LiteraryVibes - 7th Edition - 15-Mar-2019
Welcome to LiteraryVibes,
I'm happy to note that we are consistently getting new authors. Appreciate your contributions!!
Please contribute your poems, short stories, anecdotes, travelogues, memoirs and philosophical thoughts to LiteraryVibes at mrutyunjays@gmail.com. I will be happy to publish them in the Friday editions.
The childhood memory section is still open.
Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A DEAD EYE’S WAR DIARY
(For Poet Haraprasad Das)
Prabhanjan K Mishra
I have seen the war of words
among TV panelists,
bitter words hurled at each other
by my parents; then this war –
violent and horrendous,
the powder billowing
brown and pungent;
smelling of death and decay,
as if, a dozen of swamps
breathing foul effluvia;
bullets whizzing, grenades bursting,
pulverizing bodies;
brave faces of unparalleled beauty
crinkling with icy hatred, hands
raising deadly bayonet to stab
before getting stabbed;
…shrinking with abject fear
before the enemy bayonet,
stabbed bodies collapsing,
crumpled laundry on the ground.
No joke buddy!
A dance of the macabre:
spilled brain, ripped open rib-cages
baring red pulsating hibiscus.
Before I see more,
the head that houses me, gets shot
through its other eye, my twin;
my man falling dead to the ground
with no time to close me shut.
I remain open with the expression
‘I can’t believe this’; the war to be seen
now by me, a dead eye –
two confronting soldiers,
enemies by uniform, could be
dear cousins but for the 1947 partition,
each apparently thinking,
“Do I know you buddy?
Have we met before?
You look like a brother,
not like an enemy at all!”
“But my minders say
if I don’t shoot you,
you would shoot me;
this can’t also be true!”
Before each finish thinking
his goodwill thoughts,
the coward of the two shoots;
the brooding brave bites dust, dies.
The timid one, would surely carry home
a medal of gallantry, his guilt as well
to have killed a brave brother, his cross
carried lifelong by the side of false gallantry.
The brave heart would die
on the desolate war field,
unsung and unnamed perhaps,
declared, ‘lost, not found’.
And I, a dead eye, like Sanjay
to Dhritarashtra, see things
what my eyeless people don’t see,
see the war without jingoism.
(A poem just drafted invoked by the warlike situation and inspired by the Odia poem ‘Abasadara Rathare Jane Arjuna’ roughly meaning ‘Crestfallen Arjuna Riding His Chariot’ of the eminent poet Haraprasad Das.)
THE POLITICIAN
Prabhanjan K Mishra
He wears a tiny cross,
though a Hindu by caste-marks.
With a deft left hand
he supports himself
against the jolting train;
with his crack-shot right
he tosses peanuts
into his munching mouth.
Between mouthfuls
he hums religious hymns.
His friends discuss
the cardamom and clove market.
He comments on relevant points
to his friends’ applause.
One eye guards his groceries,
several cartons stacked
against the compartment’s wall;
the other excels the man himself.
Simultaneously it looks for
a vacant seat, ogles the young woman
suckling her baby, and examines
the peanuts before eating.
He alights with his friends,
his cartons, and a last lustful look
at the breast feeding woman.
The reek of spice market follows him.
Do I also detect
a whiff of lilacs
from an exotic cologne ?
(‘The Politician’ was published in poet’s VIGIL, 1993, ISBN 81-7167-118-7)
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
REAR VIEW
Sangram Jena
You can see
The sea becoming restless
Like a school girl
Making love for the first time.
You can see
The leaves tremble
As the lips quiver
With a secret touch
You can see
The moon going behind the cloud
Like a thief
Hiding under a bush.
You can see
Miseries and misfortune
Melting like dew drops
On a sunny winter morning.
You can't bend the world backward.
Sangram Jena is a Kendriya Sahitya Academy Awardee, winning the rare honour in 2016 in the category of Translation. He has published four collections of poetry in Odia and two volumes of poems in English. His poems have been translated in India and abroad in several prestigious journals, including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, New English Review and Modern Poetry in Translation. He has authored, translated and edited more than fifty books in English and Odia, including Gandiji's Odisha (two volumes) and Burmese Days. He has translated many ancient and contemporary Odia poets into English and classics of world literature into Odia. He is a Senior Fellow in the Ministry of Culture in Government of India. Besides the Kendriya Sahitya Academy Award, he has also been conferred the Bhanuji Rao award for poetry. He edits two literary journals, Nishant in Odia and Marg Asia in English.
Sangram Jena welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at sangram.jena52@gmail.com
KALA PANI
Geetha Nair G.
“Welcome to Cellular Jail!” shouted the tourist guide,
“Here Indian political prisoners were inca.., incar…
Incarcerated!”
He stumbled over that word
As I stumbled past the steps
And entered Kala Pani.
Incarceration.
Seven-pronged Monster
Still rearing high.
Octopus with seven arms outstretched;
The eighth, palpable pain,
Encircling to squeeze out the blood and sweat
Of hundreds in its grasp… .
The light and sound show
Illuminating loud their sacrifice
I did not need.
The litany carved on pillar after pillar,
That roll-call of love;
Those narrow cells still thick with suffering;
The oil-mill they worked like beasts,
Circling, ever circling;
That pretty little house inscribed “gallows” -
These are the sights that bleed;
These are the memories we need.
OF DOGS AND MEN
Geetha Nair 
This was Akash 's fifth viewing. Having fallen in and out of love several times and having found no peace or longevity there, he had decided to go in for what his elder sister clamoured for - an arranged marriage.
Once he gave in, she swung into action. Horoscopes, photos, biodata flooded his laptop and his office table in no time at all.
Please, he begged, make a short list of 4 five or six and then allow me to view and choose.
And so it was that he was now seated in front of Amala. His eyes took her in. She was slim, tolerably pretty and had alert eyes. So far, so good. She was teaching in a school nearby. She fulfilled all other criteria of religion, caste, subcaste, economic and social levels.
Books they liked. Movies they enjoyed. Actors. Actresses. Music. Everything jelled. She was anyday better than the other four he had interviewed.
"Are you religious? " he asked her after they had exchanged hobbies and interests.
"Not particularly, " A watchful look in those bright eyes. She had probably lost out due to this answer on earlier such occasions.
