Literary Vibes - Edition XIV
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Fourteenth Edition of LiteraryVibes.
We at PositiveVibes pray to God to save and protect the people of Odisha, Andhra Pradesh, Tamilnadu, West Bengal and Bangladesh from the ravages of the Cyclone. Our heartfelt sympathies go out to those who suffer losses in the monumental tragedy. We appeal to our readers to extend a helping hand to their fellow human beings in whatever way possible.
Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
GRANNY’S YOUTHFUL FETISHES
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Snake and Krishna,
granny’s bitter-sweet shackles,
control her Achilles heel;
she fears and adores both.
A snake visits her dreams,
smooth and enchanted, turns ugly,
pushing her into Krishna’s arms,
the blue lord of cunning,
her beau, the vanquisher of Kaliya,
the wicked cobra of Dwapara.
If oppressing nights
thrash in her blood’s vortices,
she rushes to Ananta,
the multi-hooded reptile of piety
on whom Vishnu reposes
and asks for its intercession.
But her dreams blur - the blue lord
and the black serpent tie a single knot
in her pubescent labyrinth
even in her eighties.
She together with me explores
the propriety of demons and angels
with lexicons of Jung and Freud.
I blame her cupids –
the snakes and Krishna.
Her smile,
conspiratorial and toothless,
cautions, “Careful… little man,
this is all only adult-ploy.
We adults enjoy playing foul.”
THE FIRE OF UDWADA
(For Rashid, my Parsee friend)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Old as mankind
with a history of joy and pain,
its tongues dance for both
without a qualm
throwing up belches,
smacking lips.
From ashes it has risen
honing civilizations
out of holocausts.
Its hiss has scared the Devil
to stand back, and its warmth
has driven the chill out of marrows.
Worshipped with fear, and love,
it cleanses, cures, and curses…;
burning eternal,
and undying at Udwada,
it rules the conscience and destiny;
of Parsees, the Zarathustra-flock.
People use it to cook meals, light lamps,
and romance over its candlelight-dinners.
When the fire leaps into their eyes
and its heat to their loins; they unite
in holy whorls
to perpetuate the human race.
(The timeless Parsee Holy Fire burns in an Agiyari at Udwada, Gujarat)
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
ACQUAINTANCE
(PARICHAYA, from ‘Mantrapath’, 1991)
Haraprasad Das
(Translated by : Prabhanjan K. Mishra )
The two neighbours
hardly knew each other,
familiarity had made them calous.
They had become rivals,
competing and disagreeing
all the time, but one day –
they returned home
boarding the same bus
clutching their briefcases,
their weapons.
Alighting,
hugging opposite edges
of the road,
the rivals walked home,
silent shadows
submerged in own worlds.
Unwittingly, a smile
passed in between them,
like the sad smile exchanged
between two pall-bearers
in a funeral.
The smile thawed the ice,
altered perspectives,
did away with prejudices,
defused the ticking bombs
in their briefcases.
By the street corner,
they were talking like childhood friends,
even agreeing -
dead Ashwathama was an elephant.
Blinded by their new ardour
of camaraderie, comparable only
to the relief after a ceasefire treaty
between two warring armies,
they forgot again to check
the true nature of each other.
They may of course get
a better chance later
in a more opportune situation.
But what, if they meet
over a harried cup of tea
in a crowded restaurant
at a casual hour
like seven in the evening….!
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)”
LAND BEYOND MAP
Gourahari Das
(Translated by Dr Manoranjan Mishra)
Raicharan, completely drenched in sweat, was on his way back from Ghanteswar. He had to reach Kaduanasi soon. The sandy footpaths of Ghanteswar sizzled in the Baisakh sun. It was so hot that paddy, if thrown on the ground, would immediately turn into puffed rice. The shade of wayside trees provided some shelter to the pedestrians. Raicharan almost ran on the hot sand, hopping like a crane. From forehead to heels, he was completely covered with sweat. He carried a red towel on his shoulder. When he felt uncomfortable, he would wipe himself with it. He had left Kaduanasi far behind. Mantei ran in the middle. He had to climb into the boat wading through knee-deep mud. The boatman, Pagal Nayak, was truly insane. If he dozed off, after lunch, in the hut on the other bank of the river, the matter would end then and there. Even if the Governor came there, he would not care to respond. He would get up only after having sleeping to his mart’s content. However, one would get respite from unnecessary trouble if the boat was moored to the bank on this side.
Raicharan quickened his steps. He owned a temporary book-stall in the Kacheribazzar of Bhadrak. Raicharan carried it and took it everywhere. The entire book-stall could be accommodated in two bags. The stall consisted of both big-sized and pocket editions of almanacs by Kohinoor, Radharaman and Biraja presses; books entitled Khulana Sundari, Trinath Mela, Sanischara Mela, Bataosha, Khudurukuni Osha, Sabitri Brata, Gopalila of Jagannath Das’s The Bhagavad, Jagannath Janan, Mrugunee Stutee, Dardhyata Bhakti; books dealing with the effect of Zodiac signs; books dealing with sex; picture books for adults wrapped in yellow wrappers; and Odia calendars. Raicharan was both a whole-saler and retailer. His area of operation spread over most of Bhadrak town, starting from Charampa to Bhadrak. A Vaishnabite, he lived alone. He would often drape himself with a cloth with the hymns to Lord Ram written all over. A tattoo of Radha-Krishna was engraved on his left hand. A simple look at him made one gauge his character. He was a poor but compassionate human being.
Raicharan belonged to Kaduanasi. At home stayed his widowed mother. She was seventy-seven; just like a ripe palm fruit, only Lord Akhandalamani knew when she would fall off. Raicharan found it hard to meet her frequently owing to his business commitments. He had no family. Since the day he was initiated into a matha, he had developed a sense of indifference to the world. Of course, he had not been able to give up his habit of consuming opium in the evenings. He was a very noble human being. If people of his area wanted to travel to Cuttack, Bhubaneswar, Baleswar, or Kolkata, he would come out to help them. He would gladly arrange for them a seat in the bus, a stamp-vendor in the court, or a shopkeeper to supply necessities for a wedding. Almost everybody in that area was acquainted with Raicharan quite well.
Noticing his scamper and dishevelled appearance, Mukund asked, “Uncle, why are you in such a great hurry? Is anybody seriously ill?”
Mukund alias Mukund Charan Mohanty was a ninth standard student of Aparti Charan High School. He had made acquaintance with Raicharan when he visited Draupadi cinema once or twice.
Raicharan answered, “What should I tell, my son? In the morning, Nakhia Mahakud visited mother to supply cheese. It’s from him that I learnt mother had become bed-ridden. It is as if thunder struck me! I got up immediately, and am, going to meet her.”
Mukund looked serious. Raicharan, usually, was very lively and humorous. Mukund was alarmed to see his sombre face and teary eyes. Raicharan was an old man. He had already travelled a long distance carrying a heavy bag. The distance between his residence and Rajgurupur was around five miles. It was so hot that walking even a few steps was getting difficult.
“Uncle, why don’t you hand me the bag? I’ll carry it for you for some distance…” Mukund stretched his hand to take the bag.
Raicharan objected, “No, no. You are a child. Walk comfortably. I’ll get late.”
Mukund carried two or three of his books. He was returning to Sandhagada after the morning school was over. He insisted, “Uncle, I can also walk fast like you. Give me the bag.”
While handing over the bag to Mukund, Raicharan said, “Please be careful, son. There are some sweets for mother in it. Old lady… She had been craving for sweets for long. I have brought some sweets for her. I have covered the mouth of the glass container securely. Be careful… the syrup might overflow.”
“What else are you carrying home?” asked Mukund for the sake of continuing the conversation.
“No, what else chould I carry? What’s my worth? I am carrying a bunch of grapes and some apples for mother. The old lady always longed to taste these fruits. Who knows in which state shall I find her?” Raicharan was found paying obeisance to invisible gods… praying for good health for his ill, bed-ridden mother, no doubt.
