Literary Vibes - Edition XXXVI
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Thirty sixth edition of LiteraryVibes.
Published in the background of the Dussehra spirit and amidst the euphoria of the World Congress of Poets at my home town Bhubaneswar, this edition is distinguished by its rich tapestry of beautiful poems and scintillating stories. Ms. Kumud Raj is also back with the third instalment of her interesting travelogue on East Europe.
Attending the Thirty ninth World Congress of Poets (2-6 October, KIIT Campus, Bhubaneswar) for the past two days has been a memorable experience for me. It is an unique event attended by more than 800 poets from 82 countries. The star attraction is Dr. Ernesto Kahn, a Nobel Laureate, who is also the Vice President of the World Academy of Art and Culture. An interactive session 'Bond with Ruskin Bond' on the sidelines of the Inaugural event was quite refreshing.
Poems were presented in English, Spanish, French, Japanese, Korean, Chinese and Mongolian languages. Sitting through the Poem reading sessions was an exhilarating experience. On 3rd October members from the Bhubaneswar Poetry Club dazzled the audience with Performimg Poetry, a reading of socially relevant poems with a flourish of music and drama.
From the family of LiteraryVibes myself and Prof. Molly Joseph recited poems in the congregation of poets. Two other members from the LiteraryVibes family Prof. Sumitra Mishra and Shri Vihang Naik had submitted their poems, but could not be present for the sessions.
In today's edition I am happy to welcome Ms. Meera Kamala from Kochi to the family of LiteraryVibes. She is a very accomplished multilingual poet, lyricist and writer in Malayalam and Tamil Literature, who also excels writing in English. I am sure her articles will embellish the pages of LiteraryVibes in the coming days.
I am happy that one of our regular contributors Shri Hrusikesh Mallick has been nominated for conferment of an honorary doctorate by Utkal University for his erudite comparative study of works of Bengali poet Shakti Chatttopadhyay and Odia poet Sitakant Mohapatra. Shri Mallick, a retired professor of Odia literature, is a reputed and senior poet. His poems are unique, resonating rootedness in Odisha’s soil, the land’s rich cultural ethos, simplicity of its people, and other intimate facets of the life style of the land. He is also a critic in unraveling the various aspects and elements of Odia language, its rite of passage along its literary journey. Earlier he had been decorated with prestigious accolades like award by Odisha Sahitya Akademi in 1988 and Sarala Puraskar in 2016. The family of LiteraryVibes congratulates Shri Mallick and wishes him lots of laurels in future.
Hope you will enjoy this edition of LiteraryVibes and forward the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/228 to all your friends and contacts.
Wish you a Happy Dussehra.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
KATHJODI REVISITED
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Kathjodi passes by Cuttack,
an outsider.
Along her reptile rush
to the sea
she won't see anything
stranger than he.
A plain Jane of the soil,
appalled and dazzled
by city’s Love-in-Tokyo and
Evening-in-Paris,
she gurgles by his smart alec drains
and rinses their dirty mouths.
Her bubble-blue stream
holds a mirror
to the macho city
to preen himself, the narcissist.
Why then he lets her flow away
like an estranged dream ?
(River Kathjodi, branching out from the mother river Mahanadi, hugs Cuttack in the cusp it creates with her mother.)
MONSOON VISITS MUMBAI AGAIN
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The monsoon comes draping the city
with swathes of green,
local trains keep halting and
sighing when tracks go under-water.
The city women
save their dignity from prying wetness,
play hide and seek with the showers
and shy away from oglers.
At Marine Drive the sea performs a gig.
Kalaghoda, the Artists’ Center,
and Jahangir Art Gallery
drive themselves crazy with jealousy
at the mystique of the wet old garden
behind David Sassoon Library.
At Gateway of India, lovers feast
on steaming hugs.
A dog, its tail tucked and coat soaked,
walks to its retreat in a slum.
A homeless mother and her child
huddle under a bus-stop-shelter,
their misery whetted by the mean wind
wafting the aroma of fries and tea.
The dog snarls at another wet pariah,
the mother slaps her bawling baby.
KANT’S ADVENTURE – 2: CUTTING CHAI and RASHID.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Kant came across both, ‘cutting chai’ and Rashid, by two simultaneously occurring coincidences. Taking leave of his college where he taught physics to students of graduation classes, Kant arrived at Bombay (the earlier more democratic and secular version of the present sin-city or shit-city Mumbai, whatever Kant may feel about her now after taking residence in the city’s domicile lap, and being a victim of an obsessive compulsive disorder of falling in love with her). A spritely prim and collected young Kant alighted from Minar Express, and straight walked out of the Victoria Terminus Railway Station (CST Terminus in the present avatar) into a restaurant, quaintly named on billboard as PANCHAM PURIWALA, sitting zap opposite the Station’s main gate. He was hungry as the most small town folks from the heritage city of Cuttack in Odisha would feel any morning. He had just left the crammed upper berth of his second class reserved compartment after a deep and numbing slumber of eight hours, and was still unwashed. He was expecting his friend Rabi from TIFR, one of India’s premier research institutes located at Bombay, where the latter had joined as a resident research scholar. Pancham Puriwala was advised to him by Rabi as a prominent location for their meeting in a city notorious for its hubbub crowd. He walked in with his luggage, dumped them near the restaurant- manager’s counter after his imperceptible nod, washed his face and hands, and rinsed his mouth at the restaurant’s only washbasin, and ordered for a plate of Pancham-Puri-platter and a tea. Both items were served immediately, along with an apparent complimentary item, an empty pair of cup and saucer.
Kant was surprised but presumed the waiter had forgotten to pour the complimentary tea into the empty cup. Before he gathered his wits to ask the waiter about the apparent mistake, he found the latter melt into the background crowd of patrons and waiters. Kant couldn’t recall his face or features. But as a self-acclaimed clever and observant man, he looked around and saw the same mistake being repeated on another table by another waiter. Two men sat facing each other at that table; one of them was served a tea along with the empty cup-saucer combine. The man poured half of his tea into the emptyr cup, and pushed it towards the other man, probably his friend, who started sipping it. Kant was now distracted by a stranger, almost his age, easing himself into the chair opposite him at his table. Without a thought, Kant poured half of his tea into the empty cup and pushed it towards the stranger with a smile of invitation to join him over the tea. The stranger expressed surprise, but smiled back warmly and accepted the half-cup of tea with words, “Grateful my friend, are you a mind-reader? I needed it so badly. Thanks.” Kant, unknowingly, had earned a lifelong friendship then and there within thirty minutes of arriving in the city. The stranger would be Kant’s companion until the former’s death all through the thick and thin of Kant’s Bombay sojourn. Equally unknowingly, Kant had joined an old tea-culture of Bombay called ‘Cutting Chai’.
The stranger extended a warm hand, and spoke with a gravelly baritone as if he had put two pebbles into his mouth, “I am Rashid Khosravi, a Parsi fire-worshipper, from around here. We deal in tea, I mean, we are wholesale tea-merchants of various brands and flavours of leaf and powder tea.” Kant introduced himself, “This is Ekant Mishra, Just arrived from Cuttack to join the new pasture, the revenue department of Govt. of India.
That was Kant’s first exposure to two vintage things of the vintage city: its cutting chai (a cup of tea poured into two cups and imbibed by two tea-drinkers) and Rashid Khosravi, a poet and a lawyer besides being a tea-leaf merchant. By the time his friend from TIFR arrived, Kant had gathered extensive knowledge on the new concept called ‘cutting chai’ by curtsey of his new acquaintance Rashid. His brand new friend had taken him along the tour de grace the ‘cutting chai’, its history and timeline. He also had narrated his own life’s rite of passage in some details. By and by, Kant would know Rashid was like that; he talked in great details, listened little, was over-curious, a teetotaler like Kant, a man obsessively occupied with love and sex, but remaining highly asexual in personal life.
There would come umpteen occasions when Kant and Rashid sat long hours in any of the faceless down town restaurants, and sipped cutting teas like compulsive serial killers; discussed poetry and politics, history and cinema, love and sex. Rashid could recall romantic lines from classic movies and sing them in his baritone pronouncing his words with his typical Parsi articulation. That very oddity gave his voice a lovely lilt, Kant got fond of over time. Rashid would also extensively quote lines from Shelly and Byron, his favourite poets. In quarters of singing movie numbers, or quoting poets from memory, Kant was a zero.
Kant learnt ‘Cutting chai’ was a cultural practice among the Bombay underdogs, the poor man’s hot vitalizer. As Rashid and Kant would helplessly observe over decades, the size of tea cups gradually grew smaller and simultaneously the price climbed higher and higher, but from a phenomenon called ‘asymptote’ of their common stream physics, they got some consolation. When something grows or diminishes asymptotically, it never becomes infinitely big or never reaches zero size. That gave them the hope that the humble tea would always remain within the affordability of common Bombay man. But the bizarre phenomenon of cups getting costlier, Rashid had deducted, would start ‘Cutting Chai’ as a solution. The invention happened many years before Kant’s arrival in the town, and the axiom ‘necessity is the mother of invention’ had another proof. Kant would observe, before his own unbelieving eyes, ‘cutting chai’ growing more imaginative, more imbiber-friendly, and more cost-effective over years. Instead of one cup of the brown beverage being divided and enjoyed by two men, it would be relished by four to six men over the passage of time. Kant did not believe this until he watched it himself with amazement. A group of six friends approached a hurtling tea-cart by a street corner. The tea-vendor’s eyes brightened up with the prospect of selling many cups of tea. But one of them just bought one cup of tea, and got a customary empty cup along with his tea. He made two cutting-chais, and three friends turn by turn sipped from each cutting cup. The six friends wore beatific smiles as if sipping ambrosia.
Kant, after moving to Ahmedabad in routine peregrination in his transferable government job, would find other aspects and attributes of the ‘cutting chai’, cutting across social and cultural lines with cutting edge precision. The phenomenon, he noticed, besides being bizarre yet a friendly practice at tea-stalls, tea-carts, and in small restaurants; had moved into offices at Ahmedabad unlike in Bombay. The tea-boys catering tea in offices would enter the premises carrying a big kettle of hot tea and umpteen small tea-glasses where they would serve a glass of tea and an empty glass against each order. Each little glass of tea would be divided into further two miniscule cutting chai, and be slurped with resound satisfaction by two officials. The culture had found its way into homes in this city as well unlike in Bombay. So, whenever Kant visited a friend’s home, he would be offered half a tea, the other half being taken by the host. The cups themselves being miniscule, Kant would resent silently the quantity of cutting tea offered to him. A man from Odisha, though he appreciated ‘cutting chai’ as a bonding cultural event in common man’s outdoor tete-a-tete in Bombay, he resented its entry into home territory at Ahmedabad, where people at home drank and offered half or quarter of a cup. Even a local guest preferred these miniscule drinks over full cups that Kant considered weird.
