LiteraryVibes - 3rd Edition - 15-Feb-2019
Friends, starting with the fourth issue of Literary Vibes on 22nd February, I am proposing to introduce a Reminiscences Series. We will begin with the memories of childhood, going on to adolescence, the school and the teachers, the college and the professors, our first job, the first salary, the first mega purchase, the first trip abroad, the first love and the first heartbreak, the first house, the first fight, the first serious lie......the list has many wonderful possibilities. I am sure this will offer an interesting, kaleidoscopic picture of the times, the places and the people we have been associated with.
Today's write up on my Childhood Memories is a curtain raiser for the series. I invite the readers to send their own account of the memories of childhood. Depending on the response we will continue the childhood series for two to three issues and then move on to memories of adolescence.
Any suggestions on this are most welcome in my email at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
Thanks and Happy Reading,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
NIRBHAYAA
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Flashbacks to passing
lollypops and crayons,
breaking rules with guilty abandon,
the kicks of secret little funs,
hidden splotches of maiden blood,
just short of ifs and buts, not profane;
clean slate versus animal mind,
heart on a guileless platter,
Koh-i-Noor bartered for glass beads,
poison guised as a draught of nectar,
sleeping with the messiah-feel-alike,
sweet deceits;
recalling festive twinkles,
the festoons hung on toffee trees,
love’s spangles
filling the sky -
hosanna to the heart’s god;
pint of a heart containing the cosmos -
eyes wide open, she still clutches
her dreams in her tight arms,
despite her slit throat,
charred hair. A young sneer
is pasted on defiant torn lips,
a huge raw gash between thighs.
(Unpublished)
IN ORISSA
Prabhanjan K. Mishra:
The spring’s last days
are in my neighbourhood.
Light preens among new leaves.
Wind drunk with bird songs,
deep into the night dry leaves scurry
like memory. The moon
arrives a little later every day -
paler, leaner, but lovelier.
Peasants dream of the jade-green crop,
the silvery fish, and of ploughshares
sighing on soft mud.
But the dwindling nights suffocate,
the mute trees thirst,
sweat breaks out signaling a ruthless summer.
Scrawny men pull rickshaws
on rickety roads;
their labored breath grunts in empty stomachs,
tired legs weep for reprieve,
but their taciturn backs know
bread comes from crushed bones.
In slums women sell themselves.
Sullen kerosene lamps
dangle from posts
outside their huts;
their flames jerk like necks
in the hangman’s noose.
The spring looms in my guilt.
(From his collection VIGIL, Rupa & Co., 1993, ISBN 81-7167-118-7)
THE MYSTERY OF NEHRU’S RED ROSE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra.
India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s dress sense was never complete without a fresh red rose stuck to his jacket. His admirers called it his sartorial elegance. His critics, however, had pungent tongue-in-cheek words: ‘When free India is struggling with its empty coffers inherited from her colonial rulers and trying to keep her tryst with destiny (Nehru’s own words), how can this dress freak wear a red rose on his lapel every day (sic)?’
Was Nehru a sartorial freak or was he having an elegant dress sense?
But his rose was not for either of the reasons. What was the mystery behind it, then?
The fresh rose stood for the love, the conjugal love Jawaharlal shared with his wife Kamala for nineteen years before she passed away in 1936 at the age of 36 afflicted by the then incurable disease Tuberculosis. At 46, young Jawaharlal was heartbroken and he sought his beloved wife in a fresh red rose that was a symbol, a motif, and a metaphor for their shared love when she had been alive. The rose that sat there whole day, every day on his jacket close to his beating heart made him feel her presence and the warmth of her love.
Even the greatest of humans, the strongest of them, have a thing in common, a heart that beats for the loved ones.
(Courtesy: a news item reported in page 5 of Free Press Journal Dt.08.02.2019.)
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.
POET
Ajay Upadhyaya
Poets
have no claim to
secret meaning
of words.
But
can feel their weight
by their position
and play.
Words come
free and floating,
ready to be plucked
and put in
their place.
The place may not
sound right
at first,
But
takes you
to the proper plane
at the end.
Feelings latch on to them,
like a child’s kite
stuck on a twig of a tree.
Waiting for a gentle tug
and unite with the child
sitting forlorn
under the tree.
Like joining
the emotion
with the words.
Poetry is
to catch a glimpse of
that delight
on his face!
Ajay Upadhyaya
8 February 2019
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England, a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Notes from the prison
Hrishidev S. Nair
I’m abandoned in this dark room
Of stones
What justice is this
why am I punished?
