Literary Vibes - 10th Edition (5th April 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
VARANASI, THE CITY OF RUBBLE
(For poet Vyomesh Shukla from Banaras)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A transgender, a bisexual, a man
and a sagely lady,
sip insipid brew
by a tea-cart that came hurtling,
served cups to the goose and gander,
irrespective, tasteless and sexless.
The weary sun blinked down,
parting furtive clouds,
listened to the cacophony,
a flatulence-mix of Hindi,
Urdu, and Bhojpuri; fouled with
a tentative miasma of Hinglish.
By Kabir Chaura,
the hub of Varanasi’s who’s who,
jostled nose to tail the awardees
wearing Padma-halo and other tiaras,
they, the gods of small things.
The sun chuckled cheekily at
mostly fakes, stars or failed gods,
at best the weather balloons,
lobbying in ponds of willowy fish,
wheeling-dealing for the pinkier Padma
or a gilded Ratna;
more butter on better bread.
Few illuminate the street;
Kishan Maharaj’s exquisite Tabla’s echo
thumps to Sitara Devi’s kathak footwork
and lose its way in a city,
gone blind and deaf by the glaring din
of bells and myriad lamps of Ganga-Arti.
The nubile feet of mujra-walis,
the dwelling goddess melody,
are junked to dance-bars’
blaring tapes and bared conours,
vultures to peck. Hides Banaras
behind its veil of hush.
Ravi Shankar’s ghost
cradles a silent Sitar;
the tired Bismillah soul’s
empty lungs gasp for oxygen,
his Shehnai’s weeps mute tears.
Musical notes roam streets, bereft.
Exacerbated, Vyomesh looks behind;
a derelict Kabir with his moth-eaten Dohas,
a disconsolate Tulsi clutching
sepia and torn Ramcharitmanas
lurk behind crumbling half-ajar doors.
Humans masquerade as manikins.
An indulgence, self-brews -
Ram and Rahim jostle for space
with novo cosmetic tsars.
But hope springs eternal -
city’s honest whores still solicit
though pimps have moved to politics.
The heritage is stepping down
to make room for the usurpers,
flush with e-money;
peddling new toys, Wi-Fi and Net;
you can’t love it, you can’t live with it;
you die ghastly, or roam ghostly.
The sacred stretch between
Kashi Vishwanath temple
and the holy Ganga, that prided
of its musty lanes from the past,
hugging grubby little temples,
enshrining an entire Hindu pantheon
lie bulldozed and flattened on the ground,
frustrating the seekers and tourists.
The rubble awaits its tinsel transformation,
with five-star eateries, paved parks,
painted temples, designer deities,
and packaged prayers with MRP.
What a Vyomesh here,
or a Sabir there can build
out of this mishmash rubble?
They divert themselves by shooting
birds from Banarasi zari work,
and selling handlooms as pyre-wood.
(A reflections on an erudite article of Vyomesh Shukla, and other assorted thoughts.)
LOVE: UNFETTERED IN DEATH
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Honey, my apologies,
couldn’t keep you in bed,
neighbours took up cudgels,
“She will stink like a dead rat”.
What a cheeking, what blasphemy!
Saw you placed on a pile of wood,
ghee and sandal oil poured on you;
helplessly set aflame your pyre.
Thank God,
it was a freezing December night.
It is dawning, the east has
a fine streak of purplish red,
recalls your parted lips,
all my poems fade
before the sublime grandeur.
The last smoke is coiling up
from the pile of ash where you huddle;
the cacophony of mourners
long gone, you keep me company;
the dawn, silence, and chill aside.
A leafless tree mutely broods
looming low in grief,
the first crow hasn’t spoken,
cicadas keep a tormenting silence,
stillness is raising a crescendo.
The breeze is shifting the ash;
a sliver of hope makes me alert,
your left foot may invitingly smile,
‘Let us go for a walk, dear.’
‘Give us a hand.’ may say fingers.
Mounds outlining your drooping tits
tantalize me, ‘Take us to bed.’
I squint down with tentative doubts,
‘Are you sure, sweetheart?’
‘Don’t make love, pet, just hold me.’