A few incidents would, however, exhibit other mindboggling facets of ‘cutting chai’, and give a new edge to Kant’s respect for the humble ritual. It wouldn’t be fair, not to bring a few of them on record. Once, Kant was visiting a friend’s friend. After a round of small talk, the friend’s friend’s wife went inside to bring the tea service. When Kant was accepting a cup of tea from her hands, simultaneously both of them blurted out, “From Bombay….?” Kant was surprised to see the pretty woman handing him over a full normal size cup of the brown liquid. The woman, on the other end, was surprised to see Kant accepting the full standard cup unlike a man from Ahmedabad who would, with an exaggerated show of mock horror, ask to serve him a ‘cutting chai’ only. So, both of them had a sort of social epiphany, a revelation that both were perhaps from a Bombay school of thought, carrying the same tea-DNA. Kant would know the other incident from his friend Rashid during the latter’s visit to Ahmedabad, the town of his ancestors’ original settlement after migrating from Persia. Rashid was visiting Ahmedabad on purpose. He had to settle differences that were destroying the harmony between a Parsi husband-wife pair. In a fit of temper the wife had slapped the husband and the latter was in no mood to pardon her sin. Rashid was invited to interfere by the wife. He successfully convinced the husband that his wife’s love far outweighed her wifely slap. But instead of a hug and kiss, the wife insisted her husband to sip a cutting chai from her hand as a return of their love. Kant had tears in eyes to here to this holistic influence of cutting chai in people’s love life.
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
VICTORY-DEFEAT (JAYA-PARAAJAYA)
HARAPRASAD DAS
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Gopinath looks unfocused, dejected;
Pari’s cheeks soak with tears,
old wet walls slippery with lichen;
with defeatist excuses,
they shrink back from challenges,
rather prefer dying a little daily.
So do I;
my guilty hand rises
to wipe your tears,
I hesitate, take it back midway!
The real victory, Gopinath,
lies in getting rid
of prejudices and inhibitions,
and showing your hands
without hiding behind alibis;
a greater victory all the way
than enthralling Pari
with utopian dreams,
then dashing her fantasy
at the end of the fairytale.
PURI
HARAPRASAD DAS
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Neither the Gajapati king
acting as the humble sweeper
of Lord Jagannath, sweeping the pathway
before His chariot,
nor the temple-carpenter
teaching lewd mantras
to a moksha-hungry hippy woman
on a platform down the Sun Pillar*
catches the attention
of the spoilt teen-brats
engaged in good-for-nothing
game of ‘snake and ladder’.
The pundits of Mukti Mandap,
the guardians of a maverick faith,
inebriated with bhang addiction,
feel too wooly in the head
to decipher
the complex ethical dialectics.
Least bothered by these rifts
The pundits remain oblivious
of the toxic monster
inching forward to trap
the king, the carpenter, and
the spoilt teen-brats in its snare.
Even the Lord’s devadasi,
after a drink of bhang,
has collapsed during her dance
before the almighty Lord.
Footnote – The Sun Pillar or the holy Aruna Stambha, is a magnificent stone artifact in front of the main entrance of Puri Jagannath Temple.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
THE RAINS -1
VARSHA (RAINS), Oct. 2004
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A playful puppy,
it lunges on to the lap
of my lawn,
the rains.
You pour on me likewise
your mood’s smouldering coals,
joy, passion,
and loud tantrums.
In our bodies’ wild terrain
mind’s repose
loses foothold, keels over,
again and again in the rains.
Never say - never would
the innocuous flirting of today
breach limits ever,
spin slivers of lust.
THE RAINS – 2
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Prevails a sudden hush,
stops the childlike hubbub,
cooking mock food in a mock kitchen,
and raising a mock family.
None invoked it to come;
she rained on her own, never
had it been a promise to fulfill;
the showers cooled the hot embers.
None had asked
for the kisses of passion,
or lighting flames to burn
till death, even on pyre
.
THE RAINS - 3
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
She comes from unknown lands,
the rains, bringing the musk
of petrichor in navel,
not aware of it herself.
She enters my parching land
drenching it with passion;
like a pining lover coming home
to keep a tryst, a promised union.
What is her identity?
Could it be a pubescent heart?
A much missed shower
that turns body’s glades lush?
Or the sweet cornucopia,
the messenger of bounty
to my body’s eager humus,
wafting maddening Kadmba scent ?
RAINS – 4
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The earth, wet and cool,
dust settled, the rains having
a light mood; it’s a joy to listen
to her mild tap-dance on the roof.
She makes a call
at despondent heart’s door,
bringing in wet aroma of earth,
trotting about like a musk deer.
She heals the sunburns,
one feels the joy of a cow,
spared of a butcher’s knife, left
in a wet meadow with new grass.
Lovers long for each other,
hearts miss beats over
the unforgettable moments.
Rain whispers sweet nothings.
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)
BUDDHA
Bibhu Padhi
I have lost your world, your weary
human voice. My eyes are supported by
a different space, my ears open
to the silence of an infinite sky.
I have known how to pray without a voice,
see what your eyes do not see;
I know what new light breaks behind
the shadows of these mountains.
I have known the hushed migration of the soul
into a loving, patient hand and waiting
beyond history and time; I have known
the course of its simple reverent flight.
Why do you ask me these questions
of return? Is there any need to locate other homes?
Which familiar word can bring me this peace,
what old gesture make me your own?
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi have published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bihu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
POINTLESS
Sreekumar K
I hadn’t seen Chandran for quite some time. Most of our communications were the timely responses we gave to the FB posts. WhatsApp had not become so charming for us.
We were not part of any groups but those who responded to both of us as soon as they had seen our posts were kind of a group. Birds of a feather.
I noticed that Chandran was not there. His wife said he had gone out to bathe in a stream nearby. Lucky fellow! There was a stream flowing just two hundred meters from his place. In fact, the stream was the reason why he bought that property and built a small house.
I took a good look at the house and found that there is some truth in what Jalaja told me. The house was in bad repair. I thought of my own house and chastised myself for finding fault with Chandran’s. My house too was not so well kept.
Jalaja brought a chair from inside and placed it on the veranda. I looked at the chair. It was so familiar. Chandran and I had bought the same chair with our first salary from the tuition centre decades ago. Mine had broken and discarded. His is almost broken and may retire in a month or two. I was a little hesitant to sit on it. But I didn’t want to embarrass her. I mustered up my courage and sat on it. If it broke and I fell, I would have to wait for Chandran to pull me up. I didn’t Jalaja might be able to do that.
I put my umbrella down and looked around. Newspapers and magazines were scattered everywhere. She caught me looking at them.
“He won’t let me tidy up these papers and magazines. I had to ask him to part our bedroom into two so that he will have his own place to mess up. That didn’t help. There are books and magazines even in the kitchen. His things are everywhere. Someone had to give up. So, I did.”
She went on talking about Chandran. I wondered whether she might stop at all.
We waited for Chandran but before he came, Jalala’s brother and a friend came on a scooter. They were on their way to some work site. Jalaja introduced me to them.
From the way her brother regarded me, I could easily guess what he thought of his brother-in-law.
“I was telling him about your brother-in-law,” said Jalaja.
“What is the point, chechi! Forget it!”
He gave me a look as if I was the sole cause of what had come over Chandran.
“I have not seen him for long. I had no idea what was happening."
“That is hard for me to believe. I know you are very close friends and I see both of you on FB. I have read almost all your posts and comments.”
Suddenly I thought she would have asked him to come down that day. I became sure about it when a few of the neighbours also joined us and added their own versions of the complaints about Chandran.
It was all too confusing for me. I didn’t know what they meant by what they were really telling me. At times, I had a hard time whether they were talking about me or Chandran.
The brother-in-law told me a long story of how my friend resisted being part of one of his real estate projects. Listening to him and to one of the neighbours going on and on about the issue, I began to think they too had a point.
There was no big investment. It was mostly a binami arrangement, that was what I could make out. Jalaja was almost in tears recounting how it needed only his consent and a signature for the family to gain a handsome amount.
“He is writing and writing all the time. When he is not writing he is reading. The children also got the habit now. He is not bothered about their studies at all.”
“But what you told me about Chandru made me think he was not well, mentally not well. I think you too said so.”
Jalaja looked at her brother. He faced me sternly.
“Sir, isn’t this madness? Do people live like this? Do YOU live like this? This is madness. He needs counseling. Maybe he should see a psychiatrist or something.”
I toyed with his question. Do I live like that? This was no time to take an account of my life or evaluate my views. But his question puzzled me. How far was he different from me?
I also argued with myself. They all sounded so sure. Was there something they were not telling me, something they didn't want to reveal?
The neighbour who had come in also had his own share of issues about Chandran. He suggested a remedy too.
“I too was much like this a few years ago. Deep into politics and all that. What is the use? They are all alike. So, I quit all that. Went to Velakanni with some friends of mine. That was when I first had some peace of mind. I went to Mookambika two months later. And then met a Sufi saint too. Then I got sure.”
“Sure about what?” I could not resist pouncing on him. What did he know? He was talking about a few visits. I had wasted my entire life on spirituality. I wondered whether any of them knew that Chandran also had a past like that. No, they didn’t know and I didn’t want to reveal that either.
“Not just that I was sure. I knew it to be true. All religions, in fact, say the same thing. Thathwamsi. All are one. We are the ones who make the distinction between religions. They are all the same.”
The about-to-yawn expression on the faces of the others told me that this man would have repeated this many times to them too. Chandran would have put up with it only once. I know his. He would react to such nonsense rather rudely.
“Because of my first-hand experience, I tried telling this to him several times. All because she is like my sister and he is like my younger brother. But no use. It is not time yet, that is what I think now. Even then the whole family could go to some such place and just give it a try.”
Jalaja heaved a sigh, obviously not much interested in her neighbour’s solution. She didn’t seem to be so unaffected by her husband’s views.
Now it was the brother’s turn again.
“Sir, just look at this house. Is this a house at all? One day it might cave in on my sister. I think that is what your friend is waiting for. You know it is not so hard to get a bank loan to build a decent house. I am in that business. If he does not want my help, that is OK. You know he has this big ego. I can find a good contractor. Or supply all the workers he needs. He can supervise it himself. After all, what does he do?”
My knowledge of those things was so rudimentary. I didn’t know where one had to go first to get a loan or to build a house. I was living in my wife’s house. It had come to her since she was the only child.
