Literary Vibes - 8th Edition (March 22nd 2019)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to LiteraryVibes,
I wish you and your family a Happy Holi. May the festivities bring a lot of cheer and bliss to all of you.
I'm happy to note that we are consistently getting new authors.
We at Literary Vibes welcome and appreciate your contributions!!
Please invite your contacts and share the Literary Vibes. Your contribution in the form of Poems, Short Stories, Travelogues and Interesting Anecdotes are welcome for next Friday's edition of LiteraryVibes.
I will be happy to publish them in the Friday editions.
The childhood memory section is still open.
Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
HARAPPAN DREAMS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Dust congeals the air
from excavators’ feet and wheels.
Dry Ghaggar* cringes with pain,
recalls the bygone days,
houses full of gamboling children,
happy vibes of plenty, prosperity -
bygone are green fields
that lay sprawled by her wet thighs,
abundant game hunted in forests around,
hordes of plunderers from north
that galloped on the trails of wealth,
laughing all the way back home.
She looks around helplessly -
lying scattered are beautiful pottery,
empty but grimly aesthetic,
the remains of well-designed roads,
torn tombs of her dears-departed,
the broken idols of the failed gods.
She recalls the flavours of recipe
cooked in happy Harappan homes,
the crockery and cutlery
washed in her perennial stream.
Where have gone those diners,
in search of what new oases?
She preens in her bygone glory,
the perennial green cauldron,
seething with the maddening aroma
of ripe crops, pampered by icy fountains,
keeping her thighs ever wet, and fertile
with silt washed from her hinterland.
She laments with horror
recalling her motherly Sindhu
gobbling her up alive,
weeping crocodile tears
for her demise, and the exodus
of her children, the orphaned Harappans.
In excruciating grief she
had to hide in earth’s alluvial,
crying impotent tears
to see her children leave her banks
of the puddled skeletal remains.
Today, Ghaggar chokes if called Sarasvati.
*River Ghaggar is believed as the skeletal remains of the mythical Sarasvati by certain geologists. Major parts of river Sarasvati is believed to have been grabbed by the giant Sindhu around 5000 years ago, leaving a small stretch that stagnated as Ghaggar. All excavations sites of Harappan remains are found on banks of the river Ghaggar. (Unpublished poem)
LOVE: IN SYMMETRY OF LOSS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
He hears his own feet dragged
from room to room
by tired legs, muttering;
an old calculator
dozing in his hand.
He estimates once again
the unaffordable cost of repair.
His wife yawns.
The leaking cracks grumble
into pails and pans on the floor.
The wet monsoon wind recalls
a past romance.
In mortuary-silence,
the mottled patches
of moss, old and new,
paint absurd murals on walls.
Looking into her sugar jar
the wife entreats, “Lo, it’s empty.
I can manage with plain tea.
Will you? Don’t send me knocking
on our neighbour’s door.
And when you are
at your calculator, remember,
I love pale lavender.”
He remembers her
in pale lavender saris
hugging her perfect curves
and playing cameo
to fly-ready doves of desire.
The twigs in dovecote today
hang by the last straw
pretending a nest.
He recalls with an amused smile
her old adage: Don’t drag feet,
don’t mutter under your breath,
they bring penury.
And her recent adage:
Don’t use calculators,
it causes dementia.
May make you forget me.
He stands still and listens,
his feet making no sound.
his calculator, at peace.
His pension has stopped.
The tragedy is wrapped
in a perfect symmetry of loss.
Wild doves flap wings
over absent grains.
(Unpublished poem)
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
A DRAWING
Sangram Jena
Once I thought
I will draw a picture
that nobody has seen yet
I sat with canvas, colours,
brush and paint.
What should I draw
the picture of the ancient wind
that blows on the ocean
touching the body of the night,
the figure of loneliness
that walks unhurriedly
through evening's fading light,
the emptiness that fills
the gap between two words,
the smell of the body
wrapped in a thin shadow
of an intimate embrace,
the unspoken words
in a poem
carefully preserved in a diary,
the last curse of God,
or the other side of the mask
carefully concealed.
After a while
I found that
I have drawn the picture
of a man
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
RAIN IN CHAIBASA
Ajit Patra
Asadha's rain comes down,
it pours on the soil of Chaibasa,
rain streaming down
the putus trees ceaselessly.
A stormy wind blows.
clumps of clouds dazzle in lightning
over the hill tops of Chaibasa.
Storm and soil
all drink water
with their mouths wide open,
where is water.....
they still need more.
The hungry snails
are out to eat
the tender, rain-soaked
putus leaves,
everywhere hunger reigns.
The poet began writing
a poem on rain -
nothing is left out
a duping void all around.
Ajit Patra is a poet and a translator. He writes both in Odiya as well as Bengali. He has published three collections of poems - one in Odiya and two in Bengali. His poems have been included in several national and international anthologies. He has translated many Odiya poets into Bengali and vice versa. He regularly contributes to literary magazines in both the languages.
BEAUTY IN WHITE
Dr Ajaya Upadhyaya
WISH
Dr Ajaya Upadhyaya
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
DONOR
Geetha Nair
Fit as a fiddle, says the smiling Doc,
And beautiful still, as an afterthought.
So they try me out,
Put me into a tunnel;
They call it CAT;
No warmth and fur and purr though;
Just cold and a distant voice like a yoga man's repeating
"Breathe in..., breathe out now...."
I lie inert, thinking of trains,
What moves? Me or the machine?
What moves us anyway? Ourselves or a Super Power above?
Metaphysics in the CAT Scan unit!
In the evening he is back,
The man with the golden hands.
He smiles and says as a new-made father might :
"Youthful, fat-free, lovely liver... ."
My heart leaps.
"Yet branching too early, your perfect portal vein
Before its rightful entry -
Sorry."
Perhaps like perfect lovers who break away too soon
and carry their bloodied pains apart
to spill them, weeping at love's futility.
Futility.
PUG MARKS
Geetha Nair
The wildlife sanctuary at Eravikulam , the home of that sprightly creature, the Nilgiri Thar, was their holiday destination that year. There was a little forest lodge in the heart of the sanctuary. To reach it one had to walk about sixteen kilometres. But it would be worth every metre was the opinion of acquaintances who had done this trip. They had spoken about it in such glowing terms that the two couples had decided to leave their respective little children with their respective loving grandparents and set off on this trip of a lifetime.
The jeep track ended at the foot of a hill. From there it was a footpath along the undulating terrain. The guide, a local, walked in front. He carried a sack of provisions . It was a calm, bright and cool afternoon. They walked steadily on. Now and then, a group of wide-eyed thars leaped into view and bounded away. Greenery bursting here and there into a riot of many-coloured flowers met their delighted eyes.They walked on, marvelling at the pristine beauty of the place.
