Literary Vibes - Edition XX

Dear Friends,

Welcome to the Twentieth edition of LiteraryVibes.

We are fortunate to welcome four new writers to the happy family of LiteraryVibes this week. Mr. Hari Varma is a seasoned champion of literature, with many laurels to his credit. Ms. Arunima Ray, a doctor, has a touching heart and writes beautifully. Ms. Sowbhagya Varma and Ms. Sindhula Raghu are promising poets, very talented and committed. Let us wish all of them lots of success in their literary career.

I firmly believe, there is a poet, a writer lurking inside every person, waiting to come out and flood the souls of readers with tranquil emotions. Friends, if you have the time, we have the space. So please go ahead and write. We at LiteraryVibes are waiting to welcome you.

Wish you happy reading. Please forward the link to all your friends and contacts. And do send your poems and stories to LiteraryVibes at mrutyunjays@gmail.com

 

With warm regards

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

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THE HAUNTED FIFTH-LEVEL LOFT

(In Memoriam: Rashid)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Living in the sky - the fifth-level-loft,

your haunted house,

half-wood, half-brick-and-mortar,

creaking floors and leaking roof,

windows ushering in the Malabar Bay

overlooking the Tower of Silence

and its overhead circling vultures,

and its arms open, even if

you remained an eternal rebel,

an exile to the macabre Parsee tradition

of marching to moksha

through eagle intestine;

 

the haunted spacious loft

in the sky, with its creaking floors

and the leaking roof, overlooking the Bay,

overhearing the baying of aerial scavengers;

haunted by genies, your late parents

who suffered long, died in peace

in your solitary yet soothing arms,

secured by the aura of your iron fisticuffs;

haunted by a void left by a brother

and a sister living in USA, great minds,

little people, pinky porky beings that oinked

from afflictions of pockets, stomachs, loins;

 

haunted by memories that exuded

the smell of sorrow and goodness,

a loneliness preyed upon by Grant Road

and your never-ending search

for female secrets among its whores;

you and your confused celibate stance

thirsting for a sexual panacea

and its pearls, but from the safe shore,

never diving or digging open the oyster;  

haunted by an absent camaraderie

the type of which went extinct with Dodo,

may be earlier, the time of Rex, the dino…

 

haunted by your million poems

that fluttered around your loft

with the millions wait-listed bits and bytes

eager to roll down your fingers

in a debauched word-star’s striptease

with his muse next door, in every nook,

and every corner; a Quixote’s expedition

to conquer the world, save damsels

in distress from demonic molesters,

from monstrous dwarfs; your competition

with the iconic Don in tilting at windmills,

to accept knighthood from cinder-girls.  

 

You suddenly left, your luggage unpacked,

before we finished our excursions

in bylanes of Kamathipura, to count

honest whores persecuted for earning

bread by letting their body-urinals

on rent to men for joy rides

instead of cheating across counters,

or conning by sleight of hands. You packed

and left before we finished our walks

among the gulmohars of  Ballard Pier Boulevard

along its sun-bathed tawny dusks, and before

resting our tired feet on exotic nubile laps.

 

 

(Friend Rashid Khosravi, a poet, an advocate, a state level boxer in his prime, one of the founding luminaries of Bombay Poetry Circle, 1986; born in the diminishing community of fire-worshipper Parsees, a chronic bachelor, passed away in sleep in the night of 31st May, 2019, at an age of around 76, a very young age for a poet young-at-heart to hang his life’s marathon boots. He had many a Achilles Heel: his poverty, generosity, loneliness, and frequent quarrels for just causes with unjust people. His mortal remains were cremated as he had wished, as he had fought against his community’s search for Moksha atop their Towers of Silence through the stomachs of vultures. His photos here: one was snapped with the author in 1986, and his solo one of 2019. May his soul rest in peace. Two earlier poems of the author for friend Rashid inscribed next.)

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WITH A FRIEND ALONG A BOULEVARD (Book ‘LITMUS’, 2005)

(for Rashid)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Don’t despair, my friend.

 

The green gowned wind

blows along the vacant lots

by the Ballard Pier boulevard.

The blue-tawny dusk

hovers above like a kingfisher,

intoxicated but lonesome,

eager to peck you.

The sun before its touchdown

tosses up the golden mane

that peels down the tree-tops.

 

You look wary, my friend,

 

of the un-titanic icebergs:

the horny Hungarian woman

and the orphan in your lane,

the night that awaits you

desolate like other nights,

their moths and mites,

the parched yellow light

and the fire-breathing fans.

 

Sit here on the bench.

 

It’s worn, yet proud and trusted.

Let’s buy and munch roasted peanuts,

appreciate a few skirts

tickled by the wind’s evening-hands,

rest our tired feet on the memory

of an exotic woman’s lap.

 

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FOR A FRIEND (Book ‘Lips of a Canyon’,2000)

(for Rashid)

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

It hurts

of course

your annoying

perpetual goodness.

 

In privacy

of our parentheses

we have guarded our togetherness.

We have tied no loose ends;

they have tangled

like Grant Road’s unruly lanes.

 

Unlike the whores of your neighbourhood

you give away all you possess,

walk away without waiting

for others to say thanks.

 

You explain yourself

with analogies. Aren’t you

simple as a simile ?

 

Your friends think

you are easy with money.

I attribute it

to an unknown figure of speech;

you, a threatened species

of human-ilk.

 

Pushto has put a tough lining

on the underside of your tongue.

On your lips

Bombay has raised its weeds.

 

But for being a male and not a gay,

I would be in love with you,

not once, many times over,

out of sheer spirit;

 

The spirit in you and me and us

that makes this harsh city disappear,

like Alice’s Cheshire cat,

despite its tenacity and nine lives.

 

It always gives the twist and poignancy

to our camaraderie,

startling me

out of my married complacency.

 

We walk the luminous Grant Road lanes,

the first whore comes alive like a gasp;

by the time we wind up, the last ones

block our path like excuses.

 

In the heart of the city’s glitter

we hear the panting of besotted souls.

Along the lanes wending absently they drift

from century to century spilling Cuticura.

 

In this unreal city by the sea

looking for a watering hole

remains a mirage, a caged tiger

with useless canine and claws.

 

Let’s invoke our old-rosy-days,

bits of torn love poems to sweethearts.

When we look for them –

they lurk away from our palms.

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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THE SANCTUM (GARBHAGRUHA)

Haraprasad Das

Translation – Prabhanjan K. Mishra

This interior

why so gloomy,

the gloom

so thick here?

 

Even the morning

leans on

the main pillar,

as sharp as a night.

 

A foreboding fear

wipes the face

with a dirty swab

used to mop the floor.

 

A distant clarion call

booms in the air,

the rocks rise

anointed with blood.

 

So, why doesn’t

the gloom go,

why the inside

so dark?

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A KITSCH-RIDDEN DUSK (GODHOOLIRA SHILPA)

Haraprasad Das

Translation – Prabhanjan K. Mishra

My lifetime work

seems clichéd and old hat,

reminiscent

of any Tom, Dick and Harry,

peddled in flee market

over the counter.

 

The fear of cheap stuff

has kept me away from peers,

recounting only profound thoughts,

but all in vain !

 

I have returned

to my drawing board

in various guises,

to re-chisel my craft warily,

honing words from new alloys

on the anvil of lived experience,

distilling out the banal.

 

But standing at dusk,

a fear goads me

to destroy my entire work,

that seems to crawl with kitsch,

before the looming night

comes knocking at my door.

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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TUMBLES DOWN HER HAIR FROM ITS COIFFURE (PHITIGALAA TAMA SAJADAA GABHAA)

(Part-II) - VENERATION

Poet Hrushikesh Mallick

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Fragrant sandal wood wafts in air

these days, do you bathe in that aroma,

or is it the perfume of my madness for you ?

My excited words may confuse you

as glib talk of  a self-indulgent lover

enamoured of his wife’s assets, but using

his brother’s wife as a fig-leaf metaphor;

smiling to himself  with its sweet hangover.

And honey, doesn’t this rain soak your

skin with its earthy odour, or only mine?

 

Your doe eyes bring me the repose

and calm that suffused me in childhood

when my mother drew her Rangoli.

Even the grass blades go lush

when you take a walk on them,

as if - you bring them the cool rain

of nightly dew. They await your footfall

with anxiety of a calf for its mother’s feed.