He didn't mind that. His sister who had brought him up was excessively religious ; he found rites and rituals a little wearying. Besides, such an interest would mean less time for his care if they did get married.
"But I do believe in God, in the power that pervades the world " she added.
He liked her ease with language. They were speaking in English, of course. He could never have considered a girl who couldn't handle that tricky language.
"Astrology? Our horoscopes match well, they say. "
An amused look was her response.
"Horrorscopes! " she said with a smile. He was struck by that smile and missed her pun.
Ah really pretty when she smiles, he thought . Charming.
Things were going really smoothly.
"Would you like to work after marriage"?he queried, leaning closer, crossing one well-ironed trouser leg over the other.
"Yes; I enjoy teaching, " was her reply.
Hmm. That was not the answer he had wanted. But that could be managed. Once the babies arrived, all thoughts of working would fly out of her head. Otherwise, he would see to it that they did.
" Are you okay with me, with this proposal?" he asked earnestly, watching the curl on her fair forehead fluttering in the breeze from the fan.
She looked away from him, out of the window into the well-kept garden , the trim lawn.
She smiled a little . Her lips parted to say "yes".
Just then there was a commotion
The huge fierce-looking dog that had greeted him with deafening barks at the entrance had bounded into the room. Her father was trying in vain to hold him back by the leash that had come loose. The dog knocked over the large ornamental mirror that had hung near the door. It splintered into a hundred pieces. Then he galloped upto Amala and sat at her feet looking up at her adoringly.
Akash was on his feet, his face a picture of dismay.
"A mirror broken!"he exclaimed." How very inauspicious! On such an occasion. "
Amala 's father too looked chagrined.
"I don't know how his leash broke," he said apologetically. "A bad omen, indeed." But we can get the astrologer to perform a pooja to undo the bad luck."
"Certainly, Uncle," replied Akash, certainly." Still standing at a safe distance, he pondered aloud, "But why did this happen now ? Why now?"
Amala 's voice, cool as the breeze surrounding her and the dog fell on his ears.
" It happened because no one checked his leash and because the mirror was too flimsily fixed to the wall. That 's all."
And without another word, Amala walked out of the room, carefully avoiding the shards on the floor. The dog followed her out.
Akash is going to view Number Six next week.
Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English, settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems, "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com
LUNAR ECLIPSE
Bibhu Padhi
September. It arrives late.
Something always seems to separate us.
Before anything happens, something
seems to get lost, again and again.
Vaporous refractions distort
its clear, cosmic shape.
It jumps and frets
as my watch lingers.
I hurt my eyes to possess
the exact perspectives of change.
Thoughts and things grow over
the eyebrows like wild tropical trees
whose insistent roots
strain the eyelids.
Minutes later, their branches overpower
the regions of the moon’s distant splendor.
In the quiet half-darkness,
I struggle to keep the moon
safe and healthy
above my hollowed palms.
Bihu Padhi has published twelve books of poetry. He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
Fee
Sreekumar K
Sathyanesan looked at his visitor who introduced himself as Thulasidas from the same group as Paul had represented a week back. How different he looked from Paul who looked scary! This man looked more like a doctor, a junior doctor. He wore a full sleeve off-white shirt and striped pants, both of which looked old and slighly worn out, though neatly ironed.
Sathyanesan was sure he had come for some further negotiatiation. He leaned back on his easy chair, expressing an arrogance and defiance so as to ward off any more request for money.
“Though we are known for killing, I mean, people have always come to us with requests to wipe out malicious people from their lives, we take up anything that people want us to do, and we always choose the best modus operandi.”
He looked sternly at Sathyanesan as if to show that he saw through his assumed body language and then continued.
“When Paul came and told us the details of your need, we all had a discussion and we have come up with a new solution. Of course, I am aware Paul had suggested a violent solution and that you had no problem with it. That is how he handles things and that too works in certain cases. But this is different.”
Sathyanesan had contacted this group through a hiring agency which also supplied domestic help, paid bills and did other odd jobs. They had advertised they could be trusted with anything and Sathyanesan had a problem in life.
His wife had left him long ago and his son alienated himself soon after that. Now he had no one in his life. He had betted everything on this boy and considered him his support in his old age. But somehow the boy turned hostile and even came home only now and then. There was no way of knowing where he was spending his days. He didn’t look like he had taken to drugs or anything. Bad company, probably.
Sathyanesan sought the help of his friends and his son’s professors. They could not help. He consulted a counselor but his son was too unwilling to cooperate. Sathyanesan went on several pilgrimages but the gods seemed to be siding with his son. It is in this frustration that he decided to try this agency.
He visited their shabby little office and it looked like they were not interested in this business. They showed his a brochure and then several documents which they said he would have to sign when he paid the money. They collected his phone number and address and said they would hand them over to those people. Who those people were or where they were operating from were not revealed. All he was told was that they were very prompt in everything and would contact him soon.
The next day, Paul, a member of the group visited him, told him the money needed to fix things. He was not to ask how they were going to do it but he was told to consider it done. The fee was rather heavy but Sathyanesan agreed because Paul sounded very genuine and showed him documents of a good track record in similar cases.
There had been wives who wandered off from their husbands’ lives, children who stopped attending schools and business partners who grew cold when the turnover came down. In all cases, they were brought back to track and the prices they had to pay were also somewhat similar. They all had given a ten star feed back about their satisfaction.
Things having been fixed like that, this visit was surprising. As the ID card showed, Thulasidas might be higher up in the official hierarchy, pretty close to the boss. It was clear from what the man said. Also, unlike Paul, this man had am air of comassion about him.
“It is your personal choice and we actually don’t get further into such things. But let me tell you from my limited experience that what you are trying to do is all pointless. When it is time for us to be born and when it is time for us to die or get murdered, we undergo that. Why this fear of your old age and your son’s insensitivity and all that? This is our business and I should not be talking like this but since we are all human beings, I would rather advise you to leave it and let life take its course. Everything comes at a price.”
“Money is not an issue. What else am I going to do with all these crores I have amassed in life? I want someone to straighten up my son. Can you?”
“No, I am not talking about money. That is not a concern for me either, though I have not made much after having killed dozens of people who certainly deserved to be killed.”
Sathyanesan’s heart skipped a beat. He was face to face with a murderer. A man who had killed so many people. He regained his poise and thought of the holy wars in the epics.
