Literary Vibes - Edition XXII
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the Twenty Second edition of LiteraryVibes.
This week we are happy to welcome Dr. Jinju S. and Ms. Runu Mahanty to the family of LiteraryVibes. Both are accomplished poets and as their poems show, they have a great future. We wish them lots of success in their literary career. We are grateful to Prof. Geetha Nair and Mr. Prabhanjan K. Mishra - terrific literary personalities whose poems and short stories have been mesmerising the readers of LiteraryVibes over the weeks - for introducing Dr Jinju and Ms. Mahanty to us.
In the last few days during my stay in the U.S. I have met a few admirers of LiteraryVibes who were effusive in their praise of our e-Magazine. Let's hope we will get more writers to contribute their poems and short stories to enable LiteraryVibes achieve new heights.
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
THE REBELS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Even the pen gags itself,
the personal computer
binds its bytes in knots,
mails enter the frozen zone.
Air smells sour,
the stink of cold metal.
Knob-boots trample
petals, the corolla, and pollens;
love nauseates, squelched on,
the death pangs straddle the air.
The muddy mandarins rejoice to see
the rebels marching in manacles;
look away when heads are held high;
hoist the National Flag on taller posts,
lower the human rights to the abyss.
They mandate – close eyes, stifle thoughts,
seal lips, douse the fire in blood.
But the embryo is breaking out of its shell;
a great oak will rise, burst through the ceiling,
fills the sky; a manifesto of freedom.
(Reacting to the arrest of five human rights activists as Urban Naxalites in August 2018.)
RADHA, THE RECLUSE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
She wishes to tip-toes out,
lest the priests and attendants
wrinkle a nose.
Her heartthrob dozes in stone
in his unique stance of a handicap,
hip tilted to left, tribhanga to devotees;
a bad posture to bonesetters, flute in hand
like a ubiquitous cellphone, he blows
tonelessly his silence. Radha feels
squeamish by his side, by his touch,
now that he is not her cowboy but a lord.
Recalls fondly - this upstart would massage
her feet before she agreed to take him
to her bed, how she literally would
kick him out whenever he missed a beat….
No, as her own the judge and jury
today she would recuse herself,
harden her heart. She recalls his exit
from her life, ah, his allure, the power and pelf,
calling it the cosmic grand-plan, the so-called
prophesy, reducing her into a recluse!
The twigs and leaves in the wind
crackle underfoot by Yamuna,
or is it the rattle of her old bones?
The wind whines at the cracks,
or is it her labored breathing,
beleaguered by tear and phlegm?
He had left her by the riverbank,
fragrant with kadamba flowers,
uttering just three magical words,
not the three that fall from lips
these days with the ‘drop of a hat’,
the whisper of ILU into mobile-phones,
but real lovely ones - “I will return” and he
quietly rode away with Akrur, leaving
his flute with her, her witness, his memento.
One teary and bereft noon, she threw
the flute, her hostile witness, into Yamuna.
It is a riddle how it returned to his hands!
She senses footsteps stalking her,
a love-pheromone wafting in the air;
but of what use when the lagoon
looks at the clouds with parched mouth,
the fountain leaves a dry furrow
scratched on earth by the left big toe?
The eyes that clothed her nakedness
with patina of adoration feel like skewers
that would haul her gutted dove over hot coal.
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 CRUCIAL DAY (GOTIA DINA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
My death-defying abstinence
has won over cravings,
reining in my desires.
But do I rue the day
that slipped from my grip?
Or should I rejoice the miss?
Fighting temptations all life,
a warrior worth his grit,
I regret that day
I lost to temptations;
my tamed horses gone wild.
It was true -
in my barren continence
I had hardly any place
for delicacy of flowers or fruits.
But why had my training
under punishing whiplashes
little control over that day?
Had I lost my desire
to defeat
the inevitability.
The single slip
remains indelible -
its joy of nubile touch
on whip-lacerated skin,
its balm-like so-called sin,
spreading underfoot
a carpet, soft and silk.
ACQUAINTANCE (PARICHAYA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The two neighbours
hardly knew each other,
familiarity had made them blind.
They were rivals in office,
competing and disagreeing
all the time, but one day –
they were returning home
boarding the same bus
clutching their briefcases
like weapons.
Alighting and hugging
the opposite edges
of the road,
the rival neighbours
walked home,
silent shadows
submerged in their own worlds.
Unwittingly, a smile
passed between them,
like the banal smile exchanged
between two pall-bearers.
The smile thawed the ice,
altered their perspectives,
did away with prejudices,
defused the ticking bombs
in their briefcases.
By the street corner,
they talked like
long lost friends,
agreeing -
dead Ashwathama
was an elephant.
Blinded by their new ardour
of camaraderie,
like the relief of warring armies
after a ceasefire treaty,
they forgot again to check
each other’s full credentials.
They perhaps thought,
there would always be
other occasions -
a more opportune situation
in a propitious hour;
or over a casual cup of tea
in a restaurant,
at seven in the evening….!
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)”
CLOSING DAYS
Geetha Nair G
There is a road that runs east from Munnar town into a little valley. Flanking this road are decorous, green tea bushes with here and there a royal jacaranda tree decked in purple or a silver oak shimmering in the breeze.
The road ends at a large building.
It is a high-end home for the elderly. There are suites for each inmate. Men in the left block of suites; women in the right. The two blocks are separated by a long, low block comprising the expansive common recreation area and the dining hall. From the road above, the building looks like an enormous 'H' made with a child's red and cream building blocks. "HOMES", it is called. Simple yet succinct.
Prema had moved in a year back. Both her sons, settled in the US, had zoomed in on HOMES as an ideal final home on earth for their mother. They had tried out having her with them- half the year to each -but it hadn't worked out. The climate, the loneliness, the crazy pace of their lives, their children-everything had upset her terribly.
So, at seventy two, Prema came back to her homeland after two long years of painful absence. Her new home was close to the picturesque town she had worked in for several years in her young days. She had been happy working in various branches of Kera Bank but the Munnar branch had been her happiest tenure.
Her elder son had dropped her at HOMES one evening. The journey and the challenges awaiting her had left her exhausted. The formalities had mostly been completed online. She was shown her suite and she made straight for the well-made bed. Though the place was well-staffed and their mother was healthy for her age, her sons had insisted that she should have a personal attendant. A suitable one had been identified and was waiting to be interviewed.
When Prema woke after a refreshing nap, she found a youngish lady sitting by her bed. "I am Susan," she said with a smile, "your personal attendant, Madam".
"My son?" enquired Susan. "He left, Madam. He said he had a night flight to catch from Kochi... ."
Prema took to Susan. She was an educated girl from a family that had seen better days. She had been disillusioned by her stint in a primary school as teacher. This was her first job as a companion. Prema's days passed smoothly.
