Literary Vibes - Edition XXI
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the Twenty First edition of LiteraryVibes.
With monsoons getting stronger day by day we expect your poetic emotions to flow freely and copiously like silvery rains from the sky. Please translate them into beautiful poems and send to us for LiteraryVibes. Short stories and vignettes are also welcome.
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
PETRICHOR
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
“On her ninety-first level
she stands erect; even upside down
on the tip of her left hand index,
Krishna-Govardhan inverted,
beyond Iyengars and Ramdevs.”
so recorded her family bulletin.
Last time on a radiologist’s table
her abdomen had sounded empty.
“Where are your uterus and ovaries,
madam? Oh, the ultrasound is missing
the spleen, gall bladder, appendix,
and a good length of your intestine.”
“Imagine, even the kidneys are not seen!
Oh no, they are there, only not human
but legumes, size of wrinkled kidney-beans.”
She had winked at the puzzled doctor,
and the latter found the missing organs
in a reliquary, her beatific toothless smile.
Across two thousand kilometers,
jumping the time warp of years,
I stood before her sanctum. She
lay in repose inside, I was told, suspended
between life and death, hanging from
life supports, tubes, wires, and monitors.
To match her struggle by the side of
disinfectants and sterile air, I fumbled
into her room in a sanitized ensemble.
Defying her oxygen mask and the drips,
the tip of her index, reminiscent of Govardhan,
gave me, her accomplice, a conspiratorial smile;
her lips immobile, puckered, and pale,
perhaps were getting ready for her Blue Lord,
their last hug and kiss, and the final union.
Did I sniff a sweet earthy smell of the first rain
that wafted amid the cloud of disinfectants?
The petrichor overpowered all medicinal stinks.
THE MISSHAPEN LORD OF PURI
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Gundicha, the feisty queen,
famously said, “How can I trust
so sickly a so-called-divine-carpenter,
his chisel and hammer gone silent?”
Impatient and quirky, she forced-open
the temple door; none was found inside
except the lords’ idol,
half-carved and misshapen.
Inscrutable, wide-eyed, and wooden,
the limbless Lord, the great patriarch,
lorded over millions of hearts
and their limbless wordless destiny.
With unparalleled humility, the Lord
allowed Kalaapaahaad, the apostate invader,
humiliate Him, dragging his idol
along Puri’s muddy lanes with ropes of leather.
The fanatical priests of Puri,
had denied the Muslim general
to offer worship to his beloved Lord.
The Lord taught his priests a lesson in humility.
The Lord did a phoenix.
Rising from the ruins
he won back His flock;
forgave Kalaapaahaad in good humour.
But the fair Lord never forgave
his bigoted priests who had debarred
His Muslim devotee. Cursed
they remained ever poor, and unloved.
Footnote one: A legend says, no carpenter could put his chisel into the divine log retrieved from sea and ordained to be carved into the Lord’s idol. The carpenters also had no idea, how the Lord looked. There came a sickly carpenter, Vishwakarma by name, and assumed the charge, but with a condition that he would carve the idol alone behind the temple’s close-door. When his chisel and hammer ceased sounding after a few days, the combative queen Gundichaa forced open the door and found misshapen idol of the Lord. There was no trace of the carpenter.
Footnote two: The folklore also has it that a Muslim general Kalaapaahaad (The Black Mountain), an ardent devotee of Jagannath, invaded Odisha at the head of a big army. But the infidel’s entry into the temple to worship the Lord was denied by priests as he was not a Hindu. The angry general took it against the Lord; humiliated Him by dragging his idol along Puri lanes to teach the priests a lesson.
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 FAMILY MAN (GRUHASTHA, 1980)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The husband drives her around,
besides being her blue-eyed boy;
his manhood kept aside
at her exclusive services;
he never sows his wild oats
barring occasional overindulgence.
He submits his machismo to her
as “yours most faithfully”
except amnesic accidents.
He ignores sirens and hot-pants
walking the streets.
Her sedate bed where they procreate…
their mutually rhyming chemistry;
his ultimate purgatory.
She reserves
all her fruits and flowers
for the newly arrived little brat,
the flesh of her flesh !
He is left only with
the pangs and pains of her life !
OFTEN I MAY NOT BE ME (AGNYAATAVAASA,1980)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I am not beholden to,
nor do I easily forgive… anyone,
not even my own parents,
their filial overindulgence.
I move with wife
to her secret retreats,
her smouldering embers
and longing emptiness.
I don’t forgive her either,
if she drags me from hills
to the delta across the plateau.
I give her the slip,
glide down
to the sedate neonatal bed,
lie down on the mushy silt
down the golden steps
of the sanctum, her womb.
I accept her challenge, persist,
for the heck of my ego;
withstand her three
amorous calls
before submitting to death;
never wanting to be pushed out
of the combat ring
till the chime of final bell.
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)”
WATER-MARCH (PAANI PAAIN PADAYAATRAA, From the book ‘Godhuli Lane’ 2003)
Arupananda Panigrahi
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Birds come, flying across a parched sky,
the breasts of women droop dry,
on miserably thirsty children
the unwashed hair hangs loose.
An old man can’t urinate,
his entrails desiccated dry.
Shooter Ghinuaa can’t wet his throat
before entering the jungle with a gun,
finds no game, all the waterholes gone dry;
returns with a load of firewood instead.
The MP visits Delhi to ask for water-wagons,
but returns with steel and mines portfolio.
The tinder-dry rafters and thatches
on mud-houses look to the sky for rain,
but are derided by the sun’s firework.
We get everything, except our pails of water.
Many a mirage dance before our eyes -
the cool wind exudes a distant wetness,
the sun cracks the earth into fissures,
down the fissures awaits a hope for water;
in cool nights the grass feel wet
under our feet, and we fancy a dew fall.
How far would go this march, this search?
Do green pastures lie beyond horizons
from where come the thirsty birds flying
to drop dead at our doorsteps?
Our fertile fields lying fallow;
long for the past’s water-abundance,
the cattle walking knee-deep in mud.
The traitor sun transports our moisture
to the poles, to pile up as ice.
My friend, don’t waste time in propitiating gods,
rather dig the earth for water,
may be, it awaits there in earnest.
Don’t desist from digging, chums,
if your spade and crowbars hit buried articles -
sickles, snuff-boxes, or kohl-containers,
even toys; don’t fight over their ownership;
don’t digress if your quest for water
results in finding a holy lingam;
digging for water, may bring serendipity,
turning you into a profound excavator !
