Literary Vibes - Edition XXXVII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Thirty seventh edition of LiteraryVibes. Hopping from one festival to another - from Dussehra to Sharad Purnima to Deepavali - is a sheer joy. Hope the wonderful poems, stories, personal anecdotes and the beautiful lone travelogue in LVXXXVII will add fizz to your abundant enjoyment.
We are indeed lucky to welcome as many as five new members to the family of LiteraryVibes this week. Ms. Betty Kuriyan from Kochi is a retired Professor of English who stayed on to teach even after retirement, for her sheer love of literature. She has written extensively for Women's Era, Femina and other popular magazines. Ms. Sangeeta Gupta from Delhi, a star of the recently concluded World Congress of Poets, is a highly acclaimed artist, writer and a poet. Major General Ramesh Chandra Padhi, the retired Additional Surveyor General of India is an expert raconteur of interesting tales, mostly based on his wide and varied personal experience. Ms. Rohini Divakar, a Commisisoner of Income Tax from Chennai, is a brilliant and passionate crusader for social causes and environmental issues. She is a regular contributor to the Mindspace column of the New Indian Express. Dr. S. Barathi, an Assistant Professor of English Literarture at the Sastra University in TamilNadu, is an accomplished poet and writer, whose poem at the World Congress of Poets dazzled the audience. All these brilliant literary persons will undoubtedly adorn the pages of our E-magazine in future. We wish them the best of success in their literary efforts.
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Wish you a happy reading of LiteraryVibes. Looking forward to your feedback.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE HOUDINI
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Harried,
I scan around:
his words hold hands,
the phrases,
hyphenated or free,
stack themselves
with adages
on cushions of claps.
Metaphors,
clumsy yet earthy,
vie with
the man’s mud-caked shoes,
stick-umbrella,
Gandhi-cap, askew,
and his tongue
thick with rustic lichen.
His aplomb balances
on his ramshackle visage;
a tractor his dais,
voice rises stentorian
on a handheld megaphone;
thousands of soiled hands
applaud him
to the helm of their faith.
He stands alone;
the peasant rally
mills around
like an undercurrent tsunami
before it strikes;
but it exudes
an ingrained innocence,
a defencelessness.
Will he lead them
to Red Square or Golgotha,
invoke a typhoon
to get them sucked in,
or disappoint them
to return to their shovels,
and wait
for a bumper harvest?
(In honour of agro-activists like Mahendra Singh Tikait, 1935-2011)
FEAR IS THE KEY
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Scaring all in apprehension
that the sky may fall, he drives them
beneath the non-existent ‘Govardhan’*,
the smoke-screen, they squirm
under it in helpless fear.
A philosophy takes root.
Tools borrowed from Hitler,
ideas from Mussolini, and cruelty
from Hirohito; are sharpened
on whetstone of human hide,
tempered by sabre-rattling,
tested by hands of lynch-mob.
“Maa’ Bharati, are you afraid too?
Why your serene face
looks drained of blood,
nose crinkles in horror?
Why does your high-flag flutter
in tatters, sob a mournful dirge?”
“And you father Himalayas,
what’s your bane? Are they
your tears, or blood sap,
separated from the corpuscles
in coagulating fear; your streams
gone filthy gooey nasal drains?”
Sand banks, forests, hills
are devoured, pulverized
by machine-mafia. “O’ monsoon,
what fear has turned you
into an intemperate tyrant, putting
Maa-Dharti under chest-deep water?”
FEAR, manufactured as AK-47,
bred as gods in shrines, marked ‘red’
on food packets, hides in skull-caps or beads;
stalks us in streets as the holy cow,
in theaters’ Anthem, mobs’ Jai-Shriram.
In bed it dampens love as love-jihad.
Cattle roams fearless, not humans;
umbrellas turn down-side up,
in fear’s whirlwind, rivers
break banks to run amok,
the nervous sea runs ashore
to seek refuge in humble homes.
Foonote – ‘Govardhan’ refers to Giri Govardhan of Lord Krishna fame.
THE MYSTERY MAN IN CHILDREN’S CLASS –
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
It happened in a school around 1947. The recess period given to children to have their afternoon snacks, games, and relaxation for an hour was over. The bell rang. The laughing and relaxed children from playground made beelines for their classrooms. In class three, the sociology teacher was expected to take her entry. Instead entered, a frail old man draped in an ensemble of short handspun dhoti tied at the waist, and another short length of white rough-knit cotton sheet thrown over shoulders. He wore a teasing smile as if the world around him was a great pleasant joke.