"If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this." quipped Roy, Sheela 's husband. "So original of you, man " mocked Suresh, Amala 's boisterous husband.
The two men as college mates had been close friends . After marriage, luckily, their wives had taken to each other. The two couples met often, went on trips together and were very, very fond of each other.
" Does the road wind uphill all the way?" sang Suresh, panting a little. He was the singer, his wife was the dreamy creative writer, Roy was the outdoors man and Sheela the prettiest and finest homemaker one could find anywhere.
Much later, their destination rose to view like a crouching elephant. It revealed itself as a little building. Suddenly the guide drew their attention to marks on the loose earth that made up the path to the lodge. "Leopard! " he exclaimed. Sure enough, there were large catspaw -like prints going in the direction of the lodge.
"Don't be afraid," said the guide, " he has gone." The pug marks ended a little before the sparkling stream that flowed nearby. A wide, deep trench to keep out elephants had been dug around the building. They crossed the rickety bridge and collapsed in exhaustion on the floor of the front room of the two room lodge.
"My feet, my poor feet!" moaned Sheela.
" My throat, my poor throat!" said Suresh.
Out came a few snacks and the inevitable bottle. Suresh poured out a generous dollop into a glass brought eagerly by the guide. He took it into the interior of the lodge, eyes gleaming. Roy poured in some water into the bottle. Both the men had swig from it. "Not so much, please", begged the women, in vain, as always.
All of them were ravenous. The rice gruel, sliced vegetables and pickles that the guide-turned cook dished up tasted heavenly. By then it was turning dark. There was no question of venturing out . That was left for the early morning when animals of all kinds would come to the stream to drink.
The guide had gathered dry branches and twigs. It was getting very cold.
Soon there was a fire crackling in front of the lodge. They sat at the door, tired but elated. The warmth of the good food, the spirits and the fire exhilarated them. The sky was clear, the stars larger and brighter than ever. "Sirius! a.k.a Suresh" said Sheela, smiling at Amala She knew her friend's favourites very well. They discussed stars, sang their favourite songs ending with a romantic solo by Suresh. Slowly they got up and went in.
The guide had lit another fire in the fireplace in the room. It sent sparks dancing up to the old dark ceiling. They lay down on the mats spread there, each couple on either side of the fireplace. The guide was already a blanketed bundle in the little inner room from which snores emanated.
Suresh was getting amorous. Amala pushed away his hands and mouth in embarrassment, pointing to their friends who were lying decorously side by side. Finally he gave up and pulled the blanket over his head. Amala fell asleep.
Amala was dreaming. A beautiful leopard was climbing up a rock. His pug marks were bright red. They gleamed like blood on the brown rock. He stood on the top, his head raised, his tail swishing. Suddenly she woke. It took her a couple of seconds to get her bearings. Then she realised that Suresh was not next to her. Casting her eyes around, she saw a moving shadow that the light of the dying fire threw on the wall. Two figures, clasped together. Her eyes moved to the other side of the room. Roy lay alone, asleep, his face to the wall.
Amala closed her eyes tight. But she could see the blood- red pug marks. They were moving inexorably towards her.
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
ALL THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT
Bibhu Padhi
Your quick, considerate light
plays on my skin.
As the night grows into a darker life,
my world acquires a narrow, emphatic heat.
New forces, subtle fields of energy
create themselves between skin and skin
and hold us together in a dear gesture.
But in due time,
a thin flame within you
starts burning through the night.
It dances inside my brain,
deep below my skin.
As the night turns thin and weak,
your defeating red is all there is.
Your small body wins.
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
The Prophet of Bommanappalle
Sreekumar.K
As he was coming down the hill, Yasodharan looked up at the clouded sky and sighed. He wondered why even such a thing as a clouded sky brought to his mind thoughts about death.
Thick dark clouds were slowly moving across he sky. The hills around RishiValley act as an inclined ramp for the rain clouds to move higher up in the sky and miss the valley totally. So, there was very little chance to rain.
Old Ramulu used to tell him very accurately whether the sky was going to pour down or not. Ramulu died two years ago of a bad fever. He was eighty-five. Nobody in the village could predict the weather so accurately.
Yasodharan also could predict things. He had learned a little bit of palmistry, astrology and yoga when he was in Varanasi.
He had left Varanasi as advised by his guru and wandered around to see the world. He went to Kanyakumari and then to Arunagiri. Very interesting places. He came to Madanappalle because he had heard about Krishnamurthi. He went to his house once, but he always missed him for some reason or the other. By the time he came for a second visit to Madanappalle, Krishnamurthi was no more.
Yasodharan had thought of returning to Varanasi, when he suddenly had a desire to wander around among the many Kondas which made the place beautiful.
Incidentally, that same day the people decided to reopen an old temple. A priest who had agreed to come for the puja didn’t turn up. Many people mistook Yasodharan for a poojari and asked him to do the puja. He agreed. But after the puja, he told them that he was wanderer who had no intention to stay. But the next morning he wondered why he shouldn’t stay. At least, he didn’t really feel like leaving. He could stay. May be he could teach one of the villagers to do the puja before he left. He did teach two of the village men to do the puja and they took over the duty from him. But by then he had no desire to leave the place.
He stayed for a long time there. Though he was an adept in palmistry and astrology he did not let other people find out much about his expertise. He himself was fed up with it.
At Varanasi he had spend a good number of years to learn astrology and palmistry. He had mastered it. His guru was so happy about him and he had told others that he was much better than the guru himself. He surprised himself by predicting an innumerable number of things. Most of the time he had to use the charts and conch shells, but over the years he found that most of it came to him as visions. There was a time when after dealing with so many people who came to him to have their future divined, he would be in a different state of mind. He would get visions of things about to happen. But later this siddhi bothered him. Fortunately, there were times when he was totally wrong. He found that these visions came to him mostly after long hours of reading palms or working with those cowry shells. Once he told his Guru and he started laughing.
“Yaso, though I had found that you were much better than me in these things, I had also foreseen that you would eventually find your siddhi troublesome and run away from it. Haven’t you noticed that I had stopped doing these things a long time ago? I think this is the time for you also to try quitting it. I quit it not only because it bothers me, but also because it is not worth possessing. It works against your peace of mind.”
Yasodharan found it difficult to throw away what he had gained through so much practice.
Leela was coming up the hill. She was looking very ill these days. He knew she was not eating properly. But then, no one in this village had enough to eat. Since water was becoming scarce every year, families were leaving every now and then. Most of them went to the cities and were promptly forgotten. A few old people came back for the temple festivals and they didn’t look like they were faring any better.
