Literary Vibes - Edition LXV
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the sixty fifth edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with some lovely poems and beautiful stories to keep you literarily engaged in the difficult days of lockdown.
In today's edition we are happy to introduce Mr. Anand Kumar from Chennai, a retired banker who is also a motivational writer with a large following. As his article shows, his forte is human psychology and the strength of human mind, something we direly need during these times of grappling with the effect of Corona. We welcome him to the LV family and wish him great success in his literary career.
As days pass and we get used to the panic, the discomfort and the worry caused by COVID19, good thoughts emerge from positive minds to give us hope that this too will pass and life will return to the old ways. But how we wish it is not exactly the old ways and Corona teaches us to pollute less, to reduce exploitation of Mother Earth and to leave Nature alone. If we do not learn these lessons, we would miss a great opportunity to rebuild and reboot civilisation. If one just pauses to think how we breathe cleaner air these days, the incidence of ailments has reduced, the need to visit doctors and hospitals has lessened by eighty percent, it should convince us that we erred in the way we lived and we must do a course correction.
Jelaluddin Rumi (1207-1273), the immortal Persian poet had taught us how to deal with unwelcome visitors eight centuries back. I reproduce his poem The Guest House as a reminder that every adversity contains a lesson within:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Hope you will enjoy this sixty fifth edition of LiteraryVibes at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/298 If you want to read more poems and stories we have a treasure trove at at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes which contains all the sixty five editions of LV, along with four anthologies of poems and stories. Kindly forward the above links to all your friends and contacts.
Please take care, stay home and stay safe.
All the best and warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
- THE MEANINGLESS Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- EXISTENTIAL TRUTH Haraprasad Das
- WHAT MEN LIVE BY Sreekumar K.
- THE GREEN CARD Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
- HOW BEAUTIFUL …. Pravat Kumar Padhy
- THE INNER FACE Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
- IT IS ALL A MYSTERY Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- FLASH FICTION - A FI Lathaprem Sakhya
- BEYOND THE VEIL Thryaksha A Garla
- THE WATERFALL'S ODE Thryaksha A Garla
- HOW I WANT Dr. Sumitra Mishra
- THE MUSIC (SANGEET) Kabiratna Manorama Mohapatra
- LOST Sharanya Bee
- WHERE THE MAPLE.. Dr. Molly Joseph
- MAHABHARATHA Sundar Rajan S
- SPARK OFF Vidya Shankar
- THE BOUGAINVILLEA.. Sridevi Selvaraj
- BREAK THE CHAIN Sheena Rath
- NO TIME!! Anjali Mohapatra
- CHOICE Setaluri Padmavathi
- EPHEMERALLY… S. Joseph Winston
- A BANTER - HEAD TO… Meera Raghavendra Rao
- EGO Ravi Ranganathan
- I IN ME Geetha Subramanian
- A JOURNEY CALLED.. Anand Kumar
- MY SWEET LITTLE... Mrutyunjay Sarangi
- CASSETTE Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Lovemaking seems cursed,
its commitments a betrayal;
the rapid gallop of our hearts
give away our passionate lust,
down the drain as tadpoles.
Ursa Major questions
our snow-white intension
that doesn’t measure
to Devi Saraswati on
her marble white swan.
rather to naked Swati
going around the sky
in Kathak twirls every night,
ignoring Ursa Major’s
highbrow snubs.
Perhaps, our sweet act
would swell you up
into a ballooning hope,
but its helium
won’t make our zeppelins
fly our dreams.
Our lips have
no magic
to make the noxious gas
breathable, what of filling
our future with hopes?
There is no
magic carpet in it
for our future kids, we,
a miserable destitute lot;
gods in heaven are not
celebrating our union
with drumbeats or
rain of heavenly Parijat
from the Eden.
This evening is not leading us
to a night of repose,
but a night that walks
the streets, soliciting,
a whore, a serpent
selling as sleazy delicacy
its boa-constrictor hugs.
Our coy shame disrobes itself
to wallow in naked passion,
giving birth at its gross thighs
umpteen orphans,
ending up in stone quarries
or flesh market,
selling for a quid,
growing old before
they live a childhood.
Can we ever fulfil
our promise to them,
their dreamland,
their magic carpet?
Do we have answers
to questioning Ursa Major?
Can we give them
strong arms to lean on
to falter out of nightmares?
(Self-translated Odia poem NIRAADHAAR published in April, ’96, issue of the literary journal GOKARNIKAA)
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
EXISTENTIAL TRUTH (BRAMHAGYAANA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A look from the pretty woman
at the squint-eyed man,
knocks him cold,
ah, his smitten heart!
Without a stir or sound,
the young sun ripens
on the orange tree branches,
as do the yellowing fruits.
Intermittent drizzles soak
the fading noon’s parched throat;
the wind airs the wet laundry
put on terrace cloth-lines to dry.
The priest Mr. Rath
has entered the compound,
with tufts of sacred kusha grass,
leaving the garden gate ajar.
Stray cattle have
followed him, cow-dust hour
on their toe,
the evening looms in the offing.
The cool breeze has started
blowing cozily from south
as if unmindfully, unsure of
if jasmine or narcissus is in bloom.
In spite of the ugly squint
the man remains knocked-out
wounded by the pretty woman,
her eye-darts have pierced deep!
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)”
Standing on the terrace, sipping my morning tea, trying to focus on a story in a collection of new writers, I was distracted by my dog which had come up looking for me. She has an expressive face. Now it said, "O, you are standing here pretending to read. Looked everywhere for you. Where is that pretty lady who appears on the next terrace? Died of COVID, has she?"
I didn't answer her. I looked around.
I should have made a fish pond here using some thick tarpaulin.
Not the garden variety. I mean, it should be the garden variety. Not the exotic ones. The edible ones. Tilapia would have been fine. But, as the empty grow bags bear witness, I was damn lazy.
Had I listened to either my conscience or my wife, there would have been fish and vegetables, even to spare some to the neighbours, in that social distancing period when police brutality stood between my apartment and the shopping malls two kilometres away.
My brother was supposed to drop in that day. My daughter likes him a lot, even more than she likes me. She calls him Appa, a name I called my father. I wanted to break free of tradition and taught her to call me ACHCHA, the standard word for father in Malayalam.
I walked to the parapet wall to see the sun coming up from behind the high rising building in the distance. Around me it was mostly villas, occupied mostly by Hindus, with two exceptions, one Muslim and one Christian. I had never been to the Muslims but had visited the Christians several times to see Dr. Martin Payyappillil, a wonderful motivation speaker. Frankly, I hate motivational speech but this one is good. I had the good fortune of a pleasant surprise visit from him at the school I work. I used to work, that is.
I caught myself thinking about people in terms of their religions. My father brought me up with no roots in religion. He was consistent. But, I make these mistakes at times. I think it is not natural in me but only a cerebral idea. That is no good. Humanity should be one's second nature. OK, OK, but look at them.
My phone rang and I picked it up.
A strange number. But it was saved as APPA.
Who was that? Not my brother. This was not his number unless he had taken a new SIM. Where could he have got a SIM?
I was sure I had not saved that number. It would have been my daughter, sure.
The ring was insistent. I answered the call.
"Lekshmi's dad? This is Martin. See, SK, I am right here outside your home. I have brought some fish for you. I went to market this morning".
What! Martin sir bought and brought fish for us?
I ran down to meet him and collected what he had brought.
I was about to get back in. Then, I remembered something and called him back.
"Sir, my daughter has saved your number on my phone as Appa. The only other person she calls Appa is my brother.
He smiled. I choked.
Never overestimate oneself.
Worse, never underestimate children
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Walking down the road, a big white building caught Animesh’s attention, from a distance. As he got closer, what grabbed him, was the sign above its front door, saying, ‘Reading Room’. ‘You don’t see many Reading Rooms in this age of Internet’, he thought.
He stepped inside, not knowing what to expect. He found an assortment of newspapers and magazines on two tables in the centre of the room, and a few people in chairs around them.
When he was stepping out of the room, his eyes caught a young man, who was sitting across him. He also got up after him. Animesh started walking back, lost in his own thoughts. When he paused briefly to avoid a stray dog running in his direction, he caught from the corner of his eyes, the same young man behind. Although he was at a distance, he knew that he was being followed.
He decided to slow down, thus closing the gap between them. Then he stopped, waiting for him to catch up. When he got sufficiently close, he looked at him directly, greeting genially, ‘hello’.
‘Hello’, came the reply back. Somewhat hesitantly, he added, ‘Where are you from Sir? I have never seen you before’
‘You guessed it right, I am new here, visiting my brother, who lives in this town’ Animesh said.
‘Are you from abroad?’
‘Yes, how did you guess? My attire is quite ordinary’ Animesh asked.
‘Sir, it’s the way you carry yourself. And, you thanked the attendant of the reading room, while leaving. Nobody does that here’.
Animesh had to hurry back, as he remembered that his brother’s family would be waiting for him. They had planned to go out that day.
Animesh returned to the Reading Room the next day, around the same time. He was half expecting to meet the young man again and he was not disappointed. After exchanging greetings, Animesh offered to go out for a walk with him.
Animesh gathered, his new-found friend is called Shashank. In no time, he was firing questions at Animesh, about his life, family, and work.
Animesh introduced himself as a scientist, who was living in the USA for many years, working as a Professor of Biophysics.
Shashank could not hide for long, the real reason for his barrage of questions to Animesh. His brother, estranged from the family, had settled in America. He was out of touch for many years. The family heard nothing about him for so long that they feared for the worst. Recently, he had contacted the family and somewhat to their surprise, he had sponsored his younger brother, Shashank, for a Green Card.
In the beginning, Animesh was puzzled by Shashank’s inquisitiveness but now all fell into place. It was more than idle curiosity about him, there was a clear purpose.
‘That is fantastic, Animesh exclaimed’, quickly adding,’ you must be mighty excited’.
‘Yes, Sir’, Shashank said but his tone lacked conviction.
‘You don’t sound excited’
‘America is the land of opportunities. The land of dreams. You are free to do whatever you choose to and pursue your dreams. For a young man like you, sky will be the limit’, Animesh continued.
You are right, Sir, everyone, I have spoken to, say the same thing. But, none of them have ever visited a foreign country. In fact, most of them have never been out of this state, let alone visit America. So, I am not sure, how much I should believe them. I don’t know, how they can speak so confidently of America in such glowing terms.
‘They might not have been out of the state, or gone anywhere near America. But they know of people who have made it big in America. They have probably heard of someone who has successfully settled there’ Animesh explained.
‘But I wanted to hear from someone who is living there. I am so glad, I met you. You can see now, why I am bombarding you with all kinds of questions’, Shashank said.
‘I am glad too’, Animesh said, ‘that I can answer your questions and clear your doubts’.
They met again, the following day, at the Reading Room and took a stroll back, chatting about life in the USA.
Shashank had by then learnt a lot about Animesh’s life, how he also grew up in a small town in India and left for USA, after his graduation. He studied for many more years to move up in his career path as a researcher and scientist. About ten years after he landed in USA, he got his coveted Green Card.
‘Sir, do you have your Green Card with you? Shashank asked, ‘I want to see how it looks’.
‘Sure’, Animesh said, pulling out the card from his wallet and handed it over to Shashank.
Shashank took it in his hand and after one look at it, blurted, ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes’
‘This is pink in colour’. Shashank said.
‘I know, that was my first reaction too. Perhaps, it’s colour was green, some time ago. No matter, what its color is, it worth a lot’ Animesh said.
‘People go to enormous lengths, sometimes resorting to drastic measures, and generally wait for years for it’. Here, you have been offered this on a silver plate. Just imagine, how lucky you are’, Animesh said.
‘But I am not unhappy here’, Shashank replied.
‘Think of the possibilities, the prospect of limitless achievements in USA. Whatever, you can attain here, it can be magnified severalfold in America’.
‘Do you mean, it is good only in America; is life everywhere else inferior?’ Shashank asked.
Animesh was not prepared for such a rejoinder from Shashank. Not knowing how to respond to this, he changed the topic, saying, ‘it seems something is troubling you’
Their conversation came to a n abrupt end, as Shashank’s phone rang and he had to leave in a hurry.
Next day, they met again. Animesh got to know more about Shashank’s brother, who is settled in the USA. It seems, his older brother was considered a no-gooder during his childhood in India. He was thought to be lacking in direction and purpose in life. Although he was considered clever, he did not pursue education beyond graduation. His family, who had pinned their hopes on him, had hoped that he would study further and get a cushy government job. But he left home for Bombay and for many years they had no news of him. Until one day, out of the blue, they heard from his adopted country, America.
After they departed, for the rest of the day, Animesh could not help thinking of Shashank’s situation. ‘The prospect of moving to a far away land must be so daunting’, he thought. And, it’s quite a leap, from his familiar small-town Indian life to the strange ways of the Big country, America. He could even feel Shashank’s fear of the unknown. No doubt, this terrifying him; but something about his style of questioning told him that Shashank was struggling with something, he was yet to declare.
Animesh gently enquired about the rest of Shashank’s family. His parents had died and his grandma was like a mother to him. With a bit of prodding, Shashank came out with what was troubling him the most about his imminent move to the USA.
‘It’s my Grandma who I am most concerned about. She is dead against the idea of my moving to America’, he finally said.
‘Why is she so set against it?’, Animesh asked. ‘I can understand, she is anxious about how you would adjust in this faraway and foreign land. But can’t she see the rosy prospects it offers at the same time?’
Shashank said,’ Actually her reservations strike a chord in me. I have heard of strange stories about life in America’.
