Dinner Table Conversations | Eshna Sharma

THE FOLLOWING POEM BY ESHNA SHARMA WON THE FIRST PRIZE OF ONE LAKH RUPEES IN WINGWORD POETRY COMPETITION 2019

Eshna Sharma pens down a poem which strongly talks about the silence over the mistreatment of women in the house. At the dinner table the family talks about any and everything, from work to politics but it is rare. Rather it is never that the conversation is about why her father is alcoholic, why her mother is taking more than enough painkillers, why her cousin is divorced or why her sister is in an abusive relationship. The conversations are around super-moon and the sale at the mall but it is never about the issues faced by the ladies of the house.  The poet is asked if the family should look for a boy for her now that Sharma ji’s daughter is getting married. The poet denies and opens up about her sexuality. It feels like this poem is an indication about how the situations in the family affects the mental health of a person and their perception towards relationships and love. The poem is powerful in its message. Short and precise the poem reflects on the issues of a family which is never talked about openly.

Glistening crockery

the waft of curry chicken

the radio begins to play

and we sit down for dinner

Ma passes around rotis

We make mundane conversation

"How is work?"

"Buaji called. She is visiting next week."

We smile and laugh

Ma fusses over Papa's plate

"Why do you eat so less?" she bemoans

Ma, why don't you ask him

why he drinks more alcohol then water?

Ma heaps a ladleful of fragrant rice on my plate

We talk about the weather about the coming elections

We talk about Donald Trump

And the new maid

"She puts too much oil in the food, no?"

But we don't talk about why Ma is always running out of painkillers,

though she stocks the medicine cabinet every two weeks

We don't talk about the scars on my sister's wrists,

to precise to be called an accident

We don't talk about why

My cousin divorced her husband last month

But we do talk about the Super Moon,

the 50 percent off at the local mall

And the current government's policies

For dessert we have

rice kheer

Peppered with cardamom and raisins

The subject of marriage is now broached

Sharma ji's daughter is getting married next week—

"Should we look for a boy for you too?"

This time, I smile.

"No ma, I've been in love with a girl since I was fourteen."

Eshna Sharma is the recipient of Wingword Poetry Prize 2019. She is an eighteen year old from Lucknow. Her writing traces her personal growth as she matures, crossing the threshold from teenager to adult. Girlhood is a collection of twenty ripe poems written by Eshna Sharma and illustrated by Manisha Naskar. Published by Wingword Publications, Girlhood was released in October 2020. Eshna recently started pursuing an undergraduate degree at Ashoka University, Sonepat.

An Evening to Remember: The 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony

An Evening to Remember: The 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony

by Sameeha Sood

Picture this- deceivingly warm rays of sun permeate through the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Stainless Gallery, New Delhi, on a midwinter afternoon, the 18th of December, 2022. The wood-finished floors gleaming, freshly polished; rows upon rows of draped chairs. In a few short moments, the first of the audience members for the Wingword Poetry Prize Award Ceremony 2022 will begin to filter in.

As the guests settled in, the host and programme director for the Wingword Poetry Prize, Saumya Choudhury, gracefully stepped onto the stage and offered a welcome note, thanking the poets for their submissions and sincerely congratulating the winners of the prestigious competition. The competition in question is an international event held annually, wherein aspiring poets and writers come forth to showcase their talent and passion for the art. The Wingword Poetry Prize aims to encourage and amplify emerging voices from diverse backgrounds through the art of poetry, and is sponsored by Delhi Poetry Slam, a leading literary organization in India. As the day progresses, the ceremony will also feature several performers, previous awardees and current winners alike, each performing a uniquely stimulating and emotional piece and displaying the effort and creativity that went into their well-deserved accomplishment. 

Following the host’s warm welcome, guest of honor Tansy Troy graciously stepped forth to congratulate the winners and offer some insight on the world of poetry. An avid writer, Troy has been telling stories and writing poems for as long as she can remember. Having graduated with a Masters in English Literature from King’s College Cambridge, she soon traveled across the globe, spreading the joy of literature and theater in schools in the UK, Palestine, Madagascar and India, especially in Zanskar and Ladakh. The esteemed guest’s varied career included a stint teaching Art at the Tibetan Children’s Village, Dharamsala, as well. In the recent past, Troy has published the Apple Press, a young people’s journal for children whom the world has passed by. The journal, first launched in October 2021, features colorful illustrations, vivid stories, and immersive poetry, and for each copy sold, one is gifted to a young person with limited access to technology and education. The guest of honor has a passion for writing and literature, and aims to increase access to the same for children across the globe. It was truly inspiring to witness her speak so deliberately about her motivation and her work. She cordially bestowed the certificates and prizes upon the winners of the 2022 edition of the Wingword Poetry Prize.

The first prize winner for the main category of the award, Nandana Dev Sen, stepped onto the stage to collect her award, posing for a photograph with the guest of honor while facing an enamored audience. The Indian-American writer, actor, screenwriter and activist currently resides in New York, and specially flew in for the Wingword Poetry Prize award ceremony. She performed her award-winning poem ‘Daybreak’, dedicated to her grandmother Radharani Deb. The nostalgic piece of art reminisces about the poet’s cherished childhood moments spent with her beloved grandmother, and the tremendously personal ode moved many an audience member. Sen’s experiences as portrayed through her poem are simultaneously unique to her and universally understood, and the audience was deeply touched by Sen’s sentimental rendition.

“how you walked into my room

with unsteady steps

on the winter nights of my finals

“To bed!” you scolded, even as

I muttered formulas I’d never follow

and dozed over tea-stained history

you denounced all-nighters

but you stayed up with me

every night”

(Daybreak by Nandana Dev Sen)

The first prize-winner also read out a number of poems from the novel ‘Acrobat’, a collection of poetry by Nandana’s mother Nabaneeta Dev Sen, originally written in Bengali and translated by the Wingword Poetry Prize-winner to English. The collection rhythmically explores the ups and downs of ordinary life, delving into themes of womanhood, intimacy, and body politics. Compassionate yet conversational, the collection is truly a wonder, and Nandana Dev Sen’s masterful translation retains the musicality and rhythm of the original Bengali. Witnessing the poet’s voice overlap that of her mother’s as she read a few pieces from ‘Acrobat’ was an intimate, irreplaceable experience for everyone present at the award ceremony. 

I am a village girl,

who grew up away

from the chiya kamaans.

I belong here,

where the famously marketed

darjeeling tea

is picked by my people.

Generations

born and dead within

tea plantations.

(darjeeling tea by bibhusha rai)

The second prize winner of the main category, Bibhusha Rai, hails from Darjeeling and holds a Master’s and Bachelor’s in English Literature from Delhi University. An ardent reader and writer, Rai holds the words of Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke close to her heart, “What matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.” The colorfully dressed poet stepped forth to receive her merited award, however it wasn’t just her bright pink sweater that drew the attention of the earnest audience. Her impactful performance of her poem ‘Darjeeling Tea’, a captivating piece about the exploitation of workers in tea plantations in the eastern town, turned heads across the room. Considering themes of food and identity, the poem speaks on the outrageous juxtaposition of the reverence of Darjeeling tea across the world and the negligence of the true lifestyles of those that labored long and hard to provide that tea. The poet powerfully reprimands the ignorance of the larger public when it comes to the treatment of the people of Darjeeling, and her performance was a striking sight to behold.

