Literary Vibes - Edition XXVII
Dear Friends,
Welcome to the Twenty Seventh edition of LiteraryVibes.
Against the backdrop of lilting rains we are back with some excellent poems and exquisite stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
This time we are starting a new series of science fiction by Mr. Sreekumar, a raconteur par excellence. Let us hope the series achieves scintillating success.
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 BACARDI PARTY
Prabhanjan K. Mishra.
I dream of ladders and snakes.
I look for rungs and handholds,
and listen to the rustlings intently
of reptiles and slipping footholds.
Men and women drift from dream to dream
that pull them to past and push towards future,
leaving them to gasp for breath in daydreams
and nightmares, and dreams, anonymous.
A sepia letter crumbles into pieces,
a face fades in an old album;
in the west window vanishes the hill,
stands there an offensive high-rise.
The party rocks on the swirls
of Bacardi, swings in arms of amour
and drifts away into the pale-moon-night
on fleet-foot from the dance floor.
It clangs when a bond is shattered,
sighs with the churning of flesh;
the grunts are minute by minute fulfillment
of desires let loose.
Am I alive or dead, flesh or ash?
The people in splits, the jingle of voices,
and the floating aroma of orgiastic sweat
gyrate in an unreal grind towards hysteria.
As I wait and drift into my dream
and wake up in a somnolent land:
a whorl of fading faces surface
from another world, another time.
DEAD SWALLOWS DON’T SIGNAL A SPRING
Prabhanjan K. Mishra.
The lynch-land after your victory
scares us like a necropolis,
driving our peninsula
from dreams to nightmares.
Your art of killing -
pulling out a butterfly’s wings
one by one, with confetti of words,
is hurtful.
To die a mocking bird’s death
was never the deal,
streams hiccupping blood
was never the plot.
Trusting swallows from the cold zones
looking for shelter from blizzards
land by our fireside in good faith.
Why do they hang from barbecue-skewers?
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
YOUR TOMORROW (PARADINARA SAKAALA TAMAR)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Curious to know your tomorrow(?) -
ask the solitary horse rider
trotting around the land,
or the wise Brahmin
descending temple steps;
… may also check
from almanac, or birth chart,
said to be the repository
of the past, present, and future.
The search may be long,
your destiny may be buried
in abysmal depths,
you may be the primordial seed
in the loam of time;
but go ahead, try your luck.
The nomadic horseman
has been searching his tomorrow,
roaming in human habitats, and forests
across streams, and rapids,
hampered by ramparts and moats.
The clairvoyant Brahmin,
has failed to identify the blood
spilled on temple steps,
if it was the blood of a beast,
or an ascetic.
He also seems flummoxed
by destiny’s caprice
while catering to the deserving
his share of blessings and curses.
Astrologers don’t know -
why does a lifetime invested
in good deeds
earns flickering glories
glowing today, dying tomorrow,
bouncing back to life the day after,
burning brilliantly again;
leaving not even a pinch of soot,
and no footprints?
Why does a coil of vapour
rising to form rain clouds
disappear into space?
Why do most seeds spill,
and are wasted during an union?
Who would satisfy your curiosity,
which of these diviners?
Your future remains uncertain -
the solitary horse rider
is found dead in wilds;
the omniscient Brahmin
is facing the reverses in life
unable to divine his own tomorrow;
almanac and the birth-chart
prove to be sheer bunkum;
but your search makes you wise -
it is the fool’s paradise,
the conman’s divining.
Your time and opportunities
are wasted. So, leave
wild goose chase, and act;
your real launch pad of tomorrow.
THE BRAVE-HEART (NAAYAK)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
He sleepwalks to future
like Alice falling into a rabbit hole,
then –
he is too late to return
to his present, his avenues closing
on the face of his dithering.
Never a struggler,
nor a fighter, not knowing
how to pretend, but bold enough
to venture out to save the earth
like legendary Hercules;
pushing it back into its groove
a crashing Milky Way;
even to dive into the past
to salvage the lost time.
In a fit of Quixotic courage
he can stop
an opponent’s prancing sword
with bare hands,
then with a Samurai courage
would save the severed finger
in a napkin, the souvenir
of his bravado.
He has not stopped sleepwalking,
unwilling to come off his somnolence,
now he is proceeding from future
to the past,
he walks in circles,
losing his health and bearing,
his passage for return
is blocked again before he could step in.
He stagnates, decays,
in his own mire of whims;
time passes by …..
While chronicling events,
his jealous rivals
try to erase him
from the history’s womb,
but accidentally like a genie
released from its bottle,
a seed of hope sprouts.
Another whimsical Quixote
steps into the father’s brave new world;
ignoring earlier debacles
he plays blind again in life’s gamble.
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)”
THE GUARD BY THE RIVERBANK (BANDHA JAGICHHI BRUDDHA KATUAALA)
Bijay Ketan Patnaik
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A ban on bathing in the river,
swimming is a strict no-no;
Some are persuaded to go back,
others return on their own
after talking to the guard;
the ban, however, seems meaningless
to those who have not
gone to river yet.
They wonder smiling smugly,
“The river is public property,
who can deny us our bathing rights?
We use it as we choose: for washing -
be it body, apparel, or soul.
We immerse ashes from pyres
of our loved ones in its water,
for releasing them for their journey
to the other world, besides cleansing
our bodies and souls with ritual-baths.
The ordinary bathing and washing
need no mention, of course,
not also the routine nitty-gritty.
Also what of mentioning
about immersing idols
after puja in seasonal festivals,
mud returning to mud, no big deal.
After a wash and change
into fresh sets of apparel,
we really feel clean,
even free from sin’s stranglehold.”
“By the way, who is this old man
guarding the riverbank, wearing
an officious headgear, twirling
a caterpillar moustache,
and cradling an authoritative bamboo staff,
asking all to stay away?”
“Is he protecting the river water
from being polluted?
We, the simple village folk;
our life, the proverbial open book.
Everyone is privy to everyone else’s
misdeeds and good works,
leaving aside, of course, accidental slips
into the sleazy mud or dark waters;
those, of course, we rightly blame
on lascivious nights,
or on wild flesh, of course,
it’s a bit pandemic in our village.
And in our quest for absolution,
this river comes handy; it consoles us,
washes us clean - the mud off our bodies,
and turbidity off our souls; giving us
the chance to start afresh.
How could these small peccadilloes
pollute this vast water body, our river?”
Or, is the old man guarding the riverbank,
to save us from the river’s fury;
its dangerous swirls and turbulence
as it is in spate today?
Oh look, the river has breached its bank,
threateningly entering the village in torrents,
but the old guard, like an irony,
stands indifferent on the riverbank,
with stick, turban, and twirled moustache;
one more of day-to-day government ironies!”
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
SILENCE
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Her silence;
so still, yet so heavy.
Like the morning mist;
so flimsy, yet so thick.
It’s envelope
holding the colours
of my dream
in its tight seal.
Her each breath
like the streaks
of sunlight
streaming forth
the fog.
Raising hopes,
yet giving little away.
Telling me:
It won’t be long.
Perhaps,
the colours need a few
more moments to saturate!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya is from Hertfordshire, England, a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London. Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya welcomes readers' feedback on his article at ajayaup@aol.com
WAVES OF TRANSPARENCY
Sreekumar K
Even when they were about to break up for lunch, the discussion which had started in the wee hours of the morning was yet to reach anywhere. Several questions were yet to be answered and many bottlenecks had bobbed up.
Sitting in the Philomithian Society's inner chamber at the Pennsylvania University, every one of the small ten-member group, sweated it out in the inadequate chill from the air conditioner.
Six years and three months ago, they were all put to this task by a consortium called the Babel Project, referred to in academic rumours as the second attempt of man to reach God. That was the caption when it was made a cover story by the Times who heard about it only a month ago. Such was the clandestine nature of the project. Thirteen anonymous billionaires had set it up making themselves almost bankrupt. Thus it was a do or die situation for them all.
