Literary Vibes - Edition XXXV

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the Thirty fifth edition of LiteraryVibes.

With the bells of the upcoming festive season ringing ever so faintly, it is time to look forward to delicious poems and scintillating stories. We have brought you a nice platter with the right combination of sweets and savouries, to be enjoyed at a slow and steady pace over the next few days.

Please share them with your friends and contacts and do give us a feedback on them. If the joys of the festivals inspire you to write for the LiteraryVibes, please send your poems and stories, vignettes and anecdotes to my email address mrutyunjays@gmail.com Wish you happy reading of LiteraryVibes.

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

---

A MEME: CLAY TO METAL

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Me mud,

my flesh, said perishable,

soft and succulent to piercing;

malleable, easy to paint;

once stained,

never washes clean.

 

Open the lid, break the seal,

it is said, the content would rot;

a Pandora’s box,

would waft a festering breath

of a decaying swamp;

poisons even the buried eel.

 

You, a stainless steel crowbar,

dig mud, but don’t get muddy;

washable, non-stick;

a silvery fish playing in muck,

surfacing unsullied, lively,

a Shiva after his sip of poison.

 

You pry me in secret,

steal into my pool, dive,

swim with passionate paroxysm,

melt like a sugar-lolly;

we cook a sweetly pungent recipe,

heady, bonding us intimately.

 

Are you afraid,

nothing of you may surface;

my pitcher plant nectar

cannibalizing you in its womb

making you flesh-of-my-flesh,

you moulded on my template?

 

Are you afraid

of the fire-test on pyre,

your charring flesh

wafting stinks as foul as mine;

bystanders’ noses cringing in disgust

despite the mask of joss sticks?

 

 

---

POET

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Poet lies - half in, half out

at the door - half closed, half ajar,

our indoor pet, outdoor pariah;

he loves the garden air

and warmth indoor -

Poet, my pariah-pet.

 

With tail he plays piano in air,

barks in tenor when angry,

 cringes with contralto when afraid,

a placid wag may be his refrain

with squealing pleasure;

whizzes down our lane when happy.

 

Serenading love, rubbishing rancour,

giving himself rod, line, and sinker

for a pat; giving back

little licks, a swish of tail,

an affectionate squeak;

he fills the folds of my void.

 

His woof-woof, sweeter

than a sweetheart’s whispers;

his cozy cuddles,

cozy as mother’s, his licks - softer

than the soft lips of a new born;

his muzzle rubs away my desolation.

 

A winner, a warmer, a crooner;

give him a biscuit, a pat;

he is all yours.

Poet grins, squeals with pleasure,

full of life, lane’s pariah, my pet.

He loves outdoors; he loves indoors.

 

 

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 LORD’S IDOL (BIGRAHA)

HARAPRASAD DAS

Translated - Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Pray, all good things

should return to your life

as if returned by the selfless ebb tide -

your lost glory, unblemished;

your dream-lover, unselfish,

the resplendent prince from stars;

the wagging tongues that mouthed

curses for you, showering honey.

 

It would be your day,

like every dog has his –

a day of ridicule

for the hands that groped you

lustfully, like you’re a succulent lamb

before putting it on the slab;

 

for the people

who appropriated you

as their fiefdom for joyrides,

throwing you down

like a ragdoll

after playing with it. 

 

That day, be thankful

to none, but our misshapen Lord,

who manifests Himself

as a limbless idol,

but works wonders,

for His trusting followers.

 

---

34. ANOTHER PATH IN THE SOCIAL JUNGLE (LV 35) (UPAAYA)

HARAPRASAD DAS

Translated - Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Don’t be horrified

by the dripping blood;

this is your share of meat

from the sacrificial altar;

take it home, cook and eat,

enjoy the festivity with wife and children.  

 

The gruesome practice

is a delightful cultural legacy.

See, the oozing blood

doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

 

Of course, the terror,

the yesterday’s nightmare unleashed

on me was an exception -

dreaming of a few drops of blood

had horrified me

in that unguarded moment;

 

and I screamed aloud

like a delicate Gangashiuli flower

on finding a blood-red spot

on its snow-white petals.  

 

Why should you be disturbed?

You gain so much, losing so little,

even if it’s your innocence?

So, oh priest,

anoint us with customary

grisly vermilion and flowers,

and let’s dance

with abandon to drumbeats

like possessed souls

with macabre steps.

 

This is also an opium pill

greasing our social engine,

another path

in our social jungle.

 

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)”

 

---

A SONG FOR MY ‘WASTELAND’  (OOJUDAA KHETARA GEETA)

HRUSHIKESH MALLICK

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

What an ominous night! Overnight,

my lush land turned barren, dear Sir;

it wasn’t a tragedy by ravaging pariah cattle,

nor a trampling underfoot by wild elephants.

By morning, was gone my standing crop;

was gone my guaranteed yearlong breadbasket.

 

Hadn’t I fortified that fond land patch

with my body’s flesh and marrow,

fenced it with my bare bones’ tenacity

tying together with veins and ligaments.

How I toiled there, an untiring morning lark,

a song on lips, a shovel on shoulders!

 

From my field, the banana plants

of my kitchen garden was a distant blur,

a dusty green patch; but the ruddy sun

tilting down its zenith, and my wife’s profile in sari

emerging from village lane, lunch basket on head,

would make my tired body heave with joy!

 

The hard work I had put, crushing

my bones and spilling my blood

into this soil, that I know; and dear Sir,

and knows this intimate patch of my land.

 

Where have disappeared my green potato plants,

that had reposed on loose-soil crests,

dew drenched bitter gourd creepers

crawling close to ground, nubile tendrils

of cucumber creepers and of red pumpkins

poking heads up like a mouse out of its hole?

 

Neither was there a whirlwind, nor a deluge,

not freakish-fiery-lightning, or a thunder storm,

none knew what ruined my standing crop,

the lush-green into a fallow wasteland !

 

After harvest all houses would listen

with joy to chirping humming birds and bees

in their harvesting yard, except my family.

Mine would resemble a school compound

during long vacations, my yard a sulking

orphan, others’ basking with joy and plenty.

 

The penury would threat perching on my roof

like a vulture, a pending land-tax notice at the door.

The house would go empty of wherewithal

to negotiate the lean times; there wouldn’t

be left a pair of brass cymbal, a gold ring, or

a brass utensil to sell and meet the expenses.

 

Sir, how did it happen? Neither the stray cattle

nor wild elephants did it, no other known disaster,

but I lost my standing crop, my rice platter;

I stand bereft, poor, ruined, a hapless farmer.

 

(The original Odia poem is from the poet’s 1991 book with the same title as this poem. ‘Wasteland’ in the English title is from T S Eliot’s signature poem ‘The Waste Land’.)

  

 

Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)    

 

---

---

SMALL  MERCIES

Ms. Geetha Nair G

This was our evening ritual. I would throw my files on the table, take off the absurd white bands around my neck and, still dressed in black blouse and white sari, sink into my favourite armchair. Karumi who would have come by 3 o’clock, cleaned the house and made my dinner, would bring me my tea in another five minutes

  Then, she would sit on the floor, leaning against the divan and sip her tumbler of tea. It had taken a month for her to sit in my presence, let alone drink tea with me. Karumi had started working for me as a domestic help three years back. Quiet,energetic and efficient, she was a very good help indeed. Slowly I had drawn her out; I am a successful lawyer, after all.

 

 Her story was a fairly common one. I would like to call it A Very Indian Story.. She could not remember her father who had deserted his family early. Her mother worked as a sweeper in an office. She had an elder brother and a younger sister. She remembered evenings, playing hopscotch outside their one-room tenement. There had been a champak tree growing by the roadside that spread its heady fragrance into the night. She had stopped going to school when she was ten; she was judged old enough to start working. So she entered domestic service.

