Literary Vibes - Edition XVI
Friends,
Welcome to the Sixteenth Edition of LiteraryVibes.
A big thanks to all the contributors for making its pages so rich with vibrant themes and vivid colours. Kudos to our Technical Consultant Mr. Sivasenthil Kumaran for selecting wonderful pictures for the different pieces in every edition of LiteraryVibes.
Our heart goes out to Mr. Prabhanjan Mishra on the sad demise of his pet Puchi who was a heartthrob of the family. His poem A Bit of Ash is a fitting tribute to all the love showered on her by the doting parents.
We at LiteraryVibes are privileged to have excellent stories from four outstanding writers:
Mr. R. N. Sreedharan, Mr. Jayan Thaleeradi, Ms. Lincy Varkey and Ms. Binitha Sain. All of them are well known and acclaimed figures in Malayalam literature. We are grateful to Mr. Sreekumar for translating thier stories and bringing them into the family of LiterarayVibes. We look forward to more stories from them to adorn our pages. We also welcome Dr. Arun Babu Zackariah, a passionate and enthusiastic poet whose writings attempt to reflect the realities of our times.
We have been seeing reports from the media about the Herculean efforts at restoration and revival of the areas ravaged by the cruel Fani. We salute the resilience of the people and dedication of all those who are involved in the relief and restoration work. We firmly believe, from the ashes of the ruins a new order will emerge, singing the paeans of hope and triumph.
Happy Reading!
Warm Regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
A BIT OF ASH
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Alive and breathing, stirring,
the home of a being,
nothingness,
a crowed void.
The grass grows lush,
parked cars smell fabulous,
flowers bloom resplendent rainbows,
the dew burns in the sun’s iridescence,
and they wait for your arrival
from your upper room,
they don’t know you no more
need the creaking lift-ride;
you would be flying down
into their midst
on wings of Airavata, or
on Aladdin’s magic carpet.
Your mother soaks your ash
with her unstoppable tears;
your father buries in it
a seed of hope;
we dream, you will bloom,
a flower of rare fragrance
smelling of love and joy,
never wilting, never fading.
Will you wait there
until my ashes join yours
instead of a holy river, can we
live forever in that lovely confluence?
The grass will grow over us,
earthworms will burrow
and thrive merrily in our fertility,
the dew will keep us awash.
(Puchi left for God’s abode on 7th May 2019)
YOU KNOW WHO
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Another Lord Voldemort,
the Dark Lord behind a cloak,
a benign deceit of beauty and charm;
a flowery fleck over the distant sea,
like a mesmerizing divine halo
to the eyes in the sky, approaching
from afar, only the God was missing
from its beneath; a beast sat instead.
None could expect
the malevolence from
a noble guest, looking like
a furry naughty Easter bunny,
left behind by the last Easter
to land at Puri to seek
the blessings of the Lord;
it was allowed to unpack.
And was it a Pandora’s Box (!);
jumped out a supersonic wind,
whirling like the terminator Sudarshana.
A sea poured down from the sky,
trees submitted their decapitated heads
on a platter to Fani for trampling on.
It braided electric wires and twisted poles
in a macabre thrill, like Sir Ralph the rover’s.
Fani’s roving eyes searched for a thing,
the humans sheltered in a huge eggshell,
apparently brittle, but of tough steel
of resilience and courage. Fani banged,
bashed, and butted its ramming head,
against the shell; pushed, shoved, kicked
but to no avail. It retreated into the sea
defanged, blunted, bruised and bearded.
Men, women, and children sat around
in camps, hugging one another, holding
tenderly long forgotten hands that
hand-to-mouth day of hope and zest;
it felt ambrosia even on empty stomach
when a ferocious Fani roared outside,
venting its impotent fury. It tasted picnic,
the gruel-lunch served in leaf containers.
They know, they would return
to a blackened bareness, usurpers -
cholera and flu would be camping
in their tonsured villages to prey on them;
they know, they would not break; but
recreate their trees, crop, and cattle.
Give or take a few years, guests would
partake their hospitality in a new Eden.
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
MAKING LOVE (SHRUNGAARA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by – Prabhanjan K. Mishra
All my passionate entreaties
seem unwelcome
at her lips;
her eyes look distant,
cold hail
piling up by their rims.
But I hear the peahen
calling to my king cobra
coiled up in its cloistered den.
I eagerly step inside
her inviting portal;
taking her lissome form
in my besotted arms.
Disengaging from our
most satisfying coital bind,
I take an eyeful of her –
an enigma revealing languorously
as never before -
a drop of shimmering tear
shying away, faltering and inarticulate;
a few words -
archaic and grand, yet primal;
antiquated heirlooms -
chhatra and chaamar;
a dab of coy blush,
the field of half-bloomed Haragauraa?
No, none of these beauties
measure to her earthy grandeur.
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)”
A GRAIN OF PADDY, A FARMER’S DREAM (GOTE DHAANA PAAIN, 1999)
Arupananda Panigrahi
Translated by – Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The path to north
from our house
led to the weighing station,
to the rice mill.
The south-one
led to our farmlands,
to the cremation ground.
Father took paddy
to the weighing station,
to the rice mill
for weighing, or dehusking;
but the day
an eerie drone of cicadas
bothered us, the children,
with a sense of foreboding,
father had left the house
with his basket of paddy
by the backdoor, going south;
it made us apprehensive.
Would he reach
the field for showing, or end up
at the cremation ground?
Golden paddy grains
used to get scattered,
seasonal sowing for harvest,
from father’s iron-fist,
to bring us our morsels of food,
life’s foremost joy
for a farmer family.
Each grain of paddy contained
a microcosm of dreams
of ours, we the dreamers,
we the farmhand children;
the dreams reposed in reality,
in morsels of steaming rice;
even mother never neglected
the single grain that fell from
the bunch of sheaves
offered to God in our shrine;
she collected it
fondly in her sari corner;
also that single symbolic grain
she would pick out
from the last measure of paddy
sold to the merchant, saving it carefully
as her precious token;
each of these grains
stored in its womb
a farmhand’s invaluable dreams.
A GRAIN OF RICE, WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL? (GOTE DHAN PAAIN -concluding)
Arupananda Panigrahi
My father, a magician,
would sow a fistfuls of paddy,
reap quintals of the grain.
A sorceress, my mother,
would convert a quintal of paddy
into pounds of fine rice
using her dehusking machine,
our native Dhenki.
My wife, an astute conjuror,
would put a handful
of the rice
into her big boiling pot,
take out a cooker-full
of steamed rice.
She would usher me in
to have my meal
a punctual salaried employee,
having his daily fare
of steamed rice
as breakfast-cum-lunch
by ten in the morning
before going to office.
Ha (!) I would point out
to a paddy grain,
unhusked and uncooked,
sitting on the pristine rice heap;
like the Biblical mote*
in the neighbours’ eyes;
it would worry all,
a spoiler of their hard work!
Could it be the grain
that my father left out
from his carefully stored
little stock
for the next sowing?
Could my mother’s
pounding machine
skipped it from dehusking?
Did my wife ignored it
while cooking with her cooker
that had boiled
and bubbled all over like a tease
to my wife’s pockmarked face?
The single grain of paddy
in my rice meal, a blemish,
worried all as their slip;
father blamed mother,
mother blamed my wife,
but wife found none
to blame below her station.
So, she put her tongue
firmly in a cheek,
“What’s the big deal, man? Hush!
Just pick it up and put it aside,
why make a fuss?”
(Mathew 7:5 - New Testament, Bible :- First remove the beam from your own eye before pointing at mote* in your brother’s eye(sic)
CINDERELLA GOES TO THE ELITE MEET
Geetha Nair G
Lady, my cat is dead: call up another to drive my pumpkin Merc.
This is a dream sari and the blouse seems gossamer; poems indeed,
I am remade, no; reborn in them.
These sandals are stunning; so is the matching clutch.
Shall I set forth , then?
But tell me again when I should slip out, still starry;
The witching hour?
I don’t want to be caught
Showing my skin to the literati among those glitterati;
Let them believe I am one among them,
Preening and throwing high-voltage words
To electrify.
And if Prince Charming wishes,
He can gaze his fill at me.
Let me speed down those steps
Before my garments drop like illusions
And I run unclaimed down the dark road
Leaving a startled cat, a sullen pumpkin,
While all clocks stop striking
And smile their lewd smiles
Ticking in unending passion.
SCENT OF ROSES
Geetha Nair G
The enormous Hall was brightly lit. It was filled with finely-dressed men and women. Slaves swung huge fans rhythmically to keep them cool. There was an air of expectancy, of excitement.
