Literary Vibes - 9th Edition (March 29th 2019)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to LiteraryVibes,
We at Literary Vibes welcome new authors of this week 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
GRITTY TREAS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
My tears don’t flow
but roll away: gritty, and hard;
scattered into blinding light
before the hooves and wheels.
The pain powdered, and churned -
what horse hooves or tyres
would know the agony of dislodging,
what the cobbled path would!
Could men gauge the torment
when dug out and pulled away
from my mother’s lap
on a day, sunny and serene?
The ground shook underfoot,
air choked with dynamite stink,
before senses returned, I was
in a land of hollow men of straw.
Why should I go gaga over chisels
morphing me into gods,
cry if the Devil emerges;
why shivers of passion numb me
when nubile feet are rubbing against;
why should my heart surge up
with courage when my walls
protect the wealthy snobs?
A priest is putting his sacrament
in a barren woman’s womb
in my stony temple sanctum,
my heart doesn’t skip a beat;
nor do it cringe with horror
to be a witness of the sacrilege;
rather it preens itself cheekily,
‘Que Sera Sera’.
I feel camaraderie for dead men
and women laid under me
to calcify, and turn into rock,
lamented by survived loving souls;
but find it tasteless when worn
as gems-jewelry to feign beauty;
or worn as sacred beads,
to hoodwink the gullible!
Let me be rather myself,
a rock, the fossil-witness
to time, in my bemused silence;
an unknown stone
on my sleepy hillside,
in my mother’s lap,
by her streams, moss,
and undulated breasts; let me be…
FROM INVOCATION TO IMMERSION
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
In the body’s auspicious hour
when the moon churns the parhelion
and the spirit swells in jubilation,
I invoke the deity of joy.
She manifests herself
wearing sparklers in hair
stars in eyes and
surf dancing at her feet.
With the frosted look of a devotee
I sit at her feet
and beg nirvana
for a few rupees.
The ebb turns me into a Thomas,
I forsake Magdalene, return
to my duties and responsibilities
wearing my cool mask.
I take wife
to Chowpatty Beach
for watching the immersion
of Durga, the clay goddess;
her idol worshipped with love
being consigned to choppy sea waves,
to be cast off by sea to a muddy beach
askew; paint washed off, naked, alone.
I scoop a palmful of salty water,
put a drop in my lips,
sprinkle a little on my head,
and close my burning eyes.
(the poems are slated to be in poet’s forthcoming collection)
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
WHEN NIGHT FALLS
Sangram Jena
The night stretches
like a long line of sorrows.
All the pains
that body accumulates
jostling with
events and accidents of the day
comes open only in the night.
The night hangs
like a long black braid
beyond your waist
fastening my dreams and desires.
When night falls
a voice is heard
from a distant land,
familiar yet forgotten.
When night falls
I heard you
Stepping out of your room,
clumsily
to reach where
my absences unwind.
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
BABA SANS MYSTIQUES
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
FIGHT TO THE LAST
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
[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]
OLD AGE
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
A PRAYER
(In Murudeshwar in north Karnataka stands the second tallest statue in Asia of Shiva the Destroyer.)
Ms. Geetha Nair G
The maddened sea beats behind you , Lord,
As you tower high; face turned away.
Anchovies clamour and pray;
Can you hear our cries from afar?
Poison that your throat held so long
Spills out and stains this ancient sea... .
Strain it, drain it
Swallow once again that giant swallow
That preserved us once
And ask your lovely Love
To wrap her creamy hands around your neck
In a fierce embrace.
Your neck will turn a child 's painting -
Daubs of orange, green and blue -
And you will be Varnakanta.
No jest, my lord;
This is how anchovies pray
As we struggle and perish in the spray.
FOUND AND LOST
Ms. Geetha Nair G
The park was almost deserted when he found her resting under the gulmohur tree. That was her customary spot where she waited, lovely body half-hidden, half-revealed, invitingly
But this time things were different. He was in no hurry at all. She sized him up.
He was a charmer, alright. His dark, bright face, his gleaming eyes filled her with adoration. Never had she seen a man so capable of wooing, drawing one towards him. She moved towards him.
How sweetly he spoke to her! . Such respect. No one had treated her with respect. In a matter of minutes, he was caressing her. She vibrated to his touch. She was in love. She knew it.
Soon they were moving together to a car parked just outside. She had never been inside one cars were not for lowly ones like her. He opened the back door for her. Then when she was settled, he got in in front. There was water and some eatables for her. So he had come planning a pick-up? A long journey? That was novel, indeed. She was used only to quickies.. No one lingered with her.
She drank a little of the water. The car made her a little uneasy. Where were they headed?
After a while, the car stopped. When he opened the door, she saw that one finger was missing on his hand. Who did that to you she asked wordlessly, seared with grief that her perfect man had been hurt at some time, by someone.
