Literary Vibes - Edition XXXII

Dear Friends,

LiteraryVibes is back in its Thirty second edition with a veritable feast of brilliant poems and entertaining stories. 

This time we are lucky to welcome Ms. Sarada Harish, who has written a brilliant piece of anecdote for us. We will look forward to more such gems from her in future. Also adorning the pages of LiteraryVibes is a cute little poem by a budding poet Ryan, all of ten years of age, bursting with ideas. May God bless this gifted child with lots of success and laurels in life.

Hopefully LiteraryVibes will take new wings and reach far and wide in near future. You can certainly contribute to its flight by forwarding the link to all your friends and contacts. 

Wish you happy reading of the LiteraryVibes in the coming weekend.

 

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

 

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A MADNESS

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

They say – we are

made for each other,

our love is angelic,

our home, a temple.

 

We hardly knew each other,

you came to make us a home,

we the strangers lived together,

wasn’t that a madness?

 

We grew as each other’s habits,

our bodies, sort of,

inhabited each other’s,

we forgot to ask ‘who really are you?’

 

I later convinced myself

‘it is really needless to know’;

you might have unwittingly thought so,

it was so cozy to live incognito.

 

The mutual strangeness tasted

sweetly fanciful, we remained

curious seekers of each other’s cores,

familiar yet unknown.

 

All through the years,

you as you, and I as I,

have walked miles hand in hand

not bothering who followed whom.

 

Sometimes I followed you,

at others, you followed me;

the madness for each other,

none of us ever wanted to forgo.

 

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THE GUISE

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

The guise spurred me to live

to let you live, to live

through life’s trials,

through deathly tribulations.

 

For your relief

if I pocketed pain;

your smiles in small change,

my reward, added up bit by bit;

 

balm for my hydra-headed cancer,

the disease short-changed,

never allowed to play

its horrific music to torment you;

 

never allowed

to cheat life of its primal umbilical;

the ever so sweet falsehood

wearing the priestly cloak of honesty.

Tirelessly I searched my inner lexicon

for new words to dress my truth;

metaphors and oxymoron

to coat pain with patina of smiles;

 

wore fancy-dress of a jester,

spread bonhomie,

often as a stand-up comedian

overstating the truth to sound like lies.

 

How smoothly had you busted my game,

playing a better game of fouls

with faster footwork;

bearding me in my own den;

 

gone, claimed by your arrhythmic heart,

never betraying a whisper;

silence and smiles, your wraps,

whiter than my white lies.

 

Today, wallowing in memories’ muck

of our mutual foul games,

the purpose of the guise gone;

wish you return, I miss some fair games.

 

(Footnote:- these two new poems, having figured earlier in senior poet Gopi Kotoor’s WhatsApp group ‘Poets at Work’, are posted here as an offering to the ‘Death would part us-love’ between Amrita Pritam, the Punjabi poet of repute, and her heart-throb Imroz, a renowned painter. Amrita, had she lived, she would have turned 100 this year, 2019. The photo above is by courtsey of The Sunday Express Magazine ‘eye’, dated September 1, 2019 of The Indian Express Mumbai edition.)

 

 

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Indian Writing in English, a Brief Exploration -

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

         A loaded statement of someone, forwarded to me on a literary colleague by WhatsApp, spurred me to write this brief article without any reference to any earlier writers on this subject eliciting pluralistic opinions.

         Much confusion floats around as to why many Indians select this second language of their learning to express themselves instead of using the mother tongue (Indian) that comes to them most naturally. In most cases that can be distilled down to just two words, “Why English?”

           Do they (we) use it as a weapon with a sense of literary elitism, for unlike many Indians they can use English with dexterity in speech and writing? Is there a possibility that they choose English out of their colonial past, having an inferiority complex for anything Indian, including their own regional languages? Is it out of opportunism to take a ground of greater advantage as still, even after 72 years of saying bye to the British controllers from the Indian soil, many important forums like higher courts of law, major national dailies, periodicals, administrative examinations like IAS etc., and especially central administration etc. are dominated by the English language as an necessary evil to connect and smoothen the unevenness of India’s plurality in culture, and language? Do these writers go to their second language to stay connected with the international readers (they are often criticized for writing as if to cater to a foreign audience!), besides multi-lingual Indian readers? Many writers who are less writers but more, a sort of dilettante, may be drawing a vicarious pleasure when Indian writers like Rushdie, Naipaul, Seth, and others are applauded over the heads of writers of English origin; a feeling like bearding the lion in his own den, teaching the British a few alphabet of their own language.

             The doubts are not mine. I have come across them in articles, discussions in workshops, symposiums. Most of my colleagues reading this piece might also have, or should I say, must have come across the dilemma. Yes, these doubts, questions, often create a confusion leading to serious introspection… ‘…am I ditching my nation?’; some even may wallow in self-pity that may be pandemic in proportion unless nipped in the bud. But to drive home the truth, at least the tip of a truth-ice berg, I would like to narrate a small incident that happened more than a quarter century ago.

             A few members of the Poetry Circle, Bombay (an association formed in 1986 in the then Bombay city, present Mumbai, of the poets writing in English through the efforts of the eminent poet Menka Shivdasani besides Nissim Ezekiel, Santan Rodrigues, and other luminaries) were invited to a literary festival organized by the Pune University. In a symposium over the use of languages by Indian writers, the present nettle-like-issue was discussed. The writers using English as their major writing tool were severely castigated as elitist, opportunist, suffering colonial inferiority syndrome, lacking nationalistic spirit, using the foreign tongue as a show-up, writing for overseas readers, etc. etc. Adil Jussawalla (a Parsi with Gujarati as his mother tongue, considered a canon poet writing in English from India) took the mike and spoke with a tongue that few understood. Adil spoke very fluently and very clearly for more than fifteen minutes to the extreme discomfort of the most in the audience including me. In fact, he was giving his opinion about choosing the English language over his mother tongue Gujarati. Quite a few hands went up, many questioned, “What is this language? What are you talking about?”

              Adil switched back to English, smiled broadly, and said, “I have made my point. Though you didn’t understand a word I spoke, it was my mother tongue, the good old Gujarati language, but by now, you must have realized why I write in English. Even this symposium, that has devoted its major portion of time being critical of Indian writers writing in English, is itself being conducted in English. I spoke in my mother tongue that is no lesser than English, yet most of you thought it to be gibberish. I have nothing more to justify (sic).” If not exactly what poet Adil Jassawalla said, but it is whatever I can recall of his little speech.

              The readers of this article must have caught the drift. It is neither opportunism, nor elitism, not even a fall out of colonial baggage, but because English is a beautiful language, easy to learn, and it stitches one Indian to other Indians creating a healthy national tapestry, and connects Indians to international communities better than any other language. Other minor reasons being it can give us excess to vast sources of knowledge from India and outside, a scope to transact with majority of world population; and the most important of the minor reasons is that this language is taught in most of the schools and colleges in India.

              It was along these lines that I wrote to my friend who had forwarded the discouraging message on WhatsApp, and who was perhaps feeling low to be an English poet from Bhopal, a city of eminent Hindi poets.

 

  

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  

  

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THE ROYAL PALACE (RAJAPRAASAADA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Its foundation was apparently laid

on an inauspicious orientation –

despite adjustments,

its highest spires never could catch

the first rays of the sun,

 its marble ramparts

failed to prevent the beasts

from defiling its portals,

the mouths of newborns

did not tickle their mothers’ tits

to squirt a drop of milk.

 

So, the dream palace

was razed down,

the bejeweled queen of masonry

laid to rest

beneath her own tons of rubble.

 

The palace was built

on its heritage site

where had stood its predecessors

in auspicious glory.

 

The inhospitable traits

could only be attributed to a jinx

in its ill-fated orientation.

 

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THE ULTIMATE VICTORY (DIGBIJAYA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

You may have to wait for years,

sweetheart, for your tears

to dry away on your cheeks;

 

compromising with principles

may be out of question

in my lifetime;

 

bear with me, darling;

forgive me my frailty,

my inability to accommodate.

 

Facing lifelong unrelenting

stones and sticks,

mine is a prison-cell

of harsh obligations,

an aging python’s old skin.

I am too weak to slough it off.

 

“I can do it” this overconfidence

has been my bane.

Instead of the bravado

of winning the goal,

digging the earth unrelentingly,

I should have accepted

the reality. Even dying in a battle

for an honest cause,

without a winning it, has its glory,

no less than a martyr’s.

 

He is also a winner

who lies on a bed of thorns

to save his values;

digs tunnels in old Harappa land

even without finding

any lost civilization.

 

It may take you

a hundred years to accept me

with my principles,

another hundred to feel

me on your blind skin;

in the meantime, your tears

may dry away on their own,

buried under heaps of time.

 

But dear me, abide

till my sublimated thoughts

of a meditative discipline

settle down to a practical earthiness.

