Literary Vibes - Edition XIX
Friends,
Welcome to the Nineteenth Edition of LiteraryVibes.
As the country waits for the arrival of monsoons, the oppressive heat in large pockets of India continues to make things difficult for everyone. Two days back Delhi was sizzling at 46 degrees Celsius, and Churu in Rajasthan was close to 51 degrees. Except Mumbai, almost all major towns and cities suffer frequent power outage during summer, adding to people's misery. And imagine Bangalore experiencing frequent thunder storms, hurricane and hailstorms, showing to us how a blatant disrespect for Nature can boomerang on us. As per a UN report the trees to population ratio in India is one of the lowest in the world. Whereas in Canada it is as high as 8,953 per person and in Russia it is 4,461, in India the number is as dismal as 28 trees per person. The need of the hour is massive tree plantation and what better time than the ensuing monsoons! Let's lend our hand to this ambitious mission for our sake and for the future generations.
Wish you a Happy Reading. Please forward the link to all your friends and contacts. And do write for us, we will be happy to publish your articles in LiteraryVibes every Friday.
Wish you Happy Reading.
Warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
SKEWERS AND GRAINS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
He rolls and tosses,
a scare takes over,
the silence hurts.
She lies supine, silent,
listening to night’s muted roar,
apparently attuned to its honey.
They lie in bed, fingers apart;
mavericks in their own worlds,
alien, intimate, like phases of a moon.
They join together to fight outsiders
even for a wrong; they fight with
each other, even when both are right !
Is their world the microcosm
of the ethos of a discordant world,
tender Love smouldering beneath a façade?
Their silence sings ragas, rhythms;
lack of expression looms as
lurking intents – dubious… insidious.
A chime on the wall breaks the spell;
they find each other a touch apart,
suddenly missing each other, rueing the gulf.
Rolling over, they hug the moment,
scoop the lost hours in palms, play ball,
score goals at their own pace and posts.
Both swim the other’s sky, merging
into one vastness, adrift and thoughtless,
riveted to a trust, a lightness of being.
Is it a God-design, or a human-fake
to roast two different grains
to puff up in one exclusive fire (?)
instead, the skewer and meat
wild-chasing fires in free pastures,
infested with snakes and ladders (!)
The luminous dark sifts healing
from the hurting, swathes the couple
in a benign wrap, heals their hurts.
THE HOUSE-HUNT
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Business gone dull,
hardly any call,
the builder scratches his sole;
the hole in his pocket,
bigger by the day.
A call, “Hello, hello..?”
“This is Ram D. Suryavanshi.
I need a palace with an armoury,
also a shooting range for archery,
zap at Ram Janmabhumi, Ayodhya.”
“My dear sir, the Archer Olympian,
that site is in dispute, turbulent
until, say. ten, twenty, thirty years;
why, take your pick at Noida or Delhi,
deposit a khoka as token, the rest
fifty:fifty (winks at partner) as we sign the deal.”
“My dear builder, I have waited
for decades, a few more
can’t scare me. But my Siya
is freezing in this January cold,
give us a room, pronto please.
I have no money,
neither black nor white,
take land instead,
say, a thousand acres
at my capital Ayodhya.”
The builder’s guffaw is followed,
“Why my good sir, give me
Lal Qila instead, ain’t ask
for the White House, though.
See Mister, no moolah, no room.”
“You don’t get me rascal,
forgetting me (?) your own Ram,
the ‘Maryada Purushottam’ (?)
my wife Siya, your Sita Maya…?”
Another Guffaw and, “Hey, I am
Amitabh Bachchan,
if you are Sri Ram, ha ha !”
A distraught Suryavanshi walks along
the streets of noisy Ayodhya,
looks at its ruins and decadence
with a heavy heart, teary eyes;
tells his tale to the DM’s PA,
to the CM’s messengers,
to the PM’s purveyors,
but one and all parrot one rote -
“Will you work in election rallies,
as Prabhu Ram’s duplicate?
You know, you have
an uncanny resemblance.
May get you a small house
under Pradhan Mantri Awas Scheme;
come with your Aadhaar Card.”
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
THE IMMORTAL (AKSHAY)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Look, my flesh is aging,
but do the world bother?
Dew shimmers unconcerned
on glass blades,
squirrels frolic
among Kaniara branches.
Look, even the protean sky
wears a range of colours, and
the poet fancies to count stars.
When all things perish,
I would seek you out,
my quintessence, my residue,
from the decadence;
would never betray your trust,
rehash you again and again
as a joyous reverie,
to keep you alive
in annals of memory,
my essence,
even until apocalypse.
HAMSA NAARAAYANI
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Why should it hurt?
Hamsa Naaraayani raga
heralds the new sun
but may not serenade
the swans at the sunset;
but it never torments me -
I weep happy tears,
as I feast on its melody
permeating my soul,
dissolved in the raga’s essence.
Even misfortunes
that chase me like shadows
can’t dent my joy.
Does that surprise you?