My friend told me about somebody he knew, who had returned from abroad, after a three-year stay there. He was a Doctor working in a hospital. He was quite impressed by the modern gadgets and facilities there. The money was good and all amenities were at one’s fingertips. Life seemed hassle-free, compared to the irritations of everyday here.
‘What was not good then?’ Animesh asked, intrigued by this new topic introduced into their conversation.
‘This Doctor worked in a hospital. When he returned to work, after a week’s leave, he found one of his patients was still in the hospital. His ailment had been treated and he had recovered fully. He should have been discharged home, while the Doctor was away on leave. This old man lived with his daughter, who was not happy with her father coming back home.
The Doctor was curious about the reasons for his daughter’s opposition to this discharge plan. ‘She must be a busy woman, in some high-powered job, which makes it difficult for her to look after her own father. Or, perhaps, she has the responsibilities towards her own family, which was coming in the way of her looking after her father’ he thought.
But to his surprise, he learnt that her considerations were entirely different. She apparently had two dogs at home and didn’t have the time to look after her old father, who had gone frail and weak with age.
Shashank paused to see Animesh’s reaction to this story, hoping for a reassurance from him that this was not true.
Animesh was caught off-guard with this unexpected turn to their discussions. He wanted to say, this was probably an exception, rather than the rule. As if Shashank could read his mind, he continued, ‘is this typical in your place?’
‘But she was still looking after her father, instead of putting him in some Old Peoples Home. These days, even in India, it is not uncommon for many such people ending up in some Retirement Home’ Animesh tried to explain.
‘I thought, it was a made-up story and wanted to verify it by somebody, who is actually living in America’, Shashank said.
‘But, looking at it from a different angle, they value all lives equally, treating pets at par with human beings. Is that a bad thing?’ Animesh asked. ‘You take virtue of family life in India for granted. What about all the family feuds, only a few of which spill out in the open? People have been murdered in some cases’, he added.
Shashank looked thoughtful, pondering over the last point Animesh had made, which had not crossed his mind until now.
‘Anyway, how did the situation resolve in the Doctor’s story?’ Animesh asked.
‘It seems, a home help had to be arranged for her father, begore she agreed to her father’s discharge back home.’
‘So, you see, she did not send him to an Old Peoples Home. It shows, she cares for her father?’ Animesh said.
‘OK, now, I see things in a different light. Perhaps, it’s not all negative.’, Shashank nodded, as if he meant to add that he had realized the positive side in the Doctor’s story.
Animesh was pleased to see that his reasoning was not falling on deaf ears.
On their walk back, Shashank, expressed his appreciation of Animesh taking this trouble of explaining about American life in great detail. ‘It was so difficult to make this decision until Animesh came along, he told to himself,’ Let me have a long chat with grandma and I am sure, I can convince her of the positive side to American life.’
‘Tomorrow is my last day here, I shall be soon on my way back to America. Animesh told Shashank, when they were parting.
The next day, Animesh invited Shashank for a cup of tea in the restaurant, adjoining the Reading Room.
‘I hope, the matter is resolved and the decision is made’, Animesh said.
‘Yes’ was Shashank’s brief reply.
‘So, you are accepting the offer of the Green Card. Perhaps, our next meeting will be in America’ Animesh said.
‘No, I am not going to America’, Shashank said.
‘Why not?’, Animesh exclaimed.
‘My grandma would not budge from her verdict. She was troubled by the prospect of my leaving for America. So, she has been to Baba Uttaranand, the renowned astrologer in 100 miles radius around here. Since her return, she has been totally opposed to the idea. No amount of reasoning can persuade her to change her mind’ Shashank said.
‘But why?’, Animesh asked.
‘She is convinced that if I took up this offer, she wouldn’t see me again’.
‘How come?’ Animesh asked.
‘Is it because, your brother is considered a renegade and he would have a bad influence on you?’, Animesh quizzed.
‘No, it’s about what would happen to her, if I went to America’.
‘What was the prophecy?’, Animesh was getting increasingly puzzled.
‘He said: An important decision looming on your horizon. Its impact on your life will be far reaching, depending on the decision you make. It might take your lives to a point of no return’. Shashank paused.
‘So, is this the prophecy of her death?’ Animesh asked hesitantly.
Animesh thought of asking Shashank, the age of his grandma, with a view to reasoning with him. ‘Given her advanced age, this prediction should not be an impediment to this important decision about his future. He was a young man, with his whole life still ahead of him. His grandma had already lived her life’, Animesh thought.
But the very idea of discussing somebody’s death made him uncomfortable. So, he tried a different tack.
‘This is just a prediction, which may not come true’, he said, ‘How certain is his forecast?’
‘He said, it’s a case of touch and go’
‘So, it isn’t certain?’ Animesh said in a hopeful tone.
Shashank continued regardless, ‘But all his predictions come true. Recently my friend visited him, as he was worried about his work situation. He had fallen out with a colleague at work, who was close to his supervisor. My friend feared, this colleague was trying to get a black mark on his Annual Confidential Report. So, he turned to Swami Uttaranand, for some indication as to what lay in his store’.
‘What was the astrologer’s verdict?’, Animesh asked.
‘He was absolutely correct in his prediction: You are going through a difficult patch. You must be careful and if you play your cards right, this crisis can be averted, but remain vigilant, as other crises are waiting in the wings for you’.
‘So, what happened to him?’, Animesh asked.
‘His supervisor had an accident and fractured both his legs, putting him out of action for some months and the Confidential Report was passed on to his senior officer’.
‘Accidents are common. The astrologer cannot claim credit for something, which could have happened purely by chance? In fact, he had not predicted such a favorable outcome’ Animesh said.
‘No, his prediction came exactly correct! He was so delighted at the day’s events that he went out for a drink at the end of the day. On returning late home that night, his wife was incensed by his drinking that they had a mighty row’.
Animesh stopped short of saying, ‘Of course, such tiffs are common in couples. Because, by then he realized he had lost the argument. So, he continued, instead, ‘Yes, I get your point. I mean, I can see how the astrologer got it right in this instance. But do you know how many other predictions, which did not come true? Animesh asked, ‘You just have not heard of them’.
‘This debate is pointless Sir; you have a habit of questioning everything’, Shashank replied.
Animesh was congratulating himself yesterday, when he thought, he had won the argument and had successfully persuaded Shashank to look at things logically. But faced with this interminable debate around the astrologer, his logic is rendered impotent.
‘So, this settles the issue, and the final decision on the green card?’ Animesh said in a tone of resignation.
‘Yes’, Shashank replied.
On his way back, they were caught by a drizzle, while the sun was still shining and they were greeted by a radiant rainbow across the sky. Before bidding good bye, Shashank asked unexpectedly, ‘Sir, do you think, I have made the right decision?’, as if to undo the offence he had caused Animesh by his blunt remarks.
‘It does not matter, what I think’. Animesh replied, ‘finding the right decision from the pack of wrong ones is difficult at best.’ Looking straight ahead at the rainbow, he continued, ‘like when you are trying to neatly pick out one colour from the rest in the rainbow, at a distance, say from here.’
The look on Shashank’s face was telling, ‘Now, I really don’t know what you are talking about’.
Nevertheless, Animesh continued, ‘but, it is well nigh impossible, if you attempt it when you are over there, in the middle of the rainbow’.
From the slight change on Shashank’s face, Animesh could not decide, how well he had made his point. ‘But it does not matter anyway; the decision is already made’, he told himself.
Life is full of absurdities, whose logic is hard to fathom. Like this card, which people insist on calling green, even though it’s pink in colour!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
If birds could talk
Trees could walk with us
Flowers could express their cause of smile
Spring could speak its desire
And meaning of songs to the rocks
Waves could stop for a while so that
We could have some words with them.
Silence could spell out its
Aim of being a saint
Past could return and
Open its petals afresh
Graveyard could wake up
After the sunrise
And chat with us.
Publication Credit: Indian Express, 9th July 1983
Note: The poem “How Beautiful” is included in the Undergraduate English Curriculum at the university level in Maharashtra.
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
THE INNER FACE
Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
Zorba rushed into the doctor's consulting room with her right hand clutching on to her cheek and just behind her was a child bleeding through the nose. She was being carried by an elderly man. Zorba was involved in a collision with the poor little girl who was selling flowers in the street and they both had a severe fall on the road.
“Oh! Doctor. I am in pain. I had a bad accident. This small witch here caused it”, Zorba said crying and pointing at the child. “This bad girl here crossed my way to knock me down and I was thrown into the gutter”.
“Where did this accident take place?” the Doctor asked as he prepared himself for checking the patients who had gone through the traumatic episode.
“It was an incident. Not an accident “, claimed Zorba. “An incident conceived out of a collusion by those wretched pavement dwellers to bring down noble people like us. I was on my way to attend a meeting of our philanthropic society. I believe even you were invited, doctor”.
The Doctor appeared to be least interested in the meeting and he just asked plainly again, 'Where did this accident take place and when?'
“Just now” Zorba said looking accusingly at the child in the elderly man’s arm. “I was little late in spite of my known punctuality and was in a bit of hurry. It was as if to cause a further delay or perhaps even my absence that this evil omen appeared out of nowhere. See her lie in that man’s arms as though in a cradle after pushing down a noble lady like me. I couldn’t get my hands on her at that moment or else I would have spanked out the horrible spirit from her”.
“Calm down lady”, the Doctor consoled the rich lady and started examining her right cheek where she indicated she had been hit when she fell down onto the pavement. It was quite evident a severe injury had happened because a swelling had already started developing in that region. Once the doctor finished his checking he informed the lady that it was better that she took some rest rather than going ahead with the meeting.
“Oh no! Does that mean I cannot attend the meeting”, Zorba asked in frustration.
“Not today, not tomorrow. Not for a couple of weeks at least”, the Doctor gave his advise.
“All because of that little witch”, Zorba muttered as the doctor turned his attention towards the child who was lowered to the floor from the man’s arms.
“What happened child? How did you happen to get into the lady’s path?” asked the Doctor kindly to the small patient who stood frightened.
The child was cupping her bleeding nose and there were traces of tears around her eyes but she was not crying now. “I didn’t get into her path. I was selling flowers at the corner when she knocked me down from behind”.
The man who carried the child to the hospital vouched for the child. “That lady was looking into her mobile phone and was walking blindly. She was lucky to hit and fall over this child rather than getting run down by some passing vehicle”.
Zorba wouldn’t accept anything of what the man pointed out and swaying her hands she shouted, “Did I ? Even if it was so, justice prevails on my side. Is pavement the place to sell flowers. Tell me man. These children ought to go to schools and study something instead of loitering, idling and stand as a hindrance to progress of the society”.
The man couldn’t quite understand what she meant by the word progress and the doctor was certainly not listening to any of these as he continued examining the child.
“It was her knee that hit my nose and for a moment I couldn’t see anything“ said the child sorrowfully.
Zorba was closely observing what the doctor was doing to the child with a smirk on her face. She was wondering as to why such a good doctor like him who belonged to the highest strata of society wanted to attend the case of such street urchins. The noble society respected him and his large clientele was ready to offer him any fees he would ask. Zorba was totally displeased with the way the doctor was interacting with the miserable slum people.
“Don’t worry child. I don’t see much harm but still to be certain I will recommend a radiograph”, and then turning to his nursing assistant he asked her to get a radiograph of the child to study her facial bones.
The doctor then washed his hands with soap, wiped it and put on a fresh pair of gloves. He then turned his attention to the lady even as she keenly observed him. “Now sit here lady. Let me have a deeper look into your problem”.
He inspected every bone of her face and finally decided that he required the help of a radiograph to confirm on the degree of fracture to her facial bones. Zorba was surprised at what the Doctor wanted. “X-ray for me too? Can’t you tell without it ? I heard you made good diagnosis”.
The doctor was quite dismayed at her attitude and stood firm on what he required to help in his diagnosis. “What you heard may be true and to keep up that reputation I need an x-ray”.
It never occurred to Zorba in her entire life that one day she too could have an accident and would be subjected to take an x-ray. This was perhaps the first time she was visiting a hospital as a patient. She was quite ignorant of the medical matters as she was healthy and she had the belief that her wealth and good contacts in the society could keep her safe from all the illness, diseases and if at all she coughed, the best of treatments would be at her door step. Her only familiarity with radiographs was when she saw her cousin’s X-ray of his leg when he had a small fall. The image she saw on that day was of two white linear structures in a black background and it didn’t bother her much.
“I have heard x-rays are harmful. I’am afraid you will not have my consent for taking one of mine”, Zorba said much to the chagrin of the doctor.
“Lady, the x-rays are not harmful as you fear, at its prescribed exposure“ said the doctor very patiently.
“Now what is it really that you see in this?”, Zorba asked curiously.
“One’s inner face. The structure of bones which gives shape to your face and the disturbances in their positions, if there is any”, the doctor answered.
“Now it creates a certain excitement in me. I have seen many photographs of my fair and beautiful face but now this maybe a chance to see my own inner face as you said, though it sounds a little weird to see one’s own set of bones. My high cheek bones, round jaw bone, straight long bone of nose and wide forehead are all praised about and have even won me many beauty pageants. Now this maybe a chance for me to see how all these look like”, Zorba flattered herself.
“Believe me, it will be an experience to witness your own inner self” said the doctor almost sarcastically.
Thus Zorba gave her consent to take her radiograph too and the doctor asked his second assistant to take a sinus view radiograph of the patient to check the zygomatic bone of right side.
Half an hour must have passed by and the radiographs were all taken and patients returned to see the doctor who was not in his consultation room. The nurse asked both the patients to sit on the waiting bench at the side of the room but Zorba was reluctant to sit near the child on one side.
