☛ Submission for October, 2024 issue (Vol. 5, No. 2) is going on. The last date for submission is 30 September, 2024.





-         Nandini Sahu (India)


Making you the resolution of life, I am clueless now

about my own sense of the word ‘purpose’.

If I think anything at all, the thoughts are just on matters of the heart.


Isn’t it fascinating to paradigm the character of a woman

who has no life beyond? The theory of this poem is—

I have presented my life to you. Presenting the elemental woman


to the man who is he-knows-what-he-is! Though

this must be ‘normal’ in some world elsewhere. ‘Me’ in this story

is a missing female character on days of your choice—given subjectivity.


I disappear without a trace, you see!

Of late I am too interested in missing characters.

I find myself as in a soliloquy, talking aloud!


“Look! Look at yourself looking at Whatsapp, social media and

at that house-dress he left in your wardrobe, and his half-finished Beer

in your portico, and look at the right side of your bed!


Look at the plates he likes to eat in or the glasses he likes to drink in.

Look at your slightly swollen under eyes and the nose-pin or

the dot on your forehead. Look how some lives are a prolongedsinch!


On missing-days, look how you experiment with left-over food

from the refrigerator and with ill-fitting fabrics.

Look how he prefers one disagreeable over another disagreeable.


Look at your enviable profession, the fine books that you yield,

and your manicured neat hands, remembering some other obnoxious.

Look how freakily free he is, living multiple lives!


Look how he is having two strong legs and yet a Merman’s tail too—

he is actually having it all!” Except that I pretend unhappy, but am content

and you are not, yet you envisage to be gratified.


You have given me a critique of seclusion, this is melancholy

rather than depression. Sadness rather than despair.

I no more weep alone in the kitchen on missing-days


and no longer put up a social face.

I make-believe to be baffled by the many lovers

who come and go through this revolving door.



I tell myself--- I have to be likeable; well, I am exceptionally accomplished at it!

I, thus, am incredibly liked by one and all. I apologize

my unrequited lovers for my want of wanting them convenient.


But this is another life, like exactly what I want.

Carrying the old playhouse inside me

all my life, very heavy though, I am willing now to let it go.


Nay, let me stop here. What is the point of

writing a poem that makes one chuckle and shed a tear or two!

What is the need to make heartstrings on hand! “Look, change the mood!”


I have been very taken with this Jasmine Itar, its erotic fragrance,

a bit of warm and harsh. I look at the narcissism of love

pulling my heartstrings way too hard; now I want to extinct.