Literary Vibes - XI (12-April-2019)
Dear Readers,
Welcome to LiteraryVibes,
Literary Vibes welcomes the new authors of this week, Mr. Dilip Mohapatra and Mr. Vihang A. Naik . We 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
BHIMASHANKAR
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Turning a page
of the cursive alphabet
have wet-fingered
the brown parchment.
Nothing the net-age
offers to believers;
myths ride roughshod
in profane-sacred fog.
The bus struggles up
the stiff high grounds,
the Lord beckons -
his legendary priapic lingam.
The Lord waits
for us to arrive,
his afternoon nap delayed.
The priest dozes by his door.
A coop-load of clucking hens
alight from our bus,
pollute the holy silence
in sanctum’s sandal dark.
In Lord’s yard
a cicada sings solo;
a childless woman
rubs butter on the lingam.
The awakened tumescent priest
conspiratorially prays, “Lord,
let me bless this childless wretch
on your behalf.”
The woman’s eyes shine
as the priest whispers,
“The Lord wishes: lie down, keep praying,
get your boon, go home tomorrow.”
(Bhimashankar nestles in hills of Maharashtra, a hallowed abode of Shiva.)
Amarnath
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
From foothills, the faith spawns
a desire to spurn all desires.
Iridescent with spiritual ardour
devotees ant ahead up the jagged hill-path
to the cave-shrine, beating the grey chill,
burying their blades of rancor,
discarding the baggage of getting even.
A thrush whistles atonement.
Churns a rumour - the eternal lingam
has shrunk to a diminutive size.
Has the fertility icon forsaken
his faithful folk?
Is it a divine judgement in cold blood?
The lingam refuses to grow
despite the compounded
and complex Vedic rituals.
Smruti in her base camp -
the thin air and winter-gears,
room-heaters and hot soups
shiver from the cold truth;
the indigo gives hue to gossips,
the scarlet paints goofy whispers;
faith fumbles, bereft of it wild oats,
the Lord seems short of cosmic seeds.
Smruti, over hot cups of tea,
home-made savouries from packs,
worries over her sick mother,
reposing on a camp bed,
a thin sliver of pale shibboleth.
The TV blares another dubious yarn -
‘the priests have transported ice
to sculpt the biggest ever lingam.’
Patience shifts on creaking camp beds,
doubts swoop like swarms of ravens.
But devotion and zeal keep at bay
the heretic thoughts going pandemic.
(Amarnath, the cave-shrine in Himalayas, houses the famed ice lingam. Reportedly in May 2016, it shrank to 10ft from its original 20ft in height.)
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
SELF-IMMOLATION
(ATMADAANA)
Mr. HARA PRASAD DAS
(Two Odia Poems of 1993 translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
It has mattered little
who remained loyal to whom
and how long;
who bothered to say ‘bye’,
before leaving; though
the gnarled Jaamun had banged
reminders against the half-ajar door
during every parting.
It has hardly mattered
who returned from halfway
to the ruined sylvan land
after serenading some withered
and mute trees with a few quatrains,
a parody for a grand symphony.
Also it hardly has worried others
when one of them hanged herself
after building a joyous home
on love and sacrifices;
the noose offering her
the only honourable exit.
Because, the past
had to be erased;
one is to move ahead
to the goal, miles ahead -
had to look for innocence,
the sinless lichen
found in a fish stomach,
asking for unsavoury virtues
to be delivered
by tortoise-mail,
rescuing values
by the skin of their teeth
before they sink to abyss,
putting sense into bland prayers,
tilling fallow land,
and sow seeds of hope,
even committing gory violence
to get even
with an unforgiving past.
Believe me,
in desperate need
to press ahead,
one is to change strategy,
wear various msks,
beat obstacles,
negotiate pits and bumps,
fall and rise again.
Believe me, one tends
to forget small lapses
in trying times,
panting ahead in mad haste,
trample on and bury underfoot
the seeds of memory,
erasing the past unwittingly.
Great distances
yet to be negotiated,
the goal remains out of bounds;
the whirlwind
churns at the street corner
may reach doorsteps any time,
one has to face it on twiggy limbs
yet weak, and the raw wall
too soft to fend off the sun’s heat.
The readiness,
weak as a king’s crown
improvised from mud.
The ultimate oblation
having been poured
into the sacrificial fire,
the resplendent flames
are yet to rise
from the somouldering coal.
THE ANGER
(AAKROSH)
Mr. HARA PRASAD DAS
Nothing cooled his anger -
chilling squabbles,
suffocating air,
entreaties and platitudes;
he, an unresponsive deity
to holy water or prayers.
What can they offer -
his selfish family, except –
charred rotis from an obliging pan
fuming under the scalding curses;
a deceitful Peepal,
that cracks his walls,
but pretends to be a well-wisher
holding the crumbling wall together;
his hapless wooden chair
that survived the thunderbolt,
its treacherous wood
had betrayed his position
with a feigned cry of panic;
a reluctant sitar
that is made to weep
every dawn;
a dust whorl
on the horizon,
its magnificent halo
hiding a storm….
Not anyone’s worthwhile offer
fourth coming,
nor he expects a thing !
He is beside himself,
an insoluble quadratics
resisting all ‘give and take’
proposition,
reluctant to accept –
the empty platitudes,
hollow entreaties,
cursed rotis,
cheating Peepal,
a chair of deceitful wood,
the reluctantly weeping sitar,
or the dust whorl masking a storm.
But he may call off his protest
once he hears family’s hearty laugh
behind the roaring waterfall
the outpour of mutual rancor;
he may end his protest,
get up and change
into a fresh set of wear,
but he may sit down and picket
again against another wrong.
???????
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)”
VRINDAVAN
Geetha Nair
Yesoda. Her name suited her perfectly. She ran a daycare and pre-school centre. Of course it was called Vrindavan. The little children and their big parents adored her. Her round face was like a crater-free full moon . She always had a huge, round, red bindi on her broad forehead. A child had asked her once if an elephant had stamped her on the forehead ! Her beaming smile was infectious.
