Dear Readers,

Welcome to LiteraryVibes, 

Literary Vibes welcomes the new author of this week, Ms. Harvinder Kaur. 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

 

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SECOND COMING

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Dusk or dawn, the red-light zone

feels it needless to know.

It is a bargain floor - day or night,

tall or short, fat or frail;

if the cash box rings,

all equally lift the veil.

 

She yawns, her last visitor a bore;

limps out, thighs feeling sore,

bingeing on raw tadpoles,

the joysticks going berserk;

yet she can’t ignore a caller,

‘no’ word absent in her lexicons.

 

The caller - “Thank you mam,

bringing a horde, but no bam-bam.”,

flummoxed, yawning mouth open,

“Bringing a horde, are you mad?

Mine’s a small floor.

I don’t sell late-nirvana.”

 

Admirers arrive in hordes,

scoop mud from her inner yard,

for sculpting Devi,

the deity of primal power,

confluence of the ‘profane-sacred,

the killer of the besotted demon.

 

Free from guilt and self-pity,

the whore joins the joyous crowd

where she bathed and burnished

her daily soiled nights, her yard;

feeling united as another Devi

with the Devi of universal fairness.

 

Her admirers in the garb

of devotees of the sacred day,

look up at her, worship in eyes;

in that vision, she grabs a strident,

kills their demons before they stab her,

filling them with the joy of adoration.

 

---

NAME OF A DESIRE

(for Jagat)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

She was not his wife; never

shared his rickshaw nor allowed him

to share hers; they never sat

close, cozily on a sofa;

she remained apart,

a mercury drop on tabletop.

 

In parties or readings,

on portals of musical events,

across pages of journals, anthologies,

he enjoyed her veritable closeness,

never tired of hazarding -

her thoughts, profane or sacred?

 

Brahmaputra and Yamuna,

origins in Himalayas, never met

in a confluence; but his waters

like poetry met hers in a bay’s salinity;

the rancor, the impatience,

the churnings under the surface.

 

He never knew how she smelled,

earthy or arcane, mud or musk,

the enveloping fog of lilacs apart,

or the aroma of cloves

misting her mouth, lifted,

or plumbed down enough.

 

She called him weird, mad, joker –

but words converged, he knew,

into a select binary,

‘chute’ versus ‘chweet’,

lisping deliberate,

the edge of affection’s cliff.

 

He feared the brand ‘lovers’,

loving her from a distance;

shying away in public,

fondling in private

the furry white bunny,

the sacrament of a heretic.

 

(Both poems are slated for the poet’s forthcoming ‘Along a Pilgrimage’)

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

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THE MIDDLE-CLASS MAN

(MADHYABITTA)

Mr. HARA PRASAD DAS

(Two Odia Poems translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)

 

A kitchen…,

enough meat… veg-fare;

the house-help, a bit wayward;

the family

mostly under the weather;

the cutest recipe,

for a middle-class household.

 

The man of the house

serves his severed head

on a platter

to rich business patrons

invited to his birthday;

blood oozing

his ingratiating submission,

head heavy on his weak neck,

the defeated will,

his lack of success.

 

None listens,

he sings his own glory,

boosts own fragile ego,

the badly needed opiate.

 

His diffident hand

scratches his head.

His affluent guests

eat, drink, and dance,

drowned in their own joy;

his niceties, his worries,

his even play – his forte,

inconspicuous to them.

---

 

THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN

(MADHYABAYASKA)

Mr. HARA PRASAD DAS

 

His family abuzz

with grumbling parents,

jealous brothers,

a faceless wife,

naughty children

with a penchant

for playing pranks,

tricking him to buy things

of precious little use.

 

By midnight,

his luck sinks further -

his patronized pan shop

draws shutter on his face…

his whore

kicks him out of her bed…

he is a bit too late;

the life is a drag.

 

But an old pro

at the game of playing victim,

he cries foul

filling the sleepy neighbourhood

with the rattle

of the iron in his soul.

 

He retreats to daydreaming -

happy parents, loving brothers,

a wife at his beck and call,

an obliging whore,

and his brood

of beastly brats singing,

“um..m..m..m…..

home sweet home”;

 

eating a hot dream-meal,

alas (!), his hand dips

into a blistering curry;

he wakes up groggy,

wondering…

to thank or curse….

 

he witnesses

the acts of kindness -

his wife making their ruffled bed,

playful flowers

down the window ledge,

teasing the morning breeze;

 

 in a huff, he gifts his wife,

a large insurance policy

for her pains and sacrifices,

and the little pleasures,

his loving quid pro quo

in their love-hate chemistry;

 

but he keeps his daydreams

handy, within easy reach.

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)”

---

 

FALLS

Geetha Nair

He was slumped on a wrought iron seat under a shady tree. In front of him towered  The Indian Institute for Advanced Study. Shimla in May wasn't exactly cool or pretty. Like his wife without make-up, he thought with a surge of bitterness. His wife had insisted on the Shimla trip and on his accompanying her. An old school friend of hers lived in Shimla. Her daughter was in the process of getting wedded. The prolonged festivities had tired him out. He had taken a break . The IIAS was one of his favourite places. History in stone. Its grandeur, its well-kept gardens, its air bristling with stories of a bygone era. . .

  He gazed at the windows. Silhouetted behind one of them he saw a face in profile. He sat up. Sudha? The shape of the chin, the set of the head, the long neck... . No. He was imagining things. These days he thought of her often. He did not know why. Thirty years is a long time.

   Sudha moved quickly away from the Library window. Yes, it was Ravi. He had changed much but when he looked up, all doubts had been dispelled. Thirty years is a long time... .

  Sudha and he had been classmates at their Masters in Economics.  They had been drawn to each other by their lost state -they had come from far-flung districts to the capital city -and their love for reading. Soon the love had spilled over from books to each other. She fell under the spell of his eloquence, his Gandhian ideals, his dreams. One dream was to join the Civil Services, to serve his land.He persuaded her to join the coaching classes along with him. In those days there were hardly any coaching centres. Civil Services coaching had not yet boomed as an industry. They went to a venerable, retired officer who conducted classes in his home -cum -coaching centre. Every evening after class the two of them would walk to the coaching class . They had chosen English literature as their advanced subject mainly because it was what the old gentleman handled best. And of course, both of them loved reading English novels

Learning was one thing, reading for enjoyment, another. She tired of the constant dinning, the grappling with names and movements.

" Why did you drag me into this? " she moaned one evening as they were walking towards the dark steps that led to the road. By way of answer, he laughingly  quoted a line from Marlowe's "Dr Faustus" which had been analysed that day :"It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery. "

Ravi had been fascinated by the play, by the scholar who had sold his soul to the Devil in return for 24 years of knowledge and power.’A fine bargain” he had said to her, smiling,” especially as we don’t believe in devils !”

They stopped on the steps and melted into each other’s arms. This was their routine. She never let him get beyond kisses on her face and on her midriff though he could feel her desire in the way her body arched and her breath quickened. He would stroke and kiss her flat, white midriff in desperation and exclaim : "Floundering in the bloody English Channel with no hope of reaching England or France!" He blamed it on her deadly convent education. She would only smile in reply.

He cleared the exams. She did not.

He made it to the List. Bihar was to be his promised land. "Learn Bihari; I'll be back soon to get you, " he smiled, as they parted with lingering kisses. He wrote her letter  after letter from marvellous Mussoorie .Meanwhile, she had found a job as a lecturer in a college not far from her ancestral home.

Then came his first posting- Bhagalpur.  He promised her silk saris in different shades of pink and evenings by the Ganga.”But aren’t we cotton lovers?” she wrote back.  As the days went by, though, he wrote less and less about themselves, more and more about the places he visited, the people he met, the challenges he faced.

