Dear Readers,

We are a bunch of amateur writers, but sometimes by a quirk of fate, the combination of our writings can produce an exquisite literary mosaic. Today's edition is one such marvel. Beautiful poems, fabulous stories and enchanting travelogues have made it unforgettable.

Wish you an entertaining weekend with this Thirty fourth edition of LiteraryVibes. Please share it with your friends and contacts. The link is http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/224. 

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Wish you happy reading of the LiteraryVibes in the coming weekend.
 

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

 

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A BARE RIBCAGE

(A poem dedicated to Paro, from the famous novel PINJAR on 1947 scuttle, by Amrita Pritam)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

I hardly loved that fate,

but made love to it, another Paro;

took it to bed-soaked with blood

every night, and received with hate

the seeds of love sowed on my soil;

the love-hate seeds, unheard of.

 

Bodily lifted by the partition,

taken across the border; my land of love

split asunder into halves of hate.

I cut in two; my abdomen abducted,

living behind the bleeding heart;

one human, but two corpses;

 

the embryo, a Toba Tek Singh,

in my womb; a tiny tadpole, rootless;

my heart soaking it with love,

head hating it as a dirty maggot;

the poison pest on a landless tree,

harbouring scorn. My God died young.

 

No one would ever know, how really

umpteen Paro’s lived, loved their Rashid’s

who abducted them (Hadn’t the blue Lord

abducted Rukmini?) out of insane love,

cutting across a land’s culture, trust,

camaraderie split open one midnight.

 

Allahu Akbar or Jai Shri Ram no more

soothes, no more redolent with  the sweet smell

of sandal paste, sacred basil, or joss sticks;

faith was soaking wet with corroding acid,

monsters like ‘Mujahideen’, ‘love-jihadis’, and

‘ghar wapsi’ solicit in streets, whores in saintly cloaks.

 

FOOTNOTE: 1. Toba Tek Singh is the protagonist of a short story with the same title from the famed writer Sadat Hasan Manto. Toba Tek Singh went mad over the 1947 partition. 2. “my God died young” is an expression borrowed from a famous autobiographical novel of late sixties of the same title. Its writer Sasthi Brata, a young writer, rose to literary fame with this single work.

 

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LOVE ITS TWO HALVES

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

A love, I worship.

Another, I take to bed.

The heaven and earth

unite in me;

the upper room smells of flowers,

the lower, of brothel-loam.

 

One, my sky,

endless and deep,

blue and sublime;

the other looms over me,

my roof, my earthy floor; the fire

in my hearth, it lights my home.

 

Joining hands in worship,

holding my hands in bed;

sublimated in holy smoke,

or coming down with mud’s sigh;

I join one for communion with Lord,

the other for the offering at Aphrodite’s feet.

Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com  

 

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A DOG’S LIFE (SHVAPADA)

HARAPRASAD DAS

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

You are ravished in my dreams,

it fulfills my minimal needs to survive,

far short of you in flesh and blood.

 

I sadly confess,

you, bare to your bones in my dreams,

hardly satiate my animal hunger.

 

I hang on to memories,

tired stars dimly lighting my dark,

the dew on banks trying to fill the river.

 

Behind closed eyes, I bide time

for the parting shot

of the lady luck’s revenge.

 

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ENLIGHTENMENT (SIDDHI)

HARAPRASAD DAS

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

You may unwrap your vision

but find nothing stranger

than truths of the routine grind;

 

but the vision saves

has apparently saved you from your guilt,

putting a bridle over your desires;

 

so, it feels like an enlightenment;

the realization of a great truth

like the one gained under Bodhi Tree;

 

but it is as real as the wisdom

handed over as bonus by a hag

selling berries under the tree;

 

when you buy a packet of berry;

her words as elusive as a cuckoo

singing from the tree’s hidden perch;

 

it has, however, transformed you;

you don’t get tired of

giving unsolicited sermon;

 

and lo, even your eyelids

droop like that of a great ascetic

weighed under enlightenment!

 

Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.

He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”

 

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TWELVE MIDNIGHT (RAATIBAA’RA)

ARUPANANDA PANIGRAHI

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

In my lexicon,

nightfall happens at midnight;

may roads go deserted by then,

except a few drunk drivers

riding home late from pubs;

may be, it’s time for fishermen

to go out to the sea to spread nets;

but I, a sedentary man, sit

by my table by the window, sleepless,

with a pen I am in love with.

 

My eyes ajar, they gloss over

a pair of pigeons

dozing on my window sill

and the inky dark beyond.

Let them skim the dark and weave

a pattern with words at my pen’s tip.

Let the nightly storm

pass by stealthily, barely leaving

marks like the vanishing silly graffiti

by children on smooth guava tree skin.

 

Let the labour-workfolk snore

in their restful slumber.

Allow me, the classic idler,

too lazy even to have

his forty winks during the day,

spend his insomniac nights

in star-gazing in the sky

or counting waves by the sea.

 

Don’t engage me in pursuits

like counting eggs before they hatch,

or plucking pumpkin flowers

from the pumpkin patches,

pulse-beans from fields.

Rather ask me do what I am good at -

watching the night sail by

the open window by my writing desk,

and marveling at the pink new sun

bringing blush to berry cheeks.

 

(From his book ‘Gote Dhaana Paain’ meaning ‘just for a grain of rice’)

 

Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)

 

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I HEAR A SMALL VOICE SPEAKING

Bibhu Padhi

I would play with sand and earth.
Against a vastly blowing wind.

I would build my flying castle.
At the end of the day,

I would smile through the sun,
within its quiet light, before

it jumps the Choudwar hills and dies.
I would point my small fingers

at the perfect circle—

orange, watermelon ripe.

 

I would watch how the quick blood

on your faces gives way to the night.

 

Against a darkening sky,

my skin would shine

 

Like your daily prayer, as you

offer me to the stars, the waiting gods.

I would listen to your stories
about bigger people and larger things;

I would watch you go impersonal,
difficult, turn suddenly remote.

I would feel as though I were alone
and sorry and going small.

And then, I would faintly hear
someone calling me by my

meaningless name, to tell me about
things nearer to me, offer me

a voice that I would know as mine.
I would turn round and go back to her.

 

A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi  have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as  The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry,  Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton)  60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi  welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com    

 

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STICHOMYTHIA

Geetha Nair

Why are you mute?

-The wind speaks for me.

I  know not its tongue.

-Listen; you will learn.

What does it say?

-It speaks of falling leaves.

I see them not.

-Close your eyes; see them
twirl and swoop.

Yes. Our dreams; they cover me.

-I see them too.

Love, hold me close.

-The leaves hinder-they are dead.

The wind speaks no more.

-Farewell.

 

Footnote:

STICHOMYTHIA - A device in Greek drama ; two characters speak alternate, brief lines of verse.

 

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ANOTHER RANI

Geetha Nair

"Kanna, I want to see an empty lunch box this evening, "  Devaki said, stroking her little son's head.

"Only if Rani comes to feed me," he replied, skipping into his classroom.

Devaki and her son both went to the same school. She was a teacher in the higher classes; he was a pre-KG student. Their lunch intervals were staggered. She couldn't supervise his eating as she did at home. Kannan was a very unwilling eater. He preferred to spend every  spare second he had on running or climbing rather than on eating. Though he had enough energy for three kids, he was rail-thin. It worried her terribly that he didn't look like the pictures of chubby Lord Krishna or the bonnie babies she  kept seeing in TV advertisements. This was where Rani had come in useful. She was a neighbour, all of seven years old, who studied in Class 2 in the same section of the school  that Kannan attended. The boy was very fond of Rani. So Devaki had deputed Rani to supervise Kannan's lunchtime. The little girl was pleased and proud to be put in charge. It was a very satisfactory arrangement. Kannan ate,  Rani radiated proud pleasure and Devaki, relief.

 When Kannan moved up to LKG, Rani could no longer walk into his classroom at lunchtime. Instead, she would stand on tip-toe by the window and cajole him into eating. Such was her love for the darling little boy with his bright eyes, sweet smile and winsome ways that she sacrificed her playtime for him. The trio usually walked home together and Rani spent most of her evenings at Devaki Aunty's, playing with Kannan.

The next year, Kannan had found a new friend, a little girl. When Devaki made  a quick visit to the junior section during recess,  she found Kannan running  all over the playground, holding hands with a cute little girl. "Amma, this is another Rani, " he answered her unasked question.

She laughed at that. That was a good one ! Another Rani! Where was the original, though ?

There she was, sitting prettily under a tree, watching Kannan play... .

The years went by; Kannan grew into a handsome, well-built young man with the most alluring smile ever and the most eloquent tongue. He could charm minor government officials into performing tasks held to be impossible; that was proof enough of his enormous charm. Girls fell for him like boulders crashing down a hill in a landslide;  he paved his days with them.

Devaki, now close to retirement, often worried about her son. He was well-employed . He did not squander his  earnings. He was good to his mother who had brought him up with such devotion. She had no complaints on these counts. What worried her was his reluctance to get married. She had given him total freedom of choice; after all,  she had been born and brought up as the child of practising Communists in their golden era in Kerala.  Nothing had shaken her faith; not even that painful act of   another  follower of the true faith who, Buddha-like, had left behind his wife and little son  for greener communes.  Devaki had urged her son to find a wife.  It was through Rani, the "original" one, that the mother and son communicated their views on this delicate matter. Rani was his assessor of "Ranis". They ranged from colleagues to shopgirls.Though one Rani replaced another Rani with almost clockwork regularity,  the queen of his heart was yet to be found and crowned.

Rani 's grandparents,  who had brought her up, had passed away. She stayed alone in a part of the  house which was now hers, having let out the rest for security and money.  Rani  managed the shop that had been her grandfather's. Devaki worried about Rani as well. She was well past thirty though she looked younger. There were some distant relatives who had attempted to  arrange  matches for her. But  Rani had turned them down. She was averse to marriage. "Let me be; I am fine as I am. Why do you want to imprison me?" she was rumoured to have told her well-meaning kin. They retreated in a huff. Devaki suspected that her early childhood caught in the crossfire of a stormy marriage had left an unhealed wound within Rani.

So, the days ticked by and both Kannan and Rani, firm friends from childhood,  continued to remain single.

That summer, soon after Devaki retired, she  broke a wrist. She had been getting severe backaches for quite some time. A die-hard follower of homeopathy, she consulted the family doctor;  osteoporosis was the diagnosis.  "My bones are crumbling " she moaned to Rani who now spent most of her time with Devaki , lending a helping hand."I wish Kanna would bring home a wife. I can't do a stroke of work... ."

" Do you need a daughter-in-law or a domestic "help"? Rani teased her dear neighbour.  That evening, she conveyed to Kannan  his mother's worries.

"That girl at my yoga class- I told you about her. Lovely. I am getting quite attached to her," he confided to Rani as he had done many times before. "Also, I am worried about Amma, too. I think I 'll take the plunge this time... ." He smiled his heart-flipper smile and Rani smiled back. Finally, it was time to act.

  Devaki was delighted with the hope her son had given her through Rani. She awaited developments. But two days later, Kannan fell ill. He had thrown up several times during the night and by morning was very weak. Devaki was alarmed.

"Just something I ate, Amma" he reassured his mother. Several days later, he was still queasy and exhausted. Their  doctor, after consulting a great dusty volume, handed over three bottles of sugarballs soaked in three different pungent liquids and advised complete rest for two weeks.

Devaki was distraught. She felt helpless, useless -her wrist, and now her son's illness. Rani rose to the occasion. She spent her days and nights at Devaki's place. The shop ran smoothly with the two hired staff in charge.

Kannan 's colleagues who visited  urged him to seek the help of allopathy for speedy recovery. But mother and son would have none of that.

To bolster Hahnemann, Devaki sent up  fervent prayers for her son's recovery. There were also prayers of gratitude for the gift of Rani.

Kannan was still weak.. He would improve and then there would be a relapse. Rani nursed him for over a month. Rice gruel, vegetable soup, sponge baths, read-aloud sessions - her devotion expressed itself in manifold ways… .

One evening, Devaki walked into his room to find the two locked in a passionate embrace.

She stumbled back to her room. Winds of shock and  change buffeted her from all sides.

Calm came in the form of her son's words to her a few minutes later: "Amma, I want to make Rani my wife. How blind I have been! It took my illness to make me realise a few  things... ."

His mother's silence spurred him on to an old saying she was fond of - the jasmine in one’s own yard seems lacking in perfume... .

She smiled at that and he held her old hands in his young ones.

That was how the original  Rani became  his Queen.  Subverting mythology,  Radha became Kanna's consort.

Rani had been the complete actress for years and years. She could not remember a time when she had not loved Kannan. Her passion for him had strengthened with time. But, after a brief adolescent flirtation, he had gone back to seeing her as just an older friend. Each time he confided in her his latest crush, his words had stabbed her to the heart. Her lifeblood had seeped out ; to Rani, Kannan was life itself. Yet, she had lived on in hope until the day he spoke seriously about marrying. She knew then that she had to act. Fast.

Desperate cases require drastic medication.

Rani had not topped the degree course in Pharmacology for nothing.

What if yet another Rani reared her head ?

She was prepared; after all, she was a trained pharmacist who owned and managed a flourishing medical store.

