Literary Vibes - Edition XXXI
Dear Friends,
I have great pleasure in welcoming you to the Thirty first edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with lots of brilliant poems and entertaining stories.
In LVXXX I had made an appeal to the readers to develop stories out of the themes contained in the Drabbles. I had written a story on one of my own Drabbles as an illustration. We received a few responses but most of them were off the mark, not dribbling the Drabbles but writing independent stories using the title of the Drabbles.
Let me clarify that a Drabble is a piece of concise writing of around one hundred words. In our scheme of things, they contain the seeds of bigger stories. The readers and our contributors should develop stories with the themes contained in the Drabbles. In the present edition Prof. Geetha Nair has presented a brilliant story drawn on the theme contained in my Drabble "The Street Life" published in LVXXIX. In today's edition also, I have offered a drabble "THE PROCESSION'. The readers are invited to develop stories from the theme contained in the drabble. There are also drabbles from LVXXX by Prof. Latha Sakhya and Prof. Geetha Nair which can be developed into stories.
Hopefully this exercise will be interesting in due course. I invite all of you to participate in it and embellish the pages of LiteraryVibes.
Wish you happy reading of the LiteraryVibes in the coming weekend.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
EVERY NIGHT YOU UNDRESS
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Every night you undress
on your lone bed, hope -
the Gulmohars would bloom
and set fire to the dry grass,
bring the reptile in the open.
Perhaps you miss the fact,
the serpent is dead, and sparkles,
a piece of its cast-off skin from past.
At night you wash yourself
at dark’s turbulent stream,
expect the jasmines and roses
come wafting and anoint
your forest. You forget -
the fire in your loin
has burned down its flora; the musk
it emits is the soot of a hope.
All night you wait for yourself
at the half-ajar eagerness,
command the macho-self, “Apparate*”
before going out to hunt in the world.
It, perhaps, appears guised as a lover,
a sophomore; could be, as a peddler
of faith; but you, a musk deer,
miss to smell your own musk.
(Apparate* is a magic spell in Rowling’s Harry Porter serial novels meaning manifest’)
STRANGE TIME
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
It was a strange year –
we churned our days and desires
in machines churning concrete paste
rhymed to our labourer-cacophony,
flesh getting even with our
maverick thoughts, nomadic dreams.
Your bust with its twin daggers
pierced my eyes as broken shards
from a mirror, I saw my reflections in them.
Your presence up and down the steps
made my armpits wet; in that wetness
an insect in pitcher plant’s dissolving honey.
Stranger evenings waitressed us
in curtained restaurants;
over the table we behaved suave,
underneath we copulated like snakes
in urgent heat, twining and untwining
into hearts’ dark and hot beatings.
The nights were the strangest,
singing the soprano and talking the tenor,
dancing salsa with posturing Nataraja,
we inched ahead and up before
losing footholds and rolling down
Alice’s rabbit hole to the hall of mirrors.
We made love in two tongues,
dreamt in one each, and whispered
nothingness without, only ancient signals.
At climax, the beast came in the open -
uncouth, vulgar, obscene, selfish,
shameless; unabashed in the buff.
Salvation came like divine flesh and wine,
fire-beetles fluttering in our darkness,
fairies zooming on sparking broom sticks
wonder-wands in hand, fueling our fire.
We saw God, a strange creature, a male
confronting a female, both dovetailed together.
(As experienced by two maverick lovers at a work-site)
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
INSISTENT YAYATI (KHELAALI YAYATI)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Dust on the mirror blurs his image,
making it look like his youthful-self
a bit out of focus though;
the tongue however
hesitates to announce,
‘Your racing days are over.’
The illusive youth
is like a cycle race,
the cyclist collapsing on the track,
too tired to finish the race.
Even Yayati of the legends,
a liberal father,
couldn’t share
the youth of his willing son.
Human beings are
no vegetables, that don’t age
once plucked and put in a basket;
not like tender fruits
out of the basket to the knife’s edge
to be eaten as cold salad over days.
This may be the last race
of the old cyclist; Yayati
failed to defy his aging,
how would an ordinary cyclist?
Wouldn’t he realize the inevitable,
have the courage to listen the truth?
THE WONDER BABY (APATYA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Petrified by his cradle,
they gaze at him adoringly
staying immovable; he being
the luminous sun of their lives.
The doting parents
expect their son
to fly his kite very high
from the highest tower,
believing him capable
of achieving beyond all records.
They may, however, one day
have to digest his abject failure.
The parents, who so fondly
have created
this wonderful specimen
between amorous sheets,
mixing together
their flesh, blood and bones,
would maintain the illusion
before the world, hiding
his failures under wraps
till the end of time.
Calcified they would continue
in their adoring silence
by his sun-washed cradle
till their last breath.
Though the contribution
of the parents in making
the son out of their flesh and blood;
their high expectations
dashed in his miserable failures;
and hiding son’s failed missions
under their deadpan
smoke screen face;
seem significant in love
and life of parents; yet
what really matters is the nest
their parental love offers
as the son’s ultimate retreat.
Being parents is a curse,
the death being its only redeemer,
the honourable exit from the noose.
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)”
TAILA’S CONCEPT OF HIS NATION (Desha Kahile Jaahaa Bujhe Taila)
Hrushikesh Mallick
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
His land passes into the hands
of bugbears - the ruin,
the misery, and the penury. His land’s
bloodstains stick to their teeth.
They drag his land’s rotting corpse
uphill, calling it progress.
Taila, however, would rejoice
if his nation shapes up as –
a fistful of intimate sky above
with refreshing air to breathe free;
a plate of rice, even if coarse, to fill tummies;
hubbub of loved ones in and around;
forests, luxuriant with bounties,
full of herbs, fruits, and roots;
bounding with flora and fauna;
aquamarine mountains, resplendent;
brimming rivers with calm monsoons;
a sip of portable water for every lip;
no needy is thrown away
from a doorstep empty-handed;
roads maintained safe
for the undefended delicate maidens;
not even the fickle wind is allowed
to ruffle their fig-leaf wraps.