In addition to the enrolled kids, there were were half a dozen children in her husband's large joint family. None of her own ; six nephews and nieces. There were also two very distantly related little boys who stayed in the household for various reasons. Everyone fitted well into the old, sprawling house. Like birds on an old tree. A new building housed Vrindavan.
They squabbled all the time, her brood. But she could bring them crowding around her in a minute. She was in charge of feeding and teaching them. They called her Yesodamma-Mother Yesoda -regardless of their relationship to her.
She ruled them with a hand soft as silk.
And so the years revolved. Kids grew taller, stronger , smarter; they left to make place for other kids. Her foster children stayed on much longer. Then they too grew up, spread their wings and roosted all over the world. But most of them kept in touch with that perennial moon of undemanding love-Yesodamma. Her eclipse was sudden. Her husband who had just retired had been getting weaker and weaker, thinner and thinner. Finally it was confirmed. He had cirrhosis of the liver. It had advanced much. He would need a transplant. Soon.
Vrindavan closed down.
Her husband's plight almost shattered her. But she rallied after a while. A hospital-that was the first requisite. Next, a competent surgeon. She found both. A hospital with cockroaches but a surgeon with fireflies in his eyes and magical hands. Next was the formidable problem of the donor. Her husband's was a very rare blood group. There was no one else in their dwindling immediate family except a very old uncle and a twelve year old nephew with the same group.
Then began the search for a willing donor or a willing cadaver.
Meanwhile her husband seemed to be slowly vanishing before her eyes.
She was told that getting a cadaver with her husband’s rare blood group was a remote possibility. Friends suggested paid donors. But their finances would not stand up to that; the cost of the proposed surgery itself was very high.
Desperation makes one hunt for dragonflies to carry boulders. Her mind landed finally on a faded book in her almirah. Book -1. It contained details of all the children who had registered at Vrindavan in the early years, who would be above eighteen now.
Quickly she opened the almirah. Sure enough, there, at the bottom was the blue-bound book.
Name. Date of birth. Age.
Blood group.
Her heart leaped in hope. She scanned the pages. Not one matched. And then on the last page, she found the details of all her foster children. Karthik Mahadevan. Age 3. Blood group - the same as that of his distant relative, Yesoda 's husband!
But where was Karthik now? That lover of curd vadas? That bright-eyed little boy? He had left very early. Always intelligent and hardworking, he had won a scholarship to a prestigious college in the north. He had kept in touch for a while. Gradually, the years had swallowed him up.
She sent her arrows of hope flying in all directions. She had to find him; her husband could no longer walk.
Three weeks later when she was sitting by her husband, her mobile rang, startling the skeletal frame on the bed.
"Yesodamma ? This is Karthik... ." He was calling from Delhi where he worked for a multinational company. Everything was conveyed to him, the need, the urgency. "I shall get back to you, Yesodamma," he said, gently. She remembered that he had always been gentle.
Karthik turned to Aishwarya. Their wedding was just a month away. Holding her lovely face in his hands , he told her all. Her eyes widened, her face went pale.
"No, Karthik, no !" she cried.
"How can you endanger your life and health to save some old man ? Who is he to you? We are young. Our whole life is before us. No! I cannot bear it!"
His hands dropped to his sides.
The argument raged for days.
She could not comprehend his sudden loyalty and gratitude. He could not comprehend her selfishness, callousness. She called him heartless. He retorted that the word suited her better.
He assured her that it was a low-risk surgery for the donor. He would be out of hospital in a week. Of course, he would have to rest for a month or so. His liver would grow back in a matter of weeks. But it would mean postponing their wedding... .
He had not called Yesodamma; what could he tell her?
Aishwarya cut his calls. He stopped ringing the doorbell of her flat.
In ten days they were in each other's arms again.
"I love you. I love ", they murmured to each other, over and over again.
That night, Karthik had a dream. He was a child again. Yesodamma was feeding him curd vadas and teaching him addition. Suddenly he jumped up, flung the bowl of vadas at her and ran away.
He woke up, sweating. Memories crowded his mind, almost suffocating him. No. He could not deny Yesodamma a slice of his liver.
On the day that should have been his wedding day, he boarded a plane early in the morning. Three hours later, he was in a taxi , headed for Vrindavan. He opened the gate.The brightly coloured board was not to be seen. The years fell away as he walked quickly towards Yesodamma 's room at the southern tip of the house.. He found her seated by the window, looking out. When she turned startled eyes towards him, he saw that her forehead was bare.
CHARMER
Geetha Nair
You whooshed me out
In one skilled, jerking move;
Caught firmly by the neck,
I stared at the immobile face
I had wished to peck.
I did not see then how
predecessors
Had nibbled your nimble ring finger.
So I swayed to your tune,
Snake Master,
Such courtesy, such charm !
I learned much- how to dance,
When not to.
When to cower in my basket
When to shoot out a tongue.
Also learned well that
To you, all snakes are beautiful,
Your pride, your composite trophy.
Charmer:
I no longer sway to your tune;
Your piped music vibrates in me
Yet is powerless to move.
Your shrewd eyes fix on mine
Yet cannot
Hypnotise mine made bright.
You pipe on.
I rest. I curl. I bask.
In my basket of words,
I am free.
You are hissstory .
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
SPIRIT
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
WORLD HEALTH
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The World Health
is booming:
Politicians proclaim.
We are spending
billions more
on
Health care
We have the
statistics
to backup.
But,
Some still
die of starvation,
whereas many
succumb
to burden
of obesity!
Many die
from
lack of basic
antibiotics
But
resistance in bugs
from their abuse,
frustrate
cleverest of
Doctors.
Corporate world
awash with ideas
on models of
health care.
Bonanza for
Businessmen:
Playing with
the new
commodity
of care!
But, more
healthcare
does not
make you
heathy.
In fact,
“What has
healthcare
to do with
health?”
They ask:
For all Corporate
models of care
flounder if
People are
too healthy!
