Literary Vibes - Edition XXX
Dear Friends,
LiteraryVibes is back again with another edition of scintillating poems and enchanting stories.
In this thirtieth edition we welcome Prof. (Dr.) Aniamma Joseph from Kottyam, Kerala, a highly accomplished bilingual poet and writer who writes in English and Malayalam with equal ease. Let's hope she will embellish the pages of LiteraryVibes with superbly crafted nuggets of literature in the years to come.
Smiling in the pages of today's edition is also an incredibly talented young poet from Nigeria. All of fouteen years, Grace Obimuonso shows great promise and the beauty in her poem is captivating. Let's wish Grace the very best of success in Literature. We look forward to seeing more of her work in future editions of LiteraryVibes.
Prof. Geetha Nair is back on our pages with two stunningly beautiful and heavily loaded pieces of Drabbles. We have been missing her deft touch on our literary firmament for some time and her Drabbles are just the right points of re-entry into LiteraryVibes. Prof. Latha Sakhya has also presented to the readers some superb pieces of Drabbles. They are hugely entertaining and thought provoking.
Speaking of Drabbles, some of us feel that a Drabble being a short, potent piece of concise writing, many strands can be developed from it into short stories. We feel Drabbles should stimulate the imagination of our readers and also of our regular contributors, generating the necessary steam to pen a few short stories out of the ideas contained in them. In last week's edition I had written two pieces of Drabbles, exactly hundred words each, gunshots in the air, creating some ripples and containing seeds of tremendous possibilities. For a starter, today I am presenting a 'Dribble' for one of the two Drabbles. I invite everyone to write some different stories on the same Drabble (Street Life) and lots more on the second Drabble (Happy Birthday).
I hope we will get good response to this new concept by way of lots of stories on any of the Drabbles published in Today's edition as well as our past editions. On Prof. Geetha Nair's suggestion I have named this section as "DRIBBLE A DRABBLE". I welcome readers' feedback on this concept and the title of the Section in my email at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
Wish you a fabulous reading of the LiteraryVibes during the weekend.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
OUR SENTINEL
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Did we inherit it, or it inherited us?
Do we guard it, or it guards us?
We stay away at arm’s length
from these blasphemous questions.
In winter it gets undressed to change
into a garb of coy pink blushes of spring,
the tender blossoms, bunches of buds, fruitlets
rising from them, hesitant nipples of a new mother.
Follow the full blast of flowering
and fruition; the spring is wafted
with the ripe fragrance of fecund flowers
punched with the green aroma of fruitlets.
Its shaded comfort rules our courtyard
the whole sweltering summer,
the blue wind, after tousling its hair
cools us with its induced sweetness.
Summer turns its fat green hanging fruits
into yellow-auburn honey heart wonders,
juicy slices melting in mouths,
their heavenly nectar fit for gods.
It never talks, wouldn’t budge an inch;
neither gives accolades, nor castigates;
never puts the tongue in a cheek, yet
in its presence we go mild like whispers.
It survives, thrives against drought
and deluge; fights own battle against pests
and vermin; never expecting a bucket
of water or a shovel of manure from us.
We love it, love to live with it,
fear its death or destruction. Its murmur
lulls us to sleep when the night wind
loses its way and the darkness sits oppressive.
STRESS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I am stressed to realize
how stressful I am over the stress
my stressful life gives me free.
I am angry over my frequent anger
that keeps me on edge about
my anger tantrums I throw.
I go silent, a tomb silently repenting
my silent spells that rule my days,
I fail to find words to converse with my silence.
I love you for the love you give me
and I fail to reciprocate with
equal tenderness, my love-tissues dead.
How I miss your lovely smiles
I loved so much but couldn’t thank for;
I rue their remaining amiss on your lips.
Little one, why you turn into so big
a tear drop in my eye, in yours as well,
why we cry the same salinity separately?
We sit in a temple, ignoring the deity,
turning the lamp to us in a self-worship,
drowned in the tide of our oceanic eyes.
(Both new poems)
LITTLE KANT’s ADVENTURE- I
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Little Kant sat with his mother in a cart that hurtled behind two bullocks pulling it. The beasts of burden trudged along the ruts cut by frequent passage of cart-wheels across the expanse of a vast grass land. They had to catch the bus after travelling five miles that would take him and his mother to his father’s place where he worked in a government job. The two teen-age brothers of his mother were walking on both sides of their cart keeping his mother busy with their non-stop chattering. They were going to see them off safely until they boarded their bus. A black cat tried to cross the path in front of the moving cart. A cat crossing the path was a powerful foreboding omen for a journey, and a black cat could be far worse. The younger of the two brothers chased it away before the cat could complete its ominous mission. After a while a fox was seen at a great distance ahead of their cart. As believed In Kant’s village, a fox on one’s right during a journey brought cartloads of good luck. So both the young brothers ran breathlessly to chase the nervous fox to the right flank of the cart. The fox finally vanished into a clump of tall grasses on their far right. When the brothers returned triumphant and all smiles, patting each other to have saved their sister and her little kid from one imminent danger caused by a wicked black cat, and bringing them immense good luck by placing a fox on their right, the bullock cart had the last laugh. It broke down. Luckily neither of us, the passengers, nor the cart-driver was hurt by the minor accident. The latter however reported - “The axle has broken in the middle; needs replacement, and repair. So everyone of us is to return back to our village, which is any way not far behind us, as we had hardly started our journey. We are to return on foot, and resume our long cart journey tomorrow morning, God willing.” Kant was aghast - how could the evil cat even without crossing their path could override the powers of the good old fox placed on their right!
(A nugget from a novella in making….EKANT’s LIFE AND LOVE)
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
ROMANCE BY THE KADAMBA - (KELI KADAMBA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The lore of Dwapara
fades into a sepia of time,
the folk-memory getting blurry…
Years sail by ….
waving ‘bye’ to the new arrivals,
but a Kadamba tree
by the bank of Yamuna,
yearns for those soirees of the past,
hoping against hope,
“My Kaanhaa would return
to fulfill my longing;
the wind would hold breath
to see our union.
As his fickle fingers
set aside my foliage
and touch the naked bark
the time would stop ticking.
His touch would make me
glow with succulent blush
even though my stony ground
hardly keeps me wet with its sap.”
The Kadamba is growing old
pining over her virgin youth
going waste untouched.
THE LIFE GOES ON - (KHELA CHAALICHHI)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The whore, past her prime,
has come to terms with
her fading youth,
“Let bygones be bygones.”
One accepts the inevitability;
the time’s ruthless tyranny.
The narrative of Dwapara even changed,
Vrindavan didn’t remain any more
the playground of cowherds,
redolent with their fun and frolic.
The time passes,
events turn into memories,
myths.
Someone believes
in the aging whore’s logic;
and ages gracefully
living life as it comes.
The whore’s words
are taken too cynically
by another man.
Disheartened by the fear
of the transient youth
he grows old before his time.
What can one do
except accepting time’s march
into an uncompromising future?
yet, all keep
a flicker of hope burning,
the good old days
would be here again !
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 CYCLONE: THE MANGO TREE AND THE POET JAYANTA MAHAPATRA (JHADA: AMBAGACHHA ABANG KABI JAYANTA)
Kamalakanta Panda (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
All the curses
seemed absolved, all the time,
by the grand old mango tree.
In a stifling summer noon,
the inside of the household
comes out to seek relief
under its refreshing spread.
The mango tree,
in the posture of benediction
of a fatherly figure, relieved all
of the time’s burdensome ticking.
Family discontents and tears
are smothered by its flowering blooms.
One forgot the bruises and scars
with the sight of nesting red ants
joyously scurrying in its sapphire foliage.
It made melody with its murmur
of leaves trembling in breeze;
poetry, like passion, oozed as juice
from its green and fragrant fruitlets.
The night, the mega-cyclone
shook awake its nesting birds,
violence filled the dark
with scared bird-cry,
the darkness running for shelter
into itself. The tree fought back valiantly
before felled by the leviathan wind.
With fall of the tree, fell the poetry,
pain, melody, memory;
all associations, sour and sweet.
But it saved the house
sitting cheek and jowl by it,
and its inmates, poet Jayanta
and his family, holding
the savage beast at arm’s length.
Today, looking for the tree,
eyes meet a void
swimming with welled up eyes
missing a family ancestor.
Footnote:- the massive old mango tree, nesting site of birds and bees, stood in eminent poet Jayanta Mamapatra’s front-yard. It was felled by the mega-cyclone that devastated Odisha in 1999. (The translation in English version appeared at “66 / Indian Literature : 202” in 1999, and has since been tweaked marginally.)
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA), a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, writing over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute, and if one hasn’t read Kalpata’s poems, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision that he would never collect his own poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)
THE TREE (BRUKSHA)
ARUPANANDA PANIGRAHI
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
When our house caught fire,
the inferno charred my innards
inflicting unseen pain and hurt.
My pa, grandpa, and people
from the close by market place
came running to douse the fire;
it seemed - our ancestors from
their resting abode by the cremation ground
had come running in that melee.
My grandpa, the bravest of all,
entered the holocaust to untether
the cattle and take them to safety.
Father, nervous and apprehensive,
by disposition, salvaged first
our land revenue documents.
In spite of my young daring, I failed
to enter the inferno; only could unhinge
the front door, carrying it away from fire.
The fire put out, all and sundry
firefighters went home. We, the homeless,
were left inconsolable like orphans.
I remonstrated, “Grandpa,
how helpless we stand,
our home reduced to an ash-heap!”
