Welcome to LiteraryVibes, 

Please contribute your poems, short stories, anecdotes, travelogues, memoirs and philosophical thoughts to LiteraryVibes. I will be happy to publish them in the Friday editions.

The childhood memory section is still open.

Happy Mahashivratri. 

Regards,

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

---

 

BARABATI*

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

A rampart, an unhinged venture

in the dustbin of history.

The people in shanties,

shapeless aged furniture.

The moat, improvised as a footpath.

At places, cricket pitches.

The mound of mud, as big as a hillock,

from this distance, the swollen belly

of a prostrate pregnant woman.

In her womb, the myth of a warrior nation

hatches dreams.

How long this confinement ,how big

the tiger embryo, how far fossilized?

Would it be stillborn?

 

Around this silent resilience

a city churns its daily wares in fast-forward.

A valley of ghosts reveals meaning

when you shut your senses –

barricade eyes, block the hearing,

bite the tongue into a pulp.

 

Not very far, the river kathjodi

purrs like a tabby cat

against her stone-wall-promise**,

never to enter the city

that lies beneath her bed

and cringes when she shifts.

(*The ruins of 14th Century Barabati fort on out-flank of Cuttack city. ** The stone revetment built by Oriyan king Markat Keshri in 1006 AD to prevent Kathjodi flooding Cuttack that lay below the level of riverbed. The poem appeared in the poet’s 3rd volume LITMUS, ISBN 81-7764-780-6)

---

 

BALARAMGADI*

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Take her later than midnight

when the breath is fresh,

the new catch;

flesh is soft and firm, and her hair

has the flavor of brine. The grit

from the rogue sand adds

unsuspected twist in the tale,

so goes a local cliché.

Ice awaits the time to be hardened,

freezing of the march of the rot.

The heat lies in crotch of the east,

a red-hot disc to hiss out of the bay

and split the dark that wears fire beetles.

 

Late afternoon, your rope-cot sags.

Your riverine partner arches

like a corpulent python.

The stench resembles

the gross and marshy flesh,

a carefree fish woman wafts around.

You sway and shift

leaving marks on the white sheet

as if expecting rishi Parashar

to change Matsygandha to Yojanagandha.

Before going to terrace

you leave behind the mistress,

transparent, and absent,

except her burps and sibilance

by the pier.

The sun is stretching your shadow

to east; bright red crabs

have come out to mate,

the mackerels hang to dry.

(*A fishing port at the confluence of river Budhaabalanga into Bay of Bengal very close to Chandipur, the present Indian Armed Force’s Proof and Experiment center for its weaponry testing. The poem got published in LITMUS)

                                                         

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.

 

---

 

Triad

Ms. Geetha Nair

 

        i

Fireflies that flame

To tantalize my eyes and hands,

My belljar hands cup them

Against my heart;

They burn warm red there,

Then break out through chinks in my armour;

My arms flail to gather them.

They shoot up;

A spell in the dark night sky

And turn

A stream of stars -

These letters that spell your name.

 

         ii,

This burning red, throbbing for you

Is not my heart, you say

 But just a red shoeflower

That grows along the way?

The stars I sent

Were not your name ?

My blurry-eyed love,

I know your game;

Shall I bring you sight ?

Make myself bright?

 

       iii

I am not all heart you know;

I shall pierce your three -strong force

With my twin rapiers of ire

And pin you so

Till you see my heart, my love,

And cry out loud

And melt in my leaping fire.

 

Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English,  settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature  for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems,  "SHORED FRAGMENTS " came out last month .

 

---

 

The Doctor and God

Sreekumar K

My feet, held by the surgeon, were open like an alphabet book in the hands of a child taking his first steps. 

He had discarded the left page and was staring at the right.

Now it was like an unusually big lump of clay in a sculptor's hand.

The hands glowed as if they were guarding a candle flame.

"I am opening this. Scared?"

"No."

"Why fear? I am right here, you know?"

"Yes, doctor."

"There won't be any pain. That was already blocked."