“Where did he go ?”, Zorba was impatient at the doctor being not there to see her .
“To have a cup of tea”, the nurse replied.
“Is it alright for him to have cups of tea while the patients are kept waiting”, Zorba asked with a scowl.
“He has been working all these time and a tea break will relax him”. The nurse tried to put a humanitarian touch into her answer. “Do sit there madam” the nurse requested with frustration though she didnt exhibit her emotion.
“There? Beside that ill omen? I prefer standing” said Zorba with indignation.
“Then you can sit here madam”, the nurse said pointing to the three legged stool kept beside the doctor’s table on which the patients usually sit to be examined by the doctor.
“Are you asking me to sit on that little rocking thing?” Zorba asked, horrified.
The nurse tried her best to be a good host but Zorba preferred to stand rather than be humiliated by being made to sit somewhere she is not supposed to sit. At that moment the second nurse entered into the room with a brown cover which held one of the x-ray film and she handed it over to the elder nurse who took the image out of the cover and held it against the light to check it.
“It’s the child’s”, she declared. The lady’s is being developed. Zorba was curious to see the x-ray of the child and she stared onto the x-ray which was held high against the sunlight which streamed in through the window
“What’s that?”, Zorba asked aghast.
“ It’s the image of the child’s facial bones”, one of the nurses replied to her.
Zorba nearly let out a shriek . “The inner picture!? O heavens! It’s an omen. She is a witch. Didn’t I say that earlier itself. See that ghostly image. She is a potent wicked inhuman creature."
Both the nurses were perplexed how to answer this woman and luckily for them the doctor walked in with the second radiograph of Zorba in his hand. The commotion in the room made the doctor enquire frantically what was happening. Zorba herself took the initiative in answering the doctor as the nurses were finding it difficult to explain to the doctor.
“See doctor, see it for yourself. You wouldn’t believe me when I said that this wretched little creature was an evil potent. See her true picture now, her inner face. Her true identity has been revealed. Just like the image of a ghost".
“Give me that radiograph”, the doctor asked the radiograph to be passed onto him with his right hand outstretched and the elder nurse dutifully handed it over to him.
“Examine it carefully. Analyse it well and relate it to the face of a ghost.” Zorba advised the doctor and then looking at the child she implored, “We should stone her or better burn her on a stake”.
Unmindful of the derogatory remarks the doctor smiled at the poor child and said, “You are lucky my child. Your nose bone has come to no harm and the bleeding is only due to a small bruise on the cartilage inside the nose which will heal in no time”.
“What are you saying doctor. Call the police or better call the priest. I know an exorcist and I can help you in getting him. Evil must be rid from this earth at once”. Zorba was going frantic over her discovery but none in the room seemed to take her warning seriously.
“Give me the other x-ray now”. The doctor asked and the nurse handed the lady's radiograph after taking it out of the brown cover. The doctor then placed the radiograph onto the x-ray viewer and studied the picture carefully.
“Which witch’s image is that?” Zorba asked horrified. “ Is that an enlarged image of that idiotic child or is it that of her mother”.
The doctor was unmindful of all that the big lady was commenting upon and he started to relate what he found in the x-ray. “I am sorry lady, there is a displaced fracture of the bone at your injured site“.
“What are you saying looking at that ghost’s picture and what has my treatment got to do with it?” Zorba was petrified.
“It’s your picture lady”. The doctor said pleasantly. “Your inner face which you wanted to see so eagerly. The structure you were so proud of once is dismantled”.
“What? Is that mine ? Is it the structure of my face. No, I won't believe it. Never can I. How can hers and mine be the same. Or are you calling a noble lady like me a witch or a ghost. Doctor, I warn you to beware of the things you talk against me”.
“I am afraid lady, you will have to accept, though to your discomfiture, that this image is your very own. If you do not believe me you can take this to any other doctor you place your trust upon and confirm it” said the doctor vehemently.
To Zorba it was unbelieveable, “How can it be doctor. How can a person’s face, that too mine, be like that of a ghost. I strongly believe that this little witch here has played some prank on my picture and on your conclusions”.
“ No pranks lady. This is the truth. Not only is this little child whom you call a witch has this image underneath but you too and for that matter even me or this nurse here. Believe me, every being on this planet has such a deeper image”. The doctor tried to explain the facts to her but Zorba looked implacable. “That image you see in white is your bone. Lady, it’s only the bones that we have in common. Even if we are rich or poor, black or white, man or woman or of any religion, the truth is that we are merely a set of bones and to the bones we will be reduced to in the end. It’s that child’s sunburnt skin, her frail body and ragged dress that made you peeve at her. You looked down on her because you had the best of everything. But give her a shade from the scorching sun and she will turn fairer. Give her the nourishment she deserves and her cheeks will glow. Give her a pair of decent dress and she will walk around pretty. Want and deprivation are the lines which have divided the humans into the status of high, middle and low class. Even blood which the bone gives birth to has been classified according to the luxury afforded and places of worship. Royal blood, noble blood and poor blood. Hindu blood, muslim blood and christian’s. But know that the bones remain the same and bones are the deep truth for they are the foundation on which we exist and the framework on which our flesh and skin are attired on, as a coat hangs on a hanger giving the coat a form.
“Are you saying that all of us have this similar picture inside us?”. Zorba still wanted a confirmation.
“Yes lady. This is what we are composed of and have inside us. A horrible appearance which will scare its very owner. See for yourself some more x-rays”. The doctor then took out a set of x-rays from the drawer and spreaded it atop the table. Zorba took each of them on to her hand and then compared it with her own x-ray which she had in her left hand now, against the light from the x-ray viewer. Whatever the doctor said made some sense to her now though she found it difficult to admit.
The doctor sensed that some light of knowledge was penetrating into her dark space of mind and he took advantage of that. “Now, do you understand, each of us has this thin bony face inside us, almost indistinguishable from one another. Down in bones we are all the same. There is no definite mark or scale to divide the rich from poor, zealot from atheist, eastern from western or brown from yellow. From individual to individual we are an indistinctive set of bones wearing apparels called flesh as Almighty has purposefully endowed upon us. It may vary in colour, texture and beauty. It is for us to preserve it in the best affordable manner and to protect it from being ruffled or torn. If you are fair and beautiful then you should thank the tailor above rather than curse those less blessed. If you are haughty and arrogant, sad to say, then you are inviting the tailor’s wrath as you have done now.
“Did I?”, Zorba asked petrified.
“I am sorry to inform you lady that I have just confirmed, your cheek bone is fractured and that is going to give you a sunken cheek.
Zorba ran her fingers over her right side of face and palpated the area though it pained her. “ I don’t feel anything as you say over this region!”
The doctor had to explain to her a little more, “The zygomatic complex is fractured down and you don’t feel that depression now because of the edema which has puffed up your face”.
“Oh then, what can you do for this?” Zorba asked almost on the verge of tears.
“I will have to do a surgery to keep the bones back in their respective positions which I’am afraid will create a scar on your face for the rest of your life or else you will have to live with a sunken cheek bone”. The doctor explained in short about the surgical and the non-surgical part of the treatment.
Zorba couldn’t think of a scar on her body. She never even allowed an acne to grow on her face. She would rather die than walk with a scar. She broke down thinking as to how she was going to look with another sort of face. She considered herself as ruined. The doctor understanding her plight tried to console her by asking her to think about those people who were less beautiful and had disfigured faces but move on with their life with a gentle smile on their lips. But to Zorba it was all unacceptable. She was born as a beauty and all the people have proclaimed of her ravishing features. Now suddenly she had to go into their midst with a scar. She was sure to be jeered and ostracised. Her enchanting beauty was going to be a myth now. The label of "richest of flesh and fairest of skin" which she believed have been stuck on to her forever have now got torn, dented and wrinkled.
“Why am I being punished like this? Isn’t there a God who shows little mercy or is he blind?”, Zorba blamed the heavens for her fate.
“An usual rhetorical question”, the doctor started to explain. “Why were you punished with a fall when you were at the acme of the society? Blooming withbeauty, sparkling in fame and rolling in wealth? All because you were arrogant. Don’t blame the child for your fall. Your own blind haughty steps tripped you and this child here was only an intermediary in carrying out the supreme ordain. There is a God up there and he is certainly not blind. That has been proved today or else he wouldn’t have seen your haughty nature. He surely has shown enough mercy but have you ever showed any to those whom you looked down from your stilettoes. True, you were on your way to attend a meeting of all philanthropists. Good. But I should be right when I say that your charities on society begins with exhibitionism, dwells with bouquets and banquets and ends with gossips. Nothing is derived out of such gatherings. If at all such discussions were made constructively then this child wouldn’t have been there on the pavement as an obstacle to your path and your progressive steps would have led you straight and on. Now look lady. It is better that you get admitted so that we may straight away start with the treatment."
Zorba felt dizzy. Her tongue was dried up and she was perspiring. Her vision was getting blurred and whatever she saw was bluish. She felt as if she was falling down from a high tower and indeed she fell down. Before the doctor could respond, before the nurse nearby could hold her, she fell with a thud, with her left side of face hitting the bench on which she refused to sit.
“Oh doctor! Her other cheek too!” cried the startled nurse as she sprang to help the fallen lady.
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.
It is a mystery.
But then what is not?
All around, whatever I see
Is difficult to conceive
In the normal logic.
In fact,
There is nothing normal
Even in simple things.
Is it not true
That being simple
Is too confusing at times?
It is quite normal
For the birds to be flying
And, the rivers to be flowing
But, why am I deprived of the wings
And the swiftness of a spring,
I too want to enjoy the freedom
And, the pleasure of gliding.
There are endless surprises
Waiting at every moment,
That need not be counted
But, it can definitely be lived
With divine grace.
I am a mystery myself
It may take many a lifetime
To understand and appraise,
But how sad,
Most of the time has been wasted
In paralytic analyses.
However, it is never late,
As it is just enough to accept
That miracles do happen,
At every place and in each moment
Which we may take them
As God’s presence
Or the mysterious after-effects,
Of an ever evolving universe
In the true sense.
"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.
Niranjan came from the market with a huge fish. Juny loved fish next to chicken and so she howled in delight when she saw the fish. Niranjan said it was a fish called " kallaanchi" Kanaka had heard of it from her friends but it was a stranger to her as she was a southerner and had never seen it in her place. Niranjan said it was a delicious fish. Juny wanted the whole fish to be fried but Niranjan wanted curry too. So Kanaka decided to keep some for Juny and cook the rest for Niranjan. The fish was cleaned, a major portion was marinated and stored in three boxes in the freezer. As it was getting late for college, Kanaka just boiled the remaining fish for curry in a mixture of turmeric powder, tamarind water, salt and chilly powder. She would make the curry in the evening for Niranjan to eat with Tapioca while she fried a few pieces for Juny. She switched off the stove and closed the vessel tightly and hurried off to get ready for college.
In the evening Kanaka rushed home as Juny would be coming early. She found Juny waiting at the gate and they entered the house together. Juny rushed to the kitchen feeling hungry. She opened the lid of the fish pot and screamed aloud, "Amma, something had eaten the fish." Kanaka hurried to the kitchen and found that the fleshy part of the fish on the top was munched daintily, they could see the fish bones. No one would enter the house except the cats, Kanaka guessed it must be the mother and daughter who were greedy fish eaters. " Amma, it must be Kitty," Juny quipped. She disliked the cat who was always following her mother and would not go to her. Kitty was fast asleep on the sofa, Juny picked her up and the two examined her pretty, catty face. There was no sign of anything around her mouth. Kitty yawned and stretched herself and looked with disdain at Juny for disturbing her sleep. They even smelt her, there was no scent of fish on her face. Juny was crestfallen, she was now sure it would be Sweety, her plumb, naughty cat who was a delight to behold, covered with fur and two dark circles around her eyes as if she was sporting a cooling glass. She went in search of Sweety and found her in her room, curled up in her basket fast asleep. She picked her up and went straight to the kitchen where amma was waiting for them. One look at her face and Juny and Kanaka gasped. The yellowish red colour of the fish curry was still smudged around her mouth. Juny stood sheepishly hugging Sweety, not sure what her amma would do to the cat. Kanaka wailed aloud giving a twist to Sweety's furry ears, "Oh my, a vessel full of fish spoiled by the naughty cat". Sweety just twitched her ear and looked totally bored and unconcerned. No, I won't give you a single piece she told Sweety who Kanaka felt was grinning at her. She decided to store them for kiran and Lassie, her German shepherds who were denied fish because of the fish bones. She would pick the bones and give the flesh to them. No she would not give both Sweety and her mother Kitty even a piece of fish she decided. She was secretly relieved too because Juny would not spill the beans to her father who hated cats, because her Sweety was the culprit. She thanked God that she had the mind to store the major chunk of fish in the fridge. She took a box full from the freezer and kept it to thaw to make fresh fish curry for Niranjan. Then tucking up her saree and shooing Juny away to change her uniform, Kanaka started preparing tea and toast for her little hungry girl.
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
He looked at her,
Smiling and leaving,
Not knowing t'was the last time,
He'd ever look at her.
Had he known,
He would've looked deep,
Into the abyss that was her eyes,
And locked himself there.
She brushed his cheek,
Before turning away,
Not knowing t'was the last time,
She'd ever feel him.
Had she known,
She would've held a little longer,
Him still warm,
Heart still beating.
They didn't look up,
As she walked away,
Not knowing t'was the last time,
They'd ever hear her.
Had they known,
They would've told her,
Of their undying love,
For her and her only.
But they didn't,
Not knowing t'was the last time,
Didn't plan on parting,
But death doing them apart.