   The letters grew fewer and cooler. Oddly enough, she kept remembering the teenage days spent in the custody of her grandmother. Supper was invariably rice gruel. When she was late,her grandmother rebuked her, saying “’Once it loses its heat and warmth, it's fit only for the cows.”

She was expecting the blow when it landed. He was getting married to the daughter of an industrialist based near Patna. It was straight out of a commercial movie-this right royal ditch. The letter continued… What is being in love, after all? Just the fruit of suggestion, circumstance and utility. Just a solution to loneliness and lust. An illusion doomed to be wrecked on the rocks of reality.

At the very end of the letter were two words that struck her as ludicrous - “forgive me.”

     She put Ravi behind her as resolutely as she had her parents, who had died when she was still a teenager.

 

Sudha immersed herself totally in her academic pursuits. At forty, she was the most   respected and reputed professor in her area of specialization. She had now moved to the prestigious central university in her neighbouring state.It was on the outskirts of the city.

Learning how to drive a car had become a necessity. She visited a driving school. The owner- instructor was a muscular man in his thirties. His appraising look brought the colour to her face. She wanted to walk out but something rooted her to the spot. The driving lessons began. The instructor was called Hari. Mornings and evenings, he would drive up in his old car and take her through winding by-lanes and gradually through the bustling city roads. His hairy forearms emerging from the rolled-up sleeves, the scent of cigarette smoke and something else that he emitted, his eyes on her- everything aroused in her a wild sweetness. Her mastery of driving paralleled his mastery of her. In two weeks he accomplished what Hitler could not in several years. In another month, she was the possessor of both her driving license and her marriage certificate.

   For several days, she dwelt in a dream. There were only Hari’s voice and body there. They were her world. Slowly the dream ended. She awoke . She realized she had made a gross mistake… .

 

  Sudha went back to the window. He was still there. She walked downstairs and went up to him. He was dozing. She saw the changes that time had punished him with, the balding head, the bulging stomach… . Why was there no taste of ashes in her mouth? Her eyes took in the expensive shirt, the shoes, the huge watch on his thick wrist. In her memories, he wore his trademark khadi kurta and kolhapuri chappals… . She stood undecided awhile. Then, she turned and walked swiftly away.The rustle of her cotton sari must have woken him. He saw her unmistakable shape walking away from him, much like Eurydice from Orpheus.

 

   But they were fated to meet, that very night. Sudha had parked her car at the usual spot. Next to her was a BMW. From it issued a steady stream of invective delivered in a woman ‘s voice. It was about not knowing how to handle drivers, stupidity, cupidity and so on, delivered in scathing English. Though she was accustomed to verbal abuse, Sudha was shocked. She instinctively glanced at the occupants of the car as she was raising the glass. Ravi and a woman.! Of course it had to be his wife, that slim, heavily-made up vixen sharing the back seat. The expression on Ravi’s face hurt Sudha. It was that of one who had sold his soul.

 A fountain of pity rose up in her for this man whom she had loved so deeply.

 . Sudha’s husband had staggered up to the car by now. He held liquor bottles in both his hands. Sudha got out of the car to open the door for him.It was then that Ravi saw her. He stared at her with shocked, unbelieving eyes. For a long moment, their eyes locked. Then, his dropped. On his lap, she saw a fluffy dog that he was trying in vain to hold down.

It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery, she mused, as she started the car and drove down the hill.

 

---

 

Hospital Days

Geetha Nair

They make a sort of cross, his cot and my narrow one

placed together like a T

With a table positioned to complete that suffering look.

 

At my feet crouch two hideous frogs

- odorous, green waste bins.

 

Each night I wash the day's soiled clothes;

for company - a sprightly cockroach.

We do not fear each other;

Why should we,

When we are twin-souls and this place is our succour ?

Laundering in that narrow space is an art;

I have mastered it now.

 

I spread them out to dry,

The clean, wet clothes,

On two plastic chairs and my shabby suitcase;

By morning they are dry; as brittle as hope-

The past day’s indignities dried before dawn.

 

There's a TV set and his laptop,

My mobile phone and a book or two

For company-

Just like home.

 

And so we live, poised between a hit and miss --

 Home is where the liver is.

 

---

CHENNAI

Geetha Nair

The plane tilts to land

And the moon in the east rises to view,

A murky ragged orange,

Half eaten , weird,

like the diseased liver the doc had

on display.

I have never seen the moon look so before.

 

The scattered lights rise up to meet us-

Sparkling hopes.

What does it hold,

This stately city

With its surge from old to new?

A sedate Maami* sipping filter coffee

Transmuting to

Marvel babe smooching mocha.

 

This rising hope glowing gold,

Growing steadily to view;

Offering organ seekers

New lamps for old

 

*A Tamil word literally meaning aunt; connotes an elderly, conservative old lady.

 

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 

 

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YOU, THE NATURE

Ajit Patra

(Translated by Sangram Jena)

I enjoy

today's noon

in my village.

A hot wind blows suddenly

after winter here

indicating an imminent summer.

 

Wind blows away

the falling leaves

in all directions

my mind flies with the nature,

the day is mine.

 

Stirred by a deep emotion

I remember you,

naturally.

 

Girls like you

are the faces of nature.

I don't know if you remember me

from that distant land.

 

I spend my noon

under the shadow

of these trees

at the end of the village.

 

I stand here alone

away from the crowd

at this remote corner of this earth

With my unshaken faith.

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.

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NOSTALGIA

Sangram Jena

 

When I wake up

early in the morning

I think of events

that happened last night.

 

When evening falls

looking at the moon

and the stars,

I wait for

the dawn to break.

Sangram Jena is a Kendriya Sahitya Academy Awardee, winning the rare honour in 2016 in the category of Translation. He has published four collections of poetry in Odia and two volumes of poems in English. His poems have been translated in India and abroad in several prestigious journals, including Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, New English Review and Modern Poetry in Translation. He has authored, translated and edited more than fifty books in English and Odia, including Gandiji's Odisha (two volumes) and Burmese Days. He has translated many ancient and contemporary Odia poets into English and classics of world literature into Odia. He is a Senior Fellow in the Ministry of Culture in Government of India. Besides the Kendriya Sahitya Academy Award, he has also been conferred the Bhanuji Rao award for poetry. He edits two literary journals, Nishant in Odia and Marg Asia in English.

Sangram Jena welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at sangram.jena52@gmail.com

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APRIL RAINS

Dilip Mohapatra

The sweltering skies

split up

as I seek refuge

in the forgotten fragrance

of your moist skin 

resonating with

the slowly rising  petrichor

and let my feelings mingle 

with the freshly washed foliage

while searching for your

footprints

on the transient clouds.

 

But alas

you have covered your tracks

so very well

and as elusive as ever

you continue to torment me

tease me and taunt me

with the challenge

catch me if you can.

 

Soon enough 

the steamy tar road 

loses its sheen

and effervescence 

and goes limp like

a dead black serpent 

droughty and listless 

as I reach for my towel

to wipe the beads of sweat

off my face.

---

 

ON THE LEDGE 

Dilip Mohapatra

 

A time comes when 

your life exceeds your dreams

when you lose your body

to your shadow

when you draw water

from the mirage in the clouds

to wash down the ashes

in your throat 

and when your memories 

shut the doors on you

when absence of breads no longer 

defines your hunger

nor does absence of flesh

decry your love

and you precariously balance

yourself on the ledge

contemplating 

to let death outrun your life

one last time

for good

and all black and white

merge in shades of grey.

