Dear Readers,

Welcome to the Eighteenth edition of LiteraryVibes.

This time we are happy to welcome Prof. Molly Joseph, an accomplished poet and novelist who has already carved a niche for herself in English and Malayalam literature. From overseas we are privileged to have a cute little poem from Ms. Sigridur Petursdottir, an Icelander based in London, who has been a film critic for decades, apart from being a novelist. We welcome them to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them tons of success in their future efforts.

The country is waiting with high expectations from a Government which has bounced back to power with a renewed mandate. Let's hope we will have lots of peace and prosperity in the days to come. We have miles to go and every step looks so tough and laboured that the new government will need all our best wishes to succeed. Recently I saw a post in WhatsApp where someone has superimposed the population of a country over the image of each state in India. For example, Uttar Pradesh compares with Brazil in population. So does Odisha with Spain. It only means India as a country is a conglomerate of twenty nine countries of the world and has the problems of all of them combined in its territory. Let's hope that we will overcome all the inevitable underlying challenges in the coming years.

Please forward the link of LiteraryVibes to all your friends and contacts. We welcome your poems, short stories, anecdotes and travelogues for publication in LiteraryVibes every Friday.

Wish you Happy Reading.
Warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

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A BOATMAN’S SONG

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Careened on your arid bed

I think of the days

when you flowed to the brim;

 

from one bank, the other

was a dream of sorts,

a catamaran’s wishful sigh;

 

a profile, baroque and damask

among the summer’s billowing light,

winter’s roly-poly puffs.

 

Rains brought better surprises,

the sun squeezing through wetness

here and there like sidelong glances;

 

wet clothes, scanty clothes,

no clothes; a body suspended

between fragrant salt and crackling sun.

 

Standing on your parched bed

I dig, scrape, beg for water,

in frustration ask for death.

 

Excavation shifts layers

to unravel ennui;

does history ever repeat itself?

 

Your origin in hills

and destiny with the sea

mean nothing to me.

 

I pick up handfuls of sand,

occasional pebbles, step

into you with immense care;

 

wish my footprints don’t wet

your pristine aridity

for they bear the memory of water.

 

In other lands the monsoon abounds,

the earth, fecund and lush;

the sun dancing among reeds and ripples;

 

yet I revel in your aridness,

cursed with a sweet void,

cluttered among loved memories.

 

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FOR PICASSO

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

A moon gropes among the clouds,

the wind is breathlessly restive,

fingers falter on the sitar.

 

The coursing blood

in strangled veins

chokes and coughs.

 

Habits litter

our sheltered souls.

You touch me and come

into my arms, make me

desire you. Then

your snores polish

the chipped void softly.

 

I recall, we stopped

making love years ago.

 

I look for a cigarette.

Pyjamas’ pockets

ridicule me. Long ago

I had given up smoking.

 

I poke the cinders,

flames leap up,

keep the cold at bay.

The fire would never know

what the night suffers

in the bargain.

 

(Both poems are more than twenty-five years old)

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MR. STORK IS LATE (F)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

                                               

                   Anil, the eldest among his siblings, cracked a joke and Sunil burst out laughing. Savita and Sujata, their younger siblings, joined the laugh. The four children were born in that order with almost two and half year intervals except Sujata, the youngest, who took a gap of two years, which stood six months short of earlier intervals. But this morning, the usually jovial parents, Veena and Varun, remained glum and non-responsive to Anil’s joke. The children looked at their serious parents and their laughs petered out to silence. It was unusual. Veena and Varun, their parents, were addicted joke lovers. They loved the sense of humour in an individual. The children had, in a way, inherited by gene-pool or learning their funny bones from parents. The family, off and on, had enjoyed a healthy joke with hearty laughs, and even, rare risqué ones. That had helped building the family rapport better. The other participants in the family jokes was Banshi kaka (uncle Banshi) and at odd occasions, their visiting family physician Dr. Tiwari, affectionately addressed as doctor uncle by the children. An extremely rare participant in the family jokes was also Radha kaki (Radha auntie), the wife of Banshi kaka, who these days stayed at Banshi kaka’s village but once in a blue moon visited Banshi kaka for a few days to enquire after his wellbeing. Her occasional visits of her husband had been the butt of many family jokes, often a bit ribald.

              Banshi kaka, the old family retainer, slept on the open terrace of their house in nights round the year except the pouring monsoon. He loved fresh air and open space of the terrace. But whenever Radha kaki visited him, he moved his bed into his room on the ground floor of the two-storey- bungalow with kaki (auntie). The children’s leg pulling about his love for kaki overriding his love of open space and fresh air never elicited any comment from shy Banshi kaka, but Radha kaki bantered unabashedly with the naughty children, “You naughty children, you will not even spare a monk. Nothing different happens inside the room that cannot happen on the open terrace. Please restrain your minds from going over-imaginative. I only give a body massage to your Banshi kaka, and imagine, lurking rascals from neighbouring terraces guessing weird things about we two honourable old individuals. All are not saintly children like you.” At the end of this serious tongue-in-cheek comment, she would wink exaggeratedly in Veena’s direction. She would see to it that none miss it. This last gesture would break the serious spell and the children would dissolve in giggles. Veena would unsuccessfully try to maintain a poker face but then, would break into a coy smile. The fun would never lose its pep even after repeats year after year.

          The children and parents were sitting that Sunday around the breakfast table with crunchy toasts, butter, jam, biscuits and cups of tea. Banshi kaka was standing by the table to serve the breakfast. He had been with Varun and Veena’s family, it appeared, from beginning of the time, might be from the time of Big Bang. None of the present family members saw him being appointed. He was regarded an integral part of the family, more like an elderly relative rather than the manservant. In reverse, Banshi kaka and his wife Radha kaki had assumed their mantle of token-guardianship effortlessly. But being sensible people, they never tried to exceed their limits of demeanour. On request Radha kaki, considered a guest during her few and far visits to the family, sat with the family for meals, but never did Banshi kaka. When the children would remember, Banshi kaka always had looked and talked exactly as young or as old as he was now. He was perennially strong, durable, and dependable in all seasons. He had the look of a middle-aged pleasant no-nonsense man, a bit shy and withdrawn though. Even without a bloodline with the family, he also possessed a DNA of funny-bone. Whenever he cracked his jokes, though very rarely, he would quietly mouth his lines without a smile, press his lips together as if to choke an outburst, and leave for the kitchen, because exactly at that moment he would remember a soup or milk on the stove requiring his attention. His jokes were highly circumspect and cerebral. By the time others understood the humour wrapped in riddles and were in splits, Banshi kaka would be nowhere in sight.

             When Veena, presently a mother of four grownup children, had come to this house as a coy bride, she had been welcomed by a friendly Banshi kaka. He was her first confidant and guide in the new place. Even many years before his marriage to Veena, when Varun had shifted to stay with his parents for the first time as a child of six from the house of his maternal grandparents, young Banshi had already been around. He was looking after the housekeeping and overall management of the house along with a cute girl, a few years older to Varun but still in her pigtail-pubescent, who would be the future Radha kaki. Varun had been advised to address him as Banshi kaka (uncle Banshi) and to give him respect as due to an uncle. He was allowed to play with Radha of pigtails. Before Varun’s eyes, in a year or two, the scruffy little Radha of pigtails grew up into a pretty woman. She was married to Banshi kaka by the good offices of Varun’s parents and Varun started addressing her as Radha kaki or Radha auntie instead of the tease-name ‘Radha of pigtails’. The married couple was given a furnished room in their bungalow as allotted to any married couple of their household. Even outsiders would address Banshi and Radha as kaka (uncle) and kaki (auntie) and treated them as senior members of the household. After a few years Radha kaki became pregnant and went to Banshi kaka’s village to spend the last few months of her pregnancy under her in-laws’ care. She delivered there and thereafter, she didn’t return permanently. She would stay for a month or two in Varun’s house with her husband and return to her in-laws for a much longer interval. During her long village stay, Banshi kaka would visit her once in a while.

                 A few times Varun had been curious during his early teens when he missed Banshi kaka even on those fleeting days of his absence. Varun would ask his mother, “Why does he run away so often to his village?” His mother would reply, “Oh, that’s because he has to take care of your Radha kaki.” Her reply had the deadpan expression of reporting about the weather. Not being satisfied, Varun would bother Banshi kaka, “Don’t tell me this cock and bull story like my mother does. Why can’t your parents take care of Radha kaki and you have to go?” A smiling Banshi kaka would reply, “You are too young to understand that, Varun. There is certain illness that inflicts a wife which only her husband can take care of and none else, not even a doctor. You will know it when you yourself get married.” The reply had appeared more baffling to Varun than his mother’s weather reporting variety. That was the Banshi kaka of Varun’s childhood: efficient, affectionate, warm, yet a little mysterious. Varun would fondly recall even over passing of years Banshi Kaka had remained unchanged like a mathematical constant.