She was dressed in brilliant red. Ornaments shone like fire from her forehead, ears, nose, neck, bosom, waist and ankles. Her long hair was plaited and heaped with fragrant white jasmine. In her hands she held a red garland. She moved sedately by the side of her father. A minister was accompanying them. He was pointing out to her the young men who sat on the carved, throne-like seats. He would stop at each prince and speak of his kingdom, prowess, virtues.She barely heeded his words. They passed by several. Where was the man she had carved on her heart ? The young prince with dreamy eyes and curly hair whom she had seen by chance one evening. There had been music playing somewhere. He had thrown her a long look. It had pierced her and filled her with a sweetness she had never tasted before. A page boy had come running up to her and given her a red rose. From him. She had kept it in her casket, inhaling its heady fragrance until it turned to faintly-scented potpourri . Where was that man she had kept her garland of roses for? She knew he would not miss her swayamvara. Yes. There he was, at the very end, his face turned away from her. They paused near him. He turned his head. Horror! His face was a skull. Red roses sprouted from his eye sockets and his gaping jaw. The garland fell from her hands. She screamed in horror.
Several heads were raised briefly. She must have uttered some sound. The exam hall quickly went back to rustling silence. She bent to pick up the pen that had fallen from her hand. What on earth, she thought. Did I fall asleep, then? During the invigilation of a University exam ? Incredible. Never had such a thing happened in her fairly long innings as a lecturer in this college she worked in. She was known for her ability to detect and seize strips, scraps and rolls of paper scribbled with formulae, definitions, major points. Once, she had even caught a girl in a knee-length skirt whose thighs were covered in artful script ! She could never understand why these misses couldn’t have spent an hour a day studying… . But to think she had dozed off ! Yet, slips had been a problem for some months now. In full swing in class, she would reach, gasping , stunned, for a name, a year, a line that she had always known like the back of her hand. It would elude her, stay just out of reach. Once she had walked into the right class and taught the wrong topic. Another day, she had walked into the wrong class and taught the wrong topic. It was very worrying indeed.
She got up and resumed her swivel-eyed prowl, starched cotton sari crackling as she walked.
What a weird dream it had been ! She and swayamvara.! It was absurd!And her father; poor, dead, retired bank manager, shabby dresser, wearing a king’s garb and taking her down the prince-studded path ! Her’s had been an arranged marriage; her parents had chosen a suitable man, she had okayed him and that was that. Her marriage was a satisfactory one.The Prince on horseback must have emerged from her childhood reading. But what of the roses? Where had they emerged from ?
It was then that her eyes fell on a dupatta that a student had draped over the back of her chair.They did that, some girls, to be unhampered while writing. She stopped at the chair to look at the dupatta more closely. It was white with lovely red roses all over it. As she looked, the roses started moving swiftly. They converged and became a single red rose. Suddenly, there was a scent of roses in the hall. She picked up the dupatta, kissed the single rose and and wound the dupatta round her neck. The startled girl gaped at her, then started to giggle. Quickly, others too started sniggering and murmuring.The noise in the Hall seemed deafening to her. In fury, she snatched the written sheets from the girl’s desk and tore them. Now the girl was shrieking. People were running towards her. Then it was she who was shrieking… .
Everything was strangely silent. Had she fainted and been carried out of the exam hall ? She did not dare to open her eyes. O how would she face the consequences of her act? Her unforgivable act? How could she face that poor student, all the others ,her colleagues, the Principal? O! the pain of it, the shame of it ! She would flee the place and send in her resignation. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
Why, she was not in college. She was in bed ! She was in a pale blue nightie, not in a sari. The ceiling fan whirred above her. No exam hall. No dupatta. No torn answer sheets. It had been a nightmare, yet another of them! She heaved a sigh of relief. But where was she?
“Just one more injection,” said a voice. She turned towards it. A nurse stood by her bed, holding a syringe. She tried to jump up. Restraining arms pinned her down. She felt the needle enter her arm. She heard the nurse say, ”’One of her bad days; now and then she has these bouts.” As she slid into oblivion, a fragrance in the air reached her. The scent of roses.
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
THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER RELOADED
Sreekumar K
The flood had receded since the monster’s plumber had done a good job. This was a great relief for the ant community who were anxious to see their relatives who were trapped on the other side. Though the monsters still thought that the ants communicated using pheromones, they had developed their own language soon after the Renaissance when they found that a chemical white mark at Antinople across their lines played havoc with their communications. The chemicals gave some a high and some a low. For the first time in their history they found the communications funny and still enjoyable. Those who had the guts to publicly declare that it was desirable were labelled defectors and heretics, and were excommunicated. Still, a group of mavericks, met in deserted ant hills and developed a new language that didn’t use pheromones, but just their limbs. It had a sizeable vocabulary of 200 or more basic words made using the permutation and combination of signs using their legs, mainly based on how many legs were up and which ones.
Earlier, when the ants communicated, with the help of pheromones they were all completely connected to one another and there was no hiding anything, fancying anything or imagining anything. Two ant brains were connected like two neurons in the monsters’ brain, with the pheromones acting as neurotransmitters. Basically, ants on a hill had one single brain divided among a million bodies.
Life was easy, but not beautiful. Their architecture evolved rather slowly, even slower that they themselves evolved.
It was Sachrine, son of Sugar, who first theorized that it is possible to develop a language which could be used for higher purposes. There was a lot of resistance from the community. He was almost excommunicated. But he was insulated by his stature as the son of Sugar who, as a child, had discovered a new route to some valuable food sources on the other side of a deserted puddle, .
Sachrine theorized that it was not so much of an advantage to have total communication. This was at the cost of unreality, fantasy and imagination which were totally new ideas. What is the point of talking about things which aren’t simply there,they asked. But he didn’t give up.
By citing history, he proved that reality is not what is. In hind sight, it also included what will be. In simple terms, what is not there today will be there tomorrow. By developing a language in which you can tell lies, you can also envision your future. It will help them create it sooner and better. One question that he asked reverberated through the inner chambers of the anthill. Why are we saving for a rainy day since it is not raining now? So, (he argued) there was reality in the future whether we realize it or not. The first step to bring it into reality is to see it in the mind.
Sliding up the bedroom curtain, a short cut to the attic, Sachrine was laying it all out for Jaggiri. She was from a very traditional clan and had not got any radical ideas in her head. He was more refined than her. Other ants used to say that Sachrine wanted a wife who wouldn’t interrupt him when he talked. A few said that he only wanted to flaunt his anti racist chauvinism when he chose Jaggiri.
“Jag, guess what, there was a time we were all wired together and nothing much happened even in years. The new language has given us the freedom to choose between total and partial communication and see how antizens prefer partial communication and we have changed the way we think, act and build, mostly build. The new language gave us the freedom to explore things personally which brought in variety and a lot to share. When we all saw red as the same red and called a spade a spade, there wasn’t much to share. In fact, now we are a community enriched by unreality which is otherwise known as imagination.”
Jaggiri didn’t say anything. Personally, she had never chosen to use the new language much. Her happiness in that patriarch society depended mostly on knowing her husband’s mind, his likes and his dislikes. Her very existence depended on being one with her husband.
“Dear Sach, I am always impressed by the things you talk about and what the others talk about you. May be, if we remained in my own clan, a matriarchal one, I would have cared much more for what you think and say, opposed them or defended them. Given the kind of society that we live in, I don’t see the need or the point in doing so.”
“That is so mean of you, to say the least. Beyond I and you and our little Glucose, there is a society out there which we need and needs us. It is OK to be part of it and do what we are pheromoned to do. But, since we now have the freedom to go beyond our innate instincts, one has to see the whole picture, not only because we can see it but also because we can plan to alter it. See what the monsters have done with it.”
“O, you’re right, look at them! They are trying their best to have complete communication and live happily like what they think we do. And we are trying to be like them. Sach, do you think they are happier than us?”
“Well, happiness is not something you have. It is something you are.”
“That is just a play on syntax. When we were courting, you had not yet invented this new language and I knew exactly what you thought. And you too did the same. But, we were not happier then than we are now. And even now, I don’t think we are noticeably happy anyway.”
“Jag, you are skirting the issue. We were actually discussing what role we play in society. Is it that of a subordinate or that of a leader?”
“Sach, do you remember that before you and your friends brought in this new language and all that go with it, there was no subordination. I did my work and they did theirs.”
“Jag, but don’t forget you had no choices either. It was a tight net and we were all tied up. There was no freedom in it.”
“See, you wanted freedom, and now you want to be responsible for the whole clan too. I doubt if there is much freedom in it.”
“You got me wrong there. My concept of freedom is not a personal feeling. We are sympathetic by default. All living things are. So, I don’t think I will be happy as a tyrant like the ones among the monsters.”
“But we were responsible for the group even when we were wired tight together and had no choice. That is what life does for you. Minimum guarantee to thrive and multiply.”