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.

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SMILE 

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

Although they say,
smile is a curve,
that sets 
everything 
straight;

It ties you up
in knots.

Only to
release you,
like two buds 
of a bloom.

Radiating
the same
fragrance.

And singing 
hymns of
harmony!

 

---

EXPECTATION

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

We sat in silence
for as long as she could bear,
I waited for the answer.

Then, her eye lids spoke,
as much as she could bare.
Her quiver spoke all,
she couldn’t hide.

I looked for my answer.
But, have I asked
the question?

My clumsiness surely
spoke volumes.
She knows how
to read
my awkward 
moves.

I think, I got
my answer, but
not sure to 
which question.

I remind myself,
Always keep
hopes high,
but not
expectations!

 

---

VOICE

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

---

 

ULTIMATE NIGHTMARE:  WINNER IS THE LOSER

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

 

The doctor 
and the patient,
locked in this 
un-winnable duel!

The plank and 
the precipice;
symbol of
society’s trust
in the profession.
It has hit
rock bottom.

Who put the  pistol
in patients hand?
Angry society,
Social Media,
Or, greedy doctor?

And, how did
the patient
land in this
perilous position?
pushed to
the edge of the plank.

Wonder,
who would 
blink first.
But, 
alas, both
are helpless.

Pity both
the doctor 
and the patient,
reduced to
mere pawns,
in this new game:
Medical care Industry. 

Their fates
controlled 
by Badshahs , 
Wazirs
and the Big Guns,
like the entrepreneurs,
politicians and
the middlemen!

 

This poem was inspired by and written in response to this cartoon, sent to me by a Doctor friend.  I dedicate this poem to the unknown cartoonist, whose copied cartoon. nowhere as good, is given here, as the poem, without the cartoon would make no sense

 

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  

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A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

Sreekumar K

Soon after the curtain fell and the claps subsided, and even before Sumesh took his wig off, Prabhakaran, the troupe manager came with the voucher.

“Sumi madam, please wait, don’t change now. Some kids are here to see you. They want a selfie.” Saying this Prabhakaran handed over the voucher and an envelope.

Sumi Madam! That was what Prabhakaran called him when he was in a playful mood.

Sumesh took the envelope and stared at it in surprise. Three thousand! In the previous show which was two weeks back he was given only 2000. Seeing his surprise, Prabhakaran smiled, and handing him the envelop, informed him, “Thousand extra because they were all so impressed by your performance.”

Sumesh took the envelope and counted the money. It was correct. He looked around for his bag, found it and kept is safely inside.

He looked at the mirror casually and smiled at his own image. God! He was sure that a thousand eyes had feasted on his looks that night. He removed the wig. It was a character wig. The role he had played that night was of a village housewife who faces problems when she moves over to the city. He searched his bag for another wig. There were two more and he knew which one he needed. He wore it, adjusted his sari, touched up his make up and went out of the green room to meet the kids.

They were not kids. Most of them were college students. They were sitting on the parapet and seeing him, they got up. Sumesh had always noticed  how men respected ladies if they looked rich, but only when they looked rich.

All of them were nervous and the least nervous of them mustered up all his courage and mumbled, “Madam, we want a selfie with you.”

Again Madam! May be they had heard Prabhakaran addressing him like that.

“O, sure, group or individual?”

“Hmm, group. Does anyone need individual?”

They all said they needed both. Sumesh posed for them whichever way they needed and they left happily after profusely hugging and thanking him.

When Sumesh went back in, the green room was already crowded. Two ladies and three child artistes were changing. They sneered at him. He asked their permission, went in and quickly collected his bag and other things.

When he was coming out, he heard a voice from behind.

“You are not changing? You can change in the men’s room,”

He didn’t respond to that. He knew what it meant. These ladies  did not think that they were safe with him in this green room and he didn’t think he was safe with the men in the other green room.

The phone rang. It was Mathews. He said he had reached.

Mathews was the only one among his friends in the city whom he had trusted with his secrets. He had met Mathews several years ago at the Town Hall during a performance. They had no common friends and he thought it was OK to reveal his secrets to him

Sumesh had a desire to cross dress and he kept it a secret till two years ago when he heard about a travelling folk drama troupe which was reviving traditional plays.

For two years he had been working with them without his family find out. It wasn’t hard as he was a salesman who had to move around a lot.

Mathews was never too curious about it and they never discussed it. They were good friends who shared a lot of similar interests. That was all.

This time,  since he was performing in Mathews’ village, he had proposed that Mathews could drive him back to the city. He always wanted to travel without changing after the show.

“But where will you change then? You have to go home. You have office tomorrow, right?”

“O, that is easy. I have taken the office key and I will stay there and go home only tomorrow evening after my duty.”

Thus it was settled.

Sumesh looked around. The place was getting empty. Other troupe members were inside the van and some of them called out his name to say bye.  The organisers were all there. Sumesh saw Mathews's new car parked at the gate and moved towards it. Sumesh took one last look at the auditorium and waved at the artistes in the van. Mathews came out of the car, gave him one look and went right back in.

Sumesh hurried into the car.

“What? Do I look so ugly?”

“ O, no. You look gorgeous!”

“Then why that look on your face!”

“I was shocked. Now I am all right”

The car moved and Sumesh took several selfies with Mathews. After they travelled a few kilometres Mathews spoke.

“I also feel like calling you madam like your friends did.  How you blushed when they called you so! You really look fantastic like this.”

“Thanks. So, I am different from what you imagined.”

“Yes, of course. Hard to tell you are Sumesh.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or what? Do you like me as Sumesh or as this? Tell me honestly.”

“What does it matter? We never care about the looks of friends. In fact, we do think a lot about how our enemies look, not friends.”

“That is interesting. Did you eat?”

“What? No, no. I didn’t eat. We will eat in some nice place in the city.”

“City? That is a full two hours’ drive. I am famished. I don't want to die in a sari”

“But you won’t feel comfortable in a small place.”

“Me? Who told you?”

“OK, we will stop for tea and snacks on the way. Let me see how you feel!”

They stopped at a small place and Sumesh applied more make up and smoothed his wig before he got out. He made a mental preparation. Though he had shown much gusto to Mathews and had so much experience on stage, he was more than a little nervous. He got out and held on to Mathews like a new bride. He could see their image on a shop window. It gave him confidence. Moreover, the place was not well lit.

They found a roadside tea shop and ordered tea and snacks. The shop keeper invited them inside but Sumesh held on to Mathews’ arm and whispered in his ears.

“Stay here, I want to show off.”

There was a little bit of traffic and a few people walking by. Most of the people looked at Sumesh, admiring a well dressed lady out at night. Nothing more, nothing less.

As they got back in the car, Mathews was the first one to speak.

“O, my god! O my god! That was fantastic. I enjoyed it. You were awesome.”

Sumesh even forgot to thank him. He turned towards the window and  watched the night scenes as they flitted by. He was not particularly  interested them. He was in deep thought.

He was thinking of his wife. Was this how she felt when they went on long journeys? Or, was it a different feeling for ladies? He could not see how it could be different. He glanced at Mathews and thought he looked more handsome than ever. He wondered whether the change was in Mathews or in himself. Whatever it was, he felt more like a woman than when he had been on stage that day or ever. On stage, he enjoyed the admiration of other people and his own ability to fool them. But now, in this car with Mathews, his best friend, he was enjoying himself. There was no admiration from Mathews to speak of. Did that worry him? No, he thought. This was his night. His own night. Such a night may never happen again and it need not happen again. One was good enough and if it happened again he would happily welcome it.

“How is my driving?”