After he handed over the temple duties to the others Yasodharan decided to stay away from the village. He left his room near the temple and found this hut high up in the village. Here he designed baskets and mats and taught the designs and techniques to a few villagers.
In return he demanded only one thing from the villagers. He wanted a single meal everyday brought up to his hut.
A zaminder in the village sent him some food everyday through Leela.. Yasodharan ate very little and Leela ate what was left over. It had become very difficult for her after her husband left her after the birth of her third daughter. There was no way to trace him down. Some said that he had married again and that he was living near Tirupati. There should be someone in the village who knew his whereabouts.
The baby was almost three months old now.
When Leela repeatedly asked him if her husband would ever come back, he once tried to look into the possibility. From the rasis he was able to predict that Leela’s husband would come back following a death in her family.
He disclosed this to her and so when her grandmother died she was very hopeful. He might hear about the death from someone and would drop in to have a last look at her. After all, it was this old lady who had encouraged her to marry him.
Leela waited for days even after the burial. But he never came.
Later she asked Yasodharan if there was a possibility for another death in the near future.
He asked her to forget about it all and live for her baby. He had managed to send a note to the farmer demanding more food. Not because he wanted more but because he wanted Leela to have more left over food. Her baby surely needed more milk from her.
Yasodharan had been feeling uncomfortable since last week. First, he thought it was his arthritis coming back. But there were no real symptoms of anything like that.
Was it his routine life telling on him? Had he finally been defeated by the boredom of the village life? But he liked it here.
He finally figured it out.
It was the smell of death that was troubling him. Some one close to him was about to die.
He took a closer look at it. He tried the rasis of all the people around him. Everyone was hale and hearty. He went through the whole list.
Finally he concluded that it was not anyone in Thettu. It should be some one close to his heart but far away.
He had no connection with his relatives. He hadn’t seen any of them for years. The only person who cared for him and he cared for was Swami, his guru, the man who taught him astrology when he was in Varanasi.
Yes. There was a heavy chance there. At least, it was not a bad idea to pay him a visit.
If he was fine, Swami would tease him about the visit. It was very hard to hide anything from the old man.
Yasodharan did not think twice about it. He knew there was no point in thinking twice. One hint was too many in cases like this. But whose death? Who was he to make such predictions?
However, there was no time to waste.
The very next morning, before day break, he set out on foot to the next town.
There was no door to shut, no door to lock, no milk man to be given notice.
Yasodharan walked out of his room and continued to walk all the way to Madanappalle. He caught a bus to Chittoor from where he would catch a bus to Tirupathi. He had some friends there. From there on, they would arrange his journey. He hadn’t seen them also for quite some time.
It took him only three days to reach Varanasi. He noticed that the city has changed quite a lot. Like a ripple starting in the centre of a pool, a new city was being built continuously in the centre. The kind of smell and noise he was familiar with were now pushed to the outer limits of the city.
Swami would not come back to his home until late at night. He usually went for a walk near the ghats and would stay around the lower steps for some time every day. He didn’t prefer companionship at that time. But how could he be sure that swami was still healthy enough to do that? But how was he sure he wasn't?
Assumptions. Assumptions.
He had come all the way because of an assumption. And now when he was very close to his destination, he was tarrying because of another assumption.
He swept all those thoughts out of his mind and went for a plunge in the holy waters. It felt different. He could feel it flowing past his body without leaving a trace. Dirtier than the water in Thettu. But then, you will never see so much water in Thettu.
Around the ghats, life hadn’t changed much. It had been probably like this for centuries.
He felt better after the plunge and ate his supper.
Finally, he decided that there was no need for him to wait till the next morning to go and see Swami.
There was no problem in locating the house. He had spent seven years of his life there.
The room, as usual, was not locked. Still, he preferred to wait outside.
The wind from the river could be felt even here. Yasodharan felt very sleepy. The many oil lamps he had seen around the ghats danced in his mind. It was very beautiful. The holy waters reflected them in a hazy way. He could now smell the fragrance of burning camphor and oil.
He hadn’t noticed it before when he actually was in the scene. But there was a mother and a baby, just near him walking into the deep waters. No, he had noticed that and had touched the mother’s shoulder to wake her up from sleep walking.
But it was he who was being shaken.
“Wake up Yaso, or are you dead?”
He recognized the voice. He recognized the harsh tone enshrouding a wealth of kindness and care.
“Swami……. I slept off…”
“Rama! I thought you were dead. Come inside since you are not dead, though my room is no bigger than a coffin.”
“Swami, how did you know?”
“Easy. You haven’t changed at all”
“No, I was not asking how you recognized me. I was asking how you knew why I am here”
“How do you know what I think about the purpose of this visit?”
“Swami, you mentioned death four times”
“No, three times. Then I mentioned a coffin”
“Still, it is clear that you have some idea about the purpose of my visit”
“Yes’
“But, how?”
“I already answered that question. But you didn’t listen.”
“Swami?”
“I told you, you haven’t changed at all, meaning you still have a fancy for predictions though you are not good at it and you easily jump into conclusions. You are still blind. No, even a blind man would see why you come all the way from wherever you are, all upon a sudden, just like that.”
“Swami!”
“I am not dead, but I am very tired. I need to sleep. I hope you had some supper. You may find some fruit there in the corner. Make yourself comfortable. It is just you and me. If you plan to go for a plunge in the morning, call me too.”
With this he disappeared into a dark corner and was soon fast asleep.
The next morning Yasodharan did wake up Swami and they went for a walk together.
Yasodharan didn’t know where to start.
Swami looked hale and hearty as usual. Still, signs of old age were there.
But that was all. He was still pretty strong. He remembered how Swami had dragged him out of a strong current long back. He can still do it, no doubt.
“So you had a bad dream or something?”
“Why Swami?”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t come all the way without a notice.”
“I didn’t have a bad dream. In fact the dreams were pretty good these days. I dreamt that my house maid’s husband came back to the village. However, I had such a bad feeling in my mind, a sad feeling not particularly about anything.”
“Like the smell of death?”
“Very much like that. But there wasn’t anyone sick ………”
“Except me. Isn’t that what you thought? I won’t blame you. Even my younger brother is on his death bed”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, he is. But what you felt is not the presence of death around either of us. It seems to me that your journey has been wasted. You may be needed in your village right now. I would advise you to start in the afternoon.”
On the way back from the river Swami asked him about his present occupations.
“I have handed over my duties at the temple. I spent most of the time in my own hut on the hill top.”
“Not many customers for your astrological and palmistry services?”