For I critisized them move
of Anarchy.
There is no justice
Justice, he is not blind
He has eyes of injustice
And has an un-forgiving
Heart.
Justice is long gone
Injustice is prevailing
I have been killed
In this dark ghostly
prison
They throw me into the water
They bury me in the ice
They tear my flesh
'Cause they think I’m
A spy.
Well tomorrow I’m
Going to the world of god
Or the world of demons
But nothing bothers me
Only thing is my dead family
tomorrow I’ll be with them.
I’ll be shot down
But one day, truth shall come
Wisdom, oh wisdom
You teach these men
And leave them who are
The bricks of wisdom
Only few are those bricks
And bricks are slowly
Breaking.
Breaking
Breaking
These words are not of
A mad man.
But of a man who is
Living only till tomorrow
The snow will absorb
My blood.
And the snow will
Take my body
The snow doesn’t know anything
But has feelings.
Though it can’t act
It has feelings.
And now all are like
Snow!
Like snow!
I’m a man who knows to
Live without fear
I know when I came to this
Worst earth
And now I know when I’ll
Bite the worst earth.
On reading this, don’t
Act.
Because you will have the same
Situation.
Hrishidev S. Nair started his literary endeavour at the tender age of ten. He studies in Pathanamthitta Public School, Oonnukal. He has an anthology which contains 23 poems under the title 'A Fable of Love’. His parents Mr. Sajayan Omalloor and Mrs. Kavitha Krishna (both are teachers) and his little sister Gowriparvathy are justifiably proud of his amazing talent.
I'm sleepy, night...
Ananya Priyadarshini
I stood beneath the shower
Till all that bothered me
Washed off my skin
Changed into my comfortable self
From the tough one I'd been
Popped the pills, this time into the bin
Anxiety and depression, too jumped in
Opened the window
To breathe in hours of leisure
A butterfly and a moth
A dream and a nightmare
Flew out together
Mails and deadlines shall wait
Ideas and plans, tomorrow's your date
Took my slippers and specs off
And to put the alarm clock to off,
Oh! I forgot
Tucked a tired body in blanket
And specs in case
And now, I'm finally off the race
Tonight I shall sleep
Trying to recall
When I had last slept
Just, slept
*The 'Bad' families*
Ananya Priyadarshini
The families that stay in the quarters next to mine are all *bad* families. The families that stay next to them also call them the same and it's not just me who does so.
We often hear noises of flying utensils hitting human flesh and then falling on to the ground from one of these bad families. But no cries are ever heard. May be, just like hundreds, thousands, lakhs and crores of other women who reside all across the globe, the woman is so accustomed to being abused that she doesn't bother to cry anymore.
In another family, the woman never stays at home. She goes to work and the husband is often seen drying laundries in the sun or shopping groceries for the kitchen. God alone save such mismanaged household!
In the third family, the daughter eloped with a boy who belongs to a different community amidst the preparations going on for her wedding with a groom arranged by her overtly conservative family from their own community few years back. I got to hear last week that her parents have, however, forgiven her and are in good terms with her in-laws as of now.
In the fourth family, their son is an absolutely shameless creature. No, you're getting me wrong. Let alone Eve teasing, he's never looked at any girl in her eyes. Rather, there are stories of him respecting and helping women in hard times, doing rounds in the regular gossip sessions. But he's gay. And he's 'so very gay', that he dances! I mean yes, he dances for money. Bloody characterless.
Let me save you some googling and clarify that there's no such expression as 'so very gay'. Also that, I'm not stupid to use it and that, it was indeed a satire.
Also that, in the first family it's the wife who beats her husband, regularly. But the society that sticks to 'men don't cry' norm won't try to find out why his cries ain't heard from the house after those abuse sessions.
In the second house the husband is a designer and works from home. Hence he manages majority of the household chores since the wife has to appear at her office everyday. The working couple is all happy about it.
In the third 'conservative' family the groom arranged by the girl's parents was a renowned drunkard and gambler. Hence the girl chose to risk her love marriage instead. And her family too embraced her and her husband after they heard the news of the arranged-groom having been jailed for some misdeeds.
Lastly, the Son in the fourth family is pursuing his career as a professional dancer. He has mastered several dance forms and earns quite well from the shows that he performs in. He might be gay and that doesn't make him bad. If you think it does, he isn't going to lend you his mind anyway.
Nobody knows these facts about these 'bad' families. Negligence is bliss. Let's play victims to our own lack of knowledge and keep calling them 'bad' because that's the most convenient thing to do.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017.