“O, very good. So smooth and comfortable. You have brought your new car? Trying hard to impress your girl.”

“Girl?”

“Yes, girl friend, me!”

“O, I can see that there is no need to try hard to impress you!”
Sumesh pinched Mathews on his left arm.

“You naughty. But you are right. I am enjoying this.  Never thought this night would end up like this.”

Sumesh wanted to do some shopping too. He wanted to buy some goodies for his children. But the shops were closed or about to close. He felt a little disappointed. He wanted to get out again with Mathews and mingle with the crowd.

He turned on his mobile and checked his messages.  Boring. Then he looked at his own pictures he had taken that day and pictures of previous performances. He didn’t like those old pictures. The new ones were fine, especially the ones he had taken with those young men and those he took in the car.

Mathews turned on the stereo and started swinging his head. It was a song he too knew and joined Mathews in swinging his head. The singer had a very husky voice which reminded Sumesh of cold nights in Kumily where he was born. He thought of that place only when it felt so cold or when he smelled spices. All the other memories he had buried long ago. Now this voice brought it back again. The chorus was dynamic and powerful. Mathews was enjoying it so much that Sumesh had to warn him repeatedly to be careful. 

Almost two hours later, they were in the suburbs of the city and Mathews was constantly looking outside to find a restaurant. He was looking for bar attached ones. But Sumesh knew that Mathews never drank. So, probably he just wanted a good place to celebrate. Was Mathews feeling the same as he did? O, that was impossible. Sumesh rebuked himself for day dreaming.

They could not find a proper place as it was close to eleven and bars had to be closed by ten. Finally, they settled for a small place which had a good drive way across a garden.

Mathews parked the car and Sumesh took some time to adjust his sari and smooth his wig. Mathews came to the left side of the car and was waiting.  He opened the door and held Sumesh’s hand as he rose up like a nymph from the  ocean and sailed smoothly away from the car.

 Sumesh took extra care to walk just like a lady, with minced steps and his each feet toeing the other. He kept his head down and held on to Mathews’ arm.

The place was a small one and wasn't crowded. Sumesh went to the ladies’ bathroom. It was the first time he was peeing in one. When he came back Mathews had gone to the men’s washroom. The waiter, a young man came over and asked him what they needed.  Sumesh gestured towards the washroom to say that he had to wait.  He did not trust his own voice.

When Mathews returned, they placed the order. There wasn’t much to choose from but whatever was there was really good. It felt like eating in the family dining room during a private birthday celebration.

When they were about to get into the car, Sumesh went back in and gave a generous tip to the  waiter who smiled at him and said a nervous thanks.  Sumesh also smiled back and glanced around with the same smile lingering on his hot red lips. He knew that he was sending a chill down the spine of everyone sitting there.

When he returned to the car, Mathews commented on him, “You are a big show off. I never knew that about you.”

“Why not? You have a talent to sing and I hear you singing all the time. This is my talent. This fooling the world. And I am thoroughly enjoying it.”

“I can see that, both your talent and your enjoyment.”

Sumesh found that Mathews was a little rude which was quite unusual of him. Usually he was a  meek and mild person. May be this was how he was with  women. He wondered why all men thought that they had to show a rough jarring exterior when they were with women. Was he himself like that with his wife and daughter? No, he was very very soft with them. But he recalled that it was only at home. With other women whom he wanted to impress, he too did what Mathews was doing now. Rough, jarring exterior. Rude remarks. Sarcasm. Decent and polite, no doubt. But such things were only in the elaborate manners. A show off! Right. Just as Mathews had said just then. A show off. In attitude, just like sand paper.

The car came to a stop outside Sumesh’s office. The place was deserted and shrouded in darkness. From some street light far away, long shadows of trees and posts lay like they were  painted across the road. The building itself looked like it might crumble down any minute.

Mathews cleared his thought. He was struggling to say something. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was different.

“Sumesh, I have known you for long and I know your preferences and nature. I know you are not gay and I am not gay either. But, tonight seeing you like this, I find it very difficult to let you go.”

Sumesh’s heart began to beat louder and faster and he too found a lump in his throat. This was the moment he was waiting for, the moment he had feared and desired at the same time.

“Please, if you don’t mind, let me kiss you.”

“O, that is OK.”

Sumesh moved closer to Mathews who put his arm around him, hugged him hard and kissed him on both cheeks. Sumesh sensed his own smell more than Mathews’, the smell of the generous make up he had put on hours ago, thinking of the audience' applause. Now that large crowd shrank to a single person.

Mathews took his arms from around Sumesh.

“Now dear, that was what you asked for. Now I am asking you for one. Yes, give me another.”

Sumesh leaned over to Mathews and put his face on his chest. He turned his head around and stared into Mathews’ eyes.

Mathews bent down and planted a loving kiss right on his lips.

Sumesh collected his bag and other things,  he looked around and asked Mathews to turn off the head lights. He made sure that there was no one around and got out. He couldn’t bring himself to look back at Mathews and say bye to him.

As he walked away he felt like someone walking toward his own death.

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

Unafraid in spite of every 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.

---

 

JALLIANWALLA BAGH – HUNDRED YEARS OF BLOOD

Harvinder Kaur

Is the harvest of blood ready?

Saffron laughter of Baisakh

stumbles in narrow lanes,

Sobs red, before

falling into the well.

A cannibal abyss simmers softly

hundred years on…

Don’t dip your head in Time’s

dark cauldron,

Slow boiling with innocent blood.

It will gurgle in your ears

the confused cries of children

watching Baisakhi kheer

nourishing, white, almond sprinkled,

turning crimson with blood

from their mother’s eyes.

 

Did he succeed?

Break the spirit of the race

with the bones of children

crushed under their fathers’ corpses?

Did hope run dry from

the bleeding breasts of mothers,

leaving wailing infants with

tearless memories?

The obedient foot-soldiers

never turned their guns

against the white sahib

who sought to teach

a lesson in blood…

And, the small white man,

from the small, cold island,

became blood coloured.

Forever.

 

Nobody knows

what the forgotten itch

in the white man’s veins

has done to his world.

Blood curses taking their toll

secretly, invisibly…

Tender hearts crying into the night,

Mysterious jabs of pain flashing

in the nerves of those

who can yet feel.

There is a matrix beyond time,

beyond flesh.

A man linked to the subtle

veins of your identity

wronged Innocence.

And not till Innocence

is restored, will the curse

of unnamed sorrows lift.

 

They are not your sorrows,

not your tears, not your sobs.

But those of the children

who didn’t grow up,

mothers who bled all wrong,

fathers who didn’t carry

the swords they should have.

 

You who wear our jewels

in your crown,

Will you also carry our grief?

 

White intruder, stained red,

Travel light.  Say sorry.

 

Harvinder Kaur has published stories and poems in leading anthologies and journals such as Laughing Buddha, The Grand Indian Express, New Woman, Hindustan Times, DNA, among others. She also writes in Hindi. A teacher, teacher-trainer, and Principal, she is presently Director, ICIE, (India Council for Integral Education, Sri Aurobindo Society, Pondicherry). She set up the Auro Mirra International School in Bangalore, where there are open classrooms, no uniforms, or inter-disciplinary approaches She conducts workshops on self-exploration and creative writing.

---

 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

Ananya Priyadharisini

"Lag jaa gale ke phir ye haseen raat ho na ho...."

