saliloquy

if you kill

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Sat, 21 Sep 2024 04:51:00 +0000

Poem in Comixense magazine, July-Sep 2024, vol. 4, no. 2, themed Crime and Punishment;

Illustrated by the talented Haasini Casukhela.

Late blooms

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Tue, 30 Apr 2024 14:04:00 +0000

Thrilled to be part of this anthology, India's first haiku compilation, edited by Kynpham Sing and Rimi Nath, and published by Harper. Get your copy today for some soulful reading!

a little knowing: review

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Sat, 02 Sep 2023 07:52:00 +0000

a little knowing - by Salil Chaturvedi - ISBN 9798851819216 - available on Amazon worldwide and pothi.com in India.

Review by Rich Youmans for Contemporary Haibun Online:

In the title haibun of Salil Chaturvedi’s newest collection, a question arises about the darting of swallows—”Why do they fly around crazily like that?”—and a seven-year-old girl provides the perfect answer: “Because they know how to.”

The entire collection seems infused with this spirit, an appreciation for the innate knowledge in all living things and how that knowledge manifests. The book includes 30 haibun along with 11 individually placed haiku that seem to stand alone but could also tie in to the haibun preceding or following it. Throughout, Chaturvedi observes the comings of goings of nature (particularly the birds, one of the author’s favorite pastimes), how humans connect with this natural world and one another, and how ultimately nature triumphs over human beings’ attempts to dominate. Underlying everything, like a river’s hidden current, is a wonder at how life flows of its own accord, and how there are more ways of knowing that we can imagine. (One favorite moment: as he and his friends are guided through woodlands by GPS, the “cicadas abruptly pause the shrieking of their dharma, pinpointing us with their silence.”)

There’s a quiet sense of amazement throughout this collection, and a realization that the best recourse in any situation is often to simply be (a viewpoint nicely captured in the haiku, “fallen blossoms of parijata/finally, I stop/looking for meaning.”) In one haibun, “The Flow,” Chaturvedi takes an early morning walk by the Mandovi River; after wondering what Jupiter’s moon-filled sky must look like and listening to a kingfisher’s chatter, he asks, “Aren’t we too small to know ours or anything else’s purpose?” That’s followed by a haiku that seems to encapsulate his view of life: “moving/ as the river wishes/anchored canoe.” It may be a little knowledge, but it’s enough.

Excerpt:

Wonderlust
Nothing better than ‘still travel.’ No visa, no tickets and no packing. Find a spot near a meadow, or a pond, or even a park around your neighbourhood, and sit still for about twenty minutes. Slowly the place reveals its crittered and feathered secrets. Over seasons, the stones begin to tell their stories.
more of what
I don't know—
rain on the river

Review by Diana Webb:

The eponymous title piece in this collection of thirty haibun, plus a handful of haiku, is about how a seven-year-old knows that birds behave as they do because of their ingrained instinctual understanding of survival. She knows because of her intuitive connection with the natural world. The haibun in this book invite the reader to revive that childhood gift.

As I perused them, I thought of the opening of that song, 'Ti's a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free.' The first three haibun share how so many diverting images can be enjoyed by finding a shift of shapes, on a wall, in the clouds, in a view, in the sensations that the body remembers from holding a simple stone and skimming it. There is peace in linking energy fields, Issa-like, with a small creature, joy in conversations with friends and what underlies a coffee stain, and more healing in listening to birdsong than prescription pills. Paradoxically too, what is empty is full.

There is love of animals and commitment to saving their lives whenever possible, and in a piece titled with the name of a pet, I almost cried during her burial at the end, because it was written straight from the heart and also records a dream which exemplifies the connection within all of nature to the extent that the song of a robin in the concluding haiku sinks into the earth with the dog.

Manifestations of human civilisation can only exist alongside that of non-human nature and those who turn a blind eye to that, do so at every creature's peril. Bringing the collection up to date, key words from civilisation appear—cellphones, covid—but the key to joy and survival remains the same, joy in imagination through the wonders of nature. And the message from the writer's words is that of the humble sage, the mystic:

Aren't we too small to know either ours or anything else's purpose?

and

It's difficult to care once the light has passed through you.

I can't recommend this book too highly.

It isn't preoccupied with whether the title or haiku are too close to prose, with avoiding repetition, or with a title that stuns the reader into carrying on as if it's a 'can't put down ' novel. No. It’s the passion about the natural world that stuns to light up every page.