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
THE PHYSICAL BEING
(DEHA)
Mr. HARA PRASAD DAS
(Two Odia Poems of 1993 translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Go ahead, touch it,
it’s tangible and sentient;
a pretty paradox
from the birth to ashes,
an enigma
enough to chew a lifetime;
hack it to pieces
to your heart’s content;
burn it with lust’s tinder
all your life;
satiate the dead forefathers
offering it as Pinda,
the ritual rice ball
on a platter of banana leaf
consigned to water;
your body,
your slave;
a wishful star
caught in sooty cobwebs
sleepwalking with you.
ULTRAMARINE KOHL
(NILAANJANA)
Mr. Hara Prasad Das
Conviction or courage
could not humble me
to come off my high horse;
pretences came handy.
I floated with clouds,
my shadow
cast by the sun
came down to wipe
your unsuspecting tears.
Believe me,
despite efforts
it was not easy
to be at your level.
Changes crept in unwittingly,
the Bay of Bengal
changed colours quietly,
the meaning of happiness
changed in my lexicon.
Of late,
inseparable shadow
of yours,
unable to stay apart.
Wish,
my timid love could smear
ultramarine kohl,
the vast blue sky,
along your eyes’ shores.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award (2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
ASADHA, A SEASON OF LOVE
Ajit Patra
(Translated from Bengali by Sangram Jena)
Clumps of wafting clouds
are visible in the blue sky
through the leaves of
rain-soaked trees.
In the fading light
of the dusk,
Asadha comes down
filled with gripping loneliness
burning my heart with love.
Rain and love are one,
inseparable.
The trees kiss the wind
bending its head intermittently.
Love stirs my heart
in the midst of Asadha,
the verdant field sleeps silently
stretching its hands to the horizon,
Sometimes it wakes up
and sees that I am standing
among them - the wind, the trees and the clouds.
Unending wait,
hope and longing,
this is life.
Leaves and flowers of saluk trees
floating in the
still water of the swampy fields.
Patches of clouds March
over the hilltops
grasshoppers move merrily.
This Asadha is full of love
Standing alone, as I am
mad in love
this Asadha.
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.
TYPO FOOLS THE FULL
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]
R K
Ms. Geetha Nair G
Mia loved ships. A Tom and Jerry cartoon where the two were on a voyage was her favourite. "Daddy, I want to travel by ship. Please, " she would implore Vijay. There were few things he could deny his little darling. Finally they settled on a cruise to the Lakshadweep Islands. That was all they could afford. So it was that one evening Vijay, Rema and Mia boarded The Tippu Sultan. The Sultan was well past his prime yet he never rested. It was a sea-worthy ship; a stalwart who ferried goods and people from Kochi to the main Lakshadweep islands and back . Tourists were a very recent addition, the Captain’s additional responsibility.
The excited Mia explored the ship, towing her parents along.
Below the deck was a row of comfortable cabins, a chair- car hall and below them, the big hold which was packed with passengers going back to Lakshadweep, goats, cows and other cargo. Vijay and Rema who revelled in history and literature -in fact they had met and fallen for each other at a series of lectures on The Dutch and the Slave Trade from Cochin- started relating the crowded hold to the black old days of slave exports from India.
Mia was entranced by it all. The cabin, she said, was like a doll's house. Vijay swung her on to the upper berth where she reclined like a princess. Of course she was their little princess, all of eight years old.
"Come, let's watch the ship leave harbour," said Vijay.
On the deck were gathered most of their fellow tourist voyagers.
The engines whirred, bells rang and The Tippu Sultan sailed majestically and slowly out of the harbour. They stood there long, enthralled by the novelty of it all. The sun was sinking.The sea shimmered in its last rays. A middle-aged man standing near them turned to Mia, the only child in the group.. "Look, little one!" he exclaimed , pointing . "Dolphins!" Sure enough, there were three of them, cavorting in the water… . Mia clapped her hands in glee.
‘Thank you, Uncle’, she said when they had disappeared.
He went on to introduce himself. He was Riaz Kabir from Belgaum, a “government servant…”
Vijay disiked such garrulousness and familiarity. He put on his frozen professorial face and Rema correspondingly stepped up her warmth.This was a see-saw game they had played many a time. "I teach English literature in a college there" she said, pointing to the fast disappearing blur that was Kochi.
“ Ah ! Literature!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up, “ I read. I read, Madam!"
"Ah! He’s literate.He’s literate. And what a billious green jacket!”muttered Vijay, jerking her elbow to turn her away from the intrusive man.