“No, Swami. I am not interested any more in them. I am finished with them. I have had my share of excitement. Long back when you told me I would get sick of them one day, it was hard for me to believe. I thought that would be my life long career.”
“So, one of my predictions became true and yours turned out to be wrong.”
“True, very true.”
“But you didn’t tell me the reason for such a turn of mind.”
“I have been dying to tell you about it. I remember those long nights of arguments and counter arguments we had in this very room for years. After sticking to my guns for quite a long time….”
“Six years…six long years…”, said Swami.
“Yes, six years. At the end of that period, I left you completely convinced about how relentless our fate is.”
“I won’t call it fate.”
“But it amounts to the same thing.”
“My objection is only about the half truth that the word suggests.”
“I know that. But what I would like to tell you is another story. Even after I left you, I continued to study astrology. I went to meet all those people who were well known for their ability to predict.”
“I knew you would do that.”
‘Through hard work and rigorous practice, I developed my skill to such a level that I myself was surprised”
“How bad a prophet you would have been if you could surprise yourself!’’
“Whenever you are joking I know there is some great truth coming out. You are right. Sometimes my predictions went totally wrong. But it was accurate on many occasions. But my work among the villagers tell me that changes are possible”
“You seem to suggest that I had said that changes are not possible. You are back to square one. I never said that changes are not possible in life. In fact, life is only another word for change. Changes, alterations, alternatives, and choices are there in our life. Without choices, the free will to choose is useless and hence irrelevant.”
“Yes, that was always your argument against free will.”
“But, now, if you think you have a free will, you have to admit that there are choices. This world does not tolerate uselessness or irrelevance.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“But there is also that man who thinks there is no free will. For him choices will not be there since there is no one free to choose. Having so many choices, with no free man to do the choosing, is also irrelevant. So there are no choices from his point of view. So, like many things in life, this too depends on your initial perspective.”
“But what would be the right perspective?”
“Even right and wrong cannot be the same in each perspective. Krishna told Arjuna to choose to be his instrument. But, He himself made no choice when he was about to die. We are back to the theme of death. I am sure someone in the village would have died by now. At least feel happy that you are not the reason, since you were away in Varanasi with me when it happened.”
“Who has died?”
“How would I know? You are the one who said that there was a smell of death in the air. It is a very common stench these days. You can’t find….”
“…… mustard seeds from any home not frequented by that common guest” , Yasodharan completed Swami’s sentence.
“Right”
“But my question was not answered.”
“What you have is not a question. It looks more like an answer. It won’t be such a bad thing for you to go around meeting those who have questions.”
“I know what you mean. But I am not interested in that.”
“That, of course, is up to you. But I would suggest that you go right back to that village and meet those who are close to you.”
Seven days and thousands of kilometres later, back in Thettu, Yasodharan met his villagers.
They were happy to see him. They all had so much to tell him.
When he was in the village they assumed that he did not miss any news at all. Now that he had been away they wanted to fill in on the week’s highlights.
The big sandal wood tree outside the school farm was stolen. The new Madagascar paddy had brought a good yield. The zamindar’s elder son had joined the Navy.
No, there was no death.
He asked about Leela.
Yes, there had been some news there. Her baby died a few days back.
And her husband had come back to have a last look his baby.
He may not go back. At least he was not going back soon.
In the afternoon he went to meet Leela.
Leela’s husband was also there. He told him the reasons for the baby’s death. A very common reason – starvation. Leela couldn’t give her any milk for three days. She herself had been starving for a week.
The sarcasm in Swami’s words scorched the inner recesses of his mind.
“At least feel happy that you are not the reason, since you were away in Varanasi with me when it happened.”
He alone was responsible. When he was away at Varanasi, Leela didn’t have to bring food for him. So, she didn’t get the only food available to her, the left over. So, there was nothing left in her for the baby.
He alone was responsible.
Leela was still mourning the death of her baby. The others probably felt happy that there was one mouth less to feed. And that too a girl’s.
Yasodharan walked down the steps to the dusty road. It was raining somewhere else. The wind blew the dust up. He was lost in it for a moment. It was like a plunge in the Sangam. And then, quite unlike it too.
The Ganges
Sreekumar K
Picture Credits : Ms. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet and painter
It was always a little embarrassing for me to tell others that my father’s name was Malleeswaran since that is a rare name in Kerala. Everyone seemed to know what that name meant and that was strange to me. Not many people know that Sasi means the moon or that Ravi means the sun. But everyone seemed to know that my father was named after the god of love or rather lust. My grandmother once told me that my grandfather had foreseen all this when he named my father thus. He had chosen the name from some Oriya novel.
Almost everyone in my family had a strange fascination for literature in other languages. More than a fascination it was a contagion. Not only those who were born in our family, but those who were married into our family also were bitten by the same bug. The new generation had some overseas obsessions too, with two of them hooked on to Spanish and another cherishing a French connection. None of them kept abreast of the modern trends. It was mostly romantic or classic stuff. Half a dozen bloggers, one columnist, two biographers and a novelist shared my family name. But the one who gave me a welcome shock was our cook, Binu, a teenager, who could quote verbatim, from The Saga of Khasak, the myth of how two bits of life went for a walk and one went beyond the sunlit horizon to become Maimoona and the other stayed back to become frangipani. It won’t be long before the mice on the attic start chanting the Ramayan.
My wife Mala's interest is in Marathi literature. Her full name is Malathi. She is from Maharashtra. My first appointment was in Nassik. All my colleagues were from north India and except Mala, they all had the same look with typical north Indian features. I was a pedegreed Dravidian breed and this made me go for Mala. Luckily, our similarity started with looks and ended with looks and in no time, we went ahead and tied the knot. Soon afterwards, I found that like the wives in Padmanabhan’s short stories, she was an adept in hiding her little share of pettiness. She could be mean on her own choice too. But along with the post modernist trends in Marathi literature, we steered clear of discussing our angularities in character.
All of us flew away to far off places in search of jobs and only my parents were left behind in our ancestral house. We all invited them repeatedly to come and live with us. But my mother didn't want to and so my father declined the invitation. Thus, it was usual for all of us to fly back to Kerala whenever we got a long vacation.
My wife wasn’t very fond of my parents. She found my mother tolerable when she took lesson from her on knitting and my father agreeable when he didn’t discuss Marathi literature with her, but sadly, this was all too rare. My father knew very little English and my wife knew even less Malayalam than that. I had to act as the translator between them. And whenever my father saw us together, he would join us. This didn't improve the situation at all. Once, while the discussion was about ‘Bangarwadi’, Binu, who was splitting firewood came over and stayed around. He was seen splitting logs the whole afternoon, till there was nothing left to chop or split.