The following haiku, haibun conclusion and haibun all did it for me —

fallen blossoms of pārijāta

finally, I stop

looking for meaning

***

Now the sunlight is dimmed on the treetops. The bamboo leaves shake easily in a gentle westerly breeze. And it vanishes, the question that has been bothering me all day: why does the world exist?

did you see

that one -

a twig shakes

***

Absence

They have cut some cut trees to cut widen the cut road.

The wood owl has stopped calling.

sliced moon

a feather floats

into the valley

The Inexact Room: Review

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 31 Aug 2023 02:12:00 +0000

Review of The Inexact Room by Heta Pandit in Saligao Balcao, August edition:

Most of us are familiar with Salil’s poetry (haibun, haiku, haiga) but this book of short fiction was a floodgate for me, personally. In Under the Snake’s Belly, Salil tells us that “when you see something—trees, animals, rivers, people, you should first see them as yourself before you see them as something separate.” The anthology is packed with trees, birds, butterflies, bees and other insects and you begin to see, as you read, how you are reflected in the love and wisdom that is in every living thing.

In the Bambai Run, you can actually see the children making a “cykeel” attempt at running away to Bambai. You can see them, race with them, try to keep up with their dreams and then get thwacked by your Nani or Dadi when you get caught riding your mother’s new cycle. When the girls in the story want to take their favourite trees along, you know what they are feeling.

In Reality Strikes, Salil shows us how the power of money can stagger, bewilder, and finally kill in a world where someone, who is the poorest man in the country and has touched money “only once in his life” is celebrated, cheered as an oddball, a freak, a man worthy only of being given money.

In Nina Awaits Mrs Kamath’s Decision, it's the story of the perpetual dilemma. The never-ending story of division by caste, class, gender, etc. The girl is of the wrong caste, visually impaired and therefore unsuitable although she’s an avid birdwatcher,has a bank job and many skill sets. So, we ask, who is the blind one here, really?

Right through the anthology, trees, birds and monuments make their appearance sometimes as words, sometimes as dreams and sometimes as themselves. In Owls, domestic violence, domestic shame and abuse inflicted on you by someone you married and had children with, someone you entrusted your entire life to, is witnessed by an owl. This is the shortest of all short stories I have ever read on the subject. It is blood curdling, sensitive and sympathetic without being maudlin.

Bubbles takes you into the deep, complex and forbidden lives of two sisters, swimmers, who are being coached by an abusive father. “You come up for air between strokes and with every stroke you scream your anger at the top of your voice… letting the bubbles of disgust rush past your face making their way angrily to the surface where they burst like boils, releasing all the emotional pus to the skies. What do you know? Water cleans everything.”

There’s a secret at the end of Turquoise Secret that you must read to see. Indrani follows the flight of a butterfly. “How do you do it, blue one?” she asks. “How do you reach exactly where you want to? Or do you just pretend that that is where you’ve always wanted to go?” I could be that blue one, Salil.

In Terminalia, Salil answers the question you were always afraid to ask. How do you manage taking flights with your wheels? I know the answer to that one, now. You let your words fly, your imagination take off, while your irritation at an impassive hostess and greedy porters stay grounded.

Sirhanna is a tragic story of Ramakant who believed his dreams lay buried deep inside his silk cotton pillow and that “education came in the way of belief”. In The Inexact Room, a lover asks, “Why do you write everything? It’s okay for some thoughts to disappear without a trace.” Caw! Is my favourite story in the book. Listen to this: “When you call someone by name, you are not really using a language, you are using a sound.” And, “you don’t die when you are dead. You die when you are forgotten.”

Salil tells us that “a thought, like a stray jade, implanted itself in his head: the real purpose of language is to exhibit dreams.” This sweet volume is called The Inexact Room but is actually quite big. Quite exact.

The Inexact Room; Publisher: Parragon Publishing Pvt Ltd; Rs 350

a little knowing

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Fri, 18 Aug 2023 11:29:00 +0000

collection of haibun, 'a little knowing', available at pothi.com in India and Amazon worldwide; Rs 200. cover illustration by Anjora Noronha.

some responses:

"What is this beautiful writing!"
- Bijal

"We loved your new book, the depth and simplicity...thank u for convincing us that a little knowing is a wondrous thing."
- Dean

"I love it so much and find the pieces absolutely stunning."
- Diana

"Loving your book. Thanks for sharing your experience of the simple in life. Beautifulllll!"

- Norma.

The Inexact Room

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 11 Jan 2023 10:50:00 +0000

Thrilled to announce that The Inexact Room is out and available in bookstores and on Amazon!