 

   At twenty three, she had been married off. Her mother had paid her groom a hefty sum all borrowed from desi Shylocks who thrived on the flesh and blood of such unfortunate humans. Pappu was a cleaner in a local bus. Ten months later, she bore him a son. It was a traumatic delivery. The doctor declared that she could bear no more children. Her husband ranted awhile at this but soon found comfort in fertile places. Life went on. Pappu earned enough to feed and clothe his wife and son but his earnings hardly ever reached home. They swelled the coffers of the local liquor shops. His wife slaved in three houses to bring up their son. Manish was just ten years old, a bright, chirpy little fellow who was always at play. Needless to say, she lived for him.

 

That evening, there were fresh bruises on her face and neck ; Pappu had beaten and abused her the previous night. That was nothing new, of course. As usual, Manish had slipped out into the goat pen behind the house to escape his father’s wrath… . She went silent. Then her face brightened. “Again he won’t hit me or abuse me.” My expression betrayed nothing as she continued, describing how she had attacked him, smashing his head against the wall and attempting to pull out his tongue. I listened earnestly to her narration. Flights of fantasy, of course. But I did not bat an eyelid.

 

 I too had them- such fantasies! They centered on my child who was forever in limbo. I was separated from my husband. He had left me because I was infertile. Another very Indian story. I had disliked the bondage of marriage but longed for a child. How often I played with him, this dream child, bathed him, fed him, sang him to sleep! This sad woman was entitled to her fantasies. Perhaps it helped her to go forward. Perhaps it kept her sane. I knew of course that she wouldn't dare to raise a finger against him. He was much bigger than her, for one thing. And, more pertinently, she was a good Indian wife. Several times, I had urged her to leave him; to come away with Manish. I had offered her a safe place where they could live in peace. Karumi’s reply was often just a gesture; she would lift the mangalasutra that lay like a glittering snake around her thin neck. It translated as - how can I leave him? I am tied to him for life... .

 

Mother and son had become a part of my life. I did not want to give them up to anyone.

But I lost them to my brother and I was happy about it.

It happened this way.

   One evening, when I reached home, the place was silent. She was not to be seen.
The key to the front door was still secure under the pot of golden gerbera. A few minutes later, she whirled up the path and burst into the room. She was terribly agitated. Manish had been taken away by his father. She was getting Manish’s lunch ready but the moment he reached home from school, Pappu had bundled him into an auto. He had brushed aside her desperate questions harshly saying they would be back in a few days. A few days!  Pappu was up to something; this was no pleasure trip. She was positive about that. She broke down.
I calmed her down. I promised her I would find Manish.
   But the next day, Pappu called her to say they were at a place of pilgrimage and everything was fine. Of course, the woman’s mind was still not at rest. Two days later, Karumi rang me while I was in the court. She said Pappu had asked her to go with him to a hospital in the neighbouring town as Manish was admitted there. Their vehicle had overturned; he had hurt his back. Nothing to cry about, he added. Manish would be discharged in a few days.

 

Karumi sees the hospital. It is huge and gleaming. But Pappu takes her into another building behind it. That too is a hospital. With thudding heart, Karumi goes into the room. Her son lies on his side, still and pale on the bed. There are tubes strapped to his body. She cries out his name and he opens his eyes. "Ma, where were you ?" he asks, softly, weakly.They weep together, the mother and child. 
  Pappu gives her some money, tells her he will be back soon and leaves.

  It is the next day. The nurses are changing the dressing on Manish's back. He is in great pain. It is then that Karumi sees the long, diagonal line running down her son's little back. It takes her three more days to comprehend what has happened to her child... .
   She tells the nurses that she needs to go home for a few hours. Pappu is at home. He is drunk as usual ; the empty bottle by his side bears the label of an expensive whiskey. He is half asleep. He doesn’t see her. 
Karumi picks up the bottle, breaks it against the wall and pierces his face with it. When he rises in agony, she jabs him again and again in the small of the back. He collapses; she washes her hands and leaves.
I had just made my tea when Karumi entered my house. I gave her my cup.of tea. She spoke; she was very calm.This was no comforting fantasy. I had to act fast.

I drove to the hospital, a stone-like Karumi by my side. I got Manish discharged; I had to flaunt my Bar Association card and use some coercion.

Then, the three of us in a CRV took the hill road to my brother's place. It was the Manager 's bungalow in the heart of a tea-estate. My brother, his wife and an army of helpers were waiting for us.

I left them there, in very safe hands and got back the next day. There was so much to see to… .

 Pappu survived. He had to spend all the money he had got out of the sale of his son’s kidney to pay his own medical expenses.

That case was one of the triumphs of my career. Pappu’s wife was let off; there were no eyewitnesses. The broken bottle had been, mercifully, handled by several shocked and ignorant neighbours; so her fingerprints posed no problem

Mother and son are doing well in their new little home in the hills. She works in my brother’s house.The nightmare is fading like the bruises on her face and bare neck.

 Manish is doing well at school. He is a healthy and happy boy. I pretend he is my son. It is a pleasing fantasy.

One must be grateful for small mercies..

(The Drabble 'VINDICATION' by Latha Prem Sakhya was in LV XXXII of 6th September 2019)

 

---

TODAY

Ms. Geetha Nair G

From these heaped promises,

broken bottles,

rise spirals of smoke.

 

Where are you, Love?

 

You emerge from the fumes,

Gleaming cross held firm

In your hard hands,

All shorn of dross

Like your new self.

 

Nail me to it;

Let me weep

And in your arms,

Your name on my lips

Murmured thrice

Quietly sleep.

 

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 

 

---

FACTS AND FIGURES

Sreekumar K

Malathi ma’m died of cardiac arrest today at seven o'clock in the morning. A few of us might attend her cremation at the city crematorium at 4: 30 in the afternoon. Her elder son, teaching at a university in Belgium has said he may not make it in time and gave permission to have her last rites done by his sister in his absence. His sister Mala is a well-known dancer.

Malathi joined our firm years ago at the lowest possible slot available for a candidate of her education then. She worked under me for two years and then got a double promotion and reached my level. It was mainly because of my strong recommendation that she got that post. I was sure that, with her dedication and hard work, she would be a great asset to our firm.

We were very good colleagues for another year and then I got a promotion. She didn’t get any that year but she worked relentlessly and in the next year she got another double promotion and became my immediate boss. I asked her whether we were in some sort of a race. She said it was surely a race but the winner took nothing and the stadium took all.

I was failing in my health and didn’t care much about deadlines or targets anymore. Consequently, I have been in the same position for several years now.

But Malathi went soaring higher and higher. So high that we didn’t see much of her at all.  We do remember the first time she visited Australia. On her return, she was kind enough to offer a party without mentioning the occasion, though we all guessed. She thanked all of us at the party for having helped her to become what she was then. She referred to her humble beginnings and said that she was the first person to be graduated form her native place.

Still I don’t know why, but I leaned over to Sarah and whispered to her, “That says a lot about her native place.” True, since she would have graduated only in the 80s.

Globe trotting was nothing for her in years that followed. But there was no party anymore and she unfriended most of us in her first office from her facebook account. We were sure that the management had made her do it.

  However, we were very happy about that party she had given after her first flight. There was DJ, drinks and dance. We all had a really memorable time then.

The less we saw of her, the more we heard of her. There were two very popular rumours about her health and her family life. Later, we found that the news about her impending divorce was not true. Some one commented on the FB that the reason there was no divorce was that they were not in a relationship anymore. Her man was the zonal officer of a new generation bank and wrote film reviews in a national daily every Friday. He had been transfered to a metro a few months ago.

However, the rumours about her health was true. In another year, we heard that she had lost one of her breasts to cancer. We wanted to visit her, but then we found that she was at AIMS, Delhi. Most of us wondered whether it was paid for by the company or her health insurance. If it was the health insurance, some wanted to know which card she had taken.

But soon two more items of news found their way into our office. One was that her son had married a Swedish woman, mother of two and settled in Belgium. She was his colleague. Another news was about Malthi madam's financial condition. Some said she had invested heavily in real estate and some said she had become a partner in our own company. We could not find any piece of evidence about this though we accessed the details of our company several times.

