Literary Vibes - Edition LVI

Dear Readers,
A hearty welcome to the fifty sixth edition of LiteraryVibes. We have come to you with some highly entertaining stories and brilliant poems. Hope you will enjoy them.

It is a great pleasure this week to introduce Dr. Krupa Sagar Sahoo, an outstanding literary figure of Odisha. A recipient of Odisha Sahitya Academy and a dozen other prestigious awards, he is regarded as one of the leading modern Odiya novelists and short story writers. LiteraryVibes is indeed lucky to have one of his stores in today's edition. We welcome him to the LV family and wish him many more laurels in his literary career.

Starting this week, we are going to publish short anothlogies of works of poets and writers published in LiteraryVibes. LV was launched on 1st February 2019 and over the past one year around four hundred poems and more than two hundred short stories have adorned its pages. Publishing anthologies of individual poets and writers will provide an opportunity for the readers to access their work in short volumes. We do hope you will like them and provide your feedback on this new venture. The links for today's two anthologies are: http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 (Ten short stories of Prof. Geetha Nair), and
http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 (Ten short stories of Mrutyunjay Sarangi).

Last week, I had written about the heartening stories of women upholding their rights for a life of dignity and inviolability. Today's newspapers carry the story of one of the Nirbhaya convicts banging his head on the wall of the prison cell and injuring himself. His lawyer claims that he has lost his mental balance, not even able to recognise his own mother, and hence pleads for mercy. He hopes that an insane person will not be put to death, so the hanging, scheduled for 3rd March will be postponed. Regaining the mental balance will of course take years, and when that happens, another convict might bang his head and lose his mental balance. There are after all four of them, who with two other perverts had raped and brutalised a helpless woman leading to her tragic and tortuous death. This happened eight years back and these four convicts have been enjoying hospitality of the government ever since, with a possibility of an indefinite extension. No wonder many in the country rejoiced over the encounter death of the accused in the Telengana rape!

Amidst this gloomy picture comes the wonderful story of Maitri Banerjee and her team of 'Mahajiban' in Rasulpur. who have made it their mission to rescue homeless, orphan children from different parts of West Bengal and give them shelter, food and education. These noble souls have lighted a candle instead of complaining of all round darkness. They have taught a lesson to us. Are we willing to learn?

Wish you happy reading of LiteraryVibes. Please forward the following link to all your friends and contacts: http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/275 . All the previous editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes

With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Table of Contents

A WORD

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Waiting for a word

I pass days, the excitement

balancing on a brink,

a seed hiding a hope.

With time, the words have shrunk

from many to a few, from long ones

to monosyllabic, but they carry

in their holds, enough sighs for me

to sustain a life time in wait,

waiting like baby birds

for their mother’s return

bringing security and sustenance.

A word may make or mar my day,

be the dancing peacock on my dew,

or withering drought in my garden;

I bask for no reason, or just sulk.

Believe me, a word can be

a doctor’s table, another a knife,

they carry out a surgery or autopsy

leading me to life or the last rites …

Your word, my love, stands alone

in the sun, a lost child; would I

send one to hold its hands, and that

be enough to break the Berlin Wall?

KANT’S CHAT WITH GOD

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Walking behind his house, Kant found a patch looking strange. He couldn’t recall visiting the area earlier. The big patch of the earth was lying unkempt with weeds, brambles, nettle, and tall tiger grass growing in a wild abandon. But there was a touch of aesthetics in that disorder; wild flowers, small and big, white, blue, orange and pink were aplenty on a green canopy, the area exuding a sweet fragrance. Cicadas were singing intermittently, bees hummed, and birds chirped all around; they created a peaceful morning aura around its mild orange sun.

Approaching the growth, Kant found a very narrow walk going inside it, a few strands of bent tiger-grass obstructing a clear view inside. When he peeked in, the path turned to right a few feet ahead of the entrance, blocking from his view where it led to.

Kant knew, his parents being a very tidy pair, never liked clutter around their house. How could this area, so close to the backdoor of their house, escape his father’s attention, he wondered? He decided to report it to his father. But before that he must take a complete stock of the things. Besides, his explorer zeal was needling his insides to enter the little wild growth through the narrow path and see what was beyond the visibility. Who knew, surprises might be waiting for him on his way, as well as at the end.

He entered pulling aside the bent stalks of tiger-grass and a few projecting creepers poking their tips from sides like curious children craning their necks to take a peek. As he walked in, the top opening showing a strip of the sky above got closed by excessively inter-twining creepers, and over-hanging foliage of the wild shrubbery, converting the passage into a cool green tunnel of leaves with red berries, and little white flowers. He walked ahead, turning left, right, left, straight, left, right… how long, he forgot to keep count of twists and turns. When he was wondering, “Would it ever end?”, …. he suddenly found himself in the open facing a mild morning sun shining near the horizon over the distant tree-line ahead.

It was a pleasant homestead compound with a dilapidated cottage standing all alone. The cottage was a brick and mud affair, painted white turning mud-grey, cracking at places, grass and moss peeking out from the cracks like hairs from the ears of their old driver. The roof was a mix-thatch of tin and straw, a few creepers merrily meandering on it, spreading their limbs across and carrying cucumbers, bitter-gourd, pumpkins, hanging-down snake-gourds besides a lot many flowers. The windows of the little house were open, the entrance door as well. Insides of the rooms loomed with darkness.

Kant moved to the door, hesitated to enter, and extended a hand to shake the old- fashioned ding-dong cow-bell hanging from a nail. He knew, in spite of easily available electric bells, many loved those quaint ancient bells. But before he could touch the bell, a man’s voice from inside called out, “Come in Kant.” He couldn’t find any one in the outer room, entered the inner recess, but none was there too. Suddenly, he found a diminutive old man with a sparsely stubbled face sitting by a table and scribbling away in a page at breakneck speed, his pen moved so fast that it almost was a blur.

Seconds later, the man stood up, his height coming up to Kant’s ear level. He patted Kant, “I was expecting you, child. See, I know your name.” Kant was a bit irritated, “Don’t bluff me old uncle. You might have overheard my name. Minutes ago, you might have seen me through this open window coming out of that path in the wild growth. “What wild growth, my boy? What path?” asked the old man. Kant looked out, in fact, there were neither. The open window showed only a distant tree-line at the horizon.

Kant felt a wee bit foolish, so changed the topic, “What were you scribbling so fast, uncle?” “Oh, that was a program I was writing for the next millennium, about a thousand years ahead of now.” Kant was beside himself, “More bluff? Who are you uncle, by the way, speaking like a ‘know-all’ astrologer of our lane, whom my father calls a buff?” The dwarfish man demurred, “I am only a manger, boy. But in your side of the world, people call me God. I really know all; the past, present and future because the way they pan out are my programing. I have all the powers that control elements and forces, and I program the universe ahead of time, in fact, around a millennium or two in advance, giving enough space and time to elements and forces to readjust themselves to the changes, so, I can run the world without much hassle.”

“As you might be guessing”, the diminutive man added, “Also, old and worn species need to be eliminated to give way to the new, Do you recall Darwin in your school syllabus? He was one of my appointees, who postulated ‘natural selection’. See, new rhythms are to be composed, ‘Do you also have idea of Beethoven or Bach, the composers?’, or reboot-remix old symphonies and compositions, as do your present multitude musicians of questionable talent, to suit the music-deaf ears of new generations; and I have to bring home climatic changes for the brave new world to invent things and conceive ideas; a lot of work, as you see my dear Kant.”

Kant, now taken aback, a tad puzzled, looked at the oldish-man calling himself God, suspiciously as well as sheepishly. Was he real or a mild bluster, a fake, like the dime a dozen media wizards, political messiahs, or self-appointed God-men, his father calling them frauds and charlatans? Now the man had taken out a flute from his waste-band, and sitting on an old stool started playing a very fast melody. Kant raised a hand, and he stopped, “Must be composing next millennium’s rhythms?”, Kant’s tongue had twisted into one of his cheeks in wry satire. But the man plainly replied without rancour, “Not yet, my boy, only experimenting, adding and subtracting notes. It may take hours and hours of blowing before I strike a serendipity.”

At that juncture Kant noticed, the house had really no electrical wiring or lighting system. As not much brightness entered through the small windows, the light came from flickering earthen lamps burning in dark corners. Not even a fan in the room. Before he asked, the man like a mind-reader said, “That’s right, nothing electrical. I am a frugal man. I love my illumination from fire and cooling from the air. They are so soothing. You would be surprised to know I am planning to program the sixth millennium from now, when most of your population would spurn electricity, and would be back to fire and air. I love quaint things, and why should the people I created should forget them? I am growing tired of the razzle-dazzle, that I created in a whim.”

Kant felt humbled, thought, “He thinks just like my father.” “Yes, like your father, indeed. A part of my programming, many like your father have started thinking ahead of their time. You know, evolution comes without stirring a grass and unnoticed, and eliminates the old for the new quietly.” The man led him outside and behind the house. Yes, the big wild patch was there alright. Kant was confused how the patch had moved from the front to the back side of God’s cottage. They entered the narrow walk leading to its interior. This time he found new things. After walking a distance, strange fruits and flowers that he never had seen earlier were being cultivated. In another area alien looking birds were clamouring, singing and chirping. Kant blurted out, “Of the next millennia, surely?” “Exactly my boy, you are learning fast, good”, small-size God patted Kant’s back appreciatively. Kant felt as if he was taking part in a creative workshop with God. He never had imagined there could exist such a fanciful world.

When they returned, he found on their way, small slips of paper stuck to the branches of a low hanging trees, as if caught from a wind that had been blowing those paper strips away. At that moment, a strong breeze brought hundreds of more air-borne slips, and a few of them stuck to the branches, the rest being blown away to distances beyond. God replied his question before Kant uttered his curiosity, “See my boy, they are the prayers that people submit to various gods, you may say, my representatives on your side of the world, living in churches, temples, mosques, or gurudwaras. People ask for endless favours that automatically turn into paper chits when they are carried to my side."

"This end, the ones that were blown away carried frivolous prayers, almost ninety-nine percent of the total, but the serious ones are stuck here in this prayer-tree. The selection is left to the experienced tree and to the wind as well, they have been programmed, ‘Do you recall the Pegasus App, a program developed by Israel, and is all over the news these days, that has the capacity to study the minds of people from their e-mails, social-site exchanges, WhatsApp messaging, and accordingly sort them into categories of political beliefs?’ Some sort of similar program, this tree and wind here use.”

Kant asked, “What do you do with the paper chits?” “Of course, I check them and fulfill the ones that is compatible to the running program of the universe.” So, Kant plucked one from a branch, the prayer read, “God almighty, save my mother from this terminal disease. At least let her see me married, her last wish, let it be fulfilled”, and looked at God. Without reading the slip, God said, “His first wish is absurd. But for the second one, forces are in work already, the dying mother would definitely see her son married before cancer claimed her life.”

Kant grudgingly admitted to himself, “This guy is no doubt the God himself. But if I tell father, he may think my fanciful thoughts were working overtime.” God simply beamed at him and bobbed his head in agreement. Now Kant caught a slip that was flying away. It read, “Oh God, let India win this cricket series with Australia. I have put a fortune with the bookie.” Kant thought “How absurd!” God winked at him mischievously, “You saw for yourself, what a good job the wind and tree do, not less than the Pegasus one.” Kant grasped with wonder, even if a leaf is blowing in the wind, God was aware of its alpha-omega.

He was hungry, but God smiled, “I don’t eat, my son. So, no food here. You can’t pluck and eat a fruit from one of these trees also, they are experiments for various programs, could be poison for your time.You are to go home. Your mother is waiting for you, and your father is expected any minute from his morning outing. Breakfast is ready in your house. Go.” Kant looked helpless, “I feel lost, God uncle.” God was all smiles, “Be patient, have faith on your God uncle, look around, and find your way.”