 

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MY GHOST, MY ALTER EGO (BHUTA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

We are companions,

perhaps across births and deaths,

each, as the other’s alter ego;

we never do part

even for solitary privacy;

listen to the gecko on the wall

clicking in agreement.

 

Even to luxuriate in your thoughts

as in a solitaire game,

I have to pretend to myself-

that  ’am a long-distance runner;

 you, my alter ego, is the hurdle;

an excuse to violently extract

a clicking confirmation

from the mythic gecko’s silence.

 

These untruths span

across the life –

I hide behind newspapers

avoiding your eyes;

I pick withered stars

at midnight from the pond

by our garden’s Shirish tree;

or I get down from

a late-night toy train

to walk away free…

 

With these ploys, my living ghost,

I also cheat myself

that I defeat your teasing

that dares me to live alone.

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)”

 

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IN MEMORIAM: MY FATHER (BAAPAA)

Bijay Ketan Patnaik

All it happened sixty years ago -

father would shed profuse sweat

tilling the arid land

to raise his green nubile seedlings,

poems written with his ploughshare

on the our fallow earth.

 

The irregular lines written these days

in the name of poetry by the riff raff

pale before his creation.

 

In childhood, my little feet

unable to walk long distances,

father would carry me on his shoulders

to rural fairs at Gurujang

and Dhabaleshwar, ten to twenty

kilometers away from our village.

 

The two-wheelers or the four-wheelers

of today can’t match

that affectionate transport.

 

In moonlit nights in our courtyard,

father would lie on his back

and make a swing with his bent knees;

I would watch the moon play

among the floating clouds

while lying on father’s knee-swing.

 

I am still searching for that pure joy

of childhood in giant wheels

turning in fairs like out Baali-Jaatraa.

 

When the evenings loomed

over the cow-dust in village lanes,

father would sing devotional songs

like ‘How long would you, unkind Lord,

keep me waiting…’ that would come

floating to me where I did my home-work.

 

No melody nights, even boosted up

by great Disc Jockeys, melt the ears

in that sort of sweet enchantment.

 

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THE TUSKER-KING FEELS ENDANGERED (AATANKITA GAJARAAJA)

Bijay Ketan Patnaik

Once upon a time I ruled the jungles;

my writ ran under the royal title

of ‘Gajaraaja’, the Tusker-King.

I roamed the jungles, my kingdom,

with my entourage in royal style;

my queens, and children by my side.

 

My kingdom, the jungles, is going

to ruins; delicious bamboo shoots

and succulent foliage dwindling,

waterholes going dry by alien onslaught.

Our free movement is hampered

by boarded up elephant tracks.

 

We confront train lines blocking our paths,

threatening to cut us to pieces;

our retreat is a no-no, death-traps

await behind us in dug-up trenches

for mining minerals and coals; deafening

dynamites keep choking us with sulfur-smoke.

 

On our left we fall prey to greedy hunters

with bullets, on our right to poachers poison;

high-voltage live wires guard our escape.

We stay cooped up as helpless prisoners.

I, the jungle king, feel trapped in a hell-hole,

can’t even save my family as its patriarch.

 

The good word ‘progress’ sounds like

a curse when my land is crisscrossed

with rail-tracks, canals, and highways;

is deforested to set up townships,

for settling the landless. Hungry, if we stray

into human habitations, we are driven

 

ruthlessly back to our ruined land

bereft of food, drink, and quiet shelters.

They chase us with fire, stones and sticks,

drum-beats and deafening fire-crackers.

We bleed, oh almighty Lord, where would I lead

my folks and my family from this hale-whorl?

 

Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..

He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.

Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.

After super annuation from Govt Forest Service  in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail  bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in

 

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CANIS  FAMILIARIS

Ms. Geetha Nair G

 

It was a smallish queue in front of the ATM. The whimpers  took me by surprise.  They seemed to be coming from very near. Yes. They were emanating from a young lady just in front of  me. From the  denim bag slung over her shoulder, to be precise .
In fascination, I saw a tiny ear and then an eye rising from the bag. Next came a yelp.
She turned and tucked the little head gently into the bag.
Of course it poked out  again and started yelping.  A man behind us started mocking her.
"These rich girls! Why don't you take home a streetchild instead of a  useless pup ?" he asked her.

"Why don't YOU ?" she replied, coolly, with a sardonic smile. Her voice was like silver. "This too is a living creature; it needs care and a home. "
I was filled with admiration for her. Here was a woman who loved dogs, one who braved public  ridicule or censure to save a creature.
Where could I find  a better choice?
Besides, she had a dimpled smile and curly hair and an enchanting figure.
O I was hooked, sold out, smitten.
That's how I found Swetha, my future wife.
When she came out of the ATM, I followed her. Cash  could wait. This girl wouldn't.
   In six months we were married. I was estranged from my family who  had never understood me. She was an orphan  I brought her to a house fit for a queen.   My two boys-Woofy and  Tuffy -were at the door. They gave her a magnificent welcome, almost knocking us over.  They had taken to her instantly when she visited the first time. That had clinched the matter and I had proposed.  Her dimples appeared. I couldnt resist them; I kissed her.
  Our first night together proved to be a noisy business. No, don't get me wrong. The dogs were most indignant at being removed from my room. They kept up a relay barking throughout the night. Luckily my nearest neighbours were out of town.
The next night onwards, the dogs were back with us. There was no option.

  Our days soon fell into a  smooth and pleasant pattern. Swetha had agreed to resign from her job as a librarian. When I went to work, Swetha performed her domestic duties. She also bathed and fed the boys and cleaned their living quarters. In the evenings, the four of us went for a walk. They looked good-my German Shepherd, my Irish terrier and my pretty wife gambolling in the park.

  The only thorn, if you can call it that, was that she wanted to go to some hill station on a honeymoon trip. I told her Woofy had car sickness and it would be painful for all of us.
She looked surprised but said nothing .
My friends at the office advised me to put the dogs in a Dog Carehome for a few days. Friends! Would they throw their children in some boarding house while they went on a pleasure trip?

The trip materialised. As I had predicted, Woofy was sick in the car. He threw up all over my wife's beautiful blue kameez. Later, in the PG accommodation I had booked (no hotel allows dogs in the room) she wept. I told her gently that it was just a kameez that had got soiled. I would buy her another, better one.
It was a bad start to our honeymoon trip.
But I told her that I had forewarned her.
    The months rolled by. Swetha had stopped accompanying us on our evening walks. She said she had chores to attend to. She often spoke of her friends who had babies, of the joy of holding one 's baby in one's arms. I tried to brush aside the topic.  I reminded her , gently, that our boys were our children.  A baby would be extraneous. Superfluous. It would detract from our devotion to Woofy and Tuffy. Our family was
already complete. Didn't she feel so?

She was silent.  Of late,  she had turned  silent. I hadn't seen those dimples either, in a long time. I reminded her of my favourite episode in The Mahabharata,  the one about  the ascent of the Pandavas up the Himalayas.  How the procession dwindled steadily and how Yudhisthira, my favourite, refused to leave the faithful  dog behind. I dwelt on the beautiful ending and asked her,  "Would a child  ever be half as faithful as a dog ? "

She replied,  for a change.  A single sentence. She said that Yudhisthira and Draupadi had had a child. Did I know that? 

One terrible Tuesday, I rushed home from my workplace to a house of death. I don't want to dwell on it. It sears me so.  Woofy had rushed out on to the road, probably chasing the neighbour's cat. A car had knocked him dead.

Why was the gate open? Why had that cat entered our house? These were the only two questions I asked my wife. I kept on asking them.
Never leave the gate open was the first thing I had instructed her. The ginger cat from next door which she encouraged by feeding it fish, I had thrown out. Obviously, she had disobeyed both my  instructions. She had been continuing her love affair with that creature. I just couldn't tolerate or understand  her weakness for cats. Selfish, faithless creatures.
Three days later,  I came home to a frantic Tuffy. He was all alone. I searched for my wife and found a note from her. I don't want to share the harsh and untrue words she had penned. The gist of it was that she had left and would not be returning.  Ever.

   The dream, always the same dream, haunts me  every night.  A procession. A man, a dog, a cat, two baby birds... .
They are moving to the edge of a mountain. It is eerily like Yudhisthira 's last journey. Who the man is, I do not know.  What the dream means, I do not know either.
I must ask my psychiatrist;  he may be able to explain it. I haven't consulted him for a long time.