 

(The Drabble 'RADHAS' by Latha Prem Sakhya was in LV XXXII of 6th September 2019)

 

 

Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English,  settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature  for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems,  "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com 

 

 

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INSOLVENT LORD ATOP 7 HILLS: LORDS THE RICHEST COFFER IN THE WORLD

Gouranga Charan Roul

 

Pulled by the invisible and mysterious string of the supernatural powers of Lord Venkateswara, visited the shrine atop 7 hills for the 4th time; this time leading a team of 10 members of 3 closely related families. We took the Puri -Tirupati express Train from Khurda Road Junction Railway Station and after a pleasurable journey of 15 hours arrived at Tirupati station next day afternoon to be welcomed by our Stay Home manager. The independent bungalow type stay home an idyllic place with clean rooms, furniture and modern facilities, located close to Tirupati town ,with three bedrooms with AC ,spacious drawing-cum dining room and a beautiful lawn with a swing to relax and garden chairs and benches to gossip over, add to the leisurely ambience of the stay home . As per our itinerary, we visited the shrine of lord Venkateswara the next day of our arrival at Tirupati.  Tirupati is a beautiful place with immense spiritual energy; a must visit place preferred by family .As is the case with us, humongous devotees are mostly driven by some short of mysterious force to Tirumala Tirupati Devosthanams(TTD), repeatedly increasing the size of crowds day by day for which the temple administration in tandem with the state government have been contemplating to restrict their visit to the holy city once a year . With a view to streamlining ‘darshan’ at Tirumala, the state government is contemplating to tag the darshan ticket with Aadhaar to identify the frequent visitors to limit their frequency of visits, to allow the common pilgrims space and comforts. The temple administration has been credited with superlative terms for managing the influx of devotees in increasing numbers every day that they have been able to provide accommodations to one and all in several cottages and choultries on top of the seven hills with provision of free transport to each and all. The huge number of pilgrims visiting Tirumala on all days make every day a festival day at this holy abode atop 7 hills .But there are certain important festivals conducted in the temple which attract large number of devotees .The Telugu New year’s day is celebrated as Nityotsava, Vaikunth Ekadasi is celebrated with much gaiety and so too is the Brahmotsavam in the month of September which is celebrated with much pomp and ceremony .The ever-increasing number of pilgrims to this sacred shrine ,irrespective of  caste ,creed ,linguistic barriers ,is a supreme testimony to the glory of our temples and never aging culture .As a temple cult ,the Balaji temple at Tirupati stands as a unique monument in this world.

Ironically enough, Lord Venkateswara is believed to be the lord of prosperity vis-a-vis his credit scores, unsettled for centuries with the heavenly financer Kubera. All that said -its faith that Moves Mountains and it moves millions to the hills to lessen the heavy debt burden of the lord ensconced in His sanctum-sanctorum on the Tirumala hills, by donations in shape of gold, currency and other essential materials, including human hair. Interestingly, it is noticed that almost half of the devotees are tonsured giving the hill top a ritualistic ceremonial look.   It has been reported that donations to the tune of 130 to 150  million have been offered by the devotees every month .Added to this a vast and unbelievable revenue of Rs.203 crores fetched out of auction of human hair ,accumulated from large scale tonsuring of the willing devotees ,irrespective of male and female, in the year 2014 . The temple has an inviting aura and contagious energy that one can only experience. Lord Venkateswara helps millions of people every day, from problems which seem to have just no other solution except pure divine grace. So it is obvious to see millions go to Him every day seeking His benediction.

As we have  booked  e-darshan seva tickets on line, of Rs.300 ,for the early morning darshan at 6 am, we got ready by 03.30 am to catch up with ritual timings 04.30-06.00 AM of Abhishekam Nijapada seva, negotiating 21 km hilly road snaking through the Eastern Ghats Mountain range to the TTD shrine in a guest house cab .It was 4 0’clock in the wee hours of the winter night and advent of dawn is still awaited and the darkness is about getting ready to depart to facilitate the arrival of bright rays of the sun .At this earthly hours of twilight the melodious notes of M.S.Subhalaxmi rendition of ‘Supravatam’ begin reverberating around the seven hills of Tirumal Tirupati Devosthanams ,through musical systems fitted throughout the hill tops ,able to waking up even the most persistent dawn sleeper. Sri Venkateswa Supravatam is the first and pre-dawn seva performed to Lord Venkateswara at Sayan Mandapam inside sanctum sanctorum of Tirumala Temple. ’Supravatam’ is a Sanskrit term which literary means ‘Good Morning’ and is meant to wake up the Lord from His celestial sleep. The auspicious and melodious  Mangalastak ,reverberating in the wee hours of the morning ,vibrating and surcharging the thin and clean air is quite an unforgettable  and blissful experience only to be experienced at Tirumal atop hills –

“Utisthottista Gobinda,Uttistha Garudadhvja,                                                                                                  

Uttistha Kamalakanta,Trailokyam Mangalam Kuru.”        

                                                                                     

Sri Venkateswar Supravatam hymns were composed by Prathivadhi Bhayankaram Annangaracharya during 13th century and consists of 70 slokas in four parts including –Supravatam(29), Stotram(11), Prapatti(14), and Mangalasasanam(16). The 13th sloka of Sri Venkateswara Supravatam is as -     

“Srimannabheeshta- Varadhakhilalooka - bandho, 

Sri Srinivas-Jagadekadayaika -Sindho, 

Sridevatagruha Bhujanthara- Divyamurthi, 

Sri Venkatachalapate -Thava- Supravatham.”     

The serene, clean and calm environment on the hill top at these wee hours were vibrated with these resonant melodious soulful bhajanas having an enchanting and elevating influence over the soul, that the devotee would feel as if he is walking in the Paradise. We felt deeply grateful and overwhelmed by the ecstatic and blissful heavenly experience. The singing of ‘Supravatam’ is incidentally the first of the many rituals that are conducted every day at this earthly abode of Lord Venkateswara since the time of Swamy  Ramanujacharya the 12th century  vaishnavite saint, theologian, philosopher and  most important exponent of Sri Vaishnavism tradition in Hinduism, who systemically formalized  the rituals to be followed. It is heartening to observe that the prescribed rituals are assiduously and rigorously followed since then, with some improvements, by courtesy of modern technology.

As our darshan time was nearing, we were directed by the volunteers manning the entry gates to proceed through gate no 3 meant for Special Ticket holders. After proceeding a little distance our queue converged into a single line at the front gate of   the shrine, which throws the crowd out of control and a lot of push and pull experienced by the devotees facing a stamped like situation in front of the benevolent deity ,is a moment full of spiritual joy and devotional upliftment .This point of line darshan needs some improvements as children, infirm and senior citizens suffer and get suffocated in the surging rush, inching forward in the fenced zig-zag queue towards the sanctorum for the ultimate darshan of the presiding deity, Lord Balaji.  A glimpse of the Lord in the sanctum-Santorum would unhesitatingly declare that this is the real God whose statue does all the magic in time, you forget everything for a second and the vibrations are so powerful that you tend to look back repeatedly for a second glance and the magnetic power makes you look back till you are physically necked out.  It’s a phenomenon to experience and can’t be expressed in words .The Deity is in standing posture, seven feet high with the left hand pointed towards the left thigh and the right hand in the posture of the varada-hasta .As the surging crowd pushes one onwards ,a devotee may be lucky to receive only a few seconds of spiritual ecstasy ,the devotee becomes totally aware of the supreme mercy and benevolence of Shri Venkatachalapathi .Later as one circumambulates around the bedha parikrama ,the memory of those blissful moments keep recurring in the mind. Besides the renditions of devotional numbers through musical system outside the temple, Vedic recitation inside the temple forms an essential feature of temple rituals .The temple Veda Pandits are engaged to render Vedic hymns daily in the temple. The Vedic incantation is efficacious in retaining the spiritual aura of the shrines and in driving out any evil influences. At the exit gate we were offered prasadam- either laddu or Payasam in leaf bowels as a token of God’s blessings. A visit to this temple is the highlight of any trip to Tirupati. The mad rush, non-stop and powerful   chanting of Govinda-Govinda,Om Namo Venkatesaya,Namo Venkatesaya inside Sri Venkateswara temple, exudes a positive energy that stays with you long after you have left the sanctum. Is it faith or divine intervention that keeps so many people going strong in their belief system, only time will tell?

A temple that is being visited by over 50,000 to 60,000 pilgrims a day does not require any formal introduction. Considered to be one of the wealthiest shrines of India, Tirupati in Andhra Pradesh, is one of the 108 sacred shrines of the Vaishnvites. In a country with high degree of religious and linguistic variations, the shrine of Tirupati spreads universal harmony,  being visited by people from all walks of life, all regions and religions.                                                                                                     

Being inquisitive about the temple on such a high mountain range, came to know the history behind the installation of Lord Venkateswara as a deity atop Tirumala Hills. Lord Vishnu is worshipped by the people with different names like Venkateswara, Balaji, Srinivasa, Govinda.  According to popular belief Vishnu once incarnated as Venkateswara to save the mankind from the trials and troubles in Kaliyug and descended on the earth taking a human form. His divine consort, Lakshmi, too followed her husband’s footsteps and choose to be born as a daughter of king Aakaasa Raaja, assuming the name of Padmavati .It so happened that Lord Vishnu sought the very hands of Padmavati in marriage during the avataara. As she was the daughter of a wealthy king ,her marriage required heavy financial assistance to be celebrated with the pomp and gaiety associated with the wedding of a princess .Lord Vishnu in his anxiety to marry Padmavati decided to borrow huge sum from Kubera, the heavenly financer .However, Kubera  advanced the loan with exorbitant rate of interest. The loan taken from Kubera rose to a very high figure when added with the interest payable. The lord of seven hills is said to have promised to repay the loan by the end of Kaliyuga, and until such time, choose to remain in the hills as a deity for worship. It is said that the amount recovered from the coffers of the temple accounts for the interest alone, leaving the principal loan amount intact. Shri Govindaraja Swami enshrined in the temple at the foot of the hills is reported to be Kubera himself regulating the loan repayable by Lord Srinivasa Vishnu.

TIRUPATI LADDU: The sprawling left wing of the main temple houses the double storied laddu distribution center. Sri Vari Laddu is the famous laddu sweet which has received the Geographical Indication Tag, prepared out of gram flour, cashew nuts, cardamom, ghee, sugar, sugar candy and resins, offered as Naivedhyam to the Lord at Tirumala Venkateswara Temple of Tirupati. Two laddus are usually given free for each special entry ticket. Besides our 20 free laddus ,we purchased some laddus at Rs.20 each for serving our near and dear ones .After procurement of ghee soaked ,delicious, aromatic and mouthwatering laddus ,our appetite was whetted and as it was about lunch time we took our meals in the famous ‘Sarangi Fine Dine Restaurant ’near the temple to our utter satisfaction.                     

AKASA GANGA: We drove 4km on the hilltop road lined with sandal wood and red sanders plantations to the water fall popularly known as Akasa Ganga. Akasa Ganga draws devotees to its teertham as well as captivates them with the serene waterfalls. One will feel relaxed here after taking a strenuous Darshan rigour at the Venkateswara temple. The Ganga Mata temple is next to the water falls. We offered our prayers in the temple for some time and climbed down the steps leading to the sacred water fall and sprinkled some sacred water of Akasa Ganga on our bodies in order to cleanse ourselves. Considered to be one the most sacred water falls in the country, Akas Ganga waterfalls are visited by almost every devotee who come to Tirumala to seek blessings of Lord Venkateswara .This sacred water is used for daily unction (abhisheka)of Sri Venkatachalapathi.   

PAPAVINASHAM THREETHAM: This place is 5 km away from Tirumala temple and considered one of  the holy  threethams .Driving through the road snaking amidst sandal wood forest is quite an unforgettable and unique experience .It has a beautiful waterfall in which pilgrims can take a shower bath as water is being channelized through Lion faced shower points. The devotees under belief that all their sins would be washed away take a shower bath here and believed to be blessed with peace, prosperity and progress .There are separate wash rooms and   changing rooms for female and male. A beautiful marble temple is dedicated to ‘Anjeneya Swamy ,’which is a must visit place for the devotees.                                                                                                        After completing the tour of seven hills, we roamed on the Tirumala temple precincts in the evening enjoying the enchanting light arrangements of the Tirumala temple and lighted camphor aarti praying the benevolent lord Balaji to shower His blessings on all of us. We took a family group photo by a professional photographer, keeping the main temple of lord Venkateswara in the background to take it back home as souvenir.

 

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Dies NOBODY DIES

Sreekumar K

It had been a week but I hadn’t decided whether to visit the family not. Even if I visited them I would not go alone, Ramani or George would come with me.

Of course, the day of the funeral was the best day to go, but we all came to know about it too late. It was not exactly a rainy evening but it was still drizzling.

Now, a week later, I doubted if there is any point in going. I was not that close to him either. In fact, we were only acquaintances who met regularly at the city poetry club every month.

He was an electrical engineer, retired from the KSEB. I had a certain dislike for all those who worked for that department. But my tirade against his poetry had nothing do with it. Sasikumar had asked me one day whether I had known him for long. I hadn’t. In fact, I met him only after I joined the poetry club a month ago.

Both George and Ramani agreed to come with me. Sasikumar also felt that someone should visit the family at least now.

My car had been sent for service. So, I borrowed Sasikumar’s car. I am not used to driving auto gears, auto transmission to use the right term. But somehow I was managing.

“His daughter also writes,” said George.

“Yeah, she is a better poet than him. I met her at the Mathrubhumi Literary Fest. She recited one of her poems. Three collections already, she is only 23,” added Ramani.

“Twenty-three. His only daughter? But he was pretty old, right?” I wondered.

“.No, he married quite late and they got a daughter ever much later. The newspaper said he was only 66. That is young nowadays. My grandfather is turning ninety-four this month,” said Ramani.

“Did you like his poems. I could never enjoy his poems when I read them or heard them.” I turned back to see what their faces might tell me. I was willing to face it.