              But to the latest generation of the children - Anil, Sunil, Savita, and Sujata their Banshi uncle was no more a mystery. Varun would smilingly muse before his wife, “Thanks to the net-age and information technology, children no more bother elders with embarrassing questions as we bothered our elders. But mark it, these space-age children have lost something interesting, the mystics of Madam Mystery and her coquetry!” 

           That cheerless morning Banshi kaka was hobnobbing with tea and snacks around the breakfast table in his usual nonchalant silence. Once even he appeared on verge of delivering a repartee to Anil’s joke, but visibly suppressed it, looking at the serious faces of Varun and Veena. He pretended a choking throat, coughed a little, and left with a questioning look at the children who in turn gave little shrugs of ‘we don’t know’. He passed on a caution signal by holding an index finger to his lips standing behind Varun and Veena.

               It was a Sunday and on Sundays, the breakfast used to go on leisurely with pranks, jokes and leg pulling till late. So, children exchanged loaded glances among themselves, ‘why our parents are killjoys today? First Varun finished his tea and flexing his limbs and backbone, he excused himself, and left in the direction of their library, an airy sitting room overlooking the garden with books on racks, a small reading table, and a few comfortable chairs thrown around. Their mother Veena followed their father after affectionately ruffling the children’s hairs and smiling fondly at Banshi kaka. The children looked questioningly at Banshi kaka for superior guidance but he shrugged helpless shoulders and rolled his eyes.  

                  Anil, Sunil, Savita and Sujata were born in that order with an interval of about two and half years except the deviation from the precise timing to two year from two and half in case of Sujata, the youngest. It was jestingly attributed to medical incompetence of their doctor uncle Mr. Tiwari. One Sunday, sharing the family breakfast, Dr. Tiwari, the family physician, seriously accepted the slip and put the blame on half a tablet of aspirin. The jovial doctor absolved Varun and Veena from any erroneous activity. He continued, “You know children, your father is a senior vice president of Precision Tools, a company reputed for its precise measuring tools. Veena, your mother, is a senior executive in HMT, the watch makers, who set time for the world. So how can I blame these sincere keepers of precision and time for your early arrival, Sujata? So, it must be my slip, by default. But….. !” The children were enjoying the doctor uncle’s repartee but were baffled by his last mysterious ‘But …!’. The ‘But…’ was loaded with further jokes and children waited. The naughty doctor continued, “See, I can accept the blame of small slips in case of you first three children. But in Sujata’s case, she arrived six months too early….? I can’t take the blame for that. Varun and Veena, would you like to explain?” Veena’s face was a mask of red tomato and a mock serious Varun shrugged his helplessness, “None of our company tool-manuals throw light in the matter to the best of my knowledge.” The children were in splits

                       At this point, a serious Banshi kaka materialized with an omelette and said, “I know the culprit. It is a foreign hand.” He placed the omelette before the doctor and vanished into the kitchen. Everyone was flummoxed. Varun slyly looked at Veena who looked down. The children shouted, “Banshi kaka, come out, reveal your foreign hand, you can’t hide now.” Banshi kaka returned with hot sambar and steaming idlis and cracked, “Oh, It is Bhaloo, I mean.” Children thought he meant ‘a bear’, the mystery got thicker and the protested aloud.

              Banshi kaka, with his characteristic tongue-in-cheek seriousness, launched a tricky joke, “But the culprit is not a bear.” “This Bhaloo,” revealed Banshi kaka, “is the brother of Galoo, our milkman. Galoo visited his native place in UP’s Jaunpur that year, and during his absence he appointed Bhaloo to supply milk. This Bhaloo was an early riser and brought milk at four in the morning. He pressed our big buzzer till I opened the door to take milk from him. But Veena and Varun also became wide awake. Neither could they sleep, nor could leave the bed in that early hour. This led to that, and lo – the situation became overwhelming to overcome the sense of both precision and timing. The rest is history…..” Banshi kaka turned and walked away into the kitchen, leaving the family members and the doctor in a fog of befuddlement. Slowly the meaning dawned in their understanding and laughter started in trickles, growing to a crescendo. Even Varun laughed uproariously. Veena blushed into a red carrot, got up, and walked away to the library room. Children enjoyed their mother behaving like a coy young girl despite being the mother of four adult children. She heard in passing, the last straw on her drowning camel’s back when Dr. Tiwari added, “See Sujata, You arrived six months in advance not for my fault but for a foreign hand, Bhaloo’s.”

                   But today was a different Sunday. The children were discussing and guessing in whispers about their parents’ serious mood. In the library’s privacy Varun and Veena had a little chat.

Varun -- You go to Tiwari and tell him your doubts.

Veena – There are no doubts, Varun. I am sure. Don’t forget, I am a mother of four.

Varun – Then, let us break the good news to the children and Banshi kaka.

Veena – That part only bothers me. How our children would react to the news, I am wondering. You remember, Banshi kaka cracking the joke about milkman’s brother ‘Bhaloo’? I was not able to look into his eyes for days after that joke.

Varun – (got up, took his wife’s aging body in his tired arms, and fingered her hair lovingly.) We will think of some way out. But we must discuss this with doctor Tiwari first concerning your health. He may also find a way out of this impasse. I thought, your menopausal years have passed, how could this happen?

          The jovial doctor expressed surprise to see the couple in his clinic instead of telephoning him for a house visit. It could be something private, or something that could not wait, he hazarded a guess. Suppressing his apprehensions, he joked, “So, you two rascals decided to come here just to save your expenses on my tea and snacks, isn’t it?” But when Tiwari heard the couple’s problem from Varun, he was all business. He patted their shoulders affectionately and expressed his pleasure, “I am really happy to hear this. I have absolutely no doubts about the propriety of your action, and I think your apprehensions are just a bunch of prejudices. Rather, I am happy to know that you two old rascals are still sexually active, are in love, and your mutual bonhomie is not a show up as with most hypocrite couples. It is an excellent piece of news and speaks of your good health, fitness, and sane mind.” Then smiling he rejoined, “As your family physician I have to consider all health related matters. If what you feel are not ghost symptoms and are real, at your age it is going to be a little tricky and tough; but I assure you Veena, not unmanageable when your big brother old Tiwari is around.” The doctor turned to Veena with a happy chuckle. “And the first thing, go and give your blood and urine samples for the test in my path-lab next door. Let’s officially confirm your self-diagnosis in a minute. Then go home with sweets and break the happy news.”

               Veena interjected, “But, Tiwari bhaiji, how would the children take it?” Dr. Tiwari was beside himself, “It is not my area of expertise, my little sister. I am a child specialist and neonatologist. In matters of grownup children, especially your brood of naughty rascals, I am a bit novice. But your children will come around, I guess, they are nicely brought up well-informed boys and girls, very practical kids. They will understand the delicacy and the exigency of the situations. Don’t worry at all, a joke or two may settle the issue. But, I request you both to take your highly resourceful Banshi kaka into confidence, if you still feel unsettled. He, with help from his experienced wife Radha, is capable of producing rabbits out of empty hats. What for do you think, society domesticates such long lasting, and durable pieces like our Banshi?” Veena blushed visibly into a young red hibiscus and remonstrated, “No, never, not Banshi kaka, have you forgotten his milkman Bhaloo-joke? I don’t want to be the butt of a joke of the millennium.” The naughty doctor chuckled audibly, “You have a point there Veena, let me see what can be done. I will give it a try myself but I give no guarantee.”

          They came out of Dr. Tiwari’s clinic after a quick path-lab test confirmed her doubts. Veena felt like a criminal walking out of a police station with her accomplice Varun after being questioned for committing a murder. She wanted to run away from home, their colony, their locality. As they walked homeward, they braced themselves to face the children and Banshi kaka. Veena asked, “How did it all happen after all these years? Sujata, our youngest, is already nineteen. Why didn’t you take precautions?” Varun was at his wit’s end, “What could I do? I feel so shy to go to a chemist and ask for those little rubbers. The chemist of my son’s age will immediately know that uncle was not buying them to blow balloons and play with. How can I look into his eyes silently accusing, ‘You too, uncle?’ Of course, I won’t mind using them if you buy them for me.” Veena was aghast, “Me, an honourable lady from a respectable household in her late silver fifties?” Veena then mused with curiosity, “What do others do at our age or even still later, say our Tiwari? How is he so cool? Shouldn’t we take a tip or two from that Alec Smart?” Varun gave a naughty chuckle, “So, my honourable fair lady of our respectable household in her silver late fifties is already planning for repeat operations under the future’s safe guidance of another honourable older rascal Tiwari? Wah, Veena Devi, wah! Hats off to you, and three cheers for your adventurous mind!” Veena laughed uproariously and Varun joined her. With this convivial spirit of their last minute laugh, the parents stepped into their house.

