If alone a thought could float around us, appear and disappear with strange pull of magic and chaos in a given day, what that would be we would like to see? Would it be about our insecurities? Would it be a letter alone as a sign? Would it be a phrase from an ancient lore which we want to hear but fear?
In passing, in weighing the words scattered here in this issue from writers old and brightly new and few buds around who know not autumn and spring yet, The Quiet Letter around the woods of dust and waste is at least akin to a sight of a ship becoming a canoe, to traverse lanes of rust and red earth. There is sorrow you cannot touch for now, dear reader. You can sense early seeds in this isue. There is a dove in motion, see there, and so are butterflies in sight later, and then music of sparrows arrive too. There is Schubert anew, there is a tree whose leaves sleep as soon as evening begins. This is life, almost moving through.
There are threads running now here and there to pick flowers and thorns, calling memory (what must memory do?) like our cover photo weighing something, and yet anchored in proper site, dear reader. In prose, we gathered an abstract of a promising writer moving through ideas and a piece on making our lives familiar with things around us to finally move beyond. In verse, we found a telling voice in need, a dreamer in search, a young pair, a perplexed one and three souls forwarding centuries of love and light and despair. We sang a tune this past week: “Away away you go **** *****, hunger toil silence you do not know. Our fabrics you do not know, away away you go ****** ***** and take your traps of loud howls, there are many things yet to see around and wonder, wonder all again, away away you go.” We sank and we floated.
In waiting, for wailings and weepers, love songs and death departures, pounded and weighed in time of our age and epoch of free falling resources against boundaries and lands speaking now of pride and prejudice, in waiting so for them towards our October issue, we leave you here, dear reader.
P N H
The Quiet Letter
The acknowledgment of the practices and aspirations of various inexplicably diverse groups is intrinsic to the overall development of the nation and its people. In this context, the process of urbanization, and the dichotomy between rurality and urbanity seems to bog the minds of the 21st-century planners and policy makers invariably. The process of urbanization with specific reference to India, over the past three decades, has been one of unprecedented pace in terms of quantity but lacks big time in quality. The creation of a whole class of ‘urban poor’ dealing with the disadvantageous by-products of the ‘urban way of life’ and the subsequent problems it faces is undoubtedly attracting concern….read now
What, for me, is the sacred? To be more exact: what does my sacred consist of? What objects, places, or occasions awake in me that mixture of fear and attachment, that ambiguous attitude caused by the approach of something simultaneously attractive and dangerous, prestigious and outcast—that combination of respect, desire, and terror that we take as the psychological sign of the sacred? It is not a question of defining my scale of values—with whatever is of gravest importance to me, most sacred in the ordinary sense of the word, at its summit. Rather, it is a matter of searching through some of the humblest things, taken from everyday life and located outside of what today makes up the officially sacred (religion, fatherland, morals). It is the little things that are required to discover what features would allow me to characterize the nature of what is sacred for me, and help establish exactly the point at which I know I am no longer moving on the level of the ordinary (trivial or serious, pleasant or painful) but rather have entered a radically distinct world, as different from the profane world as fire from water….read now