Forenoons she spent in her suite, reading, chatting online, getting her scanty hair dyed by Susan, sharing memories with her. "Once, my hair was like yours, long and black," she would say, stroking Susan's long, thick plait. "Do you know, my husband first saw me at a function in our family temple. My hair was damp and untied and he claims he fell in love with it first!" She didn't add that this practice of falling in love with various parts of the body of various women had continued till he left her for good when their sons were teenagers. She had not missed him. She had the children, her job, her friends and peace of mind. The divorce had come through three years later.
After her siesta, she would move to the Recreation Hall to socialise. There were about fifty men and women there in various stages of deterioration. Prema generally avoided paediabores as she privately termed the majority who spoke only of their children. Praise or blame, pride or anger; they were redundant, she felt, in this phase and place.
She had found a couple of women she felt comfortable with. They played rummy some days or watched a movie. Sometimes, she went for a little stroll with Susan in tow.
In February, a new inmate arrived. Prema was in the Recreation Hall, watching an old 'sixties movie when, from the window, she saw a car at the portico. A balding old man was being helped into a wheelchair by a young, black-haired one. As he seated himself in the wheelchair and looked up at his helper, Prema saw his face clearly. It was Sajan.
The years crackled back as swiftly as currency notes in counting machines. Sajan and she had worked together in the Munnar branch for several years. He had been very popular, a good organiser and a favourite with the lady staff.
He had been a popular bachelor then. He was good-looking; trim body, luxuriant hair, small regular features, an alluring smile. Moreover, Sajan was a good and ready singer ; he sang at the drop of a pay-in slip. At all informal meetings of the staff, he was both master of ceremonies and singer. His favourites were those melodious songs of the sixties and the current ones of the seventies.
"Flower that blooms in the chill mist;
Tell me why you weep;
Does my love too sadden you? "
This hit song of the year had been always on his lips. He would look often at her when he sang this song of sad love. She suspected it was addressed to her; in those days, Prema wore her misery like a halo; it was almost visible. The song was as alluring as his smile.
Imperceptibly, she found herself moving closer and closer to him, emotionally and physically. Nothing was said, yet everything was.
Easter was in March that year. Schools had closed early for the summer vacations. Her husband had taken their little sons down to the plains to his parental home. She would join them on a month's leave in two days' time.
That Bank Closing Day remained imprinted on her memory like a bright wild flower pressed onto a blank sheet. The day had been hectic like all Closing Days and work had gone on into the night. They were hunting for a missing rupee. One wretched rupee. Even Sajan wasn't humming. Everyone was exhausted. Finally it was found; the balance sheet could be sent the next day. There was a collective sigh of exhausted relief. When the clock struck eleven, everyone streamed out into the chill March air. In half an hour it would be April. "Let me drop you home," Sajan offered. Prema and two other lady staff piled onto the back seat of Sajan's Fiat. The other two got off at their homes. Prema 's house was the farthest from the bank. There were just the two of them in the car. Suddenly the air was taut with expectation, fragrant with desire. Prema stared straight ahead, her hands gripping her bag.
Sajan stopped at the gate. He switched off the engine. As she reached her dark front door and was fumbling for the key, he came up behind her. In a second she was in his arms, crushed to him like a leaf. Her bag fell to the ground. He was raining kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her eyes. Then, just as abruptly, he let go of her and walked swiftly back to the car.
Prema did not remember entering her dark house or even going to bed.
The next day, he greeted her with a merry "Happy Fools' Day" but his eyes spoke other words.
Prema left for home that afternoon in the rattling bus that descended like her spirits.
Sajan was due for a promotion transfer ; he left Munnar two weeks later. They did not meet again but he continued to linger somewhere deep within her, emerging at unexpected moments to smile that alluring smile at her.
And now, here he was, walking, no, being wheeled into her life again. She rose and made for the Reception... .
Prema's routine changed. Susan melted into the background. Prema spent the forenoons in Sajan's company. Often, the evenings too. She learned that he had remained a bachelor -"I am a free bird; I don't want to be caged" - had been his standard, flippant reply to the inevitable question. After retirement fifteen years ago, he had stayed alone for years in his cottage in Munnar, had found housekeeping cumbersome, had fallen in the bathroom one day and lain there for hours with a broken leg. He had finally decided to lock up his cottage and move to HOMES. Balu, a local boy whose education he had financed and who now worked as an accountant in the office of a tea company had taken leave to be of help to him.
Sajan's leg was healing fast. Now he could hobble about, one arm firmly held by Balu. In the evenings, he would mingle with the other inmates. One day, Prema announced that Sajan was a fine singer. From then onwards, he sang for the others every evening. His voice had a little quaver but was still melodious and he sang those old favourites of their generation.
One cold evening, the song he sang was that old hit about the loved one who had bloomed in the mist. He looked at Prema all through the song. Prema had been waiting for this.
A week later, tongues wagged nineteen to the dozen in HOMES. Lines got clogged as call after call was made to UAE, the USA, Germany and other parts of the globe where the children of the inmates lived. Such juicy news! Prema and Sajan were getting married ! They would be moving into Sajan 's two-bedroom cottage in the town.
It was on 31 March, bank Closing Day that they registered their marriage. Prema's sons sent their reluctant wishes. Sajan had no one to wish him.
That evening, they threw a party for their friends in HOMES. Sajan sang, needless to say. It was that all-time hit-
Sau saal pehle,
Mujhe tumse pyaar tha... .
Balu drove them to their new home.
And what of Susan? Ah! When she melted into the background, she found Balu there, similarly backgrounded.
That second bedroom in Sajan 's cottage? That became Balu's and Susan's. It had been a double wedding that morning.
Life is good for the quartet. Susan keeps house, Balu goes to work while Sajan and Prema savour their closing days.
Every day is closing day for Sajan and Prema.
SLICING
Geetha Nair G
Let the knife sink deeper,
Deeper.
Let the juice spurt out;
Tart tangerine.
Split at the equator,
Tangerine turns poles;
North or south?
That is the question.
Pick a peel,
Squirt it in your eye -
What a feel !
Weep.
Anything is better than
Stasis.
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
PAPER BOATS ON THE FULLMOON DAY IN OCTOBER
Bibhu Padhi
On the wide waters of Mahanadi
they reenact history, leaning against
our ancestral desires.
Once out of our hands.
they fly on the outgoing waves
in a movement that tires our eyes.
And now, hit by a thunderstorm
of children’s voices, they lose
the direction we had given them;
now they allow the little water-drops
to invade their homes, while our hopes
sink quietly in the broad river.
We think it’s no good weather
for anything auspicious--that, after all,
we are not in our proper moods.
Paper boats accumulate and sail away,
forgetting us all, hardly caring
to remember even themselves.