 

I fancy meeting the Maker

who designed dark clouds,

stealing the kohl from your eyes;

the creator who laced the mornings

with the thrills and frills of sylvan forests,

of green acres and lush orchards,

and the tranquil dusty village lanes

in the template of your coy smiles.

This nitwit would put his thick-skull

at his exalted feet with worshipful love.

 

(Part-III)

THE FIRE RITE

 

Dirty dishes clamour for attention,

but slip from your grip, your mind elsewhere;

the morsels of food lose their way

in my abstracted gullet, and the crow

sounds a coarse urgency atop our roof;

and look - the afternoon looms lazy, languid.

Do you honey, feel your blood churn

by a vortex, its heat torment your flesh,

as mine smarts from an unknown pain, or is all

that a fancy of my besotted soul ?

 

We try our best to extract

our pound of joy, the old rusted sky

looming over the muddy earth bellow,

your eyes half open, and half closed,

confuse me if our tormenting pangs

flow down along the receding graphs,

also, not sure, how far you can walk

with me with your painful sore feet.

 

Would you honey, forgive the night dew

that washed clean the Alata pink off your feet;

wear it again for the sake of my fancy ?

Would you dear, redo your exquisite coiffure

collecting the tumbled down hair, forgiving

my fickle hands and accepting the fragrant marigold?

 

(Foot Note:- Here are the Part-II and Part-III of the poem (the Part-I was published in the 19th edition of Literary Vibes) 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 titles to the parts 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)  

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LINNET IN THE CAGE

Geetha Nair G.

Ethics classes were what most of us were reluctant to handle. There was no textbook or syllabus to teach from. One had to work up enthusiasm in a large group of disparate young ladies whose minds were on their delayed lunch or other more interesting things. Fortunately, the Ethics class was only once a week; an extra 30 minutes that ate into the one- hour recess. The other four days of the week, they could learn it without help, was the logical presumption.

  That day, after a spoonful or two to keep hunger away till 1pm (like Pavlov’s dogs, the clock striking 12.30 saw us salivating) I walked into my allotted class. They were new to me; I had gone to fill someone’s casual leave absence. I started talking on Right and Wrong in relation to Good and Bad and hating every moment of it

  As I was struggling on, to my nostrils was wafted the unmistakable smell of chapathis. I strolled casually along the aisles, talking still, sniffing surreptitiously. The offender was in an aisle seat in the second row. She jumped up, mouth full, crumbs falling to the desk,when I stopped by her, glaring accusingly.

Of course I couldn’t admonish her, not after the mouthfuls of fried rice I had eaten from Sumi’s lunch box a little earlier; Sumi, my dear colleague was both a very good teacher and a very good cook; her lunchbox was always in great demand. So, I put on my sternest face and asked the girl to show me her tiffin box. She gestured coolly; it was just next to her. Open. There lay two and a half folded chapathis. No curry? was my first thought. I wanted to ask about the absence of curry but refrained with difficulty.”What is your name, young lady?” I asked in my meanest voice. “Mary Linnet, Ma’am,” she replied cordially. Somewhere a bell rang. No, not the big tawa-type bell that hung in the corridor. This one was in my mind. I looked at her again. Thin as a string, with a chin like the tip of the map of India and a mop of curly hair… .Mary Linnet.

 Soon the welcome bell rang and I gestured to Linnet to follow me. We walked together towards the main block. I asked her about herself. -Where do you stay?

-Near the University Office, Ma’am.

- Where near the University Office?

- Ma’am, the road going down to Red Cross Junction.

-Where, there?

 -Ma’am, at the Orphanage there.

-Were you ever in Holy Innocents Convent School ?

-Yes, Ma’am, when I was a child.

   So the bell in my mind had rung true notes. The memory came back; it was as clear as the well in the convent school I had studied in.  About 10 years back, I had paid a visit to this convent to spend a little time with an old favourite teacher, a nun who was on her deathbed. She was an impartial and kind human being whose life of dedicated service had taught me more ethics than any class ever could have. Sister Laetitia was well-cared for and at peace. I envied her a little. After the visit, I lingered a little in the old surroundings replete with memories. I stood awhile in the portico of the chapel. A woman was sweeping the assembly ground in front of it; a tough job indeed.The huge trees that lined the ground rained their delicately-scented white flowers regularly to the ground. How often we had picked these flowers and woven them into pretty garlands ! Then I saw a thin, little girl, about seven or eight years old,in a faded blue pinafore too long for her. She was following the woman stealthily, dropping flower after flower in a line on the clean-swept ground as she walked. She had a huge collection of the flowers from the swept-up heaps in her bunched-up pinafore. The woman straightened her aching back, turned her head a fraction and saw the little villain. With a cry of rage she bounded up to the child and yanked her to the portico. A stream of flowers marked her swift journey. The woman screamed out a name almost in my ear. A tall nun came out. “Mary Linnet! You again ! you are the devil’s own! No wonder your parents abandoned you!” she said angrily when the woman had explained what had happened.The cruelty of it hit me hard. The child was all defiance now. Her pointed chin grew more pointed; her mop of curls shook as she turned her little head from side to side.

 “They didn’t; they didn’t. God took them away; I know, Sister Benedicta told me . She is nice. Not like you!” she spat out at the towering nun. I saw her dragged away towards the dorm reserved for orphans. To be punished, no doubt. I left with a heavy heart. I thought of the linnet, that merry little bird, shut in a cage. Poor little Mary Linnet.

  And here she was again, ten years later. Mary Linnet had grown taller and even thinner. But her face was virtually unchanged.

  After the incident of the chappathis, I called her over now and then to the canteen or the library and spent time with her. I told her how I had glimpsed her once years ago and reminded her of the incident of the flowers. She agreed that the tall nun had been a monster. She hastened to add that she herself had been a handful. No wonder the convent had handed her over when she was ten, to the Orphanage she stayed in now. I asked her many questions. One of the first was ; why no curry? Why only chappathis? Her reply was that chappathis themselves were a luxury and where was the need for the additional luxury of a curry. I felt humbled by this young girl. We became good friends.

I asked her whether she had pets and she said she had one- a lizard that she claimed to have tamed. She beat Leonardo DiCaprio in this by a year or two!

 “ Visit my home, Ma’am,” she urged me, often. One evening, I accompanied her home from college.

 It was a visit I found unforgettable.

Beyond the high, blind gates was a long low building. Linnet took me to the Nursery first.

It was feeding time.

Babies lay in swing-cots, holding their own feeding bottles either in their hands or in their raised, clasped, little feet. I counted six of them.Some cots were empty. An ayah or two stood by. In a play pen in a corner, a toddler was weeping his heart out. He held out his arms to me and instinctively I picked him up. An ayah came rushing to me and put him back in the pen. I had done wrong. The boy had been left at the orphanage just the previous day by his destitute mother and they were training him, teaching him he wouldn't be coddled any more.

Seeing my face, Linnet consoled me; the irony was not lost on me.”Ma’am, he will be fine soon. I have seen so many like him.  He is lucky to have a roof over his head and food when is hungry,” she said. I patted her shoulder in a clumsy gesture. She looked puzzled.

 Next, we met the Superior, a fine old nun who spoke kindly to me.

Then, Linnet took me on a tour of the place. More shocks were in store . She paused at a high wall and told me to peep over it. I did and saw three young women -all with protuberant bellies- walking energetically up and down along a garden path. Linnet confided in a hushed voice that they were unwed mothers-to-be from ‘decent” homes whom the nuns were sheltering until they delivered and went back to their homes, as good as old. Soon, three more cradles would be full. Having been led up the garden path already, these evening walks would be no novelty to those girls, I reflected.

We had tea and hard biscuits. Then I bid them all farewell. But they refuse to bid me farewell.

I wish I could end this remembrance by stating that Linnet flew out of her cage, and lived happily ever after. But life is no fairy tale, is it? I kept in touch with her. She was always getting into minor scrapes. She did not complete the degree course but went on to do a diploma in ticketing. I left for Tamil Nadu a little after this. I had an invitation from the Orphanage some years later; Linnet was getting married to a Jerome Xavier from Kochi. I sent her my sincere wishes and some money care of the Superior.

