Literary Vibes - Edition LV
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the fifty fifth edition of LiteraryVibes, richly adorned with brilliant poems and entertaining stories. We have the pleasure of welcoming three exceptional literary talents to the LV family this week. Mr. Subbaraman N V, a septuagenarian, is a trilingual poet from Chennai who has written as many as thirty six books. His Blog attracts postings from almost all the 195 countries of the world. Dr. Pravat Kumar Padhy from Odisha is a Ph.D. in Geological Sciences, turned poet, whose literary output is phenomenal. He has seven collection of scintillating poetry to his credit and is a recipient of many awards and recognition from world over. Ms. Setaluri Padmavathi, from Andhra Pradesh, is an accomplished poet and writer whose writings are regularly published in reputed journals. Her poetic maturity and literary sense are splendidly reflected in the poem published in today's edition of LV. We at LiteraryVibes wish them the very best in their creative career.
Amidst the spectre of economic slowdown and an increasing sense of restlessness in the country, incidents of fight for one's rights are always welcome flashes in the horizon. I recently came across the news of a feisty, young twenty something girl in Nabha town of Patiala district refusing to marry a man for demanding exorbitant dowry which included cash, a car and gold jewellery for the relatives. On the day of the wedding, when the demand for liquor for the baraat reached sky high, the girl, instead of going to the marriage venue, walked to the police station and filed a complaint against the bridegroom and his parents. In yet another incident in Kendrapara town of Odisha in June last year, women came out on to the streets and blocked traffic to protest against the opening of a new liquor shop in the main market area. The protest last week at Gargi college in Delhi against molestation of girl students has snowballed into an agitation. All these incidents signal the awakening of a new spirit of fighting for one's right to live with dignity and inviolability. These are really welcome signs and carry within themselves the promise of great days ahead.
Let us rejoice in these acts of heart warming positivity and enjoy the delicious fare offered by LiteraryVibes. Kindly share the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/271 with your friends and contacts. Please remind them that all the previous fifty four editions of LV are available at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Literary Vibes - Edition LV - Table of Contents
1) EL DORADO Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2) BARTER (VINIMAYA) Haraprasad Das
3) PIND DAAN Geetha Nair G
4) CROSSING THE BAR Ishwar Pati
5) BABAS, ONION Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
6) EXTRATERRESTRIAL Dilip Mohapatra
7) ENTRUSTING THE SUN Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
8) MOMENT OF JOY Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
9) ETCHED Sharanya Bee
10) MOON Dr. Molly Joseph
11) SISTER Sheena Rath
12) A PAULO COELHO Narayanan Ramakrishnan
13) GUAYABO Sridevi Selvaraj
14) HOUSES Aboo Jumaila
15) ON THE CHARIOT Setaluri Padmavathi
16) DARKNESS TO LIGHT Hema Ravi
17) POETRY FOR ME Pravat Kumar Padhy
18) WONDERFUL CREATION Subbaraman N V
19) ANJIE, PAT AND THEIR... Dr. Sarangi
My eldest joins the army,
the next teaches in a school,
the third’s dream-factory on its way,
my land asks, “Anyone for me?”
She lies fallow, untilled, dry;
looking up openmouthed
thirsting for a drop of elixir,
but the sky is a shylock.
A knock at the door;
the wind, or the moneylender?
The life short-circuited,
the noose naps in a drawer.
A rally preaches progress,
a loan mela basks for startups,
in satsanghs whine bhaktas,
the ghost is in a bind to give up.
The Leader’s Midas Touch
turns onion and milk in market
into gold, but in my farm land
they turn int dung, turn into chaff.
My tears - dirty salinity of eyes;
my mind, a demented dream;
aah look, the Leader cries, let’s collect
his tear to auction in Sotheby.
Oh lord, bless him, let him fly
to the overseas, moon and Mars;
live in a smart city, ride
bullet trains. Give me just a meal.
My son’s body has arrived
wrapped in Tricolour, the second son
roams unemployed, his school is shut;
the third’s factory never happened.
The noose woken up;
the tree and auspicious hour ready,
my penury apportioned among sons
with hollow blessings learnt lately;
I hang, dream my last temptation –
ivory towers for my sons and neighbours
mushrooming in a fool’s paradise;
proud of my fundamental right to life –
a buzz - “Jai Jawan, Jai kishan.”
abuzz in my ears, until I give up ghost
but moksha eludes despite rituals,
I join the ghost-club of unfulfilled dreams.
(El Dorado is a fabled fanciful land of gold)
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
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Watching the downpour
from behind curtains?
worried for your paper boat
lunched from back garden?
You hear a distant call,
the dark water-world inviting,
“Come into my arms, baby,
sing a song of love.”
You jump
at your own shadow;
rumbles in the sky rattle you,
a hissing hooded cobra;
you offer a meek prayer
to an ancient deity
to save your boat
from the violent squall.
Afraid of prying eyes
nitpicking on your secrets,
the little red muslin,
hidden away in a remote recess,
you getting jittery;
neither can you laugh
with an easy mind,
nor can shed a tear of relief;
nor can you ask for a thing
with confidence,
or can give a thing away
without hesitation.
The scary past, a riddle,
sits among the crinkles
of eyebrows
on the pallor of your face;
the cipher
hidden in mind’s depths,
getting devoured
by white ants of moralists.
You are afraid to guess
how does your paper boat
that set sail from back garden
fares in the squally weather -
the boat has but safely
docked at a magical land
of unparalleled prosperity;
its merchant
has gone to the market
to barter his ivory
for an exquisite scarf for you,
as the sky, vast and blue!
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)”
Her wet palms strike each other;
The sky darkens at the sound ;
Pinions beat, the air whirrs,
The cocky ones arrive
Wheeling lower, lower,
Above her nubile form.
Wings spread, they glide to land,
Grey, black, grey-black;
Young, old, middling,
Egos engorged like their rotund bodies.
They peck and gulp;
Then open-beaked, move closer, closer.
In vain she scans the sky
To glimpse the gift of him
Returning strong
from the empty blue.
Then, grown red-tongued, ten-armed,
She moves;
Her gleaming weapons
Drawing flame... .
The cry of birds rends the captive air.
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
I was crestfallen when I heard of the sudden demise of a close friend of the family. How could such an energetic livewire person be no more? He had just concluded speaking to a select gathering at a public function after releasing his latest book when he collapsed on the dais—a cardiologist claimed by heart attack. A busy consultant in his medical field, he was also greatly admired for his vast knowledge of culture. The range of the books authored by him extended from the professional to analysis of Jagannath culture—to a book of jokes poking fun at doctors!
His compassion for poor patients was legendary. Treating ailments of the heart was his occupation, but what was close to his passionate heart was spiritualism of all hues. An authority on the Jagannath cult of Puri, he could hold an audience spellbound with his erudition on the Lord for hours on end; at the same time, his last book was a collection of psalms translated from the Bible into the Odia language! For him, there was no contradiction in this, only a synthesis of wisdom.