I was surprised, in the most pleasant way possible to hear a cuckoo sing amidst the episodic howls of the pack of wolves. No I wasn't in any jungle but in a resort for a workshop. These were my juniors and the cuckoo I'm talking about was a girl of twenty or twenty two. Wheatish complexion, big brown eyes, wavy hair that fell till the middle of her back, tall enough to reach my shoulders and big smile always swimming across her lips. Diana, that was her name. The smile that made me too uncomfortable. I was listening to Diana, mesmerized. After she finished singing, the pack of wolves (you should listen to them singing raps during their turns through the rapid fire game before you call me rude for addressing them as wolves) cheered for her. I too wanted to blow a whistle from my window to her appraisal but her smile, that had taken over her lips by then stopped me. I shut my glass windowpanes and cut every communication of my room to the park where the Juniors could be seen playing games sitting around a bonfire.

 

We were all here for recreation purpose. We were here to spend days in ways that are next to impossible to implement in our otherwise daily lives. We all belonged to different disciplines but had a common inclination for literature that had brought us all to this workshop. It wasn't unnatural in their part to spend sleepless nights doing crazy stuffs. It shouldn't have had annoyed me either. But it did, her smile did.

 

We were supposed to write poetry. I didn't believe in rhyming. I thought, when you desperately attempt at rhyming, you try to imprison poetry. Hence, the free verse! My poetry was about some monk who has been meditating since years and was highly appreciated by all. She had written about butterflies and her lines ended with rhyming words and still, somehow, it didn't at all look like she was hard on her words, just like she was never hard on herself!

 

"Butterflies! Like, have we just arrived at a children's literature festival?", I taunted trying to sound more sarcastic than agitated. She, who was by now all teeth hearing a few praises suddenly became silent. Forcing a small smile she said in a very polite and defeated tone, "I love butterflies, so...."

 

"Okay, leave it! But try something that makes more sense next time, okay?", said the mentor as we moved on to the next round. Five minutes into the next round and her giggles started echoing. "How can nothing affect her for long?", I was annoyed again.

 

If you've to compare her to a fictional character, then please pick Bubbles from the Powerpuff girls. She'd always keep her smile on. She could laugh at just anything- as mere as arrival of a sugarless black coffee at her desk and a hot chocolate at mine out of mistake of the waitors at the breakfast table. "Be professional, please", I told the waitor who got me the right order in the second go and she told "Bhaiya, are you still not awake or day dreaming?" and laughed. I got a 'sorry, ma'am' in return and she, a 'he he... Sorry Didi' with a blush.

 

What's there to laugh at everything? Kids these days, uffff. They think life is some cakewalk. They just can't be serious about anything in life. And why do they even have to? Their parents deal with their share of troubles and let them have fun instead. Why pamper your children so much that they spoil! Huh. I'd thought all this to myself. I'd lived a difficult life and felt proud of myself for having dealt with all the shit life had thrown at me like a boss. I didn't like going on telling people my story to gather their attention/sympathy but felt Superior to those who used to lead a competitively easier life, secretly. And I was already suffering from severe superiority complex from Diana on whose platter a perfectly smooth life was already served.

 

At dinner Hall, the junior guys were dancing. So, was Diana with her limp. "Now she has to dance with a bent leg to let the world know that not even a bent leg can keep her from dancing! Damn this girl", I murmured to myself as I moved towards food counter. As a walked past the dancing crowd, Diana tripped over me. I held her and kept her from falling down.

 

"Thank you, ma'am!", She said pulling off one of her brightest smiles so far. "Please join us!", She urged holding me by my wrist.

"No, thanks! Not everyone likes to dance even if their bones are doing fine", I momentarily felt bad for having mocked someone's disability but I was sure this would drive her smile away, a smile I could never smile. Diana remained sad for ten long minutes and soon I could hear her hearty laugh from her dinner table.

 

Two days passed by. It was the last day of the workshop. I woke up to a phone call from the reception that said "Ma'am we've found your wallet near the swimming pool. Please come and collect it from the reception."

 

I was panicked. The wallet contained my ID proofs and ATM cards. I didn't even check for my wallet in my room and rushed downstairs. There was nobody at the reception but a paper kept on the desk with my name on it. I put aside the candy that was weighing it down and opened the folds of the paper.

 

"APRIL FOOL!" It read. Oh, 1st of April it was! I turned back. I found the entire resort staff who was involved in making the prank a success and also other mates of mine who had come here to attend the workshop and were now standing in the lobby in their night dresses. They were all victims of such harmless pranks and were adding their smiles to that of the Mastermind, Diana.

 

"Sorry, ma'am but 1st April couldn't go boring and uneventful", Diana began laughing and so did others.

 

"Why do you have to victimize everyone else with your childish activities? Life has not been kind to everyone equally. Some like me have been taught the difference between stupidity and humor at a very tender age and all thanks to our struggles. People want peace, Diana if not happiness. Don't spoil that for them. They've much more to deal with in life than a deformed leg", I'd turned red by the time I finished talking. Diana was numb. Everyone else was silent too. I'd successfully spoiled the jolly mood of everyone.

 

I was supposed to catch my flight in 2 hours. I came back to my room and started packing. I declined the call from reception enquiring about my breakfast and doubled my speed.

 

There was a knock on my door. I ignored. The moron went on banging fists on it. I hastily opened the door to see Diana standing right before me with two cups of coffee and toasts.

 

Her smile was missing. That's what I wanted. But today when I didn't see her smile, something broke inside me. I remembered the day when a bubbly girl had transformed into a grumpy woman inside me. I gave her way to come in. She followed and sat on the couch.

 

"Sister Dorothy says one shouldn't leave with an empty stomach", she said as she tore a paper packet of powdered sugar, poured it into the cups of milk coffee and offered me one. "You'll like your coffee this way better, ma'am". I took the cup and sipped. She was right. In years I'd not tasted such coffee and had accustomed myself to the bitterness of strong sugarless black coffee.

 

"Ma'am, we all have got a sorrow seed each. When it sprouts, we have two ways to deal with it. Crush it beneath you feet and move ahead or water it with your tears, make it a full grown tree that stands between you and every good thing that has to come your way. Don't go for the second option, please!"

 

"Who told you this story?", I was astonished how it didn't make me angry.

 

"Sister Dorothy", she said but without a smile.

 

"Who is sister Dorothy?"

 

"My favorite sister from my orphanage, the one who had rescued me from the dump yard where I was thrown there packed in a bag. The one who had packed me inside the bag had twisted my leg so I fit in. I was some days old back then. Hence, the limp I still walk with."

"I'm so..."

"Sorry? You don't have to be because I'm not."

"I'd always thought your life to be perfect..."

"You're not wrong, ma'am. My life is perfect because I treat my life right even though life doesn't treat me likewise."

"I always thought I've gone through the darkest days so felt proud of it. I was like you once, you know. But couldn't remain the same after being constantly moulded by situations. I see my former self in you and that's exactly what annoys me.", I confessed.

"You should be proud of yourself for having battled the darkness and having dragged yourself back to light. But don't celebrate the sorrows, the pain. Instead, celebrate your courage, your spirit and reward yourself with all the happiness that comes your way. You deserve them all!"

"Sister Dorothy told you so?"

"Yes! She also says that intensities of darkness shouldn't be compared for everyone of us if dealing with a different shade of it.", she smiled for the first time during the whole conversation. I felt like a load has been removed off my chest. I felt like sister Dorothy is setting me free from my superiority complex.

"You know what, I want to meet sister Dorothy."

"You know what, you can do so if you meet me at the bus stop in an hour! My orphanage is four hours from here and I'm planning to visit there before returning to Delhi!"

"Packing is done and showers don't take me more than thirty minutes!"

"Finish your toasts", she chuckled and left. I chuckled back.

I called my colleague.

"Krunal, extend my leave to one more week."

"Now, what?"

"Fun on cards, bro!"