When my mother died, I and my wife were working in Hyderabad. Both of us worked in a huge establishment, a good distance from the city. It was on a beautiful landscape with accommodation facility for about ten thousand people. They had provided multiple cuisine and a common dining hall with seating capacity for five thousand people at a time. There were long walkways and a well maintained garden and a park. Against my wife's wishes, I invited my father to come and stay with us. This time my father happily joined us.
We had been married for years but we had not been blessed with children. Still, Mala couldn’t stand anyone else making our company a crowd. After my father came over, Mala didn’t miss any chance to go out of station for official tours and training sessions. I too found some relief in her plans. I had begun to realize how three made a crowd.
My father’s health improved much, mainly because he had to walk several kilometers between the mess hall, the park and the library. He had made some acquaintances here. One day he told me that I didn't have to bring home food from the canteen. He said he preferred eating in the dining hall. Even in the dining hall he didn't sit with us. He mingled freely with the others and made at least a new acquaintance each day. He had alienated much from us. Consequently, my wife's outstation sojourns became less and less frequent.
We were too caught up in our own worlds and I wasn’t able to attend to my father properly. It was Mala who solicited my attention to some changes in my father’s behaviour. She came to notice it through Sheena, one of her colleagues.
There was a certain Thara Sen in the accounting section. She was not a very socializing person and never mingled much with anyone outside her section in the office. She was a spinster but didn't dress like one. Sheena and her gang obviously had decreed how spinsters should and shouldn’t dress. Probably Mala had also been tutored in it since she wasn’t puzzled by her friend’s description of Thara’a dressing habits. It didn't take me much insight for me to see what had made Thara the focus of their attention.
“Don’t you remember her, Abhee?”
“No”, said I.
But my ‘no’ wasn't enough. She listed out all the occasions on which I had seen Thara, which sari she was wearing on each occasion and how she had had a unilateral discussion about them with me on each such occasion. She succeeded in proving to me that I did remember her.
It had been reported to my wife by her friends that Thara Sen, for the first time since she had joined the firm, had developed a friendship with a man and that too with an old man. There was much difference in their age, though they had grown past the age. I could not exactly understand what grown past the age meant. Sheena had shown this old man to all her friends that day. No one knew who he was. He was related to someone who worked there. He used to come to the mess hall all by himself. But now Thara accompanied him always, everywhere. No one knew how or when Thara had landed him. Or why.
“I didn't tell them that it is my father-in-law.”
It was like a child hiding behind the door and jumping before you yelling “boo” to scare you that Mala said that. I was a genius at hiding whatever explosions happened within me and Mala was again disappointed.
In fact I too had some intuition that something like this was about to happen. Everyone around my father had someone close to them, spouses, friends, babies and siblings. Even Binu had found a mate in our neighbour’s daughter. My father would have felt very lonely after my mother’s death.
His loneliness only got worse after he came to Hyderabad. Loneliness had greyed to solitude. Earlier he used to wait for us to return from the office and exchanged a few words with Mala and me. He used to ask me about our neighbours and then about those whom he had met in the dining hall that day. Thara’s name had also come up. But we didn't know anything about her except the fact that no one knew anything about her.
Days later, Mala looked up from the book she was reading and asked me, “Who had suggested this name for your father?”
“I know the sting in your question. So, what is the update on Sheena’s investigations?”
“It might not be of any importance to you. But, by now, everyone in my office knows that the old man Thara has landed is my father-in-law. It is all the more shameful for me to have hidden that from them. I should have revealed it to them myself.”
O, God! If those in her office know, pretty soon everyone one in my section will also find out. Almost everyone in my office was the spouse of those who worked with her. People will smile more at me now and ask amusing questions about my people just to see if it is heredity or just from the environment. I wondered what kind of stories were already reviving the grape vine.
I decided to get some information about what was going on from my father himself. But there was no need. He himself started telling us about his new friend.
She was a Bengali. Living alone. Knows Malayalam really well. Deeply interested in Malayalam literature. She was also interested in word games, puzzles and other pastimes which were dearly loved by my father. Talks way too little but listens like no one else.
Interpolating all this with what Sheena forwarded to me through Mala, I had enough to give myself some tension. Thara was not very popular among the female population there, for reasons not known to them. Now they had a good reason too.
I too noticed something. My father wasn’t home in the evenings. As soon as we returned from the office, he went to the mess hall for his tea and would return only after dinner, sometimes long after dinner.
His room had a door that opened to the front yard and he had taken the key from me weeks ago. So, I didn't actually know when he came in or went out. I felt bad about it all. People who live in the same house weren't seeingeach other and that too, a father and a son.
Even after days, there weren’t any stories, remarks or comments in the office other than the ones I imagined.
One day when the servant cleaned my father’s room she discovered some bits of construction paper neatly cut with a blade. Mala gathered some and spreading them on the dining table, tried to divine what they were. I couldn’t help laughing at her.
This was my father’s hobby. He used to cut out some English letters and then cut them again into smaller pieces and challenge us to identify the letters and put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle. I and my brother had a hard time doing that. My brother used to figure them out faster than me. He became an architect and I became a programmer.
My father had once given me and ‘X’ cut into seven pieces and asked me to give it to Mala. I didn't even mention it to her. Now it seemed to us that even Thara had come to know about his hobby.
Days later, when Mala suggested that we should go for a stroll in the park after dinner, I thought it strange but I had no idea she was setting me up.
It was not my father and Thara that I saw in the park. It was my mother and my father. They were having so much fun as they used to do, cracking jokes and telling stories. Only that she looked much younger, just as old as my eldest brother. We saw them from a distance. Mala didn't say anything. Was it her shame or her irritation that had silenced her? Or maybe she wasn’t silent at all. It was I who was in a world of silence. No sounds could reach me. Even the leaves on the trees around me moved very slowly in the wind which wasn’t there. Time stood still.
In another week Mala developed a stomach ache. Something she had had for dinner didn't agree with her. She had always complained about the food at the dining hall. So, she decided to cook at least one meal every day. We had never used our kitchen before and I didn’t know whether she could cook at all. To my surprise, my father liked the idea much. He bought the groceries, some vessels and a couple of dinner plates.
Since it was the first meal in that house, Mala made some sweet also. We were eating with my father after a long time. He enjoyed it and the food. He uttered a very good opinion about Mala’s cooking. I translated it for her.
He had said that she could cook as good as my mother. Mala could not fathom the depth of that praise. If there was anyone who could have understood it fully, it was my eldest sister, the one who had translated ‘The Winter Moon’. But she was no more.