“Anyway, I have come with a new plan. I know that you love your son more than yourself, right?”
“Yes, very true. I will do anything for him. I will donate any part of my body if he comes to need it, God forbid.”
“Now that you think so about your son, we too feel the same for him. He is young and he should not suffer in any way. Paul had a very violent plan which would have worked, but it is based on torturing him and scaring the daylight out of him. True, we had done that to people who won’t listen to anything. You know, there are all kinds of people in this world.”
“So, what is your plan for him?”
“Sorry I can’t tell you that. All I can say is, we will go easy on the boy since you like him so much. You want him to be more sensitive and show that sensisitivity in attending to your needs. Man, I have to say you are very selfish in that. Though you say you love your son, you love only yourself. But it is your life and your son, not mine.”
“I may be selfish but I am not so fearless as to leave it all to fate. I would rather like to have some say in my life simply because it is my life.”
“No, you are wrong there. I have handled life more than you can imagine. I have not just wiped off people but have helped people keep their life and in two cases I took two pregnant ladies to hospitals so that they could deliver safely. One of them delivered triplets. See. So, let me tell you, we don’t have ownership of anything, especially our life. Think of all those people whose life I took just like that. Which court can they appeal to for getting it back? Where does it actually say it is your life?”
“I am not going to argue about it. In fact, I would rather go with my beliefs than change them now.”
“Fine with me.”
He insisted that the money should be paid in advance and he assured that the fee would barely cover his expenses. Though unwillingly Sathyanesan paid the whole amount. Thulasidas left after ceremoniously thanking him.
Nothing much happened after that or at least what Sathyanesan was looking for or anything close to that didn’t happen. He lost his patience and tried contcting Thulasidas though he had been warned not to. There was no response. Then he tried Paul’s number and he found that such a number didn’t even exist.
He waited for a week worring about his son and his money. He was furious about how he was cheated by a couple of nitwits.
One day he took his scooter and ventured out. He visited the agency. Only an lady clerk was there at that time. The warmth in her greetings became heat in her words as Sathyanesan presented his case.
“Sir, for your information, we had already made it very explicit when you visited us last time that we are in no way responsible for this special clientele. When we saw they were of much help to the public, we just put it at the bottom of our advertisement because our policy is to help the maximum number of people within our limited and humble capacity. Now,l you seem to have musunderstood that we represent them. But we don’t. However, understanding your concern we would like to help you by letting you know whatever information we come across about them.”
“You know, it is a lot of money.”
“Yes sir, we understand that. You should also have been careful as to make them sign some kind of a document at least for name’s sake.”
“Sign up a document with a quotation gang? Good idea!”
Sathyanesam left that office and he was still furious when he reached home. That afternoon, he decided to go out again and look out for his son. His son didn’t have a vehicle. So, he would be hanging out somewhere nearby or might be taking a bus to the next city everyday. That was quite unlikely.
Sathyanesan was right. He saw his son in he public park and his group was not with him. But there was a girl with him and obviously they were in a relationship. She looked too pretty for his son and Sathyanesan congratulated his son in his mind. She looks like a Hindu girl and Sathyanesan was just progressive enough not to think of castes.
He returned home and he was very happy. His son was not old enough to get married but times had changed and he could run a relationship for years before he got married. So, in a few years he was going to have another presence at home. She looked compassionate enough to keep an eye on an ailing old man. Sathyanesan for the first time in his life wished the years went by faster.
So, after all that decoit was right. There was no need for him to hurry into things. He wondered how he never thought of this possibility all these years.
For days he toyed with the idea whether he should confront his son with his newly gained information. His son came home only once that month and so he decided not to bring that up. Instead, he bought some mutton which he knew his son liked a lot.
“Did you buy this or slaughter the lamb?”
He knew what his son was hinting at. In fact they had no lamb at home/
“I don’t think you are prodigal enough to deserve such a treatment?”
His son only laughed at him, happy about the fact that the old man understood his subtle joke.
When Sathyanesan woke up the next morning, his son was not there at all. He had gone to be with his friends.
Sathyaseelan didn’t try to contact Paul or Thulasidas after that but blamed himself many times for his folly. God had helped him eventually and all his prayers were not in vain after all. He began tgo be more regulr at the church maninly to pray for his son. His initial happiness at having found his son being in love waned off. He was back to square one, always worried about his son’s insensitivity towards him and his long periods of absence.
One Sunday, early in the morning he was on his way to church. He was on his old Chetak and was taking a turn near the market place one morning as he used to do for ages. He had given the signal to turn and there was no vehicle in sight. Before he knew what was happening, he had lost his consciosness and was bleeding to death. Some truck ran over him, almost killing him. There was no trace of the vehicle but some passerby took him to hospital in time to save his life. Three broken ribs and multiple fractures in his right arm left him incapacitated.
At the hospital, he hardly saw his son who was running around to find money for his father’s treatment. Many people visited him in hospital. His son’s friends and the girl he was in love with were regular visitors. The old man was at home hardly a month later. He had to be in bed for three more months and the doctor advised him complete rest.
As he lay in bed, all blank, he again wondered what had happened to his money. The news of the accident was in the local newspapers. Many had come to know about it from the local channel. But there was no news from Paul or Thulasidas. He wanted to contact them to cancel his assignment and claim back his money. He thought it would cover part of the hospital expenses. But none of them responded. Frauds never die.
He continued to worry about his son. The boy had almost no life now as he tended to his father day and night. Some times his freinds would come, stay to chat for some time and leave. He knew his son wanted to go with them and on several occasions asked him to do so.
But, dutifully, his son declined it and stayed with his father as much as he could. Sathyanesan cursed the day he took that careless turn in the morning. It affected not only his life but his son’s life as well. Knowing how well disciplined his sone was, he gave him the power of attorney of his entire estate and asked him to sell whatever he wanted to.
One day Sathyanesan called his son near him and told him not to hurry into anything in life. There was nothing to fear or be anxious about. Give it some time and things change all by themselves.
That night Sathyanesan recalled his meeting with Thulasidas and suddenly he realized that what he had told his son that day was actually a repeat of what Thulasidas had told him two months back.
The money was not a total waste, he heaved a sigh.