              Next morning, Banshi kaka asked for permission to visit his village to bring Radha kaki as he had news of her bad health. Sunil joked, “I think, she is simply missing your special cares. This time you keep her here for a few months and take her care with your best physiotherapies.” Nobody laughed. Banshi kaka lowered his head and looked at Varun in sly. An imperceptible signal seemed to pass between the two senior male members that did not miss Veena’s notice but she was not sure. Varun allowed Banshi kaka to proceed the next day before Veena even could give it a thought. Varun proposed that Veena took leave during Banshi kaka’s absence to take care of the house and he volunteered to take leave also to assist her in household chores. Children did not clamour with objections over Banshi kaka’s leaving because it mattered Radha kaki’s health. When Banshi left for his village, children also left the house to their jobs and colleges and the parents remained home. 

            That night, the Varun and Veena went to bed feeling a lot relieved for no particular reason except that the matter was in Dr. Tiwari’s capable hands and Radha kaki, the jovial senior woman, was arriving in a day. Veena was happier for at least she could share things with a woman senior to her. The relief from tension gave the couple a sweet coziness in bed. Varun and Veena remained mentally tuned within the solitude of their home for the next day also when all were away during the daytime. In bits and pieces, they accepted each other more naturally, reconciled to their bodies’ and minds’ normal needs; and they balanced their mutual spiritual as well as physical needs. They sort of were coming out of social prejudices about the late age intimacy. They accepted the fact that their children were grownup and were apparently not naïve in ways of the world. Botany and zoology was being taught in schools starting in standard nine and ten through college years. The children were taught the body functions in animals, plants, and humans. So, the couple’s fear of bizarre reaction from their children to their situation seemed receding. Their apprehension of losing their parental dignity in the eyes of their children seemed distant?

              Radha kaki arrived with kaka looking demure and shy but did not give away any clue for her sober mood. The jovial children appeared in a fix if it would be appropriate to pull the legs of this reserved shy senior relative. After an hour of taking over the charge of housekeeping, Banshi kaka went along with Radha kaki to Varun and Veena’s bedroom for a whispering session. The four adult kids remained glued behind close-door to hear whatever audible. They remained intrigued, for certain disjointed words spilling at the crack gave away nothing.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Radha Kaki, however, came out, caught the children in red hand, smiled conspiratorially with a chucked and surprised them, “Apparently, what your experienced mother says, I am pregnant; o my God, in my age! So, I am advised to go to Tiwari’s path-lab tomorrow and get certain tests to know the truth. And before you naughty children can guess all sorts of things, I clarify neither me nor your Banshi kaka had anything to do with this. I was cent percent divine. I am only worried about your shy Banshi kaka concerning you naughty children and your ribald jokes.” Here she winked at children and then pretended that something had gone into her eye. Veena rejoined, “But I am so happy that we all will have a nice little live toy to play with.” The children turned serious and Sujata volunteered their group opinion, “Radha Kaki and Banshi Kaka, I assure you that you will never have any complaint from we children, even of making the slightest fun of you two. Funny banters have their time and place, and it is neither the time nor the place for that. Varun joined the discussion and gave his daughter Sujata his support, “See, Banshi kaka, your apprehensions about our saintly children are totally misplaced. They are grown up and mature. They realize that it is not a funny thing. Don’t worry. In your shoes, neither I nor Veena would be worried about our children. I can assure you, they will never make fun of it. I give you my personal guarantee.” On his last sentence, Veena gave her husband an odd look and Varun avoided eye contact with her. These subtle nuances did not escape Radha kaki. She prodded the talk further looking at her husband, “Rather we oblige the children by this little venture. We suffer all the pain and after nine months of hardship, they have a toy to play with.” Sunil, the naughtiest of the lot couldn’t control himself, “Banshi kaka and Radha kaki, I think, you are taking more care of each other these days than before!” Anil, the eldest, took the lead to express the consensus sentiment of all, “No Sunil, no, no more jokes on this. We are to grow up and, as Sujata has said, must know when to make fun and when not to.” Sunil blushed but continued with a face-saver, “But I am afraid, Radha kaki, you are only dangling a carrot before us. You will surely take the toy away with you to your village and play with it yourself. What do we get for our sacrifices, being without our staple diet of jokes?”

              The next morning, the parents on rising, found Banshi kaka and kaki already gone for kaki’s pre-scheduled pathological tests. They had cooked the breakfast before they left; Idli and upma with sambar and chutney. The children had risen early for a change and were hobnobbing in the kitchen to make tea. Veena joined them in the kitchen and taught her children how to make the perfect brew. They heard Varun shouting from the living room that the Radha kaki and Banshi kaka had returned from the path-lab. The tea-service was brought to the dining table by the boys and Banshi kaka resumed his responsibility of serving tea and breakfast.

               Dr. Tiwari’s car came to park in their porch. The old doctor huffed and puffed into the room without prior appointment, pretending as if he came all the way jogging from his house. He announced breathlessly and pompously that while passing by their house he found the aroma of steamed Idli and Sambar along with that of freshly brewed tea wafting to outside and the entire neighbourhood. He couldn’t resist from inviting himself to join the breakfast table. He saw half the neighbourhood salivating, their tongues hanging out, to taste the delicacy. Then he noticed Radha kaki at the table and addressed her to everyone’s amusement and befuddlement, “Oh, here sits the source of a most pandemic disease of this season!” When, the children were exchanging loaded glances. Veena apprehended, “Has Radha Kaki’s morning pathological tests revealed an infection?”

               The doctor casually informed to all at the table while tucking into an Idli, “These days a large number of ladies in their postmenopausal age are afflicted by a serious syndrome..” he paused to accentuate the tension, “..it is called pregnancy in simple words. I call it a pandemic disease because our ignorant society terms it as such, and for some mysterious reason, it has become virulent these days, every second woman in her postmenopausal age is having this syndrome. Of course I am happy, it has increased my practice as a child specialist. See, I am on my way to deliver five Late-age-pregnancy kits to five such ladies.” The children bantered with the doctor with matching humour, “But doctor uncle, how it starts, who gave the infection to Radha kaki, is the carrier for this virus a rodent, a dog, or a mosquito?” “No, no, none of them, the carrier is a very noble specimen from an elite species of birds, the good old Mr. Stork” the doctor clarified. The children were aghast, “You please tell us more about this stork carrying a virus that makes ladies pregnant. We never read such nonsense in any of our books.” The doctor, concentrating on another Idli with chutney, “Not as simple as malaria by mosquitoes, or plague by mice; but in case of Mr. Stork, he delivers a little baby into a selected mother’s arms, readymade, sculpted to its finger tips, and wrapped in a gift-packs. It is a pity children to know, none of the science streams has informed you of this monopolized-storkie-service, nor your parents have educated you how they received you four naughty children from the same stork. In short, I tell you, the stork is the sole stockist-cum-distributor of babies in this world, and he and only he can bestow motherhood on a woman.”

                Sujata, the youngest, bantered, “I know of a holy ghost who immaculately made Mary to conceive her holy child Jesus. In our Ramayana and Mahabharata snakes, fruits, prayer beads, and mantras have helped ladies to conceive children. In science, we have read of surrogate motherhood, test tube babies, and cloning. But I never read about a stork doing such a socio-biological work.” Dr. Tiwari stood his ground, “My wise little lady, you are not doing your homework. All over the world, couples marry, go on honeymoon, lead blissful conjugal life, but finally, when they want to go family way, they think of the stork and wait for the latter’s gift-pack. Mr. Stork, using his extensive network of informers, keeps a tab of each such couple. When he finds them deserving, the holy functionary, of course divinely authorized and empowered for his job, brings a baby boy or a girl depending on availability in the stock. The parents are forewarned so that they can announce a pregnancy, visit doctors for a drama of checkups, pretend nausea etc.” An utterly flummoxed Veena found her children bobbing their heads like over-sincere pupils of a class. She wondered to herself, “Why does this old fool Tiwari lead my kids, back to stone-age?” Now Anil had a tricky doubt, “What about twins, and triplets, doctor uncle?” “Oh, that’s a collateral effect. At times, Mr. Stork is in a bouncy mood because the lady stork has treated him to a special fish omelette or an extra hug and peck on his mouth before leaving the nest for work, so happily he drops two or three pieces of the ‘live toy’ into a mother’s lap. It is like sales-promotion-offers in shopping malls ‘buy one, get one free’.”