Geological dark-horses may surface,
the snoring remains of an extinct habitation,
its people’s buried ornaments, weapons
lying beneath the layers of surface soil
loosened by mouse-holes, followed by yellowed
and rusty earth containing minerals,
and further down, the black granite rocks.
You may discover many lost civilization
that thrived by a riverbank, went extinct
when the water courses died.
Also don’t get waylaid by a gold mine,
staty on your target, dig for water.
You may dig so deep,
that the hole at the top shrinks
to the size a distant star. It may turn
impenetrably dark down there,
you may lose all your digging tools,
have to go down with tooth and nail.
You may die in a waterless grave,
your thirst overpowering you
but the pervading silent dark
offering you its peaceful abode.
You may have to offer yourself
for an ultimate sacrifice, the oblivion;
may have to wipe clean your failure
with your wrap soaked with own blood.
But the ultimate sacrifice not needed here,
nor now, no waterless grave should scare you.
You dig for water, keep digging in earnest.
Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)
GREEN DAYS
Geetha Nair G
When I go back in memory to that October of my boyhood, I see everything in green. The lush fields of young paddy, the thick -foliaged trees, the vegetation luxuriating in the second monsoon that Kerala is blessed with and in the midst of it all, the pond blossoming in a riot of plate-leaves.
I had just turned eight. My mother had brought me to her ancestral home in that little village in the toehills of the Ghats. In a sprawling tiled house set in acres of farmland lived my grandparents. He was dark and loud-voiced. His mouth was always red from the pan he chewed. I was in awe of him. She was fair and round and comfortable. She wore a gold chain that had three rows of beads. I liked to count the beads. She would put me on her lap and tell me about my mother's pranks as a child. My mother had come to her home as she was going to deliver a baby soon.
I was ecstatic that I was missing three months of class. My mother tutored me every morning but the rest of the day was my very own to be happy in. I had the best of company-Smitha chechi. Smitha chechi looked like the young ladies in the serials my grandmother watched every evening on TV. She was always ready to listen to me. She was a "chechi", an older sister though not really related to me. She stayed with my grandparents because she had only an impoverished mother somewhere far away. All this I had picked up in the talk between my mother, aunt and grandmother, mainly during the ad breaks in the serials. Little goglets have big ears.
My mother had entrusted me to Smithu, as I called her. After lunch, her housework being over for the day, she and I would walk to the hen house at the edge of the property. This was a proper house, an old one that was now used to house a hundred hens. This was part of a poultry development programme that had become popular in Kerala at the time. We carried baskets with us. In every room, hens nested in wire coops with doors. Smithu taught me how to open a coop, slide my hand gently under the clucking hen there and find the warm egg in the softness under her. It was a thrilling and deeply satisfying exercise. I would count the eggs after every hen had been examined and robbed. There were as many as sixty to seventy eggs on most days. An official came now and then to supervise matters. He knew no Malayalam; Smithu knew next to no English. I was the interpreter by virtue of my fluency in both languages. Smithu told me she was grateful I had come to solve her problem. I do not remember his name but I remember he had strange, grey eyes and a happy laugh. He would swing me round and round and then lift me on to his shoulders.
After egg-gathering came the trip to our private pond at the eastern edge of the property. She would carry the laundry for the day; I would carry my towel. I loved splashing in the shallows and killing imaginary enemies with my swords of reed while Smithu washed the clothes. I always waited for the part when she would beat the dhoties on the big stone at the edge of the water. The drops of water flew up in a huge arc and then came down like rain. It was beautiful. Sometimes, if the watery October sun was out, I could even glimpse a rainbow.
Next, she would bathe me and dry me. All but my legs, because I would spend the next half hour fishing , trying to catch the little grey fish that darted this way and that in the water. Sometimes, during this session, Smithu would leave me to disappear in the thick high grove that edged one side of the pond."Don't follow me, Ramu," she would warn, "the Yakshi who kills little boys and drinks their blood lives on a tree there."
Indeed I was a little uneasy until she came back ; what if the bloodthirsty female ghost ventured down from her tree?
At night, Smithu would tell me tales of princes and princesses, sorcerers and yakshis till I dropped asleep.
" Come with me to my Mumbai flat." I would entreat her often."You will love it".
She would only shake her head in reply.
One evening, as I was catching fish, I heard shouts and shrieks from the grove.
The Yakshi, I thought, trembling in fear. A green streak came out of the grove. It was Smithu, wrapped in the green sari she had been wearing that day. Behind her came my grandfather and an old retainer of ours, brandishing stout sticks. They vanished into the adjoining property. I seemed to have been forgotten. After a while, I walked home. The wrung-out clothes were still on the big stone.
My grandfather was already home when I climbed the verandah that led to my mother 's room. She hushed me when I asked her what the matter was.
Later, I found Smithu wrapped in the green sari, lying on the floor sobbing.
My grandmother took me away from there.
The next morning I searched for Smithu but she was nowhere to be found. No trace of her remained in that house .
Twenty years later, I flew down from Bangalore to perform the funeral rites for my grandfather. There were many people whom I did not remember or know; mine had been a long absence from my ancestral home. I had also been alienated for years from my parents.
I noticed a young girl, slim, long-haired, beautiful. Something about her brought back my lost sister, Smithu.
From my aunt I got to know that it was indeed the daughter of my old, dear companion. I pressed her to tell me the whole story. Smithu had been sent away in disgrace after she had been found with a man in the grove. She went back to her mother, delivered a baby girl some months later and disappeared. No one knew what had become of her. The child was put into an orphanage in the nearby town. Two years back, the girl was brought to my ancestral home, much as Smithu had been brought years back.
My parents and sister left for Mumbai after the twelfth day rites. I stayed on for a few more days. The morning of my departure, I entered the temple and came out a married man. My aunt almost went mad. She kept on like a parrot:
"What a disgrace! What a disgrace! Thank God your grandfather is no more and that your grandmother is senile. They would have burned in shame. An illegitimate girl. And poor, poor as a beggar ! "
Seetha and I are happy together. Our first child, a daughter, has inherited the bright grey eyes of her mother. I wish I could find my Smithu and bring her back into our lives.
SHIPS
Geetha Nair G
Your practised steering
That moved over swells, fore and aft,
And made no swerves to search the hold within
Senses soft gold today... .
Tug after tug that I sent
Chugging
Have guided you close, again.
Lie alongside , then,
Drop anchor.
Pirate, coat your vessel
With that molten gold
That will seal it, steal it
From storms and winds of chance
That threaten every clime;
And hold your hull together
In weary weather.