Alas, health
drowns
in splurges of
health care,
like the tired
swimmer in
the sea,
pinning her hopes
on the island
on the horizon.
Sucked by the
hidden tides
of cruel sea,
only to be
cast aside,
back
on the beach.
Bereft,
and
Benumbed.
And blinded
by the
glare of the sun,
like the indulgence
of the industry,
And the salt
of the sea,
like the
zeal of
its platoons,
who always
want the
best,
but not sure
for whom!
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
Longing
Prasanna Kumar Dash
The distance draws us near
Whereas the proximity distances us farther
Impossible gives us hope
And when made possible, hopelessness takes over
Sweet is my longing till the hope lurks in it
and more pain is in having it as my longing ends with it.
Now confusion shrouds all over whether to have you or to long for you
Long is the longing which I am used to
and it is my fate and in my blood now
I can not think of any thing beyond
My longing is pure and let it remain so as we professed.
sweetness in longing for which Plato is remembered
Oh my God,
let my longing remain pure and i am left with it for the next part of life
Prasanna Kumar Dash is Member CBDT, Ministry of Finance Government of India. He writes poems and does paintings.
The Inverted Cross
Sreekumar K
All her children, three boys and two girls, her annual productions, had gone to bed. No, not to bed since there was no bed, but torn wall posters spread around where the foot path was the widest. The wall posters showed the famous movies stars and every night there was a fight on who slept on whom.
On a chilly night like this no one likes to see a leper, more so if he is walking towards you and even more so if the only place you can withdraw into, your own house, happens to be a sheet of plastic stuck on a single pole much shorter than you. That was the predicament she found herself now.
She knew he was a leper, his limbs were all bandaged, a bundle under his arm, a begging bowl in his hand. On the other hand he had a short piece of reed with a few holes burned into it, almost a flute which made his a street entertainer, one of the many who wander around in the city. He came in and beyond him the sky lit up with the fireworks going up near the church. She wanted to wake up her children to see that. It was Christmas eve.
“Jesus! It is so beautiful,” she exclaimed.
The leper also turned back to look at the sky and turned back with an expression of cynical disdain. She stood outside the hut as if it was not hers at all. He may look around and go away. She herself had nothing; a beggar, even on a Christmas night as this was unwelcome and there was nothing unfair about it.
But he rudely went past her and sat down. Now what! Sing a carol song for nothing? Not bad!
He took a few loaves of bread from his cloth bag and the children who were fast asleep jumped up and stood around him. When you are hungry, food has such a strong aroma.
Each of them got a loaf and they say down munching it. He took out his flute and played a tune.
The children seemed to have heard it before. He asked them whether they would like to hear stories. They said yes. He gave them the choice of a subject. One of them put up his half bitten loaf of bread and said he wanted to hear a story about bread. He told them the story of how Christ fed five thousand people with just five loaves of bread. He added that it is no miracle. Tongue in cheek, he told them, it would have been a miracle, had he made five people eat five thousand loaves of bread, even five hundred would have been impressive. The children were so hungry that one of them said he it might be possible for them to finish five thousand loaves. But one of them smelled the bread doubtfully and said, “Not this kind of bread.”
He told them the story had another meaning. The woman was also attentive now.
“See, me, a stranger comes in and gives you a loaf each. When you grow up and be like your mother or me wouldn't you do the same for other children. Now if each of you do it ten times that will be fifty people fed. Now they too may do it and in no time you have fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread since that was how it all started.
The woman was moved. She didn't expect this. Jesus! This man was something.
The children also agreed. He was about to go. He got up. Tuned around and asked the children why don't they have a Christmas tree. He asked for a cross lying in the corner of their hut. The eldest one had made it when he attended a free carpentry workshop. He planted it upside down outside the hut right on the pavement and asked them to decorate it with whatever they could find.
So saying he hugged the woman and walked away to cross the street.
She didn't appreciate him hugging her like that in front of the children, he being a stranger, though older than her dead husband and younger than her father.
He was now crossing the street and she was looking at the children trying to decorate the upside down cross like a Christmas tree. She felt hurt to see the cross planted upside down. It was an unholy act on a Christmas night like this, or any day for that matter.
A car was speeding down the street zigzagging with some people coming back from the Christmas party. It was pretty dark and she couldn't see what was happening.
Had he crossed....? She held her breath............
“Jesus!”
The car had passed by. From the other side, the man asked her something, his hands cupped around his mouth. Still he wasn't loud enough. She shook her head from side to side to say, she didn't need any more bread.
But she was not sure that was what he had asked her. But he had gone. It was only later that she figured out his exact words.
“Did you call me?”
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
Life is a Song
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
You are now a big river
I saw you first , when young
Jumping over the rocks
Singing along
With the birds ,
Smiling like the wild flowers
In full gay ,
Swinging with the breeze
Without thinking about
What comes in the life ahead.
With passing time
You have become little worried .
Your heart is shrinking
The love is content in hiding.
You are no more breezy
Look very apprehensive,
You prefer to be quiet
And keep flowing
In this barren land
As per routine.
It is perhaps the sound of the flute
Coming slowly from distant province
Like the hoards of cloud
About to pour the rain of love
To drench your bed of sands
To bring back the forgotten smiles.
This is the new music
That life is never static
But a perennial river of love
Even after reaching the sea
And losing its identity.
"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.
Do you too have fond memories of what you once hated because, I do!
Ananya Priyadharisini
"Look he's here!", my friend screamed as her voice startled me.
Clad in grey kameez and white pajama that was him with a white mane atop. My favorite author of all time was right before me but I wasn't as excited as I should've been. It was a not-so-cold late January afternoon when winter could only prove its might late in the night and early in the mornings.
We were all granted leave to prepare for upcoming annual exams to be held in the first week of February, but then there was this creative writing workshop just a week before exams. I was interested but didn't have enough guts to ask my mom for permission. In the end, my Hindi teacher got my mom to let me attend the workshop.
"It's a matter of just one day!", She had told Mom. Mom agreed.