 

[ This is a dribble on the following Drabble contained in The Procession which appeared in the LVXXXI edition on 30th August 

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. ]

 

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 

 

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A TRAVELOGUE ON HELL

Sreekumar K

It is nice to have a visit to this place called hell sometimes. It reminds you of quite a lot you used to do and saves you from repeating your own mistakes. No matter how prepared you are, hell can always surprise you, unpleasantly, of course.
What is it actually? It is a place where there is no love. It is a place where everyone wants love and no one spares any. It is a place where people are so stiff-necked they never took a good look at themselves. No mirrors too, since there are no friends.
You can’t befriend anyone here. Trying to do so is like asking a frog to jump after you have cut off its limbs. The frog can still hear you but it can’t move a limb, having none at all. This might make you shout or look up its aural canal for ear wax. It doesn’t help.
But people are happy in hell. It is your visit that bothers them. Left to themselves, they manage. They do it playing a game called comparison. Anyone who goes in will have to play this game. The visiting players always seem to do better and that causes a national disaster in hell. They declare a few days of mourning and all of them, or at least those who were playing, go back to their shells. Their Internet Service Providers go on vacation.
The interesting thing about hell is the language they speak with you. They speak in a language they don’t understand. And if you claim to have understood it, they will tell you they meant totally something else. And then they repeat what they had said. You are left to wonder what the difference is. There is a difference. They have only one pronoun in their language; it has a nominative case also. Other pronouns are used only in the accusative case.
It goes something like this.
Eg: They do.
She does.
But I am done to. (not I do) (and its passive voice)
In their churches, when the big question is asked, there is perfect silence. The bride and the bridegroom turn around and ask their friends and relatives whether they should say “She does or He does or I am done to or its more passive form, ‘This is (being) done to me'
The schools in hell are interesting too. Even the lessons are called Mistakes. (Compare with those in heaven where mistakes are called Lessons.) The schools are all play-way method schools. They play games.
There is no problem with power failures here since everyone is blind and they just love darkness. Some people who got their blindness cured when they had a near-life experience had to leave hell and go live in heaven, leaving their near and dear ones behind. Now, who likes that!
There are no hills in hell. Everyone lives in a ditch. Wherever you go you are walking both ways downhill. It is the phenomenon called double gravitational pull as time doubles up as space. Time does not exist here and a lot of wounds are green and unhealed.
There is no water in hell. People dig for water everywhere. It is all rocky terrain. This has made people look for water wherever rocks are. Too many stone-hearted people here live in fear that someday their hearts will be dug into.
Pets are a craze in hell. Most of them love pets and keep them. Pets are ususally preferred to children. Children sometimes make things complicated. They might turn against you but you can’t kill them. You are stuck with them. Parents and spouses also don’t fare better. Only those who love are loved. Loving only those who love you is called romance in here.
However, people here are very nice. When they see you, they grab your hand and hold on to you till they leave you. And they are so nice, they leave you soon. If you hold them any longer, they twist your arms and free themselves. It is called a good-bye.
More travelogues to other interesting places soon.

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. 

 

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TRYING TO DESCRIBE A KISS
Bibhu Padhi

 

Place it between long and pointed fingers,
and it flames the fingertips into
a blushing, desiring red.

Throw it into the loosened web of hair
and it suffocates you
with the smell of pines.

Build it carefully on the eyes
and see how each of them grows
into a continent of dreams.

Allow it to touch the angle
between wet lips and watch how
the setting sun dances upon them,

how their colour marches into
a playful scarlet.
One of these days I shall

walk into your arms
and plant it upon
that mischievous spot

on your cheek and see
how it holds thereafter
strange little worlds for me.

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    

 

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THE CROSSING OVER OF MOTHER TERESA

( September 5 is the 22nd death anniversary of Mother Teresa )

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien

I heard the bugles trill

Of those men in drill

For a woman having nil

Because she did toil and till

Finishing her job as His will.

 

(The crossing over)

 

I her the bugles thrill,

Seem from a distant hill

Beside some exquisite rill,

By angels in cloaks with frill

As her name is entered with a quill.

 

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.

 

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INCREDIBLE INDIA

Dr (Major) B C Nayak,

 

In Kerala nobody steals coconuts neither they leave if happened to see lying on the road.But the naughty  school children do  practice it with perfection.
They chose the 2.30  -  3.30 pm time as people may have had their nap after lunch.
Once I got up around 2.45pm with some unusual dribbling  sound .Thought school children might be dribbling with the football on their return from school.
When I looked at my security web camera I found two school children busy in "Operation coconut Stealing".One boy clilmbed up the compound wall and plucking coconuts and throwing towards the other boy to collect .

 

Then they would break by smashing  it on the road and drink the water and relish the coconut.This is their modus operandi.
Having noticed me they  were hurriedly trying to run away, when I called them ,showed the camera and their deeds.
They begged apology  and I asked them to go but not to repeat it again....


INCREDIBLE INDIA ll

 

INCREDIBLE INDIA 3

 

These two incredible Indians simple question:

What about astronauts ?

Don’t they use space for dumping waste ?

They do it in hi - fi way !!

 

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PROCESSION

Dr (Major) B C Nayak,

 

Procession is the fashion of the day with or without consequences,

whereas in epic era, worth mentioning is only one.

Pandav’s “swargarohan”(ascending to heaven) fits the slot but sans

Yajnaseni. 

A man, a dog, a cat and two pigeons started ascending  heaven

through the epic route.

One pigeon, Sahadeva died on the way. The man, Yudhishthira explained Sahadeva like his other brothers was virtuous in every respect, except he suffered from the vice of pride and vanity, thought none was equal to him in wisdom. The others continued on their way to Mount Meru.

The other pigeon, Nakula died next. Yudhishthira explained that Nakula also suffered from the vice of pride and vanity, thinking he was the most handsome person in the world.

The cat, Arjuna was the next person to die without completing the journey. Yudhishthira explained to the dog ,Bhima, Arjuna too suffered from the vice of pride and vanity, thinking he was the most skilled, most powerful warrior in the world.

Yudhishthira, Bhima , the dog continued forward.
Bhima got tired and fell down. He asked his elder brother why he, Bhima, was unable to complete the journey to heaven. Yudhishthira explained his brother's vice of gluttony, who used to eat too much without thinking about the hunger of others.

The man alone continued….

Indra came with his chariot to welcome him to heaven and he promptly agreed as no more dog(Dharmaraj in the guise of the dog)was there to put him in trouble.The man was enjoying the welcome dance with apsaras when he was awake to find it was a dream …….

 

[ This is a dribble on the following Drabble contained in The Procession which appeared in the LVXXXI edition on 30th August 

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. ]

 

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TUNES  IN  DUNES

Dr (Major) B C Nayak,

 

Sands heaped on the side
of the road,
flown hither and thither,
by the wind.
Settled  nicely
in tiny dunes.

Clicked  and fed
into the mobile,
processed with PicsArt.
From gray to sandy brown
applied effects,
"distort"......

Final product unbelievable,
exquisitely beautiful,
Sans originality !!


But never lost
Originality,
never cheat the
prying eyes of
"inquisitiveness",
laid bare by simple zoom
And there appear
"the sand dune".

Creations dance
to the tune of its
Creator.
Tunes to dunes
Dunes to infinity....
Laws of nature.


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

 

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ELLIPSIS
Dilip Mohapatra

When we walk together
and I hear the lone cuckoo
cooing in the boughs
I hear more than just a song...

When we sit together
and I look up to see the lone moon
swimming in the clouds
I see the moon in many of its clones...

When I cup your face in my hands
and look into those doleful eyes
which I have by heart by now
I see more in them than
what you may see in mine...

When we bring our lips closer
they may not tremble anymore
neither of the feverish fire
nor of any fatal fear from
the scythe of the Grim Reaper...

But we know for sure
between the hellos and goodbyes
the moments do linger
between your lips and mine
love lingers for ever
and along the unending continuum
and beyond
exist only pit stops
but no period...



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.

 

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MAYA

Sumithra Mishra

Sudha was standing in the midst of a crowd of enthralled women dancing to the tune of “Hare Krishna Hare Rama” blaring from a microphone. The singer devotee wearing yellow dhoti and yellow chadar, flashing a long tilak on his forehead was gripping the harmonium in his left hand and was playing with the reeds passionately. The sound of the Nama Sankirtan echoed in every corner of the inner sanctum of the temple and emanated from the voice of almost a thousand devotees standing on the podium creating a devotional frenzy. A group of servitors were carrying a tulsi plant, mounted on a decorated pot, an imposing diya and a bunch of incense sticks  burning in front of the plant. The plant itself was adorned with silken red cloth, bangles and sindoor like a bride. One of the servitors was carrying a big brass karpurdan burning brightly for aarati. The women devotees were pushing each other to go closer to the tulsi plant and touch the flames of the aarati with their hands and bless themselves with the halo of holiness by smearing the halo of the aarati on their heads. The music and chants induced everyone to dance with their hands raised above their heads and their feet kicking the floor careless of the beat or tune. The entire crowd seemed drunk in the enchanting influence of devotional surrender.