Another decade later, I ran into her again. Or rather, she almost ran me over. I had just dropped my grandson at the kindergarten and was leaving . A two-wheeler came turning the corner wildly and nearly knocked me over. When I recovered my balance, I saw it was Linnet and her two boys. She was the same bundle of nervous energy she always had been. She sent the boys into the school and then we talked awhile.

Linnet now worked for a travel agency. Her husband had turned out to be a rotter. “I was lucky, Ma’am” she said, “he left me for another woman.” She had moved back into the Orphanage with her little sons. In the evenings, she worked as one of the ayahs. In the mornings, she helped in the kitchen. Thus she paid her keep.

 The kind Superior had passed away but the new one was equally kind.

“Life has been good to me, Ma’am” she said, her pointed chin held high.

They come over now and then, Linnet and her two boys. The boys play boisterously with my grandson. She and I talk much. Rather, she talks and I listen. No cage can cage my Linnet.

 

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FINGERS

Geetha Nair G.

In the mirror
I see your fingers trace the lines on my face
Your eyes are sad
And then those fingers 
Turn fierce
Whirl back time 
So that we are young again 
And no lines are drawn
In our  sudden dawn.

 

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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An Angel in the Classroom

Sreekumar K

A smile on her face, glitter in her eyes

There stands my teacher, wonderful and wise

She’s an angel sent by the Him above

Soft and pure, to teach us with love

 

She knows much more than we ever think

She’s is always alert and won’t ever blink

She’s a holy lamp, the Lord himself did light

To end the darkness and make the world bright

 

Patience, affection, compassion, wisdom

Are the ways she rules her own kingdom

Mother, father, god, all rolled into one,

She prepares us for battles to be won

 

Numbers, letters, rhyme and rhythm

She makes us see our maker in them

Maps, diagrams, graphs and sketches

Beyond them now our world stretches

 

Because of her, we became what we are

Thanks to her lessons, we’ll all go far

Dear teacher, we give you our faithful word

That with your help we’ll take this world forward

 

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Getting Caught in Road Blocks

Sreekumar K

There is no point in sitting in this bus. I will be stuck here for another two or three hours.

I cursed the vice president, I cursed the traffic, I cursed the narrow roads and then I became more sensible and cursed myself.

Then I got off the bus.

When it comes to taking a short cut, I always mess up. I have lived in this city a full three decades and I know all the lanes, bye-lanes and dead ends. I know which route is crowded and on which day, which time.

Still, all my knowledge is of no use when there is a traffic restriction in the city. Recently, those from the top at the north have taken a fancy to this city. And I have missed several appointments and received so much of shouting from not only those above me, from those around me as well.

They don't wait for donkeys, so we do, old joke.

I got out of the bus and hailed an autorickshaw but had second thoughts the way its driver dodged through the thick traffic, abusing those who were on his way and halted near me, with the rattling thing almost upending.

He gave me a glaring look and I got into the torn and oily back seat unwillingly and told him I want to reach the railway station in half an hour, expecting him to shower abuses at me. No one can do it.

But, he changed his gear and took a sharp turn. I closed my eyes and thought he would have done the same too.

We entered a narrow road and then I lost all my sense of direction. Like he was prompted by telepathy, the driver turned back and told me his plan of action. He sounded like the waiter in some cheap vegetarian hotel repeating the menu. I did what I had done on all those occasions. I shook my head.

The ride was really bumpy and he was focused on the curvy road. I tried to relax.

From some narrow lane, I was not familiar with, we emerged into the main road. God, we won't make it in time.

Reading my thoughts he asked me not to worry. I don't believe in prayers. Still, I prayed.

We were close to the footpath and I saw a couple, a young man and an old girl walking a few feet in front of us. The driver turned around suddenly and caught my eye. I felt a little nervous.

We caught up with them. They stopped on the footpath and we stopped at the signal. I focused on the numbers on the LCD board.

18, 17, 16, 15, 14

“They are married. At least the girl is married.”
“What did you say?”
“Those ones over there are married.”
5,4,3,2,1

We zipped forward.

Without turning back much, he went on.

“There is a difference in the way girls walk when they grow from childhood to womanhood. When girls are young they walk, you know, like dancing. Then after puberty, they walk like they are holding something between their thighs. After marriage, they are not bothered. They just walk. Especially when they are with their husbands. You know what they think? Anyway, it is obvious I am with my man, then why should I pretend. Hahahhah”

I thought about it. As youngsters, we had our own theories of how to tell between a married couple and those who are just in love. If they are looking at each other when they talk, they are not yet married. If they don't look at each other when they talk, they are recently married and if they are looking around, they have been married a long time and had enough of it.

“But I don't think she is married to him.”
O, God, he is not going to stop. I don't have a problem with his banter so long as he is not careless in his driving.

But the fact was he was completely careless. He overtook any vehicle from any side of his choice and abused every other driver on his path. Sometimes he abused the pedestrians also.

A lady tried to cross and he waited for her.

“These ones won't look at us and will do whatever they feel like. They will move forward and backward and then stand still right on our way.”

The lady, for no reason, hurled abuse towards us and crossed safely to the other side. We moved forward. If no miracles happen, I am going to miss my train. And there is no other way to reach Kollam by eight and keep my appointment.

“She is in for a fling.”

I had a hard time figuring out which woman he was talking about. He was referring to the one with that young man.

“These days the girls are bolder than the boys. Not like our times, sir.”

I looked at him. He is much younger than me. Probably married with at least three children, all attending some poor state schools. Not much age difference between them. I smiled at my own wild imagination.

“You don't know, sir, what kind of life they lead. I hear these things every day from people who ride with me.”
“The boys are fine. They study well and become engineers and doctors and collectors.”

That was quite contradictory to many generalizations I had heard so far. I didn't mention it.

I didn't want to argue with him. That might encourage him and I may have to listen to dirtier stuff.

I looked at my watch. I visualized my train leaving the platform. I slapped myself when I recalled that was exactly what I should not do.

I tried to imagine the train waiting there for me. Ha, ha!
“Did you hear that one-third of those who watch dirty movies are girls. Someone told me. I am sure they are looking for their own clippings. Don't laugh sir, it is true.

“This autorickshaw is like Facebook or WhatsApp, sir. You get to know whatever happens in the world by just being on this seat. You can't get information like that sitting in some office. Sir, do you work in an office?”
“I work at the Techno Park.”

“Really? Then you know the world. Those from north India. What do you think about them, sir?”
“Beautiful, more beautiful than our girls.”
“No, sir. It is all makeup. But I was asking about their behaviour.”
“They are bold and more free with people, if that is what they mean.”
“Yes sir, exactly. But do you know what makes them bold? Nothing to lose. What our girls consider sacred they have already lost. For what? To get money for drinks and grass.”

“Grass?”

“Ganja, sir. It is very common now. I have seen girls exchanging it sitting where you are sitting right now.”
I shifted in my seat and looked around as if its traces could be still there.

The traffic had thinned out and now I have a very thin chance of making it if this idiot stops talking and goes faster. But I can't blame him. In spite of his banter, he is racing ahead of all the other vehicles in the fray. Everyone seems to have some train to catch. Hope it is the same train and some lucky ones in those other vehicles might make the miracle happen.

I have selected the wrong man. It is not so good to listen to this kind of talk. I too have a daughter of the same age. If he is going to make more generalizations about girls, I may feel hurt.

Nothing could stop him. He went on talking about the problems with this generation. Most of it was against girls. I can't say I was not interested at all. A little small talk warms one up.

“There is no need to send girls to college. Anyway it is the husband who runs the family. We can't say these things now but girls get spoiled when they go to college. And they don't learn what they need to learn. For example how many of them can cook a full meal?”

I lost my interest. He is an uneducated male chauvinist. There are educated people who say such things. So this is only pardonable in this uncouth uneducated autorickshaw driver.

But I still thought how unfair it is to rubbish all girls like this. I have heard many men do this. Some women also entertain such thoughts.

“Sir, there is a hospital I know. They have made a lot of money through illegal secret abortion. Everyone knows that. But isn't that a necessity? What can we do if these idiots come home pregnant?”

I could understand the anxieties of a parent who has daughters. What all stories do we get to read in the newspapers every day? When that incident happened in Delhi, I didn't sleep for three days.

The autorickshaw entered a new lane and he was silent for some time. He is surely getting ready for the next blast. I looked out. God, it is very close to the railway station. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

“The olden days were much better. This new western culture has spoiled it all.”
Nothing new. This is what everyone says. Mostly those whose English is weak.