If Mala’s plan was to dissuade my father from meeting Thara in the dining hall in the evenings, it didn't work. He did meet her every eveing before dinner. He used to dine with us every day, and engaged in a very hearty chat with us. My mother used to say that when my father ate more came out than went in. Now, most of it was about Thara.
We were amused at Thara’a interest in Malayalam literature. Every day after his tea, my father would go for a walk with her or spent time at the library or in the park. And at each dinner, he would relate everything he had discussed with her that day.
Mala was irked about this and soon she decided to cook only on alternate days and then only on Sundays. However, my father was regular in telling us all about his discussions with Thara.
Going by his report on those discussions, we were sure that it would have been only a one way talk. She wouldn’t have had a chance to put in a word edgewise. Once I said to Mala how I pity Thara and she complained that he had bored her also to death and I had never bothered about it.
My father began to read more and more. He was probably gathering enough to talk to Thara. We used to see him in the park, caught up in their own world. It had become so much a part of the landscape that even Sheena had lost interest in them. I never met Thara face to face or talk to Mala about her. Thara also seemed to be evading us.
My father continued to spent most of his day at the library or in his room cutting out new shapes and making puzzles out of them.
One day Mala showed me a piece of paper she had found in my father’s pocket when she was dumping his clothes in the washing machine. It was a piece of creased paper with the rough cartoon sketch of a dog which looked like Snoopy. She folded it along the creases and showed it to me again. Now it was a different picture. It was the picture of the nude bust of a lady. This worried me.
My eldest brother had shown this to me and my sister when we were in school and my father had hit him hard when he heard about it. It was the same picture that he had recreated now, probably to amuse Thara. He had been telling us only about his literary discussions with her.
One of those days, I happened to talk with Thara about clearing a bill. Instinctively, I talked to her in Malayalam as I would talk to my father. She stared at me and I switched over to Hindi. But her answer was in English. Her accent was remarkable.
Why was she puzzled? Was it because she recognized me or wasn’t she able to understand my language?
“Cats too do that”, said Mala.
“What?”
“They like to keep their eyes closed while sipping the spilt milk.”
It occurred to me that my father had never told us anything about Bengali literature that Thara might have informed him about. Or anything that Thara would have told him for that matter. It was always what he had told her.
Mala also would have sensed that Thara didn't know any Malayalam at all. She, in fact, asked him one day whether Thara had told him how she liked the place. She hadn’t. It wasn’t a Sunday, but Mala cooked dinner for all of us and waited at the dining table till my father had finished his dinner.
When my eldest brother came to hear about all this, he didn't think it was such a silly thing. He decided to take my father to Delhi with him. We knew he would resist and so he told him only after making all the arrangements, even the flight ticket. He said he wanted my father to give his second son his first letter, to initiate him into writing. His first son had been initiated into writing by Baba. My father couldn’t resist.
A week after my father had left, our staff magazine came out. There was a photo of our park on the back cover. We could spot, among other people sitting on the park benches, Thara and my father. There was a poem by Thara Sen in its Hindi section. It was titled ‘A Speck of Gray Cloud’.
Two months later we got a letter and a parcel from my father. He inquired on our health and well being. Mala was overjoyed to hear that he missed her cooking. In a few weeks he had discovered that Prem Chand was no more a popular writer in Delhi circles. People were not interested in long novels any more. Graphic novels had taken their place. He had also requested us to send him a copy of the staff magazine if it had come out.
The parcel was a birthday gift for Thara to be delivered personally to her on October 21st, her birthday. Both of us went to her apartment on that day with the gift and a card from ourselves, but her house remained locked. The neighbours told us she had left a week ago. She was not feeling well when she left.
A few weeks back my brother took my father's last remains, mixed with those of my mother's, as they both had wished, to Benares to scatter it in the Ganges.
Since then Mala has been insisting that I should seek out Thara and hand over the birthday present to her.
I collected Thara's address from the office. It looked like outdated information. She was from a place called Kakrajhol, many kilometres away from Midnapur town, more to the western part of Bengal where it is quite hilly. I hope to find her there.
My wife has asked me to hand over to Thara a sweater she had knitted for her. She herself can't accompany me on this jounrney. She has a mild peptic ulcer and her doctor has advised her not to travel much.
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
An apology...
Ananya Priyadharisini
You know I've realised
Where I went wrong
How terribly I went wrong
And fled like a coward
Depriving my shoulders the weight
Of the guilt, the blame
You carried it
Are you still carrying?
I'm coming
No, I'm still a coward
A weakling
Unable to bear the blame
To deal with the pain
Unlike you
I'm coming to ask for forgiveness
To cry, to act
To mess with you, again
You don't love me, do you?
You hate me, you said
And I believed, I believe
Don't forgive me, I plead
Don't abandon me
Don't cut this cord
Let me be alive with you
In your hatred, if so
But don't forgive
Because that's how you forget
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.
A Journey Of Life
Parvathy Salil
Life is a dream
dreamt between eyes closed in birth,
eyes closed in death;
hope — its guide
and love its rhapsody.
Man blooms in world as kid
embodiment of innocence
days pass on,
life goes on,
grows, loves and learns.
Once grown, lives life to masquerade
yearns all, only to earn
burns the life born-
cheats, threatens and kills.
Life’s amour money,
its heart wealth
and its dream - prosperity.
And then he grows,
day after day
Older and older
Money his master, his mind its servant,
men and minds his foe.
Once old and weak,
there’s none for the weak to wake.
He lives in castle of cascade of oof
but to care him in his ache;
there’s none and no one.
The journey of life,
this is where it took him;
this is where it left him
lone, alone and still…
Void
Parvathy Salil
Floats my mind on emptiness
like an ice cube in a
glass of water,
struck ceaselessly with
silver spoons of memory.
Melts at its best pace, poor-
my mind into tears,
hoping for a void
like the water that lets
ice escape...
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.
Half-Truth
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Don’t say
Let the world guess
Who knows the truth?
All are just half-truths.
The rope appears as snake
As all the assumptions may be fake.
After reaching the end
You may prepare for another finale
Your truth slides further
To another distant horizon.
Who knows for sure
If all that is seen, is real?
You are in the cycle of change
In your journey with foes and friends
How you distinguish between them
And to what extent
As they keep switching their role
In life’s drama, every episode.
You may hide from the truth
Forgetting all the so called proofs,
Discover everything anew
And relive life, as done by a few
In awareness of every moment of life
Without any judgment, day and night.
"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.
STRONG WOMEN & ALL THAT NONSENSE
Chandini Santosh
When my great grandmother who never wore an upper garment till she died,
sat down
To weave palm fronds,
After picking all the lice from all the three heads
Of her daughters,
I was neither born nor had any intention
Of not ever being unlike them ---strong, resilient,
Proud to show off our hairy limbs,
And thick, black, curly hair.