Mia skipped all over the ship. Everything delighted her- the gently rolling ship, the entertainment zone, the snack bar, the gleaming dining room with the plates and cups fastened to the tables, the out-of-bounds engine room..”It moves,Papa, it moves!” she cried out in wonder. ‘Ah, Mia, already said by another, long ago” was Vijay’s smiling rejoinder.
All night the ship moved steadily on while they slept in their strange dolls’s house. By nine, the ship had reached Minicoy, the first island of their tour. Disembarking was a challenge to Rema but joy to Mia. She was thrown from the ship and caught in the seasoned arms of one who waited in the big boat alongside.’Come on down, Mummy!” she squealed as Rema gingerly climbed down a swinging rope ladder.
There were a dozen of them, tourists from various parts of the country.They got to know each other while they waited for transport from the shore
The vehicles rattled up - they were tiller--like contraptions with a hoodless metal six-seater attached.to each. Real bone-shakers. Sharing their vehicle was the man who had shown Mia the dolphins. They exchanged smiles. He was keen to talk literature to Rema. R.K. Narayan was his favourite writer, he declared. Rema was being playfully squeezed and whispered to by Vijay. She laughed out loud and covered it up by spluttering,”Malgudi!”
“Malgudi is but a figment of the imagination.” The man said loudly and ponderously.
This was too much for both Vijay and Rema. They burst into laughter which left the man puzzled but unfazed.”My initials too are R.K.” he declared proudly.
The day was spent viewing the exotic sights of Minicoy.The Lakshadweep Islands were in their infancy as a tourist destination. The local people were still shy or downright hostile.Still, a house had a wlcome for them. Lunch was coconut rice and fish fry, the staple meal of the islanders. By four they were back, ready to board the ship which had returned after dropping off islanders, goats and commodities at two neighbouring islands.This was the pattern they were scheduled to follow for the remaining days as well. Sail by night, tour by day.
The next day it was Kalpeni, another lovely island. R. K. managed to stick to the trio, much to the irritation of Vijay. Snubs just bounced off R.K’. s big body. Mia chattered merrily with him. “ I love children, but do not have any,” he sighed to Rema .She wanted to respond to this opening but Vijay’s eyes flashed a warning. He disliked his wife’s smiling friendliness to all and sundry. He called her gullible; she called him cynical.
“His wife must be a figment of the imagination,” Vijay chortled as he swung Rema away in the direction of the lagoon. It was a shimmering blue beauty that beckoned to all. Mia squealed like a lttle porpoise; she was a waterbaby.Soon they were splashing or swimming. Only Rema and RK did not venture in. They sat under a coconut tree and RK finally found a willing listener. His bleak life unfolded bit by bit filling Rema with pathos. His wife who had loved reading and from whom he had caught the habit had been killed in a freak accident years back. They had no children. RK lived in a little flat in Bangalore. He seemed to have no ties with any one. He spent his vacations travelling. They discussed books next. That made him happy. He seemed to have read all of R. K Narayan.”Wish I could visit Malgudi but…” “Malgudi is only a figment of the imagination!” completed Rema, smiling.
By four everyone was out of the water and back at the wharf but the Tippu was not in sight.
Two hours later the ship rose to view, far out to sea. An engine problem had delayed its departure from another island. Now it was low tide. Tippu could not approach; it was too far away to carry the tourists by boat to the vessel. So, only in the morning could they board the ship. They would have to spend the night on the island, on the beach.
“Marooned!’ exclaimed Vijay.
Food was their immediate concern. There was a solitary little teashop close to them. It had some stale cakes and a few packets of biscuits.. Vijay managed to get hold of two packets in the minor stampede. He did not want Mia to go hungry. Mia, initially uneasy, soon became euphoric. She looked at the Tippu, lights gleaming out at sea in the twilight, and exclaimed, “A ghost ship! A ghost ship!” It did appear a little like one.Wrapped in Rema’s flimsy dupatta, Mia looked like a little ghost herself.
There was a derelict dirty building on the beach but no one wanted to spend the night there. The marooned tourists sat or lay here and there on the broad beach. A few like R K had attempted a walk inland in search of food and shelter but had found neither.There were no dwelling places anywhere near ; no hospitality to be hoped for on that narrow, partisan island, no tourist guides.. ..
Mia was surprised to find her friend on his knees on the sand, bowing low. “What is he doing?” she asked in wonder. “Praying.” replied Rema. Mia went up to him after his ritual was complete and asked him que stion after question to which he seemed to be giving long, satisfactory replies.