            At this point, all found Savita waving her raised hand for attention. Silence returned and she expressed her doubt, “Tell me doctor uncle, why Mr. Stork remembered Radha kaki and other senior ladies so late?” Mischief twinkled in the doctor’s eyes, “Talking in general, many factors might have held him back, my child. Mr. Stork himself is a very old guy, you know, he has been working, could be, from the days of Big Bang, may be getting a little forgetful and senile with age. Further, babies may be in short supply for reasons, say, the baby making factories having lockouts, strikes, or having a short supply of raw material etc. Also our social system may be reluctant to welcome Mr. Stork and may create all sorts of hurdles like the preposterous family planning measures. Many mothers are just shy, taking this most universal phenomenon as an embarrassment at their advanced age, afraid of rabid jokes from naughty children and also fearing to lose their social and parental dignity. So they maintain distance from Mr. Stork. But Mr. Stork has his mysterious ways to sneak in, so he succeeds though a bit late as in your Radha kaki’s case.” Here the doctor took a dramatic pause and looked at the children like a vocalist looking for support from his pianist. All the four children shouted as if on a cue, “But we are not like those bad children. If the stork selects even our own parents tomorrow, we won’t be the cause of their embarrassment. Rather we will feel proud for our parents being chosen for the prize of a little live toy.”

              Doctor had finished his breakfast. He kept a package before Radha kaki, “Here is your kit Radha. It contains medicines, timing and doses how to take them, your daily food and exercise regimen to stay fit until the stork’s visit with your giftpack. This kit is also from Mr. Stork’s factory.” The children rose like a flock of storks, “Please doctor uncle, use your good offices, the hot line, and if necessary, a little underhand dealing to persuade Mr. Stork to visit our mother. We want a live toy to play with.” Then they turned to their parents, “Please papa, mama, put a little extra pressure on doctor uncle to persuade Mr. Stork. We will help mother in her hassles, will be good children, we assure you.” The doctor now took his mobile phone, got up, went out of hearing distance, spoke into it, listened intently, returned to the table with a broad smile, “Three cheers for you children, Mr. Stork agreed. Your mother is selected as a special case. A live toy will be on its way. Congratulations, all of you.” Then he looked at Veena with a humorous bemusement, “Sister, I have run out of kits. Let me get my next batch of supply from the Stork’s factory, may be in a day or two.” At this point Radha kaki, who sat smiling all the while when Tiwari was educating the children, brought out a report from her handbag and handed it over to the doctor. He read it seriously, “Oh, it’s Radha’s report from the morning path-lab test. No, sorry Radha, Mr. Stork has not selected you. It is only gas due to your overindulgence in garbage food like pickles and pakoras, a case of bloating acidity. Mr. Stork runs a very independent office like our constitutional institutions, say CBI or CEC, though euphemized as caged parrots, they can’t be influenced by government or me. So, that’s that. Radha is not pregnant.” Now Radha kaki pushed the kit in Veena’s direction with a naughty smile.                 

              By then, Veena observed, her four kids had ganged up at the other end of the room and were planning audibly how they would not bother their mother, and keep her happy during her pregnancy. She felt immensely blessed with tears in her eyes. She blessed Tiwari to have cracked the riddle and made the children aware of her pregnancy with his clever age-old stork story. Still, a bit miffed, Veena looked around and mused, “It seems too simple to be true. Was it planned behind my back, but how and when? Am I the only gullible fool and the lone spectator of a well-orchestrated storkie-drama? Who was the author; was it Banshi kaka, the old rascal Tiwari, or my ever naughty Varun?”

 

Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com                                                      

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FUTURE, THE CONMAN (BHAVISHYATA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra from Odia

 

The future arrives

from an unknown post office,

like an emperor’s magic robe

in a lovely wrap;

a pipedream

scripted by the trickster-time,

promising the heaven on earth

to the gullible.

 

(Skeptics, ignored, left out,

carve their own future.)

 

Promises galore -

 ‘… loans would be repaid,

new house be built;

smiles would bloom

on wife’s sullen lips,

cozy vacations for the family, .... ’

 

Almost one’s wish-list,

chronicled eyes shut

in neat longhand

with abundant ink

filling blank sheets.

 

Promises multiply ….

… moolah to men,

jewellery to women,

love nest to a couple

to simmer love in its cauldron;

nagging children doused

with soporific dreams,

cock and bull stories.

 

Time passes,

the Emperor’s magic attire

found bunkum smoke;

unfolds a grim vision -

… children busy building

Sheikh Chilli castles in the air,

chips of their old block;

pretty wife aging

into an ugly hag,

the ivory palace in air

inadequate to hold back

the fury of life’s deluge,

drowning all sooner or later….

an inevitability across the door.

 

But none dare

to admit their naivety,

accept, or admit,

“The emperor has no clothes.”

 

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PIETY (DHARMA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra from Odia

 

The Lord, keeper of faith,

remains absent

from the expiation rite

in His cool temple sanctum.

He prefers to stand

in the burning sun outside,

ruefully looking at

the flag-and-wheel atop his temple,

the mark of his authority.

 

His dripping sweat

cools the hot paved floor

his poor pilgrims walk on,

to redeem His pledge

to be the Patitpaavan,

and the most compassionate.

 

He knows, the holy men

not always holy;

rituals,

immaculate cloaks

to put lids on dark deeds.

 

A destitute,

weeping tears of penitence,

crawls to him on empty belly,

bruised, bleeding,

and sweat pouring down;

the forgiving Lord,

has left the comfort

of his sanctum,

breaking temple protocols,

to come out and bless

the repentant in misery.

 

He returns to his throne

unclean, unwashed,

his precious robes soiled

with blood and sweat

of his unclean devotee,

but looking immensely pleased.

 

Lord, the ultimate gem-assessor,

sifts the virtue from sins,

choosing penury over gems

and jewelry for his holy rewards.

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)”

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SHIBBOLETH  ABOUT THE SEA (SAMUDRAKU BISHVAASA NAAHIN)

Hrushikesh Mallick

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

People believe –

the sea never takes away a thing,

it returns every bit

put to its waves, rather more.

 

Ain’t that a debunked myth,

as good as hearsay?

Would it give back

my son who got washed away?

 

And my milk-cow,

that never could control hunger,

went out for a bite, trusting

the sea wouldn’t breach

 

the age-old shibboleth,

but the betrayer brimmed over,

swept away the poor cow

from grasslands above the shore!

 

The thief even stole rice

from inside our paddy grains,

we harvested empty pods of husk;

would it give us back our food?

 

But the cyclone that tonsured

our trees is slowly giving back

the green foliage; also returning

the nesting birds, the songbirds.

 

The sea can’t be trusted

any more than a drop of dew,

rolling and unstable,

on a leaf in the wind.

 

A trust breached, a fulcrum

gone askew out of axis,

like the piece of human pinna

found in stomach of a fish

 

caught by an angler,

kills appetite for feasting

on dish of fish, fouling it up

into a puking horror.

 

The fisher folk fears, any night,

the sea may stealthily rush out

bulldozing into their hutments.

Aren’t the sea’s own kith and kin?

 

Can it be trusted anymore?

 

Just look at its deadpan eyes,

it doesn’t bat an eye,

doesn’t betray its ruthless hunger,

doesn’t burp after devouring lives,

 

men, women and children,

thei livestock and wherewithal

all washed away, swallowed

into its burpless cul-de-sac.

 

There cries a little kid,

left abandoned and orphaned

by the sea’s cold hands?

Would the waves adopt it?

 

Would they send

the unfortunate child,

to a school, buy it

a pair of new uniforms?

 

Could one trust a traitor?

 

(The poem is a reflection in the aftermath of Odisha’s Super Cyclone, 1999, devastating its East Coast. The sea rose and rushed 35 kilometers into the land wiping out thousands of villages.)   

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)  

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OCKHI

Geetha Nair G

When the strong winds blew the sea into whirlpools and sucked in scores,

 you stopped eating the sea's gift.

You claimed bits of bodies lay within the gleaming fins and tails

like beetroot in cutlets.

I felt with you first; then laughed you to scorn.

 

Yet

As the days grew drier like you, as the sea calmed down,

the cyclone sank back;

My laughter shrivelled and became weak.

You still would not eat your favored fare;

Or was it could not ?