It was no secret that I used to change the poetry sessions into a cockfight whenever he was there. Not that I didn’t go hard on the other poets. I had earned a bad name in that too. But, he was my chief pleasure.

Even a few days before his death he had read out, rather recited, one of his poems in the monthly poetry meet. It was titled FLOW. I found it very pretentious. I was not sure whether he did live as he advocated in his poems. But they never do.

How many of the Great British Romantics really thought about the colonies? All of them were criminally insensitive. Even Rudyard Kipling referred to us as ‘the white man’s burdern’. I don’t allow my nephew to watch The Jungle Book. I hated his poem IF, but of course for other reasons.

“I had asked him to bring out a collection several times. He said no one would buy. That is also true. I am left with only four more copies of my short story collection. I printed 300 copies and sold only seventy. The rest were given to friends as gifts,” said Geroge.

True. I also got two or three copies of his book, ‘Both Ways Uphill’. Not a bad work. But who cares! Poetry sells more. Ramani had brought out four collections and won several prestigious awards. She gets invited to almost all the literary fests in India. She is fishing for some fellowship now. I found her poetry highly obscure.

The car left the city and went into the suburbs. Thiruvananthapuram is no big city. It is only a big town. Fifteen kilometers in any direction and you see pastoral life. Rural life.

There were paddy fields on either side hedged in by very tall coconut trees. A stream ran along our road and then disappeared under it at a culvert and came out from the other side. This would be where he used to go for walks with his daughter. Beautiful countryside. None of these appeared much in his poetry.

“He had had two surgeries earlier and so this does not come as a shock to his family. My neighbour used to work with him. One thing he said about him is that this man was clean. Not corrupt in any way. He has two flats in the city, but it is absolutely his own money. Ironically, for the same reason, no one in his office liked him,” said Geroge.

“I expect him to be so. He was a soft mannered person but very strong-willed too,” I said.

At the very next junction, as Sasikumar had instructed us, we turned into a narrow road. Not a residential area. Just like a typical Kerala Village. It was easy to find the house. A poster showing his picture put up by the neigbours was still there.

His daughter was in the garden, straightening up some flower pots that the visitors had upset. She greeted us politely and asked us to walk in.

We went in and sat down. No one knew what to say. So, I asked the daughter what she was doing. She had taken a PG in zoology and was preparing for JRF. I told him that she was known among us as a writer.

Her mother was rather quiet, dark patches were still around her eyes. She spoke in a soft tone and asked us who each of us were.

“He used to tell me about you all. He was very particular about attending the monthly meeting. He would postpone anything but not this.”

She repeated our names and asked what we were doing. Ramani said she was a Homeopath, George said he taught at the University, She called me by name and asked me how my business was doing. She said her husband used to talk a lot about me.

Then again there was nothing to talk about. His daughter, Susmitha, brought us tea and snacks.

While sipping the hot tea, I felt a searing pain somewhere inside as if the hot tea had found its way into some deep crevices of my being.

I coughed and excused myself and went out. I went on coughing outside in the garden.

The garden looked quite old, mostly exotic plants, rare ones.

I stood there a while longer and wondered why I was so hard on him as a poet. He was just an old man finding some solace and comfort in the applause he sought and got. Most people enjoyed his poems. They were quite metrical though the rhyming was laboured.

But there was no real reason to take on him so regularly at every meeting.

Anyway, now it is all over. I walked towards where the funeral pyre had been. Rituals were over and there was a young happy coconut tree, its baby fronds wet in the rain and swaying in the wind.

I stood there and apologized.

No, there was no excuse for what I had done. I walked back.

I went back in and finished the tea rather carefully. We asked a few questions about where he used to work. He had worked a long time at Idukki and the family also stayed there for long. Susmitha went to school there.

George stared at me signaling that it was time to go. As if on cue, we all got up and moved towards the front porch.

His wife asked me to stay.

She went in and brought out a folder full of poems.

“He was planning to bring this out. He wished to ask you to write the introduction. Will you have the time, sir?”

I took it from him as if it was her newborn baby. My heart skipped a beat.

“He has set aside some money to get it published. We would like to do that.”

“Oh! Did he really say I should write the introduction.”

“Yes, he wanted to surprise you, he once told us.”

I found it hard to walk properly. My legs had gone numb and week. I didn’t have the courage to look at the others.

We said goodbye to the family and got into the car. I asked George to drive.

I looked at the folder.

It did pulsate.

I was relieved when Ramani took it from me.

 

Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala. 

 

---

REFLECTIONS

Dilip Mohapatra

When you look at a piece
of stale bread discarded
so generously by a
benevolent soul
into the dented aluminium
bowl of a beggar
squatting in front of
a place of worship
you see hunger.

When you peep into
a pool of spring clear
transparent water
in an oasis amidst
an unending expanse of
sizzling sands
pulsating under
a scorching sun
you see thirst.

When you look into those
dovish eyes
with dilated pupils
some times moist
sometimes dry
sometimes blazing
sometimes dazzling
and behind the lashes
that coquettishly
flutter
you see love.

When you feel the warmth
of the funeral pyre
and see
the flames doing a flamenco
their invisible tongues
almost licking your skin
you hear the bones crack
and in slow motion
as the flames reduce
to heaps of ashes
you see life.

Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies  worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.

 

---

STAY A LITTLE LONGER

Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura 

Stay a little longer,

I am yet to quench my thirst

And satisfy my hunger.

I have waited so long

Poured out all I had

For a few drops of love

That should be enough

To make me mettlesome 

Against all the odds.

 

I am not going to hold

And, will not try to stop;

Allow me to flow with you

For a brief period

So that I taste the freedom

In its true form.

Then, we can part our ways

Without any promise

To meet once again.

 

Life is so strange!

We keep waiting for each other

And, ignore when stay closer,

We hold back the feelings

Thinking, it is a silly matter

But, regret for it later.

Let us calmly discuss

And make the assessment

Of all that we have gained or lost.

 

 

"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of  English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.

 

---

SHOCKED

Sumitra Mishra

 

A traffic constable was busy ic checking the vehicles and riders according to the new Motor Vehicle Act. He had already fined a few bike riders for not wearing the helmet, auto rickshaw drivers for driving without license, young college students for talking on mobile phones and some heavy body truck drivers for not being able to show proper documents. He had not faced any serious law and order problem while collecting fine from these sheepish people, who took the Government’s law as decree of God and paid the fines happily. He was feeling very happy and proud that his senior officers will appreciate him for his dutifulness, tact, presence of mind!

Suddenly a car came in high speed and crossed the marked lines on the traffic square before applying the break with a screech. Another policeman on duty at the traffic post rushed to the car, shouted at the driver and took out his receipt book and cut a challan of ten thousand rupees.

The traffic police ran towards his senior, the constable with three stars on his shoulder and said;

“Sir, the lady sitting in the car is refusing to pay the fine. She is institing that you will pay the fine for her.”

The constable came closer and looked inside the car. A smiling lady waved her right hand at him merrily showing a ‘V’ mark with her left hand. The constable’s face drooped as a pinched balloon. Lo!!! She was his wife!

 

---

A FLOWER OF FIRE

Sumitra Mishra

 

I was only a sweet seventeen

When I first met him in the class;

A ring of halo beaming between his thick brows

A deep sadness swirling around

The corners of his wide mouth

A dream to touch the skies dancing

In the glitter of his big black eyes

A frenzied hip-hop of passion

Whirling around his eyelids;

He was a unique specimen in the class!

 

A flash from his bright eyes

Entered my centre

And enlightened my sober grey soul

Caressing my shyness lovingly with a smile,

Something in him eased my discomfort

And somehow thawed the snow inside my soul.

 

I was only a sweet seventeen

When he first addressed me

In a secret corner under the racks of books

Uttering the words “I’m inclined towards you”,

Both the tremor and confidence in his voice won my heart

A spring rose bloomed on my lips as his steady gaze

Punctured the veil of my sham vanity and chastity.

 

My pores started collecting the honey of love

From the perfumed sweetness of his words

As I lied down on my bed reading his poetry

Inhaling the aroma of love from his lines 

“I am here and you are there

A belt of fire in between”

Suddenly I became a flower of fire. 

 

---

A MOTHER’S AGONY

Sumitra Mishra

The ghastly wound on the skull

Gaped

With red-shot eyes

Reprimanding my shocked silence,

The thick black hair

Soaked in blood

Turned stiff in my hands

Like a stalk of hay

When I tried to wash them

With my tears

My bruised heart pulsated

Like a blocked engine.

 

Your fair face seemed

To shine

With the angelic grace of innocence

No sign of anguish or fear.

I was shocked

Was it the knife or the bullet?

Were you inside the trench

Or on the tank?

Were you shouting

When you fell or daydreaming?

Your engagement ring was broken,

So was her heart.

 

The media report

Of last night’s scuffle at the camp

The orders

To march up the frozen dark hills,

How did I sleep

When you were lying so cold?

Your words last night

Echo in my ears

Gnaw like cancer on my marrow,

Yet they debate, dispute and discuss,

Hardly they understand

The agony

Of a Mother’s heart,

 For them death or massacre is also politics,

Like temples, religion, and humbug compensation!!!

Don’t stare like that!

 Blink, blink or wink in your naughty way!

 

---

RETROSPECT IN THE BIG BAZAR

Sumitra Mishra

“Madam, this side, ma’m! Deposit your bags in the counter, this way please.”

The security guard said politely but firmly. He was wearing a navy blue half shirt, black full pant and a whistle chord around his left arm, with the badge of the company, “Sure Safety” that has recruited him, prominently displayed on the left pocket of his uniform. Sudha was about to enter Big Bazar, the new mall at Ram Mandir square with her friend Abha. Both were carrying big handbags, Sudha’s was a black Hide Sign brand, and Abha’s was a cream colour Levis brand. Sudha had forgotten this paraphernalia of the mall culture. She is not fond of visiting malls unless any serious need arise, nor does she like to eat outside as an adventure or outing. She does her grocery shopping in the markets nearest to her house or at Reliance Fresh, first week of every month. She had visited Big Bazar almost six months ago when her sister Sucheta visited her to invite them to her daughter’s wedding. At that time they were all together, the two families along with their children and husbands. Sucheta had purchased a lot of things; dresses, sarees, t shirts, cosmetics, other gift commodities and a hundred titbits.

While depositing the bags at the counter Sudha looked around the mall in admiration. The soft music coming from the “M Planet” which sells all sorts of music CDs added a charm to the fascinating lighting in the branded stores on the ground floor, where a fountain flowed from the artificial hills to a pool aquarium abuzz with real fishes. Beside the hill a big counter for chocolates, cookies and ice creams attracted the children as well as adult attention. In front of the music planet in a cosy corner sat two artists, one ready to sketch the portrait of anyone who wants, and the other a heena and mehendi painter, who invitingly displayed himself, his wares and his art to draw attention of the ladies. This man wore a queer dress, a gents T shirt over a ladies lehenga and a colourful Rajasthani dupatta. No one could be sure of his gender and accepted him as the third gender. There was a long queue in front of his little stall all the time. The glass walled lift was always going up and down carrying loads of people who looked out of its glass walls to enjoy the beauty of the ground floor hill and fountain.

Sudha was happy with her decision to invite Abha for the marketing. For without her she would have felt lost in this jamboree of commerce. Abha is a marketing freak. She comes here very often to enjoy herself, though she may not have anything particular to purchase. So she knows the place very well and can guide Sudha to the right stores. Sudha feels very confused amid the crowd of shops, stalls, plans, offers, gifts, bill boards, counters, most of all the people pushing and shoving everywhere. She realized that Big Bazar is a mall which true to its slogan “Is se shasta aur is se achha kuchh nehin” is a lovely market where one can buy anything or everything one needs under one roof, in the comfort of central ac ,that too with the support of customer friendly selling assistants. The only negative factor is the long line at the billing counters. No doubt this mall has changed the marketing habit of the middle class people of Bhubaneswar. Those who were roaming in the open markets in Unit-1 or Sahid Nagar or CRP Square , now prefer to do their marketing here only.  Starting from gold ornaments to plastic stuff, artistic paintings and classy decoration materials to the daily grocery items, bucket, broomsticks, mops to numerous artificial jewellery, clothes, and accessories for every age group, whatever you want is available here. It’s therefore known as a supermarket. Truly a supermarket for Bhubaneswarians, whose children now enjoy the outing most, because they can enjoy fast food, junk food or Chinese noodles or Italian pasta, pizza, Mac Donald burger or relax and gossip in the CCD. Before this national chain supermarket was opened the younger generation felt bored in this city. The parks of Bhubaneswar are neither clean or green nor safe. Here the well maintained lawns and manicured green patch in front of the mall not only  added to the cool image and beauty of the mall, it also provided a safe haven for young lovers willing to splurge their parents’ money in merrymaking.

Sudha had come to purchase a few special gifts for Prabodh for his upcoming fiftieth birthday. A special watch, a jacket and goggles, which he likes to wear so often, would be enough. So she directed Abha’s attention to the big watch shop spread in front of the luggage counter. They started scanning the watches. The shop contained watches of a huge price range; from Rs 100/ to one lakh. Sudha got confused. She never believed that a watch more than 10,000/ is worth wearing every day. It may be kept in the Godrej cupboard as a luxury item for special occasions. So she started noticing watches within ten thousand, but Abha was asking to show the Rado watches from Switzerland, which cost above 50,000/-. Sudha got beefed and asked Abha to leave that shop and go to see the jackets.

“Come on Abha, let’s first choose the jacket and other essentials. Then only we will come to the watch shop.”