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
SHYAMALA’S DAUGHTER
Sreekumar K
Even Ashokan’s mother used to say that Shyamala’s life got better after her husband had passed away. Her father came to take her back home a month after Ashokan died. She refused to go with him. She stayed in her husband’s family with his aged mother and father and took care of them. Even her step mother appreciated her decision. Though she didn't reveal it to anybody, her real reason was that this was good for her little daughter. Moreover, she had become dear to the people around her.
Ashokan had died of tuberculosis. After his death, many people, including the doctor at the primary health centre said that with better treatment, he would have survived. In the early stages of the disease there was no money to take him to the city hospital and when they finally came up with the money, it was too late. In a way, more than the disease it was poverty that killed him. He had already a habitual cough when he married her. She still remembered how he was coughing while tying the holy thread around her neck. Her younger brother who worked in the saw mill used to cough like that. But that was only when he went to work which itself was very rare.
She was hardly twenty-five when she was brought from Thalavoor to Ezhukone. Coming from a remote village, she was a little anxious about her life in this small town. But she adjusted well with the new life very fast. Ashokan and his parents considered her a blessing to all of them. It made her happy to hear that. At the same time, she felt a burning sensation within, probably an internal resistance to be proud of her achievements. She was always a humble person and there weren’t many reasons for her to be otherwise.
Ashokan’s parents were aged and Ashokan himself was sick. He could go for work only a year or so after he got married. In such a bleak situation, it was easy to see how she had became the family’s sole support and blessing. She was happy about it but she often wondered how it would to have such a blessing. What would it feel like to have someone to look up to, in times of need and distress? She knew she could manage without so much of a support, but still she was eager to know what it would be like, just once.
After her husband’s death she found such a support in Prasanthan who used to work with her husband. Apart from that, she had only liabilities, burdens and problems. Her daughter was her major liability. However, she preferred to consider her as the main stay of her life without which it would have come to a sad ending not long after it began.
Early memories about her daughter were rather vague and foggy. One of the earliest and vivid memories is an incident which happened when she was in the sixth standard. She could get away with the killing of a garden lizard by blaming it on her child. It was hiding among some bright red flowers on her way back from her school. At first she was shocked to see it. It was smaller than she had thought it to be but there was more to it to see than what she had feared. She saw it lashing its tongue at a moth as if it was throwing its entire mouth at its prey. The tip of its tongue sucked on to the moth and in an instant it was all gone. True, the moth would have ended its life the same night on a burning flame. But, then it was of its own choice. This was aggression and violence. The hairs on the small of her neck stood up. This ugly reptile would also use its long tongue to suck blood from the navel of small children. She pulled her half skirt up to cover her navel. It had bloodshot eyes and its ears had a tinge of blood on them. There was also a faint tinge of blood right under its mouth and all along its belly and it continued like a crayon line along its long tail. It was panting like a dog and raising up its head like a rooster looking around to spy a hen. She would have spared it but her daughter was stubborn. So, she had to kill it. It took only a pelted stone to make it fall off the bush and on to the ground. When it was on the ground, she used whatever she could find to beat it to death. Then she threw a big stone on it to make sure it was dead and won’t come after her later. Her daughter also told her it was enough.
She washed herself in a stream nearby, but there were still spots of blood on her ankles. When the story came out, her step mother scolded her for hours. Had her uncle been not there, she would have been caned, the way she had beaten the lizard. But her uncle said it was not so bad for a child to want to see a lizard dead. It was then that she realized the endless possibilities and the benefits of having a child.
She was very eager to see her daughter grow up and mature. But as days passed by she became more and more convinced that her daughter would never grow up. When she saw how the seeds and the tubers in the class garden they had started sprout and grow up, she felt really bad. She prayed to several gods, even those of other religions, to make her daughter grow. That was her only prayer when she lit the holy lamp in the evening. None of the gods favoured her. Eventually she herself thought it was all very foolish. Almost all the gods she had prayed to were also babies forever, especially Lord Krishna. It was a comforting thought for her. From then onwards, her daughter’s stunted growth became more of a happy thing to see than a sad thing to worry about. True, it is all in the way we look at life. She had learned that in the week-end Gita class.
Whatever was left of her life after all those long days which were spent to take care of her husband and her in-laws, she set aside for her daughter. She had, at times, questioned her own sincerity in serving the others. May be she was serving them with such eagerness in return for the love and affection they were lavishing on her daughter. They were pampering her daughter, making no complaints at all and competing to compliment. This thought had come to her mind when Ashokan had become really sick and bedridden. She often wondered why her husband’s sickness and untimely death didn't worry her so much.
Apart from this, what would she ever get in return for the care and concern she was showing the others? What did she expect in return and what was it that they were capable of giving? Her life was almost over. There was nothing she needed anymore. She had the same feelings when her mother passed away. Life seemed to have come to an end. But it didn’t. She stopped attending school, her father remarried and they sold their house.
Her daughter should have a different life from all this. She had her own likes and desires and nobody understood them. Only Shyamala could see all that. She also saw how others could be so cold and ununderstanding. Her own life was a saga of poverty. What used to pain her more than that was how people could be so insensitive. She couldn’t blame her step mother for being what she was. She would have been terribly jealous of her good looks which she had got from her mother. This woman was ugly, as ugly as a step mother could possibly be. All this had led to an innate mutual hatred between them. However, she never had an idea her own father could change like this.
What more could happen to a person in this life? She regretted the cruelty and hatred she had unleashed on all life forms when she was very young. She didn't want to hurt anything or anyone anymore, knowingly or unknowingly. She was happy that she was able to bring up her daughter also in the same way. She would get hurt but she wouldn’t hurt others.
Even then, she doubted whether this was genuine maturity since her daughter had not spared herself. In fact, all the cruelty that she used to take out on others, she now took out on her. Stubborn attitudes, tantrum throwing, insensitivity and all kinds of bad behaviours were still very much there and she was her only victim. Childhood, as far as she knew, was the time to enjoy, the time of mirth and laughter. But, for her daughter it was a time of restlessness, dissatisfaction and fleeting interests.
After all, what was there to make her daughter happy? Was it possible for a child to have a clear idea about what to be happy about or what to be cautious about? Her happiness depended on her daughter’s happiness, true. But it was never the other way. The young one would have to grow up like her and pass through all that she had passed through to have such clear ideas. But, she was convinced her daughter would never grow anymore. If something happened to her daughter, would she have anything left to live for? She didn't want to think about it.
When her husband was on his death bed, he was all the more cruel. He hated even his bosom friend Prasanthan. He didn't even want him to come home asking about his health. Prasanthan told her that it was the severe pain that had changed him like that.
