Literary Vibes - Edition XIII (26-April-2019)
Dear Readers,
Namaste!
LiteraryVibes welcomes the four new authors of this week, Mr. Arupananda Panigrahi, Dr. Gourahari Das, Mr. Ibraheem Anas Sakaba and Mr. Alhassan Ibrahim B. We appreciate your contributions!!
It is heartening to note LiteraryVibes is being read in a distant land like Nigeria, spreading the unmistakable positivity of our writings. We will be happy to get more writers from outside our shores, for literature knows no boundaries. Human emotions are universal.
Please invite your contacts and share the LiteraryVibes. Your contribution in the form of Poems, Short Stories, Travelogues and Interesting Anecdotes are welcome for next Friday's edition.
I will be happy to publish them in the LiteraryVibes.
Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A HAND OF CARDS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
She led me by hand,
we reached the riverbank,
a shadowed cove secreted
among ferns and grasses;
“Here I keep my kite” she said;
and I, “Mamma mia, it’s awesome!”
Not a red heart, or a pink diamond,
nor the black of spade, but an ash delta (!)
sloping down to a downy little ravine,
a young pumpkin sliced as ripe melon.
Even a finger of mine washed
down the hiss and drizzle of the stream.
She reached to my bobbin,
uncoiling its threads,
we gambled and gamboled
a bit; the kite knew
and the bobbin, and as well the sky;
listless, the stream napped.
Adulthood portals we entered,
neither with serious intent nor eagerness,
only a second habit; the downy delta
and the kite, the stream and
the bobbin, all sulked, stood back
from threading eye of the needle.
How time flowed carrying us
washing away debris and silt?
The delta gone reedy and muddy,
the threads warped in tangles;
yet the kite rises into the sky,
the stream gurgles aloud in joy.
Sitting on the edge of a dream,
looking at the setting sun,
we bask, suffused with the aroma
of united ions, decide to return home,
fix a meal, eat in bed, play a hand
of cards, collect love’s scattered pieces.
THE EXISTENTIAL PLENTY
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Resolute she sits
ensconced among bed-cushions,
crafted and polished every inch,
holding her lights collected within;
won’t open doors and windows
to her sulking silence, a jaded Buddha;
an imminent monsoon murmurs,
brings tidings of romance;
air outdoor, fragrant and cool,
croons with a distant rumble
like her husband clearing throat
before his Sri Ganesh of intimacy;
doting in-laws, lovely children,
a pampering husband, and
a bevy of retainers of her happy home
swarm around with the morning tea aroma
and steaming savouries, but she
searches for herself in that chirpy milieu.
Her husband is all milk and honey,
“Are you upset dear, lost jewellery,
missed another monthly cycle,
having a migraine, saw a nightmare?”
Her two kids, almost doppelgangers,
in their archetypal spy-suits,
goggle-eyed behind spy-glasses;
scour corners, underneath of furniture,
inside boxes, nooks of wardrobes;
they look into one another
and themselves for their mamma’s
missing mood of the morning.
The family goes into a hurdle,
whispers, casts aspersions,
curses one another under their breath.
The house sparkles, the kitchen hums,
the weather outdoor basks – no bother!
A rainbow drops in, says ‘hello’ to all.
None knows, will never know,
her search for herself,
she lost amid her daily grind;
amid money, jewellery and her kids;
under the burden of obliging her beauty;
and caring for the husband’s sweet needs.
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
VASUNDHARAA (from ‘Mantrapath’, 1991)
Mr. Haraprasad Das
(Odia Poem translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Could I spare time
for Vasundharaa
from my rat race?
In her prime flowering,
she bided her time,
waiting for me.
Returning dog-tired
I vented my impotent anger
on rampant usurpers
dirtying her parlour,
nipping those weeds in bud,
like mythic Parshuram,
another axe-wielder.
The parasites then pried
into my sleep as nightmares;
yet I turned a blind eye
to Vasundharaa’s needs?
I may return later
to partake her bounties;
would it be too late?
Isn’t she a slave
of her seasons ?
If the oak rises
defying all odds,
would she allow it,
her soil gone fallow and arid!
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)”
LIGHTS
Geetha Nair
You taught me how to name the stars
By shape and fire;
I called them mine.
You showed me fireflies
Caught with your hands turned gentle,
Flashing from delicate glass,
Lovely fluorescent things;
Yet never guided my little hands
For fear I would crush their tiny wings.
I can see them now
Vying with the stars
In their prison of glass
Until they were set free
To soar to liberty.
Now there grows a tree
Where they burnt your body.
Do fireflies flit about it by night
Waiting for your gentle touch?
I need you now
To teach me those lost arts,
I need to call those stars above
To shed on me a special light,
I need to gather fireflies mine
To hold them in my hands
And guide me through this night.
SPIDER MAN
Geetha Nair
It was one of those wonderful chance meetings. She had just boarded the evening train to her home after a seminar in a northern city. Opposite her was seated a man who looked very familiar. He was tapping into his laptop, totally absorbed in his work. He looked up once when the train started moving. The penny dropped - Dr Amar, the renowned arachnologist ! She had read many of his articles which also carried that bright, boyish face, in journals of repute. She possessed a copy of his authoritative book, " Arachnida of the Western Ghats." Never had she imagined she would meet him !
This was a stroke of luck indeed! Her lucky day.
How to introduce herself was the problem.
The God of Aqua Pura helped her out.
Dr Amar broke into a fit of coughing . The bottle near him was empty. She jumped up to offer her full bottle of purified water. He gulped down some of it, returned the bottle to her and murmured a thank you.
"Dr Amar," she began, "I am a Professor of Zoology; my doctoral thesis was on Salticidae. So happy to meet you!"
His bright eyes shone brighter.
"Indeed!" he said, "that is gratifying. So few people are interested in this fascinating area."
For the rest of the journey, he spoke on spiders... . Oxyopes was what he was currently writing on. When she called it the Lynx Spider, he frowned and repeated, "Oxyopes." Then he moved on to Parasteatoda... .
He had on his laptop his latest unpublished article. He offered it to her to go through . She was elated. From the horse's mouth. Rather, the spider's. He did not refer to them as spiders, though. She noticed that. She badly wanted a cup of tea and a bite. But he seemed impervious to such needs. She wondered, irreverently, whether four of his legs were hidden inside his capacious shirt and loose trousers.
Her mind went scampering up a web filled with possibilities - co-working on a project, co-authoring articles, being invited to international conferences... .
But he had not asked her where she taught or even what her name was!
Her station was just five minutes away.
"OK, Madam " he said, by way of farewell, as she prepared to leave.
"You did not ask my name, Sir" she dared to say.
"Sorry, remiss of me. What is your name, please? '"
" Hema Soman" she replied.
" I shall never forget your name, Madam." he declared.
Her delighted smile froze on her lips as he added, earnestly.
"So similar to Homo Sapien."