 

I did not know then

that an Ockhi was brewing in our own sky 's greyness

Waiting to blow catastrophe

into you and me

and our precarious We

 

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OTTOMAN

Geetha Nair G

  My colleagues and I had always referred to auto drivers as Automen, with a pun on Ottoman, of course. We had been three wheeler people for decades, detecting unoccupied autos with skill, hailing them with expertise, jumping in with ease and sailing to our destination. Often, they had been our life-savers or at least casual- leave savers. I couldn’t imagine a life without those dandy intrepid three-wheelers that we call autos in our part of the country. I am a retired old woman now and not so spry as I was but I still depend on them. Without autos, my life would be bleak indeed. I admire them hugely, their jaunty, almost cocky attitude, they way they thumb their headlights at ponderous buses and sleek luxury cars as they weave their way at traffic lights or in jams , leaving the big guys behind.

 

 Automen are one of my subjects of study.They are a fine cross section of humanity. They come in all sizes and colours and range from angels to devils. I could write a book on the varied experiences I have had with Ottomen over the years… .Once I had had to report a venerable one to the local police station; he charged me double for a two kilometre ride and when I grew indignant said what I needed was a young driver. Insult added to daylight robbery! On another occasion, another venerable had waited for me when I went later than usual to pick up my little daughter after school and found her missing. He had joined in the search until I found her under a mango tree assiduously doing her homework; she said she thought it would be cooler than the classroom verandah where she usually waited. As I was saying, devils and angels.

 

  That had been a very hot morning. I had gone out for emergency buying. The last item was the most essential, tender coconuts. I searched the usual haunts but found only browning slices of old ones and shells. The nymphs had departed leaving behind these, like departed goats leave behind their droppings. It was puzzling indeed; this absence of tender coconuts and their tough sellers. I had hired an auto quite some kilometres back and the meter was ticking away like a bomb. I made one more attempt; I told the driver to take me to a roadsome distance away which was generally an avenue of tender coconuts. When we reached the place it was again coconut-less. I expressed my bafflement and the driver obligingly leaned out precariously and hailed a dozing shopkeeper. The man gave us the vital information we were after.Heavy rains in our neighbouring state, our annadaatha, had temporarily stopped the arrival of tender coconuts. No load had reached for the past two days. Till the raingods went elsewhere, we were left low and dry.

“My poor husband”I said half to the driver, half to myself. My husband was a sick man and was waiting for it with the craving and stubbornness of the sick. I knew he would be desolate..

“Is he ill, madam?” asked the man, turning nearly 180 degrees, to my alarm. He slowed down and went to 90 degrees, seeing my face. I took a good look at him. He was young. Probably in his late twenties. Small. Spry. With bright eyes and long lashes almost like falsies in profile. ‘Yes,’ I replied. I didn’t let on just how ill he was.

  Soon, we reached the gate of my house. As I got off and was paying him, he said to me ’Shall I get them for you from the main market? I saw them heaped there this morning.” I jumped at the offer. I asked him his his name. Suleiman. Ah ! The perfect name for an Ottoman ! Suleiman the Magnificent. I didn’t really expect him to keep his word but in an hour, the doorbell screeched. Suleiman stood there with a smile of triumph on his face and three tender coconuts cradled like plump puppies in his arms.

-So fast, Suleiman? I thought you said evening … .

- Yes. But I knew Sir would be waiting. So I brought them to you rightaway.

- That IS good of you.

 I handed him 200 rupees- 120 for the three coconuts and 80 towards his fare. He frowned. Oh, oh, I thought, he is out to fleece me. To my surprise, he handed back 50 saying, “Why so much ?I had a fare in this direction’

 When I insisted, he said:

-That is ok. God will give me, as I have given you.

 

He was sweating and looked tired.

- Have a cool drink at least, Suleiman.

.-No, Madam. I am fasting.

 

Oh! I should have remembered that- it was the third day of the holy month of Ramadan. He was filled with the spirit of Ramadan. Good. Though not a whit religious, I admired those who were.

-Call me when you need an auto. Call me, anytime. I leave home by 7.30 every morning. I stay nearby. The road parallel to this one.

 

We exchanged mobile numbers.He hurried off to his parked auto with a double blink of those girlie eyelashes.As he turned the auto , I saw its name - Suleiman. His very own imperial vehicle !

 I smiled, he waved and roared away.When I fed my husband the tender coconuts and the morning’s happenings, he was pleased. Make him your regular, he said, he seems a genuine person.

Our steady had left a few months earlier for greener pastures in the arid Gulf. I did need a regular Ottoman, to ferry me all over the city. Bank to pension office to market to medical store to supermarket to laboratory to hospital. My usual round. I had no one to run errands for me. Our only child had continued to be assiduous and was now, after years of struggle, tolerably well-employed in her dream destination- the USA. We missed her presence though the money she transferred every month was very useful indeed.

 

Two days later, I called him at 7 am. The phone kept ringing but there was no response.

Damn, I thought; I should have known. A lily of a day. I had known several such lilies. Seemingly so genuine. Or perhaps it was second thoughts. Maybe it wouldn’t be worthwhile for him; I would expect reduced fares. The spirit of Ramadan had probably evaporated with the Iftar, the evening feast.

Sometime later, my husband, from his bed, called out to me. He was watching the local news channel, as usual. The visuals showed a bad accident. The previous evening. The camera zoomed in on a bashed autorickshaw. My heart thudded as I read the name which had escaped the bashing - SULEIMAN.

 “Sounds like your Ottoman. No; he isn’t dead. A bus hit him . He has been taken to hospital,”my husband said, reaching out for my hand.

  That was last year. How my husband urged me to find his house, though I needed no urging, how I visited them at the hospital, how I became friends with his shy, sad wife and little daughter, how I continued my visits after he was discharged months later would be another story.

The holy month of Ramadan has come around again and is about to depart.The day the Moulavi sights the silver sliver, my husband and I have been promised a treat. An Id feast at Suleiman’s house. It will be my husband’s first outing after his surgery. We will be travelling by Suleimnan’s auto rickshaw. Mutton biriyani awaits us. We are full of excitement. What does it matter than I am an uncompromising  vegetarian? Man does not live by biryani alone.

Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English,  settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature  for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems,  "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com 

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Halloween

Sreekumar K

I went for Halloween

Painted all in green

My skin won’t show green

So, first a putty layer of white

And then, green went over it.

 

Had I been white

I could’ve greened straight

Without a white lie in between

Same thing with the tongues I use

I speak German, comprehend Hebrew

Both came to me through English

 

I went to India to pick up Sanskrit

Stopped over at the London Airport

Why do white and the whites

Have to be corridors to go anywhere?

 

Now I am reading the Manifesto in German

The Bible in Hebrew, the Upanishads in Sanskrit

I just don’t trust the deserted corridors

Painted in glowing white,

It so dark in there.

I always run into myself

 

---

For a While

Sreekumar K 

We had a maid, a dark young girl from

Some place we had never heard of

She didn’t speak our language, nor we hers

I shared a love of nature with her 

 

Followed her up trees and down streams

My sister used to sing with her.

Young as she was, my dad and mom

Used to fight a lot over her in their sleep

 

No one taught her but she knew all about life

Though not much about earning a living

A breadfruit bud my mother had brought

She grafted on to a rosewood tree in our backyard

Soon we had breadfruit three times a day

I never knew trees are such wonderful hosts

 

She found a robin chick, a failed acrobat

Adopted it and became its foster mother

Persuaded our hen to take care of it

The hen never complained a cackle

And even gave it more time and space

Than she gave it to her own chicks

 

I never knew a hen could be so warmhearted

She had brought a song with her

Which she used to hum wherever whenever

She once drew on the sand a picture

A musical device that can bring out its flavour

(It hardly looked like one though)

 

When I gave her my brother's guitar one day

When my parents were not there, of course

She stroked the strings, listened to its feelings

Tensed a string and tightened a screw there

And taught it how to mimic to perfection

An instrument which it hadn't heard of

An instrument she had left back at home

 

I never knew a guitar would oblige so well

She could make anything out of anything

Coax everything to get along with her

Most of my sister's discarded wardrobe

Went to her on special days every year

Though the colour was a mismatch

Her figure was like my sister's

 

(Earlier we had made effigies out of them

And burned them at revived festivals

To warm our gods on winter nights)

 

I never knew dresses could be so adaptable 

We miss her much now, we had to let her go

In fact, we had no choice, she was taken away

She had forgotten to take her papers with her

When she jumped off a sinking boat long ago

 

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Digging Into Our Future

Sreekumar K 

Tremors and tremors, not from quakes

Gods never do this to us, they love us

Kids are thrilled and laugh out the blast

They haven't been taught to spell ‘undermining’

 

Grandma’s home on a hilltop

The rolling hill and the meadows 

Now a ditch, gaping like a scoured out eye

A very deep one, long dead and buried deep

And reincarnated as a city

In some unknown land 

Where our children might go

To reckon alien wealth for them

And bring home the leftover, if any

 

Water was the first one to be frightened

And disappeared through the cracks underground

And the wind came all covered in a dusty overall

Left a teary note in our eyes

The fire we could not hold on to

Got tamed by them to turn the earth inside out

Burst out in anger from the rock quarries,

Or was it sobbing over our plight?