"Thanks."

"You can afford it, can't you?"

"I don't know."

"I know you can. Didn't you see someone signing the consent?"

"Yes."

"Who is that? Your brother?"

"Yes"

"And I heard everyone is out to help"

"Yes, yes."

"Good your brother had set aside some for his own medical emergency. He won't need it now. But, you may repay him."

"I can."

"I know all that."

"I was much apprehensive about the money."

"Why? Money should be the last of one's worries. Not even the last. You have been on the run, round the clock."

"Not exactly running. But stayed up late every night."

"Yes, that's what was meant. Racing with novels, PhD thesis, retail manual, flood reports, editing, translating..."

"Yes."

O, God, so well informed, I thought.

Sighs had made the room too humid.

Is mine the only mind that is happy?

The evil in me had darkened into a lump of rotting plasma under my foot and the doctor was scraping it all out.

"So, you have been to this house warming! Is that where you fancied so many people visiting you?"

"Yes."

"So silly! They are all coming now, in a procession. Enjoy!"

The Doctor started laughing. 

"Now that you are down, you may as well pick up a few lessons.

"Surely, I need those lessons.How perfectly you perform tasks!"

"Perfection is my synonym." 

"Sreekumar, it is over. I had to remove quite a lot." The doctor now sounded different. Or was I talking to someone else?

I tilted my head to look at his hands.  They still glowed.

"Sreekumar, why are you so quiet? Are you reticent by nature?"

"No, doctor, I am talkative."

"I thought you didn't like me. That is why I didn't say anything."

I put my head back and closed my eyes. 

There was no pain at all.

But my eyes were streaming with tears.

As I was being pushed out on a trolley, I lifted my head to take one  more look at his hands.

They were still glowing.

I put my palms together to greet.

Divi soorya sahasrasya

(The light of a thousand suns)

Inside and outside.

 

---

 

Anaconda

Sreekumar K

Coiled around 

Its own slimy self

An anaconda heaves away

Its hours inside my left foot

Prodded by the surgeon

Enticed by the nurses

Stared at by the attendants

Worshipped by the onlookers with bhakthi

It seems to revel in the attention it tongues

 

One hole to piss, shit, spit, drain the sweat and stench off and look out

Thick soft stuff wound all around

Enjoys its stay, thanking me

For having swallowed it

 

At night it unwinds 

Just when I toss around in bed

To make itself more comfortable

in the oozing slime of its cave

Polluted blood streams irritate it

Granules of chemicals make it itch

Lack of vermin starves it

It is planning to decline the offer

And pack up and leave

When no one is looking

Leaving behind the sheer pain of its existence

 

Sreekumar K, known to his students and friends more as SK, was born in Punalur, a small town in south India, and has been teaching and writing for three decades. He has tried his hand at various genres, from poems to novels, both in English and in Malayalam, his mother tongue. He also translates books into and from these two languages. At present he is a facilitator in English literature at L’ école Chempaka, an international school in Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India. He is married to Sreekala and has a daughter, Lekshmi S K. He is one of the partners of Fifth Element Films, a production house for art movies.

He writes regularly and considers writing mainly as a livelihood within the compass of social responsibility. Teaching apart, art has the highest potential to bring in social changes as well as to ennoble the individual, he argues. He says he is blessed with many students who eventually became writers. Asked to suggest his favourite quote, he quickly came up with one from Hamlet: What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba/That he should weep for her?

 

---

 

I am the flower

Prasana Kumar Dash.

 

I am the flower

I blossom into light and hope

To fill the universe with incense and colour

 

When picked up for worship

People salute me with earnest devotion

Who is the god more powerful than me

But for me it is a piece of abandoned stone

He is god only after I sit on his forehead

It is illusion that people salute God

 

Unlike the selfish omnipresent stone

That for ever goes on

I live for awhile to leave space on my will

For my companions to take control

It is not time that matters.

 

Prasanna Kumar Dash is Member CBDT, Ministry of Finance Government of India. He writes poems and does paintings.