Grandpa consoled, “Sonny, a home
is as good as a tree, half above
and half under the earth’s surface.
“The visible half of our home
lies is in ashes, but the part where we
really live is safely ensconced in our hearts.”
His words of comfort spurred us,
lo and behold, we built a lovely hut
by the next morning, our makeshift home.
(The poem is from the poet’s book “GOTIA DHANA PAIN”)
Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)
TELEPHONE POEM
Bibhu Padhi
A voice hangs anonymously
between your unspoken words
and my eagerness.
My world breathes
the distance of your face,
endures the weight of an absence of promises.
Spurts of tentative assurance are
quickly interspersed with stretches of silence
A lump in the throat
betrays the silent magic
of waiting without words.
Hastily, I put into your ears
two flat words. “Good night.”
The voice clears.
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
REPRIEVE
Geetha Nair
The burst of rain had subsided. "Come on down," she said, "let's go wander among the trees. You love them so." Her slim gold bangles chimed her invitation. Her wrinkled but kohl-lined eyes beckoned. He obeyed. Together they glided through the woods. The arali tree was dense with perfume. It was her favourite as its name rhymed with his. They sat under its thin branches and spoke a thousand nothings. Cool drops of rainwater caressed them.
When their daughter didn't find her anywhere in the house at dusk, she lit the lamp herself. Then, she looked up with folded hands at his picture. There was only the black -bordered frame.
He was missing.
TONIGHT
Geetha Nair
Darkness was settling down but the huge chicken coop was bright with fluorescent light. In each cage was a creature fighting, fated. Now and then, a moving shadow was cast on the broad road below.
Whose turn tonight? The thousand unspoken questions melted into one flaming arrow that seemed to split open the black night sky.
The mounting screech of an ambulance! One more sufferer was about to be thrown into the Coop... .
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
"GRAVITATIONAL WAVES!"
Sreekumar K
" Right, I had read about it in the newspaper. Didn't get to read any journals about it. I am yet to see the connection with all these," said Georges without hiding his annoyance.
"I had also read about it in the New Scientist. It reminded me of the sea of milk that the Indians talk about. Their Lord Vishnu who sustains everything reposes on a snake that floats on an ocean of milk. Lives are supposed to be the waves in that ocean," said Yufi.
"Yes, it is more or less like that. Only that it is an ocean of energy that we live in. We say vacuum, but nothing is totally so. It only means there is no air there. The universe is simply an ocean of energy. What we perceive as forms are only energy in disguise. There is no empty space anywhere and there should not be. Our Babel Project aims at harnessing these gravitational waves just like we use the electromagnetic waves now. These billionaires have bought that technology. The price? Just for now understand that you can buy two Netherlands at that price," said Jeane.
"O, you lost me there! I had almost got it when it again slipped away," said Yufi.
"It is simple. Now we use electromagnetic waves for almost all our communications, from FM radio to our mobile phones. We may switch to gravitational waves,” explained Jeane.
" Such an elaborate discussion and preparation for just this?" asked Yufi.
" This discussion is not just for that. You will get a clear idea about it by tea time,” Jeane expressed his unwillingness to say more about it. .
He had a clear idea about the Armageddon going to hit the earth. If those with him had carefully read through the documents they had signed six years ago, they too would have been scared like him. He had read so carefully through the documents only because he was quite aware of how Patricia operated and how she got things done.
"One more question. My last and final one. How come this technology costs this much?" Georges moved his chair back and faced Jeane.
"My knowledge about that is very rudimentary, only what I put together from some science journals. Though the gravitational waves can travel this far from another galaxy, their amplitude is rather low. Or it is low till they are disturbed further. Even then, it is ten raised to minus twenty or so. One sextyllion, that is. Think of the technology needed to work with them. Think of the level of sensitivity such an equipment should have!” Jeane heaved a sigh.
"When you say hunt, chase and catch, it sounds so simple. But let me ask you, what kind of a trap are we talking about?" asked Georges. "And if you think I won't get it, then leave it. I just asked."
"No, no. That is fairly easy to understand. Think of two pipes 600 meters long joined to form an L. From where they are joined, laser beams are sent to either ends. At the ends they are reflected back. The reflected ray from both ends will reach back at the same time since the pipes are of the same length and the rays are of uniform wavelength. Then, if an unseen wave hits one end of one of the pipes and that pipe shrinks a little, way too little, like the size of an atom, the ray reflected from that end of the pipe will take less time to reach back, since its course is shorter now by the size of an atom or so. Takes less time means slowed down to ten raised to minus twenty or two hundred kilometres per nano second. This is what it means to catch a wave. The difference in their times shows the presence of a disturbed wave,” explained Jeane.
" God, it is worse than the most unbelievable tale I ever heard," said Yufi.
Those sitting at the next table were also engaged in a discussion, though on a different topic. The three of them had also taken part enthusiastically in the morning session, debating on every topic that had come up. Emily and July were scientists but Michael was a far better scholar than either of them. It was no secret that he was always against the project, whatever it was. July could not help prodding him.
“I wonder why you are so irritated about the project. I am sure you know about it much more than any of us here," said July.
“One is a statement of facts and the other is the reason. I am against it only because I know its future. I know my life is in danger for saying this. Crucifixion or bullets were always the reward for truth. Still, I find it hard to speak against my conscience. You can steal meals, but you can’t steal sleep.”
“O, Michael, your poetry is obscure. Tell me if there is any physics in it,” said Emily.
"There is no physics, but there is some biology. Shall I? 'Meals' means food and by extension of ideas, it means wealth. It can be stolen from others. It IS always stolen from others. Since food is not enough in this world, anyone who overeats is stealing someone else's food. A few people steal other people food and a lot of people get looted. That is the way of the world. But sleep is not wealth though it is very precious. Sleep is actually our peace of mind. Like the Indians say, it is the time when we are one with God. And it is God's grace if you get it . It cannot be stolen or hoarded. From the very beginning, because of its clandestine nature, I was never happy about the project. I think it smells of evil. There were sixteen sponsors in the beginning. Now, only five.”
"What about it? Eleven people would have backed out. OK, now I get it. If they got out, there would have been proper reason for that after such a huge investment. You have guessed it right, Michael," said July.
"That is not the point. And I am not guessing. Each time I came to know a sponsor backed out, I bought the latest issue of the Vogue."
"Your poetry is not only obscure, it is cryptic too. I don't see the connection between a fashion magazine and rocket science. What about you, July?" asked Emily.
July was silently looking at Michael as he promptly replied.
“There is a remote connection. I like that phrase 'remote connection'. Now, the Vogue features the death of every billionaire who dies. When each of the secret sponsors was reported as left the project, I also found that one more billionaire had left the world. Not just billionaires, the very rich ones. The Vogue just does not care about any billionaire. There are too many of them. And let me finish, each death was unnatural. True, most billionaires have unnatural deaths. Still!”
July was still looking at Michael with admiration. If brain was the charm of a gentleman, he was the most charming she had ever seen. His book yoking together sociology and environment, The Green Ghost, is a classic on both subjects. She had spent some time with him in Peru to help him finish the book. It was her only honeymoon in life. He was adamant about not setting up a family, though she had tried her best. She still longed for him even though she had not seen him for more than a year.
“I know this. There is a TED talk on this,” said Emily
“What? About their deaths?” asked Michael.
“No, about co-incidence. When two things happen together, our mind tends to connect them as cause and effect. It is our nature. Cum hoc ergo propter hoc. With this, therefore because of this. In this case, we don’t know whether those who died were our sponsors. All we know is that eleven people backed out and eleven people died. The common factor here is the number eleven,” said Emily and stared at July who was trying to interrupt.
“Not accurate,” corrected July. “They were all billionaires.”
“Yes, but those were not the only billionaires in the world. Like the Vogue believes, there are too many of them now. So, that cannot be a common factor. Not a valid one,” Emily argued.
“OK. I am not pushing it. But what are these guys trying to do? They are trying to put an end to our ability to lie. Our ability to lie is even older than our ability to speak. It is our birthright. Even ants have this. Neil Postman, in one of his books, describes how the use of pesticides lead to the ants learning to use their limbs in communication to mislead their predators,” said Michael.
“I respect Neil Postman. I met him once. But, these researches they carry out in humanities are all unreliable. They even had a research on whether human nature changes when they find that there is no free will. I laughed a lot about that one.” Emilyy started laughing.
“Why is it even funny?” asked Michael.
“How can you say someone is lying if there is no free will. He has no choice. He is absolutely the product of his circumstances,” said Emily suppressing her laughter.
As July listened to their discussion, she felt envious of Emily. She wondered whether he would have said no to Emily if she wanted to set up a family with him.
The discussion went on but July was reminiscing her days with him in Peru. Even as they moved towards the hall after their rather quick lunch, she held his hand and walked close to him. But he was not there at all.
And his face was like that of a man sentenced to death.
A Privileged Teacher
Sreekumar K
We, my wife, my daughter and myself, had gone to bed when the call came. Whoever called had no sense of time, I thought. Torrential rain and a chilly wind had made us curl up inside our think blankets.
My daughter attended the call and came over to knock at our bedroom door.
“There is a shortage of volunteers at the corporation office to pack and load. Shall I go?”
“Yes, sure. Wait a minute I am also coming.”
“Mom will be OK?”
“Just unleash Luna. She will take care of her.”
In a minute we both got ready and jumped on my scooter. Lekshmi said she could manage. I said yes. I don’t ride anything anymore. I have to take care of my injured foot.