Life as long as it seems,
Still coming to end,
Sudden and jolting,
But real all the same.
Live for the day,
For life isn't a smooth
ride, but tumultuous,
Stopping midway...
A waterfall flowed,
Whispering secrets,
To the wind and the boy,
Sitting at the river side.
It called out his name,
It's water burbling,
But he looked on,
At it's rippling surface.
Flowers streamed down,
To his hands in the cold,
He caught it, a smile,
Innocent and sweet.
Oblivious to it's sounds,
He took what it gave,
Oblivious to his unhearing,
It kept giving..
Thryaksha Ashok Garla, an eighteen-year-old, has been writing since she was a little kid. She has a blog and an Instagram account with about 200 poems posted till date. She touches upon themes such as feminism, self-reliance, love and mostly writes blues. Her poems have been published in two issues of the 'Sparks' magazine, and in poetry anthologies such as ‘Efflorescence' of Chennai Poets’ Circle , 'The current', 'The Metverse Muse', 'Our Poetry Archive', 'Destine Literare', 'Untamed Thrills and Shrills', 'Float Poetry', and in the 'Setu e-magazine.' She won the first place in the poetry competition held by India Poetry Circle (2018) held in Odyssey. She's pursuing psychology. She's a voracious reader, a violinist, and dabbles in art. She can be reached at: thryaksha@gmail.com by e-mail, Instagram: @thryaksha_wordsmith and on her blog https://thryaksha.wordpress.com/.
How I want
How I want to sail through the air
In to the clouds on the wings of the breeze
To watch the eagles soar and surge high,
Cross a thousand miles on the unravelled road
Without misgivings of the severe summer storm.
How I wish
To relish the succulent ripe mangoes of romance
Or sometimes the fermented apples of libido,
To tke a nap beside the cool luminous lakes beside you
And watch the migrating and nesting birds peck fondly
Perching on the green branches or swoop down for prey.
How often I wish
To travel and visit places, not as a tourist but as an artist
To savour art, literature, legends and history immortalized
On stone, marble or easel against the echoing walls of time
While you play the raag ‘Kalyan’ on your violin sitting on the lawn.
How I yearn
To walk bare feet and dance in verdant meadows
Like a cheerful brook cavorting on the rocks
To spread the green carpet of admiration on a mountain;
Or trace my footprints along the damp beaches and write
My name along yours on a sand art to immortalize our love.
How I hope
One day you will agree to bathe in the foaming waves
Of a roaring sea and stop feeling shy of my dulcet youth or
Of others’ nakedness as they dry themselves on the sunny beaches,
Squeezing sunsets between their forefinger and thumb
And slowly open us to heaven under the shimmering glow of a new moon.
Do you hear me?
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
Oh! What divine pleasure
Do I enjoy
Sailing in the sea of Music
Disengaged –yet merged in the love of rhyme.
Immersed in the waves
Of dulcet divine music
Spurring incomprehensible sentiments
Friendless, I feel like
I’m in the company of a friend forever.
When plunged deep in the streams
Of thy harp, thy lyre
I feel like
The dulcet music removes
All the hidden darkness
From the deepest crevices of my heart
And day by day increases
My craving for this musical elixir.
Nonparallel is the melody of the Music
Timeless, perpetual.
The exhilarating vibration of the Music
Inundates my soul in pious, jubilant emotions
And creates new expectations.
When the dulcet tune of the Music
Streams in my ears
I hear the voice of the Supreme
Like a notice from Time
And feel
A confluence of spiritual passion and devotion.
O’ Lord, make me thy lyre
Let me drench in the ripples of the sacred Music
You are the musician, the conductor
I am your bard, your lyre
Lend me the oar of Music, Lord
I will row the boat of my life
Immersed in that musical melody.
Kabiratna Smt. Manorama Mohapatra is a renowned poet of Odisha who is revered as the ex-editor of the oldest Odia daily newspaper “Samaj”. She is a columnist, poet, playwright who has also contributed a lot to children’s literature in Odia. She has received several awards including the National Academy Award, Sarala Award and many more. Her works have been translated into English, Sanskrit and many Indian languages. Her works are replete with sparks of rebellion against dead rituals and blind beliefs against women. She is a highly respected social activist and philanthropist.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
In there, all that I was and all that I knew were surrounded by the sea
I've had toys fashioned from polished coconut shells for heads,
sticks for bones, leaves twisted around for flesh,
with scratched out smiles and pouts,
I've had castles made of sand,
our drinking water has always had a touch of saline
Our looking mirrors have always been puddles of clear water
Yes I grew up in that tiny, little, island.
It was never a routine to spot a tanker or a ship,
To just let them come and go, like occassional meteors shooting across the sky
And you cannot blame a child for her curiosity,
And you cannot blame me now, when days later I stand on this alien land,
run out to what they call 'the beaches' every noon
and spot my crying dolls floating amidst the tides,
waving their torn out, palm-leaf skins at me....
And you cannot blame a grown up woman out at the shore somewhere,
on her knees,
wailing out to the sea, as though she just lost her baby...
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.
WHERE THE MAPLE LEAVES FALL….YELLOW, PURPLE..
The wee hours of the morning.. I woke up on the fading fringes of a dream.. last night I was just back from my sabbatical - trip to Australia, New Zealand.
Those worlds were the dream worlds dormant in my dreams. I was clinging to those sweet landscapes glazing in the cool morning air, pure, serene, and of course smiling with those faces who offered so much of warmth..yes, that dream was a nostalgic grab of what I experienced there in those remote shores..something that you felt melting out like the snow on those Alpine peaks when the sun fell with a vengeance....those images waning with a sense of loss..like a tear drop gathering in your eye that cannot come out and fall, but just recede within your damp eye..
The jet lag makes one drowsy, but mind still rattles on like a train on destined lines.. it jerks and moves on the track..the tracks of memory.
The journey started on 30th April 1.30 am at night from the New Terminal of Cochin International Airport. Well decked royal looking Elephants welcomed us there, and one marvelled at the way everything was green and solar at the airport.. all brightly lit, offering cool and fresh air. On wings of Silk Air which offered the best of travel experience, (there was one hour halt at Singapore, to change flight), within 7 hours and 15 minutes, we (me and my husband) reached Sydney.
With a floating hydrogen balloon in hand “Welcome to Australia,” our beloved niece, Rinny was there to welcome us with Sheetal, her elder daughter and Sony, her friend. Sony was riding us to New Castle, to the serene rural outskirts, just two hours ride from Sydney. In Sydney, cost of living is high and people move on to these beautiful extensions that offer the luxuriance of fresh and naïve village life. New Castle spreads out with good schools, university, hospitals, churches , supermarkets(Coles, Woolworths, Aldi..)and all. Any one with an eye for nature would fall in love with New Castle, its vast beaches and lovely landscape.
Meeting your own kin on alien shores is a great feeling.. Rinny, Viju and their kids Seethal and Chanchal (the elder one Seethal studies in Macqarie College, and the younger Chanchal in Mere Wether school), hovered around us with familial warmth and care..Four days were spent exploring New Castle.
The wild life Sanctuary nearby was replete with animals and birds of different kinds. Kangaroos, and Wallaby (a small size kangaroo) trotted along freely. The alluring beaches in Nelson Bay offer camel rides over the sand hills surrounding the shore. We had a camel ride..when Daisy our camel gently allowed us to sit, and slowly but surprisingly tilted us on to elevated heights and took us around.. my first experience on top of this desert marvel..!!
Nelson Bay is a beautiful tourist spot. On board the Cruise, you can scale the tides of the ocean for ‘Dolphin Watch.’ The New Castle bridge connects the shores opposite exposing their beauty.. We had a drive through the vast New castle University which offers many daring combinations in time related topics (Immunology, eco preservation).. Human and animal or plant life well protected, hazard free.. you could see that on roads, parks, forests. How clean the houses and suburbs were kept! If one tree was cut or not cared, immediate alert and action. Houses kept three huge boxes separate for E Waste, Bio Waste and Plastic. Every week on stipulated days for each, three separate Vans would come and pick it up on cranes (robotic hands), the boxes that you keep outside. Scare free, well facilitated roads… One day we went to a winery which offered fresh wine of different types for free tasting. The vineyards were all pruned after the harvest and looked bare. We saw an Aviation Museum where the much used fighter Jets were kept and every detail of jet shooting and ejection seats process were given. We were even allowed to stand in the cockpit to take snaps..my adrenaline was on high when I stood there as a lady Pilot to fly on wings..!
My name being Myna, it has always been my long cherished dream to take to wings!!
The last evening ended on a sumptuous dinner at a fine restaurant with typical Aussie food, Steak, Pork Rib with honey and salads of different combinations.
On 5th May, Saturday, we moved on to Sydney to join my companions who had come from Kerala to attend the wedding in Sydney. The bride groom from Kerala, (Ronnie, the only son of my close friend, Patricia and Christo) was marrying Akosita, (the bride) a Tongan girl, from Sydney. Attending the wedding and wedding reception, I felt the huge difference between our weddings and theirs. For us, it is more of a public showing off with a mammoth crowd, whereas, there it is still a private get together with a chosen group. This wedding reception was huge in numbers as per their standards, although it came around to over hundred only. The invited has to intimate his/her attendance early, and each person’s seat with name board is allotted on the table.
The party starts with drinks of all variety, cocktails(Taquila a special Mexican cocktail), soft and strong, and starters and bites. People sip and socialize at leisure, and bride and groom also relaxed, come over. There is toast and music.. orchestra, people wishing,… friends and relations talking about the couple. Meantime Dinner arrives in different courses, there is dance, fun and merriment lasting for hours..this Australian wedding ended with a typical Tongan fire dance. The Tongan group is a hospitable lot. Our accommodation was arranged in Meriton , the sea side Apartment on the 72nd floor which offered a fine aerial view of Sydney. Akosita (unlike our coy, pampered brides) proved her efficiency as a good organizer and leader and she was planning and navigating all our outings in Sydney. We had free access to Sydney Tower, saw Sydney Harbour Bridge, Feather Ddale park, Royal Botanical Garden, Vanclare, Hugh Bombard Reserve, Dover heights, Bandi Beach, Opera house and Darlington Harbour. The very place where the first time migrants or refugees were housed in Darlington Harbour was a real sight – where rooms had narrow space, little ventilation and bare amenities. The saga of suffering of the oppressed was writ large on those walls.
St. Mary’s Cathedral of Sydney possesses a grandeur of its own. We went for the first Sunday Mas at 6.30 a.m. Aisles and seats were empty barring a few old faces. Even an Old lady was assisting the Priest at Mas. To the accompaniment of the piano people sing and take part. A mighty God feeling came over you inside the pristine looking Cathedral that spoke of ages of faith…the very smell, the sound of the old and perennial.. Mother Mary was glancing at us with all her loving kindness, grace and poise….We had a day Cruise in a luxury Cruise ship, in the Premium class - two hours of exquisite sea sojourn ..seeing Sydney Bridge, Opera House and all the standing monuments, tall and small on both sides. Wondered how the waters of Pacific kept its clean transparency like the clear blue sky above, despite all the tourist incursions into its domain. Hats off to the very efficient Aussie Tourism management..
It seemed four days in Sydney was not enough to enjoy the beauty of the Blue Mountains, but we had to move on to New Zealand. On 9th May, Thursday, we were flying to Christ Church on the way to Dunedin(New Zealand). There the time zone differs – New Zealand is two hours ahead of Australia. We had to take a flight up to Christ Church, with all rechecking, emigration process cleared again for flight to Dunedin. It felt so tiring to repeat all the process and there was tight security check . They won’t allow any edible, seeds or flour, to avoid contamination to their environment. Due to time zone change we lost two hours.
At Dunedin we had a lovely family to greet us and take care of us. Salutes to those souls who believe that the best gift you can give a person is a fine pack of memories.. Dunedin being a small air port, they were there at the baggage collecting point, shouldering up our luggage, Alex and Solly, their youngest child Aryan, the bubbly schoolboy. Athidi, the eldest was having her unavoidable 13th standard classes and it was her room, the best in the house, that was given to us. They managed with the other two bed rooms despite our repeated requests.. Athidi Devo Bhava! They were hovering around us with so much of care and warmth . Alex took leave from his hectic schedule of managing three restaurants “Little India” Two restaurants (Indian Food) including one in in Invercargil, and “Black Dog,”(continental) in Dunedin.
The two hour drive to Queens Town was an experience in itself. Boulevarded by trees in Autumn shades, yellow and purple, we traversed long stretches of meadows and fields, where on big rolls, cut grass was kept for cattle in winter, cattle gently grazing nearby, unheeded to man’s anxieties about winter, future. Blue mountains, blue sky and blue waters vied with each other; apple trees and fruit gardens waved to us with soft murmurings…How beautiful are these places on earth, the master designer has put everything in place with so much of dexterity!! On the way to Queens Town, we got into Puzzle world, a spot that worked on the different gravitational pull. While walking through floors, you were drawn to floor, slanted like drunks we staggered and walked..the very water in the fountain was going up, not down..the statues inside seemed to follow you on all sides, 3D or 4 D.. Altogether a spooky experience.. They say the Puzzle world is unique offering this kind of experience.
Evening we went for ‘Skyline Gondola,’ a cable car ride to the peak of mountain, then coming down through, curved pathways, using ‘Luge’, a low, flat vehicle which one has to ride on one’s own. The Mantra Marina Motel we stayed offered an aerial view. We had Mexican food , tasted the rare ice cream in Patagonia(Aryan’s favourite). The weather was almost 1.6 degree celsius, we were protecting ourselves with thick warm cloths. At distance we could see snow capped mountain peaks of Alps.