Walking towards the dining hall, observing the cliques which the group divided itself into, Patricia Grace felt ashamed of her research findings which had gained her so much respect in the academic circles. They were all very childish though the top-level academicians had called them a revolutionary step in the pursuit of organizational behaviour. To her, it sounded like a teenage girl's love note.
Not so bad, she corrected herself when she thought how it helped her set up her own business in the fashion industry and earn the name of a billionaire and upstart. All startups were called upstarts once, she consoled herself. Still, she doubted whether it was a good choice to grab the package of money, hatred and jealousy, all in one.
A nuclear family of three fissioned into three, long bouts of depression also came with it. Now, an even more fatal and secret position of being one of the billionaires in this project. If this project succeeded, she hoped, it would give her life, at least posthumously. Fame is welcome, no matter when it comes, what it brings or what it takes away.
Societies do not follow the dictates of nature or nurture. Their rules are even beyond the whims and fancies of the most discerning, she brooded. It is impossible to set line and length for human relations. Even such a small group of ten was now in three different cliques. She was left alone. She found it hard to find what held those cliques together.
Possible for God to have a hand in human affairs. She heaved a sigh as she walked into the dining hall.
(To be continued)
WHAT THOUGHTS ARE NOT PRIVILEGED TO KNOW
Sreekumar K
Walking down the streets of Thanjavoor, back from meeting the Nadi Astrologer, who could see into your past present and future (looking into the present was free but they had to pay for the other through their nose) the old man and the old woman wondered where they could find a good book of Latin Grammar. They found several volumes of Tamil, Telugu and Malayalam grammar books but were quite unlucky about what they really wanted
A Latin grammar book
Any author, any publisher.
Two days later, after eating idlis and masala dosas for breakfast, lunch and dinner, they found a tattered copy of a book on Latin Grammar, complete with exercises and all. It belonged to a Bishop. In between its pages they also found a letter a girl had written to him. The old woman felt more shy than jealous to read it.
The astrologer had told them that this life was a punishment for poisoning a Roman scholar, a friend of Dr. Johnson, the man who wrote the first dictionary in English. The Roman scholar had died three days after they had poisoned him. All this had happened in one of their previous lives centuries ago.
The reason why they had lived this long was quite simple. They were to study Latin Grammar.
Both of them were quite old; no one knew how old they were.
They were addressed as old man and old woman by everyone who knew them.
They could never remember a time when they were young.
For all practical purposes, they were dead a long time ago.
The voters’ list didn’t have their names and nobody missed them at harvest feasts anymore.
They too wondered why they don’t die. That was why they had come to see the astrologer.
The astrologer had no doubt about it. They were here, in this ocean of life, to learn Latin Grammar.
In two week’s time, they mastered the basics. But when it came to conditional clauses, especially the
conditionalis clausulis falsis, the unreal conditionals.
The book offered them a short cut: take turns at talking about things that you wish had been different. Or in other words, sentences that begin with the words ‘had I been or had we been’ and the like.
The old man and the old woman began by saying all the things they would have done, had they been young.
That’s where they got stuck.
After a thousand turns with variations of the same theme they were going pretty strong.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner and sleep waited long for them and then gave up.
Days later, when they were found dead, the coroner said that their breath still sounded like speech to him. A graduate from the local college, he said it sounded Greek and Latin to him.
Years later, looking through the old notebooks they had when they were in their teens, their great-grandson found these Latin poems.
Those who have the time may read it in Latin. For those who do not have the time, the English version is also given..
(found in the woman’s book)
Ego Amare
Te reliquit.
Quod est OK.
Te reliquit quia invenit me frustretur.
Sed …..
dulcedo mellis
frigore mane aura
in warmheartedness mei mane capulus
vas autem odor florum plastic
in rusticitas horologii
calor mei laneum bedclothes
quare etiam auferre
cum vobis
etiam quae non sunt.
Ego Amare (I love you)
You left.
That is OK.
You left because you found me disappointing.
But…..
the sweetness of honey
the chill of the morning breeze
the warm heartedness of my morning coffee
the fragrance of the plastic flowers in the vase
the coyness of the clock
the warmth of my woollen bedclothes
why did you take away them too
with you
well, that was not fair.
**************************************************
(found in the man’s book)
Luna enim pretium duxi
Omnia voluit erat eius.
Tamen excipit universis cognatis adtulerat.
hilaritas, risus, pacem, otium,
momenta quod vixit in et in donec overlapped sicut squamas inbeatus draco
ruborem caeli, in scintillare de bullas in labium mei specula
luna et fontem
in suspirio virgo solo ut aratro vertit usque
ortusque est superbia nata sunt solum superbia
iniquitatem crepidinem quod teased me ut palpitaret ASCENSUS
torrentem scriptor scriptless dialecto
et
Cumque egressi relictis omnibus suis
septimanas post
aemulator eius mollis, cremeo corpus
luna habebat sollicitudin cum
et surrexit et venit post me sola montibus
Ad tamen eius
Nos duo abiit a ambulant
per intima momenta
ut sidera despiciens nobis
The Moon I Took for a Walk
All I wanted was just her.
However, I welcomes all her relatives she had brought.
merriment, laughter, peace, quietness,
moments that lived on and on till they overlapped like scales on a happy dragon
the blush of the sky, the sparkle of the bubbles on the brim of my glasses
the moon and the spring
the sigh of the virgin soil as the plough turned it up
the arrogance of the sprouts as they rose above the soil with haughty pride
the steepness of the hillside which teased me as I panted uphill
the brook’s scriptless dialect
And
When she left, they all left with her
weeks later
jealous of her soft, creamy body
the moon had had a showdown with her
and she alone came back and rose behind me over the hills
To spite her
We two went for a walk
along intimate moments
as the stars winked at us
*****************************************************
Another unfinished poem in the woman’s book
(in English)
O my words and phrases
You were my sweet companions
You were the whispers my thoughts made
In my sleep and wakefulness
But these feelings I have at the moment
are so intimate
I can’t share with you
Even thoughts are not privileged to know them
Yet I want the whole world to know
That I am in love
which is the crudest way of putting it
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.
CREATING HISTORY
Dilip Mohapatra
Let me drift on the seas of time
on my ramshackle coracle
with few unstoppable leaks
till I reach my desired destination
a desolate and uninhabited
island territory with no history
with no footprints
no fossils
and no tell tale marks
of blood soaked battlefields
of deceit deceptions and betrayals
no lustful satyrs playing their pipes
no monument of a knight
on horseback with his raised sword
no love songs echoing
in the corridors of long pines
no tombstone with any epitaph
and no shadows whatsoever.
Then I would sit down to start afresh
and dip my brush
into myriad colours of my choice
to create a customised canvas
but then the soundless voices of yore
would hover around me
like a swarm of bumble bees
and tell me how to start a fire
by rubbing two pieces of wood
how to throw a spear for a kill
and all that my ancestors did in the past
and at the end how to build a memorial
in my honour
and even prompt an epitaph
to be engraved on my grave
and then I would turn around
to wipe off my freshly made trail
and look for my paddles.
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.
LOVE’S NEW ABODE
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I am going up to the monastery
To attend the call of my master
Difficult to resist,
Though I feel,
I am not yet done with
My childhood plays
And endless cooing with you.
I love to be in the valley
Among the flowers and greenery
Close to you
Playing around ,
Along the streams
Following the butterflies
Chasing the squirrels
Through out the day
Not bothering about the world
That tries to define
Everything for me.
Don’t know
When I will come back from the hills
Will definitely miss
The whole of nature
For the sake of some knowledge,
Don’t know for whose advantage
For what use
As I am happy otherwise
And enjoying your company.
Why don’t you hold me in your lap
Your love is everything
Beyond all knowledge on earth.
Let the masters have all the wisdom
And let us create our own kingdom
Embracing and gallivanting the valley
And admiring the mountains together
We will transcend
To love’s new abode.
"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.