Her daughter grew up to become a famous classical dancer. Unlike her mother, she was pretty and like her father, very tall. She was different from her brother when it came to academics. She was not a scholarly person like him but, much like her father, very happy with what she was and what she had. Her brother was a gold medalist in every course he took up. Just like his mother, he was a go-get-iter and both of them got whatever they went after.

All of us who thought we knew her up close wondered how she managed to put in such an amount of work. All we heard was her groans. Our interactions with her were mostly about the huge work load she had and how much sleep she hadn’t. She always complained about one sickness or another and she would recount her visits to all those doctors. In fact, we were the ones who got sick of listening to all that. Finally, we learned to ignore her when we found that her work was never affected by her health. So, was she faking it? No, in the end, she got this cancer and now this.

We have several people among us who were risen to what they are today because they had taken her as a role model. They are very grateful to her for that. True, she was good at getting the best out of all. Those who resented work used to say that she was always under stress and, in turn, put her subordinates under worse stress.

When I think of my old subordinate, my colleague for a short while and my boss for the rest of her life, I somehow feel a pain. I think that, in spite of her achievements, life was quite unfair to her. But I don’t know what exactly makes me think so. Sure, I have been jealous of her from the day she became my boss. She was aware of that and was very careful in her dealings with me.  Like hers, my own son is settled in another country now and my daughter had decided not to work after she got married. She has taken to yoga now.

Today’s paper had  Malathi madam's photo on the very front page, with a condolence message from our chairman. Her head is tilted down a little and she is smiling her best charming smile. She was only 53, three years younger to me.

It may rain in the afternoon. If it is a heavy downpour, I don’t think I might choose to go. The road is in a mess and there isn’t enought parking space at the crematorium

 

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. 

 

---

REALITY CHECK

Dilip Mohapatra

You sometimes seek sophistication
and sublime subtlety
sometimes glamour in its
gaudiest best
from the brush strokes on
your eyelids and well trimmed brows
and kohl liners doing the trick
as you peer through
the fluttering lashes and
your smokey bedroom eyes
casting your enchanting and
slanted looks of seduction.

Your Rapunzel tresses
enriched with tassels of silk
with streaks of bronze
copper and gold
cascade over your chiselled
shoulders and
flowing down the curves
of your back
lure me to delve into their depths
luxuriating and diffusing in their
gossamer softness.

The padded falsehood
accentuates your callipygian charms
the suggestive noodle straps
that perhaps arrest the sag
and the slits on your flanks
swaying mischievously
to show the satiny skin in flashes
and the unseen corset
that constricts your waist
to give it the shape of an hour glass
keep me guessing and
entice me to no bounds.

But who am I to point a finger at you?
For I am the elusive chameleon
the high priest of deceit and deception.
It's I who wants to see you that way
it's I who loves all the embellishments
and adornments that dazzle
and who perhaps is scared
to face the naked truth
and come to terms
with the reality beneath
and the reality within.

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.

 

---

BAGAGAHAN – A JEWEL IN BHITARKANIKA NECKLACE

BIJAYKETAN PATNAIK

Supported by a beautiful mangrove ecosystem and cris-crossed by numerous nalas and backwater channels, Bhitarkanika is identified as an inevitable tourist destination in Odisha, and is a paradise for nature lovers, conservationists and biologists. Bagagahan - the, heronry, one of the largest in the country serves as a jewel in the necklace of Bhittarkanika. It is one of the major attraction site for tourists and bird watchers during rainy season.

Eleven species of colonial water birds throng a small saucer shaped area of about then acres, in Bhitarkanika forest block adjoining Sahajore creek for breeding bet ween June to November every year. Come monsoon all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons congregate and built nests enmasse on Sundari and Guan trees with twigs and leaves plucked from Keruan trees. The majority of nesting birds include open bill storks. The choice of nesting trees vary from species to species, and the most preferred are Heritera species (Sundari trees) that provides a good canopy cover. Every year during the mansoon season around forty thousand of residential adult birds visit this unique place called ‘Bagagahan’ for feeding, breeding and nesting activities. Around twenty thousand nests are formed every year and in the breeding process nearly forty thousand to fifty thousand chicks are born. Security, availability of enough food materials both for the adult birds and their checks attract them every year to this particular locality. This episode is enacted year after year from May to November. By end of November, the chicks become nearly two months old and could acquire the technique of flying from their parents and it is time for them to leave.

The saucer shaped ten acres land home to around twenty thousand nests of white coloured residential birds look as though some one has spread a vast white bedsheet over an evergreen foliage of mangroves. It’s an amazing sight for bird lovers and ecotourists. The place could be approached both from ‘Dangmal’ of Bhitarkanika block or ‘Gupti’ of Rajnagar block by motorboat. After seven to eight-kilometer water journey in Bhitarkanika river one could reach ‘Suhajore’ creek from where the boat is to proceed nearly one kilometer in a narrow backwater nala till it touches Bagagahan Jetty. Getting down at the jetty, one has to walk over 400 to 500 meters on a makeshift temporary construction to the actual site from where by climbing the watch tower one could behold with the mesmerizing view. The walking trekking over, respiratory of Heriteria (Sundari) species, piercing upwards from the flat mud floor like a Khookri is equally exciting and adventurous. Bagagahan is indeed a rare bird watching site during monsoon season.

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

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

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

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

 

---

FREEZE YOUR EGGS

Sumitra Mishra

Silly and sentimental

It sounded to me,

The Sillicon Valley Tech giants

Offering terms of soccer

To the ambitious lady techs;

Freeze your eggs, O dear women

On the frozen trays of your

Aspirations and approval,

Liberate yourself

From Nature’s bush whacking

Biological mayhem

Doctor’s threat of declining fertility,

And Mom’s inconsolable pleadings.

You are our rope walkers

And spaceship!

 

I felt cheated and choked.

My computer engineer daughter

Now playing the role of the Project lead

Dares not bear or spawn,

Her dreams of travelling abroad

Her desire for a house of her own

Have forced her to freeze

Her eggs on the vault of ambition,

Who am I to disturb her design?

 

A patronizing blabbering,

May be I am a swash buckling

Old fashioned dogmatic drivel

Dreaming of saddling your dreams

And loving playful grand children!

 

“But dear daughter,

Don’t deride the divine designs!

You are gifted with the holy pouch of creation

You are created as the blessed angel of the Holy Spirit

You are the gifted daughter of Mother Earth

Designed to nurture the holy rays of the creator!

 

Your CEO may offer you a tray to

Freeze your eggs,

So you can travel and negotiate

But what if your systems frost or fraud;

This frightful thought

Right now freezes me.”

 

 

---

THE INVISIBLE WOUND

Sumitra Mishra

A deep dark invisible wound

Gapes at the bleak face of

Indian democracy

As the Republic Day procession

Proceeds in regal grandeur.

 

The public gawks in excited wonder

As the missiles, antimissile aircrafts

Parade ahead of the brocaded platoons,

Marching in style,

 Steps in unison to the drumbeats,

Booted legs, gloved hands

And heads capped with variegated

Coloured plumes

Bodies dancing to the tune of

‘Ek-Do-Ek.’

Spirits soaring with passion

With the musical melody of

“Sare Jahan Se Achha”!

 

The high flying tricolor

Fluttering in the air

Flaunts India’s  secular banner,

The pride of a million hearts!

 

The spoked wheel of Mahatma

The weapon of peace, nonviolence

Symbol of India’s Sudarshan Chakra

Look aghast at the gory face of Mother India.

 

The terror attacks,

The rape, arson, loot

The chit fund scams,

The slipshod investigations

The cancer of corruption

Spreading the fever fast into her lungs !

 

Mortified I feel

Watching the Republic Day procession

The show of power of our democracy,

For in front of my house

Daily I see the skeletal woman

And her daughter dressed in rags

Picking something from our

Discarded gourmet feasts,

I wonder, where is democracy? 

 

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”.

 

---

THE BEAUTY AND THE BUTTERFLY

Ananya Priyadarshini

 

“Hey! Who're you?"

"......"

"Hey little grey-white mess, I'm talking to you!"