Nun's Prayer
Sreekumar K
A candle praying alone in the dark
Water mislead down a tiny whirlpool
A chunk of ice in saltless tears
Melts in my forehead, flows down my cheeks
This is my world, my heaven, my hell
Uninvited night lingers behind me
An unknown ocean swims before me
Hungry and cold, I munch on my rosary
Too many footsteps on the wet beach
Don’t know which one is mine
Sifted by the waves moping the floor,
The heavier ones do survive
Thirst tugs at my tongue
Wringing out its dry wetness
I am not floating about here
Only my feet have gone numb
Tied to the bottom of this discarded cross
I spend my life in this whitewashed sepulchre
While nerves, veins, tendons and tiny tissues
Wriggle inside me, effecting a caving in
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?
Sreekumar K welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at sreekumarteacher@gmail.com
ALL IN THE MIND
Dr Ajaya Upadhyaya
I started my medical studies in MKCG Medical College, Berhampur in 1970 and our Psychiatry training was organized through a study tour to Ranchi in 1974. My memories of this tour are now hazy. But one poster in the hospital corridor has stuck to my mind ever since. The exact words of the poster have faded with time, but the paraphrased version goes something like this:
After about 45 years of studying and practicing Psychiatry, I think, this’s is the key to understanding the common maladies of mind.
Most psychological symptoms arise out of our attempts to distort the reality that is not acceptable to us. If distorted reality is the root of the problem, then truthfulness or authenticity is the antidote. But It is deceptively simplistic to say, “be true to yourself and that would solve all problems”. Do we really know our true selves? Our most sincere attempts to be ourselves is rebuffed by the complexity of our mind, which is largely inaccessible to us. Most of the mind is subconscious, or unconsciousness, leaving a small part that we are conscious of.
Let us see how we define mind. Rather, what is the relationship between brain and mind? Perhaps this is best done by an analogy: Brain is like a river bed, whereas mind is the river.
Although the river is primary, it needs the riverbed to function. If the riverbed is polluted, the river will obviously be dirty. This is akin to organic disorders of the brain, such as Alzheimer’s disease or severe forms of Schizophrenia. But the water can have its own turbulence, seemingly unrelated to the state of the river bed. This more common kind, a heterogeneous bunch loosely called functional, is the topic for today’s talk.
So, how does mind function?
It can be construed as a composite of emotions, thoughts, behaviour and more.
Imagine a tree, whose leaves, flowers and fruits are like the behaviour, emotions and thoughts. These are evident, when you look at a tree.
Of these, which is primary depends on whom you ask, with different schools of Psychiatry arguing for the primacy of each of them.
But on reflection, sensation is the primary substrate for thoughts, emotions and behaviour. So, sensations are like the roots of this tree, which are vital to its function, but you cannot see them easily.
For example, you can think of an experience for which no corresponding thought form exists. But there can be no experience without corresponding sensations. We shall turn to this later, when we shall talk about Mindfulness Training.
These days, no talk about mind is complete without mentioning stress.
Stress arises from the gap between our perception of the demands made on us and our ability to meet them.
It is experienced as psychological symptoms like anxiety, sadness, resentment, indecisiveness, irritability etc., or bodily symptoms such as headache, dyspepsia, chest pain, and palpitations etc.
Stress from obvious life events such as sickness, injury, bereavement, and other circumstances causing resentment or frustration is a part of life. But we compound our suffering further by the way we react to them. And it is this level of its amplification, which I call secondary stress, that is the target of psychological therapies.
Emotions are more elusive than thought. They are overpowering and all consuming. When we are in the grip of a strong emotion, we are blinded to the reality. As Bhagavat Gita puts it, Emotions reveal our mind to us, but it hides the true nature of life from us.
Emotions can be positive or negative. Negative emotions like guilt, envy, and resentment are painful. But We don’t want to do away with emotions, as life is dull without them. So, how do we tackle negative emotions?
First of all, we must remember, they are transient, and they don’t define us. If we train our minds to observe them without reacting to them, they will die their natural death. Furthermore, at a cognitive level, strategies of impermanence, and non-identification help to neutralize their negative effects. The same approach is applicable to negative thoughts. This is the aim of Mindfulness training.
Mindfulness is an ancient Buddhist tradition, based on Gautam Buddha’s teachings from 2500 years ago. His solution to mental distress of mankind was quite different from the tenets of Modern Psychiatry, which has developed in the western world much more recently.
In the beginning of twentieth century, psychoanalysis offered new insights into the workings of our unconscious mind, thus providing the means of healing human mind by exploring the meaning behind our conscious emotions. This theory was broadened and modified to address disturbing thoughts and experiences. However, Buddhist teachings view such approaches as mind being at war with itself and, emphasize that we can train our mind to detach itself from disturbing emotions and thoughts, instead of fighting with them.
This radically different view of suffering of human mind and its remedy from 2500 years ago, has interestingly been rediscovered by the Modern scientific community. This concept and the associated aim of creating an emotionally neutral part of mind to deal with the disturbing emotions and thoughts by merely observing them instead of reacting to them, is known as mindfulness. This has been widely used to promote happiness and well-being for the “stressed” mass in the society and to treat “psychiatric” patients by professionals alike.
So, what is mindfulness?
It is not about changing our thoughts and emotions but relating to them differently.
It is not emptying your mind but connecting to its core, the sensations behind our thoughts, emotions and behaviour.
It is a method of introspection, which entails conscious attempts to focus on the present moment, noticing thoughts, feelings, images, without participating in them.
How does it work?
Focusing on sensations connects us to the core of our subconscious mind. Reflecting our consciousness on thoughts and emotions produces a limited understanding of our self but reflecting our consciousness on sensations offers the potential for a total experience of things. It releases us from the influence of past emotions, enabling to act on emotions or thoughts out of free choice.
We cannot experience these sensations ordinarily in our life although they are always available. Mindfulness connects us to these inner sensations, which we otherwise fail to perceive, like the stars on the sky in the day time, which are present all the time but are not visible to us without a telescope. Mindfulness meditation provides us with the mental telescope to experience these inner sensations, making us aware of the emotions long before they arrive in consciousness.
Vipassana mediation is a form of mindfulness training, popularized by the Late SN Goenka
Training in meditation starts with focusing on breathing. How interesting is it that mindfulness starts with a physical activity? Breathing is one of the few autonomic activities, which is also in our consciousness. Concentrating our focus on this vital activity, without any attempts to change or control it, is the beginning of learning how to live in the present moment.
