. If not the sole one.

Among the sweetest and most profound quotes on Love, I hereby enclose some actual smidgens of wisdom and truth by the classical Masters of philosophy:

Those that are hardest to love, need it the most – Socrates

The madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings – Plato

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies – Aristotle

and the famous quote by the ancient Greek Philosopher Plato, dedicated to poets across the world

“Αt the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet!”

Love for some people is a feeling, for others, it is a condition or a state; yet for some, it is a way of living. For them, life is what Wu Ti has said, namely “Not loving is like a long dying”; a life not worth living, one might add. Love should not be demonstrated only on one particular day, but throughout the whole year; all through one’s life. As for when real Love comes into one’s life, no one actually knows when one would feel the arrows of Love piercing their hearts, as Eros, the playful assistant of the goddess of Love and beauty, Aphrodite, plays his tricks. For some people Love comes too soon, for others a little later; for a few maybe a lot later. Yet when it finally does come, they all feel the same bitter-sweet pain and all suffer sweetly by the arrow-tip that has pierced their soul. And only one person can take away the pain, healing the wound: the only ONE.

If this is real Love, it is not only intense, but also profound, and destined to be eternal. On infinite and eternal Love a lot has been said and written all through the centuries all over the world. The symbols may vary, but they are undoubtedly diachronic and well-engraved in the collective mind. From the apple, the rose, and the sea shell in ancient Greek and later on in Roman mythology, the harp and the unbreakable Celtic love knot, the jasmine in the Himalayas, the Claddagh symbol in Norse mythology, the Kokopelli (musical instrument) in the native American culture, the maple leaf and the unbreakable red thread of fate in China and Japan, the Osram Ne Nsoromma (the symbol of a star and half moon) in West Africa, are among the most famous symbols of love across centuries; bearing witness of the infinite feelings and the pledge for eternal love to their precious one. One thing is certain, anyway, despite symbols and legends, which run through millennia: that between the beloved, no place, no time, or other boundaries are enough to make them part…

Volumes of literary works, from fairy tales to grandiose novels, have been written on princesses waiting for their princes, queens waiting for their kings or their knights to return from the battlefield, and ladies of the aristocracy courting in the palace gardens. The troubadours of the Middle Ages sang their love songs to their dames, Romeo and Juliet sacrificed themselves for their love, while whole cities were besieged and conquered in the name – or the pretext – of a woman’s love; or at least that is what Homer says on ancient Greek queen Helen and prince Paris of Troy. Equally, masterpieces were painted or sculpted in honour of Eros and the goddess Aphrodite…

Poetry is, anyway, the supreme Art, according to ancient philosophers. And what better way to express one’s innermost feelings than with a poem full of love and a kiss? Besides, as the saying goes, “in love and at war there simply exist no barriers”. And since we are humanitarians and advocates of world peace, let us all make the wish for all barriers to be taken down in the name of Love!

Prof. Irene Doura Kavadia

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Emergent ‘New Woman’ in the ‘Toxic Patriarchal Society’: A Fearless and Fierce Voice in Meena Kandasamy’s When I Hit You

Abstract

The emerged ‘new woman’ in the ‘toxic patriarchal society’ stands against oppression and fights back with resistance, which is well portrayed through relentless and unshakable spirit of evolving women writers such as Meena Kandasamy. This paper highlights the way Kandasamy makes her unnamed narrator use language as a weapon against oppression and violence of deadly masculinity and patriarchy. Further it explores the stratagems applied in an abusive marriage with a misogynist husband who imposes clampdowns and inhumaneness upon the woman of the house that too on a feminist writer who finally backfires with her flaming voice writing the narrative of dictatorship of the patriarch cum psychic husband and freedom of her feminine psyche from the shackles.                                      

Keywords: Patriarchy; narrative; identity; feminine; oppression; identity.

Indian women have been progressive a lot with resilient strides from early Vedic period to postmodern era, passing through Mughal Period to Colonial and post-independence period with influence of feminist movements. In the period when Britishers colonized the country, many writers like Torulata Dutt, Rajlakshmi Debi, Krupabai Sathianandhan, Pandita Ramabai Saraswati, Swarna Kumari Ghosal, and Cornelia Sorabji scripted with an altering perspective and a convincing societal drive. 