Places My Chair Likes To Go

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 05 Jan 2023 14:50:00 +0000

Some pictures from the recently concluded Serendipity Arts Festival, 2022, where I had put up a photographic exhibition titled Places My Chair Likes To Go as a public art installation. The images (8 feet x 5 feet) were displayed at the Promenade in Panjim.

Gang of 20

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 19 Oct 2022 03:29:00 +0000

Got a chance to translate into Hindi 'Gang of 20', a comic book written and directed by Orijit Sen and drawn by Samarth. The project was a year in the making and done under the aegis of Centre for Financial Accountability.

The storyline of the comic:

"An enormous venue has come up on the banks of the Chaipani lake. Decked up with the best in class amenities, the leaders of the world and the international press have accumulated to witness the grandeur and vanity on display for the G20 (Gang of 20) Annual Meetings. There is tension within the venue in anticipation of the common beasts traveling the length and breadth of the country to register their protest for the lack of imagination, commitment and action shown by the Gang of 20. Irrespective, deceptive games continue inside the venue while the masses confront the new reality. “Inquilab Zindabad” echoes as the herd settles outside the venue and the supreme leader has been informed of the anti-national threat. The crackdown has begun. But this time it is different – the farmers, the working class, students, refugees and the marginalized are UNITED! Ready for one battle at a time."

You can order print copies by writing to info@cenfa.org, or read the free online versions on their website in English and Hindi.

Here I Like the Sounds

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 18 Aug 2022 00:10:00 +0000

Happy to be included in another issue of Comixense, this one themed 'Music to My Ears'. The poem is illustrated by the talented Hassini Casukhela.

Hum Sab Sahmat!

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Mon, 11 Jul 2022 03:18:00 +0000

The Great Leader’s Shadow

I went to see the great leader’s statue,

but it was too hot, so I stepped

into his shadow.

Immediately, I heard the tinkle

of a stream.

When my eyes adjusted to the darkness

I made out a young boy, with his goat.

He smiled at my surprise. He spat out the blade

of grass he was chewing, and said,

It takes a while to get used to the darkness;

You’ll be able to see more

as your eyes fill up with the void.

There are many of us

and more keep coming.

We spend most of the day in the shadow,

and move across the landscape

from west to east.

Where is the stream, I asked.

That’s the sound of all the streams

that went dry, he said.

Are you a ghost, I asked,

and then seeing the hurt in his eyes,

I mumbled that it was unhealthy to live

away from the sunlight. The boy smiled

and lifted his foot.

The sun was shining

under his soles.

That is where the grass was growing.

A poem of mine at display at the Hum Sab Sahmat exhibition, celebrating 75 years of independence.

Artwork by Shubhra Chaturvedi.

Organised by SAHMAT, the exhibition is on till August 14 at Jawahar Bhawan, New Delhi, and features the work of over two hundred artists and writers.

Feels great to have the artwork displayed under the looming presence of the great M.F. Hussain!

Parched sparrow

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Mon, 09 May 2022 04:27:00 +0000

poem in inksweatandtears, a UK-based poetry webzine.

Missing IQ

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Fri, 25 Feb 2022 03:21:00 +0000

Saddened by the news of Indian Quarterly's closure. Should be counted as a covid death, I suppose. Had many poems, stories and a photo feature published in the mag over the years. Kudos to the editors to bringing out a high quality magazine issue after issue. Here's a fiction piece reminiscing the good ol' times (illustration by Salil Sojwal).

Interview | Navhind Times

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 19 Jan 2022 05:14:00 +0000

love and longing in the anthropocene

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Sat, 11 Dec 2021 10:18:00 +0000

Happy to announce the new collection of poems, and a few haibun.
Available at pothi.com

Rescue | Drifting Sands Journal

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 01 Dec 2021 05:02:00 +0000

A haibun in Drifting Sands, issue 12, guest edited by Jo Balisteri. You can read it (and many other wonderful haibun) at the journal, and leave comments.

CALLING LAKSHMIJI

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Tue, 02 Nov 2021 02:01:00 +0000

Zwinger and Zwingay were celebrating Diwali with their grandparents. No one knew how they got those names, but that’s what they called each other. At times, even their grandparents called them Zwinger and Zwingay, but to the rest of the world they were Rahul and Ria.

Nine-year-old Rahul, the elder one, but only by a slim margin of eleven months, was listening carefully to Dadu, while his sister Ria looked on.