When they reached the Sandhagada pond, Mukund handed back the bag to Raicharan. Raicharan blessed him, “May you live long. May God grant you a long life.”
Raicharan ran towards Kaduanasi. Raicharan fifty years old, was running like an eighteen year old boy, to meet his mother.
Standing beside the Sandhagada pond, Mukund stared in the direction in which Raicharan had disappeared. He was feeling thirsty. While he bent down to take a little water from the pond in his cupped palms, he saw that some syrup from the rasogallas had stained his pants. He rubbed it clean with water. The beardless tender youth, Mukund felt as if pent-up emotions choked his heart. He was reminded of Raicharan and his old mother; more than anything else, his mother’s wishes and regrets. She wanted neither gold or silver; neither bungalows nor delicious dishes; but only two rasogollas, a bunch of grapes, and a couple of apples. Mukund knew such fruits were not cultivated here. Raicharan ran home with a bunch of sour grapes and a couple of rasogollas that came from far off Madras or Kolkatta for sale in Bhadrak, just to tasted by his mother lips before she died. For the first and last time, the old lady was going to have a taste of these. This last wish of his mother was going to be fulfilled by the son, Raicharan. What else could be more importa nt than this?
Didn’t thousands of villages like Kaduanasi exist? Didn’t lakhs of helpless sons like Raicharan inhabit them? Didn’t crores of helpless and old mothers like Raicharan’s mother hanker for a few rasogollas and a bunch of grapes in this India? Yes, they did and they belonged very much to India.
The geography book fell from the hands of the absentminded Mukund. Its pages fluttered in the Baisakh wind.
Dr. Gourahari Das is a celebrated doyen of Odiya literature and has as many as seventy books to his credit, which include novels, short story collections, vignettes, travelogues, plays and essays. Many of his stories have been translated into English and have been published under the titles The Little Monk and Other Stories, The Nail and Other Stories, Koraput and Other Stories and The Shades Of Life.
Dr. Das is the Features Editor of the Odia Daily THE SAMBADA, and Editor of the Fiction Monthly KATHA. He also works as the Principal of the Sambada School of Media and Culture. He is a recipient of numerous awards for his Literary achievements. Notable among them are the Kendriya Sahitya Akademi Award, Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award, Utkal Sahitya Samaj Award and Sangeet Natak Akademi Prize.
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.
TREE
Geetha Nair
Why does this tree bear wounds
bright as blood
Spread over its swaying body ?
I gaze in wonder... .
I planted two leaves and a tiny stalk;
I did not think it would grow
At all.
Yet it grew tall.
You tug at my hand;
I look down,
And see with your eager eyes-
The tree pouts at you with its bright red mouths
Delectable,
barely hidden by green.
I swing into action.
Your basket is full;
You sit to eat.
A squirt from your gap tooth hits my cheek
And drips to my lips-
The tartness you love
Alchemies to sweet
in me.
You gaze at me in awe
I am all-in-one -
climber, runner, story-spinner, teacher;
Grandmother who climbs walls,
Runs races, feeds you stories and all you love to eat.
This, I know, is adoration,
Adoration I shall never see again;
This too shall cease.
As tree and you grow taller
May fruits be still within reach,
Tart or sweet ,
May boughs shade you from the heat
In your search.
What will remain
When I am gone,
an urnful of ashes cast to the four winds;
When I too have ceased ?
BABY
Geetha Nair
It was a poignant moment. She moved forward, bent and placed her baby on the soft carpet in front of the Guru Granth Sahib. Baby crooned and waved her chubby little hands towards the high ceiling. It was Baby's first ever visit to the Station Gurudwara.
That had been four months back. Sandhya had arrived with cases of clothes, condiments, homeopathic medicine, Baby and enormous apprehension. Their house in the army Cantonment area had to be set up and run. By her. She was new to housekeeping. Worse, four post-delivery months in the home of a dozen doting relatives had done little to help her master the strange art of rearing babies. Though books and cats had been removed from her bed to make place for the little bundle of flesh and her aunts and grandma had lectured her on the essential womanly skills and arts, she was full of trepidation about both housekeeping and bringing up babies. Her earlier stay at her husband’s place of posting had been at the Mess. That had been just after they had got married. Their days and nights had been largely filled with love-making, sleeping or dining at the homes of her husband’s fellow-officers. Her stay had lasted exactly a month. Her husband had put her on a morning flight to their home town; she had puked all the way there. She was pregnant. This was her second visit.
Motherhood had been an apocalypse. All her precious cats had been mere forerunners, she had realised, as she held Baby in her arms. This little creature that had emerged from her in perfection was far lovelier than them all. She loved Baby totally, from curly crown to pink toes. What if, through her ignorance, something happened to Baby? She would hug the little one even closer when such thoughts preyed. It seemed to her the greatest challenge she had faced in her challenging life.
After four more months, she was closer to mastery. Yet, it tired her out, the relentless beck and call service. At least her husband was away half the day and slept all night.The same could not be said of Baby. She looked forward to the evenings when Pinky and Bubbly, the daughters of the Major who stayed a few houses away, would rush from school and tea to be at Baby 's side. Sandhya thought of them as two pretty butterflies.They had brightly-coloured ribbons in their hair, wore multi-hued frocks and flitted everywhere. They would push Baby round the little lawn in the pram. They would coo to her, sing to her and even change her nappies. Sandhya meanwhile would curl up on the bed and read. A lost pleasure, it seemed to her. But nothing, compared to what she had gained.
There was something else that had evaporated with the arrival of Baby that she missed at times. It was that sudden, strange feeling , a swelling, a tingling in the head that hesitated like a timid kitten just out of reach and then jumped into her arms to be stroked, to grow and to erupt into words. Writing. It had been her joy and refuge for years. She had stacks of paper covered with her writing , safely in her cupboard at home. One day, she would tell her friends with a laugh, it would change the world. But not yet. Now that feeling seemed to have vanished. She had tried soon after Baby was born to put into words her ecstasy, her fulfilment. But words did not flow onto the paper as they had been wont to. Perhaps, she thought, they had been transformed into the milk that regularly flowed down that hungry little throat.
Baby was being rocked to sleep by the two adoring children.
"Much, much better than our dolls!" the elder one said in pure joy. "Soon, we will have a baby at home. A baby brother."
"Sister," said the younger; “ I like girl babies better. You can dress them up and put ribbons in their hair." She was eight, her sister nearly ten. Their mother had gone to her village home, far away, for her third delivery. The girls had school to attend. So they had stayed back, with their father. A cook and an ayah had been hired to take care of them. Of course, there was Bhayya- their father’s Sahayak- too, for additional care and supervision. But they spent much of their free time at Sandhya’s house.They made free with everything there; in fact, Bubbly knew better than Sandhya where each thing in her house was kept. She was a natural little busybody.
They spoke of the baby to come with great excitement and eagerness.
When school closed for Divali, the two girls would be going to their mother’s home on a brief visit. “The baby will be born by then,” said Pinky, with satisfaction.
It was a Sunday .They were outside the Gurudwara . Baby had eaten the 'kadaprasad' with great relish. Now she was in Pinky's arms, pulling her ribbon. The two children kissed her goodbye several times.
" Come back, soon, " Sandhya said to the two little girls, stroking their heads.
They were leaving that evening..
The days crawled by. Sandhya’s husband too was away; he had gone to distant Ramgarh for a shooting competition. She found life dull without Pinky and Bubbly. She missed their steady chatter, their taking charge of Baby and taking over of her house.
She waited for them on Tuesday evening knowing they would have arrived by the morning train. But they did not turn up at her place. She wondered if they had missed the train or if they were ill .At five, just after she had fed Baby, she saw them hovering at the door. The expression on their faces strangled the cry of welcome that had risen to her lips… . They looked- devastated.There was no other word for it. She sprung to her feet and held out her arms to them. “What is the matter, Pinky, Bubbly? What is it?”she cried.