Fancy to see me
shed a tear of blood (?),
the setting sun’s
trickles of red
on clouds’ cheeks ?
You would see it the day
my soul goes bereft of music -
my heart would break,
eyes would weep blood.
Swans would stop warbling,
the water would stop mirroring
the birds’ languid undulation;
they would remain afloat
in an utter quiet in the still lake,
a mercury-grey silence,
a nightmare.
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)”
TUMBLES DOWN HER HAIR FROM ITS COIFFURE (PHITIGALAA TAMA SAJADAA GABHAA)
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
(Part-I)
The Adoration
The poet is out,
on the lawn late night
wife in tow,
she, on her toes.
Muted yellow marigolds
grieve the setting moon,
waft their fragrance
oddly reminiscent
of a distance dirge.
The wind is sadly listless,
the lawn teary-wet with dew,
the poet’s heart left in a lurch.
Lifting the lid off the gloom
his hands go fickle,
plucks a marigold
for his wife’s lovely coifed hairdo.
He takes her hands in his
for a leisurely walk
on the lawn, exuded by
the romantic marigolds,
awash with pleasant dew drops,
lit by the snoozing moon,
languidly hanging on horizon,
a Chinese lantern.
The dew washes her feet,
washes unwittingly the smear
of Altaa that heightened the pink
of her nubile and beautiful feet.
She glares at the lawn, glares
at the dew, eyes her poet-husband
with a withering frown; roasts them crisp -
the lawn, the dew, and her poor man.
Comes the second sin, her hair
tumbles down from the coifed beauty
as he tucks in his marigold
with all the tenderness
constellating in his eyes; oblivious,
he revels in her hair, loose and down,
hanging like a curling black cobra,
cascading like a night waterfall !
Her frown turns into a scowl,
but the poet fancies there her love
delicately nesting, a weaver Baya’s
complex nest. As her face grows
darker than the darkening moon,
the poet chokes on a drop of spit
hanging between the two moods -
her exasperation, his desolate joy.
The poet feels puzzled – why a lily
withers in its water world when the rest
of the world hails the rising sun,
why deciduous trees of a jungle
shed leaves and go nude in shivering winter,
why eyes go moist with tears of desolation
in night’s most soulful hours of union;
ah, what travesty, and their poetic irony !
At his wit’s end, the poet cajoles
his sweetheart to listen
to the night’s musical notes
ranging from tenor to soprano,
and forgive the lawn of its indiscretion,
mischief of the marigold with her hair,
join him in celebrating the dew’s wetness
in grass, the fragrance of marigold in air.
(Foot Note:- This is the first part of a poem conceived in three parts, embodying the poet’s three moods vis-à-vis his muse, his wife, his love. The translator has taken the liberty of giving a title to the first part to acquaint readers with the transition from one language to the other. The poem is from his book ‘Ghata Akasha’ published in 1998, meaning roughly - ‘the Sky Captured in a Pot’)
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)
THE GIRL AND THE DOG IN THE BUS
Geetha Nair G
I still laugh out loud, now and then, remembering that incident in the bus which gifted me both the Girl and the Dog. Bruno perks up, looks at me from his mat on the floor and then subsides into sleep. He is an old dog now. The incident I mentioned took place several years ago.
It was a Sunday morning. I had decided to visit an elderly relative of mine who was ailing. He had been good to me when I was a boy, taking me around to utsavs and church fetes, buying me lemon sweets and cotton candy, generally filling my dull life with joy. I was looking forward to the visit. I had bought him a shawl and a packet of Ensure. Pretty expensive but I had just got my salary and I was feeling expansive .
My relative stayed in a village about forty kilometres from Kochi where I worked and stayed. I had taken a private bus, one of those crazy perverse monsters that speed like a rocket and stop every three minutes. I wonder if you have experienced this phenomenon. The bus conductor goes “Ting” and then “Ting, Ting”almost as regularly as hearts do. I was bored beyond measure.
I got up, held on to the rail for dear life and felt invigorated. I was quite close to my destination. The bus was not crowded as it was a Sunday. I moved a few paces to the front. In Kerala, private buses herd the men at the back and the women in front while our KSRTC buses herd the women at the back, the men in front. Don’t ask me why. Some things defy explanation. Now,frm my standpoint, I had a good view of the women folk seated in front of me.
Then, at one of those million stops, guess who climbed in ? A big, brown dog with a black collar, a wagging tail and a pleased look. A cross between exotic Labrador and good old desi. He was followed by his agitated owner. She was a pretty girl , slim, with a long plait of hair. Right now, her fair face was red with embarrassment. It was almost as red as the red kurta she was wearing. "Go home, Bruno!" she kept telling the dog who seemed deaf . She tried pushing him out but he wouldn't budge. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. By now the whole bus was animated. The driver switched off the engine and turned round to enjoy the fun. "Give the dog a ticket, "guffawed someone. There were roars of appreciative laughter from the passengers. That the girl was young and pretty made it all the more interesting for the male ones, of course.