She returned, bursting with information about God and prayer, hitherto strangers to her.Vijay and Rema had made a pact long back to bring up their children as atheists until they could think for themselves and make their choice.
They fed Mia on the biscuits. Luckily, there was till some water left in the bottles which each tourist had been asked to carry on all their trips on shore.Mia drank some water and said she was ready to sleep. They found a place on the beach to spend the night. Rema spread her dupatta on the sand and Mia lay down on it. The biggest bedroom in the world was Mia’s pleased comment. She started counting the stars.
“ Mama, I feel hungry,” announced Mia at nine o’clock. RK was just a few yards away. Like a genie, he produced two Five Star bars out of his pocket.”I knew you would get hungry, little one,” he said to Mia. “ I always carry chocolates ; I am diabetic, you see,” he explained with a smile. “Thank you very much, Sir,” said Vijay, watching his child chomping on the bar.
“Mama, I feel cold,” announced Mia at ten o’ clock. R K who was reclining on the sand, sat up . He took off his green jacket and covered Mia with it. Vijay was smiling. It was that rare smile that Rema had first seen when she had confided that she was an atheist. A smile of approval and acceptance.
Mia soon fell asleep, the green jacket covering her almost fully. Vijay and RK talked on late into the night while Rema lay half-awake, hungry, dreaming of Swami and friends, ships and chocolates.
With high tide and the sun, Tippu came within boarding distance. The adventure was over.
For the rest of the trip they made a quartet wherever they toured. Every morning and evening they strolled on the deck to welcome or see off the sun.They planned a trip to Kodagu the coming year.
The ship was due to berth at Kochi early on the sixth day of their voyage. Rema woke before dawn and slipped out to go up on deck to welcome land. As she closed her cabin door, she saw a group of people outside Cabin no.9. That was RK ‘s cabin. She walked swiftly towards it.
Her head reeled and her heart hammered as she saw the inert form on the bed, covered with a sheet. The ship’s doctor said two words in answer to her unvoiced question - “Heart attack.”
As they disembarked, Mia was upset.
“We did not say bye to Uncle!Where is he?” she clamoured.
“He left earlier than us, Mia,” replied Vijay quietly.
‘But why? Why no goodbye?” asked Mia. They had no answers.
“Has he gone to God? He said he would go soon. He asked me to pray for him. Shall I pray, Mummy?”asked the child.
“Yes, Mia. Pray” replied Vijay, picking her up and hugging her.
As they left the wharf, Rema turned back for one last look at the ship. On the deck, leaning against the railings, was a familiar figure in a green jacket… .
She shut her eyes, then opened them again. Nothing.
Just a figment of the imagination.
RUSSIAN DOLL
Ms. Geetha Nair G
Pretty preener
Painted black and red;
Exotic.
I looked, I saw, was conquered ;
I longed to take you to bed.
When you shed a whorl
Before my wide eyes,
I found a double within,
Only, smaller, less bright.
When you shed the next
Before my sad eyes
I found another,
lesser in height.
You do it again
Each night
Cast off a whorl,
Grown dimmer
To my sight... .
And so you diminish
And bit by bit you die;
Smaller and cheaper
As the days tick by.
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
SUNRISE AT PURI-ON SEA
Bibhu Padhi
Under the clearing sky,
Gopal Ballav Road rises
to meet our sleep-numb eyes.
The sea increases.
Now the long thin border of faith,
now the still rim of its distant blue,
now the loud green beating the sand.
All along the wet earth
a wild game of words is played
between wind and wave.
We wait.
The minutes turn at our feet.
And then, without notice,
the heaven explodes.
At all our ears and eyes
a conversation among colours,
an awareness of unseen seas.
Our words dissolve in the blue water.
Which lost and forgotten thing
shall be returned to us now?
Who brought us to this place?
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
THE DAY IT DRIZZLED
Sreekumar K
Madhu got out of the bus first. I waited for him to open his umbrella. It was drizzling a little. He took a while to open his three fold but the conductor seemed to be in an unnecessary hurry. I was almost pushed out of the bus. I staggered, my foot slipped out of my chappal and Madhu had to drop the umbrella to catch hold of me. The conductor reared his head back into the bus like a tortoise and the bus disappeared around the bend in no time.