 

---

 

*Being the sky...*

-Ananya Priyadarshini

Billions of stars 

Glued to the heart

To shed a billion tears

Each time one falls

Isn't easy.

 

Billions of drops

Billions of emotions in each

To still paint a rainbow

After each rain on lips

Isn't easy.

 

A patch of burn on skin

That sun leaves each morning

Every night the same pain

To soothe with moon's beam

Isn't easy.

 

To watch the birds flying

Higher and farther

And to stick to where 

You have always been

Isn't easy.

 

Hues of blue

Or a tinge of black

To starve for some green 

From light years away

Isn't easy.

 

To stop your giggles, for

Your thunders scare them

Purse your lips, instead

Together to a smile

Isn't easy.

 

Lids exhausted of fighting

The fierce waves' flow

To sob them away, silent

For they fear the storms that follow

Isn't easy.

 

They see you full

They see you strong

To know your limits

And, giving up to them

Isn't easy.

 

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.

 

---

Flowers of Slum 

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

The future of our country

Lay draped in the torn envelopes of clothes

They are assured equal rights as the other blooming buds of our society

"Yet they enjoy none" 

 

The dawn with its rays of hopes

in the hearts of these most spirited ones 

Stride their feet for picking rags 

Searching eagerly in the garbage for any chunk leftover, to enjoy as breakfast

 

Instead of loads of books on their back

Their back weighed by a sack of litters

"To learn from them this art of life"

Reflections of pain around yet such gay are they mesmerized in their little achievements. 

 

As night showers the shining stars

These "flowers of slum" seem to be drained out

There battered feet no longer able to pull on, staggering on their path

Take shelter in the dingy torn 'home'

With hunger slowing their movements to sleep

 

They sleep with another day of Hope

to achieve something better 

Better than their lost lives in the Slum

 

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

---

 

*Tobacco*

.Afnan Abdullah

"Abbu, main bore ho rha Hun..", (Father, I'm getting bored)

I let out a sigh while massaging my father's feet.

The surroundings looked very much like a typical middle class family. The drawing room wherein lay a single bed across the room adjacent to the sofa, on which the father was lying with me by his leg.

Father, a fifty-ish man with a grey beard, thinned out hair, wearing a white vest and pyjama, lying spreadeagled on the bed, in a semiconscious state, struggling to listen to my continuous blabber about school. A look at him and you'll surely see a man of responsibility.

"Kahan jaana hai aapko?" 

(Where do you want to go?) He asked me while getting up and sitting cross-legged on the bed. 

"Kahin bhi." (Anywhere)

I frustratingly replied, still some part of mine, deep inside, regretting waking him up. 

"Achchha.." father replied, half yawning and gave a drowsy stare to me, as his lips complied to adjust a wry smile.

I smiled realising  that I have been successful in convincing him and gave him a hug.

Abbu washed his face and dried it with a towel while I hurriedly put on my new pair of red sports shoes. The two of us left home a moment later. 

I walked beside him, holding on to his hand tightly, each time stepping right on his footsteps, so as to avoid spoiling my shoes in puddles. 

There was a commotion around the corner, a group of uncles, chatting, embracing and congratulating Salahuddin sahab, a family friend of ours, who returned from Hajj, recently. Abbu stopped and greeted him with a hearty smile. The two hugged and before they could indulge in a long conversation, I tugged at his kurta and we left to look for a rickshaw. 

Just then a young rickshaw-wala pulled over close to us before we could even see him. He seemed like a God sent in the scorching 45 degrees weather of New Delhi. As he wiped his face with a blue coloured "gamchha", he nonchalantly asked where we wanted to go. 

"Jamia college." Abbu replied. 

Jamia was the only place where abbu would take me every single time. Throughout the years he had developed a very strong bonding with the institution. The vibrant cultural programs, The canteen, the library, the beautiful lawns and the jolly company of his close friends who practically grew old together, working for 30 years at the same place. Growing up, I too fell in love with the place and I enjoyed every visit with abbu even though the place was the same.