The good doctor had a history of angina pain and had in fact been discharged from the hospital only a couple of days back. Despite his doctor’s diktat to take complete bed rest, his eagerness to attend the function where his book was to be launched overcame all caution. Did he invite death by mocking it? People lamented that he died too young. A gifted person like him had many more years to go before he could sleep. But, after packing into his life of seventy-seven years what others take nine lives to accomplish, he had come to entertain a different equation of life and death. Perhaps his perilous heart condition gave him a premonition of how his last days could end up—as a paralytic or vegetable—if he ‘lived on’ simply for the sake of living on. Why not depart with dignity—in a moment of supreme contentment—than go on clinging to life from day to tortuous day prolonged by wonders of modern medicine and sophisticated surgery? A great man looks at life beyond an exercise in accumulating calendar days—and death as a celebration of the will to quit the world.
The doctor’s ‘dating death’ brought back memories of my father, who breathed his last a few years back after suffering brain haemorrhage from a fall. Fiercely independent, he used to move around without assistance despite an unsteady gait, which invited the disastrous fall. While being wheeled into the operation theatre, he went on reciting the poignant poem ‘Crossing the Bar’ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It had been one of his favourites while teaching English literature to students. Did he book his passage to the other side of the cosmic ocean, rather than suffer the miseries of an invalid existence, after a vision of his ‘sunset and evening star’? There was no ‘sadness of farewell’ when he embarked on his last journey with a smile on his serene lips. I still wonder: did he see his ‘Pilot face to face’ as he lay convalescing in the ICU?
Truly uplifted souls like the good doctor and my dear father embrace death with humility and nobility. They do not make death proud; death makes them proud.
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
BABAS, ONION AND WHATSAPP
Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
I have lived abroad for so many years that I have lost count. But my ties with India haven’t weakened with time. In fact my bond with India has lately become closer in direct proportion to time spent away from India, as if to justify the adage, Absence grows the heart fonder. This has not escaped the attention of my local friends, who often bring up India in our conversations.
One evening, one of them started to talk about the India Tourism advertisement he had seen, impressed by its wonderful images of palaces, wild life and colourful costumes, ending with the caption, ‘Incredible India’.
‘Yes, incredible indeed", I said.
India is the cradle of one of the World’s ancient civilisations, shrouded in mystery and mysticism. Her profound philosophy has recently grabbed World’s attention, as Modern Physics has lent legitimacy to her ancient teachings as the essence of Truth and the ultimate metaphysical exposition of the Universe.
And, there are countless Gurus, known as Babas, who are the Modern Champions of this spiritual tradition. Their sway over the mass, irrespective of caste, creed, and class, is second only to the hold of Divine authority on mere mortals in Indian Epics.
‘Yes, I have heard of their charisma and following; what is the secret of their success?’
"We shall come to that in a bit. Let us talk about onion first. Have you heard of Political Parties, anywhere in the world, losing election because of high onion price?" I asked.
My friend simply looked at me in disbelief.
Some years ago, onion crop in India suffered because of erratic rainfall. A heavy monsoon destroyed the crop, leading to a severe shortage of onions. And, its price shot up severalfold. Onion is a staple ingredient of Indian cooking and it annoyed the public to no end. They blamed the Government in power at the time for this. As a punishment for failing to curb onion price, they voted against that Party in the Elections. This Onion Crisis eventually cost them dear; they lost the election.
‘We thought, wheat and rice were staple food in India, like bread and potato here in the West. We have read about potato blight in Ireland causing the great famine. We have heard of skyrocketing bread price, which triggered French Revolution’. My friend continued, 'But never imagined, onion could have so central a position in Indian life’.
In keeping with the global pattern, erratic rains have become a regular feature of Indian weather, and the Onion Crisis returned recently. Elections in the state of Vatish Garh, one of its populous states, was in the offing and the Government was increasingly worried about its effect on their popularity rating.
But what has it got to do with Babas?
You may not have heard Indian news. Recently, there has been a murder attempt on a prominent Minister, Mr Solanki, in Vatishgarh State. Fortunately, the attempt was foiled, and the alleged assailant was killed.
This sensational event has gripped the establishment, as Mr. Solanki is no ordinary minister. He is one of the twin brothers from a known business family. Their father had created a vast business empire, which the brothers inherited upon his death. The older brother’s business flourished and his empire expanded but Lady Fortune did not smile so favourably on Solanki Junior.
With liberalisation of India’s economy, the nexus between politics and business became stronger and more intimate. Courting political favour in return for financial aid to Political parties in fighting elections was the standard modus operandi for most business houses. But, Solanki Junior was not content with this circuitous route to power. He shifted his focus straight to the ultimate target, the Political chair.
His political panache proved to be superior than his business acumen and he quickly rose through the ranks , attaining the position of Second-in-Command in the State Cabinet. He proved his mettle recently by bringing down the price of onion in a matter of weeks, and this made him a rising star in the sky of Vatish Garh Politics.
‘How did he manage this?’
VatishGarh State Government was in a real quandary over the onion crisis. They had run out of options, and in sheer desperation, were seriously considering the unthinkable: Importing onion from India’s arch rival, Pakistan. Then, Solanki Junior came up with his master stroke.
‘His association with Baba Hari Das was the key to his master plan. Although India is full of Gurus, Baba Hari Das occupies the top position in their league table. His claim to eminence lay in reviving Yoga and Meditation as India’s spiritual gift to the World.’
He proved to be the foremost populariser of India’s mystical philosophy, and his teachings charmed the general public and the middle class alike. His followers include politicians and luminaries from the Corporate world. He promised them the panacea for the maladies of modern life by returning to India’s roots. Ayurveda and yoga, according to him were the perfect antidote to the toxicity of so-called-civilisation, otherwise known as Stress.
‘But what has onion price got to do with the Baba. Are they not after spiritual pursuits, beyond the mundane concerns like price of onions?’
‘The power of Babas over people is a potent instrument, which has become a merchandise on sale, in the market place of Society, enabling some Gurus to amass vast wealth. Some time ago, one of the Gurus held the world record of owning the largest fleet of Rolls-Royce. Politicians and Industrialists alike, vie for Gurus’ favour, as an easy route to influencing the mass.’
‘How does this work in case of onion price?’ My friend enquired.
‘Well, price of a commodity reflects the balance between demand and supply. Onion price shoots up when the supply dries down. By the same token, its price can be driven down by fall in its demand.’
And, this is where the hold of Babas’ spirituality over the public worked wonders.
‘Baba Hari Das, it seems, was inducted into this scheme of writing a blog on merits of Onion free recipes. It extolled the virtues of food cooked without onion. ‘Our psyche is formed out of the food we eat. Onions enhance carnal desire, and thus pushes us away from God.’ His blog proclaimed. The simple message of these recipes is : Onion-free dishes purify our soul and takes us closer to God.’
‘Was this enough to make a substantial drop in onion’s popularity?’, he quizzed.