“But Jag, if we accurately look at it, this new life also is the result of that wiring. There was a purposeful snag in our wiring which triggered this whole evolution as linguistic beings. This too is the work of life.”
“But the snag wasn’t in us. It happened when the humans used pesticides on us.”
“Life is not a single species affair. I am talking about the life of anything and everything.”
“Sach, no wonder they call you Sach, the Impossible. You always have the last word. Or let me correct myself. You have been wired to do so well. We ordinary souls are wired too badly.”
Jaggiri regretted the conversation. She wished she hadn’t taunted him like that. Then, with a sigh she told herself that she was wired to respond to this, at this point of time, to this person, in this way.
For the rest of the way they didn’t talk to each other at all and when they reached their anthill on the monsters’ attic, there was a bad dispute going on.
A grasshopper had come begging for food and the workers were teasing him asking him where he had been when they were saving for a rainy day. He had no reasonable answer to give. Sacharine didn’t want to get involved. The workers were never in good terms with him since he was the sole reason why working class was not a birthright any more. However, Jaggiri looked into the situation and argued that the surplus food could be given to the grasshopper too for the minimum price of a song a day.
The grasshopper was pretty old and it sang its swan song in a week. Jaggiri felt no qualms about inviting the worker ants to feast on its carcass.
That night, cuddled in Sachrine’s arms, she asked him what he thought about rebirth.
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
TAKE YOUR PICK
Dilip Mohapatra
You browse the channels
on your TV
till you settle down on the show
that fascinates you.
You flip the pages
of your menu cards
and choose
your favourite dishes to order.
But why do you attempt
to pop up an overdose
of sleeping pills
when shrapnels
from your broken dreams
pierce your vulnerabilities
or when your insecurities
suffocate your self confidence
like a boa constrictor ?
It doesn't have to be
between the devil and the deep sea
neither it's always
to be or not to be.
You need to take off
your blinkers
and look around for
the panoramic view around
and beyond
the horse offered by Hobson
and see what best you can see.
You don't have to be
constrained by simply wrong or right
and limited by the
opposites in pairs
or be cornered by the Ultimatum game.
You surely have more options
than just black or white.
OPTIONS
Dilip Mohapatra
I could sow the seeds of my paranoia
and nurture it to germinate
and in due course
on the boughs of malevolence
flowers of persecution
would bloom
which would have tongues
of fire that could lick around
and burn everything
to ashes.
Or I could distil all my thoughts
both loving and loathing
and pick up the pure distillate
in a crucible
after the vile
and vituperative volatiles
evaporate
and then allow it to sublimate
into nothing
with zero mass
through a transformation
that perhaps
is transcendental.
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.
BACK TO THE BEGINNING
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
We walked hand in hand
Looking at each other
Not knowing the destination ,
Without any specific intention ,
Just going for the sake of going
Wherever the legs were leading.
I considered you as my destiny
And wanted to hold you tight
Never realizing that a gulf had set in
Between us in the meantime.
Our paths have got drifted apart
Though we still were in parallel track
Not able to touch, no way to interact
Nevertheless, connected at heart.
We are about to reach the place
From where we both started, face to face .
Difficult to say, what each of us gained,
Individually, in the process.
Now, it makes all the sense
Collaborating for the old times sake
To complete rest of the journey
Again in each other’s company
Walking hand in hand to bridge the gulf
That ruthlessly separated, both of us.
"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.
THE WHITE RAVEN
Ananya Priyadarshini
White Ravens are eaten by their moms few days after they hatch. They're not as rare as one might think, majority of them just don't make it to the adult life. White Ravens ain't albinos, they just don't have melanin in their bodies. The few of them who manage to grow up to full size and they're bullied by fellow Ravens because they're different. They seldom breed because nobody likes them. They're on their own for their entire lives.
We're not talking much fauna here. Just that, we don't have the right to call ourselves a superior species to Ravens when it comes to discriminating on the ground of skin color.
I've been brought up in a family whose children stay in different houses for the sake of their parents' job lives, but are otherwise a family as a whole. We cousins share a very close bonding with each other. Our parents have mostly opted for 'one-child' norm leaving us with no choice but love our cousins as dearly as our own siblings. The cousin, Mickey is particularly one of the most precious gifts I've been bestowed with by destiny.
Mickey is my first cousin and she's everything I'm not- calm, quite, creative, well behaved, intelligent, responsible, caring but/and, DARK SKINNED. Compared to her I'm nothing but a fair-skinned urchin. But, I've always been valued more, by almost everyone. (Though my activities attracted an inflow of complaints about me everyday- from various sources!)
"Come sing us a rhyme with actions!", I'd be approached at all family gatherings by some Uncle-aunty and never her though I always sing wrong lyrics. "Stand farther from kunmun (my nick name). You look darker than usual standing beside her", she'd always be instructed aloud in a room full of people whenever a group photo was to be taken. "Apply some more cream on her face so she looks whiter at least for one evening", her own mom had once taunted during her birthday celebrations when her friends were smudging cake icing on her face as a compulsory ritual. "Let her dance in the front", our school teacher would say to a trained odissi dancer like her to give away the front row to a potato bag like me just because she had dark complexion.
Somehow, this never broke her spirit or faded her smile away. She loved me, more than any other cousin. She'd never bad mouth me, intelligently cover up my faults and help me in studies too. But till I turned twelve or thirteen, I enjoyed the superiority complex devilishly. She'd never complained, let alone rebelling. She had turned thick skin to all illogical insults being thrown at her. Her goodness didn't make much difference but just caused the intensity and frequency of the insults to rise day by day. I remember myself being in ninth and she being in eleventh garde when I'd taken a firm stand for her, for the first time.
There was satyanarayan puja at her place and the whole family had gathered there. She'd made panchamrit for Prasad, all by her own. But one of the aunties didn't find it sweet enough.
"It's not edible. Do one thing, put it on your face. At least you'll look whiter. Or should I do it for you?", And the aunty actually raised her hand stained with panchamrit towards her face as her own mom, who made her apply we egg white and all damned fairness products available in the market on her skin to lighten it up, watched in silence. I caught her hand mid-air and said, "Mickey Dee, bring all the sugar you've back in kitchen. We'll add them up in panchamrit and shove it down aunty's mouth. At least the sweetness would reduce the bitterness in her tongue a little!", Suddenly, silence took over all lips that were till now laughing at Aunty's terrible sense of humor. Mickey Dee ran in, crying. That's how I solemnly achieved my title- 'Fury'.
"What you did was right. But how you did can't be justified in anyway", my mom didn't speak to me for a week as punishment after the incident. And, nobody ever dared to mock Mickey Dee again, at least not with me around.
Our friends were equally nincompoops. When she wore a beige colored bottom, they'd say- "oh skin color bottoms! Nice, but didn't the sales girl tell you that it's not the same shade as 'your' skin?". When I wore a beige bottom, they'd say- "Did you forget to wear your pants today?".
In one of the weddings, a fat lady was looking for a suitor for her son. Mickey Dee's parents were made to converse with them about Mickey Dee through a middle man. However, the lady said she would rather choose me because "Mickey has a good face cut but a darker complexion. Kunmun's complexion is so bright though she's an, otherwise average cut."
"Actually, everyone in my family has a dark complexion. She (me!) can break the trend in our pedigree chart", the prospective groom said laughing aloud jovially. I was overwhelmed to see someone with a worse sense of humor than the panchamrit-aunty.
"Well, you're rich. You look handsome. But you're an absolute Twit. So, we both dump you. Sorry, mate!", I spontaneously told. The mother-son duo turned swollen red. Mickey Dee got hold my wrist. But none stops fury! I just wanted them to know that we ain't Barbie dolls set on display for them to choose whichever looks the best. We've got our own damned minds to think and a tongue as sharp as scissors that can rip you apart with fluent sarcasm. "Nobody would marry her if she keeps talking like that!", Almost everyone at the wedding had warned my mom that evening.
"Kunmun....", My mom was about to lecture me that night when I cut her in the middle and howled, "you really want any of us to get married to a spineless idiot who wants a wife just to break the trend of his pedigree chart?"
"No, I wanted to say that I'm proud of you for what you did today. And you've better things to break- say glass ceilings or stereotypes!", She told and I hugged her tightly.
(My mom still made me apply coffee-honey paste and turmeric-sandal on my face just to remove the tan and pimple marks that'd otherwise look prominently on my fair skin!)
Years have passed and Mickey Dee has found her prince charming who loves her for the kind soul she's. I've not found anyone for nobody could really confront the natural disaster I'm. We've, however met some really good people after moving out of our respective homes who honestly think that complexion isn't a thing to judge a person by, in any sensible way.