 

The sky is cordoned off for us

Their children play with their toys there

It still sheds ritual tears on us 

Tears that make our skin swelter 

And our crops wilt and wither 

The sun has aged in our place

And hides behind an orange veil

 

Only the earth stays around 

And manages to give us 

What we might even die for

We know it is only feeding us

With slow poison to speed up our end

They bribe it to do this

Providing it with meat 

That even vultures won’t touch.

Ours.

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

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COMING ASHORE 

Dilip Mohapatra

The mariner steadies himself on the 

quarterdeck and

peers through the sextant

to shoot the stars playing

hide and seek behind the clouds

sometimes absorbed in the skies

sometimes surfacing

as the shadow of the dawn lifts

in slow motion

exposing the stretch of solitary beach

against the amber horizon.

 

From the forecastle he squints

through his spy glasses 

to identify the unfamiliar rocks 

from their ghostlike silhouette on the

distant shore which appear 

in dissonance with his dreams

loosens his weather beaten sails 

drops hook

and lowers his dinghy.

Then he paddles down on the 

unknown waters

splashing the liquid silence

interspersed with occasional

seagull squeaks.

 

He disembarks and wades a while 

to pause short of the damp sands

not too sure if they had ever tasted blood

with heads rolling

and felled torsos flailing 

till vultures swooped on 

to tear them to the bones

and as he watches the crabs snapping

their claws and running helter skelter 

he wonders 

what did all his past voyages bring him

and what does it mean to come ashore

to sail again on another errand

to another land

and then repeatedly

coming ashore?

 

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DRIFTWOOD ASHORE

Dilip Mohapatra

Shorn of my leaves long ago

I am pushed around

by every wave that comes my way

and my roots no longer 

catch the soil anymore 

and stay frozen in time 

like the mummified head of Medusa

tossing and turning

to the tunes of the tyrant tides.

 

Then in low tides

I am left abandoned 

and lie motionless 

derelict and decadent

but with a heart that still beats

and bleeds 

stuck to the sand bar

like a half sunk anchor

while a phalanx of herons 

approach me

and cautiously peck at me 

hoping to get a maggot or two

and the fishermen 

in the distant horizon

cast their nets in abandon

listening to the gulls’

courtship calls.

 

I know this is just a brief respite

till the tides rise once again

perhaps to give me 

for a brief time

the taste of the shore

that I long to reach one day for sure

for I have strayed too far

and too long

and when I am ashore

I know there won’t be any

red carpet 

nor a band playing fanfare 

nor will there be anyone 

waiting with a bouquet in hands

but why should I care

I would have the nimble footed

hermit crabs 

swarming around me

in and out of their holes

waiting expectantly to hear

my weather beaten story.

 

And I would not shed any tears

that would mingle with the salt in the sea any more.

I would rather rest in peace that 

I am finally ashore. 

Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies  worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.

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ODE TO THE MOUNTAINS

.Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura 

The river is drying ,

The forest is mourning,

The birds and beasts are hiding 

As the sky is watching. 

They all are swiftly marching 

With shovels and axes

To take out all the blood 

From the sleeping mountains

So far been peacefully meditating. 

The old man is watching 

Through his shrunken eyes, 

Tired and resigned,

But the world around is changing. 

Roses are blooming 

While the strewn gulmohar peeping, 

Nearly perished, yet smiling. 

 

I am looking for the beauty,

The darling  of my past life, 

Dancing around the trees 

And singing with the bees. 

I entered into the soul, 

That the old man has hidden 

Inside his desecrated frame. 

I am trying my best to reminisce 

A beautiful world 

That is dying very fast . 

It is impossible now to tolerate

The reality as exist,  at present. 

Difficult to assess 

What we have achieved in the process. 

Silently I witness 

As she turns into ashes. 

Helplessly , I just drop few tears 

And join the crowd with my shovel 

To bleed one more mountain

"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.

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THE GLADIATOR

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien

In those days, many a beast bled

When his glittering sword pierced

And the crowd had cheered him.

In those days, many  a warrior froze

Under his net and three pronged spear

And the audience had applauded him.

He had his flesh endangered

To delight with his skill

The noblest of all, the Romans.

 

But now a foe named age

Have lessened his lightning spirit

And made him fumble in tactics,

Enough for his young opponent

To find the Gladiator’s  entrails.

 

Fallen now he has in arena,

That same Rome for whom

He had  devoted  his life

Cried and fancied for his blood,

For it mattered never to Romans

Whose blood that  gave them mirth

As long as its colour was red.

 

Around the Gladiator rose heinous cries,

Petals and ribbons brimmed the theatre.

The eternal Caesar wriggled impatiently

For the delay in fulfilling a task.

Someone of his train spoke

For the inevitable to be quicker.

 

As the hero brought up his sword

The gathering gave a joyful shriek

And the lost warrior a whimper.

When the sharpened  point landed again

 The nobles were pleased for the day.

 

As he lay there bleeding, the Gladitor,

Devoted blood drenching the Roman Soil,

His lips must have muttered a curse

For the betrayal done to him

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.

---

 

BONDS' BOND

Ananya Priyadarshini

"Hey, come to my place this Sunday. We'll watch a James Bond movie that's going to be aired this Sunday noon. Also, we'll have lunch together, mom said!", I jumped on him as I said. I'm a 90's kid and I'll be talking about the days when kids like me used to wait for days and weeks and months after release to watch a movie when it's finally aired on some channel. Also, it used to be a privilege to have a cable connection that allowed channels other than the national TV to be played.

He didn't look very pleased. I had already anticipated his reluctance. That's how he was ever since I'd met him. Grumpy, aloof, lost in his own thoughts. 

                  **********************

We were introduced to each other one Sunday morning in the colony park (we didn't have 'societies' back then) where he was reading something sitting on a bench. My football went straight and sandwiched his papers on his face. 

"What are you doing here this early in the morning! Don't you have school?", He growled holding my football in hands.

"Today's Sunday", I meowed, scared.

"So why aren't you home, then? Mornings are not to be played away!", He initially felt stupid for not knowing what day of the week it was and then, found a new way to humiliate me.

All my friends knew his nature. He had bitterly scolded many of them and also schooled some of their parents at times. He was a hated as well as feared character in our talks.

"I'm asking you something! Where's your home?", I was startled.

"There", I pointed like an idiot and said, "there's a power cut today... So no TV.. no cartoon... I came here to play...", I had started sobbing thinking he might turn up at my home to complain about me to my parents.

 

"You can still read a book, can't you?", He spoke comparatively softly this time.

"My exams got finished just three days ago", I said half expecting him to understand the unsaid.

"Children these days. Do you not read story books?", He again interrogated.

"They ain't interesting", I cursed myself for having said what'd only flare up the situation.

"Hmm... You've not got hold of the right book then. Don't worry. Come and meet me in the evening. I'll get something for you. But it's really getting sunny now. Don't stay outdoors. Go home", oh he has such soft voice and knows such kind words.

"What's your name?", He yelled from behind as I turned around to leave.

"Pintu!", I merrily shouted back and hopped towards home holding the football in hands and received the second installment of scolding from my parents for having gone out playing in the morning.

 

In the evening, I got back to him. He was sitting on the same bench. He took out a book. It was Ruskin Bond's. 

"Read this!", he was excited.

"Okay", I said casually taking the book from him, visibly disinterested. He could see me not reciprocating his excitement. 

The next day, he asked me if I gave it a read. I nodded a 'no'. My response disheartened him. The next day, when he again asked the same question, I lied.

"So, which story did you read?"

"The first one", I tried lying believably.

"Oh! The goat and the sheep... Funny, isn't it?", He continued.

"Yes! Very funny", I faked a laugh and his face lost all its happy expressions simultaneously.

"It's okay if you don't like reading but at least don't lie to me. I'm tired of lies", he looked so gloomy that tears welled up in my lids too. 

He got up and started walking away. "Can you wait for me here for ten minutes?", I stopped him.

 

Before he could ask 'why', I began running towards my home. Four minutes later I was running to the park again without allowing my mom ample time to ask 'where now?'

I was thanking the proximity of my house to the park and had a faith that the grumpy-turned-gloomy guy would be waiting.

I reached out to him with the book in my hand. He looked at me with suspicion in eyes. Sadly, he pulled the book from my hands. I didn't let go of it. It enhanced his suspicion.

"I'm not returning this to you. I want you to read with me- one story a day. Everyday", his face lit up hearing this. 