Saying this God perched on the floor, took a basket of cotton floss and started rolling wicks for his earthen lamps. Reluctantly Kant went out, thinking all along, “If God uncle says there is a way, there would be one, I am to only have faith in him, and keep patience”. He looked around. He saw many narrow openings in an over-hung thick shrubbery, but one bore a little marker arrow on a thin shrub trunk saying, “Kant’s house”.

He entered without hesitation pushing aside the obstructing foliage, and in a minute, found himself behind his house. He heard mother shouting for him for breakfast. When he sat by the table and nibbled into a pancake, father entered huffing and puffing in his jogging gear. At the breakfast table, father touched a new topic from a novel he just had finished, “In a future time, may be a millennium from now, there would be a man ruling the entire universe, but to his scandalous political rivals, he would be suspected to be a robot in disguise of man. As a test case, they would call him to dinner, for they knew robots don’t eat, but the ruler would avoid it at the last moment on health grounds. They would arrange an accident to see him to bleed like a human, but like a prescient entity, the ruler would detour the accident site …so on and so forth … the detractors could never catch him red-handed if he was a robot … even their vilification campaign in the next election would not turn the public against him. The public voted him to power, saying,“Does it matter, if he is a man or machine, at the bottom he is a good ruler … isn’t he?”

Kant blurted out, “Just like God uncle. You know he is a dwarf?” He got up and went to the window to look at the cluttered wild patch behind the house. But it had vanished. The backside was neatly arranged into fruit and flower beds that his parents had so lovingly planted. His mother asked him, “What of a dwarf man, Kant?” Kant meekly replied, “Nothing mother, I was just thinking…” Father laughed and patted mother on her arm just like God had done to Kant, “Oh, nothing dear, our son is imagining things.” Kant felt happy, but also disappointed, “Nobody this part of the world takes me seriously.” He smiled to himself, “I have started talking like God uncle …. This side of the world, and that side of God uncle’s weird world …!”

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

FAIRY TALE (RUPAKATHA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Don’t abridge

your winding tales,

don’t skip

the tell-tale details -

narrate your story

with frills and thrills -

the prince

tying headgear exquisitely,

and riding his horse

at the auspicious hour,

arrived at by untangling

apprehensions and forebodings.

Don’t hurry,

don’t skip twists and turns,

forego magical details -

like weaving yards of silk,

with eyelashes

while keeping overnight vigil;

the bitter gourd ripening

into a succulent Kaluribenta*

amid the parching summer;

a fatal honey trap,

to lure and kill

the hapless crow;

..um.. umm.. where were we last?

Ah yes, narrate from –

the old cavalry commander

hacking the river into two

with his parrying sword;

or the young cowherd

stealing into the female friend’s house

of the princess

in the guise of a fly, to be cozy

with the beautiful princess

during her visit to her friend,

etc. etc.

Don’t conclude so fast,

rather make us lose our way

in your jungle of suspense;

keep us on tender hooks.

*Kaluribenta – A folktale, highlighting the death of a crow enamoured by a red-ripe bitter gourd, a honeytrap, that enticed the bird to its death.

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)”

THE SHELL
Geetha Nair G.

(.. For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )

*Photograph by Narayanaru

It was soon after Ahmed passed his tenth class at the second attempt that his father told him to attend a recruitment rally being held on the main island. Ahmed and a few of his companions who had cleared the tenth class crossed over and participated. Two months later, when Ahmed and his friends were swimming in the lagoon, his little sister, Amina, came running towards him, her arms waving wildly, shouting, “A letter ! A letter has come! Ikka,come out and come home fast.” The post arrived only twice a week; it was brought along with other cargo on the ancient ship that plied between the mainland and the Lakshadweep Islands. Ahmed raced home with Amina trotting behind him. His father was waiting on the veradah, a proud smile on his sun-burnt face. The letter was in his hand; Ahmed had been selected to join the Indian Army as a jawan. What Ahmed felt first was a stab of fear at the thought. All his 17 years he had lived in Kalpeni, one of the beautiful Lakshadweep Islands. He had gambolled in the benign waves, played football on the white beaches, gone swimming in the incredibly blue lagoon. He had eaten with relish the coconut rice and tuna curry that his Umma made every day. How could he leave behind all of that ? How could he leave behind Yusuf and Ali, his bosom friends? And Amina, his little sister; wouldn't she weep if her Ikka left her side, crossed the sea and became a soldier? Ahmed's own eyes filled at the prospect.
Two months later, after a rough three-day voyage, Ahmed reached the mainland. He had just a few glimpses of novel sights like towering buildings and surging traffic before he and five others were put on a train that took them through undulating terrain to their destination, the Regimental Centre where their training was to be. Then it was that life turned into a nightmare. He shared his living quarters with a hundred or more young men like him. It wasn’t exactly living quarters, as from dawn to dusk they underwent training. It wasn’t even fully their sleeping quarters as they snatched just a few hours of sleep each night. Bullying, harshness,downright cruelty made up their daily fare. All this was meant to toughen them up, to make them indomitable soldiers, the bewildered boy was told by his training instructors. Each day was a challenge to his physical endurance as well. In addition to arduous drill on the parade ground, there were route marches, rope climbing, firing practice - the list was a very long one. And wrapping every minute like a grey cloud was near-intolerable homesickness. How he yearned for his family, his friends, the blue sea and the bluer lagoon ! Amina skipped through his dreams often and sometimes he came awake imagining for a second that he was back in his home until he saw the outlines of the bunker and his sleeping fellow-recruits.One morning, Ahmed saw himself in the rear view mirror of the Brigadier’s parked car. A long, brown face with sunken cheeks topped with a crew cut met his eyes. He had changed almost beyond recognition. It was a good thing, he reflected, that only his letters reached his home every week. A photo would have shocked and saddened his mother and sister terribly.
That day, the recruits had been assigned a new task. They had to clear the ground and lay a new road leading up from the Officers’ Quarters to the Mess. It was back-breaking work. Shovels and pickaxes grew more and more slippery with sweat as the day wore on.
It was when Ahmed was taking a break, resting under a jacaranda tree, that he saw a little figure approaching from the Officers’ Quarters. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating and that it was Amina who was skipping up to where he sat. No; this was not Amina though she did resemble his little sister in size and appearance. This little girl carried a basket. ”I have come to gather these flowers,” she said. He was pleased that she spoke his language. “I am Mili. What is your name?” She started picking up the fallen purple blooms of the jacaranda tree that were strewn all around Ahmed. She was a curious child and rapidly asked him many questions about his home and family. She was specially intrigued by Amina and the sea. He was only too glad to answer.
”I have seen hundreds of recruits but this is the first time I am talking to one,” she said with satisfaction. He learned that Mili was the only child of the Major Saab who stayed in the house nearest to them in the row. Ahmed had heard him spoken of as a kind man with an unconventional attitude and a ready smile.
It was time for Ahmed to resume his work. “Let me get you some Kissan orange squash,” said the child. She was back in no time with a full water-bottle. Ahmed was uneasy about accepting the drink but at the child’s insistence he drank the welcome, cool juice, sharing it with the comrades next to him. Then, he took up his pick-axe and swung it with renewed energy. The sharp edge landed on the big toe of his right foot. Through a fog of pain, Ahmed remembered the Major Saab appearing and two comrades half-carrying him to the verandah of the house while Mili hovered around him, her face pale with distress.
It took three weeks for Ahmed’s toe to heal. Every Sunday afternoon, after this, he paid a visit to Mili’s house.The two friends would sit on the lawn and talk about a thousand things. To Ahmed, these visits were balm that soothed his lacerated, home-sick heart. He spoke often of his happy life on Kalpeni. Mili had seen the sea only a couple of times. When Ahmed described the shells of many sizes and colours that washed up on the beaches every day and Amina’s awesome collection of them, Mili’s eyes filled with longing. “My training ends in another two months. When I go home and return, little one, I shall bring you pretty shells,” he told her and saw those eyes sparkle.
The passing out of each batch of recruits was a gala event which Mili attended every year. She loved the dances and songs they put up and the Bada Khana afterwards. As she sat with her parents in the hall, she tried to spot her friend but couldn’t. After the programme, a pretty girl with long plaits and red lips, dressed in a red ghagra choli came up to her and said,”Hello, Mili; how did you like my dance?” Mili was confused; how did this woman know her name? Then the dancer ripped off her wig and Mili saw it was Ahmed. They laughed together and in euphoria, Ahmed swung her round and round by her arms. He was leaving in two days for Kalpeni.
True to his word, he was back after a few weeks with a packet in his hands. Mili opened it and found a treasure trove of shells.They ranged from tiny to huge, from milk-white to deep brown. Ahmed picked up a big, orange-coloured one and said, “Amina sent this, her favourite, specially for you.” Mili went in at once and brought him a pretty little doll that opened and shut its eyes. “This is for Amina,” she said, giving it to him.
“I shall keep it safely in my trunk till I go home next, little one, though that is a long way off,” smiled Ahmed, slipping the doll gently into the pocket of his shorts. He bid her good-bye; the batch of brand-new jawans was leaving soon on their first posting.
Mili’s family went home on annual leave late every November and returned in time for the new school year in January. But that year, they had just reached their ancestral home when her father was summoned back. He bid his family a quick goodbye. In a week, the country was at war. Mili remembered those days as filled with news bulletins, black-bordered newspapers, temple visits and tension. There came a day quite soon when everyone rejoiced; the war had ended. Her father was safe and would arrive to take them back in a week’s time.
While on the train taking them back to the Centre, Mili’s eyes rested on her father’s black trunk stowed under the berth. She voiced a question that had been haunting her for days.”Daddy, do you know if Ahmed is safe? I have been praying for him as well.”
“I don’t know, my dear, so many Ahmeds, so many of them… .” her father did not answer her question; he held her very close instead.
Back home, she carefully dusted the shells she had left artistically arranged on her table. She picked up the orange one and hoped that Amina would get her doll soon.
Mili did not know that her wish was being granted. The black trunk with the doll in a corner was accompanying the coffin draped in the tricolour on its long voyage to Kalpeni.