They burst into tears
.Bit by bit, it emerged, their story. Their mother had delivered, just two days back. But they never did see the baby. It had died soon after it was born and was buried quickly. Sandhya held them close to her. Sad. Sad indeed and a heavy burden to bear for these two children who had looked forward so lovingly to having a little sibling. She would have to feed them those comforting lollipops of God knows best, He will send you another soon and so on. Then, she felt Bubbly pulling at her arm. She said, her voice almost a whisper, “I heard the old women in the kitchen talking. They did not know I was outside. They said our baby was killed. Killed.Too many girls. It was a girl, like us.They killed her.”
When Bhayya came to find out why the little girls had not returned home, he got no reply to his knocking. He peeped in timidly at the door. The two children were fast asleep with their arms around Baby who too was asleep. Sandhya was at the table, writing furiously on a sheet of paper. More sheets were scattered on the table. Some had spilled over and lay on the wooden floor, unheeded.
. 
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
JHIA :CHHELIGOTHA, 1987, an Odia poem (THE GOATHERD GIRL )
Hrushikesh Mallick
(Translated by : Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Don’t stamp your feet, little one,
no one will groom your feet nubile pink;
don’t drown in tears, poor dear,
no one will buy you kohl for eyes.
Half-light suffuses the earth before sunrise,
floor-mops boogie in tandem
with the sweeping brooms,
the birds yet to announce the daybreak.
They all signal you to leave bed, not to
luxuriate in it any longer, poor darling,
herd your goats to grasslands for grazing.
When they graze, don’t sit and daydream.
Don’t relive your dollhouse days,
you have left them behind years ago,
rather rejoice your youthful eyes
mesmerizing the dry twigs to blossom;
and the magic touch of your soft feet
turning the arid earth go fertile;
daydreaming is nor your forte, dear girl,
neither the solitary brooding, your call.
Hitching your sari up, swinging a hand,
an unmindful twig clutched in the other,
you walk with a swagger; is it the noon
that teaches you those confident steps?
Do the green fields give the smear
of a half-smile to your cupid lips?
Do you steal your sulks
from the sulking black cloud?
While herding goats,
why your mind strays, darling?
Pipedreams are
a strict no-no for you, a goat-girl.
If your hot rice plate, served by
brother’s wife who tom-toms
of her love, contains rat-shit; be warned
it still fills your belly, lets you survive.
If your eyes go moist
over the rat-shit in rice meal
recalling late mother’s loving bosom,
but what of her own rat-shit destiny.
Evenings make you forlorn;
you feel bitter. But take my counsel,
don’t reject the food containing rat-shit;
it’s your legacy, can’t be wished away.
You walk back home by the canal,
its water mirroring the multihued evening,
the shrubberies by the sidewalk
hiding the insidious dark in big chunks.
Why your confidence sags like a child’s,
lost in a fair; your face withers,
a hesitant moon broods there before setting;
are you carried back to childhood again?
Where is that golden moon
promised by adults to you when a kid?
Alas, the promises are lost and as well
those jovial adults who never played foul.
Throwing pebbles into the pond,
and your brooding visage; my poor darling,
give away your inner stirrings; why
to count chickens before they hatch?
Don’t be careless and let your goats stray,
don’t remain oblivious to threatening squalls;
rather wait for your fortunes to smile back
on your brother’s return from business trip.
Leave bed, though the sun is not up,
your eyes are bleary with sleep;
rush to grazing ground with your goats,
keep humouring your wily brother’s wife;
follow her bidding; sweetheart,
she is the bird in hand, better than many
in the bush. Wishes are no horses,
no use harnessing them for rides.
Don’t throw tantrums, you poor dearie,
don’t stamp feet, no one gives a damn,
no pedicure or kohl for you that you don’t
deserve; take what you deserve, only rat-shit.
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)
COLOURS OF SPRING
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Fields full of
rapeseed*,
Ground draped
in an apron
of bright yellow.
Like the
bashful
bride’s face,
suffused
in a halo of haldi**,
just before her
ceremonial shower,
bursting forth:
I am ready
for a new life.
Tender shoots
on a bare tree,
shining by the
slanting sun,
in nascent green;
their lucency
almost palpable.
Like a baby’s
finger tip
glowing as
on the alien
in the ET.
Although still,
can feel it nudging
at your heart’s edge.
The Magnolias,
in pretty pink,
dotted across
the landscape,
like fireworks
in broad daylight.
Blotches of
Bluebells in
pure purple,
scattered in
the wild.
Like epitaphs
on buried
memory of
snow from
the winter,
just departed,
singing
eulogy of
seasons.
*a variant of mustard
**turmeric
MISTAKEN
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The sale of house
was complete.
“Congratulations,
proud owner
of this
period property”,
the Agent
beamed to me.
What a grand
edifice;
hundreds of
years old,
with mature
gardens and
a pond!
Full of myself,
I took a stroll
in the grounds
of my house.
The water-lily
with the leaf
by her side;
admiringly
gazing at her.
And the lily
proudly
showing off her
colours,
as if,
she owns
the pond.
On my way
back
into the house,
Spotted the
wild rose.
Drawn by
her dazzle,
exclaimed:
“what a beauty?”
while walking past.
A whisper came
from behind:
Beautiful, though,
I am,
I owe it to the tree,
it has housed
many roses,
prettier than me.
Before I came,
and would do
so for years,
after I am gone.
And, I dare not
ever claim:
I own the tree!
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
ALL ALONE
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
[Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin]
More about Snakes
Sreekumar K
We, in Kerala, are rain people. We think in terms of rain, rivers, flood and very recently, drought. When we say drought, we don’t mean what they mean in the central plains of India. Our childhood was drenched, dripping and soggy wet.
My family lived on a hillside. The nearest stream, a muddy one, was only a kilometre away. It was in that stream that the beauty of nudity was first revealed to me. I was allowed to go there only in summer and I loved it even though it was only a foot deep in most places. The only spot we could go in for a dip was where it took a turn forming a baby eddy.
My family managed with an unnecessary deep well we had in the back yard. But that was only for six months. Fr the next six moths, from November till June, we carried water uphill in all the big and small kitchen vessels we had from a deserted well at the foot of the hill. As we walked uphill with that dancing load on our shoulders and head, we got drenched in water and in those summer months in was such a joy. When it rained in monsoon, that is in June, water stayed for a day in our front yard making the ground soft and slippery. Indoors, with all the doors and windows tight shut making it pretty dark any time of the day, we cuddled in our bed with millions of tiny arrows of water getting in through the chinks in the roof tiles. It was so much fun to hug one another tight under the woolen sheets and not even go for food when it was ready. The monsoon is supposed to be months of famine. Vishakham Thirunal, a good king who ruled us a century ago had brought jack fruit and tapioca from abroad. Today, added with our mangoes, they make our famine month fabulous with dishes.
When I grew up I suggested to my father that we should go live near some river, there are 44 four of them slicing our state in less that 700 kilometres. So, every 20 kilometres along Kerala coast, you are sure to cross a bridge! They have been flowing on and on telling stories and making their banks beautiful for ages. They used to be wider long ago but now none of them is more than a few hundred metres in width.
My father steadily refused. I pushed as much as a son could but to no effect at all.
It was then that I got a job in a school in a village near the foot hills of Sabarimala, a pilgrimage hill station. The school overlooked a river which runs in the veins of every one in that village. It is one of the holy rivers which only means that around the pilgrimage season, it is a sewer canal.
I accepted the job. In a year I got married and took my parents and my wife to stay with me near the school.