The Wingword Poetry Prize is an international event, and the competition is not limited to just one language. The award ceremony on the 18th of December saw winners of the regional category of the competition as well, with the first prize winner for the category being Suniti Kumar Maity for his poem ‘অভিসার’ (meaning ‘convergence’). Traveling from Kolkata to collect his award, Maity spoke of his inspiration to write, which comes from divinity. The second prize winner, Sibu Kumar Das, collected his award for his poem ‘Mahanadi’, which considers the uncontrollable nature of rivers, and of how they cannot be owned. Das traveled from Orissa for the ceremony, and offered insight on the issue of state quarrels over rivers. The third prize winner for the regional category was also present at the ceremony. Spondon Ganguli, also traveling from Kolkata, received his prize with his wife and daughter. He read out two of his poems, including the prize-winning piece ‘তুমি আমার প্রভু’, translating to ‘you are my lord’. All three poets are well-deserving of their admirable accomplishment, and their passion for the art of writing was visible as they offered a few words on their poetry. 

A truly eventful afternoon, the 2022 Wingword Poetry Prize award ceremony also witnessed previous winners of the competition. A graduate from the University of Sheffield, author and educator Zarin Virji, the second place winner of the 2020 edition of the competition read her poem ‘The Killing Fields’, a provocative piece interlinking violence, caste hierarchy and the normalization of rape culture in our society. In a past interview with the Wingword Poetry Prize, Virji mentioned that she intended to capture the sensationalization and frustration, as well as the eventual disregard, that come with the unfortunately frequent cases of violence against women, in India and abroad. Current Ashoka University student Eshna Sharma was also one of the performers of the evening. First place prize-winner for the 2019 edition of the competition, Sharma performed her poem ‘Dinner Table Conversations’. The poet’s writing often traces her personal growth as she matures, and the poem in question is an immersive piece narrating a family dinner and hinting at the weight of everything the family leaves unsaid as they dine. Outlining themes of identity, alcoholism, and an impending divorce, as well as the harrowing reality of self-harm amongst teenagers, the poem is a heartrending work of art. Finally, the ceremony also featured Anurima Mukherjee, winner of the first prize of the Wingword Poetry Prize 2019’s junior category. Mukherjee’s poetry often features themes of nostalgia, existential crises, mental health, and current affairs. The aspiring poet performed her piece ‘Through Calcutta’s Streets’, reminiscing on the somewhat mundane yet beloved experience of walking through the streets of Calcutta growing up. What an inspiring evening the ceremony turned out to be, with past and present winners alike coming together and sharing their work and experiences through a common language — poetry. 

The final event of the evening was a networking session, where poets could interact with one another and gain insight on each other’s process and inspiration. Members of the audience interacted with the recipients of the awards and commendable mentions and discussed the intricacies of writing and composition. Audience members and winners alike engaged in deep discussion on themes and philosophies represented through poetry, and the event provided aspiring poets the opportunity to network with individuals further along in their journey to being published writers and poets. It was a profoundly insightful ending to an evening entirely dedicated to celebrating creativity, inspiration, hard work, and most importantly, poetry. 

Darjeeling Tea | Bibhusha Rai

The following poem by Bibhusha Rai from Darjeeling, West Bengal won the second prize in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

Bibhusha Rai writes about her homeland that produces tea leaves. She starts the poem by mentioning the difference between the tea in Darjeeling and the tea across the country. With no spices and only with water and sugar or salt, Darjeeling Tea has the pure and authentic aroma that dominates the tea. Even though it is called Fikha Chiya,  the Darjeeling Tea is not bland. Rai mentions that she is a village girl who grew up away from the tea gardens. She belongs to the land of tea leaves which has been harvested by her people generations over generations. Women have made their ways through rough terrains to reach up the hill and collect the tea leaves. She says how hard men and women work on these fields to get tea but at the end of the day, the tea is owned by corporate people who do not belong to her land. Even though it was her people who have nurtured the land and the tea leaves, they are called outsiders by politics. She questions that if this land isn’t the home to the people who have lived here for centuries, what is home? Fiercely she blames the other people who enjoy the profits of these cultivations for the exploitation of her people. The absence of basic necessities and amenities is ridiculous. She puts in light the discrimination they face for their looks and language by people who are proud of the Indian diversity. By the end of the poem she seems furious and rebellious and points out that the next people drink the Darjeeling Tea, they remember the real nurturers and workers who have harvested the tea with all their hard work on their own land.  

Darjeeling Tea is a poem that an Indian writes with a broken heart for her people have been discriminated against because they look different. She describes the hard work and patience and time it takes to harvest the tea. But despite all the energy and love the tea workers put in, they are underpaid and overworked. The poem highlights the exploitation done by the corporate industry. She wishes that the people of her land are recognised enough and appreciated enough for their work.

Throughout our country, tea often milky, strong with spices, dark brown is drunk.

In Darjeeling, tea we often drink is boiled solely in water, little sugar or salt, allowing space for the aroma of tea leaves

to dominate. Fikha chiya

we call it, it is everything but bland.

I am a village girl, who grew up away from the chiya kamaans. I belong here, where the famously marketed Darjeeling Tea is picked by my people. Generations born and dead within tea plantations.

On hills dominated by rain, fog, hail. Women with dokos on backs, dots of colour: red, blue, yellow, white in the overwhelming green make their way through rough terrain, picking the coveted bud with two leaves. Men and women toil for tea: sweat and blood running through the hills. But the tea isn’t owned by them, belonging to corporations run by people from outside.

My hometown, known across corners of the globe because of chiya is a different picture, far from the marketed. Tea plantations closing, not growing: forsaken bushes, discarded people. This land, where my people nurtured lives and tea is our home. Politics states the other, calls my people outsiders. If where we existed for centuries isn’t home, what is home?

You who are magnified by Darjeeling marginalize who people it. You

who project our image for gains, tarnish us when we seek light. Tea gardens here are populated by the underpaid and overworked. We face absence of : rights, jobs, infrastructure, education, water. Ridiculous, isn’t it? The green hills encompass drought.

You boast of diversity, but inclusivity doesn’t include us. My people are of various tribes, many tongues, different faiths, multiple dishes, intricate traditions, diverse individuals. You say Chinkies look the same. My people’s eyes are small and big, mono or double-lidded. Light brown as fikha chiya, dark brown like chai, black as coffee. Of varied features and multiple hues.

My ancestors who worshipped nature, lived among the elements. My people who lived through backbreaking labour, political and civil unrest. Have not come this far to tolerate your disrespect. You label the men weak, the women cheap, steal children’s dreams, tag us savages. We are the other you build yourself on, burying us. In exoticism you revere us. In realism

you remove us. Postcolonialism yet you divide and rule. Mountains signifying permanence is our home, yet you relegate us to oblivion.