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
AROUND THE BEND
Sreekumar K
( A radio play about storytelling. Stories were born much before us and they will stay around long after we die. In many Indian languages, to say someone left his story behind means he died. If the story is alive and he died, he might as well come back to relate it on moonlit Fridays.)
Thomas (as the narrator): When some people asked me to write a radio play on ghosts, I couldn’t think of a good idea. So, I asked them whether some of my experiences in a deserted house in a village in north Kerala would be good enough. They said it was all right so long as it didn't sound too realistic or too boring. I told them that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction and they said they sincerely hoped this would a strange enough truth. The incidents I am going to narrate here are known to me, my wife and Bhaskaran, our cook. I have managed to live on my own writing for the last six years. Writing as a career posed only one problem. To meet my deadlines, I needed more than what was available at home: a drink or two in the evening, complete silence and fresh air. I always found this, often for a dear price, far away from home, among the hills on the Western Ghats. I also liked to have good food three or four times a day and Bhaskaran who accompanied me on all those occasions could provide me with that. He was an excellent cook, a good companion and spoke only when he was spoken to. Quite unlike Mary, my wife. The incidents narrated in this radio play happened on such a sojourn as is mentioned above. With all the materials to write a book on the recent developments in the Middle East, I went with Bhaskaran to a deserted house on the top of a hill, skirted by coffee plantations. As many of the stories that I wrote as a school student, this was also on a dark and stormy night……
(a phone rings persistently and we hear Thomas waking up and cursing out loud, mumbling to himself, calling Bhaskaran and then answering the phone. But once he learns who is on the other side, he is quite warm and happy.)
Thomas (younger voice) (over the phone): Good Morning, Queen Mary. I just woke up. Could sleep only very late. I had set the alarm at five o’ clock, planning to go for a walk. Didn’t even hear it. Bhaskaran! He is fast asleep in the other room. The taxi driver is also with him. No, no. There was only one taxi available at the railway station and that chap knew this place, fortunately. Not that much. But well above forty kilometers. It is quite steep with hairpin curves and all that. Say thanks to Brigit if she calls. Well, he couldn’t go back after dropping us here. In fact, he went and came back. The car’s headlight failed or something he said. So, we had to let him stay back here for the night. He wouldn’t have made it past the third curve with no headlight. ..Yes, yes. I put the bags in my room only and bolted my door properly. You are right, can’t trust such guys. Bhaskaran? He is really tough, though he looks quite lean and weak. No one rubs him the wrong way. Yeah, you don’t know him really. He picks up fights with almost any stranger and never trusts anyone. OK, OK, he is just the opposite of me. Why else do you think I take him everywhere I go.
(Knocks on the door and Bhaskaran calls him)
Bhaskaran: Sir, sir...
Thomas: Mary, I will call you later. Seems like our tough guy is on the loose. (loudly) Wait a minute, let me open the door.
(Sound of the door opening.)
Bhaskaran (agitated): He is gone sir, the driver. Didn’t you lock the front door?
Thomas: Since you two were still chatting when I went to bed, I didn’t care to lock it. Just closed it only. You didn’t know when he left?
Bhaskaran: No. When I woke up, he was not there in the room. I went out and even his car was not there. He said he had parked it outside the gate. It was not there. Anyway, nothing is missing. The money you had given me yesterday was under my pillow and it is still there. Idiot! He should have at least told us.
Thomas: Anyway, good riddance. Thank god, he didn’t murder you in your sleep and run away with the money. He could have killed me too. He is not an idiot. We are the idiots. Never trust a stranger.
Bhaskaran: That is what I always tell you.
Thomas: Let’s go for a walk. If you have not made some coffee yet, don’t bother. We can go and have a cup of tea as well. He said there is a tea shop somewhere down there. May be we can also have our breakfast there. You lock up the room. I want to call home.
(sound of dialing a phone)
(sounds of doors being closed; footsteps, and a creaky gate being closed)
Thomas:(over the phone) Hello May! I already have a story to write: The strange disappearance of the Taxi Driver. Yes, the guy just vanished. No, he didn’t take anything. Yeah, we don’t know him. We found him at the railway station. Funny fellow. He slept with Bhaskaran in the other room. Even when I went to bed, I could hear them still chatting. This morning when Bhaskaran woke up, the chap had vanished. He is a young fellow. Interesting character. Very good at story telling. Told us several stories about his night rides and such stuff. When I got bored, I said good night and went to my room. I don’t know why he left without telling us. Yeah, probably; he would have tried to wake us up and we would have been fast asleep. Even the alarm couldn’t wake me up. Yes, Bhaskaran is here. I will give it to him.
(loudly) Bhaskaran, it is Mary, she wants to talk to you. Leave it, I will lock it.
Bhaskaran: Amma, I didn’t want to let him in. But sir let him. No, nothing has been taken away. Yes, I am going with him. Don’t worry. I will take care of him. No, I will be careful. The tea shop is farther down. I will arrange some milk today itself. OK Amma.
(Phone is switched off; footsteps on the gravel)
Thomas: It is still very cold. And foggy too. Let’s walk down. When did you sleep last night?
Bhaskaran: O, it was very late when I went to sleep. He didn’t let me. He went on telling his stupid stories. After some time, I closed my eyes and acted like snoring and it was only then that he stopped.
Thomas: What kind of stories?
Bhaskaran: His own cock and bull stories. He is a mean fellow. He smiles and talks well and is extremely polite. Taxi car is only his side business. Really, he is a pimp.
Thomas: Did he say that?
Bhaskaran: No he didn’t say exactly that. He was talking about all the girls he had chased, hunted and stalked. He made it sound like he was hunting them down for himself. Or that they were hunting him down. But, it was clear that he is just a small-time pimp.
Thomas: Nothing strange, with a railway station to this side, a hill station and resorts to the other side and he being a taxi driver who takes night rides. He is young and may want to make some extra money.
Bhaskaran: Extra money, extra trouble. The worst is that he was trying to see if he could get some business from us too!
Thomas: Was he!
Bhaskaran: You don’t know such people, sir. They are not to be seen in books. But they are everywhere. He told me several stories. Wasn’t there a Charlie, your friend?
Thomas: Yes, Brigit’s brother. This house used to be Charlie’s. He is no more and now it is his sister’s. He died in a car accident.
Bhaskaran: This guy knew Charlie and they were in very good terms. That is why he could recognize his address when we asked him. But he didn’t want to let you know all this. From what he told me, Charlie used to share all his secrets with this guy. He suggested that there were a whole lot of things about Charlie and he didn’t want you to know any of them. Though, he didn’t mind telling me some.
Thomas: Really! I really would like to know a few things about Charlie. What did he tell you about Charlie?