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

SLEEPING PILL
Krupasagar Sahoo

One AC first class coach of the Delhi- Howrah-Rajdhani Express on a certain night saw three foreigners and one Indian travelling together.
The first to enter the compartment was the Indian passenger. Dark, bearded, medium built and middle aged , he entered the compartment panting, sweating with suitcases, airbags, clutch bag et al; all charged up to establish his ownership on his berth. A total of five pieces of luggage were brought in by his coolie and were all fitted snugly under the berth. The usual haggling and paying to the coolie over; our passenger smiled deservingly to himself, switched on the fan and spread himself on the lower berth.
The second passenger was a Chinese gentleman. Slim, fair and young with usual slanted eyes he appeared a tourist. No doubt his luggage was on a lesser side. On his waist band was kept his cell phone and necessary things. He entered the compartment demurely, greeted the Indian with a bow and took to his berth.
The third passenger was an African. Tall, black, muscular with curly hair he appeared middle aged, probably in his forties. Pushing his luggage and talking on his cell phone, he entered the compartment, his all consuming laughter shaking him to the bone. He appeared one of the international- seminar- trotting types.
At last, the passenger who entered the compartment was an American. He entered five minutes before the train was to leave. Strong and stout like a Holstein bull, he had a heavy piece of luggage strapped to his back. His head didn’t boast much hair, whatever little was there, kept fluttering under the fan. He had seen from the reservation chart that he was allotted an upper berth. In his natural effusive manner he greeted all with a ‘Hello everybody’ and declared, ‘I will take the lower berth.’
The lower berth was allotted to the Chinese passenger. On hearing the bulky American, he got up from the berth with alacrity and transferred his bag to the upper berth, feeling it is wiser to shift up. Perhaps he felt sleeping under the big hulk of a person could invite some trouble. Soft spoken with miniature eyes; it was difficult to fathom what was going on his mind. Like a good boy, he clambered up to the upper berth.
In the meantime, the A.C attendant had put the bouquet of roses in the holder of the panel of the compartment. Neatly arranged linen, blankets and bed sheets were kept aside. Bearer of the pantry car served the guests with welcome drinks and chocolates.
The introduction session among the passengers got over thanks to the garrulous American, who took the lead. It transpired that he was the General Manager of an IT company in the States and was touring India on a business trip. The Chinese passenger was a tourist in the real sense. He was doing research on the Buddhist Viharas in India. The African was a Doctor. He had come to attend an International Seminar on AIDS. The Indian was a professor. After giving a talk in Delhi University, he was on his way to Vishwa Bharati to deliver another.
The train was already in motion and soon it picked up full speed. Half an hour later the bearer came, arranged the centre table and kept trays of snacks on it. A spread of hot samosa, roasted kaju, mixed savouries and assorted sweets. Seeing this, the American with his gaze fixed on the Indian commented, ‘Here people lavish you with a lot of food, Indians are quite hospitable, I must say.’
The gentleman from India smilingly nodded his head in agreement and thought to himself, this is absolutely true. Once he had gone to the USA for some meeting, where not even a cup of tea or coffee was served for the whole day, rather it was announced that the participants could help themselves to beverages from vending machines by paying for themselves. If it were India, the clatter of tea cups and saucers along with snacks cutlery would have been heard for most part of the day of the meeting.
After the high tea got over, the bearer took the order for dinner. The three foreigners ordered continental food while the Indian ordered a vegetarian Indian meal.
At about eight o’ clock in the evening, soup was served. Then came the continental dishes for the three foreigners. For the Indian passenger, came two pieces of roti, some dal and vegetables.
Before start of the dinner, the American had opened his bottle of whisky. On his instructions, the attendant came with wine glasses. He poured the drinks into the decanters and offered them to his co- passengers. The Chinese hesitated a bit and then coyly accepted his offer. The African merrily grabbed on to the wine glass. The Indian said, ‘No thanks, I am a teetotaler.’
Seeing the Spartan food habits of the Indian, the American exclaimed; ‘Hey You! You are really great. Hey! simple living and high thinking, I must say. You are a holy man. Can I call you Swamiji? will you mind it?’
The Indian simply nodded and smiled.
Soon the American’s food plate was wiped off clean. He called the waiter for more food. More chicken and salad were served. It was evident that he was doing justice to his great hulk.
The African also tucked into his plate. After it was over, he took out one cigar from his suitcase and lighted it... Without anybody asking he commented, ‘Without one of these, I will not get sleep.’
Smoking and drinking is prohibited in the railway compartments. But none of the railway employees were objecting to it; rather they were cooperating by looking the other way when the guests were indulging in their cravings. Hospitable country indeed!
The Indian was also thinking along the same lines. How hospitable we are. Smoke from one side and the smell of liquor from the other was too much for him, nonetheless he was putting up with it good-naturedly.
The clock struck ten. The American was not yet done with his food and drinks. The African’s cigar was like sugarcane and showed no signs of abating. For the smoke or whatever, the Chinese started coughing and went to the washroom with his small bag.
Finally, the food plates, the trays, the spoons, the forks were all taken away, but the glass in the American’s hand was not getting empty. To get a sound sleep, he admitted loudly for the benefit of his co-passengers that he needs two more pegs.
The Chinese came back from the washroom and went up to his upper berth. Once on the berth, he went on shaking his arms and legs vigorously like a dying lizard. The bearer who had come to clean the centre table, noticed it and said, ‘Sir, shall I call the train superintendent?’
The African commented ‘You don’t need to worry. This is his usual preparation for going to sleep. He has taken drugs.’
The Indian lying on the lower berth was trying to catch some sleep , when the African’s comment made him talk to himself, ‘Great is this all tolerant Indian railways, drunkards, drug addicts, fraudsters, thieves, vagabonds all are being carried in its lap by the great railways . No anger, no hatred, no opposition, no animosity, no enmity, no eyebrows raised, no nose turned up.’
His thoughts were interrupted by the American, who in a patronising tone was heard asking, ‘Swamiji, don’t you need any sleeping pill?’
Swamiji gave a mysterious smile. He sat up from his horizontal position and pulled out the suitcase from under the berth.
Then he gave a small nudge to the box, opened it and said. ‘Get up my son. Come kiss me. I am not getting sleep.’
His son was deep asleep. Then he slapped on his back. The son raised his head with a hiss, shook it and hit the quivering down-turned palms of the Swamiji twice. Then kissing the shrinking hood of the pet, he put him inside the box and said, ‘Now go to sleep my son.’
The American turned statue with the wine glass frozen in his hand. The cigar fell from the African’s mouth. The trembling body of the Chinese on the upper berth became still.
Within no time, the three travelers one by one hopped out of the first class coach like frogs.

Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.

A SPLINTER OF MOON (Khaali Sinthaa Re Janha Padile…)

Hrushikesh Mallick

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Hold a fistful of sun at Lahore

or Delhi, it looks same, pale yellow.

A splinter of moon nestling

in the parting of your beloved’s hair

doesn’t look less ethereal

at the shrine of Ram or Rahim.

When you leave home

for the front, eyes of loved ones

well up with hot tears,

wouldn’t the similar tears

sting eyes across the border, he crossing

his threshold to save his border?

You give your word

to your wife to return soon,

loaded with gifts for her

and toys for your children;

would his promises be

less touching at the hour of parting?

On the summit of Kargil Hills,

your bayonets question you both

by turn, “How would you keep

your promise to the wives, children?

Would you shatter the hilltop quiet

with gunshots, or your promise pulverized?”

His bullets may tear your chest

or yours, his; both would bleed crimson,

live, and hot blood. A bird may die here

or there, - a shattering loss to the sky.

A wife’s, a child’s, and family’s loss -

neither less here nor more there.

Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)

BLACK AND WHITE

Dilip Mohapatra

They surely make a lovely pair

the dark and the fair

so stark in contrast

yet they sing together

like the contralto and the soprano

their tessitura and timbre

so very different

yet in their juxtapositions

they resound and resonate.

Before the pages

of the history

that we inherit

turn sepia and brittle

new pages are added

out of which

most continue to be grey

while the rest paint a chiaroscuro

of our story

that we wish to record

and we

hand it over to our progenies

who write their own narrative

again in shades of grey

and pass it on to theirs.

While we live on

we try to redeem

our black complicity

by our white excuses

and perhaps cover our

black deeds with white lies

even paint the dark night

with bright sunlight

and in due course

become mere footnotes

at the bottom of the page

in black and white.

As we calibrate our lives

with clocks and calendars

one fine day

the rainbow turns white

over night

and attenuates

into the cerulean sky

while the elusive cat

continues

to leave its black pug marks

on the white shroud

again and again

like the charcoal graffiti

appear on white washed walls

in repeated cycles

and the game goes on.

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.

STRANGER IN THE HOUSE

Bibhu Padhi

Someone is watching us, always,

from a place which the sun

never touches nor ever will,

inside this house. Words are

sometimes dimly heard

or just remembered from

a distant year, when I was small—

modest words, easy to understand,

but which I no longer use—

they have their times.

Sometimes, during hot and humid

afternoons, when nothing seems

to move, there are sounds

which seem familiar—

an infant’s tender mouth

sucking a careful breast, small feet

shuffling across a dark room

on the upper floor.

I see the dust of my father’s years

rise from that corner where

my little son plays with toys

and slow time. Whose lean fingers

run although his casual hair

so affectionately? Is someone,

homeless and distant through

the years, watching him too?

A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has 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. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com