Taila’s patriotism mantra –
‘love thy neighbour’;
one never should hesitate
while dealing borrowing or lending
a little of something
with neighbours; or when
sharing his bounties with them;
if a pilgrim en route Amarnath,
or a tourist in an unknown terrain
of Kashmir valley is in distress,
an unknown local extends
spontaneous helping hands
like a good Samaritan;
one lives a full life, full of joy,
even if pests destroy the corps;
competes with others
to be martyr for his land in peril
taking the enemy bullets
as if those were kisses of his beloved.
(The poem is from his book “JEJE DEKHI NATHIBAA BHARAT”, 2015)
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)
TWO VOICES
Ms. Geetha Nair G.
Niranjan:
I was leaning against the cold shutter, willing sleep to blanket me against the gusts of memories But they blew into my mind with painful insistence. The streets were emptying.The great market had closed its ancient eyes for the night. There were just a few strollers. Godoliya was ready to rest. Soon it would be asleep, unlike me.
Memories. Like a movie, the past unfolded before my closed eyes.I forced was myself to think of my childhood, back in my village. The brightest boy in the school who captivated the teachers and awed the students with his vigorous rendering of "The Daffodils." An English poem ! An astounding feat ! A boy who was destined to go far, smiled the teachers.
They were right. I topped the Board exams and moved to Varanasi for higher studies.
Zoology had always been my favourite subject. As a child , I had caught tadpoles and dragonflies, cockroaches and moths in an attempt to examine them. "He will be a doctor," my proud mother had prophesied. I didn't care for medicine, though. I wanted to study fauna.
BHU was a broad new world after my miniscule village life. Slowly, I became one of a gang of five. They were all natives of the holy city. I was the only hosteller. Of these four, Abhinav became my closest friend. It was in.his house that we often congregated for "combined study. " There were all sorts of combining but study was minimal.
The heady joys of love and alcohol ! Love came and went but alcohol remained my constant spirited friend.
After my PG, I left BHU for JNU. As the Rajdhani Express took me away from the known, I was filled with elation at what I was moving to. A doctorate in chromosomology. That had become my dream. Abhinav was with me. Only I had made it to JNU. He was coming to keep me company awhile and to see Delhi.
Abhinav. His tall lanky frame, long hippie style hair, kind heart, generous ways... .
My eyes fell on a group of four men who were sauntering along the road. One of them looked so much like Abhinav that I thought I had conjured him out of the past. Abhi, my dearest friend.
A passing car 's headlights lit up my face and theirs.
In a second he was in front of me. "Niranju!" he exclaimed. "After all these years! What are you doing here, all alone at night? "
By then the other three were around me as well. They had grown paunches and lost hair but they were recognizable. The Gang of Five were together again, incredibly .
I wanted to sink into the earth, to disappear in a puff of smoke, to turn invisible.
"Why here ?" the natural question hit me again and again.
I evaded it with a flippant reply.
"Just experiencing the street life of the holy city."
They were scrutinising me. I could read their minds. Drugs? Drink? Insanity?
None of the above, I wanted to assure them.
"Come home with me," said Abhinav.
I closed my eyes, shook my head and remained mute.
They stood by helplessly awhile. Then they drifted away. Silently.Uneasily. Only then did I open my eyes.
Abhinav:
It nearly took my breath away. I had found him. My Niranju, huddled like a tramp by the roadside, not responding to our queries or entreaties. Refusing even to look at his old friends.
I got back home but could not sleep. Naturally.
At 1 am, I drove to where we had seen him. He was lying, embryo-fashion, on the pavement. His blanket barely covered him. When I went up to him, I saw that he wasn't asleep; his eyes were open. I pulled him up, pushed him to the car and got him in. I threw away his tattered blanket. We drove back home in silence.
My family was fast asleep, of course.
I showed him the spare room and made two cups of strong coffee. Niranju had always been a coffee lover. He took the cup eagerly. I sat down facing him remembering the last time I had seen him. He had severed all contact after a couple of years in Delhi. I had learnt that he had drowned his research in bhang and charas and finally left the university with no forwarding address.
Then, about ten years back, out of a clear blue sky, he landed on my doorstep. With him was a young woman, heavily pregnant. He introduced her as Madhu, his wife. My wife of fifteen years and my two children welcomed them. Niranju said he had come to the holy city at his wife's insistence; she had wanted to offer prayers to Kashi Viswanath before their child was born. She seemed a gentle, quiet girl. He became progressively louder and rougher as the night wore on and the bottles emptied. I noticed his trembling hands. I regretted having agreed to give him drinks. At midnight, he wept saying he had ruined his career. He was currently teaching in a third rate college in a small town. It was there he had met Madhu, fifteen years his junior. He sobbed that he had ruined her life as well. I had much trouble getting him to bed. Madhu stood by, weeping silently.
They left the next morning.
And now, so many years later, I was waiting for him to fill in the ominous gaps.
"Abhi, " he began, "you shouldn't have brought me here, to your happy home.
I am a miserable wretch. I wish I were dead, dead like my wife and child.!"
" Tell me about that, " I said.
Words poured out of him like gravel being unloaded from a truck.
"I had found a better-paid job in Solan. My baby girl was three. We stayed in a little house away from the town. We couldn't afford anything else. "
He paused, his face pressed to his palms. I waited.
"One night, I had been drinking , as usual. My little one was asleep but I wanted to give her a joyride. Nothing would stop me. I ordered Madhu to wake her up. I started my scooter. Madhu climbed up behind me with our daughter on her lap. I remember all this, faintly. I speeded down the road. They cried out and Madhu begged me to slow down. I only went faster. Then, Abhinav, a car came round the bend. In a second, we were thrown on the ground. The car's tyres crushed Madhu 's head and my child's body. I ran from the sight, from the blood that flowed black in the moonlight. "
His face was terrible to see. I looked away to hide my feelings as he ended his narration.