It was not raining much. Only a very slight drizzle. We rode down the narrow street and entered the broadway that leads to the corporation office.
Near the zoo, she slowed down at the spot where a journalist had got run over by a car two days back. I noticed my daughter moving back on her seat to be closer to me. The wind was very cold.
At the corporation office which was a collection centre for the flood relief operations, tons of materials lay around unsorted. Towards the corner a truck was getting loaded by some young men, most of them known to my daughter.
I left my daughter with her friends and went in. The guard gave me a strange look as if he suspected something. Then he looked at my foot and smiled at me.
I was not an enlisted volunteer and could join any group. Contrary to my expectations, there was no chair to sit down and work. I decided to stand. My foot might swell again. That is OK for tonight.
Towards my left there were a wife and her husband busy unpacking, sorting and packing. Their three little children looked with curiosity at what their parents were doing. Obviously, the kids were feeling very happy about this late-night outing. They were also commenting to one another on the things they found in the packs.
I too found it strange how generous people were. I decided to work with some young men sorting clothes. My God! People had bought clothes without looking much at the price tag. And they were all meant for people they had never seen and would never see.
There was some cheering outside. The fifty-fifth truck was being flagged off. It would travel about 500 kilometers in the bad weather to reach the northern districts Kerala where landslides had devasted several villages. 55 trucks loaded with love.
I heard my daughter voice rather loudly towards my right. I looked up from my work but could not see her. There was a small crowd there. She had obviously met one of her old classmates. Probably someone I too had taught. She is good at keeping contacts. I am not.
After an hour a lean handsome boy came near me and bend down to stare at my face as if he was attending to a sick person. I looked up. His face looked familiar.
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course, I do”
“Then, say my name.”
“You are Shambhu.”
He laughed out.
“But I cheated. I recalled your name because I heard my daughter call you so. But I remember your face.”
He laughed again.
He too began to pick up the clothes and pack them in cartons. He was neat and he looked tall.
He had been a headache for me in his high school days.
He never did his homework and scored poorly in all his tests. It was impossible to reach him.
Later I heard that when his parents sent him to get a demand draft for him to join the college, he ran away with the money. He reached Chennai and got employed as a guard at an ATM. The next day, his old-time classmate, a girl, spotted him in his khaki uniform. She had heard that he was missing. She informed his parents and he was taken back home.
“What do you do now?”
“I joined for MA.”
“What have you taken?”
“English literature.”
“Then you should come to me for tuition.”
He laughed again.
Maybe he didn’t sense it, but I wanted to teach him.
It is a privilege.
An honour.
Outside, the crowd had lined up in two rows passing heavy boxes to be loaded on to the next truck.
One was my daughter, the others were my sons.
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.
SUCCESS
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
Search for success
is a twisted tale:
Every suspect, I picked, from
the Whodunnit, was a false lead.
All along, somehow missed
the double narrative.
Many milestones of
success came and went.
Security of work tenure
was an early one.
The job, with the highest
score on security turned
to be the undertaker’s!
The goalpost kept shifting
This game needs a new strategy,
I thought.
As it moved further away,
wondered if I should have
changed side.
Fame, I am told,
is a food that dead men eat.
Would it be enough to
satiate the soul, I wonder.
Milestones were many;
but no end-post, I could see.
Buried under the heap of
carcasses of lost
travellers, I fear!
Finally stumbled on
the the treasure trove in
the house, pitch dark.
Took a while to find the
switch for the lamp.
And, light was faint and
room was cluttered.
I mistook the tapestry
on the wall for cobwebs.
Confused the design
on the furniture with its
fabric, mottled and moth-eaten.
Perhaps, ended up
judging the value
of the antiques
by power of the lamp.
So, did I fail again?
But the triumph of trying
is still mine.
And, success tastes insipid,
until it’s laced
with flavour of failure!
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 HORRORSCOPE OF ABHIMANYU
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
The supreme God
the omnipresent,the omnipotent
and the omniscient,
the maternal uncle
then how his nephew could die ?
Ya, He is omniscient,
created his nephew’s
“horrorscope” !!
Nephew will die at 16yrs of age.
having fought and defeated
all Kaurav greats sans Bhisma,
and the greats killed him
treacherously and broke
all rules and regulations
of that age war.
He is omniscient no doubt,
He knew the 13th day war,
He knew the Chakravyuha,
He knew Abhimanyu could enter the vyuha
but not come out alive !
He was destined to die
As he was born Chandraputra,
Varscha,Chandra’s son,
He was born Abhimanyu,
but Abhikasur(Kalyavan)
Kansa’s friend ,
Vowed revenge
on Kansa’s death.,
Krishna, tricked him (Abhikasur)into
a tiny box when
he became an insect,
the box opened accidentally
by pregnant Subhadra,
the demon entered her womb
and transformed into Abhimanyu,
but Krishna’s enemy !!
Real “horoscope”
only Krishna knew.
He is omniscient,
beyond blasphemy.
Abhimanyu was destined
to die at 16 yrs and on 13th day
of Mahabharat war.
The mythological
Triskaidekaphobia ?!
As nephew,killed his maternal uncle,
And as maternal uncle didn’t save
His nephew as he was destined.
Until the thirteenth day,
Not fought in war footing,
Got an impetus
When Kurukshetra Smeared ,
With blood of the braveheart,
Preplanned by a ‘volt’,
Racced by a ‘kettle’,
And eventually by a ‘wake’.??
“Horoscope” ,was closed,
The terminal event of a life.
And the Kurushetra
remembering his most
valorous son keeps on singing,
“Here lies the greatest archer,
Rudradhari, Subhadranandan,
and Chadraputra
“The most unfair victim
Of the great Mahabharat war”.
And echoing from Kurukshetra
the great Abhimanyu’s
last words..
“When you go back,
Tell them,
I have sacrificed
My present,
For the future
Of cowards.”
Notes:
A group of vultures is called a committee, venue or volt. In flight, a flock of vultures is a kettle, and when the birds are feeding together at a carcass, the group is called a wake.
Abhimanyu in his previous birth was Abhikasura a demon, a friend of King Kans who tried to kill his nephew Krishna but was killed by Krishna . Abhikasura vowed to take revenge on the former. Krishna, wove a magic around Abhikasura, transformed him into an insect and captured him in a box.
Krishna’s sister Subhadra, after her wedding with Arjuna, accidentally opened the box, the insect got into her womb. Abhikasura was then born as Abhimanyu.
Krishna knew this and prepared the ground for the death of his nephew and finally he was killed by Kaurav maharathis sans Bhisma.
Abhimanyu was the reincarnation of Varchas, the son of moon-god (Chandra).Chandra allowed him be born as the son of Arjuna and enter into the Chakra Vyuha of the enemies to be killed by them and return to swargalok in the sixteenth year." The Devas accepted this condition. That is why Abhimanyu was killed m his sixteenth year. (Mahabharata, Adi Parva, Chapter 67).
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin
INVASION
Dilip Mohapatra
The Itsy Bitsy spider
slides on the waterspout
to spin dark webs in my heart.
Egg on my wind shield
and wipers accentuate
the cataracts in my eyes.
Flames from the ice
leap up to lap up my senses
and manage to cage my rage.
The walls close on me
and I cringe in the corner
till I implode only to sublimate.
ECLIPSE
Dilip Mohapatra
The diamonds
dazzle
with borrowed
luminosity
and do not dare
to read
the epitaph
on light's
tombstone.
A forlorn
moon
is trapped
and scared
to step out
of the sun's
fragile
and fractured
shadow.
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.
MATTER AND SPIRIT
Sumitra Mishra
You think;
We are mostly matter;
Flesh and blood coats
On a skeleton sporting
Muscles, nerves and vessels,
So, let us replenish our
Lives with material blessings
And earthly pleasures.
I think,
We are spirit
A flash of the divine light
Lent to the Mother Earth
To cure the illness of black nights,
Prayers and blessings may change the show
So, let us share our shine
And dare to burn and melt
Till the darkness dissolves
Into a divine glow.
But how easily we forget
Matter and spirit
Are inseparable
As the wax and the wick
As the fragrance and the flower
As the greenery and the grass;
So let us make a compromise,
We shall try to yoke our flesh
To the service of the spirit,
Direct our thought and action
Prayers and blessings
To those joys of flesh
That enlighten the spirit,
Be soft as the sun shine
That makes the buds bloom
And the bees dance in the breeze!
Major Dr. Mrs. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue. A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
CHIMNEY
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Chimney has smoke to express.
Smoke that mocks the clouds,
Smoke that smacks the lodging swift,
Smoke that slanders the sanctum sky.
Chimney has soot to lie.
Soot that soothes the silhouette,
Soot that daubs the prying crow,
Soot that suits the veiled night.
Chimney has aroma to belch.
Aroma that arms the curry,
Aroma that wafts to the weathercock,
Aroma that arouses the nascent dusk.
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.
BOL BAM HAR HAR BAM
Ananya Priyadarshini
“Why do they want us to take our shoes off? Yaar, it's so filthy!”, Maya told in a complaining tone. I thought she'd burst into a cry sometime soon. Had Neha been here, she'd have pulled her jeans up her calves and walked into the kaanwaria camp faster than me. Nay, while being around beauties like Maya, one shouldn't even let Neha's thoughts cross his mind.
‘Your goodness, you spoke that in English, else you'd have got us landed in a situation wherein we'd be calling our fathers as Mausa, I thought to myself.