10:10
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien

It was a much quieter morning for the city which had a rash torrent of rain last night. There was a bit of drizzling in the early morning hours and day light had not yet penetrated through the heavy, gloomy clouds. The billboard of the Meridian Times which advertised their latest model of wrist watch looked clean as if wiped with a wet duster except for some dry fronds of the adjacent palm tree which hid a corner portion of the hoarding. This board was the landmark of the junction where three roads crisscrossed to take people to different quarters of the city.
The junction looked a bit deserted for the usual bustling activity it usually has. A young rustic man dressed in simple village clothes was looking curiously onto the advertising board of the Meridian Times which exhibited the picture of the wrist of a man who wore a chrome colored watch with the smaller needle in the 10 o clock position and the larger needle in the ten minutes past twelve position. It was an attractive advertisement and the watch displayed was a captivating one with all the features in it clearly exhibited.
The simple man was captivated by the exhibition of the image and he was the lone person in that junction for a few minutes except for the sweeper lady who swept the mud back into the drain and the dairy man who passed by in a hurry. Then came a well dressed middle aged man with slow careful steps because he was more occupied with the folding up of his full sleeves than what lay ahead in his path. He clearly disliked the time wasted for folding up the sleeves while dressing up and so took that job to the road which he could do even as he walked to the bus stop. He clearly was a man of city origin. Once his folding up of sleeves was complete he looked up and there he was in the bus stop looking right onto an evidently simple looking man as was proved with his poor dressing style, torn slippers and an unshaven face with ruffled hair, staring onto the advertising board. The City man standing next to the Simpleton inspected him for a brief period of time as he would inspect his junior staff. The Simpleton didn’t even notice the man standing next to him as he was much mesmerized in the attractiveness of that advertising panel.
The City man thought to himself even as he checked again the folding of his sleeves. "What is this guy looking intently at? He is evidently new to the city. Maybe he got down at this junction from one of the early morning buses that came in from the far flung villages. It now occurred in the mind of the City man that perhaps the Simpleton mistook the bill board picture to be a real big clock and he was trying to read the time. It was at this thought that the City man had the prankster hidden in him. He felt like playing a prank on the simple guy as he had enough time before the bus for him arrived.
The city man slowly unfolded the sleeves that he was folding up till now so that the sleeves would cover the wrist watch which he was wearing. “Let me test him” he said to himself and made a throat clearing sound to catch the attention of his neighbor who he thought was a village bumpkin.
“Ahemm! Friend, could you tell me the time?“, the City man asked teasingly but politely.
“Time”? The Simpleton was aghast for a moment. This guy who was much wiser than the City man had a reason to be aghast because it was evident in his own appearance that he was having no instrument with him which could inform the time or date. To the Simpleton for the City guy who looked formally dressed with a purple tie against a navy blue shirt, well inserted to match a dark brown trouser and a black shoe, it seemed quite awkward not to have a wrist watch.
It occurred to the Simpleton that maybe this guy was out to tease him, expecting him to answer his question by looking at the bill board. The Simpleton slowly turned his head towards the sky and said, “Sorry sir, why don't you check it out yourself”?
The City man realized that he had been caught in the act but he was reluctant to let the Simpleton win. “Oh! I am sorry”, saying it, he too lifted his head towards the sky and started to act as though he was blind and added a declaration, "I am a blind man”.
“Oh! Sorry for that” the Simpleton appealed. " I too am sorry to say that I am another blind man”. The Simpleton too started to act as a blind man would and added “In fact I too wish that somebody could tell me the time”.
The City man could not believe the statement that Simpleton made. He asked rather curiously "Then tell me where were you looking all this time.”?.
“A blind man can look up anywhere for endless period of time my friend” the Simpleton quipped. “Don’t you have that gaze?”.
“Yes, of course I have” the Cityman replied quickly.
The Simpleton took two steps closer to the other guy and asked. “Did you feel that I was looking on to something for some time”.
“Yes” the City man said, but he suddenly corrected himself. “Well not quite”. I was asking in what position you let your eyes fixed.
The Simpleton thoughtfully replied “I usually let my eyes stare upwards.”
“Well I keep mine down” the City man replied. A smirk came on to the Simpleton’s face and he suggested. “Is that to give yourself a humble look”?.
“It's not that” the City man replied. “Upward gazing is gazing onto time, rather timelessness”.
Even as the two were having an animated conversation, a man in a well tailored suit with an executive look walked in towards the place with a briefcase in hand.
“Speaking of time I hear somebody walking towards us”. The Simpleton saw this man walking towards them through the corner of his eye without moving his head an inch,“Maybe he can help us”, he said.
The City man too played accordingly and controlled his instinctive impulse to see who the man was and he said calmly “True. Maybe that person can tell us what time it is”. The Simpleton held out his head in the direction from where the man looking like an executive. The man came and stood right beside the other two people who were acting blind.
“We are two blind people here. Can you help us by telling the time," the Simpleton asked innocently.
The Executive looked on to his hand and then realized to his shock that he had forgotten to wear his watch. He had never failed to wear his watch and he couldn’t continue his day without the watch because for him all the job for the day was according to precious time.
“I am sorry, I forgot my watch. Let me go and get it”. Saying so he hurried across the street from where he came. It seemed as though his house was somewhere around that corner.
The two blind men couldn’t follow the Executive with their eyes for if one turned his head to see where he was going then that person would be caught! The eyes of both the persons were stuck to some corner on the bill board and for some time it seemed to them that they were blind, alas in what quagmire they have put themselves.
It was then that they heard another man coming up to them in haphazard steps. Clearly he was searching for his way and he was scanning all the sign posts and boards to get the direction he was walking to.
“I can hear some footsteps and that man there can surely provide us the information on time“. said the City man peeping with his eye towards the advancing man. “Let’s see” the Simpleton said inquisitively.
As the fellow came to a standstill near the two supposedly blind men, the smell of alcohol emanated from his mouth indicating that he was drinking till the early hours of the day along with the turbulence of nature last night. He extended his neck towards the Cityman to ask the direction. But before he could ask, the City man acting blind asked, “Is anybody there?”
The Drunkard was excited. “Not anybody, My body is here”.
“We both standing here are blind and hence it would be kind of you if you could tell us the time." The simpleton asked very politely.
The Drunkard wheeled his head around and then taking a look at the hoarding said similingly “It's clear, it's 10.10”. Saying this he just walked off in a random direction after failing to find the direction which he had to take. The two supposedly blind men stood aghast hearing the time.
Once the drunkard went off disoriented, the two supposedly blind men had some conversation of their own, both not budging to admit that they were not actually blind. To both it was clear that the other person was not blind - an impasse which they themselves had created.
After ten minutes the Drunkard came back swaying more than before and in a pleading voice said, “I lost my way. Can you tell me in which direction I should go?” The other two looked surprised at each other for a fraction of a second and suddenly acted blind again.
“Yeah, you both were searching for something, right? Oh yes! Time”, exclaimed the drunkard.
”Not searching, but wanted to know the time”’ said the City man.
“Put me on the bus to go home and I will tell you” whispered the Drunkard.
“But we don’t know where your house is and if you remember it, maybe then we can help you” the Simpleton said.
”Yeah, true. My house is beyond the iron bridge and since you have promised me to put me on the bus I will tell you the time”. Saying it the Drunkard swayed his head across the advertising board and gleamingly said “10:10”.
To the city man it was a quite impossible thing to happen and he quickly reacted,”what?” It was 10:10 ten minutes back and now also it is 10:10?
Paleness came over the drunken man, “Mmm,,,you are right, how can that be? The clock is not working then. Maybe the battery is out."
“If your house is beyond the iron bridge then that means you will have to catch the bus 12 B and that bus is supposed to come at 10:10 said the Cityman "but according to you for the past ten minutes the time is stagnant on 10:10."
“True, true, the bus won't come since time has stopped at 10:10”, the Drunkard retorted.
“Incredible” said the village guy, how can that be, the driver has his own watch to check the time and he will come as per the scheduled time.
“Then why isn’t he coming” the drunk man cried. “You wont understand, we are in a time warp for the past ten minutes and the time has frozen. The only chance for me is to run towards the east side.”
“But why", the Simpleton asked in surprise.
“Running east I will be ahead by ten minutes and I can catch the bus, get a seat and sleep rather than standing here”, the Drunkard said gleefully.
The other two seemingly wise men were so much confused and confounded. It indeed seemed to them as if they were really frozen in their deeds and time too.
It was then that the Executive man who went back to collect his watch returned. A chrome plated watch was on his wrist of which he was clearly proud and it exactly matched the one that was advertised on the billboard .
The confounded men in the junction needed an answer and finally their prayer was going to be answered regarding the time. As the Executive man came beside the City man, he asked, “Sir, can you now tell us the time please”.
“It's 10:10”, the Executive announced. All stood amazed for a moment.
A strong wind was blowing towards the west and the heavy, gloomy clouds were pushed off from the sky. Clear day light began to pour in and in that process the strong wind also brought down the two old dried palm fronds which hung over one side of the advertising board. Once the palm fronds fell down, the advertising board invited the full attention of the gazers once again. On the bill board they could now clearly read the logo of the wrist watch company. Meridian times never lie.

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 THE GODS WAIT

Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura

We are unknown birds

Sitting on a branch

Looking beyond the tree

That Stands isolated on the river bank.

With soft little wings

Without much knowledge of flying,

We wish to conquer the sky,

Limitless and mysteriously vast.

I stay little calm and quiet

Before taking up a long flight,

Is it necessary to reinvent the wheel?

Why can’t we decipher all that is seen

Instead of dwelling much

In the hidden things.

May be I can spend my entire life

Marveling at celestial beings

Wondering about the blue skyline.

She glances at me with a smile

May be trying to understand

What is going on in my mind.

Her love is flowing incessantly

Merging my heart inside.

I forget the gods for a while

They can wait for some other time.

Let me get drowned in the flow,

Being in her love ,

Who knows In the process,

I may be able to get

The gods and know their intents.

"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.

SPRING

Lathaprem Sakhya

Spring was in my heart as I ascended the hill

My new home, a tiny grey cottage perching on the top

A cynosure of every passing eye.

Yes, it was a spring gift too, a symbol of love for the land

Where we fostered hundred trees, our foster children;

Spring was in their heart too l felt.

As I saw the trees put forth tender shoots and leaves

As they danced in the early dawn with pearly dew drops

Oval shaped beads hanging at the end of the leaves

Where in waltzed the rainbow colours enchantingly.

Spring was there in the air with scents of various trees

Wafting through the branches as I made my way

Dodging the gossamer webs artistically crafted by the spiders.

I glimpsed the rainbow hues there too, as the artisans hid in the middle

Waiting hopefully for their first prey.

What joy! What peace! to be in the midst of the planted trees

Seeing them stand upright, strong and stout

Some ready to bear fruit like my tender Jack fruit tree

And some already gifting fruits like my baraba and coffee plant

My heart danced with joy as I lifted my hands in a prayer of gratitude.

Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.

Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony

MUSEUM
Sharanya Bee

What I am used to
Would be the scattered specks of still light studded to the dark sky
Stars that don't blink
The muffled cries of firecrackers far away
Celebrations pelted against silent veils
Thuds of footsteps above the ceiling I fail to track
Rattle of keys and the click of locks
Gusts of winds of arrival and departure
Framed portrait of an ancestor I believe is still alive through it
Abstract patterns on marble floors figuring into strangely familiar faces
Four plane walls, lit and enclosed with
No paintings, no mirrors, no verses to saccade through
What I am used to
Is this museum of my own emptiness

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.

MICROPOETRY
Pravat Kumar Padhy

Tearful Smile

I pile up the smiles
From the garden
Of creation
In my heart
Until
I smile with
Tearful eyes
at last.

Making Art Alive

Unveil the art
It is
Alive
It lives
Not in itself
But in your
Angle of
Mind and eyes

Publication Credit: Prevalent Aspects of Indian English Poetry, 1983-84 (Ed. H S Bhatia)

A Viewpoint

No matter
Man be like carbon
She should shine more
Than a diamond.

Day to Day
Anguish comes to him
As tomorrow
Visits
Without fail.

Awful
The cock clucks
For the new daybreak
Unknowingly
It begins its end.

Ants
It is a train of ants
That makes the bridge
Over the gaps
Of success.

Africa call
The hazy patch
You see on the wall
Speaks all about
The colour of freedom call.

City Cleaning
River flows
Day and night
Carrying city’s
Garbage pieces.

Wave
Its incessant reach
Only
The sandy shore
Can speak.

Publication Credit: World Poetry, 1991 and 1992 (Ed-in-Chief Krishna Srinivas)

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.

WITH SENSES SIX!

Subbaraman N V

It is all in the game

Say the wise worth the name

Pairs of opposites all the same

Keep ego under constant tame!

If it is true that all in the game

What role has that will to win the fame?

If 'will' has no role sure it is a shame

All excuses for failure nothing but lame!

That elephant spares no efforts

Till it succeeds in getting its prey!

That white crane spares no attempts

Till it catches its fisj in grey!

That long lizard in patience waits

Till it sucks its tiny insect in gay!

Why the man with senses six

Accepts the failure as 'it's all in the game'!

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.

