From the Editor’s Desk

It is the 8th of March, universally celebrated as the International Women's Day. There are many questions that arise in our minds as we celebrate this day, perhaps because it still comes with a lot of baggage. As we move towards a gender fluid world today, one would have thought that the problems concerning women would be a downhill slide. And yet, women in Iran continue to protest about the Hijab, while Dalit women continue to be raped without justice. The question one must ask perhaps is, have the struggles changed? Are our fights better, more relevant to progress instead of survival?

Jacinta Kerketta, poet and Adivasi activist, in her interview to me summed it up rather beautifully, when I asked her what she thought women in this country needed the most today. Kerketta says, 'knowing oneself, understanding one’s circumstances and one’s dreams, that is important for us as women. Since childhood, women are taught about others. They are taught about the house, the family, society, state, country, tradition, religion- the only thing they are not taught about, is themselves.'

Our March issue is by women, and comprimes of pieces by an all women team of writers, poets and essayists. Annette Higgs writes for us, an essay titled 'Starting Late - Reflections on becoming a Writer'. This sensitively done piece, covers the dreams, ambitions and realities of a middle aged writer, who while keeping her dreams alive doesn't deny the realities of being a middle aged writer.'Broken Glass' by Anjali Venugopal, opens up a robust section of short fiction with the chilling and unexpected tale of a mother-daughter relationship. As for the poets, we have a beautiful and vibrant selection of poetry. Esther Sadoff writes in her poem 'We Wear names like Bracelets'.

Names like earrings,
like perfume dotted behind each ear.
Names come and go like seasons,
names paired together like ingredients.
The room is crowded with possibilities.
I pretend to know how to laugh,
give a knowing quip,
to say It was all a joke,
I wasn't even trying,
That wasn't even me,
In dreams, I am always opening
someone else's locker.
My name stays in my own mouth.
I say it over and over until it means something.

To all of you who celebrate a woman today, love them and cherish them, A happy International Women's Day

Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury
Managing Editor, The Bangalore Review

Specials

TBR Interviews Jacinta Kerketta

Our editor interviews Jacinta Kerketta, poet, writer, activist and freelance journalist.

Poetry

How to wear gingham shirts, like a 10-month-old

realizing it also has a pocket, wondering what a ten
month old would keep inside.
gazing at the blueberry stain as I vacantly rub a wet
Q tip over it, again.

Non-Fiction

Starting Late – Reflections on becoming a Writer

The author shares her reflections on becoming a writer and the tussle between self-publishing and traditional publishing.

Featured Works

Poetry

Five Poems by Esther Sadoff

We are this and this and this, cinders flaming like lighthouses enveloped by fog, someone tripping in the yard, someone stumbling through the door.

Non-Fiction

Honey Balm

The author weaves a telling tale out of a a complex fusion of honey, mountains, lungs, honeycombs, childhood memories and falling stars.

Fiction

My Huckleberry Friend

He smiled with a calm demeanor. When I looked at Sandeep, I saw that he was at peace with his thoughts. Here’s a man satisfied at making decisions with his heart. The sun was setting at the horizon, and his soft features were bathed in the twilight. I envied Sandeep.

Poetry

youse

I think slowly, with the deliberation I need to follow through sounds, not drop silverware.When I open my mouth, the oh sound doesn't ah, remains round.

Fiction

The Women Who Wear Black Hats

Most of them were women. Sometimes a man would join them, if he had known the deceased. This was always exciting; most of the women were widows. Mary’s husband was the latest to go, last July sixth. His name had been Carl, and his funeral was a good one.

Poetry

A Nemo amongst the anemones

The clear blue of the ocean deep swam in. And then out. The salt dissolved the knots in my stomach.

Fiction

Nasima

The next morning, I found Zakaria and, by the afternoon, Nasima was in my flat swabbing the floors in a green sari. She was dark and thin with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes that sparked. She told me she was twenty-five, a year my senior. She had three children and a husband who peddled a cycle rickshaw.

Poetry

It is (just)

ah, here is the robin (Just) here, the wren (Just) the sharp tongue of the irises (Just) the velvet bud (Just) Light and Earth (Just)

Fiction

Broken Glass

In my room, the shadows were lifting with the promise of a brand-new day. My head pounded. The rest of the dreadful things that I could have said to my mother was stuck in my chest with no release or room. I spoke this way to no one else. I took a deep breath.

Poetry

Taxidermy

For finding yourself in collisions You did not choose. You could not avoid. The Flesh around the cleaved frame

Fiction

The Caul

Before her unexpected death, one for the books, really, my mother aimed for fancy. She smelled like musky southern roses. She exuded beauty, with her violet eyes — Elizabeth Taylor eyes — and skin soft as peaches. And yet, all the while, something unkind coursed through her, and I could not tell you why. Was it the town?

Poetry

Safar/Dust in the wind

Holy darvish, Shams-i-perende, Kāmil-i-Tabrīzī — I had not known then that I had been looking for you.

Non-Fiction

King’s Cross

The author writes of a night's experience replete with classical music, a cup of chai and nostalgia.