What I said was, “It's where they rest. It's where their objects of worship are kept, most importantly those earthen pots filled with water. They eat and sleep here. Won't it be rude to bring in footwears, Maya?”
“But Ajay, these jeans I'm wearing are brand new and they're of ice blue shade. Look at the mud around. What if they get stained?”
“Wash them, you idiot!’, I again thought and gulped the thought down.
“Agar daag Lagne se kuchh achha hota hai, to daag achhe Hain! (If getting a stain does some good, then the stain is good!)”, I hopelessly copied and pasted a dialogue from a detergent ad, instead.
“Rubbish!”, she didn't filter her words.
Neha also calls my statements and opinions rubbish, but that never hurts me or anyone. Lack of arrogance or behavioral sense? Whatever! I dusted Neha’s thoughts again and watched Maya tie her highlighted, straightened, smoothened, neatly cut, blow dried hair in a bun. Neha- that girl just wears her long black hair in plates. No accessorial, no styling. God knows what era she belongs to!
“let's go!”, Maya told, but I felt like l received some command. I was thinking how Neha wears a pair of sneakers with every outfit but now, guiding Maya into the kaanwar camp was more important.
I'm a medical student. My college is in a city that also has a holy River with a very famous Shiva Temple on its banks. So, witnessing kaanwar devotees on their pious journey, carrying water from the holy rivers on their shoulders, chanting Lord Shiva's various names was not a big deal in the month of Shravan (July-August). Me and Neha, my bestfriend at college would often take a walk to a tea stall located near the temple. Hence we often used to come across kaanwariyas on our way. Just by the tea stall, they would be camping. You can safely call it a fair. Shops that sell gamchhas (colorful, usually saffron, towels indigenous to odisha), Dhotis, rudrakshya beaded accessories- the ground had everything. Also, food stalls that served pure vegetarian foods. Walking by, I often asked looking at peculiar things their usage in rituals and Neha, with all due patience would explain me everything.
“How do you know?”, I asked her, amazed at her extensive knowledge.
“Curiosity! My hometown also bears a major Shiva Temple and was a major attraction to kaanwar devotees. Back in childhood when I walked past such camps, I used to ask questions- to the person who accompanied me or at times, to some devotee! They've explained me everything in detail!”, Neha would say.
Curious, so knowledgeable. I thought of Neha. I was startled by a sudden burst of voice.
“How ill-mannered! Don't you have minimum courtesy, if not respect towards Shiva's devotees? How can you call us Baaya? We're no mad people, you rich stupid woman!”, one of the men was shouting at Maya.
“What did just happen?”, I grew overly nervous.
“she just called us Baaya!”, the man wailed.
“Are you deaf? I'm calling you Baaya . What's wrong….”, Maya was ready for a good bout of quarrel.
“oh wait wait, both of you. Bhaina, she's calling you bhaiya, not Baaya. Her pronunciation could be wrong but she, in no way, was offending you!”, I intervened. “Maya, apologize”
“What nonsense….”, she was about to restart something when I intervened again.
“Maya. Apologise.. NOW”
“Sorry, Bayaa”, she said in a voice that bore no apologies.
Baaya in odia means maniac and nobody in odisha uses 'bhaiya’ to address someone brotherly. It was genuine of the kaanwariya to misunderstand Maya's terrible mispronunciation. However, as promised, I helped her interview guys and gather information she needed for her article. I clicked numerous pics of her with my recently bought DSLR. But all through this, I recalled how Neha would fondly call local people 'bhaina’ or 'mausa’ and get along them easily. How she'd decline my offer to get herself clicked on my DSLR. How sweet it was to hear her speaking flawless Odia.
“Eew Ajit, I stepped on shit!”, she screamed. She was standing on holy cow dung, which is used for their rituals. Kaanwariyas were already angry with by then and her words were just adding fuel to fire. I held her hand, dragged her aside and apologized to the kaanwariyas.
“Maya, please take care, will you?”, I was annoyed for all the right reasons. She just shrugged it off.
I regretted the day Neha was pulled in for evening casualty duties and hence, our evening walks to the tea stall got suspended for a month. However, we still used to come here at our own free hours but not together anymore. I was missing someone. Right before I could realise whom I was missing, a friend of mine from law college introduced me to his pretty friend, Maya- a student of journalism. Then, Maya began her daily visits to the same tea stall and we gradually webbed up a familiarity. One day, she asked me if I could help her in her assignment that needed a close study of 'kaanwar yatra'. She was a native of Odisha but had stayed abroad for four years. So, she found interacting with people in Odia a challenge. Oh, well! But, didn't I just say that she was pretty- waist length dark brown hair, colorful dangling earrings on both sides of a face that bore sharp features, a petite body frame well donned in simple, yet stylish outfits? Also, I felt needed. I was bored being with Neha, the one who’d do the toughest jobs- even the ones of my share, alone. I wanted to be the 'Neha’ to someone else and Maya came up to be the perfect scapegoat. In short, I agreed! And look where I’m stuck now.
Irritated, yet bound. I was doing all the work for her. Clicking pictures, talking to kaanwariyas and noting down facts, collecting information about rituals and peculiar things being used for the same etc. We were almost done when the group of kaanwariyas began their journey towards the temple. They shouldered their respective decorated bamboos that had two holy water-filed earthen pots hanging from both its ends through ropes. As per rule, the pots should under no circumstances touch the ground.
We saw them walking away in groups, chanting various names of Lord Shiva and loud devotional songs playing along. A few hundred meters away, one of the kaanwariyas fell on the ground. Nobody rushed to his help. His earthen pots broke into pieces and water spilled all around. He seemed to have lost his consciousness. It was the last Monday of the holy month of Shravan and no fellow kaanwariya could risk resting his bamboo on the ground in order to help the sick one. For this could mean tormenting a month long efforts. Before I could reach out to the guy in need, one of the water carrying devotees threw his load and reached out for him.
“don't land in some bullshit now, Ajit. Our work is done, let's leave and let them handle their own circus”, a concerned Maya was pulling me back. And that was it. I decided to finally let her know how selfish she'd been to care for nothing more than a God damned article that could help sell some copies of some newspaper and bring her to the limelight that she had always sought at her workplace. She had a 'you’re an emotional fool' reaction on her face rather than any guilt and walked away. As I reached the unconscious devotee, his heart beat was faster than usual with pounding pulse and rapid, shallow breaths. I helped the devotee who had rushed to his help carry him, hired an auto rickshaw and set out for the hospital.
It was Neha serving in the casualty. She took the patient in for initial resuscitation and returned to tell us that he was actually suffering from alcohol intoxication along with marijuana overdose. Oh, well!
“That guy is from my village itself. Our houses stand in the same lane. I lost a month’s hardwork for his sake but I'm sure Bhole baba won't mind much. He’d have been more disappointed had he lost a devotee. We’ll come again. Next year, maybe”, the kaanwariya who’d accompanied the sick one to hospital said when I asked him why did he choose to make such a sacrifice.
“By the way, sir. Alcohol consumption is prohibited for devotees during Shravan. But who cares?”, he sounded defeated. He walked away to make a call to the parents of his sick friend.
I stood there waiting for Neha's shift to get over so she could accompany me to the tea shop. I'd to tell her everything. Everything.
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.
VISITING CHINA - BEIJING DAY TWO
Kumud Raj
Day 2 begins with a visit to the jade emporium. Never knew that jade existed in so many beautiful colours. There are figurines in many shapes, jade carvings on the wall, an incredible horse in white jade and endless glass cases of jewellery - pendants, rings, ear rings, bracelets, necklaces, all of them so beautiful. The Chinese say that gold has a price but jade is priceless! Most of us spend some of our precious yuan on jewellery - it is well worth the price.
It’s time to head to the Great Wall of China, said to be the only man-made thing visible from space. I don’t know if this is true since it seems nestled in the mountains. The mountains look misty this autumn morn as we drive past endless orchards of ripening persimmon. The mountains are not too steep and the mountain air is bracing. The steps look steep and go on and on to the very clouds it seems......I know I won’t be able to haul my carcass up there, so I stay down enjoying the beautiful mountain scenery and taking selfies while the others take up the challenge of climbing to the top. Four of them eventually make it! We are a group of 12 friends, by the way.
On our way back, we tell our guide that we want a Chinese lunch. So she takes us to a Chinese Muslim restaurant. We order random dishes and they all turn out to be delicious.
After lunch we have a very strange experience. We are taken for a foot massage, or so we think. It is a place of Chinese herbal medicine, something like our ayurvedic centres. But with a HUGE difference. Everything in China seems to be a money-making venture. We walk down corridors lined with beautiful paintings ( in China we are never far from beautiful art) and are ushered into a big room with many comfortable chairs. We sit down and are brought basins of hot water with teabags in them to soak our tired feet. And then the drama begins! A lady in white who claims to be a doctor in Chinese native medicine gives us a brief talk on the benefits of herbal medicine. Then an army of white clad figures marches into the room. They are all doctors! Each of us gets a doctor of her own! He takes my pulse and through an interpreter, tells me I have something wrong with my kidneys and that if I take his medicine, I can be cured in a jiffy. The only catch is that the medicine costs 900 yuan. WHAT?! Kindly multiply that into 11, please. ( In the meantime, my foot is being massaged by a smiling young man) As soon as I refuse the offer, my foot is dropped like a hot potato and since every one of us rejects their costly advice, the army turns and sweeps out of the room. Ha ha ha ........what a scam! The other rooms are full of tourists from the West. I wonder how many of them get cheated by these clowns. The only positive from this misadventure is that we get to use some very clean toilets!! China is absolutely clean in spite of her billions. The roads are broad, the pavements are spotless, flowers are planted on the medians everywhere and there are clean toilets everywhere too. A friend told me on her visit to China she saw them wash the roads every night!