He helped her out, then they moved together to a lovely grove, thicker than any she had seen before. So this was their destination. Fitting, she thought, looking up at his calm face with eyes filled with love. What a man!
“Go in peace, dear one.” He set her down on the ground. Then he turned and hurried away. She took one last look at him. With a weeping heart, she glided away into her new, safe home.
The snake catcher rushed back to his car. Another call. This time, a house in the city. He had to rush.
***
The snake catcher is closely modeled on a much-admired and popular one in Kerala. His name is Suresh ; he is known as Vava Suresh. He is on call day and night .People contributed to buy him a car. It has a specially-equipped back seat for the snakes he catches. He loves and respects them; they too very rarely harm him. (He lost a finger once, though.) . He releases the snakes he catches in forests.
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
THE LESSON
SreeKumar K
I was returning from Goa after a failed business meeting, all my baggage stolen and having missed my flight. All from drinking an extra peg at a party. After two long taxi rides, I got into a passenger train, my body, my mind and my ATM card completely exhausted.
There was a row of three seats and I lay down to catch some sleep. A five rupee coin rolled out of my pocket and landed under the seat. Who cares!
Ai the next station a man came in begging, picked up the five rupee coin and asked me whether it was mine.
I said no.
Then he goes to every passenger in the whole compartment and makes sure it is not theirs.
Through my tear filled eyes, I was seeing God in action, teaching me a lesson, by example, not precept.
I instantly let go of all my regrets, since it was a lesson worth a million.
Everyone who covets another's is poorer than the poorest. Those who don't are richer than the richest.
And, what does it matter!
THE PASSION FRUIT
SreeKumar K
We are six siblings, me the youngest, six years younger than the fifth, a brother. Passion fruit was a rarity in my childhood and my brother had procured a sapling from somewhere and planted it close to a cashew nut tree in our backyard.
It grew hugging the tree and soon flowered and flaunted its first fruit a full fifteen feet above the ground.
The moment I saw it, I coveted it and decided that it was ripe. My brother tried to convince me it was quite tender, but I fought with him and insisted that it should be plucked instantly. Being youngest, I was tolerated much at home. Still, my brother took all his courage and resisted. In the end, i got furious and chopped the plant down with a kitchen knife. I got away with that.
Well, I didn't.
My craving for passion fruit continued to grow. What never grew were the numerous passion fruit saplings I went on planting for the next three decades of my life. I have green thumbs and whatever I put into the soil, straight up or upside down grows, flourishes, flowers and fruits. But not the only passion fruit of my life.
We, my small family of me, wife and daughter, moved into an old rented house near a river and its terrace was covered by a single sprawling passion fruit vine.
We admired its blossom every evening and on one occasion counted 165 flowers.
We were away for a few days and our well intentioned house owner hired a worker to clear the premises. The not so well intentioned worker took a short cut by chopping the passion fruit vine at its roots and hauling it off the terrace and towards the sand bar near the river. The house looked pleased having been unburdened of the silly creeper.
That night, sitting alone on the terrace, I figured it all out.
I rang up my brother. He hadn't gone to sleep. I apologized to him and wept rather bitterly.
Recently we moved into another rented house.
Three months back, I spotted a passion fruit sapling, weak and lean, as if from an exhausting long time travel.
Yesterday, near the front balcony, my daughter found a few tender fruits flecked with a full summer blossom.
Like pleasant thoughts in a calm mind, the creeper is solemnly moving all over that side of the house.
SCHOOL
SreeKumar K
School teaches us a lot, especially when you are back there as a teacher.
Ours was a small school which actually had a primary section of less than 60 kids.
On birthdays, the toffees were distributed only from the dining hall. And then some smart ones would beg off a toffee from a teacher and proclaim that he got an extra one from the dining hall, just to create trouble, not just trouble, a world war.
Thus, one day we were told not to share our toffees with any kid.
The next day.
Milan, aged a mighty six, runs towards me.
"SK sir, SK sir, did you get a toffee?"
Hiding my toffee clumsily but quickly I say no.
Whereupon, he offers me his toffee, mauling, quartering, grinding, shredding me, killing me and my pride as an adult in just a second.
Watch out, the lessons may be too hard for you!
MOVIE REVIEW: MANOHAR &I (BENGALI, ENGLISH SUBTITLES, 1 HOUR 58 MINUTES)
SreeKumar K
It was in Manju by MT Vasudevan Nair that I first came across a certain kind of love and relationship. It went deep into my heart though I was only 20 at that time. Later I read a story Rain in Malayalam and I too penned a similar one in the same language,
Years later, I saw an enhanced version of that as a movie by a very dear friend , Amitabha Chaterji, titled Manohar and I. A very charming monochromatic film which shows the different colours of human relationships.
I am tempted to tell the story but bridling myself pretty hard here.