A SCORPION UNDER THE SKIN
Dr. Mrs. Sumitra Mishra,
“Ah! Excellent! Your hands are soft and sexy”, whispered Sudha to the massager who was smoothly and gently running her trained, skilled and experienced fingers on her face and neck. She was lying on a narrow bed in a semi-dark, air-conditioned, conical room in her friend’s beauty parlour “Sindoor”. She was wearing a half gown provided by the parlour, used for the safety of the customer’s costly attire. Soft instrumental music and the cool silence in the parlour created a cosy ambience that made Sudha sleepy. But she was consciously avoiding sleep by exercising her toes and knees while waiting patiently for the call of Prabodh .Her iphone was in her grasp, sober and mute in anticipation.
“Thanx, ma’m!”,responded Puja, the young girl giving her a Sahanaj Gold facial, her favourite at the moment.
“Is this cream in Sahanaj Gold package? It’s smell is so different.”, Sudha asked in a doubtful voice.
“No, ma’m, that Sahanaj Gold cream is out of date. So Didi asked me to use the Omega 3 pack. This is better. “
“But why? Samita knows I prefer the Sahanaj Gold pack! I have been using it for a decade or so. It suits my skin, you know, even gives it a glowing radiance! Can you please call Samita?” requested Sudha.
The girl got up softly and in no time Samita, her friend-cum-colleague was standing by her bed. She patted Sudha’s shoulder in a gesture of reassurance and calmly said,
“Don’t worry, Sudha. Sahanaj is now-a-days out dated. Her product has been under a lot of scrutiny because of many complaints. Believe your friend, Omega 3 is much better than Sahanaj, try it and you will agree with me.”Samita gave a brilliant smile and showed the product to her. The glossy packet carried the face of a beautiful, vibrant girl with her flowing straight hair flung into the air with joy and pride, while her face advertised the graduated glow of her facial skin.
Sudha was always suspicious of the merit of advertisements, which most of the time exaggerated the value of the products to allure and elude the consumers. She, however, implicitly trusted her friend’s judgement on beauty products as well as her opinion on practical matters of life. Her aesthetic taste and knowledge of interior decoration often startled her, but what impressed her most is her choice of her assistants and management of the fourteen odd workers in the parlour with such authentic authority that she never heard a whimper of complaint from these girls with whom she had become acquainted and popular over time. Her thought turned to the girl named Puja who was massaging her face so deftly for more than an hour using cleansing serums, scrubs, face packs and scented creams. As Puja covered her face with the final face pack and put two round pieces of cool cucumber on her eyes, she could not resist asking her,
“What about your new apartment, Puja? Did you get any suitable one?”
Puja replied grimly, “Don’t ask, Didi, I have searched all around for a room with in two thousand, but all these cheap accommodations do not provide private toilets! I can’t manage in a shared toilet or bath, not habituated. So I am still staying in the outhouse of Samita Didi. I am cooking lunch and dinner for her, so Didi has given me her outhouse free. Actually her driver was using it to stay at times, but since Kunal babu has learnt driving Didi is not hiring a driver. The room is small, but has a bed and an attach bathroom and toilet. “
“That’s so good for you! You save the house rent and transport expenses! Why has not Samita told me about this?”
Puja switched off the light and whispered, “Relax for ten minutes, this pack needs to dry! I will get your waxing material ready in the mean time.” She walked away in soft but strong, purposeful steps and washed her hands in the wash basin.
The gurgling sound of water in the wash basin and a song in Arman Mallick’s voice “Pal pal dil ke paas tum rehte ho” transported Sudha to the past, reminding her of the banks of Hoogly river in Kolkata, from where she had rescued Puja from a suicide attempt almost four years ago. It was a providential accident. She was standing on the banks of the river waiting for a boat to ferry her across to the other side to her in-laws’ residence. It was around 8p.m. in the evening. Due to heavy rainfall the week before, the river was in a spate, bawling like a mad woman. She heard a quick rustle of running steps behind her. As she looked back, a running woman crossed her and she could figure out her purpose from her trailing saree and dishevelled shape. Before the girl could jump into the river, Sudha ran and hold her back tightly in her arms. She cried inconsolably and wriggled to free herself. Sudha had not understood at that time what a gem of a girl she had chanced to save from being lost forever.
Puja’s story was the common tale of betrayed love but with a twist. It was not her lover who had betrayed her before or after marriage, but it was her own mother who had betrayed her trust. Puja had fallen in love with a man of lower caste, staying on rent in an apartment close to hers in a big building. The man, Pramod, was tall, handsome and fair with deep blue eyes and a soft, sibilant tone that could freeze the heart of any young girl. She fell for the man without knowing anything about him. When her family discovered her affair with a man of lower caste and lower status, she was asked to sacrifice her love for the honour of her family. She was too deeply in love to leave him. So she eloped with her lover and went to Bangalore. She found a job as a receptionist in a small computer shop located in a suburb of Bangalore. Her personality was attractive and voice soft spoken, her spoken English was better than expected because she was schooled in a convent. Pramod also procured a job as a security guard in a nearby shop. They rented a small apartment and lived happily like lovebirds perching gaily in their nest.
“Humhe tumse pyyar kitna, ye hum nehin jante”, suddenly the ring tone of her mobile came alive. She became anxious, as she knew that Prabodh was calling and how important it was to respond to him. But her eyes were packed! She called Puja and asked her to switch on the receive button of her mobile. What should she say to Prabodh? She certainly can’t confess that she has helped her daughter to elope with her Muslim lover. Prabodh would kill her. But what other path she had? Life had become a jinx for her clobbered between the strong wills of the two most important persons of her life, her husband and her daughter. She thought for a moment and asked Puja to switch off the mobile.
“Silence is golden, when in doubt or dismay”, thought Sudha. She felt as if a scorpion was moving under her skin, a current of fear and repulsion threatened her being. Why does life become so complex at times? Why should the young girls fall in love beyond their caste or class? Why should the parents be obsessed with social stigma, taboo and honour instead of the children’s welfare? How can she blame Puja’s parents while she herself does not know what is going to happen to her own daughter!
She felt a stream of sweat trickling down her forehead towards her ears. Fear? Oh, no, the AC has stopped functioning. Puja told her that this is the time for regular power cut and their backup generator was out of order. She asked Puja to get a hand fan and fan her so that the face pack may dry. While Puja fanned her, Samita shouted at the girls who had started chattering. They were all wearing pink striped uniform gown, with their hair matted into a cosy bun. Samita loved to see everyone in her parlour disciplined and everything in order. She stacked all the beauty products, gowns, towels neatly stacked in separate cupboards all coloured in different colours. Sudha was not much of a disciplined person, so she could not but admire Samita’s parlour its cosy comfort. She preferred to hide herself in the parlour whenever she wanted to escape the frustrations of her life. In the soothing ambience of the parlour, and amid the smart and friendly girls, she felt peaceful. While her mind was framing answers for Prabodh’s questions, she recollected Puja’s story of horror narrated to her that fateful night, when she had saved her life.
After almost three years of her elopement, Puja had received a call from her mother on her office phone. She was utterly surprised as to how her mother landed upon that telephone number, which she never shared with anyone, knowing that her parents must have informed the police. She was their only child, they loved her, pampered her,spoiled her with too much attention. Then she recollected that she had a met one of her school friends from Kolkata in a mall. She had been so overwhelmed with emotion to see someone from her own city, speaking in her mother tongue Bengali that she had immediately gone to a tea stall with her and shared her whereabouts in the city forgetting that she was in hiding .Though she had shared the location and the name of the shop where she was working without divulging any name or phone number,her mom had discovered the phone number. She remembered that her father was expert in using internet and scouring information. It must have been through the Google search engine. Over the phone,that hateful day, her mother cried and cried inconsolably. She told her that her father had become so sick after she left the house that he had suffered from a mild heart attack and had been paralyzed in the left side. She also said that they had forgiven her and her father was waiting to see her before his end. Puja was so shaken to hear the news of her father’s sickness that she could not feel the tinge of drama in her mother’s voice. She thought after all they were her parents, they must have forgiven her. She convinced Pramod to come with her to Kolkata and meet her parents. Hardly had she imagined that not an anguished mother and a paralyzed father were waiting for her, but a vengeful witch and a cruel dragon were waiting for them to fall into their trap. When they reached home, she was surprised to find both her parents in good shape excepting their mental anguish. Somehow she apprehended danger and wanted to return after a few days. But the Dusherra puja was on the offing , so her mother requested her to spend only a week more for the pujas. She was happy to see her parents in good health, but their behaviour was disturbing. Her mother spoke too much of irrelevant events instead of showing interest in her life, where as her father did not speak much, either to her or her husband Pramod.