“Some people say it is a curse to be born as a girl. Some others say girls come as a curse to the parents.”
“We can't say that.”
“True sir, even our mother is a woman,” he said with a chuckle.

We took a sharp turn and we were on the main road. I looked at my watch. Five more minutes. I should give him something extra. He doesn't look poor. But then I thought about his three children. I again smiled at my wild imagination. It is possible for him to have a large family. How much do these people make nowadays? A thousand? Not bad considering that he hasn't got a boss.

He stopped right at the entrance and shouted at a porter for not moving away.

The meter showed forty-five and I gave him sixty. He gave ten rupees back and opened his purse to give me five rupees.

“No, no, it is all right. Keep it.”

I returned the ten rupees to him.

“Buy some sweets for your children.”
He showed me his purse. There was a tiny photograph. It showed a mother and a little girl.

“Which class?”
“Dead sir. Died in an accident. Both of them. Four years back.”

That was the least I expected. I didn't know what to say. He was smiling.

“Hurry sir, you may still get a comfortable seat.”
I moved away and when I was at the gate, I turned back to look at him.

He was still waving at me.

 

---

 

 WONDER

Sreekumar K

Uththaman hadn't expected to be found out this soon. He had been staying with Viswanathan for a long time now. He had come here planning to continue his studies. Viswanathan was the editor and owner of a small time newspaper and a really knowledgeable man and more than anything a good family friend.

Uththaman thought that he should have told him long ago.

“So, that is where you have been disappearing every now and then,” said Viswanathan.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you. But I thought it was all right.”

“Now, who says it is not all right? It is fine with me. There aren’t many big temples around where you can stay for a night. So, you are saying that you have visited all of them, right?”
“Yes, I don’t think I have missed any temple. Now, I plan to visit the farther ones.”

“What do you get from this?”

Uththaman thought what a stupid question! But the man seemed to be in earnest like someone asking what a certain shop sold.

“They say that your wishes will be granted.” He uttered the first answer that came to his mind. He knew there were better reasons than that for his innate obsession with temples.

“O, that it interesting. So, which of your wishes were granted so far?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean a lot of good things have happened in my life recently. I don’t know whether they were coincidences or  gods showering their blessings on me.”

Uththaman looked up at a lizard hugging on to the roof and eyeing both of them. There were many of them hanging on to the roof and dirtying the chairs and tables with their droppings.

“Good things are happening in your life because you have been kind enough to help me, this old man, who couldn’t manage all by himself,” said Viswanathan and chuckled. Uththaman also joined him. It was true. In return for the financial and academic help he got from this old friend of his father’s, he too helped as much as he could in cooking and cleaning.

“You have shown me something, young man. I have been thinking of going somewhere for a week or something and now I can try these places. You just give me the details.”

“But you said you don’t have any substitute to mind your business.”

“I didn’t. But now there is a way to do it. See, most of the work is done through some very good earnest employees in the office. That is good enough. Even you can mind my editorial work for a week or even forever.”

“I am not old enough to command all those people there.”

“O, that is easy. Now, even I don’t go to my office every day. I don't have to. Everything is in autopilot, kind of. All you have to do is read the copies and send them back. They at the office will do the rest. In fact, I have made the final decision. You should stay here for a week while I will go visit those places. I trust you and I know that you are capable of doing it. Don’t run away for a week. Use your judgement and your linguistic skills.”

Uththaman knew that once Viswanathan made up his mind, that was it. No further change.

That was how Uththaman got tied up in that house, round the clock, acting as Viswanathan, the chief editor and owner of a newspaper.

On the very first day, he read through the illegible copies he got, approved them and sent them back. He had delayed the work too long and he was scared that the people at the office might ring up Viswanathan’s landline and he would have to answer not only the phone but a lot of questions too. He was sacred of that.

But delay was not an issue and the paper came out on time the next day. Uththaman was much relieved.

The next day, after sending the copies back,  as he was browsing the net he recalled that there had been a factual error in one of the copies. He regretted being so careless. He knew that they would not have started printing. So he promptly sent a message to the press asking them to make the correction. Their reply was strange. The copy didn’t have that mistake. Probably, someone at the office had gone through it and made the corrections. Thank God!

The next day a bill was sent to him.  A fairly heavy amount had to be paid to someone for some work done. Uththaman didn’t know how to handle that. He sent a message to the office asking them to delay the payments. The mail was sent from Viswanathan’s gmail id, so there wasn’t a problem.

However, the next day he got a message on the same mail address, a thank you note from the worker for prompt payment. So, the accountant at the office had done some arrangement. Not a good thing but there was no reason to worry about it. Viswanathan was right. He had  some good people at the office.

Everyday some problem came up like meetings, payments, visits, errors in the copies and the like. Uththaman somehow managed to do it right without a hitch at all. He prayed to gods every day in the morning and  evening and vowed penances at the temples for the mistakes he committed. He also vowed offering at the temples when things were right.

A week went just like that and Viswanathan promptly came back. He congratulated Uththaman for his good work and told him he had heard from the office that things were fine.

Viswanathan never talked about his visit to the temples and Uththaman found it very strange. May be the old man would have gone somewhere else. Who knows and what does it matter!

Uththaman liked what he had done for a week and decided to join a short diploma course in journalism. Viswanathan encouraged him to do so.

Three months later, Uththaman casually mentioned his  one week experience as his own boss to a classmate. He listened to the whole story and said he himself had the same experience. His own boss had left the office to him and went away for some time. Miraculously he didn’t mess up anything and no one even suspected. It was like the boss had not gone away at all. They compared notes and found that both of them had the exactly the same experience.

It made them wonder.

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. 

---

 

GOLDEN MEMORIES

Raj Kishore Mishra

Gobindpur, a nondescript village on the banks of river Kharasrota might appear as a near invisible dot on the map of Google but for many of us who grew up there, it holds indelible memories etched in gold. My first such recollection as a child was the devastating floods of 1955-its surging waters rising up to our front courtyard as my late mother desperately tried to retrieve the mat on which par-boiled grains of paddy were up for drying in the sun. Since that fateful day, the river flowing close to our humble dwelling stayed as an inalienable part of my being. Its floods were almost an annual feature, damaging many a dwelling as happened in 1955 and again in 1960, but invariably destroying the standing crop of paddy leaving most of the farmers in abject penury. But ironically, for us children, the receding flood waters were an object for fun and frolic-taking unusually long baths in its swirling waters, navigating on make-shift boats made of banana tree trunks and, above all, trying to catch fish by using a dhoti/saree as a potential fishing net. And as one stepped into the teens, the experience of a boat ride in the company of close friends on Kharasrota’s relatively placid waters during a moonlit autumn night was simply divine.

Gobindpur of those days may have figured at the bottom of the poverty pyramid but it could derive justifiable pride as an education hub for scores of villages in the area. Once my alma mater, Godabarish Vidya Bhawan was then one of the few high schools in the entire block of Aul. Not surprisingly, and because of the reputation of some its teachers-notable among them the peerless Laxman Sir (Laxman Mishra) and Baikuntha Sir( Baikunthanath Mullick)-students from 15-20 nearby villages came here to study.