Mickey Dee's parents didn't support her marrying her prince charming so, for the first time ever, she said with all firmness- "Back then, you had problem with how I looked. Now, you've problem with whom I'm marrying. I couldn't do a thing then and don't want to do a thing now."
She's invited me to her wedding. She wants me to be one of the witnesses. Yes, she's opted for a court marriage. I've been gushing and crushing over dark skinned guys. She's said I'm going to meet someone like that at her marriage! She's been my secret keeper and I'm her partner in crime till now.
May not be at her marriage, but I'm quite hopeful about finding someone with whom I'll have kids with. I won't teach them what's pretty and what's ugly. I'll teach them how to look at things and encourage them to find beauty wherever they can!
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.
TRIMITRI COAST
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Lay the Trimitri coast calm
A lighthouse towering to boast,
Shedding streaks of hope at dark
Saying,’ A land to weary is here’.
Galleys on trade at sun’s demise
Prayed for Trimitri’s guidance .
Thanked they in mind the old watch
For his unfailing call to duty.
A thundery day, the grey beard watched
Gulls flee, clouds scurry,
Sea slashing, wind hammering.
‘Heaven has helled’, yelled the watch.
Raging tempest, hurling rain ,
Raging thunder, spearing lightning,
Quivering earth, gashing coast.
Crumbled lay pride, light of Trimitri.
Horrified old, sheltered by a cave
Aside the looming cliff spying coast,
Saw in a flash a mastless ship tossing,
Graspless how or were to head.
‘Let death not intrude, sailors be saved,’
Prayed in earnest the old beard.
Shouted he though feeble, waved though frail.
To no avail, in peril was the vessel.
Deep in cave a flicker he saw
Although his eyes swelled in tears.
Then a shimmer in his cerebrum,
For that was the lone way.
Not a hundred, a thou crisscrossed,
Yes! Those little warm glow worms.
Collected he many into his blown out lantern
And sped to the top of the cliff.
And there emitted a green radiance,
A path of hope to those in peril.
Brighter it was than once lighted tower
And saved many at the Trimitri’s coast.
Sailors in havoc, still today,
Call upon the old watch’s spirit,
As should be believed, up on the cliff it
Appear with that green radiance of hope.
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.
THE FRAGRANCE OF DARKNESS
Sreedhar R. N.
Translated by Sreekumar. K
Unnimaya opened the doors, very very quietly. The moon had gone into hiding leaving the stars, asking each other by their winking where the moon had gone. She felt rather jealous of the quiet valley sleeping all wrapped up in the woollen darkness.
She herself had not slept properly for days even though her new stature as an unfortunate widow had been shrouding her in its white blanket for weeks now. Her own life's monstrosity scared her.
Her days with her sick husband were few and uneventful. Their marriage was only a ceremony of convenience to ward off a bad name her family had earned.
"It is all right. What is more important is that you saved us from disgrace. No one is going to say that marriages won't happen in our family." Those were the first words that she heard from her own family members when she visited them after her husband's death.
Instantly, she sensed that she didn't belong there. She had been grafted on to a new family, her husband's. She may wilt and wither there, as her fate decided. She knew it was going to be night round the clock in her life from then onward. Against that, this pitch darkness, however grainy and think it was, was nothing to worry about.
All over the extensive paddy and far away beyond it, she could spy with her moist eye fireflies, glow worms and actual lights supporting the illumination high up in the sky.
She pressed her face to the cold and dew wet window bars. Slimy grease from the long disappeared abundance and affluence made them sticky and gave them a stench of death and decay.
Low dull indistinct noises from a rich homestead across the paddy, thought usual, caught her attention today. The lady there, possessed by a celestial lover, began her day at midnight. She had turned her day into night and night into day long back. She woke up at midnight, took a long bath in the pool nearby, sat in the threshold leaving her hair to dry, and then all dolled up went to the expansive dining hall, all alone.
Her celestial lover accompanied her all along.
Those who went to check on this were found half dead in the paddy the next morning. Then people gave up. She was left alone. Nobody wanted her company of any sort.
She celebrated it with her celestial lover there. For that beautiful lady days and nights were undisturbed mirth and frolics.
Unnimaya herself had witnessed in her childhood the elaborate pujas and rituals held at that rich house. When everyone in that house died one after the other, this spinster was left to take care of herself. It was around the same time that the house showed signs of being haunted.
At the usual auspicious time, the lights in that house went out. Now was the time for the the celestial lover to take leave and for the lady to hug the angel sleep will keep the house for herself and quietness till the next night. .
Unnimaya glanced at her mother's face, dried channels of tear making it deeply sorrowful even in her sleep, her asthmatic breath hissing and panting like a wounded child in the dark.
Delicately, she placed her hand on her mother's forehead. She was her only relative in this whole world. Unnimaya's widowhood had taken much life out of her mother. She was mostly confined to this bed and to this room.
It was getting dark. So, the soft foot falls in the courtyard flustered her more than a little and brought her back to the present time. An unknown presence made an invisible shadow in the front courtyard. She felt an unusual fear enshrouding her.
Dawn and dusk had never added a spot of colour to her days. So, she felt it even more strange to see the lady of the rich house, more fresh than the dawn and more beautiful than the twilight, standing in her courtyard.
She was never seen by anyone at a time like this.
"I was planning to see you for long. Could make it possible only now."
Even as she spoke the air was getting thick with a strange fragrance emanating from her unblemished young looking body as if they were standing on a garden of white lilies in full bloom.
Her fingers were drumming on the moth eaten wooden gate posts of the threshold as if she had no time to stay and was in a hurry to leave. She held Unnmaya's hands for a while and a fresh smile bloomed like a spring all over her face.
"Forget, Unnimaya, all that has happened like a bad dream. Revive your life. You are the only one left for your ailing mother."
Unnimaya crossed the threshold as she turned to go and accompanied her to some distance. The lady's presence filled her soul with an ethereal sensation of joyfulness.
"Never be like me, dear. You may be a widow, but you are a virgin too. Never forget that. And you are very very pretty. He will come to you at nights, sneaking in through the darkness. His celestial charm might tempt you and entice you. He is beyond time. He comes in all forms and speaks so sweetly. He might even come in the guise of people you are familiar with. But once taken, you belong to him, to them."
Unnimaya looked askance at her and recalled the footfalls outside the previous night.
"I have seen your presence near the window late into the night. Sleep is a mirage. Conquer it. And when you get time drop in, but make sure you come before night falls. Don't waster your whole day here. Don't mention my visit to your mother. She won't like it. She thinks I am a wretched woman."
As the celestially beautiful form walked across the courtyard and disappeared in the distance, Unnimaya heaved a sigh. She felt much relieved internally too.
That night too she heard heavy footfalls in the darkness of the courtyard. She was frightened much but for some strange reason the pretty face of the visitor in the afternoon bobbed up in her mind and it gave her strength.
She decided to pay her a visit the very next day.
Without telling her mother, of course.
The very next day, in the evening, when her mother was enjoying an undisturbed sleep, Unnimaya made it convenient for her to go and visit her mysterious neighbour at her own mysterious residence.
Birds which had flown back to the nest were trying to calm down their young ones who had long missed their mothers.
The way side flowers kissed her nimble feet from both sides of the untrodden narrow path. Frogs jumped off from the embankments into the water to turn around and stare at this intruding stranger.
The fragrance of while lilies told her she had reached her destination. She looked up to see a high rising old house, with regularly spaced soot marks from the oil lamps hung all around, with their wicks long since lit. A sad soft breeze sat lightly swinging on the lonely swing that hung from a much pruned mango tree in the corner.
She walked stamping on the relenting dead leaves that lay on the unswept courtyard. Everything was quiet.
'May be another day, she might be asleep' Unnimaya said to herself. But she suspected some ethereal music coming from somewhere around the house.
She didn't want to stick around for long and was about to turn around when she heard a very familiar male voice from the paddy nearby.
"Where are you from, little one?"
From the paddy field and old man, with his hands held over his eyes to block the last rays of the sun, was staring at her with anguish. It was a ankler she knew.
"I am from that house over there."
"No one comes here now, that is why I asked. After she drowned in the pool a month ago, the place is left alone."
In a whispered voice he mumbled, "Dead or killed, who knows! Some people say..."'
Unnimaya ran for her life. She was panting like a dog when she reached back home.
Seeing her mother at the threshold, Unnimaya felt reassured. There was indeed nothing to fear. She collected herself and stood close to her mother.
"Where have you been? How many times I told you not to go near the paddy at dusk?"
The oil lamp was lit and hung outside. She looked at the long shadows cast by the dim light of the lamp. Along with the acrid smell of the burning oil, the sweet fragrance of while lilies hung around her like a bad dream.