Everyone seemed to have a lot more to say but they were willing to let another start so that they could add to that. Thus there was a welcome silence for some time. It was then that Chandran crossed the gate wearing just a towel which was still dripping.
His baldness was more obvious now. Seeing me, he gave a broad smile as if begging to pardon his absence. Water still dripping from his thick eyebrows, his smile looked rather funny as if he was about to sob soon.
The neighbour sneaked away and the brother-in-law and buddy got on their scooter and disappeared.
Such situations would have been all too common with my friend because he didn’t even look at them.
“What! You didn’t even dry yourself. Came away straight from the stream?”
Jalaja grabbed a lungi from somewhere and threw it at him. He was not expecting that and the lungi fell on the ground. He picked it up and draped it around his waist. Then he removed his wet towel and started wringing it.
I was sure the stream would have been muddy from the monsoon rains.
“Have you given him some tea or something?” He asked Jalaja. She didn’t say anything but picked up my empty cup and threw out the little bit left in it.
“It is quite a surprise. You should have told me. We could go for a dip together. It felt so good to walk back with this little bit of wind from the paddy. Around here, it is always so.”
He came in and Jalaja pulled out a stool from under the table. So small. I hadn’t seen that.
He sat on it carefully. He asked me whether I had had my lunch. I told him I had eaten from a hotel near the bus stand.
“There might be some fish and tapioca. Shall we? She is a good cook.”
I agreed and could not resist eating more than I wanted to. After that, he took me to see his fairly large vegetable garden. I knew that he was always interested in plants.
He took me to his study room which was, like Jalaja had told me, a partition of his bedroom. It was a small room, well lit, with everything in a mess. An old computer, a writing desk and a plastic chair were the only furniture in the room. There was a noticeable stench, like that of old people, in the room. True, we were of the same age and were getting old.
He asked Jalaja to bring in the stool. We both sat there and discussed a lot of things.
I was not paying much attention. I was wondering why they considered him mentally ill, a misfit. Why were they even thinking of taking him to a psychiatrist? I had no answer to that.
It was time for me to leave. He wanted to accompany me to the bus stand but I discouraged him. I wanted some time for myself, right then.
I thought about both of us till I reached the bus stand. There I met Jalaja’s brother. Was he waiting for me?
He told me the next bus was only after an hour and invited me for a cup of tea. He wasn’t so stern. He sounded much compassionate both to his sister and his brother-in-law.
Though he had softened a lot in those two hours or so, he was still very convinced about his brother-in-law's problems. I tried my best to see it from his point of view. For me, Chandran was all right. He was quite an ordinary man. There was nothing odd about him. But that is not how the world saw him. As Jalaja’s brother told me on and on about what several people had said about my friend, I found it quite possible that the world had a totally opposite view.
On my way back, I mulled over the issue a lot. I was supposed to advise my friend or find a solution to the problems faced by his family. I recalled that I failed to do either of them.
In another hour, my bus will drop me in the city.
It is drizzling. I should catch an auto. Or, maybe I shouldn’t. I should walk home in the drizzle.
A soft wind is blowing even here.
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.
THE REAL SIGNIFICANCE OF BENGAL’S DURGA PUJA
Jawhar Sircar
All Bengalis here love Durga, but only few realise that Bengal’s Durga is uniquely Bengali and her form, agenda and legend are quite different from the rest of India. First of all, Durga never comes anywhere in autumn with her whole family and secondly, she is not greeted in other regions as the loving daughter of a whole people, not just Menaka’s. To understand the riddles, we need to appreciate the dichotomous characteristics of why a benign mother arrives as an angry belligerent warrior goddess before her own mother. Let us also understand why her grown up children simply look the other way, when Durga is fighting her life-or-death battle.
History tells us that Durga Puja was started on a grand scale in medieval Bengal by the first batch of Hindu zamindars appointed by Jahangir and his Subahdars like Kansanarayan of Taherpur and Bhabananda Majumdar of Nadia, both Brahmans. This was in the second decade of the 17th century and the oldest pujas of this phase would be just four centuries old, if they survived. After Jahangir and Shah Jahan, the next Muslim ruler to entrust loyal Hindu upper caste Bengalis as collectors of revenues, was Murshid Quli Khan and his successors nawabs. This was in the early part of the 18th century, but many switched allegiance to the British after the Battle of Plassey. In fact, Raja Nabakrishna Deb celebrated Clive’s treacherous victory just three months later, by holding a grand Durga Puja with naach girls and flowing wine. The point is that these zamindars were encouraged by all three sets of masters to expand cultivable land at any cost and they needed to drive out buffalos from the wet lowlands and swamps where the best Aman paddy could grow. Durga’s slaying of the Mahishasura was invoked, which explains why the poor bleeding creature required to be dragged to her mother’s house. But as Brahmanism emphasised on the Puranic legend of her tireless battle against dark forces, she had also to be in her trademark warrior dress, with arms, even on her four days’ annual leave. Then, landlords needed Durga to demonstrate their own power to fickle peasants, who would desert their zamindaris if the terms did not suit them or they were starving during the frequent famines.
These contradictions were, however, noticed by the 19th century poet, Dasharathi Ray, whose Menaka screams:
“Oh, Giri! Where is my daughter, Uma?
Who have you brought into my courtyard?
Who is this ferocious female warrior?”
Rashikchandra Ray also echoes Menaka’s sentiment:
“ Giri, who is this woman in my house?
She cannot be my darling Uma.”
The Bengali Durga had also to accommodate the pressure of the common folk who insisted on visualising her as a good ‘mother’ with a happy ‘family’. Incidentally, Kartik and Ganesh had emerged as independent gods with their long history of evolution from non-Aryan culture. The former arose from the Dravidian tradition of Murugan, Aramugam, Senthil or Subhramania, where he is a pre-puberty boy-god (not a virile adult), while Ganesh or gana-eesha, god of the short, ugly ganas surely emerged from indigenous roots. Both were converted into Durga’s sons by the Shiva Purana and the Skanda Purana. They made their first ‘guest appearance’ in Bengal, standing next to Durga, in the 12th century icons found at Nao-Gaon in Rajshahi and Comilla’s Dakshin Muhhamadpur. But Lakshmi and Saraswati were more problematic, because as Vishnu’s consort, Sri or Lakshmi is actually ‘older’ than Durga and Saraswati was already associated with Brahma. Eventually, under pressure from the Bengali masses, all four went through age reduction to qualify as Durga’s children, even without proper adoption certificates. Patriarchal Brahmanism was actually relieved to ‘domesticate‘ the warrior goddess, who could give women wrong notions of feminine independence and it was safer to bind her to her home, with four children. Now, we understand why they are looking away from the battle scene, as no fresh Puranic stories were composed in late medieval Bengal to legitimise their role in the deadly war over Asuras.
Let us remember that these nine days in autumn are observed as Navaratri all over India, to worship Ram’s battle not Durga’s, with proper fasting and sparse regimented diets. But Bengalis must always differ and they feast during this joyous period. The Ramayana connection with Durga was brought in by an enterprising Bengali, Krittivas Ojha, and while Dushera celebrates Ram’s victory over Ravan in India, our Dashami commemorates Ma Durga’s final victory. In reality however, pathos rules the Bengalis that day because their daughter Durga and her family must bid a tearful farewell. Fertility worship, that starts with Ganesh’s kola-bou (banana plant worship) now ends with sindoor-khela which has emerged as a new stylish motif of modern Bengali women.
We just cannot end without mentioning how the royal lion was invoked by the new class of zamindars, as a symbol of power, replacing the pan-Indian ‘Durga’ who rides a familiar tiger. The only problem was that no Bengali had ever seen a lion and therefore all traditional pujas invariably depicted Durga’s vahan as a horse or some other creature. It was only in the late 19th century that Bengali artisans could craft a lion that looked like one, because the Calcutta zoo imported two for display. But soon thereafter, nationalists replaced zamindars and started collective sarvajanin pujas to ensure public participation for their cause. This barowari phase continues, but Durga moved from zamindars to the new petit bourgeoisie and later became the ‘annual social mixing’ platform of the better-off but aloof professionals and business strata who occupied apartment buildings. In this century, Durga finally metamorphosed as the near-monopoly of the subaltern class that seized power.
Mr. Jawhar Sircar is the Chairman of the Centre for Study of Social Sciences, Kolkata. He is Ex Union Culture Secretary and Former CEO of Prasar Bharati (Doordarshan and All India Radio), New Delhi.
DEATH
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
1.
Death,
I am not scared of you.
But, what’s the depth of
my conviction?
Like the mother who
can see the smile,
buried behind the cleft lip
of her baby?
Do I have the confidence,
of the trapeze artist,
flying high in the circus,
lets go of one swing,
to grab the oncoming bar?
Struggle to say,
how sure I am;
Perhaps,
as certain
of what I dreamt,
not what I remember of it.
2.
Henry Moore said,
You don’t have to be an artist
to draw.
But when you draw,
there is the art of seeing.
I say,
You need not be gifted with
a voice of melody;
But if you venture to sing,
the music, you hear,
comes alive.
Although, not everybody
is an author:
All thoughts sharpen,
as you get down to writing.
Don’t run scared
off your thoughts.
Nor shy away from
lessons in
how to see or hear.
Only when
I embrace mortality,
I really start living!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
GRATITUDE
Latha Prem Sakhya
I had gone to be with my mother for a few days. My ancestral home was on a hill top and for me these visits were days of sheer joy. The hilly terrain always filled me with an inexplicable joy. So it was my usual practice to go for long walks up the hilly paths and enjoy the fresh air and the vast panorama of undefiled countryside which was fast dwindling giving place to huge concrete structures. The peace and the joy that besieged my soul then was far beyond my ken. Everyday the freshness of the air rejuvenated me to think and dream of new projects leading me to fresh bouts of creativity." Far from the madding crowd" the silence and the unmarred nature spoke to me million things in hushed whispers and I rejoiced in the peace that descended on me being one with nature.
Once while returning from an evening walk through the dense fruit trees I heard a barn owl's tweet. I tweeted back and to my surprise the following tweets were not only aggressive but almost a chorus as if a few more of them had come together. I tried to tweet back, but my tweets were followed by a volley of tweets and I was overwhelmed with surprise and laughter at their response. I tried to keep up with them till I reached the steps that led to our yard. The moment I stopped they stopped too. And the message I got was that I am trespassing on their area at a time when they were supposed to be out hunting for their prey. May be my presence must have chased away their prey they were planning for their supper.