VIRTUOUS CONTRADICTIONS
Dr. Dambaru Dhar Patnaik
In Hegelian philosophy – so also in Sankhya – contradiction is not necessarily negative; rather construed with creativity and hence in consonance with positivevibe.
There are certain outstanding personages in whom we find some kind of apparent contradictions in themselves. It is contradiction in the sense that we hardly appreciate the unconventional happenings in life. We take up the case of Annie Besant (1847-1933) as illustration.
- Annie Besant got married to a vicar of evangelical Anglican Church where she also served as servitor. But after lapse of only six years she took serious exception to this faith and practice. She became agnostic plunging in National Secular activism and associating with Marxist pronged Social Democratic Party.
- We hasten to believe at common parlance, from Indian perspective, that marriage is sacrosanct; but Annie Besant got insulated from her husband after six years of marriage.
- Annie Besant suddenly became a spiritualist in 1890 shifting from materialism when she met Madam Blavatsky.
- Though a typical Irish-British Besant supplemented the cause of Vedanta in Parliament of Religions held at Chicago in 1893.
- People take up sainthood (sanyas) usually at early age. But Besant, at the middle age of 46, renounced family life when her son and daughter were young.
- Another striking contradiction is that Besant though held the position of International President of Theosophical Society from 1907 till her demise in 1933, she championed the cause of Indian nationalism.
- Though Annie Besant was Irish English she heralded the cause of Indian Home Rule movement since 1913; and as such she was the first white to be imprisoned for anti-colonial struggle in 1917, and also the first white to preside over Indian National Congress same year.
- Though Besant was white she was critical of the European social fabric and rather she eulogised age-old Indian cultural heritage .(Refer her book “Eastern Caste and Western Caste, and New Civilisation)
- Besant dubbed the “mushroom civilisation of the West” and “hybrid and sterile ideals of the anglicised Indianism” and buttressed Indian culture and classical literature by massive writings (eg., Sanatanaa Dharma, Bhagvat Geeta etc.).
- Besant, albeit part of British stock in term of race, spurned Macaulayen educational intrigue and instead promoted National Education by establishing myriad educational institutions including the Hindu School at Kashi in 1898 which later became a College and merged with Banaras Hindu University in 1916.
- Though Besant internalised the Hindu way of life (eg., use of ‘rudraksha’ necklace and recitation of ‘Shiva Stuti’ at the preceding her lectures) she did not formally converted to Hinduism and even changed her name as the converted saints do.
One point must be clarified that often some perception seems to be contradictory while it is not so. For instance, Hindu nationalism and internationalism are not compatible. But in perusal, unlike western worldview, Hindu nationalism upholds humanism and universalism. It depends on one’s comprehension.
Contradictions are very often positive and constructive, and Besant’s life smacks of this virtue. If holistic objective is commendable, whatever course of action might be taken up to reach the genuine end. She emerged as a veritable iconoclast of her time benefiting not only India but the entire wavelength of humanity. She did not bother for reaction of the vested interests and myopic vision so much so that her objective was swayed by noble mission.
Dr. D. D. Pattanaik, M.A.(Utkal) Ph.D.,D.Litt.(Sambalpur).
Member, Governing Council, Indian Council of Social Science Research
Former Senior Fellow, ICSSR
Former Associate Fellow, Indian Institute of Advanced Study
Author, Guide, Columnist on Cultural Nationalism
Retd. Associate Professor, Political Science cum Principal, Govt. Aided College
Lessons of Life
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
The Sun glared into my eyes
The breeze kissed me
The dew drops dazzled set as pearl
Solitary draped me
The thoughts of my childhood flashbacks
Lessons of Nature taught by my father
The efficiency of 'Nature' to sustain so many lives
The strength of the ultimate source 'Sun' to remain eternally
The dew drops to give life to greenery and add to the 'Water Cycle'
The soil to protect the fertility of Land
Those were the days when I learnt my first lessons of Science in sync with 'Nature'
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her family
Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
A Moment of Reckoning
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
It took just a few moments to snuff out a life,
A shattering clash, a few screams
And some broken dreams,
It happened in a blinding flash!
At the dividing moment between life and death,
He wondered Why was he haggling for a few rupees with the shopkeeper,
Was it really worth saving a few coins
From the old lady selling raw chillies and fresh greens.
Why was it necessary to cast those lustful glances
At the young girl in the tight yellow dress, making her blush!