When a cup of Darjeeling tea relieves your thirst, I hope you remember us. Indian Gorkhas scattered across the globe, people who created the cup of tea you hold in your hands. Amber liquid, encapsulating

the taste and scent of our home.

Notes:

Fikha chiya: Black tea

Chiya kamaans: Tea gardens/plantations/estates

Dokos: Bamboo baskets

About the poet

Bibhusha Rai hails from Darjeeling, she holds a BA and MA in English Literature from Delhi University. Having worked on a research project with the Confluence Collective on Darjeeling’s tea gardens for the past year, she gained a renewed understanding of tea’s significance in regard to the Darjeeling Gorkha identity. Most of her work speaks on the intersection of food and identity, like the poem “Momos for Dinner” on the Alipore website. 

Barren | Navjyot Kaur

The following poem by Navjyot Kaur won the third prize of Fifteen Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

There is a barren land

Void of nerve, nurture and virtue

Dry to its core

Hollowed by its crime of apathy

Vacant of blood, liberty and fire

Its guardian

The parasites of power

Force-feed pandemic narratives of truth

And tall tales of terror

Driving dependance, fear and submission

Into desperate minds and paralysed mouths

“Hush now little ones, you are protected”

From their custom cloak of authority

They camouflage and veil

Spineless they rise and claw

Feeding upon the censored dreams of the masses

The eyes of monstrous greed devour

These anti-Gods feast upon dried spirits and dread

Spreading clinical dialogue, generic sermons

The perfect power pill for obedience and control

“Made with Universal Love” for the sterile and subdued

And “The Solution” for a problem that never was

The land of the spiritless lies unawakened

Their callings abandoned by the monotony of their doing

And dying and doing and dying and doing

They crucify and tear the flesh of their depressed and withered pain

For they no longer bleed

Self-destruction their only approved pleasure

An emblem of endorsement and pride

“ Hail the half life !

For it sings of wealth, fortune and bondage

To the rhythm of currency, capital and crime

Hail the half life ”

Upon the torn landscape breath is denied

Only collective sighs form the hymn of the hostage

Sung by limp souls

“ Hush now little ones

Keep craving

Keep needing

Keep fearing

Keep hating

Keep needing

Keep needing

Keep needing

Don’t you cry, trust in me,

For the era of denial will father your misery

Will engineer the magical formula

Of instant pleasure, instant dreams, instant truth ”

The dutiful dose of demise, fear and malice

Death on the dotted line

Engineered by The Authority of Greed

Administered by The Protector

Do not ask why

Do not ask why

Do not ask

Do not.

About the poet

Navjyot is a poet of Indian origin, born in the UK and living in rural France. She writes poetry that digs deep within the individual to shine a light upon and reveal one's inner landscape, bringing the sub-conscious into the conscious mind. Her spiritual path is her guiding compass to bring transformation of the Self and deep-seated change into the world. This is is profoundly felt within her poetry.

Her poetry has been published in Kindred Spirit Magazine, ROAR Feminine Rising Magazine and Braided Way as well as stage performances across Europe including the Brighton Fringe Festival, England's largest arts festival, the Antic Teatre in Barcelona and others. With an active spirituality at its heart, her words and imagery question, prompt and most certainly empower and will never leave you indifferent.

Daybreak | Nandana Sen

The following poem by Nandana Sen won the first prize in Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

Nandana writes Daybreak dedicated to her beloved grandmother. She pens down some significant details of her memories of the relationship she has with her grandmother. She recalls how her grandmother would laugh like a girl as Nandana and perhaps her siblings or cousins would listen to the foghorn blows and the way she dealt with the numerous rounds of playing cards until the day broke. She writes how grandma would mercilessly pull her out of bed on Mahalaya dawn and she would sleepily listen to prayers. Even though she would be half asleep, she remembers that her grandmother knew each verse by heart. Nandana has memories of her grandmother disapproving of all-nighters before exams and how she would scold her to go to bed. She writes about all the memories she had with her grandmother and how she thinks of all the times she missed the early mornings with her because she would go to bed before her grandmother began her day.  

Daybreak is a poem filled with emotions Nandana has for her grandmother. It states quite beautifully the difference of schedules between her and her grandmother. The poem gives out a feeling to the reader that she felt safe around her grandmother as she was there to look after her. It was her grandmother who presented her with religion by pulling her out of bed on Mahalaya dawn. This poem reminds us of our grandmothers who have showered us with so much love. As a child, we learn a lot about life from our grandparents.  They impart us with great lessons and manners of life. The poem also highlights how there comes a gap between us and our grandparents. While the poet went to her bed, her grandmother was just starting her day.

(For my grandmother, Radharani Debi)

Whenever I think of you

I think of all the early mornings

how you laughed like a girl

as we listened

for the cannon to fire

and the foghorns to blow

on New Year’s eve

eyes sparkling,

you dealt us round after round

as hearts and diamonds

slipped through our fingers all night —

kings and queens, knaves and clowns

waiting impatiently

for the first day to break

how you pulled us out of bed

with no mercy

on Mahalaya dawn —

we huddled near the radio

half asleep, scalded by tea,

until airwaves all around us

exploded into heady prayer

like a rush of steam

rising up from every home on our street

you knew each verse by heart

and every year Ma cried

when the goddess was born

how you loved to march with us

like a drillmaster

on your morning walk,

grumbling, we dragged our groggy feet

to the dry fountain where,

years ago,

you had arranged Ma’s girlhood parties —

you paused near the shiuli, trying to bend,

and in a flash

we were groping wet earth, grabbing

orange-tipped fragrance in the fog,

greedy, and impossibly awake

how you walked into my room

with unsteady steps

on the winter nights of my finals

“To bed!” you scolded, even as

I muttered formulas I’d never follow

and dozed over tea-stained history

you denounced all-nighters

but you stayed up with me

every night

until we heard the prayers from the mosque

echo in our hearts

through coal smoke

how you clutched your magnifying glass

as I tiptoed past you, asleep in your chair,

during my summer break —

you never stopped reading the fine print,

while I

couldn’t even see how that big sky

was magnifying pink shapes

everywhere in bold,

as I stumbled into bed

unsteadier than you

just before

you would start your day

whenever I think of you

I think of all the early mornings

I missed

About the poet

A writer, child-rights activist, and an award-winning actor, Nandana Dev Sen is the author of six children’s books, translated into more than 15 languages globally, and two collections of her translations of the poetry of her mother, Nabaneeta Dev Sen. She grew up in India, England and America, and has starred in 20 feature films from four continents (and in multiple languages). Nandana’s first book Kangaroo Kisses was selected by 320 UK nurseries as a “Book of Excellence,” and her interactive workshops have been loved, in person, by more than 30,000 young people across the world.

