Literary Vibes - Edition XXXIII
Dear Friends,
I have great pleasure in forwarding to you the Thirty third edition of LiteraryVibes. This edition shines with some breathtakingly beautiful poems, short stories, travelogues and anecdotes. Mr. Anil Upadhyay, a devout worshipper of quality Hindi films and music, has contributed a delicious piece on Devdas, the iconic novel and its various film versions. I urge all the readers to read this brilliant story of love, compassion and nostalgia. Ms. Kumud Raj has started a stunningly beautiful series on her East European tour. It is bound to entice and entertain our readers.
We are fortunate to welcome three new members to the LiteraryVibes family this time. Mr. Akshaya Kumar Das from Bhubaneswar is a celebrated Odiya poet who also excels in English poetry. Mr. C. V. Sukumaran from Palakkad and Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj from Chennai are brilliant, prolific writers who have been enthralling the readers with their delectable anecdotes in the Mindspace column of The New Indian Express. We wish lots of success to these three writers in their literary career. May their writings keep embellishing the pages of our e-magazine in the coming years.
Dribbling the Drabbles is still open. The readers are invited to develop stories from the Drabbles offered in LVXXIX, LVXXX and LVXXXI. Hopefully this exercise will garner more interest in due course. I request all of you to participate in it and enrich the pages of LiteraryVibes. Please do write for us and send your poems, short stories, anecdotes and travelogues to mrutyunjays@gmail.com by Thursday mornings since LiteraryVibes is published on Fridays.
Wish you happy reading of the LiteraryVibes in the coming weekend.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
GRANNY’S DOLLHOUSE
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
(1)
Cackles crackle the air,
a crack slits the east sky,
blows a fresh fragrant breeze
laced with bird cry;
the dawn lets loose
its tassel of light.
Grandma, her dreams incomplete,
stirs and stretches languidly; twitch
her shriveled flesh, wrinkled skin,
and languorous thoughts -
almost a century old, yet half-baked
mermaid memories with elfin grace.
She remembers her gods,
slumbering in the upper room,
crammed in dark behind curtains,
smelling of flowers and incense,
her mighty ones,
her little ones.
In a minute she is up and about -
behind the house , in the garden,
in dawn’s half-light cool arms,
picking flowers for her gods,
humming hymns, exhorting them
by her soft songs to rise and shine.
She returns, and the dawn unpacks
a new day; it takes out a pink sun,
stashes back the dark into its box.
The new day cracks a whip
altering granny’s dreams,
and nightmares to daydreams.
Humming her hymns,
she enters her bath, and ‘zap!’-
magically have materialized
her lukewarm water, sandal-soap,
and the aromatic hair oil.
She has nothing more to ask.
The last item of her toiletry
guarantees on bottle’s label
ever black, rich growth on her top -
alas, her waspish mousy grey!
A good joke like
her long life with robust health.
(2)
In minutes she is out
of her bath, fresh and fragrant,
climbs up to her private shrine;
taking along the new day with her,
to break the news of the sunrise
to her dolls sitting in the gloom.
In single sweep of a ballet whorl,
practised and perfected
over years
she parts room’s curtains,
opens windows
ushering in jubilant sunbeams;
also she invites in
the haughty South Breeze.
She lights an earthen lamp and
rings her little ting-a-ling bell
whipping the settled silence,
bringing her gods to attention.
The conch,
once attached to her mouth,
booms like a foghorn, its holiness
dispelling dangers and devils;
now our grandma
is not alone;
the gods and goddesses
rise and sign;
crowding her from all sides,
they seem mushrooming
everywhere, jostling for
granny’s spaces and feeble heart.
Most of them on the marble altar,
or the spacious golden throne;
a few on the bare concrete platform,
competing for her attention,
others hang from walls;
sit in room’s cozy alcoves.
(3)
She is a secular democrat,
her plethora of collectin
spans across castes, creeds,
and religions; human and animals,
not to speak of snakes
and the holy Egyptian beetle;
commanding places of honour;
the gods and goddesses
sit, stand, lean or lie down,
astride on animals, perched
on lotuses; felines, reptiles,
rodents, or birds, the list endless.
Some deities are loners,
others go with consorts or acolytes;
many wear weird ornaments,
a garland of skulls or severed hands,
a slice of the moon as a headgear
or necklaces of live snakes.
(4)
Grandma’s dolls of the upper room,
come with all colours, vibrant
to ash-grey-sober to black, et al;
with tails, horns. Lo, an extraordinary wife
Kali, gross and capacious, stands
astride her supine husband, Shiva;
she, vehement, bold and loud;
every inch the brand ambassador
of empowered women of the hoary past;
her ferocity even puts fear
in grandma’s indomitable spirit;
she cringes in squeamishness.
Handsome Krishna, the blue lord
of conning, she loves to seduce in secret
as her lord of glamour and guile;
he, granny’s favourite, and ardent love,
for he, famously saved Panchali
from public disrobing.
Saraswati, celestial teacher-madam,
transported by a swan; Laxmi,
the affluent outgoing lady,
messiah of untouchables, rides a barn owl;
Ganesh, the huge-bellied troubleshooter
with cute elephant head, mouse-transport!
(5)
So on and so forth..,
her deities now up and alert..
she gives them their holy bath,
sprinkling consecrated water
from a sprinkler; anoints them
with sandal paste and vermillion.
She knows their tastes,
likes and dislikes, say –
Kali loves red hibiscus,
Krishna a sprig of Tulsi,
Ganesh his big sweet ladoos,
Santoshi hating anything citrus.
While offering them delicacies,
she exhorts their spirit and appetite
by singing hymns of their valour -
Shiva drinking the cosmic poison,
Krishna demolishing evil Kaliya,
Rama killing Sita’s abductor Ravana,…
This, her Wodehousian world,
a bit funny, idyllic, and weird.
Unknown to her, her dichotomy
clashes with her own modern logic –
her dislike for Greek myths, their deities
jostling for space and power.
(6)
To my questions, granny smiles
beatific and toothless,
“Mystic games of gods,
beyond your grasp, child..”
she whispers aloud side-glancing
at her dolls conspiratorially.
She keeps playing till late afternoon,
her daughters-in-law worry
over her empty stomach, failing health.
But my father from his umpteenth cup
smiles, “Let her play, she hardly played
in her childhood, also had no dolls.”
Content and peaceful, she rises
with a sigh, the sun much past
the midday mark. She squats
in our bright sunny yard
with a mug of tea
and a chunk of rice-cake.
She knows if her gods are in mood,
her family can relax. Often she returns
to her private shrine deep in nights
if the dark oppresses her.
Her sentient dolls
dispel her fears, lull her nightmares.
TUSSLE IN THE TEMPLE (a Story Embroidered on a Odisha-legend)
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Once echoes of a family dispute from inside the holy sanctum of Jagannath Temple, Puri, bothered the other resident gods and goddesses of the temple-compound. Rumbles and scattered pieces of quarrels resounded all over the space, day and night. Shouts and counter shouts emanated from Jagannath, the most compassionate presiding Lord of Puri; Balabhadra, his hard-to-please wrestler older brother, and Laxmi, the former’s feisty and outgoing wife. The fourth member of the temple-family, Subhadra, the little sister of the two omni-potent lords, had wisely stayed away from the ongoing tussle. It would appear to her that the big brother Balabhadra was bullying the other two, and instigating the docile Jagannath against his good wife and blowing non-issues out of proportion.
Laxmi, as we all know, holds the portfolio of wealth (finance ministry in today’s lingo) from the days of Big Bang, entrusted to her by the cosmic grand-planners. In spite of her high profile as the goddess of wealth, and the cream on that cake, as the wife of Jagannath, one of the Triumvirate of Hindu Pantheon, Laxmi was a woman of very kind and charitable disposition. Her heart beat softly for the Dalits, and the dispossessed. Often she would visit her friends in a sweeper colony of Puri, and spend time with them partaking of their frugal fare with joy as if those were far tastier than her temple’s rich delicacies. This behavior of Laxmi, having a soft corner for the untouchables and hobnobbing with them in their dirty ghetto rankled with Balabhadra, the senior most in the little family by social hierarchical system. But Laxmi remained immune to his hints and indirect innuendoes, meant for her for keeping the wrong company, that was below her family-station. But Balabhadra himself couldn’t dare to confront the accomplished sister-in-law for a very selfish reason, he was a foodie and Laxmi was an exceptional good cook, and Balabhadra was beholden of her dishing out his favourite dishes out of her kitchen. But finally he stilled his taste-buds and decided to have Jagannath’s ears, a delicate diplomatic approach according to his roughshod wrestler-brain.
He spoke to Jagannath about Laxmi’s waywardness, spicing it with mirtch-masala of his own fake manufactured allegations in his not-so-fertile mind but tried to make his version sound like even butter wouldn’t melt on his tongue. He asked his kid-brother to restrict his wife’s free hobnobbing with people below her station as she was the daughter-in-law of an illustrious family. After a day or two, Jagannath reported back, “Bro dear, Laxmi outright denies your allegations. In her version, the houses she visits in Dalit hutments belong to her ardent devotees, and she cannot forsake them.” On this, a piqued big brother called the younger one an effeminate, a sissy, a nincompoop, and docile husband, crawling on knees before an ordinary squinted eyed (Laxmi is said to be blessed with a little squint in the left eye that enhanced unparalleled beauty further.), and ugly good-for-nothing woman. This was the tinder spark that set fire to the temple peace.
Laxmi, humiliated day and night by Balabhadra, packed her suitcase and walked out of her temple-home. A distraught husband Jagannath, deeply in love with his wife, was going to say sorry for his bad behavior, and persuade her to return and give him one more chance for settling the differences over quiet discussions, but Balabhadra jumped to his feet and announced, “Laxmi, you have defiled yourself with the sweepers and latrine-cleaners. We won’t like you defile our holy sanctum. You are unfit for being the wife of my good brother. You simply get out of here. I will get him married to a more Sanskari (cultured), Agynakari (obedient), and Shakahari (vegetarian) pretty woman who are available dime a dozen.” Laxmi, feeling insulted, rejected, and dejected, left, nobody knew to where. Jagannath stood stunned, goggled-eyed, and nonplussed keeping with his wooden idol’s reputed stance ‘Daarubhut Muraari’, kept in the temple for public viewing.
It was midnight and the brothers retired to their beds. Jagannath, accustomed to wife Laxmi’s lovey-dovey company in bed, spent a restless night shifting from side to side. Early next morning, they were not made to rise with devotional music and hymns at the doors as per the daily practice. So they remained in bed late, Jagannath in his misery having lost the count of time and oblivious of the dawn. Balabhadra kept snoring in his undisturbed dreams after the great victory over the obnoxious woman who had made his kid-brother a slave, crawling when she asked him just to bend.
Finally his grumbling rumbling empty stomach made Balabhadra rise out of bed. He shouted at his younger brother to give up idling as the sun was up. To their surprise, there was pin-drop silence all around. The usual hustle-bustle of acolytes, retainers, service-providers, and ingratiating devotees from far and near was summarily absent. The entire premises including all satellite temples in the compound seemed deserted. They pinched themselves to know if it was all real, not a nightmare. No, it was real. So Balabhadra with his usual wrestler’s flair went out to the kitchen for foraging some food. The kitchen, the stores, the pantries, and all other stocks seemed to have disappeared overnight. Balabhadra explained it could be nighttime secret manoeuvre by a cunning vengeful Laxmi to empty the stocks and drive away the staff. He boasted, “We can buy our meals outside, no hassles little bro, it would be a fancy change, and would teach her a lesson.” But the treasury did not contain even a counterfeit copper, where had vanished the huge amount of money, invaluable gems and jewellery!” Balabhadra argued, “See brother, your wife did a black magic on us.” Jagannath disagreed, “No, this exactly happens when Laxmi forsakes someone, may he be a god..” Haughty big brother only uttered, “Hah!” and brushed aside his kid-brothers blind beliefs in fanaticism.
They tried to locate the king, their ardent devotee, and their chief priest, as Balabhadra advised, to ask for a temporary accommodation in a good hotel, or at least, for a loan. None of them was available. The guards at their mansion-gates laughed on their face when they introduced themselves. One of them said, “If you two are almighty lords of Puri Temple, then I am Amitabh Bachchan, and this fellow by my side is Saharukh Khan. So, while walking away distraught, Balabhadra had a bright idea, “Aare Chhote, we are Brahmins. Brahmins are to pray all day, and can live on alms offered to them. If not now when would our Brahmin origin come to use?” They now exhibited their sacred threads prominently and went begging from door to door, walking on hot sands of Puri. But looking at their well-fed and well-built bodies, everyone laughed, “See friends, how shameless are these two. So well-built, but they won’t work. They want free meals only. Even the compassionate goddess Laxmi won’t be kind to these lazy buggers, ha ha!” When they asked for jobs, one asked, “What job can you handle?” Jagannath replied, “I can manage anything, even as a CEO of a corporate business group of companies, can handle any portfolio as a minister.” He was telling the truth, he was the humble cosmic caretaker of the great universe. Balabhadra flexed his huge muscles, “OK, my line of expertise is battle, war, fight, wrestling, or anything in the category of combat, even an Army General’s charges will do.” The people quietly whispered among themselves, “These two johnnies must have escaped from an mad men’s asylum that treats mentally challenged patients. Let’s call police…..” “But where are the big two?” the brothers had bolted from the spot.
For three hot and humid days, the two hungry and thirsty gods roamed the streets, blistering their soles on Puri’s hot sand. None gave them a grain of rice or a glass of water. By the fourth morning Balabhadra collapsed in front of a smallish improvised house. Jagannath carried him to the cool verandah of the house. A lady from the shadowy recess behind a curtain asked her servant outside, “Check Bhalu, what is their problem.” Jagannath asked for a little water for his brother. The lady said from inside, “This is the colony of sweepers. You look like Brahmins. How can I defile you with the unholy water this Dalit house?” But Jagannath knowingly smiled to hear the voice he had been hearing all his life, waved aside her tongue-in-cheek objection, accepted a tumbler of water, gave a big drink to Balabhadra, who revived and sat up. Jagannath himself soaked his parched throat. Balabhadra commiserated, “We are starving for the last three days, my dear lady. I heard you saying you are from the caste of untouchables. But if you give us some raw provisions, we would consecrate them with our mantra-power, and cook outside on this verandah on a makeshift fireplace. That won’t defile us.”
Jaganath tried to light the makeshift oven to fix a meal out of the rice, dal, vegetables, etc. brought out by servants and consecrated by Balabhadra with his usual deceptive mumbo-jumbo drama used as an honourable exit in such tight strategic situations. But the fire refused to cooperate. Disgusted with his useless kid-brother, Balabhadra took over the charge by the fireplace. Now, not only the fire wouldn’t budge to rise from the firewood, but it exuded a pungent black smoke to burn the eyes and noses of the two brothers. Out of insane rage Balabhadra took a piece of firewood and vented his frustration on the earthen cooking pot in which lay raw rice with water for cooking steamed rice. The pot broke, the water thoroughly soaked the firewood and the fireplace. Balabhadra started bawling with a loud howl, shedding copious tears, and throwing tantrums like a hungry petulant child. Jagannath looked away and exclaimed in a whisper with a bemused half-smile, “Ha, the burly big little kid!”