The temptation of being in Kolkata during Dusshera overtook her decision to return to Bangalore. It was a time for fun and festivity. Almost all homes in the city were crowded with guests. Fish, sweets, new clothes, lots of fun and frolic flowed freely. Puja indulged in the festive fervour and hopped around the city visiting the decorated puja pandals.The city was overcrowded and noisy with music and chanting of Chandi blaring all day from all sides. Amid the festive fervour, while Kolkattans were busy worshipping Goddess Durga, evil Mahishashura jumped on Puja shattering her dreams of a happy home. Her parents conspired to crush the fly that had spoilt their broth. While she was moving around the city with old friends, enjoying the music and dance shows, Pramod was killed by hired goons and she was given the impression that he had met with a fatal accident. But the police inquiry revealed the truth and both her parents were taken to police custody. Puja blamed herself for Pramod’s death as well as her parent’s derangement. She became so despondent that she wanted to end her life, which seemed anchorless to her without them.
Sudha’s mind was roaming on those words of Puja and her inconsolable frame, wriggling in her arms to throw herself into the river. She had overpowered Puja with her physical and mental force and taken her to her in-law’s house rescuing her from the torrents of a mad river and loony mind. She brought Puja with her to Bhubaneswar intending to keep her in her home as a help and friend to his daughter. But Prabodh vehemently opposed the idea and asked her to throw Puja any where she likes apart from his house. So she took Puja to Samita, who willingly sheltered her, gave her a job, training and purpose to live. But is she happy? Is not she going to marry again?
At this point someone’s soft touch on her face jolted her back to the present. As Puja started unmasking the face pack from her face, she asked:
“Puja, are your parents still in jail?”
While carefully wiping her face with a cotton pad Puja replied,
“No, Didi, the police could not provide enough evidence of the crime, so they were released. But my father died of a heart attack and my ma is now in an old age-home, suffering from Alzheimer’s diseases.”
“Have you gone to visit her ever?”
“Yes, I was called by police when she was put into the old-age home in a very sorry state. My uncle was conspiring to claim the house and take possession of it. I intervened. But I didn’t want to return to that ghostly house, so I took the help of a lawyer and rented the apartment. The rent goes to the old-age home in the name of my mother for her sustenance.”
“Well done! At least you did your bit!”
“But Didi, tell me, everyone is saying children are selfish! What about the parents? Aren’t they also selfish? Cruel?”
Sudha had no answer for her.
Suddenly her phone came alive again with her husband’s ringtone. She felt as if the scorpion under her skin was no more wriggling but biting her. She remembered Prabodh had threatened her that he will commit suicide if their daughter Pragyan marries her colleague, a software engineer but of Muslim community. She got up so agitatedly that the gown slipped off her body, she stood almost naked in front of Puja who was preparing her waxing dish.
Smt. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Engish Professor from Bhubaneswar, Odhisha. She is an accomplished poet and writer of short stories. She is passionate about Literature and spends her time in reading & writing.
THE PREGNANT GOWN
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
The gown on the clothesline is pregnant,
That yellow one with flowers embroidered.
Her belly is ballooning, pansies on it are blooming.
The monsoon gust has come prancing,
Apparently he’s now frolicking the frock.
The stalwart gust has forked the fabric.
Appears she is set for eloping,
For their motion are in a rapport now,
And the unclipping is almost done.
Each autumn this guest plays a cameo
And the maverick skims with a pretty apparel.
Last time it was a camisole,
They say he owns a harem.
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 GIRL WHO LOVED A SOLDIER
Ananya Priyadarshini
“The Amritsar Hirakud express is running late by an hour. It will reach Bhubaneswar station at 17:05pm instead of 16:05pm. Sorry for the inconvenience”, and the irritating voice went on repeating the same information in Hindi and Odia. Over and over. My breath normalised as my wish to smash the damned microphone got more and more intense. I rushed 6kms in 15 minutes so that I don’t get late by even a single minute. And here, the Indian railways itself, ran more than an hour late. Crap!
“Ma, the train is late by an hour. I am waiting.” I made the call to ensure the four other senile hearts waiting for us to arrive, synthesise some more patience. The coastal April heat made sure I sweat enough to spoil the special look of mine. I sat down on a bench and decided to use the free wifi. But my heart urged to take a brisk walk down the memory lane and I ended up surfing my phone’s gallery instead. And slowly I realised, that ‘our’ memories are rather locked somewhere deep beneath my heart. So I rested my chin on my palms and my elbows on my knee, just to think.
***************
We were in class three back then. We were supposed to write an essay on ‘The Aim of my life’. As doctor, engineer, IAS, astronaut, actor flooded the pages of others’ notebooks, you had honestly confessed your dream of becoming a soldier. After counting dozens of grammatical mistakes in your two paged essay, the teacher appreciated your thoughts.
“You really want to be a soldier?”, I had asked you stupidly on our way to home from school.
“Yes!”
“But why a soldier?”
“Because I love their uniform and guns!”, your answer was that simple.
Few years later, I decided to join Guide. And just like any other best friend, used all my forces to pull you into my pond and make you join Scout.
“It has additional benefits. It will help you a lot while getting admission into a good graduation college. Apart from marks we score, it adds up to the percentage and enhances our chances”
“But I have other plans”
“What?”
“I want to join NCC in high school”
“What’s wrong with scout?”
“Nothing. But I love the NCC uniform. It feels like being a soldier.”
“God! You are still the same”. And I gave up on you.
I always thought you are a great friend, until the day we went for a movie with friends for the first time after our 10th boards got over. It was ‘Holiday’ movie by Akshay Kumar. You were watching the movie mesmerised. No hooting, no whistling. As you watched the movie, I was watching you. You clenched your teeth each time the hero laid a terrorist down. For a moment I thought, if your craze for being a soldier is all about the uniform or is it something deeper that no one has yet explored?
That was your talent of course. An ideal introvert ever since childhood. Less talk, less friends, less fun and less laugh. So different you were. I was your only good friend. That’s may be because we shared everything. Same locality, same kindergarten, same school. You shared a lot with me. Yet I always felt there is something I don’t know about you. May be no one does.
The movie got over and we left the hall giggling. Akash targeted my long hair and recited a dialogue from the movie,” The girl with 6 inch long hair needs one and half hours for styling. So the one with 2 feet long hair needs 2 hours. So, who will marry such girls?” and everyone burst into laughter.
You broke the giggles saying,” I don’t know about others, but you needn’t think about Gauri. For I am marrying her”. Everyone turned silent for a moment and then a new playful giggle filled the air.
Naina added spice to it,” I know something is cooking between you two. Finally Mr. Serious let the cat out of the bag”
I blushed. My cheeks and nose turned all red. I looked at you cautiously. You still held that mask-like face, not even a smile drawn on it. “Such a guy!”, I thought and blushed again.
**************
Pal do pal… ki kyu hai zindagi
Iss pyaar ko hai, sadiyaan kaafi nahi….
My cell phone rang. I picked up the call. It was mom. “ One hour mom. Not before 6 that we are reaching home. I will call once train arrives. Ok?”
I got up to fetch a cup of tea for myself. This was your favourite hangout destination. You loved this place. “Noise outside and silence inside. Trains and people running around you, yet your heart beats calm in you. This place bears peace and rush combined so amazingly!” you used to say.
I never liked tea much. But it was your addiction to tea that made me like it as well. Staring at the hot steam rising from the cup, as its aroma filled my lungs, I resumed my journey back in time.