‘Yes, it sounds almost impossible. But it didn’t just a make a dent in its popularity, it almost killed its appeal.”
How strange, my friend said, ‘Food habits, which have developed over decades, if not centuries, one reckons, would be hard to shift’.
‘Yes, you are right', I said, ‘it is difficult to change food habits through rational arguement. We all know, salt and sugar are bad for our health but it does not stop us from munching salt and vinegar chips and sipping coke, while watching soccer or cricket on Television. Decision about what we eat and what we avoid, are made at an emotional level, which bypass all logic’.
“I would have thought, he raised a scare about dangers of onion by claiming that it contained some chemicals, which increased the risk of cancer or some such dreadful disease “
‘But wrath of God is a bigger deterrent than dread of diseases, however serious. Currying God’s favour is the ultimate virtue in India.’, I said by way of introducing God’s position in Indian psyche.
‘And, this is where spirituality fits nicely into this jigsaw. Bringing God into the equation and invoking spirituality is like infusing supernatural power into this message’.
‘What about criminal investigation into this murder plot? Has there been any progress as yet?’ My friend asked.
‘No, nothing concrete has emerged, However, rumours about the mastermind of this crime are rife. Solanki Junior had ruffled many feathers in his business and political career. So, there were many suspects but there was no solid evidence to pin the plot to anyone in particular’, I said.
‘Except, possibly his older brother’, I added haltingly.
Before I could continue, my friend interrupted, ‘You mean, his older brother had a hand in this murder attempt?’
‘Of course, nothing is certain. But, under the circumstances, a key consideration is who was most hurt by his masterplan behind the collapse of onion price, cutting it down by almost ninety percent?’
‘But everyones must be pleased with falling onion price’, my friends commented thoughtfully.
Yes, it was welcome by the public but not the business community, who had betted on onions price to reach record level over next few months.
‘And, it is no secret that Solanki brothers have a long standing rivalry.’
‘Rivalry in families are commonplace, like competition in business, but murder is another matter”
‘But there is another strand here, which links Solanki Senior with this plot. ‘
Both my friends looked at me in surprise.
‘Certainly, Solanki Senior had a lot to lose from the Baba’s food blog. He had huge stockpiles of onion under his control. And the spiralling price of onion in the market, promised him a bonanza over next few months.'
‘It is hard to believe that a simple food blog from a Guru is powerful enough to cause a massive drop in demand for onion in the market. But how can the message reach the masses in a vast country like India, so quickly?’
‘Ah, here is the last piece of the puzzle. Its WhatsApp. Do you know, India has the World’s highest number of users of the social media, WhatsApp?’
‘I did not know, Indian public is so tech-savvy. I thought, illiteracy is still an issue in India.'
‘Access to Internet and mobile data is relatively inexpensive in India. And, illiteracy is no bar to fascination with modern gadgetry and their love affair with Social Media. In fact, their lack of sophistication in its use, makes them the prime target for misuse or abuse, if you like, of this mode of communication, thus propagating misinformation’.
‘Are they so gullible?’
‘Well, there is a rumour floating around: Solanki Senior arranged the murder of his brother through a contract killer. The assassin attempted the murder while the brothers were together to deflect any suspicion of Solanki Senior’s role in the plot. Because the twins looked alike, the assassin fumbled. In the process the plot was foiled and he got killed in stead.’
‘But if the contact killer was himself dead in the act, how did this story emerge?'
‘Exactly; but stories like this are staple diet for spreading through WhatsApp and the public are ever ready to consume them with relish. What went on in the mind of the killer must have died with him but that does not stop stories like this from entering circulation in Social Media.’
‘This sounds like a plot from the movies’
‘Yes, but real life, as you know, offers the most dramatic of plots.’ I continued.
‘People read and are inclined to believe everything they receive on WhatsApp, without pausing to think or question. And, the message on Onion-free dishes from Baba Hari Das came with the stern warning, in bold capitals: Forward this message instantly to all your friends and family. Failure to do so will bring you bad luck.’
‘So, this did the trick!’ Both my friends exclaimed.
Yes, it was a clever ploy, not to spell out details of the warning. It actually left recipients of the message, imagining the worst misfortune that can befall them. Like a chain reaction, messages were forwarded repeatedly, reaching millions in a matter of minutes. And in no time, the job was done.
‘That’s incredible!’
"Yes," I exclaimed, "That's Incredible India".
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction. All characters, including the narrator, are a product of the writer’s imagination.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
They land in their flying saucers
and seem to appear
in many shapes and sizes
yet in allotropes
of our very human form
and acquire names
like Flatwoods monster
or Hopkinsville goblin
in their skins
grey and green
or with silver scales of a fish
mimicking our eyes
sometimes as slits
noses masquerading as
just two holes
a mouth with jaws of a shark
or sometimes which hides
the tongue of a chameleon.
We record the unintelligible
sounds from the space
and try to decode
to unravel the mystery
of their messages
and send our probes
to search for presence
of water in the remote galaxies
the life sustaining
fluid that we are familiar with
and draw our inferences
if they too have a heart
if they too have a soul
if they are capable
of loving and loathing
and if they too are creations
of the same God.
Our reasons perhaps are
subordinate to our passion
our hypotheses perhaps
are fenced with our limitations
and our imaginations
perhaps are captive of
our apprehensions
as we traverse the beaten tracks
with blinkers on
blind to another dimension
an unlikely reality
and a different definition
of time
space
and life
altogether.
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.
ENTRUSTING THE SUN TO FIND A BRIDE
Fiery ball of whitened day.
To thee I entrust the duty,
Of finding me a bride of beauty,
To bear me child so gay.
Sunny as thou should be she
Radiating glory all around.
Tresses of golden hue let surround,
Extruding brightness as of thee.
Let thine journey ever seek,
A lass brown or white,
Black or yellow of no sect,
But of all, she be meek
Kind sun, brightening ends
Gladden my life too.
Little errand please do
As thou traverse over continents.
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.
Let’s walk together
Just for passing some time
Till we find our way
And set out on a drive.
Without any agenda
We can breathe little free
While you tell your story
I will listen to it, mindfully.
You needn’t tell everything
As it may be embarrassing
I can connect the dots
And complete the narrative.
Never mind
If life has been tiring
It is the pain more than happiness
That makes us anti-fragile.
We need each other
In this beautiful journey
For realizing our moment of joy
Amidst the chaos of life.
"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.
The flames in the pit need kindling
About to die down, they seethe to warn me
Who despite the chilling cold, search in vain for firewoods
The last of them just went in
I rip off pages from my life's diary and throw them to the flames,
reluctlantly
They shrink and ashen, but faith keeps me strong
Those words in the paper won't burn away so fast
They crumble and lighten,
Consumed whole by the fire
I begin to doubt their power
But oh, I can say now, almost an eternity later
Never have I lifted my arms again since then
To rekindle
Never have I had to fear if they'd go off
The flames have been burning
A hundred times brighter
Emitting enough heat to keep me in its warmth forever
And everyday I read my life's story etched in the undying fire
Sharanya Bee, 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.