The children thought him to be their new sociology teacher. They instantly liked this quaint pleasant looking old man of their grand parents’ age as the replacement for their stern non-smiling teacher ‘miss’ who taught them the correct manners and social behavior. What they most liked were his slightly side-projecting elfin ear lobes, often imperceptibly twitching.
Now the old man did a little trick with his eyes. He looked at them as if in great amused concentration, pushing together his two black irises to the corners of eyes by his nose-bridge. It gave him a comical squint. The children broke into a laugh and he joined their laugh showing his white teeth, but the front four, two above and two below, missing. He looked funnier when the tip of his pink tongue protruded a bit through that gap. That gave the children a second round of laughter. The old man sat down on the teacher’s chair behind the tiny table and said in a halting tone, “My dear children, this is your sociology lesson from me; be happy together, laugh together. This is the right social behavior.” The children loved the idea. They loved this cute old teacher.
Now he asked the famous bully of the class to come to the front, (children and the bully himself was flummoxed how he spotted him) and patted his back and said, “This nice boy will be your leader and guide you to be nice playful children. Instead of harassing you, from today he will be your friend, guide and protector against harassments. See, he is strong as well to protect you like a big brother.” He asked the erstwhile bully to face the children, and to tease all by making faces at them and putting out his tongue. It was a thing close to the bully’s heart; he was very good at it; so, his tension of being chosen as class leader by the stranger vanished. But in his confusion he lost his spontaneity and couldn’t do it with his usual gusto. Children didn’t break into the expected happy titters. The bully looked crestfallen. The old man smiled, patted him, asked him to take his seat and announced, “I will teach you, children, how to make the funny faces and do the perfect teasing to entertain your friends. But remember; tease to please, not to bully. This is your second lesson to be good children.” He taught the children how to make funny faces, and how to tease by putting out a tongue in the most comical fashion. The children laughed all the way while watching and learning various innocent tricks of making faces. Then he grew a bit serious and said, “But I will tell you a secret. Do these among yourselves and during play-time only, never tease seniors and teachers, and never during study time here or at home, never secretly for God is even in all secret places. Will you now give me your words which would be my guru-dahshina.” The children roared in agreement, “Yes teacher.”
The new teacher taught the children many naughty things, but all innocent, and he asked a promise at every turn for not doing it on unwilling friends or strangers. All along during that joke-session they learnt a wide range of correct social behavior in between jokes and fun. By the time the bell rang signaling the end of 45 minutes sociology period, the new teacher and the little brats were great friends. They had learnt many life-long lessons to be good social beings. The lessons seemed to be indelibly imprinted on their clean slate minds.
Then, the old man announced, “Children, in fact I am not your new teacher. I was just a proxy for her as she was otherwise busy. Let’s meet again.” He walked out with his open beatific smile at children, ruffling the hairs of little girls and boys of the front row, but breaking the little hearts of the entire class. All along the regular sociology teacher along with the headmistress of the school were watching the old man and listening to his lessons standing behind a side window without the children’s or the old man’s knowledge. Both were now silently crying, and were promising themselves in their minds to be sociable with the little ones first, and then only teach them lessons on sociology.
Two things were bothering the sociology teacher. Why did the man’s voice and face seem familiar though she couldn’t exactly place him? Why did the headmistress hold her back on pretext of having some work with her, and send this mystery man to her sociology class as her proxy; but why did she just five minutes later tell her, “Now let’s go and watch this man from wings secretly, and check if he teaches alright”?
Perhaps neither the lady teacher nor the little kids would ever know that Bapu himself, the great father of the nation Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi visited them, and taught the children the basics of sociology in a child-friendly way adopted by ancient Vishnu Sharma in his Panchatantra stories, or in the style of the western children-story writer Enid Blyton of the recent times. It was, in fact, prearranged that Bapu would meet the children incognito, and the only person privy to the real identity of the mystery man was the headmistress of the school. Those days, being the days without TV or internet, Bupu’s voice was familiar from the radio transmission, his face a rare sight unless one reads a newspaper regularly or attends his public meetings in his fight for freedom.
Footnote: Written as a tribute and an offering of love to our beloved Bapu on his 150th birthday, 2nd October, 2019. The events narrated might not be exactly true but almost.
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
KHAJURAHO
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
A Yaksha couple carved
on Khajurah temple
in eternal coitus,
remains oblivious –
of the life’s grim realities,
as obvious
as a loudly trotting horseman
around them,
of the hot sun
baking the barefoot
of earthlings
along their blistering roads,
of the flaming fires, or
the barren Sybil-like Yakshini
who lets the seeds
spill away.
In its unabated copulation,
if the Yaksha couple
spills seeds in air,
how would a future take roots?
JESUS CHRIST (YISHUKRISTA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Where are you, little one?