ONE FOR THREE
Narayanan Ramakrishnan

Damu felt as if he were floating in the air, because of the happiness that engulfed him by his voluntary act. It was when one acted voluntarily and not when one was prodded or forced to act that happiness doubled. Damu thought of the instances during which he had been the beneficiary of such munificence.
*************************
Not just one or two but many such instances came to his mind. His memories flocked to that night when it rained ferociously, all of a sudden, years ago. He was forced to take shelter inside a shed while he was returning home after attending the birthday party of his colleague’s son. He would not have ridden on his bike even if the rain stopped as his son was sleeping soundly on his shoulders. It was then that help came from an unexpected quarter. A man volunteered to take him by his car and finally delivered a message that still rung in his ears, as Damu groped for words to express his thanks and wondered how he could ever reciprocate that timely help.
"The best way to reciprocate this help is by helping somebody else and not necessarily me, when such an opportunity arises".
During his teens, Damu had worked for a newspaper agent. He was assigned nearly 100 homes for delivering newspapers and magazines. The meagre sum he earned supplemented his family's income. Rain or shine, Damu would finish the task by seven. Rainy days used to be problematic in two ways. It delayed delivery and secondly, despite his best efforts, some newspapers got wet and invited adverse comments.
"Damu", called his vendor, when he was about to start his schedule, "yesterday, Kesavan Saar in Subhash Nagar 60, called and told me you had thrown the newspaper casually and it was all wet, when he picked it up. He was very angry. Tough nut, you know, most probably he will be waiting for you today. I am telling you in advance. Tackle him with tact".
Mr. Kesavan was an early riser; such a strict disciplinarian at home and office that he had more enemies than friends in his circle. How many of his colleagues would have rejoiced at his retirement was no wild guess. A good lawyer will never be a good neighbour, so goes the adage. It was true of Kesavan, too.
It was raining and the hiss of rain when it fell on the roof and tree tops, enthused Kesavan. He switched on his transistor to listen to sweet melodies being broadcast on his favorite FM channel. Just like his preference for short stories, he liked the radio as it provided him the opportunity to read something, while sweet music was playing in the back ground. What never distracted him in spite of his deep involvement in reading, was the 'chuk' noise produced by the drop of newspaper.
It was raining profusely in the morning, and the 'chuk' noise was somewhat muted by the rattling rain. A bit annoyed at the delayed delivery, but unaware of its execution, he rose from his seat for an inspection. The newspaper was very much there, but soaked in water. Furious at the callousness of the delivery boy, he immediately called the vendor and admonished him and not to stop it there, he resolved to have a face-to-face confrontation with the boy and throw him a few harsh words the next morning. Hadthe boy stretched a bit,the newspaper would have only landed on the top of his car. Senseless fellow; he cursed him and waited for the next morning.
It was raining as usual. Today, Kesavan waited at his door to witness the delivery and deliver a mouthful to the boy. He heard the sound of the cycle slowly reaching his gate. It was dark. The boy was about to induge in his daily exercise. "Stop", Kesavan cried and rushed towards the boy. He saw him drenched in rain from head to toe, but all his bundles had been neatly and safely covered with polythene to prevent getting damp. Something stirred Kesavan's conscience. Instead of harshness, what came out was sympathy overflowing from his heart..
"Boy, what's your name?" he asked in a mellowed voice. Damu answered.
"Yesterday, you had thrown the newspaper casually and it was all wet. Had you stretched a bit, it would have landed on the top of my car."His tone was sweet.
"Sorry Sir, it was all dark and the color of the car too is black. I will take more care".
"Damu, you have covered all your newspapers with polythene; why are you not protecting yourself, don't you have a raincoat?".
Damu’s silence spoke volumes.. Kesavan asked him to wait and rushed inside. Soon he returned with a one thousand rupee note.
"Buy a raincoat today; take it".
His obvious delicacy reflected his self-respect, but the pleasure and gleam emitted by Kesavan’s eyes, made him accept that gift in the early hours of the morning..
Kesavan patted him on his back and disappeared inside his house. That pat on his back felt, to Damu, like the soft touch of a feather.
Another incident happened recently. Caught by the road side which was filled with filthy water due to heavy rain overnight and chances of a fall due to a wrong step, Damu stood surveying the length and breadth of the narrow stretch that led to his house.
All of a sudden, an auto, going in the opposite direction screeched to a halt. The driver stretched his neck out and asked him to get in. Damu told him that he was going in the opposite direction. "Keranum Sir, appurathu akkitharam" (Please get in Sir, I shall drop you off at the other end). Damu politely declined. But the auto driver was in no mood to spare him. May be his un-dyed, all grey new hair style was earning him undue respect from unexpected
quarters. "Azhukka vellam. Enikku onnum tharenda, sar keriya mathi. Oru pathu metre alle ullu, sar keru" (Filthy water, you need not pay me anything, only a matter of ten metres, Sir, please get in). He was surprised by his kind words. Damu reluctantly paid heed to his request. He dropped Damu and left taking a 'U' turn, without waiting for the formal words "Thanks a lot". Small mercies do happen.
*********************************
It was an hour ago that Damu helped a young girl, hardly ten, to catch her school bus.
He was in the kitchen making chapatis from the half-cooked ones for his son. For the past one week, life has been like that and was expected to prolong for one more week.
The calling bell rang and he rushed to the door.The mother of the young girl whom he had helped was at the door, tense, grappling for words and an auto was in wait.
"Moley kanan illa", ( My daughter is missing), she stuttered and she was gasping for breath. The auto driver came out and took a ominous position at the gate.
**********
It had happened just a little while back.
Damu’s son had said, "Acha,(Dad), please go and buy chapathy and I shall get kurma from my friend's hotel by 9.”
It was only 7.30 am then. Damu decided to go. He normally did not give lifts to unknown faces, because, he always had a nagging feeling of unwarranted risk. So if any stranger asked for a lift,he diplomatically used to avoid that.
A mother, a well-known face, was yelling at her daughter, "Come on quick, you will miss the bus". She was dragging her little daughter, to the bus stop. The little girl was loaded with a over stocked school bag on her small back.
Damu stopped his vehicle, asked the girl to climb on tothe back seat. Her mother readily
agreed. The load on her back was removed and deposited on the space available at the front.
Just when he was about to pick up speed, the school bus passed. "Bus poyi", the girl was about to cry.
"Don't worry, we will get the bus at the next stop". He assured her. The short stretch of road had a blocked drainage and the resultant filthy water was flowing on the road; so he had to tread cautiously, especially with a school kid riding pillion.
At the next stop, too, the bus eluded them. She became panicky. The next stretch had more traffic, but he was catching up. Two teenagers riding on their bikes, overtook them and recognising the child’s school by the uniform she wore, understood her plight and declared, "We will stop the bus", and whizzed past.
They rode in front and asked the driver, who was about to take off, to wait. The little one was happy. Damu handed over to her the school bag and she climbed onto the bus. The happiness that he experienced was beyond words. He was floating two inches, too high.
Damu returned home after buying their breakfast material. His son went to buy kurma. He locked the front door and began breakfast operations.
Then he heard the bell. " Moley kandilla. Njan pirakey vannu" (Where is my daughter? I was following you). That was Susheela, mother of the schoolgirl.
Damu was rather taken aback. "Susheela, what do you think of me? I volunteered to help her catch the bus. I will never, simply, drop her off at a bus stand and walk away. I saw her board the bus and then came away. In fact, I thought, you would be waiting at your door step, to know". The auto driver mellowed, hearing those words. "My daughter, too, studied at Cotton Hill, years ago", he added.
She had no words. Tears welled up in her eyes.

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.

ACCEPTANCE

Dr. Molly Joseph M

how all our searches

zests and struggles

vary, in shape and size

as multifold as mankind itself,

the heap of pebbles

so different, yet the same

scattered

on the plain of our life's mundane..

each one carrying

his own bundle

of dreams, joys and sorrows,

while the uncertain

damocles' sword

hangs above,

threatening...

pointless it is

to fret and fume..

or dream of success

alone..

scraping through the thick and thin

let us learn 'acceptance'

of what is meted out

as your share,

the surprise package meant

only for you..

open, open it with the thrill

of the wide eyed toddler

scampering,

to scratch open his gift,

so ecstatic...

don't bother if it is different,

smile..much depends

on how you take it..

the surprise package

is meant

only for you..

@myna

Picture courtesy Inger Mario.

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).

HAPPINESS
Sheena Rath

Happiness is a state of mind
You always need to be kind
Happiness is hope
Happiness is when you share
Happiness is when you smile
Every now and then once in a while
Happiness is your child
Regular or special needs
Happiness is family
Happiness is when it's time to sleep
Happiness is when you donate
Happiness is when you have a goal in life
Happiness is when your pet wakes you up in the morning
Happiness is shopping
Happiness is meeting friends and laughing together
Happiness is flowers blooming
Happiness is long drives
Happiness is cooking a sumptuous meal for your family
Happiness is dancing to the rhythm of music
Happiness is running marathons for a cause
Happiness is giving a hug
Happiness is when your special child learns the smallest of skills
Happiness is overcoming challenges
Happiness is positivity
Happiness is watching birds chirping and flying
Happiness is encouraging someone
Happiness is being involved in charity work
Happiness is when you have no expectations
Happiness is...... Live and Let Live.
The time to be happy is..... NOW.
The place to be happy is.... HERE.

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)

ACCEPTANCE

Sridevi Selvaraj

Kites fly away in silence

Kind hearts bless silently

Petals drop every day

People accept quietly

Waves lose themselves

We do not question

Wind shifts always

Wakes up drowsy hair

We accept these movements

As the pulse of earthly life

Moving is the beat of life

The musical beat of art.

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.

"I FRIEND YOU" TILL ETERNITY

Sarada Harish

During breakfast, she came to my table with her plate, smiling a large dose of familiarity and relieved to have found at least one person she was already acquainted with. I was still annoyed at her comment during dinner of the day before. She had mocked me for my silence, which was a natural characteristic of mine. There were four or five of us, roommates meeting at the hostel dinner table after the ten days long onam vacation. I was cursing the moment i chose the particular course i was doing in the capital city, 300 plus kilometres away from my home.

I was the epitome of indomitability a few months back, teenage been over, youth knocking at the door, looking forward to experiment the 'dare to do' attitude, "this place sucks, wanna get out, move away from home" kind of fantasies following me everywhere. I was sure to get through any of the entrance tests I took. But since that didn't happen, I just pretended to be the brainy sort, after accidentally scraping through one (among many) of such tests and had started planning my future career.

And here I was, away from my hometown the 'sucking place' from where I wanted to get out, feeling miserable and loathing. Especially having spent ten days at home for onam, any other place felt like hell. With self pity and gloom i was munching away the bland food, dreaming of the delicious eateries I had to leave at home, missing my parents as well as my besties. I did notice a newcomer at our table, but hadn't given much attention to her details. I acknowledged the introduction, but wouldn't have joined the conversation that followed. And there she was mocking me and begging me to speak a few valuable words. Though i do not remember how exactly i replied, i was sure of having taunted her in some way. The unpleasant thought of going back to classes after a very pleasant gap had made me all sulky in the morning. I was eating my breakfast without relish, when she came and sat down opposite me. There were no other roommates in sight and she greeted me with such a warm 'good morning' that I had no option except greeting her back and thus started the best story of my life.

Now this begins to seem like a typical love story, boy and girl meet up with a tiff, and go on to fall head over heels in love with each other. The differences were that the culprits in picture were two girls, and that they did fall, but not in the "I love you" category, but the "I friend you" league. It was way back in 1994, when I stayed in a hostel for the first time. I was never the chatty type which left me with a very few handpicked buddies in my kitty. She became a part of that kitty, stayed there, and became immortal till eternity.

How we became friends, or how we went on to become mind keepers of each other or how we read each other's thoughts without words or how we enjoyed the same kind of movies or how fiercely passionate and romantic both of us were, or how finally she was robbed away from me by a monster is another story.

The name of my house often confuses people. They ask, “Who’s Anjana?” Can’t blame the curious souls, even I am one. Some others offer an impish turn, “Is she your husband’s ex girlfriend?” My husband may have a profound say on that!

I keep two answers ready for the inquisitive minds, one, an evasive smile and the other, where ambiguity doesn’t work, is “she’s my friend”. A friend? A friend so dear that you named your house on her? I do agree that my answer invites a lot more queries. “Where is she now?” is the next one. “She is married and settled abroad, Dubai”. People often put their guard down if you provide them stereotype answers; this is one of those. If I confess that she is a chronic spinster settled abroad all alone, I may be held responsible. So I serve only digestive material. That appeases my imagination too. My flight of fancy takes me to her apartment in Dubai, from where she calls me and asks cheekily whether I had befriended any other girl after her. It is her subtle declaration that she’s the best for me!

“Let’s go for the movie, ‘Gentleman’", she suggested. We were about to return to the hostel after dropping her mother off at the bus stand. We had permission from the warden for only two hours. But we took the chance and watched the movie. She was skeptical about warding off the warden. I suggested, “We will say that we were in the library”. Being a library and information science student and having a sober demeanor kept me safe on such several occasions. She was genial and I was aloof. But we gelled in a natural way. Our views were all unconventional and wayward. We wandered the city hand in hand, laid eyes on all the handsome guys, occasionally treated ourselves at the nearby eatery, shared secrets which we felt were highly confidential, visited each others’ rooms after the allowed timings at night and sometimes spent the whole night in chitchat, stayed ardently possessive about each other, criticized each other mercilessly, dissected each others’ romantic relationships and remained severely loyal to each other. We used to write letters to each other while at home on holidays. All her letters started with “My paru”, a name she chose to call me. One such letter from hers brought to me an unpleasant and harrowing phase of her life in the past which left her shattered in mind and body. She chose not to speak about it in person to me, on the fear of breaking down. She was pulled out of that phase with much effort and care by her father. Though it took almost one year, she came back with determination and zeal. And later on I understood the depth of her love and respect for her father.