“No, no, let’s first chose the watch. That would be your surprise gift, so it must be a real surprise! You know, now-a-days everyone is wearing watches of Titan company. They are grand but not very costly.”

“But Prabodh already has three Titan watches. At present he is also wearing the one with the golden band. That he likes very much, you know. Let’s go for something different.”

Before Sudha could finish her sentence Abha took a lovely, black dialled Rado watch with diamonds fitted on the golden band. The watch had many designs on its face, instead of two hands. Sudha found it difficult to read the time. So she apprehended,

“See, how are you going to read time in this watch? Very difficult! What’s the price? 25,000/- My God, It’s a watch, not a gold bangle!”

Abha interjected, “Ya, that’s it! You will wear bangles worth a lakh or two on your wrist, but he can’t wear a watch of 25,000/-? Why this discrepancy, dear?”

Sudha tried to plead on behalf of Prabodh, for she knew he would be very irritated about the price of the watch. He doesn’t like showy or flashy things. His style is muted. Yet the watch was so unique in design that Sudha could not take her eyes off it. That settled the choice. Sudha was happy that she carried her State Bank debit card with her. She had judged correctly. With Abha as the shopping guide the expenses would be doubled or trebled.

They loitered around the Men’s section of jackets and choose two, one for Prabodh and one for Abha’s husband Niranjan. Both were of the same brand, same design but different size and colour. Prabodh’s 42,  Niranjan’s 40.  Niranjan was five years younger to Prabodh. Now they decided to go for a cup of coffee and snacks on the fourth floor in the FOOD COURT before they do the other purchases. Sudha wanted to have something light but Abha was very fond of both KFC and MAC D. So she insisted to go to KFC.

“It’s been three months since I have visited KFC. Malay has no time for me. Let’s go to KFC.”

Sudha accompanied her silently thinking of the items which she still has to purchase for the special occasion, the 50th birthday of Prabodh.

After ordering their snacks at KFC, Sudha was searching for a sitting place. Abha was waiting at the counter to collect their ordered items. At that time, Sudha saw a young girl of early twenties serving cold drink to customers in the counter of a shop named “Be Cool, Be Smart”. Sudha could not believe her eyes, it was Megha, her school friend Devaki’s daughter. Only a few years ago Megha was staying with her to prepare for her Class X, CBSE examination. How come she is here? Sudha could not control her inquisitiveness and anxiety. Why is she doing this job? Before Abha arrived with the plates, she kept her purse on an empty table with four chairs and rushed to Megha.

“Megha!”

The girl turned her head, and looked behind her shoulders to discover her mom’s friend and her school teacher Sudha aunty standing in front of her. Her face changed colours, from a faint surprise glow to a faded cream of fear to a bleak colour of sadness. Then she controlled herself and smiled. She brushed her artificially straightened sleek black hair playfully grazing her shoulders and responded,

“Oh, Aunty! What a surprise! How come you are here?”

She slapped her own back lovingly and said, “Oh, I’m so stupid! You must have come for marketing, no? Where is uncle?”

Sudha replied, “Ya, of course I have come for marketing! Not with uncle but with a friend. We are on that table. How is Devaki? I am seeing you after a long time, it seems. You are all grown up, looking smart !Can you come and join us for a few minutes? I want to talk to you.”

“Let me see! How many customers are there? Only three! I hope Shree will manage it, I will just come.”

She walked fast with a steady confident gait which again surprised Sudha. How much time has passed since she had this small girl in her house as a guest? Two/ three years? No, it’s actually been six years! Oh my God! Time has moved so fast! That cute teenager who panicked whenever she saw Sudha, the Mathematics teacher of her school, is a confident sales girl now! She pointed at Megha and said to Abha, standing with two plates of chicken wings and chicken noodles in both her hands and said, “Can you recognise her, Abha? It’s Megha! Devaki’s daughter! Please put the plates on the table. I have invited her to sit with us.”

Megha appeared from behind the curtains of the counter with two glasses of soft drink in both her hands and came forward to Sudha’s table. “I have excused myself for ten minutes aunty. Will we sit down?” She handed over the cold drinks to Sudha and Abha with a sad smile and said, “You are surprised to see me here, no aunty?”

“Yes, definitely! What’s the matter? Why are you working? Are your studies completed?”

Sudha shoot the questions at Megha. Megha felt a little embarrassed and looked down.

“No, aunty, I’m still doing my P.G. in Mathematics in Vani Vihar. Second year. But I have to do this work to earn my hostel fees. No one is there to support me!”

“Why? Where is your father? The great Mr. Police Superintendent?”

“Don’t you know aunty, my Papa died in an encounter with the Maoists in the Kalahandi jungle. The news came in the paper. You haven’t seen?”

Now it was time for Sudha’s embarrassment. She felt stupid and selfish! How come she did not know this? May be, she was too busy in her own life to think of others or even keep contact with close friends! Manisha, her diseases and her demise, everything had kept her churning in a mill of unavoidable responsibilities, she had no time for anyone else. Megha looked at her face, which sunk into grief and said,

“No big deal, aunty. God finds ways for everyone. I also found an opportunity to complete my dream. May be in a few months I will be a lecturer in Mathematics or a clerk somewhere. But how is Manisha?”

The question stabbed the softest core of Sudha. She avoids talking about Manisha to anyone as far as practicable, but to Megha, who was such a loving sister and mentor to Manisha! What can she say? Abha looked at her friend’s face, to rescue her from the agony of repeating the oft-repeated events, she interjected,

“Hurry up Sudha, finish your plate. We still have a lot of marketing to do! Please have a piece of this! This is real good!”She offered a chicken wing to Megha, but Megha declined politely. She said,

“Manisha must have been a big smart girl now! Want to see her. Any photos of her, aunty, in your mobile?”

Sudha’s eyes clouded and big drops fell on her cheeks as she opened her mobile phone gallery. She could not have kept the truth away from Megha, no, she should not! This girl loved Manisha so so much! She has a right to know! Sudha handed the mobile to Megha and pointed at the gallery crowded with Manisha’s photos and videos.

“She is now with God, no more with us.”Sudha picked up a tissue from the plate and wiped her tears.

“Oh, my God ! How come I don’t know! Even Mama has not said anything to me. Does she know?”

Sudha explained, “Sorry dear, your mom also does not know this. After your Class X examination and results, we have not been in touch. You know, I did not have a mobile. Your Papa got transferred to Kalahandi as the Police Superintendent. All of you went away with him. Devaki had written a letter to me telling that you have opted to read general science instead of engineering against your father’s wish. That was the last I heard from her. Destiny kept me so busy in moving around the hospitals, I had no time for anyone else.”

Megha let out a deep sigh, “What happened to my angel Manisha, aunty? Blood cancer? Tumor?”

Sudha replied, “Please don’t ask. It was a terrible blow. Not cancer, but a hole in her heart!”

Megha put her two palms on her eyes and started weeping. “Oh my God! How is that possible? She was a super active kid!”

Sudha did not want to repeat that oft-narrated story of Manisha’s illness another time to someone so fond of her. She only said, “I still have the snaps when you were carrying her on your back and shoulders, even the one where you are giving her a bath in the tub and she is throwing water at you. Prabodh had taken the pictures in our Kodak digital camera, which he had got from Singapore. Do you remember?”

Megha had forgotten nothing. Six months before her Class X final exam, her mom had handed over her to Sudha aunty, a close friend of hers, because there was not enough space in the government quarters allotted to her Papa at Sahid Nagar for her study and preparation for the final examination . She has three siblings, two brothers and one sister, all junior to her, all in different classes in school. They were all so noisy pranksters; she could not find proper space for her studies. Sudha aunty, who was her Mathematics teacher in the St.Xavier School, was very fond of her because she always scored the highest mark in Mathematics among all students of her class. Megha had been overjoyed to stay at Sudha aunty’s house, not only because she had a comfortable study room to study, but also because she was with Manisha, the lovely angel, who ran from room to room all day , picking things and showing them to Megha ,either to unlock the cap or to open the wraps. Megha always felt obliged to please the girl and enjoyed any opportunity she got to play with her. During Sudha aunty’s school hours there was a caretaker, who used to feed her and put her to sleep, but Manisha always preferred to sleep on her lap or beside her on her bed. Megha used to tell her so many stories of tigers, lions, apes and gorillas to frighten her. But Manisha enjoyed them thoroughly, repeating the words and sentences with action and expression in her eyes. She particularly enjoyed the nursery rhyme, “Rock-a bye-baby” sang in a slow tone that induced sleep in her. She always searched for an opportunity to slip away from her caretaker and come to Megha who would take her round the garden and tell her the names of flowers and trees. Though she could not remember the names, but she enjoyed roaming around the garden in her pram with Megha. Manisha was particularly fascinated by her flowing straight thick shoulder length hair and often tried to comb it even not knowing how to hold a comb correctly. This memory took Megha’s hands to her hair which she caressed with her right hand, as if feeling the touch of those tiny, sweet hands on it. A sound came out of her mouth, “No, no Manisha, don’t do it.”

Abha took the mobile phone from Megha’s hands and said, “The hands of the unseen all powerful God has taken her into the unseen world. But she is still there with all of us, you felt her hands now, no?”

Sudha pressed Megha’s hands and said, “Come to our house, when you are free. I will show you so many things! Is it possible for you to come and stay with us? You don’t have to work. We will foot the bill of your studies. You will see how Manisha is still playing her pranks on your study table every day! You will come, won’t you?”

Megha tried to reply, but words seemed to fly away from her lips without vibrating their wings! She replied, “I have to ask Mama.”

Sudha said, “I know Devaki will be too happy to let you be with us. You know, how it hurts me to know that you have to work for your studies! Your father had done so much for us, can’t we do at least something to make his soul happy?”

Sudha recollected the memory of a bike accident. Prabodh had almost killed a young boy returning from tuition while crossing the Barmunda square with Sudha as a pillion rider. They were returning from the Maharaja movie hall after the evening show. It was around 9p.m. The college boy suddenly came in front of Prabodh’s bike at a turning. While Prabodh clutched the brakes tightly Sudha was thrown down and the bike hit the boy. Both Sudha and the boy had to be admitted to the hospital. While Sudha had suffered from minor injuries, the boy was serious with fractures in his rib. A case was filed against Prabodh. The Barmunda police tried to drag Prabodh to court, but Megha’s father Anadi Baral who was the Deputy Police Superintendent at the time, intervened and struck a deal with the parents of the boy for compensation outside court, thus saving Prabodh from a legal battle. The police case would have dented Prabodh’s career and Sudha’s mental peace. Prabodh respected Megha’s father as an elder brother. Their families came much closer after this event. They had spent so many days together at home on different occasions and in picnics during the Christmas season. Sudha enjoyed the company of Megha’s parents, as both Devaki and Anadi were very carefree, jovial company. Anadi bhaiya’s loud laughter echoed in Sudha’s ears. She could not control her emotion. She sat down on the chair again and uttered a deep “Oh!” that resounded in the air. Some of the customers enjoying their pizza, burger, kebab, French fries etc. looked around towards Sudha. Megha pressed both the shoulders of her Sudha aunty and said,

“Don’t worry, aunty. I will come with bag and baggage. You and I will relive Manisha’s fond memories. I will be your Manisha. I will call and inform mama today.”

Sudha looked up at Megha and smiled. Her beaming smile spread like the golden sun shine smiling from under the clouds hanging over the food court. 

 

Major Dr. Mrs. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia.

After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue. A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her  four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.

By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.

 

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PROTEAN JOKER 

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien

I love my joker .

When queen of my  heart didnt come

He disguised himself to complete my harem of queens.

I admire his yorker .

He once stole into the club of kings

And  won a battle for me.

I cherish  this broker.

He can be an ace mediating with a diamond

Or a jack armed with a spade or club.

 

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working  in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books.  A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002  and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.

 

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THE FACE IN THE MIRROR 
Ananya Priyadarshini 

“It's high time we see a doctor, Mom. It has become much more than something to do just with your appearance. It's affecting your confidence and I can see that. We need to know what's wrong, don't we?", Anisha was calm.

I'm a forty eight year old widow to a Martyr. I'm orthodox, hell bent and very stubborn. That's not how only others, but I too perceive myself. 

Let's take the example of this school matter. I run a school that provides primary education to kids of Martyrs for free. I run it in my husband's ancestral house, the house that I was welcomed to for the first time as a bride. I felt Angad's ephemeral presence in every corner of the house and felt that opening a school here will make him happy. This was the thing that kept me from succumbing to depression after Angad's death. Let me tell you, losing a spouse is the biggest stress a human faces- as per psychology.

The school did well. We got few sponsors and gradually, many of them and the idea flourished to its full girth. My darling daughter, Anisha after completing her Masters chose to look after the school instead of getting a job. That was the day I knew that our baby had turned into a woman. 

She expanded the school. She wanted to do more- like getting an audiovisual system installed or setting up musical instruments. But the house couldn't accommodate all her plans. She'd told me a few times earlier to shift the school to a new location, a new house. She was well aware of loans the banks would offer and had assured me of no financial crisis. But how could she forget that  it was her father's house that had to be abandoned?

I raised my hand at the girl of twenty four who was never spoken to loudly as a child when she tried to enforce her idea on me.

"It's my school, Anisha!", I'd screamed, or almost cried.

"A piece of roof broke down, Mom. It could fall on a child and kill it. It's a school, mom and not a guillotine. Don't make it one for Dad's sake!.” She screamed equally loudly, holding her reddened, warm cheek. 

"You needn't work in the school if you don't feel safe enough." I still don't know what made me say that though she was the only thing I was left with to call my own.