"Fun? Okay, then. Take a month off but have them all, miss serious!",his voice was wet. "I hope when you come back to work, we will get to see a merrier version of you".

There were so many people who wanted to see me happy. Why and how did I fail to notice them?

I giggled and cut the call. What? Story over. I have 28 minutes left to take the shower and join the trip where my guardian angel, Diana will teach me how to live, love and laugh, again!

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.

---

 

YUDDAN

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien

 

“The most beautiful for me,

Only the fairest of them”.

Kneeling on the bank

Staring into the river

Which he had harnessed

He whispered impatiently.

 

He knelt  there till his

Virtual image was etched

On the stagnant speculum river

By the above glaring sun.

“Take my picture along lands

Till you see a face glowing.

Show her then my inspiring face,

For sure will she love it.

Imprint her face as she gaze

And carry it back to me, fast.

Then will I go apomp for her”.

 

“Go, go, little river

Do this bit for me,

Saying he unbridled  the river

Which surged forward  gay.

It went yonder  mountains,

Thro’ valleys, across woods,

Along towns, neath bridges

Besides groves,  ‘gainst hurdles.

It ran with a face ,

One so charming.

 

Then it crossed a village

Where a belle bearing vessel

Collected her evening pail.

Enchanted the river was

And in love the lass was

With the catoptric  face,

Bewitching , charismatic.

 

Not of the potamic

The lass never knew,

As she ogled  in abstractedness.

Its errand, the river forgot

On seeing such a sanguine face,

Insipid were others to this countenance.

 

Glittering back the rays of sun

Into her long little eyes

The river did hypnotise her.

In a trance she walked deep

And the river with her, galloped off.

 

As for Yuddan, he awaited days

On a riparian black rock

-Fervent, fervid, fervor -

Till someone passing said

‘ River flows only forward’.

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.

---

 

WALK AWAY

Parvathy Salil

Wake!
Walk away,
away, from the fallacious world;
say good-bye to fake smiles.

Cease.
Walk away from false souls,
flattering words and flawless gifts.
Realise!
It’s a realm of fantasies
light years away from reality.

See, they’re all unreal.
All this, a glimpse of
shimmering mirage...

---

SUMMER SIGHS

Parvathy Salil

Summer sighs unseen resound,
mango showers so well beings crave;
scarcely, breeze does wheeze with ease
toss the lazy leaves from sleep.

Stifling days so worse to live –
trees so rare and land so bare,
water drops so scant to sip;
scorching heat, well,
thrived with pride...




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 participant 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.

---

 

Thoughts upon downfall

Anwesha Mishra

 

I lost to a suitor that summer evening.
It only hurt for a jiffy,
When the string rubbed on mine,
Liberating me once and for all.
Plummeting to the earth,
I felt I belonged to no soul.
Should that irk me? No. Was I
Desperate? A little (wouldn't lie)
I was a wanderer again;
Sheer garbage, when I touched-down.
A median laceration.
Some stitches might undo that.
Well, may be not (c'mon! who cares now)
This was finally it. I lay shut-eyed, praying
Only a couple of delicate feet got to crush me.
It is funny-

How we turn theists in the last hour.
I was laughing hollowly at that thought,
When a pair of warm hands,
Too moist for a man, picked me.
Warm with the firmness of a worker.
Admiring my built, he whispered,
"It's perfect". And I kid you not
But did I miss a halo?
For I had no care in the world,
If I survived the beak's blow
Or the fact that my bridle
Rested in the lap of another.
And pardon me, it is too much
For a kite to say upon downfall.
But my string now lay fettered
To the soiled hands of the labourer.

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.

---

 

Shades of Me

Disha Prateechee

Standing in front of the mirror

Looking at the person staring back at me

Something is different now.

I wonder when I started to

Feel this way?

.

I guess it started

When the first one showed up

Hiding behind my left ear

Peeking enough to 

Make its presence known

It made me feel like

Martin luther king stripped 

Of his precious dreams.

That day I knew somewhat

That I will be wearing the cloak of shame

With battle wounds inscribed on my skin.

.

Nothing but the gazes filled with

Pity and disgust has taught me

To hate the flesh I live in.

You can try and fail

To cure my pain

Because the pain doesn't matter now

When the battle has sipped too deep 

In my bones.

.

My skin colour isn't one but two

Swirling brown and white

Dancing together on my skin

In perfect harmony, completing each other

Bold patterns and designs decorating

The dappled skin.

At times you call me black

Then you call me white

Cant I be both?

.

After 10 years, from that day,

I am standing here,

Still trying to avoid stares

Trying to accept myself the way I am

Yet disguising myself, hiding under a cap or a hoodie.

But I know something has changed.

.

This inked body, tattooed by the nature

Has taught me lessons,

Lessons that I will be savouring for the rest of my life

That this vessel is merely a container

Containing the preciousness of 

Who I decide to be

And no scars or dapples can stop me

From being me.

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.

---

 

THE LAST TIME

Sruthy. S .Menon

I don't remember 

The last time

that I planted a kiss on her cheeks 

Enthusiastically,

asking  for more and more in return.

But ,

I still remember

The last time ,

On this day,

She held my hands ,

for so long...

That I was reluctant to unclasp 

her withered  hands from mine,

to let her leave from my side.

I don't  know why

I just  knew ...

It would be “the last time”.

When that grave reality struck me,

I looked at her

As if, I won't ever see her again

Anymore.

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 .

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POINTED DECOR
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)

In the various forms of Life, deadliest is
'The thorns'
The backyards and balconies are adorned in cactus with so many thorns 
Yet it is vital for the plant as with its pricks it protects itself from hostile agents

Well built boundaries,the fences, barbed with thorns
Gives us comfort when we are guarded within it.

Porcupines with those spines, shake them to fight their enemies 
Yet they add to their perpetual  beauty.

The speed of the athletes measured by the spikes of shoes
Has set many records and raised their heads high

To add to the handsome genes, the spikes of their hair add to their do.
And set fashion floors on fire

The stilettos adding height to the ladies, dupe the rest.
Yet they stride the ramps the best..

Look of all 'pointed' might be scary, 
Yet the latent beauty in them drives us crazy.
 
Ouch! The pointed nib of my pen just poked me
Yet has given me immense pleasure of self- expression.

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

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MEMORIES OF LOSS

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Many years from now you will return to these lawns

And stand under the Gulmohar tree.

Memory will stab you like a sharp dagger

Freed from the prison of time.

You will look at the red petals,

Like dried patches of blood

Strewn on the carpet of anguished earth.

 

The afternoon will melt into a desolate evening

Of evanescent light.

The clouds will float in the sky

Covering the forlorn moon.

The dried up petals will still shine

On the mirror of thousand memories.

 

You will remember me

In the dimming lights and the fading stars.

And then you will wish,

Oh Dear, how you will wish,

We had walked together

Towards a glorious sunset, hand in hand

Lost in a timeless rhapsody of mellifluous desire.

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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CRICTIC REVIEWS 

 

And That Has Made All the Difference

(A review of poems by Prabhanjan K. Mishra published in the Literary Vibes, Editions 1 to 11)

Sreekumar K

 

Prabhanjan’s poems are enjoyable to all, for it is the conscience of an observer who is wacthing a cultural (?) procession passing by. He comments on it, in all forms, mostly mild but well aimed all the same. It is in a way iconoclastic in intention though there is no violence  \usually associalted with that kind of writing, nor is it didactic in any way.

 

I scoop a palmful of salty water,

put a drop in my lips,                                                                                 sprinkle a little on my head,                                                                             and close my burning eyes.