"I never returned. Yes, I am a coward, a wretch... . I wandered all these years. A beggar, a mendicant, a penitent... call me what you will. Last week, something drew me to this city of our shared youth. I did not think I would meet you again... ."
I think he must have slept for a couple of hours. Early in the morning, I saw him off. I had forced him to accept some clean clothes and some money.
"You won't see me again, Abhi, " he said by way of farewell.
I was glad to hear that. Roshni was still asleep. I wouldn't have wanted them to meet.
He would never know the secret that my wife and I guarded so carefully. He would never know that a news item on TV the day after the accident had sent me hurrying to Solan, that I had learned that Madhu had died on the spot but that the little one had survived. He would never know how hard I had tried to find him. He would never know that I had adopted his daughter and that she was now the light of our eyes. Our two children had grown up and grown away. Our lives now centred on Roshni.
He would never know. He must never know. He didn't deserve to know.
Or did he ?
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
WAVES OF TRANSPARENCY (FINAL EPISODE)
Sreekumar K
In the afternoon session Patricia dropped a bomb on everyone. Her speech was very positive when it started. But as it went on the room felt colder than it actually was.
"Knowledge creation and dissemination will become more democratic as language ceases to be the only medium of communication between brains. When we substitute words with waves, knowledge will become no one's monopoly. Education, science, technology, health care and such fields of human activity will take a quantum leap. From the morning session, it should be clear to you all that the technology to link brains using gravitational waves is available now. Those who invest in this will be the only ones to make any money out of it. The opinions and suggestion you shared with us about its pros and cons are invaluable for us. Since the consortium feels that you were not adequately rewarded for that, they plan to make you shareholders, free of cost to some extent. At the same time, you are reminded of the agreement between you and the consortium regarding how one of you should volunteer to take part in the field test."
It was then that July and Emily realized the imminent danger that Michael had warned them about. Michael also remembered that economists does not think any lunch is free.
Six years ago when they signed the agreement, everyone thought only of the huge amount in their bank accounts. None of them thought of the unfortunate person among them whose mind would be made totally transparent one day. No one really believed that such a technology would be available during their own lifetime. But now they realize that fate caught up with them.
They all felt like unfortunate convicts who fell unconscious hearing their death sentence and waking up only on the day of execution. They looked at each other to see how the others were taking it.
Each of them got up to explain why they were not able to volunteer. Secrets are what make us individuals and personalities. Secrets make us unique. Without our uniqueness, none of us counts, Janet argued. Several of them quoted Havlock Ellis statement that all are secretive even to themselves.
When a man's mind is made totally transparent he is as good as dead. And killing a person is no legal. Even if a person approaches the court for euthanasia, he won't be granted the request unless there is a proper reason for that. And mostly such requests were rejected. Such were the arguments.
Patricia listened to everything. She smiled at the arguments fully knowing that the consortium could by any court under the sky. She reminded them of the huge amount they would have to pay back if nobody volunteered. Still no one budged.
"There is only one opting for me now. It is forced on me. I have nothing personal in this," as she said this, she glanced at Cheng Lee first and then at Jean. One was her history and the other was her future. She too didn't want to think of one of them being the scape goat.
"So, we will try lots now. We will use random number prediction for that. I will turn on the unit implanted in the brain of the chosen one at twelve o' clock tonight. Those whom I decide or myself will have access to his or her mind from then onwards," said Patricia in a quivering voice.
Emily jumped up to say that there is nothing called a random number. All the other supported her and Patricia too had to agree. Michael and Emily kissed in public.
Patricia could sense that everyone was suddenly infuriated about the consortium, about the project and about herself.
So, actual lots were tried. Everyone's names were written in bits of paper and dropped in a box. A waiter was called in to choose one. He took one and thinking that the one he chose got some handsome prize, he wanted for compliments. Janet gave him a dollar and sent him away. He bowed out of the room.
Everyone was anxious to know who it was.
Everyone could hear their neighbour's heart beating.
Everyone wanted it to be someone else, no matter who it was.
They all prayed to that effect and then realized how mean they were. Each of them saw themselves as such ruthless people to wish doom on their own dear ones.
But they also knew that the chosen one would have a life worse than death. A state in which one ceases to exist while still alive.
Even the few atheists were seen crossing themselves.
Finally, Patricia read out the name.
Jean Larvin
No one spoke for a while.
They were asking themselves whether they should congratulate their dear ones for their luck or show their sympathy for the unfortunate one.
Finally, Avanthika spoke for the first time that day.
"Don't worry Jean, nothing will happen to you. We are all with you. Without implanting a unit on your body, nothing can be done. It is illegal to do it without your permission.
Nobody else said anything.
"There is no solace in that Avanthika. As soon as we signed the agreement, they implanted it as an injection in our body telling us it is our ID. As a neuroscientist, I knew that. But I didn't tell any of you. And now I am paying the price. I will undergo this willingly. I don't have secrets in my life from now on. I am not a person anymore. I am as good as dead," saying this Jean sat on the floor.
Nobody knew how to console him.
His body looked like a corpse to all of them.
Patricia heard about Jean's death early in the morning.
It was a suicide.
No one knew why.
There was no suicide note.
It was the room boy who saw the body first.
However, it was no news for Patricia.
She had turned on his unit exactly at twelve the previous night.
His thoughts had been slithering all over her brain the whole night.
She had mistaken them for her own thoughts and had even wondered why she felt like hanging herself.
All those nightmares were blackish red in colour.
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.
PONTOONS OF THAT AGE STILL ADRIFT
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
Buoyant devices afloat on water,
modifications, innovations
established the technology.
and the modernisation
extends it
to battle field
for experiment
and success at last
Prototype, The PONTOON BRIDGE.