I think black and white was a good choice. The audio and its different tones from musical to baritone, compensated for the shades of colour. By the way, the shades of light is such that one forgets it is a black and white movie.
Visually, the movie is very good. The people are small against huge structures, old and new everywhere. The common man in diminished to an insignificant spot. The movie is full of metaphors and multiple themes and layers. There is a pretty long shot which uses an ordinary angle. It turns out to be the best scene in the movie, as a watching experience.
The popular book Sapiens says that we have reached here coz we are great story tellers. How true! Some are lucky or privileged to have most or much of their story to be true. But for the others, it is still pure fiction. We manage by keeping our stories more and more colourful, though it is grey in reality. Like the grave, our stories are snug fit for us. They, in fact, us the same feel. Like the sweater Mala does not wear.
Before I teach the literature class, I ask each of my students to present any two magnitudes of the Universe in class. When they are done, I tell them, “So, that is what we are. Only because it is OUR lives, we make a big thing about it all and we call it literature. The radio, the TV, the traffic which flows like the river of life, all provide a proper back drop to the narration. The characters are mostly alone but in crowds. It is when they are alone that they find more company and space for themselves. The emotions, motives, thwarted determinations, shattered dreams, the half way farewell are all emphasised. The cast and acting are great too.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on
And our little life is rounded with a sleep (Shakespeare in King Lear)
Except for the use of mobile phone once, ageing looms large in the movie. The dialogues are pointers to the psyche of the characters. The delay in responses are well timed to show the drama that goes on inside. Whenever we think Amitabha is going to resort to cliche, he offers surprises after surprises.
To use a thin concept and develop it into such a creative work, I am thinking of the writing part, is remarkable. I am not equipped to rate the direction but I would love to watch it again and again and suggest it for festivals and friends.
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
I'M 23 AND MY NEXT GENERATION IS ALREADY HERE!
Ananya Priyadarshini
See, there's not much work of fiction in this story. Hence, I request you not to have high expectations from the usage of words in the same. This piece is far from literary ornamentation and closely hugging reality. I'm pretty sure people of my age (or even not!) would find it relatable.
So there's is this 23 YO me, still consuming parent's money (Relax, I'm not unemployed. Just pursuing a course that claims all of your youth) and another girl 5 years younger to me. I'm a lone soul. You don't have to see those sad vibes coming from this statement. I'm rather, an introvert (just so I sound cool!). I love to go to movies, alone; go backpacking to scenic locations, alone; pig out at eateries, alone; go shopping, alone etcetera.
In short, I'm quite high on life but with due course of life, have realised that people are chaos more than company. I just don't fit in anywhere. I've fallen in and out of love but only with characters, of books and never any person existing in the real world. Partly because I look like a potato and partly, because people too find me peculiar.
And then comes this pretty girl, sorry lady who's 18. I remember how my mom had made me cry on my 18th birthday saying "well, now you're no more a kid!". One fine day, I called this girl 'hey, kid' and she retaliated saying, "What kid, Dee? I'm a good old adult!".
"Being an adult isn't good, kid", I thought but didn't say. This 'adult' is quite a social butterfly. She has a whole gang of friends (her mental health is still intact) and a boyfriend whom she needs even when going to fetch grocery. She has taken 'humans are social animals' way too seriously!
It's not about her and me, though. It's about all like me and all like her. I hail from a typical middle class family where my single mother integrated both 'freedom' and 'responsibility' with my upbringing. We thought those alien fashions were only for actresses and models, that we should eat well and study without paying a lot of mind to our looks, that make-up isn't for us.
Then come youngsters like her who wear all they want and own a gut to reply befittingly when questioned or criticised. Who balance eyeliners like a boss and wear bold lip colors that shout- "make up is my choice!". Who walk with their hands in their boyfriends', know that they shouldn't be ashamed of it.
You'd almost thought I'm upto bitching about these young girls, didn't you? Well, you're partially right. I'm a 90's kid and just can't digest few facts.
Some women of my age have promptly leaped the generation gap but few like me, have chosen to grow old instead. We keep getting awestruck each time we see highschoolers with straightened hair (since at that age, we used to oil our Bob hair daily!), a 12 YO shedding sweat in gym and teenagers cutting wrists because of love failure.
Each time I meet one such organism somewhere, sometime I just can't help but feel older than What age I'm. I'm far from Snapchat and tik-tok. They say, I should look join them and try adapting so as to feel like a part of this era. But I'm too comfortable in my old skin and too lazy to step out of my comfort zone. Though I am not at all orthodox neither do I judge people doing what I usually do not, I'm stubborn to change.
Before you start abusing me in your mind for having wasted your time with my rubbish rants, let me explain in my last few lines why I chose to write this down. Firstly, I know I'm not alone but it took me meeting a lot of like minded people to reach the conclusion. So, I want to save similar variety of readers some time and tell them, "No, pal! You ain't alone." Secondly, I want to seek help! Please let me know if I need to change (grow younger)? If yes, how? Mails awaited!