"It's a matter of just one day. Hope you'll make up for it and not let your exams suffer", my mom told me, later. This killed half of my interest and courage. However, I joined the workshop with the left halves.
The halves stooped down to quarters when I came to know that the venue for the workshop was our examination hall itself for it was the largest room available in the entire school building! My hands began to sweat and legs trembled. I feared the room, a lot.
I always had a phobia for exams back in school. Largely because I was carrying the load of expectations of many- my mom, my teachers and even friends. I always thought of failure as anything that doesn't meet those expectations. And that exam Hall, that very exam Hall was no less than a haunted house for me for that always made me feel like 'it's exam time'! And this time, I had risked my exams and the fear, doubled up in size kept standing right beside me in the workshop.
I did fairly well at the workshop and even my favorite author congratulated me for my skills. My teachers were all proud of and praises for me. But I knew, I didn't live the workshop fully. I experienced only a quarter of what opportunity was served before me.
Exams came and went by. I did just like I do in every other exam. "It's a matter of just a day". It was. It didn't even matter anymore when my results got published for I hadn't let anyone down, except me. I'd not lived three quarters of those golden moments, I'd not served Justice to my passion- poetry.
I grew up. A few more exams in the same exam Hall and I passed my High School. I came to college for inter and began frightening at the very sight of its examination hall as well! But the intensity was far lower. At one very insignificant point I shouted to myself, "ENOUGH"! I just didn't like this fear walking beside me all the time and began putting in voluntary efforts to lessen my fear factor to zero. Say, I used to take the longer and more twisted route to my class from parking lot so as to cross the exam Hall or eat lunch sitting on the broken windows right in front of it. 2 years, 4 exams and time up! The next time I sat in an examination hall was while writing a competitive exam and I was more confident than before. I was anxious, but not scared.
Ever since I've landed in the professional college, I've been writing exams, everyday, everywhere. They ain't coming with schedules or syllabus. They're here to test my limits, patience, strength and overall, me. There are days I've felt like being examined even when I'm asleep. Also, my passion and profession have never played a tug of war or used me as their rope. One acts like cement and the other, water. They never cleave me. They bring my broken pieces together, fix me and heal me.
I've seen the worst days of life which only 0.1 percent people get to see by the age I'm now. I've overcome. Hopefully, I still haven't let anyone down.
Now when my responsibilities look like giants, these pen-paper exams look so innocent. I miss my school's examination hall now as badly as I miss its playgrounds. When I look back, I only miss the three quarters that I didn't live and not the marks I couldn't score or the ranks I couldn't hold. I miss those three quarters.
*Doppelganger*
Ananya Priyadharisini
"Didi, this way!", the voice that had just begun to crack at the hit of puberty hadn't lost any bit of its innocence. I smiled and turned back.
"I've been coming here monthly for last 20 months, Junlu. I won't forget the way. Why did you still come this far?", I twisted his ear after locking my house.
"Maa said, Didi. You know she doesn't like you to travel alone upto the residential patch."
"Why alone? I've driver bhaiya with me, don't I ?"
"But why rely on driver bhaiya when you've your own 'Bhai' by your side?"
"Someone is growing up to be a young man, isn't it Junlu?", I winked as he blushed.
It was one of my regular monthly health tours to the residential area where Junlu's tribe lives. From having vaccinated them against endemic Japanese Encephalitis to convincing them successfully that diarrhoea needs to be treated by ORS and not occult practices- I, the only health Care expert posted in the only dispensary located in that remote village had tried my best.
I was transferred to Bhimgarh, the nest to major bulk of Aedes mosquitoes and naxals of the entire state, where no other colleague of mine would choose not because I was willing, but because I couldn't do what one needs to do to avoid such transfers. I did literally nothing in the dispensary and sat idle all day since all patients preferred to visit the famous wizard of the village for any health issue. Within a month of my transfer, this Junlu had come to the dispensary in critical condition. His mother, Mannima had brought him to me instead of the famous quack of the village.
"He's not one of us, mem ji. His mother, pregnant with him had run into our area and I'd sheltered her. After three days, she gave birth to this boy and passed away. In those three days, she hadn't uttered a word, mem ji. I don't know her identity. I have brought up Junlu as my own son ever since. But he's no tribal. The wizard can't save him. Please save him, mem ji."
Mannima had told me her entire story during our journey from the dispensary to the nearest tertiary health Care centre since Junlu needed to be operated immediately. Remember, I had no work back in dispensary? So, I was with this mother-son duo for whole five days at the hospital and returned to village with a recovered Junlu and a happy Mannima. This same 'driver bhaiya' who's also a tribal, was appointed as the ambulance driver in the dispensary and had driven us to and from the tertiary hospital.
Two days later, I woke up to multiple knocks on my door. It was five in the morning and I'd gone to bed just an hour ago after finishing a classic novel. Half irritated and half scared, I peeped through a crack in the window and found Mannima standing outside. Relieved that it's no militant (Bhimgarh is one of those naxal hit areas of the state where militants knock at doors more frequently than a postman or a street vendor. That's exactly why my senior had chosen this place to send me over a long exile to!), I opened the door and asked "Hope Junlu is alright, Mannima! What brought you here so early in the morning?".
"Mem ji, I know I'm very poor. But I don't always come to beg something from you. Today I'm here to give you something", she said in a very grateful tone and handed me over two big rucksacks.
I'd never received such huge gifts in my life and was already overwhelmed without seeing what's inside. I was immediately cleaved into two voices- one inner and the other, outer. The inner said- "I'm sure there has to be something delicious inside. Feast on it, NOW!"
The outer said- "Mannima, come inside and have a seat. I need to talk to you before I receive your gifts."
Inner voice- "You bitch! Will you eat or should I overcome you?"
Mannima, confused, came in and sat on the floor as I went in to make tea for both of us before my inner voice could actually take over. I came back with two identical, fuming cups and sat beside her. She saw at the cups and then me. As I offered her one cup, I could see tears and disbelief in her eyes.
"What?", I asked.
"I can't believe you're treating me as an equal, mem ji."