After graduating Phi Beta Kappa from Harvard University (where she won the Detur Book Prize as well as the John Harvard Scholarship and Elizabeth Agassiz Prize each year) and studying filmmaking at the USC School of Cinema-Television, Nandana worked as a book editor, a screenwriter, a translator, an advocate for child protection, and as Princess Jasmine in Disneyland. The winner of several Best Actress awards, the Wingword Poetry Prize, as well as the Last-Girl Champion Award for lifetime achievement in child protection, Nandana has served on numerous child-rights commissions and juries of global film festivals and international literary prizes (including the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature). As an advocate and ambassador, she has represented such prominent organizations as UNICEF, Operation Smile, RAHI, Apne Aap International, and the National Commission for Protection of Child Rights, to fight against child abuse and to end human trafficking.

Nandana is the Child Protection Ambassador for Save the Children India, a global Author Advocate for Girls' Education for Room to Read, and a Director of the Women’s Refugee Commission, New York, where she serves on the Program and Advocacy Committee.  

Nandana can be reached on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter (all three at Nandana Dev Sen), as well as LinkedIn. For news and updates, please swing by www.nandanadevsen.com.

অভিসার | Suniti Kumar Maiti

The following poem by Suniti Kumar Maiti won the first prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

বুকের মধ্যে ফুটছিল ফুল সহস্রদল

সকাল থেকেই।

আকাশ জুড়ে দেখছি তাহার চোখের কাজল

সকাল থেকেই।

বাতাসে তার অঙ্গ-সুবাস

সকাল থেকেই।

তাহার তরে মন উচাটন

সকাল থেকেই।

মন টেকে না ঘরেতে আর

বিকেল বেলায়।

চরণ যুগল নামলো পথে

বিকেল বেলায়।

দূরের থেকে ঐ দেখি,সে দাঁড়িয়ে মাঠে

বিকেল বেলায়।

আমরা দুজন

মুখোমুখি দাঁড়িয়ে আছি,

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

বুকের রক্তে উঠলো প্লাবন,

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

হঠাৎ হাওয়া বইলো

তাহার এলো চুলে।

উদাস সুরে

প্রেয়সী মোর বললো কানে,

"এত বছর কোথায় ছিলেন?"

ডুবু ডুবু সূর্য তখন।

চারিদিকে নামছে আঁধার ধীরে ধীরে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

উদাস মনে হৃদয়খানা

বিছিয়ে দিলাম অশথ তলে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

আমার প্রিয়া একা অশথ

দাঁড়িয়ে আছে একাই মাঠে,

সূর্য গেছে অস্তাচলে।

বিশ্ব যখন ঘুমের ঘোরে অচৈতন‍্য

আমার বুকে সহস্রদল রক্তে ভেজা

মধ‍্যরাতে।

দাঁড়িয়ে আছি মাঠের মধ্যে অশথ তলে

মধ্য রাতে।

আকাশ তখন কাঁদছে অঝোর

মধ‍্যরাতে।

About the poet

Born to father Rakhal Chandra Maiti ,a dedicated freedom fighter who was a student of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and Dr. Rajendra Prasad ,the first President of free India .Captivated in British jail for three times. His ancestral residential building was set on fire by British police. In recognition he got a copper plate and freedom fighter's pension in 1972 ,the silver jubilee year of India's freedom .

Mother Binapani Maiti also actively participated in the freedom movement in Calcutta as a school girl in the great freedom fighter Chittaranjan Das's sister Urmila Devi's historic School "Nari Shiksha Mandir" under the financial support of the great   Gandhian Industrialist and freedom fighter Jamnalal Bajaj and ages of Basanti Devi, wife of Chittaranjan Das. 

Birth :

Born in 1949, 25th April at village Tajpur on Midnapore-- contai State highway. Went to village primary school. For middle school he went to a hostel in a famous Basic School for three years, class 5 ,6,7 in 1960 to 1962. Joined in Contai town, Contai Kshetra Mohan Vidya Bhavan .Passed Higher Secondary ,class 11 in 1967. 

Joined Kala Bhavan, Shantiniketan, Visva Bharati University founded by Rabindranath Tagore ,in 1968. Studied there for 5 years. Completed B.Fine 

( Bachelor of Fine Arts) in 1973 .Got great sculptor Ramkinkar Baij, Vinod Bihari Mukhopadhyay, Srimati Gauri Bhanja,daughter of Shilpacharya Nandalal Bose, as teachers .Had affectionate relations with Somnath Hore, Dinkar Kaushik, Nanigopal Ghosh,Sukhamoy Mitra etc .Joined part time Rabindra Sangeet course in Sangeet Bhavan under teacher Nimai Chand Baral. Learned Esraj from Nirmal Chandra Nandini of Bishnupur gharana,Learned Rabindra Sangeet from Biren Palit, Shanti Dev Ghosh ,Nilima Sen ,Manju Bandopadhyay. Fine arts, music, dance ,cultural environment and the unique nature of Santiniketan overflooded his being .

Service life:

 Joined Anjuman- I- Islam Panchgani High School. (presently Public School) a residential school at Panchgani,a beautiful hill station in the Western Ghat, Maharashtra in 1973 .In a short span of service life over here he was so much overwhelmed with the ever changing colours of the hills from don to dusk and his first batch of loving students, some of them were from UAE,  Iran,South Africa, Mauritius, Afghanistan, Pakistan etc that he wrote a touchy memoir of hisWestern Ghat days," I Western Ghat, and a God-child in Bengali as "আমি,পশ্চিম ঘাট ও একটি দেব শিশু'. Next year in 1974 he joined Grasim Vidya Mandir (a Gwalior Rayon and Silk Manufacture company school) at Nagda, Madhya Pradesh.Another dream sequence of his service life on the Chambal river in the beautiful Chambal Valley and the beautiful Malwa plateau with brooks and lakes( talaos) and vast terrain and basins of black soil and corn and cotton fields.He got so much love and respect here that forty four years after he left Nagda numerous students and parents from all over the world are connected with him still today.Left Nagda in 1978.

 The latest and longest chapter of service life:

 Joined Sainik School Purulia, West Bengal in 1978 and lived there till retirement in 2009. For thirty one years he lived with students of ten  years to eighteen years of age. Sometimes a devastatingly sick child lived with him in his bed.Thus his students became part of his life and converted him into anything they wished. They converted the Art teacher into a science teacher and  Indranil Biswas (presently Colonel I. Biswas) under his guidance got the coveted Science Seminar award consecutively in 1980 and 81. Gagan Bhardwaj (presently Additional District Magistrate, District- Chhapra, Bihar) with his Hindi write ups and under his guidance won first prize consecutively three years in All India Sainik Schools Hindi essay competition.

In the boundless open nature, flora and fauna and endless crystal clear night sky overhead in Sainik School he became an amateur astronomer, ornithologist, entomologist, poet,writing poetry in Bengali Hindi and English, lyricist and music composer.He is the lyricist and composer of the school song in English "Oh our Sainik School, Purulia Sainik School".