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
AMALA, 1997
(The Harvest)
Arupananda Panigrahi (Odia Poet)
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
A season of harvest rules the roost - caring
two hoots for the loafing honey-spring;
bundles of paddy sheaves get thrashed
with vigour, the thrashed bundles
would go under trampling bullock hooves
to remove the left over grains; a serene sun
peeps out - air redolent with bhakti songs,
all the ether-way from Cuttack Akashvani.
A grain of paddy, a dreamer, a loner –
sky being its dream’s limit, left out,
escaping the thrasher’s log,
escaping the pounding hooves,
away from joining his peers
ringing a ring of the food-chain,
away from ending in a cooking pot,
it dreams of possibility zones.
It could be the primal seed, God bless,
the sole sire to a paddy progeny;
its two humble leaves curled up inside,
may contain a potent green revolution.
But what (?) if, village boys
asking for a bundle or two
of the thrashed sheaves to build
the holy fire of Aghi Festival,
and the loner grain getting fire-roasted
while in its bundle, puffed out, with dream and all,
to fall to a roadside walk, unnoticed,
gets crushed under the walking feet?
What if the boys mix the strands of straws,
along with the dreamer, to the mud
that builds the Saraswati idol, and lo (!),
it slips into the Devi’s sacred mud-flesh;
it takes the dip with the immersed idol;
the mud washed off, the loner coasts
to the pond’s edge with marigolds
and debris to lie forlorn in the wet mud,
to germinate, grow and die alone,
an unknown paddy grain’s vision,
and its grand plan snuffed out young?
Hurrah (!) for you, the daring little dreamer!
(The poem was published in 1997, in the poet’s first book ‘AAMA GHARA’)
Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)
Intimate Grief
Dr. Gourahari Das
(Translated by Dr Manoranjan Mishra)
Physical deficiencies can be provided for easily, but elemental deficiencies can perhaps never ever be supplied. However, a clever man never accepts the existence of elemental deficiencies, although he gives prominence to physical deficiencies.
Minu, unlike other days, didn’t come to the open today. Throughout the day, she had been looking at the road through the upper-storey window. At times, she would focus her gaze on the house opposite hers. Nobody lived there now; the people who had occupied it, had left in the morning.
The song of a koel came floating by from a nearby mango tree. Such a small black bird; how intoxicating and enticing her song was! Had it been some other day, Minu would have jumped, even without fully making out the meaning of the song. But today, she wasn’t interested in anything. What had happened to her?
Minu shifted to this house of the colony about six months ago. For the last six months, in this unfamiliar colony, Kunmun was the only friend. While shifting a house, elderly people worry about the rent of the house, water and electricity facilities, and the distance of the new place from the office and the bus-stand. But they hardly care for the needs of small people like Minu. Elderly people hardly find any time to find out if there is a playground for children or if the child would find friends to play with.
Minu was fortunate because she found Kunmun as soon as she reached here. Kunmun’s father didn’t have a big job; he didn’t own a vehicle. Let him not have one; why should Minu care! They had grown close over the last six months. When the clock struck four, Minu would call Kunmun from the upper floor window; Kunmun would yell from the other side. Both of them would play together till evening, after which they would return to each other’s homes.
Kunmun would not come back; this morning her father took her away in a rickshaw. The household articles were carried in a matador. Kunmun was sitting in the middle, with her parents sitting on either side of her. When Kunmun waved her hand to say bye-bye, nobody knew what happened; Minu suddenly rushed inside. Minu was extremely emotional.
Father came to Minu’s study. He asked, “Why have you grown so absentminded these days? In the morning you forgot to carry your water bottle to school; while returning from there, you forgot your eraser and pencil. You are only interested in games and sports; you aren’t at all interested in studies.”
Minu could hear nothing. She asked, “Papa, do you know Kunmun’s new address?”
Father was startled. Mohapatrababu lived here for six months; he had invited Minu’s father many times to come to his home. But, he intentionally avoided him as he lay several steps down the social ladder. This was exactly why he had not cared to collect his new address.
Minu said she had got two toffees for Kunmun. “Will you please take me to her house? I don’t have any friends here. Kunmun was saying they had many small children at the new place. With whom will I play here?”
Father lifted the child to his lap. He pressed the child’s palms, which were as soft as flowers, on his bearded cheeks. For the first time in his life, he was feeling miserable for his inability to fulfill the child’s demand. What could cause more grief to a child like Minu than losing her friend?
After many years, the memory of a grief he had experienced in his childhood got reflected in the grief of Minu. Most children in the city faced the same problem. Their wishes and freedom were bitterly squeezed. If a sapling is uprooted again and again while it spreads its roots, it can call no soil its own. Similarly, a child loses all his friends and a sense of belonging to the area if his dwelling is frequently shifted. This type of shock sucks away the child’s emotions and sensitivity, rendering him emotionless. In this respect, the children living in the villages have more freedom. There is a dearth of colourful dresses no doubt, but there exists a close circle of friends. Those friends, those gohiris and jamun trees, the temples and mathas always give company. They hold the child’s hands and help him move past his childhood.
To get rid of Minu’s trouble, her father was trying to listen to the song of the koel, but the koel had disappeared. Father looked once at the mango tree and once at the deserted house and appeared forlorn. While pulling Minu towards his lap, he was found saying, “Man’s life is beset with problems; you will understand these only when you grow up.”
Manoranjan Mishra (PhD) works as an Assistant Professor in the Department of English, Government Autonomous College, Angul, Odisha. He has more than eighteen years of teaching experience. His hobbies include translating short stories from Odia to English and vice-versa. Best Stories of Chandrasekhar Dasburma is his first published translated text. Some of his translated stories and research articles have been published in Galaxy, The Creative Launcher, The Criterion, Langlit, Ashvmegh, Muse India and Sahayogi.
TREES
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England, a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London. Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya welcomes readers' feedback on his article at ajayaup@aol.com
FORGOTTEN PATHS
Sreekumar K
Some, like dressed chicken,
Have no heads or tails
Some, like burnt documents,
Have no margins
Some, like broken affairs,
Are left half way and lost
Some reach somewhere
Not knowing where they are from
Like the spot on arrow
Of a stealthy conqueror
Inside my all reflecting bald head
Among my grey cells too
There must be lost nerves
Just like them
Not sure of where
They had come from
Or what they were
Supposed to connect with.
Straining my thoughts
Scratching my head
Knitting my eyebrows
Looking at a distance
Nothing helps
An excited heart
Pumping bubbling blood
Down ticklish capillaries
Would have found out.
Faded pictures
A broken memento
Notes on the margins
Of old calendars
Books waiting to be returned
With creases on the corners
Of many many pages
Where one had left the plot
And smiled with closed eyes
Thinking of life’s offerings
Would have helped.
