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Short Story Ashes Of The Veena*Jharna Rahman (Translated by Jackie Kabir from Bengali) Finally the Earth Angel completed his work, the creation of the most beautiful, rare stringed instrument called veena. He made it with utmost sincerity. The dexterous workers of heaven had not witnessed so much time or patience given to any other invention of any designer. It was constructed inch by inch with music of the highest notes from the flowing rivers of heaven. The sun lent its dazzling rays to add cheerfulness and the moon contributed its blue emission for its calmness. It was the day of inauguration of the magnificent veena. God himself touched it first with his artistic fingers then he placed it in the garden on the bank of the river Alkananda. On an altar under the Parijat tree covered with flowers, behind which the silent silver river flew. The veena was made from a stout branch of the sandalwood tree. The full moon of Kojagori purnima, which was reflected on the waters of Alkanonda, wa

Jackie Kabir has some points to make about Lahiri's new book The writer of Interpreter of Maladies and The Namesake has yet produced another book to satiate her readers' thirst. Unaccustomed Earth, for that is the book, is also a collection of short stories all of which are about second generation immigrant experiences. Her first book, Interpreter of Maladies, was also mainly based on immigrant experiences and the next book, The Namesake, is about an Indian Bengali family living in the United States and going back and forth from India to the US. Lahiri was honoured with numerous awards for her writings. Jhumpa Lahiri has acquired a specific style of writing which may be considered as unique. Her environment has always been around the Bengali-American experience. There is a problem here too. For her Bengalis mean Indian Hindus as she puts in her recent book through one of her characters:“My mother was wearing the red and white bangles unique to Bengali married women, and a comm

Jackie Kabir Zaitoon, a young girl of sixteen, is going to the hilly regions to be married to a “tribal” whom her father has chosen for her. She has been brought up by Qasim since the partition of India in 1947. As the British fled the country after ruling for over 200 years, they sowed the seeds of communalism. The Muslims and the Hindus have since been rivals. There were riots in every part of the subcontinent in order to make it their respective strongholds. No one knew which part would belong to whom even till the last minute while the country was being demographically changed. Lahore, a stronghold of the wealthy Hindus, was supposed to become part of India. But it went to Pakistan. Jullander, Sikh territory, was allocated to India. Qasim flees from Jullander; on the same train travel Sikander and Zohra with their two children from Ludhiana. When the train reaches Lahore men squatting on both sides torch the train and kill as many people as they can. Munni loses her parents and ho

Jackie Kabir As the name suggests, it is a book about the Islamic community in Britain. The West has long been intrigued by the Islamists of Asia and the Middle East. Set in the 1980s, the book will definitely quench the desire of those who wish to be enlightened about the radical Islamists of Asian origin. It is about a young Muslim of Bangladeshi origin, a British boy brought up in the UK. It aptly deals with his dilemma of being a Bangladeshi as well as a Briton at the same time. We have seen writers like Monica Ali, Zadie Smith and Manzu Islam dealing with Bangladeshi second generation immigrants being torn apart by their need to hold on to the traditional values and the need to be assimilated in their new-found home. A very few writers have shed light on the history of young Muslims turning into radical Islamists. Ed Husain has written an autobiography describing the plight of a young Muslim boy who gets into the whirlpool of one Islamist organization or another. He unveils the wa

Jackie Kabir The tears that dropped like pearls    On my shoulder  Reminded me of another crazy summer’s day,  When the skies were the brightest and the wind the warmest;  Sweat drops tasted like tears  Or was it the other way round I couldn’t tell.  For they are both salty; aren’t they?  The passion that you had your eyes died; As time elapsed.  Only to be rekindled with more vigor in your ocean eyes.  Perhaps the darkest corner of my heart Will cherish those moments  Just the way an oyster cherishes its pearls.