(from From Invocation to Immersion)

This is exactly what Prabhanjan does repeatedly in his poems. Actually, from what we know of him, there isn’t much difference between the poet and the poem.

One can read Prabhanjan’s poems in three different ways, with regard to three different aspects: thematic, linguistic and formalistic. He works hard from all these angles so much that the poems have an unmissable identity, no matter what the theme is. In other words, the form and language have a pattern of their own, the poet’s signature, so to speak.

Themeatically, most of the poems here are set in the background of devotion or pilgrimage of some sort. In all the poems, the devotional strain flows in some way or another. Even as we wonder why Prabhanjan would repeatedly make this pilgrimage, we find that he is only fighting an enemy in its own lair,   an enemy called tradition. Most of my students use tradition and culture in the same way, but we have to remember that tradition is only dead culture and that culture died for a reason.  At a time when that reason is no more respected important from an evolutionary point of view, and also from  a revolutionaly and visionary point of view, Prabhanjan’s concern is not why we exhume that dead culture, but why it was there in our culture even in the past. The question is loud and clear and also pointed. For example, it is hard for one to miss the sarcasm and dark humour in Bhimashankar,

 

a childless woman

rubs butter on the lingam. 

 

And then,

 

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.”

 

or in Amarnath, when 

 

The lingam refuses to grow

despite the compounded

and complex Vedic rituals.

 

While Smruti, in the comfort of the base camp

 

over hot cups of tea,

home-made savouries from packs,

worries over her sick mother,

and the technology is not left behind,

 

The TV blares another dubious yarn -

‘the priests have transported ice

to sculpt the biggest ever lingam.’

 

 

He finds the society deeply ritualistic with not many  instances of critical thinking which might have contributed to its growth. Everything is a mockery, from war to elections to ablusions in a holy river.

 

In  Varanasi, The City Of Rubble, people are branded as man, a bisexual and transgender while tea they drinik is still

 

irrespective, tasteless and sexless.

The attempts to enliven the city fails

 

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.

 

It is hopeless

 

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.

However,

 ... hope springs eternal -

city’s honest whores still solicit

though pimps have moved to politics.

 

Even love get a taste of his cudgel

 

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!

Even devotion is stripped of its holy shroud

 (from Love: Unfettered In Death

 

Even devotion is not spared.

 

her idol worshipped with love

being consigned to choppy sea waves,

to be cast off by sea to a muddy beach

askew; paint washed off, naked, alone.

(from Invocation to Immersion)

Linguistically, he packs a whole essay into the colocations he comes up with. Almost all his nouns have an adjective and first we think they are strange bedfellows but then we find what ideas could be begotten from their mating. For example,

Bismillah’s

weeping Shehnai.

aroma of moksha

modern nostrils.

(from Banaras)

 

a raven cloud,

divine depths

(from Kumbh)

 

thousands of glass-fix eyes,

stony little tongues, and stifled beats

of tiny rocky hearts

melted into a loam

of powdery brittle bones.

(from Requiem at Tuam)

 

heart on a guileless platter

 

and also

 

recalling festive twinkles,

the festoons hung on toffee trees,

her slit throat,

charred hair. A young sneer

is pasted on defiant torn lips

(from Nirbhaya)

ploughshares

sighing on soft mud

their flames jerk like necks

in the hangman’s noose.

(from In Orissa)

 

pods of anticlimax.

white comfort,

the nova and ashes of desires

(from Amrapally’s Siddharth)

 

silent resilience barricade eyes, block the hearing,

bite the tongue into a pulp

and also

an unhinged venture                                                                                         (from Barabati)

(All poems are from the first five editions of the Literaty Vibes)

 

Sometimes, when the theme or its exploration is way too subtle, we find the adjective-noun combination loud enough even for the insensitive not to miss it. He also uses both abstract and concrete images in the same proportion with so much propriety. If the poem has enough potential to convey on its own, like if it is a descriptive poem, the images tend to be abstract and if the poem is the other way, not able to show itself like a set of images, then more concrete images are used to compensate for the more abstract thoughts. For instance, in Invocation to Immersion

 

In the body’s auspicious hour

when the moon churns the parhelion

and the spirit swells in jubilation,

I invoke the deity of joy.

 

Whereas in Gritty Tears,

 

why shivers of passion numb me

when nubile feet are rubbing against;

why should my heart surge up

with courage when my walls

protect the wealthy snobs?

 

Choice of words is something that the poet focuses on but he is not so much into music, very rarely choosing a word for what it sounds like. This, though very rarely, causes a problem like we see an unintended alleteration where it shouldn’t have been because in that context in does not rise above a jingle. For example, in Varanasi, the City of Rubble, I found this jarring,

 

you can’t love it, you can’t live with it;

you die ghastly, or roam ghostly.

 

Form is a wider aspect. He does not adopt any poetic form or metre, it is iambic by default with no even distribution of feet as such. However, when we think of form in  a broader sense we find that so much though has been given to the structure and how the structure is made to align with the development of thought.

Prbhanjan has the habit of assuming different voices and he manages to sound convincing. This is enjoyable especially when we read them as a collection of poems. In a poem he has not published here, he has donned the voice of a river and in another the voice of soil. The way he manages to be a different persona making himself into a different speaker, mostly inanimate in nature is brilliant. In Identity-1, he dons the role of identity itself which is left behind when we die.

 

I smile at the stake

where my destiny burns.

I do not unlock others’ doors.

Nor do I enter their forbidden forts.

 

The poem scares us about out future too. Negative capability is an essential quality for an artist.

Most of the poems are narratives without a plot. I know that he also writes short stories which, according to him, are very lengthy. So, these are the still born short stories in a way. Such a narrative is conspicuous in A Dead Eye’s War Diary, which reminds us of Liam O'Flaherty’s short Story, The Sniper.

Before each finish thinking

his goodwill thoughts,

the coward of the two shoots;

the brooding brave bites dust, dies.

 

Poems are an essential harbinger of refinement in  a human being whether he write them or only reads them. Going through all those poems he has contributed to the Literary Vibes in its eleven editions (I downloaded and filed them all) are worth reading again and again. It is a poet’s sincere attempt to share his heart, his thoughts and his emotions, without being emotional or thoughtful or thoughtless.

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A Comparative study of three poems on Snakecharmers

 

Snakecharmer by Prof. Geetha Nair, Snakecharmers by Sylvia Plath and Kaliyamardanam (Thrashing Kaliya, the Mythical Snake)by Sugatha Kumari

 

Sreekumar K

 

A poet walks on a tight rope, one end firmly tied to a rockface on the earth and the other end tied to the infinity. As we follow him on this tight rope, we are on an endless search. We know we started in delight, as Frost puts it, but now are nowhere. Two of these poems are tied to the infinity and begin on firm grounds. While Smt. Geetha’s poem moults in the second part into abstraction, Plath twines the real and the unreal from the very beginning using Krishna’s vanquishing of Kaliyan and the famous speech by Prospero at the end of the revelry in The Tempest as her sources. Smt. Geetha’s poem springs a surprise on us and makes us go back and  see that we were on the wrong foot from line one. From a mundane life of nibbling a ring finger and docility, a poet goes beyond what or who made her a poet to be immortalised in words. The unpoetic one ends up as history while the inspiration begets literature. With snakes as trophies of pride, and the poem being a ‘basket of words’, the poet gives us a remarkably enriching experience.

 

Plath’s poem is, of course, on a different level. It is indeed deeply set in Indian Philosophy. The Ultimate creates and destroys the world with a wisp of His music, the insubstantial pageant reverses itself into snake-warp and snake-weft. With carefully chosen and well placed monosyllables but lengthy sentences which when put together remind us of snakes, millions of them twining together, she shows us the melting pot in which the world is boiling forever and ever.