"O, I forgot to tell you. That lady is no more. Now there is no one to light the lamps there. She was seen floating dead in the pool one morning. Poor thing. Its life ends there. When your husband died, she had come here asking about you. When she was young, she was famed to be possessed and there were rituals and pujas there every month. And, so, nobody came to marry her. People say that she had someone living with her. But no one has ever seen such a person."
Even after her mother teetered slowly in to take rest Unnimaya stood there, welcoming the darkness inching in from the far corners of the courtyard. She went in to take a look at her mother who was already sound asleep.
She let down her luxuriant hair and grabbed a towel. Stripping herself naked, she draped the towel around her, its rough edges tickling her all over. She smeared some perfumed oil lavishly on her hair. Taking a fresh cake of soap and holding it close to her nose to enjoy its refreshing smell of lilies, she tiptoed her way in the spreading moon light to the pool beyond the courtyard.
The house stood well lit in numerous oil lamps.
Sreedhar R N is an engineer by profession and focussed on online groups with his stories and poems which are in Malayalam.
SEASONS
Jayan Thaliradi
Translated by Sreekumar K
It was winter.
In the deserts, snow flowered in an extending white line beyond the sandbars. Raindrops, which never made it to the sweltering sand, but vaporized into nothing in the scorching heat radiating from below, now dripped unceasingly from high above.
The ravishing fragrance of the freshly wet tarmac had just lost itself like in the desert winds. We, four roommates, were in a car that sped along the road which stretched all the way to the horizon. Etching evanescent figures on the window panes, like some mischievous Arab kids, the tiny hands of the rain passed us and disappeared behind our car.
We were on our way to see Sonal, a Goan friend of ours lying in the ICU breathing his last. Our deep set worries about him fogging our minds, like the dull cold rain outside, now roused itself and struggled to come out in the open.
From the very beginning and all along the ever stretching straight road, Prasad from Palkkadu was very quiet and seriously focused on his driving, though no such caution was necessary.
"Even today Sonal's wife rang up."
The sonorous voice of Vishal, the young singer among us, poured onto the the frozen silence in our midst.
Usually I ask him to sing some love songs during arduous journeys like this. But today the music lover in me was overpowered by the solemnity of the situation. However, the change in his usual conversational tone impressed me. He used to talk endlessly of Sonal's wife, her voluptuously oily skin, in words which were indecent, yet harmless. He didn't resort to anything like that today.
"I think Sonia suspects that something has happened to Sonal, right?"
I expressed my anguish and as Vishal nodded his head in agreement. Gopan who had cast his eyes out through the window, enthusiastically joined in.
"Ajyayetta, by the way, the nurse from Kottayam, the one who looks after Sonal, her name is Sony."
From then onward, like how it happens with four men left together in any corner of the world, the girls were the point of discussion. Moreover, while Prasad with his interest in girl from his own place, talked about Ashley from Palakkadu, Vishal talked about the fragile and delicate Anu. They were all trying to warm themselves, the same way I, who was married and the father of a girl child, meditated on the nameless form of a Saudi lady doctor I had seen at this hospital once.
After an hour we were at the first gate of the King Fahad Hospital, turning around the one and single bend in our that day's journey. Even as we hurried through the entrance, I still found time to watch the cold drizzle falling all over the large puddles outside the hospital, a sight that would have made anyone working here get terribly homesick. But it is just plain snobbery to recall the monsoon rains dripping into the temple pools. Once we are home, we usually curse the rain as we shuttle between shopping malls.
I left the 'temple pools' and went up the steps, two at a time. Winter had made people wrap themselves up in thick woollen clothing which made the crowd outside the ICU look thicker than it really was.
The Arabs who are animated talkers were rather quietened by the chill in the air. We all went in to see Sonali and went out faster than we got in. Coming out, we went on chatting about Sonal’s health to Sony, Ashley and Anu and responded with concern in our face though not much in our hearts. Slowly, the talk drifted off to getting to know them more personally, their whereabouts, their hobbies, lesisure time and so on, but I sat alone in the cold steel chair in the veranda like a grand-sire.
From where I sat, I could see an old lady looking at a six-member Malayali family and still engrossed in her work. Using a long brush, with an easiness quite unbecoming of her old age, she went on with her routine cleaning work on a granite floor which was already very clean. As she came near me, I shifted on my chair making it more convenient for her to continue with her work. But she told me not to.. and that too in a rare Malayalam dialect.
Then she tended to me a sweet toothless smile.
"Sister, how long have you been here?" I managed to find an appropriate question that fitted the occasion.
After searching for some time to get hold of that uniquely grave information with an intense curiosity, in the depth of her memory, with the right facial expressions to go with such an arduous task, she said twenty five years.
As she related the story of her marriage at the young age of eighteen, five-year long married life, three children and living in abject poverty during the first years of her self exiled life here, I could clearly see each season blooming and wilting on her face.
I felt the same solace which I used to enjoy when I used to talk to my mother. But that was long ago. Now I felt light in my heart as I continued to look at her with compassion, not saying anything but listening to it all.
In between, some Malayali nurses went past us. She went silent and stood with an expression of coyness on her face.
Seeing the expression of curiosity on my face, she explained, "I have not tarnished my name here so far."
Though I found it funny for her to come up with such an answer, quite unbecoming of her age, I suppressed my laughter, and after exchanging a few more words with her, I left her to join my friends.
On our way back, the air was rather sultry.
They had procured the phone number of one of those nurses, surely given to them as a means of intimating the feed back on Sonal. But, it was a good reason for celebration for them.
The faces of a few women flitted across my mind.
The face of my wife, a mother for ten years, herself a frivolous character who had expressed a strange desire to be in her primary classes again, wearing a school uniform.
Another was the soft, young face Sonia, cherishing her twenty-day long memories, waiting for her man for ten years or may be even longer.
The rain had subsided and the snow was laid pretty thick on the embankments. The pale afternoon sunlight looked like it was bleeding to death.
The street vendors' baskets displayed dry fruits and groceries.
But there were no buyers.
The final words of that old lady lay like a lump in my heart
The smell of the hospital had not left me either.
Jayan Thaleeradi is passionate about writing and writes regularly for e-magazines in Malayalam. He experiments with different kinds of stories and ways of presentation. He is from Kayamkulam in Kerala.
WOMAN
Latha Prem Sakhya
Surging images, concepts of womanhood,
Taunts me with questions infinite.
What am I really? A far cry from the real being!
Donning the mask designed by patriarchy,
hiding my inner self,
A dissembler, a changing chameleon, ever acting.
Dancing to the tunes of father, husband and son -
Pillars of patriarchy, never missing a step.
A graceful swan, a moonbeam shining consistently
Ensconced in mores adamantine, giving only,
A doll, undemanding, a slave to one and all.
Yet misused, raped, mutilated, confined
Philomela, singing of woes infinite
In darkness invisible, weaving tapestry
With in her space, patiently awaiting
A revelation that shatters this strange state.
Will I ever shatter the ingrained fetters of bondage,
To reveal the untrammeled, free inner self?
Living instinctively, abundantly, unrestrained;
To establish a world order novel, an empowered self,
Adorned with everything human, shedding off the masks
Embellished with instinct innate and knowledge infinite,
Gifts bestowed by the Creator, transcending man’s ken
A sustainer and protector of mankind,
The flora and the fauna infinite
A free spirit, living joyfully, expressing naked truths,
Celebrating womanhood in all its celestial glory,
A real woman! A worthy human being!
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
REMNANTS
Lincy Varkey
Translated by Sreekumar K
"Writers should rain like a torrent. Shower hard and deep into human minds and sprout there."
As he said that, browsing the magazine which had my story in it, I looked askance at him. I could not figure out what the expression on his face meant.
"How is this one?,"losing my patience, finally I took the leap, my heart skipping a beat.
"Every story you write stinks of the west and its cultural garbage. And this is no different." He wasn't looking at me when he said that.
I felt bad.
I had taken so much trouble with this story which happens in the Russian soil. It literally broke my heart to compare with his comment the effort I had put in.
He sensed the pain I felt though I was trying not to show it in any way. But then, friends always find out.
His voice was much mellowed when he started again.
"I am not saying your aren't good. You are a good writer. But I personally prefer to read about the warm rivers, the green hillocks, the monsoon and all that. Our home. One never gets tired of talking about it. Bring it into your stories. Write about the all drenching rain there."
I wanted to tell him I had been trying to write stories and poems that pleased him. But try as I might, it didn't come out of my mouth. I toned down my words so much that they didn't express what I really felt.
"Haven't seen my place, its monsoons for long. I do miss it. All I see is the acid rain and that too from the safety of my car or my balcony. And I hate it, I hate it. You can't blame me for not writing about what I don't know anymore."