Expectedly, my father liked the place a lot. The river flooded every year soon after monsoon. Till my father totally lost his memory and didn’t care for anything, he used to go all over the paddy fields to see and enjoy the marvellous flood. The river practically flowed through every house around that time. For us, the nights were a little scary, we were not sure where to go if the river flooded further at night. My mother could not walk. We sat or slept on stacked beds, desks and the dining table while tortoises, scorpions and snakes moved around in the knee deep water just below us. We could see the happy village men going around in boats, plucking coconuts from anyone’s property, water had reached that high.
One afternoon, when the flood receded, we saw a young viper in the kitchen. Everyone was for killing it, since vipers are the most dangerous snakes, though not the most venomous ones. The problem with them is that they are lazy and won’t move away. We step on them and they bite us and we die from our arteries popping open.
I let it go and chased it away.
The next day, I was standing near a canal that crossed the rubber plantation behind our house. It was a cemented irrigation canal, the water was knee deep. Having nothing better to do, I decided to remove the dry leaves in the canal since they were blocking the free flow of water. I used a pole to do that. It didn't work very well. The glass smooth bamboo did scoop the leaves in water, but let them slip off as I pulled it out of water. I thought of leaving the pole and using my hands to remove the leaves. I looked at my hands and stared into the water which was dark brown. It also had a certain stench which prevented me from dipping my hands in it. And who knew what was in there? Scorpions for sure.
I dropped the idea, lifted the pole and dipped it in water. It collected leaves and this time probably a lot of dirt and leaves. It was so heavy.
With so much difficulty, I yanked it out of water, the sudden movement splattering some of that dirty water on me.
And on the tip of the bamboo pole, coiled around it snugly, was the second largest viper I ever saw in my life. (The largest I saw was near Bhimashankar in Pure, one that stretched across the road like a python.) I shook it wild and it slowly started to unwind. I put down the pole. Like a speckled band, the long and cream-coloured flabby mass with plant like designs on its back, unwound itself and slithered away into the rubber plantation.
Even today I am happy about the two decisions. One decision to let the baby go and the second decision not to put my hands in that dirty water.
Recently the whole place went under a huge deluge making several villages look like one big ocean. I went to visit the place and take part in the relief activities. The streams and the river would have been in hellish fury, for they have gouged away the banks with the power of a million machines.
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 THE HOOVES WENT QUIET
Surya Manu
(Odiyan: a mythical figure, popular in ancient north Kerala, a man who can change his form to that of any animal of his choice to scare evil men or even kill them as earnestly requested by those who suffer from them)
I sat there, stringing around my fingers the tiny threads of rain dripping from the thatched roof eves.
The eastern wind, all wrapped up in dark woollen blankets, drummed on the palm fronds, signalling the next rain.
I was sure my grandma's anxious eyes were on me now and then as she was pounding charcoal to mix with cow dung to be used as flooring wherever it had come off. Her worry might be that even the last talisman given by Koran, the black magician had had no effect on me.
My worry was that my uncle had not returned from his work yet. Recently, he was wont to come late.
My mother would have gone to sleep in her small room, the lamp was kept dim there.
I clutched my tummy and bent forward as if my guts were on fire. My grandma hurriedly went inside.
She brought back a pot with a burning wick inside it. I was supposed to hold it close to my tummy to relieve the pain. A friendly warmth hugged my tummy.
My pain abated, I lay on the bare floor pressing myself to its coldness.
My uncle came in.
"Ramesh, can't you come a little early?" asked my grandma. "You think Suma can go out in case of an emergency. The little one is shivering with fever and cold."
I could hear her whisper to him in as low a voice as possible, "Even last night Odiyan was seen running across Sarada's courtyard."
I started shivering as if my fever and cold came rushing back.
He has been around for days, that Odiyan. I started hearing about him after my mother got pregnant.
Odiyan. Looking for pregnant women, he comes at night in the shape of a huge ox. He is the angel of death for those who impede his path as he comes down the village paths, stamping his hoofs wild .
Sarada chechi had spotted him through the chinks in the walls. A huge white ox, with not tails, oily body stamping away loudly in the bright moonlight.
Sarada chechi warned my mother to be careful. My mother's pale face and full stomach worried me not a little.
Wondering why Odiyan haunted each of my dreams, an stifled sob of anxiety left a lump in my throat.
Every trick in the book was tried. Talisman from several priests, several temples.
"Why this girl is still not to bed!"
Not listening to my mother, staring hard at me, my uncle offered me candies wrapped in newspaper.
Despite his tough nature, my uncle is much liked by me. As the candy given me by my uncle melted in my mouth, I was reliving those days when I melted like ice in the warmth of my father's affection.
I was only four when he passed away, the branch of a tree he was felling crashing on him. The smell of his sweat, the wetness of his kiss as he held me up to make me giggle out loud. That was my father to me. I went back to my mother's home after my father died.
It was my grandma who brought my mother back to this house as the wife of my father's younger brother, my uncle.
As my uncle's bitter stare came back to me, I got up and walked in. I went to bed each night terrified. I spread a mat in the corridor and lay on it.
Against my stern wish not to go to sleep, my eyelids went heavy and I sank deep into the unfathomable depths of sleep. It was pitch dark. Slowly, the moonlight spread everywhere, sifting away the grainy darkness from all around me.
I was running away from shadows stalking me down the country paths. With the rustle of each leaf the creamy moonlight wrought monstrous shapes looming large. And at the end of the country road, silhouetted against the full moon, looking down the valley from a high precipice with his red hot eyes, was an ox without a tail, the sly slinking of a fix mixed with his grandeur in a strange way.
As I collapsed onto the dead leaves that lay senseless around me, his slimy tongue went all over my body mangled black and blue. His hoofs had crushed to pulp every tissue in my body before he stomped away into darkness.
The next day as usual I woke up only when the sun coming in through the window pricking my eyes open with its myriad warm rays. My body was paining all over.
My mother and grandma were in the kitchen. My uncle was getting ready to go to work. Weak in every limb, I staggered my way to the kitchen where my grandma felt my forehead. Worried that my fever had not left me yet, she offered me cup of potion, her own concoction of ginger and basil leaves boiled with jaggery
She then called out to my uncle, "Get some medicine from that Raman Vaidyar for this girl on your way back."
My uncle who stomped away over the dead leaves wet from the last night's rain did not seem to have heard it.
My head reeled at the thought of finding hoof marks left on the wet leaves that stuck on to the aquishy mud on the country roads. I lay on the veranda, with sandal paste on my forehead and a wet cloth over it, looking at the sky loading itself with pitch darkness to rain again on the land below. Dammed inside me was a pain welling up to let my eyes flow.
The whole night the sky wept bitterly. Empathising with me, the rain roared and screamed, at times sobbed and cried, whined whispered its sorrows to no one in particular.
The rays of the evening sun came in through the rustling leaves in the distance, the twilight gave way to dusk and then darkness. The moonlight peeped in through the clouds in the east. My uncle was not yet home.
The rain kept away but still the night was scary. Birds of ill omen howled from gigantic trees in the coves. Foxes and vixens howled from the harvested bare fields. Hearing dead leaves in the narrow path that led to my home getting stamped on I put my palms tight over my ears, close shut my eyes and lay awake.
The next day, earlier than usual, as I opened my eyes to a bright sunlit morning, relieved of my fever and pain, ants were crawling over my uncle's body face down turning cold at the end of the narrow path that led to our happy home.
And, from from the darkened country roads in my nightmares, the loud stamping of the wild hoofs had cantered away forever.
Surya Manu is a school teacher from Kerala. She is a poet and short story writer and frequently contributes to Nallezhuthth, an online magazine. This is one of her stories in Malayalam translated by Sreekumar K.
PIGEONS
Bibhu Padhi
They embody a consciousness
that shines among light-grey rocks.
In their bodies old stories of flight
repeat themselves, refresh memory.
During the long Indian afternoons
they rest upon our polished floors,
their bodies refracting the warmth
of close contract, their small heads
forming a community of wisdom.
A picture of extreme importance is seen--
a picture that comprehends everything,
all thing contemporary and long past.