 

Sugathakumari writing about Krishna vanquishing Kalaya, the snake,  is vicariously didactic. It is the snake, Kaliyan, that speaks in it. He begs Krishna to dance more and more heavily on his hoods and make him spit out his arrogance and other negative traits. Starting with and agenda to teach, the poem is not the kind of tight rope walk that we talked about. It has both ends fixed firmly, the loose end is held by the poet.

 

*For Geetha's poem 'Charmer', refer to the previous edition

 

*Snakecharmer

Sylvia Plath

As the gods began one world, and man another,

So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere

With moon-eye, mouth-pipe, He pipes. Pipes green. Pipes water.

 

Pipes water green until green waters waver

With reedy lengths and necks and undulatings.

And as his notes twine green, the green river

 

Shapes its images around his sons.

He pipes a place to stand on, but no rocks,

No floor: a wave of flickering grass tongues

 

Supports his foot. He pipes a world of snakes,

Of sways and coilings, from the snake-rooted bottom

Of his mind. And now nothing but snakes

Is visible. The snake-scales have become

Leaf, become eyelid; snake-bodies, bough, breast

Of tree and human. And he within this snakedom

 

Rules the writhings which make manifest

His snakehood and his might with pliant tunes

From his thin pipe. Out of this green nest

 

As out of Eden's navel twist the lines

Of snaky generations: let there be snakes!

And snakes there were, are, will be—till yawns

 

Consume this pipe and he tires of music

And pipes the world back to the simple fabric

Of snake-warp, snake-weft. Pipes the cloth of snakes

 

To a melting of green waters, till no snake

Shows its head, and those green waters back to

Water, to green, to nothing like a snake.

Puts up his pipe, and lids his moony eye.

 

Kaliyamarddanam By Sugatha Kumari 

(Translation by Sreekumar K)

 

My Lord, my hoods are not bowed,

My heart is steadfast

River Kalindi surges like an ocean

Its waves crash down like huge breakers

My spread out hoods rise up one after the other

From where they are pressed down by thy feet

Your anklets jingle and tinkly as you dance on my hoods

Your bangles laughing on your arms make such a lovely music

Your fingers with different dance gestures enjoy themselves as they move

Your eyes wide open, with drosiness languishing in them

Are wildly alert from the wild music around

Those lotus bud feet, displaying great strength

Thrash my hoods again and again as if to husk them

I am trying my best to keep my hoods beaten to a pulp

But I don’t want your beautiful enchanting dance to stop

My head broken from your stamping on them still rises up

My blood is splattered everywhere, eyes are burning

My heart is about to break

I am a stage all set for your dance

I have to hold my hoods up for your feet

Dance with that kind smile still on your lips

Let the waves rise in fun and frolic

Let walls of water rise all around us

Let the black blood from my heart

Get spilled all over

Let my wife swoon at my feet and lie there

Please do not stop your dance, my Lord!

My soul is about to harmonise with

The joyful rhythm of your feet

The spread out lotus feather on your crown

Sways with the gently swaying of your head

Your criped locks are wet with sweat

Kisses your crescent moon-like forehead

The flowers from your garlands rain around us

Do not stop your dance as the river

Moves itself into a whirl pool

And the flowers too get whirled in it

Don’t hesitate even as your feet

Turn crismson with blood rushng into them

I am still unsighted from the darkness of my ego

And my eyes have not seen the Truth yet

And my arrogance at having known everything,

In reality, only hides my own ignorance

The darkness of my ignorance binds me to the world

The ropes of its bindings are still untied

Do not stop your dance, I will hold up my hoods

As long as I can,

Till my poison starts draining out as pale streams

Down into the river below

Till the sorrow which rises as my arrogance

Leaves me, setting me free forever

Till all my sorrows disappear

From kissing your lotus feet on and on

I will not let my hoods sag

O, Lord, go on with your dance

I will not let my hoods,

O, Lord, go on with your dance

Let your dark curls fly about you

Let your cheeks redden more and more

Let your earrings sway wildly

And let them send sparkles everywhere

Let your necklaces swing wildly

Break loose and scatter all around

Let the creases of your yellow robes

Sparkles and shine as they get wet

Let the tinkle and jingle of your anklets

Resound everywhere around us

Let my bad karmas break and fall of

In that rhythm and disappear forever

Let my sorrows as they kiss your lotus feet

Disappear and leave me forever

My hood I will hold up for you, my Lord

My heart I will keep steady for you

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A Comparative study of three poems on Snake Charmers

Sreekumar K 

A poet walks on a tight rope, one end firmly tied on a rock surface on the earth and the other end is tied to infinity. As we follow him on this tight rope, we go on and on. We know we started in delight, as Frost puts it, but now are nowhere. Both these poems are tied to snakes and begin on firm grounds. While Smt. Geetha’s poem moults in the second part into abstraction, Plath twines the real and the unreal from the very beginning using Krishna’s vanquishing of Kaliyan and famous speech by Prospero at the end of the revelry as her sources. Smt. Geetha’s poem springs a surprise on us and makes us go back and read it and see we were on the wrong foot from line one. From a mundane life of nibbling a ring finger and docility, a poet goes beyond what or who made her a poet to be immortalised in words. The unpoetic one ends up as history while the inspiration begets literature. With snakes as trophies of pride and poem being a ‘basket of words’, the poet gives us an enriching experience.

 

Plath’s poem is, of course, on a different level. It is indeed deeply set in Indian Philosophy. The Ultimate creates and destroys the world with a wisp of His music, the insubstantial pageant divides itself into snake-warp and snake-weft. With carefully chosen and well placed monosyllables but lengthy sentences which together remind us of snakes, millions of them twining together, shows us the melting pot in which the world is boiling forever and ever.

 

Sugathakumari also wrote a poem about Krishna, the snake charmer but it is vicariously didactic. It is the snake, Kaliyan, that speaks in it. He begs Krishna to dance more and more heavily on his hoods and make him spit out his arrogance and other negative traits. Starting with and agenda to teach, the poem is not the kind of tight rope that we talked about. It has both ends fixed firmly, the loose end is held by the poet.

 

*For Geetha's poem 'Charmer', refer to the previous edition

 

*Snakecharmer

Sylvia Plath

As the gods began one world, and man another,

So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere

With moon-eye, mouth-pipe, He pipes. Pipes green. Pipes water.

 

Pipes water green until green waters waver

With reedy lengths and necks and undulatings.

And as his notes twine green, the green river

 

Shapes its images around his sons.

He pipes a place to stand on, but no rocks,

No floor: a wave of flickering grass tongues

 

Supports his foot. He pipes a world of snakes,

Of sways and coilings, from the snake-rooted bottom

Of his mind. And now nothing but snakes

Is visible. The snake-scales have become

Leaf, become eyelid; snake-bodies, bough, breast

Of tree and human. And he within this snakedom

 

Rules the writhings which make manifest

His snakehood and his might with pliant tunes

From his thin pipe. Out of this green nest

 

As out of Eden's navel twist the lines

Of snaky generations: let there be snakes!

And snakes there were, are, will be—till yawns

 

Consume this pipe and he tires of music

And pipes the world back to the simple fabric

Of snake-warp, snake-weft. Pipes the cloth of snakes

 

To a melting of green waters, till no snake

Shows its head, and those green waters back to

Water, to green, to nothing like a snake.

Puts up his pipe, and lids his moony eye.

 

*For Kaliyamarddanam By Sugatha Kumari https://youtu.be/dF71w37Zzyw

(Translation not available)

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