A calm lady-voice floated from inside addressing the servant, “Bhalu, it appears Devi Laxmi has deserted these poor souls. God knows what sins they have committed. But we can’t allow two poor Brahmins die of hunger. Can we? (She paused perhaps for effect.) Let’s see what we can do. Ask them to go behind the house, you draw water from the well, and let them have their bath on the stone platform by the well. I will serve them from my kitchen. (She paused again and spoke with a soft sarcasm.) The big one appears to know all the mumbo-jumbo, he can consecrate the impure food of my kitchen before eating.” To this Balabhadra bobbed a graceful head in agreement. By the time the brothers had finished their bath, they were offered a fresh change of clothes to put on. Balabhadra was taken aback, “How come these people know our choice of colours and measurements! These clothes fit exactly and as if made to order for us!” It was another thing that he had totally forgotten about the house belonging to a latrine-cleaner. They sat for eating. His hunger made him forget the consecration ritual as well. The taste and flavor of the food confused him further, why all dishes tasted the same, as delicious as from the temple kitchen. He looked at his kid-brother. He was belting down his food unconcerned. The last dish, the dessert, sort of cleared the big lord’s mind. It was a large chunk of the smoked sweet rice cake with mouthwatering ingredients, his all-time favourite. He almost cried with joy. At this time a tinkling of bangles caught his ears, and he looked up at the semi-ajar door. A shadowy face peeking at them, looking familiar with a knowing smile, just shifted to behind the curtain.
Balabhadra was openly crying. His dripping tears were soaking the remaining rice cake pudding on his plate. He was loudly begging Laxmi’s pardon, “Please, my little cherub, I am sorry, pardon my oddities like a kid-sister pardons her big brother, come back home. Please.” Then he rubbed off his tears, and sternly commanded to his good-for-nothing kid-brother, “Chhote, you idiot, you fool, you can’t make out anything amiss yet, it is our sweet Laxmi, go in, and bring our my daughter-in-law with full honour.” It appeared Laxmi had already packed up her suitcase, and was just waiting for the burly one’s signal to leave with the repentant brothers. All three walked back to the temple, Balabhadra the big strongman breaking the protocol for the first time in history carried Laxmi’s suitcase. They walked as if returning from a holiday, happy and jubilant, gossiping on recent world and national affairs and problems in and around their Puri-township. By the time they reached the temple, to his dismay, Balabhadra noticed the usual hustle-bustle filled the air of their temple premises. It was no more bereft of any footfall or silent like a tomb. He was flummoxed, “Was I dreaming?” He saw the husband wife pair exchanging meaningful glances with suppressed smiles. He boxed the ears of his kid-brother, and affectionately rebuked, “You too Chhote!”
The junior gods and goddesses of the temple territory sighed in relief, “Peace at last, oh great Lord!”
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
THE HUNTING EXPEDITION (MRUGAYA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A woman need not be obliged
to her rich and powerful lover
who takes her to bed
but takes care to keep the blot
of illegitimate motherhood
out of her hair.
The jungle called society
has been tilted against women
ever since Dushyant’s days, when
Sakuntala was ravished in secret.
Kharabela Nagar’s vacant plot,
of late, painfully witnessed
a gang of rowdy Dushyant’s
ravaging a hapless Shakuntala,
her dead-wood desiccated body
clawed and fanged by the predators.
The man who boasts
of protecting his woman
from devils with his machismo,
the activist who preaches
stale tired platitudes
on his free weekends
to the agitated oppressed women,
or the authority claiming
to hunt down the vultures
swooping over the weaker sex;
none of them have the will
to finish the evil.
They enter the forest with weapons
to hunt the predators,
but it’s only a pretence
against Dushyant’s ravishing Sakuntala’s
over the ages relentlessly
with uncanny abandon.
EXISTENTIAL CRISIS (MANTRA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Where ends
this jungle of steel and concrete,
yielding space to
the serene blue sky?
Where leads this march
for easygoing son of the soil,
a prisoner of neon-dreams
of an imminent new age?
But he gets little return
from his land
despite hard toil
at the new age farming.
An age-old shibboleth
emerges out of furrows of the soil
like a forgotten blessing
bringing a bountiful harvest.
Again the delusion sets in –
a soothing voice whispers,
“You are waylaid by outdated folklores.
They would lead you
to nowhere, rather see -
the new age is shaping lives.
See, the giant hand
of a crane on the pier
loads fast the valuables
into the vessel’s belly.
See, the rocket shining like
an upraised metal finger.
The slice of moon that floats
in river Bhargavi’s water
might have been flung there
by this magic finger,
after twirling it playfully.
You only need to believe,
have trust till you
reach age of sky-scrappers.
Again the shibboleths return –
“Don’t trust a knife
that cuts fruits for a salad.
It causes bloodsheds equally.
Otherwise, you would be cursed
by your ancestors, your ever well-wishers.
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)”
TREE (GACHHA)
Kamalakanta Panda (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Like Darwinian monkeys,
trees are our ancestors.
Down their roots flows our culture,
our ingrained values and legacy
of loving all and seeking love
from all; to live and let live;
our tolerance, and being thankful
to all who tolerate our oddities.
Trees rise inexorably skyward
as if searching for a sober shower
for cleansing the polluted air
that burns eyes lately.
These days their greenery
fails to sustain their own wellbeing,
what of offering us draughts
of clean breath to humans?
Instead of billing and cooing
under shrubbery’s sylvan solitude,
lovers smooch in air-conditioned confines,
being prey to health hazards..
The vast universe spreads
unlimited bounties for us, but instead,
humans invite the cosmic-teacher’s ire,
and prefer standing on one foot!
Work hard and keep faith,
the green-wheels would turn
back to the time to another green age,
the love of greenery to human hearts.
DISTANCE: NEED NOT BE DISTANT ALL THE TIME (DURA: SABUBELE NUHAI DURANTA)
Kamalakanta Panda (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Neither the river nor the mountain
seem distant; but many moons ago
far away sat the mountain,
from its stone cracks
had jumped out the river as a stream.
It is now flowing by us, irrigating
our land, bringing the rich silt and smell
of the hills, that no longer remain alien.
Both have grown close
and familiar, good neighbours;
the river especially intent to attend
to the land’s needs, growing wider
and deeper, being the home for the fish,
and the crustaceans, looking for the sea;
bringing to its Poseidon lover
its mother mountain’s messages.
For a river, the origin in hills, and
immersion in the sea, lovely prospects,
if one resounds with chirps of birds,
its birth cry, the other a peaceful haven.
Familiarity bridges the distances,
attachment is the key that dissolves
the differences; distant lands
appear next door, to one’s utter disbelief.
Love and care are unique glues,
that bind even strangers; though
they may not know each other well,
yet their hearts beat in tandem.
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA), a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, writing over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute, and if one hasn’t read Kalpata’s poems, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision that he would never collect his own poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)
STUDIO
Geetha Nair G.
"In the room the women come and go",
Dropping thoughtless shards upon my torso.
Their words are a fog I burrow through
To reach our lone studio.
Chiaroscuro... .
I must empty every nook
Of its prints.
Cast them out,
Cleave them,
Heap them,
Douse them;
Where is the match to set them all ablaze ?
Burn them. Char them.
Scatter the heavy ashes
Of the chequered years
To settle that heaving earth;
Firmly, firmly,
To build
That one still cenotaph.
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
‘DEVDAS’: THE BOOK, THE AUTHOR AND THE THREE FILM VERSIONS
Anil Upadhyay
(This is a slightly edited version of the article published on the blog Songs Of Yore on 30 June 2017, on the centenary of the publication of Sarat Chandra’s classic novella ‘Devdas’. This blog, dedicated to old Hindi films songs of the 1930s through 60s, is now in its tenth year. The author manages and writes this blog under the name ‘AK’.)
It is believed that Sarat Chandra wrote Devdas in 1901 when he was just 25. He was against its publication as he thought his writing was immature and the character was over-sentimental. But on the persuasion of his friend Pramathnath Bhatt, he allowed its publication in his journal ‘Bharatvarsh’ (March-April 1916), and later as a book on 30 June 1917. Its first film adaptation was in the silent era, in 1928, directed by Naresh Mitra, and starring Phani Sarma, Tarakbala and Niharbala. Its next adaptation was in the early years of the talkies – the bilingual (Bengali and Hindi) versions in 1935 by the New Theatres, both directed by PC Barua, he also playing the lead role of Devdas in the Bengali version, which was played by KL Saigal in the Hindi version. This became a landmark in the history of films, making the New Theatres the Gold Standard of film making, and KL Saigal a national sensation as a singing star. Its cinematographer, Bimal Roy, remade the film in 1955 as a tribute to PC Barua and KL Saigal. This, too, earned wide acclaim as the most authentic film adaptation of the novel, and a great classic in itself. The third Hindi version, in 2002, by Sanjay Leela Bhansali evoked mixed responses. People have been awed by its opulence; it has also won several awards, but serious lovers of cinema have been critical of the ‘liberties’ Bhansali has taken with the book.
There has been a highly stylised inspiration Dev. D (2009), directed by Anurag Kashyap. This, obviously, can’t be called an adaptation. Along the way, there have been numerous film adaptations in other languages.
Whenever a classic is adapted into a film, the two most common questions asked are: How far is the film faithful to the source? And whether the book or the film is superior. But another, and more important question in the context of Devdas is: This is the story of a weak-willed character who, unable to defy parental objection to his marriage to his childhood sweetheart, dissipates himself and self-destructs in alcohol. What is there in it that has charmed millions of readers transcending barriers of language and culture for a hundred years, and has inspired generations of filmmakers? Let us take a look at the book, the author, and the three Hindi film versions to seek answer to these questions. That would also be a fitting tribute to the classic novel Devdas and to Sarat Chandra.
Devdas: The Novel (published on 30 June 1917)
Author: Sarat Chandra Chatterjee
The novel opens with the village pathshala scene where the monitor, at the behest of the guruji, is minding the class. The children, Devdas and Paro, are inseparable friends – he, troublesome and arrogant, causing so much exasperation to the teacher that he is not allowed to go out during recess; she, proud, sensitive and sympathetic. She stays behind to give him company in his punishment. Devdas, out of mischief and anger, pushes the monitor off the stool on a heap of dirt and grime. Paro is beside herself with laughter. The guruji is furious, Devdas runs away, the class is sent after him to catch him; Devdas causes further mischief, pelting stones on the pursuing crowd and injuring several of them. Guruji leads a delegation of angry and hurt students to Devdas’s father, the zamindar Narayan Mukherjee, who is furious at his son’s wayward behaviour. The novel has some more scenes of Devdas’s wild pranks, his hiding in the expansive orchard out of fear of his father, and Paro stealthily bringing him food. Finally, Devdas’s father decides enough is enough and packs him off to Calcutta for studies under the guardianship of his Mamaji. I should add here that among the three Hindi film versions, only Bimal Roy’s adapts this faithfully. PC Barua’s Devdas (1935) opens with the adult Paro (Jamuna) being drawn towards Devdas (KL Saigal) singing Baalam aye baso more man mein under a tree. Bhansali’s opens with scenes of excitement at Mukherjees’ haveli at the news of the return of Devdas (Shahrukh Khan) from ‘London’ after completion of his studies.
A fairly substantial part of the slim novel is devoted to the childhood of the principal characters. This helps delineate their characters and their relationship. Devdas takes Paro for granted, and considers it his right to boss over her and also hit her if he thinks she deserves punishment. But Paro is no doormat either. While deeply in love with him, she is full of pride and self-respect. When they grow into adult lovers, it is an extension of their childhood relationships, and this helps in understanding many critical scenes between them which lead to irretrievable disaster later in their lives.
Many years pass by. Devdas comes to his village Tal Sonapur off and on during vacations from Calcutta and meets with Paro and Chhoti Chachi (i.e. Paro’s mother). The lovers have free access to each other’s houses and are treated with great affection by each other’s families. In this scenario, it was natural for Paro’s mother and grandmother to think of her marriage with Devdas as the most natural thing. But they did not anticipate that their lower social status compared to Mukherjees and their old tradition of accepting money in daughter’s marriage would be an insurmountable obstacle. Neelkanth Chakravarty (Paro’s father) himself detested this practice, and was confident that his daughter would be married on her own merits. But when Paro’s grandmother broaches this with Devdas’s mother, she does not get instant endorsement. Devdas’s mother gives a wry smile which conceals several emotions. For the moment, she disposes the proposal by saying that ‘’He” (Devdas’s father) would not agree. However, she gingerly mentions this to her husband at dinner time, hoping against hope that he would agree. But seeing his gross contempt for Paro’s family, she does not press further, rather owns up herself that she had rejected the offer.
The news of rejection makes Paro’s father furious. He is angry at his mother for inviting this humiliation to his family by her ill-thought approach. He would avenge it by arranging Paro’s marriage in even a richer family than the Mukherjees. He is true to his word, Bhuvan Chaudhary of Hathipota village was a bigger zamindar. The fact that he was 40 years old and a widower with grown up children was trivial compared to the pressing need for ticking off the Mukherjees.
Paro is unconcerned at this news, because her ‘swami’ was Devdas. She was confident that whenever Devdas was married, it would be to her. Therefore, she is not afraid of stigma, or people recognising her, when at the dead of the night she walks across to Devdas’s house, and going past the darwan, confidently goes up to his bed room. In the first turning point in the story, Devdas falters. Unprepared for such an eventuality, he asks in shock: So late in the night? Have you come alone? Were you not frightened? How did you enter the house, didn’t anyone see you? Did anyone recognise you? How would you face slander and shame? Paro is cool, no I am not scared of ghosts and spirits; yes, darwan might have seen me; people know me here, some of them might have recognised me; and where is shame in coming to you? You are my swami, I know you would cover my shame and protect my dignity. I have come to surrender myself at your feet. Devdas cannot get himself to commit in the face of parental objection, and quietly escorts her back to her house. In the morning, he does tentatively mention marriage with Paro to this father, but he is unmoved. Back he goes to Calcutta in a thoroughly lost and disoriented state.
Paro is still hopeful, but in the second turning point in the story which becomes irreversible, she gets a letter from Devdas that he can’t marry her by making his parents unhappy. He compounds it further by stating that he never thought of his relationship with her as love. His only pain was that she was suffering so much on his account. ‘Please try to forget me, you have my blessings from the core of my heart that you be happy.’
After dropping the letter(-bomb) in the letter-box, Devdas is immediately filled with remorse. He has shifted in the meanwhile from his Mama’s place to a mess. As he is tossing and turning in his bed restlessly, a co-boarder Chunnilal, who has been trying to complete his BA for nine years, returns that night unusually early for him at 1AM, and finding Devdas in great torment, offers to take him to a place of pleasure where such pains vanish. However, the next day, Chunni Babu finds a determined Devdas, all packed up, and ready to leave Calcutta for good and go back to his village.