She came to stay with me at my home once. It was after both of us had completed our respective courses and had left the hostel. She enjoyed that stay and promised my mother to visit often. She had a swollen tummy those days and we concluded that it was caused by indigestion. After she went back, maybe a week later, she rang me up and said that she was about to have a surgery to remove a tumour from her ovary. A few days later another of her letters came and she wrote, “What will I say to Riyaz? He is all ready to talk to both of our parents about our relationship. How will I tell him that now I am a confirmed patient of the RCC (Regional Cancer Centre), in the 3rd or 4th stage of the disease?” I travelled all the way to the capital city, the perks of being a cancer patient’s friend, my parents had no option than to give permission to travel and my boyfriend lovingly undertook the task of taking me to her home, which was a two hours journey. I just wanted to ask her what nonsense was all that. I found her back home after surgery, smiling as ever. She was happy that finally she could convey the truth of her romantic relationship to her parents, which wouldn’t have been possible if not for cancer. Again the perks of the deadly disease! She was trying to decide what to wear on my wedding. She teased us on getting a chance to roam around together on her behalf. I enjoyed both, the trip with my boyfriend and the time spent with her.

Within a few months I got married and moved back to the capital city with my husband and it brought me nearer to her. She couldn’t attend the wedding as she was not fit enough to travel, but she managed to come for the reception arranged at my husband’s place. Those days, she was moving in and out of the hospital. During my hospital visits, I amused her with my new anecdotes, we laughed a lot and I came back feeling light hearted thinking that she would be up and moving around in a few days. We never talked cancer. The truth never really hit me. I was sure she would come back with vigour as she had done once. Thanks to the lack of technological interventions, there was no whatsapping or instagramming or statussing; I feel terrified of even imagining sending her good morning every day with a “get well soon fighter” kind of catalysts, putting up “selfies” of us from the hospital bed, or messaging her birthday wishes. We left each other enough space so that whenever we met we could utilize the time spent together with utmost happiness. For some days, in fact for many days, certain other commitments kept me away from visiting her. And one day, one of our common acquaintances informed me that she was no more. I didn’t weep or go into mourning. I just digested it.

Her picture is still the same, the young maiden of 24 years, pretty round face, lean figure, mischievous smile, giving a heart break to many guys, cynosure of all eyes; waiting for the love of her life to grab her away to eternity.

In a crowded room, she would spot me, hold my hand and ask, “You are just annoyed, right?“ My face would not be revealing my annoyance, but she read it. So what’s the big deal? There was nothing different or magical about our friendship; we did everything as any two best buddies would do at that age. Before her entry, I have had friends; best friends, close ones, intimate ones, special ones; why was she different from others or why did I choose that one friendship to write this memoir; a question that doesn’t have a unique pinpointed answer, maybe because her absence from the world necessitates her presence even more.

At a certain point of the day, we find ourselves searching for our true self, a point where the presence of others become too heavy a burden to confront with, a point where we no longer want to pretend to be someone else, a point where we stop having the power to entertain others or the person sitting with us, a point where we want to turn off the outer world and be at peace with our own space, a point where we no longer have the ability or urge to argue, a point where we realize that everything in the to-do list had been completed and there’s no longer anything to look forward to, a point where we want to escape the boredom of unceasing action, but where we dread the nothingness, a point where we recognize who the other person is….At that point, I miss her and at that moment I realize that I never even tried to befriend anyone else after her. I remained fiercely loyal to her and to myself!

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

ABHAYA MUDRA

Kamar Sultana Sheik

Disembodied, I shivered,

Wondering 'who' I was?

Now that I have no body..

That instrument, being suitably prepared

Effectively for a without-delay burial..!

Where would I go?

The stone-tomb feels as stone-cold as it looks..

"What would the vermin of the grave be thinking now?"I thought..

Of the supply they would get of my flesh?

A deserted house, now..abandoned..

But my soul is full..full of a lifetime of memories

Going in a super fastfoward ..

It is getting dark and I'm scared..

A strange fear settles in the very depths

Of my now desolate soul..

Was I to spend this night in the graveyard? For real?

Not as the pranks we played as children?

Would it be every night too?

The people were now moving out

Those paying last respects were fast retreating..

I was totally alone...and then He appeared..

My Guru in all his magnificence..

I saw him raise his right hand

I rushed to him..he enveloped me with his Light..

The Abhaya Mudra stayed until it banished

The last vestiges of fear from me..

I rested my head on his breast.

I was to see nothing but light, ever more.

Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in

STARRY EYES

Dr. Bijaya Ketan Patnaik

When I peeped into

Your deep blue eyes

Get the reflection of

Twinkling stars

On the back drop of a

Clear looking sky.

As I peep deeper

Searching for,

Constantly glowing

Planet venus,

Om the crescent moon

On the distant skyline

It is simply amazing !

Now with a telescopic lens

Piercing constantly

Deep into your eyeball,

I try to locate

Other planets of

Our solar system

Probing further

I could see

‘Niharika’ milky way

The whole Universe

AS was seen once

By “Jasoda Mataa”

When probing into

The wide open mouth

of “Baal Krishna”

Aghast, completely lost

In your star studded eyes

Wonderings, where am I

What is my location

A dot, full stop

Comma or semicolon?

Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..

He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.

Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.

After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in

I'AM THE BACKBONE OF A NATION
Setaluri Padmavathi

I’m the backbone of the nation
and a food bowl of any state;
Folks stare at me with a smile
as I welcome them with peace!

I am not comforted with tar road
but a wooden plank gives a way;
People don’t mind a pebbled path
and muddy spaces, that they walk!

I attract you with greenery around,
Any part of the earth paints green;
Neem, mango, and coconut trees
replace your air conditioned rooms!

The colourful shrine of temple top,
the different sounds of chirping birds,
and the fun filled hearts of tiny tots;
give you a thrilling mind and ecstasy!

A fresh water pond between roads
gives life to mankind and animals
The tidal waves gently come and go,
Kissing your face with cool breeze!

Cottage dwellers invite you with love
and affection, and their delicious food;
Their houses are small, but heart big
that makes you reside in their hearts!

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

FRAGRANCE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

(.. For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )

The telephone kept ringing. Surajit rushed from the balcony and picked it up. There was a lady on the other side.
"Hello, did I wake you up? What is the time there? Can you guess who this is? I bet you can't!"
Surajit was puzzled. Who could it be? He hardly got calls from ladies. A couple of old, fat Gujarati clients tried a few times to call him at home; he stopped it by telling them curtly that he took business calls only at office. And this caller sounded much younger. Wait a second, she asked what time is it here. Someone from abroad?
"Sorry, not able to place you. Who are you? You are asking about the time here? Where are you calling from? America? Australia? Antarctica?"
The lady at the other end chuckled,
"I knew you would answer my questions with your counter questions. Your old habit, more than thirty years old, remember? You were hardly eleven at the time. How time flies! Difficult to imagine we were once upon a time kids, throwing questions and trying to outsmart each other!"

Surajit got a shock. Thirty years back? Is this Sunayana? My God, she has not lost any of the zing in her voice, the same liveliness, full of animation and effervescence! Surajit's mind filled with a warmth, a glow. A mild euphoria washed over him. He was startled by the booming voice on the other side, floating over blue oceans and across the wide skies,
"Hello, where are you lost? I know you have guessed who I am. And like the Surajit of the past you must have been seized by a glow of gentle love. Always the shy, sentimental boy. I knew you were a gone case, even thirty years back!"
Surajit smiled,
"Yes, a gone case, perhaps that's why you never even wrote a letter to me from Jamshedpur after you left Cuttack!"
Sunayana laughed,
"Are you crazy? How could I write to you? Those days I even didn't know where the post office was, and if I wanted to write to you, I would have to give the letter to Daddy to drop in the letter box. You think my Daddy would have liked it? And you know, two years after we came back to Jamshedpur Daddy came over to the U.S., did his Ph.D, got a job and we settled down here. Tell me, did you ever remember me all these years?"
Surajit wanted to tell her, he didn't remember her often, but he hadn't forgotten her, or the one week of happy adolescence they had spent together in the summer of 1972 at his home in Buxi Bazar, Cuttack. Instead, he threw the question back at her,
"Did you? Did I ever come to your mind after you left Cuttack thirty years back?"
Sunayana hesitated,
"I don't want to lie to you. I had missed you a lot after I returned from Cuttack. I often felt like telling my parents to go to Cuttack so that I could see you again, but I felt too shy to do that. Once we came to the U.S. I got busy; new place, new friends, and time just flew. I got married. Saurav is a nuclear scientist, very quiet, dignified and caring. I have not been to India for the past seven years. Busy with our only son, his studies, his games and extracurricular activities. And last week when we decided to visit India, I felt I must meet you. I don't know why you came to my mind again and again, like a never forgotten sweet old song. I spoke to uncle, getting his number from my dad. He had attended my wedding, you were in Mumbai at the time. I got your number from him and here I am talking to you! But see, like the old days, I do all the talking and you do the listening, the quiet, bashful prince listening to a lesser citizen!"
Surajit felt a thrill go through him like a mild current again, being called a quiet, bashful prince. That was what Sunayana used to call him!
"Is your son coming with you?"
"No, he just got into Medical school in Chicago. Can't take time off. Saurav has some meetings at Bhabha Atomic Research Center, they had offered accommodation at their guest house. I told Saurav we will stay with you. For three days, from January sixth to ninth. Tell Vandana to keep herself free, we will go shopping all the three days."
Surajit smiled,
"So you have found out my wife's name! What else do you know about me?"
"Uncle was so happy talking about you! He thinks you are the best son, husband, father in the world. There is so much pride in him for you! I am impressed. You must be awesome!"
"Was I not awesome when you saw me? Thirty years back?"
"No, I was the one who was awesome, defeating you in every game, even in arm wrestling! But you were awesome to be with. Okay, time to stop. We will talk about all that when I come there."
Surajit panicked,
"Listen, I have not told Vandana about you. She doesn't know that you ever came into my life, although it was just for a week. Please don't say anything that will embarrass me."
Sunayana laughed,
"Don't worry, I am not coming to rock your family boat. Our account has been settled thirty years back, with what you gave me and what you took from me. Don't you remember?"
Sunayana chuckled and put down the phone

Surajit walked to the window and looked out. From his twelfth floor apartment at Malabar Hills the Arabian Sea looked very calm and blue. He had an hour to himself. Vandana would be busy with her Pooja till nine thirty. The maid had left, after cooking breakfast and lunch. Anup and Sulagna had left for school. He smiled to himself. How did everything change in a few minutes? With just a phone call from a long lost friend from the past who had briefly appeared in his life as an eleven year old girl and left with a memory so fragrant, so intoxicating that after all these years Surajit felt this mild glow spreading over his consciousness like the smell of musk overpowering his senses! He smiled, remembering her parting words a few moments back! Remember her? How could Surajit forget that wonderful one week they had spent in his Buxi Bazar home at Cuttack in the summer of 1972? Till that time Surajit didn't know what it meant talking to a girl, sitting near her, holding her hand and the next minute fighting with her over meaningless issues.

All that changed in the summer vacation of 1972 when his father announced that his close friend Ghanashyam uncle was coming to visit them for a week along with Auntie and Sunayana, their eleven year old daughter. Surajit was happy. Sunayana! What a lovely name! And she was the same age, they would chat a lot about their school and their friends. How would she look ? Would her eyes be as beautiful as her name suggested? He was happy with a suppressed excitement. Finally the day of their arrival came. He accompanied his father to the railway station to receive them. His Maa stayed back at home to prepare food for the guests.