 Family life:

 Lived day in and day out for seventeen years with students as  bachelor  before he married in 1990 at 41 years of age. 

He has a small family of three members.Wife Kumkum Maiti is B.Sc.B.H.M.S, a homeopathy doctor and an ardent lover and great appreciator and first reader and critic of all his writings, may it be a poetry or a prose. In her school days she was the editor of the school magazine.

Son Sthitadhi is a Jagadish Bose National Science Talent Search scholar and an IITian, is pursuing Ph.D in chemistry in Arizona State University USA. Also a good singer , a member and the only Indian singer of the   university choir.

 Achievements as a writer :

First published poetry at the age of 11 years. Got first prize in an open to all classes essay competition on Rabindra Nath Tagore's 'Dakghar' in class Nine. His Bengali write ups got various prizes at different levels of essay competitions. His Bengali poems had been published in many little magazines.

Poet cherishes one  with awe. The little magazine "পতঞ্জলি"published one of his Bengali poems along with a poem of the great Bengali poet Jay Goswami.One of his English poems "The Twilight tryst" had been published in America in an online journal "Indian Periodical" in its 13th June 2021 number. It's a unique coincidence that the very poem was also written on the same subject, the same solitary peepal tree.

The Poet says he does not write poems .Poems themselves come to him. He only gracefully welcomes and captures them in his diary. Poems are like divine guests to him and writing poems are like divine induction and inspiration coming down from heaven on to him.

ମହାନଦୀକୁ ବିଚିତ୍ର ସମୟର ଡ଼ାକ | Sibu Kumar Das

The following poem by Sibu Kumar Das won the second prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

ଏ ସମୟ ବଡ ବିଚିତ୍ର,

ପ୍ରଶ୍ନ କରେ;

କାହାର ଏ ଜଙ୍ଗଲ,ନଦୀ ଓ ପର୍ବତ ?

ଅପାରଗ ମଣିଷ ଭିଇଲାଣି ସର୍ତ୍ତ ।

ସେ କହେ ମୋ’ର,

ମୁଁ କହେ ମୋ’ର,

ନଦୀ ମୋ’ର, ନଦୀ ମୋ’ର;

ପ୍ରକୃତିର ଦାନ,

କେ କରିବ ଆନ

ହୁଅନ୍ତୁ ସେ ପ୍ରବୀଣ ବା ନବୀନ ?

ଅକାତରେ ଯଦି ବହି ନପାରିଲୁ,

ଯେହୁଁ ଜଳ ହିଁ ଜୀବନ ଖର;

ତହୁଁ ମହାନଦୀ ନୁହ,

ତୁ ଏକ ସାଧାରଣ ଶୁଷ୍କ ଧାର ।

ମହୋଦଧି ମୋ’ର ମହାନଦୀ !

ସମୟର ଡ଼ାକ,

ମୋ’ ମନ୍ତ୍ର କୁହୁକ

କଳକଳ ତୁ, ଦୁଃଖତାପ ହରି ବହିଯା;

ମହୋଦଧି ମୋ’ର ମହାନଦୀ !

ଗଡଜାତ ପାଣି,

ଜୀବନକୁ ଠାଣି

ଦିଲଦାରିଆ ତୁ, ଦରିଆ କୁ ବେଗ ବହିଯା ।

About the poet

Sibu Kumar Das (b 1956) is a 1978 Post-Graduate in English Literature from Utkal University. After a brief stint as a lecturer in colleges in Odisha, he joined a Public-sector bank as a Probationary Officer. He retired from his service in bank in 2016 and has been spending his time in reading and writing. He reads and writes in English, Odia, Bengali and Hindi. He has been occasionally published in magazines and newspapers. Literature has been his life-long passion, starting from his days in school.

তুমি আমার প্রভু | Spondon Ganguli

The following poem by Spondon Ganguli won the third prize in Regional Category of Wingword Poetry Competition 2022

তোমার বিচরণ ত্রিভুবনে।

আকাশ গঙ্গা তোমার পথ।

আমি স্তব্ধ তোমার ব্যাপ্তি দেখে।

আমি অবাক তোমার করুণায়।।

তোমার আদেশে আমার স্থানান্তরণ লোক হতে লোকে।

কালে কালে তুমি দেখিয়েছ পথ, তবু পথভ্রষ্ট আমি!

আমার এই ছোট্ট হৃদয় করেছি উপলদ্ধি তোমায়।

সেই জ্ঞানে আমার হৃদয় যাচ্ছে পুড়ে।।

আমার আমি যাচ্ছে মিলায়ে যেমন গলে সোনা আগুনে।

আজ আমি শুদ্ধ সেই আগুনে পুড়ে।

আজ আমি পবিত্র তোমার বারি ধারায়।

আমি তৈরি জবাব দিতে, সব অপরাধের জন্য।।

About the poet

Spondon Ganguli presently working as an educator in M. C. Kejriwal Vidyapeeth, a renowned and reputed English medium school in Howrah and Kolkata under CISCE affiliation. He started his career as an educator in ICT in 2000 and worked in various schools, both ICSE and CBSE, across the country.
He is a lifelong learner with a zest for experimenting and learning new things. Apart from teaching computer science and programming, he is an author and started his journey of authorship in the year 2019. Some of his work were published in online magazines – The Thinking Pen, Hatpakha, and Channdam. Apart from this, his work are also a part of anthologies across the globe – Letters Here to hereafter, The Great Indian Anthology (Volume 3), Memories of Food (A collective anthology 2021), Indian Poetry Review (Classical) Award 2021. He is the author of three books to date. First poetry book titled ‘Forgotten Love Unforgotten Love,’ as his first solo work in literature, and the other two fictions—Let Me Hold Your Hand (English) Phira Asha (in Bengali). He won the third prize in the prestigious Wingword Competition 2022 in the regional category for his poem and traveled to Delhi to accept the award.

Interview with Gopi Kottoor

Gopi Kottoor is the third prize winner of Wingword Poetry Prize 2020. He is a poet living in Trivandrum, Kerala. We interviewed him to find out about his writing journey.

Interviewer: What is the inspiration behind your poetry?

Gopi: My childhood was spent in Kerala, where nature is abundant. The real life experiences of my day to day life such as climbing the lemon tree in my backyard or exploring an old haunted house filled with termites prompted me to pick up the pen.

Later my father printed my first book of poems in order to encourage me. I was also introduced to a professional writer who helped me develop my craft with strong criticism. He would strike out 18/20 lines. This helped me understand what works in a poem and what doesn’t.

I soon realized that a poem is never finished; it is only abandoned. An idea which appears in childhood may come back even 15 years later.

Interviewer: How did you come about to write ‘Father’s Shirt’- the winning poem for Wingword Poetry Prize?

Gopi: While my father was in coma, I revisited my child memories surrounding my father as it was a really emotional time. The poem comprises images around his belly and the wire with his hanging shirt.

Interviewer: What advice would you like to offer budding writers?