In the next turning point, Devdas is fishing at the village pond where Paro usually comes to fill her water pitcher. She tries to go her way after doing her chores, but Devdas calls her, I have come back. “So?”, she snaps. Devdas tells her he would persuade his parents for the marriage. “And what about my parents, their honour and wish do not matter?” An apologetic Devdas asks her, have you forgotten me? Parvati is unsparing and turns the screw some more, “How can I forget you? From childhood, I have known you and I have feared you. You want to frighten me again? Leave my way; if you are big people, my father is not a beggar either. Go ahead, if you want to malign my character.” And in one of the most iconic scenes, Devdas exclaims, Oh such pride! It is not good to be so beautiful, it makes one arrogant, even moon has a black spot. He hits her hard on the forehead with the butt of the fishing rod.
As Devdas tears his shirt and tends to her wound, this becomes one of the most moving scenes in the story. No two persons loved each other more intensely, yet they are destined not to unite. For Sarat Chandra, unrequited love is the highest form of love. Paro gets married to Bhuvan Babu, becoming the mistress of a big household and mother of two grown-up sons and a married daughter. A defeated, helpless and forlorn Devdas goes back to Calcutta with nothing on him. He spends the entire night wandering around in the city aimlessly. Finally he staggers towards the mess where Chunni Babu takes care of him. Devdas is not in a mood to resume his studies or sit for examination. He asks Chunni Babu to take him where the latter goes. He also needs some relief from his miseries. In this state of mind, even his family retainer Dharma Das’s entreaties to come back for the sake of his inconsolable mother has no effect on him. Chunni Babu takes Devdas to the kotha of Chandramukhi. But Devdas is bitter with life, with women, with love, and does not conceal his contempt for her. She had never seen a customer like him. She instantly develops a deep empathy for him, but he is too far gone down the cliff for even her most sincere affection and care to be able to retrieve him. As he leaves, throwing money at her contemptuously, Chandramukhi returns the money to Chunni Babu, and pleads with him to bring Devdas once more after he recovers.
It is downhill all the way for Devdas. Chandramukhi’s entreaties to give up alcohol is of no avail, because now it is not an addiction, it has become his life. At the funeral of his father, Paro also comes for giving him comfort. She has by now come to know that alcohol has taken over Devdas. Her entreaties, too, to give up alcohol are met with a painful reply: Is everyone capable of doing everything? Can you promise not to remember me ever? Can you run away with me? Finally, on her earnest pleadings to let her take care of him, Devdas replies in a heart-rending voice: OK, if this gives you any satisfaction, I shall remember it, I promise I would come to you before I die.
Now we know the inevitable. The widowed mother goes off to Kashi for six months. In Calcutta, Chandramukhi has renounced everything and has wound up her Calcutta establishment to shift to a small village, only waiting to meet Devdas once before leaving. Both Paro and Chandramukhi separately go to Tal Sonapur looking for Devdas as they have heard of his pathetic condition. They miss him, but knowing that he might be somewhere in Calcutta, Chandramukhi goes back there looking for him. She finds him finally, and her care improves his health to some extent. But his drinking continues unabated which has eroded his body to a point of no return. On Dharma Das’s insistence, Devdas goes to Allahabad, Lahore, Bombay etc. for recuperating. But his body has been ravaged, afflicted with serious illnesses. It is frightening to look at him. Finally, he takes a seemingly endless train journey. As the train stops at Pandua, he remembers that this is the place where one has to get down for going to Hathipota, Paro’s sasural. As his life is ebbing away, he desperately asks the coachman to go faster. The coach is indeed able to reach him there in the midnight when he is still not quite dead. By the dawn, a crowd starts collecting around his dying body. When he is finally gone, no one is willing to touch his body; it is given over to chandals who consign it to vultures and animals. From the letters, tattoo etc. found on his body, it is clear he is Paro’s Devdas from Tal Sonapur. She runs to meet him, but this would be scandalous, therefore, her family and servants run after her to stop her. The huge gates of the haveli are banged shut on her. Her limp body is brought inside.
Sarat Chandra’s description of Devdas’s death may appear more graphic and macabre than we are familiar with in the film adaptations, but his deep sympathy for the character is quite obvious, as he (the author) says in the end:
“Now at this distance in time, we don’t know what happened to Parvati or how she is, nor am I interested in knowing about it. But for Devdas, my heart cries out, and anyone who reads this story would probably be as pained as I am. If you happen to know anyone as unfortunate, reckless, wayward and sinful as Devdas, please pray to God for him, that whatever may happen, he should not have this kind of death. Death is inevitable, but there must be a touch of a loving hand on his head, so that he dies in peace looking at a compassionate face and tears in the eyes of someone.”
The author: Sarat Chandra Chatterjee
(b. 15 September 1876; d. 16 January 1938)
Sarat Chandra was the third pillar of the great trinity of Bengali literature after Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and Rabindranath Tagore. But no writer faced as much slander and controversies about his personal life as him. Bankim Chandra was revered as the father figure of Bengali literature and a leading light of Bengal’s renaissance. He was the inspiration for Indian nationalism based on our great cultural traditions. Rabindranath Tagore, born in an aristocratic family, was a man of multi-faceted talents: writing, painting, music. Widely regarded for his internationalism and humanism, he won the Nobel Prize for literature – the first Asian to be given this honour – for his transcendental poetry. He became an icon of Bengali pride.
Sarat Chandra, on the other hand, had no such pedigree. Born in village Devanandpur in Hooghly district (Bengal) to Motilal Chatterjee and Bhuvanmohini, Sarat Chandra was second among five siblings: an elder sister Anila, two younger brothers Prabhas and Prakash, and the youngest sister Susheela. He had an impoverished childhood, as Motilal was more of a dreamer having interest in arts and literature, and incapable of holding a regular job and providing for the family. But, lineage mattered more in marriage and, thus, he was married into a well-known aristocratic Ganguly family of Bhagalpur.
When Bhuvanmohini found it impossible to manage the household even after selling off her jewellery, she had no option but to seek shelter with her father Kedarnath Ganguly, and her uncle Aghornath Ganguly when Kedarnath was no more. Sarat, thus, spent a large part of his childhood and adolescence at Bhagalpur in different spells. The Gangulys welcomed them with great affection, even when their own financial condition deteriorated. But, living as gharjmai was never an honourable option for Motilal. As for Sarat, in spite of all the affection showered on him, and in spite of being more a friend with several Mamas who were his age in the large joint family, he had a sense of discomfort, which is reflected in Devdas leaving his Mama’s house for a boarding house in Calcutta.
Sarat Chandra was a mischievous child; he had a constant companion Dhiru in his pranks. Sarat and Dhiru of Devanandpur became the children Devdas and Paro of Tal Sonapur. Sarat was a reckless and wayward adolescent during his Bhagalpur days, but he was extremely popular among his ‘gang’ for his story-telling abilities and his melodious voice. One of the more notorious members of the group was one Raju, who fascinated him, because Raju was not afraid of any danger when it came to helping outcasts of the society. This Raju became Indranath of ‘Srikant’, Srikant himself being quite a good deal the restless wanderer Sarat. With Raju, he often visited a tawaif Kalidasi. The main attraction for Sarat was his interest in music and melody. He did take liquor, possibly to the point of being addicted. Whether he savoured more than music at the kotha is irrelevant. What impressed him most was her large-heartedness. She was a pious lady and one day renounced everything. There is no doubt that Chandramukhi was based on her character.
Sarat Chandra also became very friendly with one Vibhutideo Mukherjee whose elder sister Nirupama was widowed at a very young age. She was extremely talented, Sarat became her mentor and inspired her to write, but was saddened that because of shackles of widowhood, she could not realise her full potential.
While Sarat’s studies were in shambles, Bhaglapur became the cradle for his creative urges. He was a voracious reader of classics from all over the world. He wrote many of his well-known works here, known only to his friends, who formed a literary club to discuss their writings. It was during this period that he wrote ‘Devdas’. ‘Shubhada’ (c.1898), depicting extreme penury and a sacrificing mother with infinite patience, looking after her family in the face of a no-good husband, is a slice from his own life. ‘Kashinath’ was born here. During this period, Sarat submitted his story ‘Mandir’ for a prize competition, but in the name of his Mama and friend Surendranath Ganguly. This story won the first prize among 150 entries
From Bhagalpur he wandered off to different places for varying periods of time. His wanderings took him to Muzaffarpur where he set himself up in a dharmshala as a saffron-clad sanyasi, as this would help him in seeking alms. But because of his melodious voice and story-telling abilities, he was noticed and hosted by a prominent Bengali family of Nishanath and Shikharnath Bandopadhyay who had already heard of him from Nirupama (of Bhagalpur) who was their bhabhi. Another young Bengali, Pramathnath Bhatt, who was greatly impressed by him, would play an important role later in bringing out Sarat the great writer before the world. A young scion of a Bihari aristocratic family, Mahadev Sahu, who was fond of Bengali, became fascinated with Sarat. They were companions for kothas and drinks. The Sahu family blamed ‘the young Bengali who had come from Bhagalpur’ as a bad influence on Mahadev.
Sarat lived a completely bohemian life in Muzaffarpur. The news of the death of his father jolted him to the realities of life. His mother had passed away a few years ago during the birth of his youngest sister. The elder sister was married in Govindpur, but he had three younger siblings to take care of. After setting them up with different relatives and benefactors, Sarat himself headed towards Calcutta in search of a regular job. While he was staying with one of his Mamas, Lalmohan, his Rangoon-based advocate Mausa, Aghornath Chattopadhyay, happened to come to Calcutta and stayed with Lalmohan. Sarat was fascinated by the romanticised stories of Rangoon: How the sahibs lap up Bengalis landing from ships and offer them lucrative jobs; how its streets are strewn with wealth and a pauper reaching there becomes wealthy in a short time. When Aghornath invited him to Rangoon to assist him, Sarat was already determined his destiny lay there. Apprehensive that his Mamas and friends would dissuade him from leaving, he somehow arranged for fare, and one early morning at 4AM took a steamer for Rangoon. The bohemian, wayward youth who had so far lived a life of dependence on others, embarked on another uncertain journey into future a la Srikant. He had started writing ‘Charitraheen’ by then.
He spent about 13 years in Burma from 1903 to 1916, but it was far from a land of dreams. Sarat was his father’s son, not cut out for leading a regular life and holding a steady job. He could not pass exams in Burmese language or accounting. He did odd temporary jobs at different places. When his Mausa passed away, he lived with friends, in worker’s colonies. Women always felt attracted towards him. A beautiful young woman Shanti took shelter with him, as her father was trying to marry her off to an old man. Sarat promised to marry her, but her death shattered him. He subsequently lived with another woman; some called her Biraj Bahu, some Nayantara, some Shashikala. One of his acquaintances, Krishnadeo Adhikari left his daughter Mokshda to look after Sarat when the plague broke out. He was overwhelmed by her devotion, and renamed her Hiranmayee. She lived with him till his end as his wife, though the orthodox Bengali society questioned whether the marriage was sanctified by rituals. A few days before his death Sarat had made out his will in favour of Hiranmayee.
During this period, one of his stories, ‘Bordidi’ (The Elder Sister) which he had left behind with his friends was published in the monthly journal Bharati (April-May 1907). It instantly heralded the arrival of a great writer, but he was an unknown name, living far away in anonymity in Rangoon. Many people speculated that only someone of the calibre of Gurudev could write such a powerful story, and he might have decided to write it anonymously. Gurudev himself was impressed and clarified that he was not the author. The third and the final instalment disclosed his name.
Thereafter, there was an unfortunate incident of fire in his home in Rangoon, which destroyed his completed manuscript of 'Charitraheen' of 500 pages and his other writings. This was his effort of almost fifteen years. A dejected Sarat Chandra was not in a mood to write again. But on the persuasion of his friends and admirers who were aware of his talent, he started writing after a gap of about six years. The publication of his three stories, Ramer Sumati, Path Nirdesh and Bindur Chhele in quick succession in Yamuna magazine (1913) created a sensation and refreshed the memory of the readers of Sarat who had made a great impact six years earlier with Bordidi. He had also started rewriting Charitraheen from memory. The publication of its first instalment in October 1913 created a sensation, and alarm for its theme. Sarat’s stories and novels got published regularly in magazines, including some of his very young days, left behind with his friends.
Sarat had left Calcutta as an aimless and restless youth. He returned in 1916 as an extraordinary writer in Bengali. He was soon translated widely into various languages. He became the most widely read fiction writer of Bengali, but the Bengali society had conflicted views about him. He was seen as a charitraheen, who lived in seedy places, visited places of ill repute, who glorified prostitutes, and eulogised widows falling in love, or married women from decent families eloping with young men. None of such relationships led to union – perhaps this was Sarat’s concession to the tradition-bound society, but what he wrote was enough to jolt and shock. He was ostracised by his relatives from ceremonial occasions. Sarat himself never bothered for acceptance, nor did he ever care about the unflattering stories, often exaggerated, circulating about him.
When Tagore once asked him why didn’t he write his autobiography, Sarat replied, “Had I known I would become such a famous person, I would have lived my life very differently.” But in that case, he wouldn’t have been the Sarat who created fascinating female characters like Paro, Chandramukhi, Rajlaxmi, Kiranmayi, Hemangini, Bindubasini, Narayani and Sabitri. The writer who had no intellectual pretensions, who wrote stories in simple language, tales of relationships, oppression of young widows, their ‘forbidden’ desires and the hypocrisies of the society in dealing with them, of noble and compassionate tawaifs and sex workers. These characters were not fiction, these were real people he met and lived with in his life. The man for whom character was superior to chastity.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life in the peace of a village, he constructed a house in a Samtabed near Roopnarayanpur river, but he had to often come to Calcutta for medical treatment. Considering his frail health, on Hiranmayee’s persuation he built a house in Calcutta. He spent his last three years flitting between the city and the village. His body too, like Devdas’s, had suffered excesses. During his last years, he was suffering from many serious ailments like dyspepsia and liver cancer. He finally passed away at a relatively young age of 61 years in 1938.
The film Devdas (Hindi, 1935): Making of a metaphor and the birth of a legend
Director: PC Barua
Cast: KL Saigal, Jamuna, Rajkumari, Pahadi Sanyal, KC Dey
Music: Timir Baran
When a drunken KL Saigal, lying on the pavements in Calcutta, appeared on the screen, singing Abdul Karim Khan’s iconic thumri Pya bin naahi aavat chain, or another time when he sang in his pathos-filled voice, Dukh ke ab din beetat naahi, I guess that was the time when ‘Devdas’ became a metaphor for a dejected lover drowning himself in alcohol and finally destroying himself – ‘Kyon Devdas bane phirte ho?’ At the same time, KL Saigal became a legend as the greatest actor-singer and a beacon for future generation of singers.