Our final stop for the day is at the Bird’s Nest, the stunning stadium built for the Beijing Olympics in 2008. It looks incredible from the outside...we don’t go in. And walking up to it, we see pillars of flowers that brighten up the entire area....so pretty! The street lights look like modern art. And I manage to take a picture of a hazy Beijing sunset. The trees are changing colour, the evening air is crisp and cold and it’s such a lovely feeling to be there at that time of the evening.
We wind up the day with dinner at an Indian restaurant - our poor vegetarians have been starving most of the day!
Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.
EARTH SOUL WEEPS.
Latha Prem Sakhya
How many times I warned you
I am writhing in agony, stop tormenting me.
Let me live, giving my best to my children
Bur you wouldn't, in the name of expansion
You bored, drilled, tore my bowel,
My life giving waters, choked with garbage snd debris
My breathing space, the fields, smothered with cement jungles
My trees, my oxygen bearers ruthlessly cut down
My bamboo forests wantonly destroyed
Imbalancing my ancient equilibrium
You have been killing me inch by inch for various causes
My children living in the heart of my forest
Brutally murdered in the name of food
You denied everything to the children of the forest
Madhu, a symbol of your sophisticated cruelty
I was the embodiment of patience once.
Now I grieve, they run free, my perpetrators, my tormentors
The innocent and the poor
bear the brunt of my anger Uncontrolled, often my retaliation wild
Your scream for life with in my bowels, breaks my heart
But I am helpless, once unleashed, difficult to stable
I lie supine, a woman without control
Of her body, mind and soul just waiting, waiting
To breath her last or for a rejuvenation
Yes a resurrection when you would merge with me
Sustaining replenishing, protecting
When the human soul merges with earth soul in harmony.
Miracle
Latha Prem Sakhya
I hopped and hopped, he was slithering behind me in a speed I couldn't decipher. I had no way to escape from his open, fanged mouth. Suddenly on my way stood a stump. With one hop I reached the top and sat balancing myself. I watched him with my heart in my mouth and my frog body trembling, as he tried to climb the stump with his long, snaky, slimy body. A whirl wind? I almost lost my balance. There right in front of me landed a huge eagle watching him keenly. I gave a sigh of relief. Yes miracles happen in lives like ours too.
Ellumanushan
Latha Prem Sakhya
“Then what did Ellumanushan ( skeleton) do?" Denny and Harry were all ears. Granny was telling them a story. Every story should have the Ellumanushan they insisted."He ran for his life” granny continued, "until he reached a small house. In the darkness he found an open door. As he entered, an owl and a bat stopped him. But when they heard his sad story they hid him in the cellar". "Did the ummakki (monster) come?" Harry asked anxiously."Yes, the owl and the bat drove him away as they had become friends with Ellumanushan". The children sighed and fell asleep.
Instinct
Latha Prem Sakhya
It was a hot day, with my fledgeling under my wings I dozed off im my cool nest. Suddenly I felt her being pulled out by a predator. I flew after him, with my tiny feet I managed to clutch my baby while pecking at him. Finally I was able to peck at his eyes with my sharp beak. He let go off my baby and flew off. Oh what a nightmare, I woke up to see framed at the entrance the head of an owl. I flew at him and pecked at his eyes and saw him falling down.
Novel Friendship
Latha Prem Sakhya
A mongoose chased a snake, for her pups. But it climbed up a tree. The snake said to the waiting mongoose, "Friend, we are born enemies, but it is time we became friends and stopped killing each other, come let us live amicably". The thought of her hungry pups was in her mind yet she agreed and decided to find something else for thèm. The snake slithered down and they moved in companionable silence. As soon as they reached the Mongoose’s burrow the hungry pups fell upon the snake and tore him to pieces even before the mother could react.(100words)
Peace
Latha Prem Sakhya
Umbaaa... the sound of the calf was piteous.Water was rising very fast. I stopped wading through the water and turned around. There she was standing totally drenched her big sad eyes on me. Someone had left her behind. I ran to her and I could hear my people calling me to hurry up. I lifted her and placed her on my shoulders. She did not struggle. As I was helped onto the boat and the calf was put down there was peace within me. If I had disregarded her cry her two eyes would have haunted me for life.
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
SOME PLAIN SPEAKING
Dr. Molly Joseph M
These days I wonder,
when the car screeches to a halt
then, then only
the driver realises
he has been close to
hitting
the vehicle in front....
His mind roaming, brooding over
things more immediate than this...
These days I wonder,
when bubbly conversations, spirited interventions suddenly come to a stop or stalemate,
and silence, the mighty
leviathan devours,
why people are more obsessed
with themselves than with others...
These days I wonder,
while all struggle to push borders
some stop in between
rating the quantum of work involved
and recede and watch
the show going on...
It is easier to watch than to work..
These days I wonder,
how beneath a facade of let go
there remains hurt and guarded response
which may coalesce and cascade
killing all that turned constructive..
These days I wonder
why I am left all alone
to wonder
at these wonders around... !
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).
REALITY
Sharanya B
Fate dances upon my head
The past dwells in my heart
My vision falls blind to the present
by the painful brightness of
my fear of the future...
The world is tinted yellow,
The atmosphere feels dry and parched,
These experiences, too sharp for me to swallow
They set me in motion, swing me back and forth, through what
appears to be a never ending loop,
Constant rumble in my head,
My mind too fragile, to take a leap of faith,
It tells me not to be a coward, take the leap and break the fate,
I listen to my instinct, I take the fall,
It was a short way down,
But I've found my feet now, immersed in brown
It's the raw earth I am standing on now,
I can see the green and blue, the colours of life,
I feel the breeze, the calming breaths of leaves and rivers that gently flow...
A parched throat, drenched by cool water from an earthen pot,
As I feel able to lift my voice,
I thank my soul, I thank my instinct,
that broke me away from a strange infinity,
I thank the faith that brought me down
to this reality, where I belong...
Sharanya B, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
A LONE SENTINEL (2019)
Aniamma Joseph
A lone sentinel
I’m!
Waiting for my Master to come
Where’s he?
Not master, more a father to me!
Where has he gone?
It’s time to work on his fencing
What’s happening?
I don’t see the house
*****
Small it was, my Master’s
Mine also, my sweet home!
Where’s the Mistress of the house?
Mistress? More a mother to me!
The little boy? Where’s he?
I played with him
His Pa and Ma?
More a brother and sister to me!
What happened? I know not
A thunder I heard, to be sure
A rolling sound
A whirling wind
Then water gushing down
Heavily, heavily on the ground
Rumbling, roaring sound
The ground shook vigorously
Something below sucked it down
I jumped from mound to mound
Then I saw the house, my home
Going deep down into the unseen chasm
My father was inside
My mother was inside
My brother was inside
My sister was inside
My little friend was inside
In deep slumber
Vanished deep down
I shrieked, I screamed
Something choked in my throat
I saw them going down
They were sleeping
Were they dreaming?
*****
I’m waiting for them to come up
People come and go
They lift up men and women
Children and cattle
I don’t see my father and mother
I don’t see my brother
I don’t see my sister
I don’t see the little boy
People give me some food
I can’t eat
They give me some milk
I can’t drink
Where’s my Pa and Ma?
Where’s my brother and sister?
Where’s my little friend?
I try to bark, but the bark is stifled in my throat.
(17.08.2019)
Prof. Dr. Aniamma Joseph (Kuriakose) is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 28 books of the members.
STRANGER IN THE MIRROR
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
The stranger across me stared hard.
I felt my skin crawl, and shrink under the gaze.
The wrinkly face had an unearthly dimension
The frizzy white strands held a ghastly halo
The cold stare continued nonchalantly
Do I know you?
My eyes pleaded silently.
Did I see a smirk cross her lips?
I searched frantically.
Do I sense familiarity?
I was unable to remember.
I wanted to be rid of her
I wanted to be away from her.
She spewed unpleasantness.
Yet, I couldn't resist touching her.
We were only a sheet of glass apart.
I couldn’t feel her
My fingers just slipped thru.
She didn't scream
No, she is no longer me.
I was long gone….
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.
BOOK OF MEMORIES
Chandini Santosh
The stream was carpeted with water lilies and hyacinths,
Memory begins with the delicate stem of hyacinths
Dropped in a Horlicks bottle. Memories begin like that,
Without a beginning. The girl on a swing,
Who would throw herself into my arms,
Smelling of mint. Or naphthalene balls. I feel her gurgling weight
In my fainting hands.
The candy pink muslin sari l stole
From my grandmother's metal trunk,
The sari that was to drape her on her journey
To the ancestral graveyards,
But turned up in tatters on a peasant girl's sinuous body,
The hot tears that wet my pillow,
And the bamboo stick welts
On my bottom that burnt with ache.
That long ago night on a train and the stranger,
Who sat at my ankle through the night
Without once touching me,
Why did you sit so silent on a train that chugged into the blue night,
Why. The ache of being away from your own. Being with strangers.
All memories are bottled dreams,
Set fire by the incandescence of the night sky,
Where stars rule,
And wake those unheard songs from the meadows in the distance,
Smelling of jasmines,
And how, swiftly, the blue jasmine tree
Shoots up in my eyes. I could not bear to smell them,
Could not bear to not smell them.
Memory begins there.