Training our mind to live in the present can reap us rich dividends. Often our enjoyment of the present is marred, and sometimes totally ruined by our regrets over our past or worries about the future. And, the long list of such issues that we can think of is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg of impediments to our enjoyment as most of them operate outside our consciousness.
This is a broad outline of mindfulness training and Vipassana meditation. For an in-depth understanding and further details, you may visit the website, www.dharma.org
Personally, for me, this single most important strategy, i. e., to live in the present, has been the best lesson in life from our dogs. Whether I am away for ten minutes or for ten days, their undiluted joy on our meeting does not vary, a sign of living in the present moment. When I get home from work, they jump up and down in sheer excitement, like two- year-old children. The difference from children, who grow up and, in the process, lose this simple joy of life, is that the dogs stay that way virtually all their life; two-year-olds, who never grow up!
Acknowledgement: I am grateful to my psychiatrist colleague and friend, Dr Kishore Chandiramani, for allowing me to borrow several themes and to use extensive quotes from his book, Emotions and Stress, for this talk.
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. Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya welcomes readers' feedback on his article at ajayaup@aol.com
TOWARDS MORE PICTURESQUE SPEECH
A Christmas Welcome Speech (for 24th Dec, 2017),
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
“If I am to speak ten minutes, I need a week for preparation; if fifteen minutes, three days; if half an hour, two days; if an hour, I am ready now.”
- Woodrow Wilson
“If you want me to give you a two-hour presentation, I am ready today. If you want only a five-minute speech, it will take me two weeks to prepare.”
- Mark Twain
“If you want me to speak for two minutes, it will take me three weeks of preparation. If you want me to speak for thirty minutes, it will take me a week to prepare. If you want me to speak for an hour, I am ready now.”
- Winston Churchill
Since 1963 when in 7th standard I have been taking parts in debates and have been awarded many laurels to my credit. My last debate/public speaking/speech was on 24th Dec. 2017 when I delivered a “Christmas welcome speech” for an audience of around 200 people of the hospital where I was working.. The whole speech I am producing here with the aim of giving some tips to youngsters interested in debating/public speaking.
MY SPEECH IN ITALICS
“ Revered Shepherd, (addressed to the President of the hospital where I was working)
And His dear flock of sheep including myself.
Today you have given me a chance to take you all to Bethelhem,so let us tour
the holy city.
By the way how many of you do not know what for INRI stands ?
How many of you do not know that amongst three wise men I am going to refer ,there was an Indian?
Well is it all except one ?(myself)
Coming to this eve on which our thoughts turn back to the Infant Babe of Bethlehem, I welcome each of you to our program. I trust that we may be able to bring to you a bit of Christmas cheer, a portion of Christmas love, and a measure of Christmas devotion.
It is easy to be happy tonight for all of us can recall numerous blessings and manifestations of love that we have received from the Christmas Babe. In the spirit of His Name I welcome you, here tonight.
Join with us in heart and mind in honoring the PRINCE of PEACE whose birthday we are now observing. In His Name we wish you Christmas joy and Christmas blessings.
And coming to quiz referred in the beginning:
INRI should be read as JNRJ.
JNRJ stands for Jesus Nazarenus Rex Judaeorummeaning ''Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews''.This was the notice Pontius Pilate nailed over Jesus as he lay dying on the cross.
Christmas is an annual festival commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ, observed most commonly on December 25 as a religious and cultural celebration among billions of people around the world. A feast central to the Christian liturgical year, it is preceded by the season of Advent or the Nativity Fast and initiates the season of Christmastide, which historically in the West lasts twelve days and culminates on Twelfth Night.
The biblical Magi also referred to as the (Three) Wise Men or (Three) Kings, were, in the Gospel of Matthew and Christian tradition, a group of distinguished foreigners who visited Jesus after his birth(Epiphany is celebrated 12 days after Christmas on 6th January (or January 19th for some Orthodox Church who have Christmas on 7th January) and is the time when Christians remember the Wise Men (also sometimes called the Three Kings) who visited Jesus) bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. They are regular figures in traditional accounts of the nativity celebrations of Christmas and are an important part of Christian tradition.
In the Western Christian church, they have been all regarded as saints and are commonly known as:
Melchior a Persian scholar;
Caspar an Indian scholar;
Balthazar a Babylonian scholar
And we expect the three wise men of our hospital Dr A.Pillai,Dr Balan and Dr.Clement to come with another celebration on 7th Jan(twelfth night,Epiphany) and give finishing touch to festive season with New Year.
And from me specially you will not receive any gift, but greeting cards, and how you will know that it is from me ?It will not bear any postal stamp,but on the stamps place it will be written”Christmas joy and Christmas blessings”
Thanking you all.”
The aim of public speaking, also called oratory or oration, should be to transmit information, tell a story, motivate people to act or some combination ofthese. The speech should be structured with these aims in mind.
If one has to speak on a religion, pick up the basics of the religion which most of the audience would generally be unaware of, such as the full form of the commonly seen caption, INRI and the names of the three wise men who visited Jesus.
It should be posed in form of a question to create an atmosphere of inquisitiveness. For example, “how many of you don’t know that there was an Indian amongst the three wise men, who visited Jesus”.
Next, focus on the theme of the speech and make it interesting so that people would want to listen to you.
Avoid reading out the speech from a piece of paper, neither read it like a song .Try to deliver the speech ex—tempo. However, between your lines, you may take a quick glance at the paper, to remind you of the next point.
The starting and ending of a speech are of crucial importance. They should be carefully phrased, aimed at bringing goose pimples to the audience. Avoid conventional address at the start like “Honorable president ..... Instead, start with something related to the theme of the speech, as in my speech.
Similarly, think of a creative or novel way of ending the speech.
The images are only representatives, and not real.
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin. Dr. Nayak welcomes readers' feedback on his article at drbcn@rediffmail.com
*THE SOUL EXCHANGE*
Ananya Priyadarshini
There was once an eagle who could fly higher and farther than any of its fellow eagles. It could fly above the clouds when it rained, sat on the highest of the branches, crossed deserts, terrains, and oceans. It had flown over almost half of the world.