The hot summer wind made us hop on the rickshaw without even enquiring the fare. 

A while later, abbu asked the rickshaw-wala, in a genuine bihari accent, "Ghar Kahan hai Babu?" (Where are you from son?). 

"Ghar Darbhanga hua saheb." (I'm from Darbhanga) 

It was indeed a shot in the dark that my father took, almost 80% of all the rickshaw-walas are from Bihar or West Bengal in Delhi. It was nothing more than a good guess. 

"Arre bohot achchha, hum bhi wahin ke hue na jee!" (Oh nice! I'm from there too!), abbu's bihari accent cracked me up and just then I noticed the rickshaw-wala smiling while still facing the road, the sweat beads at the back of his neck being absorbed into the gamchha he had wrapped around his neck, while pushing the peddles of the rickshaw with the very same kind of effort as he has been since the start. Abbu started talking to him, about his home, family and the current conditions of Darbhanga. The communal atmosphere was good, it has always been this way, abbu smiled and he once again reminded me of the origin of Nalanda University, one of the oldest institutions of india in Bihar, how the people used to be so friendly and warm despite even not having a morsel to eat. 

The rickshaw halted at the faculty of engineering, and before we got down, abbu pointed towards the tobacco sachet in the rickshaw-wala's pocket

"Laao na jee, akele akele khaoge ka?" (Give me some, you want to chew it all by yourself?).. 

"Jee.." the rickshaw-wala chuckled, I noticed his face glow as he hurriedly passed the sachet. 

Abbu poured some tobacco in his hands and after paying the fare we entered the university gate. Just as we entered the main gate, abbu casually threw away the tobacco and washed his hands from a water hose nearby. I was taken aback by all this happen before my eyes and after some hesitation, asked abbu what was the point of taking tobacco in his hand.

Abbu smiled and went on to make me understand how important it is to treat every person with the very best behavior one has to offer, with how much respect and love, prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) used to treat , even the people who lie at the worst social strata, the slaves, the unfortunate ones. (This was how abbu taught me the principles of Islam, by walking the talk. No school, or madarsa could've done this) How his taking a pinch of tobacco could've made that person feel a little important and maybe made him smile and somewhere made him believe that the world is not a bad place after all, even though momentarily.

I turned around just then and saw the rickshaw-wala sitting casually under the hood with a water bottle in his hand, wearing a beautiful nonchalant smile on his face.

Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general. 

---

 

My Thousand Battles

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

When I was a little child

I held the world in my small palm

And saw miniature men and women

Strutting about with their wide smiles,

My little world within it

Felt so warm and happy.

 

As I grew up and my world got larger,

I saw my space shrinking,

Everyone around me invaded it.

I saw others as my rivals

Trying to bite into the same pie

I coveted so longingly.

 

A warm and happy world got cold and murky

My own hunger kept growing

I wanted everything on my platter

Fame, success and adulation

I became a grouch,

Unhappy when my littlest wish remained unfulfilled.

 

And then my little world got so big,

I wanted to go everywhere

Touch every corner,

Conquer the thousand battles

And bring home the trophies

To show to others what a valiant hero I am.

 

Today all my wishe have gone to sleep,

I no longer crave for space,

A little corner is where I fight my ghosts of the past

Am not sure what I won and what I lost,

As I look back, the battles have lost their meaning

And I sit here wondering why I fought them at all.

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.

 

---

 

Reminiscences Series

 

Kailash

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

(for childhood friend Kailash Behera)

My chum Kailash,

not a ‘Satyarthi’, just a kid

from my non-descript tribal village,

shared with me

childhood salted roast-gram

from leaf-containers.

 

We roamed the deserted grounds

where the biweekly haat

laid its wares at our village outskirts.

We searched

for stray pennies buried in dust,

slipping out of dhoti-edge-knots.

 

We neither groveled at any feet,

nor were abused as children,

never sodomized.

We played in mud,

caught fish  in  rice fields,

smoked bidi stubs in secret.