Hah!
my Moon!
how
you brighten up
the darkness
that envelops...
my night
saunter
you redeem
with
thy grace
flowing,
flooding...
wearied
with weights
of the day
even the
palm fronds
swoop...
down the
pathway
rest,
the trampled
leaves of
the day...
thy kindness
melts
over
each leafy
top,
with such a
soothing
glaze...
doors are
getting closed
on the day's
funs and frets
for nocturnal
rest, respite..
a prayer
escapes
from my lips,
the lone kite
soaring,
wading through
the vast
expanse
of thy flowing
grace,
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).
You are lucky if you have a sister
She will help you shape up your character
She always worries for you
She will always be true
She is by your side to solve your problems
Always full of enthusiasm
She will stand by you come what may
Despite the words you say
She will help deal with your sorrows
She'll be there today and tomorrow
She will lend you her shoulder to cry on
Till the time you can go on
A bond with its roots stronger
I will always adore her
Always helping to bring out the best
And forgetting the rest
Pray that you always stay happy and bright
And always be surrounded by light
Secrets we share
Everlasting happiness, we care
Sister is a gift so precious
A relationship so flawless
Always willing to forgive and forget
Hence no regrets
We do fight
Either one of us is always right
Hidden smiles of patience
Having a clear conscience
She won't let you fall
You are her biggest fragile doll
Lifting you up with grace
Just to see an outbreak of smile on your face
Thank you for all that you do
Always remember that I love you.
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
I read Paulo Coelho’s ‘The Alchemist’, some years ago. To say that it left a lasting impression on me, would be nothing but the untruth. To me, it was more a fantasy tale than a wonderful novel. How am I qualified to qualify a best seller, you may wonder. For my limited intellectual and aesthetic bent of mind, it only had that limited appeal.
There were some quotes I had marked, which were more appealing and revealing than the entire book, for my future references. Of the most striking, one golden sentence stood out. This was the one. “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”. I would add one more word ‘wholeheartedly’ before the word ‘want’, to make it more striking.
Some days back, I was in Salem, doing shopping in connection with my daughter’s marriage. I was accompanied by my wife and daughter too. During that Monday morning, my friend, who runs a hotel in Trivandrum, called me and enquired about my whereabouts. When I briefed him, he had a request. “Narayanan, my elder brother passed away at my native place and the obsequies will be on Wednesday. I will be returning only on Friday. Could you please manage the cash counter in the evening on Wednesday and Thursday?”. Conveying my heartfelt condolences, I confirmed, I wouldmake it on Thursday, as I would be travel weary without sleep, despite having a confirmed berth.
The problem with me was, I could not sleep in a moving train. I would keep sitting through- out the night munching something, or peeping though the window, viewing in the dark, the moonlit landscape. I used to maintain a small pocket book and note the stations in between and the running time and compare the time taken during the return journey. What else could I do? You cannot read, because switching the lights on would earn for you only the ire of co-passengers.
During the up journey to Salem, a youngster, on the upper berth, observing insomnia, asked me if I could alert him when the train left Palakkad, so that he could get down at Coimbatore. At that point the train was at Alwaye. Sure, I assured him. But the unexpected happened. All of a sudden, I noticed the train had been halting at Pudur. I hurriedly and promptly woke up the youngster. “Next is Coimbatore, we are at Pudur”. He stared at me. I was bit astonished at the harshness of his stare. He rushed, without a word of usual courtesy. I kept it to myself and casually and innocently, asked my co-passenger, “Coimbatore……..after or before Pudur?”. His answer sent shivers down my spine and unmasked the cause for the youngster’s indifference at my ‘timely’ help. I had missed two stations during my sitting slumber.
My Paulo Coelho moment started the day after I landed back at home town. After a day’s rest, I prepared to honour the word I committed to my hotelier friend. My wife was aware of my impending commitment and never thwarted my visits to my friend’s place at any time during the last so many years of our friendship. But she was bit hesitant this time.
“It is raining”.
“So what; I have rain-coat”. I countered.
“I know you are still tired, you need more rest”
“No, I am not going to do any Herculean task out there. Just sitting at the counter and collecting the payments”.
Not to leave me at that, she continued, “You forgot that you paid Rs.14,000/- the previous day at the shop. When we went again the following day, to take delivery, you said you have not made the payment and the shop-owner confirmed collection, when you offered the money again. ‘Chithi’ (My mother-in-law’s sister) told me never to allow you to handle cash alone. Now you are going to handle cash with a tired body and mind.”.
“You cannot generalize. Yes, it happened, but will not happen again ”. I told her confidently, about to take leave of her.
As I was about to swing my legs on to the two-wheeler, I noticed another bike just passing me and coming to a halt just in-front. That was my would be nephew-in-law (and not son-in-law), who addresses me only as uncle and not as father, very much to my delight. So I could not go out leaving him unattended. That took about 15 minutes. . When I told him about my commitment, after exchanging pleasantries with my daughter, he left. When I was about to reload on to my bike, a car with very familiar number halted. They were my better-half’s sister and husband who had come to invite us for their son’s marriage. Again I had to walk in and spent some time with them. Then they too left and the time was only 7.30 pm. I still had some time.
Soon charged in the catering contractor, whom I had promised to meet on Thursday evening; this had escaped my memory, when I made the appointment some days back.That entailed a longer session, with the whole family joining to discuss the menu for the dinner and lunch. I hurriedly concluded the meeting with a qualification that this was not the final and got a rough quotation, which was much above the figure I had budgeted for. While my son, daughter and wife held a different view, I had my own notions. That session was over by 8.10. I was still nursing my desire to go but was deterred by nature when it began raining ferociously.
As my wife’s want was more than a mere desire, Paulo Cohelo’s golden words proved good for her and she was seen gleaming at her success of thwarting my ride to my friend’s hotel.
Narayanan Ramakrishnan began his career as a sales professional in a tea company from 1984 selling Taj Mahal, Red Label tea and Bru coffee. After that he joined a leading brokerage firm dealing in stocks and shares. Last one year, he is in pursuit of pleasure in reading and writing. He is based out of Trivandrum.
The guavas were bright pink inside. I love their flavor, their arrangement of seeds in a symmetrical manner, their mild and sensitive approach to life and their lovely fragrance.
As I was biting into its juicy interiors, my encyclopedic son walked in and something in some alien language. Guayabo. The Spanish chronicler Gonzalo Fernandez de Oviedo during his visit to the rocky Haiti in the Caribbean Sea has named a fruit as Guayabo. It is discussed in his book Natural History of the Indies written in 1526, my son explained.