But before our eyes gain their fixed look
and our envy its pale green stare,
they rise up, holy and untouched,
to disappear in a history
of mocking wings,
in the accepting sky.
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
Labyrinth of Time
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
It is inside the labyrinth of time
And the endless search for sunshine,
I stretch my hands out of water
As I am drowning in cyclonic thunder.
I try solving the puzzle
Hidden symbolically in the jungle
To free myself from devil’s grasp
And breathe a mouthful of air, at last.
Tentacles of time extending all around.
There is no place to make my ground.
It is the call to unwrap
From the body,
the cover of the past,
The shadow of time, at last.
There is no need to categorize
The experiences, or to treatise.
Escaping the obstacles of mind.
It is time to kill the time,
Evolving to experience a beautiful life.
"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.
GRAFFITI
Dilip Mohapatra
They are commoners
not the elite class like
murals or frescos
nor even hieroglyphics
and are accused of
being malevolent
vandals and defilers.
They are born
behind the curtains
in dark dungeons
when no one is around
in forms of their very own
through scribbles scratches
and sprays.
They survived
the Vesuvius eruptions
those incised inscriptions
and still tell a tale
sometimes sepulchral
sometimes sanguine
ethereal and eternal.
They just don't care
for the raised eye brows
of the prude
or the law enforcers
and speak their heart
lending voice
to the otherwise dumb walls.
THE WALLS
Dilip Mohapatra
Do we really need walls
that delineate our boundaries
and demarcate our limits
that integrate within
and differentiate from outside?
Do we really need walls
that force us to walk
on confined corridors
and damp dungeons
leading us to blind alleys
or six by eight feet cells?
Do we really need walls
to build our ghettos
that stink of our collective sweat
our slush and slime
and block the sun
to shine on the stick insects
prancing in the gutters?
Let us get the sledgehammers
and call for the bulldozers
and demolish every brick
and boulder
to smash them to smithereens .
Who needs the graffiti ?
They can go
and so can lizards
and spiders too.
Fences do not always
make good neighbours!
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.
FLYING MACHINE OVER OUR HAMLET
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Lately one day, over our hamlet
A machine zoomed with noise so scary.
The laundering crows scurried to their nests
And the frightened cows ran blindly.
The lazy ducks buried their heads in water,
While spotted village dogs chasing anything
Lay huddled in a corner moaning.
The wise old men inhaling the hookah
Under the grand old banyan tree
Trembled, ‘It’s the end”, they cried.
The village dames, water pot on head
Spilled the water and drenched
As they stared up quizzically.
A sage in his meditation
Sought with a small eye
“Has God descended so soon?”
A man with a head - spinning cocktail
Got back to the shoppe, to thank
For the excellent audio-visual composition.
Only the children in their crafty games,
Fearlessly with their sticks and books
Chased the intruder to the furthest.
Then when all was at peace,
As if after a swirling wind,
People come out numb or murmuring.
It’s a chopper’ said the village teacher
As a city returnee whispered ‘it’s a plane
It’s carrying secrets’ said the law man,
‘No’ stamped the ex-fighter, it’s on to fight’
Someone said it carries people
And others grumbled, what else then? Animals?!
Thus the quarrel started
Over a flying machine
That zoomed over our hamlet
And might have reached
Its distant destination
Before the battle here ended.
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.
SILHOUETTE
Ananya Priyadarshini
My maid passed away a year ago. No, I'm not one of those rich-at-heart people who believe in adding up servants to their family book, but neither am I cold enough not to bother. I used to wake up to her face every morning and one fine morning, she was just gone. It didn't come as a shock to me, neither my chores were left undone that day. I'd already hired a new maid six months prior to the death of my old maid. But the news of her demise messed up something within me that can't be put rightly back into place.
"Didi, I can feel something in my breasts.", She had finally disclosed what had been keeping her from smiling since a week. I'd nagged her a lot to finally make her confess what was bothering her so much.
"Something.. like, what?"
"A pebble, maybe."
"Since when?"
"Didi, I'd first discovered it during the days of my grandchild's birth when I was at my daughter's place. I told my daughter but she advised to wait for some time. But I eventually forgot because it didn't hurt. It's not hurting now, either. But I think it has grown up to be really big during all this while.", she said half anxious, half afraid.
"What had you been doing all these months, Sunaina?", I was annoyed at her irresponsibility towards herself.
"Told na, Didi. It didn't hurt, so I just forgot.", She said as innocently as she used to say, 'Told na, Didi. My son was sick so I came late today!'.
"See, you've grown really weak and thin. Go visit a doctor."
"Chhi chhi, Didi! Whom would I show my breasts? It's so shameful. I'll rather die of whatever disease it is."
"Sunaina, you're going to my gynaecologist with me today itself. Don't worry, she's a woman and has a pair of breasts of her own. She understands, just like I do.", I calmed her down.
She agreed after a lot of arguments and we visited my doctor. She prescribed a few tests and we did accordingly. She was reluctant because of the cost but now that I paid for them, she didn't hesitate much. But she hadn't said anything to her family till then, not even her husband because she didn't want them to worry. Alas, Indian women! They just don't want to bother anyone and keep worrying about everyone. I've seen the same species of women back in my family too!
Her reports were suggestive of cancer. Breast cancer, that allegedly kills millions of women every year, had managed to kill Sunaina too. She left job at my place right on the day of her diagnosis. It was too late for surgery. She didn't let anyone bother much for her and six months into chemotherapy, she did what she'd initially decided for herself- died of the disease.
I have no sentiment overflow right now, readers. Sitting in my balcony with a mug of sugarless black coffee, I'm recalling Sunaina's tryst with cancer because maybe, only 'maybe', because I'm standing now where she was standing a year and a half ago.
This morning, I found something in my breasts. I don't know if it was the same 'something' that Sunaina had once found in hers, but it hinted that something wasn't right. It was on my mind even when I was at work. My colleagues even asked me what was wrong but I didn't tell anybody. I'm not ashamed but they asked in a tone that wanted to know 'if my issue would affect my productivity at my workplace' more than 'if I was alright' and I chose to just dodge their curiosity instead.
I missed Sunaina today after returning home. My new maid works well. She washes better, presses better, cooks healthier food as per the instructions of my dietician. But she doesn't read me like Sunaina used to. She doesn't bring me ginger tea even when I ask for green tea or say 'you look fine, Didi. Don't compromise so much with food to lose weight'. She doesn't cook khichdi with Desi ghee even when I ask for a bowl of salad or cereals or say, 'Didi, I know you've not eaten at your work today. At least eat something healthy for dinner!' Had Sunaina been here today, maybe I'd have told her everything that's haunting me. Maybe, sitting under the sky past midnight, I'm missing Sunaina.
Umm, wait. There's a woman sitting on the bench of my society's park. Yes she's a woman. Though I can only see her silhouette I can figure it out that it's a lady. A lady with hair falling below her shoulders.
I'm visiting my gynecologist tomorrow. Am I still operable?
If not operable, shall I make it with chemo or just give up?
She's still sitting on the bench. She's not even moving. Is she dead or just asleep? Should I go and check on her? But how can I? Nobody is allowed inside the park post 9 PM. Then how did she land inside? Since when is she there? Is she stuck inside? Did she ask for help? How come nobody heard her calls? Or does she want solitude?
I think I should call someone and tell them about my health issue. A friend or someone from my family. But they'll panic instead of encouraging me. They might land at my place tomorrow out of fright. No I can't risk that. Let the doctor confirm my cancer first.
The silhouette is still. Did something happen to her? She could be Mrs. Agarwal from house number 434 which is famous for live concerts of the Agarwal couple. Oh, Mr. Agarwal plays beats on Mrs Agarwal's body and she cries rhythmically to its beats. Everyone in the society hears, but nobody interferes. Did Mrs Agarwal just commit suicide? Or did Mr Agarwal kill her and abandoned her body there? I am sweating profusely.