*********
We continued 12th in the same school. I scored highest marks in our school in 12th boards, you somehow managed to hit an average score. Uncle (your father) told me, “Beta. When you search for a college for yourself, please find a suitable one for Ashu too. Don’t know what to do with this boy! He is never serious about his career. No zeal for studying, no future plans”
I skipped a moment hearing this. Did your parents have the slightest of idea about your love for army? Should I tell them? No. I thought to talk to you first.
“Which college are you joining, Ashu?”, I had asked the very next time we met.
“You are supposed to decide that.”
“See, don’t just act smart…..”
“I am not smart. So you will have to take all decisions in future. For you, for me and for us”
I looked at you. All numb and dumb. You were looking into my eyes. I was spell bound. I regained my consciousness only after you broke your glare with a naughty wink. I blushed hard and got up to leave as you shouted from behind, “ let me know your decision. Both about college and….”
We persued our graduation in the same college. You continued NCC in college as well. The more you bunked classes, the better I got at arranging proxies. You were too busy with everything else apart from studies. God! But one fine day you surprised me.
“Hey! This is the best coaching class for competitives in the city. Let’s join”, you were talking about studies. My ears refused to believe.
“You will prepare for competitives?”, I asked to make sure.
“No. you will, Miss Nerd”
“And you??”
“I will prepare to get into the Armed Forces”, the seriousness in your voice scared me.
“You joking, Right?”
“Yes. And the ones fighting and dying at borders are joking as well. Right? As the country is making fun of their sacrifices, you are here making fun of my decision to serve my country”
I froze. For the anger in your voice was strange to me. I just filled the form you had brought for joining coaching classes.
“Please don’t say anything at home about this. I myself will tell them, once the time is right. Believe me”
On the Republic Day that year, you were awarded as the ‘Best Cadet of the Year’ by Honourable Governer of the state. Believe me, if there could be anyone happier than you, it was me. But all my happiness faded away the moment I read the news of soldiers being martyred at border. A fear grabbed me each time I saw the photographs of their family members mourning over their Tricolor wrapped bodies in newspapers.
I met a different you after joining coaching classes. The new ‘you’ had surrounded himself with books. You started to look sleep deprived. Neither you played football, nor went to movies. “love changes people”, I have heard. But I was witnessing its truth. I had realised that you loved your dream with all you had. And by then, I had started to love your dreams, too!
Graduations got over. You scored far better than me. And made it to the Armed Forces as well. As you stood before me, holding your call letter in hand, I was clueless how to react. I wanted to cherish your victory, but for that fear of mine. Oh God! It held my heart back so hard. I was afraid now. You shook me, holding my shoulders. I looked up to you with blank eyes.
“I need you the most now, Gauri. Please stand by me as I declare this to our families.”
I just nodded. Stopping my tears with all my nerves from rolling down my cheek, I let out a pain-clad smile from my lips.
We were standing with our heads down. Four pairs of eyes staring at us and each other alternatively.
“Gauri beta, you knew about this before na?”, Aunty asked me in a voice so wet, that the guilt it heaped upon me held me even further down.
“You are our only child Ashu..”, before aunty could finish, uncle got up and said, “but before that, he is the son of Mother India. If he chooses ‘Her’ over us, we should be proud of it.”
My dad and uncle hugged you and congratulated you. Things were not easy for anyone after that. Mom and Aunty got busy preparing foods for you. All of your choice. The typical Indian mother things, you know! All our friends took turns to visit you and congratulate you. Your departure day was nearing and my fear was eating me away, bit-by-bit.
We all went to see you off at the station. Aunty burst into tears every other minute. I rested her head on my chest, looked at you and blinked in assurance. “You take care of your love. Here I am to take care of your responsibility”, I promised in silence. You blinked back at me as if you uttered, “I believe you”. Fighting back tears, waving at you, watching your train fade away from sight. It was not easy. Not at all.
Years have passed. We got used to your absence. Yet couldn’t feel the void it had left within us. Weeks passed waiting for a 10 minutes long call from you, that described what hardships you were going through. Your new friends, your trainings, I had all information. I remember how hard I had laughed seeing the new haircut you had got. Each time we heard of a news piece talking about attacks on army camps, soldiers being martyred in border cross-firings or Naxalite attacks, Aunty would lose her calm. I would use the best of my acting skills to calm everyone down. I couldn’t afford to break. We would call you, hear your voice and thank the Almighty. The birthday cake always arrived at midnight at my doorstep carrying the warmth of your wish. The handwritten note from you and a fountain pen with ‘Nerd’ inscribed on it, congratulating me on my getting a job. It was all romantic, all dreamy and all so sweet. All that lacked was getting a glimpse of you. I hated the geographical distance and loved skype for compensating it to some extent. But I got wings when I heard that your training is over and you are coming! For a vacation though, till your appointment letter reaches you. Still. Till then, I could hold your hand, pull your cheeks and give a peck on them.
*************
But where was the damned train !!!!!!!
17:10pm and the much awaited honk could be heard. As the train slowed down, my heart paced up. I ran along the platform and and my vision swam over heads of people. It was all so crowded around! And I felt a warm breath on my sweating nape and a whisper, “Nerd!” I turned. You stood right there. A new you. A new body, but an old smile, an old voice, and an old heart. I hugged you as tightly as I could, irrespective of the place and the crowd.
“Save some love to shower on me after we reach home as well”, you said sensing the wetness on your chest caused due to my tears.
Once we reached your home, the welcome was so warm. My parents invited you and your family to our place that night for dinner and left, allowing you some space with your family.
You took the biggest bite one can take of the paratha and chewed with all efforts. “No matter what you become, you will remain a monkey!”, I said to myself.
“Eat fast, son. We have to see the girl after dinner. Now that we have decided to get you married before you get back to work”, Uncle said relishing Matar paneer.
I stopped eating. My senses gave up hearing this. Ashu was getting married. Like, really? Is it how a dream suddenly changes to a nightmare? I looked at him. He was still mouthful. I felt like slapping him so hard that he spits everything out.
“What happened Gauri?” neither you’re talking nor eating. All ok??”, his mother asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Where will you go to see the girl, uncle?”, I tried to sound casual.
“Why should we go somewhere? When the girl is sitting right in front of us! You think we’re old ones. But we know all about you”, aunty said as everyone giggled. I blushed so badly. I looked at you. You were still chewing. Oh God! Give me all strength to bear this monkey all my life.
A month full of festivity following the wedding. We celebrated love as our families cheered. And then your appointment letter arrived. And we were all at station again, saying you goodbye. Away from all, you held my hand and said, “I Love You”
“So early of you!”
“I might not get a chance to say you that. Who knows if I can see you again or not”
“you will. We just started living for each other, Ashu. It will last a lifetime”
“But you will never be my priority. ‘She’ will be”
“And that is exactly what makes me love you harder”. I didn’t have to act this time. The courage, the faith was all real. I even didn’t cry as you departed.
*************
After posting, calls became less frequent.
Whenever you went for patrolling, I spent days praying for your wellbeing.
Whenever you called, the words were few and feelings so deep.
One day, you called me as I was at work. At 12:45 pm. I had to attend an urgent meeting at 13:00pm.
“How come you called now, Captain?”
“Missed you. Can we talk?”
“Had lunch?”
“No. shall have at 1. I am at booth now. Canteen is 5 minutes walk from here”
“Urgent meeting at 1. Can we talk at night.”
“Sure. All the best”
12:51pm. He hung up, before I could say thank you. His wish worked. The meeting went good enough to fetch me a promotion. As I bought Gulabjamuns on my way back home that day, framing phrases in my mind to surprise you with this news in the best possible way.
A deadly silence awaited me at home. As I reached, four pairs of teary eyes looked at me with utmost helplessness. I let out the loudest cry possible. The news headline next day read,
“Army camp in Jammu and Kashmir bombarded. 17 jawans and two officers killed. The sad incident took place at 12:58 pm yesterday. A low range bomb was used. The canteen was targeted where jawans were having lunch. The whole scene was captured in the CCTV camera installed in the telephone booth 100m away from the spot.”