Gopi: Reading and observation is essential for any poet. When you read poetry, you will learn how to explore your own voice. Poet is the director of his voice. So you must read, write, explore and experience.

Also, you need to know when to cut and revise a poem. Four out of five poems one writes need not be published.

Poetry is a private journey which will become public later. Keeping that in mind, one must think about what will be the effect of the work on the reader? Will it stir shock or surprise? This should be the aim. After all, writing is about making the ordinary extraordinary.

About the Poet

Gopikrishnan Kottoor has won  major prizes for poetry such as the All India Poetry Prize (Poetry Society, India) and the All India Special Jury Prize (Poetry Society, India, and The British Council).  He has also won several other prizes and nominations for his poetry . His poems have appeared in magazines of repute both in India and abroad such as The Illustrated Weekly of India, Opinion , Debonair, Kavya Bharati, Chandrabhaga, Economic and Political Times, The Hindu, Thought, Quest,  Indian Literature, Nth position, UK, Orbis, UK, Mud Season review, USA, North west quarterly USA, Toronto Review, Arabesques, Plaza Japan, Chiaroscuro UK, and others.

His poetry has been translated and published in German , Hindi , Sinhalese, and the Chinese.

His poetry has featured in anthologies such as Verse Seattle,

Bloodaxe book of Contemporary  Indian poetry in English,The Golden Jubilee Anthology of Indian Poetry in English, Shakespeare Sonnets, Lie of the Land, Sahitya Akademi, and others.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor   was India Guest at the University of Vienna , Austria, and an ICCR  nominee for the Foreign Poets Seminar in  Tagore Centre, Berlin,Germany.  

His major poetry titles include the highly regarded poem sequence,    Father, Wake us in Passing  (Translated into German, and published in Germany), Mother Sonata, A Buchenwald Diary,Victoria Terminus, Tell Me, Neruda, The Painter of Evenings, Descent  Vrindavan  The coloured Yolk of love http://gopikottoor.blogspot.com (Radha-krishna poems), Father Benedict Goes to Heaven, My Blue Alzheimier's Sky, Reflections in Silhouette, Tell me Neruda, and ‘My dear Tsunami and other Poems, among others.

His novels are ‘A Bridge Over Karma, Chilanka, the Anklet ,Hill House, Wander(A child's fantasy)and Presumed Guilty, on the life and loves of the fashion designer Anand John.

His dramatic works include ‘ The Mask of Death' ( The final Days of the poet  John Keats), Fire in the Soul  (The life of the Nationalist poet Subramania Bharati), A woman in Flames, and The Nectar of the Gods,( The life and execution of the Beatified Devasahayam, a soldier in the army of King Marthanda Varma, Tiruvitamkur. Gopi Kottoor made his debut in Malayalam with ‘Jesus Pearl' Yesumuthu, a re-working of his ‘Nectar of the Gods’  based on the life of the beatified Devasahsyam, to much critical acclaim.

He has translated Kukoka's Rati Rahasya and Poontanam.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor has been a poetry reviewer for The Hindu Lit Supplement. His poetry reviews and articles have been featured in Malayalam Manorama Online (Guest writer), Deccan Herald ,  Deccan Chronicle, The Hindu, New English Quarterly, UK, I mantra, Kavya Bharati  and The Economic and Political weekly.

Gopikrishnan Kottoor founded Poetry Chain which, with Dr. Paniker as a mentoring spirit was one of the earliest poetry association for English poetry from Trivandrum  Kerala . Its journal with a pan Indian spectrum had an uninterrupted run for  twenty years . It first published and brought to light many of the poets now in mainstream Indian English Poetry. It worked in association with Poetry Society, India,and on its own to discover new talent with The Poetry Chain-Poetry Society(India) awards, Father  Wake us in passing Poetry Prize, The Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize,  The  Young Talent School Poetry Awards and the Harish Govind Memorial Poetry Prize.

Gopi Kottoor has edited two books of Indian Poetry in English ,‘A New Book of Indian Poems in English’ and ‘ Living Poetry ‘ Seven Contemporary  English Poets from Kerala.

He presently edits a newly launched poetry e-zine, www.chipmunk.co.in. Poetry submissions may be sent to chipmunkitnow21@gmail.com

Gopi Kottoor lives in Trivandrum, Kerala .He can be contacted at gopikottoor@gmail.com .Mobile 91 9567424832.

Interview with Zarin Virji

Zarin Virji is the second prize winner of Wingword Poetry Competition 2020. She is a writer and educator. We interviewed her to find out about her writing journey.

Interviewer: The winning poem which was selected by the jury ‘The Killing Fields’ is a bold and provocative poem interlinking violence, caste hierarchy and the normalization of rape culture in our society. Could you tell us about the inspiration behind the poem?

Zarin: The case of a seventeen year old girl’s rape in Uttar Pradesh set me thinking about gender equation. Often when we hear about such horrific incidents in the news, we feel frustrated and rattled. But soon, we move on and forget about them. The poem captures this very thought.

Interviewer: As an educator who has been teaching for over three decades, do you feel that writing is a skill which can be learned? Or is it what one may call, a natural talent?

Zarin: I would say writing is a blend of both. It is not just a skill but an innate calling towards expressing oneself. An idea sprouts up almost simultaneously and nothing can be done until it is penned down.

A liking or inclination towards language must naturally be there in order to be a writer. But of course, the techniques which refine one’s writing can be learned.

Interviewer: What advice would you like to share with other writers?

Zarin: The most important thing to remember is to be original. Be yourself. What makes a writer’s work shine is the unique perspective which he or she offers about even the ordinary.

One of my recent poems, 'It's in the air', emerged just like this. My bedroom window overlooks my neighbour's garden. During the pandemic, this garden offered me peace and relaxation. However, my neighbour, a dear friend, who had nurtured this garden, was fighting a losing battle against cancer during the same time. I have tried to situate her pain and the inevitability of death in our shared surroundings.

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About Zarin Virji

Zarin Virji is a graduate of the creative writing programme from the University of Sheffield, UK. For over three decades she has played the role of a teacher, teacher trainer and head of school. 

Teaching and writing are her twin passions. From 1996 to 2006, she served as the executive editor of the journal, ‘Classroom’, a safe space for all matters related to education. At present, she heads an international school called ‘The Universal School’ in Mumbai.

Her writing is as much about expressing spontaneous feeling as it is about grappling with socio-economic realities of our times. Her poetry and short stories have been featured in 'The Research Scholar', 'Route 57', 'The Best Asian Short Stories, 2018' and 'The Wire’ Her first book, ‘Gopal’s Gully’ was published by Duckbill Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House India, in February 2021.

An ode to two girls | Karmishtha Krishna

The following poem by Karmishtha Krishna from Pune was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

This is not a poem.

It is a vivid memory of two girls from 2004

One nearly five, the other nearly six

One with a bob cut, the other with a tight oily braid

One who hated going to school

And the other, who never had a chance to.

One was me, the other was our helper’s daughter

We spent our days

Dancing around a white wooden table on a green grassy lawn

Nurturing a friendship that was too difficult for others to imagine.

