Updated: Dec 6, 2024
Written by Naval Pant
Published by PYSSUM (2023)
ISBN: 978-81-964533-0-5
Language: English, pp. 171
-Dr. Prerna Raj
An Unplanned Journey is an effort to raise awareness about the existence of individuals who may require extra support or receptivity due to physical, mental or developmental challenges. It is a memoir that narrates various stories of both children and adults with special needs. It is a first-person account of the writer’s voyage who is the captain of the metaphorical ship called PYSSUM (Paramahansa Yogananda Society for Special Unfolding and Moulding). He is not only a special father but also a special human being for striving hard to cater to the needs of so many individuals with special needs. In this unplanned journey, the idea of divinity and the teachings of the writer’s Guru, Paramahansa Yogananda, come across as the main catalysts which keep the journey dynamic and bustling throughout.
The title of the book is self-explanatory yet highly suggestive at the same time. The book is an initiative—an assertion regarding the change it wants to see in terms of inclusive education as well as the acceptance and acknowledgement of individuals with special needs as an integral part of the society. The reader is transported to a parallel existence, reflecting the multifaceted gravity of the book’s core concern, which not only evokes empathy but also calls for a lasting change in how individuals with special needs and their existence is treated.
The book is divided into fifteen chapters. First three are about Mukund, his parents, his grandmother, his struggles, his successes, his failures, his special being and above all, faith, love, tenacity, strength, and hope— things that are infused in his life by the positive environment which is given at home. Love, fairness, integrity, tenderness and devotion are the main ingredients in the long term for children with special needs. They should learn to speak for themselves and do the best they can. That is the key takeaway from Mukund’s story.
The next few chapters are about Manas, Tanu, Puja, Disha, Shrikant, Yogesh and Tanya who were all students at PYSSUM. They all came from different backgrounds, expostulations, misgivings, and incertitude about their identity and existence. The chapters are dedicated to these children as well as to the team at PYSSUM which incorporated persuasion, love, punishments, rigidity, care, trust, values, friendship, psychological insights and professionalism in dealing with these children. These chapters appear to showcase the passions and concerns of PYSSUM towards its cause which, undoubtedly, is empowering every iota of society by infusing the sheer understanding of humanity and divinity. Humanity sanctioned by divinity is evidently the crux of the relationship which the author has with PYSSUM and its every scintilla.
Two chapters in the book are devoted to illustrating the efforts which are required for dealing with an adult mind of a special being. It takes another level of collective effort, responsibility, shared support, guidance and undertaking to deal with individuals like Imtiyaz and Abdullah. Their skills were patiently developed and their sense of being was curated. The endeavours of the writers and his team are mystifying, inspiring and exhilarating.
Succeeding chapters are encapsulating. The writer, authorized by the trust in his Guru and his teachings, very daintily and breezily manages to portray different elements of the school. While reading about the school, we get to know about the thought process, reasoning, equipoise, prudence and judicious lucidity practiced by the author and his team to grow seamlessly as an institution.
Parenting is a complex loop where the key is love and patience. The book, somehow, teaches us that children (special or otherwise) need connection and not perfection. It shows how the validation of their presence means the world to these children.
The book will make readers cry. Simultaneously, it will encourage good parenting and sheer love between parents and children. The book proposes that parents play an important role in shaping a child’s personality. It is often seen when parents lack patience, love and care while nurturing a child, it has adverse effects on the child’s mental well-being.
Dr. Naval Pant has done a phenomenal job. His extremely powerful understanding of the nature of education and its connection with special children is beyond appreciation. His deep perception and sensible discretion are reflected in both, his writing and understanding abilities. In this book he has dealt with caregiving, nurturing and loving tiny beings. He speaks about special children, their condition, their ordeal, nightmares and trauma in specific.
The book is quite thought-provoking and vivid, encompassing a range of emotions, situations and circumstances. The essence of all chapters appears to be similar. Apparently, the focus is on the ordeal. The language is lucid and has the capacity to connect immediately. It is a must read for all parents and to-be-parents.
About the Reviewer:
Dr. Prerna Raj holds a Ph.D. in English from the University of Lucknow. With over ten years of experience as an educator, she has extensively trained teachers and led Continuous Professional Development (CPD) initiatives. In addition to her academic role, she has served as a career counselor for the past two years, guiding students toward their professional goals.
Updated: Dec 6, 2024
Written by Gayatri Majumdar
Published by Red River (2024)
Price: Rs. 299
ISBN - 978-93-92494-68-0
Language: English, pp.78
-Ravish Fatima
Gayatri Majumdar is a literary figure known for her contributions as an editor, poet, publisher and founder of The Brown Critique journal. She has been instrumental in nurturing emerging poets for over two decades. Her works span poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, with notable collections like Shout, The Dreampod and I Know You Are Here. She is a curator of literary events like the Pondicherry/Auroville Poetry Festival and is actively involved in fostering artistic expression through various platforms. Majumdar's poetry deeply reflects on human emotions and spiritual introspection, making her an influential voice in contemporary Indian literature.