She couldn't believe what she'd just heard but went on to say firmly, "There's no school, Mom. The parents don't want to send their children to a building on the verge of collapse." 

She hadn't given up on the school. She was running it in a rented place. I used to hear news. We still stayed in the same house- but spoke as much as a fired employee and an employer would. There was nothing sort of Mommy-baby turned besties bonding to be seen anymore. I cried, craved for her to come back to me but never spoke that loud enough for her ears to hear. I pretended to be fine.

After eight months she's finally spoken to me and urged me to do something I've never done in my life. You might laugh, but I'd to choose between my being stubborn and being her Mom, again. I went with the latter and hence, we were sitting before the doctor the next evening.

"They were initially just a cluster of red marks. But gradually, they became itchy. Then boils started to appear with pain and discharge of pus. As the old ones healed they left behind scars and new ones showed up. But since five months there is no improvement.", I was talking about my pimples.

"Did you experience your menopause recently?", The doctor asked.

"Well, yes!", Anisha looked at me with a '"It's high time we see a doctor, Mom. It has become much more than something to do just with your appearance. It's affecting your confidence and I can see that. We need to know what's wrong, don't we?", Anisha was calm.

I'm a forty eight year old widow to a Martyr. I'm Orthodox, hell bent and very stubborn. That's not how only others, but I too perceive myself. 

Let's take the example of this school matter. I run a school that provides primary education to kids of Martyrs for free. I run it in my husband's ancestral house, the house that I was welcomed to for the first time as a bride. I felt Angad's ephemeral presence in every corner of the house and felt that opening a school here will make him happy. This was the thing that kept me from succumbing to depression after Angad's death. Let me tell you, losing a spouse is the biggest stress a human faces- as per psychology.

The school did well. We got few sponsors and gradually, many of them and the idea flourished to its full girth. My darling daughter, Anisha after completing her Masters chose to look after the school instead of getting a job. That was the day I knew that our baby had turned into a woman. 

She expanded the school. She wanted to do more- like getting an audiovisual system installed or setting up musical instruments. But the house couldn't accommodate all her plans. She'd told me a few times before to shift the school to a new location, a new house. She was well aware of loans the banks would offer and had assured me of no financial crisis. But how could she forget that  it was her father's house that had to be abandoned?

I raised my hand at the girl of twenty four who was never spoken to loudly as a child when she tried to enforce her idea on me.

"It's my school, Anisha!", I'd screamed, or almost cried.

"A piece of roof broke down, Mom. It could fall on a child and kill it. It's a school, mom and not a guillotine. Don't make it one for Dad's sakes!", She screamed equally loudly, holding her reddened, warm cheek. 

"You needn't work in the school if you don't feel safe enough." I still don't know what made me say that though she was the only thing I was left with to call my own.

She couldn't believe what she'd just heard but went on to say firmly, "There's no school, Mom. The parents don't want to send their children to a building at the verge of collapse." 

She hadn't given up on the school. She was running it in a rented place. I used to hear news. We still stayed in the same house- but spoke as much as a fired employee and an employer would. There was nothing sort of Mommy-baby turned besties bonding to be seen anymore. I cried, craved for her to come back to me but never spoke that loud enough for her ears to hear. I pretended to be fine.

After eight months she's finally spoken to me and urged me to do something I've never done in my life. You might laugh, but I'd to choose between my being stubborn and being her Mom, again. I went with the later and hence, we were sitting before the doctor the next evening.

"They were initially just a cluster of red marks. But gradually, the became itchy. Then boils started to appear with pain and pus discharge. As the old ones healed they left behind scars and new ones showed up. But since five months there is no improvement.", I was talking about my pimples.

"Did you experience your menopause recently?", The doctor asked.

"Well, yes!", Anisha looked at me with a ‘you'd menopause and you didn't care to tell me, Mom!' look. I felt guilty.

"Don't worry Mrs Awasthi it's just the manifestation of hormonal imbalance your body is going through. It's totally curable."

I was prescribed a facewash, some creams and pills too. As Anisha drove us back home, she asked, "want to visit the school?"

"No", I replied super-promptly. Not because I was stubborn anymore but because I didn't want to be seen around with those ugly lesions on my face. I'd never been to a beauty parlor because I believed in embracing my natural looks and not give them a plastic packaging in the name of make up. Thanks to my stars I was gifted with a naturally healthy skin and never felt the need to visit a salon. But these lesions grabbed a lot of eye balls- friends, neighbors, relatives who were used to seeing my skin flawless. I never spent much time before the mirror but the questions I was asked every now and then made me stare at the reflection of my lesions on the mirror and feel ugly about myself. There was no school and I'd another justifiable reason now not to go out. I'd put myself under house arrest. 

It was not until yesterday morning that Anisha heard Meera, our maid advise me on how to cure pimples. Even advices pinned my confidence down and I was hearing her out with my head hung. That night Anisha was in my room with a dermatologist's appointment.

I'm using these treatments since a week now. Anisha and I do talk, though not like before. I've stopped touching my skin. I hate the feel of those bumps. I've covered the mirror in my room. I don't want to see what other people see on my face and throw looks of disgust. I hate how the prescribed facewash smells. Not because it doesn't smell like the older one but because it reminds me the reason I'm using it instead. I spend my days reading, listening to music and cooking.

"It's a big day, Mom. And yes, it's your school", Anisha had come to invite me for Ganesh puja function at the school. 

This was the golden opportunity to get my daughter back. I didn't care how good I'd look. The next day, I was at the School. 

"Hello, ma'am. I'm the new music teacher and I must say, you look beautiful. Anisha ma'am wasn't at all exaggerating when she said that you look more like her elder sister than mother!", I shook hands with her and reached Anisha's cabin- a room with two desks- one for 'Anisha Awasthi- Vice Principal' and the other, 'Anju Awasthi- Principal'. The later one had a framed picture of late Major Angad Awasthi in uniform. Tears welled up in my eyes as I heard Anisha playfully say, "Welcome, Ma'am!"

"Let's buy this place, Anisha. I've sold the old bungalow."

"But Mom, I never meant that!"

"Don't worry. Even your dad stays here now." I hugged her tightly. 

Over her shoulder I could see my reflection in the wall mirror. The face was as beautiful as Anju Awasthi. I'd healed.

Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).

Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.

---

 

HAVE YOU EVER..? 

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

have you ever

           talked to 

a wall? 

 

When you 

     talk to a wall

You get relief, 

            unafraid

You can vent out 

    your corked up

  thoughts,  feels

 

it just  stands

       impassive

indifferent

    but  listens... 

 

after all

      listening 

is what you 

              need

a punch box

     to pummel on..

 

If walls had 

                ears

and tongue

       how many 

stories

     would they tell....

 

other than 

            walling in

and walling out

          how much

they serve, 

these.walls...!

 

have you ever

       talked to a wall..? 

 

---

WHO SHALL COMMAND THE SKY LARK NOT TO SING.. (GIBRAN)

Dr. Molly Joseph M

Sing it must, 

           the sky lark 

facing the sun, 

         not turning back

not looking at its 

            own shadow

where the world grows 

            and shrinks

as per   its whim..

 

           facing the sun

it travels 

          with the wind

on its face..

 

in cool acceptance, 

          nothing holds

you down.. 

 

the sun no longer

              the caster

of shadows

          but radiance

sheer radiance..

         clearing up

worlds anew 

             afresh...

 

 

Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.

She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).

 

---

EVEN IF

K. Sachidanandan's

Translated by Dr. Molly Joseph M

Even if

  a man meets 

his first love

    after thirty years

he can make

               her out....

 

like

      recognising 

the old, old house

          in village

you lived in, 

         now rebuilt...

 

like 

    recognising

the desolation

         of a valley

which once heaped 

          up flowers...

now 

         filled with

buildings,  

       their uproar...

 

like 

    the moth eaten

school photograph

             wherein

 you  struggle

       to trace

            the place 

you stood...

 

he envisages

         a reunion

trumpets

    beating within..

 

but 

     they never

escape 

        his walls..

 

He craves

         to hold her, 

her head 

          close to 

his heart

       to make her

listen to his 

       throbs of 

thirty years

       of  travails, 

its noises...

 

craves,  

     to touch,  

  to know    

and smell

        her heavens  

her  hells..

 

but

    between.them

there is 

          an ocean...

 

noticing

        how time 

has sculpted her

            with a voice

made dispassionate

           he asks...

"you are fine? "

 

noticing 

         how he is 

torn and worn

             with life

She answers...

          " fine.. "

 

two corpses 

           coffined

in grave       

             struggling

to communicate

           suffocated...

above them

           the sand heap

the weight 

        of rocks,  trees...

 

unbearable..

 

they slowly

           move off...

only 

        the ocean

remains

         in between....

 

 

---

THE FIRST UNIVERSE WAR

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

History ,mythology and epics

Replete with 1st ,2nd and 3rd…??

Undoubtedly  wars,

Since the creation,

Following “big-bang”.

 

Have you ever heard of

1st War of The Universe?

“No”, neither history nor mythology

Tells about it.

But it was fought or alleged to be,

When the universe was rattled

With the clicking sound of Sarang and Pinaka,

Clubbing of Kaumadaki ,creeching of Sudarsan Chakra,

Blowing of Panchajanya and Damaru.

 

Yes of course ,the great war

Between Vishnu and Shiva,

Ignited by beauty and flared up,

But ended with definite victory.

 

Usha, exquisitely beautiful daughter

Of Banasur of the then Sonitpur

In Present day  Assam...Tezpur .???

Usha, in a dream visualised her

handsome prince.,

Anguished with that sought

help of Chitralekha who having

gone through many kingdoms

settled with the prince of Dwaraka,

Yes Anirudha, the grandson of Shrikrishna,

Son of Pradyumna.

Secretly exchanged garlands,

With the connivance of Chitralekha,

But imprisoned by Banasur in his palace,

News given to Narayan by

"Narayanam" chanter....

Frowned with anger

BalaramJumped for war,

And they marched for Sonitpur...

Took the town by surprise.

Banasur defended his kingdom,

Joined him

Shiva, Kartikeya and

all followers of Shiva

As  Shiva granted a boon

To Banasur to help him in war.

 

Supreme Gods,

Super weapons,

Brahmastra with Brahmastra,

Agnyastra with Jalastra,

Pabanastra with Parbatastra

Nayayanastra with Pasupatastra,

No end to war, neither  any solution.

 

Krishna's last salvo,Sanmohanastra,

Suggested to Vishnu by Shiva

Made Shiva unconscious,

Vishnu, having severed all but two hands

when about to severe Banasur’s head

Shiva still stuporous,

“And Almighty,

Vishnu,the supreme!

Don’t kill Banasur,”

And  Vishnu spared his life,

 

“Obeisance to you,

the spirit of unlimited potential.

You are the cause of all creation,

maintenance and dissolution.

You are the truth Vedas refer to

. You are the Time, the Fate, the Karma,

and the Being.

You are also the material body,

the life giving air, the soul,

and all the senses all of which constitute your Maya.

I take shelter of you.”

 

Released Anirudha ,

Garlanded Usha,

And with fun fare,

Returned to Dwaraka.

Marking the end of,

"The first Universe War."

Neither recognised,

Nor talked about more,

By the mythologists,

Who didn't highlight

The love story between

Usha and Anirudha.

 

Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin

 

---

AN EAST EUROPEAN DIARY PART - 2

Kumud Raj

 

Today we enter Croatia and have a long drive to Plitvice National Park. It is an enormous place and we are dropped off at one end and told that after four hours the bus will pick us up at the other end. My goodness, my aching knees! We have to walk down one million steps to the boat which takes us across a lake and dumps us on the other side.

   

 

 From there it’s walk walk walk. We see many little waterfalls and lakes full of fish. We have to walk on narrow wooden pathways with no railings. So if you get pushed, it’s Splash! It’s very picturesque but we have to walk very carefully.

Halfway up the hill we decide we can’t walk anymore and come back to the jetty! Then we take another boat to the café. It’s an open café with wooden benches set under the trees. It’s quiet and peaceful and quite enchanting. We have roast chicken and pork with our new friends from S.Africa. They are coloured folk and she tells me that she is quite unabashedly rascist!!

And then again it’s walk walk walk. But we don’t really mind as the scenery is exquisite and you never really get tired of looking at it. And then we find ourselves right on top of the cliff and looking down, we can see all the waterfalls and lakes and cliffs. It’s unbelievably beautiful! This is said to be the most beautiful park in all of Europe and I can well believe it!

That evening we reach the seaside town of Zadar and check into a charming hotel by the sea.

We get a lovely room with a balcony and a fantastic view of the Adriatic Sea. The sea is very blue. It is a narrow sea and we can see across it to the far shore! We go down , cross the road and decide to take a walk on the beach. All the South African youngsters have already gone into the water. To our surprise, there is no sand and no beach! There is no shore in fact! Just a few pebbles! 

This was the only area where there was a semblance of a beach. And no waves at all, just gentle ripples. All my life I’ve lived in coastal towns in India (except for a stint in Delhi) and I’m used to the huge waves crashing down and the foaming water – but here, nothing. I can’t figure out to myself whether they are lucky to have such calm waters or whether they are unlucky not to experience the pretty foam that runs out on our beaches when the waves crash on the shore. Ah well...

 There is this solitary olive tree standing in front of the hotel – if you look closely, you can see a few olives on it! I sit out in the patio and soak in the ambience of the place. It’s quite unbelievable that I’m actually gazing at the Adriatic Sea ! By about 9 o’clock, the sky turns an incredible shade of deep blue-green and I watch mesmerized. Dear God in heaven, am I really seeing this?! Once the darkness sets in, we can see the lights of a city twinkling across the sea. Looks so pretty.