Way back to Dunedin next day, we passed Invercargil, had lunch at Little India, Alex’s restaurant. The restaurant closes by 11 a. m. but they had special dishes for us. En route we visited Motupoline Scenic reserve of Bluff, known as the ‘End of the Earth,’ the southern most tip of New Zealand. We had an opportunity to visit the University of Otago, its campus spreading so vast with each building offering a course that is very contemporary and up to date. The huge Library gave free access to visitors, impressed us with digitalized reading cabins centrally monitored. Using digital directions we were moving around. There was maximum flexibility offered to students to pick up a course that suited their taste and timings.
Next day we went to the World’s steepest street, Baldwin Street in Dunedin, wherein standing below, you could trace houses mounting heights on both sides till they reached the dead end up..We also could enjoy the beautiful View point at Signal Hill Reserve. Standing up, one could see the beautiful Dunedin sprawling out beneath the sky in hills and dales, plains and valleys…The pure white splashes of snow on mountain peaks glistened as if smiling and greeting us through the cool air.. I removed my hood to take in that whiff of fresh air that wafted from the heights, although the freezing wind hit hard like a cool slap on the face.. I loved it.. we had to leave. There the days are short and it grows dark by 5 in the evening. That evening we had a birthday party to attend to.
We returned to Melbourne for two days of stay. ..Melbourne, famous for its MCS (Melbourne Cricket Stadium), The Sky Deck, Bridges and Beaches. We could attend the Saturday evening Mas at the Cathedral Church Melbourne, conducted specially for those who cannot attend the next day Sunday Mas. It was the church of ‘The Lady of Victory,’ Mother Mary. Only elderly people were attending; seemed the younger generation was too busy with worldly matters. We flew back from Melbourne on 15th May , via Singapore reaching home by midnight.
Every journey for me is an eye opener – how different our Mother Earth spreads out, how the geography influences nations, nationalities, how through different cultures, colours, shapes, languages, human beings are basically the same ..life in varied contours .. falling in love, in fight..eating, chatting, in prayer, penance and celebrating life alone as well in groups.
The take aways of the trip..
I appreciate the self reliance children practice there, earn while you learn, not putting parents to task for everything. I appreciate the care taken for the safety not only of people but nature, the flora and fauna as well. I also admire how many a Malayalee, Indian, on those foreign shores work hard, ready to do any work to earn money. But here in Kerala, they wait and opt for white collar jobs, become resentful if it is not there at hand..Salutes to the hardworking Indians all over the world..They show the Indian resilience.
The scenes, faces, voices and images of the trip melt down with a sweet sorrow..it flows through the peaks to reach the blue lake, my reservoir of memory. Like Silas Marner, the miser at watch, I keep the treasure safe and pristine in the inner recesses of my heart.
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).
In one of our weekly meetings in my consulting company, I decided to have a session with my staff on “Role Play”. In this exercise, I asked my staff to take up the role of various professionals and address the audience on a particular subject. In this context the subject is a flower.
A few of my staff came forward to take up the following roles:
- Internal Auditor
- Head – Finance
- Advocate – (Against)
- Advocate – ( For)
- Head – Sales and Marketing
- Consultant – MBA
I then displayed the flower in the group and explained the features. “ You see, this delicate looking sweet smelling flower with very tender pine needle shaped yellow petals with shades of yellow and maroon is very attractive. At the top you have a single yellow petal. This represents Lord Krishna. . Below that there are three petals, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, connected to the single petal. There are five petals of yellow colour in the next layer, which represent the Pandavas.. In the next layer below that you see 100 petals which resemble the Kauravas.. At the bottom we see another layer of maroon petals, supported at the bottom by a green layer.
This flower is called “Mahabaratha”. The botanical name for this flower is Passiflora Caerulea.
I now leave it to the floor for the “Role Play”
The Internal Auditor picks up the flower and begins to count the petals in each layer..
He then comes out with his observations. I find that the quantity of petals in each layer match the quantity mentioned in the statement. However, the management must take steps to count and record the layer of maroon petals at the bottom layer. I can continue with the assignment once the details are provided to me.
The Head Finance picks up the flower and says, “ I need to verify first of all whether this has been provided for in the budget. If not, I need to get the necessary sanction. I then have to source for comparative quotations and shortlist my supplier. I will have to study the profitability of my company and then decide whether I have to capitalize it or write it off as revenue expenditure, taking into consideration the various accounting standards in vogue.
The advocate (against) stands up. “My Lord, I strongly object to the name of ‘Mahabaratha” given to the flower. The bottom layer of the flower has not been defined, so too the stalk on which the flower stands.”
The advocate (for), refutes the objection. He says “My Lord, the bottom layer represents Dhirthrashtra with his entourage at the palace and the stalk at the bottom represents Mother Earth. This is very elementary, which my learned friend has failed to observe.”
The Head – Sales and Marketing, stands up next to speak. “I am sure most of you will have the picture of Lord Krishna preaching Baghavath Gita to Arjuna on the battle field of Kurukshetra. For a minute, just close your eyes and visualize how gorgeous it would look if this flower adorns the picture. This flower which you see is just a base flower, called Passiflora Caerulea.. However if you want one with additional features I can procure that also for you but it could be a bit pricy. It is blue in colour and is known as Passiflora Coccinea. These are also called Krishna Kamal. If interested, I can offer a deal to you which you cannot resist. If you buy the second flower, I can give the first one free.”
Finally, it was the turn of the consultant. He stood up, looked round, cleared his throat and started with a power point presentation. “ In these slides I have dissected the flower and clearly marked the reference points for your easy understanding. However I find that the exercise will not be complete without identifying what the lower layer represents. Hence if I am appointed as a consultant for a fee, I will be able to provide you the requisite professional advice, to ensure all the layers in the flower has been identified and it is in full bloom.
For the common man, he picks up the flower and earnestly goes to the temple, places it at the Lord’s feet and returns home with the fond hope that at least a few of his wishes will get fulfilled since he has offered a special flower for him to stand out in the crowd in front of the Lord.
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
“I fear the day when technology overlaps with our humanity. The world will only have a generation of idiots.”
This quote, often accompanying memes portraying people, especially youths, immersed in their phones oblivious to everything else, has been a topic for discussion on the Internet. Not because of its use in mockery but more because the quote is accredited to Albert Einstein having said it. Quote investigators however, question the integrity of the source of the quote, pointing out that the confusion was all because of a dialogue in a movie that attributes the quote to the great scientist.
Whatever be the controversy, it was this quote that popped up in my mind when, one evening, my husband and I had to halt at a petrol station to fill up the tank of our motorbike. While my husband got in line behind four other waiting vehicles, I decided to pop in to the supermarket attached to the bunk. He was still in the queue when I stepped out, having made my purchase, so I stood a little to the side to wait for him. And that was when I noticed this guy in the queue, just before my husband, whose scooter was being filled up. He was talking animatedly into his mobile phone.
I am not saying I got panicky but I certainly was alarmed. How could he put a mobile phone to active use when he was that close to the filling area? OK, I understand that we don’t switch off our phones when we enter a petrol bunk; there is no need for it. And we do sometimes use our phone, when we opt for digital transactions, like I had done in the store. We can’t anticipate the calls coming in when we are there. But why accept calls or make calls when we are there? Especially when one is that close to the filling unit? What if something untoward happens?
Some say that such fears are baseless, the chances of an ignition are very remote and that the few reported incidents are just unfortunate accidents. They even go on to say that the government encourages digital purchase of petrol, so there is no risk. What they miss out is the clause “albeit within specific safety guidelines” that goes with the safety assurance statement from the concerned government department dealing with the Explosives Safety Organisation.
So, here was this man talking into his phone and none of the staff looked like they were going to caution him. So, deciding to do it myself, I walked up to him and told him, quite courteously, to put away his phone.
‘What?’
I chose to ignore the rudeness, putting it down to his engrossment with the person on the other end of the phone (though that didn’t warrant rudeness to a total stranger at a petrol filling station). But, pacifying myself with the thought that maybe he didn’t hear me, I addressed him again.
‘Sir,’ (yes, I did use that term), ‘Sir, could you please put your phone away? You are in a petrol bunk.’
‘So? What is your problem? Why should I put my phone away? Who are you to tell me what to do?’
I took in a breath to maintain composure.
‘Sir, this is a petrol bunk, a storehouse of inflammable substances. And that phone is an electronic gadget; you never know what it can spark off here…’
But even as I was explaining to him, the man, whose ear was still affixed to the phone, spoke into it, ‘Hey, I’ll call you in a while. There’s some nutcase woman here trying to lecture me...no, no problem at all. Some minor issue. You know where these people come from, right?’
This had me. His mobile phone had indeed caused a spark—my anger and indignation.
‘Look here, you!’ (Yes, the “sir” was gone.) ‘Look here, you! I am not a nutcase, and I object to your addressing a woman in those tones.’ (For, he did have a derogatory tone when pronouncing the word “woman”.) ‘I am a conscientious citizen and I have a problem when I see the resources of this country going waste. Not to mention, the lives of all these people working here and waiting here. And, just to make you aware, if at all something untoward happens because of your foolishness, you will be the first one to go up in flames.’
I don’t think the man even realised the seriousness of the issue because he was all ignited now, and anger, after all, blinds one to the obvious. He almost spat out a retort when my husband, who had come to my side by then, patted the man on the back with an assuring hand, told him to let it be and move on.
By now, there were five more customers waiting in the queue and they started beeping their horns. The man had no choice but to wheel away his motorbike, but not before shouting, ‘Tell that woman to behave like a woman!’
‘So, your issue was not being told you were wrong. You couldn’t accept being told off by a woman. The one who must be blamed is your mother who couldn’t teach you how to behave decently with other women,’ I screamed after him.
My husband, who was now moving his vehicle forward to have it filled with fuel, told me to be quiet. He then spoke softly to the staff who was doing the filling.
‘Don’t you know that using cell phones in the station can be hazardous? Your duty is not just to fill petrol and collect the money. You also need to tell off people who use their phones here.’
‘They won’t listen, sir. They are customers. They can be rude.’
‘So, what are we?’ asked my husband. ‘We are also customers, right? We don’t get free refills.’
*****
Back home, my husband told me, ‘There are but freak instances of fires in petrol stations because of mobile phones being used but that doesn’t mean one shouldn’t be careful. Unfortunately, a majority of the people don’t care. Or maybe they don’t know. And, about decent behaviour with women. That’s going to take a few more generations. Of course, we don’t need to be quiet about it. But that doesn’t mean we make a huge noise over it. Awareness must be created, and we are doing it. But getting people to change their attitude is neither your headache nor mine.
And, as for a fire at a petrol bunk when we are there, well, we live in the belief that there is a higher energy source that protects us, don’t we? Continue living in that trust.’
My husband had a point. I now wonder who the idiot at the petrol station was.
Vidya Shankar is a poet, writer, motivational speaker, yoga enthusiast, English language teacher. An active member of poetry circles, her works have appeared in national and international literary platforms and anthologies. She is the recipient of literary awards and recognitions.
Vidya Shankar’s first book of poems, The Flautist of Brindaranyam is a collaborative effort with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan. Her second book of poems The Rise of Yogamaya is an effort to create awareness about mental health. She has also been on the editorial of three anthologies.
A “book” with the Human Library, Chennai Chapter, Vidya Shankar uses the power of her words, both written and spoken, to create awareness about environmental issues, mental health, and the need to break the shackles of an outdated society.
The Bougainvillea Story
Sridevi Selvaraj
I entered my grandfather’s house – a sprawling bungalow with lovely lawns, walk ways all protected by a high compound wall hidden by those thorny creepers with luxurious flowers. It seems everyone in the village called the house as bougainvillea house. My father never brought us here and my grandfather is no more, and it is my grandmother I am going to meet.
I have seen her photographs. It was the rule in the house not to speak about my grandparents. My parents never visited India. It is a big story, and I know only a little bit of it. Now that I am married and have my children I am here in search of my roots. That is the trend now. We want to have an identity. America looked at me as an Indian. So I would reorganize my life, I decided. And I am here.
May be India might look at me as an American. My American accent is loud. My body language is American. My soul? Will it have a regional colour? A race? A caste? I don’t know. I will soon find out.
Meanwhile, my Paati came, began weeping - hugged me, kissed me, and had no problem recognizing me – I look exactly like my father. The house was practically locked except for three rooms. Paati gave me the room with a photograph of my grandfather. It was his room, she said.
I was grateful. Nice to be back where you belong. In America, I have to make sure I am invited. I have never forced myself on any family like this. Why was it my dad never came back here? I have to find out.
I sat down. The view was mesmerizing. Lovely bougainvillea flowers hung on the entire compound wall - some had climbed on the neem tree – why - this side of the house had a thick forest of the flowers. Pink, dark red, orange, white, purple – all the available colours were there. This is some kind of madness? Why so many?
I never liked these paper flowers. No fragrance. You can’t offer them to gods. Jasmine would have been great. Or pavala malli. Or nithya kalyani. They are the flowers liked by gods. Not these foreign flowers.
I called my wife and children and talked to them for some time. Poor things. They were waiting for my call. I clicked the house and sent the photo. My grandmother spoke to them. My children were jumping with joy. They wanted to come down immediately to India. My son wanted to see these luxurious flowers immediately.
All the usual responses. I knew this is how they would respond. For them India must be the exotic land. I didn’t tell you, right? My wife is from Venice. For Europeans and Americans, India is a mystery. They get excited for everything about India.
I came to the kitchen to help my Paati. I saw her white hair, permanent grief on her face, sorrow in her eyes, and loneliness on her walk. I felt guilty.