"Umm... Do I look that ugly?"

"When did I call you ugly? Hey, wait! Please don't cry.."

"I'm still ugly..." (Cries louder)

"Holy Lord, I swear I'd no intentions to hurt you. Just that you're one of a kind and I saw something like you for the first time. You.. you're not ugly and I'm sure you never were!"

"I was. Everyone freaked seeing me. So I built this hideout for myself."

"Aww... You forgot to build a window in it. Don't you want to see this world? It's so beautiful!"

"I've seen enough of it and know how beautiful it is. Just that, ugly ones like me don't fit in and shouldn't be seen around. But, you seem excited! Are you seeing the world for the first time?"

"Yes! I just opened my eyes today."

"Congratulations! Can you tell me how do you look?"

"Now, well, I'm small and petite but very colorful. I love my body!"

"Oh that's good...."

 

        *******

"Good morning"

"Morning. Is the morning that good?"

"Even better! Sunny and warm! I can look at everything."

"Good about that. Did you bloom fully?"

"I'm yet to. But certainly more than yesterday! By the time you come out, hopefully I'd have completely bloomed."

"Eager"

"What?"

"Nothing."

 

       *******

"Hey I'm dancing. It's so windy. And hear this, the wind has a rhythm!"

"Yes. It certainly does."

"You sound so sick! Are you okay?"

"It's just suffocating here. I'm gasping."

"Told you... You should've built a window!"

 

        ******

"Who was that?"

"An absolute beauty, I tell you. Big bright wings with the best shades of mauve you can find in the entire nature. A free spirit. To my utmost pleasure, he said I'm the most beautiful of all he's met of my kind. He's promised to visit me tomorrow as well. I guess I'm in love."

"Great... Great that you found someone that great."

"Well, I'm yet to find out how 'great' he's. Let's not be too quick to judge him."

"I'm not being quick. He is my friend. I do recognise his voice, and smell too. I'm sure he is the one who had built a cocoon way before me. He's nice."

"You mean he used to be like you?"

"Ah probably, yes."

"Awesome! I'm sure you'll be more handsome."

"Will you be there till I am out?"

"I too want to see you but only if I make it till then."

"What do you mean 'if you make it'?"

"We all come with a life span, don't we?"

"For me, just hold on"

"Ha ha.... Okay I shall try! Worry not my friend. You'll find someone prettier!"

"I don't want someone prettier. I want you."

"What?"

"Nothing."

 

         *******

"How're you?"

"Where had you been all this while?"

"Can I move somewhere even if I wish to?"

"Uh. Sorry. Why were you not speaking to me, then?"

"So didn't you?"

"Every single muscle in my body was twitching. That was the pain of being crushed to death and yet being alive. I don't know how did I make it!"

"Oh dear! How you feeling now?"

"Better. Just my skin is peeling and the peeled areas are burning. Still better than twisting muscles. But why are you sobbing?"

"He didn't come. Though he promised, he didn't come."

 

"........"

"If you ever promise anyone, do visit her. Will you?"

"Hmm...."

"Not like that. Promise me."

"Okay I promise."

 

         *****

"I'm so happy?"

"And I'm hungry. I've not eaten in weeks."

"Two hummingbirds came to me today. They danced around me and sang love. They thanked me for my nectar as well. They looked so.... Perfect!"

"Love, eh?"

"Uh huh"

 

           *****

"..........."

"Hey"

"Oh, yeah"

"There's something new in my body. Something great. I feel.... Beautiful. I guess I'll come out soon. Just stay there, okay?"

"I would've had it not been for that giant bumblebee."

"Oh that noise. That was the bumblebee? What did he do to you and why are you crying?"

"He's this sting you know. That's so harsh and spews poison. I pleaded him not to but he didn't listen. I don't think I can live longer. I want to fall, fall into peace."

"But you said you'll wait for me to come out. Damn! I should've made you promise me that!"

All forces left in the fragile, worn out, decayed body were used up and the cocoon was split into shreds. There emerged a butterfly with beauty none had ever seen. Every flower in the garden wanted its little attention. But his flower was lying injured on the Earth, right next to the shreds of his cocoon.

 

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.

 

---

ANIMALS AND HUMANS

Ryan Mohapatra

Animals are creatures,

that can be miniatures ,

with large size features,

that make them friend of nature.

 

Animals are living things,

that make our life beautiful,

Humans are living things with duties.

An animal’s life is without a duty.

 

Animals are endangered today,

just because of humans,

Animals like a stingray in water

and Romans on land.

 

Life is meaningless,

without animals,

so never become careless.

 

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

 

---

STOMPING MUD PUDDLES..

Dr. Molly Joseph M

Like a child , stomping mud puddles, ,splashing water, streaking down the mossy , windswept pathways that lead to the leafy , creepered riverbank..

self trots..

Saroj woke up from her reverie.. time! ..time for classes!

Class rooms, the one place where she would be out of all stupor..sizzling like a fresh prawn caught in a net now released into a bowl of fresh water..quivering..wriggling..

Each leaner face is a book, their wide open eyes allowing entry, the more you plunge, the more you explore..

But today it is something very different. Could get premonitions in the staff room, no not premonitions, but devious warnings .this batch is finishing its three year course. The need and outing, to the far off Goa. St. Xavier’s , being a woman’s college , no teacher dares( or bothers) to shoulder up such a far off trip. Laden with U G C workload on one side and domestic chores on the other, you cannot blame them..delicate balancing of tight rope walkers, these working women. Even the class –in charge Madam

the other day requested , “ Madam, as the HOD cann’t you dissuade them from those far off adventures?”

Although one smiled , mind was whispering to oneself. No, it is not in me to blow out their zest. The best thing you can give your students are these kind of memories that outlive time.

Barely allowing time to take the attendance, there pipes up voices..

“ Ma’am, will you allow us, will you come with us, to Goa. Every teacher refuses..

Ma’am, more than anyone you can understand us..”.

The last trump card. Though in mind you planned to waive it off, what comes out from the spur of the moment, is just the opposite..it spurts out..

“ok dears.. agreed . Now let us start the class.”

Exhilaration springs up, subsides.only to rise up as wild jubilation after the class.

Back in the staff room, in your cabin you can hear the resonances.

‘She is too student friendly..she ought not to have consented..’

The senior most accosts.”Ma’am did you agree? You taking them? What a risk, botheration. A flat no would have done it..”

Saroj cuts it short with a smile..Sometimes proper use of body language is just a smile.

The 5 day package works out well with Indian railways affording student concession plus free fare for two teachers who accompany. The accommodation is well arranged.

Parents gather in large numbers at the station to off their wards. Many sending the like this for the first

time. a thousand instructions,.. hugging wiping tears.. Ahaha. What a scene!

Moments before boarding, they hover around, folded hands..

Ma’am, our children we entrust with you..

Anxiety ridden tearful faces.. every Amma like that..

Yes, I am an Amma also. Some shake hands .. meanings very clear..

“Ma’am trust you.”

With trepidation veneered by self assurance Saroj repeats, “ ok thank you all. We are two, the teachers, ask your girls to look after us… Everything can be fine.””

To while away time with your group of students is fun, easy to the extent if you give them the leeway to be themselves.. free.. Again, it is a tight rope walking, you laugh and joke; simultaneous , your mind hovers over your home, spouse and children.

It is not easy, to set the mind at ease..

Goa! The vast sprawling beeches! St. Xavier’s Church! the sprawling church grounds..Students vie with each other taking snapshots. Accommodation food everything puca..

Days of outing, shopping, flit across. In the evening there is the river cruise. Youthful vibes taking steps in tandem with floating music. the luminous shores keeping bay watch.

Students gleefully trip along with the dancing boat. They drag you also in, the two teachers into their midst to join ..

The last evening in Goa. So many Beeches seen, it seemed the last one was in no way significant. We had come almost to the fag end of the trip.

Most of the students preferred sitting, sucking the ice cream.The two teachers also sought a shadowed nook keeping surveillance.

Sudden it came.

The outcry! “Ma’am ! our girls in water.”