"Look, Mannima. We're all equal." I talked some more and she left.
At around ten, I was eating the curries I'd cooked for myself with the vegetables and crab she'd gifted me as Mannima was yelling at the villagers- "We're all equal, despite of how we look. Your children who were suffering from the same disease as Junlu succumbed while my son survived. That's because witchcraft isn't the right option...."
I knew I was close to doing what I was here for. Mannima, was widow since childhood, had no family except Junlu and had dedicated her life to the village and villagers, hence owned their respect and faith. She managed to influence them. And what next? I didn't a get a minute of leisure at dispensary!
Also, their children began going to nearby school where teachers didn't find time to listen to radio anymore.
The best part, I, Mannima and Junlu had bonded over.
Driver bhaiya applied brakes to the car and my thoughts stopped with simultaneous jolts. We'd reached the school building where I communicate with the whole village once a month and the teachers assist me willingly. I make them aware of hygiene, prevention of mosquitoes and care of the pregnant and the newborn.
"Mem ji, you look upset today. Everything is fine, isn't it?", Mannima asked me as she offered me a cup of tea.
"Yes!", I replied but not everything was alright. I'd to find the lad my senior wanted me to. As I remembered the senior, my face scrunched with hatred. The man was a member of medical fraternity who had extended a leg into health administration as well. He rightly credits his contacts for this extension, though. However, he was the supremo when it came to job allotments of doctors all over the state.
"You know there are at least six people in the world who look all the same?"
"Yes, sir. They're called doppelgangers."
"You look like a doppelganger of Shiraza", he had said with a dirty grin.
I didn't know back then who Shiraza was neither I had any intentions to ask him and prolong the conversation. "I shall take your leave, Sir", I'd told and left with my transfer order. I was transferred to this remote area because unlike many, I didn't comply with his undue advances.
That day, I googled about Shiraza and came to know that she was a porn star. Tears welled up in my eyes, out of anger, hatred, frustration.
Three days ago, he'd again called me to find out a boy in the village. The boy was the son of a terrorist who was gunned down by the Armed Forces during a combing operation.
"He doesn't know about his biological parents. We need to tell him and also get him along mainstream. My brother-in-law is contesting for MLA post and the village you're posted in, falls under its jurisdiction over his constituency. Giving him a better life will work wonders to win people's heart."
Bhimgarh had no roads. You walk through the plane areas amidst mini and micro hills scattered over patches of land like pimples on the cheeks of a teenager. People here lived in houses constructed within a circle and called it a residential patch. Each residential patch consisted of 10-15 houses. Pigs were domesticated and kids use them as horses (also died of Japanese Encephalitis, all thanks to the pigs!). The houses were some 4 kms away from hospital and school. They still had 'haats/mandis' and no markets. As the capital of the state was being declared a 'smart city', no change was on cards for Bhimgarh. No matter who becomes MLA, I knew nobody was going to upgrade Bhimgarh. The people were used as vote banks by politicians or as prospective militants by the naxalite groups. Youth when educated and employed are a civilization's biggest asset but when otherwise, they are both vulnerable and liability.
Hence, very naturally, I was disinterested. I hadn't even downloaded the file photo of the terrorist that the creep senior had sent me over WhatsApp. He had mentioned that his trusted sources had told him, that the boy who looked very much like him was in this village only.
"But that's not enough to conclude the terrorist's fatherhood, Sir!"
"I believe my sources more than you, ma'am. They're pretty sure he's his son. And even if he's not, my brother-in-law knows how to prove otherwise. You better do as directed."
After the health check-ups, I took out my phone to see the picture and was startled. Brown eyes, bronze complexion, black curly hair- it was Junlu who perfectly resembled the middle-aged man in the pic. He's the terrorist's son, or say the one these filthy people want to present as!
What shall I say Mannima, that the officials want to take your son to a rehab home, give him better life and education? What do I say Junlu, that your father was a terrorist and your mother is dead? And how do I answer if Junlu if he asks 'who's a terrorist, Didi?' with a heart that understands only love and peace?
My phone rang. It was my senior. I took a deep breath and received the call.
"Sir there's no such child here. I've confirmed.", my voice didn't shake as I lied.
"But the sources have seen someone..."
"Doppelganger, Sir. One of the six people who share the same face."
"I can bring you back now or keep you there for next five years..."
"Then you can certainly pay a visit and find the lad yourself, can't you Sir?", He cut the call. I wasn't scared. I didn't want a transfer. I was happy here, with these simple people.
"Didi, the lunch is ready! Mother is calling you."Junlu came to invite me. I was hungry, as always. I looked into his brown eyes and praised myself for not letting his identity out to those sick opportunists.
"Yes Mannima is your mother", I told to myself and patted my own shoulder for having saved his childhood, at the least.
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.
FACELIFT
Dilip Mohapatra
The murals and mosaics
on the fading frescoes
on the walls of the mausoleum
of my emotions have lost their sheen
and need a fresh coat of paint
and matching interiors.
I dip my brush into my dreams
which no longer reflect a rainbow
but thankfully still have
lot of black and white to offer
and I choose to paint a chiaroscuro
to break the monotony.
Luckily it's moulting time
for my heart yet again
and I pick up the discarded parchment
with dried up scars and callouses
and frame it with care
and hang it in the corner.
I hear the dawn chorus intently
to separate out the chirping of the finches
from the tweets of bulbuls
squawks of parrots
and songs of nightingales
and embed them around for perpetuity.
Then I would consult with
a taxidermist and seek his help
to mummify my poems
and mount them alternatively with
my romantic escapades
stuffed yet resurrected.
CAT’S-PAW
Dilip Mohapatra
The sea is so calm now
and the bay is tranquil
the tides are full
and the moon is silent
the stars blink still
but more as a habit.
The keel is steady
in the comforts of the berth
the winds no longer sing
through the rigging
it’s only the soft cat’s-paw
that prods and probes
the weather beaten scars
some visible
and some hidden
behind the barnacles
which throb once a while
to remind you
of the gales that you regaled
the waves you braved
and then you long
to weigh your anchor
let go the ropes off the bollards
and set sails once again
into the unknown seas
not ventured earlier
and explore
many an uncertain shores
still unseen
and unvisited.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.