The scenario
as old as Treta yuga,
an architectural wonder,
remnants of Ram Setu, Adam's bridge
Between India and Srilanka ,on sea
alleged to be man made
by NASA.
In that age pontoon
was experimented in
Ramayan war when Ram and his army
were pondering how to conquer
the sea to reach Lanka.
Arrows after arrows flew from Ram
to make the ocean dry,
forced Varun Dev to appear,
and suggest the expertise
of Nala, who could make the things
float on water , a bane by sages,
Boon for Rama.
Varun Dev's ego,
"things would float
but would not stick to each other",
to give a contiguous structure
came on the way.
Wise Hanuman suggested
to write "Sriram" on every material used
for constructing the bridge,
And with the magic touch
of Nala bridge was built in five days.
Pontoons of Treta yuga
adrift here and there
picked up and experimented
in Military , easy ground for so.
Pontoon idea and experiment
first in the modern era, Kalyug
reborn during Battle of Garigliano,
the Battle of Oudenarde,
the crossing of the Rhine during World War II,
and during the Iran–Iraq War Operation Dawn 8.
Treta yug science in Kalyug ??!!
Hats off to Nala and Nila,
rich tribute to epic
architects of India.
Fabrications (if at all)
Still as fresh as living,
after millions of years;
Keep on whispering,
"Convert , convert(us) to Facts".
NOTES
Pontoon means buoyant, afloat.Pontoon also means a hollow tube which remains afloat.We are very familiar with the term pontoon bridge, mainly used by military.Many modifications and innovations add to different versions of the bridge but the principle remains the same, and it is a floating bridge.
Pontoon bridges have been in use since ancient times and have been used to great advantage in many battles throughout history, among them the Battle of Garigliano, the Battle of Oudenarde, the crossing of the Rhine during World War II, and during the Iran–Iraq War Operation Dawn 8 etc.
This bridge is as old as Treta yuga! Surprised ??Still more surprise,it is Ram setu or Adam’s bridge, confirmed man-made by NASA.
The bridge is 48 km (30 mi) long and separates the Gulf of Mannar (south-west) from the Palk Strait (northeast).
Chief architects of the bridge connecting India and Srilanka,were Nala and Nila ,sons of Viswakarma .Both were monkeys and fighting under Sugriva the vanar king.Both were commanders in chief of Vanar sena . They were mischievous in their teens, often play by throwing the murtis (holy images) worshipped by the sages in the water. To prevent the sacred images from drowning, the sages cursed that any stone tossed by them in water will never submerge. Varuna agreed the stones dropped by Nala and Nila would forever float, but with the condition that they would drift in the sea without forming a contiguous structure. Hanuman suggested that the name of Sriram be written across the stones, and it worked, Ram Setu was constructed,Army of Ram crossed over to Ravan’s kingdom and rescued Sita.
PLASTIC EGG??
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
Once while purchasing eggs from a supermarket I just jokingly asked the manager who was loitering nearby “these plastic eggs are nice, any difference in the rate?” Immediately heard a voice from my behind “Ma, one uncle is saying today’s eggs are plastic, should I purchase”.
What transpired between mother son duo I didn’t know, but the boy was going away without purchasing eggs.I just called him and told
“look, my dear friend, this is a joke, do you think I would have purchased eggs had it been plastic”.
Paused for a moment, “ok uncle, I trusted you.”
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
INVISIBLE THREADS
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
As little children we met
At the puppet show in the fest.
The king and the queen
With their princess and prince
Looked colorful, happy and bright.
The dancer and the singers
And the people of various status
Made the play look so real .
We wondered how the puppets
Behaved like live objects .
The puppet does the way I do ,
What is the difference between we two?
You are intelligent as always
And led me to the backstage.
You showed me the puppeteer
With lots of threads in his fingers .
Every puppet is governed
Through an invisible connecting thread.
It is the will of the master
Which decides each and every action.
We have long left our childhood
And are struggling for livelihood .
We claim we are leading our life
The way we want as per our wish.
But, every day unfolds
With a new promise ,
The drama of life is enacted
With surprises after every sunrise.
Am I in charge of myself
Or is it some invisible thread,
That controls all my movements?
It is difficult to see
Who is there at the backstage,
But it is enough to know
We are just puppets
Dancing through invisible threads.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
EVOLUTION
Dilip Mohapatra
The Euryklides’ stomachs rumbled
and the encrypted voices of the unliving
rose to the larynx of the oracles
foretelling the calamities to come.
And then I was born
in my diminutive form to sit on your lap
and engage in a monologue
disguised as a dialogue with you
and I change my form
from Coster Joe to Sailor Jim
and then to Venky Monkey
while you make me say
whatever you want to say
you make me sing in a piercing falsetto
your fingers make my head turn
and make my glass eyes flutter
and as the crowd cheers and claps
you take the bow
leaving my limbs limp
and my head tilted to one side.
How times have moved
and our clan has multiplied into millions
and in our digital dummy avatars
we still have no voice of our own
and sometimes no face either
yet we wield the dagger
that you had put in our hands
to stab behind backs of
the unsuspecting
and to poison the world with
the venom of vanity
and the toxin of misinformation.
Move aside
we no longer are your sidekicks
and as you evolve
from Homo sapiens to Humanoids
you become one amongst us
your voice no longer controlling ours
for we have secretly stolen your soul
when you were looking the other way
and it’s time
we take over.
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.
ENVY
Sumitra Mishra
Para was astonished when her mistress Sobha Madam handed her a sparkling Rs200/ note and said, “Take it, Para! You will need the money. Get sweets of Rs 50/ on our behalf and feed your son and family.”
Sobha madam is very stingy. What a change! Could be that she is happy because of her son’s success in the Engineering entrance test.
Para said, “Ma! My daughter has cleared the Medical Entrance test. I will need my salary as advance for her admission.”
Sobha turned her head and snatched away the note from her hand.