Saigal’s first three films with the New Theatres, Mohabbat Ke Aansoo, Zinda Laash and Subah Ka Sitara, all in 1932, sank without trace. Nothing is known about these films, nor even whether he had any songs in these films. He came into prominence with Yahudi Ki Ladki (1933) and Chandidas (1934), but Devdas made him a national sensation. His non-film song, Jhulna jhulao ri, said to be his first recorded song, had been released in the meantime to stupendous reception. Even though he was not formally trained in classical music, he was respected by the likes of Ustad Abdul Karim Khan, Ustad Faiyyaz Khan and Pandit Omkarnath Thakur. On hearing his Piya bin naahi aawat chain, Ustad Abdul Karim Khan was so impressed that he gifted his harmonium to him with his blessings. When Saigal once approached Ustad Faiyyaz Khan to take him as his disciple, the Aftaab-e-Mausiqui placed his pearl necklace around Saigal and told him: There is nothing that I can teach you. You have a god-gifted voice.
The film also put the New Theatres in a class by itself. The main sources of our early films were mythology, or fantasy costume drama taken from Parsi theatre. The studio’s first sound film Dena Paona (1931, Bengali) was also based on Sarat Chandra’s novel. They kept their tradition of sourcing material from high literature. With RC Boral, Pankaj Mullick, Timir Baran, KL Saigal, KC Dey and Kanan Devi in their stable, they were the Gold Standard of film making in the studio era.
The film is available on the YouTube, but I must caution that you have to approach it as a piece of history. In 1935, our film making was constrained by limitations of technology. With our poor record of preservation, the film lacks in production values. But there is a still more serious problem. The stilted acting of female characters and the dialogue delivery sounds very awkward. It is also jarring to hear Devdas say, ‘Main apne waaldain ki udool-hukmi nahi kar sakta’, or Paro mouthing dialogues like, ‘Aur mere waaldain ki razaamandi zaroori nahi?’ In their later films, the New Theatres were able to arrive at a more acceptable Hindi/Hindustani language.
But the everlasting music and the songs make up for everything in the film. Let me part with this film with Saigal’s immortal songs, written by Kidar Sharma and composed by Timir Baran.
Baalam aye baso more man mein
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi26nVlziUQ
Dukh ke ab din beetat naahi
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2JuTxafW_f4
Piya bin naahi aawat chain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwhlSg_TKUk
And now let us hear the original Jhinjhoti thumri, sung by the maestro Ustad Abdul Karim Khan, which had made Bhimsen Joshi restless in childhood. Its impact was so powerful that he left home wandering from place to place in search of a guru.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5Gje0EyBO4
The film Devdas (1955): Poetry on celluloid
Director: Bimal Roy
Cast: Dilip Kumar, Suchitra Sen, Vyjayanthimala, Motilal
Music: SD Burman
A sad, lonely and drunk Devdas wandering aimlessly in desolate mangroves, shooting birds with his airgun is a sight etched in memory. And when he (Dilip Kumar), sitting by the pond, sings Mitwa, mitwa naahi aye, laagi re ye kaisi anbujh aag, and touches the desolate trees which once came to life with his and Paro’s pranks, you cry with him. And you admire the sensitivity of Bimal Roy and his eye for detail. On the tree, there is a solitary bird, as still and sad as the trees, the surroundings and the characters. When the child Devdas and Paro played around the same trees, the same bird also chirped in happiness as the kids sang O albele panchhi tera door thikana hai. The scene cuts to Parvati reading her friend Manorama’s letter describing the pathetic condition of Devdas. She rushes to Tal Sonapur only to find him gone. And then comes the immortal scene of a sad-eyed Paro returning in palaki when her moist eyes meet Chandramukhi’s who is walking along the ridge of the fields in the opposite direction on the same mission. She would also come back empty handed. This is poetry on celluloid.
Mitwa mitwa nahi aaye, laagi re ye kaisi anbujh aag by Talat Mahmood from Devdas (1955), lyrics Sahir Ludhiyanavi, music SD Burman
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=218py1kN1AU
One can’t imagine any actor surpassing Dilip Kumar’s Devdas. Chunni Babu deserves a special mention. In the novel, his character is not very well etched out. Motilal has made him a lovable character. Yes, he drinks and frequents the kotha, but he has an innate sense of humour and goodness. When Devdas asks him to take where he goes to drown his worries, he is surprised, and tries to dissuade him that such places are not for him.
There are some online writers who write film reviews regularly, which have a section titled: “What I didn’t like in the film.” There is nothing in the film that is out of place. Bimal Roy does more than pay a tribute to PC Barua and KL Saigal. He creates a masterpiece as tall as the novel itself.
The film Devdas (2002): The mauling of a classic
Director: Sanjay Leela Bhansali
Cast: Shahrukh Khan, Aishwarya Roy, Madhuri Dixit, Jackie Shroff
Music: Ismail Darbar
The first film to cross 100-crore budget, opulent, lavish sets, operatic. These are the terms by which Sanjay Leela’s Bhansali’s Devdas is described. The rich golden hue, perhaps a favourite of Bhansli, permeates the entire film. Donald Trump has also done up his penthouse in New York in gold. The characters have to be larger than life, loud and melodramatic to fit in such a film. The film opens with the mother of Devdas, Smita Jaikar, prancing around the mansion, shouting instructions to the servants, generally creating a ruckus that her son is coming from London after completing his studies.
That is not enough. The characters also need dramatic scenes and thunderous dialogues. For that, Bhansali makes her a vicious character. How dare a lowly Kiron Kher (Paro’s mother) think of Paro’s marriage in her family? Such persons have to be shown their place. She deviously invites her at the gode-bharai of her expectant bahu (the wife of the elder son, and bhabhi of Devdas). Kiron Kher is touched by this gesture – so, the initiative to broach the subject of marriage has come from them. Smita Jaikar requests her with a sly smile to perform Jatra dance, which Kiron Kher had given up long ago. But she has to reciprocate the graciousness shown by Devdas’s mother who is much superior in status. After the dance Is over, Smita Jaikar hurls choicest abuses on Kiron Kher for their lowly past, and going to the extent of using their pretty daughter to ensnare her son. Kiron Kher is herself a powerful actor, and she retaliates soundly by cursing destruction on Smita Jaikar’s haveli, and climaxes it with the most horrific curse: I had come to bless that 'Terey ghar beta paida ho, lekin jaa terey ghar bhi beti paida ho' .
The battle of the mothers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2m09mQxdM8
Where did Bhansali get all this from? Where is Sarat Chandra in this? Devdas’s mother definitely not, nor do I think any mother in Sarat Chandra, was given to such villainy.
The desolate pond, trees, orchards would mar the lavish sets. Therefore, Bhansali shifts the iconic scene of Devdas hitting Paro on the forehead to interiors. A brooding, silent Devdas does not match with the opulent sets. A dejected lover can also be aggressive and violent. Shahrukh Khan has a high-octane scene with his bhabhi on the issue of the mother’s share in the property and handing over the keys of the cash chest to her. The greedy bhabhi does not relent. Shahrukh Khan has no option but to sprinkle petrol all around the floor and set it to fire. Kiron Kher watches the soaring flames coming out of the haveli with some vindication.
In the classic, Paro and Chandramukhi are engulfed in deep sadness in the knowledge that they can’t unite with the man they love, and their sole aim in life now is to somehow take care of him to save him from self-destruction. Bhansali gives them a makeover by having them perform a high-energy item dance number Dola re dola re dola re.
Paro and Chandramukhi perform item dance number
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFTPOnun6Og
In his penchant for high voltage confrontations, Bhansali creates a new character, not there in the novel – a lecherous son-in-law, played by Milind Gunaji. After Dola re dola re, he makes some offensive comments about both Aishwarya Rai and Madhuri Dixit. Madhuri Dixit lashes out at him with thunderous dialogues: Sharminda to inhe hona chahiye, kyonki inhi badnaam muhalle me ye bhi jaate hain, jahan inke purakhon ne apni aiyyashiyon ki nishaaniyan chhodi hain. Kabhi socha hai Kaali Babu ki unhi kothon mein kisi tawwaif se aapki bahan paida hui hogi? Bahan kyon, ye to apni beti ko bhi..As he tries to raise his hand, a resounding slap lands on his cheek. (Wah, wah, taaliyan)
Chandramukhi slaps Paro’s (Bhuvan’s) son-in-law
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bczh6qsdwWk
Bhansali does not spare even Chunni Babu. He creates a loud Jackie Shroff with his irritating tukbandis.
I have since seen some laudatory reviews of the film on the net, written, obviously, by people more knowledgeable than me. But to me, Bhansali has drowned the pathos and tragedy in the spectacle of his 100 crore budget. The beauty of ‘Devdas’ lies in its minimalism. The best I can muster is: if you blank yourself of the novel or the earlier versions, Bhansali has made a paisa vasool film; there are scenes when you would rise from your seat and clap with the janata wildly in cheers. But if you see it with reference to Sarat Chandra and Bimal Roy, he has not taken liberties with the story, he has mauled the classic.
What is so special about ‘Devdas’?
When we read in newspapers about a spurned lover destroying himself in alcohol bit by bit, we hardly feel any sympathy for him. We don’t even have pity for him, but contempt: why couldn’t he pull himself and move on? It is easy to be judgmental about Devdas. The misfortune has been brought upon by himself. This is where the power of the creator comes in. When Devdas says, "Pal bharmein kya se kya ho gaya? Paro shadi ke raastey chali gayi aur mein barbadikey. Ek chhoti bhool aur uski itni badi sajaa? Kyon Paro baar baar mujhey yaad aatihey?" all judgment withers away. We are no longer detached observers, but we become a participant in the events. Devdas’s tragedy affects us as it affects his near and dear ones.
The story is not only about Devdas, but also about Paro and Chandramukhi. And this is where you marvel how Sarat at the age of 25 could create characters of so much depth, courage and compassion. When a married Paro tells Devdas, come with me I would look after you, you are not scandalised, you feel the pathos of the situation. Paro at that moment is full of dignity and courage. When Manorama is aghast that Paro could can think of taking Devdas with her, Paro simply replies, where is the shame in taking my own thing with me? The tawaif Chandramukhi has all her life traded in ‘love’, but feels love for the first time. But she seeks nothing in return from Devdas. She deeply respects Paro who loved him so intensely, therefore, she couldn’t have betrayed Devdas, he has betrayed himself. What empathy a ‘fallen’ woman has for a respectable woman! For Sarat, there is no distinction between a ‘fallen’ and a respectable woman; a point comes when they both converge; there is something universal about womanhood, and very profound about love, beyond the surface distinction of chaste and unchaste.
The novel or the film?
This question has relevance only for Bimal Roy’s version. No film can be a substitute for a literary classic. The two are different mediums. A novel has passages of description of places, situations, or even writer’s own reflections. There is a different kind of passion in reading such passages which are difficult to be adapted on the screen. The visual medium has its own strengths in capturing a scene which would require long text in writing. Bimal Roy has brought Devdas’s tragedy and its surroundings alive. Dilip Kumar as Devdas, Suchitra Sen as Paro, Vyjayanthimala as Chandramukhi, Nazir Hussain as Dharma Das, Motilal as Chunni Babu are unforgettable characters of cinema. The scenes have a picture postcard beauty. As I have said, Bimal Roy has made a classic, as tall as Sarat Chandra’s. If not a substitute, Bimal Roy’s Devdas is a valuable supplement to Sarat Chandra’s Devdas.
Acknowledgements and notes:
1. I have taken Sarat Chandra’s profile from his highly acclaimed biography,’Awara Masiha’ written by Vishnu Prabhakar. This has been translated into several languages.
2. My access to the novel is through its Hindi translation which would always be short of the original. The readers of the Literary Vibes are creative writers and many must be also familiar with Bengali. I would welcome feedback from them.
3. Bombay’s answer to Saigal, Surendra debuted his acting-singing career with Birha ki aag lagi mere man mein (Deccan Queen, 1935, music Pransukh Naik), which was almost a carbon copy of Balam aye baso mere man mein. The following year, he also played a Devdas-type character in the film Manmohan (1936).
4. However, it is said that V Shantaram was concerned at the romanticisation of ‘Devdas’-type character. Therefore, to counter its ‘unhealthy’ influence on the youth, Prabhat Films made the bilingual Aadmi (Hindi)/Manush (Marathi) in 1939 with a positive message. In this film the Havildar wants to marry the prostitute, but she withdraws for the honour of his family, but not without making sure that he does not wallow in self-pity and destroy himself, and moves on with life. In my opinion, the experts who are making this connection on the basis of the ‘message’ are trivialising both ‘Devdas’ and ‘Aadmi’. ‘Devdas’ is an all-time classic for various reasons as I have explained in my article.
Anil K Upadhyay, IAS 1975 batch, Bihar cadre. Retired as Secretary, Ministry of Road Transport & Highways, Government of India in January 2013. Thereafter, he worked as Member, Central Administrative Tribunal from March 2015 to April 2018.
The Intruder
Sreekumar K
The phone rang for the third time. I knew who it was. Karthika, the librarian at our school. It was not so rare for Karthika to call me, though mostly for official purposes. But the Christmas holidays had begun and the school would be closed for over a week. So, that couldn’t be anything official.
I looked towards the kitchen. Vinaya was busy. A little bit of flirting won’t go bad, I hoped.
“Hello, Karthika! Happy Christmas!”
“Yeah, yeah same to you. I have been trying for some time”
God! Do I have to explain? What could she be calling me for? Sure to be something silly. A malfunctioning oven or wanting to know where to buy a shirt for her man.
“Sorry, I was busy with Niranjan. This year we have decided to celebrate Christmas.”
“O, really? He should be really happy about it. I had called you because I have a problem here and Chithran is not here.”
“O, where is he?”
“Who knows! He left three days ago promising to be here for Christmas. Probably next Christmas. I called you because I got scared.”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
“I think there is a mouse or a rat in our bedroom. First I thought it was in the kitchen. Probably it was. Now, I think it has run into our bedroom, the master bedroom. I closed it. Or it might run everywhere.”
“Wait a minute. Are you sure it is a rat?”
“I don’t know. There may not be anything at all. You know, I am so jittery about these things.”
“I know that. Be careful. It might be a snake or something.”
“No, it is not a snake. What I saw running around was something only as big as this.”
Sure, she is gesturing with her hands.
“Sorry, I mean it was as big as a big frog.” She added.
“Then it could be a frog.”
“No, it isn’t a frog. It was not leaping about.”
“Are you sure you saw something?”
“Now that you ask, I am not even sure of that. Let me open the door and go into the bedroom.”
I had never seen her home. I was left to imagine what it would be like. Just like her mind, I hoped. If it is like her mind, then it is beyond anyone’s imagination. She is a real scatterbrain, trying to do a hundred different things, all with such perfection.
At the library, nobody complimented her for anything. It was their way of responding to her being very cold towards them. But the visitors profusely complimented her and they say she never thanked them even once.
The library was always neat and tidy. No dust or torn papers lying around. Portraits of great writers, her own work, adorned the walls. Posters on the best books in there displaying the comments of the kids who had read it could be seen near each shelf. The library was a very attractive spot in our school. It inspired the kids to read and also to write. She had set a corner for the budding writers and she herself could be seen writing poems there.