Now,
I shall close the book of memories,
And take a long nap.
Chandini Santosh is a novelist, poet and painter. Her poems have been published widely in national and international anthologies and eminent journals. She has two novels and three solo collections of poems. She welcomes readers' feedback on her email - chandinisantosh@gmail.com
Horror House
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
The dim light from the dilapidated house across
the street,
Draped by the darkness of bushes
Sent scare through many hearts every night.
Howling of dogs,
Hooting of owls
Elevated the fear factor.
No one dared to step closer
To the Horror house.
Inquisitiveness added to many hearts
Juveniles threw stones towards it,
Expecting reciprocations ...
Vehicles never stopped nearby.
Lone travellers avoided it's vicinity..
There was a daring guy,
His mind tickled him each moment
And he dared to stride towards the Horror House.
Amazing facts revealed
Sending chills through every spine
The weary figure lying in a corner, comforted by someone unknown
An enemy who seeked shelter
Using Horror house as an alibi to protect himself from known dangers
The daring man fumbled ,
Thoughts of humanity dragged him behind
Undisclosed remains the light of Horror House
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her family
Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
THE UNSEEN BUT FELT
Grace Obimuonso
Out of something,
Comes something.
An existence
Greater than the greatest.
Like an eagle
Amidst the birds
Brave and visionary.
It soar higher and higher
Mindless of nothing,
But a greater height.
Like the evolution of man it came,
Still unknown
Yet, it strive for a betterment
And still, the best.
An unseen felt force,
A non existing existence
Encourages my heart
To cry not
But try more.
It seeks for more power,
Like a running waterfall.
Slowly it hurries,
To catch up
With the very next.
Simply so difficult,
To tour amongst mountains
Higher than possibility
To the thin and tall
Though mighty hill
To the very last.
Grace Obimuonso is a young poet of fourteen years. She was born in Ojo, Lagos. Currently she hails from the Eastern part of Nigeria. She is a poet, a writer and a seamstress. Her pen name is Ace Lorraine.
REDEMPTION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
On the eve of their daughter’s marriage, Chhotu and his wife receive a letter and a gift from Chachaji, an old family friend. The letter opens up quite a few secret wounds from the past. The memory of a dark evening when they almost lost their daughter floods their heart with deep anguish. The fathomless love for their sweet child overflows with a sad longing typical of Indian parents when their daughter is about to leave them to step into a new home …………..
REDEMPTION
In the midst of shehnai music and the din of an assortment of guests and relatives, I suddenly sensed a presence at my side. Our daughter Ganga’s wedding was just two days away. I turned and found my wife Shalini standing there. She looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears, a letter and a parcel in her hands. I panicked.
“What happened? Why are you crying? Whose letter is that?”
In reply she just handed over the letter and parcel to me. Her tears continued unabated. I opened the parcel. It was a red jewellery box. Inside was the most beautiful necklace I have seen in my life - a gold chain, with a string of vivid red stones joined together with loving care. The stones were blood-red, as if someone had squeezed his heart out and frozen it in pieces of timeless beauty. And the stones were sitting there spellbound, wondering how they could be made so eloquently charming.
Shalini had already opened the letter. The writing was familiar. Oh, the letter is from Chachaji! I was surprised. How did Chachaji know about Ganga’s wedding? I had not sent an invitation to him. In fact, for the last twelve years, I had never written to him, nor replied to his many letters. In my memory, Chachaji had become just a forgotten shadow in the canvas of life, a dim footprint in the journey of time.
Today with his letter, my mind went many years back - to our small house at Dhanbad, its open courtyard, the smell of jasmine in the evenings, and the incessant screams, shrieks, and chatter of our daughter Ganga every waking hour of the day. Our Ganga, the cute baby who had filled our life with so much joy and fulfillment. Pages from memory unfolded before my eyes, in the background of Ganga’s laughter, childish talks and our busy life.
It was 1984. I had just finished my degree in Metallurgy and got a job in a mining company in Dhanbad. Shalini and I were newly married. Dhanbad was new to both of us and we were looking for friends. Two days before Diwali, the Festival of Lights, my colleague Alok said,
“Come to Chachaji’s party on Diwali eve. Everyone from our company and many others will be there. You will find a lot of interesting people.”
I was curious.
“Chachaji? You mean your uncle?”?
Alok broke into a huge laugh.
“No my friend, he is not my real chacha. He is the universal Chachaji of Dhanbad. Everyone calls him Chachaji, even people across three generations. He is the owner of the Chacha-Chachi Saree Bhandar at the Chowk. The funny thing is, he is not married, says the saree shop is his chachi! Spends the whole day there and even the nights during festival times. He is a great guy, tells funny jokes, sings well and his parties are the best in the town - lively and entertaining. Both of you should come. I have already told him. He will call you.”
Chachaji’s call came within half an hour. From the throaty voice, I knew this must be an open man with a large heart. We were happy to accept his invitation. The Diwali party was a fantastic experience for us. More than a hundred people were presentand Chachaji had time for everyone. In his mid forties, he was a charismatic person, there was no doubt about it. He sang old Hindi songs really well. I am also passionately fond of old Hindi songs. I sang a couple of melancholic songs, ‘Ek wo bhi diwali thi, ek ye bhi diawali hey’ and ‘Sarangaa teri yaad mein’.
Chachaji had found out my name was Chhotu. He teased me,
“Hey Chhotu, you have just been married. Why are you singing such sad songs?Is Bahu torturing you too much?”
Everyone burst into laughter. Shalini’s face became red with embarrassment.
That was the beginning of a deep friendship between us and Chachaji. He had this wonderful quality of striking a friendship with everyone and make him feel great about it. We visited each other’s home quite frequently, in the company of mutual friends. And gradually, Chachaji became like a family member to us.
When our daughter was born seven months later, Chachaji was overwhelmed with joy. He named her Ganga, saying that was his mother’s name. We accepted, out of respect for Chachaji and his departed mother. Despite our mild protests, he loaded Ganga with dozens of toys and dresses. We spent some of the happiest evenings with him, he singing beautiful lullabies for Ganga, his eyes moist with emotion.
Time passed. Ganga grew up to be a cute, active baby, full of pranks and laughter. Chachaji was her favorite person, more so because of the abundant supply of toffees and toys. We used to tease that Chachaji was making sure Ganga would grow up to become a government official, fond of bribes and gifts! Chachaji disagreed, “Our Gudiya will become Miss World one day and spread joy and beauty wherever she goes!”
Three years into our friendship with Chachaji, something unexpected happened, and Chachaji’s life took a completely different turn. His elder brother, who was in politics, represented Dhanbad in the Legislative Assembly. He was also the Revenue Minister of the state. He suddenly died of a heart attack.
Chachaji went to Patna to bring his dead body for cremation in Dhanbad. His brother was extremely popular and thousands of people came for the funeral. There was a huge crowd and Chachaji got lost in that crowd. That was the last time we felt he was within our reach. He moved away, sucked by the whirlpool of events. The Chief Minister made him the Revenue Minister to fill his brother’s place. He contested the elections and won hands down.
Chachaji got extremely busy with his work and political activities. Initially he came to Dhanbad once every week, but gradually the frequency became less. The shop was handed over to his sister’s son to manage and whenever Chachaji came to town, he remained busy with phone calls, meeting local leaders and the people. But he always made it a point to see us, and spend some time playing with Ganga, telling her stories and listening to her chatter.
But we could see the change in him. His mind was always preoccupied. He remained absent-minded. Sometimes he would remove himself from us, talk on the telephone, giving instructions in a harsh tone, the language bordering on offensive.
Whenever we visited his house, we found strange kind of people, sitting in his chamber or outside. We had the sense to know that some of these chaps were not desirable types.
Gradually, we felt a bit uncomfortable in visiting Chachaji at his home. He also understood our discomfort. In fact, he was very happy when we invited him for dinner at our place, to meet Ganga and play with her. But his timings were so uncertain that it was embarrassing to include others in the dinner. Sometimes he would turn up close to midnight, keeping others waiting from eight o’ clock. So finally it came down to a one-to-one dinner with Chachaji, even late into the night. Ganga, surprisingly, would keep awake, waiting to play with him, and grab toffees, chocolates, and toys from him.
Late at night, after dinner at our home, Chachaji used to feel relaxed. Ganga would have gone to sleep on his lap, after listening to his stories. Chachaji would narrate to us his experiences in Patna, and share with us details of state politics and secrets of a few of his admirers and detractors. One day he was feeling expansive after a sumptuous dinner.
“You people will never imagine the kinds of things we have to do in politics. It is a game of cut-throat competition and survival. You need money and God knows where one has to dip his hands to get it.”
Shalini smiled and asked jocularly.
“Chachaji, why don’t you reveal those secrets to us? You have told us so many things! Let us also know the secret of making money!”
Chachaji shuddered,
“No Bahu, it’s better not to know those things. Some of them are like figments of a horrible nightmare. Good that I am not married and I don’t have a family. At least I won’t have to feel guilty before my own family!”
Shalini pounced on the opportunity to pull his legs.
“So, Chachaji, we are not your family? You have been lying to us all these days, saying all of us are like one big family!”
Caught off guard, Chachaji felt a little embarrassed.
“Arrey Bahu, what are you saying? You people are more than a family to me. And Ganga Bitiya? She is the throb of my heart! God bless her!”
Another evening, after dinner, Chachaji gave us a rude shock.
“You know a professional killer has been given a supari to kill me!”
Ganga had gone off to sleep on the sofa with her head on Chachaji’s lap. Shalini was dozing off. She got up with a start.