It was evening. Sudha was standing in the sanctum sanctorum of ISKCON temple situated in Nayapalli, close to the CRP Square. This temple, like many other ISKCON temples around India is a beautiful edifice in white marble devoted to the brothers Krishna and Balaram. The major shrine is a huge hall where the three temples, dedicated to Krishna- Balaram, Ram-Laxan-Sita and Jagannath- Balavadra-Subhadra are situated under three spires. The statues are highly decked with jewelry and richly decorated clothes. The interior walls are beautified with murals and paintings of Radha-Krishna and Krishna-lila. The temple also comprises a museum dedicated to Bhaktivedanta Srila Pravupada, the founder of ISKCON cult.  Owing to its imposing structure, aesthetically designed captivating substructures, the heavenly aura and pious ecstasy created by Hare Krishna chants, it attracts devotees from different parts of Odisha and nearby states. The devotees throng the temple mainly during the morning and evening puja hours to offer their prayer and participate in the Nama Sankirtana, which is advised as an easy path to reach God, for the simple people who live in the mesh of sansarika maya. During this time the atmosphere of the prayer hall becomes consecrated and mesmerizing due to the soulful bhajans and dance of the devotees.

Sudha is a life member of the ISKCON cult. As a child she was greatly fascinated by the charming figures of Sri Krishna and Radha-Krishna painted in the calendars. As she grew up, she enjoyed listening to and singing the Meera bhajans which imported her to the realm of spiritual bliss. She used to visit the ISKCON temple frequently to participate in the congregation during the evening prayers. Like everyone else she also chanted “Hare Krishna Hare Rama” loudly and danced with raised arms. This congregation and Nama Sankirtana provided her the opportunity to surrender herself to the divine will and accept life with better equanimity. Today she was there with her aunt who had come from Berhampur with her family to celebrate the first birthday of her grandson Aditya.

Aditya was playing happily with a bunch of balloons with his father near the sweet stalls set up inside the temple to offer prasadam to the devotees, while we were offering our prayers amid the evening congregation. Different types of sweets, rasgola, sandesh, jalebi, chhenepod, ladoo, kakara, aarisha, manda,nimki and some other salty items were placed attractively on glass-covered shelves, attended to by temple insiders. Besides sweets and victuals, other items related to Krishna cult such as statues of Radha-Krishna made of bronze, silver, plastic, plaster of Paris, books, bhajan cassettes and CDs, decorative flowers, vases, chadars, and other small souvenir items were also being sold in open stalls. Some visitors and bhaktas were busy in bargaining the price of articles. As the chants and the music reached the crescendo, the entire congregation seemed to be transported to a divine realm in a passionate frenzy.

Amid the frenzy and fervor something unexpected and unwanted happened. When the servitor brought the aaratidan towards the bhaktas, my aunt, who was old and weak, pushed others and moved frantically towards the aaratidan, trying to catch the flames in her palm. In the mad rush her saree caught fire from the diya standing on the pot carrying the tulsi plant. The women were standing so close to each other that the fire spread quickly from one person to the other as they shouted and ran helter and skelter in panic. The temple servitors ran and brought water buckets and started throwing water on the burning clothes and ladies. Some tried to douse the fire by covering the burning persons with blankets. The action by the temple administrators was quick ,so the fire subsided before much harm was done to anyone.

 Sudha was standing in a little distance from the crowd near the idol of Srila Pravupada, with folded hands, praying for the soul of her lost daughter. The shouting and the flames brought her back to her senses. She started searching for her aunt but could not find her.  Aditya’s mother, Dolly, was crying in panic, as part of her aanchal had also caught fire. Aditya’s father Gagan and Aditya were not seen anywhere. Sudha patted Dolly to console her, made her sit and moved around the temple to locate her aunt, Aditya and Gagan.

She heard the shrill whistle of the fire engine and ran outside the temple. A crowd had gathered at the open ground at the feet of the temple where the staircase landed. A bunch of soaring balloons caught her eyes. Sudha rushed outside and spotted both Aditya and Gagan standing amid the crowd. Her heart pounded heavily as she descended the marble stairs.

Destiny had other designs for her. Before she could reach the crowd her feet slipped in the wet steps and she fell with a thud. A white woman devotee dressed in a cotton saree with an elongated tilak on her forehead and a bunch of jasmine flowers in her hair rushed to her and picked her with care. She looked at the woman and mumbled, “Josephine!”

The white woman supported her to make her stand as she had suffered a sprain in the ankle which hurt her. Josephine looked into her eyes and exclaimed, “Sudhadi! Oh, my God!”

Sudha told her “I can’t find my aunt after the fire. Where is she? She had caught fire! Is she there?”

Josephine held her arms softly and said, “I don’t know. Let’s go and see.”

Sudha was surprised to see Josephine as a devotee in the ISKCON temple. Her mind was crowded with questions. But she could not utter a word. She wanted to be with Josephine and forget everything else, but the anxiety about her aunt forced Sudha to move slowly towards the crowd. Josephine’s support under her arm created a wave of complex feelings in her heart. She wanted her walk to continue so that Josephine’s hands would be on her body. Slowly they walked like a couple resting happily in each other’s arms.

Gagan saw her and rushed towards her. “What happened Sudhadi?”

“Leave me, where is aunt? What happened to her? Dolly is sitting inside crying. Where were you? Where is Aditya? “

“Don’t worry. Ma is better. She became senseless due to fear and choking. The fire officers have given her first aid. She will be shifted to the hospital soon. She has burnt her right arm and is in pain. You be with her, I will get Dolly. Anything happened to her?”

“No, no harm. But her saree caught fire, so she panicked. She needs you. Go, get her first.”

Josephine took Sudha to her aunt who was lying on a stretcher, a blanket covering her body. Her face was pale and pink. She was semi-conscious. Aditya was standing beside her in a state of shock. When he saw Sudha , he rushed to her and started crying, “ Jeji..Jeji…”

Sudha embraced him tightly and comforted, “Don’t worry, Jeji will be fine!” But she herself was unsure about her condition. One of the fire man shouted,

“Who is with her? We will have to take her to the hospital. Someone must come with her.”

There were two more ladies with slight burn injuries. The temple administration had got their vehicle ready to shift the injured to the hospital.

Sudha volunteered, “I will go with her.”

Josephine looked at her and asked, “Can I come with you? You are not well.”

Before Sudha could say anything, the temple administrator said,

“No, she has her family. Why should you go?”

Sudha looked at Gagan who was standing with Dolly and Aditya. Gagan said, “Sudhadi, you go home or rest here. We are going to the hospital!”

Josephine appealed to the administrator, “She is not well. Sprained her ankle. Can’t walk. I know her well. Can I take her to my room and apply some medicine?”

The temple administrator who was wearing white dhoti, chadar and sported a sikha on his bald pate looked doubtfully at Josephine but could not decline her request. Josephine escorted Sudha to her room inside the temple while Gagan and his family went to the hospital with their mother.

It was about nine o’ clock. The temple complex was brightly lit with sodium vapor lights and halogen bulbs. But the residential quarters of the devotees, situated towards the western wing of the temple, at a little distance from the main temple were dimly lit. Sudha was surprised to see the Spartan living style inside Josephine’s room. There was a small single bed covered with white sheet, a table, two plastic chairs and a wardrobe.

While Josephine massaged her ankle with some ayurvedic  balm, Sudha could no more contain her eagerness about the total change in Josephine’s life. She asked her,

“If you don’t mind telling me, I would like to know how come you landed here in this spiritual organization. It’s so different from your lavish life style, how do you manage here?”

Josephine looked at the darkness beyond the window silently, as if meditating or ruminating the past. She offered a glass of water to Sudha and drank a glass herself to wet her throat before speaking. She said, “It’s a long story, didi. Pathetic! You will not be happy to hear my ordeals. Let it go, I am fine now!”

Sudha said, “Last time I saw you was when I escorted you to the station and put you into your berth in the Konark Express! Almost twenty years back, no?”