I am in kitchen brewing myself some tea. I can't sleep. I'm thinking to search a few cancer hospitals that are best in my country. I'm sitting with my laptop on and reading the story of an actress who has just been under the knife for breast cancer. Her story is motivating me but she's turned bald after the treatment. I'm standing in front of the mirror and trying to imagine how I'd look after all my hair are gone! Haha... Pretty bad but cool!
You remember the days when you suddenly receive a notice reading that your exams have been preponed? You're prepared for the exams but not so early. You just need some more time. That's exactly how I am feeling! Just like exams, I know that death was inevitable but am not prepared to die now. I need some more time to live!
Whatever will come my way, I'll face. Surgery, chemotherapy, baldness, everything. I'm not quitting without giving cancer a run for life. I'm calling my society's security to do something about the woman and....
It's morning! Cold tea is still sitting in my cup and I'm sleeping on the divan. I just woke up. I'm on my way to my gynecologist after brushing my teeth. No bath taken. I'm anxious, curious but not afraid. I've successfully prepared myself for the worst. I'm inside my doctor's examination room and she's checking my breasts. Prayers are running over my dry lips.
"Oh that's nothing. Just some changes that your breasts go through during menstrual cycle. It's normal.", My doctor said. Is she trying to fool me?
"But Doctor, can't it be breast cancer?", I'm so prepared to hear a yes that a 'no' is driving me crazy.
"No. I'm glad you visited me as soon as you found it out and every woman should. But not every mass you feel in your breast has to be cancer, just like yours. You need no further investigation or treatment."
"So what do I do?", What was I even thinking while asking this question!
"Maybe go watch this new movie. People are going Gaga over it and it's a Sunday as well!", My doctor laughed.
"Okay, thank you Doctor", I left her chamber all red with embarrassment.
Ever thought how would the Earth feel if all the mountains in the world are lifted up and thrown away into a black hole all of a sudden? That's exactly how I was feeling on my way back home. Movie, lunch at 'The Chinese', shopping jeans, a stroll in the park and dinner at restro. I was sorting out my Sunday. I had to celebrate.
"Ma'am why were you calling so vigorously at night? All well?", Security asked me as I arrived at the gate.
Had it been some other time, I'd have said, "I was calling you so late in the night and you didn't even pick up. Is this how you're going to serve your duty during any emergency condition?" But I just drove ahead after saying 'nothing'. I parked and rushed to the colony park. I'm approaching the silhouette from behind. It's not as sharp in the daylight as it used to be under the milky streetlight, but I could still see a woman. She hasn't moved a bit since night.
I'm standing right before the 'woman' and laughing hysterically to myself. The woman consisted of there stones stacked upon each other with the smallest at the top and largest at the bottom and a gunny bag blanketing them. This woman that kept me up all night is indeed the result of children's mischief.
But was it the woman who stole my night's sleep or my breast mass? No, it was indeed my overthinking. We see a silhouette and add a picture to it, probably the ugliest one that we can ever come up with. Human tendency- Be prepared for the worst! Those extra shifts at work are so tiresome. When we overthink, don't we exhaust our minds? To imagine the worst is probably cancer to our minds that no medical expert can diagnose but it can kill you, differently. I was still laughing till I came to a stop with jolts.
Had Sunaina's daughter not advised her to wait till things worsen, had Sunaina not shy away from bothering others, had I noticed her deteriorating health before she spoke up to me, she too could be standing beside me today, laughing with me. Overthinking doesn't work out but thinking and doing the right thing at the right time, does.
Yes, I'm talking about BREASTS! You find it a big deal? Then there has to be something wrong with you! Stop romanticising, objectifying and sexualizing them all the time. To all the men reading this, women's breasts deal with a lot of hormonal issues which can be as severe as fatal cancers apart from unwanted glares and touches. Stand by them when they talk to you about painful breasts instead of making them feel terrible about it. It's just another body part. And women, please don't delay or advise anyone the same when it comes your health. It's fine not to be fine. You're no immortals. Your breasts are tissues and cells too. There's no SHAME.
Sunaina couldn't be saved due to the delays made by all of us but Mrs Agarwal can be. I don't want to be late again. I'm standing before house number 434 and hearing a woman's windy voice that's trying to throttle her own sobs to silence. I just pressed the doorbell.
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.
MISTAKE
Disha Prateechee
Going back to my apartment is the best thing after a tiresome day. As I parked my car in the parking lot, my mind was occupied by the new project we were about to begin. Everything was set. I was heading towards the elevator when I saw a small girl looking for something in the garbage bin beside my building.
"Hey! what are you doing at this time in the night?" I asked stepping closer to her.
She looked frightened and just shook her head.
"Don't be afraid. What is your name?" I asked softly.
By her looks she seemed quite malnourished with a dirty face and tired eyes.
"Leena, didi." she replied in a shaky voice while scratching the nape of her neck.
"Where do you live? Should I take you home?" I looked around to see someone. There was none.
"Nai didi. I will go home myself. I was just hungry, so came out looking for food." She said looking at the bin.
Since I live alone, most days I have a lot of leftovers. So I decided to invite her in. When I offered her some food, at first she got excited but then in a low and sad voice she said,"My little brother and Maa haven't eaten since two days. I can't eat knowing that they are at home with empty stomachs."
I sighed and went to the fridge to look for some more food. I got out enough, heated and packed them for her. She took them.
As I was walking her back to her home, she looked up at the builiding and said, "It's so big. My head is hurting just looking at it."
I chuckled at her words.
"You know didi, Maa was telling me, we will have to leave our house soon." she said looking sad.
"Why?" I was concerned about her.
"Because some company is going to tear down the slums and build apartments there." She sighed.
As we reached near her house,it looked familiar but due to the darkness I couldn't identify the place. Seeing her off, I went back home
Next day, before I headed for the office, I decided to go check on Leena. When I reached her place, I was in shock. It was the same place where my new project was going to come up! Tears streamed down my cheeks as I knocked at her door. Leena's mother told me that she was asleep. I was not strong enough to face her. So, I looked at her peaceful sleeping face, leaning down to her, "Sorry, It was a mistake."
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.
Death
Parvathy Salil
Death birthes nothing in me,
not even tears from my eyes
till days, weeks, months,
years pass
thinking not a thing about loss;
and one day,
as thoughts descend
chasms of absence,
perspire verses from my pen–
shut off from revellers in life’s summery sun, and
alone I cry in rhyme...
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.
Drip drop, splash
SRUTHY S. MENON
The rain drops
Falling . . .
Drip, drop,
Drop.
The droplets,
splattered on the face,
Splash ,
Plash,
Swash,
And more,
splashes.
Swatter and flutter ,
in the puddles.
Squelch and splosh,
Across the meadows,
Swampy waters, and mucky stables.
Jittering ...
Through miry roads,
Quaggy and sloppy terrains,
Soggy,
Squashy,
And sloughy.
Happiness is watching the rains
falling ...
Drip,
Drop
& Splash
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 .
LOVE
Ibraheem Anas Sakaba
It's not a deep feeling of attraction,
Neither is it of affection.
It's not of strong emotion,
With no absolute devotion.
It's not about being kissed,
And later get pissed.
Most see it as a channel of compulsion
of unnecessary oppression;
Be it brutally,
Or psychologically.
Now I can boldly say
That love isn't love.
It isn't that of Juliet,
To her beloved Romeo.
It isn't of Cinderella,
To her adorable Prince Charming.
Can it be like that of Helen,
Showered on Menelaus?
Alas!
Ours is different.
It was the language of our heart,
Not until I got turn apart.
I gave away all of my trust,
Only to be blessed with a thrust.
And at the end,
I discovered love changes with time.
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.
Cost of Vermilion
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
In a small container called sindoor box ,
Lies the destiny of so many of us.