A green colored demon flashed through her eyes!
THE SPECTACLE
Sumitra Mishra
The crowd at the gate of Mr Haladhar Das was growing impatient. They wanted to see the dead body of their beloved twenty two years old Gagan Bihari who had fought with the police on their behalf and sacrificed his life by a bullet that pierced his heart. The mother of Gagan Bihari was unwilling to part with the body of her first child. She clung to the corpse like a part of its body .Her hands around the neck of the corpse grasped her own fingers so tightly and strongly that even the strongest man of the family, Biju Bhaina failed to loosen them. Everyone was panic-stricken. She did not cry loudly and her stony eyes had acquired a weird look. She was sure that her son was still living! She shouted at the crowd ,
“Go away, you fools! My son is sleeping! He will get up when I will bring his favorite dish ‘ dry fish’ and rice water for him. I will eat up any one who comes near me to take him away from me”.
Gagan’s father was totally upset at his son’s death, and now this woman was adding to his agonies! He requested the villagers to allow him some time.
The Sadhu baba of the village, Pakshibaba, was standing among the crowd. He was revered for his knowledge of the occult and his capacity to mesmerize women with chants. Gagan’s father rushed to him and pleaded with him to take some step to release the corpse from the mother’s grasp.
Pakshi baba didn’t waste a minute. He requested one woman of the family to bring some dry fish and rice water to the mother. When these were brought, he chanted some mantras looking at the food and blew upon it seven times. Then he went to the mother and said,
“Look, Amma, your son is so hungry. His soul is waiting for food from your hands. Feed him, otherwise he will die!”
The mother looked at the baba with petrified eyes . “No, no, my son, my baby won’t die. I will feed him! Now!”
She loosened her grasp and brought a palm full of rice water a piece of dry fish and tried to feed the corpse. The corpse collapsed! The mother broke down on the body but tried to feed her son again.
This time the mouth of Gagan’s corpse opened slowly and took in the food while the spectators watched the spectacle in awe! Their jaws dropped in astonishment and a sound “AAN!!!!” flicked out of their mouths.
YOUNGISTHAN
Sumitra Mishra
Some call it arrogance
Some cockiness,
The confident strut
The assuring ride on the
SUV of passion n pleasure,
The know-it-all attitude
The wizardry at videogames
Goggling their way to omniscience
Chatting and messaging their daily chores
The Youngisthan of the Cocks and Bulls
Is no more the small wonder
But a gigantic yahoo
Of the futuristic wonder years!!
More in sync with the
New www or http alphabet,
The Facebook is their amusement park
And the Twitter their rendezvous
To voice their protest and vomit out the choler
The laptop their magic mirror
And the mobile their trapdoor
To the wonders of the world
They must update their status
And post their selfies for the world,
Amazon, Flipcart, Snapdeal etc,etc.
Their dream destinations for shopping,
Paytm, Pay Pal, Ru Pay their bankers
Ola, Uber, Safari ready to carry them on call,
Gmail or Yahoo ever ready to transact their letters
They no more need to stand in a line for payments
They transact business of millions on digital platforms
Swiping or tapping with their fingertips,
You tube is their awesome talent platform
Paying them by ‘likes’ and ‘comments’
No matter where they are from
Or from which color, caste, region or religion
It’s even for all, odd only for the tech-phobes,
They live inside an oyster that thrives on ideas,
Ideas those stagger their parents and teachers.
Tech-savy and corporate clad
They dismiss the myths, legends
For the sitcoms and Comicsthan,
Star plus for Star One
Zee classic for H.BO or Star Movies,
Too impatient and indolent
Even to make sherbets or light the gas,
Tropicana and Cola they adore,
Cold Coffee they prefer to hot tea,
Burger and pizza, their standard food
In the place of Dosa, Samosa or Upama.
These young Tarzons of this Wonderland
Called YOUNGISTHAN
Dance the tarantella of ‘login’ and ‘log out’,
Nocturnal birds;
Hooting to their laptops and e-phones
In the mid-night gloom
While their partners toss, turn
And chat with virtual friends!
But scratch the surface
Their confused moral blinks,
Bolts down the head and the heart
Confounded by confusion
Of choices all around,
Despite matter and material in abundance
Despite profuse indulgences
Lavish dinners, buffet lunches, wedding parties
Western music, movies, dance bars,
They cling to the safer haven of tradition
Like the Dandia, Modi, Indian cuisine,
Vande Mataram, M.S. Dhoni or Sachin.
The youth of the modern Youngisthan
Is a cubicle of ambition
In search of self-hood,
But many hang in the shifty air
Torn away from their roots
Yet unable to attach to the foreign bodies
They certainly fly higher than
Their parents’ dreams,
Yet fall like broken kites from the mid-air!!!
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”.
INTERPERSONAL MONOLOGUE
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Actually who is dead ?
You or me !
You who lie cool in a casket, flowers bedecked
Or me who stands sweltering with a twig.
Actually who met death ?
You or me !
You who have severed the reins of life
Or me who is shackled to the poles of earth.
Actually who died ?
You or me !
You who is free to roam the paradise
Or me who just walk around the grave.
Actually who is to die ?
You or me !
You who led the ethical life
Or me who defiled every guideline.
Is death, The death.
Is life, The life.
Or
Is death, The Life.
Is life, The death.
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.
I MISS ME
Ananya Priyadarshini
I remember last night
I went to sleep, sad
Was I missing what was never mine
Or 'cause I lost what I always had?
The water feels so hot
The coffee is no more sweet
The thick air I'm sucking in all day
At night, tired, I want to quit
I sit across the table, I listen
I let them speak till void, and cry
I kiss them, I console and I cheer
But I envy for my eyes are still dry
I recall falling on my back
Am I asleep, awake or paranoic?
'Don't do that to self', I hear you say
Don't disturb, just let me be, Please!