One fine day the mighty eagle was passing over a patch of human settlement when the sun decided to burn the brightest. The eagle decided to give the muscles of its wings and claws a brief rest. He made a sharp landing tearing apart the stagnant loo till its claws grabbed a shady branch.
Only after it settled down, he realised that he was thirsty. He looked around for water. Accustomed to dip its beak into the highest and fastest waterfalls and springs, his wild vision didn't find it difficult to spot a small earthen bowl filled with fresh water.
But before he could use the water to quench his thirst, he had to seek permission from its rightful owner. That's not a clause of jungle rules, though. In jungles you own all that you can! But this fellow bird was sitting in a metal throne- the bars that surrounded the throne couldn't be cut by his beak! Hence, the 'befriending and seeking permission' game. Diplomacy? Maybe!
He had just pulled his back a little backwards to set himself on a short flight till the metal throne, when he saw a human come towards the throne, open a small door and place something inside it that looked nothing but delicious! Tired of the long flight, the eagle heard his stomach growling at the very sight of the delicacy. He heard the parrot sing a soulful song in return. The eagle approached the parrot as soon as the human left, shutting the little door.
"Hey, hi...", the parrot hadn't conversed with another aviator in a long time and hence, looked at eagle with dilated pupils for quite sometime before replying, "Hello, pal!".
"I've been flying in the sun for a long time and am really thirsty. Could I drink a little from your, errr... pot?", The eagle added a little sweetness to its harsh, cracked voice.
"Sure, and also grains if you wish!", the parrot pushed both the bowls towards the fences, as closer as possible so the eagle's beak could reach them.
"Thank you, sir", the eagle said after treating itself well.
"Why is the master of the sky calling a prisoner like me, 'sir'?", the parrot who was looking at the magnificent shine of the black-brown feathers of the eagle, was now looking gleefully in his eyes.
"You sit on a throne, a human is your slave..."
"Hold on, buddy! I'm his slave. Or even worse, a possession. I sing to make him happy and he feeds me in return. This isn't a throne, a cage. I'm enclosed so I don't fly away. It's you who's living a life like a bird should!"
"Going hungry for days, battling for everything you need and hunting each meal, traveling till your bones give up, not being able to build a nest in years, not having a place to call 'home'... Is that how a bird should live?"
"You're free. YOU ARE FREE. Do you realise?"
"You're secured, being cared for and are loved. Why the hell can't you value your blessings?"
"Some serious argument going on, I suppose."
"Now who's this mannerless?", Parrot and eagle didn't like the oak tree eavesdropping their talk.
"Well, I'm the old oak tree and I guess you both would like one of your wishes to be granted each."
"You grant wishes!", Both the birds were astonished in unison. "You never said me that before", the parrot sounded annoyed.
"I've always heard you singing praises of your human. I could never really anticipate you'd any wish unfulfilled"
"Damn this eavesdropper...", The parrot mumbled but was soon stopped by an evil grin of the eagle. "You can grant any wish we make. Like 'any'.", Eagle crosschecked.
"Hmm hmm", oak confirmed. Soon, the eagle was sitting in the cage wrapped in fine green skin and those magnificent black-brown feathers now belonged the parrot who had flown far away only to return after a week, as per the oak's condition.
*a week later*
"Where is this sucker? Oh dear Lord, I just pray he remembers the way back home! If he doesn't return in few hours I'll have to bear with this green loath of flesh forever. Oak, oh great old oak, please.... Please be a little considerate and allow the idiot parrot, I mean eagle.. no wait I'm the eagle.. whatever! Just allow us both some more time..", the eagle's soul inside the parrot's body was almost crying when he saw the parrot fall from the sky on to one of the dense, bushy beach l branch of the oak. "The idiot can't even fly decently!", He thought to himself.
"Why are you so late and what did you do to my feathers!!!!!", The one inside the cage was way more angry seeing his broken wings.
"Shhhhhhhh.... Who howls like that, you filthy wild creature! You're here to sing, if you remember. Some more earaches and you'll be on human's platter the next morning. My goodness, why are you bleeding from my beak!!?"
"I was trying to break the railings. I haven't bathed in these 7 days and wanted to go out when it was raining the day before. So..."
"Bath? Why in the name of God we birds need to bath?"
"So, even you didn't take daily dips?"
"I don't know how to swim, eagle and neither does your body. I just flew around a little, ate only a little wild fruits and got back. Due to harsh weather I couldn't try much adventure but I don't want your body or your life anymore. I want mine back. I am missing singing badly."
"Yes oak, even I'm suffocating. I want to get out and hunt some flesh. These grains are making me sick."
"Alright!", said the oak and the very next moment, the parrot was singing a sweet praise for its human and the eagle was kissing its damaged, and yet strong feathers. He was probably getting ready for his next long flight, the leap towards his freedom.
"You deserve what you get and get what you deserve.", Not sure if any one of the two heard the oak tree speak the wisdom, but they certainly knew their worths now.
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. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.
By a male feminist
Parvathy Salil
Nobody knows me.
Nobody cares if I'm safe,
inside or outside
when by myself.
No one's ever noticed my trauma,
the fangs of my angst
gnawing at the festering
sores, all over my abs,
left by her lusty bites that night
as she pounced, stroked,
kissed; shushed my
NO! to her 'hunger'.
I curse, curse her
drinks, delight, damn dance;
all her bait that night –
all that I mistook for
a dearie's feats.
No! No iron rods, or
sharp wounds to
be counted a ‘classic’ rape –
only invincible,
invisible psychic scars.
Shut up now;
don't tell me that 'strong man' tale
to deal with it all quickly,
and walk away boldly.
Though ‘ineligible’ a victim;
genderless awe, woe, agony
have been dragging me - a
creaky door crawling on to
close, but balking back 'n forth.
Genderless awe, woe,
agony have been
slitting me since that night I-
I passed out on her savage arms-
cold, unjust as a male rapist's.
Call it neither luck nor my meekness,
invite me not to : wring my mind
for likes, shares and comments;
host debates about my manliness or sex drives.
I am 'straight' , 21,
abused one night while drunk
on her vice by a lady
I thought nice.
Helpless, inebriated,
dragged, stripped and
kissed sans consent – I
see it neither luck nor my meekness,
but an abuse I battle to bury.
Hear my tale
all who think rapists are all male,
as I wail out now
my throes inside...