The next generation of Indian women writers including Nayantara Sehgal, Kiran Desai, Amrita Pritam, Arundhati Roy, Shashi Deshpande, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Anita Desai, Shobha De, Githa Hariharan, Jhumpa Lahiri, Ismat Chughtai, Jotirmoyee Devi, Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hussain, Bama Faustina, Baby Halder, Rajam Krishnan, Sujata Bhatt, Meena Kandasamy, Manjul Bajaj and Samhita Arni are such female psyche who got recognition for their creativity, straightforwardness and contribution to Indian Feminist Writings with their much-appreciated works. Their female characters portrayed vivid experiences of life as a woman and how the psyche emerged and a ‘new woman’ came into existence gradually. These writers have made their women characters insistently voice to reject the imposed burden of patriarchal supremacy of men hence due to the predominant gender perception, they have always been thought-out frail, incompetent and therefore subdued. Even Indian epics such as Ramayana and Mahabharata are retold and re-interpreted from Sita and Draupadi’s feminist perspective.

A ferocious woman writer Meena Kandasamy voiced various issues of caste, poverty and violence in Southern India in The Gypsy Goddess her debut novel. Her second novel When I Hit You: Or, a Portrait of the Artist as a Young Wife is written in first-person with usage of an unnamed narrator who is a newly-wed writer undergoing hasty societal seclusion, inaccessibility to social platforms and life-threatening violence under her husband’s authoritative behaviour. It’s a fictional work but with autobiographical reflex hence Kandasamy’s own marriage also went worse in the same way. This narrative seems not just of one Indian woman but behind this story, the stories lie of thousands and lakhs of Indian women who suffer in their marriages. The National Family Health Survey last year found that

over 30 percent of women have been physically, sexually or emotionally abused by their partners at some point. This book is Kandasamy’s rebuke to those who think privilege, financial or educational, protects against harm. Her characters are never named, their anonymity allowing the reader to slip easily into their skins.” (Maher)

Consequently in this terrifying, eye-opening and heartbreaking writing, Kandasamy has put up a ceaseless resistance to agony and travail through her strong lexis. She says “I am the woman who has tried to shield herself from the pain of the first person singular. I am the woman who tum-my-rubs every received taunt so that it can be cajoled into sentences.” (Kandasamy 248) She further expresses that she is the woman 

“who stands in the place of the woman who loathes to enter this story in any of its narrations- police or procedural, personal or fictional- because that woman has struggled so hard and so long to wriggle out of it- and now, when asked to speak, she would much rather send a substitute. Sharing stories might be catharsis, but to her it is the second, more sophisticated punishment. I am the woman deputed on her behalf.” (Kandasamy 248)

The narrative moves ahead with a nerve-wracking pace like an extended poem in the form a prose appearing as a feminist anthem, crafted onward like a manifesto realizing oneself. Kandasamy’s narrative can’t be delimited hence it has a pounding heart, with comprehensively acknowledged pursuit for independence and sense on the earth where women are still distressingly belittled. She expresses being the representative of new emerged woman who could be “removed from the brutality of the everyday- from its dying grasshoppers and fading flowers and starving children and drowning refugees” (248) and “sheltered within words, the one distanced into a movie running in her mind, the one asked to bear the beatings, the one who endures everything until something snaps so that fate can escape her.” (248-249) 

Kandasamy portrays the image of new woman via the emancipated feelings of her narrator who says, “I am the woman with wings, the woman who can fly and fuck at will.” (247) She has “smuggled this woman out of the oppressive landscape of small-town India.” (247) She adds that she needs to “smuggle her out of her history, out of the do’s and don’ts for good Indian girls” hence she has been limited in the confinement of set patriarchal codes of conduct from centuries. (247-248)

The story starts with lines by the narrator how her mother never stops talking about what had happened past five years, though with each year, the story had “mutated and transformed, most of the particulars forgotten” (3) such as events’ sequence, day, date, month and time of the year etc. but she keeps on giving absurd details about the physical and mental condition she was in when her daughter escaped from the brutal situation at her husband’s place she was stuck into, by saying, “were they even feet? Were they the feet of my daughter? No! Her heels were cracked and her soles were twenty-five shades darker than the rest of her, and with one look at the state of her slippers you could tell that she did nothing but housework all the time. They were the feet of a slave.” (4) She further continues that when their daughter came back to them after a bad marriage with a criminal husband, she came “with her feet looking like a prisoner’s, all blackened and cracked and scarred and dirt an inch thick around every toenail” (4) and her father washed her feet with his own hands, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing them with hot water and salt and soap and an old toothbrush and applying cream and baby oil to clean and soften them”. (4-5) The condition of the protagonist is also described with such phrases that she was “brittle and empty like a shell” (6) and it took months to get her back to normal moreover, “her hair was swarming” with lice that drained all the energy of the girl. (7)