You hung up at 12:51pm. 5 minutes walk from booth to canteen. Must have reached canteen at 12:56 pm. And the blast tore you into pieces at 12:58pm. I banged my head. Pleaded God to take me bck in time and grant me two more minutes. To talk to you. I wish I could re-live the past. I wished so much what could no longer be done. Two minutes was enough to finish a story, to shatter numerous dreams, burn a life alive. Was my meeting so important? Couldn’t I really talk to him for 2 more minutes? Couldn’t I save him? I searched thousands of more reasons to curse myself as I was standing at Bhubaneswar station again. Amritsar Hirakud express was on time. You came all wrapped in Tiranga. My worst fear turned into harsh reality. They escorted you home. Your last rites were performed after Guard of Honour. This is what you had wanted all through your life.
An officer came to me and said, “Ma’am, we know you are well settled. But it is our protocol to offer you a job, as you are the wife of a Martyr. It is not a compensation, Ma’am, but a mark of respect. It’s absolutely all right if you decline.”
As he turned to leave, I asked, “When to join, sir?”
“Come to office tomorrow at 11:00am, Ma’am”, he said in a voice so cold, as if he knew earlier that I would say so. Or may be, that’s how every girl who ever loved a soldier is supposed to behave.
So… Late Captain Ashutosh Singh. I am all set to right my wrong. I love your love more than I loved you, just as always. I promise I shall complete our love story. And ‘She’ will be the witness. Believe me.
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 LOVE
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
As I'm getting nearer to your destiny,
You await my arrival with much flamboyance.
But soon, the facadé of arrogance and confidence crumbles down!
I sense your anxiety surfacing.
Unable to face me, you flee!
I come like the monsoon.
Much awaited. Expected.
But even then, you are unprepared for what I have to offer.
The distance gets closer and I can see you.
Your aura struggling to remain composed.
Your lips trembling.
Out of love or fear? I wonder!
But why despair, when I have promised my undying love for you?
Like the rains, I will sweep you off the floor.
Into the deluge, we plunge.
I will keep you safe, I promise again.
Hold me close, we will remain immortal.
Trust me, we will make history.
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.
LIFE REDEEMED
Latha Prem Sakhya
Did you take that one step
That leads to a thousand miles journey ?
Yes, when the tide of life ebbed low
The body enshrouded in pain,
Reflected a world cloudy and dark
The life giving step was taken.
Lying supine , dying a slow death
Dreams of Spring vandalized by thought vultures
Clawing my inner being with talons sharp
The decisive step, the will to live
Kicked me out of my recumbent state.
To stand upright as billion crackers
Burst inside firing my innards
To stretch my weak muscles, to walk
The first tottering step took my breath away.
Aeons flew by as the shooting pain
Like falling meteors subsided,
To drag my other foot forward.
This new life, a second phase, God's gift
Ensconced by love, clinging on to hands
Overriding excruciating pain, the frequent falls
The despair filled hours that retarded,
I marched gaily as new born visions took flight.
Astride hope, conscious life blossomed
Gratitude unveiled a life woven in texture rich,
Where nothing mattered only living-
Gratefully with the creator.
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
SHORES
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Lulled by the receding waters
the canoe sleeps
unmoved by the rustle of leaves
as they fall
in the wayward wind..
the lonesome reed
half soaked
bemoans to the wind,
don't take away my harp
when the old songs
resonate in me...
when my mind fills up
its old chalice of love
don't wrest it out of me...
let me live on clinging to
those loose threads
that were a whole
once upon a time...
only the misty stillness of
the mangrove on shores
absorbs the agony
unheard by the passing
wind, as it flirts
with hefty mountain tops..
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).
NOSTALGIA !
Sruthy. S. Menon
I wanna go back to those days,
when I was a child,
painting the walls with vibrant colours.
I wanna go back to those days,
when I plucked fragrant lilies and tulips
from the garden ponds.
I wanna go back to those days,
Listening to her stories
I could sleep, softly on her lap
Never knowing what is ahead of me
That times change
And so do you.
I don't wana grow up
I wana go back to those days,
Again!
Impossible_
But, I wish I could.
(Theme: childhood days, memories )
SRUTHY.S.MENON is an Assistant Professor of English Literature at Swamy Saswathikanda college, Poothotta , Kerala. She completed her postgraduation in MA English from St.Teresas College, Ernakulam. Her poems and articles have been published in Deccan Chronicle. She has also written a few of her poems in anthologies such as “Amaranthine : My Poetic Abode”, a collection of English poems and quotes compiled and edited by Divya Rawat and in an Anthology titled "Nostalgia : Stories of Past" by Khushi Verma. Her recent publication are in Anthologies titled "Wildfowers Rising" compiled by Aarthi Sampath and in an Anthology by Miss Suman Mishra titled “ Crimson, the Genius Poesy". She has also contributed her poems for the books " Love is Magic", "100 Best Poems" and also quotes on “1000 Women Quotes" compiled by D.Krishna Prasad.
She is the recipient of several literary and non- literary competitions including art and painting as inspired by her mother, winner of Kerala Lalitha Kala Akademy. Her poetry reveals the strikingly realistic and fictional nature of writing on the themes of love, rejuvenation of life in contrast with death, portraying human emotions as a juxtaposition of lightness and darkness , the use of alliteration on natural elements of nature etc. She is blogger at Mirakee Writers community . She welcomes readers feedback at Instagram (username ) @alluring_poetess.
CASSETTE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Twelve kilometers from Shahranpur, on the way to Delhi, my old Fiat car stalled. I switched off the ignition and tried to start the car again. It refused to budge. My heart sank. It was three o’clock on a hot June afternoon. In no time, the car turned into an oven,out to bake us. I got out of the car, looking around like a lost chicken in a furniture market. In her usual way Manjari, my wife, started abusing me and the car, and then the car and me, in turn. The fact that the car is of the same age as hers and is a favorite object of mine, did not escape her mention. If I discerned a tinge of jealousy in her words, I suppressed the urge to point it out. I am a peace-loving man and avoid confronting her.
Manjari’s harangue got stronger in pitch and tone. I took out a screw-driver, opened the bonnet of the car, but intimidated by the maze of wires and assortment of minor and major contraptions inside, shut it down in no time. A Professor of Political Science with a screw-driver in hands looked as incongruous as a traffic constable with a violin or a carpenter with a cooking pan.
Manjari broke into one of her favorite topics – the uselessness of her husband, the roguishness of the car, the grave injustice pervasive in the world, the cruel way in which life had treated her. This was her cassette number three. She has more than two dozen cassettes like this in her repertoire. She is a great artist and her talent has always left me spell-bound. Her art is in the non-traditional form – making mincemeat of the reputation of her husband and the children is her forte. She has recorded more than two dozen cassettes over the years and on very special occasions like her kitty party, or a gathering of ladies on someone’s birthday, when the discussion inevitably veers towards husband-bashing, she plays the cassettes with great gusto. She is extremely popular in her group of friends for the quality and variety of her cassettes.
In the early days of our marriage her favorite topic was her singular bad luck in marrying a mere lecturer, when there were proposals from bank officers, police officers, engineers and many other worthies. But because her father is an honest good-for-nothing government official, he couldn’t arrange dowry and Manjari had to marry a mere lecturer, another good-for-nothing man. While narrating this heart-breaking tragedy, her voice assumes the pathos of the melancholic singer Mukesh, her crying tone reverberates with the thin sepulchral echo of a Lata Mangeshkar song, capable of melting the listener’s heart into tears.
With age and time, Manjari’s talent has scaled new heights of excellence. The variety and range of themes in her more than two dozen cassettes are amazing:
- Husband’s useless job (‘Is it a job or a joke’?)
- The laughable salary of a lecturer (‘Can’t meet both ends, leaving them
loose all the time!’)
- Her good-for-nothing father should have arranged enough dowry for a better
husband for her (‘Not as if the President of India gave him a Padma Bhusan for honesty!’)