When the laughter died down, the girl said with sudden dignity." I thought he was tied up at home. Alright, I am getting off. Its just three stops from here. I can walk. " She was climbing down with the dog following, when there was a buzz of protest from the passengers. The driver solved the problem by saying "Its fine. We’ll take the dog along as well.” So girl and dog took their respective places and the bus thundered forward.
As I prepared to alight , I saw that the girl and the dog too were getting off. They made off fast, the dog's tail and the girls plait swinging behind them.
They turned into the lane along which my relative stayed. What a coincidence -she stopped at his gate, spoke to someone there and continued walking. So, she was known to them.
I had a pleasant time at my relative’s house. My offerings were accepted with happiness. I was fed banana chips coated in jaggery, relics of Onam, no doubt, and fresh banana fritters, by the lady of the house, his daughter. I narrated the episode of the Dog in the Bus and then asked her about the Girl.
She laughed over the Dog and then told me about the Girl. She was the younger daughter of a retired schoolmaster. Her name was Uttara. She came occasionally to visit her married sister whose home was just a few fields away. Uttara was working in a temporary post as a teacher. She was about twenty five years old. Her parents wanted to get her married and settled but the first marriage had crippled them financially. A very well-behaved and likeable girl, concluded the lady.
I had heard all I wanted to hear.
The next Sunday saw me at Uttara’s house. I had for company, the lady relative from three stops away and her husband. Bruno greeted us with his customary tail-wagging.
Her father, a gentle-looking, elderly man, came straight to the point. “I am honoured, and happy with the proposal. But, Arjunan Pillai, I am worried about the age differnce between the two of you. My daughter is only twenty six . You must be fifty at least. She feels.. “
I jumped up from my chair and with a strangled sound of protest. His incomplete sentence fluttered in the embarrassed air… .
Uttara is a very good daughter-in-law. After my dear wife passed away several years back, my son Abhi and I lived a half-life in our desolate little house. Now it is a home once again.
The Dog has switched his devotion to me. When my first grandchild was born, Bruno moved to my room. He sleeps on a mat near my bed, on the floor We are two elderly individuals finding comfort in each other’s company. I thank whatever gods there may be, for gifting me the Girl and the Dog.
GLOWTOY
Geetha Nair G
On my shelf
It rests
Arms stuck out
Eyes dull
Motionless
All day
All the weary day
As I twirl
My daily spin
When darkness stills me
It comes alive
Glowing
From my bed I can see
Its big head gleam welcome
Its arms stretch to me
In growing warmth
My old, alluring toy
My night time friend
My joy.
Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English, settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems, "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com
THE STUDENT I WILL NEVER FORGET
Sreekumar K
Often I am asked why I have 'swasth' as my e-mail Id. And therein hangs a tale.
Our school, SrI Atmananda Memorial, Malakkara, Chengannur, Kerala is an international school with a unique teaching approach which helps children develop at their own pace. It is based on teacher-student relationship. Students teach us how to teach them.
Once close to the 10th standard board exams we found that one boy Swaroop S Nath had very little chance of clearing the exam. He was quite an artist and I was teaching him English. Just for the sake of
the school's reputation I decided to take up his case. After my groundwork on him I found that nothing conventional would work. One evening I took him for a walk and made him ask me a question, any
question.
"Sir, isn't water an element?” he asked.
" Well, it is not. But why do you think so?"
"Because in Shakespeare it is."
I explained why it is like that. A great change was about to happen in him and me. We were walking through a paddy field and we saw the various ways of irrigation. Looking up at the red sky, I told him what I thought Doppler effect was all about. We talked about birds, Hitler, cricket and photons. I showed him
why heat and temperature are different. He showed it to his friends.
The very next day six of them wanted to come for the walk. I borrowed their textbooks and got ready to chat with all of them, on all subjects. Swaroop had taught me the way children think or better love to think.
For the next three months, Swaroop and I worked together till 11 o'clock every night and redid it in the class for the others.
Once in Tennyson we came across the line:
"To follow knowledge like a sinking star
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought"
I asked the class what is beyond human thought. They "thought" and "thought" and gave up. I asked them why they thought 'thinking' would take them there. A heavy silence followed. Then it was spirituality
all the way. Dr. Ramani's rendering of "Darbari Kanada" on the flute told us about space, a full-wave rectifier about God and a fertilized ovum about beauty.
Swaroop was racing ahead, pulling the whole class and me with him. True, he couldn't comprehend his texts properly and often I had to read to him. I had to listen to all the Mr.Bean stories he had to say.
He frequented my home so much that my 4-year-old daughter Lekshmi thought he is my other child and he said that 'in a way it is true'! But he brought out the teacher in me as no other course had done.
He cleared the 10th with a high second class and pushed his classmates even further. A girl scored 83% and said she is indebted to Swaroop. For 12th he got 70% in humanities. He became a voracious reader. Today my inbox overflows with his 400 KB mails. A US based company has his painting on their T-shirt. He became my partner for a part-time job I took up.