One day while on my morning jaunt I heard a dog barking.The incessant barking I heard was without any break . As I climbed the hill, it became louder and louder. The " Bow, wow, woo, woo, woo..." had an intense and strange appeal in it, I felt. I decided to investigate. As I reached the spot I saw her standing wagging her tail at me. A white coloured stray. Our eyes locked she turned and ran and I followed her. She stopped near a rock face . Near it there was a natural dip. The previous day's rain had dislodged the mud and small rocks that supported the ridge and it had fallen into the hollow. She looked at me and started digging frantically with her forepaws. I rolled up my jeans and followed her slowly I removed the stones and rock pieces. I sensed the intense urgency reflected in her action. I pushed her aside and started working in earnest. She placed her two paws on my shoulders and watched me removing the mud and stones. Soon I heard a whimpering sound and there it was lying a little pup just three or four days' old I picked it up gently and gave it to her. She gave me a sloppy lick on my face and carried the pup to safety. As I prepared to climb she came running and jumped into the pit and started scratching frantically. Again I pushed her aside and started removing the mud where she had scratched. As the rouble and mud was removed, I heard a feeble whimper. I started digging frantically and there it was, another pup a bit smaller and weaker. I surmised that it must be the second one. I picked it up gently. Its eyes were closed tightly. And I gave it to her. Again she carried it to the new shelter she had found. She laid it down and curled up beside them. cleaning them tenderly with her tongue. Standing inside the hollow I looked at her. Suddenly she jumped up and came running towards me. She raised herself and placed her forepaws on my shoulders and then she licked me as if to thank me and went back to her pups. My body flooded with joy and I bounded up the path continuing my day's walk.
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
FADING AWAY
Dilip Mohapatra
You stoked the fire
and kept fanning it
to let the flame leap up
into an inferno
and you doused it too
deliberately and ruthlessly
the cold soggy
ashes standing testimony
to your brutality
while I scrape through them
to discover a tiny cinder
that may still be hidden
but in vain.
You dipped your brush
into myriad colours and with
the crimson red from the newborn sun
the cerulean blue from the boundless skies
the verdant green from the fertile foliage
you painted me with
colours of pleasure
colours of commitment
colours of ecstasy
and now you paint me with
colours of pain
colours of denials
colours of indifference
and I realise that all the while
then and now
I had lost myself
subdued and overshadowed
with the layers of colours
that you chose to smear on me
whenever
and whichever way you pleased .
The orchid in your pot blooms for me
no more
the thirst on your lips throbs for me
no more
the tides within you swell for me
no more
while the seasons have given me the slip
the springs
the falls
the rains
and the summers
have surrendered their boundaries
and all look so very grey
in consonance
with your image in the mirror
equally besmirched
and stale
for all the colours have abandoned you
for good
along with me
never to return.
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.
THE UNSEASONAL CLOUDS
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Ohh ! Cloud,
Never try to shroud
What I have found,
After years of self-exile,
In confusions and doubts.
Stop using your clout,
It no more makes any difference
To the way I respond
During trying times.
You can never hide
The sun behind,
Whatever you may try
As it will come out of the shadow
Which you may blanket
Preventing it to shine.
You may be scary
As you may think
You can make me cry.
But, the gentle wind of change
Will take you far away
Clearing the turbulent sky.
The shadow of night
Has to give in to my light.
Again, it is bright sunshine,
The rays of hope spreading
Across the gloomy field
For a promising day,
About to set in,
Under the clear blue tent
To enact the drama of life,
Once again, one more time.
"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.
THE CHALLENGE
Sumitra Mishra
“Get out! Get out!”,
Angrily shouted the fat Marwari Mr. Saha , the owner of the restaurant sitting at his clumsy counter cabin. Sudha was shocked by the aggression and cruelty in the voice. She looked up from her table, putting down the Pepsi bottle in her hand. She saw a young girl, barely thirteen or fourteen years old, skeletal in appearance, dressed in a dirty frock, standing on the porch of the restaurant named “Rainbow”, wiping her eyes in nervous agony. Sudha’s heart melted at the pathetic sight of the poor girl. She got up from her table, pushed the plate with the dosa spread in a huff ,straight went to the counter and asked the owner,
“What happened? Why are you shouting so brutally at the poor girl?”
The owner, who respected Sudha as his regular customer as well as a respectable person of the society, lowered his voice and said,
“Don’t worry madam, she is nuts! She was stealing food from the kitchen, the boy-there, reported to me. It’s not only today, she has been doing this often. Permanently hungry, seems that girl! I took pity on her when she was sleeping on the street under the champak tree in front of my house, got her a job here! Now, see, these bastard children…No respect for rules!”
Sudha could not bear the harsh words and accusation against that feeble human being. She looked so miserable and pitiable that Sudha felt a gnawing at her conscience for being a part of the society which allows such deplorable disparity! She straight went to the girl, held her hand, kind of dragged her to her table, made her sit on her chair and offered the plate of dosa and sambar to her. The girl looked at the plate greedily, but dared not touch the food. She stood up and said,
“Excuse me, ma’m, I am no more hungry!”
Sudha was surprised hearing her words. She talked in good English, with a convent accent! Her voice was as soft as her cheeks, once fair and chubby, now a bit drawn and dirty. Sudha forced her to sit on the chair with her hands pressing her shoulders and said,
“My God ! You speak good English! Where were you studying?”
The girl kept silent, looked down, rotating the glass of water in her right hand. Sudha tore a piece from the dosa and dipped it in sambar and almost forced it into the girl’s mouth. The couple sitting near her table, gobbling two plates of vada , upama, and chutney looked at her with a frown , but the old man sitting opposite her table clapped in joy !
Sudha didn’t care to notice what any one was thinking, she knew the place and the waiters well enough to bother. The non-ac restaurant, despite serving ordinary south Indian snacks ran too well due to its locational advantage. It was located on the CRP square, just at the turning where vehicles have to stop if their passengers wanted to purchase anything. This corner had all sorts of roadside shops, starting from vegetables, fruits, grocery to books and medicine. Two big buildings on the left side of the road housed two big markets; “The Prachi” and “Shopper’s Stop”. On the right side were two hotels named “Siddarth” and “ Rose Bud”, both catering to marriage parties with their big mandapa like structures. Besides there was the ISCONS temple a few metres away, which attracted a huge crowd throughout the year. However this was the only restaurant which served hot breakfast and afternoon snacks to the middle class people, who were the prime customers of these business complexes.
Sudha looked around and stared at the boy pointed out by Mr. Saha .Clad in a dirty khaki short pant, a cheap red banyan, and a pair of worn out slippers he looked equally pathetic and hungry. He was standing with a wiping cloth in his one hand and a plastic mug in another, hiding behind a pillar, looking furtively at them. Sudha immediately understood the guilt in his conscience and the fear. The contrast between the overfilled plates and bowls at the tables and the hungry stomachs of the serving staff, pushed deep into their navels, perturbed her.
Sudha wanted to shout or throw a plate at the fat man at the counter, counting notes and throwing harsh glances at his staff from behind his spectacles, sitting on his nose. But she beheld a small girl sitting beside him, busy in watching some you tube video on a mobile. A gorgeous laughter from the girl broke Sudha’s contemptuous contemplation and pushed her into the corridors of a tragedy, she was still grappling to forget. In her mind the picture of her daughter who had died at the age of six due to a freak accident at home revolved like a tornado. In an attempt to calm herself, she almost force- fed the girl the entire plate, paid the bill in a huff and dragged the girl out of the restaurant towards her car waiting in the alley beside.
“Keep the change!” She almost shouted at the fat Marwari, Mr. Saha, whose first name she never bothered to know. The Marwari looked at her in shock but did not say anything.
Once inside the car Sudha consoled the girl, “Don’t be afraid! No one can do anything to you ! From today onwards you will live with me. What’s your name?”
The girl smiled a radiant beatific smile which warmed the heart of Sudha like a fireplace in a chilled weather. She said shyly, “My name is Garisha.”
Garisha? Rhyming with her daughter’s name Manisha!!! What a coincidence! Sudha forgot the hypothermic feeling in her heart, shifted a little close to the girl and patted her back in a gesture of reassurance.
“Do you want anything more to eat?”
The girl, hence forward Garisha, answered, “No, but I love Lays potato chips. Have not eaten since long! ”
Sudha got down from the car at the nearest snacks store and picked five packets of Lays potato chips packets. As Garisha saw the packets, she felt a bit ashamed of telling about her liking to the generous lady who has already offered her own plate of food to her. She said, “OOOO…So sorry, ma’m !
Sudha changed the gear of her car and confidently told her,
“From now onwards call me Maa, no ma’m! ok?”
Sudha was curious about the girl’s story, but decided to ask her no more private, uncomfortable questions till she feels at home in her house.
Before they reached home, Sudha wanted to call and inform Prabodh of her decision to keep the girl at home, but his mobile was switched off. Must be in the operation theatre! Doesn’t matter, she will convince him, he is not so fussy or obtuse.
Once at home Sudha felt a bitter compression in her heart, considering whether she should put Garisha into her daughter’s room or the guest room or the servant quarters. She dared not think of her daughter’s room, because that room had a very special, almost pious connection with her soul, which she can not violate. But putting Garisha in the servant quarters would defeat the real purpose of her rescue. So she showed Garisha into the small guest room on the ground floor, furnished with a single bed, a study table and a straight-backed wooden chair, which her father-in-law used while writing, due to the pain on his back. The attached bathroom was fitted with skid-free tiles, a hand shower and a wash basin. That would be sufficient for her, she thought. But what about Garisha’a clothes? She forgot to purchase a pair or two. She knew neither her own, nor Manisha’s dresses would fit her, so she thought of finding something from her mother in law’s cupboard, because she was a short statured woman.
As Sudha opened her in law’s cupboard in their bed room for something to fit Garisha, she again stumbled upon the past , the joys and sorrows of her life weaved into them, stocked in her velvety memory box. Both her in laws were no more, only their memories lingered in the house, clinging to the furniture in their upstairs bed room, the guest room, the drawing room and the kitchen. Each corner and each piece of furniture carried a variety of remembrance, where they sat taking tea, playing with Manisha or watching TV. Her father in law was fond of playing chess with his son. Every Sunday afternoon it was a ritual for the father and son to play at least one game till Manisha got up from her afternoon siesta. Once she was awake, she would shout for her Papa, run down stairs and snatch or grab the chess men from the board with a strong passion of protest, for paying so serious attention to the lifeless soldiers instead of her. Often the games were left unfinished, yet the sofa set and the glass topped centre table always reminded her of her father in law as the kitchen sink reminded her of her mom in law, where she would spend most of her time washing something, rice, gram, fruits, cups, plates or soup bowls. She did not like the dishevelled sink or scattered used utensils with remnants of food particles sticking to them. She made sure that all the dishes and plates were washed off food remnants and arranged in order, soaked in water for the bai, who came late to clean the house and utensils.