Bhaskaran: He was not talking exactly about Charlie. He was talking about himself. He had roped in several girls for his own pleasure and for the pleasure of his customers and some high level officers. He had brought one for Charlie also. But, that was a tragic incident. The girl ran away that same night and committed suicide. He had got that girl from the railway station and no one else had seen her. So, there was nothing connecting him or Charlie to that incident. But Charlie had to spent a fortune to silence the police. In fact, that is why Charlie left this coffee plantation and went back to Bangalore.
Thomas: I know that story. Charlie himself told this to me. I couldn’t imagine I would ever meet the guy who brought that girl here for Charlie. What Charlie had told me was that he had got a girl from somewhere and that she ran away that same night and that her dead body was found in a pool at the foot of this hill the next day.
Bhaskaran: My God! I didn’t know all this. You never told me anything like this. It was only when Doctor Amma told me that one of your friends died in a car accident in Bangalore that I heard Charlie's name for the first time. Does she know this story?
Thomas: No, she doesn’t. She knows both of them. She and Brigit were classmates in Nimhans. That is how I met Charlie. Brigit was always worried about her brother's lifestyle. He had taken to drugs and all that. It was only after their mother died that he changed a little bit. But, I am sure whether it wasn't the other incident that changed him. He died within a year after that incident.
Bhaskaran: While I was in the kitchen, the taxi driver was talking to you quite a lot. What was he telling you?
Thomas: He was not telling me anything. I found he was holding back something. So, I was making him talk. He couldn’t resist the temptation to tell stories to an eager listener but at the same time, he didn’t want to tell me much. So, he came up with some unbelievable stories, one after the other, mostly about ghosts and stuff. I was interested more in real stories since people like him may have a lot of inside information about the dark lives of people. I hoped to get the thread of a novel from him. But he disappointed me. Once, I spent a night at a railway station and the signalman told me a very good story and I was able to develop a full movie script from that.
Bhaskaran: I remember that. And you paid him handsomely, right? We have walked a lot now and I can’t see any tea shops here.
Thomas: Let’s walk a bit more. What is the hurry? You only have to prepare our lunch today and I don’t have much to do either.
Bhaskaran: I think we may not even get a tea today, forget the breakfast. If you don’t mind, I am willing to walk all the way down to the valley. From here onwards, it is really steep and full of hairpin curves. Walking back is going to be way too hard. Sir, did he tell you anything interesting?
Thomas: Everything he said was of some interest to me. He didn’t tell me anything about his game hunting. As I told you, they were all spooky stories. They were all about ghosts and goblins. Kid stuff, mostly.
Bhaskaran: He is very clever. He can cook up any number of stories. And he is an excellent story-teller. I was too tired to listen to him. Or, I would have sat up all night listening to him. And, it was also good that I didn’t listen to his spooky stories. I am actually scared to listen to such stories.
Thomas: Are you scared to listen to them in this broad daylight too? What if I tell you a story?
Bhaskaran: I may or may not get scared of them depending on how convincing the story is. I think I know all your tricks by now. I have read almost all the books you have written, at least all the storybooks. But sir, I think when it comes to storytelling, doctor Amma can tell stories better than you. You are good at writing them, but not so good at telling them. Once she told me a story you had written and it made me cry.
Thomas: I always knew that she is good at cooking up things. Anyway, I want you to listen to this story. It is good to walk and tell stories. What else is there to talk about? This is one of the stories that our driver told me. I am recounting it in my own way. As he told me, this is not a story. It really happened.
Bhaskaran: I am ready to listen. If the story is too shocking and I pass out, please don’t leave me here.
(sound of a car speeding by)
Sir, be careful, these drivers are not used to city men. They don’t know you are a famous writer. So, please keep to the side.
Thomas: This story doesn’t happen on a hillside like this. It happens in a city. First, we are in a bar and the time is close to ten o’ clock. There is very little light but there is a lot of smoke settling down in the hall. There is some soft western music which can be hardly heard. People are not talking so loudly now as they used to be an hour ago. Everyone is either drunk or tired and the bar is about to close. Those who are still there are all their usual customers. They usually leave only when the shutter is half down and then again they ask for a drink or two. After that, they usually walk out and drive home. Hopefully, everyone reaches home somehow, though there are occasional accidents and a few may end up in the police station and spend their night there.
Bhaskaran: What is so scary about all this? I often see this in real life whenever I travel with you.
Thomas: Can you just listen for a few more minutes? Then you will get your chance to comment. In one corner of the bar, there is a young man sitting with his face down. His car key is on the table. He seems to be in some internal agony. Something is eating him and he is not eating anything. He is really drunk. He doesn’t look up even when the waiter brings him the bill. He draws out his purse and takes out a thousand rupee note and mumbles something to the waiter and ambles towards the door. The waiter calls him from behind and hands him the car key. He hugs the waiter and tries to say thanks but fails to do so. The waiter turns his face and softly pushes him away. The man manages to get out. The guard at the door helps him walk down the steps. There is only one car left in the parking lot. He moves towards that. It is an expensive car, noted for its speed and pick up. He gets in and starts the car. It moves like an untamed wild beast, with a soft purr. The rain comes down heavily on the car and a bolt of lightning rips through the thick darkness for the thunder to come out like a wild beast. The guard anxiously watches the scene and when the car gets out of the gate, like water from a flood gate, he crosses himself.
Bhaskaran: My God!
Thomas: See you are already hooked and anxious. I think I should tell you the rest of the story later.
Bhaskaran: No, no, I take back my word. Sir, you can also tell stories. Please don’t stop.
Thomas: His car is now speeding through the city. The rain has subsided and the chill in the air has made our man soberer. There are only a few people on the street, only those ones who have the guts to dare the heavy downpour and the gusty wind. He slows down the car and starts to look left and right through the car window. Everyone is covered in raincoats or is sheltered under umbrellas. The unsteadiness in his eyes is gone and so is their foggy appearance. In its place, one can see only the flares of lust, the hunger felt all over his body. He stops the car near a lady and asks her something and she abuses him and spits at him. He speeds up again. He is almost near the city limits and is eagerly looking in both directions now. A lady, quite unaware of the danger, crosses his path. It was a close call. He swerves the car to the left. The front wheel hits the curb and the car stops. He is enraged and he puts his head out, about to curse her. But she is not there. She appears on the left, bends down and pushes half of her head in. She says ‘hi’ and he melts off like a scoop of ice cream in summer. Her luxuriant hair hangs about her face and the air is filled with the scent of jasmine flowers on her hair. He unlocks the door, she opens it, gets in and sits with him and says ‘let’s go’.
Bhaskaran: She iss wearing a white sari. From here, I can continue. He sees the cross hanging from his neck and struggles to get out.