The indigenous language of the places of Hispaniola, the Caribbean archipelago, that is now almost dead, is Arawak. This language called the place as Ayti which means mountainous land, and now it has become Haiti. The guava plants from these rough regions have acclimatized themselves in tropical countries and have assimilated their cultures. This mouth-watering fruit was brought to India during the seventeenth century by both by the Spaniards and the Portuguese. The guava is now called as the apple of the tropics.
Guava contains vitamin C, pectin, calcium and phosphorus. Guava jelly puree can be used in juice, cakes, puddings, sauces, ice-cream, jam and jelly. Leaves of guava are used for curing diarrhea and also for dyeing and tanning.
My mind had unquestionably gone back to my past years when a new guava sapling was brought by my father from Nilgris one fine day. We already had a few guava trees and they bore fruits which were pinkish within, even slightly reddish, had strong seeds, and were of the local variety. I don’t see these varieties any more either in the market or in somebody’s home. They are lost, I think, like the many early languages of the Caribbean islands.
Anyway, the sapling was planted and my father was lecturing on this new variety of guava, big in size, and white inside. The plant grew steadily and every day I checked its fresh leaves, the dimensions and I monitored its wellbeing personally. My mother joked, ‘she will do everything except watering.’ That I thought was a needless remark, as I felt a child should not interfere with the work of the elders.
Fine. The tree grew extremely slowly. I completed my third standard, and then the fourth too. It had grown taller than me by this time. It had exactly five branches, and I used to drag a stool, and would climb on that to scrutinize my friend’s growth. Yeah, the guava tree had become my friend and a companion, by this time.
I kept searching for buds every day. Finally, there it was.. a bud. At last. I was so excited I started singing the good old song expecting the bud to break out in flower and then in fruit:
Squirrel, squirrel,
Come running
Beautiful squirrel,
Come running
Climb the guava tree
Bring me a fat fruit
You take half
I will take the other half
Together we nibble
Them in happiness.
Soon there were numerous buds. I sang this song now and then to encourage them to grow faster. The buds became flowers and they were in creamy white with numerous stamens arranged like a bouquet of flowers themselves – heavenly with a mild fragrance. The fruits began arriving like youthful and smart princes in order, one by one. They were becoming bigger and bigger, and I felt they were dignified and looked serious and reserved, green in health. I talked to these princes every day, asking them to grow faster and asked them many questions. Like serious scholars they only looked at me in grave silence. There were a few classmates just like that, and I was secretly scared of them in my heart. But these little princes were my friends, their mother was my close friend and she did not mind me having a rapport with her children. I sang my song everyday to them.
There were seven bunches of these green fruits totally, and amidst them I had selected one particular fruit for myself. That one was whitish green and looked real healthy, bright and glossy. It had the smell of maturity, a mild fragrance carrying the odour of guava leaves and flowers mixed together, ready for the tongue. One more day and it would have acquired the right texture to melt in my mouth. I decided to pluck it the next morning and therefore I got everyone’s permission in the family to do so. It is better to get permission early, and do things in the right way in these matters, I had decided. With great care I informed everyone that, that particular fruit was mine and no one should pluck it before me. I gave similar talks to my mother, father, brother, the servant – everyone. Actually, I pleaded.
The morning arrived, and I ran to my friend – that fruit was there. I climbed up on my stool. I sensed something - something was wrong. Unusually the flavor of guava was over powering, as if it has been dissolving in the air on its own. My tongue watered, but my heart said something had happened. I went closer and looked at the fruit. Only one half of it was there. Who would have cut the other half? It was not cut actually. Bitten. I should have known. I felt outwitted.
The squirrel had eaten exactly half of the fruit.
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.
Translated by Geetha Nair
Every house is an epic.
Each wall is a chapter of the epic
There are chapters of love,
And chapters of passion;
Chapters of separation and longing,
Chapters of compassion
Chapters of enmity and harmony;
Betrayal has its own chapters,
So does vengeance.
Each day each wall keeps writing
New chapters on its face.
Aboo Jumaila is an upcoming and prolific writer in Malayalam. She is a bank employee from Alapuzha, Kerala.
On the Chariot of Colourful Clouds
Setaluri Padmavathi
On the chariot of colourful clouds;
amidst numerous glittering stars,
placed himself like a proud king,
and travels gradually and so gently!
All the stars on the black blanket
stare at him with muddling mind,
The king of the sky, moves slowly
in his own path, with no barriers!
I looked at the spacious, azure sky
with my big widening eyes, once
The silent night brought brightness
in my sleepless eyes, abruptly thence!
Starry night turned to shiny world
to the world of illuminating stars,
that altogether compete with king
who brings serenity and scenic beauty!
He silently paces his steps, one by one
touching the lakes, rivers and the sea,
Tidal movements brought shining spots
which soothed the scorched sandy beach!
The moon ever brings bliss to the globe
The mothers narrate his lovely presence
Tired babies try to touch him, in allusion
Impalpable moon smiles and glides away!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
Lying supine
in the dark-grey night
deadpan gaze
Stealthily the silvery light creeps in
through the curtained window
hypnotizes the turbulent mind
Peace descends!
A dark cloud descends
Once again, I am engulfed
in the ominous shadows.
Sudden dart of silvery light
throws upon me
a medallion of pewter
In that starry night
the creepy contours are
no longer a bother
I see the silver lining ahead
The sluggish mind is now alert
Arising, I brace myself
for the task ahead........
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
POETRY FOR ME
Pravat Kumar Padhy
I hear you
In the hall of silence
As sitar
Muses for others
To me
In the garden of understanding
You are a smiling jasmine flower
You are a lexicon
Of love and wisdom
And a clean greenery envelope
Conveying message of time
From past to present
And preserving for future
I discover you
In the tunnel of darkness
Poetry in my life
Is like a glittering lamp
When pain burns
Pleasure
Beams the way
You create a sense
That bridges
The poor and the rich
You create a salt
That dissolves
Dirty rusted edge of colour and creed
You are a tree
Under your soft shadow
We rest and relax
And ink
The message of love and peace
You are an ocean
Calm and quiet
With richness
In your heart so deep
Your vastness translates
The songs
To shore and to sky
In your lap
The civilization smiles
Rhythm of evolution
Silently recites
Poetry for me
Is the SILENCE OF THE SEAS.
LIFE IS A RIVER
Pravat Kumar Padhy
It spurts and moves
Like a river
Cuts all through the rocky time
Around the unending valley of struggle.
On it’s shoulder it carries
Boulders of responsibility,
And cares to put steps
On the rugged terrace.
Every moment the mission of life runs ahead
Along the meandering trend of time
And through the mystery of dark and light.
The journey of life rests in silence
On the deltaic sheet of ocean of awareness
And the muse of life will keep on murmuring
Through ceaseless time
If the purpose of life is devoted to others.
Today I am looking
For a fresh air
Of reverie
Garden of hope
Power of a new sun
And wish
A calmness of the spring sky
I never mind
And forget
The boisterous wind
Foggy attitude of time
Rudeness of the rejection
That tried to eclipse me
From my back door of yesterday
I do not know
What is there
Awaiting for me
In future
But I am sure
The sun will rise
Flower will bloom
And morning will smile
Amidst the muse of birds
When I shall open
My window
Of tomorrow.