I can sense your presence
when the wind rustles
along our bereft verandah.
Be happy, my child,
wherever you are.
Let my conscience,
that moved heaven and earth
to recover from you the cost
of few drops of blood,
bear the burden of its cross
a while more.
I dream of the day
I may pass the litmus test
to stand neck to neck
with your moral benchmarks.
I know,
you would be the chosen one
for the Lord’s blessings,
the holy Shroud,
even if the history lays Him
differently in His immortal coffin.
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)”
ROCKS (PAASHAANA)
ARUPANAND PANIGRAHI
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The river sighs on her parching bed,
has stopped strumming her songs
on murmuring ripples and reeds.
Isn’t it time darling, we stop
romancing on the bank; stop flinging
little stones into a dry stream.
Shouldn’t we go down to check
what do the rocks, small and big,
lying on the dry bed in huddled heaps,
talk about? So far, not a word,
no friction, nor one rubbing others
the wrong way has ever been heard;
perhaps, the water had muffled it.
See, the rock-and-roll by the current
has rubbed them off their rocky features –
they lie around like frozen teardrops,
but without ears, eyes, or noses to sense;
‘rolling stones gathering no moss’.
How do the smooth featureless rocks
pass time on a dry bed; sitting
cheek by jowl without a whisper?
Darling, let’s select a big stone
to sit on, spread our legs onto
a smaller one, and listen to rock-music;
rejoice as them sprawling about,
the little pebbles and big stones,
our rocky progeny, our rocky future.
How would it feel, if I scrape and dig
your name in my love’s paroxysm
with my stony chisel on your rocky slate?
Would it spark a fire, the harbinger
of a succulent time, and illuminate
the blind rocky alley of an arid future?
Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)
FIDÈLE
Geetha Nair G
Your faithful pet
Buried it deep
To grovel at your feet
For that piece of meat
You dangled above.
She is digging now
All paws and earth
Flinging up wide
Why when and how
To find what she hid
Yet prized so much-
Her pride.
MISTS
Geetha Nair G
The morning mist had left droplets of water on the stones...or were they tears? These days I don't know. I can't make out the difference. Madan was standing, staring straight ahead. Looking through me. We don't speak anymore. But I could hear the noise of his thoughts.
Today he was dressed in a blue silk kurta and a fine dhoti.
Even years back, in college, he had been out of place because of the kind of clothes he wore . But, of course, it was the Norton motorbike he rode that made him unique. All the boys envied him this. Also his carefree life. He came from Money with a capital "M" and had no reservations about spending it. Madan was the happy-go-lucky, generous young man that everyone wanted to be close to. Especially the girls. When he chose me, the campus sky was shot with streaks of bilious green and fiery red. Sonia ! Quiet, holy, studious Sonia and Madan? No! It was difficult to visualise or to accept.
Perhaps, I was the one the most surprised by it.
I sing well. My father was the Sexton of our church. I had grown up on choir and congregational music in a family of singers and it was only natural that I should sing.
For the Christmas celebrations in college that year, there had been a carol singing competition. My mother had helped me drape an old white sari of hers. She had brushed my long, wavy hair, left it loose and pinned a white rose from our humble garden below my right ear. When I protested, she kissed me and said I looked lovely. I hugged her in turn. The mirror told me that I did look special.
I sang that loveliest of carols, "O Holy Night" to much applause. After I had climbed down from the stage, and was making my way to the back of the auditorium, I found Madan blocking my way. He looked down at me from his height and said, intently, "Your singing was beautiful. Like you. You look like an angel."
That had been the start of an unlikely romance. To me, romance was the path to matrimony. I held out for long. I come from a family that could feed and clothe itself adequately but found all other expenses a struggle. Sextons don't get paid all that much. More importantly, my religion was very important to me. Madan was an upper class Hindu from a conservative home. How could we make a match of it ?
I told him this when he started getting importunate. He brushed it all aside. His passion was a juggernaut; what chance did a kitten have in its way ?
A year. Such a year of dreams and dalliances, whispers and kisses, letters and longings !
Our course and exams were over.Madan had planned it all.
He would persuade his parents. If that didn't work, we would elope, get married and stay at the house of a good friend of his till things turned in our favour. As they would. He seemed positive his parents would come around in time.
We had parted on a Friday. I was to meet him at 12, midnight two days later at the junction very close to my home. "Bring yourself, only yourself," he told me , ruffling my hair.
" My certificates too," I countered, smiling. He smiled back at that. "Practical dreamer," he murmured.