The collection, A Warm Place with no Memory has seventy one poems. The diversity of the poem titles reflects a balance between the personal, the philosophical, and the meditative, all rooted in specific places. The cover of the book offers a compelling visual metaphor for the themes explored in the book. The artwork, with its muted yet vivid autumnal hues, evokes a sense of transience and impermanence, aligning with the title’s suggestion of the elusiveness of memory. The layered textures in the landscape, with indistinct trees and an ambiguous body of water, reflect the poetic exploration of place, time, and subjective experience. The warm, earth-toned colour palette conjures feelings of nostalgia and reflection, implying a contemplative mood that mirrors the internal landscapes of memory. The title of the book is presented in an elegant Serif font, giving a sense of calm and serenity, which contrasts with the ambiguity of “no memory.” This interplay between warmth and forgetting speaks of philosophical and emotional depth, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of memory and presence.
Majumdar's poems delve deep into themes of nature, spirituality, and human connection, blending personal emotions with mythological and philosophical reflections. In “My Little Magpie Robin,” the speaker is reassured that humans “would’ve flowered again”— a hopeful metaphor for renewal despite life's agony. Similarly, in “YouTree,” the poem explores the complexities of love and human frailty, asserting that “this is human love...struggling, uncertain.” The poems often juxtapose the natural world with existential musings, reflecting on life's cyclical nature and spiritual transcendence.
Some of the poems in the collection reveal her exploration of existential themes, putting together the mundane with the surreal. In “Flower in Her Hair,” the proximity of the ordinary with whimsical imagery: “frangipani in her hair held up by a family of chattering monkeys”, creates a dreamlike vision. Similarly, “The Last of the Earth” reflects on mortality and displacement, where “death is a way of life” amid haunting landscapes. Her works capture disillusionment, yet they hint at the possibility of transcendence through memory and imagination, as seen in the reflective “Blues for Brothers” and “Dasvidaniya.” Majumdar’s poems deftly interrogate personal loss, fragmented identities, and human resilience.
Majumdar expresses her thoughts, sentiments, emotions, and understanding of life through nature via her poetry. In particular, the poems use the symbolism of nature to underscore the fragility of human existence. Poems like “Communion, Union” and “Life” not only capture fleeting moments but also stress the cyclical nature of life and the transience of time. The motifs of trees, seas, and birds scattered throughout the anthology become markers of deeper philosophical reflection, representing both life’s continuity and impermanence. Her deep ecological concerns resonate strongly, as she seems to question what it means to live meaningfully in an ever-disintegrating reality.
The structure of the poems varies, with some employing free verse while others following more traditional forms. She also employs words from her Urdu, Hindi, Sanskrit, Bengali, Hebrew and Russian vocabulary. This variety allows her to experiment with rhythm and pace, reflecting the emotional landscapes she navigates. The shifts in form serve to enhance the reading experience, drawing readers into the dynamic world of her poetry.
While the collection excels in many areas, one potential shortcoming is its abstraction. Some readers might find certain poems too elusive or fragmented, with images and themes that require multiple readings to fully grasp. This, however, could also be seen as a strength, depending on the reader’s perspective. The ambiguity allows for personal interpretation, making each reading a new discovery.
The anthology presents a beautifully crafted collection that speaks to the heart and the mind. It offers a majestic experience to the reader, inviting them to reflect on their space in both, personal and planetary landscapes. Majumdar’s poetic voice is one of quiet intensity, and her poems linger long after the book is closed. I was captivated by a personal, mystical connection in Majumdar's poem, “To Be,” as it includes the word “Dervish,” which is a lineage I belong to, and the word “Ravishing,” coincidentally similar to my own name, Ravish. Her poems delve into multicultural, spiritual themes from various sects and religions, and I believe readers will uncover their own meaningful connections within their verses. For anyone interested in spirituality, mysticism, eco-poetry, or in poetry that speaks to the complexities of memory and existence, this anthology is a must-read.
Ravish Fatima is a Research Scholar in the Department of English and Modern European Languages at the University of Lucknow. She focuses on exploring the spirituality and philosophical insights of Dervishes. Her broad academic interests encompass Poetry, Comparative Mysticism, Oral Traditions, and Global Cultural Exchange. With several years of experience working alongside the American Institute of Indian Studies (AIIS), she has presented papers at national conferences and has recited poetry at prominent literary festivals for over a decade, showcasing her deep commitment to the literary arts.