Pravat Kumar Padhy, a scientist and a poet from Odisha, India, has obtained his Masters of Science and Technology and Ph.D from Indian Institute of Technology, ISM Dhanbad. He has published many technical papers in national and international journals. He is amongst the earliest pioneers in evolving the concept of Oil Shale exploration and scope for “Ancient Oil Exploration” (from Geological very old strata) in India.
His literary work is cited in Interviews with Indian Writing in English, Spectrum History of Indian Literature in English, Alienation in Contemporary Indian English Poetry, Cultural and Philosophical Reflections in Indian Poetry in English, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry, etc. His Japanese short form of poetry appeared in various international journals and anthologies. He guest-edited “Per Diem, The Haiku Foundation, November Issue, 2019,” (Monoku about ‘Celestial Bodies’). His poems received many awards, honours and commendations including Editors’ Choice Award at Writers Guild of India, Asian American Poetry, Poetbay, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival International Haiku, UNESCO International Year Award of Water Co-operation, The Kloštar Ivani? International Haiku Award, IAFOR Vladimir Devide Haiku Award, 7th Setouchi Matsuyama International Photo Haiku Award, and others. His work is showcased in the exhibition “Haiku Wall”, Historic Liberty Theatre Gallery, Oregon, USA. His tanka,‘I mingle’ is featured in the “Kudo Resource Guide”, University of California, Berkeley. The poem, “How Beautiful” is included in the Undergraduate English Curriculum at the university level in India.
He is credited with seven literary publications of verse, Silence of the Seas (Skylark Publication), The Tiny Pebbles (Cyberwit.net). Songs of Love - A Celebration (Writers Workshop), Ripples of Resonance (Authors Press Cosmic Symphony (Haiku collection), Cyberwit.Net, The Rhyming Rainbow (Tanka collection), Authors Press), and The Speaking Stone (Authors Press). His poems are translated into different languages like Japanese, Chinese, Serbian, German, Romanian, Italian, Irish, Bosnian, Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Punjabi, Telugu, and Odia.
He feels, “The essence of poetry nestles in the diligent fragrance of flower, simplicity of flow of river, gentle spread of leaves, calmness of deep ocean and embellishment of soothing shadow. Let poetry celebrate a pristine social renaissance and beautiful tomorrow of the universal truism, here and beyond.
WONDERFUL CREATION
Subbaraman N V
(Brief Description: Great creations of the Almighty OMNIPOTENT are indeed wonderful)
Hills are lovely, dales are beautiful
River is lovely, fishes are beautiful
Sea is lovely, waves are beautiful
Sky is lovely, stars are beautiful
Tree is lovely, flowers are beautiful!
Beautiful is the sky lark, lovely is the peacock
Beautiful are the birds, lovely are the animals-deers and dogs!
Beautiful nature is always beautiful
Oh! It is all Thy wonderful creation!
Even
Rain is lovely, fire is beautiful
Storm is lovely, volcano is beautiful
Thunder is melodious, lightning is pleasing!
Nature's fury is a thing of beauty!
Bed of roses and scent around it
Blade of grass and dews upon it
Rise of moon and stars above it
Oh! It's all the marvels of Thy creation!
Here is a child with crippled foot
There is a boy with cruel mind
Here is a man with dishonest deeds
There is a woman with a lustful eyes!
He has eyes, yet blind
She has ears, yet deaf
She has hands, yet lame
Yonder Thou art witnessing all!
Mend their ways or end their deeds
Make them honest - make them healthy
Help us live in peace and amity!
Dr. N V Subbaraman (b1941) is a Retired Deputy Zonal Manager of Life Insurance Corporation of India who has worked in Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu and Rajasthan. He is now settled in Chennai, Tamil Nadu. A trilingual poet in English, Tamil and Telugu, he is the author of Thirty Six Books. He is widely anthologized in different parts of India.
He has won about fifty awards for his writings. He is a versatile blogger and maintains his Blog ENVIUS THOUGHTS in https://nvsr.wordpress.com from 25th February 2015. As on date the Blog has run for 1841 days without break with 1875 posts with an overall view score of more than 2,35, 400 from almost all the 195 countries of the world, based on which World Record University, UK has conferred Doctorate on Mr. Subbaraman. He is holding a place of honor in the Asia Pacific Book of Records and hopes to enter into Guinness Records in near future. His interviews have been published in leading magazines. His interviews and talks were telecast in TV channels and broadcast in All India Radio.
ANJIE, PAT AND THEIR PHILANTHROPY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Pat pushed a hot cauliflower pakoda into his mouth and blurted out,
"We have to take a quick decision. Can't wait anymore!"
The next moment his face darkened, sweat appeared on his forehead and he opened his mouth to emit smoke like a steam engine. The pakoda was obviously hot and my American citizen friend, unused to steaming pakodas had misjudged its impact. He cried out, like a man surprised by a stinging scorpion,
"Holy shit! Why didn't you warn me how hot this goddamn stuff is!"
Since it was addressed to no one in particular, his wife Anjie laughed her head off,
"Serves you right, you incorrigible glutton, the moment you land in India you start filling your tummy with food. As if I don't give you any food back home. All this fried pakoda will keep you awake tonight, your poor tummy filled with gas like a freaking balloon!"
Pratap, my old classmate from high school who had magically transformed into Pat in the U.S., whimpered, his mouth stuffed with the third piece of pakoda consumed with a swiftness which would have given give a kicking mule an inferiority complex,
"O, O, it is worth every ton of gas in the tummy, this heavenly stuff! And talking about the food you give me in America, let me tell you, even the prisoners in our jails in India get better stuff - at least they get freshly made rotis and sabji - not the grub prepared on Sundays, taken out of the freezer and heated up on the other days."
It was obvious to experienced eyes that a storm was appearing on their domestic horizon and before things went out of control my wife Kadambari dragged Anjana - Anjie to her friends and colleagues in America - to the kitchen to bring a plate of hot chicken pakodas which she knew would disappear in no time to make space for aloo pakodas as worthy successors in a grand lineage of the glorious pakoda clan.
Anjie and Pat, successful doctors in the U.S., had arrived from abroad in the early morning and checked in at Hotel Radisson near the Delhi airport. They usually did it every year on their annual trip to India. After checking in at the Radisson they would head straight for our government bungalow at Shahjahan Road and spend the whole day with us, catching up on all the gossip and stuffing themselves with the choicest dishes made by Kadamabari. Since I am indifferent to food and our son and daughter are away in their hostels, and Kadambari loves to cook, she goes out of the way to prepare dosa, idly, halwa for breakfast, chicken biriyani, fish fry and prawn curry for lunch and all kinds of assorted pakodas for the evening snacks. Dinner would be a 'light' affair with only mutton ragan josh and keema paratha. Pratap has an astonishingly gargantuan appetite and would do justice to all the dishes, sometimes openly and shamelessly licking his fingers, to sqeals of laughter from Anjie, liberally sprinkled with endearing expletives. But Pat never cared and always ate with a gusto that bordered on exhibitionism. Obviously, both being doctors, they knew how to take care of rumbling tummies. They regretfully miss Kadambari's cooking on their return trip to U.S., preferring to go directly to the International Airport from the domestic one.