When my grandmother did the same,
(She had just one daughter, my mom)
I carelessly tossed my five year old head
Full of hair,
And hoped my mother,
Lately returned from Delhi,
Where she cooked on a stove,
And washed the vessels with vim powder from a powder tin, some of the vessels,
Real and fine crockery,
Sat down to weave palm fronds,
I decided not to be strong. Not anymore.
I shaved my legs and found them too pretty
For words. Danced instead of walking,
Looked behind a dozen times
To stare at my pretty ankles
And
Sat down to read Kafka and Genet
Instead of whatshisname.
While sweeping the courtyard,
I demanded the chicken shit to be cleared
Before l would step down to sweeping,
Remembering and avoiding the spot
For three consecutive days, no less,
And working around it,
Washing the broom at the beginning,
Not at the end,
For, l did not want to be strong anymore.
I wanted to be normal. Like all the others.
Fall in love, eat chocolates, wear laced socks
Before wearing shoes over it.
Not to be strong, never.
Life comes at women in full speed,
Especially, to women like me,
Who slog over the arithmetic of the clinic,
Who learn to give injections in a jiffy,
And dress a wound in style,
Read an X-ray, write that prescription
Without a single error,
Count the money, call the banker,
No, not over coffee, call the share market guy
And argue over the pitfalls,
Again,
Not over cofffee,
For, believe me, l no more wanted to be strong,
Till your genes take over,
And you begin to handle everything around you
Like it were a ring-a-roses,
And the mirror on the wall smiles at you,
And you're where you started.
Strong, no-messing with me,
But life is a sham
And you fight your way through it.
Till now, l ask the shit be removed
Before l take up a broom,
Or its none at all.
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
Ode to My Tree
Gopika Hari
Forever and more, you will be my favorite tree..
The one place which accomodates me, sans questions and restraints.
But Oh! My foolish heart seeks a distant dream,
Unseen and unheard of, and unknown to me,
Yet pulling me swift into its alluring creeks..
And so, I have to leave you my tree, and beg you forgiveness, for all the trouble I keep.
If only, if only those visions would subside, and I could learn to make my nest in thee, I know I would be finally free..
But how shall I tell thee,
that my heart conspires against me?
Gopika Hari, third year BA English literature student at University college TVM. Poetry is her passion and has published her first anthology under the title "The Golden Feathers". She started writing poems from the age of ten, love poetry and poetic prose. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - gopikameeratvm@gmail.com
W for War
Abhinaya Murthy
In school today, my nephew
learns the alphabet
...U for Umbrella, V for Van, W for War.
My nephew now repeats this new word to me
the first syllable set in surprise,
forming an 'O' with innocent lips
open wide enough for a gun to fill the gap,
the last syllable, a free bird
rising to the roof of his mouth
only to drop dead to the surface
of a dreadful punctuation.
A period. Of Violence.
What is war if not a word
phrased and punctuated in history.
My grandmother saw war
when she was 12 in Madras
She said that she slept next to her brother everyday
because she didn't want him to be taken away.
Because all wars end in death.
W for War: a miserable poem, disguised and
discussed as a glorified prose.
If my nephew learns that B is for Border,
I want the teacher to define the Border
as a line of bodies, bombed.
Re-write the alphabet.
Define it, say it, repeat it.
Some things we learn are simple facts:
the sun rising in the east, the earth being round, war being wrong.
There is never an excuse, only fact.
Tell me, do they teach facts in the parliament?
Water Feet
Abhinaya Murthy
I belong to a generation born
with water feet, and water, runs.
We run out of homes, like we run out of words.
Suddenly, stranded in the middle of a sentence
deserted by vocabulary, mouth left dry
with the absence of words,
there are too many words that begin with h—
Him and her, hate and heat, house and home
See, how they are all very close to each other
but do not mean the same?
Here is a word that begins with ‘’Ho-’’
but the letters of “me” have left,
replaced by the letters of “use”
This home is a house now.
We practice saying home
three times a day like a prayer.
They say, if you pray long and hard
you will be heard, and you will
get what you want,
but we belong to a generation of people
with water feet and water runs.
And even the most pious of runaways
are still runaways aren’t they?
Tied to our tongues, the holy manuscript
of unholy spirits—embers of sexualities
that burn fiercely and freely, the same
tongue calls out to God; faith and fear
are separate things, taught separately.
In our hands, we hold a scripture as old
as our dreams and as sacred as our dreams
We chant and sing, dance and pray
till we find ourselves and the answers we seek.
Now, we write poetry out of broken things-
countries and homes, hands and hearts.
Our generation is stitching these broken things
together—don’t verses look broken alone,
but come together to form a poem, a song?
My generation has water feet, and water runs
but we have the hands of a potter.
Mixing sand and water,
(both which slip between fingers)
to form something concrete,
our generation is that which finds home
in all that is not here, and all that is.
Abhinaya is a 22-year-old, who was born with limbs of science and art. She pursued a bachelor’s degree in technology, majoring in computer science and engineering between 2014 and 2018 in Hyderabad. She has been writing poems since she was 9, some of which transformed into opportunities that took her and my writing across the country allowing her to share my passion on various prestigious platforms like Star Movies India where her poetry was telecasted, IIT Hyderabad, Alliance Francaise Kolkata, Under25 Summit Hyderabad where she conducted workshops and performed poetry. Today, she is a part of the Young India Fellowship batch of 2019 at Ashoka University, India, pursuing a postgraduate diploma in liberal studies whilst working on the manuscript of her first poetry book.
Abhinaya writes to take refuge in words, for displaced are emotions in nooks and corners, in tents and homes. Her poetry is her way of attempting to understand everything that escapes her comprehension and embracing everything she understands more intimately. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - abhinaya.murthy_yif19@ashoka.edu.in
Hope
Disha Prateechee
Sometime I get this feeling
As I take my bare, naked feet
And place them into the
Tight shoes to walk
On a cold hard ground
Still rigid with the scraps
Of fallen dreams and promises
Scattered in the middle.
The ear-piercing screams of people's
Lives, recollections, memories and moments
Covers up my stirring cries
And calls for help
As I question my every moment of life
Where everything seems fine
But it isn't so.
there are colors;
some old and rusted
and falling apart,
on the people's
subconscious minds
while fresh new shimmers
Of the evening
starlight on the blue waters
just waiting to be discovered, like a
blind person experiencing sight for the first time
And feeling that the world is beautiful.
but how can I see the night twinkles
and fall in love with
the moon's glory
when I'm too busy looking
at the sun
trying to make my way
up to the very edge
running, taking barbed steps,
bent over all broken and
creeping.