Furniture too could have helped
Or, where one sat in the garden
The shades of trees, thorny bushes
Which have long since disappeared
A dried up well, a dead pet cat
Festivals celebrated no more
Vehicles stripped and melted
To be made into chairs and railings
Notebooks wet with humidity
Given over to hawkers
All would have given some clue
Of who you were under a cloudless sky
At noon, one sultry scorching summer
And what I had been to you all along
TRANSFER
Sreekumar K
Two days had passed after Ravichandran shifted to his new place. Still he could not come to terms with the change. Everything had been downloaded and properly arranged by the workers brought by Sujith, his assistant who also had got transferred here from the previous office at Munnar.
The fridge and the washing machine could not be in separate rooms for lack of space. Otherwise, he had to move the dining table out of the kitchen into the main hall. He had decided to eat in the kitchen as it would save a lot of time.
The quarters at Munnar was even more crammed than this. But there, it had been too cold and the less the air moved in and out, the better. The things he had brought even now had the chill of Munnar about them, especially the wooden furniture. Even from his skin, the goosebumps had not vanished yet and at times he felt the chill again without it actually being there. Memories die hard.
Life at Munnar was intolerable. He was indeed miserable since his company had a different kind of work there. It took over the work of making the ownership documentations and clearing the red tape around them. Since the work was registered as an NGO mission, there was a kind of insulation and an ensuing lack of transparency. Thus, behind the curtains, it was basically land grabbing and real estate. He had to work with lawyers, engineers and surveyors there. He could never come to terms with what was going on there and felt much alienated. His colleagues made millions every year.
He often wondered what could be making them tick. Is it possible that their conscience had died long back in that severe cold there?
Both the land and the people there used to make him him ill at ease. Some of those who had work for him did not bother to do anything. He had tried to entice them into work but it was of no use.
His state of mind had affected his health. Either headache of high fever or some other stuff. Coming here, he felt so happy that those troubles had not accompanied him here.
There were people who were working for long at Munnar. They were all scared of getting a transfer. They were all in the money making business there.
He had worked in several places under the company, doing a wide variety of jobs. It hadn’t been easy or gratifying. But the days at Munnar were a class apart. Several times he had thought of resigning. Once Kristhudas said to him, “Sir, probably this is your karma. You may get a transfer when you least expect it.”
The company didn’t have the provision to make transfer requests on one’s own. They moved the employees here and there as they pleased, sometimes for a month or two, sometimes till one retired. Since it was not usual for people to get transfers, no one was really bothered about it. People worked their all their life and if they retired, they were not to be seen again. They simple disappeared as if they had never existed.
The journey from Munnar to Ratnagudi took several days and that too, by bus. It was so troublesome that he only thought of getting off the bus all through the journey and forgot even to look out. The only relief was a co-passenger who shared his seat. At times when he looked out he saw trees so old that he was sure they would have seen thousands of generations passing by. Trees almost never die. If they did, would they get a higher birth as an animal?
The man looked neat and was dressed very elegantly. He thought he might be an engineer or a bank employee. He was going far beyond Rantnagudi to some place Ravichandran didn’t know. They had had an interesting conversation and Ravichandran was shocked to hear what the man actually did for a living. He was a snake catcher, a man who was living for snakes and willing to die for them. Ravichandran had to suppress a strong desire to see if the man had a forked tongue too. In face when the man laughed out loud, Ravichandran took a good look at his tongue. No, quite normal.
“People build houses where snakes used live and breed and then try to oust them. If they don’t go away, they kill them. All people are basically mad conquerors.”
Hearing that, first Ravichandran laughed out and then a vague memory came to his mind. He tried to ferret it out and took a long time before he became successful.
At Munnar, the company had grabbed the homestead of a person and he resisted. Then he was offered money and land but he didn’t budge. And one night, some people entered his home and beat him to death. Just like one would do to a snake. Just like what this stranger was saying. The world was all cliché ridden. Nothing new. History and life itself repeated endlessly.
“There are three snakes in my bag. If the bus stops in some wooded area, I will leave them there and let them fend for themselves.”
Hearing that, Ravichandran had the shock of my life. He had a bag on his lap and he was clutching hard onto it from the moment he entered the bus.
In the afternoon, the bus stopped near an open land and he walked out with the bag to some bushes nearby. He saw him shake them out of his bag and chase them away into the bushes. He came back and sat with him. Ravichandran felt much relieved but still had a doubt whether he had other snakes in his suitcase or something.
“Got scared? Don’t be scared of snakes. They lead a dangerous life but they know no fear. They fight even the ferrocious mongooses. And most importantly, they hate those who have fear in them and seek them out and bite them.”
How rude! He sounded like he was telling Ravichandran that he was sure to die of a snakebite since he was dead scared of snakes.
He moved himself around in his seat, made himself comfortable and said, “No matter which forest you go into or how far you travel, the only snake that will ever bite you is the one that you carry in your mind.”
Ravichandran stared at him and tried to allow the snakes in his mind slither out through the nine holes in his body. It failed. He shook himself up to fling them away. Nothing happened.
“Fear, the snake which you carry in your mind. Anxiety. That is what everyone dies of.”
“That is true,” Ravichandran added.
“I too have some fears in me, silly ones. I am scared of injections. And now I have to take insulin shots everyday. I close my eyes, grind my teeth and chant Lord Krishna’s names. Teeth grinding helps.”
Ravichandran laughed out loud.
“But I am not scared of snakes and was never bitten by one,” the man said
“Is this a good income?” Ravicandran could not suppress his curiosity.
“O, that is a difficult question to answer, though this is not the first time I was asked this. To be frank, I am able to manage my domestic expenses and give a bit to other people who need it. This dress, that I think you admire, is not mine. When I am invited to rich houses to catch snakes, I ask them if they have a pair of dress to spare. That is how I got this. There is more at home.”
He went on talking for the rest of the journey. It was a great relief. An alienated man. A dying species like most of the sankes he had caught. His goodness and simplicity have also made him an endangered species.
At Ratnagudi, a good office, an assistant and all the necessary equipment were ready. My assistant who got a punishment transfer was making up for all the laziness he had shown earlier. They would have scared the shit out of him. He behaved very differently after coming here.
It was a salubrious climate. Adequately warm days and comfortably cold nights. No mosquitoes. The quarters might be near some forest. The only sound was the bird calls which continued late into the night. The internet connectivity was rather weak but the TV worked fine. All sports channels were there.
The company made it clear that he could start any project that wouldn’t ruin the environment in any way. That was not the policy the company had adopted at Munnar. May be, he was wrong. The company had the same policy there too and the people altered it to suit there purpose. Strange!
One Rajappan Sir was assigned to show him around the place. He had come there much earlier and had started some very good projects. The company had placed him rather high. He lived with his wife and two children in his own house at Ratnagudi more towards the side of the hills on the other side of the cultivable plains. He was not planning to go back.
Not a bad decision. This was a nice place. The only problem was one had to live away from relatives and friends. Except for that, the place was totally welcoming and hospitable. He wondered if people needed anything more than what the village offered.
Rajappan sir came in the afternoon. Unlike what Ravichandran had expected, he was a young fellow who looked more like a bachelor than the father of two teenagers.