The first time Pat came to visit us around six years back, he took a long post-lunch nap and after getting up gestured to Anjie to give him something. Anjie promptly handed over to him a roll of toilet paper from her bulging bag. Pat looked at me in embarrassment and murmured "Sorry, a dirty American habit" and ambled on to the toilet. Next year when he called to announce his impending trip I asked him not to bring toilet paper or mineral water from the US and promised to store them up before their arrival. Anjie and Pat never brought their two sons with them because on their first and only visit the kids got frequent attacks of amoebiasis and copious mosquito bites made their brown skin red.
Two years back, while munching on some puffed rice with mixture Pat suddenly exclaimed,
"Anupam, what's happening to this bloody country? Why is it deteriorating so fast?"
Curious, I asked him what happened.
"See, every time we land up at Delhi airport I hand over a bag containing a bottle of Black Label whisky and a carton of Marlboro cigarettes to the Customs official at the gate as a 'gift' and he lets us go. Yesterday even after I handed over the bag, someone else appeared, and asked me to open our two bags. He appeared to be the boss of the man who had taken the 'gift'. One look at him and I knew he meant trouble, so I took him aside, opened my wallet and told him, opening the bags is the same as opening the wallet. He took the wallet from me, extracted two hundred dollar bills and handed it back to me. When we left, you should have seen the way they saluted us, as if I were the President of India and had just signed their promotion order. Why Anupam, why are they so unreasonable? Corruption within some norms is fine, but such open greed! Why this country is so wretched?"
I asked him why he had paid the bribe, was he carrying gold biscuits or some contraband?
Pat shook his head,
"Arey nehin yaar, no gold biscuit fiscuit, just a Nikon camera for my brother in law, a few watches for the nephews and nieces, some perfume and chocolates. The total worth may not be more than seven eight hundred dollars. But after a thirty hour journey who has the patience to go through a check by the Customs officials? And some of my friends have told me that once they open the bags, they will take out everything and take special pleasure in displaying your under garments to the wide eyed audience waiting in line."
We started laughing at this comic picture, but I continued,
"Why do you bring all this stuff with you, when everything is available in India?"
This time Anjie interjected,
"Everything is available here but the relatives want to show off the acquisitions from abroad. My Bhabhi takes special pleasure in giving away some chocolates to the lesser mortals with a warning 'to keep them in deep freezer, otherwise they will melt, having come from snowy climates like the U.S.'"
We had another round of laughter but Pat's frustration at the "deteriorating human values" continued to simmer within him. Like an obtuse Chinese philosopher he made a grand statement,
"Even if you are corrupt, maintain honesty in your dishonesty. If you lose your robe, heat and cold both are same for you."
That was two years ago. This time after the second cup of evening tea both Pat and Anjie expressed their rising sorrow over the growing poverty in India, the rapidly worsening economic conditions of the people and the falling standards of our roads and infrastructure. They had recently read somewhere about some starvation deaths in Odisha and their heart had melted like butter in their intestine. They wanted to donate money for what they called the alleviation of poverty. Out of curiosity I asked them what was the amount they had in mind. Pat was about to say something, Anjie cut him short,
"Look Anupam, money has no meaning for us. Both of us are well settled as doctors, our combined income is more than one million dollars per year. Both our sons are in Medical school and we have kept four hundred thousand for each of them in their bank account to cover their tuition fees and living expenses for the next five years. With a mansion in Chicago, a beach house in Tampa, Florida, a ranch in Texas and couple of apartments in La Jolla, San Diego, we don't need any more money. So we can spare about five thousand dollars a year for our poor countrymen."
I made a quick calculation. Five thousand dollars translates to something like three and half lakh rupees. What big change in poverty did Anjie and Pat want to make with this amount? But I waited to hear about their plan. Pat looked at me pointedly,
"Anupam, why don't you do something for the poor? I can write a cheque to you for five thousand dollars now itself. Don't you feel for our poor?"
"Yes, of course I am pained by the wide spread poverty, but I don't want to take your money. For the five thousand dollars you give me you will ask me fifty questions and keep on pestering me to know how I spent the money and how much poverty has been reduced by your kind gesture. I don't want that headache".
Pat exploded,
"See, see, this is the problem with you Indians! You don't want to act, just sit on your fat bottoms and give lectures!"
I couldn't contain my laughter,
"Hey Pratap, what do you mean, 'you Indians'? Since when have you ceased to be an Indian?"
Pat looked at me, embarrassed, and said,
"Sorry, slip of tongue! But tell me how to use our five thousand dollars for India's poor. They need it, you know."
"Give it to the Prime Minister's Relief Fund. It will be used to help the poor at the time of some natural disaster."
Pat shook his head in total disapproval,
"No! Why should we wait for a natural disaster for our money to be used for the poor? And We wouldn't know for whom the money has been used or for what. Tell me some other constructive way to do that"
I thought for a few seconds.
"Why not give it to some orphanage or Old Age Home?"
Pat looked at me angrily,
"You idiot, can't you think of some good use for our hard earned money? You want it to go for children or old people? With children we will have to wait for decades to see if someone who got the benefit of our money did anything meaningful in life. And with old people… ."
Pat just wrinkled his nose and kept quiet.
I offered another suggestion.
"Give it to our school, you know the Salepur High School where you and I had studied? Ask the head master to buy a few computers and other modern equipment for the students."
Pat sat there for a few seconds, with his head bent in some kind of a silent despair.
"Five years back I had sent two thousand dollars to my uncle to hand over to the head master of our old school to construct a new modern laboratory for the students. You know what happened? My uncle told me that the head master had got the money converted to rupees and kept it at home. His son, a good for nothing scoundrel some how came to know that more than a lakh rupees was kept at home. He beat his father black and blue and ran away with the money to Kolkata with a couple of friends and returned home after a fortnight, all the money spent on liquour and whores. I don't want to waste my money again with those useless people."
I tried to persuade him,
"You don't have to give to the Head Master, just give the money to the BDO of Salepur Block, he will get the work done and give the completion certificate to you."
Anjana cut me short and exploded,
"BDO? My God, BDOs are the most corrupt people in government. One of my uncles was a BDO. One day his house was raided and the police got papers for property worth sixty lakh rupees, seven lakh rupees cash, jewellery worth ten or twelve lakhs, all made from loot of public money. We don't want to touch a BDO with a barge pole."
Anjana was so emphatic that I suggested they donate the money to an NGO.