That Sunday, my last Sunday at home, I attended the morning service. As our congregated voice rose to the lovely, high ceiling, tears filled my eyes. I bid silent farewells to the rose window with the dove in it and all the other beloved nooks and crannies of my church. My
church. Never again would it be mine. I was a rash swimmer, leaping from safe land into vast unknown waters. Throughout, a voice inside me kept murmuring: "This is goodbye, this is goodbye."
I waited awhile after the service to help my father back to our house. Though it was within the church compound, he needed a little assistance to walk even that distance.
"My dear," he said, "I am so glad you are here with us. I don't know when Roy will come back, if ever." Roy, my only brother, had gone job-hunting in Bangalore a year back. I shrivelled inside.
The lecturer who had taught us the Greek tragedy, "Antigone", had dwelt at length on the most challenging conflict in a human mind- that between two "rights", two "goods". His words came back, resounding in my ears.Here I was, tossed on the horns of one such conflict. On one hand, a life with my beloved which would sear my parents and cut me for ever from my roots. On the other, a life in harmony with my parents' wishes and choice which would sever me for ever from my beloved. Which one should I choose?
"Sweet Jesus, help me!" I pleaded silently.
That evening my father said he felt dizzy.
My mother and I wanted to take him to the old doctor who stayed a few houses away, along the main road. But my father was adamant; he declared he would be fine after a night's sleep.
As night fell, my decision was made. I put back my academic certificates I had transferred to a thin file earlier. I lay awake, tormented but determined. No, I would not take the drastic step. I wept. I imagined my Madan waiting at the junction for his Sonia who would never turn up... .
My mother's cries of alarm broke into my pained reverie. I rushed into their room. My father was unconscious. I called the doctor's number. There was no response; after all , it was almost midnight.
I rushed out of the house and went running along the main road towards the doctor's house... .
That was the past... .
And here was Madan now, moving away after a last look at the white roses he had placed on my tomb. He disappeared from my sight. I was powerless to follow him… .
Madan walked slowly along the path leading from the cemetery. Desolation filled him as it always did when he paid this annual visit. Does time really heal, he wondered ? He could never forget Sonia. He could never forgive himself for not having been at the junction that night as he had promised her. She had kept her word. She had come to meet him. But some drunken driver had knocked her down and sped away. Sonia had bled to death on the road. Had he been on the spot as promised, he might have been able to rush her to a hospital and perhaps save her life.
But he had been far away, in his home. His father had been very brief and uncompromising when he tremblingly broached the matter - if he married Sonia, he would have to leave home. He would be cut out of his father's will. If Madan was ready to leave behind all he was accustomed to and to strike out on his own, he was welcome to do so. There was no other option.
Madan had been torn in two. He knew his father very well. A dilemma indeed. Finally, he made his decision. His father was not surprised. He too knew his son very well… .
Madan passed the low cottage that was the Sexton's house. They still stayed there, her aged parents; their son had taken over as the Sexton.
He had never dared to visit them.
The windshield was misted. Madan got into his car, switched on the wipers and drove slowly away. The mists gathered again.
Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English, settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems, "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com
OF GIVING AND RECEIVING
Sreekumar K
After the Durga Puja, I was looking through the gifts we got and feeling bad that there were so many. I could not say no to any of my students and accepted everything they had brought. I thought of giving over to the neighbours some of it but then I wondered whether one should do so. Wouldn’t it be dishonouring those who gave them? And then, how would I select whose I should give away.
The student smiled at me and said, “Presents endear absence, or so we are told. It sounds strange until we see it in writing or print. It is 'presents' and not presence. People do send presents when they themselves can’t be present. Sometimes such people are valued only for their presents and not for their presence. So their absence is kind of appreciated! And if they have sent a present in lieu of their absence, it is all the more welcome.”
I thought he had a point. Special days like festivals are a great time for presents. Even before Christmas was commercialized, children used to wait for the white-bearded man in red colour dress who rode a sled drawn by reindeer and dropped down into the drawing-room through the chimney to leave gifts for the young ones. It was always the dear old Santa who got thanked for what the parents had done. To borrow a phrase from Robert Owen it is ‘an eternal reciprocation’. When these children grow up they do it to (and for) their children.
O’ Henry wrote a beautiful story about Christmas gifts and immortalized a couple called Della and Jim in The Gift of the Magi. You will have tears in your eyes by the time you finish reading it. About Della and Jim who ‘unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house’, the author says “Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest…They are the Magi.”
Magi (singular Magus) were three wise men who went to see Baby Jesus in the manger. In those days the scholars who could do ‘things that others couldn’t’ were called magi. Today some of them are called scientists and the others are called magicians (magi – magic – magicians). John Hwandike wrote a beautiful novel called ‘The Fourth Magus Who Went to Jerusalem’ about a fourth magus who couldn’t make it to Jerusalem as he had to spend his money and his gifts for the poor on his way to Jerusalem to see the baby. Wasn’t he the one who really saw Him?