 My memory of the village primary school is a bit hazy but I can still visualise its thatched roofs and mud floors partitioned to accommodate the three classes from class I to III. On its left side corner was the residence and clinic of the only homeopathic practitioner of the village while on the right were a couple of guava trees whose fruits were never allowed to ripen thanks due to the unrelenting assaults of ‘monkeys’ like us. Memories of two of the teachers stand out even now. The headmaster, Binod Sir and Jema madam( Jema Dei), perhaps the only lady teacher of those days. The other memory is of my being detained in class III in spite of topping the examination! The reason given-I was too tiny and too young and an additional year would prepare me better for the Block level scholarship test which sadly I couldn’t clear. So much for wasting a year! I was proficient in almost all subjects but arithmetic was my achilles heel. To improve my ability with the numbers, my elders despatched me in class V to Maharakul High School which then boasted of two of the best teachers of mathematics in the locality- Naran Sir(Narayan Samal) and late Hrudananda Sir( Hrudananda Dhal). To them I shall remain ever grateful for honing my skills in mathematics. It was a lonely stay for a young lad, staying in village Argal Sasan with a Piyushi Nani I hardly knew and trudging almost four kilometres daily from there to the school and back. Narayan Dhal( fondly called Naran) from that village was the only friend I still remember whose warmth provided me with the strength and succour in an otherwise gloomy period of one year. More importantly, the efforts of those two venerable teachers and the exertions I undertook finally paid off when I cleared the M.E scholarship test in class VII.  Back on familiar turf to the M.E. School in my village, life was once again like a lark amongst known friends. The school building was semi-pucca with a number of spacious rooms and some of us were allowed to spend nights studying and sleeping there. There were a couple of mango trees nearby and once in a while we sneaked across to try our stone-throwing skills to fell a few fruits, no matter whether green or yellow. The teachers that I remember fondly-Headmaster Bhagaban Sir, Khageswar Sir and Niranjan Sir were very efficient and affable and life was a breeze. The distance from home to both the schools was short but sometimes, particularly towards evenings, seemed interminably long. The footpath passed through the Bengali cluster of houses (they were the zamindars from British days) and then meandered through a dense canopy of trees which lent an air of dark foreboding for a young boy who had heard stories of ghosts residing in that stretch. So, fear was the key whenever I had to traverse that distance during dusk which invariably meant running as fast as I could before reaching what was considered safe environs-the compound of Bihbhu Babu, close to our house.

M.E School over, it was time to move in to Godabarish Vidya Bhawan from where one of my elder brothers had done his matriculation some years ago. As I said before, the school had a reputation with a competent teaching staff because of which bright students from other villages came to study here. Almost without fail, each year it churned out a couple of students who obtained first class in the matriculation examination, considered quite an achievement for a mofussil school those days. Even as students in the Middle School, some of us were in awe of the stature of two its best-known heads-Laxman Sir and later Baikuntha Sir. Though still in a junior class, I had the good fortune of their guidance and support whenever I needed it. Another teacher I remember was Pravakar Sir who was a strict disciplinarian. Corporal punishment those days was commonplace and I remember Pravakar Sir giving me a real spanking on my open palms with one of the sticks he used to carry with him. It was in a way well deserved since I had missed out on my home work on that particular day.

My stay in the high school lasted only for a year before I moved on to P.M.Academy in Cuttack for perceived better prospects. But the memory of it and of friends I had made still lingers. Every summer vacation was a renewal of friendship during which we- Bira Bhai, Naran Rath and Naran Samal spent hours playing cards, doing odd voluntary community work in the village, watching ‘jatras’ at night, occasionally going on a boat ride or simply lazing around. A sport I picked up during those holidays was ‘Bagudi’, the local name for what is now known universally as kabaddi. To my surprise, I discovered that I was rather good at it, possibly due to all the strengthening exercises I had been doing at the Gaurishankar Park in Cuttack during my leisure hours from school. This was arguably the beginning of my love affair with sports in general, the seeds of which were planted on our school playground.

Destiny often takes most of us away from our roots. I have now been away from my village for close to five decades except occasional visits every now and then. These trips have invariably been very, very short. Yet, opportunity permitting, I yearn to have a longer stay one day, roam through the entire village and its once familiar streets, feel and smell the grass of the school playground and maybe go a long boat ride on river Kharasrota, although I’m not sure, with a permanent bridge over the river now, a boat would still be available!

Mr. Raj Kishore Mishra is a civil servant turned development professional who spent thirty years n the IAS and served the Commonwealth Secretariat, London as Regional Director, Commonwealth Youth Programme for Asia. for over six years. He is passionate about Sports and writes frequently on the subject.)

---

 

CONSOLATION

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya

We kept gazing

into each other’s eyes.

Her lips quivered,

I shifted my glance

expectantly.

 

I am going away

for a long time.

Won’t you say

“Good bye”.

 

Her reply puzzled me.

I hesitate to

say, Good bye.

It’s a bad omen.

For, if I utter it,

I won’t see you again!

 

I got lost in thoughts.

Suddenly, it made sense.

I had been expecting

The lifetime

Achievement Award

for a long time.

 

But it has

been eluding me.

Perhaps,

the Committee believe,

It is best held back,

for my own good.

Because, the Award

would somehow

shorten my life!

 

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.

---

 

ENDEARING LIES

Dilip Mohapatra

The invincible man in blue 

from planet Krypton

with his flying prowess 

and X-Ray vision,

that enchanting kiss 

from the princess's lips

that transformed the frog 

into the handsome prince,

the wolf that blew up 

the house of the pigs

and bared his teeth 

to the little girl in a red hood,

the pooh bear and his antics 

for just a lick of honey,

the genie from the old crusty oil lamp 

who granted you 

whatever you wished;

wove those fanciful dreams,

which we savoured.

 

Those black lies which 

circumscribed your eyes 

and the green tinge of the henna 

that adorned your tresses,

those lies in pink and red that 

accentuated your bee-stung lips,

those padded lies 

that added to your curves,

those transparent lies

that you whispered in my ears

to tell me how you adored

the vitiligo marks on my face,

which I believed.

 

Now you hold my varicose veined

hand in yours

as I lie on the tubular beds on wheels,

under the grey blanket

wrapped in a snow white sheet

smelling of a strong disinfectant.

You look into my insipid and vacant 

eyes that are half open

in deference to

the monarch of all maladies,

who has made me captive

of his  claws sinking into me deeper

and deeper every passing day,

squeezing life out of me drop by drop.

And then you utter those shaded lies

and say cheer up,

 it will pass away

and tomorrow will be a brighter day.

 

---

THE LIES OF THE MIRROR

Dilip Mohapatra

We see the sun seeping through the window panes

mirrored briefly on the rims of our teacups in 

its fractured magnificence and the reflected rays

spell small sacrifices and plant the words in the womb

of our minds where they take shape and 

wrapped in the clothing of magical and mystifying

metaphors and images they see the light of the day.

Not what the others want to hear but what we have to say.

 

The rainbows are colourful lies too that the droplets reflect and scatter

and that the misty and vaporous eyes exude in their exuberance.

So are the pots of gold at the bottom of their extremities 

just as the nonexistent mystical  mirage that lures us 

and beckons us amidst the vast expanse 

of the tormenting desert sands mirroring million suns.

 

The mirror stands  between the eternal and the transient

casting the long shadows of the demonic deception

that threatens to devour the halo of the Supreme Soul.

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.

---

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

Ananya Priyadarshini

"There's no evidence of any stroke or organ failure. As I can see... Err.. you might find it quite difficult to accept but... This is rare, you see! Even I've seen such a case for the first time in my thirty year long career. But, your daughter... She died because of oversleeping. That's what I can figure out from your story, Sir. I've never seen someone sleeping for sixteen hours straight!".

Now I hate this doctor even more. I had to enter medical school just because my father idolized this idiot friend of his. While alive, he never let go of a chance to humiliate me- invading my house at five in the morning while on his morning walk to check on my hypertensive Grandpa (now 'late'. He might be somewhere in heaven. I'll find out, hopefully!) and taunting me for still not having left my bed; dropping in unexpectedly because my mom wanted to show him her arthritis in the evenings and humiliating me, a fourth grader back then for watching cartoon instead of studying. I tolerated him half because he was my dad's best buddy and half because I feared he'd puncture my skin simply out of grudge the next time I fall ill if I misbehave him. But this time he crossed all limits! How can you not respect the dead (me!), dude?

 

"What are you talking about? She's slept for twenty two hours and never died before!", Mom! We die once and once we die we're supposed to be respected. Please, everyone.

 

"Hey! What's making you angry?", that fat devil passing by asked me. I took off the power specs the other angel had given me to check on my family back on Earth till it's my turn to enter God's chamber. "And how does that exactly interest you?", I glared at him as he grinned and left.

 

The soul of that leprosy stricken guy who had amputated digits and ulcerated skin everywhere on body surface had come out of God's chamber and looked so beautiful! 'God is a magician', he commented and left for his next destination- heaven! I checked out the angel accompanying him. Aww, he's so cute! If I go to heaven ( very feeble chances, though), can I date him? I wondered before peeping into my house again.

 

My best friend had arrived hearing the news of my demise. She had brought along my crush too. They're holding hands. THEY'RE DATING! Snakes! I'm sucking their blood once I become a ghost.