“What, Chachaji? What are you saying? A supari? You mean a contract to kill you? Is it true? How did you know? Do such things happen in real life? We thought that is all filmy stuff.”
“Yes, it is true. The DGP himself called me last week, saying he is sending the I.G. Intelligence to brief me. That I.G. is from Dhanbad and is a great fan of mine. He disclosed that a don of the coal mafia here has put out a contract for my killing.”
“Why Chachaji?”
“Political ambition, what else? These days a special security squad is following me everywhere. It is a bloody nuisance.”
Shalini was curious. She moved towards the window,
“You mean some squad fellows are standing outside our house? Wow, Chachaji, we have become famous, thanks to you. Can I take a peek at them, through the window?”
Chachaji smiled at her childlike excitement.
“You can’t see them. It is their job to remain invisible and watch for danger.”
“How long will they be with you?”
“I don’t know. As long as the danger persists. May be till the don gets bumped off in an encounter.”
Shalini was shocked.
“Bumped off? What do you mean, bumped off? How can somebody be bumped off in cold blood?”
“It’s either him or me. Now that he has put a contract for my killing, only one of us will have the chance to live.”
I couldn’t hide my disgust.
“Chachaji, why are you going through all this? You had such a happy, carefree life before you became a minister! Why, we haven’t heard you singing an old song for more than a year now.’
Shalini nudged me and added archly,
“And for more than a year, you haven’t talked about the Bollywood heroines, which you used to do so often with a rare glint in your eyes.”
Chachaji and I laughed, a little defensively, remembering the happy banter we used to exchange, fantasizing about the raving beauties of the film world, the way adult males with colourful imagination usually do. I continued,
“Why don’t you simply give up this world of cut-throat politics, Chachaji? Is it really worth, all this money, power, and admirers, if your life is at risk?”
Chachaji flashed a sad smile.
“It’s difficult to make you understand Chhotu. Politics is like an addiction. Once you are in it, you are in a different world, floating in a cloud. There is money, tons and tons of it, often easily acquired. There is comfort that you cannot imagine from outside. And above all there is the power - power over people, over things. The power that comes with unabated adulation, and the power to decide people’s destiny with a mere signature on the file. That is a heady feeling, rare in life, reserved for the few who get political power and lord over people’s destiny. It’s impossible to give it up. A person who loses political power lives in constant torment, like a drug addict without drugs.”
I am not sure I understood the feeling fully. But after Chachaji left, Shalini and I talked late into the night. Where have we lost our cheerful, innocent Chachaji, who used to crack jokes with his friends, whose eyes used to get moist while singing, ‘Chalri sajani, ab kya soche.’ The Chachaji of today is a different person entangled in a labyrinthine maze of power, intrigue and senseless violence, where he might be killed or few others might be bumped off so that he will live! We were worried for him.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Around three years after that evening, Bihar was seized with a new problem. Incidents of kidnapping became very common. Almost every day there were reports of children getting kidnapped. With elections to the State Assembly approaching, the government held the opposition responsible for engineering the kidnappings to discredit the party in power. The opposition blamed the government for staging the kidnappings with police help to collect money through ransom. Nobody knew for sure how it happened, but the kidnappings continued unabated.
In those days of uncertainty, on a cold December afternoon my phone rang at the office. I picked up the phone. It was Shalini, crying. My heart sank. Was there a problem? I asked her to compose herself and tell me what was wrong.
What she told me broke my heart to pieces. Ganga, our eight-year old daughter,
the throb of our life, was missing. She had not returned from the school. Voice choking with worry, I asked Shalini, hasn’t the school bus come? How about the other children? Has she asked the other parents?
Between sobs, she told me that in the morning Ganga insisted on going to school on her bike and since the distance is only half a kilometer, she had let her go. Shalini was hysterical, blaming herself for our daughter missing after school. I too broke into uncontrollable crying, fearing the worst. After a minute or so I told her not to lose hope and promised her no matter how much ransom it costs us, we will get back our daughter. Beyond any consolation, she kept down the phone. I felt as if someone was cutting my heart to pieces and every passing minute was a moment of excruciating pain. I folded my hands and prayed to God to save our Ganga from any harm and renewed my pledge that I will spend any amount of money to get her back.
The phone rang again. The kidnapper! Must be asking for ransom! With shaking hands I lifted the receiver. It was Chachaji on the other side! With trembling voice choked with sorrow, I told him,
“Chachaji, something terrible has happened. Ganga has been kidnapped while returning from school!”
There was a reassuring laugh from Chachaji.
“Chhotu, don’t worry. Ganga is safe. Her kidnappers had stopped at a traffic light, when my chaps spotted Ganga and gave a chase. Finally my men overpowered them and brought Ganga home. The kidnappers had made her unconscious. Now she has recovered. She is sitting with me, having pastry and biscuits and chatting merrily with me. Come and take her home.”
I called Shalini immediately and informed her. And then I took out my car and rushed to Chachaji’s home. Ganga was sitting near Chachaji, giggling and merrily drinking coca cola. When she saw me she ran towards me and jumping up, dangled herself on my neck and kept on kissing me. My eyes flooded with tears. I came to Chachaji and thanked him for saving Ganga from the kidnappers. Chachaji was furious.
“Chhotu, are you an idiot? How do you let Ganga go to school on a bike?’
“Sorry Chachaji, Ganga usually takes the school bus. Today I had left home at seven in the morning. Shalini says Ganga was insistent, so she allowed her to go to school on bike.”
“Tell Bahu not to make this mistake again. You know how bad the times are. What is the guarantee they would have let Ganga go even after collecting the ransom? Just think how terrible it would have been if my chaps had not rescued Ganga Bitiya!”
I started shivering with fear. Just the thought of Ganga in the clutches of the kidnappers made me sweat, like I was having a stroke. There was a common toilet between the drawing room and Chachaji’s office. Out of panic I ran to the toilet.
When I came out of the toilet after a few minutes, I heard Chachaji’s voice from the office room, as if he was quarreling with somebody. Curious, I glanced into the office. Chachaji was standing near his chair. His face was red with anger. A man in black trousers and a red tee-shirt was sitting calmly on the opposite chair, munching some nuts from his pocket. From his looks he appeared to be one of those slimy, vicious goons who look like any other man on the street, but capable of inflicting extreme violence without batting an eyelid. Chachaji was shouting at him.
“Get out! Get out immediately. Who let you in?”
The man didn’t care, just went on munching the nuts.
“The day I need permission to enter someone’s house, I will be out of business. Now that I have got in, if you have guts, throw me out.”
Chachaji was furious.
“I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave. Otherwise I will call the security guards who will shoot you down.”
“Chachaji, don’t shout. Don’t threaten me. For a crook like you, it will take me just a minute to crush the life out of you with my bare hand. Now, listen to me. I heard that you are going to return the packet?”
Chachaji panicked and looked at the drawing room, his eyes showing naked fear. His voice croaked.
“Run away, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I don’t care if you want to talk to me or not. Just listen to me. Whether you keep the packet or return it, I want my fifty thousand rupees. That’s the price your men have fixed with me for picking up the packet. I want the money delivered to me by eleven tomorrow morning.”
Chachaji was now choleric, with anger, anxiety and nervousness.
“Just get lost. I don’t want to hear anything now. Leave my house.”
The man emitted a derisive laughter looking at the panicky, helpless face of Chachaji. Scorn poured from him, like unwanted garbage spilling from a broken bin.
“Don’t try to act funny with me Chachaji. If I don’t get the money by eleven tomorrow, I will pick up the same packet again and sell it in Calcutta, to roam on its streets, begging for alms with her amputated hands. Remember!”
The man left with the assurance of a professional who knows his job. I entered the room. The moment Chachaji saw me, he knew I had heard the conversation. All the blood drained out of his face, he started sweating and sat down on the chair. Unknown to him, his hands folded and he looked at me with the helpless gaze of a person about to climb the gallows for execution. It appeared as if with his pale face and folded hands he was begging my forgiveness.
Without a word, I left the room, picked up Ganga and drove home, my mind filled with a sense of deep anguish. I felt like I was returning from a burial ground after burying a close, dear relative. Ganga tried to cheer me up on the way with her pranks, but I had no words left in me. Ganga ran to Shalini the moment we reached home. Shalini picked her up and showered her with a thousand hugs and kisses.
After a listless dinner I narrated the whole story to Shalini. That night we made Ganga sleep between us, holding her in a tight embrace and reassuring ourselves that our heart-throb was back with us, with a new lease of life for her and for us. We didn’t let her out of our sight even for a moment, as if we had the moon from the sky in our fist and the moment we loosen it, she will jump out and escape again.
Next morning the phone rang at ten. It was Chachaji.
“Chhotu, where is Ganga? Has she gone to school?”
“No, we didn’t send her to school today.”
“Good. Chhotu, you, Bahu and Ganga come home this evening. We will have dinner and I will sing some choicest old Hindi songs for you.”
“Aren’t you going for your election tour today?”
“No! Haven’t you watched the news this morning? It’s in the TV, in all the channels. This morning, I resigned from my ministership, and from my Assembly seat. I have also quit politics. I am back at my shop, selling sarees.”
“Quit politics? Why, what happened to your famous addiction, for which you get ‘packets’ lifted from schools and roads?”
There was an audible sigh after a long pause. The sadness in Chachaji’s voice was palpable.
“Chhotu, yesterday my wayward, battered spirit was purified by Ganga. No amount of power or money can take me back to politics again, now or ever. Come home, we will chat in the evening.”