'swasth' is short for Swaroop and his teacher.
PRACTICAL LESSONS
Sreekumar K
As we went down the hill, picking up our path among the thorny undergrowth, I felt quite happy. The children too were excited. They see these fields far down from their school playground every day. Some of those who worked in our school garden, the barber who came on weekends and the milkman were from this village.
It was a suggestion from a new teacher in the Social Science faculty that we should take the sixth standard students down to the village. As a part of the project work in Social Science, the students could go down to the village, meet some of the villagers and interact with the children in the village school and maybe even meet the Sarpanch and interview her. I thought it would be good to sensitize the children about the lives of farmers and introduce them to the rural culture and traditions.
Our school was far away from the city, on top of a hill, overlooking a dam’s reservoir on one side and some expansive fields that extended to the horizon on the other. There was a lot of barren land too on the farther side of the fields and then there were rocky hills all around. Most of the villagers who lived in the valley were small-time farmers. The only facility they had in the village was a school which had classes up to the seventh grade.
Our school driver helped us arrange everything and we took along with us a two tenth standard students who could speak both Oriya and Hindi fluently.
We crossed a sugarcane field and scrambled up a slope and reached the school ground. The headmistress came and met me. The school was worse than I had thought. Actually, I would have been disappointed if it had been otherwise since the whole idea was to make our students realize that not many children were as privileged as they happened to be.
The school didn’t disappoint me. No classes had benches or desks and the blackboard was a rectangular dark patch on the wall and there was no way a straight line could be drawn on it. Most of the plaster had come off the walls and the only reason it didn’t leak was that there was hardly any rain.
Canes, bought personally be the teachers, when they visited the Sunday market in village near the Kali temple, were the only facility that every class had. Consequently, the school was very quiet except for the teachers who were huddled together, chatting in the veranda, while the children copied the lessons from their textbooks for reasons known to no one.
We went through the veranda with the children in the classrooms giggling at us and some of the chubby ones got more than an equal share of that.
Soon after we finished our rounds, we assembled under the shade of a tree on the farther side of the playground, quite a safe distance from a couple of cows that had wandered in from the fields. The children had to be told repeatedly not to bother them. Some of the teachers were still staring at us from the veranda and whispering to each other, probably about the practices which were rumoured to be happening at our school.
Two of the boys came to me and one of them told me how annoying it was to be giggled at by those children. He said that given a chance, he would have shown them.
“Shown them what? These children work hard on the field when they are not in school and before you know what is happening you will end up licking the dust off their feet,’ said the physical education teacher who had overheard him.
I thought it was good for them to hear that the village children were good at something.
“Sir, I have a black belt.”
“So what?”
We sat around under the banyan tree and the school driver, who had brought some water and snacks, started distributing them. The crows on the branches of the banyan tree above started calling their friends at the prospect of food to be shared. We told the children to turn their back to the school while they were eating. No one asked us why. They knew that there would be children staring at them wondering what kind of food came wrapped in aluminium paper.
The snacks were nothing but two loaves of buttered bread and a sachet of chilly tomato sauce. A couple of children who had done a project on environmental issues around human habitation collected the litter, planning to take it back to the school junkyard where they had organized a system of waste management.
“May I have your attention for a minute? OK. Some of you, or most of you, though not all of you, were annoyed, angry in fact, to see the children giggling at you. Well, they giggled at me to and also at my colleagues here. But, just think for a moment. Put yourself in their shoes. I know, they don’t have any shoes.”
I waited for the laughter to subside.
“Now, the fact is you too would have laughed at them, had the situation been reversed, that is, if they had come to our school and walked down our school corridor, peeping into the classrooms. I know that for a fact, so let’s have no argument about that now. However, what I think is, if they had a recess and you had got a chance to mingle with them, greet them, ask their names and shake hands with them, you would have become friends with them in no time.
“I also want you to remember that the food that you eat, no matter how much you had paid for it, comes from them. Now, why would I say that?”
Several hands shot up and then one by one they all voiced the same idea. They are farmers, the caretakers of our mother earth. That was from the first lesson in their moral science text-book.
We also visited a family and interviewed the members about their lifestyle, culture, economy and agriculture. They were very respectful to the children, especially when they found they could speak Oriya.
Two days later, in their culture class, the children shared with their friends the information each group had gathered.
Most of the farmers owned some land. Their monthly budget ranged from five to ten thousand. Almost everyone had a bank account and saved about 10,000 to 70,000 a year which is added to their bank account. They had not yet decided what to do with the savings. Education was cheap since there was a school in the village itself. They don’t have any health hazards and the only way they may spend the money would be to build or buy a new house. Several of them still lived in huts built by their grandparents.
I thought the information didn’t make sense or agree with our concepts. The children also thought that the villagers’ life was not so bad. So I had to explain it to them.