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.
HER PRETTY LITTLE FROCK
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Stark naked stood she,
The little cherry tree,
Her pretty little frock stolen.
Autumn has robbed her apparel
Once gifted by the spring,
Later embroidered by summer.
Jade green was her embellished frock
With a brown lining at hem.
Deep red hearts adorned it
With some beautiful flowers sprinkled.
Alluring it was in design
And ravishing when in motion.
Lo! Here she stands embarrassed
By the atrocity of autumn.
Tease her not, ogle her never.
Winter has promised her a coat,
One white unblemished spread
Till spring arrives with a new.
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.
THE TIDE WOULD RETURN
Parvathy Salil
The tide never stays
It comes and goes
It comes and goes.
The sea is salty,
boundless, but unstable. Still,
for the transient tide’s
froth of love,
the shore does wait
all day and night.
The tide does never stay,
and the shore knows it so well.
Still, all day and night it waits
with love-laden soul
for, it knows the tide would return
to moisten its dry sands….
ODE TO A WHITE CLOUD
Parvathy Salil
A lone little white cloud
tumbled and twirled,
rolled and tolled,
regaled me whole.
Its snow-white whiskers
swam so far,
far and free, with the hiss of wind.
Envious I glanced at its ceaseless dance
as it twirled and rolled and flew in glee….
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.
PAINT ME, WITH YOUR HUES
Sruthy S. Menon
Paint my lips
In your blood
To make it red.
Paint my eyes
Pale as the skies.
Limitless _
With your desires .
Paint my skin,
To begin with _
A kiss on my chin
And may you win,
This fantasy
in your white canvas
To paint me
With your hues
Of love & lust
Or even
Much more !
Sruthy S. Menon is a postgraduate student in MA English Literature from St.Teresas College ,Kochi, Kerala. A few of her poems have been published in Deccan Chronicle, also in anthologies such as “Amaranthine: My Poetic Abode”, a collection of English poems and quotes compiled and edited by Divya Rawat. An Anthology by Khushi Verma titled “Nostalgia: Story of Past”, a collection of English poems, stories, quotes.
She is a winner of several literary and non- literary competitions including art and painting as inspired by her mother, the recipient of Kerala Lalitha Kala Akademy Awrard. Her poetry reveals the strikingly realistic and fictional nature of writing on the themes of love, rejuvenation of life in contrast with death, portraying human emotions as a juxtaposition of lightness and darkness, the use of alliteration on natural elements of nature, etc.
She is a blogger at Mirakee Writers community and Fuzia ,a platform for women writers, receiving International Certificates for contests on Poetry and Art. She welcomes reader’s feedback in Instagram (username ) @alluring_poetess .
BEYOND ALL DESIRES
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Swimming in the sea of desire
I have forgotten my past
And building a dreamy future.
I don’t remember
If anything I have carried forward
Before coming to this world.
It is the trap
I was advised to avoid
But, my small wishes
Have thrown me into the void
Where I can only see the whirls of tornado
Boosting up my desire and ego.
I am devastated
Travelling endlessly in despair
Trying very hard to recall the name
Of the panacea of all desires.
I find myself holding on to love
Floating like a straw in the deep waters.
You have brought me here
To spread your words bold and clear
I am just your messenger
How can I forget
That life is not all about desires
But a bouquet of love and affection.
"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.
MONEY TAUGHT ME LESSONS
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Life is most valuable,I suppose
That is when money smiled at me and said
"If I am there I keep your life alive"
Knowledge is most precious,I know
Again money said"you buy it in forms of books with my help"
When I pondered my mind tussling with itself
Money reminded me "I am the weapon to keep you stable!"
When my heart throbbed hard with thoughts of love
Money knocked my emotions"Love can be bought with money"
Eternal relations which gave us life and joy
Lose to money and offspring detach from parents
Now my soul so confused
Question my body "So dear body ,you shall be put to grave with help of money
To bring solace to me"
Power of money, 'so powerful yet full of deceit'
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 TAG
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I look at your eyes,
A tired tear blocks my vision.
I didn't ask for it, I want to tell you,
Why are you giving it to me?
So late in life do I need the proof of your love?
You have given so much to me,
Holding my hands, defying the world,
When every one branded me a fallen woman!
But the one who ran away from me
To the arms of another girl is a macho mascot!
Why are the women always fallen, why give this tag to us,
After all the beatings and insults we take.
You understood all this and gave me a new identity.
When I refused to come to you,
You only assured me of love and companionship,
Let's live together and build a new life, you said.
After all these years you want to give me a new tag,
With a wedding dress, a necklace and a pinch of vermilion?
Do I need it any more?
From you?
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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