- Kids’ incessant tantrums (‘Offspring of a worthless monkey can only be useless
Wmonkeys!’)
- Not even one servant at home (‘Can’t remember a day without a peon or a
cook at my parent’s place!’)
- No decent furniture at home (‘Can’t invite even the poorest of the neighbors,
even their furniture is better than ours!’)
- The good-for-nothing husband joking with students all the time (‘That’s why
they call him sir, but treat him as yaar!’)
- Kids playing all the time (‘Time and tide wait for none!’)
- The useless kids listening to old songs all the time, like the useless father (‘God
knows what honey drips from those voices – the drunkard Saigal, the pathetic Mukesh, the vague Hemant Kumar, the maniac Kishore Kumar and his victim Lata Mangeshkar in agony!’)
Ranjit, our son, and Anjana, the daughter, have been brought up on the rich diet of their mother’s cassettes and my limitless love for them. Despite all the scolding and taunts of Manjari, they have unstinted loyalty for her, fighting many times with their friends to claim that no one in the world can make better chicken chowmein and prawn curry than her!
And their love for me? They think I am their heart-throb, although they can’t say that openly in Manjari’s presence, for fear of inducing her to make another cassette! Anjana fights with me all the time for small things, she calls it her entertainment! If Manjari scolds her for that, she shuts her up – “If I don’t fight with my Papa, do I go to your place to fight with your Papa?” Before going for her exam, she would say, “Hey Papa, the teacher says we should touch the feet of our parents before leaving for exams, So raise your feet, you don’t expect me to bend to touch your feet, do you?”
Ranjit left for the hostel at IIT Kharagpur after finishing his high school. When he came home for his first vacation, Manjari asked him, “So, did you miss my cooking in the hostel?” Ranjit stunned her with “Mummy, of course I missed your mouth-watering dishes, but you know what? I missed your cassettes more than your cooking!” We guessed Manjari was awfully pleased with the compliment, but we had no guts to ask her! We have always been scared of her instant cassette-making abilities!
Actually, she has the potential to produce one astounding cassette with assured commercial success. We hadn’t thought of it till Ranjit brought it to our notice during thetrip home in his third year of college.
Manjari is famous in our family and circle of relatives for an amazing quality – her instinctive fear of thieves and burglars. In the first few days of our marriage I had become familiar with this phobia. It was triggered by a minor incident of two burglars entering the compound of our house on a summer night.
Alerted by a small noise Manjari got up and within an instant came into her elements. In a voice that would have made a foghorn proud, she ran to the window shouting, “Hey, who is there? WHO IS THERE? Wait, wait, why are you running away? I am coming with a knife for you! You rascal? You think there is no man in the house? Look at me! Don’t run away!” It went on for a full fifteen minutes, long after the burglars must have run away from our compound and probably from the town itself! The only tangible benefit of the episode was Manjari announcing loud and clear who the man of the house was!
After that night of the runaway burglars, there was a dramatic change in our life. It became a daily habit with Manjari to get up at different hours of the night and start screaming in a ghastly voice, trying to drive away all human, non-human, super-human intruders from our compound. We might have seen one or two shadows against our window in the past many years, but terrified by her screams, they never took human form. However, thanks to her abnormal nocturnal behaviour, no shadow of a guest fell on our home. I was particularly happy to be rid of her brother Mukund, who had developed this annoying habit of coming to stay for the weekends, invading our intimate privacy so ardently coveted by a newly married couple!
It was Ranjit who gave us the brilliant idea that Manjari’s resounding screams can be recorded in DVDs and can be sold to every single home in the country. All over India people will start playing the disks after midnight for six hours and scare the poor burglars away. It will become a daily habit in every household, similar to putting the mosquito-repellent smoke emitters like Good Knight or Allout. And lo and behold, thieves, burglars, and peeps will take retirement from their profession to render voluntary labour in the villages!
Anjana added an absolutely smashing suggestion. Apart from translating the DVD into Punjabi, Tamil, Telugu, Gujarati, Marathi and all other Indian languages, we can even claim an international copyright and put it in the world market with an English, Latin, French and Arabic version and earn millions of dollars!
Buoyed by this wonderful prospect, I kept smiling sweetly like a benign drunk, but Ranjit and Anjana started dancing like a pair of deranged monkeys. To our utter amazement, Manjari nixed the idea – “My cassettes are not for sale! Forget it and keep quiet. Don’t behave like delirious juveniles and stop imitating your father!” It stopped the kids in their tracks. I opened my mouth to protest that I was not behaving like a juvenile, let alone a delirious juvenile, but for fear of provoking another cassette I kept quiet.
Our daughter Anjana got married a year ago and moved to a far-off town. Every night she calls on her mobile phone and chats with her mother for at least half an hour, twenty nine minutes of which will be Manjari’s complaint against me, my poor income, the uselessness of the work I am doing, her lack of friends (Cassette number five – “how can I invite anyone home, I don’t even have a decent set of furniture!), Anjana listens quietly and asks her mother to hand over the phone to me.
“Papa, everything seems to be normal! The day Mummy stops playing her cassettes, there will be a catastrophe and the world will come to an end. And personally, I will have a sleepless night, tossing on the bed, worrying what form the catastrophe will take! Go to sleep Papa, you are in safe hands!”
Over the past thirty one years of marriage, I have climbed the professional ladder, moving from a lecturer to a reader, and then to a professor. And four years back I came to Delhi to join the National Council of Educational Research and Training as its Associate Director. But two things have not changed in my life - my financial condition has remained stable, but not very inspiring to meet Manjari’s high standards, and second, the ever-present harangue from her cassettes! I have accepted both as a part of my existence and moved on with life.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today on the way back to Delhi from Shaharanpur after attending a meeting at the Glocal University there, my car ditched me in the most inappropriate manner. A hot June afternoon on a simmering highway is certainly not the ideal way for a car to announce its advancing age, its bronchial disorder, rheumatism or arthritis. I stood leaning on the car, a water bottle in hand, sweating profusely from Manjari’s scorching words, from the fire falling like blistering showers from the sky and the heat radiating from the road. A few Hondas, Toyotas and Nissans passed by dazzlingly, like kimono-clad Japanese geishas, but no one had time for the poor Fiat, no one stopped.
An old man passed by riding a bicycle, face and head covered with a white towel, his dress drenched with sweat. He peered at me and Manjari and stopped.
“Babuji Namaskar! What are you doing here?” He asked in Hindi.
Manjari whispered from inside the car, “Ignore him. Looks like a highway robber!” I wondered at the man’s manner of familiarity, as if he knew us. Why did he stop after looking at us? Does he know us? Who is he? I don’t remember him from anywhere!
“The car has suddenly stalled. Is there a workshop nearby?”
The man shook his head,
“Nothing for sixteen kilometers ahead of you and you have left Shahranpur twelve kilometers back. What’s wrong with the car?”
“No idea, it’s an old car.”
Manjari’s angry whispers again, “Don’t talk to him so much, he is trying to befriend you and then he will attack us!” I didn’t like Manjari’s approach, but, as usual, kept quiet.
“Don’t worry Babuji, both of you come with me to my house. My son Ramdin works as a mechanic at the garage in the government agricultural depot. He will return home by four. I will send him to look at your car and if it’s a minor problem, he will fix it and bring the car home.”
Manjari’s furious whispers became embarrassingly loud.
“Don’t listen to him. The old man will kill us and his son will sell away the car
for ten thousand rupees. Just get into the car and lock the door.”
The old man must have guessed the meaning of what she was saying to me in Oriya. His face was covered, only his eyes and mouth were visible. I thought I saw a faint glimmer of an apologetic smile. He shook his head,
“Babuji, Memsaab, please don’t worry. I am not a thief, nor a robber. I am from a
decent family. Trust me”
I somehow felt that I had heard these words sometime, somewhere in the past. But I could not recollect when or where. Our reluctance to go with him was palpable. The old man was insistent.