The content in it 'vermilion' forms an eternal relation when applied.
There is a cost for everything we apply.
When a groom applies the vermilion,the bride pays her whole life for it.
In the later stage when she applies it in her parted hair, it glorifies her beauty.
If it ever spills, her superstitious beliefs discomforts her.
It becomes a stamp which certifies the possession of a woman by someone.
Sometimes in the silence of her life her vermilion protects her from the ill thoughts of society.
When it is washed off by the harsh beliefs of society ,symbolises her loss.
If vermilion is adorned on her parted hair when on her death bed she is considered the blessed one.
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 LETTER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The first time we saw Bhuban we refused to believe he was eleven years. He looked so puny, emaciated! But he had a smile which was one in a million. It was like a magic wand touching your heart and filling it with a rare glow.
Yet, in a way, Bhuban had no business smiling like that. At least by all logic his weather-beaten body and ravaged mind should have taken a toll on him. We asked our friend Ranjan and his wife Subhasini where they had got this sample - 'namuna' is the word we used for Bhuban. Both of them laughed, smug with the satisfaction of having acquired a real gem.
- We didn't get him. He literally fell into our home. His father Ramesh, who is from our village, came and dropped him here. It seems Bhuban's mother died two years back and Ramesh married again. His new wife had only one condition for the marriage - he should dump his son as soon as possible and start a new family with his freshly acquired wife. So Bhuban was withdrawn from the school, he roamed around aimlessly in the village, got many beatings from people for straying into their groves, stealing mangoes and guavas. One day Ramesh landed up here, dropped Bhuban here and left. Before leaving he had folded his hands, asked us to open a bank account in Bhuban's name and deposit a thousand rupees every month. That was about a month back.
I was surprised we had not visited Ranjan's home for so long.
- Yes, now that you say it, I realise we have not visited each other for at least a month. Now coming back to Bhuban, how did he take to the change? Did he resent?
- Oh, he has reconciled to his position as a domestic help. He knew he was an unwanted appendage to his father when his new mother - he refers to her as Nua Maa - married him. So here he is, happily helping Subhasini with the household work. He does everything with a smile, never complains about anything.
My wife, Kalyani chimed in,
- Ah, his smile! It is so intoxicating! If he was twenty years older I would have fallen for it like a broken telephone pole!
I teased her,
- It's not too late now. For you this humble Sevak can do anything! Let me start a new journey tomorrow. Looking for a thirty year old with a captivating, one in a million smile.
Ranjan and I were college mates and rediscovered each other in Bhubaneswar after eight years. We became thick friends and our wives also jelled well with each other like butter to a knife, although it's difficult to define who is what. Both of us had no immediate plans of adding a child to the family, preferring to wait for buying an apartment first. We led a carefree life, often going out to movies and picnics to nearby places.
Bhuban continued to charm us during all our visit to Ranjan's. Whenever we invited them to our home for lunch or dinner, Bhuban would accompany them, always smiling and lending a helping hand to the ladies. After the meal, prompted by us, he would often regale us with stories of his exploits in the village - how he and his best friend would sneak away from home in the night to steal guavas and how they would break a few Neem twigs and put them at everyone's door step to give them a surprise in the morning for brushing the teeth! And many such stories.
Bhuban would often become emotional and tell us about his mother, the dishes prepared by her, how he would cling to her in the night while sleeping. And how his father would tell him stories. Those were the days his father used to love him like the apple of his eyes. In his infinite wisdom Bhuban would say his Nua Maa is also good, but she had to after all think of her own kids naa! That's why she drove him out of their home.
Bhuban's biggest delight was the day he got a letter from his father. He would show us the post cards, with uneven lines of sentences. Bhuban would thrust them at us. Read, read naa, my father still loves me, although he wrote last time soon they are going to have a baby of their own. He says he will send me a new pair of dress when the new baby comes. And I will visit them during Dussehra. Maa (Subhasini) has promised she will buy a saree for my Nua Maa and a dress for the new baby. With a wide, innocent smile he would ask us, will it be a boy or a girl? He would wistfully say, may be his Nua Maa would take him back and love him as much as her own baby!
The new baby must have arrived after a few months. We could guess it from the fact that letters from Bhuban's father stopped coming. Bhuban was broken. Why no letters? Has something bad happened? Is his Nua Maa alright? Is the new baby alright? He would wait for the Postman everyday and rush outside only to return empty handed.
We had no phones in villages those days and Ranjan's village was a good three hundred kilometres away. Even the letters took one week to arrive. Ranjan wrote two letters to Ramesh asking him to come and take Bhuban to the village for a week or two during Dussehra. But there was no reply.
We tried to console Bhuban, telling him that his father must have written letters, but these days the postal department has become very irresponsible. Didn't he know there was a report in the newspaper that in some area in Bhubaneswar someone found thousands of letters dumped in a garbage bin? Probably letters to Bhuban were in that heap.
Bhuban became inconsolable. For four months there was no letter, no news from his father. His eyes were often swollen from crying in the night. His smiles were tinged with a sadness that broke our heart. I found Kalayani wiping a secret tear or two thinking of the agony Bhuban must be going through. Bhuban refused to go away from our minds.
One night I had a strange dream. I saw a heap full of letters in a garbage dump - post cards, inlands, envelopes, packages, all kinds. Out of them one post card somehow managed to fly away. It looked familiar to me. Yes, I could see Ramesh's hand writing in the address! The post card went flying from door to door looking for Bhuban's address. Next moment I saw Bhuban jumping around, a long thread in his hand, a kite at the top of it. Oh, it is the post card which had turned into a kite and Bhuban was flying it with joy. The smile was back on his face. He was shouting, look, look, my letter!
Suddenly I saw another kite in the sky. It was a huge one, black, like a dreadful monster. It came near Bhuban's kite and started playing with it, trying to have a kite fight. Bhuban got frightened, he tried to wean his kite away from the monster kite. But he failed. In one cruel swoop, the monster kite came down upon Bhuban's kite and cut the thread. The post card flew away into the horizon, out of Bhuban's sight.
Bhuban shrieked and collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing.
I woke up sweating. The stab in my heart was unmistakable.
Somehow I thought God was unfair to Bhuban. He deserved better. God should have allowed the little boy to keep the letter, if there was any.
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
After the Tales are Told
A review of the stories from the 13 issues of The Literary Vibes
Sreekumar K
With tales no more being an inherent part of Short Story, the genre seems to have lost much of its popularity. Who wouldn't love to relate an O' Henry story or a Chekhov story and share the glory! But very few people read the present day short stories and fewer people write them. Poetry is suffering from a similar set back with more people writing it and fewer people reading it.
Both poetry and short story are like typical Indian dishes, they can be of great taste or no taste. Any poem will take much less time than a short story, thanks to it being short. But brevity does not refer to length, one has to remember, like solitude is not loneliness.
In the LiteraryVibes too, those who attempt short stories are rare. One reason, of course is time. Another is that, in appreciating poetry, the reader has a much more important role than what he has in appreciating a short story. One can scribble something and expect the reader to fill in for him, if it is destined to be a poem. But, this cannot be done in a short story. Most of it is the work of the author. Much cannot be left to the imagination of the reader. The authors, thus have more responsibility here.
Reading the stories published in online magazines, nobody has a doubt why they don’t make it to the print media. More space and no expense allow for the absence of being selective. Generally speaking, there is a sheer difference in quality between what gets printed and what fails to get printed.
But, reading The LiteraryVibes, I find that I am in the wrong. There are a good number of prose and poetry which surpass what appears in print. It is the same names that we see again and again, every week. Whoever comes in stays, but it is rarely that someone new comes in. Since the same authors have written several stories, rather than analysing the stories issue by issue I prefer to talk about them author by author.