Memory of the days spent with Josephine flashed across her mind. She had met Josephine in a Odissi dance program in Rabindra Mandap. A special program was organized by the Odisha Dance Academy to offer tribute to Guru Kelu Charan Mohapatra, the iconic dance guru of Odisha who had been awarded the Padma Shree award by the government of India. Sudha , herself a disciple of Guru Kelu Charan Mohapatra was there to participate in a group Odissi dance performance. There she met Josephine, a dedicated Odissi dancer and a student of Kelu Charan Mohapatra. Josephine had come under the influence of the Odissi Guru Kelu Mohapatra when he had performed in Paris with his troupe. Josephine, a resident of Paris, by profession a hotel attendant, was an expert in different Western dance forms. She travelled all over Europe and performed on stage under the banner of Indo-European Cultural Connections. She was a graduate in Indo-European history and participated in various cultural exchange programs. She was so impressed by the artistic nuances of the graceful Odissi dance form that she offered herself as a disciple to Padmashree Kelu Mohapatra and followed him to Odisha. She stayed in the boarding house of the Odissi Dance Academy established by Kelu Mohapatra along with other national and international dancers to learn Odissi. Sudha had developed a soft corner for the beautiful white girl with blond hair, big, black eyes and thin lips. They had shared their passion for dance with their passion for each other. When Josephine came to stay in the Dance Academy at Bhubaneswar, Sudha often met her in the Academy as well as during dance programs. She invited Josephine to her house when Prabodh was out of town on business and spent days together happily. Though Sudha was about five to six years older than Josephine, they developed a feminine crush for each other and became close buddies turned lovers. They moved around the famous places of Odisha and attended dance performances in the various dance festivals like the Konark Dance Festival, Mukteswar Dance Festival, Khandagiri Dance Festival, Dhauli Festival etc. Sudha’s loneliness after the death of her daughter drew her close to Josephine who was equally lonely in a foreign set up. Their happy times came to an end when Josephine was selected by the Academy to perform in a cultural extravaganza in Mumbai because Sudha could not accompany her owing to her mother’s serious illness. However she had escorted Josephine to the Konark Express, but after that she was unable to contact her either by phone or by letter. She even sent numerous messages to different Dance Academies, but none could give a definite answer with regard to her whereabouts. She wrote letters to the French Embassy to locate her, yet no response was received. Sudha wondered how luck had cheated her in her search for Josephine who was staying so close to her, only a few kilometers away.

Her mind in a whirlwind tour of the past, Sudha could not believe that Josephine, her dear friend, whom she had been searching for years was standing beside her massaging her ankle sprain. Drops of tears formed under her eyelids. She grasped the hand of Josephine passionately and asked,

“What happened to you Josephine? Why did you hid yourself from me? Why didn’t you come to my place though you were so close by? Didn’t you ever think of me? Or what might be happening to me?”

Josephine embraced Sudha tightly and said,

“Everything changed for me that night, Sudhadi. My life became a curse! I did not have the courage to face this world as myself.”

“Why? What happened? Won’t you tell me?”, Sudha pleaded.

“Of course, I will tell you. I can feel your pain. It was also difficult for me but I had made a tryst with destiny to forsake all worldly pleasures. So I did not meet you deliberately. Don’t be upset. Life takes tests, we have to succumb to it or perish.”

Then Josephine narrated the horrendous incident which destroyed her physically, mentally and emotionally. The Konark Express arrived at Mumbai ten hours late in the middle of the night. As she disembarked from the train alone, she searched for a taxi to take her to the hotel “Marigold” in Bandra, where the delegates were staying. Unfortunately the taxi driver was a drug peddler who habitually targets the foreigners and single woman. He was the part of a dirty gang operating in the underbelly of Mumbai. After half an hour of driving the taxi driver was joined by his group of antisocial goons, who pounced upon her in a dark alley and gang raped her. They took away all her money, assets, mobile phone and took her to a red light area and prisoned her inside a dirty room. She had lost her consciousness out of fear, exhaustion, hunger and thirst. After two days they came and took her to a dance bar, where she had been sold. She was tortured physically and molested by the owner of the dance bar time and again. Then she was forced to dance in the bar. For almost two years she led the wretched life of a bar dancer before she found an opportunity to escape. Her escape from the dance bar was miraculous. One night after the dance bar closed she was sent to the Juhu beach with a rich drunk businessman. On the beach the businessman played with her for some time and fell asleep. She took this opportunity, silently left him and started running along the beach. Suddenly while she was falling down she was caught by a man with tonsured head, dressed in white dhoti-kurta. He brought her to the ISKCON temple in Mumbai and gave her a new lease of life. The spiritual ambience of the temple, the power of the bhajans and chants so enchanted her that she forgot all the miseries of the past and became engrossed in the new life. She changed her name, identity and became popular as Krishna-dasi as she learnt all the practices of the cult and meticulously devoted herself to the worshipping of Lord Radha-Krishna. She started wearing sarees and covering her head with a pallu to hide her face partially, because the fear of being hunted down was submerged in her inner psyche. Only three years back she was brought to Bhubaneswar to stay here. She has tried to wipe out all relations and all memories of the past.

Sudha felt like she was listening to a story or watching a movie. That such incidents do happen in real life, that someone so close to her has suffered these was a real shock to her. She didn’t know what to say or how to react. It was already ten p.m. She was feeling hungry! She held Josephine’s hand and said,

“Krishna-dasi, may your new life be blissful! I won’t ask you to return to the maya of this sinful world. You are living in a superior state, devoting yourself to the super power. Nothing could be better! Live happily! I won’t spoil your spiritual bliss!”

Sudha was about to get up when her phone beeped. She took the call. Gagan was on the line. Sudha was reverted back to her present. The anguished face of her aunt now flashed before her eyes. She exclaimed, “He, Bhagaban! How painful is the maya of relations of this mundane world!” and slowly came out of Josephine’s room.

The sky was dark but the moon smiled a silver smile!    

 

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SELF ENCOUNTER 

Sumitra Mishra

 

Suddenly our car screeched to a halt at the Vani Vihar traffic square before the red light blinked. A young man ran across from the other side and stopped in front of the car. We almost hit him. The driver panicked. I opened the door and challenged him in a rasping voice.But he was nonchalant. He was carrying a big wooden board in his arms. The idol of Hindu Goddess Mangala clad in a red saree, adorned with ornaments and a garland of red hibiscus flowers was seated on the board. Few puja articles like a brass bell, two small brass katoras containing sindoor and sandal paste, a small brass plate with two unpeeled bananas, a coconut, a small brass diya and incense sticks were all arranged methodically on this wooden board.

The man carrying the Goddess was wearing a white dhoti but his upper body was bare. He sported a thick sacred thread on his shoulders and an elongated tika on his forehead, as proof of his Brahmin caste. He did not answer me. Coolly he dipped his fingers in the sandal paste and approached my forehead. But I knew that he was a fraud. He cheated the passersby regularly by flashing the idol of Ma Mangala whom the Hindu travellers respect devoutly. I knew he was begging for money through a pretext.

I asked him to chant a mantra dedicated to the Goddess Mangala. He fumbled. I started to sing a mantra in a slow voice to help him but he didn’t know any mantra. He was for sure not a Brahmin, he was cheating people through his drama.

In the meantime the traffic cleared and the green light blinked at us. I threatened him to hand over to the police. He fell flat at my feet and said,

 “Sir, I am very poor. I study in the Utkal University in M.A. Odia. But I have no resource to pay for the hostel and college fees. Hence I have to do this. Please,excuse me.”  

I was astonished! What! Such poverty! But is he genuine?

The traffic constable rushed to our car as other vehicles were waiting behind us to pass!

People jumped off their vehicles and shouted, “Thief! Thief! “

The police man hit our car with his baton. I felt the rush behind me and the pressure to move!

Without wasting my time and others’ time I dropped two five hundred rupee notes in front of the idol of Ma Mangala before starting the car!

 My eyes were moist for I recollected my past when I had to beg for my M.B.A. studies, with the pretext of my mother’s illness, from the big business houses of Ahmedabad, almost a decade ago.

.

Smt. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor Engish from Bhuvaneshwar, Odhisha. She is an accomplished poet and writer of short stories. She is passionate about Literature and spends her time in reading & writing.

 

 

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GANESH CHATURTHI

Mr. Jawhar Sircar

        Now that the festive season is so near, let us take a look at Mumbai's Ganesh Chaturthi and Kolkata's Durga Pujas, that offer studies in similarities and contrasts. Where community celebrations are concerned, Ganesh or Vinayak Chaturthi is 26 years older than Kolkata’ Sarvajanin Durga Puja. Before there is a bandh in Kolkata on this issue, it is best to mention that there is a clear record about the Chaturthi being celebrated in a collective form in Pune in 1892.  Then, came Lokmanya Tilak, who  started spreading Ganesh Utsav all over Maharashtra from 1894 onwards. It is interesting that both Mumbai-Pune's and Kolkata's festivals were actually expressions of a strong nationalist sentiment.

              Ganesh or Vinayaka Chaturthi is observed in the Hindu calendar month of Bhadra or Bhaadrapada on the fourth day of the brighter paksha. But, while Durga Pujas are usually celebrated mainly by Bengalis in their own state and in other parts of India and the world, Ganesh Chaturthi is a festival not only in Maharashtra but also all over the Deccan. It is observed in Andhra Pradesh, Telengana, Karnataka and Goa, as also in Tamil Nadu as Pillayar and in Kerala as Lambodhara Piranalu. It was Shivaji, whose rule extended till 1680, who celebrated this occasion on a grand scale and the Maratha empire spread it. We find references to Ganesh puja through the next three centuries. 