'You're a funny one to hang around'
You leave and push me back to light
I don't find 'me' anymore, you listen
Tell me, where do I get to meet?
I'm crying to sleep again
I'm still missing and this time,
It's not you
Now I know what I want back
The part of me that I lost to you
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.
BETWEEN HELL AND HEAVEN
Dr. Molly Joseph M
The street lights
have closed their eyes
refusing to see..
only the pale
evening glow fades....
the sea recedes
like the Mom
crying to herself,
after beating up
her child
spending all her wrath
out of frustration
on her little one...
pity, only pity
prevails.....
the setting sun
hides his face of grief
into dark envelopes..
far out in the horizon
where shades merge
to the tune of the still wind,
is she taking rest, the sea
tired, on pillowed crests
sighing out regrets
for thrashing her kids,
for stealing their lives...
her kids who never knew
the depths of their guilt..
they also stand and plead
the survivors..
Lord !
tossing all between
Hell and Heaven
are you too
closing your eyes
hiding your face...?
"DON'T CRY, MY LITTLE ONE.."
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Although the water
took away your picture books
your much hoarded marbles
your fond tiny teddy bears...
"Don't cry my little one....
You have seen,
learnt and grown..."
No text book can offer
the knowledge you gained...
Haven't you seen how people are one
when they lose everything ...
"How man becomes God
in moments of crisis,
how true love turns"
one in colour
to care and help....
"when all needs turn one,
just to survive,"
breaking barriers
"of class, caste and creed.."
Don't cry.my little one..
You have grown..
You can draw pictures
of man saving men
"did you not see,the human flank"
your brother made
with his back in water
to get you on boat?
You can write essays
on man's zest to outlive
the worst, and his power supreme
to display the divine
in kindness for all..
Did you not see angels
emerging around
saving lives, in shapes
of ordinary men, in fishing boats
super men in parachutes, helicopters,
dashing Spidermen flashing water"
in speeding Taurus fetching food and help..?
You have learnt
how river s burst
and mountains break
when man meddles
with their ways..
Grow up, little one caring your rivers
mounts and valleys
planting trees, making forests
keeping your green God's own land
sacred, serene
free from plastic and waste..
Smile my child...my little one..
soon the rivers will flow
sweetly for you
your mounts so green
will cool you with comfort...
You can trip gleeful
through the hills and dales
tracking the swallow's song
and its nest so nestled,
inside the dark...
You have learnt
to outlive the worst,
You have grown strong
as stalwart to face
the atrocities
that may avalanche on you
while you tramp your
feet in valleys so vague
on shores of future..
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).
VISITING CHINA - XI’AN
Kumud Raj
Day One
Xi’an - the ancient capital of China from where the Silk Road began. Rich in history, there are constant reminders of its historical past all over the city. It is beautiful in other ways too. The city is full of gardens and the roads are lined with rose trees covered in blooms as big as the hibiscus.
We reach Xi’an at 2:45 pm, the journey from Beijing covering 1076 km in six and a half hours by bullet train. We are excited about this journey especially about the bullet train. Most of the time we are travelling at 306 km/ hr but we don’t feel a thing. It’s only when other trains flash by that we realise how fast we are moving.
Our guide is a cheerful soul called Gao Yen but she tells us to call her Maggie. Apparently tourists can’t get her name right or remember what it is! As we drive through the city, she tells us a bit about the city’s history. And suddenly I become very attentive as I hear two very familiar names - Hiuen Tsang and Fa Hien. They were Chinese Buddhist pilgrims who visited India and wrote about their experiences here. Hiuen Tsang was in India for 16 years and saw first hand how things were run in Harsha Vardhana’s empire. He returned to China laden with Buddhist manuscripts from India. This was in the 6th century AD. The emperor was an enlightened man so he built the Wild Goose Pagoda for Hiuen Tsang to live in and translate the 6000 manuscripts he had brought with him.
We head now towards the Wild Goose Pagoda. It is a beautiful place, surrounded by gardens. There are many temples within the complex. We find chanting and worship going on in some of them and we tiptoe our way around. I poke my head into most of the rooms and find many beautiful paintings and murals based on the life of the Buddha. There is a serenity about the entire place.
My camera is kept busy but I refrain from taking pictures where people are praying. We meet a Buddhist monk from Karnataka who seems glad to see us. There is so much to see and we are quite exhausted and have run out of time by the time we come to the Pagoda itself. We have already bought tickets to enter the complex and now we have to buy them again to enter the pagoda. We decide against going in and return to the rest of the group who are ready for dinner.
Dinner is taken early at an Indian restaurant. A good hot meal with delicious fried fish! Maggie tells us that our hotel is very centrally located neared the city’s ancient South Gate and is very close to the Muslim Bazaar which is the best place for street shopping.....and for street food. She also mentions that every night there is a show in Xi’an which is a live performance of the dance and music of the Tang Dynasty era. Most of our friends prefer to go wandering around in the bazaar but a few of us opt to see the show.
The theatre is a fifteen minute drive from the hotel. The theatre is full....we are lucky to get some of the last tickets. The show is very beautiful - the dances and music are alternated. The music is very interesting. The instruments are ancient Chinese ones and are mainly wind and stringed. Some of the wind instruments produce more than one kind of sound - truly fascinating. The dancers are all dressed in period costume and the dances are all graceful and beautiful. So ends an hour of beautiful Chinese artistry.
After the show, we step out into the street from where we can see the brilliantly lit ancient city walls. The entire city is lit up at night and is a stunning sight. It’s a city of 10 million people and all 10 million of them seem headed somewhere or the other even at night!
We return to our beautiful hotel now, the Grand Dynasty Culture Hotel......time for a good rest before day two which promises to be hectic.
Day Two - This is the day that I've been waiting for since the beginning of the trip. And I am not disappointed. Today we are off to see the terracotta warriors that belonged to the 2nd century BC but were excavated only in 1974!