‘Now look, the first thing you have to do on Diwali,’ Dadu was saying, ‘is to make sure everything is clean – spic and span. Lakshmiji won’t come to the house if you don’t keep it clean. She hates filth.’

‘But my cupboards are always clean,’ Rahul said. ‘She doesn’t come to me, Dadu. Are you sure she visits all places that are clean?’

‘You may think your cupboards are clean, but maybe they don’t match up to Lakshmiji’s high standards,’ said Dadu, knowing full well that to Rahul ‘clean’ meant that he could find things within a pile.

‘Everything should be sorted out neatly, like Ria does,’ said Dadu.

‘I don’t think that helps too much, Dadu. I think you are mistaken. Has Lakshmiji ever come to you Zwingay?’ Rahul put the question to his younger sister.

Ria knew that Lakshmiji had never paid her a visit but she didn’t want to contradict Dadu either, especially when he was complimenting her. ‘Maybe we need to do more things to make sure she comes to us?’ she ventured.

‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ said Dadu, nodding in agreement. ‘There are many steps to follow. Lakshmiji is not easy to please! There are many kinds of Lakshmi, and it all depends on which one you want to please.’

‘How many kinds?’ asked the ever curious Ria.

‘Let’s see, first there is the Aadi Lakshmi, the original Laskhmi. Then there is the Dhanya Lakshmi who blesses us with the wealth of food; Vidya Lakshmi provides us with the wealth of knowledge and helps our talents grow; Gaja Lakshmi’s photograph is found in every house with elephants helping her do puja as she sits on a lotus flower; Santhana Lakshmi provides us with the wealth of children; Dhairya Lakshmi provides us with the wealth of patience; Vijaya Lakshmi provides us with victory and finally there is Dhana Lakshmi, the giver of money because without money, little is accomplished.’

‘Yes, she’s the one we need Dadu!’ said Rahul, clapping his hands. He was already making elaborate plans in his head on how to spend the money if Lakshmiji paid him a visit, though he didn’t want to work too hard for it if he could help it.

‘Well, first of all, you have to make sure the house is well lit and properly decorated. Only then will Lakshmi be attracted,’ Dadu informed them.

‘That’s because Diwali is on a night when there is no moon, oho Dadu, what does one call it? I know it but right now I don’t,’ asked Ria.

‘That’s right Ria. It’s called amavasya. Rahul, you should spend more time with books, instead of watching TV all the time, then you’ll know these things too,’ Dadu said to Rahul.

‘But, she didn’t know it! She had forgotten the name! Zwingay, stop being a show-off, or I’ll kill you,’ Rahul said. He had been given the epithet of TV-Boy, owing to his superhuman ability to watch television uninterrupted. The family joked that that if robbers ever came to their house, TV-Boy would immobilise them by telling them mind-numbing stories from television serials.

‘Now, no fighting on Diwali,’ said Dadu. ‘Do you want Lakshmiji to pay you a visit or not?’

‘Yes Dadu, but Zwingay is always showing off.’ complained Rahul.

‘Never mind, if you had known these things, you could also show off,’ Dadu said. Then knowing Rahul’s penchant for cars and aeroplanes he said, ‘We must make sure things are lit properly so Lakshmiji can identify where to land.’

‘You mean we have to prepare lights like an airport?’ Rahul was excited. ‘Why didn’t you say so? I’ll put the lamps, Dadu! Zwingay can do something else.’

Over the next two hours Rahul learnt how to wet the clay diyas with water so that the oil wouldn’t be soaked up by them, then he prepared the cotton wicks, rolling them in his tiny hands and placing them carefully in the diyas. He insisted on putting the oil in the diyas himself. By the time he was finished, he had managed to give himself an oil bath. ‘Calling Lakshmiji... Calling Lakshmiji...the lights are ready for landing,’ he kept saying as he arranged the diyas in neat rows in the balcony.

In the meantime, Ria helped her grandmother with the rangoli. She was given the task of making Lakshmiji’s feet with rice paste while her grandmother made the more intricate designs. Ria was careful to give all the feet five tiny toes, counting them meticulously as she made the dots with the tip of her fingers.

‘What’s this?’ asked Rahul when he saw her making the feet.

‘These are Lakshmiji’s feet. Go away, or I’ll complain to Dadu,’ said Ria.

‘What? Lakshmiji is a baby or what? Why have you made such small feet? You’ll spoil everything. I’ll kill you if Lakshmiji doesn’t turn up. I’ve spent a lot of time getting the landing lights right,’ said Rahul.