"Then why can't you just catch a flight, be there in time for the monsoon. You can feast yourself to your fill with all that you miss. See, you won’t do that. So, this is only a good excuse."
To express his disapproval, he turned the pages of the magazine skipping the rest of my story in it.
He is a strange character. He never meets me eye to eye. If I ever caught him glancing at me, he would look away or even down like a child who gave in to some disgraceful temptation.
How I wished for him to gaze into my eyes for a few seconds to see my dreams about him! But he always averted his gaze either discretely to save his face or rudely to spite me.
I met him in Toronto and that was long ago. I don't know how a bearded fellow, with his nose in a serious novel, caught my attention and made me lose my sleep since then. Too proud to lay bare before him my love-laden heart, and too jittery to lose him, I kept him as my constant companion all these long years. We had no secrets between us.
"True, true. You have a point there. I too felt suffocated here. I need a break. You are right."
As I said this, the image of a bearded man looking deep into my eyes to fathom the depth of my mind and soul loomed large in my mind.
And soon it an old rain drenched my mind, a rain I had seen while I languished on my grandma’s lap, with my feet getting all wet and dripping. It sent a warm chill all over my body.
**************** ************************* ******************
I was on my way back from my place.
The roads were rutted, rugged, slippery, with squishy mud all along. At some places the landslide had left huge boulders on the road and at some other places the road itself had slid down to the valley below. My driver drove the car with the skill of a drag racer. We raced downhill like a roller coaster gone wild.
It was early in the morning, and the first rays of the sun glimered in the east. In the saffron rays that streamed in through the mist, I could make out the figure of women with the pallav of their saris draped over their head and girls in woollen sweaters rushing to the church.
Nature had ended its war dance and had quitend down as if in regret. Even the birds had gone on a silent vigil. No wind and no leaves rustles and whispered.
The sight of a waterfall on the way made me shut my eyes tight. To drown its roar, I asked the driver to turn up the car stereo.
I tried to recall his face to ward off things that were clouding my mind. But, his face was already lying buried under those unerasable memories.
The driver left me at the entrance to the air port and I staggered in with two huge boxes on either hand and a small bag slung on my shoulder. I produced my ticket and passport at the main door to the lounge and was about to walk in when I heard the policemen shouting at someone behind me.
Heedless, I moved forward. But when I was checking in, the girl at the counter, with a great amount of consternation, looked with anguish at me and my boxes repeatedly. Then she called out to a man at the next counter to fetch the manager. When the manager ran in, he asked me to open my boxes and show him what was in them.
With some apprehension, I opened the box.
I was in for a shock.
There were no chips or fruits or pickles or any kind of goodies in them.
On one side of the box was a man, with fear in his popped out eyes, bracing his back against a house which was about to cave in on three children and a lady he was standing over. On another side was a small girl returning from her school, standing over a deep gorge left by landslides, hugging her books close to her chest and screaming out loud. On another side were some naked men and women cleaning themselves and their things with tears.
The second box had two rivers flowing across them. On their banks, the uprooted trees lay and on their broken branches were wreaths made of colourful plastic bottles, shredded sheets of flex and carry bags. Long stretches of floating plastic bottle bobbed up and down in the unseen ripples in the rivers.
On its banks sat a man with a long beard and matted hair, no hope left in his eyes. He was muttering to the himself "This too will pass, this too will pass" as if to convince himself.
As I stood rooted there, the manager shouted at me, "You can't carry this on flights."
I stood there for a moment and then took the boxes and walked towards two huge waste bins that stood outside. As I shook the contents of the boxes into those bins, someone held onto my fingers. It was that girl still holding on to her school books with her other hand. My heart went out to her. I wiped the tears in my eyes and shook my hand rather wildly. She was thrown away like a flake of snow in an avalanche, not to be seen again.
As I walked back to the lounge, the wails and screams from behind pierced my ears. I inserted the feather-soft plugs of my new earphone into the orifices of my ears and played an old song on life in the wilderness. I went around and filled my boxes with several things from the duty free shop.
A new poem was raining in my mind from a plastic rainbow hung from its ceiling.
Lincy Varkey, with some well acclaimed stories to her credit is from Kattappana, a township in the high ranges of Idukki, Kerala. She does enough homework as a writer and experiments with fresh, bold themes and employs a contemporary style of writing. She writes mostly in Malayalam for e-magazines. She lives with her family in London.
ANT FACE
Binitha Sain
Translated by Sreekumar K
"It is true teacher. She has an ant's face."
Little Abhi was out to prove it. I got interested in that second standard boy's antics.
I enjoyed the awe and wonder in his eyes and the twang and drawl in his words. But the whole class also resonated with talks about Kunjani, the girl with the face of ants, nicknamed Urumpi.
Friday, the last period is set aside for such small talk. it is such a relief to be one of them and immerse completely in their innocent world, forgetting the rest of the universe. Like a feather, floating with them sharing their small victories, little joys, tiny worries and trivial wonders.
It has been three moths since I joined this government school, grafting myself here, from Bangaluru metro with suffocating crowds that made one feel lonely to this backward remote village called Thattaramkunnu where one found solitude in loving crowds.
Today the talk was on nicknames. Drumstick, insect, crow, witch.. the roll call ended with urumpi, the ant girl.
Little Abhi was followed by more news mongers to fill me in about Urumpi.
"Her mother came to school recently and dragged her home. She never came
back,"said little Saju a little emotionally.
"Teacher, teacher, she can recover with the help of her ants anything that we lose. True."
"With the help of ants, really?"
For me they were more rural myths, yet to get into books. Have they made a demigod or something out of the girl?
The stories continued.
The girl had no real mother. A village woman called Thanki chechi discovered her near the image of a saint at the local church. She was an just born baby then.
What they heard from their elders flowed into my ears.
She made small mounts of fine earth and left ants on them. Following the path of the ants, she could find lost things like gold earrings, necklaces, anklets, pencils, eraser, balls etc. Several children were live witnesses to such miracles.
Ants won't bite her. Her home is surrounded with anthills with several kinds of ants. Every morning she made mounts and following the ants on them she was forever trying to find her own mother.
But the ants went back to their mounts and never graced her search with the discovery of her own mother.
Thus Kunjani was placed in my mind as a strange character in the village. Even when the bell ending the period rang followed by the national anthem, Kunjani scampered like an ant in the recesses of my mind.
An ant faced seven year old who made mounts, left ants on them and followed them in search of lost things, even her own mother.
In my mind, she was sad face too.
Urumpi, ant face..
The long bell that let the children out and the stampede that followed didn't register in my mind that day. My mind was elsewhere.
A thick fog of memories in my mind, hiding the furniture, the walls and the extensive corridors, conjured up the image of an eighteen year old, under a fully blossomed mango tree, leaning on the broad shoulder of Aneesh, a handsome young man.
"Soochu, look, ain't I right? Look clearly."
Followed by laughter.
"No, don't start that again. I am already angry."
"Just look clearly. See, the ant has the same face as yours. What a resemblance!"
He was holding a small ant close to her face.
"No."
"God, how your face turned red with fury, just like a queen ant!"
"I told you to stop. Antface.. antface.. antface indeed.. I am going."
"Hey, don't be upset. It is no simple insect, this ant. Do you know anything about them?"
"I don't know and I don't want to know."
"You should learn. They are the most social beings, it is said. They never live alone, do you know? We have to learn the spirit of hard work and dedication from them. They will teach us the importance of coexistence and unity. Do you know how many kinds of ants exist in this world?"
"My dear Aneesh chetta, I told you I don't want to know all that. Please leave me alone. Ok, you are a great mermologist. My God, how am I going to put up with this man my whole life!"
"Look, you are my queen ant."
"Your queen ant is leaving."
"Suchoo, wait Suchoo dear"
So sweet it was to hear my name repeated from my back. All separations are only for a sweeter reunion. All running away is only to be called back.
"O, Suchithra teacher, what happened! Aren't you coming?"
Out of the foggy time, I was pitched back into reality.
It was Sali teacher. She came looking for me when I didn't turn up at the staff room.
She was one of the fine souls I befriended in that village the day I landed here. She was like an elder sister. She had arranged my accommodation close to her own home.
Getting off the school bus, we walked together some distance and I loved to hear every word she said about her life, family and other things. Good listeners make good talkers out of quiet people.
When asked about Kunjani, Sali teacher too repeated what the children had told me. And one more truth.
Kunjani's mother was keeping her from school to make money out of her. Like I had suspected, they had made a clairvoyant priestess out of her. A priestess of ant gods.
Kunjani, the ant face. Even when I reached home, her innocent sad face, though I had never seen it, haunted me.
"You said you like bitter gourd. We have some. Tomorrow, I will bring a special bitter gourd dish just for you."