Her own husband was the first one to talk about the intimacy between herself and Prasanthan. Prasanthan took it with so much calmness and composure. May be it was that calmness and composure that won her respect and brought her closer to him. He was a friend in need. It was with his help that she was able to take a loan from an NGO which did microfinancing. He also found two nice rooms outside the town, for her to start her business. The thirty-four thousand she got from the organization was spent on buying the equipment and furniture. The death benefit she got from the insurance after her husband’s death was used to pay off the hospital bills. It was Prasanthan who paid the advance for the rooms.
In a matter of eight months she was able to pay back her loan. She worked round the clock. Her in-laws also helped her as much as they could. She had completely forgotten her daughter and she also seemed to have forgotten her.
It was only when she had put her business on stronger rails that she found some time to relax and rest and her daughter returned to her. She was all the more stubborn and made her run around quite bit and even meddled with her business. She forced her to send away one of her employees who was related to Prasanthan and he didn't like it. She discussed it with him and he said it was in children’s nature to do so. When he uttered the word ‘childish stubbornness’, she flinched a bit. She didn't remember whether she was happy or sad to hear that.
He repeated the same words on several other occasions. She liked him more when he said that. Her daughter also was passionate about him. She was not interested to join a pilgrimage organized by the NGO. It was her daughter’s stubbornness that made her go with them. Her daughter wanted to be with Prasanthan for a few days. That was the reason behind her stubbornness; she loved him so much.
She herself was like a small girl when she sat with Prasanthan in the luxury coach, cuddled close to him. She wondered why it took her daughter’s stubbornness for her to get this close to him. He was a nice man. He had beautiful arms with dark curly hair and an assuring strength and a warm softness. Could it be possible that he liked her daughter more than he liked her? It was possible. He liked her more when she acted like her daughter. Her husband had never liked her daughter. He had told her so, not long after they got married. When he was closer to death, probably because of the intense pain and agony, he used to hurt her daughter really badly. It had become too much for her to take and at times she had prayed for his early demise.
She was shocked to recall all that. It was also possible that the winter of hatred and bitterness might come back to her life, like a season returning. When she saw her daughter with Prasanthan, she reminded herself that it was a girl and that in spite of her hopes, the girl had grown up without her noticing it much. He didn't have to think hard to see why Prasanthan had taken a fancy to her. Making herself a clone of her own daughter, in words, deeds and thoughts, she enjoyed the incestuous venom fermenting in her veins. Seeing her daughter sleeping peacefully near her, with the vicarious satisfaction for having landed a man, she feared what nightmare might be manifesting behind those pearly eyelids.
Though she had planned her business only as a small-scale industry, making ready-made dress, it went beyond her own expectations. It took only less than a year for her to have such a good business that she had to have an accountant to manage her financial deals. It was not just her hard work that made her business a great success. She had done a very common sense thing in business. She was supplying something that the society demanded so much. It was not in the clothes but in its design. She specialized in making clothes for children and small kids. The only special thing about her designs was that there was nothing special about them. They were all traditional and her customers demanded more and more of that. She stuck to the patterns of children’s dress she had worn as a child and those kids around her wore when she was in school. Once, Prasanthan made a funny comment about them. He said that they were like coffins. He didn’t get the joke and he had to explain it to her. He said that those who bought her clothes never wore them and those who wore them never bought them and that those who were made to use them couldn’t even say no.
It was then that she noticed his eyes. They were too sharp for a man of his temperament. They drilled deep into you. Recently her daughter also had mentioned something like that about him. Ashokan never liked her daughter and never wanted to see it. It was a mutually felt hatred. But Prasanthan was different. He liked her daughter and knew how to keep her happy. But even though she liked him, she never wanted to be near him. This only made him search for her all the more. Quite different from her earlier marriage, she had definite ideas about who to be with, if there ever was a tiff between him and her daughter. She had decided to side with Prasanthan. She expected that some day he would propose to her and was all prepared to accept it unconditionally. Her daughter won’t stand in the way, she was sure.
It happened quite unexpectedly. A famous textile mall offered her some good business. It was a heavy order which would be hard for her medium size unit to deliver. But they were so impressed by her success that they readily gave her a heavy sum in advance.
The first objection came from her daughter who told her that the city people were too big a party for her to deal with. City people always cheated, especially the big businessmen. The consequences would be too much. But she was even more surprised to hear Prasanthan saying the same thing. He said it was not child’s play and that she should also listen to her child. When he said these two contradictory things in the same breath, she found it more curious than shocking.
Apart from her uncle who used to speak highly of her daughter, it was only now that someone was showing her daughter more concern than what she herself. Wasn't it more of her child's manipulation than Prasanthan's passion? When and how was he lured away from her? Her life was totally devoted to her daughter. She had made so much sacrifice to keep her happy and settled. But now, when it was a time for her to enjoy whatever was left of her life, the same daughter was coming in the way. A more free and independent life came so close to her and now it might just go down the gutter. He was really surprised to see Prasanthan and her daughter being of the same mind in this as well as a few other things.
When Prasanthan told her that he was planning to go for a movie the next Sunday, she thought it was a godsend chance for her. She asked him whether she could also go with him if he was going alone. He had planned to go with his friends and watch an English movie. But he changed his plans and went with her to watch a Malayalam movie. It was the story of a girl who has a neighbour, a young man who helps her get married to the person she dreamed of marrying. Her neighbour is a magician in disguise. Finally, it turns out that he is not a real man but the incarnation of a god whom she worships earnestly. Shyamala said it would have been better if the magician was a real man and Prasanthan said that then the movie wouldn’t have had the same charm. He asked him whether he would take her once to the same temple and he agreed to do so the next week.
That night, as she lay in bed with her daughter, she thought a lot about her ill spent life. When did this child, now lying peacefully near her, come to her? Whom did she look like? No one, not even her in-laws, were worried about her daughter. Her own parents were never bothered. How long can her daughter be with her now? Other than herself, it was only Prasanthan who was concerned about her daughter anymore. Even that might change when they get married. The better part of her life which she had wasted on her daughter passed through her mind. She could still hear her husband cursing her daughter in between his loud coughs. Why was it that she had suffered so much humiliation, teasing, torture and censure for the sake of her child? All for this selfish daughter who never showed an iota of love for her. Her life was never hers. It belonged to her daughter. With stubbornness, temper tantrums, anger, jealousy and contempt, she had managed to waste her life, all the time being a timid and fearful ugly daughter unwilling to come out of her crib, cradle and the dark corners of her bedroom where she played her own games, unmindful of herself or the others.