I wanted to come to the point directly.
Before I opened my mo uth, she asked me, ‘How is my son?’
I managed to say, ‘He is fine.’
‘It has been thirty years… thirty long years… Thaatha died last year. At least then Anand could have come… the funeral rites were performed by your athai’s son…that is life…human relationships have no meaning… still remember the day Anand was born… I also remember the day he left us…’
We had nothing more to say. We just continued to sit there. My eyes automatically went to the bougainvillea flowers. Every room had windows, and every window had a view of these flowers. They began getting on my nerves.
‘Anand was a soft person as a child…when we took to watch the movie Karnan, he began crying aloud uncontrollably, that we had to bring him home.’
I couldn’t relate what Paati said about my father. To me he was a disciplinarian. Very strict. Orthodox. I have never seen him crying. Life is full of surprises. I don’t know what a lot of surprises my Paati has for me.
‘One day Anand….he was just 6 years or so…he took a bar of washing soap and gave the servant…because she was telling me all her issues… so he wanted to help her…went to the store room, took a bar of soap kept on the lower shelf..gave it to her….she was in tears..she came running to me and said …’Amma, this child is a god’...I was lost for words…Anand … very kind and sensitive..’
I remember my father beating me for losing a pencil in 2nd standard. This version narrated by my Paati is not tallying with my version. Is Paati constructing a story?
‘This child of mine, my eldest, later became a tough man…shocking…what did I do? How did he become so hard?..I am wondering everyday…I was not a smart mother…I didn’t know how to bring up children…’
Now Paati was speaking the reality. Not bad. She must have read my thoughts.
‘Thatha and your father never got along. North and south poles.’
This is the usual explanation. I was not impressed.
‘Anand loved gardening…would bring all kinds of plants…one day he brought this bougainvillea…planted it..the plant was wild..it spread and spread… had thorns..the flowers had no fragrance.. you can’t offer them to gods…’
I agreed in my mind totally.
‘One day Thatha cut the entire plant and burnt it….Anand came from college…saw the whole plant had been removed…..and I saw the devil in his eyes…he roared and roared and I became so scared..I have never seen him behave like that.’
Oh. That might be the beginning of the great fight.
‘It is a simple matter…blew out of proportion…..Thatha came home…Anand started screaming at his father… he spoke words which I never thought he knew…Thatha just said, ‘This is my house.’ In cinematic style, he kept on saying ‘this is my house.’
Naturally. That was what my father used to tell me too. Whenever we fought my father would wind up saying, ‘This is my house.’ These fathers build houses and behave like children. I got used to it. My children also fight in the same manner. My pen. My toy. My bag. Boring.
And then I saw a photograph of some verse. I went closer. It was a poem published in a magazine. It was framed.
Home garden
- Anand
Sometimes dismissed as paper flowers
These are not bowls of rosy fragrance.
They also have thorns like the red roses
The difference is in the arresting smell.
Toru Dutt celebrated the thorny beauties
Immortalized in her lovely casuarina tree
The pictured creeper is a bougainvillea
Mountaineer with seductive red flowers.
Dutt could refer to any other climber too
I have visualized it as this dear one.
Silent flowers, humble in their presence
Living in clusters, with little nourishment.
Their dignified glory is best understood
When they smoothly climb nearby trees.
And decorate the top of the tall trees
Bright canopy of colours amidst green.
Or when they grow as long brown barks
And burst out in tons and tons of flowers.
Pests are scared of these tough warriors
Animals also keep off from these nobles.
Every city can use them on sides of roads
Houses can decorate their compounds.
They live with content even in small pots
They spread like flood slowly if essential.
They have been here for a long time
Hybridized, multicultural and varied.
They have assimilated all cultures
And are living with the ease of time.
‘This was a poem Anand wrote and it was published. He sent a copy to us after he left the house. He never came back. Both your aunts got married. We came to know Anand married an American woman, your mother…Thatha realized and understood…He began a bougainvillea garden…too late…Anand did not even come to see it.’
The romantic element in my father and his sense of justice - quite touching. May be marrying my mother was a signal to his father – that he is breaking with the past. My grandfather was too orthodox to visit America or us, his Americanized grand children. But all this happened because of the cutting of a bougainvillea was illogical to me. It was not convincing.
I think I am like my grandfather – I thought - what is there in a flower that has no fragrance? To cut away from a family because somebody cut a plant sounds like a story with a weak plot. I didn’t want to tell Paati that my parents are no more – both died in a car accident. Why should I try to be factual? I decided to create a story about how my father talked about his family every day.
Paati went on talking. The bougainvillea flowers kept smiling at me. I started imagining that my father is around here. Quite illogical. I began quietly believing it. May be he brought me here. This wish to come here might have been a signal from him.
These kinds of thoughts, I realized, are truly Indian. Right? May be I have come home. At last.
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.
Life comes to a stand still
In every country, mountain and hill
Watching the blooms and birds from the window sill
Not having a moment to sit still
Waking up every morning to endless chores
As the brewing tea, you pour
Aroma of sanitizers in every corner
And thats an order
As I simmer the gas burner
I hear my heart murmur
"Maintain Social Distancing "!!
Refrain from advancing
The desires are crippling
Simple living... A learning.
In abundance witnessing
A moment unbelievable nor envisaged
It's just a virus
That has taken a toll on us
Need to understand thus
Don't take nature for granted
As our lives get stranded
A future unknown
In each and every zone.
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)
(Shivangi - Anjali's grand daughter)
With a broad smile on her lips, fifteen years old Sirin twisted her feet, waved her hand in dance pose, twirled with joy to show off her new painting to her mom.
When she rushed to her mom, her mom raised her eyebrows with eyes wide open, spoke in a hushed tone, ‘Shh…honey.. don't shout. Right now I am busy with an important talk. I will see it. Just wait for some time, ok!’
Sirin got a sudden jolt, stopped at once holding her oil painting. She frowned and stumped away grumbling, searching for her dad.
‘Dad, see what I have done,’ Sirin announced aloud in a thrilling voice.
Her dad turned around while adjusting his tie, grinned at her, showed his thumbs up!
Immediately, blowing her two cheeks, Sirin retorted, ‘Dad, you haven't seen it yet.’
He smiled at her saying, ‘No time, baby. Will see it later.’
She was not a kid to be flattered with simple gesture or smile. Her dad was in a hurry, so he just patted her back lovingly, kissed her forehead, and rushed for his office.
And her brother, he was always out of this world! He was only two years elder to her, so being an adolescent, he was always roaming in his own dream land! She didn't feel like wasting her time trying to show him the painting.
Sirin stood there for a few seconds, then stormed off to her own bedroom. Hot air was blowing from her nostrils, her face turned into apple red. She threw the paper on the table, slammed the door and flung herself on her bed. Looking up to the ceiling, she wove her anger net intricately.
‘What the hell is going on? Why everybody is so busy?’ She imagined thousands of incidents that hurt her in pre-school, middle school and even high school too! She assumed that at least her own family members would give some value to her thoughts, but they were also no exception, they too behaved like others! Unconsciously, her eyes filled with tears. She felt like an alien in her own home! As if every single person on this earth is busy in their own work and no one has time to share a single moment with her, neither in happiness nor in sorrow!
The knocking sound on the door, put a sudden brake to her thought. Knowingly, she ignored the sound. But the continuous sound was so irritating, she was forced to open the door!
‘What?’ Sirin burst out at once! Her eyes bulged out staring at the unexpected visitor. It was her nanny who had been working for fifteen years, since she was a kid. She was appointed to look after both of them, her brother and herself! She screamed at her, ‘Go, get out! I don't want any one! Just go!’
‘Ok, cool baby! I hear you.’ Nanny walked away giving her some space.
The same day, when her mom called her for dinner, she deliberately came late to join all of them. She kept silent, didn't look at anyone, scratched the table mat with her nail. They all started eating, while Sirin was twirling her fork in the noodle.
‘I made this special noodles for dinner. I know, you like it,’ spoke her mom, while passing the bowl towards Sirin.
Sirin was silent, continuing the same action. She didn't bother to give a glance at her mom to show her appreciation. Her mom was surprised to see the unusual behaviour. She couldn't guess anything. Suddenly, the morning incident clicked in her mind. Softly she asked, ‘Honey, are you ok? Did I do something wrong? Why are you so upset?’
Sir in could no longer resist her outburst. She left the food, and ran away to her room. At other times she tried her best to understand the practical problems of her family members, but today it was the climax! Her expectation was something different. She assumed that her mom and dad would feel proud of her great talent, would appreciate her painting but instead of praising, they didn't pay any attention to it. That hit the target- her ego! She felt neglected even though she was well aware of their unconditional love. She was disgusted with everybody having ‘no time’ for her. She was hopping mad, picked up a paper and scribbled on it, whatever she could. Few days ago, while she showed her project to her teacher in the school, the teacher casually said, ‘Right now I don't have time. Keep it aside, I would see it later.’ That smashed her high desire- to get some praising words!
When Sirin screamed at her nanny, her mom was not far away. She was watching her daughter’s splenetic face but couldn't figure out what exactly hurt her so much to be so violent! Although, faintly she remembered the morning incident, she was really struggling hard to pacify her daughter's emotional feelings. She came close to Sirin and whispered, ‘Baby, I am so sorry! I know you have every right to get angry but please share your problems with me. Next time I promise this mistake will not be repeated.’ She hugged Sirin, tapped her back gently, showering her motherly love!
Ten minutes later, Sirin came back to normalcy, yet her doubts lingered. Maybe, mom’s confession overruled her anger for the time being.
Next day, Sirin was too busy in her school project. She had to do lots of work for the science annual fair. She was late to home. Holding too many drawing sheets, colours and notebook, Sirin came back home. Being tired of continuous work, she straight away went to her bed room. When she switched on the light, she was taken aback at the sight! She couldn't believe it!
Picture Credit : Painting by Shivangi, Anjali's grand daughter
Her oil painting was beautifully framed and installed on the wall. Just below the painting, it was written ‘We are so proud of you Sirin, our little angel!’
Overwhelmed with joy, Sirin ran to her mom and hugged her tightly. Her mom gently adjusted Sirin’s scattered hair on her forehead. She said, ‘Honey! I never knew that you are so talented! Time consumed my attention so much in my personal work that I couldn't even notice your amazing talent! Your frustration showed me my mistakes. I am so sorry, dear! We would never say ‘no time’ for anything in future, whether big or small. Got it?’
She draped both her hands over her mom’s neck, kissed her cheek and said, ‘Yes mama, got it. You are my sweet mom!’
In the present world, ‘handling teenagers’ is the most challenging problem for the parents! Work pressure, stressful life with ‘limited time’ have become a barricade between the individual and the family! Anybody who can manage these hurdles would definitely be a successful and happy person!!!
Ms. Anjali Mahapatra is a retired teacher from Mumbai who taught Mathematics and Science to students in Ahmedabad, Bhubaneswar, Lucknow and Mumbai for more than thirty years. She took to writing after her retirement and has penned close to a hundred stories so far. Her stories have appeared in Sunnyskyz and other magazines. Two of her collection of short stories, 'An Amazing Letter to Me and Other Stories' and 'Granny Tales' have been published in Kindle Unlimited.
“Father, I’d take up the branch of business,
and can’t opt for the branch of Science!”
“No, my child, you must join the medicine,
Have I ever asked you to be a man like Edison?”
“Oh! Father! I aim for the field of market
Isn’t it unfair to compel me on your target?”
“Dear! Amidst all professions, it’s the best choice
and as a matter of fact, don’t move against my voice!”
“I wish I could become whatever I want to be
Why can’t he realize the precious prodigy in me?”
“I paced into the dentistry with his zeal and force
I seldom have any interest in medicinal course!”
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
(Photograph of the yellow Peltaphorum flower and the purple Thumbergia erecta flower on the pathway near the compound gate)
Oh! Graciously beautiful flower
As a hedge bush flower you bloom
The radiant glory that remove all gloom
Inviting the buzzing bee that zoom
You are ephemerally exquisite!
At the dawn the glory so high
Makes all gaze at you with a deep sigh
But at the twilight withered you lie
So calm and quiet on the pathway you die
You are ephemerally exquisite!
Often trampled and ignored
In the stride of human life tampered
Even while departing you leave the roads adored
You paint glory everywhere when you are around
You are ephemerally exquisite!
The petite braid their hair
With you in all admire
The glory the woman all acquire
Sweet fragrance of aroma you transpire
You are ephemerally exquisite!
Oh human beings! Learn from the flowers
That we need to spread glory around
In the short span of life
to be remembered like the flower
you are ephemerally exquisite!
S. Joseph Winston is pursuing his PhD at the Mechanical Engineering Department of IIT Madras. His research is in the area of computer vision for remote robot calibration. He has completed his MTech in Machine Design with the university first rank at Kerala University and working as Senior Scientific Officer, heading Remote Handling & Irradiation Experiments Division and also heading a section Steam Generator Inspection Devices Section at Indira Gandhi Center for Atomic Research, Govt. Of India, Kalpakkam. His areas of interest are developments of robotic systems for remote inspection of power plant systems and soft intelligent motion controls for robotics and automation. His hobbies are photography, Traveling and creating computer program snippets. He has interest in human psychology and love to interact with different people.
What, haven't you purchased your walking shoes? enquired my husband noticing me coming home empty-handed.
No, nothing seems to have gone right with my shopping today, I rued.
Do you mean to say there is a dearth of choice or is it that you found nothing suitable? said he looking surprised.