We got drenched a little and we hadn’t expected that. I looked at my shirt and shook off a few drops of water before they could seep into my shirt before I got under Madu’s umbrella.
“Is this the place?”asked Madhu looking around doubtfully.
“I hope so.”
It was raining rather heavily that day and the road was kind of flooded. I recalled the torrential rain, muddy water falling off the cliff over which there was a rubber plantation with trees hanging over the cliff and swaying wildly in the storm, my bike parked on the roadside, Sumi and me completely soaked in water and the steaming tea from the roadside shop warming us up.
“No cows were tied here that day?” Madhu chuckled.
“Yes, this is the place and that shack is the shop. But see, it is closed. Where the hell did he go?”
“You sound like you had asked him to be here. These villagers are quite unlike us the urban folk. They don’t have a sense of time. But they do have a strong sense of direction and season. If you ask anyone for direction even at night they will refer to north and south. If you ask for a date they always go by the Malalalam calendar.”
“My Malayalam calendar has only eight months because that is all I can recall.”
“Whatever it is. You go north and turn west and towards the south you can see a cowshed in the east. In pitch darkness, on a winter night. There you are. Hahahaha.”
We crossed the road and stood patiently near the shop waiting for someone to come by. The drizzle was getting encouraged by the wind to mature and be a rain. The tree tops on the cliff were swaying menacingly and the small streams across the road were racing to get closer and be be a large single stream. Dry leaves got washed down to the side of the road.
A group of Bengalis, all in a line, walked by with each person’s mobile playing a different song, and each holding a dented nickel lunch box. Probably they are not listening to the songs, but creating an ambience just like their Kakrajohl or some such village to mitigate their homesickness. Songs can do that. Shift one geographical spot to another. Or even move a certain period of time back and forth.
A coconut plucker, with his gear, a ring of rope and a jack knife, passed by and stared at the shop and at us. Before we said anything he started. “Asan innu varaththilla. Avide poyekkuva.”
*Asan will not come today. He has gone there.*
We didn’t know the person or place he was referring to but both of us in unison looked in the direction he pointed at as if we understood every word.
We moved in that direction.
We took a small path which deviated off the main road and soon we found that we got plenty of company. The whole village seemed to be going up or down the road and strangely no one anymore stared at us.
It had been the same season a year ago but the day was fresh in my memory. With my wife, I was passing by that place and got stranded in the rain. It was a storm. That shop was open and we got under the thatched roof whch flopped up and down like a dragon opening and closing its mouth.
The shop keeper communicated with his eyes and handed over two cups of teas as if we did not speak his language.
While sipping the tea, a miracle happened. We overheard a conversation between a customer and the shopkeeper, probably about a silent character with a well maintained beard, sitting on a stool, his eyes fixed in the distance. He too was sipping tea and smoking what looked like a fat beedi.
From the overheard conversation, we could figure out that the man was an astrologer, and very good at reading palms. He was a lazy fellow and not interested in keeping a place for himself. The shopkeeper sent people to him having had pity for his starving wife and daughter.
The customer's story was that the man had predicted years back that he might go abroad but make no money at all. That was unbelievable for him. He was sure that if he ever went abroad he would stay there all his life to see to it that his family had a roof to sleep under.
He did go abroad, but only for a visit as part of some church activity. We all had had a good laugh over it.
Hearing this my wife nudged me and I resisted it for some time. I was agnostic and never took a final stand on these things. It may or may not be true. Who cares!
But then I had to take a clear stand. By sticking my palm in front of him I would kind of change my view. And finally that is what I did.
When I abruptly pushed my hand in from of him, he smiled at no one in particular, finished his cup of tea, spat the last bit onto the road, gave back the cup and sat down.
Then he took my right hand in his left hand and laughed as if he had cracked a joke that no one understood. He held my hand for some time and without looking much at it, just having had a few furtive glance at my face and my hand and at my wife, said, "Sarinte achan oru moonnu masaththinakam marikkum. Sarinte joliyum pokum."
*My father was going to die and I was going to lose my job*
He closed my fist and pushed it back at me as if I held a national disaster in my closed fist. I was a bit taken aback to hear all that. My father was sick, but I expected him to go on for another year. My job? There was no way I was going to quit, my school would never ask me to leave and I was too young to retire. But why did he call me sir? How did he know I was a teacher? I was already becoming a believer, I caught myself. He would have addressed any stranger who gave him money as sir, right?