The protagonist being the writer finally decides to write her own story after listening various plagiarized versions with added anecdotes created by her mother to tell people. Kandasamy calls “authorship” is a “trait” which one needs to take very seriously being “ruthless”. (9)

The journey of the narrator towards being an assertive and strong voice is not so easy. It initiates with a depriving of the narrator’s independence after her marriage to a University lecturer, Marxist and one-time revolutionary person in South India. Her husband is a communist with his beliefs covering his own sadism and tries to control her. The narrator expresses that she feels “blank” like “a house after a robbery” and like “a mannequin stripped of its little black dress and dragged away from the store window, covered in a bedsheet and locked off in the godown”. (16) She talks about his sadist attitude and “the plainness that makes him pleased”. (16) She further releases her feelings, “This plainness that has peeled away all my essence, a that can be controlled and moulded to his will” though she took that “plainness” she wears as a protection “mask” further not only to hide her face but to “prevent arguments” with him. (16) Her husband wanted to play the role of a perfect wife, therefore, to escape punishments, she says

“I begin to wearing my hair the way he wants it: gathered and tamed into a ponytail, oiled, sleek, with no sign of disobedience. I skip the kohl around my eyes because he believes that it is worn only by screen-sirens and seductresses. I wear a dull T-shirt and pajama-bottoms because he approves of dowdiness.” (15)

Further she proceeds saying that it gave her a feel of being a woman who has given up in the life “to play the part of the good housewife. Nothing loud, nothing eye-catching, nothing beautiful.” (16) Her husband wanted her to look like “a woman whom no one want to look at or more accurately no one even sees.” (16) Her life became depedent on him while playing a role of a dutiful wife who had to pretend that her husband is the hero of everyday. She compares and expresses her freedom what she relished before marriage saying that “a once-nomad” is “to be confined” now to “the four walls of a house”. (20) Though she is confined to home. She tries to seek solace in reading and writing, but “the house appears to shrink the minute her husband is home, how there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to evade his presence.” (21)

Through her firm and fierce usage of language, she exposes the double standards and dialectics of patriarchal and in specific of Communism putting forth “she must learn that a Communist woman is treated equally and respectfully by comrades in public but can be slapped and called a whore behind closed doors.” (34)

After moving to another city where she couldn’t now anything and that became torturous for her “an assault on her tongue, mind and body”. The linguistic barrier restricted her speech to fulfill duties as a wife like bringing vegetables or any grocery item. Moreover at that stay, her husband with a “self-inflicted ordeal” (50) blackmails and forces her to deactivate her Facebook account, which was her “lifeline to the world outside” (52) in Mangalore with all her professional links as a freelance writer to promote her work, give her news, and to keep her in the loop of the literary scene. Very consciously knowing that it is her space as a writer he wanted her to cut herself off from Facebook though she calls it as “an act of career suicide” (52). The control freak further makes her submit all her email accounts to him to operate on her behalf in addition keeps an eye on her phone too. He does like her writing articles in English calling it being a poet prostitute or whore moreover absurdly connects it to colonization period where whore used to be a link between the colonizer and the colonized. More he hates the feminism inside her treating it as a problem between to remain good couple. The narrator gradually cloistered to her silence to make sense of the world. For her “To stay silent is to censor all conversation. To stay silent is to erase individuality. To stay silent is an act of self-flagellation…” (161

Her silence strategy irritated the man further. Therefore she was frequently raped and beaten down even with routine household stuff such as the hose of the washing machine and the power cord for her laptop. She was kicked in her stomach, her hair gathered in bunch, blood rushing to her head, moreover dragged “from the table and into the bedroom”. (163) Even her parents kept on saying to tolerate this all brutality and beastly violence to save her marriage and didn’t understand what she really went through. About the narration of being beaten down, Preti Taneja in the review of the novel When I Hit You expresses, 