“See, happiness or satisfaction is the way you take your life. These people are happy because they are not exposed to higher lifestyle or luxury. They don’t even bother to buy good clothes or repair their house. As we see, they don’t even know what to do with the money they have. They are able to do so because even though they are poor, they are farmers and they can eat the food they produce. So, the money they spent on food is way too little and this helps them save so much money. In a city slum, things would be different. If someone in the village takes the initiative, their saving can be better managed to bring them up to a better lifestyle or a higher financial platform. But, the point is, will that increase their happiness. Ultimately, once the basic needs are met, the question is what can make us happy, now that we are satisfied. In other words, the question is ‘Now what?’”
We have a trans-disciplinary approach in our school and so now the economics teacher explained the difference between economy and lifestyle. The biology teacher continued and told them about the common diseases caused by polluted water and the Eco teacher told them about watershed management. He also showed them some slides about Ralegan Siddhi he had visited a few years ago.
That evening, the economics teacher said to me, “Menon, I didn’t want to contradict you in front of the children. The villagers were bluffing to the children, simply pulling their legs. None of them in the village has a bank account.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I am sure. There was a branch of the State Bank of Orissa in the house behind the post office there, when I joined the school fifteen years ago. Two years after I joined, there was a bad drought, the crops failed, a couple of them died due to starvation, many of them left this place and the bank too closed down. You can’t have a bank account without a bank, I think.”
The children have collected some money to send a New Year Greeting Card to each student in the village school. One of the parents, an industrialist, who happened to read his son’s project on the village has agreed to provide some desks and benches for two of the classes in the village school.
We had some good rains this year. It is still raining. The villagers should be really happy even though everyone’s roof is leaking.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
FRIENDSHIP
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Friendship
grows like
old wine,
they say.
But for
mature friends,
memories alone
make wine
superfluous.
They also say:
Friendship
is best felt
on separation,
as the distance
makes you
appreciate
the mountain
from far.
But,
mountains make
friends with
the sea and sky,
who meet at the end,
despite their
distance.
You can always
speak your mind
to your friend,
who never minds
what you say.
But, who needs
speech,
when minds
can connect
without words!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
THE SHADOW STEALER
Dilip Mohapatra
Come let me take you on a guided tour
of my secret vault where I have kept
all the shadows I have stolen over the years.
Shadows of all shapes and sizes
and of all shades and hues
not discriminating the masterpieces from
the counterfeits
the brittle from the malleable
the fractured from the whole
and the frozen from the ones on fire.
Have a look at the first shelf
that contains the moist and misty
shadows of you eyes
And just next to that the soft and red
shadows of your smiles along with
the hard and grey shadows of your silence
and the viscous fluid patch in the next case
the imprint of your flowing tresses
making ripples on the sands.
The next urn contains the pulsating and throbbing
shadows of your heart on fire
surrounded by the subtle and sublime shadows
of your spirit and soul.
The second shelf has a chiaroscuro
of fading shadows of the past
the menacing shadows of the present and
the ominous shadows of the future.
The shadows of doubt and deceit
of loathing and malice
of greed and grief
of ingratitude and infidelities
which I have sealed with utmost care
giving them no chance to escape.
The last casket in the corner
covered in a white shroud
contains the pale and merciless shadows
of your death
imprisoned and locked up for ever.
I have lost my very own shadow long ago.
How long ago
I don't remember
neither have I any knowledge if any one
has stolen it from me
or was it dissolved in the pool of my tears
or blown away with my sighs
or consumed by my passion and lust for life.
But thankfully I am free from its
cold and contemptuous looks
and it's accusing fingers
and I am happy with all the shadows
that belong to you and what I have stacked here
that are under my command
and at my beck and call.
SHADOW PLAY
Dilip Mohapatra
You open your palms
and then spread them apart
to close and open them again
in repeated rhythms
and the birds flap their wings.
Then you close your palms tight
and the wings get stuck
or perhaps snap.
You then bring your both palms together
your thumbs sticking upwards
and then open and close your
little fingers in quick succession
and in sync with the barks of the canine.
Then you close your palms into fists
and the dog’s bark ends with a whimper.
You have the whole menagerie
confined to your fists
and every time you close
your palms you drive the captives
to torpidity
or perhaps to catalepsy
one by one
and look for another.
When the light is gone
life is gone too
and so is death.
And so does the tickling in your palms.
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.
JUST FOR A REST
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Go your way ,
leave me alone
Slowly, I am getting used to this climate.
It may be little hostile
But, now , I am more equipped
To handle the turbulent time.
I understand
You have better things to do
Which surely, will make you
The darling of the larger crowd.
When I needed you the most
You deserted me in the forest.
I cried out in loud voice,
Just in case ,
You would turn back
To lift my fragile frame.
But, all my body groaning in pain
Gradually assimilated without any trace,
As I kept looking in dismay
Your apathy and outrage.
I have prepared for the worst,
While hoping for the best.
I have no fear of losing any object
As I have already distributed
All that I thought I owned,
To remain without any attachments.
I have no tears in my eyes left
Making me smile without any pretense
If you wish to help
Just sit beside me
And lean on me for a rest.
"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.