 ‘Two polar opposite DNA strands can’t helix up together’, they said

‘Those who can afford new clothes every month mingle only amongst themselves’, they said

And so, she began to mingle with only those

To whom the fortunate ones donated their old clothes

And so, I gradually stopped sitting by the glass window

Waiting for her to come by holding her mother’s old, ripped saree

Waiting for her mother to salute mine and watch the mothers scowl

As we galloped to our little corner -

But before I knew it, it was all over.

I moved on and made new friends every dusk

And began sipping from porcelain teacups

And she, was sent to Nepal

For a more ‘disciplined’ upbringing

And sadly, I have nothing more to recall.

But this, is not a poem.

It is a painful memory of two friends from 2004

Who were scarred by differences in privilege

Which I, a child of the gentry refused to remember

Until I heard that she’d come back in 2018.

And I ran to the glass window once again

To get just a glimpse of my long-lost friend

And there she was.

Brown and beautiful as ever, with her tight oily braid

I saw the child in her alive

The little fingers tightly grasping an old, ripped saree

But wait –

It wasn’t her smile, it was her child’s.

She was now a mother.

Let me remind you -  that this, is not a poem.

It is a memory of two coming of age girls from 2018

I, who carried the weight of board exams

And cribbed about the heavy burden

And she, who carried the weight of a baby and an abusive husband

And silently swallowed all her pain

This is a memory of the day

When two childhood friends met after fourteen years

Through a glass window

That somehow didn’t shatter that day -

With screams that echo

When they cross each other in the colony even today

Without a smile, or a word.

You see, this is not just a poem.

This is an ode to two girls from 2004

Way before one of them

Was any different from the other.

Creator and the Creation | Abhinav Shukla

The following poem by Abhinav Shukla from Saharanpur, UP was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The creator created man in his image,

I have been told.

The way I see it,

The man created the creator in his own,

A warm rendition of light,

Was the answer of man,

To the dark, perpetual cold.

A drug that leaves my senses numb,

To the finite that I am,

Confronting infinity.

A shelter that I built,

Out of figments of my incoherent dreams,

For myself in eternity.

The creator created creation in his image,

Was the story I was told,

The creation created the creator,

To its convenience,

Is the belief I hold.

Battered on the ground was creation,

Inching to get back on its feet,

A fiction was created thus,

Beyond itself,

An ideal beautiful,

And convenient to believe.

Born out of heathens,

Nurtured by the mortals,

Is God,

An immortal art.

A touch of insane,

A hint of chaos,

To preserve sanity,

To bring harmony,

In the forsaken homes,

And the broken hearts.

Why did the creation create the creator?

Is the question I am asked,

After burning in hell,

An answer I bring unto you, at last.

The man created God,

In an image that was his own

For he was brave enough,

To know his destiny,

And coward so much,

That he succumbed,

To the fear of unknown.

He carved God out of his heart,

To be engraved on the stone,

The path of the devil then,

He embraced all alone.

You can tell a lot about a man,

From the God he worships,

For the sins he committed,

Stay forever in his heart,

Confessions of his murders,

Mumbling on the edge of his throat,

Almost on his lips.

The man created God,

To bear his unbearable guilt.

His dreams are cursed to an eternity,

With the sights of those he killed.

The stains and screams haunt him,

From the blood that was spilled.

To atone for the graves of his victims,

Were the churches and temples built.

Malum in se | Sneha Hegde

The following poem by Sneha Hegde from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It’s a chilly winter morning.

The town is still asleep,

in contrast with my bustling mind.

My breath makes tiny wisps of mist as I shiver,

and I pull my coat closer to my body.

As I do, I feel the broken bottle shard

resting in my pocket,

and I wonder if I’ll ever have to use it again,

the way I did last night.

I stand in front of the sprawling building,

feeling rather small,

as men and women in khaki uniforms

move about, tending to their duties.

I ask myself if they’ll ever be able to help me,

as cases like mine, although common,

tend to never reach them, and instead,

are swallowed by the stigma that surrounds them.

Even now, I can’t help but to think of the shame and guilt

that would be thrust upon me by the prying eyes of society,

if my intentions were to become known.

They wouldn’t accept me, they’d be ashamed of me.

I jolt out of my thoughts and shake my head.

As I turn to leave, head lowered,

my eyes fall upon the ring on my finger, and I feel trapped.

This could destroy everything that ring means.

At the same time, I remember why I’m here.

All the motivation rushes back to me, and my resolve hardens.

I need justice. We all need justice.

I cautiously make my way inside, to the man behind the desk,

his badge and medals displayed proudly across his shirt.

I lean over to shake his hand,

and he notices the scratches all along my forearm.

I close my eyes,

and begin to recount the harrowing experience of last night,

how I was pinned down, the weight of his body cracking my ribcage,

how I can still taste the gag that prevented me from screaming,

how every inch of my body was explored while silent tears trickled down my cheeks,

how I tried to push him off, but all I got was a slap to the face,

how I was shoved aside when it was over,

all by myself, with only my thoughts

and the sheet that covered me,

how I was scared and all alone…

As I relive the last of it, I open my eyes,

expecting to see the outrage on his face.

He says nothing for a second,

then to my dismay, begins to laugh, his belly heaving with the effort.

“Madam, you say he is your husband.

Then how can it be rape?”

His words echo in my mind as I make my way back home,

fighting back tears, and I’m barely able to digest it.

My hands tremble as I unlock the front door,

only to see the bottle shards still all over the floor,

and him sitting on the bed, with his head bandaged,

leering at me, knowing there’s nothing I can do to escape.

My eyes fall upon the ring on my finger,

and I feel trapped.

“Section 375, Exception 2”

An Indian Tragedy | Satish Pendharkar

The following poem by Satish Pendharkar from Mumbai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Can you blame Laxmichandra and Babita

For not having possessed

Prescience in adequate measure to foresee

The nightmare that was looming large?

Their solitary child Avinash was dying.

However, they had pinned their hopes

On the monuments of Super Speciality -

The Taj Mahals of Medical Hospitality.

Shuttling from one hospital to another,

Begging that their sinking son be saved;

Racing through streets - their ambulance’s siren

Muffling the pitiful wails of their lad.

Yet everywhere encountering the trauma

Of doors being slammed on their faces.

The cruel discovery: One is an outcast

In a city one regards as one’s own.

The caring hands that readily caress,

Cuddle, calm and coddle the affluent

And the influential – those very hands

Often crush the spirit of the multitudes.

Their boy on the verge of the precipice,

They saw Hippocratic Oath-takers

Turn hypocrites to shut them out, realizing -

 When one’s untitled, one’s not entitled.

Deflated, they resumed their leather-hunt

Finally finding an oasis in the desert.

Soon thereafter, calamity struck

Snuffing out the flickering candle.