‘Go away Zwinger, don’t make me mad,’ Ria growled.

‘And why are you making her feet together? Does she hop like a kangaroo with both her feet together … boing, boing, boing ... look, I’m Lakshmiji, here I come, boing, boing, boing ...’ he said as he hopped from room to room.

By the evening the lamp lights were ready, the rangoli was done, the flowers and the mango leaves had been hung on the entrance and the sweets laid out on the table. Rahul and Ria examined everything. Then Rahul noticed that a crucial ingredient was missing.

‘Dadu! Where are the firecrackers?’ he yelled. Dadu was sitting with a sheet of paper, on which he was writing something with a matchstick dipped in vermilion.

‘What’s this?’ Rahul asked.

‘I’m writing the words Om Shree Lakshmi Sada Sahaya,’ said Dadu.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Ria.

‘It means, may Lakshmiji always provide us,’ Dadu said. ‘After I have written this, we’ll stick it on the wall in the puja room,’ he said.

‘But this won’t do, Dadu,’ reprimanded Rahul, as he examined Dadu’s handiwork, leaning on Dadu’s work table, one hand on its edge and the other scratching his back. ‘Lakshmiji won’t like this at all. You have to use fresh paper, clean paper, not this one. See, it has things written on the other side!’

‘Well, I was only recycling paper,’ Dadu said.

‘No, no. We can’t afford to annoy Laskshmiji. You have to be more careful, Dadu. Now do it on a clean paper,’ insisted Rahul. For once, Ria agreed with him. It would be sad if Lakshmiji didn’t show up because of one careless mistake. Dadu wrote the mantra on a fresh piece of paper. The kids looked on carefully to make sure Dadu got it right since he was apt to make mistakes when left to himself. Then, remembering what they had come for, Rahul asked, ‘Where are the firecrackers, Dadu?’

Dadu had been preparing himself for this eventuality. ‘Haven’t you been taught in school? They cause a lot of pollution and scare animals. What if Lakshmiji’s owl gets scared?’ Dadu offered his carefully prepared argument.

The evening was near and Rahul realised all his efforts could come to naught. He ran into the next room where his grandmother was laying out the new clothes to be worn by the children. He threw himself on the bed and started crying.

‘What’s happened to my Zwinger?’ asked Dadi, caressing his head.

‘Dadu says there will be no firecrackers,’ explained Ria as her brother buried his sobs in the pillow.

‘He is lying!’ said Rahul from the depths of the pillow. ‘How can Lakshmiji’s owl be scared of firecrackers? It sees them every year! And besides Zwingay was saying that the loud sounds make the demons go away; she read it in a boo … ooo … ook,’ he said between sobs.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Dadi. ‘It’s Dadu who is scared of firecrackers. Here, buy yourself some nice firecrackers.’ She went to the cupboard and took out her small green wallet from which she gave the children thirty rupees. ‘This is all I have, for now,’ Dadi said. ‘You’ll have to make do with this.’

Rahul looked up from the pillow and sat up on the bed. ‘What will this get us?’ he said, taking the thirty rupees from Dadi. ‘At most a bomb each. No one will even know we got any firecrackers.’ The disappointment was clear in his voice.

‘Be a good boy. Look at the lovely new kurta we got you,’ Dadi said.

In the evening, the children put on their new clothes, performed the Lakshmi puja in a hurried fashion, and after eating the mandatory prasad, rushed out to participate in the most eagerly awaited part of the festival – the fireworks.

Late at night, as they prepared to sleep, Rahul and Ria went up to Dadu. Rahul fished out a bomb from his pocket and said in a whisper, ‘Look Dadu! We saved our bomb!’

‘Where did you get that from?’ Dadu asked.

‘Dadi gave us thirty rupees. We were about to buy two bombs but I had an idea, so we got a single large one. Now when everyone’s firecrackers are over, we’ll burst this. Lakshmiji will notice instantly! Isn’t that a good plan, huh? And Zwingay has an excellent idea, too. Tell him …’

‘We can write our names on the bomb, Dadu, with a sketch pen. Then Lakshmiji will know who is calling her. Others wouldn’t have thought of this, so we’ll have a better chance!’ Ria said excitedly.

Rahul hugged his grandfather and said, ‘Come on, Dadu, let’s go to the terrace and burst this. It doesn’t matter that we have only one bomb. It’s good enough. I think Zwingay’s plan will work. I’ll call Dadi, too,’ and he rushed off to get grandmother but she was more interested in her television programme. They were announcing the winner of the reality show tonight.