Thomas: Nothing like that. The car turns around and cuts through the city in the opposite direction. It soon takes a different path and enters the highway. It slows down. Traffic is quite sparse. The rain gets worse and it lashes against the car window. The tall trees on either side are swaying in the heavy wind. Suddenly the car stops. It moves slowly to the other side. A bolt of lightning almost hits the car and a street light sends out silver flares. All the street lights go out and the car’s headlights also die off.
Bhaskaran: I have to interrupt now. The next morning there is a crowd on the high way around a smashed car and there is a truck lying across the road. Inside the car, we see the young man who died, having lost a lot of blood. See, I only mentioned a crowd and there is a crowd right here. Look, on the next bend, there is a real crowd. I am sure it is an accident. Now the story gets really scary.
(the phone rings)
Sir, you attend the call and stay here. I will take a look and come back. Doctor Amma may be calling you.
Thomas: Hello, Mary, no we are still on the road. Yes, it is a long walk. It is nice here. Only that we are yet to get a coffee or tea. There are no shops here. Yes, we have covered almost four kilometers now. There is another junction two kilometers from here. I think we will have to go all the way down there for a cup of tea now. Have the kids gone to school? Ok, I think we will go all the way down and have our breakfast also before going back up. If Brigit calls, thank her for the house. And tell her it is a haunted house. I couldn’t sleep last night. All kinds of nightmares. Didn’t tell anything to Bhaskaran. He is already scared of being here and wants to go to Shornur where his cousin has a house near the river. OK. There is a crowd near the next curve. Looks like an accident. Bhaskaran has gone there to see what it is. He is coming back. I will call you later.
Bhaskaran: Sir, it is bad news for us. It is that driver. Got killed. His car is still deep down in the valley. They brought up his body and sent it for post-mortem. The inspector is here. And some policemen too. They were asking around who had hired the taxi. I didn’t say anything.
Thomas: So bad. This was what the idiot was rushing out for. Anyway, I will go and meet the inspector. You go back home. I think you are right. Let’s look for another house.
Bhaskaran: His time had come. That was why he had to rush out like that, without even letting us know he was going.
Thomas: That is actually nice of him. We would have felt even worse if he had said a proper good-bye before he left. Still, it happened just like that. His story and his stories have come to an end.
Bhaskaran: I was not shocked by your story. But, I got shocked as soon as it ended. It was too much of a story. You had just told me the story of a car accident and right here there is one.
Thomas: It wasn’t my story exactly. It was based on a story that he had told me. I modified it with a few things from Charlie’s life and death.
Bhaskaran: I also thought so. Doctor Amma had told me something about that accident then. That is why this story sounded so familiar. She had told me that the car was smashed by a lorry. She didn’t tell me there was a woman in the car. Did that lady also die?
Thomas: What lady? There was no lady there. I added that from the story the driver told me. He and his stories! He was trying to scare me with that! He had no idea that I make up stories for a living.
Bhaskaran: Sir, let’s move out of this house today itself.
Thomas: Are you scared? He was your bedmate yesterday. He will come for you tonight. O, he died on a Friday. So, for sure, you are going to be eaten alive tonight.
Bhaskaran: Sir, that won’t work for me. You are the one who writes scandalous stories about dead people. He was telling all those ghost stories to you last night. If you ever write those stories down and make any money out of it, he is surely going to come after you for his share. For the time being, there is the inspector ready for HIS share. It is nice to give him something. Or, he will make you walk up and down this hill for the next one week.
Thomas (as narrator) I went with the inspector on his jeep to the station to give a written statement. Since he himself blurted out that the man had died seven or eight hours ago and that the accident had happened between eleven o’ clock and midnight, I had to hide a few things from him. My statement showed that the driver had dropped us at ten thirty and had gone away soon after. Since Bhaskaran had not come to the station, it made things easy for me. I never had to tell him the truth. I never mentioned it to my wife also. I lied to both of them that the accident happened only in the morning.
We moved out of the house the same day itself. I heard from the inspector later that the post-mortem report also went well with my report and that the file was closed. The new house that Bhaskaran found for me was a good one. I finished a small book on the recent developments in the Middle East. It was titled: Jasmine Smells Better than Blood. Talking of jasmine, that day at the police station the inspector had asked me again and again whether there was a lady with us that night in the car. He said that the people had commented that when they took out the driver's body from the car, the smell of jasmine was stronger than the smell of coagulated blood.
Bhaskaran went to live with his son who was in Adimally in the High Ranges. I once went to see him to invite him for my eldest daughter’s wedding. It was nice to see him after all those years. He offered me some good home-made liquor. I got a little drunk and told him what had happened that night at Brigit’s house on the hill-top. Not only that he didn’t believe it, he laughed a lot and told me that the home-made liquor could work wonders.
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.
ILLUSION
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
The majestic tree stood for ages.
Looked solid, and stout.
Who knew, it could fall?
Weathered so many storms.
Survived lashings of
torrential rain and withstood
blizzards of the
“Beast from the East”
Like my friend, he went through
life, without a murmur of grievance.
All spoke of him:
How lucky, to have no worries?
For him, they are nothing more than
the daily grind, too mundane
to wear as badges of martyrdom.
He had no affliction to show;
No wheelchair or crutches.
His body in perfect order,
not even glasses or hearing aid!
He had no disabled child
to worry about,
nor any crippling debt.
He passed away quietly;
just like he lived his life.
All discussions on disability
washed over him.
He never joined any Action Group
nor did he sign any petition!
What do you protest for?
He would say.
Grief comes from what also gives
you the utmost bliss.
Can I pull the same rug from
under me, which doubles up
as the magic carpet
for my trips to the moon?
Like the tree, wizened with weather,
covered in rugged barks,
like dried up tears.
it’s core stealthily eaten away
from inside, by chemistry,
mysterious and mystifying.
One fine morning,
the tree was down,
No massive thud, like a gentle giant,
Changing posture.
Like my friend, lying serene,
no wounds on his body;
his calm face betraying
no trace of the wear
and tear, deep within!
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 GLASS BANGLES
Dilip Mohapatra
She looks at the dazzlingly red bangles
adorning her hennaed hands
reflecting the flickering flames in the fireplace
and the voluptuous vermillion mark
between her brows
and the glow on her rubicund face
as she waits for her man.
Her desire pulsates and reverberates
through her bangles which tinkle in unison
with the reciprocating rhythm of beating hearts
that peaks and ends in a crescendo.
She collects the occasional broken pieces of glass
from the bed in the morning
and saves them for a kaleidoscope that she
dreams to assemble.
The henna from her hands washes away
the bangles soon lose their sheen
as her man no longer comes home every night
and wanders away once a while
into someone else's dreams
shares someone else's pleasures and pains
someone else's cheers and tears.
She wonders why all that are bright
and precious fade so fast?
Her anxieties and insecurities
and tired tenderness
throb in her bangles silently
and they clink no more
nor do they break occasionally
and the kaleidoscope never comes to be.