               John Murdoch, who compiled descriptions of Indian festivals from the accounts of European observers in the 19th century, mentioned it.  “Ganesa, said to be the son of Siva and Parvati or of Parvati alone, is worshipped under the names of Ganesa, Vinayaka, Ganapati, Pillayar, etc.  He is worshipped in every Hindu home and every school boy begins his lessons by lessons with ‘Sri Ganesaya Namah’; every Indian book opens with it.  Every merchant asks his help before commencing any business.  In marriages and every kind of religious ceremonies, Vinayaka is first invoked. "Ganesh’s role was also noted in the 19th century by H.H. Wilson who said “A Hindu thinks that if his efforts are a failure this is not due to his own incapacity, but to demoniacal obstruction.  The aid of Ganesa, as lord of demons, is therefore sought”.  This demon term is very interesting because Ganesh, had links with subaltern creatures, called Ganas, not ‘demons’.  ‘Ganas’ consisted of the whole range of so-called ‘unclean’ and short non-Aryan people, ie, Bhootas, Nagas, Yakshas, Pisachas, Guhyakas, Gandharvas, Vidyadharas, Raksha-ganas, Siddhas, Pramathis and others. They were severely vilified by Sanskrit society, but  as India moved away from this minority view of life and the strong majority presence was felt and the skills of the darker people were accepted, this toxicity mellowed.

           Ganesha is thus a metaphor for the new composite India and the appellation Vighneswar or Vighna-Raja, actually its meaning changed from the "lord of all troubles" to the "remover of obstacles. He is mentioned in the Shiva Puran, the Shanti Parva of Mahabharata and continued, however, to be Gana-isa or Gana-pati, the lord of the tribe of Ganas, never obliterating his origins.  Ganesh is, thus, one more of the non-Sanskritic deities to join the Indian pantheon like Kubera, the wealthy yaksha or Hanuman. Most animals deities found their way to holy precincts as 'vahans' of the Gods, but at least three of them are found worshipped in the own right, ie, Hanuman, the snake goddess under different names and the elephant-headed Ganesh. There are a lot of tales about how Parvati's new son lost his own head in battle and an elephant's head had to fitted in, but the basic point is that this dominant animal of India walked into Devalaya, on the body of a young god.  It represents, most probably, a pre-Hindu cult that thus got absorbed into the pantheon. In the ever expanding domain of civilisation in India, where the Kshetra or human settlements kept overpowering the Vana-anchal, the elephant was a major link that moved from the pristine jungle to the urban habitat, and its utility was even more, in both war and peace. It was a symbol of royalty and divinity as in Airavat, the elephant of Lord Indra, or in Maya’s dream of a celestial elephant and Buddha's Divine Conception. He was just too powerful to be left unattended.

                Exactly a century ago, Charles H. Buck described the community worship of Ganapati thus: "Highly gilded images of this deity, riding on his steed, a rat, are first consecrated, and, after being retained for some days in a building, are carried in procession to a river, or pond, or to the sea, and thrown into the water with parting adieus and good wishes." So contemporary, isn't it? Except, that nowadays Ganesh comes in a staggering variety of styles, postures and poses.  Though it has not yet caught up with the crazy ideas of Kolkata, like making idols from broken glass and betel nuts, it is not too far away as many unorthodox ideas are now being tried out.

                 Like Kolkata, pandals are erected all over the towns and contributions sought from the entire community. Families also install Ganesh in their homes as he is certainly more portable than Durga and her huge family, thus this celebration is both private and public. The Mumbai film industry has certainly played a very colourful role in further popularising "Ganapati Bapa Moriyaa". Dazzling celluloid utsavs have taken Ganapati all over the world and youngsters all over are also taking part in this valued-added cult and the filmi dances. Bollywood songs on Ganesh have been drummed in with a lot of  heart-throbbing music, but the best aartis that are still sung in Maharashtra were composed three centuries ago by the poet saint Samath Ramdas. 

                Though there are lots of explanations on why his tusk is bent on the left or right, and how he broke his tusk (ek danta), but it may be more interesting to move to South East Asia to know more. Thailand still worships him as Phra Phikhanet or Phra Phikkanesuan, derived from Vara Vighnesha and Vara Vighneshvara.  In Burma, he is known as Maha Peinne, which is from Pali Maha Winayaka. Sri Lankan Buddhists call him Gana Deviyo, while the Hindus there call him Aiyanayaka Devioy.  But the most interesting fact is his worship in Japan, where he is popularly known as Shoten.  In fact, as Benoy Behl says, that the oldest Ganesha temple in the world is the Matsuchyama Shoten in Tokyo, where Ganesha has been worshipped for a thousand years.  It is amazing how Ganesha was also interwoven into the Tantric tradition of Japan and how the Japanese pray to him in Sanskrit, with the mantra Om Kri Gyaku Un Swaka.

           Just a last word about his ‘child-like behaviour’ of Ganesh, like taking up a challenge with his brother, Kartikeya, to discover the “three worlds” and then simply circling his parents because he felt that they were all mattered in the universe: while the hyper-energetic Kartikeya went on a ‘space mission’ on his peacock rocket. It must be remembered that rivalry between the Shaiva and Vaishnava cults was rather strong in the ancient and middle periods, which led to skirmishes and while Krishna’s Balagopal version was a instant hit because of vatsalya, Shaivas had, however, no such baby to love.               Ganesha filled this gap and his big tummy made him all the more endearing. Orientals have never shied away from displaying their large bellies, as it represented wealth and prosperity, like the ‘Laughing Buddha’ in China and Japan. It is, therefore, now time for us to recognize the so many roles that this Lord of Ganas performed, in so many ages and stages.

            Om Ganeshay Namah!

 

Mr. Jawhar Sircar is the Chairman of the Centre for Study of Social Sciences, Kolkata. He is Ex Union Culture Secretary and Former CEO of Prasar Bharati (Doordarshan and All India Radio), New Delhi.

 

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VINDICATION
Latha Prem Sakhya
 

Karumi’s  swollen face and black eyes said it all. While serving  tea karumi broke her silence.
" Yesterday  too Pappu  came drunk  and started beating and abusing me. I asked him to shut up, he hit me on my face.”
She went silent. Then her face brightened. “Again he won’t hit me or abuse me."
"What did you do Karumi?" "Nothing much, I pulled him by his hair and smashed his  head against the wall, then I put my finger into his mouth and tried to pull out his tongue and he screamed his head off and I let him go.”
 ‎
 

---

STRAY
Lathaprem Sakhya

The  flood water was rising slowly and I was getting ready  to evacuate. A splashing sound made me to peep out and at the doorstep  I saw him standing woefully. It was an appeal for food and  I had nothing to give. Muthulaksmy drowned the previous day, laid eggs in the corner of my hay loft. I waded to it and found two eggs. I poured the eggs in a vessel and extended it to him fearfully, he was a stray. He licked  the vessel clean, looked at me wagged his tail and waded off. I felt happy.


 

---

STAR
Latha Prem Sakhya

I came as a calf and was lovingly named karumbi.  When my pregnancy was confirmed my master and mistress looked after me day and night vigilantly. The ninth month arrived soon. My labour began and I delivered my first one followed by the second. They were all excited. But my pain lingered, after one  hour I delivered the third, fourth and fifth one. All healthy  bonnie  calves, four cows and one bull. And when they came near me to drink milk my only sorrow was I could feed only four at a time. Overnight I became an international star too.
 

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KANNA
Latha Prem Sakhya

"Kanna..." The only evening bus  was jammed full. The mother with three children had boarded from the station, so  when their stop came, getting down was an uphill task. She squeezed herself and made a passage dragging the youngest, sure that the other two would follow. When she got down she found one missing. She told the conductor, ) kanna, her son was inside the bus. The passengers started calling "Kanna..."  A  trilling   sound  from the other side of the road, "I am here". The five year old  had got down   the moment the bus stopped and had reached home.
 

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RADHAS
Latha Prem Sakhya.

Dark, toddler  Kanna won every girl's heart. Rani, older than him was his girlfriend. Finishing lunch hastily, she rushed to his nursery to feed him, knowing well, skinny kanna would never  touch a morsel, until his mother, a teacher in the same school came to feed. In LKG he had to eat by himself  while Rani  stood outside encouraging him to eat. By UKG he found his own friends. One lunch interval  his mother saw him holding a girl's hand and running about. She raised her  eyebrows at kanna who ran to his mother and  said " Amma this is another Rani".
 

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 

 

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FERMENTED MEMORIES

Sharanya B

Those memories are strange now,

Not so clear as before, that

I could see straight through them, or dip

my conscious in and wade through it for endless hours,

I didn't have to raise my head every now and then gasping for air

They only refreshed the soul, the melody of a forgotten song;

The scent of a newly bloomed flower wasping in, planted by unknowns...

They made my barren mind moist, fed their elixir to my veins,

The visions, so soothing to the eyes, long-gone time? I couldn't say,

Never did I know, there were weeds growing in and around, slowly invading through,

I made it out just in time, or they could've pulled me in too...

I watch them spread over the surface, I watch my pool of memories suffocate...