O’ Henry suggests that it would have been these wise men who invented the art of giving presents. 'Present' is an interesting word. It comes from the Sanskrit word sat meaning truth. In Old English it became ‘sooth’. Adding pre- (before) to a similar Swedish word, sand (truth), we got 'presand' which became present (that which is truly before you).
All these thoughts rushed through my mind. He smiled at me and continued, “It is said that we must try to enjoy every second of our present time as if it is a gift. It is a present, a gift! When we say gifted children or a gifted musician, we mean that they got their talents as a gift from God; again presents. He Himself may be hidden but His gifts aren’t. In fact, the whole world is His gift for us. His presence and His presents are equally dear to us. And the truth of the matter is that there is no him and us, only Him or Us. So, when you give, you are actually receiving.”
I raised my face and looked at him. He was not there. Only I was there. From the streets, the festival flowed into my room as light and sound, as dance and songs. The moonlight too streamed in through the window. A mild rain shyly dropped from the clear sky. And a chill ran down my spine giving me goose bumps.
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.
CUPID’S BOWS
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya
When my friend asked:
How many parts of Anatomy
can you see in this picture?
I was spellbound.
Counting adds numbers
to your days;
be they dull or arid.
Knowing more and more
expands your vista;
leaving you parched,
leaving you chasing
the oasis.
Whilst youth is slowly
ebbing away,
why fritter the remaining
few days,
counting body parts,
instead of enjoying them?
Like Arjun, the ace archer,
don’t lose focus
of your goal,
on trivialities:
Just set your sight
on the eyes of the fish.
My friend repeats the question:
How many body parts
do you see in the picture?
With no hesitation,
I blurted:
I see only the beautiful lips!
Acknowledgement: This poem truly owes origin its origin to this image posted with this question by my friend, Dr Baishnab Nayak. “Cupid’s Bows” was the response from another friend of ours, Dr Bibhuti Mahapatra, which I have gratefully borrowed for the title to this poem.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
BOARDING FLIGHT
Dilip Mohapatra
You have just managed to
suffer and emerge unhurt
from two serpentine queues
at the check in
and at the security check point
and after a heated argument
with the security guy
over a packet of hot pickle
that could have been
a security risk on board
and which you had to discard.
You wipe off the sweat
of your brows and drag
your cabin bag with
worn out wheels
creaking in protest
and finally
find a seat in a corner
of the waiting area
which you got after convincing
the guy on the next seat
to remove his polythene
shopping bag bursting at the seams !
As you wait for the boarding
announcement and keep
looking at the flight status board
before you,
you suddenly discover that
the gate has been changed
that is two floors below
at the ground level.
You collect your bags and rush
to the escalator
and a brunette in a tearing hurry
bumps on you and brushes past
and before you are
captivated by her callypigian charms
she descends down fast
ahead of you
and then you realise that she leaves
behind the blazing trail of
Chanel number five and
her lipstick smear like a
red comet's fading tail
on your white shirt sleeve inadvertently
and that throbs
and ticks like a live time bomb.
You have no time to think
about its consequence at home
since the new gate is now open
and boarding has commenced.
You pass through the gate and
board the bus without much effort
for the Venturi effect at the entrance helps
and you find yourself suddenly sucked
into a pool of people hanging on to
the supports dangling from the roof
like the carcasses in an abattoir
and you quickly grab one
to claim ownership and heave
a sigh of relief.
The aircraft barely few meters away
beckons you
but the bus goes zig zag and
round the parking bay
while you swing back and forth
and side to side
a strange aroma mixed
with expensive perfumes
and a cocktail of body odours
assails your nasal fossa
and the bus finally comes to a halt.
But the automated doors are yet to open
since the ground crew are yet to alight
and the wheel chair passengers are
yet to deplane.
A co-passenger who prefers to
carry his closed umbrella
under his armpit
and that is parallel to the ground
inches forward from the rear
to the door and as you bend
backwards to make room for
him the door whooshes open.
You board the aircraft
and somehow find a place
for your bag way behind your seat
and squeeze yourself between the armrests
and listen to the much rehearsed
safety instructions
delivered without any emotion
or passion.
You wait and wait
and the clock ticks away
much beyond the ETD
and as you wonder whether
it is weather
or for delayed clearance by ATC
due to traffic congestion
comes the announcement
from the cockpit
that the aircraft is grounded
due to an unforeseen technical snag
and you are requested to disembark
and proceed back to the terminal
and wait for
further instructions.