Come dawn, and we are on our way to the town of Split. This is in Dalmatia, where the later Roman Emperors had their summer palace. Most of our travelling in Croatia is in the mountains. They are white limestone mountains with a dense growth of shrubs. And all along the drive we have the Adriatic to our right. And then we come to this stunning little city, sparkling like a jewel in the sun –Split.

 I had never heard of this place before. Here is where Emperor Diocletian had built his summer palace in 295 AD.  The ruins are very well preserved. The palace walls soar into the sky and down below its life as usual – umpteen little shops, cafés, etc. It is an incredible experience to walk among the ruins. There is an old church and a crypt and groups of musicians singing in Dalmatian.

 

The byways and alleys twist and turn and the narrow streets are spotlessly clean. Split is bright with summer flowers – our very own bougainvillea and oleander! But I’ve never seen it grow in such profusion. The entire city is full of their colours. This too is a city by the sea-side. So we never lose sight of the sea…it’s beautiful!

 And here are the singers! I can’t even begin to tell you how the song sounds within these old palace walls! Their voices soar up to the ruins of the old towers. They are singing a cappella, and we tourists stand there gawping at them. It is a most unusual experience for us!

We then come out and wander in the market, looking at the flower, fruit and meat stalls.

 And then on to the ancient walled city of Dubrovnik. The walls and the fort are built into the sea.It’s incredibly beautiful but by the time we reach there it is too late to go on the city walls. These pictures were taken at 7.30 in the evening!

  

 

 We walk through the old city gates into the walled city. The streets are gleaming and the place is full of old palaces and churches. In East Europe there are palaces and churches everywhere!

That’s me in front of the public fountain. We are told that we can fill our bottles at the fountain but no one makes a move to do so and our guide laughs!

   I go back to the hotel, walking slowly, enjoying gazing all around. There are people everywhere – no one seems to be in a hurry! The open-air restaurants are all full of people watching the World Cup. The hotel is by the Adriatic and we have a good view from our balcony.

 

Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.

 

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TRANCED SYNCOPE

Sharanya B

A fixed gaze into nothingness,

A busy mind, still for a while;

Visions and noise fuse to a nebulous  backdrop,

It's no more what the eyes see, no more what the ears hear,

 no more what the body perceives...

 

Toes wade around in cool liquid releasing ripples,

 miniscule waves that circulate,

Cautious of the water they hope not to agitate,

Fat drops from sky then take the charge, clear beads drop to my head

A gentle call to take leave,

I make way, tip toe through the mud,

carefully avoiding puddles strewn around,

As a hazy mist emerges from oblivion,

That lulls me to blissful nonchalance, its a fall into an unlit abyss...

 

I swirl through newfound dimensions,

Magic seems like tangible matter,

Time ceases to exist,

It's a painless existence,

where the soul doesn't feel but is felt,

A forceful pull downwards, a thud of sudden pain,

 

My eyes have opened,

a hospital interior is what the vision captures,

I wonder if I should realize this with delight or a little disdain,

Either way, I say to myself,

'I see the world again.'

Sharanya B, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.

 

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THE BOARDER, UPSTAIRS (OOPARWAALAA)

RUNU MOHANTY

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Total bedlam down here, o’ God!

In desperation I shout louder, shriller;

threatening to kill myself;

I throw wild tantrums. But he

remains unconcerned upstairs!

 

Exasperated, I threat to throw him out,

drown him, set fire to him; curse him,

“Go to hell.”, then cajole him back,

“How could you leave me, my pet,

who would give you as much love?”

 

Is it so hard to accommodate me,

am I a nettle bush, irritable, itchy,

an inevitably mad woman

like her soiled tatters?

He must be getting tired of me !

 

Like rain drops on earth

why we pound each other, each

tearing into the other, wallowing

in mutual chaos? Ours is a night

competing with darkness to go darker!

 

I know, it’s a stormy patch

of life, I am perhaps going berserk.

But he, in his upper room, the unseen

director of all the drama, sits still

wearing a bemused silly smile !

 

(Published in Odia daily ‘SAMBAD’ of 8th Sept. 1919)

 

Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.   

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THE TOWERS THAT DISAPPEARED

Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj

I watched the tower go down. Wondered what exactly was happening. And then suddenly from the left side of the television screen a photographer exclaimed something and ducked in. His  camera continued the video shooting. And the second flight moved across like a dart and pierced through the next tower. We sat straight now.

No background music. Just plain collapse of the massive structures. Like a collapse of stacked books. It took some time for us to react. We didn’t know what to do. We continued to watch.

The cameras in many hands began giving close-ups. People hanging on to the various floors trying to escape. Firefighters moved into the burning buildings as others were escaping them. Some media persons felt their faces must be shown with all the expression of deep fear, covered by courage and it was a good piece of information for us. So we knew that these great men were indeed getting in really not knowing if at all they would come out.

The human tragedy and its existential resignation mingled in a kind of reality show and we watched and talked. The commentators thought it was wise to pep it up with some other videos women smiling and created a brilliant interpretation of how people have been laughing at the collapse of mighty buildings. Later, of course, those videos were withdrawn. The need for stories drove people to hunt for them even when things like this happen, I was thinking.

The common man can only think as countries plan for energy powers across the world and everyone believes in retaliating. We have invented new words like ‘terrorism’ to describe technologically organized massacres of the world of today directed by human greed. There were professionals caught up in their offices talking to their siblings, parents, husbands, wives, children and friends till the fire swallowed them.

Even now as I think about that fatal day, I am reminded of reading the Mahabharatha as a child when Sanjaya would narrate everyday’s war happenings to Dhiritrashtran using his gnana thirushti. The deaths would make the old king cry at times, ponder at times and get angry at times. I still have these emotions left in me and each time we or hear about colossal pain around us in real, or in television, the images of Mahabharatha flash across my inner mind. When Dhrona cries for his son and fasts until death, we imagine a sagely wise old man sitting erect and dying.

The modern images are images of smoke, rubble, and bodies crumbled under the weight of buildings. One has to learn to grieve for modern tragedies. To relive the pain of living and dying.  Skyscrapers and survivors tell us the stories human tenacity and the intelligentsia is trying to keep this history alive. Living in visually intensive societies  with audio-visual languages, images of pain stimulate neurosis.  There is no time for thinking and interpreting these images and the mind absorbs the pain silently, as the narrator does not build the story in an ethical framework, the pattern followed by epics.

Epics were written down after the real stories became legends and lived long enough amidst the poele that a poet is moved to write it down. Rhapsodists take the story up, add on details, descriptions and customize the story to the nature of the audience. Whatever it is, the poem or the story was performed – visual. After being trained for 500 years or so by the printing technology we had begun to lose touch with visual stories, and science brought back visual stories with narrations right into the house in a melodramatic format.

Television photographs are different from epic visual narrations as the televised stories are contemporary or happening simultaneously. They have the power to excite and activate. The time gap between a written epic and when it happened was great that it fails to create activism. Images and videos build a common memory that can probable develop into legends, though slowly, as we have advanced in our official communication so much that myths cannot survive for long being slashed by facts everywhere.

Contemporary myths have to survive the ocean of data and information floating around us.

Prof. S. Sridevi has been teaching English in a research department in a college affiliated to the University of Madras for 30 years. She has published two collections of poems in English: Heralds of Change and Reservations. Her prose works are: Critical Essays, Saivism: Books 1-8 (Co-authors-C.T.Indra & Meenakshi Hariharan), Think English Talk English, Communication Skills, and Communicative English for Engineers (Co-Author-Srividya).  She has translated Thirukural, Part I into Tamil. Her Tamil poetry collections are:  Aduppadi Kavithaigal, Pennin Paarvaiyil, Naan Sivam and Penn Enum Perunthee.

 

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LET ME TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE!

Sarada Harish

 

Dedicated to all men who fought valiantly yet the victory was not theirs:

The events, characters and vehicles depicted in this story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living is purely coincidental.

Flashback 1:

Scene: Visvesvaraya Industrial and Technological Museum, Bangalore, 1991

College excursion of BSc Mathematics 89’-92’ batch of Govt. Victoria College

Girl watching the busy traffic from the terrace of the Museum.

Boy: are you not jealous of those ladies riding scooter?

{Girl (in her mind): yes, yes, yes, I am the most envious person in the whole world right now.}

Girl: No, I am not. Why should I be? I am happy and contended with myself.

The boy wonders what a different kind of girl this is! Maybe there is an admiration in his eyes.

Flashback 2:

1996, Thiruvananthapuram

A newly married couple discusses the commuting vows of the wife in the city. They decide to purchase a light weight two wheeler for the wife. The husband happily undertakes the task of teaching the wife to ride.

The wife is now the proud owner of a Bajaj Sunny. She is all excited about riding it on the city roads. A long cherished dream coming true.

Different venues are chosen for the joint venture. Initial one being the Medical college ground. The couple, though reluctantly, wakes up early in the morning and set forth diligently on their mission. The husband sits at the back seat confidently, giving tips to the wife who is supposed to move the vehicle forward. She is ordered to look straight ahead and go; absolutely ahead she looks and takes off without even tilting her head a little out of sheer fear. If the vehicle needs to be stopped she needs a warning bell at least two minutes before so that she can prepare her mind and soul to avoid crash landing. The same routine goes on for many weeks without any progress in the trainee’s riding skills. She has no idea what balance is all about. She is a director’s actor, absolutely. And the director has no clue why balance is playing hide and seek with his actor.

The days move forward, the training doesn’t. It stands at the same place where it started. If two mornings are spent in training, the next three days are spent in mourning. The husband curses the moment he decided to buy the vehicle and the wife laments on marrying such an impatient man. She divorces the man many a times in her mind. All the near and dear ones suggest different techniques, one being trying out a bicycle first to gain balance. The experts give anecdotes of the balancing mantra. An old bicycle is digged out and the ordeal is repeated but this time they stick to the house premises as a safe zone since both the director and the actor are reluctant to display their prowess to the public. The ordeal doesn’t yield any results. Instead, the couple decides to save their marriage by aborting the mission. The unlucky vehicle is locked and abandoned in a corner of the house compound. For the next two years its only exercise is getting started once in a while.

Flashback 3:

1998, thiruvananthapuram

The husband, inspired by some of his lady colleagues, brings home the stories of efficient driving school trainers. The wife sets off for the second innings. The vehicle gets an absolution after two years. The 2nd innings proves to be a super hit, thanks to the girl trainer.  After four days of crawling on the scooter with both legs on the ground, the wife finally discovers the balancing mantra. Joy has no leaps and bounds. A learner’s license is procured, and consequently the ‘license’. The girl trainer cannot be thanked enough. A big salute to all such lifesavers.

Present day: 2019

The Bajaj sunny is replaced by a Honda Deo long back. But the History and the Geography of the two wheeler saga remain intact. The road stories and the language improvement on riding the ‘cultured’ city roads continue. This story is dedicated to all men who patiently tried teaching their women to drive, but failed. But they are true warriors as they really had had the patience to see through the ridiculous and idiotic disposition of the women species, yet continued to sustain!

Sarada Harish: A Mathematics teacher by chance, a passionate reader by choice and an unbiological mother by luck.

 

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THE HORNBILL AND HIS LOVE(2019)

Dr. Aniamma Joseph

“My Love, Sweety, Wake up

I’ve come back

Tic-toc, Sweety, show yourself

Where are you, my darling?

Have our chicks come out?

 

See, what all things I have

With me, brought specially for you

Are you in slumber, my dear?

I’ve everything you love to have

Everything our kids’ll love to have

 

Many a mile I’ve traversed

Have seen wondrous sights

I’ve found a store place for

You and I and our kids

To store up all the things

 

Why don’t you answer me, you chick?

I’ll tell you how I drenched full in rains

Which you always longed for

Darling, I saw hailstones falling and falling

A sight you were always wistful for

 

I’ve brought all the gifts I could

Collected from far and wide

For you and me and  our kids

Wake up, my love, wake up

Tell our chicks, their Pa has come back.

 

Oh…I have flown high and far

But I know one thing for sure

No place is sweeter than our home

No bird is prettier than you dear

No birdies are cuter than our birdies

 

Why don’t you answer?

Why don’t you show your face?

Why don’t you put forth your beak?

Are you and our kids feathered well?

Oh, my love, I’m tensed with care

 

Alas, my love hears me not

I hear not my kids’ chic-chic

Lemme break into your nest

Tit—Tit…Oh, its’ sealed and waxed

My love, why don’t you answer my call?

 

Lemme crash into my home

My Sweety, where are you?

My kids, where are you?

I’ve longed and longed to see you

Now I’m back, but you are not seen

 

What do I see here, a skeletal frame?

An outline of my love?

What do I see there?

My chicks withered and dried

What can I do, except

Beat my head against the wall and wail?

 

Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam.  She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).

In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam  and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.

She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 28 books of the members.

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TOUCH AND GO
Anwesha Mishra

Awoke from one of many sleepless nights,
I rolled over in bed,
To find myself, laying,
Next to me.
Before i could pinch myself,
Out of oblivion,
A wave of low rising laughter set in.

I turned to face the overcast sky.
"May be you will never cease to be",
I smiled.
The coconuts and palms swayed in tandem.
A lovely breeze,
cut through the their branches,
Moving stealthily.
And blowing the yellow out of the moon,
Like a fire leaking from a broken lantern,
Touching the soft butts of the little pieces,
Floating ablaze,
As if,
Calling out to them,
Urging them to hurry!
"But what about the fritters?",
I sighed.