Coming down stairs, Sudha found Garisha staring at the painted wall of the drawing room where a collage of the photos of her daughter in various pose; with her parents, grandparents, school mates was hanging framed in a big board with golden border. Sudha touched her shoulder mildly and said,
“That’s my daughter Manisha. You can’t see her. She is already with God.”
Manisha looked at Sudha with eyes full of pity or may be compassion. Sudha avoided her look, wiped the tears swelling in her eyes, took Garisha to the bath room and asked her to take a bath using soap liberally and put on the maxi, she had taken out of her mother in law’s cupboard.
While Garisha was taking a bath, Sudha could not control the sobs welling inside her ribs. She cried silently putting the end of her pallu into her mouth, her eyes fixed on the collage on the wall. A doubt raced in her mind, can she actually accept this girl as a daughter? The image of her cute daughter running, prattling and shouting throughout the house, demanding her favourite food, ice cream even during the cold December months, flashed across her mind’s eye. She could not avoid the memory of the saddest day of her life, the day when Manisha drowned herself in the bath tub in a summer after noon, while she was very much inside the house taking a nap. She could neither excuse herself since then, nor could sleep in the afternoons without some kind of nightmare. She consoled herself thinking that God has given her an opportunity to redeem her sin by sending this poor, deserted girl to her. So she must control her emotions and give Garisha her whole hearted affection as a mother.
In two days Garisha adopted to her new home as a bird onto the new nest. Only when she was ready to open up to Sudha, did Sudha ask her about her past and her family. Garisha’s story was a common tale of stepmom torture with a twist. Garisha’s own mother had died when she was only two years old while trying to deliver a dead child in her womb. Her father remarried and brought a new bride to his home, who resented Garisha from the first view and tried her best to get rid of her. When she became six years old, her father sent her to a private residential school in Bhubaneswar, to restore peace into his family life. The school was a reputed one with good track record. Her father was rich enough to pay all her fees and necessary donations. But he never came to meet her during Sundays or holidays. Garisha learnt to live without parental love and care, clinging to the friends and teachers as her source of affection. She was a good student, a good dancer and leader in the sports field. The Principal of the school, Mrs. Nadiawalla liked her very much. She gave her special attention and took Garisha to her home during the long summer and puja holidays. During these holidays her young son Parthiv , who was studying in some college in Delhi, also came home. He was a studious boy who often remained confined to his room, his study table and glued to his mobile. Mrs. Nadiawalla sometimes sent tea, coffee, juice or breakfast to his son through Garisha, who liked to help her around in her domestic chores. The boy first attempted to attract her attention by showing her funny videos on his mobile. As Garisha became a little free with him, he attempted to molest her in his parent’s absence. Garisha forgave him two, three times but could not tolerate when he proceeded to rape her during a dark, rainy night, when Mrs. And Mr. Nadiawalla had gone to their sister’s house for some ceremony. Garisha shouted for help. A lady teacher residing in the opposite apartment heard her voice and banged at the door. The boy left her and hid himself in a bath room fearing the consequence. A shocked and dishevelled Garisha opened the door and confided her experience to her teacher, so the lady teacher took her home.
But the poor girl could not gather the sympathies of Mr and Mrs. Nadiawalla , who were extremely fond of their son and blind to all his faults. They blamed Garisha for her conduct; beat her severely for damaging the reputation of their son. Garisha was thrown out of the house and out of the school. No one among the staff dared to go against the Principal and help her. She returned home with the help of some teachers, but her stepmom was not willing to let her enter the home. Even her father remained silent while she was being abused and chastised. Desperate, hungry, emotionally shattered she walked and walked till it was night. When her legs could no more stand or walk, she slept under a tree. Next day morning she was taken to the hotel by the restaurant owner Mr. Sahaji.
Sudha understood the gist of Garisha’s troubled life as the plight of a motherless child. She wondered how a child, especially a girl, becomes vulnerable to the vagaries and whimsical caprices of the society when the protective hand of the mother is taken off by destiny! She was a whining mother, may be God has taken pity on her and sent her a whining child. She must accept this challenge and turn the wheel of destiny in favour of this meek, helpless girl child!
Sudha took a turquoise towel from the bathroom self and rubbed and wiped the dark, floppy hair of Garisha in as much the same way as she did with her daughter Manisha.
BEYOND BORDERS
Sumitra Mishra
Don’t blow the alarming whistle
Or march so fast near the Wagah Border
Or gallop the steed of ego at the speed of wind,
Can you dear soldiers
Restrain the birds to perch
On the luscious, fruit laden trees
On the other side of the border?
Can you dear politicians
Command the breeze or butterflies
In your garden to stop whispering
To the flowers and blossoms
Dancing in joy beyond the border?
Can you dear administrators
Control the monsoon to stop crouching
On the Kargil hills at the North-West frontier
Or the snow to fall on the other side of the border?
Can’t we learn from the river
That flows from Punjab to Peshawar
Carrying the fishes, crabs and crocodiles
Who ride the waves in shoals
And dance with the sun beams
Kissing the ripple mad with love?
Can’t we ever follow
The stags, deer and lions
Wandering together
From the Eastern Ghats to the
Western Ghats
From the Kashmir frontier to
The Kerala Coast,
Can we stop the clouds or the moon
From cruising the sky over Afganisthan
Or the rainbow from scattering the colors
On the Pakisthan horizon?
Leave your whistles, guns and powders
Inside the bunkers
Carry chocolates and cheese cakes
To the child on his mother’s arms
Looking into the eyes of the sky
Deep as the mother’s
Vast as the child’s
Say the prayers
Sing the songs
And destroy the barricade
That blocks the love
Under the green eyes of duty.
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”.
PENDAL HOPPING - 1
Ananya Priyadarshini
"Happy Navratri!"
"Why did you call after so many years?"
"Why did you not call in all these years?"
"I'd deleted your number."
"And still memorised it. So you recognised me before I could say who I'm!"
"Why have you called?"
"Remember how we used to clean our hostel room each time mom of one of us was supposed to pay a visit?"
"So? Did you think of this during the fight? Or even after that during college's last day?"
"No"
"Then talk of that now?"
"We need to clean again. Together!"
"What?"
"Our hearts!"
"See I don't know where are you going with this but..."
"Iss bar hum dono ki maa aa rahi hai. Chal Dil saaf karte hain. Kyun ki ye maa kamra nahi, Dil dekhti hai!"
" Soft sobs "
"What's there to cry?"
"We were best friends, you idiot and we don't even have a college annual day pic together. Because of that bloody fight."
"Let's click plenty this Dussehra. Wanna go pendal hopping, just like the old times?"
"Idiot! Pick me up from my place."
"Right before your gate, jaaneman!"
PENDAL HOPPING - 2
Ananya Priyadarshini
Here I'm in a new, strange city amidst new, stranger faces. For the first time in life, I'm not with my family for Durga puja. In case you find it difficult to assume how homesick I'm, let me tell you that I've left home I'd been living in for twenty five years for the first time and knowing it's Ashtami, I called home to cry to my Mom to begin the day.
"New things ain't bad- cities, people or experiences. Go out on your own and explore the goodness.", She told me.
It was new for me to get ready and go out pendal hopping all by myself. I didn't have a vehicle of my own so chose to use public transport instead. Being new in the job, I'd to be cautious about the money I was spending and hence, opted for share Auto rickshaw.
"Sit here", the driver showed me the seat right next to him, in the front while there was a man sitting at the back with two other women. Had it been my old City, he would've been called to come to the front a and leave the back seat for me. I felt weird. However, believing 'new city, new customs', I sat next to the driver.
He sped. There was plenty of room but somehow his elbow brushed past my chest time and again.
"What a girl! Not even complaining after such improper touching. These sl*ts just enjoy these things.", One of the two women seating behind said. She hushed but it was loud enough for me to hear. I was ashamed. And definitely not enjoying.
I distanced only for the driver to pull my knees inside with his hands.
"You could've told me not to extend my knees outside the vehicle. Why did you have to touch me there?", I was about to burst into tears.
"So what happened, madam?", He seemed least bothered.
"It was just a casual gesture. Why do girls have to make a scene about every small big thing? All they need is attention. Who do you they think they're, miss universe?", The other lady occupying back seat told referring to 'girls' one of whose kind was me.
Not every city is good. Not all people are good. There's nothing to explore. I was tormenting inside.
"Stop the vehicle. I will get down.", I tried to sound firm but however, my voice broke.
"The vehicle will stop when it has to, right next to the pendal.", The driver accelerated further.
"STOP. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT NOW", the man sitting behind shouted. This was the loudest voice. The vehicle stopped with a sudden jolt.
"What's wrong?", The driver still had the gut to question back.
"We're getting late. We're here to visit pendals and not see your drama in the middle of the road.", The one woman That'd called me a sl*t said.
"Only a little more, ma'am. And you'll be a part of this scene. I'm calling the police and you're going to tell the cops what this pervert driver was doing to this 'sl*t'. Okay?", The man spoke.
"No.. wait... What? What police? Why cops? What did I do?", The driver fumbled.
"You don't know? Ah, innocence! Don't worry they'll explain you well in the cell", the man took out his phone.
"No, wait. Madam, I'm sorry if anything hurt you. Please forgive me. But don't call the cops. I've a family." , The driver actually fell at my feet.
"She too has a family, you rascal.", The man shouted again. A good crowd had gathered around by then.
"Please. Don't embarrass me more. Spare me this one time.", The driver was still at my feet.
The man looked at me. I nodded in 'yes'.
The man switched seats with me before we resumed traveling.
Well, I'd certainly explored 'goodness'.
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.
EXPULSION
Sharanya B
Words that crawl to the depths of an abysmal tunnel,
Words that seep into the pores of streched out skin,
Words tangled amidst silvery cobwebs
spun across yesterdays and days before,
Words smeared upon blades of ceiling fans,
Words that sparkle
as dustlight between the folds of window curtains,
Residues left behind by the tides of a bygone era's breath,
Words, the remnants, that don't belong to stay...
I mould my cognizance in the form of their language,
I promise to weave them to bodies, make them verses and poetry;
With that
I lure the words out,
And swiftly vacuum them away.