LIFE AND DEATH – TWINs
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Lay there Mother Earth
In an agony of pleasure
For a child was due
After the longest of penance.
Joy in eyes, pride in heart
She said ,Life is his name
And so Life was born
Rosy and beautiful ,
Smiling with eyes sparkling .
(A child of so Perfection)
With his first breath
Sprang the nature green.
Flowers bloomed , streams flowed ,
Birds chirped, creatures moved.
But smoothness of parturition
Did interrupt much to dismay .
Life’s lower limbs stuck ,
Seemed the womb was tugging .
Exerted all pressure ,mother ,
To help her little child out,
And for freedom the child pulled .
A limb got free, then the other
After a battle so weary.
But, but , something more it seemed .
A wrinkled hairy hand grasped
That tender leg so smooth .
A lean warty figure was emerging .
Mother Earth’s joy was escalated
For a second child was due .
But worried as happy was she
For any imp was her second child.
His face was wrinkled ,nose twisted ,
Lips burnt , eyes sunk.
The body’s work was such ,
An untalented sculptor
In careless of hour would chisel
Better a figure than this .
Thus was Death born.
Drowned in sorrow, mother
Named her newer Child ‘Death’.
As death blinked his eyes
At the brightened light of day,
Shadows growled, jealously crept ,
Diseases unfolded , disasters leapt.
So life and Death born together ,
Same day ,same moment,
Grew under a mother so caring.
But seemed to Death at times
That mother cared Life more
And to him she hesitated .
Nature hailed and prayed to life
While on death they frowned .
Thus jealously formed a maelstrom
In a soul kept aloof .
Set he pranks against Life
And pelted diseases, tripped to disasters
His brother life, so pleasant .
Trails of Life, Death followed ,
Unknown, silent ,at a distance .
Flowers bloomed ,young leaves sprouted ,
Rivers gurgled ,trees waved
As life walked amidst ,whistling .
But his follower’s stealthy tread
Made flowers wither ,leaves fall,
Rivers parch, trees burn.
Pranks against life got gruesome
But virtue of patience ,Life had in him.
This is no retaliation angered death
To reach a zenith ,to murder.
To murder his brother ,so simple ,
And it would all be his .
His mother , the nature, everything .
All his alone for his happiness .
Thus he laughed till light fainted
And a plot was woven with darkness
Accompained by shadow for the assault .
They send the moon on errand
And the stars a compulsed leave .
Darkness painted the night blacker
To suit the complexion of death .
No witness to fear, all set ,
They set to accomplish,
To demolish Life .
Life in company of blissful nature ,
Dancing among swaying flowers ,
Singing with chirping birds
Didn’t notice the fading light .
Late dark , Life said bye to friends
And nature waved back to the blessed .
He sensed some danger lurking ,
Death’s another ploy , he knew.
He walked forwards boldly to home
For fear won’t help him reach there.
The attitude of game has changed ,
Death has unveiled himself , he knew not.
About his mother he thought
And then about the heavenly bodies
Whose absence made world dark
Fumbling, straining along the path ,
Suddenly he was lunged forwards
To a bed of thorns eagerly piercing .
As life knelt up to walk again,
Death lurking , treading in stealth,
Kissing his dagger ‘Fate’
Stabbed Life from behind.
He stabbed Life endlessely ,
Making him groan in pain
While he, Death ,seizured with joy.
Knowing that life no more existed ,
Rest of the night ,in darkness’s company
With his servant shadow
He bathed in wine celebrating.
Early day next ,mother Earth saw
Drooping flowers ,withered leaves ,
Dried streams , barren mountains ,
Dead trees, fallen creatures .
Nature so nursed was dead .
Unwillingly suspecting the worst
Frantic search for life began.
No answer jaded her
Till she stumpled upon Life’s body.
She cried aloud ,tore her apparel,
Fell to the ground ,beat her head .
Heaping sand on her face ,
She muttered a curse on death
Dipped in agony and pain .
“A good one you killed ,
Then let boredom accompany you
To pain you till the end’
Death for days few roamed
As a king should ,till realising ,
To admire his always were none .
He loitered the desert through,
Nothing to do, nothing around ,
His mother’s curse creeping behind.
He thought of days previous
Troubling life for entertainment ,
Plundering , killing nature for pleasure ,
As and when to his will.
He ran away from the curse,
Tired to fight it, then bribe it,
But boredom endured still.
Weary of doing nothing
To defeat boredom, the foe,
He beat out darkness
And little by little
Burnt his servant shadow,
But boredom crept back.
All last, no one to turn to
Nothing else to spend on,
Agonised, angry, cheated,
He took the knife ‘Fate’
Which saw the entrails of Life .
And then he stabbed himself
Till blood splattered the land.
As he lay there bleeding
He heard his mother’s voice,
‘You killed Life, you’ve learnt,
You Death is irrelevant without Life’
As death closed his eyes
He heard the echoing laugh,
That of Life’s.
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.