“through Kandasamy’s use of stylistic devices such as repetition, are we – the narrator reflects that every moment has narrative potential. The risk of desensitization is averted: the novel becomes a meditation on the art of writing about desire, abuse and trauma.” (Taneja)

Kandasamy expresses with audacity the gut-wrenching experience how the protagonist feels to be raped within a marriage. She feels like dead person whose ceremonial feeding goes on. She describes it metaphorically “motionless, devoid of touch, taste sight smell sound, the corpse feels nothing. It lies there, playing the role of the obedient half of an obligatory ritual, as close relatives drop white rice through its parted lips. It is a feeling of unfeeling.” (168) She feels humiliated and calls that her body learns “to play dead” and “extends it own threshold of pain and shame and brutality”. (169)

Kandasamy talks about petite bourgeois mindset of those people in the society for whom shame is “not the beatings, not the rape. The shaming is in being asked to stand to judgment.” (219) She applies her own strategies to get rid of this marriage by not conceiving a child and further not reverting back to any of his torture by speaking to him. Silence becomes another weapon after her writings hence she understood that “there are no screams that are loud enough to make a husband stop”. (167)

Using language as a weapon, she includes epigraphs at the start of chapters from Pilar Quintana, Wislawa Szymborska, Anne Sexton, Kamala Das, Margaret Atwood, and Malathi Maithri and many more correlating herself to these feminist writers “beyond caste, race or culture, even beyond language difference”. (Taneja) Added to her style, Sudipta Dutta says about the title selection in her review that 

“The title, unwillingly or not, reminds us of an illustrious predecessor, James Joyce, and his first novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, in which Stephen Dedalus or the writer’s literary alter ego, finds words to create his identity and his art, to describe Dublin and her many moods, to defy convention on nationality, language, religion”. (Dutta)

Kandasamy dissects the “Indian form of toxic masculinity” by giving illustrations of Indian male leaders never wanted to be seen at public platforms with a woman by their side hence it meant for them that they were not masculine enough, not the man enough to lead the people, if they go for conjugal relationships therefore they continued “to remain bachelor politicians”. (124)

When I HIt You is a powerful gender narrative and an expression of protest against suppression and inhumane conditions of existence a woman was fallen into, how she survived and came out the traumatic situation. Therefore such gender narratives including gender issues and women emancipation become the new catchphrase across the globe with very fast pace transforming social structures and prevailed inequalities settling the minds of people.

Kandasamy’s feminist narrative is a scorching chronicle of one woman’s encounter with marital rape and abuse, how she castoffs the overtly idolized image of the good Indian girl opening up in a very affirm voice which exhibits desire, feels pain and has unyielding courage. It screams from its modest case, denying to be silenced in its search for love and identity; leaving the gut-wrenching impression how the epitome of submissive Indian femininity is in ruins at last and a new woman has emerged out of the cocoon. 

Works Cited

  1. Dutta, Sudipta. Words gave her wings. May 27, 2017. Retrieved on July 25, 2021.
  2. https://www.thehindu.com/books/books-reviews/words-gave-her-wings/article18583321.ece
  3. Kandasamy, Meena. When I Hit You. Juggernaut Books, New Delhi, 2018.
  4. Kishore, Henry. The Evolution of Indian Women Psyche: A Chronological Study of Women and Woman Writers in India. 2017.
  5. Maher, Sanam. She Was Abused by Her Husband. So Is the Narrator of Her New Book. The New York Times, March 17, 2020.
  6. Taneja, Preti. When I Hit You: Or, A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife by Meena Kandasamy – review. July 7, 2017. Retrieved on July 25, 2021.
  7. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/jul/07/when-i-hit-you-meena-kandasamy-review

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Chronicles: A Historical Monument: Book Review by Sushant Thapa

Too much individualistic behaviour makes you a conformist. Bob Dylan says this in Volume one of his autobiography “Chronicles.” Being a conformist can mean being rigid and always having an aura to win the argument, instead of making proper meaning and holding the truth close. For those of us who are introverted, this saying from Dylan’s book can bring us out of our personal closet and mix with society. This evokes a call for metamorphosis from individuality to commonality, a social need.