“When I came here the first time, I went on sleeping for a week without doing a thing. It was like being air-dropped. Only that I was really tired from the journey.”
“Exactly. This place is wonderful. But what a difficult path! I don’t think anyone comes here unless they are forced to. Or they have a change of mind or something. Or, if they lose their mind. I didn’t even look out during the bus ride here. The only relief was a co-passenger. He was very interesting. He was interesting because he kept me tense all through the jouney.”
“Ha ha ha! I think I know whom you are talking about. A snake catcher, right? When I came here for the first time he was there with me too all through the journey, with a bag full of snakes with him. But he was a nice man. He suggested a medicine to cure my dermatitis and it is all gone now. The funniest part is his face was full of dermatitis.”
“O God, it still is.”
We laughed together. Laughing together is like singing together. It makes one connect with others so easily.
Ravichandran dressed quickly and went out with Rajappan sir for a short site tour. As they walked, they saw an extensive horticulture field to one side of their path. People who were engaged in collecting flowers and watering the plants looked up and smiled at Rajappan sir. He seemed a favourite of them.
At the end of the tour, they reached Rajappan sir’s home. The home and the people were all very beautiful.
“There are quite a number of children here who do not go to schools. My wife and the kids taught them just to read and write.”
Rajappan sir also had a small farm of flowers behind his home. There was a strange fragrance everywhere as if it came from their smiles.
“Here the job descriptions are so different. You are free to do anything as long as you take full responsibility for your work. No one is going to feel bad even if you don’t do any work at all. But people who come here tend to work a lot. Mostly, what they always wanted to do all their life but never had the support to take them up.”
“It is going to take some time for me to settle down. This is all strange for me.”
“No, things will be faster than you imagine. They pick up the right people for this site. I am sure you will do well.”
I spotted some tall buildings behind the range of hills near his house. They looked ancient and extensive
“What are those buildings?”
“That is our head quarters, the main offices.”
O, God! How strange! I never thought the company was so old. They have the head office at this remote place. That is even stranger!
“Shall we go there for a visit one of these days?”
“O, no. We don’t have the permission to go there. I too wanted to go, but permission is denied.”
Ravichandran grew more anxious to see it. Who might be working there? How do one get to work there?
Then he thought it was a bad idea. He had reached that far and enough was enough. If he was destined to see it or if there was some way of getting to a position to see it with the quality of his work, he might get to see it. That was good enough. And fair too.
Coming back from Rajappan sir’s house, Ravichandran stopped several times on the way to look back at those buildings. He also made a note in his mind that one of the projects could be a small school for the kids. If the company provided a doctor, it might be possible to start a village clinic too.
The horticulture farms also had endless possibilities. Wider variety of flowers was sure to improve the villager’s income. It will also make the place look more attractive and useful. Leave a mark wherever you go.
On his way, he could see the farmers looking up and waving at him.
He had already become one among them.
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
AND GOD DESCENDS
Dilip Mohapatra
You start sensing
His presence
in the stories that your granny tells you
in the rhythms of the hymns
in the meters of the mantras
in the cadences of the incantations
in your meditative silence
and in the five elements of Nature.
You sing His praises
you seek His intimacy and blessings
you scan all the spaces outside you
confined and constrained
by your perception of time and space
then look within too
searching for Him
while you grow in your spirit
and grow towards Him.
The seeker seeks the sought
And the finite seeks the infinite.
You ascend.
The absolute
the un-evolved
the shapeless
the timeless
the indivisible and
the part actual
part potential
sends down fragments of Himself
to hold your hands
and journey with you
as you move along your lives
and to lead you through
the shadow of death
to the paradise where
you came from
and you reach your destination
the ultimate kaivalya.
The sought seeks the seeker
the infinite seeks the finite.
And God descends.
TEMPLE VISIT
Dilip Mohapatra
We remove our dust laden shoes
and wash our feet under
the ever flowing tap
that can't be turned off
and with the slush and slime within us
we ascend the flight of greasy steps
to enter the temple precincts.
The main temple stands tall
in all its glory
with its freshly uncovered
majestic stone carvings
which were cast in white plaster for ages
to save them from the
marauders' evil designs.
But when would the plaster cast
be taken off
the fractured faith
the busted beliefs
the gluttonous greed
of the temple priests
and servitors
which lie underneath and incognito?
We are swallowed by the collapsible
and serpentine queue
and somehow get squeezed into
the sanctum sanctorum
but before we could have a glimpse
of the deities
or we could bow down
or fold our hands
to say our prayers
we get disgorged and regurgitated
into a gathering of devotees
where pieces of the pennant
that fluttered on the Dadhi Nauti
the crown of the temple
are going under the hammer.
Then we find our way
to the shoe stand outside
with the same slush and slime inside us
intact and untouched
unpurified
unpurged
unsanctified.
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.
BREAK UP, BREAK DOWN, BREAK THROUGH
Ananya Priyadarshini
'Machhi... come na machhi...", Little Nidhi was calling me. Only a month ago, she had begun calling me 'machhi' (maansi/aunty). I had broken into happy tears when I heard her call me for the first time. I had swept her off the bed and kept carrying her in my arms till they hurt. And today, her calls were annoying me. I wanted to hate myself for getting annoyed at this little angel but, couldn't do much about it.
"Machhi... Machhiiiiii....", I'd to keep her from making any further noise because my head was already aching. I went to her and sat beside her on the floor. Ever since Nidhi was born to my elder sister, she was more of my child than her mom's. My elder sister had gone through a cesarean section to bring her into this world. She had her surgical wounds to carry. Hence, it was me who carried Nidhi. In fact, it was me who'd named her. Nidhi, the most priced possession. Jijaji, my brother-in-law loved the concept.
My sister's In-laws live in the same city as us and I visit her place everyday (without any exception) to see Nidhi. Her parents-in-law love me and my visits. So, I'm half member of their family. No, I was. Since last two weeks, I'd not been anywhere. I'd locked myself in my room.
"Machhi dekho ye yahaan lag kyun nahi laha?" ("Aunty look why is this not perfectly sitting here?"), Nidhi just didn't know how to leave me alone. She was holding a fraction of the jigsaw puzzle and was unable to fix it at the right position. "Who gives a 2 YO a jigsaw puzzle to play with!", I wondered but little wise Nidhi had already fixed a fifth of the total picture. I took the piece from her hand and started looking for slots to fix it in. But, it was so different. It didn't seem to be the part of the same puzzle. I thought it's a misfit.
"Nidhi, dear I think it's not a part of this puzzle....", I told as I looked up at Nidhi. She had engaged herself in picking up new pieces and closely examining them. Then, she fixed in two more pieces right before me and looked at me with an innocent hope of appreciation! I was taken aback by this move of hers. She had forgotten about what was in my hand and was busy doing all that she could with the left over pieces.