She feared she might even lose Prasanthan to her daughter. He liked to see her daughter rather than herself. They had become allies against her. Not only them, others too were scared of the freedom and independence she might come across if she moved to the city and developed her business any further. Even she herself was afraid of that. Or else, why was she seeking their opinions on each and everything, even when she knew none of them would favour her?
She looked back at her life. It was not all that bad, given the disasters that had loomed large in her life. She had managed to pull herself together every time something had gone wrong, like when her mother died, her father remarried and her young husband died. With the new prospects in front of her, it cannot be any worse either.
Her right hand which was gently massaging her little daughter’s soft chest came closer to her neck and lingered there. Even though her eyes were still closed, a smile appeared on her lips as if she had tickled it. In a second, she opened her eyes and stared at her. It was only then that she understood the meaning of her smile. Her eyes were like that of a lizard. For the first time, she noticed her squint. They were also bloodshot. She feared that she may stick out her tongue any moment now and suck her life blood out of her. She covered her navel with her left hand.
In fact, her hand had instinctively tightened around her daughter's neck which looked like a shrivelled umbilical cord. Her skin developed wrinkles and came off in patches covering her entire body with scales. Ashokan was dead right. This was and ugly child. She had never noticed it. The more she looked at her, the more ugly she grew. Thank god Prasanthan never got a chance to stare at her this long. Her limbs were growing and they got entangled like the roots of a banyan tree and long claws appeared at their ends. Both her hands were now clutching at her daughter's tender neck.
She felt the hairs at the back of her neck stood up straight. She was choking. Pain permeated every tissue of her body like a million ice-cold needles driven into her. She was sucked into a massive flood. Everything in the room was whirlpooling down into the muddy water. She held on to the only life saving creeper she could find. Her entrails wriggled like a hundred serpents entwining one another. She had only heard about labour pain but this was surely worse.
Her daughter had grown like a monster and it filled the room. Then, like a nightmare disappearing behind the morning fog, it blurred in her vision and shrank to nothing but an umbilical cord. It smoothened itself into a beautiful snake, like the ones she had heard people say were seen in snake temples. It slithered out from her relaxed fists and moving up, tickled her arms, neck and breasts, and found its way into herself through her navel and disappeared leaving nothing but a wavy line of goose pimples where it had slithered over her.
The huge wave became ripples and the sea became a river, then a stream and then a small clear pool of water on solid rocks. As she lay in it, the freezing water went into the joints of her limbs and disappeared, leaving her on a plain rock which was not smooth but as harsh and rugged as reality. She thought her head was on her mother’s lap and her husband was sitting at her feet. She started to cough and woke after coughing a few times.
She turned on the bright light in her bedroom even though the sun had risen up hours ago. Bright whiteness filled the dark corners of her room. No one needed the darkness anymore. It looked like any other day, only brighter and pleasant. No one missed her child. And no one ever talked about it afterwards.
Only Prasanthan seemed to be missing something. He was rather tense and nervous when he was near her. When she told him she was moving over to the city, he was quiet for some time. Then, without looking at her, he asked her whether he should arrange porters for her. She reminded him that he had promised to take her to that temple. He sighed and said that there was a direct train from the city to the temple.
His cold attitude gave her a tinge of pain but she had expected both, his words as well as her pain. However, she told herself that she should never forget how helpful he had been in times of need. She should try to employ his niece who would finish her course in fashion designing in a month or two.
The first thing Shyamala did after moving over to the city was to give a matrimonial ad in the newspaper. She didn't want to hide anything and asked the copy editor to add that she was a widow who had never borne a child. He commented that widows with children were in better demand. She thought it would be silly to ask him whether child-brides were also in good demand.
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.
TIME
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Time and tide,
I am told, waits for none.
But, where is the hurry?
For, Time has it all.
Tide is slave to the sea,
But, time is its own master.
Needs permission from none.
Perhaps, being tied up with tide
hurts it’s pride?
Time, they say is money.
But money can be counterfeit.
So, what would fake time
feel like, I mused.
Just an imposter,
pretending to rule our life.
Science teaches:
Time isn’t universal.
But, if it is my own,
why can’t I make it wait?
First forward to
modern physics.
Time now is a hot topic.
Time, I thought,
flows from the known past
to the future, unknown.
A rare certainty in
this life, so fickle.
Now declared dead!
Flow of time; a mere illusion,
a product of stuff
dealing with
heat and temperature.
An illusion, like
a mirage in a desert?
Uncannily similar to
what Vedanta taught
our forefathers.
It is all Maya:
We live in eternity!
And, present is little more
than an apparition.
changing shape
whimsically, never precise.
If it’s all my imagination,
my uninitiated mind
playing tricks on me:
Am I wasting my
time, pondering over it?
Or, losing my mind!
Inspired by Carlo Rovellii’s Thermal TimeHypothesis. According to this, time emerges only in a thermodynamic and statistical context. Flow of time is an illusion, derived from incompleteness of knowledge.
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 DOCTOR, DOCTORING & DOCTORED
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
[Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin]
THE PALE BLUE DOT
Dilip Mohapatra
As I stand leaning on the
guardrails of my ship
a fly buzzes from no where
and impudently lands on my hand
while I wonder how does it dare
to intrude into my private space
and how should it meet its end
it looks at me straight in the eye
with its compound eyes
splitting my image into multiple
fragments
it challenges me about the
sovereignty of the space that I claim to be mine.
The ship shakes violently
to the battering of the sea
it pitches
rolls and yaws
like never before
and seems as helpless as a paper boat
adrift in a gushing gutter
while the waves ram her hull
mercilessly without any respite.
The waves alas don’t have any punch of their own
but draw the strength from the
forceful winds that blow
as the earth spins about
and moves on its orbit
and from the tides that swell to the tune of the commands
of the sun and moon.
The earth just a mote of dust suspended in the sun beam
a pale blue dot
where rivers of red blood
had been spilled over the years
by the usurpers
the momentary monarchs
just to own temporarily
a mere fraction of the diminutive dot
that itself is lost in the vastness of the cosmic arena
where millions of celestial sentinels
roam with aplomb
not really caring about
the lonely insignificant speck
that we call our home
but continue to defile it
destroy it
day in and day out
with our never ending deceit
endless cruelties
peppered with the
ferventness of our hatred and malice
that drown the little love
that still survives in some corners
and as we suffer the delusion of our imagined self importance
we try to envelope
the infinite envelope of the cosmos
with our limitless ego and corrosive conceit
never bothering to realise
that we ourselves
perhaps are those who may
save us from ourselves.