Sharanya B, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
A CLOUD, A TREE, A WAVE AND A STAR
Dr. Aniamma Joseph
O Lord,
Make me not a cloud without rain,
blown away by the wind…
Make me not an autumn tree
with no fruits and flowers…
Make me not a wild wave of the sea,
with foams of shame and disgrace…
Make me not a wandering star,
aimless and distraught…
Let me be a cloud full, to spill forth…
Let me shower into the hearts
with peace and joy…
Let me be a spring tree
with fruits and flowers…
Let me stand up and live eternally…
Let me be a wave clear and chaste…
Let me be a lodestar
to shine and show the way…
O Lord,
Lift me up as a cloud, a tree, a wave
and a star to your dream…
(Inspired by Jude(Bible): Verses 12&13)
25th Jan.2019
Prof. Dr. Aniamma Joseph (Kuriakose) is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 28 books of the members.
SNOW SILENCE
Meera Kamala
Gently this win
And here is snow.
The time has gone white,
The light has gone silver,
And the words
From throat to mouth
Has gone dark cold's stain.
I see an over-shining way,
The noiseless footsteps,
Echos down the bare corridor
Of passing clouds.
With eyebrows in,
The moon peeks,
When brownish-white fingers
Of your branches of our paradise,
Scrawls up in my pages
Of broken-blue sky
I go to you,
As a resounding opening
Of a season within a season.
And I'm happy of its
soon melting silence,
Like our charm-hugs often
In crooked streets
Of early twilights,
When sun hugs earth once
But with thousand kisses.
ACHE OF LOVE
Meera Kamala
Everyone stays
At this shore.
But i,
From moon to drops
This rainy night
With one lotus
In a far away pond
Of colour, mud and scent
Touch the rain
And see the sky,
When locked lips
Sing the pain
And words go into expressions
Physical. Unsaid. Subtle.
Meera Kamala is a Maths lecturer at Aylesbury College /New Buckinghamshire University. Formerly worked as News Producer in Surya TV. She is also a Poet, (writes in English, Malayalam and Tamil) , Lyricist, has penned songs for various music albums and a Translator, has translated poetry books from malayalam into Tamil n Tamil into Malayalam. Has translated ganapana into Tamil. She also designs costume.
ABSURDITY ? IN MYTHOLOGY
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
Have you ever heard of a male
being the mother (father),
adult coming out tearing the stomach ??
Have you ever heard of
the first spy of the Universe ?
Have you ever heard of
“One die not only once,
but many times ?
Most probably not…
Swim in the ocean of absurdity
Take a dip..
Refresh your memory
“Mahabharat” wouldn’t have been
created without this.
Devayani,
Yayati, Puru and Yadu
take you to the embryonic stage
of Mahabharat.
And Kacha,Brihaspati’s son
around which all others revolve
.
Landed in Shukracharya’s Ashram
And accepted as a shisya,
without disclosing the
motive of learning Mrityusanjivani mantra.
Kacha started liking Devayani,
and the love between them grew day by day.
The demons got suspicious of his motive
And tried to kill him.
Twice he was revived by Shukracharya,
And the third time he was intentionally
got himself killed by demons,and they
burned the body and made alcoholic
decoction mixing with Kacha’s ashes.
Shukracharya’s joy knew no bounds,
enjoyed the wine.
Kacha didn’t return,
on panicky striken Devayani’s request
Shukracharya started calling him
and reverberated in his ears ,
Kacha’s sound but from his stomach.
Father and daughter duo
lanched the surgical strike,
Shukracharya recited Mrityusanjivani
and Kacha memorised that.
And the patriarch breathed his last
Came Kacha alive tearing
the stomach of Shukracharya.
And he first tested Mrityusanjivani on his guru,
Made him alive..
“The perfect gurudakshina”.
Achieved his motive of visit to Shukracharya,
“Kacha biding farewel to his Guru and guruwini
stumble block is Devayani,
proposed marriage to Kacha,
but not possible as Devayani is his sister now,
as Kacha was born from Shukracharya.”
Devyani cursed Kacha,
“the mantra you learnt can’t practice”.
Cool Kacha ,
“I would teach others so that they could practice”
And he cursed Devyani
“you can’t marry a brahmin, but a kshyatriya”.
Curses came true,
Devyani later married Yayati
and his sons
famous Puru,Yadu
propagator of Kuru vansha.
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
AN EAST EUROPEAN DIARY PART 3
Kumud Raj
We’re off to Montenegro today! The drive from Dubrovnik to Budva is all along the Adriatic coast. There are no sandy beaches, only pebbly ones. The sea comes right up to the road. There is a wall separating the sea from the land. People sit on the wall and dive into the sea. We see many families enjoying themselves in the cool clear water.
Our guide from Dubrovnik, Robert, is excellent. Robert is a Croatian with a wry sense of humour. He makes everything sound funny! We learn a lot from him about Croatia and Montenegro and the war with Serbia. The roads are lined with beautiful pink and white hollyhocks all the way from Dubrovnik to Budva.
On the way, we stop at Perast to take pictures. We are stunned by the beauty of the bay. This is a photo stop and we tumble out of the bus excitedly to take photographs of the bay and the monastery right in the middle of it.
We drive on to the old town of Kotor. It is very hot and the ancient little town is crowded as a cruise ship has just docked into the harbour. The guide is very boring ......he gives us a lecture on the history of the place when all we want to do is have a look see! I slip into three little Catholic churches when his back is to me!! The churches are very small and very pretty. One of them has a marble altar. Most of these countries are predominantly Catholic.
Then we go onto Budva, one of the bigger towns of Montenegro. We walk down to the water front and sit on a bench near some boats and have some fruit. Gazing around, we see a church and a walled town in the distance, so we decide to do a little exploration. It is a tiny little place with very narrow streets packed with restaurants and shops. The shops are full of very expensive jewellery and artefacts. We get into a twelfth century stone church. It is very bare with only some crude sketches on the wall.
We take the ferry back to cut short on travelling time. Lovely...the view is beautiful from the sea and the sea itself is so blue.
Our stay in Croatia is coming to an end. It has been a lovely three days. I walk to the supermarket before dinner to pick up some water and fruits. On the way, all the restaurants have tables in the open and TVs are set up showing the World Cup Germany vs France match. On the way , a young man says to me, “Hello, Miss India, how are you?” Ha ha....I wish! I buy water and apricots as I have to finish all the kuna we have in hand! It’s of no use in any other country!
The next morning we are on our way to Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Bosnia is a well-cultivated land full of vineyards, orchards and groves – grapes, oranges, olives, pomegranates, apricots, peaches, etc. We go first to the little town of Mostar. We walk on a quaint little stone bridge high over the river. It is very slippery and little wooden bars are fixed on the stone to stop people slipping.
The market is very interesting. The wares are very different from what we’ve seen till now. We buy a couple of souvenirs and sample the local fare at lunch time in a vine-covered restaurant. The food is very tasty and interesting. We see an artist painting the Mostar bridge on stones picked up from the river. Very pretty!
Bosnia had a very difficult time in the war against Serbia in the nineties as the Serbs were trying to annihilate the Muslims. They mined the country heavily and we are warned to walk only on the concrete roads and pathways and not to step on the grass or the earth as undetected mines have a tendency to go off! The cemetery on the hill is full of new graves – 11,000 of the 60,000 population of Mostar died in the war. Many of the buildings in the town that were hit by bombs are still in ruins as the country is too poor to rebuild. It’s really sad as it is such a beautiful country.
We drive through the mountains to Sarajevo – 7500 ft above sea level. It is a beautiful drive with orchards and flowers everywhere. There are lots of beautiful mosques in Sarajevo. We go on a guided tour and ride on a city tram. The old city reminds me of old Bombay – beautiful stone buildings. We visit a Turkish market. Turkish influence pretty strong as this was part of the Ottoman Empire for 400 years. People still have not recovered from the horrors of the war and the siege which lasted four years. As I stand in the spot where Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated I am overwhelmed by a sense of history! As we walk through the streets, we come across some men engrossed in a game of chess – the chequered board is giant-sized and laid out on the road! The music of the place is a combo of Greek and Mid-East. The market is very interesting – carpets, bags, silverware, lamps.
Bosnia is full of roses. They are everywhere – in gardens, lining pathways, on fences and walls – and they’re gorgeous. Coming down the mountain from Sarajevo, the roads are lined with bright yellow, purple and white flowers. This is a very beautiful country – 50% of it is forest and the rest is heavily cultivated. Two months summer – up to 40 degrees C. Six months winter – down to -20 degrees C!
The next day we find ourselves in Serbia. For the first time since we entered Europe, the landscape is flat and uninteresting. Many fields on the way including sunflowers, but generally BORING! No mountains in sight. From the moment we entered Austria till we entered Serbia, we travelled only in the mountains! Austria and Bosnia were the most beautiful with Slovenia a close second. Croatia and Montenegro offered us spectacular scenes of the Adriatic from the mountains and the coastal towns were all very charming.
That evening, we go on a walking tour of Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. It is a beautiful city like all European cities. It is steeped in history – here’s where the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the Ottoman Empire confronted each other across the Danube. Very interesting!
We have dinner in the hotel with our new friends from South Africa.. Relaxed time, good food. The only country where the exchange rate is favourable to the Indian rupee!! The only country where they take away our passports from us at the hotel!
We walk in the city and the old fort. I see the Danube for the first time and Strauss’ famous waltz plays in my mind. But the river is not blue but green!! We travel by local bus back to the hotel. The ticketing system is malfunctioning so the rides are free that evening all over the city!!
The next morning we have an excellent breakfast – ham, eggs, cheese, steamed veg, different kinds of cheese, bread, juice, cornflakes, tea, coffee, dry fruits – raisins, cherries, prunes and dates! We leave for Budapest after breakfast. A feature about all the places in Europe is that all the buildings are tiled. This gives the cities and towns a charming look.
On the way , we stop at Novi Sad, the second biggest city in Serbia. We go up to the fort on the hill and walked around. There are mulberry trees covered in fruit and bushes full of blueberries. There’s a lovely view of the Danube and a little township on its banks. We have coffee at a little place on the top of the hill with a beautiful view of the river. Just can’t walk anymore!!
Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.
DARKNESS........
Akshaya Kumar Das
The Night leaves for it's destination,
Scented fragrance of the night was in motion,
Heart's were in deep turbulence,
Locked up prejudiced beyond the fence,
The beloved had turned her back,
Behind her back a long garland of jasmine in pack,
How to send her the invitation ?
Miles apart two heart's were in deep commotion,
The night was loitering in darkness,
Two soul's were awake inside the harness,
Night was singing an audieu of departure,
After a long night's tiresome journey dreams arrive to adore,
OH ! BAPU...
Akshaya Kumar Das
Oh ! Bapu, Father of the nation,
Where are you gone ?
For the poor poverty stricken none,
They languish at the hands of civilization,
How long have they got to suffer ?