Updated: Dec 6, 2024
Mountains have a unique way of altering your perception; or rather, making you more aware, more sentient. The valleys, snow-capped peaks—everything surreal, yet somehow the most natural—defamiliarize you from reality. I often find myself wondering, “Is this really in front of my eyes, or an illusion? Perhaps just a screen? How do I view it differently than I would any such scene on a television?” You yearn for a grasp on the present, yet beauty has a way of slipping through your fingers, only becoming tangible once it has passed. These thoughts absorbed me so completely that I hit a pothole, jolting me back into the present, my eyes sharply focusing on the road.
I’m not the kind of person who gives lifts to strangers, but there was something about this figure, standing by the roadside, a magnetic peculiarity I couldn’t ignore. He had an air of perpetual youth about him, as though time had somehow overlooked him. I had stopped the bike before I even realized it.
“Are you going to Almora?” he asked, his voice bright with an innocent confidence, his
words lightly buoyant, like someone unburdened by the weight of years. “Uh... yes,” I replied hesitantly. There was something about him—some kind of transparency, like the barriers we build around ourselves didn’t exist for him.
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t take much space, I’m not heavy,” he said, laughing in a way
that felt... genuine. There was no pretense in his laughter—just a raw, childlike honesty. Yet his laughter lingered in the air longer than it should have, like an echo that wasn’t supposed to be there. There was a strange emptiness in the way he said it—a lightness, a vagueness—and I laughed with him. I couldn’t place why, but something about his words pleasantly unsettled me.
He looked young—too young—but there was something timeless about him.
It struck me then: when was the last time I had heard laughter like that? Real laughter. I
hadn’t realized how long it had been until I heard it again. Without another word, he climbed on the back of my motorcycle. “Chalo,” he said simply, childishly, beautifully. And so we went.
As we rode, a realization slowly dawned on me. For someone who calls himself a
motorcyclist, I hadn’t truly been enjoying the ride in a long time. His laughter, the sheer joy in it, made me see that. I had forgotten the exhilaration—the “yaayyy” feeling—at every turn of the road, lost in the routine of it. Routine numbs sensation. What I fain would have seen earlier, now I saw unseeingly. But for him, every turn seemed like an adventure. His joy was palpable, and I realized I couldn't quite match it. Maybe I once could have, back when I was a child and the world was fresh and new. But now? Now I had become numb to it. I was alive, sure, but he was fully alive.
“Child is the father of man,” Wordsworth once wrote, and in this moment, I understood it. He hadn’t lost that essential essence, even as he grew older. He knew what life required of him, but he also knew how to live it.
“It's fun because it's not safe,” he said at one point, breaking the silence. Was he talking
about motorcycling in general, or my riding? I’ll never know, and perhaps neither did he. I
usually avoid taking pillions—too heavy, too disruptive to the rhythm of the ride—but he didn’t weigh me down, not at all.
He filled a void I didn’t know I had. Suddenly, the world felt vibrant again: the turns, the smiles, even the dust kicked up by the wheels. His arms barely clutched at my waist, and yet, I felt his presence only in my heart, as perhaps a soul too vibrant for the time he was born in.
There was something about him that seemed caught in time, like he had been wandering these roads for far longer than his youthful face suggested. His laughter didn’t belong to this place. It was too free, too untouched by the world’s weight.
He gave me that gift, the gift of truly seeing things, so casually, so effortlessly. It was as though a switch had been flipped inside me, reigniting a spark I had long forgotten. And yet, he gave it without intention, without even knowing. He was just living, fully alive and completely present, while being right there behind me.
By the time we reached his stop, he hopped off. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” I wanted to say, but the words stuck in my throat. Maybe because I knew he didn’t need to hear it. Maybe because it would have felt trivial. He didn’t need my gratitude.
For him, life was about the experience itself, not the acknowledgment.
“It's dangerous, yes,” he had said, “but it's fun.”
And he was right. It all is. I don’t have his name. I don’t have a picture. In fact, now that I
think of it, did I ever really look at his face? But I have this feeling, this trace of him inside me, reminding me what it means to be alive. He left me with a feeling, an uneasiness mixed with a strange peace, and an odd absence. Was he even real? He certainly was more real than most presences in life... I don’t know. But I do know that because of him, I felt alive again, and I will continue to, as long as he exists in my memory.
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Jyotirmoy Joshi is a Ph.D scholar at the Department of English and Modern European Languages, Univeristy of Lucknow. His research interests include Fantasy Literature and Mental Health. A motorcyclist and self-confessed Walter Mitty, he proudly identifies as a Liberal Humanist, Ravenclaw, and a Bardolater. A unique blend of idyllic fantasies and dark eccentric thrillers has shaped his perspective. He enjoys films, doodling, Enlightenment literature, F1, MotoGP, and motorcycling through the Himalayas. His work has been published in The Criterion, Rhetorica: A Literary Journal of Arts, Film Comment, Science Fiction Book Reviews, and Fantasy Café.