The ship jolts to shake me up
from my reverie
and I look for the offender
which has meanwhile flown away
in search of a territory
that it may stake claim to
and without any imminent threat
would feel safe and secure.
Note: Inspired by a video clip of the same name which a friend shared in a WhatsApp group
ANCHORED
Dilip Mohapatra
In the vast expanse of your
oceanic eyes
and upon the sea that
swells within
its ultramarine depths
in which the viscous nights meld
everyday
and the purple twilights
get dissolved
with the red rays of the sun
dancing on the waves
to the tune
of the saline winds
whistling through
the casuarina reeds
on a desolate beach
I drift without a rudder
till you let me
drop the hook
through the hawsepipe
of your full ripe lips
and your lingering kiss.
And as the flukes of
my anchor sink in
and hold the ground
my heart sprouts wings
to set my soul soaring high
and go adrift
astride the albatrosses
trying to touch
the wispy cirrus
up in the sky.
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.
HOWRAH MOTORS
Gokul Chandra Mishra
The year was 1968. Monsoon had started few weeks back.The matriculation result of the HSE board had been published and results announced in Odiya news papers, precisely the Samaj. My parents were happy to see my name , for the first time, in a print media feeling obviously happy. Circumstances compelled me to be ready for a long battle in life.
My village was a Block head quarters situated in the western end of the then undivided Puri district, close to the picturesque Satakoshia gorge of the Mahanadi river. There was no all weather road from Daspalla, the Tahsil HQ. Only one bus service was available to go in the morning to the outside world and return in the night. Later in the year 1968, a mail bus carrying mail used to ply from Jatani to my village in noon time and return back after half an hour of halt there. So mail service which used to be carried through runners from Daspalla reaching our village one day later, could now be available from the mail bus at around 12 noon on the same day. This bus was carrying the mail for the entire Block area including the news paper, Samaj. Only one piece of the Samaj was coming to the entire area. So we used to come to the Post office at 12noon every day and glance the news paper before it was handed over to the post man to send the same to the Govt. ME school, the subscriber.
Suddenly, it was discovered that the result of our matriculation exam had come out in the paper and more than the examinees, the elders were eger to search for our names. We were standing motionless to know our fate, when one of our elder cousin brothers, read out the result of our High school and complemented myself and Jogi bhaina, my first cousin, for securing first class. The news spread wild and came to the knowledge of our parents, before we could tell them.
Finally, the day of journey arrived and we were to catch the bus from our village at five next morning to go to nearby Daspalla with our suitcases containing certificates, fees for the college and hostel, and of course, breakfast items like, Chhatua, Chuda, Suggar, jaggery, blank postcards etc. after few hours of halt at Daspalla we were to catch the ORT blue bus plying between Phulbani and Cuttack. The last night in the village was very emotional with choking feelings to bid farewell to my family members. Almost sleepless, I was watching my mother who never slept and was busy to arrange for my breakfast and perform puja before my departure from home. At 4.30 am we left our homes, as my cousin’s house was a few feet away from mine. I still visualise the weeping face of my mother which she was trying to hide from me and other members of family. I was set for a journey in pursuit of my career and to take care of my parents and family members in future. My father accompanied me to the bus stand and so also my uncle, father of Jogi bhaina. On the way, we prayed before the Gram Devi for her blessings. After bidding farewell to parents, we stepped into the bus which started at 5.30 AM carrying us in search of a bright future. After one hour we reached Daspalla and waited for the next bus to ride upto Cuttack.
The bus arrived and we got to our seats. At that time, the ORT buses were having two types of seats, Upper and Lower. The front few seats were upper seats where the passenger was sure to get a seat with a little more comfortable cushion. We prefered upper seats as we had quite a few belongings with us.
The conductor came and asked for the destination and promptly, Jogibhaina told him to issue tickets upto Howrah Motors. I was taken aback but hesitated to ask him about the destination. We were to go upto Cuttack, but why he was asking for Howrah Motors! I had been told in school that Howrah existed in Calcutta and Howrah bridge was a wonderful creation of the British. My mind was full of questions on hearing the name Howrah Motors. I thought Cuttack might be having another Howrah bridge nearby or Cuttack might be closer to Howrah or Calcutta. I could not sit in a relaxed mood and was often enquiring from him as to how far we were from the destination.
At around 4PM we entered Cuttack city, and fortunately got the glimpse of Ravenshaw College. Jogi bhaina showed me the college and its sprawling building from the bus. I was stunned to see the wonderful grandeur of the institution which was to shape our future life. After some time, we were asked to get down as our destination had arrived. I was quite perplexed as I could not see either Howrah or the bridge. I asked Jogibhaina whether we were at the correct address. He smiled and said yes. Then I asked him about Howrah Motors. He pointed towards a big building by the side of the bus stop, with a big sign board showing HOWRAH MOTORS. All my questions were instantly answered and my tension evaporated. Then we arrived at the house of Jogibhaina’s elder brother for a short stay there, before taking admission to the college. We both were allotted to East Hostel and became its inmate to start a new life of challenge and youthful ventures. But the name “Howrah Motors” did remain in my mind and is alive even today like a fancy tale.
(This article is dedicated to my father on Father's Day.)
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
THE BREEZE
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I am the breeze
Blowing with ease
Over deserts and hills
Kissing the waves in the sea
Mostly, I prefer to live in the forest
Among shrubs and trees
Listening to their stories
And the seasonal worries.
It is the hot summer time
In the bright sun shine,
On the river bank;
I am playing little prank
With the beautiful girl,
Teasing, holding her knotty hair
As she dances without care.
I romance with flowers
Carry away their fragrance
Spreading across the valleys
Building friendships and allies.
I am hot and cold,
At times , chilled and bold
I can become a hurricane
Or, a super cyclone
But, in my heart of hearts
I am the gentle breeze
Oscillating between nostrils
Bringing in awareness
That the universe does really exist.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
THE PERPLEXING NAME
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Boon companion of man,
Enchanting but pestering,
Loquacious yet serene,
Constructed from a rib
Of a man slumbering.
How should we spell
Your perplexing name?
Woo-man ?
Wooing the way through,
The easiest of paths,
For you mastered the art
Oh! Woo, Woo, Woo-man ,
Is this how you spell?
Vow – man?
Vows are a compulsion
To satisfy your inner being
And you nag for it.
How! Vow, Vow, Vow – man,
Is this how you spell?