Two weeks ago, my fiance called off our engagement because he thought I wasn't like every other girl, that I was a misfit. I didn't exactly love him but had imagined a blueprint of our future, wherein we were together. I couldn't dress, talk, walk like every other girl. I didn't love to party or shop, I loved to be the rider instead of being a pillion and hugging the rider from behind, I didn't visit salons often to dye my scalp hair or get rid of body hair. He wanted a 'normal' girl, and not me. So, he left me calling me 'different', instead of abnormal.
I wasn't broken but felt more of challenged and insulted. My family was kind of okay with it because they didn't want me to see this ugly drama after marriage. They were relieved that I was saved from a getting hitched with a terrible man. They didn't create much fuss about it either. What hurt them was seeing me sad, troubled and weak.
Ever since, I had cut myself off from everything and everyone. I didn't go to meet Nidhi on my way back home from office. I hadn't been to the regular weekend sleepovers since two Saturdays and my friends were really worried. I'd not brewed evening tea for myself, let alone maa and baba. I had excused myself when my colleagues made the plan to go out for pizza during lunch hour. They'd never called me a misfit or someone who doesn't deserve to be their sister, friend, daughter or colleague.
But I chose to unsee their love for me and get myself occupied with what I could do so I could become like 'every other' girl. I'd given serious thoughts about giving a makeover to my wardrobe, getting a new haircut or tattoo, maybe go watch a rom-com too! And all thanks to Nidhi who told me why this would have been such a bad idea!
Nidhi had already fixed the entire puzzle and was talking turns to look at me and the piece in my hand. I looked at her, the incomplete jigsaw puzzle that was just one slot away from being complete, the slot that could be filled with, and only with the piece that I was holding. That piece wasn't a misfit. I couldn't appreciate its perfection because I lacked the vision to look at the whole picture at once. Nidhi was getting restless now. I placed the piece and winked at her. She burst into a chuckle and so did I.
My phone rang. It was Nilima. "Iss baar aa rahi hai na? Ya gum me dub ke mar hi gayi?" ("You coming for this sleepover, ain't you? Or did you just sink in your sorrows and die?"), she queried half expecting a 'yes'.
"Arre doob ke Marne ke lie aapki nasheeli aankhein Hain na! Gum me doobe Mera dushman! Zaroor aaungi."
("I've your beautiful eyes to sink in and die. Let my enemy drown in sorrows. I'll be there!")
I was laughing hysterically, after two long weeks!
Mom and Didi, who'd intentionally left Nidhi at my care and gone to Temple had already arrived and were looking at the laughing 'me' like a wish which they'd asked for at Temple that just got fulfilled.
"Maa, Dee, sit I'll brew some tea!", I flew into kitchen.
Looking at the tea leaves boiling and adding colors to the hot water I thought, we're all like jigsaw puzzles. We're all pieces- a daughter, a sister, a friend, a mother, a wife and so on (also the make counterparts!). We just need the right people to identify them and place at the right slots to help complete us. But, we're all complete in ourselves- broken, yet complete. We only needed the authenticated pieces of ourselves to complete us. No piece is ever a misfit. And the worst we can do is to change at the cost of our genuineness. And I wasn't going to change anymore!
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.
REFLECTIONS OF A TORTURED SOUL
Parvathy Salil
Scares me, this world!
A glassy globe that mirrors wrath
Wreathed in pride, envy and greed.
Butchered in war
Lies flesh; fresh, red
Slain by swords
For might and gold.
I see violence
Masked as Cupid –
Pouring love to poison,
Procreating to conquer.
I see the glutton
In excess bathed,
Munching more
Relishing none.
I see starved skulls dream
a drop of water- fresh,
A loaf of bread,
and pray for breath.
I see bosoms squeezed,
Gouged out eyes,
Bruised necks
And bitten thighs.
“Horrendous!” I moan,
And gaze up at heaven.
I see cloud clusters
Softly slide and pass
Swallowed by smog
Then minced afar.
Drained of ease
I close my eyes
And muse!
“Peace!” I chant...
Cursed reflections of virtues,
Nightmares of the prophets,
Make them wane with magic –
The sacred wand of love,
Acceptance and respect...
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.
MAKE ME SOMETHING, FROM WHAT I AM
Alhassan Ibrahim B.
Starting with your
adorable alphabets
Will make it a new
change and glow,
Having them, will
make me feel brighter
than snow,
You're measured with
tons of gold,
But you
weighed it by far,
I've being thinking
on what I can compare
you with, but still no
mind can guess
My numerous
thinking almost
got me go
insane, like I have lost
all my gains. I stopped
and was about to finally
give up. I rethink,
and thought of my
words and heart,
being the heaviest
among of all things
I gave out my words,
and my heart to be
tested, but only to
find out that you
were equal on the
scale.
I want you to
make me something
from what I am.
I'm like an empty tin
of milk, Refill it with
yourself, and I'll become
that thing which I wanted
to become,and I'll be
positively glowing
with pride, like I
have been given the
best of rides
Because I'm incomplete
without you been filled.
Just make
me something from
what I am.
SLAVE OF MEN
Alhassan Ibrahim B.
Was breed in a weak shelter,
Was raised like a pigeon
With no suspicion
I became ripe, right from
grade one to three, four or more,
for I have undergone stress,
under duress
Branches are dry,
the leaves fell, roots slacken,
So I was forsaken, left with
my papers,
seeking for livelihood in some
skyscrapers
While seeking for feed
in the jungles,
was later called,
and met with an old lion
faced man, as old as
my grandfather to exchanged
words, face to face
I stood like a tree behind
a lake, waiting for the storm
to break, casted his gaze on me,
staring at my fleshy curves from
head to toe, shaking his hairy head
like a lizard resting on a wall
There he murmured
"can you dance with me on
a night contest this week"?
I know I must not shake
my head side by side,
i always must raised the
head up and down,
since my tears aren't seen,
and my cries aren't heard.
I have become
an object of desire and lust
in the sight of all, for I have seen
the devils and the hell for years
FAKE LOVE
Alhassan Ibrahim B.
My love from
the start, was Like
that of titanic love Oh! no!,
there's another deadlier
from the side of Romeo
and Juliet but mine was
stronger than the giant
ice wall of the
game of thrones, the love
Runs deep as an ocean
One day, during a
dusty wind in the
garden, where love is
played and for our
eyes were
affected
for i came close,
to blew out
the dust out of her
blue eyes. For my turn,
she held my head
close to hers as if i
was going to be kissed
like i was never been
kissed when i was
born to see the light.
there she blew mine,
with her mouth filled
with pepper telling
me its over, the game ain't
Gonna be played no more
She said to me
"Your garden is not
well beautified with
green grasses
but of the dead"
I felt heart broken,
and my soul misbehaving
as if it was drunk, for
she's leaving me for
another greener garden
Am taking all the
blames already,
All the fears
All the pains
All the sufferings
All and all
She never looked
back, all i said was
"thank you for
breaking the long
tied rope,
At last, you said
"there is no hope".
As you played me,
so shall love play you.
Alhassan Ibrahim Babangida has B.A in English Language from one of the Universities in Nigeria. He is a teacher who is also a poet and a writer.