Well, it's both. First of all there was very little choice as the size and shape of my feet seemed to be a problem. Coupled with that is my flat foot. When I fancied a pair which was not elegant but fitted me to a 'T' in one of those "made to order" shops, the salesman literally grabbed the pair from me saying it was made to order and therefore I cannot buy it. What he said next was MOREre humiliating, I lamented.
What did the guy say? asked my husband giving me a pitiful look.
I asked him if he could make a similar pair for the lady who had placed the order and allow me to buy this pair as I neededd them ururgently.
‘No madam, I can't do that and its not a lady who had ordered them but it is a man,’ he had said sarcastically with a scscathing look at my feet where the toes are wide apart.
YYOu could have just walked out of the shop without giving him a second look, said my husband in an attempt to console me.
Well, I did that but only after I gave him a piece of my mind, I said.
I hope you didn't use any abusive language, he said sounding concerned.
Yyou know I don't do that. I only said he should learn to be more cordial towards his customers who are forced to patronise shops like his because of their foot problem.I added that my ‘deformed feet’ were not congenital but because of an accident that occurred.
I I am sure the fellow would have detested you for your unsolicited advice, remarked my husband.
He said he had never come across a customer who had such "unwomanly and unshapely" feet as mine, I said still harbouring a punctured ego.
Now I see that you both have a common problem, said my husband hesitantly.
What do you mean by saying that? I hope you have a solution to offer as well, I said with an expectant look.
You seem to suffer from a "foot problem" and the guy seems to suffer from a "foot in his mouth" problem. I am afraid there are no easy solutions, quipped my husband.
N.Meera Raghavendra rao, a post graduate in English Literature, with a diploma in Journalism is freelance journalist, author and blogger published around 2000 articles ( including book reviews) of different genre which appeared in The Hindu,Indian Express and The Deccan Herald . Author of 10 books : Madras Mosaic, Slice of Life, Chennai Collage, Journalism-think out of the Box are to mention a few. Her book ‘ Feature writing’ published by Prentice Hall, India and Madhwas of Madras published by Palaniappa Bros. had two editions. She interviewed several I.A.S. officials, industrialists and Social workers on AIR and TV, was interviewed by the media subsequent to her book launches and profiled in TigerTales ,an in house magazine of Tiger Airlines. At the invitation from Ahmedabad Management Association she conducted a two-day workshop on Feature Writing. Her Husband, Dr.N.Raghavendrra Rao, a Ph.D in FINANCE is an editor and contributor to IGIGLOBAL U.S.A.
‘How should we manage our ego?’ starts an article in a prime column of the Editorial page in a daily newspaper today…Nowadays, whenever I start reading an article, the first few lines lead me to a train of my own thoughts and I ignore the rest of the article…or else, some first few lines puts me off on a mild doze and the article goes for a toss… never mind even if I am at a loss!
So, to begin with, we were on an ego trip! Some have more ego than the others and they always keep huffing and puffing about it! Also, they are keen to let people know that they have an ‘EGO’! Some have less ego but this tribe is dangerous because the ego keeps bloating within themselves. Now how do we manager them, the ego I mean?
Do we really manage our ego or does the ego manage us? The more we manage our ego, the more balanced we are, aren’t we? Contrarily, the less we manage our ego, the more it pounces upon us. So, what do we really do?
Do not be very rigid with a fixed mind set. This will help you ease your ego. A flexible attitude without compromising on values would do your ego a world of good. Be reasonable with your desires, particularly the craving to acquire material things and see how the ego takes a cosy back seat!
Also, understanding things from the view point of others. It does smoothen the ego and temper its rough edges.
Last but not the least, pray. Pray more as you grow and see with wonder how it softens your ego. We need not be a saint to pray. All mortals have a say when they really pray. Really worth a try.
What happened to the newspaper article on Ego that I began to read? Did I yield to my thoughts which took off tangentially on reading the first line or does my ego prevent me from reading the article further now?...
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
The way I lived
In the hollow world
Echoes of the dark
Encircled me in gloom.
It has given my soul
A potential to change
And made me a
Better version O’ myself.
MEANING
FIRST STANZA : It is about the way I lived in the world which was almost spiritually and morally empty. The echoes of my past and my experiences of the world encircled me in gloom and pulled down my morale.
SECOND STANZA : It is about the voice of my soul i.e. my hope which gave me the potential to change and finally made me the best version of myself.
S. Geetha, a 16 year old author and a young poet from India. She started her journey in writing at the age of 7. She is a bibliophile and loves reading non-fiction. She has also worked as the student editor of her school magazine for the year 2019-20. She is a mellifluous Carnatic singer. She has won laurels for her sparkling brilliancy in music as well as in writing. She calls herself as the Pink Author Hope. She does her best writing on Women empowerment. She is a blogger and owns 2 websites. https://geethabose.wordpress.com/ & https://thepinkauthor.wordpress.com/
On all tombs we find the date of birth and date of death written leaving some gap in between and that gap denotes the life. This life is short for some people, long for some and becomes a struggle for some and yet some may find it a bed of roses. Then what, really is life? What constitutes life? Why is it a bed of roses for some and a bed of thorns for others? How to make life loveable? Is adequate money makes life comfortable? Or is it a healthy body?
Life starts even before we take birth in this world. The day the fetus is formed in the womb of the mother life starts, and our heart starts beating. However, the day we came in this world is said to be our date of birth. After this our life passes through various stages like Infant, childhood, adulthood, old age and death, and based on our actions we do, and experiences we undergo our life undergoes various changes. Our life becomes a cluster of events and experiences.
It is difficult to define life due to its complexity. Many scientists and philosophers have tried to define life and they become more controversial because of the complexity of life. There are many philosophical, social, religious and spiritual definitions of life. But when we analyze the characteristics of life, we may be able to understand what life is. Main characteristic of life is growth and anything that does not grow dies and has no life in it. Another characteristic of life is stimulus and it adapts to the environment. Ageing and metabolic changes that take place in course of time are due to growth and any living being becomes old and dies out as days pass by. It is said that life on earth first appeared some 4.28 billion years ago.
A seed has potential life energy. When it is buried in the earth and nourished, it grows into a plant and in due course it becomes a huge tree and blooms with flowers and fruits. An egg is hatched and becomes a chick. All these things happen due to life energy within it. They grow and grow and produce their offspring. But human life differs entirely from that of animals and plants. Animals and plants live only for two things viz., eating and reproducing. But man is a social animal who lives in a society, governed by certain rules and regulations. A man cannot live like an animal. He has more responsibilities and duties to be fulfilled. Moreover, he is more civilized and rational and seeks experience in life.
We all undergo various experiences as we age. Some are sweet, some are bad and bitter, and some are memorable. Experiences that we experience influence our life in such a way that we form our ideas and opinions of life based on them. Our actions and attitude are created by our experiences. Our actions play a vital part in making our life happy or miserable. Good actions beget good results and bad actions beget bad results. What goes around comes around many folds. What we sow, that we reap. By sowing an apple seed we cannot expect an orange tree. Our attitude makes what we are, and our actions determine what our life is. Our actions vary; our thinking differs; and our attitude towards others varies and all these things determine what our life is. Life is like water. As water takes the shape of its container, so is life. It takes the shape of one`s actions and attitude. As such it differs from person to person. “Some are born great; some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them”. Only people who have achieved greatness have many successful stories and every success has a failure behind it. They have had their ups and downs.
“Life is like a notebook. Two pages are already written by God. First page is Birth. Last page is Death. Center pages are empty. So, fill them with smile and love.” Radiate love and love will come back to you.
Life is a journey. We have taken a ticket for our destination and have come in this world. Journey ends when we reach our destination and our life ends when we breathe our last. Until then let us live our life happily by helping others without any ego and jealousy.
Anand Kumar is a Retire Bank Manager who has thirty years of service in Banking Industry. He is an ardent lover of reading and writing. His is a regular contributor to a magazine "Dignity Dialogue" published by an NGO from Mumbai. He regularly writes in Muse India and Poemhunters.com. He lives in Chennai.
MY SWEET LITTLE TOWN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
This town, my quaint little town
is so silent, reminding me
of the stillness of a dense forest,
the air vibrates when dew falls
in the morning quiet,
The silence is deafening!
Yet this was a different town,
noises from all sides flew
like cascading streams of dust,
burying us in a cacophony.
People moving with abandon,
some rolled in laughter,
ripples of joy floated in the air,
one simply had to raise a hand
and pluck a smile from the tree.
Morning brought new hopes,
one could pick from a hundred dreams,
and make it one's own.
Hopes marched in hordes
in joyous processions
touching a smiling boy here,
a blushing girl there.
The beggar used to dance,
the dead came alive
to live for anther day,
to sing new songs
and dance to new tunes.
My little town had lights,
sparkles, scented sprinkles.
Today there is nothing left,
barking dogs whimper
stars shine through clear skies
yet the darkness thickens,
shadows walk through empty streets.
Ah, my sweet little town,
a heap of sad broken bricks
of empty hopes and vacant dreams!
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
Twelve kilometers from Shahranpur, on the way to Delhi, my old Fiat car stalled. I switched off the ignition and tried to start the car again. It refused to budge. My heart sank. It was three o’clock on a hot June afternoon. In no time, the car turned into an oven,out to bake us. I got out of the car, looking around like a lost chicken in a furniture market. In her usual way Manjari, my wife, started abusing me and the car, and then the car and me, in turn. The fact that the car is of the same age as hers and is a favorite object of mine, did not escape her mention. If I discerned a tinge of jealousy in her words, I suppressed the urge to point it out. I am a peace-loving man and avoid confronting her.
Manjari’s harangue got stronger in pitch and tone. I took out a screw-driver, opened the bonnet of the car, but intimidated by the maze of wires and assortment of minor and major contraptions inside, shut it down in no time. A Professor of Political Science with a screw-driver in hands looked as incongruous as a traffic constable with a violin or a carpenter with a cooking pan.
Manjari broke into one of her favorite topics – the uselessness of her husband, the roguishness of the car, the grave injustice pervasive in the world, the cruel way in which life had treated her. This was her cassette number three. She has more than two dozen cassettes like this in her repertoire. She is a great artist and her talent has always left me spell-bound. Her art is in the non-traditional form – making mincemeat of the reputation of her husband and the children is her forte. She has recorded more than two dozen cassettes over the years and on very special occasions like her kitty party, or a gathering of ladies on someone’s birthday, when the discussion inevitably veers towards husband-bashing, she plays the cassettes with great gusto. She is extremely popular in her group of friends for the quality and variety of her cassettes.
In the early days of our marriage her favorite topic was her singular bad luck in marrying a mere lecturer, when there were proposals from bank officers, police officers, engineers and many other worthies. But because her father is an honest good-for-nothing government official, he couldn’t arrange dowry and Manjari had to marry a mere lecturer, another good-for-nothing man. While narrating this heart-breaking tragedy, her voice assumes the pathos of the melancholic singer Mukesh, her crying tone reverberates with the thin sepulchral echo of a Lata Mangeshkar song, capable of melting the listener’s heart into tears.
With age and time, Manjari’s talent has scaled new heights of excellence. The variety and range of themes in her more than two dozen cassettes are amazing:
- Husband’s useless job (‘Is it a job or a joke’?)
- The laughable salary of a lecturer (‘Can’t meet both ends, leaving them loose all the time!’)
- Her good-for-nothing father should have arranged enough dowry for a better husband for her (‘Not as if the President of India gave him a Padma Bhusan for honesty!’)
- Kids’ incessant tantrums (‘Offspring of a worthless monkey can only be useless monkeys!’)
- Not even one servant at home (‘Can’t remember a day without a peon or a cook at my parent’s place!’)
- No decent furniture at home (‘Can’t invite even the poorest of the neighbors, even their furniture is better than ours!’)
- The good-for-nothing husband joking with students all the time (‘That’s why they call him sir, but treat him as yaar!’)
- Kids playing all the time (‘Time and tide wait for none!’)
- The useless kids listening to old songs all the time, like the useless father (‘God knows what honey drips from those voices – the drunkard Saigal, the pathetic Mukesh, the vague Hemant Kumar, the maniac Kishore Kumar and his victim Lata Mangeshkar in agony!’)
Ranjit, our son, and Anjana, the daughter, have been brought up on the rich diet of their mother’s cassettes and my limitless love for them. Despite all the scolding and taunts of Manjari, they have unstinted loyalty for her, fighting many times with their friends to claim that no one in the world can make better chicken chowmein and prawn curry than her!
And their love for me? They think I am their heart-throb, although they can’t say that openly in Manjari’s presence, for fear of inducing her to make another cassette! Anjana fights with me all the time for small things, she calls it her entertainment! If Manjari scolds her for that, she shuts her up – “If I don’t fight with my Papa, do I go to your place to fight with your Papa?” Before going for her exam, she would say, “Hey Papa, the teacher says we should touch the feet of our parents before leaving for exams, So raise your feet, you don’t expect me to bend to touch your feet, do you?”
Ranjit left for the hostel at IIT Kharagpur after finishing his high school. When he came home for his first vacation, Manjari asked him, “So, did you miss my cooking in the hostel?” Ranjit stunned her with “Mummy, of course I missed your mouth-watering dishes, but you know what? I missed your cassettes more than your cooking!” We guessed Manjari was awfully pleased with the compliment, but we had no guts to ask her! We have always been scared of her instant cassette-making abilities!
Actually, she has the potential to produce one astounding cassette with assured commercial success. We hadn’t thought of it till Ranjit brought it to our notice during thetrip home in his third year of college.
Manjari is famous in our family and circle of relatives for an amazing quality – her instinctive fear of thieves and burglars. In the first few days of our marriage I had become familiar with this phobia. It was triggered by a minor incident of two burglars entering the compound of our house on a summer night.