Ananya Priyadarshini, a final year medical student, has contributed the most number of stories and so, her stories first. In her latest story Break Up, Break Down, Break Through, Ananya talks about a young girl’s personal sorrow. Ananya blends the story well with a random activity done by a girl child. Children are made so cute so that we are sure to take care of them, says scientists. But, we ordinary people know that they have been made cute just for us. Ananya goes a step further and says we are all made for one another and we only need to find the right place for each of us. There are no misfits. Thank you, Ananya. That is a relief! If we read all her prose pieces which are not always stories, we find a very grey head on young shoulders. However, this story too seems to have a small problem which the following story has in full measure.
In The Guardian Angel, we see Ananya coming out in a teacher’s outfits, not doctor’s.
"Ma'am, we all have got a sorrow seed each. When it sprouts, we have two ways to deal with it. Crush it beneath your 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!"
In spite of this paragraph being there at the climax, the story still flounders because we suspect that the author had a lesson up her sleeve. No one likes to be taught, though all of us like to learn. As writers, it is good if we can steer away from this intention to teach the world. One should never write to change the world. Write to change oneself. When we are not confident that our art will change the world, we ourselves volunteer to do so and spoil whatever was already there.
Ananya’s Doppelgänger is a very good story with a tale to tell. In planning and penning, she has spent enough time and energy to give us a very intimate experience of a remote village in Odisha as well as a happy feeling that fearlessness and love are the same. Only a woman seems to have a good idea about motherhood and the good idea is a great idea too. The real doppelgänger in the story are the speaker and Mannima plus half the world’s population, the women. This is a great example of how fearless and life saving a woman could be. Subtle to the core, the story leaves a scar in our hearts.
The uniqueness of her writing lies in her introspection and the perspective she gains from that. She has observed herself and goes in and out of her own writing. Often we don’t even know whether it is an assumed character or herself. This ability like the transmigration of souls is the quality of a good writer. One should be able to don any role and be as convincing as possible.
In ‘Wander Lost’, Ananya actually talks about someone who finds himself after getting lost. Silence can be very expressive and stagnation can be a different kind of flow. One may have to travel far to see what was just under one's nose. A young man travels a lot because his idol Kabir does the same. So, when Kabir changes his life, what choice does his disciple have? After all, where are we all going in such a hurry! The world is round and we are sure to come to where we had started from. Journey is a very common metaphor for life and Ananya has used it in a very subtle way.
Lungi Amma is character study in which the speaker gets an education from an illiterate lady. Life is such a large classroom that we often miss where the teacher is standing. Here the speaker finds her teacher in a woman whom she hates initially but adores finally.
We all crave for a different life fully knowing that not only is it impossible but pointless as well. This is what we have and there is no other option for the NOW. There never was the other option. The other options were always good dreams but insubstantial all the same. We all have longed to exchange our souls with the celebrities whom we adore at some point in our life. What if it is granted? Do we realize that the glitz and glamour in their life is not the only thing that comes with the exchange? It could be a package. There are things in their lives too they themselves want to discard at any cost. This great but simple truth is brought out through a simple tale by Ananya in her fairy tale or fable, The Soul Exchange.
In Bad Families, another truth is brought out. We see things the way we are and not the way they are. A change in perspective is all it takes to change hell into heaven or good into bad. Wisdom and maturity refer to one’s ability to change perspectives on one’s own or to have different perspectives.
After Ananya, the most number of stories were published here by Prof. Geetha Nair. She is a retired professor of English, a poet and a critic too.
First, her latest. Spiderman. If names can mean anything, the names of her characters mean a lot. Spiders have been around for long. So, Amar. The woman lives in the Iceland of loneliness. So, Hema. If not enough, Hema Sivan.
For Amar, insensitive to human beings, insects have got personalities and so, each species has a name. Human beings, have only one name. They don’t count. Hema keeps her traps open, but this fly evades it. That is only on the gross side. On the virtual side, it is the man who has the web of possibilities. But this is not his fly. Thus they both end up groping in the dark for each other. Spiders look only at the species specifications. Human being have no idea what they are looking for or looking at.
We get to know only the thought process of Hema. That is only fair. The other side of the story overflows the shelves anyway.
Falls, another story from her is disappointing. For one, there is enough for a full length novel in it. Both the story and the expression is cliché ridden. Two lovers choose to marry people they don’t love and end up in misery. Quoting Marlowe in such a story is unfair, totally. All through the story we get to hear a lot but see very little. Obviously, much too less was put into it.
In Vrindavan, the Lord is on vacation. Tragedies come to the good too. Opportunity knocks only once, from both sides. A student takes time to repay his old teacher with a harmless organ donation but is deterred from doing so by his fiancé. He changes the decision but only too late.
RK is an excellent story and one of the best stories in this collection. It is well conceived and carefully written with nail-biting suspense and interesting narration. There are questions that we just can’t answer and these questions are asked mostly by children. Life teaches us lessons even when we are bad students. Reminding one of the spirit of The Tempest, a couple learns a few lessons in the presence of Baby Mia, another Miranda. Pride goes after a fall. Not just Malgudi, the whole world is only a figment of our imagination and the earlier we wake up from our own nightmares in it, the better. When our wants have no place and even our basic needs are in short supply, that is the best time to learn lessons. Even when we know prayers won’t work but there is no other option, what is wrong with praying?
Close in its heels comes another good story, Legacies. Presenting a scene from real life, just like the reflection on a convex mirror in which you can see more as you crane your head, Geetha brings home a very humane observation. Shallow water runs deep. Who are we to judge? Human legacy is that of love and not hatred. This too will pass and the legacy we leave behind will also be one of love.
Religiosity, secularism and such words have a different meaning in each mind. And, there is this general view that a ‘maiden can have thoughts so long as she does not have words for them’. These two themes are explored in Geetha’s story Of Dogs and Men. More and more we see that many who think of themselves as secular, rational and anti-racist are not at all so, let alone those who think of themselves as modern. In this story, Amala, the heroine, walks ‘out of the room, carefully avoiding the shards on the floor’. She is not just lucky, she is educated and bold.
In Found and Lost, she is back to the animal world. Such a well written story is hard to find. Donning the voice of a snake, she expresses her own admiration for a snake catcher who has caught 35,000 snakes in real life. This may be the only story in the world in which one gets charmed (no pun intended) by a poisonous snake. This review is a spoiler, friends.You are supposed to read LV the same week it comes out!
In Pug Marks, man and beast comes together and we are not sure which is which. Blood is the element of activities and when pug marks dipped in blood move towards you, there is some scope for action. At one point, she says that all her characters were ravenous. Good warning! Abounding in metaphors at various levels, this story holds a proper mirror to human nature.
A piece of life’s uncertainties finds its place in The Special Day. To prove her point the writer has depicted a really tragic event.
Two more stories and we are done. I think it is a good idea to talk about these two stories in the same breath because they are equally good. There are several similarities as well as differences. They are Dreams by Afnan Abdullah and The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali by Mrutyunjay Sarangi. In Dreams, a young man wonders what to do about a poor boy he sees at a restaurant. Thinking, like his thoughts were going to help and then he leaves without doing anything. His father was busy and not thinking but he left a rasagula for the boy. We think thinking has brought us this far. But love is not a thought but pure action. This is a wonderful story where religiosity does not show itself much.
In The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, the table is turned on the benefactors by the beneficiary when a girl to whom a family gives some ice cream, offers them her own ware - a length of Jasmine garland. Here, more than the smartness and alertness of the girl, we are delighted to see a thoughtless moment which brightens up the life of a few people in the story and a lot of people reading it. Life offers us nothing good or bad. We make life so.
In both these stories, we see a very good model for writing. Art is being on the most extreme spot of a cliff of subtlety without tumbling over into obscurity and then oblivion. Both writers have understood that and use a suitable language, metaphors, events and emotional framework to bring us a great reading experience.
There is a lot in life which needs to be framed and wall-mounted. These are the game trophies of a happy hunter who hunts with pen, ink and paper.
Viewers Comments