Woo - man?
Wow is the exclamation
When attired to charm
You so wish to hear.
Ho ! Wow, Wow, Wow – man,
Is this how you spell?
Woe - man?
Woe is the companion
Cast beside you
And tears a resort.
Ah ! Woe, Woe, Woe – man,
Is this how you spell?
Boon companion of man
Enchanting but pestering,
Loquacious yet serene,
Loving and devoted,
Constructed from a rib
Of a man slumbering.
It’s a name you have
And a logic for it
Can heady a logician
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
THE BUTTERFLY WITHIN
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
Like a cocoon, I wrapped my emotions around me.
I snuggled in their warmth.
Inside, I drew colours for my wings
Dreams for myself
Laughed at the world
The colours became me.
Life inside the cocoon is sure fun!
I should never let my wings to break through.
I refuse to be hunted down.
For my wings
Or my dreams
I arrested my growth.
The silky warmth surrounds me.
I drip colours!!
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.
POLLEN MOMENTS..
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Hah!
the silky soft
butterfly
of radiant hues,
that I turned to
in my dream...
how vast
it spread
the lovely
earth,
the world...
the garden
unfolding
charms
of places
faces, voices...
the blossoms
that once
smiled
welcomed
me to Shakespeare's
house
at Stratford...
the peaceful
expanse of the
green fences,
meadows
at Versailles, Paris
the thick forests
of Thimpu, Bhutan,
the lush green
of Blue Mountains
Melbourne..
the bustling
Shanghai,
the stone hewn
walls of China..
the peace
that dwelt
so solemn
on shores of Lucerne,
the rustic
charm of
Montecatini..
how it
fluttered over
the wharfs and
lagoons
of Venice, Florence..
the grandeur,
of Notredame,
the history
that lay
in heaps
at Old Rome...
I beckon
my butterfly
back..
semi wakeful
it flutters
over my
cherished
faces
where love
and care
lie sedimented...
its gentle flap
falls on
bondings,
friendships
the lent lustre
to the quotidian...
with a smile,
I wake up...
hah!
my butterfly
what if
thy flutters
turn transient
let me relive
thy pollen
moments
that fall
when frissons
swoop over...
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).
GOOD-BYES
Anwesha Mishra
You stood up, dusting your joggers.
“I'll leave then”.
My eyes that were fixed on Murakami,
Wandered away to rest on the door,
Beating with the wind.
You wore your backpack.
“What a spectre! ..The greenery!”you said,
Stretching, which unfolded into a lazy yawn.
Shut your eyes as if in a dream.
“Bye”, i said without a second thought.
Halfway through the entrance,
A voice inside me pleaded;
“Can we hug?”
I didn't realize when my lips had parted
To almost defy my strength and ask you to stay.
But I held onto myself just in time
And watched you leave.
“You would have regretted this later”
I put the book down, to hear you,
Tread across the corridor to the elevator.
Heard a bell ring, doors open and close.
But here I'm sat expecting you,
Everytime I hear the bell,
On the roof we called our Eden.
Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy.
TEA IN MAKING
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Be back soon, okay?"
"Hmm", and I left my desk. After a ten minutes long argument on why don't I ask the office peon to bring me tea instead of going to sip it at the shop myself, I'd finally managed to convince my co-worker that all this is just to enhance my productivity.
"My lungs need fresh air just as much as my nerves seek tea. Let me out for fifteen minutes and after I return I'll finish the hour-long job in just half the time", my co-worker knew I meant the same.
"Bhaina, give me two cups of tea poured in one big cup", he knew I needed two full cups of tea at once. I was a regular customer for him. So, he gave me a big smile and said, "go and sit, ma'am. I shall mince some ginger and prepare a royal one for you".
"No, Bhaina. I don't have that much time. I'm in a little hurry."
"Ma'am, do you remember how you used to stand beside me and instruct me how much cardamom, black pepper and tea dust to add so as to make a special tea for you? Those were the days when you spent at least half an hour here. Also, you were so talkative! Ever since you've joined the office, you've indulged yourself in work. We only get to see your peon. However, I'm happy that you've bagged such a good job. I pray you progress a lot, ma'am."
Bhaina was very casual with his words. But hearing him, something asphyxiated in me. I never settled down for a cup of tea that was anything less than perfect. "Bhaina, mince it more finely", I could hear myself talking at the same place some three months ago. Yes, just three months.
Our final exams at college got over and after those typical scenario of farewells, my friends at college went back to their homes. But I stayed back in the same city. I had a lucrative internship offer to work upon. The qualifications that the job sought and my qualifications were mutually exclusive. I was a graduate in a technical course and the job wanted a person who could do content writing. I loved writing and so, I was naturally good at it. Few months back I'd won a creative writing contest and the internship opportunity was its prize.
"See, you're not trained in any content writing course. Moreover, you're creative and I'm afraid content writing can make you mechanical. Think over it again", the project head had spoken to me before I joined his team as an intern.
"I'm open to all sorts of experience, ma'am. And I've four months long leisure before I join my job. I'm sure I want to experience this", I didn't want to think over it again.
"As you wish, young lady. I believe you'll do good work", we shook hands.
"Ma'am it's raining so heavily. It doesn't look like it'll stop anytime soon. Please come in and sit. Now that there's no time constraint, I can make you a good cup of strong Ginger tea", I was brought back into my senses and obeyed bhaina with a smile. Strangely, I wasn't at all bothered about my reaching late at my desk or my coworker passing me glares for the same.
"You're doing better than what I'd expected", said my project manager a few weeks after my joining.
I got increments, I got projects that my fellow interns with due qualifications didn't, I got jealous eyes turned towards me. I got a second career that could pay well.
"What will you do these four months that you can spend only two weeks at home?"
"I've a job, Mom. I'll be interning for three months. That, with the money I have pooled up I'll buy a DSLR camera and tickets to Mauritius! My first international holiday with my own money, Mom!"
"What are you happy with, dear? With the fact that you've won this internship by virtue of your talent, with your work or with the money it'll offer you? You don't have to answer me but do answer yourself, honestly."
I was recalling an excerpt from one of my phone calls with my Mom.
Bhaina was mincing ginger, bay leaves and cardamoms. I burst into a mischievous giggle and said, "Bhaina, are you planning to cook some chicken?"
"Madam, I was a cook at one of the very famous caterers. So, if at all I cook some chicken, don't be afraid to have a mouthful of it!", Bhaina joked back.
"Why did you leave your job then?", I asked.