No one would have ever had such a good elder sister like Sali teacher.
"How long do you plan to go on like this? You are too young. I say that you should prepare for a second marriage. You will get a good man and life, I am sure."
That was not the first time Sali teacher was bringing that up. How could I convince her that this solitude was no loneliness, that being alone had become intoxicating for me, like the enchanting inebriation one feels when ants scamper up one's body giving one goosebumps all over.
Nothing in life is as sweet as memories of the good old days.
...........................................
"Take just one more gulp of this medicine, Aneesh chetta, please, just for me."
"Why Suchu, I am beyond it all. Why do you labour like this for a lost life. I will not even last another week. You find your own life. You sacrificed all you had for me who has nothing and no one. And now not even good health to last a week."
"Why do you want to bring up all that now? Leave it and take this medicine. I am sure gods will not forsake us."
"But I have lost all hope. My heart will not beat for long. I wanted to treat you like a queen, an ant queen. Ant queens only multiply. They don't have to do anything else. Even the king is only a servant who dies when the queen starts laying eggs. In our case, even that didn't happen. Much before all that my life is cut short.."
"O, stop it please, will you?"
I pruned your wings. But you should revive them. You should start a new life. A good job, a good companion, children.. you should fly up. Don't waste your life mourning on me."
Good companion. I have a lot of great companions, memories of Aneesh chettan and they will last a long time. And children....
My mind was racing like a small ant getting off a mount and following its signs to find its own directions.
Kunjani. I should visit her tomorrow
I got Kunjani's whereabouts from Sali teacher.
"Why do you want to see her? Do you believe in all this? You were asking about her even yesterday."
I only answered with a smile and it was obvious from her face that my smile was not reply enough for her.
I left home early in the morning. Crossing the barren paddy and the dried up stream, I found myself outside a small house.
Kunjani's home.
The front door and the widows lay closed.
May be it wasn't yet visiting hours, no one was in the veranda.
There were many anthills all around the house. There was a bigger one under the jack fruit tree.
A rough voice barked from inside the house shocking me.
"Hey Kunji, where are you gone? You wretched creature! Don't you know you got work in the kitchen before people come? And today is Saturday. There might be crowds here. Hey Kunji!"
Only the barking voice filled the courtyard. No one still came out. As I was about to call out to somebody, one of the windows was jerked open.
I saw a fat dark lady, reclining on her bed.
Probably Thanki Amma.
"Who has come so early this morning? Not yet time. If you are from far, wait there. It will take time."
I stood rooted there. I was trying to find an answer to my own question why I was there. I failed to find an answer.
"Where is this bastard of a girl? Gone again to find her cursed mother? Leave it there and come here. I know you are acting like this because you know I can't move about."
Her voice would have stopped the wind dead on its tracks. Not a leaf was moving.
Suddenly, from near the large anthill under the jack fruit tree a lean lanky figure walked into my view. Obviously her long skirt and blouse belonged to someone bigger and older. She glanced at me. She had a dark, lean and long face. Is this how ants look? Her eyes had a vague expression. Her hair which never touched oil lay matted around her tiny face.
She picked up an ant with her bare hands and walked back and disappeared around the same tree. I wanted to follow her. But the eyes that were snipe shooting arrows at me from behind the window bars prevented me from doing so.
"I am here to see Kunjani"
My words had no effect on her.
"I already told you to wait. No matter how far you are from, we have some rules here. You can't just walk in."
I thought she would have been born like this.
I was about to return when Kunjani again appeared following the same path as before.
She was following an ant.
It was rather slow. She was keenly looking at it, bent over and following it, the rest of the world lost to her.
When it was close enough, I found that it was not so small and that it had wings. It halts at places and then resumes its journey.
Slowly it reached my foot.
The ant stopped.
So did the girl.
The ant moved a little to the right and then a little to the left.
Then it seemed to look up.
Soon, it was scampering up my legs.
The girl bent down and then looked up at my face. She picked up the ant and stood there looking askance at me.
Her eyes donned a new glow.
The ant, either because it got pressed inside her small palms, or because of sheer fear, stung one of her fingers.
She shook her finger and the ant was thrown down on the ground.
From inside the house, Thanki Amma was looking at all that and showering abused at the little girl.
As I held her little soiled hands in my hand and softly massaged where the ant had bitten her, our eyes were moist and glowing. They had the same expression, that one saw on an ant's face.
Binitha Sain is a chemistry graduate and works as a Hindi teacher at a Primary School in Kerala. She writes poems in Malayalam and Hindi, and stories in Malayalam. She loves to read and writing is her passion. A couple of her stores have been published in magazines. She writes regularly for a facebook literary group called Nallezhuthth (Good Writing). Her story The Ant-face is a curious mixture of myth and reality where the fine line that separates them gets blurred in the presence of love that transcends all barriers of time and space. Binitha lives with her husband Sainudeen and two kids, Ilhan and Ilmeeya, at Aluva near Kochi. She would like to get some feed back about her story via e-mail: binithasaleem@gmail.com
DEFINED
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
Mind- like a cloud
Diffused and weightless
Transparent. Colorless.
Like Air!
Body- like a raggedy doll
Used and torn apart
Stained. Filthy.
Like Earth
Soul- like a child’s smile
Unblemished and pure
Transparent. Serene
Like god!
Words- like a holy chant
Not to be repeated
A prayer. Meaningless.
Like Morality!
Feelings- raw and bleeding
Not to be seen or felt
Oppressed. Forgotten.
Like a miscarried foetus.
Emotions- like a new moon night
Unable to find a way
Struggling. Vanishing
Like Black Magic!
Vengeance- frothing over
Burning holes. Burning you.
Dripping blood.
Bonding with time.
Like Death!
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha is an Assistant Professor of Nutrition at the Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi, Kerala. She is passionate about art, literature and poetry.
NATURE
Dr Samrat Shah
Every single day , I wake up to the same happy sight
Wondering how sun shines always so bright
Birds chirping and always taking a cheerful flight
And trees smiling forever in delight
Doesn’t nature need freedom
From it’s routine boredom
Reason is simple
Nature has no identity
They function anonymously
But surely harmoniously
That’s when I realized
Why are humans forever traumatised
Such unnatural preoccupations we harbor
Money , prestige, power
Is materialistic things only that we lure
Needs increasing more and more
Bcoz selfishness and indivuality is what we thrive for
Nature’s principles we need to mimic
Before our consciousness gets more sick
Because true happiness and joy is intrinsic
Dr Samrat Shah, MD internal medicine, consultant metabolic specialist and internist.... affiliated with Jaslok, reliance foundation hospital, saifee, bhatia, elizabeth hospital.
He is a consultant internist to the Governor of Maharashtra and writes poems on social aspects as a hobby. His email address is drsamratshah@gmail.com, if you are interested to share the feedback directly.
A PLACE TO CALL HOME
Disha Prateechee
It is hard for me stay
In the same place for a long time.
So I started looking for stories,
Stories in people.
It is more convenient than trying
To find home in them.
.
You can start with a word
Filling the blank breathes with more allegory .
I ended up creating
These massive cities made out of thoughts
Of all the strangers that I can't even remember,
Faces and names that are easy to forget
But what stays, are the stories.
.
I leave a slight desolation behind
You might feel it too,
Around the curls of the pages or edge of your favorite,
You keep coming back for more though.
There is subtle sadness and loneliness
In happy endings too
Maybe it's the end of beautiful story
Or death of a writer,
Who left his this world,
To build a new one.
.
You fell of the made up reality,
And so you stayed,
Stayed to discover a new reality
From the existing one.
But it's easy to get lost
In a stranger's smile and tears.
.
Maybe you feel like every word,
Every sentence, every thought,
And every sense is what you are feeling right now
Every full stop, every comma is telling you,
Screaming your story, your deepest secrets
Making you wonder, 'Do we know each other?'
Making you feel like I have known you since forever,
So you find a safe haven, a home
Which you have always sought
In a world that I built.
.
But listen,
Don't wait for me
In this world,
For I am in a different reality now
With identity unknown.
I, no more exist in places
Or people,
I reside in stories and tales
And die with them,
Each time they end.
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.
JUST GIVE A TRY!
Sruthy S.Menon
If people “ just talk” with each other
express themselves their true emotions
and contemplate on their life experiences
rather than wearing a mask
concealing ,
the real "You" hidden beneath
“silenced ...”
The world would have been a better place !
Firstly, if we try to know the person right beside us
and just Listen !
Keeping aside your valuable time
for someone,
who might be unimportant to you.
But still, you never know
if that one action of yours,
could completely change someone's life
and heal their inner frustrations
fighting back for so long !
Just give a try!
It would be worth it.
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 .