Nothing matters at the end,
The money, the coins,
The glance and the blush.
The dreams end as the curtains fall.
THE ETERNAL BELOVED - CUTTACK FROM MY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I was born, as Bishnu Kumar Sarangi, at Cuttack in 1953, a non-descript year by all historical accounts. Cuttack in those days used to be the biggest town of Orissa, though in a few years the newly built capital at Bhubaneswar outpaced it in every respect, except in the typical spirit of camaraderie Cuttack residents are proud of. Having spent the first nineteen years of my life in Cuttack, the cute little town, surrounded by the rippling waters of Mahanadi on one side and Kathjodi on the other, remains embedded in my heart. Its cacophonic bazaars, sprawling green maidans, tree-lined streets and vibrant community life keeps the image alive in me of an ever-young, ageless beloved who welcomes me in an adorable embrace every time I return to visit her.
The earliest memory of my childhood is the fullness of the house where my parents used to live with us, seven children, and an endless stream of guests who used to come from our nearby village mostly for medical treatment. It was a government house. My father, a police officer, stayed in that house for sixteen years till his retirement in 1968. Although it had two large rooms and a separate visitor's room at the front entrance, almost all the space was used as sleeping quarters. A huge verandah cascading into an even bigger courtyard served as the dining space cum gossip centre. The courtyard was the most coveted place in summer for spreading the bed and sleeping in the open waiting for sporadic breaths of air from the stifling sky. Hand-held fans made of palm leaf were hardly adequate to produce the required degree of coolness, but one would eventually go off to sleep with the palm leaf fan slipping noiselessly from the tired hands. Morning sun, hot and burning even by six o clock would wake us up and made us scurry into the cooler shelter of the verandah. Electricity was still in the wombs of the future, a few years away.
In late fifties and early sixties the whole of Cuttack had only half a dozen cars and may be around fifty scooters. Bicycles were relatively larger in number and cycle rickshaws were the only means of aided transport available. We used to walk everywhere, to the school, the river, the markets and the playground. With at least half a dozen children available in every home, there was no restriction on our movement. One could leave home at any time and return at will, enter any neighbour's house and gladly eat whatever was offered. Parents would worry only if a child doesn't report back by evening.
On one such evening, when I was a four years old brat, my parents and brothers panicked as I didn't return home. Everyone remembered me leaving home around noon, going for a stroll (!) but no one had seen me after that. My father and brothers fanned out in different directions, all neighbours were enquired, some of them joined the search and when I could not be located, they were sure that I had strayed somewhere and might have been kidnapped. My mother started crying and my father had no words to console her.
Somehow before it became completely dark, I walked down the long grassy path of the colony and came home. Needless to say, my parents were overwhelmed with joy and relief. No one knew where I had gone, I myself had no clue. Out of great relief my father announced grandly, "Bishnu Kumar, today you have conquered death. From now on you will be known as Mrutyunjay".
When I was told this story in later years by my father I didn't believe him. But he had proof. He asked me, "do you know why your pet name is Biku?". I had no idea. He explained, "your eldest brother had derived this from the initials of your original name - Bishnu Kumar Sarangi - BKS - Bikesh - Biku! And from the day you were lost and found I named you as Mrutyunjay, the conqueror of death." The name has stuck ever since.
Those who knew me in my school and college days will find it hard to believe that till about six and a half years of age I was a big "Paath Chor" - someone who runs away from school and the very mention of studies arouses the caveman in him! My father tried his best to take me to school, but I would always find some excuse to run away. Sometimes the plea of an inescapable urge to go to toilet, sometimes a head ache and at other times a clever distraction by me made my father loosen his grip on my hand and I used to disappear into nameless hiding places till the evening. When the cows came home, I also did so, cautiously and stealthily, to escape my father's beating and mother's scolding. After repeated failures my father beat me black and blue one day and announced that he would never try again to take me to school and as soon as I am able to work he would put me as a helper in the bicycle repair shop in the market. I happily looked forward to the prospect of becoming a bicycle mechanic in due course.
I don't remember what made me change my mind, but one day I started going to school at the Baxi Bazar Police Line. A young teacher who had newly joined the school miraculously found some merit in me and put me in the second grade in the middle of the year. He also coached me for the district level scholarship exam for the third grade next year. Another miracle, I won a scholarship of three rupees a month and never looked back after that.