The announcement
ends with the standard
unwavering voice declaring that
the airlines are sorry
for the inconvenience caused
and then they thank you
for your patience and cooperation.
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.
WITH YOU TIME
Sangeeta Gupta
With you Time
dramatizes into diamonds
into pearly moments.
Nay, I do not ‘spend
time’, with you, I weave
it into a poem, a painting.
TIME
Sangeeta Gupta
Time?—time
Is an abstract notion
you can almost do
what you like with it
you can even recreate it
so flexible it
you can make time
timeless— waste it too—
it changes with your each mood
it can be sad,
be cheerful
not it your master
it is your obedient slave, you
can tame it.
a powerful tool—
to you given as gift,
to be used as you wish.
you it is, who it perceives
you who decide its fate.
you who,
it has got to serve.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed artist, poet and film maker also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer,recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. Presently working as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts. She has to her credit 34solo exhibitions , 20 books , 7 books translated , 7 documentary films.
A poet in her own right and an artist, Sangeeta Gupta started her artistic journey with intricate drawings. Her real calling was discovered in her abstracts in oils and acrylics on canvas. Her solo shows with Kumar Gallery launched her love for contour within the abyss of colour; the works seemed to stir both within and without and splash off the canvas.
Her tryst with art is born of her own meditative ruminations in time, the undulating blend of calligraphic and sculptonic entities are realms that she has explored with aplomb. Images in abstraction that harkens the memory of Himalayan journeys and inspirations, the works speak of an artistic sojourn that continues in a mood of ruminations and reflections over the passage of time.
Sangeeta wields the brush with finesse, suggesting the viscosity of ink, the glossiness of lacquer, the mist of heights, the glow of the sun, and the inherent palette of rocks when wet. The canvases bespeak surfaces akin to skin, bark and the earth.
Her first solo exhibition was at the Birla Academy of Art & Culture, Kolkata in 1995. Her 34 solo shows have been held all over India i.e. Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Lucknow, Chandigarh and abroad at London, Berlin, Munich, Lahore, Belfast, Thessolinki. one of her exhibitions was inaugurated by the former President of India; Dr. A.P.J Abdul Kalam in August, 2013. Which was dedicated to Uttarakhand, fund raised through sale proceeds of the paintings is used for creating a Fine Art Education grant for the students of Uttarakhand. She has participated in more than 200 group shows in India & abroad, in national exhibitions of Lalit Kala Akademi All India Fine Arts & Craft Society and in several art camps. Her painting are in the permanent collection of Bharat Bhavan Museum, Bhopal and museums in Belgium and Thessolinki . Her works have been represented in India Art Fairs, New Delhi many times.
She has received 69th annual award for drawing in 1998 and 77th annual award for painting in 2005 by AIFACS, New Delhi and was also conferred Hindprabha award for Indian Women Achievers by Uttar Pradesh Mahila Manch in 1999, Udbhav Shikhar Samman 2012 by Udbhav for her achievements in the field of art and literature and was awarded "Vishwa Hindi Pracheta Alankaran" 2013 by Uttar Pradesh Hindi Saahitya Sammelan & Utkarsh Academy, Kanpur. She was bestowed with Women Achievers Award from Indian Council for UN relations.
She is a bilingual poet and has anthologies of poems in Hindi and English to her credit. Her poems are translated in many languages ie in Bangla, English and German, Dogri, Greek, urdu. Lekhak ka Samay, is a compilation of interviews of eminent women writers. Weaves of Time, Ekam, song of silence are collection of poems in English. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography. Mussavir ka Khayal and Roshani ka safar are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.
She has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films. Her first film “Keshav Malik- A Look Back”, is a reflection on the life of the noted poet & art critic Keshav Malik. He was an Art Critic of Hindustan Times and Times of India. The film features, several eminent painters, poets, scholars and their views on his life. The film was screened in 2012, at Indian Council for Cultural Relations, , Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, Sanskriti Kendra, Anandgram, New Delhi and at kala Ghora Art Festival, Mumbai 2013. Her other documentaries “Keshav Malik – Root, Branch, Bloom” and “Keshav Malik- The Truth of Art” were screened by India International Centre and telecast on national television several times.
Widely travelled, lives and works in Delhi, India.