Parvathy Salil is the author of : The One I Never Knew (2019), which features a blurb by Dr.Shashi Tharoor, MP), and Rhapsody (Self-published,2016). Her poems have been published in the Kendra Sahitya Akademi journal, Indian Literature; Deccan Chronicle etc. Currently, a (22-year-old) student of Liberal Arts at Ashoka University (Young India Fellowship Class of 2019); she has also recited poems for the All India Radio’s Yuva Vani. She has presented her poems at the : South India Poetry Festival 2017, Krithi International Literature Festival 2018, Mathrubhumi International Festival Of Letters 2019 etc. The winner of several literary competitions including the Poetry competition held during Darshana International Book Fair 2016, she was also a national-level finalist for theMaRRS Spelling Bee Championship (2014), and had secured the second rank in the state-level championship. Parvathy Salil, welcomes readers' feedback on her poem at parvathysalil262@gmail.com.
BLURRY
Azra Bhagat
Never trust a mirror,
It can't show you who you are,
It can't see you like I see you,
Just the way you are,
It can't see the way you light up,
With laughter in each cheek,
Or hear the cracking in your voice,
When you're just too sad to speak,
It can't know you like I know you,
Underneath it all,
Or trust the things that make you,
Very large or very small,
For the only real true mirrors,
Are never made of glass,
You must see your own reflection,
In someone else’s heart.
IT COULD ALL BE OK
Azra Bhagat
Do you believe in the impossible?
In all the things your heart can see,
Or do you find a trove of trouble,
In all you thought was meant to be.
Do you take the road less travelled,
For you know it is your path,
Following the invisible strings,
That show us we’re not really apart,
For you can’t order up a sunrise,
Or force the leaves to turn,
And the path is yours to choose,
But to yourself you must return.
BE STILL MY SOUL
Azra Bhagat
“Only listen,” said the sunshine,
As it danced from wave to wave,
For what you find in just one moment,
Can’t be found in all your days,
May your soul be still like water,
May you find kindness in your heart,
For all your troubles are temporary,
Though they’re tearing you apart,
And though the setting of the sun,
Might bring a tear to someone’s eye,
I’m much too busy reading stories,
The stars are painting in the skies,
That you don’t have to worry,
Or plan out your next attack,
For though its ever-changing,
The universe has got your back!
HANGING BY A THREAD
Azra Bhagat
Pretending was my one true crime,
But youv’e already decided my everything.
How should I live this illusion for you?
When all I’d like is to start anew.
Do I have to figure it all out for you?
Wrap it neat and lay my life in your hands.
Would you believe me then?
Trust a thing as treacherous as words.
Or will you always see me as you like,
Unreachable and comfortable and alike.
Will I have to fit a round peg in a square?
Is this what acceptance feels like?
KEEPER OF THE DEEP
Azra Bhagat
Guileful smiles bore her,
She’s a deep sea diver you see,
You’ll only scratch the surface,
Of her inner mystery,
She’s busy pricking her feet,
On the many coral reefs,
Collecting lost treasure,
No one else cares to see,
The tides may pull you ashore,
But she’s never learned to swim,
So she jumps and sinks below,
To calm and peaceful swings.
THE RENAISSANCE
Azra Bhagat
You burn me with your fire,
You try to make it sting,
But I am far too vast,
For you to pull me in,
Your flames sear off my edges,
But feel like warm sunshine,
For I live within a forest,
With a heart as dark as night,
And as the trees fall asunder,
And ash clouds fill the air,
You think you’ve won this round,
As you lay me dead and bare,
But curl around me my dear fire,
And live your glorious day as king,
For in your wake of terror,
All my flowers have seen spring.
ALCHEMY
Azra Bhagat
I have an empty space,
That's wrapped around my heart,
And anyone who's seen it,
Doesn't think me very smart,
They wonder how my life is,
They wish upon a star,
To take away the vacuum,
Or fill the space up like a jar,
But I love my empty spaces,
I don't need to build a wall,
The things that need a way out,
Usually find one on their own,
My precious empty spaces,
Keep all things fresh and new,
And let the color run out,
Without painting things a certain hue,
And I see no fear or trouble,
Because little do they know,
We all need a little space sometimes,
Some room for us to grow.
COLOR ME WONDERFUL
Azra Bhagat
As she stopped to take a breath,
The universe grew cold,
Her heart a blue-eyed fire,
Though her words were old,
Spinning maps of golden thread,
From collected promises,
A path she built as she fled,
Of memories, words unsaid,
For though she might be wrong,
She would much rather have,
All the colors of the rainbow,
Than equations in the sand.
A designer turned writer, Azra Bhagat brings a quirky style to her writing craft. Born and raised in Mumbai she moved to a boarding school in Kodaikanal when she was 15. There she could be found between the shelves of the library, reading the greats – Dostoevsky, Joyce, Conrad and Shakespeare among others. It was only after completing her graphic design course in London and coming back to home to Mumbai, India did she discover her penchant for words and the impact of her ideas. Since then she has been dedicated to expressing herself through her stories and vivid characters. Currently, she is pursuing the Young India Fellowship Program at Ashoka University, Sonepat. Azra's email id for feedback from readers' is azrabhagat@gmail.com. She also welcomes feedback at her Instagram handle @dakudesigns.
INVISIBLE GOD
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Human is the greatest creation of God
Yet he has the powers in his hands as a sculpture, to mould and shape God
Every dawn he wakes up speaking to God
Each moment as his belief grows, he brings life in God
The moment he looks behind, he gives locomotion to God
As he offers food, he creates hunger in God
He serves water too,arousing thirst in God
When tears roll down the cheeks of human,he enthuses emotion in God
Walking on the path of obstacles,he highlights the hindrances created by God
God created Man and
Man has delivered all lessons to the Invisible God'
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
Email - kabyatarak@gmail.com
In Imaginations
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
In my imaginations
I have gone beyond nations
There is no boundaries
To create any demarcations .
I am speaking through my heart
Touching all the celestial doodads
Listening to the sound of breaths
Of the rivers , mountains and hills.
Making friends with new ways of life ,
Getting tuned to the unknown frequencies
Increasing the horizon
Beyond the seven seas .
What I see is difficult to describe
I am floating without any feelings
I am away from sorrows and happiness
Life is on hold for being in joy and ecstasy.