We didn't go to Chachaji's home that evening, then or ever. Instead in the afternoon we packed our luggage, locked the house, handed over the keys to a neighbour and boarded a train to Surat. Since I had a degree in Metallurgy, I got a fabulous job in the diamond industry here. For the past twelve years, I have never gone back to Dhanbad, not even once. The memory of Dhanbad and all that was associated with it, has remained locked in the deepest recesses of my mind like a forgotten scar of an old wound. After we had settled down in Surat, I had received a few letters from Chachaji, but I never opened them.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today, after all these years, the letter and parcel from Chachaji revived those memories and brought an aching pain in our heart. Shalini had already read the letter. I sat down, Shalini by my side, and started reading the letter.
“Dear Chhotu,
I know you will not reply to this letter. In the past twelve years, you have never done that. I also know why you left Dhanbad on a cold December day and never set your foot again on this grey town. Your old friend Alok told me about Ganga Bitiya’s marriage. I could not restrain myself. I am her Chachaji, as much as yours. There was a time when she used to reign over my heart like a celestial princess. And how fond she was of me! In any crowd, if she saw me, she used to come running to me for a hug. I have often wondered, didn’t she ever enquire about me after leaving Dhanbad? Hasn’t she ever asked you about her Chachaji, how he vanished from her life?
Chhotu, had you invited me, I would have come myself and put this lovely necklace around my Gudiya's pretty neck and blessed her, with every drop of goodwill from my heart. In my absence, please give it to her as a token of my love and blessings. This small gift symbolizes my years of repentance and regret. It is as if, I have been waiting for this touch of salvation to liberate my tormented soul from the pyre of self-abhorrence and purify it with a sense of redemption.
Yours
In anguish, Chachaji.
By the time I finished the letter, my eyes were moist with tears. I looked at Shalini. Her face was contorted with grief. Grief, in the memory of that dark December evening, when we almost lost our dearest daughter, our heart-throb and the very essence of our being. And now the grief of the impending separation in two days’ time, when she will leave us and go away to a new home, tore our heart to shreds. We held hands and silently cried away, drowning the sorrow that every parent goes through at a daughter’s wedding.
Ganga saw us from a distance and came to us. She took our hands, locked us in a tight embrace, and burst into sobs. Like many unforgettable moments in our life, we got drenched in Ganga's tears, purifying ourselves in the reassurance of our abiding love for her, today, tomorrow and forever.
Notes
Shehnai: A musical instrument played during wedding ceremonies
Chachaji: Literally, father’s brother. The term is also used to address an older male person
Dhanbad: A mining town in the state of Jharkhand in Eastern India
Surat: A town in the state of Gujarat, famous for its diamond industry
Diwali: The autumn festival of lights when lamps are lit in every home to celebrate the triumph of good over evil
Chachi: Aunt or Chacha’s wife
Chhotu: An affectionate form of address for a younger person
Bahu: A form of addressing brother’s or son’s wife
Gudiya: Literally, a toy. It’s a form of addressing or referring to a small girl
Supari: A contract to kill
Chamcha: An ardent follower
Bitiya: A way of addressing or referring to one’s own daughter or a friend’s daughter
Ganga: Refers to the holy river Ganges. Many girls are named as Ganga in India to signify beauty and purity
DRIBBLE A DRABBLE
STREET LIFE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
We, four friends from the college, in our fifties, were walking back after an evening darshan in the Kashi Viswanath Temple in Varanasi. There, leaning on the closed shutters of a shop abutting a pavement in Godoliya, we saw a man wrapped in a blanket looking vacantly at the passersby. The face looked familiar. We stopped to peer at him. Yes, it was Niranjan, our old class mate! Stoned? Dazed? Crazed? We asked him what he was doing there, leaning against the shutters of a shop! He grinned sheepishly and said, "Just experiencing the street life of the holy city!"
We looked at each other. There was no doubt in our mind this was our friend Niranjan. We had asked him in Odiya what he was doing there and he had replied in our language. So, what exactly was going on in his mind? Why was he lying there on a dirty pavement covered with a filthy blanket? One of us, Dambaru went near him, bent and asked, "Niranjan, do you recognise me?" Niranjan didn't even look at him. He simply turned his face towards the shutters, bent himself to a foetal position and went off to sleep. Or at least he appeared to do so. If he was in his senses and assuming he was not drugged, dazed, or drunk, Niranjan chose to slip into a self-made, seemingly impenetrable cocoon.
We tried once more, by going near him and like a pre-arranged signal, shouted his name in unison. This is what we used to do in our college days, if someone was trying to play difficult with others. Everyone used to gather and shout at him in one voice. And keep shouting, till he behaved with us normally. There was no reason why Niranjan would have forgotten this old, tried and trusted trick in which he himself had participated so many times!
But our old, tried and trusted trick failed to work. Niranjan simply stayed inert, withdrawing a little more into his cocoon. It was obvious he wanted to have nothing with us when he continued to "enjoy the street life of the holy city". So we left him to his foetal sublimity and walked towards a nearby restaurant to have our dinner.
Niranjan of course was the sole topic of our discussion during our walk and while sitting in the restaurant, waiting for our food. Dambaru, who was quite close to him in the college, being his room mate in the hostel, was visibly disturbed. By the time the large helpings of our order arrived, he was listless. One look at the food and he stormed out of the restaurant. Vinod followed him in a second.
Obviously they had rushed out to grab Niranjan and drag him to the dinner table. After all, he was a dear friend for six years in the college. An eccentric to the core, Niranjan had the rare quality of making friends easily and holding on to friendship like a limpet. In any gathering he would effortlessly monopolise the discussion and pontificate on all issues under the sun. From Marx to Madonna he had an opinion on everything. Within the twinkle of an eye he could take you from Dhenkanal to Denmark in a roller coaster ride and drop you back dazed.
After our happy college days when Niranjan joined as a lecturer in Political Science in a college we had no doubt that he would be a great hit among the students, holding them spellbound with his knowledge and forceful pontification. Initially he was in a college near us and we used to meet once in a while but later on he was transferred to Koraput, a far off place and we hardly saw him. We had gone to attend his marriage in a village a few mile from Cuttack and had come to know that his wife was already a government official. We had not met Niranjan and his wife for the last fifteen years.
Dambaru and Vinod returned after an hour, disappointment hanging from their face like a patch of fog from a cliff. They had not been able to locate Niranjan, he had left from the corner where he had settled down to enjoy the street life of Benaras when we had last seen him, and after roaming around all the nearby lanes and bylanes looking for him our two friends had given up the search.
The food had gone cold. We had not eaten, waiting for the two friends to return, with or without Niranjan. Now we asked the waiter to heat it up and serve us again. No one wastes food in the holy city!
Although we decided to look for Niranjan again in the two hours available with us next morning before boarding the train, we knew that Niranjan wanted us to leave him alone. We left Benares but Niranjan didn't leave our mind. No matter what we were doing we always returned to discussing him, recollecting some of his antics in our college days and speculating on what he was doing in Benares lost in its narrow, labyrinthine streets. We decided to probe once we returned to Bhubaneswar.
We started at the village where we had gone to attend Niranjan's marriage. It turned out to be his father-in-law's place. We were told Niranjan was missing for the last three months and his wife Nandini was posted at Bolangir, another far off place. Their only daughter was nine years old and was pining for her garrulous, eccentric father.
Two of us rushed to Bolangir, at least to tell Nandini and her daughter that Niranjan was alive, and we had seen him enjoying the street life of the holy city of Benaras.
Nandini was not surprised to know that her missing husband was found in Benaras -
"This is not the first time he has run away from home. He has done it at least half a dozen times earlier. Your friend will be happy to live the life of a mendicant roaming the streets of holy cities with a begging bowl. He calls himself a servant of the Lord"
We were aghast,
"How did it happen? What about his daughter? Doesn't he miss her?"
"He says he found God in his dreams one day. Lord Shiva beckoning him, inviting him to his twelve holiest abodes. So he goes away for months saying God has called him. But he returns again and again only for our daughter's sake. Look at her, an exact copy of her father, the unruly hair, the sharp nose, the thin lips. When I look at her I feel my husband is with me. And she adores him, eats out of his hands and listens to all kinds of stories from him. When he is here she has no time for me."
"What about his job?"
"Oh, he doesn't care whether if he has a job anymore. Only my friends in Secretariat say no one loses a job in Government. Losing a job in Government is as tough as geting one. Any day my prodigal husband chooses to return to his job, probably he will be taken back, all past sins forgiven, all absences forgotten. He may even get a promotion when his turn comes. Like me, all of you are working in Governement. You must be knowing this!"
We nodded. We had just one more question for Nandini,
"How about you? Will you take him back?"
Nandini looked wistfully at her daughter, happily munching the chips we had taken for her and immersed in the mobile phone,
"I don't want to lose her".
We left, actually feeling jealous of Niranjan. Enjoying the street life of the holy cities like a carefree ascetic, while a loving, caring home life was waiting for him any time he chooses to return! And a government job to go with it!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The small girl came to him at the party and said, "when will I have my Birthday party"? He asked, "why do you want a party"? She smiled sweetly at him, "so that I will get a lot of gifts". He told her "come with me, I will buy you lots of toys and dresses". She again smiled, "but uncle, I also want a cake, candles and balloons". He promised her all that. But then, she walked away dismissing the whole idea, "Nah, I also want a crowd to sing Happy Birthday to me! You seem to be so alone"!
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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