A shudder creeps through..You run, run, holding breath..

Just to find two heads moving on the crest of waves, yes the waves are carrying them further into the sea. Where is the third one?

Shout and cry.. we find an old white man taking a sudden swim into the sea..

Three of them were there standing on the soaked soily surface, no not in water , till unexpectedly the waves devourd them in., the very shores they stood devoured. You cry your heart out..frantic run for Coast Guards… Yes, there they are up in action. Quickly floating the launch pad chasing waves.

Minutes turning into ages..eternity..

Only thing you can do. Just kneel down on the dusty, damp sea bed, pray.. The Gods on high help us..

... save us.

Media men swarm in. Where are you from. How it happened..

Too stunned to answer. The faces of the parents who entrusted their wards with you flash before your closed eyes..

An uproar! The launch pad is returning. The two girls tied on it. The Coast Doctor is quick in service removing the crowd circle he allows fresh air in. They vomit gallons of water. Bloated stomachs, disgorging…at last opening their eyes...

Thank you , God!

Where is the other one gone , the third one? You wait and wait for God’s angel to emerge..pray..

There he comes.the angel guised as the white aged man. He carries the third one safe ashore.

She also has too much water in side. Obviously, this man the angel had risked his life also. Down he lies tired. The Doctor attends to both. Yes, moments of rescue.

Sometimes on life blind alleys angels appear to lead the way. Return to Kerala on the booked train on right timings was the other hazard.It was reported the accident, police case, the students hospitalized.medical reports, FIR.

We had to plead with the authorities to let us go not to miss the train. Girls kept on reassuring us, Ma’am, we are fine.

Ultimately on our own risk undertaken in paper, they were discharged. Wayback, it was not at all jubiliant. Everyone tense observing the girls.. doctor doubted whether they had sand accumulated in their chest, would suffocate. With a rosary in hand you sit and watch..the two teachers vigilant to trace any marked change in their breathing pattern. They are just dozing off , others also.

One could never ever forget the night while the train howls and chugs unmindful.

It is morning!

Parents hover around..

“Thank you Ma’am . trip fine?”

You smile, your faded smile.. They say, “Ma’am you look tired , they are fine.

You take rest Ma’am”.

Yes, I need it very much..

Back home, sleep eludes.. you re -live the shock when you close your eyes..

It takes days to normalize.

God kind you were,

Otherwise my place would be in a mental asylum.. with three students gone due to lack of your vigilance

how could u ever forgive yourself?

Saroj, blessed you are , God keeps you in the palm ..in his right hand!

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).

 

---

ENCHANTMENT

Sharanya B

If you could give me your agonies and regrets, one by one

Just as the way they arrived to you,

I would gather them in cupped palms, dip them in sparkling lake waters,

cleanse them with delicate fibers and

leave them out to dry beneath the scorching sun,

They would expel their tears out,

the heat would forge them rigid and unbreakable,

And once they're purified of all their poor sins,

I'd polish them smooth and sharp with papers of grit and sand,

borrowed from sea-sides of the past,

paint them in colours of black and purple,

scraped out from yesterday's palette of impressions,

I'd then lean over and whisper to them

mystic spells from an age old book of a sorceress,

And coat them with one final gleam of translucent instructions,

I'd string them together through twines of silver promises and finally,

Present them to you.

I'd ask you to wear it around your neck or your wrists,

You see, I've turned your agonies into amulets,

they'll draw you from any harm's way

And perhaps

They'll even keep me at bay.

 

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.

 

 

---

DO I HEAR THEIR WAIL…?

Dr. Aniamma Joseph

 

The woman is forced to starve and die

The boy is hit brutally to death

The little girl is raped to die

The young woman is set ablaze to an inhuman end

The tiny tots are left to rot before they bloom

The young and the old suffer alike

 

I live among them…

I laugh and make merry…

I sing and celebrate…

 

Why do I remain silent?

What’s that rumbles deep within?

Why can’t I shout?
Why am I blind, deaf and dumb?

Why don’t I hear their hapless wail in my heart?

 

Their dreams fall charred

While I fly on my dreams

 

‘Cry, my beloved country’

As theirs are cries in the wilderness

The doleful notes linger

‘Long after it’s heard no more’…

 

                                        

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.

 

---

TEACHER BY CHANCE

Sarada Harish

You know, this aunty is a teacher, a Maths teacher". People have this awful habit of introducing me to their kids, and I try an awkward grin because I haven’t invented a right response to this serious accusation yet. I helplessly watch the child's face and read his/her mind which seems to depict me as the only devil in the room among all the other angels. Some people extend it further by threatening the kid to be sent to me for tuition the next year or so, adding to our (both the kid and myself) dilemma. The mother may, in passing, leave me a warning about the ineptitude of the kid. She probably expects me to raise her spirits by giving a pep talk or a 'Ted' talk on how every child is special, how I look at each child with tons of positive energy to be passed on and how I would magically transform her kid as a math wizard in a short time. How I would love to give such a motivational speech! But all I do is grin even more while in my mind I’m already listening to the kid's silent laments as "oh not again, not another crap speech by another teacher, give me a break mom" So I usually keep quiet and disappoint the parents to the kid's relief.  And finally I always end up watching my husband winning over the child's heart with his natural flair, leaving me as his 'no chance of winning' opponent.

            Going back to my college days, teaching was nowhere near my ambitions or dreams or plans. I had a habit of penning down stories, rather the beginning of stories, which I never tried to finish. I casually used to forget my scribbled papers here and there for people to find them accidentally, read them and exclaim how terrific a writer I was! I tried hard not to expect people to come and beg of me to finish the remarkable story, which they could not wait to read. Finishing the story was never my concern, since i was always busy expecting the unexpected. For example, i used to see myself five years from then, standing amidst a thundering ovation, smiling and receiving an award for my brilliant writing; sitting with talented editors and discussing my book,  gracefully accepting compliments for the effortless writing, the sense of humour and the precision of my characters.
    
Teaching happened by chance. The centre where i attended classes for my PG, hired me as a teacher. Surprisingly I found that i am not that bad a teacher. After that, maybe i decided to take the plunge by securing an official degree in education.

  I joined a reputed school as Maths teacher in the year 2004, where i worked for almost 10 years. The school stood apart from all the other institutions i had seen, with its nature filled landscape and architecture. I dreamt of being a wonderful Maths teacher, standing proudly among my students, everyone congratulating me for nurturing a bunch of enthusiastic kids who love Maths than any other subject and my salary shooting up according to my brilliant performance.  Soon began the days with sleepless nights, worries and a search for my true identity. The kids who were accustomed to the fun way of teaching, learning, looked at me with suspicious eyes, they couldn't understand the importance or rather necessity to mug up multiplication tables. When they expected me to put them at ease with fun activities and games, i went to class with a whole lot of written activity in hand for them. They would have seen a monster in me, with a loud voice, serious spectacles and a never smiling face. I never realised that i rarely smiled those days. My task seldom put me in a comfort zone. I used to cry while checking the answer papers. I couldn't understand why they were not performing upto my expectations. I blamed myself for my ineptitude. Those were the days of my learning process. I realised fast that all my education and teacher training can procure me is a job, but not contentment. I wanted recognition from myself than from anyone else. I wanted to prove to myself that I can be a good teacher, a better teacher, the best teacher. 
Gradually I perceived how to gel traditional teaching methods with real life applications and skill training. I reached somewhere near my measuring scale which I had put up for myself. It was quite a journey that now when I look back, after 15 years; there are a lot of people to thank to. The enthusiastic lot of colleagues who often surprised me with their passion and dedication to the school and students, the students who stuck on to me in spite of my initial hitches, or rather trusted me with their innocence and good will, the Principal who fascinated me with her positive energy, mentoring skills and resilience. I was intrigued by her command over the English language. Sitting with her to correct the remarks in the report cards was something i always looked forward to. She always surprised me by shortening my elaborate sentences and I started learning what 'Good English' was all about. I am indebted to her for nurturing in me, a passion for the language.