When he saw Sunayana for the first time, he smiled to himself. How did this lanky, darkish girl, who looked like a skeleton with a dash of flesh and blood, with a lock of unruly hair falling over her face, stir his imagination these past four days? But, my God! She was so tall! She reminded him of the picture of a beautiful horse standing erect and proud on a calendar they had a couple of years back. He touched the feet of uncle and aunty and shyly smiled at her. She looked at him pointedly, absolutely devilish in her grin,
"My name is Sunayana. Don't try to call me Nayana or something like that. I hate that."
Her mother tried to shush her,
"Stop it, don't talk like that to him! Didn't I tell you he is a brilliant student, always tops his class, not an ignorant monkey like you!"
Sunayana looked away and the moment her mother moved with a bag to where the two friends were standing, she looked at him, stuck out her tongue and made a big face at him, trying her best to imitate a monkey. Surajit had never seen a girl make a face at him and had always thought it must be a dirty gesture. But for a moment he was stunned, captivated by the utterly girlish beauty of the act.

They had to hire two cycle rickshaws. His father and uncle took one rickshaw keeping all the luggage and Aunty sat in the second one with the two kids on either side. She was visiting Cuttack after many years and was trying to check how much the town had changed. Sunayana took over the social nicety of a conversation. In no time she found out which class was Surajit in, how many friends he had, what games he played, how much he scored in maths and half a dozen other bits of information. Then suddenly, as if by an inspiration, she asked her mother,
"Mama, the shirt we have brought for Surajit, don't you think it will be a little tight for him? He looks like a mini buffalo, doesn't he? My God, how many eggs do you eat every day? Four, six? And what kind of egg, hen's egg or duck's egg?"
Her mother was scandalised and shouted at Sunayana,
"Hey monkey, what sort of question is that? You think everyone is like you? Eat like a cow and grow like a monkey? All skin and bones? Be careful, don't fight with Surajit! One slap from him and you will be flattened to the ground!"
Sunayana clapped, "See, you also agree that he is fat, like a Sumo wrestler!"
Surajit's face coloured at this insult and Sunayana got a slap from her mother with a warning to keep quiet. Surajit looked straight, Sunayana extended her hand and pinched him on his right arm. When he looked at her, she put out her tongue and made a big big face at him, putting her hands on her ears and blowing up her cheeks trying to look like a wrestler!

After they reached home and had their breakfast, Sunayana and her parents had a bath. When she came out to the sitting room with a yellow frock and a red ribbon, her hair nicely plaited, Surajit's heart skipped a beat. What had appeared to be a darkish complexion due to the dust and soot of the fourteen hours of train journey was gone and Sunayana looked quite beautiful. Surajit felt her presence near him, she was pulling him to go out and pluck mangoes from the tree in the garden. They went out. The heat was unbearable, they sat in the shade of the tree. Away from the gaze of the parents Sunayana was unstoppable, she kept chatting about her school (boring in studies, but exciting in sports), her friends (almost everyone in the class was a friend, appan kisise dartaa nehin, I am not scared of anyone, can beat the daylights out of anybody), her likes and dislikes in food (pickles are my favourite, ah, the varieties of pickles you get outside the school! But I hate non veg food, smells too much!), songs (dance walla song, not the ronaa dhonaa type), movies (only action movies, when the heroine beats up some one I stand up and cheer! Don't like the romantic somantic film, too painful. appanko hansnaa maangtaa hai, ronaa nehin!). It seemed she was an endless chatterer and Surajit an obedient listener, looking at her face, the beautiful face with smiles constantly breaking like waves in the ocean, the sparkling eyes full of mischief and the soft hair blowing in the mild summer wind. He had hardly spoken when she asked,
"How are your friends, all quiet like you, or you have someone like my type also, chatting all the time?"
Surajit tried to remember who was the non stop chattering type, he remembered nobody. He asked her back, "Are all your friends like you?"
She laughed, "O, question to counter a question? That's your style? No, I have all types of friends. Bharati is a big actress, you should see the way her face changes expressions when she talks, as if she is trying to impress you all the time. And Santoshini? She is the champion crier, when the school closes for vacation she cries, going from friend to friend and telling them she would miss them and when the school reopens she would cry because she had missed everyone! Before an exam starts she cries out of fear, after the exam ends she cries out of relief!"
Surajit asked her,
"How about you, are you not scared of exams?"
Sunayana laughed, like a waterfall cascading,
"Aapan? Aapan exam se nehin dartaa hai! Why should I be scared. I know I won't score more than fifty percent in any subject. But in sports I am the champion, no one can beat me in all forms of running, long jump and triple jump. I get so many cups that my dad has to bring a bag to carry them home after the annual sports meet."
Surajit tried to tease her,
"But how can you be good in running? You look like a skeleton!"
"So what? I run like a skeleton also, long steps, no one can catch up with me."
She kept quiet for a moment, and continued,
"You can beat me in maths, or science, but you can't match me in talking, in running or jumping"
"And in making faces? How many types of faces can you make?"
"O, all types, at least twenty types; want to see?"
"No, not now. Let's go inside, lunch must be ready."

That's how they went on and on. Surajit's father and uncle used to leave home after breakfast to meet their college friends. The mothers used to be chatting all the time, going for shopping in the evening. Surajit and Sunayana were inseparable, like two long lost friends who had found each other after years. Sunayana would play all kinds of pranks on him,
"Tell me O ignorant prince, why am I called Sunayana? Are my eyes beautiful? Or are you reluctant to answer this innocent question, my quiet and bashful prince?"
The usually serious Surajit would try to make a face,
"Nothing about you is beautiful, you lady skeleton! You are too skinny".
Sunayana would explode in mock anger and start beating him up. For a skinny girl, she was surprisingly strong. Surajit would never think of raising his hand against her, not even once.
They would play Ludo, carrom and cards; Sunayana would always make it a point to win. Surajit would never mind losing to this cracker of a girl. A new found joy in losing innocent games kept him in a dream like state all the time. In the evenings they would go to the nearby market and have lassi. On the way back they would stop at the Amareswar temple and look at the toys and trinkets in the small shops outside the gate.

When night came and it was time to sleep, Surajit's heart would break into inconsolable pieces. He would miss Sunayana's chatter, her pranks, her mild rebukes and the words of endearment like O Silent Stone, My Shy Prince, O Bashful Genius and all that. The thought of separation from Suanayana for a few hours in the night would make him sad, he wished they wouldn't have to be separated even for that little time and after the lights were switched off he would bury his face in the pillow and shed silent tears.

The one week passed like a dream. On the day before the departure Surajit and Sunayana went to the market, had the famous Thunka Puri and Sabji from the Buxi Bazar market, and took lassi from their usual shop. They stopped outside the temple and Surajit bought a beautiful, colourful wooden bird and gifted it to Sunayana. For a moment he looked deep into her eyes, and said, "This is for remembrance, whenever you see this bird, you will remember me, won't you?" Sunayana only nodded her head and looked away.

On the way home she challenged him to have a race. He couldn't catch up with her. She made a face at him and said "You can't beat me in anything, except of course, studies. In that Aapan is a zero."
Surajit looked at her and said,
"I can certainly beat you in arm wrestling. My arm is four times heavier than yours".
She shook her head,
"No way, even there also I will beat you hands down," and she gestured how she would do it.

When they reached home their mothers were waiting for them. They had to go to the neighbour's house so that Sunayana's mother could take leave of the Aunty there. Their train was at nine in the morning the next day. The moment Surajit and Sunayana entered the living room they sqatted on the ground and started arm wrestling. Although Surajit was heavier, he had no idea about the lanky girl's strength. Within a minute she was pinning his hand down. Surajit was not prepared to accept defeat, he tickled her on the waist with his left hand and in a moment her grip loosened and he could bend her hand to the ground. She was furious! She started shouting at him, Cheat, you cheat, and started tickling him. In no time they were wrestling with each other in a mock fight. Soon he was lying flat on the floor and she had climbed over him, sitting on his chest and tickling him.

In a few moments a new hitherto unknown sensation flooded over Surajit. He looked at her, his eyes dazed and sweat glistening on his face. He felt as if the person sitting on his body was not a mere bundle of bones and flesh, but something far from physical, she was an embodiment of lyrical love and liquid longing, petals of flowers taking the shape of the most exquisite body God has made, emitting a fragrance of immortal beauty. He looked at her helplessly, his hands lying by his sides. The game had stopped and a new chapter of life had suddenly opened up for them. She looked at him, blushed and ran away to her mother in the neighbour's house.

The rest of the evening was spent on marvelling over the new flame of love that had awakened in Surajit and Sunayana, as if they had crossed a barrier and come of age. They looked at each other, but there was no more a desire to play any games. Surajit wanted to give himself away to her, losing every game they played, only if she could stay back with him. She had no desire left for winning any game with Surajit. It was as if the summer wind was blowing across a meadow of scented flowers and whispering in her ears the message of a youthful awakening in her, telling her she has just embarked on a wonderful journey where wins and losses would no longer have a meaning, the body, heart and soul would yearn to surrender themselves to a selfless love leading to a fathomless fulfilment.

Next morning there was hectic activity at home, in preparation for the departure to the railway station. Surajit and Sunayana could not look at each other: their eyes were brimming with tears. Surajit was sitting in his room, head bent over his knees, deep in sadness. Suddenly Sunayana stormed into the room,
"Have you seen my yellow frock, I have looked for it every where and can not find it."
Surajit looked up, his face clouded with an injured innocence,
"No, how would I know about your frock? The yellow one? In which you look like a blooming sunflower?"
She nodded and proceeded to open the only cupboard in the room. Surajit shouted,
"Please don't open that cupboard. It has only my clothes and books."
Sunayana had already opened it and there, under Surajit's shirts was the yellow frock, obviously taken by Surajit from the clothes drying in the courtyard and hidden there. Sunayana was furious! She wanted to shout at him, calling him a thief. But a look at his sad, melancholic face and she realised something had changed in them on the previous evening and they had entered a world which was beyond a small act of losing or finding a frock. It was a world of hearts and souls washed in an ethereal fragrance of love. She looked at Surajit's tear-streaked face, the eyes appealing to her to leave something of her with him. She quietly replaced the frock under the shirts in the cupboard and left the room.

Surajit's mother came to call him one final time to come with them to the station but he shook his head and stayed back at home on the pretext of severe headache. He went out and touched the feet of Uncle and Aunty and took their blessings. He and Sunayana didn't look at each other. The separation was breaking their hearts, they didn't want to show the fragments to their parents.

Surajit never heard from Sunayana again, nor did he try to write to her. The quiet, bashful prince remained imprisoned in his own image, afraid to let out his secret to his parents. His Maa however found the frock after a few months while arranging the clothes in his cupboard. She was surprised to see it there. She took it to Surajit,
"Arey Kunu, I found this frock in your cupboard. Did Sunayana leave it there by mistake? Let me give it to your Baba, he will send it to Jamshedpur through someone from his office."
Surajit looked at his Maa, a sad pain crowding his face. His mother was surprised again, at this tragic innocence. She looked at him, smiled indulgently and said, "My innocent child, when will you grow up?"

That was thirty years back. Surajit knew his Maa would have kept the yellow frock in some trunk somewhere, its frail folds a remnant of an innocent boy's adolescent dream. Today Sunayana's call brought back all those memories and filled his heart with a soft undercurrent of joy, as if he had found some long lost object of intimate desire.

Sunayana came to Mumbai after a few days with her husband Saurav. Anup and Sulagna fell in love with this loud mouth Aunty from the moment of her arrival. She had found out from Surajit's father that Anup loved Nintendo games and Sulagna liked to collect Keyboards and played lovely music on them. They got these beautiful gifts from their American Aunty and Uncle. Saurav was busy with his conference. Vandana accompanied Sunayana for extensive shopping. Kebabs at Bade Miyan, Ice cream at Rustam's and loads of food to bring home - that was Sunayana. When they met in the evening there was endless chatter; Saurav and Surajit enjoying her banter. The house was filled with excitement and noise. Three days passed in a jiffy. On the morning they were getting ready to leave for the airport, Saurav had gone to the washroom. Sunayana was effusive in her praise of Vandana,
"You are such a nice darling Vandana, I don't have a sister, but if I had one she would not have done as much as you did for us. Last three days you have been running around in Mumbai City with me and taking care of us. I will never forget you. I am a big memory buff, I love my memories. Most of my precious memories have an unique fragrance of their own,"
Vandana cut her short,
"Fragrance? How can a memory have a fragrance?"
"Yes there are some memories, when they come they flood your consciousness with a rare fragrance, you can smell them like they happened just yesterday and have not stopped happening. Many years back a friend of mine had gifted me a colourful wooden bird. I have kept it with me and every time I look at it, I feel as if he is standing with me, looking into my eyes and saying 'This is for remembrance. Will you remember me, always?'"