"We often used to tease her that she'd die sleeping. Who knew this would turn out to be true!",

Just look at her crocodile tears and attempts at suppressing her laugh, so well coupled. Just like my crush and herself. No, wait... NO! How low would she stoop? She just posted my death news along with the cause of death all over social media and that too with a 'LOL' emoji! Traitor.

 

"Kumbhkaran must be envying her!", My Grandma didn't even try not to laugh. 'Come up here, you old wicked woman and before you go to God I'll break all your left over teeth', I growled to myself.

 

I took off my power specs. The guy whose head had split into two, was now emerging out of God's chamber- all mended up. He pointed at his abs and winked at me. Had he been a guy at my college, I would've surely winked back. But I thought to keep calm, given we were all dead. However, he went to hell for not wearing helmet while riding bike. 'Even going to hell looks fine', I instantly thought to myself. The oldie who had died of chronic illness and looked cachexic too came out all glowing and with a full health.

 

"God is really a magician!", I muttered to myself.

 

"Healer he's", a soft female voice spoke. I turned my head to see a burnt soul, more than eighty percent of her skin was burnt. Had it been Earth, I would've puked and fainted. But I didn't do that. Not because souls must behave maturely and responsibly, but because souls don't puke and pass out!

 

"What happened to you?", she could read the agony in my eyes. She just passed me her pair of power specs. I wore them to see her world and thought to myself, 'so we've this provision as well!'

 

"You were a doll, my doll. I still remember how royal you looked in your red bridal attire. Who thought you'd return like this, my princess? How much the fire must have hurt you! Oh Almighty, why with my child?", Her father was crying right beside her burnt dead body. Astonishingly, her father looked just like my Dad. They're different people, I knew. Still...

 

"Your Dad is going to light your pyre, girl! Once they perform your last rites, you can't see them anymore. Come on, have a last glimpse of who were your family back in life!", The burnt girl pulled my shoulder.

 

I wore my specs and saw my dad break into a loud cry right before lighting my pyre. I'd not done anything in life to make him proud. I don't remember last when I had hugged him tight. I had begun talking to him through mom long ago. He smiled less, seldom cried. I don't remember seeing his tears when Grandpa passed away. I had taken him for an emotionless fellow. It hurt to see the person whom I'd always considered the epitome of strength wail like a child. 'I love you, Dad', I mumbled and then my pyre was lit. My power specs vanished.

 

The burnt lady beside me began speaking, "Our Dads look like identical twins."

 

"Yes, but how?"

 

"Fathers who lose their daughters look all the same." She was still looking at her Dad. "I am my parent's only child. I fell in love with my husband and urged to get married to him only. My dad spent all he'd earned to afford the lavish wedding. He'd already financed my education. He'd nothing left when my in-laws demanded for more.... Dowry. I didn't let my father know what I was going through for I was ashamed of having gone against him. He had warned me against this marriage. Today, my in-laws decided to get rid of me so they tampered with the valve of LPG cylinder. It burst and you can see the rest. They call it an accident and nothing can prove it otherwise. More than my death, I regret not breaking my marriage and going back to Papa. I feared I'd have become a burden on him but I was educated! I could become his support system and he could always be my strength. I made a terrible mistake. He'd have loved to get his daughter back alive, though sad."

 

I was looking at her without blinking. Few other souls were also listening to her story. Now that my last rites had been performed, it was my turn to get into God's room. Maybe, I could request him to make me thinner, fairer and my hair longer. Who knows! I was excited when the most unexpected thing happened!

 

A fairy arrived carrying a little soul in her arms. The soul must have lived no more than two or three years on Earth. This was the most horrific site I'd seen post death. Her eyeballs were missing from socket, her nose split into two halves, her tongue half cut and hanging out of her bruised lips, her skin scarred with corrosive, her ribs torn open giving a good view into her thorax, one of her arms chopped off leaving behind an open wound near shoulder, legs stained with blood oozing out of somewhere near lower abdomen. All the souls waiting to get in, devils, angels, everyone stood spell bound. There was a scary, bothersome silence that was broken by the sounds of sudden opening of God's chamber's door. God rushed out, sobbing and blabbering.

 

"What .... What happened to her?" He broke into tears as he took the little soul into his arms. His tears were now showering onto her wounds. The angel that accompanied the fairy told God that the child was raped and then, butchered. God looked at him in disbelief and again lowered his head on the soul in his arms. His whole frame was shaking with each bout of sobbing. Till then, I was keen to see God performing miracles, fixing souls. He was right before me. He looked like my Dad crying while lighting my pyre, he looked like the burnt lady's Dad crying over her carcass, he looked just like any other father who has lost his beloved daughter. Maybe, every father looks the same after losing his daughter.

 

The soul was healing. It moved in God's lap. God tried to smile at it. The soul now looked like a healthy, happy child, healed with a father's love.

 

"God, help my Papa and Mamma. They're sad", the pure soul said like she knew God from ages.

 

"Do you want to go back to them?", God asked.

 

"It hurts, God. I shall never go back to earth. They hurt me, a lot." God's tears started rolling down again.

"So, will you be a fairy?", The fairy who had brought her asked, "like me?"

"No. I just never want to visit Earth again", the child's face had hints of something still hurting her.

God hugged her tight and said, "you'll be a star. The brightest star. The one that doesn't shine in the sky over the Earth, but the sky over a world that's devoid of all pain, all sufferings, all sorrows."

The soul's face lit up. "Twinkle twinkle Little Star...", She sang with a faint, divine smile. That's all she had managed to learn in her short life span on earth.

God looked at us, extended his arms and nodded. Both me and the burnt young lady ran towards him. He, who was looking just like our Dads.

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.

---

 

O, CREATOR !

Dr. Molly Joseph M

Thou, 

       O,  Creator

when you kneaded

                    clay

and breathed life

                    into it

did some part of it 

drip

          out of your 

shaping fingers, 

                to form 

structures

           that strut

defying time...? 

 

on their own

            they stand

denying

          your artistic

embellishments, 

          embroidered

laces of life

      decked in green.

 

Don't they

            breath out

an eternity

        that surpasses 

time, 

          the season's

wild,  vagrant

     play with life...

 

me,  that tiny 

          link of your 

art work, 

               transient, 

envy the 

       cosmic eternal

so serene

              calm....

 

the lone tree

          peeping out

to explore

            how the

grass is 

            greener on

 the other side..

 

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).

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A Welsh Tale from Celtic Myths

BIRTH OF A BARD

‎Latha Prem Sakhya

Enchantress Ceridwen blessed with children two,
A  beautiful girl Creiwy and an ugly  son Awagduo
She brewed a cauldron of inspiration  and knowledge
For her son Awagdu, ugliness to compensate.

  Gwion was appointed to stir the brew
An year he toiled without break or rest
The last day of the year three drops splashed onto his finger
To soothe the burning finger he put it into his mouth.

Lo, he was gifted with visions beautiful
Past, present and future bright 
Danced enchantingly in his inner eyes
Frightened, Gwion ran away for life.
Furious Ceridwen chased him to kill
A hare he transformed to hide from her
She a greyhound to tear him to pieces.
He became a fish in a stream
She an otter wild to swallow him.

He flew away, a bird up in the sky
She followed a hawk  to prey
A golden grain he turned, hiding in a wheat sheaf
A black hen she became and swallowed the grain.

Nine  months passed and she in labour
Delivered a boy child so beautiful,
Ceridwen's heart refused to kill him;
In a leather Bag she set him adrift.

Elphin the prince  found the  babe beautiful.
Radiant bow, Taliesen was he  named.
He grew up  using his magical inspiration
A bard to reckon in all of Wales.