 

Our childhood, enchanted

with chalk-palaces, tinsel dreams,

neon-moons, never knew brands,

Ferrari or Prada; rather was redolent

of cliffs and surfs, that regaled

our childish romance.

 

Yet I rejoiced with chum Kailash

when the Nobel news broke on TV

for Kailash Satyarthi*, a Santa

flying his sledge,

salvaging abused children

enslaved for blood-money.

(*Kailash Satyarthi got the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize.)

 

---

 

MEMORIES OF ORCHHA

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

 

Until recently, Orchha was a vaguely familiar name of a little-known tourist attraction, somewhere in central India.  Last year, whilst planning our travel itinerary in India, I realised, on our train journey from Allahabad to Rourkela, Orchha came en route, albeit with a slight detour.  Our train was passing through Jhansi and Orchha was about ten miles off Jhansi.  I am glad we decided to take the detour to spend a few days in Orchha.

Orchha is actually in Madhya Pradesh (MP) but right at the northern edge of the state, almost on the border with the erstwhile state of Uttar Pradesh (UP).  It is also so close to its better-known neighbour, Jhansi in UP state, that on looking at the map you could be easily forgiven for believing that it is outside the state of MP.

 It is a small town by Betwa river on the site of princely state of the same name in Bundelkhand region.  It was founded by the Bundela chief Rudra Pratap Singh, its first king who ruled from 1501 to 1531. The princely state reached its zenith about a century later under the reign of Bir Singh Deo in early seventeenth century. It was subsequently ravaged by the Mughal army but maintained its independence well into nineteenth century. It now offers several temples and monuments dating from sixteenth to seventeenth century, representing the fusion of Hindu and Muslim architecture. 

 

We stayed in a hotel outside the temple and palace complex.  We chose the hotel by its picture on the website of hotels in Orchha.  Although it looked like an old palace in this picture, we realised on arriving at the hotel that it was built rather recently, in the style of a small palace.  The builders had tried desperately to give it a look of antiquity but with minimal success.  But the atmosphere was welcoming, and the staff were friendly.  So, we decided to stay put.

Our hotel was outside the Orchha village and the temples were about a mile away.  We decided to take a stroll through the village to reach the temple complex. On our way, in the first morning, we could smell freshly fried food and tea from a distance and spotted a small roadside tea-stall (dhabba).  It was a small hut with few people sitting out on benches with plates of pakora in their hands and as we approached it, we could see a young woman frying pakoras inside. 

This reminded me, of the tea stall near our hostel, from our college days.  It was our favourite meeting point for tea and tiffin, at least once, if not twice a day.  The structure was rather makeshift with mud walls, rickety bamboo supports and a thatched roof.  The floor was not even properly made up with bricks or concrete.  Parts of the thatched roof would from time to time be blown off by the periodic storms ravaging the coastal Odisha, leaving holes in the roof.  Sitting in for a cup of tea, we could enjoy unobtrusive view of the nature in its elements, both above in the sky and the ground down below, earning the dhabba its affectionate sobriquet, “Sun-n-Sand”.

 

The breakfast was not simply enjoyable, but the overall experience exceeded our expectation.  So, breakfast at the Dhabba became a part of our planned itinerary for the next day.  On settling down on the wooden bench, we didn’t find the young woman we had seen the previous day, but instead, saw a young girl, working inside.  We struck up a conversation with her and assuming her to be the daughter, casually commented on the beguiling youth of her mother, who was doing the frying the day before.  She chuckled to reply that she was not the daughter, but her grand-daughter.

Somewhat embarrassed by this, I wondered about how we got our assumptions on their relationship so wrong.  It was partly due to our preconceived notion of grandmothers looking old, but I guess we were also misled by her youthful looks. On reflection, I realised that it was quite plausible to become a grand- mother of a grown-up child in one’s 40s.  Part of the secret of her youthfulness was probably the demanding physical activity required for running the dhabba.  On enquiring about the girl’s involvement in it, we gathered that she was not a child, but an adult studying for a qualification as a Laboratory technician.  Endearingly she added that, she was helping her grandma out by giving her the morning off.  This heartened me as I was imagining the worst possible combination of forced child labour for the young girl and her bleak future prospects.