“OK, I am inside. There is surely something in here. A very slight noise, but I am sure it is there. Let me move the cot a little. Don’t cut the call. I am so scared. You know what? Even Chithran is so scared of these things. We live near this bog, know? Several times these things had dropped in uninvited. My driver was helpful then.”
I remember her driver. An old affectionate man. He passed away a year ago.
I looked around. Niranjan was pruning the Christmas tree. He was carefully taking things off and putting them back. Then standing away to see if it looked good.
Vinaya was still in the kitchen dressing the chicken. At any time now, she might call me to help her chop it to pieces. Or at least to sharpen the knife.
“Yesssss. It is a rat. Big one, but so very cute. Looks like Aurangazebe to me.”
“O, you have seen him too? Is there anyone you haven’t met yet?”
“Yes, the angel of death. Came close to him several times but he slipped away. I will catch him one of these days. You wait!”
“Hope I will be around then.”
“Yes, sure you will be around, still teaching in our school. Ah, got him. He is staring at me as if I am the intruder. Hey, go and come back next Saturday. Shhh, go, go.”
“Are you focusing your torch on him. He might be dazed.”
“What torch? The one you gave me for my birthday. It broke long ago and Chithran took it to some repair shop and he can’t remember which shop it is!”
“Take a broom or something and hit it. It won’t get hurt. And I know you will be soft on it too.”
“What do you mean? I am going to take a jackhammer and beat it to pulp and then scoop it on to my canvas, let it dry and varnish and frame it for my drawing-room. Will it smell?”
“Once it is dead it can’t smell. It might stink though.”
“Where is your darling wife?”
“I don’t know where my darling wife is. The not-so darling one is in the kitchen.”
“Busy with the turkey?”
“No, we could not find one. Managed with a big bad rooster.”
“Yes, it has started running. It should be blind or it might have jumped on the table and screamed at me. God, how I look!”
“Yes, how do you look? What are you wearing?”
“It has gone under the cupboard. Now I have to move the cupboard. Don’t cut the call. I am putting down the phone for a minute. I am moving the cupboard.”
I sat down on the sofa. I knew it might go for some time. I didn’t even think there was a lizard in her room and I don’t think she was imagining anything. She might be coolly sitting there with a cup of cornflakes soaked in soya milk, her favourite breakfast. What time was it, I looked at the clock. It was half-past eleven.
“Yes, I have moved the cupboard. He is slowly moving along the wall.”
“Chase it out of the room. Once in the open, it will run away. Do you have a cat? Yes, I remember, you have one. You had written about it too.”
“Cat? I don’t keep one now. I had one and it is long dead. It never chased rats though. If you are busy you may cut the call. I think I am safe now. It has gone to the veranda.”
“OK, OK, see it doesn’t go back into the kitchen.”
“No, no I closed it. It is just slowly moving up and down in the veranda. I will sit here watching it. Are you going somewhere for the holidays?”
“No, some of my friends are coming from Bhopal. An ex-colleague and her family. A yoga teacher.”
“Then run a crash course with her. I will come.”
“Mmmm. Let me think of that!”
“I know you won’t even think about it.”
“Then why did you suggest!”
“Ok, the rat is walking down the steps and is disappearing. I am totally safe now.”
“How is your Christmas?”
“Nothing. Will just visit a church. And then my parents. If Chithran comes back tomorrow, we may go for a movie. Are there any good ones in town?”
“I don’t know.”
“OK, go ahead with your work. Be with Niranjan. I can hear him calling you. So sweet!”
She cut the call and I looked at my phone to confirm it.
I walked towards Niranjan.
“Who was it, dad?”
“O, that was Santa Claus calling to ask what you would like to have this Christmas.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you would like to have two pairs of teeth for your upper jaw."
He hugged me and laughed, laughed so much that Vinaya came out still holding the blunt knife in her right hand and the wing of the rooster in the other.
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.
INCREDIBLE INDIA
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
We in India never used to observe “ Standing in Cues” strictly probably except Keralites.
Once in a passenger ship there was a fire and the captain
ordered immediate evacuation of the passengers.
Only one amongst 400odd passengers was an Indian.
There were three cues for three rescue boats.
The Indian was the tenth in a cue.He became very restless and ran to change the crew, by the time he reached his position became 13th.Having not satisfied he again ran for another cue, and by the time he reached his position became 17th.Like this very restlessly he kept on changing the cues and was the last one to be evacuated.
The Captain of the ship who was supervising the operation called him and told had you remained in your original position you would have been evacuated much earlier.
INCREDIBLE INDIA
One Englishman is a very good sailor , three when combined form an empire.
One German is a very good scientist, three when combined fight a world war.
And one Indian is a very good philosopher, three when combined form a caste.
All very true !
CRAB’S MENTALITY !?
There was an exhibition of crabs from 15 countries, in Japan.
The queen empress of Japan was visiting one by one crab basket which were marked with the name of the country.After a couple of minutes she took a pause and was surprised that the basket was not marked either with a lid .She asked the organiser why this was without a lid.And the answer was “Your Highness the basket is from …”Crabs mentality country”……...and it is without a lid because they can never climb up, if one climbs up the other will pull him down”.
VISIT OF MAHABALI TO KERALA
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
Welcome Mahabali Rajan,
To your own kingdom
And inspect the Athachamayam,
In your honor.
So lovely, so lively,
Not for your spirit O’ King,
But for your physical presence,
Which we feel and enjoy .
Pookkalam (Flower Carpets),
Of multicolored flowers,
Athapoo on Atham,
Smaller in size
Only with yellow flowers,
In a circular layer.
And it becomes larger and larger,
Till 9th day, like Vaman’s foot.
Onam Sadya,
The last day of Mahabali's stay
remembered with a nine-course vegetarian ,
Served on plantain leaves
Consisting of,Thoran, Mezhukkupuratti,
Kaalan, Olan, Avial, Sambhar, Dal , Pappadam
And the feast ends with
a series of Payasam.
So tasty the royal sadya!
Well described by the proverb
"Kaanam Vittum Onam Unnanam"
Means "One must have the Onam lunch
even by selling one's property, if need be."
For the entertainment of Mahabali
Kathakali ,Thiruvathira, Kummattikali,
Pulikali, Thumbi Thullal and Onam Kali.
Thiruvathira Kali is a women's dance
performed in a circle around a lamp.
Kummattikali is a colourful-mask dance.
Theyyam, during the Onam,
Mahabali played by the Onathar.
variations as Oneswaran and Onapottan.
The Vallamkali (the snake boat race),
Aranmula Uthrattadhi Boat Race
and the Nehru Trophy Boat Race.
Numerous oarsmen row huge snake-shaped boats
featured on the Pampa River,
equivalent of Ganges River
Athom, Thiruvonam
third Onam, called Avvittom,
marks the preparations for
King Mahabali's ascesion to heaven.
The main ritual of the day
is to take the Onathappan statue
placed in the center of Pookkalam
and immerse it in river or sea.
And the Pookkalam is cleared off,
Awaiting the next eddition.
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
'NOT' MADE IN HEAVEN
Ananya Priyadarshini
Sumit's eyes felt heavy. He couldn't recall what was it the night before that was still weighing him down. He had an important presentation to deliver today and he was probably late for office!
Mrina! What was she doing so close to his face? He threw himself out of bed and in this furious attempt, ended up pushing Mrina, his wife on to the bed table where she hit her shoulder against it. He left Mrina to deal with her agony and rushed to the bathroom. Thankfully, he wasn't late for office!
The presentation went unexpectedly well but the poor guy, Sumit- who's a patient of Irritable Bowel Syndrome since long, had not picked up his lunch box from home today!
He was hungry but more importantly, he had to take his medicines. But he knew he couldn't digest the canteen lunch. The last time he'd tried to do so, he had spent some seventy percent each of next three days sitting on commode and rest thirty percent, drinking ORS. But he was HUNGRY, the only thing Sumit can't live with! Skeptical about what must be ordered from canteen, Sumit reached his chamber only to be surprised at his Tupperware sitting on his table! Sumit is a wise guy. He knows one mustn't keep food waiting or stomach growling. Unbothered about how did it reach the place, he opened the lunch box and licked it clean.
He was about to close the lid when his secretary, Madan arrived and said, "Sir you're really lucky to have ma'am in your life. She herself had come to give me your lunch for you'd missed it."
After what happened in the morning, why did Mrina not go to the police station to file a complain accusing him of domestic violence instead of carrying his lunch to his office? This has happened a numerous times, in fact has been happening that he's treating Mrina in ways no husband aware of current rules for protection of women rights would dare to treat his educated wife. But Mrina, a therapist by profession never even created a fuss about it- neither when she was asked to sleep in a different room by Sumit right on the day of their wedding nor when boiling tea spilled by a startled Sumit burnt her palms because they'd touched Sumit's accidentally. Sumit can recall a lot more occasions where Mrina played just an innocent victim.
He was feeling terribly guilty. He thought to call Mrina and ask about her shoulder. No, to call will be an exaggerated response. Maybe, he should just text. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at it for the first time in the whole day. Three missed alarms! He'd missed his alarms in the morning. Then how the hell did he wake up? Mrina... Mrina was calling out his name to wake him up when he'd pushed her. It was for her that he somehow made to office on time. But why couldn't he wake up to the alarms? He remembered being feverish the night before and being fed a medicine by Mrina. He held his head in both his hands and sat like that for a good ten minutes before he set out for Mrina's centre.
"Thank God Sumit you're here. Look your wife has come to work today with a swollen shoulder hiring an auto for she was unable to ride her scooter. Come on, take her with you. The lady is in some real pain.", A colleague of hers told Sumit as he was escorted to her desk.
Mrina was surprised to see Sumit- not really pleasantly. Without much talking, she left with him.
"We're going to the doctor's, Mrina", Sumit said as he started the car engine. Mrina didn't contradict.
"Sorry for the morning...", Sumit continued.
"It's okay", Mrina's voice reflected her pain.
"No! It's not. Nothing's okay- with you, with me or with our marriage!", Sumit screamed. He could take no more of Mrina's goodness.
"Stop the car, Sumit!", Mrina said so firmly that an angry Sumit stopped the car immediately. "I'd been waiting for this day, Sumit when you'd confess that something is wrong. Or, maybe, everything is wrong!"
"This should've been talked about before our marriage, Mrina. I wanted to, believe me. But my parents didn't want you to know my truth and call the marriage off."
Mrina was looking at Sumit with a 'Tell me everything' expression.
"Both my parents worked. None of them could stay with me so I was handed over to a baby sitter. She was a woman older than my mom. But she used to touch me inappropriately, take me to the bed at times other than regular nap times and do these nasty things that'd hurt. Years later I came to know that what she was doing to me, was sexual exploitation. Back then, I tried convincing my parents. 'Looks like a Hinjra is born to us. Being a man this rascal is talking of being molested by some woman. Bloody idiot...', My father reacted with two slaps on my cheeks. I wasn't a man back then, Mrina. I was a child who didn't understand what molestation is. My mom knew there was something wrong happening to her child and hired a new Nanny because Dad thought filing a complain would damage his 'macho' image. I still don't figure out, how? I can't get close to any woman ever since. I've never slept on my mom's lap after that. I never had a girl friend. I was mad at mom for not standing against the wrong. I still am. And I do get annoyed when you too do nothing when I do wrong to you...."
"What you do is your reflex and spontaneous act instead of a planned one. I'm a therapist, Sumit and I can transparently see that."
"But I hurt you!"
"YOU'RE HURT!"
They both go silent for a while.
"It's not that I don't want to fix what's wrong with you, me or our marriage. But I didn't want to do something just for the sake of doing it. I wanted to do the right thing at the right time. I wanted to listen to your story for I knew there always was one.", Mrina placed her hand on Sumit's thighs and astonishingly, Sumit made no attempt to pull back. He was fine with her touch.
"How did you understand what nobody ever could?", Sumit, a full grown man was crying. For there was still a little violated child in him, waiting to be healed.
"Aha! I'm a therapist, that means I'm best at it! Now come on, Mister take me to a doctor."
Mrina kept clutcing Sumit's arms when the doctor was performing a minor procedure on her shoulder. Sumit was half anxious about the procedure and half giggling at Mrina's childishness. But he was comfortable about this proximity, all throughout.
"Call and tell the bai not to come today. We'll dine somewhere out.", Sumit suggested as they left the clinic.
"Well, looks like you're asking me out on our first date!", Mrina was mischievous despite the lingering pain.
"Looks like you can't work", Sumit imitated her, then blushed.
"Why did you choose to become a therapist, by the way?", Sumit casually asked over dinner.
Suddenly, a playful Mrina grew silent and composed. They'd seen each other laughing for the first time after some three months of marriage and now, within a minute Sumit could see her crying as well.
But Mrina gathered herself and said, "I too have a story, Sumit that my parents didn't want you to know and call the marriage an off" with a faint smile.
Sumit pressed her palms and said, "I've all the time in the world, you know!"
Finally, they were both working on their marriage.
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.
MOTHERLY
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Nothing ever mattered to her.
The enormous sound of the mail coach
As it rushed right behind her,
Neither the mooing of the cow
Nor did she listen to bickerings
Of the slothful neighbours
And she didn’t hear the thunder
Heralding a grand shower.
Nothing drew her attention. Why?
Ha, ha, ha
She was deaf.
But then she ran,
Off like an uneasy doe
Into the thatched hut
Hearing her child wail.
B ..., bu…., but wasn’t she deaf !?
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.
LIGHT, FINALLY
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
I'm straying afar
With no further leads
The dreams are long gone
Only the soul remains.
The wilderness calls out
And choices have to be made
The glass chateau is falling apart
With nothing left to see.
The bittersweet stench of lies
The dark shades of the moon
The unending depth of the moors
The untamed spirits of lust!
Am I just following my heart?
Or is this my destiny?
Unknown powers decide my fate
And I just glide away.
Would I be cast aside
Like a rugged log of wood?
Or would I be put in a case
Like a precious little stone?
What lies beneath the lies
No one seem too see.
The free spirit of a gypsy
And that's what I seek!!
If I could turn the clock back
What is it that I would see?
A light at the end of the tunnel
And that's where I will go!
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha is an Assistant Professor of Nutrition at the Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi, Kerala. She is passionate about art, literature and poetry.
ANOTHER ONAM
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Onam comes
wafting in
through our green
beaten up
by
wayward weather
blasting rains..
our fields
that rendered Onam harvest
now lie waterlogged
aghast
etherised, insensate
to yield harvest..
we also sit, farmers
staring into
emptiness that
engulfs.
Whither has gone
those sunny days
when Onam fluttered..
myraid butterflies,
honey bees
humming through
flowery hills and dales..
life was simple then,
when we gathered around
evening fires that
spluttered lustre
to the shy night
that advanced in,
creeping though the foliage
listening to our
full throated Onam songs...
While out there in rivers
beating the waves
they rowed, singing
vying with each, each canoe
out speeding the other..
hah! all is not lost..
out there in corners
vehicles ply
in supply...