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

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God's Flower (Shared by Aphrodite)

Sindhula Raghu

Translated by Sreekumar K

Jasmine breath

Splattered on 

A street of flowers

In April

 

Aphrodite blossoming

at the tip of a chisel

pulling all the strings

Always behind the curtain

 

Each petal 

holds His name in holy colours

 

Swaying hips soaked in nakedness

Lips bitten off

Furious butterflies

 

Darkness drenched in sweat

Seducing the moonlight

Each wound, a flower

 

Each wilted flower

Showcases 

An ancient hug

 

My jasmine,

the sweat that makes you blossom

is more dated than you

Ms. Sindhula Raghu writes poems in Malayalam. She is very prolific and her poems are deeply rooted in her native tongue and culture. She works at the Govt. Veterinary Dispensary, Mulavukad, Kerala

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OF GREEN GRAVEYARDS

Dr. Arunima Ray

The air is still, Ironically, stiller than any other quiet day. I lie awake thinking, What was the saying? Was it the calm after the storm, Or the calm before the storm.
The casualties are very limited, If you are thinking in terms of human lives. But the trees, oh the trees. Thrice our lifetimes old, And thicker than concrete walls. How they have died, Crippled, bent, lost a losing battle, Lush green and wood brown skeletons, Bending and twisting, bowing onto the streets.
The wind is quiet around them. It seems as if nature had a blind fit of anger, And she raged and ranted and stormed. And broke everything she could reach. But now, she is quiet and sorry, with regret and remorse. And everyone's fallen silent, surprised by how she screams.
Except the occasional chime on the phone, When a struggling message manages to come through . Life elsewhere is apparently normal.
When the sun sets, Clockwork resumes, As much as it can, People are spilling out onto the streets, Waves of traffic meandering through roads filthy with green corpses on both sides.
Frequent grumbles about dark homes, empty sinks and no network. Broken homes need repairs, And repairs need money, And money needs customers. So, the show must go on.
My friend and I set out for some hot pakodas and chai, Amidst a graveyard of trees, wishing for a little peace.

Dr. Arunima Ray, presently a postgraduate resident of dermatology in Odisha, is an avid reader and occasional writer. Seeks to observe the romance in both life’s tragedies and comedies, while learning how to survive with a sense of humour. Interested in travelling, wildlife and loves dogs.

 

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KAYYAMMA
~ The woman with warm hands! ~
Hari Varma

During my school days, when I used to visit my ancestral village in Travancore for the summer vacation, I used to see a very old woman. She must have been in her mid-70s. She was a mystery, at least to me. Her hooked nose and hollowed eyes, her sunken cheeks and twisted lips, her snow-white hair and shabby clothes made me wonder who she was! However, I didn’t have the courage to go near her or even speak to her!
After many years, one day when I was accompanying my youngest aunt to the village for a puja in our ancestral Temple, I happened to see the same old woman again sitting and murmuring something to herself in front of a hut. I thought my aunt would be the right person to clear the mystery behind this strange looking woman.
My aunt said, “Oh! Kayyamma!? Once upon a time, she used to be a terror for all; especially the girls. She was the only midwife in this place. All pregnant women were afraid of her as she was ruthless. Women even used to whisper among themselves that she was a spinster and that too, a healthy one and so she wouldn’t know anything about labour pain although she had been laid by many men.”
She continued, “She never used any surgical or medical instruments for doing her often complicated job but her fingers were surer than today’s forceps! She never used any anaesthetics other than hot water. Moreover, she did not even need one, as her one look was enough to make any girl go numb!
She was always welcomed by all the households at all times because she was a much sought after person. Although she was a woman of very few words, she was considered an expert in her job. Death of the mother or that of the child at birth, were very rare incidents when Kayyamma was there. Everyone respected her like a divine personality.
She had lost her job when a government doctor came to the village and started a Health Center. Kayyamma became frustrated and got into depression soon after. She just could not take the rejection from the houses where she had once been welcomed any time. Her life had now become miserable. Since then, she has been loitering around the village aimlessly.”
After walking a little further, my aunt turned around and looked at me intensely and said, “Do you know, even you were brought out to this world by her. Your mother always helped Kayyamma for all her needs.”
“Now hurry up, it is getting late”. Saying this, she went inside the Temple.
It was a revelation to me and indeed a strange one! The vision of the old woman’s hawk-like face loomed before me. Leaving my aunt, I ran back through the lanes full of loose white sand and reached the small hut where I had seen her. She was still sitting on the broken steps. I sat beside her and looked at her intently. I took her hands in mine and felt a strange connect. Now she was no more a hawk or a terror to me. I looked at her and she stared blankly at me. No emotions on her wizened face. After a while, she slowly smiled and withdrew her hands to hold my face. Once again, I could feel the connection; I could feel the warmth of her hands for the first time in my life!

Being a Painter, Theatre Actor/Director & a Story-teller since childhood, he ended up as an Entertainment Professional in the field of Animation & Visual Effects. This is even though he is a Post-graduate in Applied Mathematics. His passion for Writing, Painting and Theatre helped him immensely in his profession. He used to be a Travelling Photographer and a lover of Mountains and Jungles. He always finds reasons and reasonings to ‘ideate’ and ‘create’ through fine arts, performing arts whether through text, images, video or music.
Currently he runs his own YouTube Channel “HINDEOS – Art, Culture, Spirituality & Meditation” with the objective of documenting various nuances in Art & Culture that are normally not available on the internet as Videos. This is with the objective of preserving our treasures for the benefit of present and future generations.

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FREEDOM 

Sowbhagya Varma

What Is Freedom If We Need To Beg For It?

 

To be or not to be

This is not a clichéd story.

Isn't it my Freedom???

To do what I wish, 

And to not do, what I don't wish.

To follow what I believe, 

And to not follow, what I don't believe.

Isn't it All My Freedom!!? 

And as long as I have a tinge of sensitivity to circumstances;

And I am sane enough to understand time and space,

Why would anyone question me?

When I am not even violating the constitution!?

But, having to ask this, 

In itself, is sadly,

The Lack of Freedom.

 

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SHAKTI
Sowbhagya Varma

Let ‘Her’ Rise!

She wants to fly, 
Fly like a bird in the sky. 
She spreads her wings wide, 
And wonders if she'll glide. 
She would fly high, 
Until she feels she'll die. 
Then swing back down a ride, 
To see her parents' pride.

But all this, when you 
Let her out of the hide.

The society looks at her,
With great suspicion.
Screening every inch of her, 
Even when she is raped!
Questions and blames,
Would always conclude
'Why was she there so late?'

But now,
She looks at men in the eye
Up straight.
Which they don't like,
And can't tolerate.
They call her ill-mannered,
As she is the one least bothered.

She has a big dream, 
She has to fulfil her goal. 
She looks at Challenge, 
Straight into its eye, 
And burns it down, 
With the mere look of the eye.

She is the one they fear, 
And yet she is the one they admire! 
For she is the one who is capable, 
Of reaching much higher!!
You will see her burning bright!!! 
And you are yet to see her might!!!

Today she is new, 
And she shall not be bound by you. 
For she has to fly high in the open wild. 
For she has learned to fly and also fight, 
Because now she knows her rights. 

Ms. Sowbhagya Varma is a student of All Saints'College Trivandrum pursuing her Bachelor of Arts in English Literature. She loves reading and writing poetry and takes inspiration for her works from her surroundings. She hopes to bring change in the world around through her writing.

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VANILLA TWILIGHT

Sruthy S.Menon

Walking beside the lanes,

Searching...

For my favourite  playlists ,

The flush of memories ,

Just like the sudden gust of wind ,

Propelled the stranded thoughts ,

Drifting me across the night sky.

 

Every twilight, 

When I yonder to the skies

I longed to see you

A wish ,

Just to be with you

Where you can watch me from your paradise 

To know me

Though_

Myself a stranger

Than a friend or a foe.

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 .

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SOAKED IN RAINDROPS

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

I stood with my arms in

'Titanic Pose

As if to contain the whole nature in it

The serenity around me filled my mind with peace

The drops of dews from the leaves slipped and trickled down my face

It soothened my thoughts and pacified my soul from the turmoil I am going through.

 

My eyelids closed to prevent the water from entering the eyes.

The eyelashes were burdened with small droplets of the dews

And lips have become luscious and wet

With spheres of dews on it.

 

My clothes have embraced my body and taken it's shape.

My hair looking glossy and shining in the wetness of the raindrops.

Which has enlarged  the size of the dews.

 

The continuous raindrops had  numbed my mind and thoughts.

And pulled me out of all my grief which I am unable to battle.

I stood there statued 'soaked in raindrops'

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

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THE PIANO
Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

 

There was no reason why I should have switched over to the music channel on TV at that particular moment. Except that there was a long commercial break in the World Cup cricket match and I hate those advertisements coming up again and again in the midst of an interesting game.  

The music on the TV was superb. Must be some maestro playing the Piano. I looked at the artist. And my heart skipped a bit! Saswati! In a light green saree she was looking lovely, almost out of this world. Her thin, long fingers were flying on the key board of the Piano with a charming grace. The song was a melancholic splendour, piercing the heart, soaking it with an ethereal sublimity.  