Poor, innocent & downtrodden,
Have no existence of their own,
Suffering as if a word in perpetuation,
No inkling of hope for them,
They continue to suffer the mayhem,
Everyday they face the guillotine,
Bleeding eternally with wounds largely written,
Oh ! Bapu why not you alight from heaven,
For the millions of poor & downtrodden,
Save them from their everyday slavery & execution,
Oh ! Bapu please alight to end the suffering & pain,
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 receipent 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."
Gandhi’s Iconic Presence in USA
Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj
Introducing Gandhi to today’s generation requires a lot of intelligence. Sometimes, it can backfire. In January, 1949 George Orwell wrote an essay on Gandhiji in the New York based Partisan Review. It was called ‘Reflections on Gandhi.’ The essay reads like a tribute to a great man from the country against which Gandhi was pitted against for more than a quarter century.
William Phillips, editor of the New York-based Partisan Review, invited Orwell in an August 24, 1948 letter to submit a book review of Gandhi’s Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth, after Gandhi’s death in 1948 that perhaps brought about the book’s American edition. Orwell is supposed to have written the essay as he was about to complete his masterpiece Nineteen Eighty-Four.
Gandhi’s pacifism and non-violence had brought about sympathetic responses to Indian people around 1945 in Britain. Orwell traces this shift in public opinion to Gandhi’s personal influence. India and Britain settled down into a decent and friendly relationship, partly because Gandhi approached individuals obstinately, but without hatred. “Home-spun cloth, soul forces and vegetarianism were unappealing” but “Gandhi has left behind a clean smell,” says Orwell. Gandhi’s protests were medievalist in a backward, starving, over-populated country.
Orwell’s tribute is spontaneous when he says: “Nobody ever suggested that he was corrupt, or ambitious in any vulgar way, or that anything he did was actuated by fear or malice. In judging a man like Gandhi one seems instinctively to apply high standards, so that some of his virtues have passed almost unnoticed.” Gandhi treated everyone in an equal manner – the governor of a province, a cotton millionaire, a coolie or a British soldier. He had many European friends, even when he was fighting against Europeans in South Africa.
In 1924 Romain Rolland, the great French pacifist and Nobel laureate, wrote one of the most popular books in America, Mahatma Gandhi: The Man Who Became One with the Universal Being. The book describes Gandhi as a small frail man who stirred three hundred million people to revolt. Rolland, later went on to write on Ramakrishna and Vivekananda.
Gandhi’s fame expanded after the Salt March in European and American books and journals in the 1930s and 1940s.
The March 31, 1930 Time cover printed a picture of Gandhi as a man with shrewd eyes and calculating forehead above the caption “Saint Gandhi”. The article “Pinch of Salt,” described Gandhi as a statesman who practiced his profession marching barefoot protesting for the salt tax. The American journalist Louis Fisher’s The Life of Mahatma Gandhi presented a favourable picture of Gandhi.
As I continued to give a complete picture of the Mahatma, a student shot a question: “Is it because the British writer Orwell wanted to write according to the taste of American readership, that he presents a favourable impression of Gandhiji?”
Prof. 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.
THE MAHATMA’S RELEVANCE IN THE CONTEMPORARY WORLD
Sukumaran C. V.
To safeguard democracy the people must have a keen sense of independence, self respect and oneness, and should insist upon choosing as their representatives only such persons as are good and true….Truth has drawn me into the field of politics.—M. K. Gandhi.
We ‘celebrated’one more Gandhi Jayanti. Every year on October 2, we ‘celebrate’Gandhi Jayanti with usual platitudes. But it is high time we went beyond the meaningless rhetoric and grasped the real spirit of Gandhian politics in order to save not only India but the world too as both are being destroyed by the development mania and the uncontrolled greed of the elites. It was the Mahatma who made the Indian freedom movement really a mass movement and Ghandhian politics which was firmly grounded on non-violence and high moral standards was the main factor that helped the nation to be independent. But independent India has given no space for Gandhism in its making. Under the leadership of Nehru we went after big dams and the so called industrial development. And as a result of this ‘development’, the farmers who produce the food grains on which we feed have been killing themselves long since; the Environment that sustains us is being devastated; the wildlife is being eliminated; the poor are being deprived of their livelihood; the Adivasis are being robbed of not only their livelihood means, but also the very lands on which they have been living from time immemorial.
All this happens because the system we call democracy is closely connected to industrial civilization and as the U.S. environmentalist Derrick Jensen says in his Endgame, “Civilization is not and can never be sustainable. This is especially true for industrial civilization.” And the Mahatma said it, more than 100 years ago, in Hind Swaraj or Indian Home Rule, the ‘little book which’ in the words of Lord Lothian ‘deserved to be read and re-read in order to understand Gandhiji properly,’ because ‘all that Gandhiji was teaching lay in the germ in that little book.’
In the little book the Mahatma wrote: “This civilization is such that one has only to be patient and it will be self-destroyed.”
Today we witness the symptoms of this self-destruction everywhere around us.
In the chapter titled ‘What is true civilisation’, Gandhi says: “Our ancestors set a limit to our indulgences. They saw that happiness was largely a mental condition. A man is not necessarily happy because he is rich, or unhappy because he is poor. …They further reasoned that large cities were a snare and a useless encumbrance and people would not be happy in them, that there would be gangs of thieves and robbers, prostitution and vice flourishing in them and that poor men would be robbed by rich men. They were, therefore, satisfied with small villages. This nation had courts, lawyers and doctors, but they were all within bounds. Everybody knew that these professions were not particularly superior; moreover, these vakils and vaids did not rob people; they were considered people’s dependents, not their masters. The common people lived independently and followed their agricultural occupation. They enjoyed true Home rule. And where this cursed modern civilization is not reached, India remains as it was before.”
Independent India’s main problem is that we have lawyers, doctors, engineers and the bureaucrats and politicians who are not within bounds and democracy makes them masters of the people instead of their dependents. The scams like the Vyapam are the result of our not setting a limit to our indulgences. And ‘this cursed modern civilization’ reached every nook and corner of the nation and afflicted it in the name of Development.
In the ideals the Mahatma expressed in Hind Swaraj, we can see a village economy which is sustainable and not at all a devastative one as the Free Market economy of the industrial civilization. Of course, Gandhi speaks against the railways, the lawyers, the doctors etc, and we, the proponents of this wretched system of parasites, have considered his views as foolish and impracticable; and under the leadership of Nehru, we started to worship him as an icon of non-violence, and have conveniently forgotten the essence of Ghandhism or Ghandhian politics and destroyed the sustainable village economy in the name of progress and development. As a result India that once lived in the villages today kills itself in the villages, neglected by our democracy and devastated by the unholy corporate-bureaucrat-politician nexus.
The greatest factor that made Gandhiji a mass leader or the leader of the peasantry of India was his negation of modernity and everything associated with it—the railways, the lawyers, the doctors, the machinery. Therefore, unlike any other Indian leader, he could talk a language that the illiterate mass could understand. He approached them not to ‘reform’ them, not to tell them that their ways of living and their means of production are inferior to that of the West. He approached them as one among themselves and wanted to tell his people that the western ‘civilisation is such that one has only to be patient and it will be self-destroyed.’
The political economy of Gaandhi’s anti-western and anti-industrial stand originated from the genuine concern of a leader to the welfare of millions and millions of the poor in his country. And this is the factor that enabled Gandhiji to bring the vast majority of the people into the whirlpool of the freedom struggle.
But after independence, there was nobody to give attention to the Gandhian ideal of sustainable village economy that will prohibit the concentration of wealth and power in the cities and in the hands of the bureaucrats and politicians. Jawaharlal Nehru for whom factories and dams symbolized ‘modern temples’ venerated Gandhi the idol and discarded Gandhian political economy and the essence of Gandhism. The form of Gandhi without his inherent antipathy against the industrial civilization was appropriated by the Indian bourgeoisie with the help of Nehru. Nobody realized the revolutionary spirit of Gandhian political economy and its potential to help the farmers and the poor from the clutches of industrial civilization and the corporate world.
India will be developed only when and if the villages are rejuvenated; only when the village economy can thrive escaping the stifling grip of the Free Market world that is controlled by the corporate giants who are helped by those who govern the country whether they are secular or anti-secular. And most importantly, in this age of Climate Change and Global Warming we have to listen to the Mahatma and to shun the industrial civilization that ruins the world, to save the world.
Arundhati Roy who quotes Gandhiji’s sentences (‘God forbid that India ever took to industrialization after the manner of the West. The economic imperialism of a single tiny island kingdom is today keeping the world in chains. If an entire nation of 300 millions took to similar economic exploitation, it would strip the world bare like locusts’) in The Doctor and the Saint: Ambedkar, Ghandhi and the battle against caste, and says: “ As the earth warms up, as glaciers melt and forests disappear, Ghandhi’s words have turned out to be prophetic.”
*** ***
In The Story of my Experiments with Truth, the Mahatma writes: “Bhitiharva was a small village …I happened to visit a smaller village in its vicinity and found some of the women dressed very dirtily. So I told my wife to ask them why they did not wash their clothes. She spoke to them. One of the women took her into her hut and said: ‘Look now, there is no box or cupboard here containing other clothes. The sari I am wearing is the only one I have. How am I to wash it? Tell Mahatmaji to get me another sari, and I shall then promise to bathe and put on clean clothes every day.’ This cottage was not an exception, but a type to be found in many Indian villages. In countless villages in India people live without any furniture, and without a change of clothes, merely with a rag to cover their shame.” (Part V, Chapter XVIII, ‘Penetrating the Villages’)
Today we talk about high-tech cities and bullet trains. We have tried to make India shining. We are going to make India a super-power by 2020. But still we can see millions of people in our country in the condition described by the Father of the Nation nearly a century ago! Nobody is interested to ameliorate their condition, to provide them with the basic necessities or amenities of life. We create nuclear bombs and provide Wi-Fi facility in rains to facilitate the needs of the elites at the cost of the poor and the needy, devastating the Environment which provides them at least their livelihood.
Former PM Manmohan Singh, in his opening remarks at the interaction with newspaper editors on June 29, 2011 said that ‘if you look at the list of top 100 firms today, you will find a sea change in that list. New entrepreneurs have come into the list. These are some of the gains of liberalization which we must cherish, nurse and develop….we must do all that we can to revive the animal spirits of our businesses.’
To ‘revive the animal spirits of our businesses’, the governments crush the human spirit and dignity of the vast majority of the poor and the farmers. Millions of farmers killed themselves while Mr. Singh and his team were ‘looking at the list of top 100 firms to find a sea change’! Instead of trying to make a sea change in the lives of the poor in our country, the UPA-I and II were busy in looking after the affairs of the corporate business by cherishing, nursing and developing the corporate interests.