"Satisfaction, ma'am, that's a big thing. I wasn't satisfied so I left. I chose to do what I love the most and what I'm best at- brewing tea!", He handed me a cup of tea and a big cheery smile. I could hear a cracking sound that came from right inside me. "Ma'am, why haven't you written any story since so long! I used to read them fondly in the magazines", Bhaina added as what had cracked inside me, collapsed.
"You've not written a poem since months", I recalled my mom's words. Warm steam was rising from the cup in my hands making the air before my eyes less transparent.
Writing 'was' my hobby before I joined the internship. I used to spend all my leisure hours writing. But now, my leisure was when I was done with the writing assignment of the day. And, this leisure was just being slept away. Ever since I'd monetised my hobby, my 'talent' was slowly being suffocated. So lately do I realise!
I never used to settle for a 'normal' cup of tea back in home. I always needed an array of spices to make myself (also, others) an extravagant treat. On one rainy evening, there was no cardamom at home. I'd gone to buy some from the market with an umbrella amidst the downpour.
"What would go wrong of you manage with a cup of tea without cardamom for one evening?"
"Why compromise when you have an option not to?", I never believed in compromising with my choices, opinions or decisions. But today, I'd compromised for the sake of my own high ambitions.
In last two months of internship, I'd written an article endorsing a fairness cream though I can't accept judging people based on skin complexion. I'd criticised a lady to make the news do rounds on internet, though personally I couldn't see why she should be. Today, I've to go back to my desk and glorify a politician who I know is exactly opposite of what I'll write about him just so his chances of winning the upcoming elections can increase.
I finished my tea and as I paid for it I said to Bhaina, "You'll soon be reading my stories again!"
I reached office and knocked at my project manager's door. I took a deep breath after I heard a 'come in'.
"Ma'am I don't think I can do this anymore", I spoke in a breath.
"You mean the political news? Okay, do that world cup..."
"All this, I mean. This internship, this content writing and.... I think you were right. I was happier when I was writing creative pieces."
"I thought you'll drag yourself till the end of the internship. Glad you proved me wrong", The PM smiled.
I left her chamber and collected my things to leave. I received two messages on my phone. One that said that my account has been credited with a stipend for two months. "I can still go to Goa. Or maybe, Leh!", I thought to myself.
The second text was from my PM. It read- "start writing your blog again. I love that!"
I knew where I'd to go. And it was definitely not Leh or Goa. It was a kitchen where I'd be standing before a pot with 'perfect' tea boiling in it, spreading an aroma that smelled of 'home'.
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.
DESTINATIONS
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
In our childhood days when we asked
"from where have we come"
The sweet voice used to reciprocate
"God sent you from heaven"
Then we grew and in times of fights with friends, they said
"Narak mein jayega tu"
Then as we set our goals and achieved it,
Our elders said " tujhe swarg Miley"
Our marital life pushed us into our old destination..
For every fight with spouse, we say
Life has become hell.
Then with children and their activities
We get back to the happy destination of 'Heaven '
Towards the fag end of life we start counting on our deeds
Will I get heaven or hell?
Then suddenly we leave this earthly being
With our destination unknown
Actually our deeds during lifetime sets our destination
Our precious acts
destine us to heaven.
So let's purchase our ticket to the destination
of ‘Heaven ' with every small act of ours.
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her family
Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
RAIN AND RAIN
Gopika Hari
Showering pain.
Lilies swelt and jasmines flame.
Yet,
Fragrance remains.
Time and again.
Blazed and razed down Earth shakes the mane
And rise, as befitting a Dame.
Time, the gardener, runs his palms, veined,
Over the pallid earth, and scatters grains
Of thoughts,of souls before, who gained wisdom by sitting upright, under bodhi trees of pain..
And thus sprouts poetry,
Time and again.
Gopika Hari, third year BA English literature student at University college TVM. Poetry is her passion and has published her first anthology under the title "The Golden Feathers". She started writing poems from the age of ten, love poetry and poetic prose. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - gopikameeratvm@gmail.com
THE TEMPLE BELL
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The lone temple bell
tolls at unseemly hours
causing a cascade
of loud chimes.
In the dimly lit temple
enveloped by an eerie loneliness,
Not a soul moves,
yet a rhythm plays with a new echo.
The midnight silence
is broken by the sweet music.
The benign God smiles
at his small miracles.
An abandoned soul, tired and lonely,
wakes up from a dream,
A soft hand from his head
disappears into a sweet memory.
Tomorrow will be a new day
of sweet chimes of temple bells,
of new music, new rhythms,
a new obeisance and a new life.
A life laden with
shining hopes and glittering faith,
No more a lonely path
When God walks with him all the way.
STARS IN THE SKY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
He walks a lonely path
in a dreary desert
No one sees him
except for the stars in the sky.
He has walked alone a long way
None was ready to come with him
Everyone deserted him
except for the stars in the sky.
He wonders if the long journey is really worth
when none comes with a small lamp
To light his lonely path
except for the stars in the sky.
He had everyone around him,
at one point of time his word was law
But no one to listen to him now,
except for the stars in the sky.
He had high hopes
from those who followed his every step,
But now no one to accompany him
except for the stars in the sky.
He toiled hard to bring a smile to everyone's lips,
to shower plentiful bounty on those around him
Now no one even glances at him
except for the stars in the sky.
He walks alone. tired and weary,
he knows at the end all journeys are lonely.
None to guide him to the journey's end
except for the stars in the sky.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
Critic's Corner
1. Shri Devdas Chhotray
(Shri Devdas Chhotray is a legend of Odiya Literature. A versatile genius, his imprints are indelible on many facets of creativity. A poet par excellence, he is also an accomplished writer and is a household name in Odisha for his numerous film lyrics. Shri Prabhnajan Mishra, whose poems have been appearing in all issues of LiteraryVibes from the first edition itself, received the following words of appreciation from Shri Chhotray and was overwhelmed with humble pride. We have great pleasure in reproducing the words of appreciation from one genius to another. MS)
Dear Prabhanjan Babu
I have been reading your poems off and on in the Literary Vibes published by Mrityunjay Sarangi, with great relish. I get them most conveniently in my What's App.
However, after reading two of your beautiful poems in the seventeenth issue of the journal, 'The Lost Beads' and ' Sita', I could not restrain myself from congratulating you by writing a personal mail. Both the poems I found to be very intelligently crafted and are tellingly provocative with a touch of wry humour. In a strange way, they are symbiotic and a reverse osmosis flows between them.
I have been very recently introduced to your writings under the aegis of LV and found them worthy of appreciation.
Best
Devdas Chhotray
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