WAHALA IN ZAMFARA
Ibraheem Anas Sakaba
I hear there are fights
But where are the Knights?
To ride in before night
And make things right
For months I sleep,
With eyes half shut
For I await a visitor;
I await death.
Just as I wept endlessly for Plateau
I weep profusely for Zamfara too
Not because I have tears to shed
But that the killings should just end
For day and night we weep
Too afraid to sleep
Would we have lost our brothers
If we had good leaders?
Ibraheem Anas Sakaba is a young Nigerian poet and writer with the pen name Black. He hails from the North-western part of Nigeria (Kebbi State). He earned his Bachelor of Art degree in English Language in 2017. He has written many poems, which are on crises around Africa and political issues.
ALONE in Tears
Sruthy. S .Menon
Life is pulling me down,
every time I try to climb up the stairs,
I fall down again and again.
There is none to pick me up,
hold me in their arms,
and tell me that "I won't fall again "
but...
It's just me,
"Alone" in this journey.
Fighting back the tears,
holding it for so long ...
And I realised that I have to fight again till the end,
telling myself that am strong,
life can't beat me down ,
I will be brave,
but ...sometimes,
I break down, in the silent nights
"Alone" in Tears.
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 .
ON LOVE
Afnan Abdullah
The text message flashed on the silver metal backed Asus.
My eyes kept fixed on the screen.
My heart eased out a little.
My breathing gradually deepened and my palms embraced my face.
Those beautiful couplets of Faiz, Ahmed Faraz, Ghalib and other poets, that I associated with her. All those cheesy naive poetry that I had in my mind, were solely and solely written for the woman with whom I can maybe never have a family with.
I leaned my head against the room 303 wall and I recalled the conversation I had with my father, weeks ago:
"Assalamualaikum abbu!"
I received the call after declining it twice.
"Walaikumassalam beta! Kahan Hain aap doctor sahab?"
(Where are you, doctor sahab?)
I smiled.
"Padh rahe the beta?"
(Were you studying?)
"Jee" (Yeah). I lied.
"Padho achchhe see beta." (Keep it up son) He gave me that smile someone gives you when they see right through your lie and they love you enough to not embarass you.
"Jee abbu, chal rahi hai padhai." (Yes father, I'm trying)
The phone buzzed and a message appeared on the screen.
"Kahan Hain aap, habibi?"
(Where are you, my beloved?)
I felt this rush of oxytocin that I always felt whenever I saw her.
I minimized the video call, still keeping up the conversation with abbu, and replied to the text.
"In your heart, habibti. Video calling abbu. I'll text you in a while, love."
I imagined her receiving the text and smiling as I continued talking to abbu.
So, he stopped and kept looking at me and smiling. I could hear ammi from behind, praying.
"Aur Sab theek hai na beta?"
(So everything's fine?)
"Jee abbu, alhamdulillah."
(Sure, father. All praise to the God).
"Chaaron taraf kanten Hain beta. Aur Jo phool dikh Raha hai na wo bhi asal me kanta hai. Apni hifazat Karo beta."
(There are thorns all around you son. And what appears like a flower to you may actually turn out to be a thorn. Protect yourself son.)
He paused and smiled. His white beard, white kurta and thin hair on his head only made him look wiser and every word he was saying through his mouth was striking my heart and making me ponder.
"Main Kam bolunga, tum samjho zaada."
(I'll say less, you ponder more)
He kept smiling the whole time. It was as if he knew exactly what lies ahead of me. Allah joins the hearts of people who love us unconditionally.
"Jee..."
I smiled back and tried to hide the effect his words were having on me.
The conversation continued for another few minutes.
Later that evening, I found her in my arms.
Ah that was perfect!
Me leaning against the wall and she leaning on my chest with my arms enveloping her in my embrace. The sunset reflected in her hair and I saw glimpse of heaven in her hazel eyes.
"I'm that flower." She said that with a thoughtful face.
"Shh" I placed my finger on her lips.
"You are never a thorn for me, azeeza." I smiled.
Azeeza (beloved), That's what I called her. A word very new to her and her eyes got filled up with love everytime I'd call her that.
She blushed.
"No afnan, you know that. I may never be completely yours. We're of two different faiths. I know that sucks because I'm in love with you. But we really don't have a future together.."
She kept saying that and deep inside I knew what she was saying was nothing but truth. Plain truth. Which scared me a little.
For a brain that deeply immersed in love... logic, rationale and common sense are the least prioritised qualities. What you feel, what you think in that phase is anything but rational. Nowhere close to reality. Yet you choose to believe, because of the immense faith you have in your love.
And no doubt, that was love.
In it's purest form.
"I'll pray for us. Dua can change destinies." I gave a hopeful smile and noticed she was having moist eyes.
I leaned over and placed my lips on her eyelids, carefully so as to not let even a drop of tear trickle out of her eyes.
And I did pray. Five times a day. After every prayer I asked God for forgiveness for her sins, for her guidance and for her being in my life for eternity. I'd smile like a child after having received a toy he wanted badly, after every prayer. Knowing fully well that these prayers will be answered by God in the best possible ways.
What I forgot in those moments, was how easily I was giving my whole love to someone, with whom I was busy building castles in the air. How selflessly I was beginning to feel for that one person, out of 7 billion of them. That one person may not be with me forever. But that thought never scared me because I knew my love will emerge victorious.
The fact that she's not my wife yet, and all the memories of us spending time alone, are not going to please God never struck my mind. Because every time the thought of being pushed to the wrong way came to me, I'd rationalize it by telling myself, one day she'll be my wife and I love her and her alone, solely. Maybe God will grant her to me by seeing how loyal I'm to her.
The phone buzzed again. And like a splash of cold water brought me back to life from the whirlpool of memories.
I took a deep breath and ran my fingers through my hair.
Yes. This was it.
The whole of reason why falling too deep was a mistake. Why it is a sin. Exactly why God instructed us to protect our hearts from being attached to things that may not last. The wordly desires. The wordly emotions. And the people.
And in the end, what does last, is the mercy of God. His favours. And I never found myself lost everytime I followed Him.
I fell down into prostration and prayed for my heart and hers. To be able to heal after what we did to it.
My heart's filled with doubt and uncertainty, yet a little part of my soul has faith in God's plan.
I never blame her for walking away. Because she did no wrong. Nothing at all. She's innocent. I love her enough to let her walk away. That's how I know my love for her is pure.
But maybe I'd never be able to pray for her like I once did, simply because I no longer have that right over her.
Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general.
THE GIFT OF A BOND
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
One day as I was going up in the lift I came across a couple. They were new in our apartment complex. As usual I greeted them with the warmth of knowing them since ages. The beautiful lady was Binodini. Slowly time passed. In a function held in our Apartment complex her husband was chosen the luckiest one. I was happy for them.