RENOVATION
Latha Prem Sakhya
The huge house on the outskirts of Chandanathopu had to be renovated. The engineer called his team of workers and made arrangements to start work. They were supposed to stay there during the renovation work. The house was a stately one standing on a rambling cultivated land with all kinds of trees and plants. The day Deepak, the Bengali helper arrived he was asked to stay there for the night and wait for others. The local workers had lots of gruesome tales to share about the house. Deepak who could understand Malayalam listened to all with growing fear. He was not very happy to be left behind for the night as a watcher until the other workers joined him the next day. As night drew nearer he became uneasy. He heard the distant duet of the mottled wood owls which increased his uneasiness. The occasional cries of the evening birds as they flew home, the screech of the barn owls and the gliding bats all added to his discomfort.The sounds were all unfamiliar.
The huge workers' quarters had yet to be cleaned up and arranged to accommodate all the workers. So Deepak was told to sleep in the big house for the night. There were quite a number of rooms in the large house and the interior looked eerie in the dwindling light. He decided to sleep in the large hall which was heavily furnished. He closed his eyes and listened. The house throbbed with a weird life of its own, Deepak felt uneasy.
He ate his supper and took a long swig from his brandy bottle and lay down to sleep early. Something woke him up. Being a small sized man he had curled up on the sofa in the large hall. It was utter darkness. Suddenly he heard a blood curdling howl. He sat up. He could hear sounds outside the door And there was a knock on the door. His body broke into a cold sweat. Two more knocks were repeated. Slowly he moved towards the window and looked out. He could make out a dim figure standing near the door. Terrified he put on the master switch, all the lights came to life. Again he peeped through the window. Yes it was there. He decided to open the door and rid his mind of the fear that was overpowering him. He armed himself with the only pen knife he carried and slowly opened the door.
A huge dog jumped over him Deepak lost consciousness. When he came around a strange man was smiling down at him warmly and a huge mastiff sat by his side. The man helped Deepak to sit up. To his relief, he learnt that he was the previous tenant who had come to take some of his things he had left behind. He was supposed to have reached by evening. But the unforeseen rain and the block on the road had delayed him. Deepak gave a sigh of relief.
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
MILLENNIALS
Ms Rohini D
?“Millennials” is a term used to refer to the cohort of people who were born between 1981 and 2004. These “Millennials” are babies of the Economic Boom. Hence, they have been a witness to the seminal shift in economic & social order that marked the arrival of the new Millennium. The Millennials of India have been eyewitness to the paradigm shift – From socialistic India to the “New order” of the economy. I am one of them. The GDP was a smiling figure now. Per capita Income of people, purchasing power, all went up.
?And I often reflect upon those days when our parents would carry a cloth bag while stepping out. The great invention called “plastic covers” were yet to arrive. The cloth bags were simply improvised out of some left over pieces of clothes.
Those were the days when errands were on foot or cycle. I remember how I ran down to that street-end shop for those quick-fixes or for the last minute requirement of kitchen. The bikes, scooter & cars (then a luxury) were reserved for long distances. Today, a household of reasonable income has 2 -3 bikes, and a middle-higher income household have two cars – may be of different types – a Sedan and an SUV to suit the fancies of different occasion. Air pollution ? who cares?
?Those were the days of Minimalism. Need based. Furniture, Fridge, TV, shoes, bags, all & sundry. Today, choose your mood-matching shoes. Wanna - Match your tie with the color of your eyes? It is all in your wardrobe. Never mind the damn polyurethane in landfills, river, and the ozone.
? Oh yes, how can we forget the smart phones, and their not-so-smart Ancestor- the desktops and laptops. The retirement age of these smart cookies is on an average 1 year. Never mind those e-debris adorning all our street-sides, footpaths, landfills, lakes. Digital world after all!
?Clearly, all is not well! While the new economic system has brought lot of cheers to the world, a thing or two need to be introspected. Can we stop for a second when we want to buy, and think “Do I need it, or am I buying simply because I can own”? Can we stop for a second, just before throwing away, and think “Has its utility being consumed fully or optimally? Before disposing a thing, can we stop and ask “Is this responsible (recyclable) way of disposing?” May be, it is time for reviving some of the “consumption values” of socialistic India. The conservation of our planet may well get out of her hands. It’s a small wonder that June 2019 was the driest month in 100 years.
Ms Rohini D, is an officer of the Indian Revenue Service-2008 Batch and is currently posted as Joint Commissioner of Income Tax in chennai. She holds a post graduate degree in Psychology from the University of Madras and has now begun the doctoral study in the same subject. She has served in various capacities in the Income Tax department. In her stint as Deputy Commissioner (Central ) Bangalore, she was assigned the task of assessing, penalizing and prosecuting the cases of the illegal mining barons of Karnataka and was instrumental in bringing to tax an undisclosed income of about 700 crore in the hands of various mining barons.
She had edited the in-house magazine “Sankalp” of the National Academy of Direct Taxes, Nagpur during her tenure as Officer-trainee in the year 2009. She was one of the 12 invitees from all over India for the ‘Discover- Israel’ programme , sponsored by the Consulate-general of Israel in South India.