My father died in two months and four months later I got a very good job int the north and left my school.
Later at a get together, I related this incident and from then on Madhu was pestering me to go with him and find this man. He wasn’t dying to know his future or anything, he just wanted to meet this man who could predict future so accurately.
And there we were, a couple of furlongs away from the astrologer’s house. We walked up the muddy path, the squishy mud getting between out chappals and feet and making it too hard to walk uphill. A man who rushed past us brushing his shoulder rather ruled onto mine woke me up from my memory.
He turned around. I said ‘it’s OK’ thinking that he was about to say sorry. He had no intention of apologising, Instead he asked us whether it was time to take the body to the pyre. We said we had no idea.
At the end of the path, we entered a hut in bad repair and there he was. The smell of death lingered around as if looking for the next in line.
On the floor, covered in cheap red silk shroud lay the body of a man who could see into the future. We paid our last homage to him, came out and stood around for another half an hour.
The deceased man’s daughter was screaming out loud and his wife was also inconsolable.
To the left of us us was a house half built. Obviously the construction work had been stopped for a day. Seeing us staring at that house, a man said that it was the departed man’s big dream.
We walked down the path in silence. Both of us wondered whether we should stay back to be present at the last rituals. But who was the man to us? Practically a stranger. Death only parts us. It does not bring people together.
We caught the first bus that came by and grabbed two adjacent seats. Life keeps us together.
When the crowd in the bus thinned out, Madhu leaned over from the other seat and asked me whether I had his umbrella with me.
I said no. We had lost it somewhere.
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
ENCOUNTER WITH BUDDHA
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Seeing you as you meditate
With the aura around your face
I ask you if you are the god
I am looking for since ages.
You look so different
As if from another planet.
You look like a flower in the garden
A dancing peacock in the rain
A swift stream singing in joy
Dancing down to meet the ocean.
You are like the rising sun
Spreading your wings all over
You run around like an alert deer
Unaware of the danger
You are very much the smile
And the tears all alike
You are neither hot nor cold
You are ductile and still very bold
You are unique in the world
You can’t be anyone other than God.
“I am not God as you insist
As there is no such thing ever exists
There are differences in you and me
Though nothing much to distinguish
I am awake as you are still asleep
I am aware of my breath
As you just continue to live
With the Buddha caged inside
Which you can always unleash
And be like me .”
"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.
BECAUSE YOUR DECISIONS MUST MAKE YOU HAPPY
Ananya Priyadharisini
I've met some peculiar people in my everyday life. Some of them are funny and some other are ridiculous but they're all in the same shoes.
The man in the public transport who leaves his seat to a lady carrying a child and then judges everyone else for not doing the same; The lady sitting at the cash counter who wears plain clothes and no make-up but judges customers wearing loud fashions silently with her eyes;
The family who prefers celebrating their special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries at orphanage but criticise people who love partying instead on theirs; That middle aged guy in that corner flat who says he chose not to marry or have family because he loves freedom and hates responsibilities but complains about couples being seen around in the society every now and then; That colleague who maintains a full attendance, stays late in the office, works really hard and excels in his field but ends up humiliating those who take leaves or leave work when it's time even if they do their jobs and many more!
We're all the same. This is human nature and not really a flaw. When we do something unique because we think it's 'good', we want to be noticed and appreciated. But to others, that's no big deal but just our choice. And that's where we try to find out desired (not deserved, though!) share of praises by deteriorating others without realising how this dilutes all the goodness that we've done.
Be grateful that you've the supreme right to make your own decision. Before you make one, ensure that it'll make you happy even if it fails to impress others or bring you in limelight. Make a decision because you want to, that's enough of a reason. When you decide something against your natural will so as to stand out from the crowd, you do a deed as stupid as starving yourself so others find you slim.
When we make decisions against our will, we split ourselves into two halves. Both halves feel like fleeing from the other but none can and this internal conflict doesn't only snatch away our peace of mind but also reflects in our behaviors making it worse day by day.
Remember we all have one life. We must push our limits and do everything we can. This one life is meant to be spent to the fullest instead of being harsh on oneself.
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.
EYEDROPS
Parvathy Salil
Let them inside;
seep down down, roll
round around your iris,
ride, hide amidst your dried whorls –
prick them inside out.
Force your eyes close;
shut the world out, then
see!
Now, open;
cry the slush out,
sieve your self fresh.