And then they only wither and disappear, the pool beneath made unclear and frothy...

They seperate in fussy layers, too mysterious for me to comprehend...

emitting foul smells that warn me to run away...

They ferment.

           ******************

Memories, don't make an abode for stay,

Not meant to be dived into,

Not meant to be sunk beneath,

Memories, only stay beautiful when viewed from far away...

 

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.

 

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MY (NOT) SO BIOLOGICAL KIDS

Sarada Harish

During the first two years of my marriage, I successfully countered the cheeky queries on our “family way” status and made it very clear that I do not entertain such harmless small talk. I used to get agitated on how people thought that they had a word on as and when a married girl must get pregnant or within how many months she should stop enjoying the freedom allotted to her by the society. Very soon, among my relatives-in-law, I earned the title of an arrogant bitch who had no civility and who stealthily captured their innocent ever pleasing boy. I paid no heed to the random gossips going around, but at the same time enjoyed giving tongue-in-cheek replies to the occasional banters.

In the fourth year of our marriage, that is exactly when I completed my post graduation and BEd, we decided to grow our family from two to three. Two plus one definitely makes three in Arithmetic, but it is not so in a biological endeavour. We patiently waited for the miracle to announce its presence, but in vain. The next step was a visit to the leading infertility clinic, to which we were to become regular visitors for a year. Till then, for me, a scan meant a large TV screen showing the insides of the stomach, while a pretty looking lady doctor moves her machine gently on the tummy, smiling at her own explanation of the anatomy. The disappointment and the shock came together, when I realized that scan meant a vaginal scan, and that it was not done so gently that I had to count the seconds to pass the minutes. I found women of all ages patiently waiting for their turn, women who wanted a child at any cost, who were ready to undergo any physical or mental discomfort and pain. I was never able to relate to such a state of mind. One of the ladies told me once that she already had two children after the treatments she underwent there and now she was back for a third child because she wanted a boy since she had only girls. I amused myself looking at her, for such specimens were rare in my eyes. Each time, while waiting for the scan and the procedures that followed, I tried reading books to calm myself (of course we were devoid of mobiles those days) and tried to console my mind that it would be the last time and soon we would be blessed with a miracle. Apart from the huge amount of money spent and the number of butterflies churned my stomach, we were finally nearing success. The miracle started making its form inside me. For the next two months, people wondered loudly why I was not showing the usual filmy symptoms of nausea and vomiting, instead I was hungry all the while, craving for certain food and loathing certain others. The routine scan after two months proved that the tiny form which had started its journey inside me had no plans to join the human species. After the abortive surgery, I wrote a melancholic piece, showed it to my husband, wept with him for a while and went on to live my life. For the next four years, I never looked back at those days. I enjoyed my life as a teacher, a voracious reader, a lousy cook and a movie buff. After four years, we had a rethink on our ‘single’ status and went on to have a final try at the same clinic. Following four unsuccessful attempts, we concluded that it was not our call and decided to close that chapter forever. Maybe because I loved myself more than anyone else, or maybe because I was not ready to torture myself further just for the sake of an offspring who was only as idea, I never had regrets.

Life went on as usual. Wherever I went, I found people responding with sympathy on my unproductiveness, and later on discovered with awe that they were actually jealous of me. For me there was no struggle in the morning to wake a reluctant child for school and pack a box of nutritious lunch he or she hated. There was no threat of oncoming examinations or assessments or projects. I could spend money without thinking twice for there was no one waiting to go abroad for higher studies, no expensive colleges or courses to be decided upon. There was no mad rush in search of the best pediatricians for every cough and cold. We didn’t have to exchange trips for being escorts to tuitions and coaching classes. And most of all I was happy that I didn’t have to regret on how bad a mother I was. In short, we were totally free from all the generation related chaos. For us, generation gap never existed. We were the present generation always. I enjoyed being on my own, rejoiced secretly that I didn’t have to share my husband who would have definitely be a great father!

Today 23 years into our marriage, I am confused what to reply when people ask me how many children I have, whether to say no or yes. Because I do have two kids now who are not so biologically mine. I have taught many students, had many favourites and always enjoyed being with them. Students come and go every year, they say farewell with all good wishes and love. But none had crossed the threshold of my aloofness. At a certain point of time, the barrier of my detachment fell off and my life changed entirely. It took an unexpected turn or maybe went upside down. I got a surprise that I was also capable of feeling like a mother or rather a concerned mother. First time in my life, and maybe the last time, two kids walked into my heart, made me feel like a mother, forced me to look at life from a different perspective which was entirely new to me, changed my whole persona, brought into my life worry, concern, sense of responsibility and all the things which I never bothered about till then. I started worrying about their examinations, studies, health and future so much that I became capable of empathizing with the other mothers. I learnt exactly how a mother feels when her child is sick or suffering, or when her child is rebuked by someone else. I was undergoing a new system of learning. The two boys who were around 16 and 17 years old when they became my unofficial sons, do not stay with me but have their own families. We do have a sense of belonging among us. They understand how much they mean to me and that I would do anything and everything for them as a real mother would do. I feel their warmth and affection in abundance when they call me ‘ammoos’ and treat me like an ammoos by all means. My elder son who is 23 now, keeps on badgering me for reducing half a mark for one of the test papers in his 4th grade and my younger one always reminds me how he hates Maths and that even in his engineering college years Maths was the subject which troubles him the most! They also remind me at times that there really is something called ‘generation gap’, which is an euphemism of telling “ammoos you’re getting old”, to which I tell them “age is only arithmetic”. Love you both kiddoos. And thank you for waving the magic wand in my life!!

That’s the story of my (not) so biological kids. I am grateful to the parents of both my sons, for making me understand the mystery of relationships and for sharing their children with me. I am also immensely grateful to God or destiny or whoever it is that chose not to bestow on me a biological offspring. If that was the case, I wouldn’t have got these wonderful kids!

Sarada Harish: A Mathematics teacher by chance, a passionate reader by choice and an unbiological mother by luck.

 

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SHIFTING SANDS

Ananya Priyadarshini

“Umm... Well, sorry Manvi. Can't talk now 'cause I'm out with Taruni, bowling."

Anik's last words on their last conversation kept ringing in Manvi's ears despite her being six hundred miles away from him. After hanging the call up without any goodbye, Manvi had flown to this beach destination alone. She'd lied to her parents about her being alone since they were hesitant to let her vacation even with her friends.

She was an artist by blood and heart. But her professor father wanted her to pursue something in the science discipline. And just as fascinated by many Indian parents as the perfect career option, the professor got his daughter into engineering. That wasn't a cake walk for Manvi as it sounds, though. The lass who hated mathematics had to spend days solving modules so as to crack the desired entrance exam. She loved her father, like all daughters and wanted to do everything to make him happy. So, with her three years long efforts, she managed to get into one of the pioneer institutes for engineering.

Landing in the college, she discovered the opportunities she could possibly have in her college. Manvi never used to lie to her parents but when she told them she wanted to join her college's Art Society, her father advocated for the Olympiad instead. That's when Manvi began to hide facts about herself from her parents.

Being in the fine arts club, Manvi went on winning awards for her artistic ventures. Gradually, she began winning intercollege competitions and bringing trophies for her college. That's how, she met Anik, the fine arts secretary.

"I love, respect, trust and revere your art, Manvi. Would you allow me a lifetime to understand them as well?", he had gone on his knees before Manvi during a college fest. Being two years senior to Manvi, he had graduated from the college when Manvi was in second year. Before he left for the city where he was supposed to begin his new job, he had said to Manvi, "Just graduate, dear. Get a degree and keep going to an office till we're married. Then, just leave everything and paint. I know that's your passion. I'll earn the bread and you, the butter." Manvi had the faith that the guy who understands her so well, shall certainly understand her devotion for art.

 

During her third and final years, she could barely devote time for art. Whenever she used to get frustrated with it, Anik used to console, but not like before. Once, it was a weekend right after her semesters. Manvi sat with her canvas, colors and paint brushes to spend these leisurely hours doing what she loved the most. She got Anik's call.

"Hey, Manvi. Weekend after semesters, eh! So, what are you doing?"

"Just about to paint an idea that's been running in my mind since long!"

"That can be postponed, I guess. Why don't you fly down here to be with me, instead? Even you'll have a change of place."

"Anik you know I haven't painted since long. Won't you be happy to see a complete canvas...."

"Not, really. But anyway, enjoy painting."

A call with Anik finished without a goodbye for the first time. Manvi went ahead with painting but what came out of it, was even better than expected. That's the thing about art. It shines with the glitters of sorrows from artist's heart.

 

Things kept worsening between the two thereafter. Anik always wanted her to cut her painting time to be with him. Manvi could just not approve of it. Arguments, quarrels, abuses found appropriate seats in their Paradise.

On Anik's birthday, however Manvi chose to fly down to his place and surprise him. The much awaited campus was next week and still, Manvi was pressing Anik's doorbell. The door opened and Manvi gasped after "Happ..."