On the way to the temples, we came across some girls in school uniform, who helpfully gave us directions to the site of the monuments.  It so happened that their school was inside the temple complex we were headed for. I was so glad to see so many girls in the village heading for school.  And, a good idea, I thought, to have the school in the temple complex, to combine the place of worship with a place for learning.  After all, learning is a kind of worship. 

But, on second thoughts, I felt perhaps the matter was not so straight forward.  Education and Religion, historically, have shown to be incompatible partners, making way for fertile grounds where religious fundamentalism has flourished.  The critical factor, I suppose, is who controls the school curriculum.  I sincerely hoped, the school these girls were attending, was not of the kind, where education was limited to religious studies alone.

Soon, we reached the Fort complex.  It is accessed through a large gateway and houses a number of monuments, including a fort, temples and palaces.  The fort was built by the founder King, Rudra Pratap Singh in 1501 and the palaces and temples were built by his successors.  The monuments include Raja Mahal, Sheesh Mahal, Jehangir Mahal and Sheesh Bagh and Chaturbhuj temple.  The pepper pot and dome features of the monuments are said to have inspired Lutyens in his design for the New Delhi.

The main temple in Orchha is for the princely God, Ram, but with a difference.  It is called Chaturbhuj temple, literally meaning, Temple for the four-armed God, Vishnu, of whom Ram is an incarnation. The temple’s layout is likened to a basilica, designed to resemble the four arms of Vishnu.   Unlike Traditional temples with the idol in its sanctum, Chaturbhuj Temple has an empty sanctum. Lord Ram is housed in a neighbouring temple, called Ram Raja Temple.  This arrangement remained somewhat baffling to me until the secret was revealed later in the day.

The Chaturbhuj temple has tall spires, built atop a high platform.  Its imposing view is that of a multi -storied palace, with a large entrance.  The interior has many halls, which are rather bare.  But the exterior is richly ornamented with lotus symbols.  Its design is a blend of religious and secular styles taken from temple and fort architecture.  The ceiling of the central dome, which has several kiosks is adorned with bloomed lotuses.  The stairs lead to the accessible roof of the temple, from where we enjoyed the scenic view of the winding Betwa river, the neighbouring Rama Raja temple and the Laxmi Narayan temple at a distance.

In the evening, a group of local musicians entertained the hotel guests with their folk songs.  The hotel manager came around to our table to enquire about how our trip was going so far.  He sat down to narrate the story behind the empty sanctum in Chaturbhuj Temple.

 

 

Legend has it, the king of Orchha, Madhukar shah was a devotee of Lord Krishna while, his wife, Queen Ganesh Kunwari was a devotee of Lord Rama.   One day, when both the king and the queen were on a visit to Lord Krishna’s temple, they had to contend themselves by singing and dancing outside the temple, as it had closed by the time, they reached the temple. Impressed by their devotion, Lord Krishna and Radha appeared in person and danced with the devotees. 

The queen was challenged by the king to prove her true devotion by producing Lord Ram, in the same way as Lord Krishna had appeared before them.  The Queen went to Ayodhya, vowing to return with the child form of Ram, failing which she would drown herself in the Sarayu river.  Alas, Lord Rama didn’t appear even after her praying and fasting for over a month.   So, in despair, she jumped into the river.  And, that is when the magic happened; Lord Rama appeared in child form in the Queen’s lap and granted her the wish to come with her to Orchha. 

The Chaturbhuj temple was built in the meantime, following a dream visitation by Lord Rama, who directed a temple to be built for him.

But Lord Rama’s condition for granting her the wish was that the journey from Ayodhya to Orchha would be by foot and on reaching Orchha he would be the king of Orchha.   And, finally, the first place he would be seated on reaching Orchha, would be his final resting place.