Teaching was never my choice, but it happened by chance and I continued.  I am grateful to all my students for making me what I am today. If I am a better teacher today, that's because of the lessons I learnt from them. I will be striving to be the Best teacher till I stop teaching.

 

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

 

 

---

THE WINGED WONDERS

SUKUMARAN C. V.   

Prerna Singh Bindra says in her book The Vanishing: India’s Wildlife Crisis: “We continue to clear no less than 135 hecatres of forests a day, diverting it for various projects such as highways, mines, and cement factories. And we pitch their protection, and that of a healthy environment, against development....The statistics are frightening.   Global population of fish, birds, mammals, amphibians and reptiles have declined by an astounding 58 per cent in the four decades spanning 1970 to 2012. One in five species faces extinction. A tenth of the world’s wilderness has been destroyed since the 1990s, and we are in real danger of losing it all by 2050…..If it all sounds remote and ‘out there’, I would suggest you look into your backyard. Try and remember when you last saw a bee, or a hive, in your surrounds.”

All around us we see Environmental destruction and the dilemma of the wildlife due to habitat loss. And I always write about man’s inhumanity against Nature and the nonhuman beings, criticising the human greed that caused the extinction of many living beings, large-scale depletion of forest cover and triggered Global Warming and Climate Change. But, when I was working in Nelliyampathy, a biodiversity hotspot of the Western Ghats in Kerala, I witnessed a wonderful example of human compassion.

While other parts of Kerala simmer under the scorching heat of the summer months, Nelliaympathy remains so cool and I used to reside in the office quarters. Usually I was having my food from a nearby resort. Painting work has been going on there for two weeks and only when the painting of the front portion was completed, I noticed a mud projection on the wall above the entrance door, just under the ceiling. I have seen it before and thought that it was the abandoned cells of mud daubers. And, generally, mud dauber cells are removed when the painting is done. But in this case, the painters have taken special care not to damage the mud structure. 

I am friendly with not only the manager and accountant of the resort but also with almost all staff. All the staff reside in the resort as if they are a family. When I asked the accountant why the mud was not removed, he told me that it was the nest of naarayanakkilikal (Barn Swallows) and three swallows come and sleep in it every night. He said that the nest has been there for more than three years and they take special care not to damage it. At first the nest was at the opposite side of the present one. During a rainy season it fell down and the birds built the present one.

I know almost all kind of birds and how they nest. But I knew not that there are birds that build nests with mud. Using the ladder of the painters, I climbed up and inspected the nest. What a craftsmanship! I wondered how the birds put together the mud pellets together to form the nest. The nest is a projection from the wall in the shape of a hollowed plate, created by tiny mud pellets pasted together. On close observation, I was wonderstruck at their engineering skill. To put together the mud pellets, the birds used tiny grass fibres as we use iron rods for concreting. Still I wonder how the birds glue the mud nest to the wall so strongly as if it is welded to the wall.

After 6.30 pm every day, the three swallows come one after another and land on the nest. They spend some time by preening the feathers and then sleep huddling together. While sleeping each one puts its head inside one of the wings. Their pattern of homecoming is quite interesting. At 6.30 pm one swallow comes, three or four minutes later the second one comes and a few minutes later the third one comes. Every day, after my usual walk into the forests, I used to reach the resort around 6.30 pm to see the homecoming of the swallows. Not to disturb the birds, the resort people don’t even switch on the light in front of the door; instead, they switch on the lights in the outer areas; and the birds sleep undisturbed even when the resort is filled with tourists.  

I am extremely happy to see that there are people who help birds to survive. As Howard Zinn says in A People’s History of the United States, ‘our future may be found in the past’s fugitive moments of compassion rather than in its solid centuries of warfare.’ Compassion towards not only the less privileged human beings but also towards the flora and fauna is the thing that will sustain Life.

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.

---

 

BATTLE WON
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

 

A year ago I would have died for certain people. The flashback of my memoirs took me to that miserable moment when I was rushed into the Cancer Institute, my heart beat almost fading and eyes closing down but a smile on my face. After all I have learnt so many lessons of life from these sweet people of my life. 
Mr Lauren,tall ,handsome lanky old man of 60s, glowing as bright as the morning sun. I used to meet him near the embankment protecting the city from the lashes of the sea waves. I was suffering from colon cancer. Under the force of instruction from the board of doctors I used to share the morning air with Mr.Lauren. He was such an erudite and with easy elucidation he convinced me to battle my dreaded disease. Then as hours passed my driver used to roll into a posh locality where I fumbled and tumbled into yoga classes. My eyes sparkled whenever it fell on Swetina. She was a cute princess in real because of her royal looks and robes. She used to pump into me gallons of happiness and leave me completely mesmerised. I used to practise yoga full of energy. Then as I entered home my dearest ones could see that ray of hope..
I used to wait till evening to meet the gorgeous vivacious sensuous lady, Miss Mitchel in the Scott park nearby my residence. Her radiant beauty washed off the literal pain of my disease. She used to persuade me to do my regular therapy and medication with all her loving concerns.
Today entering the Operation Theatre of this renowned Institute I strongly hold on to these memoirs. Such Is the strength of this paraphernalia  of these people who have become  my backbone.
After long hours sedated under anesthesia I gained back my strength..."How much I missed Swetina's smile and twinkle of Mitchel, pat of Lauren. Few days after recovering I stand alive. I rush to all happy points of my life..Suddenly a pat so docile touched me. I turned to meet Lauren full of glee. As time clocked on I started losing ..I could see the vacant place of Swetina, whose place was deserted. Her soul had left this earthly world after a long fight with intestinal cancer. She had lived her life each second and had passed her immense determination to me..I walked towards Scott's to be pacified by Mitchel. My eyes lost the twinkle when I heard about her sudden accidental death..Now, a year later half of them are dead to me..they taught me 'Be strong and of good courage,be not afraid'..
A battle won.

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

 

 