Onam shared between
the haves and have nots
sunken eyes beam
and say, let us not
waste another Onam
for we are one. ..
What if the weather be wayward,
What if we have lost..
When Onam comes, we gather
strength
We share and care...
Onam is ours
our God's own land is ours
where green fields stretch
with sprouts surviving the wreck...
DEARTH.. DROUGHT..
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Where is
gone
the pot
that
offered
water...
even
the pebbles
put within
raised
water level
for
birds...
Hah !
Eager
we are
vying
with each
gathering
pebbles..
hoarding....
killing.
SEARCH
Dr. Molly Joseph M
I was searching..
for the drop
the vital drop to
quench
my thirst
which
gripped me,
exhausting
enervating...
where have
they gone,
my rivers,
streams,
my abode
of trees,
its share
of fruits
that sustained
my being?
I flew far and
wide
searching
just to see
the synchronised
grief
of my brethren,
falling down
dead...
there I waited
near the pipe
where
they stood in
queue
to collect
water..
when the last
one left
lacking hope,
with fainting
drooping self
I stretched
my beak
with fading
flutters
for that
one drop...
hah! how kind it is !
the metal pipe
offering
flicks of drops...
at least
unlike my
brethren
I can fall down
dead
with a throat
partly drenched,
into an earth
entrenched
in parched
dearth and famine..
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).
TEMPTATION
Latha Prem Sakhya
The clucking music woke me up.
“What a sight! A brood of hens! I delightfully joined them. I found worms and won their hearts. Thrilled, I lost count of time. The hot sun made us sleepy. I perched on a nearby branch and dozed off. When I woke up it was night the hens had disappeared. Frightened I moved towards a lit shed, and crouched in a corner. The lady of the house, left me alone. I slept fearlessly. Crowing my thanks in the morning I moved towards home. I learnt a lesson too. Never to follow bewitching hens again.
DEATH
Latha Prem Sakhya
All alone in the Taj Mahal he built, nurturing her sick heart for her babies, she lived for fourteen years until they were comfortably settled. One day she invited her friend for a ride to the hospital. The Doctor let her go home after check up, as nothing much could be done. She returned in the evening with plans to call all her loved ones. She called them, talked to them to her hearts' content. Ignoring death in the form of three men slouching outside including her husband. She was smothered never to see daylight again.
JUDAS
Latha Prem Sakhya.
The panchayat hired him to kill stray dogs. The last one was a bitch, fully pregnant. He spied trust in her large eyes as she followed him wagging her tail. The village people wanted him to kill her too before being paid. He pleaded. But they were adamant, as he put the noose around her neck he felt like Judas and his heart broke. He ran off without his wage, tears streaming down his eyes and the comment's in his ears"why is it taking so long to die?" and a reply, "It would have delivered in a day or two".
LOVE BIZARRE
Latha Prem Sakhya
She loved him with a passion inexpressible. Poor, uneducated, homeless, unkempt, a tramp yet she wanted to take care of him and give him a good life from the day she met him. She knew she could never marry him. But she wanted to take care of him, too. Her naivety was her support. She never thought he too had a mind of his own. So she married the rich one who loved her and proposed first, happy that she would have everything now to look after him too. But the day she married he disappeared leaving her heart broken.
KITTEN
Latha Prem Sakhya
The lonely farm was her bane. Her happiest moments were on market days with her friends. One day on the way from market she found a stray kitten. What joy for her ! She revelled in its kittenish love. But her husband hated it and was jealous too. One morning she found it strangled . She knew the perpetrator. All the hatred she had smothered surged up to uncontrollable fury. One night she did it. Calling her nearest neighbours and informing them about her husband’s death she sat on her favourite chair and slept peacefully while the police came for inquest.
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
LIPS DON'T LIE
Dilip Mohapatra
The voices may but lips don't lie.
They may just be a peck on the cheeks
to spark that tingling sensation
or just to greet in affection.
They may be planted on the
foreheads cursorily
just as a starter or to pass on your blessings
and when they touch the hands
in reverence in adoration in awe
they speak the sweet language
of admiration and gratitude.
When they lock themselves
with another pair
in an osmotic ecstasy
they exude a carnal
and temporal burning desire
yet moist with part love part lust.
Deep devouring and invasive
never dishonest
they elevate you close to divinity
into a sublime trance and push you
across
to a desperate needy edge.
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.
I AM, MY THOUGHT
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I am not that
I am not this
It is just a heap
Of thoughts
That makes me believe,
I do exist.
It is not the flesh,
Neither the bones
Or my body and brain
That give me my name.
I am what I think
And all about my dreams.
I keep changing
As I follow my thinking
From beginning of time
To the end of infinite
Without decaying
In spite of all the sufferings.
I am not good or bad
Neither, I am happy or sad
If I think, I am the king
Else, I languish in hell.
Let me meditate on me
With my thoughts,
Flowing down to eternity.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
Groping Beyond
Sumitra Mishra
While groping beyond the scenes
Of mortal mayhem, panic and pain,
I stumbled, swirled behind the curtain
Of darkness and fell with a thud!
But I stood up with conviction
A conviction, pure and simple
That the fork on my mind map
May be a snare to frighten or feign!
If I take to imagination
Webs of words would deluge me
But if I take to vision
I will float as a bubble in the lotus pool.
- June Sun –
Sumitra Mishra
“See, the river is dry and dying
Desiccated in agony as I am
How rude the June Sun is!”
Said the hungry turtle to the fish.
But the cocky crabs were trotting
Reveling on their sandy beds
“The June Sun is so warm and mirthful.”
They whispered to their mates.
But the large shoal of shrimps dreaming of
Swimming in the gorgeous lakes thought;
“The June Sun is mighty and dreadful
When will the August showers come?”
The crocs crouching under the rocks
Drooling eagerly to dupe the thirsty
Clapped for the June Sun and exclaimed;
“You did well to scorch the green trees
They don’t share their flowers and fruits with us!”
Major Dr. Mrs. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
AN EAST EUROPEAN DIARY
Kumud Raj
DAY ONE : We arrive in Munich after a very eventful journey from Trivandrum during which we miss our connecting flight from Abu Dhabi and are then diverted to Istanbul. Our luggage has been lost somewhere along the way and we’re exhausted and anxious. We are part of a group that is taking a two week tour of Eastern Europe. We buy tickets for the S Bahn, one of the two railway networks linking the city and take the escalator down to the platform from Terminal 1. It is Sunday and the train is almost empty. Though it is 8 o’clock in the evening, there is still bright daylight outside and we stare numbly at the passing scenery. How are we going to manage the next two weeks? We have to buy everything from scratch with the precious euros that we have brought along with us – clothes, toiletries and whatever! We get off at the central station and find our hotel which is a mere 3 minute walk from the station and check in. The girl at the reception is sympathetic and promises to keep in touch with the airport to see if our things have arrived. We are both physically and mentally exhausted at the end of the day. We’re in bed by 9.30 pm.
DAY TWO:After breakfast we decide to go for a walk. Munich is a very pretty city. The buildings are old and lovely. We wander into a public garden which is full of unfamiliar flowers. The garden is filled with a delicious fragrance. As we walk along we find a city tour about to begin. So we buy tickets and climb to the top of the double decker bus from where we have an excellent view. The ride lasts for an hour and all the main landmarks are pointed out to us. We enjoy it though our predicament is never far from our minds. This evening we are meeting the rest of our group and having dinner in one of Munich’s famed beer halls.
At 2 o’clock, I take our passports and report to our tour leader, Sara. When she hears what has happened to us, she is most disturbed and offers to call the airport. But there is no response. Since we have to leave for Salzburg the next morning at 6.30, she tells us to ask the airport authorities to deliver our luggage to Ljubljana, Slovenia, the next day! So typically British, I think, to expect the whole world to do your bidding!! Imagine the airport delivery van leaving Germany’s borders, crossing Austria and entering Slovenia to deliver our miserable bags!! Ha ha ha..... At 3 pm – a miracle! We was finally able to get through to the airport and told that our luggage had made an appearance ten minutes before…... Oh the blessed relief!
At 5 o’clock, we gather at the reception, thirty four of us from all over the world. It turns out that there are Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, Malay Chinese, an American, a Brazilian, a Thai and ourselves. We are the only Indians! Off to the beer hall then… A glass of foaming beer, sausages and sauerkraut and berry ice cream! The place is full of people watching the World Cup Football on huge screens that have been set up.
DAY THREE :Our days on the trip begin very early. So we’re up at 4.30 am ( there’s light outside already), and are bathed and dressed and packed by 6 o’clock! Breakfast at 6.30 – salami, ham, sesame bread, apricot jam, orange juice, scrambled eggs, fruit and green tea. Feeling good especially since we’ve now got all our stuff safely back.
It’s 7 o’clock now. On to the bus and off to Salzburg. Salzburg, in my mind, has always been associated with movies – The Sound of Music and Amadeus. Never dreamed that I would one day visit the place. We drive through the beautiful German countryside and then into the mountains of Austria. The scenery we pass through is as pretty as a picture – mountains and meadows, rivers flowing white with melted snow, flowers dotting the hillsides everywhere. One could gaze out of the window endlessly. And here we are in Salzburg!
I always enjoy walking on the streets in European towns. They are usually cobbled or paved, are spotlessly clean ( how do they manage it?!) and add to the charm of the town. And Salzburg is no exception. We walk into the centre of the square, gawp at Mozart’s house, and see the fountain which figured in the movie. The church and town hall look very familiar as I’ve watched the movie about twenty times!! We go into the Cathedral and are stunned by the beauty of the interior. There are seven pipe organs in the cathedral. Seven! How crazy is that! We are told that when there is a concert, all of them are used! Can’t even imagine how that would sound!
We wander into the churchyard and find all the graves covered in flowers.I saw this on our last trip to Switzerland too. It looks so beautiful. We return to the square where we find several street artists displaying their wares. Without any hesitation, I pick up a little sketch for myself. And so we wander through the town for a couple of hours looking at this and that before we board the bus again. We’re off to Lake Bled now for a photo stop.
Lake Bled is in Slovenia.The scenery here is exquisite. In the middle of the lake is this beautiful old church and high up on the cliff is a monastery. The scene takes our breath away. The water is so blue it looks like a picture!
There are families picnicking on the shore and we take some pics. The stop here is not too long. They’re selling ice cream here and on the way back to the bus, I buy myself a cone. He takes his time to return my change and I’m the last one back on the bus. Oops!
Well, it’s off to Ljubljana now and I won’t blame you if you can’t pronounce it! It’s actually quite easy if you remember that the ‘j’ has a ‘y’ sound. It is the capital of Slovenia. Did you even know that such a country exists?!
It turns out to be a lovely little city complete with river, castle and dragons. A short walk from the hotel takes us to the Dragon Bridge and the centre of the town.
Since traffic is banned in the centre of town, people can walk comfortably all over the place. A group of youngsters sees us and follows us singing at thetop of their voices. We are amused but a little nervous too. Our local guide says something to them and they quieten and melt away. Whew! The evening is balmy and the roadside cafés are full and everyone is eating ice cream or listening to street musicians. There is a man playing the accordion ….. Haven’t seen this instrument in a long time.
The summer music festival is starting that evening and the stage is up in the middle of the square, the chairs are being arranged, the choirs are running through the scales and the musicians aretuning their instruments! It is all so informal and lovely. And folk dressed in their best are all over the square waiting for the programme to begin!
We go into a Catholic church, St.Nicholas’. We are totally unprepared for the magnificence of the cathedral. Shocked to find only nine people attending mass. Nine! And then the church bells begins pealing….. It’s an undescribable sound...... so so beautiful. And it goes on and on and on!
I must also mention the door of the church. It was especially made to commemorate the visit of Pope John Paul II. Looks rather strange, doesn’t it?
We walk through the fruit and flower markets which are closing down as it is late. Some of our group dashto the only open shop and buy apricots and cherries. They have milk booths in the street corners where you put in a coin and the milk comes gushing out! You have to take your own bottles. This is fresh unpasteurised milk! Another strange phenomenon is the coke booth in the streets. No one mans these booths. It is dependent entirely on the honesty of the customer! Our South Africans are shocked out of their wits! They say if it had been S.Africa, both the cokes and the booths would have disappeared before you said, ‘Jack Robinson’!! We are told that the crime rate in Slovenia is very very low – maybe two murders per year!!
Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.
TIME IN A BOTTLE
Anwesha Mishra
Be careful,
while you hop over the fence;
Plates of wood, stacked together,
Covered in soft moss-
Liking our innocence.
Stealing two rupee coins,
From grandpa's back pocket,
(Hoping no one's watching.)
Four Orange lozenges from Zakir's.
Your eyes grow wider,
Stretching the unibrow,
As it is dissolving.
I swallow the syrup,
Picking the cusp of my tooth
With the tip of my tongue,
For broken bits stuck in 'em.
And the nerve to ask you out,
Had we been buddies in kindergarten.
Would you like me the same,
My love, like you do now?
Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy.
LIBERATION
Sharanya B
Inter-galactic, inter-woven mysteries stream out through your holy flute,
Those incomprehendable to our minds, so parochial
But they're all mellowed down to sweet melodies,
tapped over by your divine fingers,
drawing in every creation, mighty or modest;
Who dance to its rythm, absorbed in spiritual bliss
The bright rays in crepescule glisten your ashy skin,
The light's solely a purpose, to radiate your silken dark,
One longs to have it smeared all over,
a distraught conscious immersed in holy ash...
Eyes wide with puerile innocence,
yet windows to the miraculous universe resting within,
Folded hands, hymns of prayers to the rythm of your triumphant dance
The journey from blithe to your omniscence, seeming long yet so near...
It's a break away, a liberation from this worldly trance...
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.
BEING GRATEFUL THAT I AM YOUR DAUGHTER
Sarada Harish
Many years back, a spiritual discourse was going on. The gist of the talk was that we were not different from one another and that the soul was one; the ‘atman’ was something that united all the entities and so on. I don’t remember the name or face of the speaker, but I vividly remember the vote of thanks presented at the end. The person who did it, said, “I don’t feel that I need to thank our speaker, the swamiji, because as he said, he is I, I am he, we are all one. So to whom should I express my gratitude?” Everyone present, including the swamiji laughed wholeheartedly feeling lighter and relieved following the grave and austere sermon. I remember it well not only for the sense of humour it evoked, but also for he was my father. That is one of the many memories pictured in my mind of my father.
I was a late child of my parents. I was born 10 years after my elder sister. Many of my father’s ex colleagues, who hadn’t met him for a long time, didn’t know about my birth. Once we had an accidental encounter with one of them. He looked at me disbelievingly and exclaimed, “How slow is this girl growing!” He mistook me for my sister and was wondering why that kid remained still a kid. All had a hearty laugh when the misunderstanding was cleared.
White was the colour associated to my father even in my earliest childhood memories. He, being a true devotee of the Indian National Congress, chose to wear only white clothes made of khadi. As I came to know, he started wearing khadi clothes from his college days as a mark of respect to the swadeshi movement advocated by Gandhiji and continued to do so throughout his life. I was never able to even imagine him in any other clothes than the white jooba and mundu he used to wear. My mother had a tough time washing, starching and ironing his clothes.