“Please come home with me. It’s not safe to be inside the car any longer. You will get dehydrated. Look at the hot wind, it can melt even the telephone poles. Please come. My wife will be very happy to see both of you.”
We realized we had no option. We were beginning to feel a bit breathless and nauseous. We started walking with him. His house was about a half kilometer away, after a turn from the highway. He told us his name was Brijgopal and his wife was Ramdulari.
We felt the heat was sapping our energy and by the time we reached his home we were thankful that for some time we would have a shelter over our head.
The old man hollered at his wife, “Arrey, Ramdulari, wake up! See, Babuji and Memsaab at our doorstep! You won’t believe your eyes!”
We looked at each other. Who are these two? How are they referring to us with so much familiarity? I could see that Manjari’s distrust of the person still lingered, but she had surrendered herself to whatever fate awaited us.
A lady came out of the house. Looking at her soft face with light wrinkles, I felt that she looked vaguely familiar, a blur from the past, but memory eluded me. She looked at us, bowed her head and touched our feet. Her face beamed with overflowing joy. She took us inside. The room was dark, an overhead fan was providing cool air, coming like a gust of relief from heaven. We sat on the bed, she switched on the light.
Brijgopal had gone inside to wash his face. He came in without the towel on his face and when I saw him along with Ramdulari, recognition came in a flash. I suddenly remembered where I had seen them. From my smile he could realize that I knew who they were. He folded his hands,
“Babuji, you remember that cold evening in Delhi? You may not believe how many times we have prayed to God to bless your family and to give us an opportunity to serve you in whatever way we can. God is merciful and today he has brought you to our humble door step.”
I looked at Manjari. She still looked bewildered. Brijgopal asked Ramdulari to make some lassi for us. When I asked her not to take the trouble, he felt hurt,
“Please Babuji, don’t say like that. We got a new lease of life that evening thanks to you and Memsaab. If you had not helped us, both of us would have died in some street corner in the freezing cold of Delhi.”
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
The memory of that evening came back to me. It was the middle of January, three and half years ago. Manjari and I had gone to New Delhi railway station to see off her brother Mukund’s wife who was leaving for Bhubaneswar. We came out of the station and got into the car. I turned on the ignition and was about to leave when I found an old man tapping the window of the car. Manjari screamed at me,
“Lock the door and let’s leave. The old man will take out a knife now and ask for money.”
The man didn’t take out a knife, nor did he threaten me. He folded his hands and said,
“Babuji, please help me. I lost all my money to a pick-pocket. I must go back to my village tonight. My son is at home, looking after the house and the cattle. If he doesn’t report for work tomorrow morning, he will lose his job.”
Manjari looked mad with rage,
“See, I told you. The same old trick. The usual story of a pocket getting picked and asking for money. Let’s leave. He looks dangerous”
She was screaming in Oriya. The man probably guessed her anger. He again folded his hands and implored,
“Please trust us. We are not thieves, nor robbers. We are not beggars, we are a decent family. See, my wife is standing there. I have really lost all my money to a pick-pocket. Please help us. God will bless you and your children.”
I looked at his wife. She was standing about fifteen feet away, head covered, a
cloth bag in her hand. She looked rustic, but there was a quiet dignity in her, a helpless pride, fear writ large on her face, caused by the misgivings of an unknown city, and the uncertainty of what was going to happen. I made up my mind to help them.
“Where are you going? How much is the ticket?”
“Babuji, we have to buy the ticket upto Shahranpur. It will be 175 rupees per person.”
Manjari went ballistic.
“What, are you crazy? You are really going to give money to these cheats? Can’t you see they are taking you for a ride?”
I ignored Manjari, took out four hundred rupee notes from my wallet and gave it to the old man.
“Take this money, buy your tickets for three hundred fifty rupees and take some food before boarding the train.”
The old man could not believe his eyes and almost burst into tears. The lady came
forward. Both of them stood with folded hands, bowed their heads and thanked us from the depth of their heart,
“Babuji, Memsaab, may God bless you and your children with abundant love. You have saved our lives tonight.”
They wanted to say more, but sensing Manjari’s unabating anger, they bowed their head and left.
Manjari burst like a cloud of rains.
“What an insensible idiot you are! Do we pluck money from the trees that we waste it like this? If you felt pity on them, you could have given them twenty-thirty rupees. How could you throw away four hundred rupees? When will you learn to be smart?”
I was upset with her. While driving out of the parking lot I told her,
“Manjari, they are not beggars to go and beg for twenty-thirty rupees from dozens of people. They are in real trouble. You must learn to believe someone sometime in life. They certainly didn’t look like thieves or cheats. If we help someone in trouble, God will help us.”
“Don’t give me that nonsense. I have been doing regular prayers and observing so many fasts for the last twenty four years. What has God given me, except penury and misery? I don’t have money to even buy a decent set of furniture. And you waste money like this!’
“Manjari, don’t say that. Your prayers and God’s blessings have given us two precious kids, perhaps the best kids in the world. What more do we want?”
Manjari didn’t relent. Throughout the way she kept on scolding me, finding a
hundred faults with me and with her life. When we reached home, she poured out her heart to Anjana, about my stupidity, my fallibility for tricks of the cheats, about her sufferings in life at the hands of a good-for-nothing husband. Anjana came to my defense,
“Mummy, Papa doesn’t make mistakes in his judgment of people. Don’t worry. It’s just four hundred rupees. Forget it.”
Manjari accused her of taking sides with me and went inside the bedroom and
shut the door. Anjana looked at me and said, “Papa, cassette number twenty-two?”
I nodded in meek helplessness and kept quiet.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
After three and half years, the memory of that evening came alive. We had not imagined that we would ever meet the old couple again. Fate had brought us together. We drank the lassi and kept chatting, asking them about the village life, their home, the vegetable garden and the cattle. Their son Ramdin came around four, touched our feet and went away taking the keys of the car from us.
Brijgopal brought us back to the memory of that evening again. It looked like he still couldn’t believe that we were with him in flesh and blood. A bit overwhelmed, he continued,
“You know Babuji, that night when we were returning by train, Ramdulari kept pulling me up, ‘Why did you take so much money from Babuji? Didn’t you see how Memsaab was upset with him? For our sake Babuji had to bear with so much scolding!’ But I was not convinced. I told her, ‘No Ramdulari, Memsaab didn’t look like a mean person. There are some people who are harsh with their words, but have a soft, sweet heart. Didn’t you see there was a rare glow on her face? Such glow can come only from a clean, flawless heart. She must be from a very good family. And Babuji has lived with her for so many years. He must be familiar with her heart of gold. Otherwise how could he give us four hundred rupees, when I was expecting only ten or twenty rupees from him? Such generosity can come only from great persons. Good men like Babuji can’t live in isolation. He and Memsaab must be a great couple, made for each other.”
Hearing this Manjari looked at me and lowered her head. We spent a few more
minutes at the home of Brijgopal and Ramdulari. It seems the problem with the car was very minor. Ramdin fixed it quickly and brought the car home. After thanking them profusely, we left for Delhi. On the way Manjari sat motionless in the car, lost in thought. I tried to cheer her up by cracking a joke or two, but she was unmoved.
We reached Delhi around nine and after a light dinner went off to sleep. Shortly after midnight I suddenly woke up. Manjari was not in her bed. I went out to look for her. The light in the living room was on. Manjari was sitting on the sofa, under the fan, lost in thought.
She had not seen me coming.
“What happened? Why did you get up?” I asked her.
Manjari looked up and rising slowly, she came near me, her eyes locked with mine.
“For the past twenty eight years you have been hearing my cassettes, so many of them! Just in one night today, I took out all the tapes from the cassettes, tore them to pieces and threw them away. From tomorrow you and the kids will not hear them again.”
I looked deeply into her eyes. They were filled with an incredible peace, like the
still, blue waters of a deep ocean. I put my arms around her and locked her in a soft, loving embrace. She rested her head on my shoulder. Slowly my shirt got drenched with her tears.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. The ninth collection of his short stories in Odiya will come out soon.
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