I am not my mind or body
I am on an eternal journey
From somewhere to everywhere
And from everywhere to nowhere.
I have no constraints of time
As in the context , it has no meaning.
There is no stress of starting
There is no anxieties of reaching .
It is just about exploring
Without having the ego of achieving.
"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.
CRICKET COMEDY
Sivasekaran Ratnavelu
“One of my childhood memory still in my mind is the incident occurred in the year 1955. Myself and my brothers are good cricket players. I was 16 then and my two younger brothers were 13 and 10.
During that year the Australian cricket team consisting of famous fast bowling duo Miller and Lindwall along with stylish left hander batsman Neil Harvey played a match against Indian team consisting stalwarts like Vijay Hazare, Vinue Mankad and Polly Umrigar.
In those days’ matches were played in the Corporation stadium adjacent to the Central station. We were then in Tambaram, a suburb near Chennai. When we brothers were discussing about the match along with another friend, the tenant of the friend overhearing and knowing our enthusiasm offered to take us to the match free of cost.
The tenant was an officer in the I.A.F and they were entrusted with the security arrangements during the match period and he had a complimentary pass. We boys accustomed to watch the match squatting or bench, it was a big bonanza to sit in chairs, that too in the pavilion. We sat comfortably enjoying the match.
As the match progressed, a batsman hit the ball and started to run. Then it happened. The officer who brought us asked inquisitively why they are running.
On hearing this, the spectators sitting around us looked at him in such a way that the gentleman thought something amiss and feeling embarrassed said meekly that he has some urgent work to do and asked us to enjoy and come latter. This incidence we used to narrate to our friends causing peels of laughter.
Sivasekaran Ratnavelu welcomes readers' feedback on his email - sivasekaran_36@yahoo.co.in.
HER RIVER BATH
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien (*NMK)
At the brim of the river, she stood
Motionless, to have a dip or not,
While the cold water kissed her feet,
Enticing her to enjoy in him.
Draped in a long plain saree
She stepped into the shallow water
And waded her way as a bride
As his embrace exhilarated her.
Standing alone in depths with awe,
Undid she her silk slowly
And in rushed the frenzy waves
To caress and kiss her breasts.
Inhaling the exotic air of nature
She bowed down into the water.
Coming up, she seemed blessed
As the cold massaged her constitution.
The sun’s glare made her blink
In its jealousy against the potamic,
As the swirl ticked her to laughter
While she splashed and spewed on him.
Passing by the river, an urchin
Flipped a pebble at the flirt,
Causing the curves to disappear
Under the protective glittering blanket.
As the interloper walked his way
She hurried up from her pleasure,
But the river echoed her feeling,
We’ll unite again in leisure.
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.
DEATH AT NOON
Chandini Santosh
My Biology teacher Ms. Kasim's father passed away
On an overcast day. We were tinkering
In the lab when the long bell rang, showed us
How death had come in stealthily
While the class was still on.
We trouped into the school bus,
Some of us taking off our ties,
Releasing our swollen breaths,
Tightening our smiles. The bus stopped at the beginning
Of the maze of gu?lies of Chandni Chowk.
It was noon. We fell into a single file,
Glancing at everything that was new to our eyes, nose and heart.
The kulcha-cholewala beamed at us, turned the sizzling
Aloo tikkias, spreading the finely chopped onions
And coriander leaves over the hot mutton curry,
Lifting the large naans out of the tandoor
With a click. We filed on. We were mourners,
We told ourselves. We had to behave.
At the next turn, the old mosque loomed above us,
And before we could cross the street to the mohalla opposite,
The haunting call of the muezzin floated down to us.
I stood still on the middle of the road. The line behind,
Banged to a stop against me. The line ahead marched
Forward. Now we were two files,
One hesitant, the other superbly confident.
I stood there
Haunted by the call to prayer,
The noon blazing above us
And the smells of the eateries receding from my senses
When from the street opposite,
The coffin emerged,
A green palanquin
Carried by white capped mourners
And the song of prayer they carried in their half open mouths.
Behind me, the girls were dumb,
While l waited for the haunting call of the muezzin
Once again. No calls would come now.
Chandini Santosh is a novelist, poet and painter. Her poems have been published widely in national and international anthologies and eminent journals. She has two novels and three solo collections of poems. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - chandinisantosh@gmail.com
MUMBAI GOLD
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE THIRTY PERCENT
This morning the clouds gathered again
Ominously dark, they were hanging over the Mumbai sky
Waiting for the eagles to prick them with their beaks,
And then they poured in torrents.
The hapless crowd looked in despair
In no time the roads got flooded,
Mumbaikars were wading through waist-deep water
In Byculla, Andheri, Sakinaka and Ghatkopar.
Buses got stalled, cars drowned
School children were soaked to the bones
Shopkeepers drew a long face cursing their fate
A man got sucked into an open manhole to his watery grave.
Being new to Mumbai I asked my friend
Why does it happen in Mumbai every year
In the financial capital of the sixth largest economy in the world?
I lectured on as he looked amusedly at my excited face.
Don't we have enough money, I asked him,
To get our drains cleaned up before monsoons,
Does it need rocket science to unplug the chokes in the outlets?
Why are our netas and officials so indifferent?
My friend roared with laughter,
Are you an idiot, asking such stupid questions?
Which neta or official will waste his time in repairing drains,
Where is the loot in that?
They are all busy in getting the next flyover sanctioned
Or arranging permits for a highrise in Worli or Oshiwara,
So that they can loot their thirty percent and sing,
Saarey Jaahanse Achha Lootostan hamara!
A JOINT ACCOUNT
Shivdas Tawade was a Corporator voted by people
To look after their needs, to fill potholes on the roads
To bring drinking water to the colonies, build parks and playgrounds
And spread happiness in the dreary lives of ordinary citizens.
He vanished a few days after elections
Busy in getting building permits
And chasing contractors
Settling disputes and blackmailing officials.
Shivdas had come to his true colours
Before the elections he was all humility,
Now he spoke with rough-edged authority
With stares that could burn and words that could sting.
When I asked him, isn't he worried he will lose the next elections
He laughed and asked what choice do the voters have
We are three brothers in three different parties
We live separately, but have a joint Loot Account!
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. Dr. Sarangi welcomes readers' feedback for his poems on his email - mrutyunjays@gmail.com.
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