POST 23RD MAY 2019 - MAKING OF A MODEL NATION
Dr. Arun Babu Zachariah
There will be a collective amnesia post May 23
All vitriolic messages
Threatening messages launched by majority against minority and vice versa
Uncharitable messages against opponent candidates
Anti National allegations corruption allegation Speeches that can divide our nation will all be a thing of the past
It will be as if it didn't happen
What an irony that United Nations security council premanent members never intervened to stop the vitriolic messages
How will they as makers of arms and bombs interfere for the upkeep of peace.
Everyone abroad thinks the unexpected will happen
People abroad cunningly expect a civil war like in less fortunate nations
Those abroad think of more business for them as peace keepers.
Givers of loans from the international financial institutions they control. Getting a major stake in rebuilding after the destruction.
Deploying a military station of a super power .
But we are smart
We are a strong nation
We are a mature democracy
We know how to behave
Come May 23
And whoever comes to power
Our leaders and citizens will stop the drama going on till then and continue with normal life
We will remain a strong nation
all citizens will love and respect each other irrespective of religion, caste, political pary and class
Party that comes to power will respect the opposition.
The Constitution will reign supreme
Legislature, Executive, Judiciary, Media , Corporates and citizens will play their role
The nation will learn from its mistakes.
We will control crony capitalism .
We will fight bad loans to rich corporates
We will write off loans to poor and farmers
We will control our population
We will start more homes to take care of our aged , economically, mentally and physically challenged
We will convince the very rich one percent to pay tax to finance Universal basic income
We will give more jobs
We will reduce curruption
We will ensure the best quality of human rights to all our citizens
Our nation will reduce the gap between the haves and have nots thereby improving Gini Coefficient scores
Our Human Development Index , Transparency International rating , Happiness Index will be at par with the best nations in the world and we will be a model nation
We will have good relationship with our neighbours
We will lead the world in United Nations Peace and Sustainable development goals 2030
We will lead the world in non proliferation of weapons of mass destruction
We will lead the world in Environmental protection and global warming
We will lead the world in providing solution to assylum seekers due to wars and environment disasters due to climate change
This can only happen in India
Long live our humanity
Long live our nation
Long live our world and everything in it
Loka Samastha Sukhino Bhavanthu.
LEADERS' SEMANTICS
Dr. Arun Babu Zachariah
The politician bombards us with words
"Dear materialists I understand you
I will get you what you want."
The priest mesmerizes the faithful
"Dear believers in eternity I understand you
I will get you what you want"
The “sincere” media mogul entertains
"Dear viewer stay tuned in we understand you
we will get everything right".
But the father and the mother
The son and daughter tell each other
"You don't understand me".
The past and the present tell each other
"You don't understand me".
The living and the dead tell each other,
"You don't understand me".
Man and nature tell each other,
"You don't understand me".
Leaders say they understand
But how much so?
Blind faith mislead people
Inviting authority, enforcing authority
Mute blokes, helpless victims
Take courage, Challenge your leaders,
Don't be meek, don't be blind
Don't all the leaders fail?
Falter and perish.
Come out you leaders
Power hungry, dominating
Denying real freedom
Scheming and speculating.
Feeding on our ignorance, desires, and fears
Free thyself, free the society
Plead guilty your ignorance
For once be bold and truthful
"The Truth shall make you free".
BEWARE OF REBIRTH
Dr. Arun Babu Zachariah
Will the fear of rebirth of today's victors
In the house of the vanquished
Deter them from heartless cruelty
And mindless insensitivity
Arms makers
You will receive the
Cruellest blast from your own
Weapons
Controlling and amassing
resources of Our world
Manipulating public opinion
With propaganda
Your end will be sad
Even if your wealth
Can ensure you a lavish funeral
You will be at the receiving end
In your new life
You feel bad and incomplete
Despite all your power and success
It’s because you are reborn each day
You are reborn before your
Physical death
You are sad because you are
Leading the life of your victim
No prayer can save you,
No donations to charity will
Give you peace of mind
Beware of rebirth
Mend your ways
Undo the wrongs
And you will find peace
You will inherit your ugly past
Beware men in power
Respect human rights
Walk away from violence
Turn away from corruption
Beware of rebirth
DON'T WORRY WE THE 1% ARE SAFE
Dr. Arun Babu Zachariah
He pressed the button.
It's confirmed I called our leader.
Only the 1% along with some cockroaches have survived the greatest Holocaust.
Good Morning wife and kids!
Bring my tea and snacks demands the husband.
Wife reflects her husband's voice to servants in the kitchen
Kids search for maids to polish their shoes
Mother where are our maids?
They are no longer obedient
Where are all of them ?
Nobody's here!
Oh I forgot to tell you what Mr X the leader of 1% told me. He accidentally pushed the red button while kicking his HR cum Finance manager .
Mr X told don't worry as all our houses are nuke and weather proof .
Now call our robots to work as maid and help .
Why did we kill the 99% ?
If only we treated the 99% like us .
After all they were our family.
Oh but I hate the robots . The workers with real blood and flesh like us were much more fun
Why did we kill the 99%?
If only we treated the 99% like us .
After all they were our family
Let's eat the flavored tablets and powders once the food in our stores finish and let's cultivate with the seeds preserved .
Oh I hate the artificial foods.
If only we treated the 99% like us .
After all they were our family
Good our neighbours who are part of 99% in the slums are slumbering.
They won't and shout down with the greedy 1%
Yes
All our workers are dead
Now who will work for us
All our consumers and customers are dead
Who will buy the stuff the robot working in our companies produce ?
Oh why did that mad man push the button?
Before this foolish act of Mr X
I feared all the 99% disillusioned by their hardships and our unfulfilled promises for better human rights and better life might commit suicide together one day .
But I had belief that the religious leaders and socio political leaders whom we the1% are feeding would not let us down .
Yes the religious and social political leaders kept alive the 99% instilling in the1% fear of rebirth , hell and social political consequences .
But I knew an apocalypse was imminent .
In his apology to the 1% its leader Mr X confessed weeping . Never did I think we would suffer so much without the 99%
Dr. Arun Babu Zachariah holds a Ph. D. Degree in Social Science from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kottayam and a Post Graduate Diploma in Journalism from The Press Club, Trivandrum. He has to his credit two books of Poetry: Bleeding Margins Published by Notion Press in 2018 and Bleeding Fringes Published by Prabhath Book House, Trivandrum in 2019. His poems have also been published in Poetry World Anthology, Chennai in 2009 and 2010. He has presented poems at the Mathrubhoomi Festival of Letters in 2019.
FRIENDS
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Friends are the only relation built by us.
Adorned with trust and a latent care.
They opt to do anything to keep the bond stronger.
They are not bound by time and wealth
Their energy so positive, it protects their trust
Then one fine formidable day comes
Uncertainty drapes them and cages them in darkness of mistrust and hatred
Yet such a fissure doesn't make us fragile
The good heart of ours in that destined bond
Showers upon us invincible strength to tackle all hardships.
Friends still remain our strength.
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
LOST IN TIME
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
When I last visited this town
Many decades ago,
The roads were mere lanes
The trees were a canopy,
The flowers bloomed
And the roads wore multiple colours
From the strewn petals.
The people smiled at each other
Many greeted you with folded hands,
The chai wallah offered tea in a big glass
The fruit seller gave a couple of mangoes free
When you bought a dozen of them,
The beggars were happy
The rickshaw wallahs even happier.
And then times changed
The builders and the sharks took over the town,
The roads became streets
Colours of the trees changed to grey
Layers of dust covered them all the time.
Flowers rarely bloomed and when they did
Their colour was gone.
People had wads of notes in their pocket
But no change for the beggars
The rickshaw wallah had disappeared
The big tea glasses were replaced by tiny plastic cups,
Cars splashed water on you during monsoons,
Streets were lined with clinics and hospitals.
People were always sick, their mind even sicker.
Today I went looking for my old lane
And the trees, the flowers,
From the pages of memory
I tried to locate my old house,
But I saw only high rise apartments
Which had trampled my humble abode
And my innocent childhood.
MOVING AWAY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Long after the hour
We had agreed to meet
At our old, familiar place,
The bench under the trees waited for us
The leaves so bright and green in the morning
Kept losing their lustre.
In the evening's lengthening shadow
They whispered to each other
longing for our presence,
They were afraid of drying up
And becoming mere relics of a sweet past,
The trees wept, mourning the imminent loss of their leaves.
But we were still caught up
In our unfulfilled journey
Raking up many a wound of the past
Dipping our deformed fingers
In the cesspool of acidic rancour,
Our hearts torn to pieces.
The bench under the trees still beckoned,
The leaves kept murmuring their sweet songs.
But with each song reaching its peak,
We moved further away,
Bent upon digging up fresh wounds
To bleed our love to a tragic death.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
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