DOWN THE RIVER
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
I’ve caught the vessel for the hundredth time,
Signaling with a hoot its moment prime
When the young sun warmly smile,
It’s eagerness to drift down the mile
Of the old curvaceous green river.
I’ve seen for the hundredth time,
The white crane with its young mime
Staring into the sparkling water
And an occasional elephant, splatter
As like a naughty little child.
I’ve witnessed for the hundredth time
Priests in water chant a rhyme,
To come out healthier in deeds
While far down a black man chides
His ever stubborn buffalo to turn around.
I’ve tried for the hundredth time,
To lift out a flower which is fine
Accompanying the mortal remains with woes
As the river vibrates with echoes
Of the stout dhobi’s beatings.
I’ve watched for the hundredth time,
Ladies splashing with gossips in no aim,
Even forgetting the household chore,
Besides an old stooping grey beggar
Slurping to quench his wishes.
I’ve journeyed the hundredth time
Along this way, always the same,
With its same old pattern.
But to me it’s a new yarn
Just like the new face of the old sun.
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.
ROLL TILL IT'S YOUR REIGN
Parvathy Salil
Don't let today's pain
Drain your soul's sane
Don't let today's vain
Make your dreams wane.
Soak your sorrow in the rain
That splinters in through window pane
Walk on the wider lane
Focus on the aim that's main
Try and try let yourself train
Smile and thank for all you gain
Be bold and brave, have failures slain
Roll and troll till the daylight reign...
INTO MY RECESSES...
Parvathy Salil
Wasn't I too little for that race then,
with fate and other's hopes; losing!
in fact, forgetting mine in between.
Can't escape the musings of my mind
forcing me to answer why I chose to hold close
everything I sought and earned for someone's sake
and reasons I don't remember.
Why I chose to hold back
all that I was craving for inside?
Who am I?
What do I seek, and why?
It's time I fade deeper into me,
my recesses...
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.
Alive
Sruthy. S .Menon
Those trembling hands,
grasped her shoulders
And whispered quietly to her ears,
“ After all, it was just a dream ”
Dreams don't last that long.
When you are awake,
you will register your minds
to its realisation
that you have outlived this too
You are “Alive”
Still breathing...
And a smile blossomed on her cheeks.
I wrote this poem during the times of Kerala Floods 2018. A motivation for everyone to stay strong and will powered, never to loose hope on any circumstances.
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 .
SUMMER HILL DEVADARS
(Shimla 19,June 2001 )
Vihang A. Naik
They stand.
Tall.
Mute.
Now
since hundred years
bearing witness
with silent hills
that will not speak
the encroached footsteps
of an intimate enemy
where the cold
shadow of death has shaped
over the deep valleys,
they stand.
Tall.
Silent.
Now
since hundred years
making paths
through hills
that will not speak
the in-between lines
of unwritten mutilated stories.
They stand.
Unmoved.
Aged.
the mountain of pain in silence
that will not speak
the forest of untold tales
in white fog of Shimla
covering the body that died screaming
freedom.
The birth pang of India.
The stand :
now
a mute witness
of histories.
Vihang A. Naik’s poetry collection City Times and Other Poems was published in 1993 is significant contribution to history of Indian English poetry that it went in to Limca Book of Records : 2016, Michel Madhusudan Prize : 1998, IndiReader , Best Book : 2015, Beverly Hills Book Awards : 2016,Book Excellence Award – 2017 among other significent awards.
His Gujarati collection of poems include Jeevangeet ( Gujarati Poems ) published by Navbharat Sahitya Mandir ( Ahmedabad ) in 2001 dedicated to the cause of victims of Gujarat Earthquake 26th January , 2001 . He also translates poetry written in Gujarati language into English including his own Gujarati Language poems into English. His poetry has been translated into Japanese, Spanish, Italian, German and Portuguese.
Ordeal
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Walking down the street
she couldnt foresee her destiny.
She was full of life,
We called it 'women empowerment '
Her purse weighing on her shoulder,
relieved from a day's stress at office.
Filled with happiness to reach back home and cuddle in her mother's lap
She never knew such a long
night she had to deal.
Suddenly a bus stopped
So lucky she felt that it carried the
number to her location
She boarded with few, to accompany the good moments of her
Slowly the bus pulled and
she got the ticket to her destiny.
Tiresome day, hadn't broken
her zeal yet.
She went into deep thoughts of relaxation back home.
Forgetting her surrounding
in the comforts of the ride.
Suddenly she found few eyes
peering so close at her.
That very moment her heart thumped
in uncontrollable rate.
Their touch on her body
sent a shriek from her throat
Her voice choked in fear
interfacing the changing of destiny .
The ordeal began.
The time became so long
with her groaning pain.
The human who were known
had turned devils.
The bus was still in the
unfathomable darkness.
The trip had turned fearsome
and rider had turned devil.
One who had handed her ticket
to a desire of relaxation ,
had started piercing her soul.
She still fought to get out
of their dirty clutches.
That was not enough to assassinate
her character 'so many times '.
They pulled rods from underneath
the seats and inserted into her body,
damaging her vitality.
Her intestine was hanging out
irreparable damages unseen.
Her groan,her pleading couldn't
reach the heart of the silent devils.
To it they added more torture
and turned her into a pulp.
They pulled her out from her dream ride
and rolled her bleeding on
the unknown roads of destiny.
"Why she had to pay such a price?
'Too hard', to understand in this world of
Women Empowerment "
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
Review of SUNETRA (The Pretty Eyed Girl). a film by the Babusenan Brothers.
Firoz Nediyath
SUNETRA: She of the beautiful eyes. Yes, the directors have discovered extraordinarily beautiful eyes both within and outside the film.