As a Professor of Zoology in the Government College, my father used to get transferred every two or three years and I did my schooling in five different schools throughout the state. I enjoyed the exclusive privilege of being my father’s daughter everywhere since he was a renowned personality and was revered highly in the social and academic circles. He, being the eldest of the seven siblings, was looked upon for advices and decisions in all family matters. It was in the late eighties and the early nineties, when generation gap started hitting me hard that I was amazed by the simple fact that my father, though the oldest in the family was the most broad minded and progressive in his thoughts and actions with regard to the social norms, customs and beliefs. He was a true devotee of God, but not religious. He went to temples on a regular basis, worshipped deities and practiced the same at home. When at the age of 15 or 16, I started questioning the existence of God as present in idols and gradually stopped visiting temples; my father was deeply hurt, especially during navratri puja when all students were supposed to worship the Goddess of letters Saraswati for the power of knowledge, I rebelled by not participating in any of the rituals done at the nearby temple. Yet he never admonished me or tried to change my mind; he accepted other people’s beliefs in a dignified manner. I am happy that I did not fail him in my academic performances. He was totally against spending money on senseless customs and rituals in the name of beliefs. He made fun of people including his siblings who performed such idiosyncrasies. He used to question my mother and sister on their self imposed menstrual taboo of not visiting the temple during those days. He argued that menstruation was only a biological process which had no association with the so called purity and sanctity proposed by certain people. For him, as I had understood, a temple was a place for true worshippers who sought God with pure devotion, for the well being of mind and soul and for the harmonious growth of mankind.
I was always amazed by his gift of the gab. Whenever I was present, I used to silently give him scores for his speeches. He had a pleasing demeanour which was appealing to any age groups, whether he was speaking to an audience or to individuals. Once he was invited to my school for a speech. It was a girls’ school and I was in class 10. He spoke about the role of women in society and pointed out that a woman is far above all men due to the one fact that she can give birth; be a mother. All the girls, being teenagers, started giggling restlessly on hearing that. Sensing the embarrassment of the girls, my father went on saying, “you can all become mothers, when the right time comes. And now is the right time for you to thank your mothers for giving birth to you”. It was followed by a big applause. During election times, workers of all parties used to frequent our house. It was a well known fact that he was a loyal congress supporter. But whoever visited him asking for votes would definitely feel, “this time professor is on our side. His votes are secure with us”. Such was his communication charisma.
People always mistook him to be a strict parent, who enforced stringent rules on his children. On the contrary, he was the most lenient among his siblings. In the late 80’s and early 90’s, when the tag of “friends” was still under the gender controversy, parents were slowly accepting the opposite sex friends of their children, my father had no qualm welcoming my ‘boy’ friends home. In fact, he always insisted that there should be boys in the group when we girls moved around the city for movies and trips. He felt we would be safe and secure in that way. Among our family circles my parents were considered to be a bit too ‘progressive’ with respect to the freedom given to their children. Though no one voiced anything loudly for their reverence to my father, there was lots of back fence talk going on. As usual I never bothered to find out what and why. The climax came to the forefront when I committed the most heinous crime as per our family tradition; falling in ‘love’ and that too with a ‘Thiruvananthapuram” boy. As was prevalent those days, the south keralites were considered to be aliens by the northies. My father’s siblings, almost all of them raised eyebrows accusingly. My cousins were reprimanded for giving me clandestine support and for not backstabbing me. Some felt that I was causing deep pain to my father by damaging his reputation. Nobody dared to confront him directly on that matter. All were skeptical and unhappy about his decision. Because as soon as he came to know about my relationship, he went all the way to Trivandrum from Palakkad along with my mother, to meet the boy’s parents. The boy was jobless those days. Yet my father assured them that we would wait till he procures one to be marriageable. Most of our relatives were upset that a girl from the family was “love marriaging”.
The biggest and the simplest truth that my father told me those days still echoes in my ears, especially when I see parents opposing love marriages. He just told one sentence, “if you are happy, we are happy”. The whole spirit of parenthood is summarized in that simple phrase.
Sarada Harish: A Mathematics teacher by chance, a passionate reader by choice and an unbiological mother by luck.
Balm to Heal
Dr. Aniamma Joseph
What’s happening to my country?
What’s happening to my people?
It’s still dark in the dawn
with no chorus of the birds
There’s no smile in the morning faces
There’s not even twilight in the eyes
When they return to a joyless home
there are no stars in the night sky
to look and brace themselves up
There are no words to soothe
those who are in torment within
“Is there no balm in Gilead?”
Men are scattered and they go astray
with no aim and light within
They lie sick, bruised, and in agony
For nothing, many are slain and slaughtered
No one to shepherd the flocks
who wander with nobody to follow
Those who lead are blind and they stumble
with no inner sight, no revelatory spark
What’s happening to my country?
What’s happening to my people?
“Is there no physician here” to heal the wounds
of those broken in body, mind and spirit?
Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 28 books of the members.
FUSION..
Akshaya Kumar Das
In fusion we imagine oblivion,
An artist"s imagination in emulsions,
Painting a masterpiece,
Beloved's beauty in space,
Arc of a rainbow in background,
The Artist's imaginative brush touching round & round,
Round & round for a artistic finish,
For the spectacle to create a magical wish,
The wish to culminate into a happy union,
To paint the unique embrace of oblivion,
As the sun travelled towards the western horizon,
To sprinkle the rays of saffron,
The artist heaves a sigh of relief,
The unfinished work waits for another touch in next shift,
The final touch with the master stroke ,
Comes with day's of hard work,
In deep embrace sketching dreams fusion,.
Realistic touches scripting the beautiful emotions,
Let us imagine like an artist,
To paint the universe into a world of love & trust,
SWEET MEMORIES..
Akshaya Kumar Das
Sweet memories of life often hunt,
Flashing before the mind in twinkling thoughts,
Often soul seeks an answer from within,
If time could clock back to revisit the lost lanes,
Alas ! can't move backward is the order of creativity,
Looking beyond the horizon with happiness is eternity,
Can't we step live into the eternal dens,
To once again rejoin those moments lost in oblivion,
Life truly is a mysterious miracle ,
Embracing reality is absolute pinnacle,
In the pinnacle of happiness life searches those clues,
To live, love & laugh with the unchained memories ,
Treasured for a life time memories often hunt,
A whole life situation where men women love to revisit,
Akshaya Kumar Das is the author of "The Dew Drops" an anthology of english poems published by Partridge India Publishing House. Shri Das has many publications to his credit published abroad & in India. A regular contributor to various anthologies under print. An awardee from various Poetry Bodies organising events in India. Shri Das is an Admin & Analyst for many Poetry Groups in Facebook that are conducting fortnightly competitions in theme based poetry. A recipient of Ambassador of Peace award from Hafrican Peace Art World Ghana. Shri Das conducted an International Confest at KIIT University in April, 2017 under the banner Feelings International Artist's Society headed by Armeli Quezon from USA.
A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER
Sukumaran C V
Beauty is the favourite subject matter of literature. All human beings are attracted by beauty. A beautiful flower, a beautiful child, a beautiful bird, a beautiful landscape, a beautiful sunset, a beautiful sky, a beautiful night, a beautiful tree or plant or creeper attracts almost all humans and creates happiness in them. That is why John Keats starts his poetic romance Endymion with the immortal lines:
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”
Another enchanting writer who wrote immortal lines about beauty is Kahlil Gibran. In his little book The Prophet, Gibran speaks, among many other things, about beauty too: “Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?” Whether beauty is objective or subjective is a question that can never be resolved. The often quoted sentence— “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”—written by the 19th century Irish novelist Margaret Wolfe Hungerford in her book Molly Bawn proves beauty is subjective. I think that beauty is both subjective and objective. Sometimes, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder; sometimes it is in the object beheld.
To prove beauty is subjective, let me quote from none other than Shakespeare, the most wonderful creative genius in the world. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Theseus tells Hippolyta in the first scene of Act V:
“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in his lover...”
To prove beauty is objective, let me narrate an experience of mine inside the Nelliayampathy evergreen forests. While I have been working at the Nelliyampathy office of my department, I used to spend whole my free time inside the forest and the forest rewarded me with rare and ecstatic sights. One Sunday, after breakfast, I walked into the forest and was sitting on a rock beside a rivulet near a small open grassland deep inside the forest, breathing the rejuvenating fresh air and enjoying the serene atmosphere. Half an hour passed and suddenly a red muntjac came to the grassland and stopped hardly fifteen metres away from me. It smelt and felt my presence and turning its head, looked directly into my eyes; stood petrified for some seconds; then darted ahead and disappeared into the dense thickets under the gigantic trees. What a beautiful sight it was!!
And as far as I am concerned, the most beautiful concept of God, both subjective and objective, is the following one in the words of Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet: “Your daily life is your temple and your religion...And if you would know God, look about you and you shall see Him playing with children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.”
Mr. Sukumaran is from Palakkad district of Kerala and is a Pst-Graduate from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. His articles on gender, environmental and other socio-political issues are published in The Hindu, The New Indian Express, and the current affairs weekly Mainstream etc. His writings focus on the serenity of Nature and he voices his protests against the Environmental destruction humans are perpetrating in the name of development that brings climate catastrophes and ecological disasters like the floods Kerala witnessed in 2018 and 2019. A collection of his published articles titled Leaves torn out of life: Woman the real spine of the home and other articles is going to be published by the end of this month. He is a person with great literary talent and is a regular columnist in the Mindspace section of Indian Express.
STILLNESS
Prof. S. Sridevi
It is not the stillness after a storm
It is not the stillness hidden in tears
It is not the stillness in light
It is not the stillness in summer
I need the stillness of the foetus
I need the stillness of unknown trees
I need the stillness in relationships
I need the stillness in truth
I need the stillness of the cool breeze
That flaps its wings and taps flowers
I need the stillness of a lit lamp
I need the stillness of an ant
Like the lonely heart that has lost
Like the love that rules in service
Like the words born to command
Like the temperate words of sages
I need the stillness of eternal space
I need the stillness of this earth.
DROPS OF HEAVEN
S. Sridevi
Drops of ether
Forming life
Creating breath
Of power.
Can’t ignore
These drops
They form oceans
Remove structures.
Fluids of nothing
They take the colour
Of the soil
Of the grain.
Can’t take
Them for granted.
Can remove
Anything.
S. Sridevi has been teaching English in a research department in a college affiliated to the University of Madras for 30 years. She has published two collections of poems in English: Heralds of Change and Reservations. Her prose works are: Critical Essays, Saivism: Books 1-8 (Co-authors-C.T.Indra & Meenakshi Hariharan), Think English Talk English, Communication Skills, and Communicative English for Engineers (Co-Author-Srividya). She has translated Thirukural, Part I into Tamil. Her Tamil poetry collections are: Aduppadi Kavithaigal, Pennin Paarvaiyil, Naan Sivam and Penn Enum Perunthee.
A DAUGHTER’S VENTURE
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
All these years with great aspirations
She thrived forward to reach her vision
Today adorned in this professional white apron
She strode few distance from her hostel to her university..
And the new journey begun
With pain in her heart she had walked into her new home
And now many unknown roads she has to roam.
Her acumen to handle this venture shall brighten her future
With elders’ blessings and love which she shall nurture
Let Almighty become her strength
And let her achieve her mission at larger breadth
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
SUBHASINI DIDI
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Ranjita, an eminent Professor of Psychology from Delhi University boards a flight to Baroda. The lady in the next seat is insufferably arrogant, looks straight ahead and completely ignores her, something that the celebrity professor is not used to. She is consumed by a growing irritation, and delves into memory, recollecting all her achievements in a brilliant career. She is particularly fond of the extra-ordinarily innovative project work she had done as a student of Masters in Psychology. Finally the flight comes to a halt and Ranjita is eager to run away from her co-passenger, the arrogant snob…………..
SUBHASINI DIDI
Caught in a long traffic jam at the Moti Bagh intersection in Delhi on a busy afternoon, I almost missed my flight. Two airhostesses were standing at the aircraft door, nervous and panicky.
“Mrs. Ranjita Joshi?”
Out of breath, I nodded my head.
“Please get in madam, we are already late. The flight is about to take off.”
One of them led me to my seat at 9-C. I looked around. The flight was not very crowded. The middle seat in my row was vacant. A lady had occupied the window seat.
Air journeys are, in a way, quite strange. People come from all corners, converge in an aircraft, share each other’s company for an hour or two and disperse at the end of the journey, perhaps never to meet again. Unlike train journeys, flights are of short duration, often not enough to pick up a friendship. One is not sure whether to start a conversation with a co-passenger. It also depends on how much warmth one sees in the other person – sometimes the fear of rejection plays a dampener.
That afternoon, somehow my co-passenger near the window repelled me. A tall, middle-aged lady with a non-descript face, the only distinguishing feature in her was the pair of expensive dark glasses she was wearing. There was an air of indifference about her, a total lack of concern for anything around. She exuded the kind of arrogance which will keep decent people away from her. I waited for a chance to nod at her and be pleasant to her if she looked at me. But she completely ignored me and just sat there, staring straight ahead.
A handbag with an American Airlines tag was lying on her lap. I presumed that must be the reason for her arrogance – her trip to US, the fabled land of opulence and extravagance! But what’s so great about trips to America these days? People go there at the drop of a hat! I myself have visited US three times in the past one year, to deliver lectures at Illinois, Denver and to conduct viva voce of students at Penn State University. Why does the lady think she is special, just because she is returning from US?
The airhostess came and offered her a glass of juice, but she just shook her head. When she tilted her head to look at the airhostess, I smiled at her, trying to draw her attention. She ignored me. Lunch was dismissed with a wave of hand. Oh, perhaps the flavor of McDonald burgers is still fresh in her mouth, so the Indian food looks unpalatable to her! My God, how can people be so snobbish! Incensed, I attacked my food tray with a vengeance and polished off everything.
Her indifference got on my nerves and infuriated me no end. In my own way, I am a celebrity of sorts. An eminent professor of Psychology at the young age of forty-one, I am well-known in the intellectual world. My articles and stories get published in journals and popular magazines all over the country with my photograph. Hasn’t this lady ever seen my picture? Is she not able to recognize me? It has always happened in the past few years that whenever I travel in a flight, one or two passengers come and shake hands with me and start talking.
How can this lady be so indifferent to me? Does she think she is an intellectual giant and I am not even good enough for a mere glance? Two months back my picture was all over the television when the Education Minister of India gave away the award of “The Most Popular Professor of Delhi University” to me. May be she missed it, being in US!
In my acceptance speech at the Award Function I had openly announced to the audience that I owe all my success to my revered guru Professor Desai, who taught me in my M.A. course at the MS University, Baroda, twenty years ago. He remained a friend, philosopher and guide ever since, till cancer took him away from the world three years ago. He was an amazing professor. None of us had seen anyone like him then, or ever after.