WOW' REACT
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Hey Burnt-face! Bring a tea !" I ordered the short, squat chap at the tea stall I religiously pay a visit to. Every morning. Without any exception.
He brought the glass of tea and smiled at me obsequiouly. I ignored him. No one ever acknowledges his presence. He is a fixture of the tea shop like the broken-down kettle and the chipped off tea cups. Even the calendar on the wall with the image of Goddess Laxmi commands more respect than him. No one knows his name - he is derisively addressed as Burnt-face due to the unmistakable patches of burn in his disfigured face.
I took the first sip of the hot, sugary tea and turned my attention to Jagdish, the tea stall owner.
"Hey Jagdish! Look what my friend has uploaded in his Facebook page! This is the live video of students who burned to death in a coaching centre that caught fire accidentally. Some even jumped down the windows in the third floor to escape the fire. But alas, the gravity! It's so realistic and my friend has shot it himself at the spot!", I talked in just one single breath.
"So many children died and your friend stood there shooting footage?",
Jagdish said, stirring the boiling tea on the flames.
Within fraction of seconds my excitement changed into thoughtfulness and gradually, to shame.
Jagdish continued,
"You know, this Burnt-face is trolled by every single customer who comes here. But he takes pride in his scars. He wears them as a medal he had won by saving two kids who were lying over the dry hay stacks that suddenly caught fire on a summer afternoon in his village. And that afternoon, the handsome Ramesh turned into an ugly, burnt faced guy. He paid the price of his burnt out beauty at the cost of a broken engagement as well! Still, you'll never see him regretting jumping impulsively into the fire that afternoon. He sincerely thinks, it's all worth it. So you see, only phones are getting smarter, men are getting dumber", Jagdish was done spewing out his rage.
I withdrew my 'wow' react on my friend's video post.
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.
FOREST OF MUSIC
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
The forest found me.
I did not.
The enchanting forest of music.
The myth is true.
The music enveloped me -
As the dew drop on the tip of a tiny grass.
As the pollen flying away from a wild flower.
As the wind that courses through a bamboo shoot.
As the hollow echo from an age old cave!
The rivulets chimed together.
The bees hummed a soft lullaby.
The trees murmured cryptic musical notes.
The birds chirped a famous symphony.
I wandered along.
Drinking in the mystical juice of music.
Mesmerised.
Lifting my spirits.
Shedding tears of joy.
Finally at peace.
Realisation hit me like the roar of a wild river
This is where I belong!
This is my abode!
The music pulls me into an esoteric trance,
And I feel myself merge with the forest.
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.
ARIA
Latha Prem Sakhya
Strains of a once familiar song,
Lapping on the shores of my memory.
Tantalized and teased me to pursue
Its’ haunting; yet, evading, elusive lines.
In hot pursuit I crashed
Through the labyrinthine maze of my mind,
Stacked high with neatly packed caskets
Containing variegated experiences of my life.
In varied colors and shapes,
The gazing memory caskets mocked me.
For, in the haste of living I had forgotten
To label them neatly for future reference.
The glazed, blank look of the unlabelled caskets,
Unnerved me; with their still, icy silence.
I had forgotten the content of most of them;
And an urge to open and reminisce mastered me.
But I deliberately ignored that wanton desire,
My soul’s undivided aim- to trace the source
Of that familiar song, haunting me relentlessly,
Coerced my mind; to reveal the recurring melody.
The intense quest of my soul seared and scorched me;
My agonized being vibrated with the mounting tempo-
Of the reverberating echoes of the haunting notes.
And in a blue flash of light I saw YOU - framed in my inner eyes.
Like a roaring wave from an alien shore,
The Lydian measure came rushing to my ears-
The aria celebrating our idyllic friendship,
For a brief span of ten years.
The recaptured song, from the sea of oblivion-
Created by the “sick hurry, and fret of living”;
Flooded and environed my being with your memories,
Fluttering like
Our friendship transcended the earthly barriers,
As if we had been friends for eons.
Our shared thoughts, feelings, attitudes, experiences,
And our identical visions of life strengthened our bond.
Yet you lived in a plane sublime;
Your faith and absolute trust in God,
Made you a source of inspiration,
To all, who came into close contact with you.
A unique incarnation of love-
You accepted, forgave and patiently bore-
Uncomplainingly, the undeserving yoke in your life-
A real model of human virtues.
Oft, I had enjoyed your care and concern;
Your loving presence and letters of consolation,
Had often restored my bruised and injured soul,
Wafting me to serene shores of peace and happiness.
You had bowed helplessly to your fate,
When the relentless Reaper brought to naught-
Your hard won spiritual and earthly honours,
Destroying forever your intense desire to live.
Unreconciled to the reality of loss, I see you
Immaculately dressed in starched saree, hurrying to your classes
With an arm-load of books, and your bespectacled eyes -
Dancing and smiling greetings to your friends and students.
I see you again immersed in your post-doctoral studies,
And guiding your students, or bustling about
Attending to your never ending chores
As wife, daughter-in-law, friend and teacher.