It is with beauty in the eyes that they first saw the film in their minds. But once they had created the film, it is with equally beautiful eyes that we see it. These twin brothers have transferred the beauty of their vision right into our eyes without the slightest diminishment. I saw a Babusenan Brothers film for the first time when Kazhcha Chalachithravedi screened it today as the inaugural film of its monthly screening program.
It's not just one narrated story that the film leads the viewer through. Rather, it connects each each of us with the different stories that we carry within us. If Adi and Sunetra narrate two stories, the film itself narrates many, many more. In any case, it is the Brothers’ story of the lost samosas which now invites me to all their other films. Thank you, Santosh Babusenan and Satish Babusenan, for the beauty which today you have imbued into my eyes.
Firoz Nediyath is an artist and Art Director pursuing his MFA in Painting at the College of Fine Arts, Trivandrum. He is an active film enthusiast too and is Joint Secretary of the Kazhcha Film Forum which conducts the Kazhcha International Film Festival in Kerala every year. Firoz is single, lives in Trivandrum and spends his time painting, working in films, watching films, writing and travelling wherever his spirit takes him.
THE SIN-DAYS' CHIMERA
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The path I took was full of promise
Beckoning me with a bewitching smile
I looked ahead and saw it winding prettily
Against a receding horizon.
I kept walking, smug with an assurance,
My sin-days were behind in a heap
At a point far beyond my reach, miles and miles away
Good that I am running away from it.
I passed many a temple, church and mosque,
Everywhere I buried a part of my sinful past
With a silent prayer on my lips
It appeared my sins were dissolving into empty remnants.
Alas, the path was circular
It brought me to a point
Back to my Sin-days' address
Where my soul had darkened itself.
I stopped and realised sufferings of sin do not stop,
They keep visiting as recurring nightmares,
The path, the smiles are but a shadow
In Sin-days' chimera.
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.
A SHORT CRITIQUE on poems in the 10th issue of LIT. VIBES
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Overall, I read through ten poems of as many poets and two poems in translations from the eminent Odia poet Haraprasad Das. My brief analysis, poem wise, may help readers to enjoy them better –
Ajit Patra’s ‘Asadha, a Season of Love’ is a soft soul-searching outpour in tradition of a legacy that runs like a taut thread to this day from the days of the great classic poet Kalidasa’s ‘Megha Dutam’ who millennia ago had waxed eloquence over the lonely heart of a Yaksha, stung by the goddess Aphrodite’s own season, the monsoon, yearning for his consort far away from him. Mr. Patra’s poem has all the elemental images like cloud, wet earth, fallen leaves and flowers in swampy bug that interweave three emotions – love, longing, and sensuality. I quote an elegant line “Leaves and flowers of saluk trees/ floating in the/ still water of the swampy fields./ Patches of clouds march/ over the hilltops…” In this beautiful quote, readers may feel slight uneasy in poet’s line breaks, having said that, these lines and the poem stand tall.
Geetha Nair G.’s highly imagistic poem ‘Russian Doll’ hides a high-voltage drama under the simple exterior of a toy. Perhaps she wove her philosophy around the set of identical dolls available in graded-down sizes, one hiding inside it the next smaller one of the set, finally the entire set sitting hidden inside the largest of them all. I interpreted her story - of taking the doll to bed that sheds a whorl and gets reduced in size and brightness every night continually - as poet persona’s nightly introspections of the self in silence of the bedroom, leading to the shedding of ego that leads to a less stressful life. Then “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” (I mean, the poet spoke), it was not ego or stress as I interpreted but the self-delusion about one’s own self-importance, a person loses after nightly introspections until he/she becomes totally disillusioned. This brought me the clarity about use of her seminal lines: “… I found a double within,/ Only, smaller, less bright.” The poem stands a winner by its economy of words, astute craft, and allusive but an all-pervading worldview.
Bibhu Padhi, one of the most admired English poets from Odisha comes out in his picturesque best without shedding his usual brooding style in ‘Sunrise at Puri on Sea’. The sun arrives like a shock to the bleary eyed visitor carrying his sleep-numb eyes from the bed to beach for watching the sunrise on the sea in a serene dawn, … “And then, without a notice,/ the heaven explodes. // At all our ears and eyes/ a conversation among colours,/ an awareness of unseen seas.” The evocative lines speak for themselves and don’t need a counsel to table the points - how the orange orb scattering myriad hues jump out of the sea at the unsuspecting visitors on the beach. An excellent painting of the landscape with a poetic pen, rather a masterly pen, it spreads a feast for readers’ eyes.
The hymn like poem ‘Encounter with Buddha’ of Bichitra Kumar Behura reads like the Gayatri (Savitri) Mantra, the hymn to the Sun god in the praise of the wonderful life-giving orb in the sky as sung by ancient Aryan Rishis in Rig Veda. His Buddha is a god that might be hiding in every ordinary individual awaiting enlightenment and awakening, as any shapeless rock can turn into a god after chipping away the unnecessary stone-flesh. The poem evokes a signal philosophy in lines… “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.”
In Parvathy Salil’s ‘Eyedrops’, lines go hazy under word play as happens to sight when eyes well up with tear; but in the third and last stanza it reads clear devoid of any blurring. The reader knows she is talking of using medicinal eyedrops only when put in eyes and the burning there of. It recalls two poems by two well-known poets thai came across. The poems were well written and were well received by all in the group and someone made the enthusiastic mistake of asking about the inspirations behind the poems. The replies sort of took away half the sheen of the profound works as an immediate side effect. One poet said her little kid’s constipation inspired her poem and the other said her own sore throat was in her poem’s core. So happens to Parvathy Salil’s poem once reader reaches the last stanza.
‘Between’ of Anwesha Mishra starts with an intriguing flow and fathom but seems a bit breathless and lost in walk’s wilderness. She sort of passes through vicious bends, and lumpy fear driven walks besides suffering from nostalgic memory of a good time redolent with tenderness and love, that has gone out of her life for the time has progressed inexorably. Her paths are replete with death and delirium until she hears a familiar voice calling her that becomes her guide. Alas, even that last straw turns into a damp squib and she appears disconsolate at the end. The poem still leaves me befuddled in its last stanza.