Now her man lies supine in a body wrap
and her bangles smashed against the
threshold of her dreams and desires
her apprehensions and anxieties
her tired tenderness
and she draws strength from the broken bangles
to find freedom in her loneliness
courage in her hopelessness
and face another day.
A brighter day with a red sun rising
over a distant horizon
that could replace the vermillion mark
on her forehead
and she searches for the rainbows
that could embellish her wrists once again
till eternity
never to be broken and never to be shattered
once again.
THE SURROGATE MOURNER (Rudaali)
Dilip Mohapatra
The master of the house has died
in his sleep last night
may be due to a cardiac arrest
and she is summoned to perform
while the pall bearers decorate
the shroud with yesterday's marigold
and a sprinkling of vermillion
and turmeric powder.
She comes in her black regalia
her un-oiled and matted hair open
to sell her tears in her much practised
cathartic act embellished with
agonised wailing and beating of
her pathetic breasts
her red and white bangles loosely
tinkling in her impoverished wrists
sticking out like half charred sticks
from an extinguished funeral pyre
and gets into a trance
swooning and writhing in faked anguish
tears streaming down from her very wet eyes
for some one she perhaps never met.
Her act over she is paid with few coins
that she exchanges for a pint of local hooch
for her wastrel of a husband
who would have thrashed her to a pulp
if she did not
but as she reaches her hut
she finds him gasping for breath on his charpoy
his heart getting feebler every passing moment
and she rushes to pour on his parched lips
few drops of holy water from river Ganga
that she carefully preserved in a dirty bottle
for such a contingency
and then time stands still
with his last breath slipping away
and his body going limp.
She sits quietly his head on her lap
and tries to force the tears out
but in vain
she pours glycerine into her dry eyes
hoping to induce the flow
as she did sometime ago for the audience
but in vain
she tries to wail and lament as loud as she could
but she finds her voice failing her.
All exhausted
and washed out
she bangs her bangles on the stone pestle
to break them to smithereens
and rubs off the vermillion mark
from between her brows.
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.
TONSURED SOUL
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
While I am back,
I am not able to see
What is present
As my eyes are scanning to see,
All that have vanished and absent.
The forest is there
But, the trees are rare
The birds are scared
To sing as they desire.
The peacocks have stopped
dancing
As the rains are no more pleasing.
The flowers are scarce
And are soulless without the fragrance.
I have been in search
To find her amidst the crowd
Whom I have left in the past
For undertaking a journey
To conquer the world, so vast.
I see her at last
Clinging onto her primordial thoughts
Unsure and apprehensive of my assurance
That I am the same
In spite of my changed appearance.
How can I convince her
That I still crave
For the muddy scent
Of the first rain
And chasing the rainbow
In the endless green meadow
Surrounded by hills and forests.
Now, we are standing separated
By an empty river of mistrust and distress
We are so familiar
Yet strangers in our own ways
Looking at each other
As the Sun sets
Behind the tonsured mountains.
"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.
BLUEPRINT
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Can I drop you somewhere?"
"No." (Mark the words. 'No' and not a 'No, thanks')
"I work for your Dad so...."
".... and not me because I'll never hire a woman as hopeless as you."
I really couldn't understand what had gone wrong. That was my boss's daughter stuck in her car on her way back home from college. Her car had broken down and the driver was busy fixing it. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky declaring a downpour anytime soon with each thunder.
"If you want a house like Mittal's, start doing for him what's not really your job. Else, you'll end up having a house like Jagmohan's", Karan's words echoed in my ears. I'd gone to market to buy some chicken to cook for lunch and saw Karan with Mittal's Mercedes at a car servicing centre. Upon asking why a budding chartered accountant like him was doing odd jobs for his boss, Mittal, he had enlightened me with his witty words.
Mittal was a renowned chartered accountant with the biggest farm in the metro town. I was working for him as well after completing my management course. All sorts of biggies that one can think of, were his clients. Without really being in any post, we could see how much power he could hold and how much money he could make.
Apart from his reputation, he had another thing that has made almost all of us his fans. His house- a Palacial bungalow with its smooth walls painted with shiny pink and pearly white shades. I'd always ride past its huge metallic entrance and watch pavements blanketed with Crystal-like pebbles leading to its portico standing tall on pillars.
Today, when I saw boss's daughter, Miss Mittal trapped in her own broken car some less than a kilometer away from her home, I thought to offer her a little lift so I could get an insight of the magical house she lives in. I'd half expected that she'd invite me to her place over a cup of coffee in order to thank me for the lift but the polar opposite reaction that I had just received, landed as a slap on my face. My first attempt to do something that's not my job to impress Papa Mittal had thus, failed miserably.
"Are you going to take forever?", Miss Mittal shouted at her driver and then again at him but this time she ensured that I, who was standing with my scooty right next to the sliding window of her imported car since last 10 minutes, hear- "I really don't get why has Dad fostered a bunch of nincompoops!"
I got my lost senses back, collected pieces of my shattered self respect and turned away my scooty. A few meters and heavy drops began jumping onto earth from sky. "Damn!", I muttered to myself. I didn't have my raincoat with me, for the rain was completely unexpected. Seconds later, it began raining cats and dogs. I couldn't decide what should I do- accelerate and reach my room at the earliest at the cost of getting wet or wait below some tree and save myself the mess.
Suddenly, I heard a known voice calling me out. "Bitiya, run in. Fast!"
It was Jagmohan Dada, our liftman from his home's window. That's how Jagmohan Dada is- the one who offers a sip from his personal water bottle if he finds anyone in the lift coughing, the one who gives up his stool for a sick person to sit down. I crossed the road, parked my scooty and hopped into his threshold as I could hear a loud thunder. Dada handed me a cloth (not a towel) to pat my head dry. I started looking around his house. Two rooms- one thatched and one roofed with asbestos. I was sitting on a plastic chair and that was all of the drawing room. A young girl was brewing some tea over a counter that summed up the entire kitchen.
"That's all I've built in thirty years of my private job, bitiya."
"It's more than enough, Dada. What else does one need but one's own house!", Who was this speaking from within me? "Is that your daughter?", I asked.
"Yes"
"What's your name?", I asked her as she handed me tea in a steel cup. There was something in her smile that captivated me.
"Ranu", she said. "If I'm not wrong, you'd come to JM College for performing in an open mic, is it?", There was an innocent excitement in her voice.
"Yes! How do you know?"
"I'm a BA second year student over there and am a big fan of your recitation!"
And then, talks just didn't get over. Two more cups of tea and I knew Jagmohan Dada has two daughters- the elder one, Manu was a teacher and was married, that his wife had died when Ranu was two and Dada didn't marry again because he felt that he could be a better mother to his daughters than any new woman. Ranu had opted for English as her honors subject and faced difficulty in interpreting poetries. She loved Wordsworth, though! Dada allowed her all the time to study and cooked all by himself. After long chats, I got up to leave for my room once we were all convinced that the rain had stopped.