‘You go ahead Zwinger,’ Dadi said. ‘I can’t miss it after having followed it for so many months. But best of luck with your plan.’

‘But we’ve written your name on the bomb as well. You have to come.’

‘I can’t go up to the roof with these knees Zwinger! It’s OK. You carry on. Lakshmiji will understand an old lady’s plight.’

‘Then you must at least touch the bomb once,’ Rahul said, holding out the bomb. Dadi held the bomb for a few seconds, read the names on it, smiled and returned it to Rahul.

‘There’s no way Lakshmiji won’t hear this one,’ she said.

The kids rushed back to Dadu. He was keen on watching the reality show, too, but the kids insisted that he accompany them.

‘Dadu, I’ll prepare a delay on the fuse and then we can all hold hands and pray while the bomb goes! I’ll let you light the fuse,’ Raju said excitedly.

Dadu smiled and the three of them trooped up to the terrace. Dadu lit the fuse and the threesome stood holding hands, waiting for the bomb to explode. Dadu joined the kids in their chant, repeating the words under his breath, ‘Calling Lakshmiji ... Calling Lakshmiji ...’ an excitement growing within him; what if the kids’ plan worked? The recession had put too many strains on a retired teacher’s pension. Besides, inflation was galloping.

Mandalas for Mollem

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Tue, 31 Aug 2021 02:44:00 +0000

Happy to have been part of an online art residency, curated by Apurva Kulkarni. The residency featured 30+ Goa-based artists whose work focuses on the Mollem National Park and forest of Goa which is threatened by three linear projects being planned by the government. The resulting exhibition can be viewed here.

I created an audio mandala through recordings of poems, that can be viewed (and heard) on this page.

Under The Snake's Belly

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 12 Aug 2021 03:28:00 +0000

Under The Snake's Belly, illustrated by Charbak Dipta, appears in the second (July-Sept 2021) issue of Comixense. You can read the story behind the story here, and order the comic from the Ektara store here. Big thumbs up to this unique educational-comic initiative by the Ektara Trust and People Tree Studio.

Earth, Our Home

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 11 Aug 2021 03:53:00 +0000

Earth, Our Home by Pratham Books

carries poems on climate change

by four poets—Sampurna Chattarji,

Karthika Nair, Anushka Ravishankar,

and me.

Illustrated brilliantly by Aindri C,

the book voices the concern

of a forest and three species,

two water-based and one land-based.

Check it out at Storyweaver.

The Practice of Solitude

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 08 Apr 2021 08:01:00 +0000

(Collaborative piece on the Practice of Solitude—where each author submits 25 words—as part of a global literary initiative that attempts to capture the lockdown+isolation experience. You can read this, and other pieces, on their website here).

Jane Reichhold Haiga Contest

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 05 Nov 2020 11:02:00 +0000

Received first prize in the fifth annual Jane Reichhold Memorial Haiga Contest, 2020, for a haiga focusing on domestic violence.

cloud rumble

she describes the curves

of his punches

(artwork: Ink on paper by Anjora Noronha).

Comment by judge, Sandi Pray:

Power: This wonderful senryu engages all the senses at once. During my selection process I kept returning to the poet's vivid words. At first I hardly noticed the clouds until they began to take shape of fists. Nature and human nature can both inflict great fear and pain...yet, nature is never purposely cruel.

cloud rumble | chrysanthemum issue 28

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 15 Oct 2020 07:56:00 +0000

Words Are Falling

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Wed, 09 Sep 2020 03:19:00 +0000

Delighted to be part of A Poem A Day, a poetry podcast initiated by Sudhanva Deshpande.

Poem #164 is Words Are Falling, read by Ashish Paliwal. Artwork by Virkein Dhar.

Click HERE to listen to the poem.

Long Distance | Haibun

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 03 Sep 2020 02:53:00 +0000

Haibun in September issue of Failed Haiku

Turquoise Secret | The Bombay Review

noreply@blogger.com (salil chaturvedi) — Thu, 13 Aug 2020 06:33:00 +0000

Indrani is surprised that her breasts are still alert to the possibility of love, even now, when her love is permanently gone.

She stands in the centre of the room, clutching the laundry tight against her chest, feeling the hardening of her nipples against the cotton blouse while her eyes scan the skies beyond the French windows for the turquoise flash...

read the story in the August 2020 issue of The Bombay Review