Life isn't always a sunshine
What keeps us going
Is the undying hope
To live again tomorrow
To see the sunrise
All over again.
Disha Prateechee: A 3rd year student from KIIT University, Odisha. She completed schooling from DAV Public School, Burla, Sambalpur, Odisha. She has a keen interest in poetries apart from which she likes painting and playing musical instruments like synthesizer and ukulele. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - disha.prateechee23@gmail.com
Permanent Shadow of life
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
In the different relations of Life,
relations were created by God
One and only one we create
Is a friend...
A shoulder on which we can lay our
head for a while
While our tears wet their shoulders
A heart which throbs with us
Bleeds when our heart does
An eye to speculate the dangers
well ahead of the events
Arms to embrace us with warmth of love and comfort , in the most distressed moments
Brain full of zeal to think better for us and no space for jealousy
Worst moments of life defines such a True Friend,our Permanent Shadow,
who is at our back even in the darkest of moments
Shadow needs light for its formation and leaves us in darkness
True Friend is the only one ray of hope even in the morose moments
In days of today it is a blessing for us to have such a blessed relation
And it is most important to value such 'Permanent Relation'
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
THE SILENT SEER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The Saint had remained mum for thirty years
They called him the Silent Seer.
Then one fine morning he uttered a single word - Hunger!
The disciples went crazy, Baba has spoken, he is hungry!
Food came pouring in, fruits and milk and honey
Baba didn't touch anything,
But that year there was bumper crop everywhere
And ample food on everyone's plate.
For five years Baba didn't speak again,
And then he said but one word - Thirst!
The devotees danced in delirium,
Baba wants something to drink!
Water from the Ganges came in large pitchers,
As did mineral water of the highest purity.
Baba didn't drink a single drop,
But rains came pouring filling the ponds and wells.
One day some crazy man burnt down a temple
And all hell broke loose, blood flowed everywhere.
There was death in every family,
Men died as did women and innocent children.
A big crowd gathered outside the Baba's humble abode,
Waiting for the doors to open
Will he break his silence and ordain peace
To stop the senseless killing?
With bated breath they reasoned,
If Baba could bend the mute Nature to save them from hunger and thirst,
He sure can make rational people see reason,
And restore sanity in their crazy minds.
The crowd got impatient and broke open the door,
Only to find the Baba sitting in a final Samadhi,
The faint hint of an anguished defeat hanging on his withered face,
Like the waning moon in a brooding sky.
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.
A BRIEF CRITIQUE OF THE POEMS IN 7th ISSUE OF LITERARY VIBES (Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
The Literary Vibes, the literary wing of Positive Vibes Today, conceptualized and edited by the eminent story teller and poet Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a fresh breath and a much-needed e-journal of poems, stories, critiques, travelogues, reminiscences, et al. Its 7th edition has been out on 15th March 2019. It gives it readers almost a week’s full quota of various literary tests to tickle their taste buds and to savour the titbit till the next weekly issue is e-published. I take a reader’s liberty to critically appreciate the poems in this 7th issue with editor Dr. Sarangi’s kind permission. Naturally, I will not judge my own poems. The views are my personal, and my apology in advance if I ruffle feathers unwittingly.
Sangram Jena’s poem ‘Rear View’ overflows with sensitive observations of happy moments that only a poet can capture and express evocatively with rich imagery. Especially the lines,
You can see / The leaves tremble / As the lips quiver / With a secret touch.
Geeta Nair’s “Kala Pani” is an old wound scratched to bleed afresh dark red, festering with pain. Even the tourist-guide fumbles, perhaps with painful memory, “Here Indian political prisoners were inc…incar… incarcerated!” To highlight her personal hell to see the gory purgatory unraveled, she writes, “He stumbled over the word…” She ignores the entertaining ‘light and sound show’, rather goes after the graffiti written on prison pillars that epitomize for posterity the sad outpouring of lovelorn hearts of the desolate prisoners in isolation during Kala Pani years. The other wounds inflicted on history are found in chambers housing the gallows, and the gaunt manual oil-presses that stood like fossil witnesses to the prisoners’ torture who after their third degree were forced at them to crush their bones to earn their prison bread.
The well-known poet Bibhu Padhi’s LUNAR ECLIPSE has a brooding tone that dwells in aesthetics of emotions like separation, loss, wounded feelings, and no love lost between near or dear ones. But ‘hope springs eternal in human heart’, the poet persona holds back his collapsing horses with a positive vibe and bounces back from brooding to hope –
“In the quiet half-darkness, / I struggle to keep the moon // safe and healthy / above my hollowed palms.”
Sreekumar K.’s poem ‘Nun’s Prayer’ is a meandering saga in a deserts of pain without any oasis insight. Pain abounds without respite. The lines “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” brood and keep brooding.
ParvathY Salil’s ‘A Male Feminist’ reflects a saga of the unexpected and the uncalled for, and a saga of treachery and a sort of hidden knife in a trusted friendship/relationship. In lines “I curse, curse her / drinks, delights, damn dance; / all her baits that night - / all that I mistook for / a dearie’s feast.” the poem is suggestive of a misogynistic sort of feeling experienced by the poet-persona / protagonist but it does not come up to a poetic clarity; may need a little reworking.
Azra Bhagat has a fat portfolio of eight poems, reflecting various flavours. ‘Be Still My Soul’, is a poem to my heart, a drop of sunshine in the serious brooding tapestry of poetry in the 7th issue of Literary Vibes. I am amazed by the poet’s range of emotions. Certainly her style in these eight poems doesn’t appear quirky, as her bio-note indicates, rather quite level-headed. Her – “Her heart a blue-eyed fire, / Though her words were old”; “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.”; “So she jumps and sinks bellow, / To calm and peaceful swings”; “For all your troubles are temporary, / Though they are tearing you apart”; and “And the path is yours to choose, / But to yourself you must return” – the quotes from her poems strum the heart-strings. A controlled use of conjunctions, say, “ifs, ands, buts, thoughs, etc.” is likely to make the poems lovelier.
‘Death at Noon’ of Chandini Santosh stands for a muted revolt and a disturbed peace like the faces of pallbearers she images in her poem. Her haunted voice sounds like the inmates singing a muted hymn to freedom behind boarded windows in a curfew-night.
In ‘Mumbai Gold’ Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi, paints for us the two grim faces of Mumbai that epitomize corruption and its bruising and abrasive power. His style is direct, blunt, nakedly frank, and outright critical like Naxal or Dalit poets, reflecting a fearless conviction.
*****
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