I shut my eyes and reminisced,
The same night,
That i was now living a second time.
So vivid; i could be dreaming.
And it has been over a decade,
But i could produce the lyrics of the song,
That Maa hummed,
Thinking no one heard her.
Or the story of the likes of Demons,
Who dwell in the tall trees of the backyard,
Like Jeetu mamu would make us believe.
When i had count all of the brightest stars,
And pushed myself up, to leave,
I could recall the mark on my skin,
From the pressure of my weight on the mat.

And then, when i was startled,
By a WhatsApp notification,
I knew,
I was never going back to this night,
If not, merely, as a figment,
Of my happy-sad memories.

Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy. 

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LISTENING TO THE MUSIC MAESTROS

SUKUMARAN C. V.  

Living world fascinates me because of its many wonders. Of all the wonders of the living world, I feel that the music of the birds is the most fascinating one. Shelley’s Ode to a Skylark and Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale immortalise birds’ music. Shelley asks the skylark in the famous ode: 
“What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?” 
 
And Keats tells the Nightingale that he wants to leave the world unseen; 
“And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden eyed despair.”
 

Cuckoo is the most wonderful musician I know about.  But ever since I started to work in Nelliyampathy, a biodiversity hotspot of the Western Ghats in Kerala, I have been listening to the enchanting music of the Beethoven in the birds’ world—Choolakkaakka (Malabar whistling thrush) every day and feeling to fade away into the forest dim with the bird. While the music of the cuckoos can be heard only in the summer months, the music of the whistling thrush is heard always. It is a bird with dark blue plumage that makes us think it is black. Unlike the cuckoo who never walks on the ground, the music maestro walks on the ground by hopping like the jungle babblers. It is not afraid of the humans; it flies away only when we go so near it. Every morning I used to wake up hearing the sweet music of the bird which reminded me of Shelley’s lines: 
“What objects are the fountains
 Of thy happy strain?.... 
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.”   
 
I think that the first music humans listened to was that of the birds apart from the roaring music of the cataracts, the gurgling sound of the rivers and the gentle whisper of the winds. Every bird, except the crow, is a musician and their music soothes and pacifies our turbulent and perturbed minds. Their music never creates sound pollution as ours often creates.
 
There was a spacious open place called Annode in our village. It was a beautiful open grass land filled with majestic black palm trees, gigantic mango trees and sprawling bamboo clusters. It was the grazing land of our cattle and the play ground of us the village children. While I was a college student, I used to visit this place at night. To see the charm of this place at midnight in moonlit nights used to be an ecstatic experience for me. It is an experience which can never be fully explained through words. 

As this spacious grass land lay adjacent to a vast tract of paddy fields, it was the habitat of lapwings. At night this place used to produce wonderful music mingled with the intermittent chirping of the lapwings and the music of the Elements.  The moonlight which falls on the palm leaves would make them silver-coated and the gentle breeze would help the leaves to create a mesmeric music. The sound of the wind, the fluttering music the palm leaves made with the help of the gentle wind, the chirping of the lapwings and the hooting of the owls from the mango trees created music unparalleled.
The most wonderful story I have read about birds’ music is the following one: Once a Zen teacher (Zen Guru) entered into the class room and while the students were respectfully waiting to hear his words, a small bird started to sing sitting near the window. The class fell into silence. After a while, the bird stopped singing and flew away. 
Then the Guru said: “Today’s class is over.” 

Mr. Sukumaran is from Palakkad district of Kerala and is a Pst-Graduate from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. His articles on gender, environmental and other socio-political issues are published in The Hindu, The New Indian Express, and the current affairs weekly Mainstream etc. His writings focus on the serenity of Nature and he voices his protests against the Environmental destruction humans are perpetrating in the name of development that brings climate catastrophes and ecological disasters like the floods Kerala witnessed in 2018 and 2019. A collection of his published articles titled Leaves torn out of life: Woman the real spine of the home and other articles is going to be published by the end of this month. He is a person with great literary talent and is a regular columnist in the Mindspace section of Indian Express.

 

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ENLIVENED ARDOR 

Sruthy S.Menon

Hold me, by the waist,
Let me be in your arms
Immobile_
enwrapped in rapturous delight,
an ardor of love.

Exalt to the skies, 
your lips appressed on mine
imbued with the hues of blue.
Let us savour this moment,
drenched in torrential rains
then,
drizzling the curls of my hair
on your pale, smooth skin.

We were enlivened by the dew drops 
upon a golden leaf,
enticing once more,
until next time.

SRUTHY.S.MENON is an Assistant Professor of English Literature, in Swamy Saswathikananda College, Poothotta, Ernakulam.She resides in Kerala, India.She is the CO- AUTHOR of a a few Anthologies titled "Amaranthine: My Poetic Abode", "Nostalgia: Story of Past" , "Crimson: Genius Poesy", "Wildflowers Rising","Confessions of the Soul Unknown ", "IKIGAI: The Reason for Being", "Miracles from Heaven ","Love is Magic", "Colours of Dreams ","100 Best Poems", and "1000 Women Quotes".Her poetry reveals the intrinsic nature of human emotions, illusions and dreams, etc.

She has also published her poems and articles in "Kerala Deccan Chronicle" relating to the ’Kerala Floods', 'Virtual Friendships', ' Digitalisation is the Future’, etc. She welcomes reader’s feedback in Instagram @alluring_poetess. 

 

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THE SILENT NIGHT AND A TRUNKFUL OF MEMORIES

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 I looked at my mother, startled. She had just said something, but my mind was somewhere else.

 "Yes, Bou, you were saying something?"

 "It's getting late, son, let's start the job. We can begin with your Baba's old papers. Let's discard the unnecessary papers. Only you will know how to sort them. What do I know of office matters?"

 "It is ok Bou. I will take care of them, you go to sleep. You look very tired. You have been looking after the guests throughout the day. I took a short nap after lunch. I can manage to keep awake for another couple of hours. After that I too should sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. We have to pack all the stuff and send them to Bhubaneswar day after tomorrow."

 Bou stifled a sob,

 "Stuff? What stuff son? Your Baba was like an ascetic, never bought a single unnecessary item for himself. Always managed with just two pairs of white pants and shirts, two dhotis and banians. Used to say acquiring more than what is essential is as good as stealing from some one needy. Do you remember how he scolded your son Bagula one day for wasting some upma during breakfast? The poor boy burst out crying. But your Baba was not a miser, you know how he used to donate quarter of his salary to five tribal schools for helping students."

 Bou started sobbing, not the loud sobs, but the silent cry coming from the pit of the stomach, tears flooding the eyes and trickling down like a wild stream. I also felt my voice choking and tears forming a silent puddle in my tired eyes.

 

 We had just finished the twelfth day ceremony of my father's sudden demise. There was a feast in the afternoon for the members of the extended family, many of them from our nearby village. Baba had chosen to settle at Nayagarh after his retirement because our village was only two kilometres away and we had some agricultural land to look after. All the guests had left by the evening. My wife Chhanda had boarded the evening bus to Bhubaneswar with our two sons, Bagula and Chagala. The elder one had his half yearly exam a few days away. Chagala, the younger one is my mother's pet, they can't stay without each other even for an hour, but mother had to stay back to help me pack.

 My father was only sixty four when he died all of a sudden of a massive heart attack. He was alone at the time, my mother was with us to take care of her grand sons since Chhanda was a chronic asthma patient.

 

 My Bou had pleaded with Baba to come and live with us, but he had refused, - "No, Kalyani, I can't live with them. I can't tolerate their life style. I can't see my son getting up at eight o' clock every day, taking tea before brushing teeth, I can't see Bohu cooking without taking a bath, I can't live at a place where the grand children won't have time to talk to me. You go and live with them. I can manage here with Sanatan, the servant boy."

 

 Once my father decides on something no one can change it, not even Bou. Steadfast with his principles, he had massive fits of temper and such people are prone to sudden heart attacks, often fatal. In fact, he died at the age of sixty four felled by a stroke, which came silently and unexpectedly, when he was sipping his tea in the morning.

 

 I tried to console Bou, held her hand and led her to the next room, where she lay down on a bedsheet on the floor. My father didn't have much furniture at home, just a few ordinary chairs and a small table was all that he had. Throughout his life he and Bou used to sleep on the floor. He was scrupulously honest, although he worked in a 'remunerative' department like Sales Tax. He was one of a kind, sometimes the centre of unadulterated adulation but often an object of ridicule and derision.

 

 Bou drifted away to sleep immediately on touching the floor. I returned to my room and wondered where to start. I thought I would first deal with his papers, stacked in a big trunk in the store room. I went there and stood still. My frugal father never believed in buying unnecessary things, but he also never threw away anything. The store room was full of stuff, some of which could easily pass off as ancient relics from the past.

 

 There, at a corner was my small tricycle which must have been purchased when I was a small boy of four or five. I looked at it and suddenly the floodgate of memory opened up. Adorning the memory was an open courtyard at our government house at Baxi Bazar in Cuttack. Being an only child I was the apple of my parents's eyes and the tricycle was a gift to me on my previous birthday. After returning from school I used to ride the tricycle gleefully.

 

 One day our neighbour's son Madhav saw me and came running. He was a few inches taller and had the look of a mini wrestler, heavier than me by a few kilos. I, being a puny boy, was no match to his bullying and handed over the tricycle to him when he demanded it. For the next one hour he did not part with it and I just stood there helplessly, watching him riding the bike with great gusto. His parents came searching for him and found him riding away the tricycle to glory. Baba returned from office and saw me cowering in a corner haplessly watching Madhav.

 

 The scene was repeated the next day and the day after. Baba was getting increasingly upset and as usual Bou had to bear the brunt of his anger. On the fourth day Baba returned a bit early from office. He didn't let me take out the tricycle and kept me engaged with a game of carrom. The tricycle was kept inside. Madhav came, stood for some time and left. After a few minutes the neighbour uncle and aunty arrived, armed with a disarming, oily smile. They approached my father and said, - "Baikuntha babu, let Anupam bring out the tricycle, our Madhav will also get a chance to ride a little". Baba gave a loud snort and shouted, - "No, today Anupam is playing carrom with me. If Madhav wants to ride a tricycle you buy one for him. There is no need for Anupam to stand for one hour and watch Madhav ride the tricycle".

 

 The neighbours were shocked to hear this. They left in a huff. The Aunty, who had an acerbic tongue, murmured, - "look at the arrogance of ill-gotten wealth. Only if you work in Sales Tax department can you flaunt a tricycle before your neighbours!" Somehow my father heard this. May be the Aunty wanted him to hear it. He went mad with anger. I have always seen that my father got uncontrollably angry if some one referred to him as dishonest or corrupt. He considered it even worse than a death-curse. He started shouting at Bou, - "Why do you make friends with such people? How dare they come to my house and insult me? It's all your fault, you have encouraged such uncivilised people by giving them tea and biscuit when they come visiting. From tomorrow if I see them in my house I will leave home and never return."

 

 Bou got really nervous seeing Bapa in such vitriolic anger. Only after she promised that she would never talk to the neighbours again, did Bapa get a bit pacified, but the anger remained within him, like dying embers waiting to flare up. At dinner he didn't finish his meal and left half way through it. But before going away to wash his hands he threw a burning glance at Bou, which conveyed that the food should not be wasted. Poor Bou had to eat her share and also finish the left over food from father's plate. Today seeing the tricycle was a sad recollection of those incidents for me.

 

 I looked at the wall. A pair of badminton rackets was gathering dust there, relics from my college days, as also a bicycle pump at a corner. Baba had still been using the bicycle he had bought for me when I was in college, repairing it, oiling the chain and wiping it to keep it spotlessly clean.

 

 I looked at the trunk, eager to pick up shreds of memorabilia. God knows what treasures of the past would come out of it. But I had no doubt everything would bear the  stamp of his undying love for me and Bou. Beneath his stern exterior he was a loving husband and a doting father.

 

 The first thing that tumbled out of the trunk was a small toy pistol. Ha! This toy pistol is still here! And what a priceless story it hides within itself! I clearly remembered the day it was presented to me by my father. It was a Sunday afternoon in December when he had taken me and Bou in a cycle rickshaw to the Barabati fort. He wanted to explain to me the history behind the fort, the heritage and culture of Cuttack town and probably a lot more. I was not interested in that. All of eight years, I wanted to run around, enjoy the free air, the grass lawns and chase the squirrels. Baba had bought me and Bou a packet of peanuts, I handed over my packet to Bou and ran away, to climb the small mound of earth in a nearby corner of the fort. By the time I reached the top, Bou had gone hysterical, Baba was shouting at the top of his voice for me to come down 'at once' and I was bent upon jumping from the top, about eight feet of height, to the ground. Defying their concern I jumped. Bou let out the loudest shriek I had ever heard, Baba must have closed his eyes in fear.

 

 I got up from the ground, a big smile on my face, stretched my hands and came running to them as if to say, look, nothing happened to me, am I not a daring boy? My father had stepped forward a few feet. Ignoring my outstretched hands he gave me a big slap on the cheek. Bou shrieked again and I froze. My face reddened with anger, humiliation and sadness. This was the first time Baba had hit me. I pushed him away and ran to Bou who held me close to her and started crying in tandem with my sobs.

 

 We returned home, since I clung to Bou and didn't want to leave her for a second, sobbing uncontrollably. After dropping me home, Baba went to the Baxi Bazar market and bought this toy pistol for me. I refused to touch it and pushed it away every time he came near and offered it to me. For the next two days I repeated the same, didn't even touch it once, the unbending, unyielding and unwavering son of a determined, possessive, stern father! And then the pistol vanished, and now I realised my remorseful, repentant father had tucked it away in this trunk to remind himself that a son is too precious to be hurt by stinging slaps. And he never, ever hit me again. Today the pistol brought a fresh wave of sadness to my heart, reminding me of my loving and doting father.