I looked closely at Saswati. Her face was glowing with an inner peace, although a tinge of sadness was unmistakable. The last time I had seen that face, it was different. But that was ten years back, when Saswati was just a twelve year old school girl. And the occasion was also  different, quite unlike the beautiful and elegant TV studio. All these years that face has come to haunt me as a sad canvas of pathos and deep hurt. And the eyes brimming with tears, commanded by Sawati not to betray her before her parents, younger brother and me, a visiting 'uncle'. 

That was the year 2009. I was in Rairangpur, a small town of Western Odisha, in connection with some office work. I usually stay in hotels when I visit different towns on my tours, but at Rairangpur my friend Nagen would not have allowed that. We were very close friends in College, room mates in the hostel and shared each other's samosas and rasgollas practically every afternoon, sometimes eating half of each when we were short of pocket money. After college I had joined the government as a junior officer. Nagen had chosen to join a private college at Rairangpur as a lecturer and had stayed there for years. 

By the time my bus reached Rairangpur it was evening. Nagen and his wife were waiting for me to have dinner. Saswati, their twelve year old daughter and Nayan, her seven year old brother came and touched my feet and after collecting the packets of Cadburys I had brought for them went back to their room to finish home work for the school. Nagen, his wife Sushmita and I chatted for some time and I went for sleep around eleven in the guest room.  

It was early winter morning in Rairangpur and pleasantly cold. Under a warm quilt I was comfortably asleep when I suddenly woke up to a wonderful and melodious music. Someone was playing a lovely song on Piano - O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahar Aayii....., a favourite song of mine. I am one of those rare species who go crazy over old songs and this morning the early winter, the soft quilt and the tranquil music made me feel as if I was in a dream. 

When the music stopped abruptly, breaking a spell, I got up, wondering who was playing so beautifully on the Piano. I knew Sushmita was a very accomplished singer. In the early days of their marriage when they had visited us at Berhampur, Nagen was proudly displaying her talent by goading her to sing more and more songs before us. She was superb. I remember her rendering the O Sajanaa song in Bengali, Na Jeyonaa, Rajani Akhono Baaki... and Jaarey, Jaarey Udjarey Paakhi.....and lovely Odiya songs, Sandhyaa Tara Nisitha Batayaney, Durey Kaahin Durey Durey, Ei Chuna Chuna Tara Phooley Aaji and many more. We were virtually in a trance, listening to her. And Nagen? He was smugly sitting there so proudly and lovingly looking at his wife that she was blushing all the time.   

I wondered if Sushmita had learnt playing a Piano also. The mystery was solved at the breakfast table. The children had left for the school and we were having a sumptuous breakfast. I looked at Sushmita and asked,
"When did you learn playing a Piano? You play it so well!"
Before she could reply, Nagen chipped in,
"When did you hear the Piano music?"
"This morning. Such a heavenly music, I woke up as if in a dream. And one of my favorite songs - O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahar Aayii! Ah, I wish the music had not ended."
Nagen's eyes twinkled with paternal pride,
"Not Sushmita, it is Saswati, our daughter who plays Piano. She is like a prodigy. Must have got the musical talent from her mother!" 
Sushmita smiled,
"She is so good that we spent most of our savings and bought a small Piano for her from Jamshedpur and put it in her room. She practices for one hour every morning before going to school. Today we had asked her not to disturb your sleep by playing the Piano, but she must have played one or two songs just out of habit. Sorry, your sleep was disturbed."
"No, no, please don't say sorry. I really enjoyed it. She is indeed very talented, born with a divine gift."
Nagen was in a hurry to leave. He had a class at ten. I also had to go for the office inspection starting at ten.

For me the day was spent in a trance. I just could not get the music out of my mind. My mood remained upbeat, soaked in a sweet mix of lilting music and soulful lyric. In my subconscious mind I was seeing a woman, drenched in love, looking at the rains and pining for her lover.

I was eager to return to Nagen's house and if possible, hear Saswati playing my favourite song again. I had to catch the bus at eleven in the night. We had an early dinner. I could not take my eyes off Saswati. Such a lovely girl, so meek and docile, her expressive eyes were captivating. A father of two sons, my love for Saswati was for a daughter I never had.

By the time we finished dinner, I still had more than two hours before I had to leave for the bus stand. I looked at Saswati and asked her if she could play the Piano for me. Suddenly the room fell silent, as if I had violated some sacred code. Saswati looked away, Sushmita gasped and Nayan broke into a laughter. Only Nagen appeared to be calm. He asked Saswati to play at least one song for me. Saswati shook her head, a very mild refusal from a soft, delicate child to her father.

Nagen was not prepared to take a no. Not for his closest friend,
"We all know you don't play the Piano at anybody's request, but do make an exception for this uncle, who is your Papa's best friend. Please!"
Saswati sat there unmoved, her head bowed.
Nagen was getting angry,
"Didn't you hear me? Go and play the Piano!", he shouted.
Saswati got up, threw a pleading look at her mother and ran away to her room.

Sushmita looked at me,
"In her early days of learning a lady who was visiting us, made a request to her to play the Piano and Saswati made some mistakes. The lady was very rude and made some awful, cruel comments. It broke Saswati's heart. She cried for two days and promised to herself that she will never play again at anyone's request. She has a fear of getting hurt by unknown people. She is very delicate."

I was embarrassed. But Nagen was not prepared to give up. He had got up and followed Saswati to her room. We heard him shouting at her. And Saswati saying something to him.

We rushed to Saswati's room, just in time to see Nagen giving her a resounding slap and Saswati collapsing on the bed in a heap. I will never forget the expression on Saswati's face at that unfortunate moment. She looked at her father, intense agony clouding her face, her eyes welling up, but the tears stopped in their track by her quiet determination. 

I took leave from Nagen and Sushmita, my voice choked with tears for causing this unexpected turn to a wonderful day which had started so well, but broke into a thousand fragments of sadness by the night. I went to Saswati's room to speak a few words to her, but it was dark, the doors were closed. With a heavy heart I boarded the bus and spent a sleepless night, Saswati's agonised face haunting me all the way.

I called Nagen the next day. He sounded a bit distraught. I asked him to say sorry to Saswati on my behalf and he said he had already done that. A week later when I called again I was told that Nagen's slap had so much hurt the poor girl that she had stopped playing the Piano and no amount of pleading by her parents had worked. I felt so guilty that I resolved I will never stay in any friend's house when I visit a town, and I have kept that promise to myself ever since. 

By an unfortunate twist of fate I had to go to Rairangpur again, five years after that fateful visit. Nagen suddenly passed away, after a stroke on a hot summer afternoon, when he was going to the college. Somehow I came to know of it five days after the incident and immediately rushed to Rairangpur. His family was devastated. My heart shattered to pieces to see the sindoor-less face of Sushmita, who had aged by ten years in the past few days. Saswati came and stood by her mother, looking down. I broke into uncontrollable sobs, looking at Saswati's wet eyes and swollen face.

I had taken a few thousand rupees with me to give to Sushmita. She declined, but I forced it upon her and made her promise that she will contact me if she needs any further help. I spoke to her a few times after that and came to know that with the help of the principal of Nagen's college she got a job at the local school as a music teacher. She also told me that with part of the money I had given her she had got the Piano cleaned up and Saswati had started playing the Piano again, as she wanted to give lessons to children and supplement her mother's income.

Sushmita and I kept in touch, but gradually the calls became infrequent and stopped after some time like a stream losing itself in the sand of time. 

Today seeing Saswati play such superbly on the TV brought back many memories. Her face had lost nothing of its charm, although it looked more mature. But she presented a picture of quiet dignity and calm serenity. I had forgotten about the cricket match. I sat mesmerised, listening to her soulful music. Suddenly her face broke into a soft smile. She looked up and in an eerie, unreal way, I felt as if she was looking directly at me from the TV screen, trying to tell me something. Then she looked down and started playing O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahaar Aayii...

I sat up, as if jolted by an electric current. What an incredible telepathy! Does she know that I am listening to her sitting in my drawing room, going over priceless memories? Is she trying to tell me, Uncle, this one is for you, for my dear Papa and for the memory of an unforgettable evening when I had refused a simple, heartfelt request from you! 

Tears started flowing from my eyes, tears of deep and timeless love for a daughter I never had.

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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