Disha Prateechee’s poem appears to talk of a penchant for loving little known but interesting people who fit into her mould of good souls. She writes in her poem ‘Paper Friend’ cute lines such as ‘It’s like I fell in love with a stranger/ Whom I had never met and will never meet….’ and ‘…The richness comes after digesting another soul.’ and also ‘It’s like looking for the breed that’s dying out.’ Her poem defies the oft-repeated theory ‘out of sight out of mind’. The poem suffers a drag of repetitive single emotion too long. But for some unconventional usage like ‘I tapped hundred of souls and collected their wisdom…’ and line breaks, it is a very good poem with a memorable ending ‘They tear you apart and make you whole all at the same time.’
‘Gaampa Smile’ of Gopika Hari is about a little kid’s lisping and lilting that charms grandpa and grandma but the good thing doesn’t last long. The sweet kid joins the land of fairies and perhaps has joined her grandma gone there earlier, our only consolation; but for grandpa, his gaampa smile exploding for the kid has turned into a painful gaampa ache. A charming poem that touches the deep core.
Kabyatara Kar’s ‘UTKALA’ is a patriotic hymn dedicated to and remembering the past glories of Odisha (Erstwhile Utkal), a lesson in poetic phrases on the land’s history, geography, artistic excellence, and heroism of its dwellers; and their participation in nation building. It claims Utkal to be at the root of many seminal Pan-Indian ethos like Ahimsa and Jagannath culture.
‘The Gift’ of Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a vicarious experience of a daughter that could be a universal template for a special mother-child bond. The gift from a mother to her daughter or son is a legacy that passes down the generations, may it be a thing of value, or an ordinary keepsake memento with associated sentiments, and memory. The expectation of an eager daughter on a “… bright evening/ Lit with the sublimity of a setting sun/ ….” looks forward to the gift from her mother, a token of her unfathomable love in the latter’s “… frozen drops of blood from a loving heart.” The poem resonates with nostalgia.
Now, talking of the great Odia poet Haraprasad Das and his two poems ‘Deha (The Physical Being)’ and ‘Nilaanjana (Ultramarine Kohl)’ translated by me, I have all along felt inadequate in bringing his Odia cryptic metaphoric style to the fore in the sensibility of English poetic diction as his translator. Only Odia poets conversant with the English poetry tradition can assess the quality of my translation and its shortfalls after comparing the two versions. I don’t feel qualified to comment on the poems of the eminent poet either except as a part of compulsive duty. Deha is a hard-hitting philosophical exploration on life, wrapping naked human needs and truths: existential, ethereal, emotional, sensual, and wishful. Nilaanjana is poem of tender love. It subtly sings a ballad of the heroic exploits of a lover across differences of class, status, and stations in life; shows love is a great equalizer, it brings equal yearning for each other even between a king and a beggar girl.
Disclaimer: opinions are personal. If the poets find them unwelcome, they are to ignore and discard them and go ahead.
Crictic Review of "Five Prose Pieces by Ananya"
Sreekumar K
Ananya, a medical student, writes both poetry and prose. It is common to see poets, good or bad, now a days. In my own native tongue, 300 collections of poems come out every month and that is 3600 collections of poems every year.
People generally shy away from writing prose mainly because of the quantity of writing required. A few lines can be a poem but a few sentences may not make a good prose piece.
The five prose pieces from Ananya in Literary Vibes have no common identity. They are like pieces from different people. One thing in common is, they are all in new generation style. But then, most youngsters follow this, so there is nothing much by way of distinction there either.
The uniqueness of her writing lies in her introspection and the perspective she gains from that. She has observed herself and goes in and out of her own writing. Often we don’t even know whether it is an assumed character or herself. This ability like the transmigration of souls is the quality of a good writer. One should be able to don any role and be as convincing as possible.
In spite of the new gen writing style and the infrequent bad grammar which is typical of that style, her content is mature and philosophical. She is trying to make meaning out of the present day world and the life it offers. In “I am 23”, supposed to be an autobiographical piece, she herself is the character and it becomes fiction. This is the story of a young girl who sees how she is daunted by another generation ready to take over. It is the unwillingness to harmonize with the new one that makes the old one a separate generation. It is the result of her unwillingness to change. The reason is probably that she is not convinced enough of the validity of the necessity for such a change. So, she ends up inviting people to help her out of this situation.
In ‘Wander Lost’, she actually talks about someone who finds himself after getting lost. Silence can be very expressive and stagnation can be a different kind of flow. One may have to travel far to see what was just under one's nose. A young man travels a lot because his idol Kabir does the same. So, when Kabir changes his life, what choice does his disciple have? After all, where are we all going in such a hurry! The world is round and we are sure to come to where we had started from. Journey is a very common metaphor for life and Ananya has used it in a very subtle way.
Lungi Amma is character study in which the speaker gets an education from an illiterate lady. Life is such a large classroom that we often miss where the teacher is standing. Here the speaker finds her teacher in a woman whom she hates initially but adores finally.
We all crave for a different life fully knowing that not only is it impossible but pointless as well. This is what we have and there is no other option for the NOW. There never was the other option. The other options were always good dreams but insubstantial all the same. We all have longed to exchange our souls with the celebrities whom we adore at some point in our life. What if it is granted? Do we realize that the glitz and glamour in their life is not the only thing that comes with the exchange? It could be a package. There are things in their lives too they themselves want to discard at any cost. This great but simple truth is brought out through a simple tale by Ananya in her fairy tale or fable, The Soul Exchange.
In Bad Families, another truth is brought out. We see things the way we are and not the way they are. A change in perspective is all it takes to change hell into heaven or good into bad. Wisdom and maturity refer to one’s ability to change perspectives on one’s own or to have different perspectives.
Thus, by exploring themes beyond puppy love or coffee shop romances, Ananya has used her writing to share her mature thoughts with her readers without being a preacher. They do entertain and the lesson part is way too subtle to come in the way of entertainment. In other words, they are kind of modern day fables.
Viewers Comments