---

BABA NIRANJAN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

A foggy Sunday morning in Bhubaneswar is a rare gift of nature. And a cup of steaming tea and a newspaper with saucy news make the Novemeber morning as good as it can get. Particularly if the wife is sound asleep at a safe distance and there is no immediate danger of being questioned on the previous day's late home coming after a night out with free thinking alcoholic colleagues. One holds the paper and goes into a trance, wondering if life can be any better than this. 
My trance got snapped like an electric wire in an unwelcome cyclonic storm when the gate opened and a shadow like object came hurtling over the garden space at a breakneck speed. On closer scrutiny I perceived it to be Niranjan, my friend from college. The usually calm, composed 'Baba' Niranjan, who is also variously known as Alakh Niranjan, Yogi Niranjan or Sadhu Niranjan among our friends, appeared to be in a distinctly agitated state, sweating profusely despite the chillness of the November morning. 
To my utter shock Niranjan collapsed onto a chair and fainted promptly, drawing an involuntary cry from my lips. My first thought was to rush inside and wake up my wife Niharika. After all, as a doctor she would be in a better position to take care of an unconscious person, but the prospect of an angry outburst held me back. Trying to wake up Niharika on a Sunday before noon is worse than showing a red rag to a bull, it is as preposterous as giving the bull an Aadhar Card with a cow's picture and the name of Gowri, which, as every self-respecting bull knows, can only be a cow's name.
I rushed to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of water, sprinkling it liberally on Niranjan's face. He came to his senses and started shivering, seized, perhaps by the premonition of an imminent danger. 
I asked Niranjan to wait and went in to fetch a cup of hot tea for him, though I knew that he was tea-totaller. I thought drastic situations need drastic remedies and as Niharika often says, you can't treat a case of gangrene with a dose of seductively smiling homeopathy globules in nurse's uniform. Imagine my shock when he gulped down the cup of tea like a glass of Limca and looked at me with a vacant, haunted look. I almost fell off my chair when Niranjan shouted at me, 
"Give me a bloody cigarette, can't you see I am dying?"
I knew it would be futile to let him light a cigarette, his hands shaking like a malfunctioning piston. So I lighted it and handed over to him and Niranjan started emitting smoke like a train engine. Frankly, in a friendship going back twenty years, I experienced three 'Firsts' from Niranjan this morning - his drinking tea, his smoking and his speaking English to me with such domineering force.
Niranjan had arrived in the hostel in the second year of our college, clad in a dhoti and a white shirt, looking warily at us, a bunch of rowdies, already veterans in all prevailing sins of the time, such as draining endless cups of tea, chewing zarda-filled paan, smoking cigarettes or bidis depending on availability, and drinking daaru or desi drawing upon scarce financial resources. 
Niranjan, on the other hand, was a Purist's delight, something like an owner's pride and a neighbour's envy. He chewed no paan, drank no tea, smoked nothing and shut his ears with both hands at the mere mention of daaru or desi. His Yoga and chanting of mantras at five in the morning, even in winter, used to draw howls of protest from the other hosteliers. He ignored them with disdain till one day some of us started chanting the choicest abuses, using the filthiest expressions, describing rather colourful parts of the anatomy involving the feminine version of his blood relatives. The verbal duel continued for three tempestuous days and finally Niranjan capitulated shifting his venue to the nearby playground.
In due course he became a close friend of ours, regaling us with typical rural tales of surreptitious encounters of the amorous kind, told with restrained ardour but with a tinge of raw passion. His Sanskritzed Odia made all those stories sound surreal and took us on trips of sexciting fancy. He also became popular in the hostel with his superior skills in games like volleyball, football and Kabbadi, bringing us the coveted trophy in inter hostel championships for three years in a row. He was also a great believer in morning exercises and had built muscles which he flexed with justified pride. 
We were in for a bit of shock when immediately after graduation Niranjan chose to take up a government job as a Motor Vehicles Inspector. The Transport department had the dubious notoriety of being very remunerative for its employees. And those in the know of things used to indulgently refer to the department as one where half the staff were in jail and the other half on bail - a bit of an exaggeration no doubt, but probably not far from the truth. Our concern was how Niranjan, a purist and an avowed upholder of probity, honesty and integrity would remain unsullied in such a department.
To the pleasant surprise of his friends, family and classmates, Niranjan not only maintained his reputation as absolutely honest, he also became quite well-liked by his bosses due to his sound knowledge of transport rules and regulations and his ability for good drafting. After doing a couple of stints in Sambalpur and Berhampur, he was brought to Bhubaneswar and in due course after getting a promotion he was posted as RTO in Bhubaneswar itself. Niranjan was one of those whom the political government loved to flaunt for the sole purpose of projectong itself as an "honest" government, except that behind the facade of honesty the cesspool of corruption used to thrive in the shadow land of governance.
I joined the Indian Revenue Service  after my M.A. and eventually gravitated to Bhubaneswar where Niharika opened her Nursing Home and soon had a roaring practice. Niranjan was a frequent visitor to my home often sharing our dinner, having left his family at Berhampur with his wife's parents. His wife was working as a teacher in a good private English Medium school there and his children studied in the same school.
After Niranjan finished smoking his third cigarette, I thought it was time to ask him what was bothering him. He was still shivering, interspersed with audible gasps and his eyes were closed, a pall of fear had darkened his face. I finally asked him,
"Will you tell me what happened? And for God's sake will you stop panting like a pregnant porcupine?"
Niranjan looked at me with alarm in his eyes,
"Debjit! I killed that bastard."
I jumped up from my chair,
"What do you mean killed? Killed as in murdered?"
Niranjan wince at the word,
"Yes Debjit, this morning I officially became a murderer. For the rest of my life I will rot in a dark dungeon waiting for a dangling death".
Niranjan was obviously referring to a sentence of death by hanging, but I could not bring myself to believe that he had killed some one. I shouted,
"What are you saying? And who is the bastard you killed? Someone I know?"
Niranjan looked at me quizzically,
"Yes, of course you know him, you only told me about him. Jayant Maharna, the bastard, the blot on the human race"
I was nonplussed, the name didn't ring a bell,
"Who is Jayant...." And then suddenly I remembered, "Oh, that Jayant Maharana? You killed him? Good, good riddance!"
In a flash the memory came to me cascading. In my job I have to meet different kinds of characters, most of them on the wrong side of law. But Jayant Maharana was the uncrowned king of that despicable lot. I recollected the meeting with him about six months back. It was a dull afternoon, I had not posted any hearing of cases. I was dictating an order on Revision of Assessment to my PA.
Suddenly the door to my chamber opened and a young man barged in. It was unusual, but so was the young man - clad in a pair of jeans, and a very expensive shirt. The two top buttons of the shirt were open, his hair was well groomed and a gold chain was dangling from his neck.
I lost my temper and shouted at him, "Who are you? How dare you enter my room without permission?"
A thin, cruel smile spread on the lips of the arrogant brat.
"I don't need permission to enter anywhere, at least not in Bhubnaeswar. I am Jayant Maharana, you must have heard my name? I am the son of Bikas Maharana, the owner of the biggest real estate business in Odisha".
I was mad with anger,
"I don't care if you are the son of Bikas Maharana or Bill Clinton, just get out of this room and wait for me to call you after I finish my dictation."
He again flashed that infuriating smile,
"Jayant Maharana is not used to being ordered around. And what is this room you are talking about? It is smaller than even my bathroom. I have come to ask you, how dare you issue a notice to me? I am not even an assessee!"
It was my turn to mock him,
"Oh, you are not an assessee? Tell me, how do you not file an Income Tax Return when you transfer lakhs of rupees from your bank account to your father's account? How do you deal with so much money and not pay Income Tax? What business are you in?"
Jayant feigned surprise,
"Oh, you don't know? The whole town knows it, half the who's who of Bhubaneswar are my clients. No one has told you, my girls are the best in the state and I am the biggest exporter of girls to Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore and Goa? All cash transactions, no receipts, no bills. And hence, no Income Tax Returns! All clean business!"
I felt absolutely scandalised! This young man, hardly in his twenties, is talking of such nefarious business with such an openness as if he sells cement and steel!
I asked him,
"Does your father know you are doing this business?"
"Everyone knows. I am surprised you don't know. Now that you know, why don't you come and enjoy my hospitality? I have heard your doctor wife is a piece of dry drumstick! Why don't you forget her and come to enjoy some succulent mangoes at my Hotel Blue Diamond one of these days? With a bottle of Single Malt whiskey to go with it? All complimentary!"
Livid at the insult to my wife, I jumped up from my chair, and raised my hand to slap him. Jayant didn't even flinch, he just sat there, the evil grin fixed on his face. My P.A. came rushing and restrained me,
"Please, please sir. Don't do it. The fallout will be disastrous."
Then he looked at Jayant and pleaded with him, "Sir, please leave now. Send something in writing through your lawyer."
Jayant got up, his hateful gaze still fixed on my face, and replied to my P.A.,
"Something in writing? It is your boss who will get something in writing by tomorrow evening. Direct from the Finance Minister's office in Delhi. Like an idiot he has pinched the tail of a snake, now he will get its sting".