Here my story changes its angle. BeingOôl acquainted, they addressed me 'bhauja' (Bhabhi) with love and respect. One day as I knocked on their door, I unkowningly entered into their world of despair. Hugging me tightly she burst out crying, 'Bhauja, I am suffering from PCOD. I will never conceive'. Being a woman I could feel her pain. Without a second thought I said 'Nothing is impossible my dear'.
Suddenly life took a different route. I took her to my gynaecologist. Miracles kept happening. All tests of fertility and different possibilities were tried. Blessings came in the form of a baby in her womb. She addressed me as her Good Luck. In the unfathomable depth of faith I believed 'Nothing is impossible '.
Life has its own taste with a tinge of pain in it. Suddenly she contracted diabetes during her pregnancy. She had to bear the pain of insulin shots. Her trust in me had grown so immense that she trusted only me to give her insulin shots. Everything was under control. Then the much awaited day came..the baby was to arrive. I was happier than ever. Her arrival was announced to me when I was at home. I rushed to the hospital to catch a glimpse of the new bond which had been gifted to me by the Almighty.
Everyday attending on her was my pleasure. I used to forget my hunger and rushed to the hospital to see those lovely eyes peering at me as if she knew me from ages. My arms comforted 'Anshi'.
There came another turn in this bond. Suddenly after two months we observed her immobility of lower limbs. Trying all luck her parents and grandparents ran from one doctor to another. On the day MRI was to be conducted I was there standing next to her along with her mother. I put up a composed face, but my heart shattered when the technician whispered her ailment to me. Still I thought 'Nothing is impossible '.
She had neurofibrosis. The various jargons of the doctors shattered her family. I was very much a part of it. My kids knelt before God and prayed for her well being. Then my husband's words gave me much more strength, 'She is alright '. It was as if God had spoken to comfort me. She had a surgery and these days she is undergoing Chemotherapy.
'Nothing is impossible'. Such a small kid, hardly six months old, exposed to such unbearable pain! Wow! We need to learn from her the strength to battle adversities. She is a blessing gifted to us by Gos the Almighty.
It's a miracle when despite all the pain, she showers her precious smiles on me.
She is the symbol of a new, unbreakable bond!
(A request: Kindly pray for the well being of Anshi)
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her family
Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
THE RETURN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
How long ago
Did I step onto the green grassy fields
To feel the touch of the soft earth on my bare feet?
When was it
I rushed out of home
At the first sign of rain
To soak in the gushing water
Coming down in a steady stream,
And to suck in the wet smell of the sky
From an unsuspecting, startled air!
Was it my shadow
That held my hand
When I walked in a trance
Looking for the rhythm of life?
Now I have returned
From an unfulfilled charter
Of endless search
That led me nowhere
And brought me back to my humble abode.
Eager to step out again,
And again,
To touch the earth, feel the rain,
And savour the sweet smell of life
Dripping from a pure, pristine air.
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.
Critic's Corner
A BRIEF WALK AMONG THE POEMS OF ELEVENTH ISSUE OF LV
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Let me start with the eminent poet Haraprasad Das who walks Odia literary pastures as a colossus with his unique style and nuances. He writes simultaneously in rural and urban idiom, having the flavour of Odisha but never away from the pan-universal fabric, and he writes with a timelessness. In Atmadaana (Self-immolation), he touches the extended aspects of sacrifices, it could be in India or any place in the world, today or in the past or future, it could be that of mythical Shravan Kumar, or Historical Jesus, even our own home-spun Mahatma. One keeps giving away, without keeping a track record, or bothering for the beneficiary’s thanks, or quid-pro-quo, often a noose being the reward, the only honourable exit from the thankless blind lane. Even at times, the ultimate and utmost sacrifices go down the drain, unknown and unsung, fruitless. It is a sizeable poem but its essence is “…putting sense into bland prayers,/ tilling the fallow land,/ and sowing seeds of hope”, even if “The ultimate oblation/ having been poured/…the resplendent flames/are yet to rise…..” And this waiting for the flames to rise from the bed of smouldering coal may go on endlessly. The poem is replete with a sadness with touches of irony. In the second poem Aakrosh (The Anger) the poet is more subtle. He explores in metaphors a universal truth, the selfish interpersonal bonds in a family, or among friends and relatives. Everything is a ‘give and take’ proposition: give more, take little or nothing, like “…a deceitful Peepal/ that cracks his walls/ but pretends to be a well-wisher/ holding the crumbling walls together”. The poet persona is to survive this lifelong onslaught and can only resent but can’t bear a grudge forever, “…he may end his protest,/ ……./ but he may sit down and picket/ again against another wrong.” A reformer’s life is a restless and relentless struggle, one follows the other. The poem is overloaded with satire, a critical voice that castigates the hollow intention of soothsayers. The two poem are tied with one thread, though they reflect in different mirrors of experiences and use different motifs, the thread called ‘sacrifice and selfless acceptance without harbouring a grudge, or waiting for a return or a fruition’, the mantra of life.
Poetic deliberations in Geetha Nairs’s poem ‘Charmer’ sways like a hooded snake to a pied piper’s swing. The control appears, informally saying, to flip-flop between the controller and the controlled. She imagistically weaves her magic of words around interpersonal relationship; and the reversal of the control from one to the other, and the undercurrent struggle to snatch the upper hand. The catcher/charmer has the first upper hand… “Caught firmly by the neck,/…..// So I swayed to your tune/”, then the narrative in relationship alters.. “Such courtesy, such charm!” to exhibit the charmer’s spell dwindling on the snake and he resorting to assuaging tactics of sweetness, that the snake diplomatically allows to her charmer as his honourable exit for ego satifaction. The snake learns tactical moves, “I learnt how much to dance/ When not to.”. Obviously the control has slipped to the snake from the charmer. The poet persona, a snake, charmingly yet cleverly indicates the charmer’s universal nature of being a compulsive abuser of his charm, an all-time disloyal partner to his own snake, and liable to shift his loyalty to intruder reptiles; and those temporary paramours are boosters to his ego.... “To you, all snakes are beautiful,/ Your pride, your composite trophy.” Though here her tone falters to border lament but acceptance appears to have come gradually with maturity and passage of time…. “I no longer sway to your tune/ Your piped music vibrates in me”. This indicates final surrender of the snake to the stereotype relationship after the flip-flopping informal mood of an early period of itch or besotted state in any intimate relationship. But every relationship ends in a fatigue… it could be a muted riveting around the unexciting beloved as a habit, or an indifference after too much familiarity…So, the snake persona sings, “I rest. I curl. I bask.” “I bask.” shows even this indifference is a fond devil giving some sort of joy. This final repose is either the ultimate reward or a curse in a relationship that has outlived its robust years, the dichotomy in a mechanical continuation of a bond. But in a relationship, a resigned equilibrium or a habitual co-existence like a compatibility amid incompatibilities may not be universal. There can be a complete split of interest and the glue that binds, leading to the absolute freedom like in a divorce in human relationship, or a partner taking refuse in creative art or some other equally diverting serious preoccupation. This perhaps is hinted in Nair’s last three lines.. “In my basket of words/ I am free./ You are history.” The rest of the ‘Charmer’s arresting mystery is left to readers’ own interpretation. I again say the ‘Charmer’ is a charmer.