Alerted by a small noise Manjari got up and within an instant came into her elements. In a voice that would have made a foghorn proud, she ran to the window shouting, “Hey, who is there? WHO IS THERE? Wait, wait, why are you running away? I am coming with a knife for you! You rascal? You think there is no man in the house? Look at me! Don’t run away!” It went on for a full fifteen minutes, long after the burglars must have run away from our compound and probably from the town itself! The only tangible benefit of the episode was Manjari announcing loud and clear who the man of the house was!
After that night of the runaway burglars, there was a dramatic change in our life. It became a daily habit with Manjari to get up at different hours of the night and start screaming in a ghastly voice, trying to drive away all human, non-human, super-human intruders from our compound. We might have seen one or two shadows against our window in the past many years, but terrified by her screams, they never took human form. However, thanks to her abnormal nocturnal behaviour, no shadow of a guest fell on our home. I was particularly happy to be rid of her brother Mukund, who had developed this annoying habit of coming to stay for the weekends, invading our intimate privacy so ardently coveted by a newly married couple!
It was Ranjit who gave us the brilliant idea that Manjari’s resounding screams can be recorded in DVDs and can be sold to every single home in the country. All over India people will start playing the disks after midnight for six hours and scare the poor burglars away. It will become a daily habit in every household, similar to putting the mosquito-repellent smoke emitters like Good Knight or Allout. And lo and behold, thieves, burglars, and peeps will take retirement from their profession to render voluntary labour in the villages!
Anjana added an absolutely smashing suggestion. Apart from translating the DVD into Punjabi, Tamil, Telugu, Gujarati, Marathi and all other Indian languages, we can even claim an international copyright and put it in the world market with an English, Latin, French and Arabic version and earn millions of dollars!
Buoyed by this wonderful prospect, I kept smiling sweetly like a benign drunk, but Ranjit and Anjana started dancing like a pair of deranged monkeys. To our utter amazement, Manjari nixed the idea – “My cassettes are not for sale! Forget it and keep quiet. Don’t behave like delirious juveniles and stop imitating your father!” It stopped the kids in their tracks. I opened my mouth to protest that I was not behaving like a juvenile, let alone a delirious juvenile, but for fear of provoking another cassette I kept quiet.
Our daughter Anjana got married a year ago and moved to a far-off town. Every night she calls on her mobile phone and chats with her mother for at least half an hour, twenty nine minutes of which will be Manjari’s complaint against me, my poor income, the uselessness of the work I am doing, her lack of friends (Cassette number five – “how can I invite anyone home, I don’t even have a decent set of furniture!), Anjana listens quietly and asks her mother to hand over the phone to me.
“Papa, everything seems to be normal! The day Mummy stops playing her cassettes, there will be a catastrophe and the world will come to an end. And personally, I will have a sleepless night, tossing on the bed, worrying what form the catastrophe will take! Go to sleep Papa, you are in safe hands!”
Over the past thirty one years of marriage, I have climbed the professional ladder, moving from a lecturer to a reader, and then to a professor. And four years back I came to Delhi to join the National Council of Educational Research and Training as its Associate Director. But two things have not changed in my life - my financial condition has remained stable, but not very inspiring to meet Manjari’s high standards, and second, the ever-present harangue from her cassettes! I have accepted both as a part of my existence and moved on with life.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today on the way back to Delhi from Shaharanpur after attending a meeting at the Glocal University there, my car ditched me in the most inappropriate manner. A hot June afternoon on a simmering highway is certainly not the ideal way for a car to announce its advancing age, its bronchial disorder, rheumatism or arthritis. I stood leaning on the car, a water bottle in hand, sweating profusely from Manjari’s scorching words, from the fire falling like blistering showers from the sky and the heat radiating from the road. A few Hondas, Toyotas and Nissans passed by dazzlingly, like kimono-clad Japanese geishas, but no one had time for the poor Fiat, no one stopped.
An old man passed by riding a bicycle, face and head covered with a white towel, his dress drenched with sweat. He peered at me and Manjari and stopped.
“Babuji Namaskar! What are you doing here?” He asked in Hindi.
Manjari whispered from inside the car, “Ignore him. Looks like a highway robber!” I wondered at the man’s manner of familiarity, as if he knew us. Why did he stop after looking at us? Does he know us? Who is he? I don’t remember him from anywhere!
“The car has suddenly stalled. Is there a workshop nearby?”
The man shook his head,
“Nothing for sixteen kilometers ahead of you and you have left Shahranpur twelve kilometers back. What’s wrong with the car?”
“No idea, it’s an old car.”
Manjari’s angry whispers again, “Don’t talk to him so much, he is trying to befriend you and then he will attack us!” I didn’t like Manjari’s approach, but, as usual, kept quiet.
“Don’t worry Babuji, both of you come with me to my house. My son Ramdin works as a mechanic at the garage in the government agricultural depot. He will return home by four. I will send him to look at your car and if it’s a minor problem, he will fix it and bring the car home.”
Manjari’s furious whispers became embarrassingly loud.
“Don’t listen to him. The old man will kill us and his son will sell away the car
for ten thousand rupees. Just get into the car and lock the door.”
The old man must have guessed the meaning of what she was saying to me in Oriya. His face was covered, only his eyes and mouth were visible. I thought I saw a faint glimmer of an apologetic smile. He shook his head,
“Babuji, Memsaab, please don’t worry. I am not a thief, nor a robber. I am from a
decent family. Trust me”
I somehow felt that I had heard these words sometime, somewhere in the past. But I could not recollect when or where. Our reluctance to go with him was palpable. The old man was insistent.
“Please come home with me. It’s not safe to be inside the car any longer. You will get dehydrated. Look at the hot wind, it can melt even the telephone poles. Please come. My wife will be very happy to see both of you.”
We realized we had no option. We were beginning to feel a bit breathless and nauseous. We started walking with him. His house was about a half kilometer away, after a turn from the highway. He told us his name was Brijgopal and his wife was Ramdulari.
We felt the heat was sapping our energy and by the time we reached his home we were thankful that for some time we would have a shelter over our head.
The old man hollered at his wife, “Arrey, Ramdulari, wake up! See, Babuji and Memsaab at our doorstep! You won’t believe your eyes!”
We looked at each other. Who are these two? How are they referring to us with so much familiarity? I could see that Manjari’s distrust of the person still lingered, but she had surrendered herself to whatever fate awaited us.
A lady came out of the house. Looking at her soft face with light wrinkles, I felt that she looked vaguely familiar, a blur from the past, but memory eluded me. She looked at us, bowed her head and touched our feet. Her face beamed with overflowing joy. She took us inside. The room was dark, an overhead fan was providing cool air, coming like a gust of relief from heaven. We sat on the bed, she switched on the light.
Brijgopal had gone inside to wash his face. He came in without the towel on his face and when I saw him along with Ramdulari, recognition came in a flash. I suddenly remembered where I had seen them. From my smile he could realize that I knew who they were. He folded his hands,
“Babuji, you remember that cold evening in Delhi? You may not believe how many times we have prayed to God to bless your family and to give us an opportunity to serve you in whatever way we can. God is merciful and today he has brought you to our humble door step.”
I looked at Manjari. She still looked bewildered. Brijgopal asked Ramdulari to make some lassi for us. When I asked her not to take the trouble, he felt hurt,
“Please Babuji, don’t say like that. We got a new lease of life that evening thanks to you and Memsaab. If you had not helped us, both of us would have died in some street corner in the freezing cold of Delhi.”
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
The memory of that evening came back to me. It was the middle of January, three and half years ago. Manjari and I had gone to New Delhi railway station to see off her brother Mukund’s wife who was leaving for Bhubaneswar. We came out of the station and got into the car. I turned on the ignition and was about to leave when I found an old man tapping the window of the car. Manjari screamed at me,
“Lock the door and let’s leave. The old man will take out a knife now and ask for money.”
The man didn’t take out a knife, nor did he threaten me. He folded his hands and said,
“Babuji, please help me. I lost all my money to a pick-pocket. I must go back to my village tonight. My son is at home, looking after the house and the cattle. If he doesn’t report for work tomorrow morning, he will lose his job.”
Manjari looked mad with rage,
“See, I told you. The same old trick. The usual story of a pocket getting picked and asking for money. Let’s leave. He looks dangerous”
She was screaming in Oriya. The man probably guessed her anger. He again folded his hands and implored,
“Please trust us. We are not thieves, nor robbers. We are not beggars, we are a decent family. See, my wife is standing there. I have really lost all my money to a pick-pocket. Please help us. God will bless you and your children.”
I looked at his wife. She was standing about fifteen feet away, head covered, a
cloth bag in her hand. She looked rustic, but there was a quiet dignity in her, a helpless pride, fear writ large on her face, caused by the misgivings of an unknown city, and the uncertainty of what was going to happen. I made up my mind to help them.
“Where are you going? How much is the ticket?”
“Babuji, we have to buy the ticket upto Shahranpur. It will be 175 rupees per person.”
Manjari went ballistic.
“What, are you crazy? You are really going to give money to these cheats? Can’t you see they are taking you for a ride?”
I ignored Manjari, took out four hundred rupee notes from my wallet and gave it to the old man.
“Take this money, buy your tickets for three hundred fifty rupees and take some food before boarding the train.”
The old man could not believe his eyes and almost burst into tears. The lady came
forward. Both of them stood with folded hands, bowed their heads and thanked us from the depth of their heart,
“Babuji, Memsaab, may God bless you and your children with abundant love. You have saved our lives tonight.”
They wanted to say more, but sensing Manjari’s unabating anger, they bowed their head and left.
Manjari burst like a cloud of rains.
“What an insensible idiot you are! Do we pluck money from the trees that we waste it like this? If you felt pity on them, you could have given them twenty-thirty rupees. How could you throw away four hundred rupees? When will you learn to be smart?”
I was upset with her. While driving out of the parking lot I told her,
“Manjari, they are not beggars to go and beg for twenty-thirty rupees from dozens of people. They are in real trouble. You must learn to believe someone sometime in life. They certainly didn’t look like thieves or cheats. If we help someone in trouble, God will help us.”
“Don’t give me that nonsense. I have been doing regular prayers and observing so many fasts for the last twenty four years. What has God given me, except penury and misery? I don’t have money to even buy a decent set of furniture. And you waste money like this!’
“Manjari, don’t say that. Your prayers and God’s blessings have given us two precious kids, perhaps the best kids in the world. What more do we want?”
Manjari didn’t relent. Throughout the way she kept on scolding me, finding a
hundred faults with me and with her life. When we reached home, she poured out her heart to Anjana, about my stupidity, my fallibility for tricks of the cheats, about her sufferings in life at the hands of a good-for-nothing husband. Anjana came to my defense,
“Mummy, Papa doesn’t make mistakes in his judgment of people. Don’t worry. It’s just four hundred rupees. Forget it.”
Manjari accused her of taking sides with me and went inside the bedroom and
shut the door. Anjana looked at me and said, “Papa, cassette number twenty-two?”
I nodded in meek helplessness and kept quiet.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
After three and half years, the memory of that evening came alive. We had not imagined that we would ever meet the old couple again. Fate had brought us together. We drank the lassi and kept chatting, asking them about the village life, their home, the vegetable garden and the cattle. Their son Ramdin came around four, touched our feet and went away taking the keys of the car from us.
Brijgopal brought us back to the memory of that evening again. It looked like he still couldn’t believe that we were with him in flesh and blood. A bit overwhelmed, he continued,
“You know Babuji, that night when we were returning by train, Ramdulari kept pulling me up, ‘Why did you take so much money from Babuji? Didn’t you see how Memsaab was upset with him? For our sake Babuji had to bear with so much scolding!’ But I was not convinced. I told her, ‘No Ramdulari, Memsaab didn’t look like a mean person. There are some people who are harsh with their words, but have a soft, sweet heart. Didn’t you see there was a rare glow on her face? Such glow can come only from a clean, flawless heart. She must be from a very good family. And Babuji has lived with her for so many years. He must be familiar with her heart of gold. Otherwise how could he give us four hundred rupees, when I was expecting only ten or twenty rupees from him? Such generosity can come only from great persons. Good men like Babuji can’t live in isolation. He and Memsaab must be a great couple, made for each other.”
Hearing this Manjari looked at me and lowered her head. We spent a few more
minutes at the home of Brijgopal and Ramdulari. It seems the problem with the car was very minor. Ramdin fixed it quickly and brought the car home. After thanking them profusely, we left for Delhi. On the way Manjari sat motionless in the car, lost in thought. I tried to cheer her up by cracking a joke or two, but she was unmoved.
We reached Delhi around nine and after a light dinner went off to sleep. Shortly after midnight I suddenly woke up. Manjari was not in her bed. I went out to look for her. The light in the living room was on. Manjari was sitting on the sofa, under the fan, lost in thought.
She had not seen me coming.
“What happened? Why did you get up?” I asked her.
Manjari looked up and rising slowly, she came near me, her eyes locked with mine.
“For the past twenty eight years you have been hearing my cassettes, so many of them! Just in one night today, I took out all the tapes from the cassettes, tore them to pieces and threw them away. From tomorrow you and the kids will not hear them again.”
I looked deeply into her eyes. They were filled with an incredible peace, like the
still, blue waters of a deep ocean. I put my arms around her and locked her in a soft, loving embrace. She rested her head on my shoulder. Slowly my shirt got drenched with her tears.
(Note : This story had earlier appeared in the twenty seventh edition of LiteraryVibes dated 02-08-2019)
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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