Surajit felt a stab in his heart. He knew exactly who had said that. He looked at Sunayana, a cold appeal in his eyes. Sunayana had become pensive, she was looking at the wide open sea, the cool air undulating its surface with gentle waves. Saurav came out, all ready to leave. Surajit's heart started thumping; what if Vandana asked Sunayana who that friend was and what she had given him in exchange for the wooden bird?

In a trembling voice Surajit said, "You are getting late for the flight. Sorry I can't come down with you. Vandana will see you off. I am getting late for the office".
Surajit knew his heart was thumping so loudly that it would resound in the small lift, giving him away. He stayed back, waving at Sunayana. He remembered that thirty years back on a similar morning of farewell he could not go to the railway station to see her off. Ah, he said to himself, the fragrance of some memories! So intensely overpowering, so debilitatingly mesmerising!

THE BEST RIDE OF HER LIFE - TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

(.. For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )

This story is about my friend Abhay and his mother. Abhay was my best friend when we were doing our post-graduation. We were allotted adjoining rooms by the hostel authorities in the beginning of the year and soon became good friends. We went through the tough hostel life through thick and thin, sharing a thousand funny moments, chasing the same shapeless shadows of bubbling enthusiasm with careless abandon and bursting paper bags of fantasy with phenomenal gusto.

The trait we shared with a pre-ordained grittiness was our gargantuan capacity for humongous heaps of food - mostly the non-vegetarian variety, with occasional concessions to a dozen rasagollas - devoured with devilish determination. When others used to eat, we gave performances. When challengers dared cross our path, we used to crush them, making them scamper like withering worms. The only challenge we used to brook was from each other, but neither of us was a clear winner, the difference between Tweedledum and Twidledee was probably a mere chicken leg or two!

In fact when we met years later after a long separation, the first thing we did was to ask our (respective!) wives to adjudicate whose tummy was bigger. After viewing our not-so-insignificant gastronomical protrusion from different angles (remember the Raj Kapur song Dilka Haal Suney Dilwala - the aagey se dekha, pichheyse dekha, upar se dekha, neechey se dekha part?) they reached the consensus that there is little to choose. The Tweedledum and the Tweedledee had managed to maintain their voluminous proportions without a shadow of change!

Abhay was a topper throughout his career and left for the U.S. soon after his M.Sc. He had lost his father at the tender age of eight and his mother, a gritty woman of daunting courage had brought him up along with his brother, older to Abhay by six years. The elder brother had to give up his studies after high school to look after the land and assist his mother. Abhay went on to get a Ph.D. in U.S. and joined a Computer conglomerate. In due course he rose to become its Vice-President. Apart from dazzling brilliance Abhay had the gift of the gab - he could talk a telephone pole to bend and kiss him on his mouth and straighten up like nothing was given, nothing taken!

But what set Abhay apart was an unwavering devotion to his mother. In fact, devotion is an understatement - it's like saying Sachin Tendulkar is a good player! Abhay could lay down his life for his mother if required. After getting a job he got married to Smita, a doctor from Bhubaneswar. She was his true soul mate - her love for the diminutive but steely mother-in-law was enormous.

Abhay and Smita brought his mother with them to the U.S. during their first visit to India. This was to be repeated at least a dozen times in the next few years. She used to take to the U.S. life like a Swallow to the rains. Not the self-conscious, over-awed, demure dame from Odisha, not Abhay's mother, she gave her views freely and frankly with an accuracy and precision that would shame Tiger Woods!

The first time Abhay's mother visited them was a few months after their marriage, Smita was still the demure bride before her mother in law, speaking in subdued voice, venturing an opinion only when appropriate. The old lady suffered from no jet lag - her overactive mind never allowed to dull itself into sleep. She was ready at 4.30 in the afternoon to go for a walk, dressed in a white saree which ended a good six inches above her ankle. Smita accompanied her.

The mother in law was no doubt quite a spectacle on the sidewalk, taking as huge strides as her small frame would allow. Smita was conscious about the other passers by giving way to the garrulous woman spewing forth in loud Odiya on whatever she saw around her. Yes, she had a comment on everything, the buildings "so weak without a proper roofing", streets so dull without people filling them up, cars so lifeless without honking. And why the town is so unnaturally silent - was there a death in the town, has the Chief Minister or the President died in the morning and everyone was mourning in silence?

When the loud-mouth mother in law and the quiet daughter in law returned home, the old lady was quite excited to find her son back from office. With redoubled energy and enthusiasm, she repeated her views. The son heard her with an indulgent smile, gloating over her keen power of observation. The daughter in law was obviously not impressed. She offered a mild suggestion that her mother in law should at least wear a saree which will cover her legs and not expose the few inches above the ankle. The mother in law heard it in silence and quickly changed the subject.

Next day the same scene was repeated - long walks, loud observations about the roads, the trees and the buildings. On return Smita again suggested to Abhay that Bou (a form of addressing the mother, similar to Maa or Mama) should wear a proper saree while going for a walk. This time the mother in law did not take it lying down. Rising to her full height of four feet ten inches, she gave a stern dressing down to her daughter in law:

-Have you seen how women dress here? So shameless, exposing their legs, thighs and what not! Did you notice, the girl in the red banyan was wearing the white half pant which barely covered her belly? If I had bent down I would have seen her everything! Do you understand what I am saying? At least my saree was up to the ankle. Did you see any woman wearing a dress that decent? You were the only one with a decent salwar kameez on the street. That's because you are an Odiya bahu, not a shameless American woman!

That of course was the end of the argument. Abhay was so impressed, he almost clapped at this great speech, but one look at his hapless and speechless wife warned him that any exhibition of appreciation would bring about unmitigated disaster later. A few days after that Smita joined her Medical course for super specialisation and Abhay had to accompany his mother on her walks. He was a more attentive listener and happily contributed to the discourse on American way of life, with a comparative analysis of his lively village landscape and the dreary lifeless Americn landscape. On one of such historical walks the following conversation took place:

- Abhi, the grass fields are so green here. They are also very full of grass.

- Yes Bou, they water the grass here diligently and put fertilisers to help it grow.

- But the Americans are absolutely stupid!

- Stupid? Why Bou?

- They are cutting so much grass by their machines and just throwing it away? Where are the cows? Why are they not giving all this grass to the cows? Why I don't see any cows on all these green fields?

- Bou, they have lots of cattle in the farms. They can't give this grass to the cows, because they put chemicals and fertilisers on the lawns.

- Oh my God, so much grass going waste! And the poor cows, how much milk can they give without eating grass? Someone told me, here the people eat cow meat! Is it true?

- Yes Bou, here their main meat is from the cow. It is called beef.

- Chhi Chhi, satyanash, how can they eat Gomaataa's meat? What kind of sinners are these Americans? Don't they have a sense of shame?

- Bou, for us Indians, cows are Maataa, the Americans look at them as Mousi! That's why they eat cow meat.

This explanation did not convince Abhay's mother. For rest of the walk she covered her mouth and nose with a handful of Saree and kept ruminating on the sinfulness of the Americans who had found the easy way of converting Gomaataas to Gomousis just to eat their flesh, On another occasion, while taking a walk, she wanted to take a little rest. They found a bench in a small park and proceeded there. At one corner of the bench someone was already sitting, immersed in a book. Abhay's mother, who was in the U.S. on her sixth visit, had become quite confident of people. She sat next to the slim beauty with long hair covering the face. She started a conversation with her in Odiya while Abhay was busy browsing his phone.

-Alo Jhia, to Maa tatey khaibaku dauniki? Emiti Sajana Chhuin bhalia kahinki heichu?

(My dear girl, is your mother not giving you proper food? Why are you so thin like a drumstick?)

The girl slightly turned, gave a faint smile and went back to her book. That did not deter the lionhearted lady. She continued,

-Sabudin gilassey dudha piantu, andaatey khantu, Tebe sina diharey maunsa lagantaa. Emiti kathi heley Chhua kemiti janma karibu?

(You must drink a glass of milk and consume an egg everyday. Then only you will add some flesh to your body. If you continue to be a thin stick like this how will you bear a child?)

The girl was now conscious that she was being asked a question. She turned to the old lady and said, "Excuse me?" Abhay's mother jumped as if a bomb had gone off under the bench. She almost fell on Abhay and shrieked,

-Ilo Boulo, Eitata andiraatey! Ki abeijaa deshaku to matey aanichu Abhi?

(Oh, bless my mother! This is a male!! What kind of weird country is this Abhi?)

Abhay had to run after his nervous mother till they reached home!

Three years back Abhay's mother passed away. We had met briefly when he was returning to U.S. after the ceremonies. Of the many stories he had told us, he recounted one during that brief stay. It was close to his heart.

During one of the stays of his mother in U.S. Abhay bought a new Lexus car, which was the best Toyota used to offer at the time. When he brought it home, Smita had gone for her duties and his mother was alone at home. He took her for a long ride. He was pleased with the car and wanted to show off to his mother. He kept on explaining all the unique features, highlighting the huge cost of the car because of them. She sat back and enjoyed the trip. At one point Abhay asked her whether she liked the car and whether this was the best ride she ever had.

Her mother smiled, kept her hand on his head and blessed him:

- You have become such a big man now. Probably this is the best car available in the market and you made me sit in this car on your first ride. I have really enjoyed it.

Abhay wanted to hear more from his dear mother,

- So Bou, this is the best ride of your life?

The mother again smiled and kept quiet. When Abhay became insistent, she got into one of her rare moments of wistfulness. After a while she said,

- This car is vey good, the best that money can buy. But you want to know which is my best ride?

Abhay looked at her quizzically. Did she ever sit in a better car than this? His mother continued,

-You came away to the U.S. at a young age. It's your elder brother Akhi who stayed at home and took care of me along with his family. About twenty years back, once I was very sick. I had fever which refused to go away with medicines. Everyone told should be taken to the hospital three kilometers away. Those days there was no taxi service. So Akhi put me on the back seat of his bicycle and started riding to the hospital. We had gone a hundred meters when he realised the bumpy road giving me a lot of pain. My waist and back started hurting and he could feel it. So he got down from the bicycle and stated walking with it, slowly, so that I don't feel any pain. He walked like that for three kilometres to the hospital, showed me to the doctor, brought medicines and again walked back with me sitting on the back seat of the bicycle. He must have asked me twenty times if I was comfortable and if the ride was causing me any pain. Abhi, your car is excellent, but that bicycle ride twenty years back was the best ride of my life.

Abhay was sobbing uncontrollably when he narrated this story. I had heard it earlier, but this time it had assumed a new meaning in the absence of his mother. Abhay held my hand and said, Bhai, a part of my soul has been cremated two weeks back along with Bou.

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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Hema Ravi

Thanks to the editor and the eminent poets who are featured here, it's a great feeling to be a part of this family...

Mar, 06, 2020
Geetha Nair G

Dr Krupa Sagar Sahoo's short story, SLEEPING PILL, is a startling and powerful tale. Looking forward to more from.the maestro.

Feb, 24, 2020

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Literary Vibes - Edition LVI

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