The journey from Ayodhya to Orchha by foot took the Queen eight months and 27 days.  Exhausted from the arduous journey, on reaching Orchha, the queen returned to her palace with baby Ram to retire in her room for the night, hoping to take the Lord to Chaturbhuj temple the next morning.  But, Lord Ram, in keeping with his condition, transformed into an idol to fix himself to the first place he was seated in the palace. 

As promised, Lord Rama became the king of Orchha and remained in the palace and Chaturbhuj Temple remained without an idol in its sanctum.  Eventually, the palace had to be converted into a temple, and was named Ram Raja Temple, the only shrine in the country where Rama is worshipped as a King!

Jahangir Mahal was built in 1605, to commemorate Jahangir’s visit to Orchha.  Imagine, the honour reserved for the emperor, in building a palace, for he was a guest of the Maharaja for one night only!  It was built in four levels with elegant features from both Mughal and Rajput architectural styles. It featured a layout of a large square in the centre, prominent balconies, numerous rooms with arcades, latticed windows, and a steep staircase to the roof with eight domes. Some of the lattices are surprisingly intact with their intricate and delicate patterns.  Their smooth curves and chiselled surfaces did  cast an almost mesmerising spell, but sadly many of them could not resist  the twin ravages of time and vandalism, leaving the windows looking  forlorn.  From the roof, we had a wonderful and unobtrusive view of the town, the river and the temples from far and near.  

The interior seemed bare but the ornamentation at the gates and doorways were elaborate. And the remnants of paintings on some of the ceilings and walls did bear silent testimony to its glorious past.  Sadly, most of the paintings have not survived the passage of time but thankfully we were left with remnants, like a moth-eaten tapestry, whose vast blank spaces have to be made up by imagination. What a rich treasure house of paintings, intricate lattices, and arcades it must have been in its full glory when it received the emperor for his one night’s stay in this sumptuous bed and breakfast! 

On leaving Jahangir Mahal, on our way to our next visit to the cenotaphs, the abiding thought in my mind was:  Never judge a book by its cover.  It was truly a palace whose plain exterior belied a wealth of features. Its sparkle has sadly faded with passage of time and from centuries of neglect, but its charm remains undimmed.  It might have ceased to be a feast for the eyes but what is left behind is still a visual delight, with the additional offer of plenty of food for imagination.

Cenotaphs are memorials built to honour the dead Bundela kings.  They have a cubical structure with temple like spires, and an umbrella shaped dome, true to their local names, Chatris. Of the fourteen chatris, the cenotaph for Bir Singh Deo contains Islamic features. I had associated these with Muslim tradition, but it seems this was embraced by the Rajput kings here. These unique monuments represented another example of fusion of Rajput and Islamic traditions.  A rare spectacle, and an enjoyable sight for visitors!

A stroll down the village in the evening was a treat.  The village had a calm and relaxed atmosphere, with little vehicular traffic sparing us their jarring sound of horns. I was somewhat surprised to find so many beauty salons, with signage in English, whose spelling made me chuckle.  I imagined beauty being big business in towns and cities, but this craze has evidently crept into the lives of the village folks.  All I hoped for was the quality of the craftmanship and service offered in these salons to be better than the standards of their signage!

 

Although I grew up in a village in Odisha in my formative years, I had no exposure to village life outside Odisha.  I had always been curious as to how the Odisha villages fared in comparison with those from other states. For me, this visit was memorable as much for the beautiful monuments, providing a window into the sixteenth century history of Central India, as for the novel experience of village life in modern India, but out of Odisha.

The monuments were nowhere as grand as the temples in the neighbouring Khajuraho but what it lacked in grandeur, it probably made up in its quiet dignity.  It’s proximity to its better-known neighbour clearly puts it at a disadvantage in attracting tourists.  But, to my mind, it remains a hidden gem, deserving of better publicity.

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.