Poet Ajaya Upadhyaya has contributed two poems. In ‘Spirit’ he effectively shows that the human spirit of resilience is ultimate and indefatigable. He uses the fallen dry leaves as his moving metaphor and sings, “…..shriveled…..but vigour undiminished. Rustle to keep company with the wind and crunch under the boots…… My colour may have faded but not my spirit!” He juxtaposes the little poem by the picture of an old woman, looking ancient, shrunken, but wearing lovely colourful beads, an expression of challenge against the inexorable march of her years. She is herself a poem in picture, an apt expressive logo, a vignette of an undefeated persona. Ajaya Upadhaya’s other poem ‘World Health’ is a narrative of the poor world health system’s overall state of affair and is written with a direct hard hitting critical pen like in Naxal poetry, plain and elaborate; though the tide turns in the last three stanzas where the poet goes into a philosophical stance, a sense of resignation.
In his poem ‘Longing’, poet Prasanna Kumar Dash swings his mood from sensual to philosophical, and also at another layer from emotional to detachment. He sings, “The distance draws us near/ Whereas the proximity distances us farther..”, (the poet should have avoided the word ‘whereas’ to make the craft stronger in poetic idiom), and he dwells on such truths of life with a swaying between emotions ‘impossibility/hope’ and ‘longing that gives joy/unfulfilled longing that ends in pain; etc. It appears the poet persona cannot choose between the beloved’s presence and absence. He loves to have the beloved by him, he also wants the beloved away so that he may revel in longing for her, two confronting emotions that have baffled lovers over the ages. The poem is a riddle of subtle love, that has echoes of earlier days’ Mushaira tradition of Urdu poetry on the theme of Shama-Parwana, as well as the sound of footfall of bhakti poetry where a devotee was head over heels in love with the divine persona, unachievable but endearing, say, the infatuation of Meera of Mewar for the Blue Lord. This tradition continues to date guised in their modern avatars in such poems. Reference to Greek philosopher Plato, however, in my personal opinion as a reader, does not bring the desired effect but rather dampens the poem’s platonic romance when the poet leads us expressly in the concluding lines, “Oh my God,/ let my longing remain pure…”
Bichitra Kumar Behura writes his ‘Life is a Song’ with a quiet and low texture, and that way, his reference to life with the allusion of a river from birth to its fulfilling end in joining the sea, works well. The river like a youthful spirit at its birth jumps over rocks, sings with birds, smiles with wild flowers, and ripples with the wind. It flows without a care in the world as children do in their playful days. Like a human a river passes into a phase of duties and responsibilities (perhaps poet alludes at ‘irrigation, supplying drinking water, and rendering other uses for a river) that turn it into a sober quiet persona, at times finding peace in hiding (alluding possibly to the drying during a drought when its water goes underground). Rains always bring smiles. The river gets filled up and flows into the sea unabated and finds its fulfillment in losing identity, water merging with the vast body of water, like love requited in a reciprocating loving arms of the beloved. So much for a river poem, a river sutra (!), it reminds me of Siddharth, a novel by the reputed writer Herman Hesse, its simple lyrical style, and the river as the spiritual teacher and the protagonist to a self-realized man Siddhartha, a contemporary of the other Siddhartha, Gautama Buddha, the enlightened one.
Dilip Mahapatra, a well-known English poet, has two exquisite poems: well scripted, metaphoric, and at two levels - in ‘Facelift’ the effervescent persona longing for a facelift walks the road to decadence, mummifying his songs that bubbled up in heart’s atrium earlier; but in poem ‘Cat-paw’ the quiet subtle sea that urges a sailor (perhaps retired) to weigh anchor and explore new seas and distant shores, so a decadent life looking forward to excitement, discovery, and action. In ‘Facelift’ Dilip Mahapatra starts with the facelift of his fading frescos and murals with coats of paint; passes on to paint rainbow by dipping his brush into a palette of dreams and uses the leftover black and white areas of life as his canvass to put colours to them. Cheekily he sings “Luckily it is moulting time/ for my heart again” and puts together the flotsam and jetsam of life’s flow to conjure up new collages for his facelift. Lastly perhaps the efforts are not very rewarding, even the sweet bird cry does not leaven up his sagging spirit to equal his intent. In a brooding conclusion, he sings the sad lines… “to mummify my poems/ and mount them alternatively with/ my romantic escapades”. His ‘Cat-paw’ cat-paws quietly, as an apparently laidback sailor reposes by a quite sea. His sea is calm and the bay is tranquil even in full tide; moon is silent and stars don’t blink that he attributes to their habit (an obvious poetic mischief of a technique called transferred epithet). The sailor, however, recalls the gales from his past that regaled his past, and collects himself to get ready again to sail the deep seas. A poem of hope against despair and circumstantial hurdles for the spirit, and it preaches a faith in the revival and resurrection; opposite to ‘Facelift’ that ends up mountings poems with a taxidermist’s help as the only honourable hope for a hopeless state. Two poetic dishes cooked for an elaborate cerebral feast.
In her poem ‘Alive’, Sruthy S. Menon writes a sort and sweet note on the recent flood disaster in Kerala (she annotates so, otherwise, the poem has a universal reflection on any calamitous situation). Yes… “After all it was a dream”…. what she means a bad dream, and once it has passed, you continue living…. “You are alive and still breathing” is all that matters. The way she nuances her short observations, it has an appeal of simplicity and resilience, a will to let go and march ahead, seeds of hope.
‘Summer Hill Devadars’ of the well-known poet Vihang Naik from Gujarat is a muted yet eloquent showpiece. He practices in a truncated style that suits his narratives. The tall deodars stand as mute witnesses by the hills that also don’t speak. The footsteps of an intimate enemy and the echo of a dead memory are sort of encrusted along the silent paths going uphill along steps cut into the rock-face; they all are speechless too. Also like memory, the tragic stories from the past congeal into a resounding silence, crushed under the weight of a mountain of pain. These reminiscences haunt him like ghosts when the poet perhaps meanders along the streets of Shimla, the former official summer retreat of British viceroys, so replete with colonial memory. The past comes as muted avalanches of pain of a colonial past, though beautiful in its tall deodars, blue majestic hills, winding steps like a romance in hills, the white fog. The poem speaks of a sad and subdued beauty loaded with the weight of the memories of our colonial subjugation that stands and broods all around like silent witnesses weighing heavy on conscience.
‘The Sin-days’ Chimera’ by poet Mrutyunjay Sarangi sings a universal truth – life of Karma is a cycle – we may undergo penance and self-imposed purgatory, but the catharsis is never complete. We are revisited by our guilt, our past. The cycle of atonement and haunting nightmares go round and round weaving a fabric of balance that keeps a man/woman aware of the correct path ahead.
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