I do not think I need to introduce Bob Dylan. He is an American singer-songwriter with a poetic soul who won the Nobel prize in Literature in 2016 for his songs that told stories. He is a folk musician. He defines song in the book as “A song is like a dream, and you try to make it come true.” He also defines what folk music does. He says, “Folk music, if nothing else, makes a believer out of you.”

All of Dylan’s songs depict the world, they are not much abstract and can simply make meanings. They have told human stories with a poetic touch. His songs rhyme and that is also one old conventionality of poetry. I say it is old because modern poets have abandoned rhyme. Dylan however is brutally contemporary. His songs “Everything is Broken” and “Political World” are contemporary. War has devasted the modern world, things lie broken. This is the reality.

I would like to talk more about the song “Everything is broken.” The music of it is also good and it has carefree representation. He talks about how everything like objects is broken. I feel that everything can be in a broken state. It is good to talk about that state of things when things can be underrepresented. Even broken things are valued by Dylan. Like they can be joined. After all, things are made of pieces. The present-day wars and pandemics have created brokenness. People can have broken hearts. Bob says in the autobiography that the critics did not like this song because they did not find it autobiographical.

I did not know that in America slavery and the civil war were related. I did not know that Bertolt Brecht was banned in Germany, in his own country, for being an antifascist German Marxist poet-playwright. I have learned new things from Dylan’s autobiography. I would love to read Volume two of Chronicles too. Dylan’s autobiography is informative. Not only it contains people whom Dylan met during his music career, and songs that he heard, the studios where he recorded his songs in; it is also a historical monument in itself.

Bob Dylan says towards the end of the autobiography that the song that he was leaning towards singing did not exist and he began playing with the form, trying to grasp it- trying to make the kind of song that transcended the information in it, the character and form. I am not sure but it sounds like saying that sometimes similes and metaphors alone make a poem. They are the form that provides some shape to your poem. Going too much out of form does not shape the artwork unless you are doing something groundbreaking.

Sinclair Lewis was the first American to get Nobel Prize in Literature. Author of Elmer Gantry. Master of Absolute Realism. He had invented it. I came to know about him through this autobiography by Dylan.

Dylan says he was not getting influenced by good or bad comments by people on his songs. He says he did not have preconditioned audience. This is what we can learn from the Nobel laureate. Artists and even writers should be able to not be influenced by any comments and the measure of the work lies in the dedication with which they do it. Recognition is the aftermath, it is not the main target. Having no preconditioned audience made Dylan more focused on his songs. He loved Woody Guthrie and his songs. Bob Dylan sang songs by Guthree although he received feedback like “you will never turn into Guthree.” Well, I am sure Dylan made his own image. Dylan liked the diction and repertoire in Guthree’s song. Dylan even went on to change his own musical image. He changed the way his songs sounded from when he started. I appreciate the changes in his singing style. I can listen to that in his songs. He says in the book that he even started singing in a different voice. Bob Dylan has written a blurb in Jack Kerouac’s book “On the Road.” He mentions Jack Kerouac in this autobiography and says that Kerouac had retired and the travelling spirit of “On the Road” has been diminished now. He makes a short critique on the book “On the Road” in this autobiography.

When Bob Dylan says that in New Orleans there is only one day at a time here, then it’s tonight and then there will be tomorrow again. I think here Bob is talking about the slow passage of time and like postponing everything for later attitude of New Orleans. His next sentences in the book are: “Chronic melancholia hanging from the trees. You never get tired of it. After a while, you feel like you start to feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, like you are in a wax museum below crimson cloud.” When Dylan says that you feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, I feel he is talking about getting things done slow attitude. He also says one day at a time. Despite everything he praises New Orleans and says it’s a good place to record music. I am writing about this because I can view America through Dylan’s eyes although I am a foreign man in America.

This has been my experience with the first Volume of Chronicles, an autobiography written by the legendary Bob Dylan. I hope to read Volume two soon and write a review on it. I learned many things and the lesson from this autobiography has brought me close to one of the best-appreciated musicians of the current time who will always have a literary aura around him, no matter the passage of time.

Sushant Thapa
M.A. English, Jawaharlal Nehru University
New Delhi, India

Biography

Sushant Thapa (1993) is from Biratnagar, Nepal. He is an M.A. in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. His fourth and upcoming book of poems titled “Love’s Cradle” is going to be published by World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA. He teaches Business English to undergraduate students in Biratnagar, Nepal.

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