And with that ominous warning Jayant Maharana walked out of my room. I looked at my P.A. The poor chap was sweating out of fear and nervousness. He folded his hands and voice choking with fear told me,
"Sir you have just taken charge of the Investigations Division last week. Everyone who occupies that chair happily compromises with people like Jayant Maharana. If you don't want to do that at least don't put your life in danger by hitting him. He already has three rape cases and five attempts to murder cases against him. The cases do not proceed even an inch because his sister is married to the son of the local MP.  Bikas Maharana and the MP are partners in crimes and share their booty with each other. If you meddle with them, nothing will happen to them, only you will come to harm."
I left for home with a heavy heart. Jayant was true to his words. Next morning as soon as I reached office I had a phone call from the Finance Minister's office asking me to withdraw the notice issued to Jayant Maharana. I refused, I asked for orders in writiing, and lo and behold!  the order came, my transfer order, from Investgation to Audit!
My colleagues droped by and sympathised. A demotion from Investigations Division to Audit is like a monumental disaster for many of them. But not for me. I was happy I would do less work for the same amount of salary I was drawing earlier.
Niranjan, during his next visit agreed with me, "Good, now you can come home early in the evening and take care of children's studies. They were getting unruly at home due to your late coming. Niharika anyway cannot return from her Nursing Home before ten."
I didn't have a chance to meet Jayant Mahrana in the past six months. Today, Niranjan's word brought back those unwholesome memories, but I was still wondering how Alakh Niranjan, the Sadhu Baba from our college days, managed to kill this venomous snake in human form. I asked Niranjan, who demanded one more cup of tea. I went inside to prepare the tea for him while Niranjan pulled out another cigarette and started smoking. It looked like the errant Baba, having crossed the Laxman Rekha had become unstoppable in his quest for such sinful pleasures.
After he finished the tea, Niranjan told his story,  He was to leave for Berhampur yesterday afternoon, but the Secretary of the Department wanted a briefing this morning at ten o' clock on some Assembly question. So he stayed back. At six he left for his usual morning walk. It was foggy, Niranjan was walking carefully on the side of the road, when suddenly a car brushed against him. Niranjan is one of those who flares up at such times. He picked up a stone and hurled it at the car. The stone shattered the rear glasses of the car. It stopped. The driver reversed the car at great speed. Niranjan  hurried near the wall of the nearby building to escape being run over. A young man got down from the car, examined the broken glass and came rushing at Niranjan.
The road was empty, there was no one in sight. Niranjan shouted at him,
"Hey Idiot, who taught you driving a car? What if my legs had broken, crushed under your car?"
To his utter shock the man spat at Niranjan's face,
"if your legs had crushed under my Toyota, Jayant Maharana would have given you new legs, you old bastard, do you know how much it costs to put a new rear glass on this Toyota? Have you even seen a Toyota in your life, you wretched beggar?"
Niranjan suddenly remembered my experience with Jayant Maharana six months back and sneered at him,
"O, you are Jayant Maharana, the flesh-trader son of the pimp Bikas Maharana? You are showing off Toyotas to me, the RTO of Bhubaneswar? You come to my office at ten o'clock tomorrow, I will cancel your driving licence."
Jayant laughed at Niranjan in derision and spat at him again,
"You bloody corrupt RTO, last month I had come to your office for registration of this Toyota and paid a bribe of twenty thousand to your office people. Go and wipe this spit from your face with some of those currency notes."
That was the ultimate insult to Niranjan. His voice choked with emotion, he told me "Debjit, you know, if there is one thing I hold dear in my life, it is my reputation and my commitment to honesty. When clerks in my office go to Kashmir, Kulu or Manali for holidays, I take my family to Konark or Similipal, when they eat at five star hotels with their friends and family we are happy to have dosas at Annapurna Cafe in Berhampur. But I have no regrets, at least I have been a good father to my sons, they can look up to me with pride, and my friends and family speak of me as a good, honest man. But look at this despicable blot, he spat at me and called me corrupt! Suddenly something exploded in my head and I became uncontrollably mad. I wanted to slap him, hit him and break his bones. When I tried to catch him he slipped away and went to the other side of the car. There he stood, between the car and the compound wall of the school building, mocking at me, challenging me and spitting at me.  Debjit, in God's name I am telling you, for a moment he looked like a huge venomous snake to me, swinging his head and spitting venom at me. I became blind with rage, I forgot everything, all that I wanted was to crush this snake to a pulp. The car's engine was running, it was kept in neutral gear, I started pushing it with all my might. Years of strenuous exercise added force to the push and within a second, the car pressed Jayant, the snake to the wall, trapping him and shutting the way to escape. I pressed on and Jayant's face changed. From a mocking, hissing, spitting face it disintegrated into a cowering, cringing, pleading mass of sweat. He whimpered, 'What are you doing, hey, what are you doing, hey, Uncle, Uncle, please don't kill me, please, my father will give you a crore of rupees if you spare my life, don't kill me, please...' Debjit, I heard everything, but understood nothing. There was a fire raging within me, spreading, licking my brain, my heart, my mind and my entire consciousness. All that I saw was this venomous snake, dying and spitting words at me, words, which had no meaning at that moment. And all that I wanted was to crush it, crunch its bones, till his voice died, blood started oozing out of his nose, mouth and ears. Jayant's head fell to one side and his eyes popped out. Looking at those eyes I suddenly came to my sense. O my God, I have killed this man, I have become a murderer,  In a matter of few minutes a respectable government official became a murderer!"
Niranjan started sobbing, all his pent up feelings of guilt and fear came out in sad whimperings,
"What will my children think of me? A murderer to be jailed and hanged? How could I do this? How could I lose myself to such uncontrollable anger? How could I kill a man?"
I tried to console Niranjan, "Don't say such things my friend, you have killed an animal, not a man. So long as he had the protection of his father and the MP he would have never mended his ways. By putting his life to an end, you have become a saviour of many unfortunate girls who would have been forced to flesh trade by this animal. Just remove that regret from your mind and let's think what we can do to save you. Are you sure nobody has seen you at the spot?"
Niranjan closed his eyes for half a minute and shook his head,
"No, I am sure nobody has seen me. It is so foggy this morning and the road was deserted. I didn't even see anyone when I walked over to your house here. But I am sure by now somebody would have seen the car, its engine was running when I left it. People would have seen the dead body of Jayant, may be the police would be looking for the killer."
Niranjan held my hand in desperation and pleaded,
"Do something Debjit, save me. I promise I won't kill anyone again".
I knew the time had come to consult Niharika. An idea was forming in my mind and Niharika was an integral part of it. I went to the bedroom and gently woke her up. She opened her eyes and her mouth at the same time, spewing some unprintable epithets describing me and my despicable habit of waking her up at ungodly hours on a Sunday morning. In self defence I put my finger on my lips and whispered to her, "Niranjan is here, he has just killed a man and needs help". Niharika sat up, as if she had been hit by an unkind bullet in the hind quarters. "Killed a man, what do you mean, killed a man? Is killing a man like buying a bag of brinjals? How could he kill a man so early on a Sunday morning?"
I wanted to remind Niharika that there is no prescribed time and day of the week in Indian law for killing a man. But there was no time to waste, we had to act fast if we wanted to save poor Niranjan. I told her my plan and she agreed without blinking an eye. But again, time was of the essence. We had to rush Niranjan to her Nursing Home, hoping that no new case had been admitted during the night. Niranjan was to be admitted at ten p.m. of the previous night for severe colic pain and administered enough pills to put an elephant to sleep. As per the Nursing Home records, at the precise hour when Jayant was pleading, "Uncle, uncle, don't kill me" 'Uncle' Niranjan would be lying in a secluded room, supposedly drugged to sleep and dreaming of snakes and ladders! Niranjan jumped at the idea and with trembling lips repeated his pledge not to indulge in minor sports like murder if he is rescued from 'dangling death' this time. We assured him of a safe passage into his resurrection at the Nursing Home.
Niharika got ready in five minutes, my strong tea acting like a dose of benign lightning and off we went to the Nursing Home, me at the driving wheel with Niharika on my side and Niranjan in the back seat wrapped in a heavy blanket, covered like a coy Eskimo proceeding to receive an award for killing a killer whale with a single jab of a rather serious looking spear.
Niharika was in a playful mood, the effect of experiencing the quiet of a Sunday morning for the first time in years,
"How come a senior Government official like you is willingly obstructing justice? Is this the effect of Kaliyug?"
I patted her hand and said, "Yes, Kaliyug has too many Babas, but no one like my good friend Baba Niranjan  and to save him from what he calls a dangling death I can obstruct even a tornado".
I looked back at him and asked, "What do yo say, O Baba, what should I obstruct for your sake, a tornado or a typhoon?"
I don't know if Niranjan understood the question. With an indistinct 'hoon' he sank deeper into the seat.
We were nearing the gate of the Nursing Home, it opened and admitted us to a world of new hopes for our friend. The fog was gradually lifting and a faint smile had started to play on the lips of Baba Niranjan.
 

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. 

 

---