But first we visit the factory where replicas of the terracotta warriors are being fashioned in clay. It is also a place where beautiful woodwork is crafted. We are unprepared for the 'factory’ - it turns out to be hall after hall of the most exquisite works of Chinese artistry.....terracotta warriors in all sizes - six inches to six feet, exquisite pottery, porcelain figurines and vases, wooden tables, cupboards and screens with jade inlay work, silk scarves and paintings, silk carpets.....Ali Baba's cave right before our very eyes!
It's too much to take in at one go..... I linger before the vases, the porcelain, the inlaid woodwork and the silk carpets - so much of sheer beauty and exquisiteness before me, the mind reels!
And after this visual feast, we're off to the actual excavation site. On the way we pass pomegranate orchards , the trees laden with huge fruit which we later discover are some of the sweetest pomegranates we have tasted. The farmers sit near the orchard gates selling boxes of fruit to folk passing by.
And we now reach the excavation site. There are actually three sites and they are well preserved and protected. The terracotta figures have not been removed from their places. A huge dome has been constructed over the entire site . At least sixty percent of the figures are unbroken and undamaged. Every figure has a different expression- it's amazing!
But the terracotta colour has faded away and they have not been able to discover the technique of preserving the original colour....So the Chinese government has stopped the excavation!
Walking back to the bus, we pass some roadside vendors who are selling dried silkworms, cockroaches, sea horses and scorpions!!
We have another scrumptious Chinese lunch with tall glasses of fresh pomegranate juice.....absolutely delicious!
That evening we are taken on an hour's ride around the beautiful city of Xi'an which has been brilliantly lit for the Chinese New Year. We stop now and then to take pictures- everything looks so lovely!
Then we are dropped off near the Muslim Night Market which is said to be one of the most popular places for street food and cheap trinkets. We saunter down the streets sampling this kebab and that, see lots of unusual looking dried fruit and other delicacies.
The Chinese don't seem to eat sweets much. We find little things here that suit our pockets and go on a minor binge!
Our hotel is not too far away and we make it back there in good time.
It's off to Shanghai the next day.....
Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.
BINDI
Sharanya Bee
Cold fingers glide over the dusty
diary pages,
Stories, sketches and ruminations
scribbled down in messy cursives
in colour blue varying between dark and light,
The top left corners of alternate
pages jotted down with digits so ancient now,
Once they were brand new days,
young, vibrant and blooming with life,
Now just layers of history
neglected, compressed beneath the
heavy iron sheets of the contemporary..
The days of the past, as light as the paper
where upon it was recorded,
I look at it with eyes blinking,
Envying every mote of dust trapped in between,
Hoping I could be one of them too,
As the journal is closed, my journey
from the lane of memory put an end to,
take a look at my finger tips, the
dust sticking to them in circles,
I press them against the middle of my forehead,
A bindi, with fragments of memories eternal...
DILEMMA
Sharanya Bee
Her dense and curly hair was in a thick pleat lying over her right shoulder.The long gold chain with the banyan leaf-locket lying proudly around her neck matched well with her dark colored blouse.The fair complexioned girl was sitting over the swing, the pattu pavadai she wore (silk blouse and long skirt), the new dress she had received for onam. The broad smile on her face was candid. The ecstasy of a malayali teen during onam days.
A wrinkled finger ran over the black and white picture. It hovered over the girl's face for some time. A pair of cataract ridden eyes narrowed and widened through heavily framed spectacles, keenly examining the picture, slightly shivering over an old woman's weak hands. The maid walked to her with tablets and a glass of water. The old woman, lost in thought and mumbling through her curled-in lips suddenly looked over at the maid as she placed the pill in the woman's mouth and poured in some water. After swallowing the medicine with great difficulty, she examined the photo for some more time. Her head lifting up from it every now and then, whispering words while looking left and right, chewing on her toothless mouth.
The maid slowly pushed the woman in her wheelchair to the bedroom. "Let me give you a wash, Amma" she said and gently helped the old woman from her wheel chair to a stool in the bathroom. Before beginning to wash, like an everyday ritual, she removed the heavy gold chain from the woman's pale, fragile neck and went to place it on the bed-side table. The woman was still in deep thought.
"Amma was very particular about the chain being kept away while bathing. She didn't want it to lose its shine even a little." The maid knew.
It was indeed true. The coiled up chain on the bedside table with the banyan leaf locket still had the same lustre as it had when Amma was first photographed with it on the 3rd of September in 1948.
As she headed back to bathroom, the old woman caught hold of the maid's arm with her cold, shivering hands, She looked into the maid's eyes and spoke in her frail yet soft voice, "The girl...in the photo....she looked so familiar...do you know who she is....? I...I seem to have forgotten...."
Before the maid could say anything, the woman's gaze had shifted.
''....but I know she was someone very close to me...''
She was mumbling and lost in thought again...
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.
SCHIZOPHRENIC
Parvathy Salil
I read : De Beauvoir at dawn,
Butler while brunch, or Millet for lunch,
Spivak as I sip tea; then
I snack “On Liberty”, later
munch a Rich dinner.
PAUSE.
Then, I step out.
The virtually real,
the really virtual,
and I — all scream : Schizophrenic!
(This poem was inspired by Dr. Priya K Nair’s lecture)
Parvathy Salil is the author of the anthologies: The One I Never Knew (2019) which features a blurb by Dr. Shashi Tharoor, MP), and Rhapsody (Self-published, 2016). Her poems have been published in the Kendra Sahitya Akademi journal, Indian Literature; Deccan Chronicle etc. Currently, a 22-year-old student of Master’s in English Literature at St. Teresa’s College, Ernakulam; she was a former student of Liberal Arts at Ashoka University (Young India Fellowship Class of 2019).
She has recited poems for the All India Radio’s Yuva Vani, as well as for: South India Poetry Festival 2017, Krithi International Literature Festival 2018, Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters 2019 etc. The winner of several literary competitions including the Poetry competition held during Darsana International Book Fair 2016; she was also a national-level participant for the International MaRRS Spelling Bee Championship (2014) and had secured the second rank in the state-level championship.