******
The next day, on my way to office I stopped my scooty by a hurrying Ranu. "Before it begins raining, you'll be inside your classroom!", I said to her pointing at the clouds on the verge of pouring out. She immediately sat and we sped away. We kept talking all the way and I was so much into weaving conversations with Ranu that I forgot to take a note of the monument like Mittal's house.
"Do visit my room in the evening and we'll understand your poems together.", I said as we reached her college.
"Sure, Dee!", her face lit up. 'Dee', how easy it was to ensure a promotion from 'madam' to 'Dee'!
"She wanted to join a private tuition, bitiya. But I'm already saving up to make this thatched room asbestos,” Dada's helpless whispers when Ranu was away to fetch us our second cups of tea, rang in my ears.
I have the blueprint of the house I want to build- the one with flexible doors, the one that welcomes all the goodness to flow in, with a smile that will match Dada’s.
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.
MONSOON SAGA
Hari Varma
After the scorching summer,
After the life in the conditioned air,
I wait, wait… wait and wait
To get drenched and feel the weight of every drop
With pleasure...
Weather Forecasts start flying around
That change fast without any bound
And when it rains, I am told, it is just pre-monsoon.
The real one is yet to come!
And then...
I see huge White beautiful cotton swabs
Flying hurriedly towards me!
Are they a herd of galloping white stallions with thick mane and tail?
Are they the mythical Unicorns with flowing mane and flowing tail?
They looked magnanimous!
I heard the rumbling of their hoofs in the distance.
I closed my eyes to feel them with my ears.
A moment of anticipation…
In no time, I got pulled into a world of ecstasy
There must be thousands of Unicorns all around me!
I felt I was in the eye of a storm that formed around me.
I didn’t dare to open the eyes lest I should lose the moment.
They must be flapping their delicate yet strong white feathered wings
Then I realized, it was the sound of their wings and not the hoofs!
Only a muted sound of the hoofs could be heard
From the scattering clouds beneath
I tore open all my clothes to feel the Unicorns…
They fly, galloping all around me
for some time and then…
The wind slowly stopped
The Unicorns flew far far away
I felt rejected and dejected
A lifetime experience it was!
I open my eyes to see emptiness around.
Where have they all gone?
Were they trying to escape from someone?
Were they leading someone?
Were they being chased by someone?
The blue sky had turned to grey
With every second, turning even darker.
The sound of silence!
The feel of vacuum!
Nothing seemed to be moving; not even a leaf.
Not even a single bird is seen; nor their chirping heard
I could hear my heart
Which was pounding fast
Then suddenly missed a beat, or so I felt!
An omen of something strange is to be cast!
I could barely see the western Ghats
which are otherwise a sight to behold
The Tree tops a dim grey pall
I looked intently to the horizon
Fearing something I don’t know about!
Suddenly hundreds of birds are seen,
Flying away, as though seen something frightening!
Now I see dark objects coming from the horizon.
They spread across the sky very fast.
The nemeses of the Unicorns are here!
Large Black Stallions, the ones you must fear!
Wild mane and long tail.
Thousands of them!
Closer they come, they gained speed
They opened large wings very unlike of a steed
Are they Black Unicorns?
No. but wait!
Then what are they?
Wyverns!!!
Large leathery wings,
Scaly body
Long muscular tail with an arrow at the end
Enough to bring everything on its way to an end
They were not neighing.
They were screaming.
Like a T-Rex with its deep hollow sound.
A thousand of them made a horrible sound.
The Tree tops started swaying
The Wyverns were spitting thunderbolt randomly
that burnt every treetop on their way mercilessly
Frozen, I stand with my eyes tightly closed,
Wyverns, in their wings seem to carry a ghost!
They started swirling around, throwing me off-balance
As though I am taking part in a wild wild balldance
I felt I was dancing in the middle of a thick rainforest
Every leaf around seems to stab me on my chest
Hit by every massive drop of rain
I screamed on top of my voice, in pain
The piercing sound of the wind gushing through the trees
Swallowed my scream and carried away with the breeze
The lightning from the Wyvern’s breath
Burn the trees of the entire forest!
Every breath evaporated large drops of rain
Which caused uncomfortable heat and pain
It was dark and no other way
than running away, far away
I ran, hitting and bouncing every tree on the way
Better to climb one, to live maybe, one more day!
I climbed, climbed and climbed all the way
Till I reached the large canopy for I don’t want to be prey!
I could feel a bright light that was warm
I knew I must keep my calm.
Moments passed,
Sounds subsided,
And the wind stopped.
I slowly opened my eyes to realise
There wasn’t any severe catastrophe
There wasn’t any brutal calamity,
I was just standing on Concrete Canopy!
Hari Varma is 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.
FATE LINE (BHAAGYAGAARA)
Runu Mohanty
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Some uncanny vibes in the air,
my heart dissolves.
I feel fabulous
to have you for company.
I long for you
as the Kadamba
longs for the monsoon,
fallow earth for rains.
I miss you, honey;
ever-afraid of losing you.
Endearing to my heart
are the moments spent together,
a child’s small savings
held in a tight fist.
That could be the consolation
to my disconsolate tomorrow
if you walk a separate walk,
ask, “Do I know you?”
Being in love with you, honey,
turns my sky more ultramarine;
I feel coy to muse on -
who between us
loves the other more(?),
our love, our unique link,
like the rose and the thorn
getting equally wet in the rain;
the light and dark, playing
the sun’s muse at rising and setting.
We made our hearts
sing together,
but do our destinies
beat in tandem?
I may cut a fate-line
into my palm, but would you
cut yours to match mine?
I am not sure of the future,
what gifts the destiny would offer,
endearing love, or a break !
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
PAINTER OF SUNFLOWERS
Latha Prem Sakhya
Colours in varied hues and tints
Lavishly splayed on canvases vast
Yellow your favourite, closely followed by purple and blue
Red and green too found their way into your paintings.
Eight hundred you painted day and night -
A short span, in the last ten years of your thirty seven.
Psychic imbalance and angst prompted you to paint
Impressions of sun lit fields and starry skies
Unfurling through dashes and swirls
Techniques flowing through
untutored hands.
Stalked by death and a passion uncontrollable
Driving your friends to swerve away.
Remorse and sorrow mercilessly led you,
To chop off your ears, to eat physical pain.
Selling only one painting in your life time
You survived on your brother's generosity.
But even now a mystery haunts you.
what drove you on that fatal day to the fields?
To sent a bullet through your chest
And to stagger back to your room, to wait
Eating pain till the next afternoon
For the stalker to claim you forever
From your loving brother's arms.