"Tomorrow. Right here at four", he said and waved me a warm goodbye.

And then, this became a schedule. To meet him at four, read stories with him till five and then play with my friends. My playmates made faces at how this villain had become my buddy. I was, however feeling proud. For the first time, I was 'utilising' my summer vacation instead of just burning it away in the sun, as my mom used to say. I'd developed a zeal for reading. Even at home, I began spending my time reading. This pleased my mom immensely and I told her about my newest nerd friend. Next day, she stood beside me before my friend! Three of us read stories and my mom stayed back to talk to my friend after I went to play.

When I returned, I found them both smiling. But I was skeptical about what did they talk about all this while! They were both silent and it wasn't pleasant to see any of them like that. However, mom greeted him well before we left for our respective homes.

"Pintu! Take this for your friend", the day after meeting my mom gave me a casserole filled with aamras. 

"So much for just one person!", I rolled my eyes. 

"He stays with his friends. And I'm giving for all of them."

Mom knew more about him than me. Oh, well!

"Why didn't you tell me that you live with your friends?", I screamed at him while handing him over the casserole. 

He instantly lost the sparkle in his eyes. I wasn't old enough to realise that he shouldn't have been asked further about it. 

"I mean that's so cool! You've met my friends, haven't you? Then why have you not introduced me to yours?", I was still complaining.

"You may not like them much and..." I cut him in the middle and barged,

"Take me to your place. Now! I'll greet them with the aamras myself!"

 

After a lot of nagging and shutting his hesitations, we were finally at his place. His friends were surprised to see me at first but then, we were all playing together and bursting into giggles. They were all of his age group. As I was about to leave his place after few hours with the casserole (now washed), I said- "I wish I too could stay with my friends man! To live in a family is so boring!"

He forced a smile and said- "Family is precious, my friend. When you don't get to live with yours, you try to build one with whoever you stay with and that's.... As you say... Isn't cool."

I didn't know this voice of his. This was a stranger's voice- one that came from a far off place, where I'd never been. I felt an instant urge to leave. I was late to reach home than usual. My dad had already reached home and asked, "Pintu! where had you been, champ?"

 

"To a friend's place", I said, not very keen to talk. 

"What friend?", I was in no mood to talk and luckily, mom didn't let me to. Seeing the washed casserole she'd rightly guessed my friend and was narrating about him to Dad. I could hear her from my room. But I wasn't happy. However, sadness is short-lived when you're child. It lengthens as you age. I too forgot my sorrows when my Dad told me to invite my friend over lunch on weekend at the dinner table. I'd grown wings the next day and almost flew to the park.

              *********************

"NO. And no further nagging", he said me in a blunt tone. Yet another unknown voice from yet another far off place. I was about to burst into tears for his rude behavior was indeed pinning me. That's when I saw Dad walking towards us. He came closer, greeted my friend with folded hands and asked me to go and wait for him in the car. I followed his orders. I was seeing them from the car window. My friend, who had made my eyes rain, was now patting my dad's shoulders and talking to him with great enthusiasm. Then, dad returned and told me to clean the carrom board after we reach home. Oh, so the guest agreed to arrive.

Sunday morning at eight, I was waiting for my friend to arrive who was, by now my parent's guest more than mine. Still, I was eager. I wanted to show him my book rack, my drawing book, my transformers toys collection and the photograph of my deceased Grandpa who had become a star a year ago.

He arrived. I did everything I'd wished to. The four of us played Carrom and watched James Bond (he liked it, but not as much as he liked reading. I could certainly say that), had lunch and right after pigging upto throat, I passed out on the couch. Yes, children do get high on a delicious lunch. 

I woke up to my Dad's and friend's loud chuckles. 

"So, you've become new buddies?", I asked them in a tone that had a clear hint of jealousy and insecurity, the ones you get at eight when your best friend goes to sit with another guy in the class. 

"Yeah yeah... We've developed a covalent bond!", And the two laughed unanimously - a laugh that brings two men sharing common interests even closer.

That day, when I walked with him to his place, I said- "See, you introduced me to Ruskin Bond. I introduced you to James Bond. So, we share a Bonds' Bond. Okay?", He laughed louder and nodded in 'yes'. I knew that this BONDS' Bond is stronger than any covalent bond.

It was winter break in school and I'd planned a Christmas celebration at his place. I was on cloud nine and couldn't keep myself from telling him about it. It was a bone chilling weather but I'd gone to the park. No other friend was supposed to come that afternoon to play. I was there for my special one! But, he didn't come. Not the next afternoon, not even on the next. It was Christmas Eve and I finally turned up at his place. His friends knew me. They wanted to meet my parents. Soon, my parents were standing next to me. Then, I just remember crying. Crying without really understanding anything, crying anticipating something bad had happened, crying like I'd lost something, something very precious.

It took me few years to realise that he was living in an old age home, that his children had abandoned him and also that, he missed them. Terribly. He passed away of an arrest that very evening when I was left waiting in the park. His children could take back only his mortals and not him, as he'd always been hoping.

I remember him- very clearly even after fifteen long years. I miss him. I feel a void he's left that no other friend has been able to fill adequately yet. Those sixty five years of age gap had never really mattered. I still remember our BONDS' BOND when I read Ruskin Bond or watch James Bond.

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.

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BLACK KNIGHT
Latha Prem Sakhya

                ‎
When the Black Knight
Dressed in splendour,
Came knocking at my door,
I said to him, “I have two fledglings
One hardly four and the other six,
Allow me to tend to their needs.”
He left without a murmur.

I wondered why!
But I turned back to life
Enjoying the minutiae of living -
Caring for my loved ones
I saw their wings sprout,
Fourteen summers passed by.

Not a day passed,
Without thanks-giving to my God,
For the reprieve he had given me.
Soon my daughter found a new nest,
My worry about her vanished.
But my youngest one’s wings
Had hardly any strength,         
To survive the gales and storms
That might take him,
So I kept my fingers crossed.     

But one evening, most unexpectedly
The Black Knight came riding, riding.
I sensed him from far, for my body
Curiously enough was preparing itself.
To free my soul to its eternal home.
I knew for certain he would not wait
Nor let me be for some more time.
Yet when he reached my door step
I parried with him for one more day.
Sure enough, pity assailed him
He left without a word.
                                                         
But I knew deep inside
He would come
For me the next day.
And my frail heart
Like a caged bird fluttered
Conscious of the time to fly away.
But I wanted to see the sun,
And people amidst their daily chores
I yearned to be out in the midst of life
Just this once, with my beloved
A last ride together!           

Yes, I must get out of this room,
This house, this red, prison.
Maybe God understood
My intense desire.
My friend’s unexpected visit
Triggered my desire.
She promised to take me out,
But where? Yet out we went.   
To the hospital for a check up.

It was a great day for me.
Flanked by my beloved
And my friend we drove away.
I enjoyed the golden sun,
Peeping through the mighty trees,
The sight of hurrying people,
And rushing life mesmerized me.

The doctor aghast
Admitted me in a room
Where the windows
Opened to the entrance.
I thrilled at the sights I saw.

For the past two years,
Too sick to move about
I had seen only my backyard
And my neighbour’s shut windows.
Starved of company, I faded.

Children in search of new pastures,  
My beloved busy making money,
None had time for me.
Even my friends kept away
Fearing that their visits would strain
My frail heart and worsen my illness.

No one spied the change
Their presence wrought on me -
Turning rosy and pink, blooming
Blood rushing back to my face,
Erasing the bluish pallor of death.
They never knew my yearnings -
To be in the midst of loved ones.

Passing days sucked me
Into the vortex of despair.
All the loneliness building up
In the red walls of my prison
Made me long for him.
And he came faithfully
And gave me one more day
To enjoy myself.

It was a day of picnic for me!
Surrounded by my dear ones,
The apple, I munched
Tasted like ambrosia.
I talked ceaselessly       
Ignoring the tension
Mounting, in their eyes
It was a day of celebration.

Tomorrow I will be no more.
So let me talk my maximum     
I talked, I laughed,
I teased my friends,
I pulled their legs,
Oh! It was fun.

The consternation they tried to hide
Made me vicious and I made sly remarks
And barbed digs at my relatives.
But they gracefully ignored them
Their discomfort made me
All the more exuberant
I talked on ceaselessly
Giving them little chance to speak.

My beloved -
He never left my side
Tending to my needs
Like a slave, dutiful
I was overjoyed - at least today
I will have him by my side
He was always slithery as an eel
Slipping away on slightest pretexts.
But today I had really hooked him
I had tied him to my petticoat string. 
By evening I was discharged.
My relatives and friends visited me.
And I was totally tired.
I had to prepare for my journey.
Before that I had to finish
Two more tasks -
Bid adieu to my sister,
And my children.