Tall, distinguished looking, with a baritone voice, Professor Desai used to mesmerize the class with his knowledge and eloquence. Students from other departments came and attended his lectures, sometimes sitting on the floor, and often spilling into the corridor outside. Professor Desai didn’t mind. He was the most popular professor in the university and if there was an award those days for popularity among students, he would have won it year after year.
Professor Desai’s practical classes were a super hit. God knows from where he used to get such amazing ideas for practical experiments. To the best of our knowledge no text book covered those experiments. For the dissertation project in the final year, he used to guide ten students, selecting them by drawing lots. He never cared whether the student was a topper or a back-bencher. He believed, everyone had the right to learn from him and it was his duty to help every student. Luckily in my final year I was one of the ten who got picked up for doing a dissertation project under his guidance. My joy knew no bounds.
That year Prof. Desai gave us a completely new kind of project, something unheard of till then. Each student was assigned a ‘subject’, whose identity was kept a secret - only Prof. Desai knew him. The student should never try to probe his identity, should not ask any personal questions, such as the real name, address, age or marital status of the subject. The subjects were bound by a gentleman’s agreement not to reveal their identity. Prof. Desai’s formidable reputation ensured that no subject would ever breach the faith reposed in him.
The content of the project was also unique. Over a period of one month the student would talk to him over phone on anything he feels like, and from that conversation he would prepare a psychological profile of the subject. The student will be assessed on his analytical ability and accuracy of the profile. Since Prof. Desai knew the subject well, he was undoubtedly the right person to evaluate the accuracy.
The project appealed to me. I had topped the class in the first year of M.A. exam and Prof. Desai was quite happy to have me as a scholar for his project. Seeing my excitement my friend Vilasini told me,
“Don’t get so hyper Ranju, you will get a handsome, smart boy as your subject. You are so intelligent and fun-loving, after talking to you for a month he will sweep you off your feet, leaving Pratyay in the lurch.”
I told her, “Impossible, no one can be more handsome or smarter than my Pratyay. There is no way I will leave him for anyone!”
Pratyay, who I married later, was my dearest friend. We had been together since our high school days, and there was no secret between us. We were crazy about each other. But Pratyay was a serious type, wanted to work hard for his law exams and become a judge one day. He was a student at the Law College in Ahmedabad, seventy miles away. He came once in a month to meet me. We used to go to Sayajibaug and Khanderao Market to roam around or to Aradhana Talkies to watch movies hand in hand, chatting away endlessly. I wanted him to come every week, but he avoided it saying he hasserious studies to do. Often in the dead of night I used to get up from sleep, my heart pining for him, and talking to his heart in a way that only young lovers can communicate.
Prof. Desai called me to his room and handed over a slip of paper with a name and telephone number.
“Good luck Ranjita, you have a lady as your subject! Here is the telephone number.”
I came out of the room, Vilasini was the first to see me. With a naughty smile she told me,
“Thank God, it’s a lady. Pratyay is saved, there is no danger for him.”
x x x x x x x x x
It was my first day with the subject. I was excited and nervous. My hand was shaking when I lifted the phone receiver and dialed the number.
“Good afternoon ma’m! I am Priyambada.”
“Not your real name, for sure!”
The lady at the other end chuckled. I was amazed. What a sweet, lilting voice! I had never heard a sweeter voice in my life,
“I am Subhasini, not my real name either!”
“Wow, what a nice name Ma’m - Subhasini – the lady with the sweet voice! Prof. Desai could not have chosen a better name for you! You sound like a twelve year old girl. What is your age?”
She laughed, in an admonishing way.
“No personal questions to the subject. Remember?”
“Sorry ma’m. Won’t happen again.”
“It’s ok. This is my first day also in the project. Let’s be friends.”
In no time, she put me at ease. Asked me to address her as didi, the elder sister, and not as ma’m. For the next one hour we just talked and talked. She had this wonderful ability to talk freely and naturally. We talked of hundreds of things, just didn’t know where we started and where we ended. Like two long-lost friends our hearts bonded on the first day itself, although I found she was much more mature than me. Every time I came close to getting any personal information, she stopped me, reminding me of Prof.Desai’s conditionality. I realized that her loyalty to him was unflinching. But that’s what the project was meant to be! I noted all these as my first day’s impression.
For the next few days, time just flew by. We had agreed that I would call at five in the evening everyday. I started eagerly waiting for that hour. When Pratyay saw my anxiety to speak to her he started teasing me, “Good, I am getting a sister-in-law for free when we get married. It’s a two-in-one deal for me.” Somehow I felt Subhasini didi was a sister to me, may be from my previous birth. My abiding regret during those days was the inability to see her, talk to her in person and hold her hand.
In a way, the project was a bit of a painful riddle for me. And also frustrating. No matter whatever route I took to reach the inner mind of the subject, the path came to an end abruptly. How could someone know another person without figuring out how old she was, married or not, if she lived in the town or in the suburbs? But then, Prof. Desai lovedto pose such challenges to his students and test their ability. I learnt to live with it.
x x x x x x x x x
“Subhasini didi, what is your favorite pastime?”
“To imagine things, to lose myself in a world of dreams, to visit places.”
“What kind of places?”
“The vast foothills of the Himalayas, the dense forests, the lovely sea beaches, everything that we don’t have here.”
“What beautiful dreams you have didi!” ?
“Yes, I would be roaming in the foothills of Himalayas, the soft sound of the falling snow would touch my heart, like the orchestrated beauty of a symphony. Or I would be sitting under a tree in the dense forest, evening will creep on me slowly and the air will fill with the sweet chirping of a million birds, my mind will find the joys of fulfillment of homecoming after a weary day. And Priyambada, is there anything better on earth than the sound of waves beating the shore on a deserted beach under the silence of a limitless sky? I wish I could be somewhere like that, on a beautiful evening, the waves sprinkling cool water from the fathomless ocean, the sound of the rolling sea singing like a lullaby and putting me to sleep under the open sky!”
“Wow didi, what wonderful thoughts. One day when I get a job, I will take you around the country and show you all the beautiful places.”
“Impossible, Priyambada. We cannot meet. I will never break my promise given to Prof. Desai, My identity will always be a secret to you.”
x x x x x x x x x
“Subhasini didi, what are you doing today, at this hour?”
“I am sitting near the window upstairs. There is a park down below. I can hear children playing, the exciting thud of the cricket ball hitting the bat. Small boys are fighting over a football. Girls are playing on the swing. From their giggles I know they are enjoying themselves. Children are crying for their mothers’ attention. Ah, what fulfillment in this cacophony! It’s like life’s caravan slowly trudging along a crowded street!”
“Didi, where are your kids?”
Silence for a few seconds.
“I don’t have any”
“I am sure one day you will be a great mother. You are so sweet, your children will be really blessed, to have you as their mother.”
The phone went dead with a mysterious chuckle from Subhasini didi.
x x x x x x x x x
“Priyambada, who is that boy?”
“Which boy, didi?”
“The one for whom your heart aches like a wounded bird, whose voice I can hear behind every word when you talk of love and life.”
“Pratyay, didi.”
“Ah, what a lovely name!”
“He is even better in person didi.”
“Lucky you! Do you meet him everyday?”
“No didi, he lives in Ahmedabad, and comes here only once a month. Keeps promising me he will come more often. But he revels in putting me through a sweet torture, to make me pine for him day and night. I can’t tell you didi, how much silent anguish I have suffered in my love for him. Last time when he was here, he told me how a girl in his class forgot her lines looking at his face during the mock trial. For three nights I could not sleep, consumed by the slow fire of jealousy!”
“Priyambada, his name is Pratyay and that means ‘trust’. So have trust in his love. I am sure he won’t let you down.”
“Didi, have you ever been in love?”
There was no answer for a full minute. Finally with a voice tinged with infinite sadness, Subhasini didi answered,
“No personal questions to the subject, remember?”
I felt sad for her. What is it that silently tortures her? I wish I could know.
For that day I wrote in the diary, whoever gets my sweet didi’s love will be the luckiest person on earth.
x x x x x x x x x
It was the last day of my talk with the subject. In the past one month Subhasini didi had become a part of my existence, filling my mind with her sweet presence. I was sad to think that from tomorrow I won’t be calling her again to ask how she spent the day; I will not be able to tell her if Pratyay called and what we talked.
Prof. Desai had issued strict instructions that no student should ever try to locate the subjects and establish contact with them. He was also clear that the student should not forget the subject totally. In different turns of life, one should relate to the subject, revise one’s opinion about her with new experiences and incidents. The subject should remain an integral part of one’s learning process and by meeting her, the advantage of continuing to explore the unknown will be lost. I didn’t really agree with this, but I had too much respect for Prof. Desai to question his judgment,
In a pensive mood, I called Subhasini didi for the last time. My hand was shaking, like the first day of the project. My heart was seized with an unspeakable agony of the impending parting of ways. We talked a lot, carefully avoiding the topic of a possible meeting. Both of us knew it was futile to discuss that.
“Didi, what is your favorite fantasy?”
“To be roaming in the icy mountains of the Himalayas, looking for the wise sageswho have made it their abode. Suddenly the air will reverberate with the sound of ‘aum’. A celestial symphony will start, led by the veena of Goddess Saraswati. Tiny bells will chime everywhere, soft, tinkling sounds, like the footsteps of the divine beings. I will sit there clad in soft snow and my heart will be filled with adeep, fathomless bliss.”
“Wow didi, you are great. Good luck in your quest for the divine and the Supreme Being. You have a pure heart, untouched by mundane inanities. God bless you.”
“God bless you too Priyambada and good luck for your final exams.”
When I kept down the phone, tears were rolling down my eyes.
x x x x x x x x x
I was very happy with my project report. So was Prof. Desai. It had come out really well. I thought I would get an ‘A’ grade. But he gave me only a ‘B’. I was astounded. I asked him, “Sir, I thought I deserved an ‘A’!”
Prof. Desai shook his head.
“Ranjita, you are the best student in the class. So I had given you the toughest subject. Your analysis is perfect, and your language is superb. But there is a fatal error in your analysis. In your anxiety to achieve technical excellence, you have overlooked the obvious. There is a fundamental error. I am sorry, I can’t give you an ‘A’.”
“It’s ok sir. I accept your verdict with all humility. But tell me what is the error in my project?”
Prof. Desai smiled.
“Sorry Ranjita, you know my principle. Your project is not for your student days only. It is a lifetime engagement. I am sure at different points in life you will remember your subject and marvel what you had missed in her. I am sure one day you will have a spark of realization and know what was wrong with your analysis. Till then goodbye and good luck”
Despite the ‘B’ grade in the project I topped the class again and came to Delhi
University for a Ph.D. In due course I became a lecturer and because of outstandingresearch and teaching abilities I became the youngest professor in Delhi University. I had kept in touch with Prof. Desai all these years, talking to him every month and seeking his guidance on various research projects. We used to meet in conferences and I could see the pride in him when he used to introduce me as the best student of his teaching career. Still, in a funny way the ‘B’ grade had kept rankling in my mind and the mystery of the fatal error in my project remained unresolved. I had never tried to speak to Subhasini didi again, out of respect for Prof. Desai’s intellectual integrity. The memory of those sweet evenings, when we talked like two long-lost sisters, had gradually faded.
x x x x x x x x x
Putting a brake on my reverie, the flight landed in Baroda, rolled unto the tarmac and came to a complete stop. The passengers started getting up and collecting their baggage from the overhead racks. I didn’t even look at my co-passenger in the window seat. Somehow she had filled me with an undiluted abhorrence. I wanted to collect my bag and leave the place, away from this unfriendly, indifferent and arrogant person. I was turning to collect my bag when she spoke up,
“Excuse me; can you please get my stroller from the overhead rack?”
I decided to ignore her. She probably sensed my annoyance. She hesitated a bit and extending a soft hand, touched me on my elbow.
“I know you must be annoyed with me for not talking to you during the journey. Actually I am not in a mood to talk. My heart is shattered. My elder sister, with whom I used to live since my childhood, suddenly died of a stroke three days back. I had gone to US to spend a few months with my brother, but rushed back on hearing the news. Please don’t mind and take out my bag. And also my walking stick. Without that I can’t get out of the plane. I was born blind.”
I just couldn’t believe my ears. The high heavens crashed on me! Oh my God, what have I done? How could I be so stupid, so insensitive? In the name of life and all that is sacred, can I ask for her forgiveness and do I deserve it? I wanted to hold her hand and beg her forgiveness, but my voice choked and tears of deep anguish blinded my eyes. I just touched her hand in an act of intimate, unspoken regret. I took out her bag and the walking stick and gave them to her.
In the last few minutes another thought had been troubling me. The voice of the lady sounded painfully familiar as if I have had extensive conversation with her somewhere in my life. And then in a flash, it came back to me. My God, this is the voice of Subhasini didi! How can I forget this soft, sweet, lilting voice, one which had filled many of my evenings with hope, faith and joy twenty years back?
With a sense of overwhelming wonder, I exclaimed,
“Subhasini didi! I am Ranjita, no, no, Priyambada! Don’t you remember me? You were the subject of my project twenty years back! Please wait, don’t go away.”
The lady had started to walk. My words stopped her on her track. She turned back, faced me. There was a hesitation for almost a minute. My heart skipped a beat. Then she slowly turned away,
“Sorry, I don’t know. I can’t remember being associated with any project in my life.”
With that she walked away, slowly, bent with the burden of grief. The way she emphasized the word ‘project’, I had no doubt that she was indeed my Subhasini didi. I also knew she did it deliberately, to remind me again of the promise we made to our beloved Prof. Desai never to compromise our identity.
And looking at her retreating figure, I suddenly remembered Prof. Desai’s words, “Your analysis has a fatal error. I am sure one day you will realize what it is and see your subject in a new light.”
Pages from my memory kept unfolding and I realized what I had missed in my analysis. For the one month that we had talked, all of Subhasini didi’s dreams, words and thoughts were filled with the echo of sound, noise, music, silence and symphony. She had never spoken of anything that she had seen or wanted to see! In my eagerness to achieve excellent analysis, I had failed to discern this void in her life.
I found myself crying uncontrollably. The deep anguish of my sweet didi, the heart-rending emptiness pervading her existence and the elusive joy of sight that she has missed in life, filled me with a sense of melancholy. Silently I folded my hands, and touched my forehead, as a mark of love and respect for Subhasini didi. With a heavy heart I told to myself,
“Sorry, Subhasini didi, twenty years back I couldn’t recognize you from the voice across the telephone line. And today when I finally got to see you in person, you are going away from me, hiding behind the façade of a promise made to a dear, departed soul. Soon you will melt into the milling crowd of Baroda. And I will live with the regret that my aching heart, eager to touch you even for once, will be left pining for you for ever.”
Notes
Subhasini: Lady with a sweet voice
Didi: Literally elder sister. It’s a form of addressing a lady older in age
Guru: Teacher
Aum: A sacred incantation to seek divine blessings
Veena: A plucked string instrument used in Indian music
Saraswati: The Goddess of learning, art and music
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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