For the fourth and fifth year I had to shift to another school at Machhua Bazar, half a kilometre away. But the walk was adventurous, through a busy market and a narrow lane dotted with houses on both the sides. It was interesting to see old people playing cards, grand mothers giggling with small kids and women quarrelling at the top of their voices. I remember some of the most colourful expressions in Odiya - both printable and unprintable- were acquired by me during those pleasantly formative two years and have remained with me, always eager to come out on apprpopriate occasions.
As children we had household duties assigned to us. Although electricity supply was given for street lights in Cuttack around 1963 or so, domestic connections came only in 1964. Till that time we had to depend upon kerosene lamps and lanterns. Somehow it fell upon me to shoulder the responsibility of cleaning up the glasses of the lamps and the lanterns. After I was around eight years old, I also had to walk to the Baxi Bazar market half a kilometre away to buy vegetables, fish and mutton twice a week. Fish was available for one rupee and mutton for six rupees a kilo. I somehow remember we never had chicken in our early childhood. The first time we had chicken and eggs at home was around 1966 or so, when one of our cousin brothers, a Veterinary officer, came to stay at our house for a couple of days. He had brought chicken and eggs with him which my mother refused to cook in the regular kitchen. They had to be cooked in a special chullah in the courtyard. I also remember once my fingers almost got chopped off in the mutton shop in the market when I tried to push the mutton to the centre of the cutting log when keema was being made. The butcher got so angry that he threw some hitherto unknown expletives at me and I had to ask my more accomplished friends in the school the meaning of those bombshells!
Toffees, which were euphemistically called lemonchush, ice creams and lassies were the stuff of our dreams and we had to work hard to get the money for them. Somehow all my elder brothers and most of the visiting cousins had this near hysterical weakness for body massage which essentially consisted of me or my younger brother walking over their prone bodies, stamping our feet on their back or even doing stationary jogging on their legs and outstretched hands. The reward was a princely sum of one anna and sometimes two annas if it was just after their payday. With that fortune in hand we used to run for the icecream, usually the stick variety. In our limited vision we used to think licking an icecream stick was the ultimate pleasure God has granted to humans! We had an icecream factory near our house. Seeing the ice cream being made and drawing the sticks out of the mould was a lifetime experience! One had to save for a few days to have a go at the lassi but it was so unbelievably delicious that the pleasure was worth the wait.
Cuttack of my childhood days was a place of dreams - the dim lights of the streets, the colourful shops with their varied wares, the football matches in the Police line ground, the occasional film shown in the maidan, the playing of the police band, the lawns, flowers, in the big IG's office - all this wove a magic which kept our minds floating in a gentle dream of mild euphoria. Walking down the streets without any fear of getting trampled gave the feeling as if we owned the streets and everything else of Cuttack. There was no fear in our minds. We loved Cuttack and Cuttack loved us in return, making us feel safe, wanted and helping us grow.
The nearby Amareswar temple in the main road, a mere hundred meters away from our home offered endless excitement with melas, kirtans and bhajans. The evening Aarti and the morning prasad - everything drew us to the temple like a magnet. On the mela days dozens of shops used to spring up selling innumerable goodies, from animal shaped sugar candies to balloons and toy pistols. A small sum (probably eight annas) was given to us as mela expense and we ran to the Mela like an Arab Sheikh out to buy a Mediterranean island! When I was eight (or nine?) years old our neighbour aunty spotted me in the temple and entrusted her seven year old daughter to me asking me to hold her hand while the aunty goes and finishes her darshan. Being a hopeless, congenital sucker even at that tender age, I fell for the girl's charms and spent my entire mela fortune on her, buying ribbons, candies and hair clips. And when the mother came to fetch her, la belle dame sans merci left without even a glance at me, let alone a smile!
I left Cuttack in 1972 for post-graduate studies in Bhubaneswar. I have not gone back to Cuttack to live there again. But Cuttack has never left me, not even for a day. Wherever I see dim street lights creating an enticing mixture of half light and half darkness, Cuttack comes to my mind. When I walk under a canopy of trees lining the streets, Cuttack nudges me to remind me of Cantonment Road and often in my dream I see the temples, the fairs, the lantern-lit shops, and the loud banging of cymbals and dholaks.
I imagine the dawn in Cuttack would still be opening up a clear blue sky with the stars twinkling their smiling goodbyes, the evening sky would be dotted with colourful kites and the lighted bazaars would be coming alive every day, welcoming customers like smiling damsels. I often see these timeless scenes marching before my eyes in a silent procession and realise with an aching heart, the Cuttack of my childhood is an eternal beloved, unparalleled in beauty and charm.
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. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
Viewers Comments