Pat made a big face as if he had just swallowed a baby python,
"Brother! NGOs are pure poison. One of my friends in Philly gave a few thousand dollars to an NGO in his home state of Bihar. Later, it came out the NGO was a fraud and had no authorisation to collect funds from abroad. An enquiry was ordered and some government officials made repeated trips to the U.S. and other countries to conduct the enquiry. I am sure with their frequent jaunts they spent more money in conducting the enquiry than the amount involved in fraud. My friend was summoned by the Embassy fellows four times and had to go to Washington to attend the enquiry. I don't want to get into that kind of a mess."
That put me in a fix. I thought I had exhausted all options; suddenly my eyes were drawn to Kadambari. Poor thing, she was exhausted after a day's hard work and had dozed off on a chair. Looking at her I had an inspiration! Women's empowerment! Yes, we have to empower women, we have to awaken the sleeping lot, and make them a part of India's growth story. I snapped my fingers and announced triumphantly,
"Pat, your problem is solved. Women's empowerment, we will spend that money on women's empowerment. It's a worthy cause and nothing is worthier than that. Moreover in India anything that has to do something with women draws attention like half-clad devotees to a non-clad Baba."
Anjie and Pat sat up, instantly electrified and shouted,
"Yes, you have hit the nail on the head. Our money will fly like a magic carpet carrying women to dizzying heights! Wow, such an exciting idea! But tell me how to spend it on this worthy cause?"
I shared their enthusiasm like a schoolboy returning home after winning a trophy, and blurted out,
"There are so many NGOs working for women's empowerment. We can work through them".
Next moment I jumped up as if a bomb had exploded under my chair, Pat shouted like an agitated head master disciplining a wayward student,
"NGO? Again NGO? Didn't I tell you we don't trust those blighters? Why do you want us to get into trouble, just because we want to do something for our poor country?"
I was a little embarrassed, like an innocent schoolboy who was being scolded by his teacher for unwittingly wetting his pants. Even Kadambari woke up from her dozing at Pat's shouting.
Before I could say anything more, the door bell rang. It was the taxi driver who had come to ask if there would be more delay and if he could go and finish his dinner somewhere. Anjie was annoyed. They had engaged the taxi for the whole day, hadn't they? So why was the idiot asking this stupid question? She was unusually aggressive,
"Yes, we will be here till eleven. You have some problem with that?"
The driver was taken by surprise by her harshness,
"No Memsaab, If you are going to be late I will go and have dinner in some dhaba nearby."
Anjie shouted at him,
"So? Go and have your grub and come, why are you asking for permission?"
The driver smiled obsequiouly and kept standing there. Pat went to the door, took out two hundred rupees from his pocket and gave it to him and asked him to return by ten. The driver saluted him and went away. Anjie exploded like a Diwali bomb, and snapped at Pat,
"You gave him two hundred rupees? Two freaking hundred? Look at the bloody swine, we pay him four thousand rupees for the day's hire and he expects money for dinner? Why can't he spend his own money for his grub?"
I was speechless! These two earn an income of one million dollars a year. And cribbing for tips of two hundred rupees which is about three dollars! I couldn't restrain myself,
"But Anjie, in U.S. you must be tipping the taxi drivers, the waitresses in restaurants? And that would be at least ten dollars? So why do you mind paying two hundred rupees to the taxi driver here?"
Anjie shot back, like a cobra spitting venom,
"Come on Anupam, is there any comparison? America is America, the richest country in the world! But India is so cheap, everything is so cheap here! You don't need two hundred rupees to have a meal here! This idiot Pat is so freaking gullible! God knows what comes over him when he lands in India, he over tips everyone, forgetting that this is such a cheap place!"
I winced, as if hit by cruel shots from a gun. A great sadness enveloped my being like a dark cloud covering the sky. Cheap? My country may be poor, but certainly not cheap! The poor in my country suffer as much from hunger and pain as the poor anywhere in the world, including America. Hunger has no nationality, no colour, no religion. It is expressed in only one language - the language of pain and of a miserable frustration at an uncaring God who keeps people hungry. My people in India feel the same sorrow at a relative's death, their heart breaks into thousands of twisted pieces as anyone in a rich country like the U.S. If a nail bites the feet it causes the same amount of pain every where in the world making people cry! There is nothing cheap about hunger, pain, tears! How heartless of Anjana to say India is a cheap country!
Kadambari could sense my sadness, she invited all of us to dinner and over food asked Pat,
"So, how are you going to empower the women?"
Pat smiled,
"Forget it, I can't go from town to town with a bagful of dollars and tell women, 'Come, come I will empower you!' It will be like a barber going around with a razor calling men to come to him so that he can shave their beard!"
The comparison was so outlandish that we all burst out laughing. Anjie took a big chunk of the keema paratha, dipped it in Ragan josh and moved by the heavenly taste, looked admiringly at Kadambari,
"Look Kadambari, the only way out is to hand over the five thousand dollars to you to spend on some worthwhile cause. I am sure you as a woman will understand poverty better than thick headed men!"
Kadambari liked the idea, particularly her superiority over thick headed men! She jumped at the proposal like a child grabbing a handful of lollipops,
"Yes, give me the money, I will buy blankets for the poor and the homeless in the winter which is just two months away. So many of them sleep under the flyovers and keep shivering through winter nights, some of them even die, unable to withstand the severe cold!"
Anjana sat up as if she had just swallowed a frog which had accidentally strayed into the Ragan josh. And like Katrina Kaif in the song Sheela Ki Jawani she said in a singsong voice,
"No no no no, don't do that. No no, I won't allow that. I had read somewhere that these buggers sell off the blankets for a hundred rupees or so and spend the money on buying drugs or charas. We don't want our hard earned dollars to go up in charas smoke!"
With that I felt we had reached a stalemate. We had been discussing this subject for more than two hours and had reached nowhere, after traversing in all directions! We finished dinner and over a dessert of rasmalai I suggested to Pat that he should find a good, deserving institution like CARE or Oxfam International and donate his five thousand dollars to them. Anjie and Pat had gathered their things and had started walking towards the taxi. I opened the door for them. Pat turned to me and with deep hurt in his voice, said,
"Anupam, how could you even think of such a ghastly thing? Hard earned money of Anjie and mine will go to institutions outside India? Why, are the poor in India so unfortunate? They won't get a penny of our charity? Please, don't speak like that, my brother. We are prepared to wait for one more year. Meanwhile, locate good recipients for our money. When we come next year we will finalise."
With that assurance they left. I turned, my heart weighed down by an undefinable sadness. I murmured to myself, "Pat and Anjie, you will go back to the U.S. after two weeks and get busy earning your million dollars and planning to buy another beach house in San Fancisco or Atlanta. Till you come on another trip next year, India will add one more crore people to its poor, the rich will get richer, the hungry hungrier. More criminals will enter into our legislatures and give heart wrenching speeches on poverty and hunger. But within the next one year how do I locate deserving individuals, selfless NGOs or honest leaders for your donation of five thousand dollars?"
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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