All these images instill in me a fond hope-
The hope of meeting you soon...as though
I need only to put aside my daily chores
And make a surprise visit as in yester years.
Yet you will remain a spark,
A guiding spirit, to students -
A shining light to lead them,
Through the world of letters
To a better world.
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
ON LOVE!
Sruthy S.Menon
Have you ever thought "on Love"? If yes, then tell me,
Why is everyone in search of true love?
Is it because you are influenced by the idea of love?
Or may be ,
to love,more than yourself
Or may be,
a little less!
I had been in search of true love,
for so long ...
But,
I never found nor realised,
if there is any thing to be called
as' true love' ,
other than the love showered unconditionally by your parents
or those beloved to you.
But still , if that is not true love , then ,
What is your idea about true love?
Is it to be loved forever by someone till your last breath?
If there is someone to talk with and spent their valuable time with you,
A warm hug ,
And a cup of coffe on a cold winter night,
Under the moonlight sky,
Silently staring at each other
Counting the stars
Making a wish
Night rides and popcorn at movies
Laughs and cries
A tale to share
of your bundle of joy’s and sorrows.
Fights ,misunderstandings and
Creeping anxieties ,
Acceptance of all loses and gains.
If you want to talk, just share !
Make conversations, face to face rather than peeping in to your gadgets.
Having a fabulous dinner under a tree
Listening to the chirping of birds
Giving a piece of chocolate , rather than,
A bouquet of roses or special valentine’s gifts.
Can't true love be that simple?
Why complicate yourself with the idea of being in love than loving .
SRUTHY S. MENON is a Lecturer in English literature at Swamy Saswathikanda (SS) college, Poothotta , Kerala.She is a postgraduate in MA English from St.Teresas College ,Ernakulam. Her poems and articles have been published in Deccan Chronicle. She has also written a few of her poems in anthologies such as “Amaranthine : My Poetic Abode” , a collection of English poems and quotes compiled and edited by Divya Rawat. And also in an Anthology titled “Nostalgia :Story of Past”, a collection of English poems , stories, quotes An Anthology by Khushi Verma . Her recent publication is in an Anthology compiled by Miss Suman Mishra titled “ Crimson, the Genius Poesy.She has also contributed her quotes on “1000 Women Quotes “compiled by D.Krishna Prasad.
She is the recipient of several literary and non- literary competitions including art and painting as inspired by her mother, winner of Kerala Lalitha Kala Akademy.
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 blogger at Mirakee Writers community . She welcomes readers feedback at Instagram (username ) @alluring_poetess .
THE WAIT
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
An ordeal it is to be
An aspirant for a medical seat,
In a country of such explosive population
And alas, our system has set such vast variations in weightage
Bestowed upon so many.
Pockets of parents go empty
When they wish to fulfill our dreams to be a doctor
And so few colleges with good facilities,
Just peanuts before the huge aspirants
Now after years of dedication and lifeless living to attain our dreams
'I wait' for hours together, for my results to be retrieved from the server .
Such eternal wait, that hands have gone numb and brain has got still,
heart choked and eyes popped out
When will my endless wait end
And bring a smile to my lips,
Oh! My wait!
(Poem on a long wait for results of NEET to be retrieved.)
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
LYING ON THE FLOOR, DAZED
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
No small talks
No polite smiles
No sugary glances at each other,
When everyone from last night's party
lies sprawling on the floor, dazed.
No room for flowers in the vase
No drawing of curtains in the windows
No space for the afternoon sunlight,
When everyone from last night's party
lies sprawling on the floor, dazed.
No match box for the unfinished cigarette
No light for the perfumed candle
No pen for the incomplete shopping list,
When everyone from last night's party
lies sprawling on the floor, dazed.
No marking of the date on the calendar
No winding of the antique clock
No wiping of the dreadful images from the mirror,
When everyone from last night's party
lies sprawling on the floor, dazed.
No farewells, no goodbyes
No shaking of hands
No promises to meet again,
And everyone from last night's party
keeps lying sprawled on the floor, dazed.
WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I waited for the train that never came,
making me sit in Time's nondescript bench
like a stranded wanderer in a desert.
Trains came, many of them,
but they were not good enough for me,
and my enormous baggage, gathered over a lifetime,
It was a small station, like all faceless ones
you see on the side of the winding tracks,
only the departing passengers made it look busy.
My days were filled with forlorn thoughts
Nights spent in sleepless despair,
Eyes tired and drooping, mind in a haze.
My friends passed by with bright smiles
carrying the souvenirs of a well-spent life,
filled in big suitcases bulging with laughing Buddhas.
I waited, bereft and hopeless,
images of criss-crossed paths playing in my mind
like a never-ending game of serpents and ladders.
I kept waiting till I heard the whistles of the train,
but my fogged mind never knew if the train was round the corner
or beyond the distant mountains and clouds,
trying to negotiate my unmet hopes and unfulfilled dreams.
May be it will come after I discard all my baggage
And wait for the train with empty hands.
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.
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