After all; they’re but eyedrops...
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.
BETWEEN
Anwesha Mishra
Not a noise I made,
Treading the endless road,
Bending viciously. Denser now.
A sweat bead trickled down my temple.
Swallowing that lump of fear down my throat,
I heaved.
A flash of olden days;
The tender touch, a sweet kiss-
That was when I was but little.
Time has paced since,
Unstoppable, like a mad horse.
Hark! The cicada cried.
I stood motionless admidst the greens,
And turned, only to find a path,
Abounding in depth and delirium,
Just as one that lay ahead of me.
But for that familiar call that soothed my nerve.
And the wish to be back in those gentle arms,
Took the shape of a drop of saline water.
Warm- perhaps 'cause of thr intense humidity.
Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy.
PAPER FRIEND
Disha Prateechee
Holding it close to my chest
I took a breath,
Deep from the bottom of my lungs
And sat there
Staring at the wall in front of me.
It feels like I just gained and lost something
At the same time.
Feels like I experienced something deep
Something intimate
Something so intense and somewhat transient metamorphosis
It's like I fell in love with a stranger
Whom I had never met and will never meet again
I ache with the craving and sorrow of the ended affair
At the same time feeling content.
Full with the experience, the unsaid connection,
The richness that comes after digesting another soul.
I feel fed, if also only for a while.
I tapped hundred of souls and collected their wisdom
At the same time experienced deaths of people I will never know.
Every ache, agony and harsh truth became mine to bear.
I lived a thousand lives and came back
Learning from each of them.
I am still looking for someone to fill the void of my singly-healed heart
It's like looking for the breed that's dying out.
It gave me a direction to see myself as someone new
Someone who I would have never thought I could be
That's what books do to you.
They tear you apart and make you whole all at the same time.
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.
GAAMPA SMILE
Gopika Hari
It wasn't always that he smiled that smile
For it was his 'grandpa smile'
Reserved for the bundle of joy that came to their house
Every Friday eve, yelling "Gaampaa", Roses in dimpled cheeks
Now , when the bundle lies buried
A feet deep near her 'Gaamma' s place'
Curled up, it seems, with tiny arms draped around her waist
As she used to in the weekend days
When tired after baking her the cherry cake
Gaamma retired to give her frail heart a break
And the bundle jumped in with her onto the well made bed
Crumbling sheets and wrestling with baby pillows,
Making her way to Gaamma's bear hug and kiss..
How that little joy beamed through the stone walled rooms of ours, He mused
And walked back home
But not before smiling
That smile
For the bundle of joy
Buried or not, he knew she would warm to that smile
And who knows, one day, come out of the dark place
Asking for a hide and seek game again..
Gaampa trees sighed, as little leaves fell, with the falling rain, flooding lanes and wells of fate.. And they, the gaampas ache..
(*gaampa: grandpa
gaamma:grandma)
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
UTKALA
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Utkala is not just a word
It is a heritage full of valour loyalty love and trust of 'we people of 'Odisha'
Kalinga is the evidence of history which highlights the crave for it by so many rulers
It was the ground which brought solace to the mind of Ashoka
It became the basis for spread of Ahimsa
Mahanadi,Brahmani, Baitarani set the geographical enrichment
Warriors and leaders who shed their blood to nourish 'Mother India' enrich our culture
'Erudite lot' drape our rich literature with their writings
Patachitra,the miniscule art furnishes our heritage
Utkal is the home for one and only 'Lord Jagannath' reverred by crores.
Utkala is our Janani.
Her womb is our shelter filled with purity
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
THE GIFT
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
It was a bright evening
Lit with the sublimity of a setting sun,
The heart was glowing
Wth an air of expectation.
The courier delivered the small box,
Beautifully wrapped,
A gift from my mother!
And a letter.
My darling daughter,
I saved for a lot many years,
Every bit of my penny
Earned through my sweat and blood.
Here is something
You will wear till the time comes,
As it has come for me,
To pass it on to your sweet kid
I opened the parcel,
It was a stunning necklace,
Set with ruby red stones
Smiling at me with unblinking love.
The stones sat prettily, snuggling against each other,
Only she who set us up, they said,
Know where we belong,
The frozen drops of blood from a loving heart.
I knew my mother has sent them to me,
To feel her love,
Every time I touch them
They will take me to her in a silent journey through eternity.
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.
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