---

 

The Special Day

Ms. Geetha Nair

From her upstairs window, Amala could see the sun, a yellow ball, climbing above the post office. Good, she thought, a sunny day in July.  It was certainly a special day. Pushpa  appeared round the corner walking , no, rolling down the road.  Rolling was the word Amala's father jestingly used for her plump friend's daily  descent to their gate.  Amala picked up her bag and took the stairs four at a time.

" Payasam when I get back. And bolis of course!"she  said to her mother dropping a quick kiss on that pretty forehead. Her mother never got up before ten. Weariness, not laziness.She suffered from a strange illness that needed medication and a, quiet, darkened room.

Kamalam, their live-in maid was at the door with Amala’s lunch-box in one  wizened hand and the front door key in the other. Amala  was at the gate just as Pushpa's hand touched the latch.

"Happy second birthday to you !" sang Pushpa, loud and tuneless  as usual.  Amala whacked her bestie's bobbed head in response.  Yes, it was her ” second”  birthday. She had already celebrated her 12th birthday on her date of birth in the pucca sahib style . Cake, song  and candles. Toffees for classmates and teachers. That had been last week.  Today was her star birthday according to the desi calendar. Two birthdays  -Roman and Indian !.  Her father  had agreed to the double celebration.  It would be bolis - those round, soft, delectable, little sun shaped sweets she adored. And white payasam to go with it. Four friends to share it and the fun. That evening.

They ambled along as usual , Pushpa and she looking from a distance like the number 10 - Pushpa short and round,  she, tall and thin..That indeed was what they were called in school :Number 10.

"I have a surprise for you, on your special day," Pushpa said, smiling impishly.

After prayer as they marched to class, Pushpa pulled out of her skirt pocket  a bright red, petally, plastic flower. They were called Aradhanas  after the ones Sharmila  Tagore had adorned her hair with in the movie that was the rage all over India. Young ladies wore  it with the same elan.

The first period was  English. They loved  English classes because the teacher was full of fun and kindness. Her big  eyes swivelled as always and  stopped  at the second side bench. They grew even bigger. There was  Pushpa, strategically positioned,   showing  off her red flower pinned god- knew-how to the top of  her cropped curly hair. The teacher exploded into laughter. So did the rest of the class who had been waiting for just this reaction.

The next period was Science. Sister Alberta , better known as Sister All-beat-a, walked in , barked a good morning -and froze. The next second, she unfroze.Then,she went up in smoke. Six smart whacks on Pushpa ' s palm. The nasty object confiscated.

It didn't hurt at all, boasted  Pushpa at break-time to an admiring crowd. Amala cuddled up to her and thought- what a fine friend I have!

They played Catch and rested under the roseapple tree as the ground was dry. Through Amala 's mind words ran to the tune of a popular duet from “Aradhana” - Summer Monsoon, , On my birthday,  Lovely evening, Friends and play, Lots of fun, bolis to eat , And sorrows none... .

After the bullet train evening prayer they walked briskly homewards. The Sun was dipping now. Look! A big boli! laughed Pushpa. She too loved bolis.

“The others will be with us in half an hour, won’t they?Let me rush and change. With you in a jiffy.” Pusppa puffed away  uphill  as Amala 's house came into view.

There was a knot of people at her gate. Neighbours, those she knew. But they looked strange now.  She had not seen such expressions on their faces.Ever. They were silent.  She looked wonderingly at them. ...  One gestured towards  the house. The door was wide open. She walked in. There was an acrid stench everywhere. Blobs of black lay congealed on the white floor. Amma was not in her room. “Amma!”she cried out to the echoing house.

In the dining room, she found Kamalam crouching on the floor.Her face was swollen with weeping.  There were tears in her eyes. She got up to clutch Amala.

"I went out to the backyard. To pluck drumsticks. Just a few minutes. But she managed to do it. Set herself on fire with the kerosene in the storeroom. She is burnt. Badly burnt. They’ve taken her to the hospital.” The words poured out, repeatedly from her mouth, like a badly-sung chorus.

Amala put down her schoolbag on the dining table. There, waiting for her, were the bolis and the payasam.

 

---