"Are you too invited?", The woman standing right before her was asking.

"Who's it, Taruni?", Anik was partying inside.

"Actually, I'm his Junior from college. Wanted to wish him for his birthday.", Manvi was choking.

"Oh Manvi. Why don't you come in?", Anik was now at the doorstep, embarrassed before Taruni, not Manvi.

"Actually, I've my flight in an hour so can't stay back. However, Happy Birthday!" Manvi said and turned to leave. Anik didn't even attempt to stop her.

"Just a friend from college. Good friend, actually", though Manvi paced up, she could hear Anik explaining to Taruni.

"So, I'm your friend from college. Sorry, good friend, am I not?", Manvi asked Anik satirically the next time he called.

"What have you done evidently to be called my girlfriend, Manvi?"

 

Manvi laughed. So there you go, modern day relationships! Perform acts to prove what you mean to someone. Manvi had painted several paintings after distancing from Anik and had been sending her work to several galleries. One of the respectable ones had selected her for an exhibition during the summer. She wanted to break the news to Anik once the invitation cards were printed and was also planning to mention him in her Thanksgiving speech. But would that have been 'evident' enough? 

 

Hardwork doesn't leave you in your difficult hours, unlike people. So didn't Manvi's. She ensured a job in the campus. But, her father got to apply for a more reputed company with its headquarter located in the same city as her parents'.

.After her final exams, Manvi called both her father and Anik to invite them to the exhibition.

"I've sources in that company. They say there are high chances you'll get a job here itself. I'll be so proud, the proudest father in the town!" her father said.

"Umm... Well, sorry Manvi. Can't talk now 'cause I'm out with Taruni bowling.", Anik told after he finally picked up Manvi's call after six missed calls.

None of them even bothered to hear about her exhibition. Manvi felt obnoxious for reasons unknown and just flew down here, a beach location all by herself to find some peace. Only if peace was so easily available!

Manvi had been sitting on a rock for quite long. She heard the coast guard's whistles and startled, she decided to take a walk through the waves. The coast guard was still blowing whistles, calling people out of the sea, alerting them not to go deeper. The sky was cloudy and tides high, making the sea very hostile.

Manvi was walking at safe distance when a high tide came unannounced and mocked at Manvi's equilibrium. Manvi, sitting on wet sand was contemplating the current situation. One of her slippers was now inside the sea! She looked at the returning tide, her footwear was dancing. She sprang into action to save it and ran towards the sea.

A sharp blow of whistles gradually neared her till she paid attention to the angry human voice that accompanied it.

 

"I'm calling everyone out of the sea. Can't you see how higher and frequent the tides have got. Even if you know swimming, it's suicidal to enter the sea at this hour.", The coast guard had dragged Manvi to safe distance.

"But my tide took one of my slippers with it!", Manvi told pointing at her foot without the slipper.

"Don't worry, madam. The sea doesn't keep anything with it.", He reassured.

"What if it doesn't return..."

"Ma'am it's not as important of an possession like your cell phone or your wallet that you'll put your life at stake to save it. It was a mishap but you got no control over it. All you can do is wait here, hoping your slipper to return. And meanwhile, enjoy the sunset. It's the speciality of this beach that attracts tourists!"

 

He left. Manvi sat again. She couldn't do anything about Anik's increasing proximity with Taruni for she didn't believe she had to do something evident to be called his girlfriend. She had no hand on her selection into the company her father wanted her to be in. She'd put her sweat and blood into the art exhibition. And now, she had left for an unplanned vacation when the exhibition was just a week away and wasn't even picking up the gallery manager's calls! She'd never felt this silly about herself.

Half guilty about not being careful enough and half anxious about the return of her slippers, Manvi had missed cherishing the sunset anyway. It was dusk when she was collecting shells from the shore.

 

"Madam! Got your slipper back or should I buy you a cheap one from the vendors nearby?" Manvi laughed. It was the same coast guard. She couldn't remember when she'd genuinely laughed the last time.

"Nope. I think the sea likes it better!"

"You need new slippers?. They're pretty cheap..."

"Nope, again!", Manvi threw the other one into the sea. Had it been a shotput instead of a chappal and Olympics ground instead of beach, she would've definitely brought home a gold.

 

Now she was walking barefoot, carefree.

She called the gallery manager to ensure her presence a day prior to the exhibition. She booked her return tickets the next day.

"Hey, Manvi! Just came to know about your exhibition. I was wondering if we could meet and talk...."

Manvi cut Anik in the middle and said, "thanks for calling but I don't really think I wanna talk."

She went to buy herself a new pair of slippers!

 

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.

 

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HAH ! DIVINE !

Dr. Molly Joseph M

What divine glaze

falls on me

the isolated patch

seeking 

the eternal... 

 

floating free

above the transient

yet alluring rhythm of earth, 

flying close to

saturated dreams on top

I float...

 

None can deter my flee for  escape..

my self chosen ways

of search...

 

I cleanse myself from bonding 

that restricts my flow..

 

the warmth, the divine touch

enthuses me..

purging

 

I turn radiant

in that glow

showering sweetness

of love

all around...

 

Picture courtesy...  Bhina Pillai

 

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).

 

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Visiting China – Shanghai

Kumud Raj

 

Our final city in China - Shanghai.

I had read about Shanghai, heard about it, seen it in movies .... .but I wasn't prepared for the beauty of it! Ancient and modern resting cheek by jowl quite comfortably. This is one city I would like to visit again and again. The time we spent there was just not enough!

We had a chatty guide who regaled us with Hindi songs in a Chinese accent!  I think part of the reason we enjoyed Shanghai so much was his enthusiasm and obvious love for the city.

        We walked down Nanjing Road which houses the shops of all the top brands in the world - as modern as it can get. And the same day we walked through the Yu  Market - the ancient Yu Gardens of the royal family. The communist government has converted the entire area into a market but has preserved it in all its originality. The architecture is exquisite and all the beautiful woodwork is very well maintained.

   

   

 Then there is the very modern Pearl Tower visible from everywhere in the city, the museum where we saw many artefacts of ancient China, the beautiful gardens and making its  presence felt all the time , the river Huang Pu, flowing right through the city. We go for a night cruise on the river, shivering on the open deck at the top, while the brightly lit city glides by us. We don't want the ride to stop but we're almost frozen to death by the icy wind that blows across the river - it's autumn in China now.

 

Every place we visited in China was clean, full of gardens and a pleasure to visit. Friends point out that we see only what they will allow us to see......the seamy side is hidden from visitors. But to tell the truth, I don't visit another country to see what is ugly in it. When I  travel abroad I like to see the best of those countries.

I really enjoyed my visit to China - there was beauty at every turn.

 

Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.

 

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SURPRISE

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

The dawn of the day

Brought me numerous messages

Filled with heartfelt love and regards

Wishing me a happy Teachers’ Day

 

Slowly the hands of clock moved on

And strode ahead with many more pleasant surprises.

Student of mine holding a gift wrapped with trust and respect

Bowed, seeking blessings from me

Filling my heart with love

 

Suddenly my eternal students

My biological kids,  locked me up

And barging out, my eyes popped up

With uncountable surprises

Celebrations began..

In each turn , new events

Enacted, dramatised,danced,sung.

And it all ended with slicing the cake with precision..

So many surprises..

Too hard to handle

Yet so pleasant that I am blessed with such loving students..

Great surprises cascading at dusk

Spreading happiness around.

Oh the joy of being awarded for this profession!

 

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

 

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NATURE

Ryan Mohapatra

 

Nature is our mother,

I wonder why people don't understand,

Some don’t care and fill the nature with garbage,

But there are others who care.

 

When we sit near the trees,

It fills our mind with peace,

And the stress of our body flees.

 

When there is nothing to do,

Go to the nature,

And ask what you should do.

 

In the nature the wind blows

And the rivers flow

The animals roar and we snore.

At day we lay on the bed,

But at night we sleep

 

Everything goes nicely in Nature,

But never with our own Mother,

Who silently suffers for us

Like the Mother Nature.

 

Ryan is a ten years old budding poet who is in Sixth Grade in school. He wants to write lots and lots of poetry.

 

 

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THE COMING WINTER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

Life sheds it many leaves
With the approach of winter.
Yet it wasn't always like that.
When the autumn had set in
There was a riot of colours.
That spoke of the ups and downs,
The wins and losses.

The red leaves stood out for unrequited love
And its many bloody scars, the pink ones for 
Sweet whispers and the rolling laughters
The yellow leaves reminded me
Of the many moments of waiting.
The green ones made me think
Of all that remained young in heart

The saddest were the dry, wrinkled leaves
Remnants of an empty nest
When everyone left me forlorn
To look at an eerie nothingness,
Now I feel it in my bones
The coming winter will be
The coldest of my life.
 

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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