The ruthless world yet continued

To extract from them a further price;

For what greater sorrow can visit one

Than one having to bury one’s only child

Feeling awfully lonely, utterly hopeless

And terribly guilty, they stared hard

At the gaping ground below before tying

Their hands together to take the final plunge.

“It’s nobody’s fault” they had written.

Incorrect. For, we as a nation failed them.

So, what plans have we – acts of atonement,

To ensure their deaths have not gone in vain?

lassi, aam panna | Amrisha Sinha

The following poem by Amrisha Sinha from Gurugram was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

curled fists fuse themselves

into the warmth

of clipped grass,

tension easing into loose soil.

inhaling the empty wind

of hell’s own kitchen fire,

you welcome it in.

it’s the wilting of lungs

you crave now.

a year ago,

when cool artificial air

saved you from twig-like

fingers and chins,

when the soft whistle

of a laugh was the only air

you wanted to breathe in.

closed doors, dark curtains,

reflective glass

and khus injected lassis

- a small incubator

for your open mouths

and his gentle sway.

now you listen

to the crackling of dried mint leaves

above glasses of aam panna,

hoping you could avenge

your lost innocence,

your past ignorance.

while the sun illuminates

your corpse,

you wish

you didn’t know

what it meant

to feel smothered

while breathing

virgin air.

The 6:12 News | Lawrence Fray

The following poem by Lawrence Fray from Gurugram was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Covid keeps us apart.

When permitted, going out is an adventure

With masks and latex gloves.

We must remember to keep our distance,

Not to gather in groups;

When queuing, to maintain a gap of two metres.

Not to touch surfaces

And to go home without delay. Even better

To stay indoors unless

We have good reason or in an emergency

Forcing us to travel.

So our days unravel.

The days are hot, humid;

We look up expectantly at the Delhi sky

For the weather to break

And the beautiful rain to fall and bring relief

From the oppressive heat.

Those who can, pray; a few believe, everyone hopes.

So it has always been.

Power cuts are more frequent as we stay confined,

Cut off in a war zone,

Besieged by a foe that does not discriminate,

That shows no prejudice:

Everyone's nemesis.

Heavy clouds oppress us

The air is still, the leaves on the trees mutely beg,

Their palms open, waiting.

The stifling heat oppresses, Covid stalks the land:

Unholy alliance

That sweeps people from the streets and sometimes from life,

Keeping us trapped in fear.

It is clear we cannot return to former days.

Complacency has gone;

We live in a locked down world of uncertainty.

Now we must change our lives:

Needs must as devil drives.

We do not meet with friends,

Family and colleagues; we stay in touch by phone.

The ceiling fans circle,

Cleaving the palpable air, mindlessly spinning.

We remain in our shelters

And wait for the All Clear signal that does not come

Like the absent showers.

We need to refine and redefine once normal

Parameters of life,

Redraw the maps by which we navigated years

In accustomed fashion:

With post-Covid passion.

The monsoon rains are late;

The grey sky withholds it's blessings from the parched ground

While the plague stalks about;

A dystopian vision made reality.

Fake news proliferates;

There are opinions, discussions, talks and debates,

But there are no answers.

The decision makers, those who have influence,

Responsibility,

Are often seen washing their hands. They sanitise,

While we must watch and wait:

We should recalibrate.

Unholy Women | Madhu Shruti Mukherjee

The following poem by Madhu Shruti Mukherjee from Kolkata was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

“Why are you touching it?” cried Ma from afar.

She came hurriedly to the altar

And snatched the idol from me.

“Don’t you know?

Bleeding women can’t touch God.

Bleeding women are considered unholy.”

That made me think-

This wasn’t the first time I heard the word

It was echoed at cousin Rita’s wedding.

They blamed her

For not bleeding on the wedding night

And cursed her for the unholiness spreading.

Which reminds me- not very long ago

I had offered alms to a woman

And shaken her hand when Baba pulled me back.

“These aren’t real women!” he cried.

“These are just men dressed up.

Don’t ever touch anyone from this unholy pack!”

And only yesterday

We cremated my sister who died

From the grief of bearing an unholy daughter.

Her in-laws blamed her

For being unable to gift them a son

They simply couldn’t put their family name up for slaughter.

I realized I had been lost for some time.

So I handed the idol back to Ma

And asked her to look at me.

"Don't you know?

Bleeding or not-no matter who we are

We women were born unholy."

the things we keep | Pritika Rao

The following poem by Pritika Rao from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

a monkey slips his fingers into the leather bag

strapped onto a black motorbike

that belongs to a man who is taking photographs of the mountainside

the culvert is sprayed with blood-red paan

the graffiti of the poor

the green shrubs have plastic debris beneath them

stacked like glistening Christmas presents

a few ripe jackfruits hang from the trees

while some weaklings have broken and split in the carpet of dried leaves

a stray nail from the plank of wood

digs into my thigh

as I place my order with a middle aged lady in a patterned cotton nightie

we receive two cups of coffee

that taste like diluted jaggery

and a plate of pillowy idlis drowning in sambar

we watch as a stray dog just escapes

the raging wrath of a bleating van

and barks defensively as it disappears around the bend

the lady rushes to survey the commotion

and we all collectively offer the dog our quiet support

satisfied, he proceeds on his journey

the monkey has gone

the man returns to his bike

he picks up a spectacle case and ratty keychain

from the damp mud

and rides off into the cool evening

as we all re-settle into a state of calm,

something catches the light in the distance

the monkey tries on his new pair of neon sunglasses.

anxiety. poetry? | Aditi Upadhyaya

The following poem by Aditi Upadhyaya from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I feel anxiety in my right foot

in the middle of conversations

at the dinner table

doing my laundry

solving an equation

my right foot starts shaking

suddenly, abruptly

and I have to excuse myself

I graze my fingers over my palms

I count the number of things I can see

I wanted to write a poem

on my anxiety

in the hopes it will make me feel better

less anxious, even

i am trying so hard to make this poetic

but we can’t romanticise this

my anxiety is not poetic

it is deadly, scary, dangerous

it is not sacred, not beautiful

so the next time

my right foot starts shaking

and I run away to graze

my fingers over my palms

I will just remind myself

these are the same hands

that bleed poetry

anxiety is not poetry

but my hands are

and I will keep telling this to myself

until either my anxiety goes away; or becomes poetry

Nail | Anshu Pandey

The following poem by Anshu Pandey from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

There's a tiny crack on my nail.

"I've fought with my anxieties

To nurture this beauty. No, I won't cut it."

So I shaped it an almond leaving a tinier crack intact.

There's a tinier crack on my nail.

Days pass by and my silly self feels I've fixed the problem.

I go about my regular business but

Whenever I pass my hands through my hair,

A strand of hair gets stuck in the crack.

Again.

And again.

There's a bigger crack on my nail.

That day in the shower,

Completely unaware, my nail broke

And got lost with the irreversible running water.

There I have it. A broken nail.

Why did this nail break?

Why did it need fixing?

The nail on the wall is quite sturdy,

The one that has kept the clock stuck to the wall.

But then it's just a broken nail.

What about the other brokenness?