 

 I tucked my hand in and touched a hard object from under the pile of soft clothes - old shirts, couple of Bou's sarees and two worn out shawls we used to cover ourselves with during the winters of Cuttack. I pulled out the object. Ha! The old pocket transistor! Baba's inseparable companion in the seventies! I remembered how he used to switch it on and listen to old Hindi songs from All India Radio at four thirty in the morning. On winter mornings I used to sleep clinging to my Bou under the thin blanket when from the next room the old songs will waft through the air and disturb our sleep. Bou would let out a small whimper of protest, cover our heads with the blanket to shut out the noise and go back to sleep.

 

 Baba used to keep the transistor on all the time, listening to news and other programs. He was still using it when my elder son Bagula was around six years of age. He would sit on his grand father's lap and listen to the songs. The small black object emitting music and news had him awe-struck and one day he asked Baba to gift it to him. Baba smiled indulgently at his darling grandson and announced grandly, "when I die, this will be passed on to you". The grandson would not easily forget this grand promise. So about a month after that he asked me seriously, "when will Jeje die?". I was shocked at the question and with alarm asked him the reason for this eager query. He explained to me his anxiety for his Grandpa's early departure so that he would inherit the precious transistor, the object of his ardent fancy! I got so shocked at this revelation that the same evening while returning from office I bought a small, shining, multicoloured transistor for Bagula and asked him not to pester his Jeje for the old, ugly one.

 

 Looking at this favourite piece of Baba's pastime brought up many memories. In my mind I could hear the quiet, dignified voice of the newsreader again and then the booming voice of Ameen Sayani anchoring the Vividh Bharati programme. I could feel how Baba would not have liked to part with this darling object after the advent of television and tucked it away in his trunk. Never forget a good thing, make it a part of your life, always and forever, that was my Baba!

 

 A yellow packet of dhoopsticks was peeping from under the clothes. I pulled it out. O, O, this packet is also here! I remembered one Sunday morning Baba returning from the nearby market quite agitated and as usual venting his frustration on Bou, "See Kalyani, what this world has come to! People have started cheating on things used for Gods! Where will all this sin end?" Bou looked at him alarmed, "Don't get so angry over such a small thing! Your blood pressure will go up."

 

 Baba was even more aghast. " a small thing, you call this a small thing? I had bought this packet of dhoopsticks last evening. When I tried to light a couple of sticks during Pooja last night, they turned out to be damp squibs, so I went this morning to return it but the shop keeper denied that he had sold it to me. And you know what the cheat, the fraudster told me? When I reminded him that I am an old customer and he should not treat me like this, he refused to acknowledge that. ' I am seeing you for the first time', that's what the wretched liar told me. Can you believe this Kalyani? What a lie, just for a mere two rupees! I shouted back at him, 'O, you are seeing me for the first time? Ok, better have a look at me for the last time also. I swear I will never set foot in your shop again.' He just ignored me and murmured,  'As you wish'. Do you hear me Kalyani? Just for two rupees!" Bou tried to pacify him, "Forget it, it's just two rupees". "No!", Baba thundered, "It's not a mere two rupees, it's a principle worth a million! Never try to get rich by cheating others, live and die with two rotis everyday, but never covet a dish of pulao and kheer made out of ill gotten money. When will people realise this Kalyani?"

 

 My mother kept quiet, she had seen father fighting with shop keepers and sundry others for such 'principles' many times in the past. One more shopkeeper was just an addition to a growing number! And Baba? Now I realise Baba had consigned this packet to his favourite trunk perhaps with the hope that the sin of the dishonest shopkeeper would get buried under the pile of clothes in his all-encompassing trunk.

 

 When I dipped my hand deeper, I felt a hard, round object. What is this? I pulled it out. A big wall clock, minus the hands. This one! Yes, I remember this one quite clearly. This beautiful wall clock had suddenly appeared at our home one fine morning with a letter from an old teacher of Baba's, "Baikuntha, I came to know that you have become a big officer now and people tell me that you have earned quite a reputation. Please accept this small gift from me as a token of my blessings." Baba never accepted a gift from anyone, but since this was a token of blessings from his old teacher, he kept it.

 

 I loved it at the first sight. With great care I drove a nail onto the wall and hung the clock there. For the next few days it became a habit of mine to look at the clock every now and then. And one day when I returned from school I found it had disappeared. I asked Bou, she just smiled and kept quiet. I pestered her, she simply said, "Ask your Baba when he returns from office."

 

 When I asked Baba in the evening, he had a look of genuine remorse on his face, "Anupam, once you adopt a principle, never compromise on it at any cost. I had accepted the wall clock on the impression that my teacher had gifted it to me out of his love for me. Little did I know it was a sinful object, masquerading as a gift of love. This morning a fellow came to meet me here after you had left for school. I never meet an unknown outsider at home, but this fellow had brought a letter of introduction from my teacher. So I invited him into the house. Before the man sat down on the chair, he looked at the wall clock and started smiling, 'This beautiful piece is looking so adorable on your wall, it was languishing in my shop waiting for a buyer'. In a flash I knew the wall clock was not a gift from my teacher but a disguised bribe form this businessman who must be having some official matter pending with me. I became so angry that I started shivering, my eyes became red and face redder. I pounced upon him like a wounded tiger about to tear him to pieces, he got so frightened that he bolted from the house. Before he could leave the compound, I took out the clock from the wall and threw it at him. It hit him on the shoulder and he fell down. But he didn't look back, just got up and kept running. I stood outside and kept shouting at him and cursing my teacher, till your Bou came and calmed me down with a glass of water."

 

 I looked at Bou and asked her what had happened to the clock? Recollecting the way it had hit the fleeing man, she smiled, "It broke, the hands came out. After your Baba left for office I brought it back, but it's of no use. I will throw it in the garbage tomorrow." I felt a little sad. I had got used to it. Now I realised Baba must have kept it in his trunk as a tribute to his 'Principles' and a reminder never to accept a gift from anyone again. I don't think Baba strayed from that again in his working life.

 

 I found lots of tidbits in the trunk, three pairs of my old spectacles, the tie I wore at a school parade, the cup I had won at a debate competition, a couple of old fountain pens, my first wrist watch Baba had gifted to me when I got first class in my matriculation examination, the shirt and saree I had gifted to Baba and Bou out of my first salary, some of my school note books in my handwriting. I pulled out a few of them. Almost all of them had some comments of praise from my teachers, admiring my handwriting somewhere, or congratulating me on my perfect centrum score in mathematics. I also got a few half-hearted poems written by me, an essay on Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, which had got first prize in the school essay competition. With each of these, memories of my school, my teachers, my friends came cascading, but what stood out was my Baba's pride in me, in my accomplishments. It is as if his heart had melted into a glue and bound all these fragments of my life with his and Bou's feelings and moulded them into an immortal tale of love and affection.

 

 I wondered why Baba kept all these seemingly past-their-use things packed in this trunk. And today on the twelfth day of his leaving us forever, I felt his loneliness, his single handed fight against all that he perceived to be wrong and his determined stand in support of his 'principles.' I also knew in my heart that when the solitary melancholy of this house would have haunted him, he would have opened this trunk, touching these lifeless things and bring them to life with the magic of love. His heart would have overflowed with longing for Bou, me and my family and silently blessed us.

 

 Suddenly an old black and white photograph tumbled out from the pile of clothes. I looked at it. The picture taken at my thread ceremony! Ah, I am looking so achingly innocent, with my shaved head! Almost like a monk! It was the year 1975 and I was only nine years old. In the photograph I was bending and touching the feet of Baba and Bou, seeking their blessings. Baba seems to be saying something.  What would my father be saying to me? Must be 'Ayushman Bhabah'! This was his favourite blessing to me and during my entire childhood I used to hate those words. The first time I heard the words I was around five or six years old. I ran to Bou and asked her what is this Bhabah Bhabah Baba is saying? Bou took me in her arms and planting a kiss on my cheek, explained that it is not Bhabah Bhabah, it is Ayushman Bhabah, it means you should get a long life, and live till a ripe old age. I got shocked! Old, you mean old like Baba, with a hanging belly and a balding head? I freed myself from Bou's hug and ran away saying, 'Chhi! I don't want to be old! Old is ugly!' Baba probably didn't get to hear my theory on old age, because he continued to shower his favourite blessing on me for as long as I remember.

 

 It was getting late. I looked at my watch, quarter to two! My God, I was feeling so sleepy. I put all the things back in the trunk and closed it. I turned to leave and my eyes were drawn toward a book on the window seal. I picked it up. Selected Best Short Stories of India. I remembered I had given this book to Baba when he had come to Bhubaneswar last month, his final visit to us for some medical treatment. Who would have thought he would leave us so soon!  A day prior to his leaving Bhubaneswar I had seen him reading this book when I returned from office. He had liked some of the stories. After I had my tea I asked him which story he was reading, but before I could finish my question he himself said, "Anupam, have you read this story? This tragic fate of the young widows at Vrindavan! Why are they subjected to such inhuman treatment? What is their fault if their husbands die early? Why are they left to suffer in Vrindavan? And tell me why should young women live the rest of their life with shaved heads? What cruelty is this? What utter inhumanity? Is it necessary to go through such cruel suffering to show your love for the departed one?"

 

 The next moment Baba looked at me in a piercing sort of way for a few seconds. Then the moments passed, his eyes softened. Looking at me he said, "Anupam, my health is failing, I am getting these frequent bouts of cough and fever. What if I pass away suddenly? Will you, Kalyani and Bohu subject yourself to such suffering?"

 

 A shudder passed through me; I jumped up from the chair and shrieked at him, "Baba, why are you saying such heartless things? Are you not being cruel to us? You are only sixty four! These days people live till eighty five, ninety, and you are talking of leaving us? Please don't speak like that Baba, don't break our heart."

 

 Baba appeared a bit embarrassed, but he was not done. He came near me, fondled the thick crop of hair on my head, "Anupam, you may not know, but I simply love your hair. You haven't seen your grandfather, since he died much before your birth, but when he was your age, he used to look exactly like you. And this crop of thick, curly hair, you have inherited from him. So whenever I die, ok ok, I can see you raising your hand in protest, so even if I die at seventy or eighty, you should not shave your head. I don't want you to shed your hair for me....". Before Baba could complete what he was saying I got up and went out of the house for a stroll and some fresh air.  That was the last time he had spoken to me. By the time I returned from my stroll he had gone to bed and next day he had left early by a cycle rickshaw to catch the five o' clock bus to Nayagarh. And a month after that he breathed his last.

 

 Holding the book in my hand, and remembering his words, my eyes filled with tears. I had finished the tenth day ceremony two days back and had shaved my head along with other relatives. Yes, I was fond of my thick crop of hair, but that is precisely the reason one offers a small part of what he holds dear, to the memory of the loved one, doesn't he?

 

 Suddenly, piercing the stillness of the silent night, I heard a voice, my Baba's voice, from the adjoining room, "Arrey, I had told you not to shave your hair, you didn't obey me?" I got the shock of my life and ran to the room. It was empty, but I was sure I had heard Baba's voice. There was no anger in the voice, just a bit of sadness dipped in boundless love. I stood still, rooted to the spot. My heart broke into a thousand pieces, waves of gut-wrenching sobs swept over me. In that moment of utter despair, I wished from the core of my heart, Baba would come back at least once more and stand before me, I would bend and touch his feet, he would put his hand on my head and say, "Ayushman Bhabah!"

 

Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. 

 

 

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Crictic Corner

 

 

SHORED FRAGMENTS

(A review of the book 'SHORED FRAGMENTS' of Geetha Nair G by Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya)

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‎I don't know whether I had done justice to Geetha Nair G's seminal book ' Shored Fragments', but I know one thing, I will be reading it again and again to enjoy the poems scripted in it. The book has left me bewildered like a Pablo Picasso Painting and Eliot's masterpiece "The Wasteland". I stand even now at the shore of the book wondering, whether I had caught the essence of those wonderful pieces that stuns one with their originality of expressions and feelings.

‎From the first poem to the last one, it is a delightful fare for anyone keen on poetry. For me she is lady Eliot, couching her emotions and feelings in the most objective manner that it becomes universal in its scope. It is no more the poets' but the feelings of all human beings who have gone through

‎similar phases in life.

‎ The collection vibrates with life, love, pain and frustration couched in a language beautiful, rich in allusions making the reader wonder at her wide knowledge  of literature and reading. Holy  Scriptures, mythology  and books she had read and taught find their reflections there. Everyword she has used is like a brick on an edifice. It adds to the explicit as well as the implicit meaning of the poem enhancing its enjoyment.

‎ The book is a treasure trove for every lover of literature. For the literature student it is a book for research, for each poem can lead to any number of interpretation.

‎ A juggler of words, her poems are rich in satire and irony an eg.  is  'Supreme Commander'. I have read many  poems on the 'blue hued one' ( the phrase itself is telling) but not one that so ingeneously delineates him with all human weaknesses. Another poem that throbs with irony and satire is 'Examination' the real life exam that topples her because the poet has no answer to the questions that torment her.

‎ The beautiful love poems sprinkled all over the book are tinged with agony that spills over, even though it is dexterously covered up with love untarnished.  Some of the love poems like ' He sings to Her', ' My Kitchen', 'Train', 'Organ Transplant' etc are  examples of sheer poetry.

‎Even as the book ends the feeling that it will be taken up many a time to dip through   its scintillating gems, is what remains in the mind of the reader. And that indeed is the mark of a great book.

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