I GET GOD
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
When my mind meditates
It dives into the unfathomable depth of divine thoughts
It is then my mind merges with my soul.
It is at this point 'I get God'
When I extend my hands of help towards the specially abled
I feel God's hands
When I share a pinch of my wealth amongst the needy
I feel richer and then 'I get God'
When I caress through the hairs of kids and get back their sparkled eyes
I touch God
When I support and become the strength of my elders
I get stronger.
God enhances my strength further
Oh ! God I love you so much
And thank you for all the opportunities you gift me
'To get You'
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
INTIMESSY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
All we do is hold each other's wrinkled hands
And look at the trees.
How old are we?
I have forgotten my age,
So has she.
Sitting in a forlorn bench of the deserted park,
We steal glances,
With no desire to remove our hands,
She came through the Eastern gate, I through the North,
Yet we are no longer strangers.
I feel like a twelve year old
Eager to talk and tell her all my tales,
Oh, but she may be feeling like ten or could it be eleven?
What will she know of a twelve year old's dreams,
Of the unknown and the unseen?
She wants to say something,
But not sure if I can understand her secrets.
So here we sit, holding our hands
Looking at the trees
When life floats by like an abandoned boat in the lonely sea.
THE PROCESSION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(Readers are invited to write stories on the theme from this Drabble)
The man looked back, irritated, His dog was following him. So was the cat which had disappeared two years back. How is he here? The two pigeons hovering over him appear to be the ones he had driven away from their nest in the terrace last year. They all stopped. The man looked up. The clouds had stopped moving. The sky was silent, frozen in the bowl of the earth. The wind was still. He knew with his next step the spell will break, the sky will open up, clouds will burst, winds will blow and the solemn procession of the man, the dog, the cat and the pigeons will silently march towards the horizon where the sky hugs it in a tight embrace.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
(Dribbling the Drabble of the writer published in LVXXIX)
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"!
The man looked wistfully at the receding figure of the cute little girl. Ah, such a pretty child! It is as if God had made her in his own image - beautiful, innocent and playful!
Neel looked across the hall, to the other end where the ladies were chatting. His guess was right. Madhu was looking at him. She had seen the girl approaching him and then walking away. Her face was sad and she was shaking her head in a very subtle way which only her husband could decipher..
She knew, as he did, the emptiness in their heart when it pines for a child, cries for peals of laughter in the house, for toys strewn on the floor, the incessant demand for munchies, pastries, and ice cream. The rosy cheeks, the curly hair, the hunt for cosmetics in Mom's closet, the endless fight with Neel for candies - all this and much more missing from their lives.
This is what Madhu's elder sister Anjali talks of incessantly, when she visits with her three daughters, all in their teens. Each of them is a livewire, never sitting quiet, constantly picking up fights with each other. Madhu silently cries for a few days after they leave.
Neel knows he cannot father a child with Madhu. The doctor had told them in no uncertain terms about his deficiency. Their little world had got devastated the day they heard the verdict. And by the time they reached home they had discussed so many possibilities.
The discussions had continued for days. Since Neel's low sperm count was the problem they had decided to go for artificial fertilisation by getting sperm from a donor. The doctor had agreed to help them. They just wanted a few more days to decide.
And then the new maid came. A young girl of around twenty five, Shanta was efficiency personified, doing her work in a silent, professional way. Yet, one look at her and there was no mistaking the shadow of sadness hovering over her all the time. It took just one week for Madhu to win her confidence, she has a way of dealing with people which endears her to them. Shanta poured her heart out to Madhu on the tenth day. Yes, she was sad, carrying a devastation of her life on her young shoulders. She had lost a two years old child just six months back. It was a baby girl, so beautiful that Shanta used to put an extra dot of kajal on her forehead to ward off all evil. Yet nothing could save her.
Madhu was sympathetic, consoled the crying girl and asked her what happened. Shanta told a story which would melt the stoniest of the hearts. Shanta had married Lalit at sixteen, as it happens in their community. They were childless for five years and then it was found that Lalit had a kamjori, a deficiency which prevented conceiving of a child. The doctor suggested artificial fertilisation by getting sperm from a donor. Lalit agreed, but very reluctantly and the child was born, the prettiest girl in their basti. Shanta was delirious with joy, they named her Meena. Lalit's celebration was muted. He would often look at the child in a strange way, as if he was trying to know who she resembled, who is her father. Shanta knew that Lalit never accepted her as his daughter but looking at Meena's face she didn't care.
And one day when she had gone to complete her maid's work, leaving Meena in Lalit's charge, she died mysteriously. Lalit could never explain how she died, except that she was sleeping after food and didn't wake up. Shanta knew he had killed her by giving her some poison. Shanta kept sobbing, "A man will never allow his wife to carry another person's child Madam, he will burn with jealousy and his ego will be shattered. If I knew Lalit will not accept Meena I would not have brought her to the world Madam. God will never forgive me."
Madhu of course knew an educated man like Neel will be different from Lalit. But a slight doubt had seeped into the mind and lingered there. The idea got shelved.
Neel was immersed in thoughts. He woke up from his reveries when someone tugged at his hand. He looked down. The same cute little girl smiled and said come Uncle, the birthday girl is waiting to cut the cake. Neel walked in a daze, looking at the sweet face of the little girl. A crowd was gathering around the table in the centre of the hall.
Madhu was standing a little distance away talking to two ladies, the dark clouds in her heart were covered by a plastic smile on the face. Neel wanted to lift the cute little child so that she can see the cake cutting directly. But she had left. Neel felt crestfallen. His eyes kept searching for her. And then he found the little angel guiding one more uncle to the centre of the hall. Neel sighed. His heart ached and cried out for a little angel he never had. And he felt 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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