I had completed all the other tasks
I had given away all my best clothes
And all my cherished items
To people who would use them.
I looked forward to my two phone calls.

As I rode home
I   feasted on the passing scenes,
And thirstily drank them in.
My last ride!

At home I called my sis
Speaking to her for an hour,
I bade her farewell implicitly,  
But her mind wouldn’t accept it.

I told her how tired
And fed up I was, protecting
My heart, for survival.
How I had become a burden to everyone,
I then bade her good night and good bye
Time was running out on me.

  I called   my children,  
I couldn’t get them.
My heart throbbed painfully
For my children’s presence.
I realized I had to go
Without bidding them adieu.

   I heard the sound of hooves
Advancing, as my Black Knight 
Came galloping from the South.
Once I had conceived of him,
As a grim relentless being.
But experience had proven him
To be kind and merciful.
He had given me fourteen long years,
And one more day
What more can I ask of him
I was tired.

I wanted to sleep
I had no one to care for now. 

Even before he reached my door      
My soul flew out to him
Cradling it in his arms tenderly
He swung his horse towards eternity.  

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

---

 

THE ENCHANTRESS

Dr. Preethi Ragasudha

 The spell is cast.

 A look. A smile. A breath.

 And you are mine.

 

 I play with your heart, your fear and your foibles.

 You are powerless to challenge me.

 I keep you captive in my voodoo dolls, Driving a stake through your

 heart.

 

 The veins in my body swell with impure blood.

 In a surge of passion, I let it out.

 I bathe you in a shower of blood

 Trailing its course with my fingers.

 

 I see you shudder in passionate gasps

 Unaware of your destiny I hold.

 Somewhere I feel pity for you,

 Making my resolve waver a bit.

 

 Its not too late to free yourself,

 I will let you go on a clause.

 Find me another heart to play

 And I will spare your bleeding one!

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.

---

 

SUPPOSE WE MET..

Dr. Molly Joseph M

Suppose we met

after the sojourn 

of separation

where our  paths diverged

and abrasive contours 

of life devoured us in. 

 

Suppose we met, 

we would meet like 

strangers in alien shores

exchanging niceties,  

talking on climate..

 

covertly hiding the embers 

that crave to glow

in the depths of our eyes, 

leaving  unheeded

 the voice of  the waves 

lashing against the shores 

of the seas between us...

 

we would smile and part again 

as friends after a coffee break

seldom daring  to look back

yet, craving for a call

 from behind..

 

suppose we met thus

to write off such meets

in the scheme of things

by closing doors...

 

Or  what if we never met 

at all

leaving a door half closed

for memories

to play hide and seek

leaving room for random

mushrooms to sprout 

in a summer rain 

seldom expected...

 

Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.

She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).

---

 

MAGNOLIA

Sigridur Petursdottir

I’d wait for her

the girl with the sorrowful eyes

 

Touching my shivering petals

ever so gently 

My reflection in tears of crystals  

 

for a brief moment 

 

Delightful fragrance  

she’d whisper  

Despair replaced by wonder

 

for a brief moment

 

Ms. Sigridur Petursdottir is an Icelandic journalist, based in London. She holds a degree in Cinema Studies from Sweden, and has written about films for decades, mostly for radio and television. Sigridur is a published novelist and is working on her first screenplay.

---

 

RAMADAN

Alhassan B. Ibrahim (#The black poet)

You come and are

received with joy

You begin and end

with love leaving some

with good deeds

filled in store. 

 

Oh! You beautiful 

month, You're observed 

around the globe in 

good faith during weeks 

but not leaving without  

healing the weak.

 

In you, there is a night

Which is better than 

a thousand nights,

you make the minds

Stronger than a hundred  

knights.

 

You're the most holy and

only the ninth month among the rest,

stopping some pests

from the act of dark

and bringing them 

to light

 

Tears embroidering 

down the cheeks and 

Voices rumbling like 

thunder 

Standing all the night

Supplicating seeking

for wonders

 

When you're biding all 

goodbye, they all stand

In tears with a great fear

 

You have constructed a 

peaceful home for the 

souls around the globe

 

Whoever is deprived 

from your goodness is

Indeed deprived. 

Alhassan Ibrahim Babangida has B.A in English Language from one of the Universities in Nigeria. He is a teacher who is also a poet and a writer.

---

 

CONVERSATIONS

Sruthy S.Menon

Do you make right conversations with the right  people?

Have you recognised the difference?

The right people will make you laugh at your own craziness.. you feel as light as a feather flying up high in the air.

And, to where does empty conversations leads to? Distress, mental agony frustrations, all kinds of negativity that makes you feel like throwing it up.

Is it that hurting others has become a mere ritual to find happiness?  They can simply claim statements or raise a voice about your character, simply because they can easily thrash you down but you don't have to loose yourself  for those who don't deserve.

Yes, sometimes, you can go wrong with the choices you make in your life.  But, you don't have to repent over it and get yourself unhealthy.  

So, what are your choices for the crowd you spend your day with? Is it those that disappoint  you for all the efforts you take or the one's who support you throughout the stormy days when you are flooded with emotions of anger, hatred, pity but let you be at the worse and still  accept you, no matter the circumstances.

Have you thought of it? You are the most tangible of all species.  Anyone can hurt you any time ,still you pretend to stay as the most intangible . 

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 .

---

 

MY REFLECTION

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

Daughter is just not a word

My daughter is my reflection

In whom I wish to see the best of me

What I experienced in all these years

I wish the best of my life's moments to be bestowed upon her

Smothering her and smoothening the unevenness of events

 

Red carpet beneath her feet

May she be honoured for her humbleness and humanitarian attitude.

 

Hands with blessings ever scarf her

To fulfill her vision of life

 

She should mould herself with grace and love

To be remembered eternally

 

In my after-death, my soul should swell

With pride to have brought her to this world.

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 familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
 

---

ONE LAST TIME
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Every bird must fly one last time
To face the blast of an icy wind
Or the muzzle of an unknown gun.

One last time it must look at its memories
Of boundless love by the blue skies
And gentle whispers of the floating clouds.

Every bird in its heart must see one last time
A mother's love and a lover's tweets of passion
Of melting hearts and breathless abandon

One last time it must dream of soaring mountains
And towering cliffs, of tantalising heights
And fearful depths, empty hollows and pretty nests

Every bird must sit one last time
On the dense tree down the hills
Must perch itself on the tallest tower of the town

One last time it must float over the clouds
Must smile over the places it visited
And sigh over all that it missed, and for tasks undone

Every bird must close its eyes and look within
To feel the tumult of the sinking heart
For wins and losses, the hits and misses.

One last time it must smile at the unknown
Before it takes its one final flight
To drop into oblivion.

---

 

ELSEWHERE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

I have an appointment with Elsewhere
Didn't come here on my own
Nor do I know who brought me
All that matters is, I do not belong.

This city of abandoned streets,
Zombied statues,
Cardboard monuments
And crippled soul.

The clock tower looms large here
But its hands stopped moving ages back
The city has closed its shops
The lights are out, a haze is all that remains.

Time has stood still
After sweeping the city clean
Robbing it of any hope or dreams
Leaving only empty pitchers and dried up streams.

I would rather be Elsewhere
Drenched in copious flow of water
With wet throats and dreaming eyes
A soul filled with joy and rapturous sighs.

(Many Indian cities are getting progressively dry, unable to meet the demand of water from their ever-growing population. Johannesburg in South Africa has been rendered a ghost city, abandoned by the citizens due to absence of water. Unfortunately our leaders and policy makers are not too bothered about this looming crisis)

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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Critic's Corner

 

Sita the Quintessence by Prabhanjan Mishra (LV XVII  release) 

Prof. Geetha Nair

 

The image of Sita as the meek, all-accepting ideal of Indian wife hood has been receiving jolt after jolt in recent years. Devdutt  Pattanaik retold The Ramayana from Sita's point of view in his "Sita: An Illustrated Retelling of the Ramayana." Prabhanjan K. Mishra's poem on Sita in "Literary Vibes", Edition XVII, does just that in miniature,  making that trope of perfect devotion endearingly human. While Pattanaik 's Sita stays exalted,  Prabhanjan ji 's Sita emerges clear-eyed and everyday. His poem creates a fictional Sita who sees her husband as no one else does; after all,  no man is a hero to his wife/valet.

  The poet skilfully encapsulates almost the whole of Sita 's life in a few brilliant images. It  is literary subversion at its forceful best. The poem makes us think. The startling  last lines  open a new  door to possibilities. Sita , like all of us, remains unsure of her choice.
  Thank you, Prabhanjan ji  for a gem of a poem.

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