And the new Prime Minister and his team haven’t hitherto showed any inclination to shun the corporate servile policies the Indian State has been following ever since such policies have been introduced by Mr. Singh in 1991.
In this economic and political scenario, the Mahatma and his sustainable views on politics and economy are highly relevant to India because it was he who said that ‘a semi-starved nation can have neither religion, nor art nor organization’. Gandhi is the only politician who said that ‘whatever can be useful to starving millions is beautiful to my mind…I want art and literature that can speak to millions.’
And let me quote a few sentences from Khwaja Ahmad Abbas’ autobiography I am not an Island: An Experiment in Autobiography, to see why Gandhi is really a Mahatma. When in October 1948, Pakistani raiders attacked Kashmir, Abbas met Nehru and gained his permission to go to Kashmir. Nehru directed him to Rafi Ahmad Kidwai and while they were discussing, ‘a frail handsome woman of about forty entered the room and Rafi Saheb got up from his seat to give respect to her. “Bhabi,” Rafi Saheb said after she had sat down, “what is it that you want?” She replied that she needed at least four sacks of ata for the refugees….I asked my old friend Ansar about the mysterious lady, and he said, “There is no mystery, she is Anees Apa, sister-in-law of Rafi Saheb. Her husband was killed in the communal riots and the widow went to Gandhiji to seek some solace. He told her to serve the refugees.”’
“Muslim refugees who are in the Red Fort?”
“No. Hindu refugees. The Mahatma said serving Hindu and Sikh refugees from Pakistan would give her real solace, even as he asked a Hindu lady whose husband had been killed by fanatical Muslims to serve the Muslim refugees!”
“That was the Mahatma all over,” says Abbas. “He had his own method to heal the wounds of the spirit and the soul!”
India today direly needs a leader, who does have his own method to heal the wounds of the spirit and the soul; the wounds made by the corporate plunder helped by our own rulers, sectarian politics and religious intolerance.
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.
THE GIRL IN THE RED
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The old man fell and touched the street first, followed by the boy. It's not that they had fallen from the same building, but somehow it happened almost at the same time, within a few seconds of each other.
And the girl? The dazzling, one-in-a-million beauty, who had caused this, walked on, oblivious to the noise, the shouts of the passersby and the cacophony caused by the small crowd which gathered around the two bodies lying on the road. There was a spring in her gait, the earphone glued firmly to her ears. The world is basically made of two kinds of people, those who walk on, and those who fall on the wayside chasing those who walk on.
The old man was desperately struggling to get up. The young boy seemed to have suffered some injury, his fall having been cushioned by a heap of sand on the street. He was lying dazed, but he would survive. The old man would escape with some bruises.
It was a cloudy, windy morning of a lazy September Sunday, when only those who had some serious business with life would leave the comfort of the bed. The old man was taking his morning walk on the roof of his single storeyed house, which he did every morning of the year.
The boy had got up early, before his parents and his younger brother did so, ostensibly to catch up with his studies. But the real purpose was to go to the balcony of their second floor apartment and wait for the girl in the red dress. She went to the church down the road every Sunday morning around eight thirty and she would always be dressed in red. The red colour sat well on her, she looked gorgeous in that. And the boy never missed her on a Sunday morning. The rare Sunday when he was out of town with his parents, exactly at eight thirty he would withdraw to some quiet place, close his eyes and walk the distance with her, right up to the church, her red dress leading him like a beacon light.
The boy knows the prints, the designs and the texture of each of her red colour dresses. He even knows when she wears a new one, because he would not have seen it earlier on her. She loves music, walks straight in her tall, lissome frame, without looking at anything around her. How he wishes, she would look up once, to see him standing in the balcony, looking longingly at her. Only if she could read the love in his eyes! His intense, unflinching love! He spends the whole week thinking of her, nothing but her. In his flight of fancy he comes down to the gate of the apartment complex, stands waiting for her and accompanies her all the way to the church, talking to her, pouring his heart out to her. But in reality, all that he can do is to stand in the balcony and watch her. By the time she returns from the church, his parents would be up and he has to sit at the study table, pretending to study, but his mind would be following the giri, her lean frame wrapped in various hues of red.
The old man finally managed to get up and started limping back to his single storeyed modest house. He regretted his habit of looking down to the street while taking a walk on his roof. A couple of times he had come very close to tumbling over his short parapet wall onto the street, but he had never mended his ways. His eyes are irresistibly drawn towards the people passing by, the cars, the two wheelers fighting for space with cycle rickshaws. His lonely life is filled up with a purpose, imagining the life of everyone who passes on the street below - the fruit seller, the vegetable vendor, the absent minded tailor, young sweethearts, old couples - he loves to weave a tale on these characters. Every time he comes close to the parapet above the street, he looks down, often stopping for a minute, observing people and events, and then moving on, thinking, imagining things about them.
This morning the old man had seen the girl from a distance, walking, listening to music and struggling to hold down her dress against the unruly wind. She was wearing a short red gown which was tight at the top but loose below the waist. The old man chuckled as the girl drew near, what would happen if the dress gets blown upwards? What a shame! Don't mothers teach their young daughters what to wear on a windy day? And lo and behold, as if the dress somehow could read his mind it got blown upward and before the girl could arrange her dress the old man shouted at her to take care lest she expose her semi naked charm to the world. In doing so he leaned a little extra on the parapet and tumbled over, falling on the street. The girl had walked past the place of his fall. She heard nothing and saw nothing, thanks to the loud music in her earphone. She just moved on, oblivious to the fate of the old man.
At the precise moment the old man was wondering whether the mother of the girl taught her how to dress decently, the boy was leaning on his balcony to get a closer look at the girl. And the enticing prospect of the red dress likely to be blown upward by the wind was too much for the adolescent mind. At the moment the old man leaned forward to warn her, the boy leaned on the railings of the balcony to have a better look and tumbled over.
Bodies were raining on the street, but the girl heard nothing, saw nothing. The loud music had shut all the other noises, but her mind was elsewhere. She was seeing nothing except the incredibly handsome face of a young man. This is the face that had pervaded her sense, creating sweet, mild ripples in her mind in all her waking moments. And in her dreams. Ah, if only those dreams could be real!
The aching in her heart made her delirious, causing a new spring to her steps. Today was going to be the day she would open up her heart and plead with him to stop tormenting her. A young heart of seventeen years can bear only so much torment, beyond this it would break into a thousand pieces! Ah, the pangs of unfulfilled desire! The sting of unrequited love! Can anything be more melancholic than this?
Today would be the end of it. The young man at the piano when the choir is played, can no longer be oblivious to her love from today. For the past three years she had stared at him with unblinking eyes while singing in the choir. She saw nothing else, yet he seemed to be looking at everyone but her! His bright eyes twinkling with joy would sweep the audience, and rest at the group of boys and girls singing the choir. Her heart would skip a bit when his glance rests on the group. She has faltered a few times, only to be nudged by the girl standing next to her. But he keeps playing the piano, without knowing how he melts her heart, her being with that fleeting glance. But today, after the choir is over, she will walk over to him and pour out all those sweet words she has practiced for so long - a year? Two years? May be ever since her young heart felt those little stabs of longing looking at him.
She entered the church and went to the place where her group used to stand and wait. She stole a glance at the piano. He was not there. She quickly looked for him among the gathering inside the church and at the usual place where his mother would sit and watch her son with a glow of pride. She was absent. Her heart skipped a bit. Is he sick? Oh Jesus, not today, not when she has made up her mind to speak to him after all these months of painful wait!
The Father walked in, accompanied by a young man. He introduced him, the new Piano player. Our dear sister Philomina and her son would not come to the church any more, she having been transferred in her bank job to a far away town which happens to be their home town. They had to leave suddenly as dear Philomina's mother had taken ill. Our dear sister has prayed for every one in the congregation. May Jesus bless her and her sweet dear son who, as everyone knows, is an excellent piano player. We will miss them, but they will live in our hearts.
The girl gasped and blushed when a few eyes turned to stare at her. Yes, the young man will live in her heart, forever! How could God be so cruel! Of all the days, today He decided to take her love away from her! She couldn't concentrate on the songs, the music or the words. Her heart had shattered and she was in no mood to pick up the broken pieces.
The service ended for her in a daze. She packed her bag and came out of the church. She looked at the vacant place where Philomina, the mother, would park her scooty and he would come running, his long hair swinging and smile sweetly at his mother before they would turn and disappear down the street. Did he ever know how she would stand under the Gulmohar tree and look at them, hoping, once, just once, he would turn and look at her. Their eyes would meet and exchange a thousand words of sweet nothing, to be treasured for a week, till they meet again.
Her reverie was broken by someone standing by her side and touching her hand. She looked at the small boy, who smiled at her, handed her a letter and ran away. A letter! Who has written a letter to her! Is it he, did he know? She opened it and started reading it, tears blurring her eyes,
"Sorry I have to leave. And sorry again, couldn't take leave from you. I am not taking anything away from you, because I gave nothing to you. I could not give you my heart, because it is already given to someone. She is my childhood friend, a distant cousin, who is waiting in my hometown where we are returning after four years. Sorry to break your heart. My mom says the world is full of broken hearts, some hearts break for love, some for money and yet others for a touch of compassion. But she says hearts also mend over time. I am sure you will get over me. You and your charming red dresses will continue to mesmerise anyone who looks at you. And one day a Prince Charming will come in a white horse, sweep you off your feet and you will soar to the sky. The clouds will smile at you and the winds will sing the songs of love. Till then my best wishes. May Jesus be with you at every step of your life."
The girl looked around and found the small boy who had handed over the letter to her, in a group, chatting with friends. She went near him and called him. She had only one question for him. "How did you know the letter was for me?" The little boy smiled, "Tushar Bhai had told me it was to be given to the girl in the red".
(Dear Reader, four days back I was taking a walk on the roof of my house. Leaning over the parapet wall I saw a young girl walking on the street below talking loudly on the phone. She seemed to have no care in the world and gave the impression she owned the world. Suddenly it occurred to me what happens if I tumble over the small parapet wall and fall unto the street! It looked like an interesting idea for a story and I sat down to write one. I had no plot in my mind, no storyline. As I kept writing the story evolved and took different twists and turns. I am sure from the opening line “The old man tumbled over the parapet wall and fell onto the street” ten different stories can be told. I will be happy if some of you develop a story like that and send to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com I will be happy to publish them in LiteraryVibes. Happy Dussehra! Mrutyunjay Sarangi)
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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