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
SOLEMN SHORES
Dr. Molly Joseph M
solemn shores
where eternity sleeps...
hush! tread not with haste
lest you disturb
a peace that passeth
all understanding...
What big deal you made
of life
that slipped through your
fingers
while you cracked your mind
on calculations aplenty...
the zigzag curve of life
offered ups and downs
fool you were to bemoan
for the might have beens,
and the myths you built..
let not the remnant left
of your lease of life
wind up in regrets,
gently walk your way, content,
benign, accomodating all
towards that shore
that awaits you in peace.
solemn shores
where eternity sleeps.
AGELESS ANCESTRAL HOMES
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Ageless ancestral
homes
still exist
where blood red
Rambutans
still hang on
lush green
. bows
defying time..
We rebuild
such world
when grandpa gets
the kid ready for school
and grandma fondly
makes him drink
milk concocted
sweet,
with horlicks
while Pa and Ma
tuck in the uniform
crisp and firm..
We rebuild such
ancestral homes
when at eves
after work
we find time
to listen to his
prattle
on his adventures
In school..
We play with him
to keep
the idiot box
away...
What if
we go back
to simple days
of yore
teaching
little ones
the joy of sharing,
the joy of loving
nature, man
and things
spending
quality time,
no matter
with technical
leaps,
insensitive rush,
still
we can re build
ageless
ancestral homes...
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).
MINSTRELS OF MIDNIGHT
Dr. Jinju S.
Tonight I cannot write
of love won and lost,
Dreams born and burnt,
Moonlight drizzling down coconut palms.
Tonight I cannot write
of twilights bleeding crimson,
Jacarandas raining on my grave,
The grinding labyrinths of everyday.
Tonight, when flowers are bunched and set ablaze,
when the craggy moon spews blood;
when nightingales are strangled
and sparrows shot;
when humanity is splintered
to make coffins
for the young with eyes ancient;
when fear festoons every heart and hearth;
when they stifle, muzzle and muffle,
with the mob baying for blood—your blood.
To think is to feel
is to question is to die—
instant annihilation or a slow
dismembering of your memory,
your history, your very being.
Tonight, when the letters have fled
from the books we read;
when the lakes, afraid to hug the shores,
freeze in the middle;
when the cold stars sing dirges
for the newly dead and dying,
in a land where they alone live
who have already died.
Tonight, I will sing of the midnight
and wait for dawn.
DEATH BY LITCHI
Dr. Jinju S.
They said litchis killed you.
Sad little bodies
flopping from wailing arms;
Wispier than daydreams:
Toddler limbs thrown out
in perpetual despair.
But no, the litchis
were not the culprit.
What killed you
was the growling monster
clawing at your innards
with iron pincers
day and night.
That fire in your belly
none could quench--
Not mama with her
drowning eyes,
Not papa with his
drooping shoulders,
Not gallons of water
from the public tap,
Not the know-it-all
quack round the corner.
Until, one day, the litchi tree
profusely rained
in the orchard next-door.
Upon the fallen bounty you fell
with unmasked glee,
And went to bed
with your stomachs full--
Your Last Supper.
For once, I wish,
Wish with all my might,
There really is a Heaven
with springs of milk and honey,
Trees laden with fruit
gleaming in celestial light,
And luscious litchis that do not kill.
Dr. Jinju S. is an Assistant Professor of English with the Government of Kerala. A PhD holder in English Literature from the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad, literature has always been her first love. She finds joy and solace in poetry, which she has been dabbling with since childhood. She has been published in an international anthology of women’s writing titled Women like You and Me brought out by ATLA Publishing, a UK-based publishing house. Her poems and short stories have also appeared in literary magazines like The Taj Mahal Review, newspapers like The Hindu and The New Indian Express and been broadcast on All India Radio. Her life is an everyday struggle to juggle teaching, research, reading and writing with the most demanding and yet most rewarding journey of mothering a toddler. She loves reading, writing poetry and short fiction, playing with her son Jizan, deep conversations, travelling to new places and listening to music. Inspired by everyday life and the world around her, writing poetry is for her cathartic as well as a way to reach out to people.
WALKING AWAY
Afnan Abdullah
You make it look easy,
Walking away from the puddle
As if it never takes strength.
But my azeeza! you're naked to me.
For I see the blood seeping,
Out of your heart and,
The shallow waters caressing the wound, Bringing your fragrance to me.
"Ah that's salvation" you cried.
"I'm chained" I heard.
The damp soil beneath my feet slipped, Making me stumble.
I held on to your wrist, still falling.
You freed yourself of my grip,
And I saw you rush away from me.
Confused, I screamed your name.
But you didn't answer,
You waded through the waters, effortlessly, or so it seemed But, for
better or worse, O azeeza, you're naked to me.
I see the bruises, the scars.
And now that you're gone,
I'll be waiting.
In the very same puddle,
For I've had memories too precious
Right here,
As my feet are going sore, and the sun is about to set.
I'm hopeful for you to lose your way,
Or rather find the right one,
And fall with a splash,
Just when I've lost all hopes,
In these shallow waters around me..
Before the sun finally sets.
Untill then, I'll be here,
In the very same puddle.
Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general.
SPECIAL
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
Every odd is special
In all events of our life
In all creations of Universe
The flower of varied colour
Is the special one in the garden
The fruit with a strange shape,identified as special
Saturn is special with those rings around it.
A person with fingers numbered more than ten
Is special in dactyle
A person with those wierd hair cuts
Gives a special tag to his look
A person short in height
Is considered the lucky dwarf of the Princess tale
A leaf with uneven margins
Is considered special
And most important ,Almighty created these "Special Kids"
With their special latent skills they have fought their odds to the best
And so they are 'Special’
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
THE VANISHING DUSK
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I know how sad you will be
looking for me
in that silver plane
which I never came in.
Your eyes will wander
looking at every face
that will come out
with a smile of anticipation.
You will wait till the last passenger,
then gather my absence in your
arms as a stark reality,
as real as the dull painting on the wall.
As the dusk will disappear
on the greying horizon
you will leave for home,
an empty abode of freezing melancholy.
You will sit back
and look at the inane ceiling
Wondering where life went wrong
and turned into a canvas of a dreary journey.
LONELY IN A CROWD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Even as you get tired of looking for me,
I will be sitting in a
forlorn corner, lonely in a crowd of a lost-in-time hotel in a
forgotten land of shapeless shadows.
Tucked in a blanket of lost hopes
I will be languishing in a haze
of meaningless smoke
arising out of a thousand fires of empty days.
I will be reading a book
which makes no sense to me,
the music of the evening will be falling like frustrated rains on a
barren countryside.
Tell me how can I convince you,
I didn't miss the flight,
it is the flight that missed me
deserting me in a desolate land of dead dreams.
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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