She had also represented India at the United Kingdom in the year 2001 as part of a Youth Exchange Programme of the NCC. She represented Karnataka and Goa at the Republic Day parade in New Delhi for two years-1998 and 2001.
She has keen interest in music and is trained in carnatic classical music as also Bharat Natayam. She was in NCC during her school and college days which initiated her into her current passion – shooting. She is a shooter in the category of 10 meter Air Pistol. She is also a keen reader and a prolific writer. She writes in the fortnightly column called Mindspace in The New Indian Express. She is married to Saroj Thakur an IPS Officer of the Tamilnadu Cadre and is blessed with two sons.
FOR ONE LAST TIME
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Neither you asked
Nor did I enquire ,
We kept walking
Till we were tired.
You looked ahead,
I turned back .
Eyes got locked,
Lashes were dropped.
I held my words
While you stared up.
Nevertheless,
we cared ,
Smiled and cried
When required.
Together, we dared
Crossing difficult hurdles
As they appeared
Wiping each other’s tear.
Our hearts were clear
But the lips became drier.
It was the hot summer,
We were enjoying the breeze
Coming from the river .
We were no more misers
In letting out the words
As we had been earlier .
Coming little closer ,
Holding our hands tighter,
We poured our hearts ,
Saying for one last time
How much we love each other ,
Before it was too late
To utter the words
Struggling hard to come ,
Since years.
"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 KISS
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Fall not now, petal
Slumber never alone.
Await me to accompany
Till the toxin smothers me.
Until then, summon back
The day when existence paused
In an intense moment
- Our first kiss -
In the shades of night.
Remember ! Before our kiss
The brook beside dared not gurgle
And warty toad wouldn’t croak.
The pansies and the violets woke up
Sensing a scent more exciting then theirs.
The mangoes in the grove dared not swing
And the sparrows in the nest wouldn’t shuffle.
The owl and the bat abated their eyes
The clouds in the sky dared not move
And the grazing breeze wouldn’t budge.
The moon and stars peeped about
Sensing a bold move during their reign.
The breath for life laboured heavily,
Heart and soul burned red
Sensing an action noble than theirs.
Seconds in time wouldn’t tick
So as to stall the incident
In a vacuum of time.
Thus in the lime light, our shivering lips
We brought together, to form a pause
In the history of time, so old,
As nature in delight froze.
Remember ! after our kiss
The brook which applauded
And the toad who then croaked.
The pansies and the violets whispered
As the doing wafted to them.
The mangoes flushed to ripen
And the sparrows made love.
The owl and the bat gave a secret look
To see if everything was over.
The clouds sulked way
And the breeze blew about.
The moon and the stars stood stoned
That such romance still happened.
The breath continued involuntarily,
Heart and soul calmed themselves
For a moment so prime was over .
Those seconds failed never again
For never alike a moment came
Hitherto in time’s eternity.
Now in this candle light
When my Shivering lip
I pout to yours,
So pale and cold,
Lets this nature cease
Forever, for us alone
In the shades of death.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
IMPRINTS
Sharanya B
What do you search for,
along the spreading veins on leaves?
Your tracing finger reaches a standstill,
The ridges have shrunk to the surface,
This is as far as they can go.
Branched out to weakened trails,
Each one more disconnected, madly intersected;
With a purpose to mislead, or teach a lesson perhaps -
Don't rely upon a path, or many.
They're only skeletons supposed to hold together
one figment of a branched out soul,
And stay, long after it's been detached and decayed,
An imprint of a life once green;
Much like the curvy pattern of your fingerprints -
A twisted maze reciting it's mystery-tale,
Sandy dunes, rippled waves, frozen in time
that speak of only you...
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.
THE TREE WHICH SPREADS LIGHT (2019)
Dr. Aniamma Joseph
See…I may look as waste wood
But is it so?
I’m Mighty…
Trees many are around me
But, tender and young
Don’t you see how I shed my light?
Don’t you see the dome of halo around me?
I stood mesmerized
In the light mixed with red and yellow
I felt like dancing in joy
A thousand hands joined
And danced in the golden light
‘I’m the tree which spreads light around’
‘I’m Mighty!’
“Fool!”
Did I hear a voice?
When the light faded
And the shadows spread
I knew, I was not luminary
I was only a reflection!
I’m only a manifestation
of the divine glory
Which has engulfed me
I’m only a small mirror!
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.
*THE WINDS SMELL OF NIGHT*
Afnan Abdullah
And I'm here again.
Waddling past memories
Hurtful than ever.
The night is dark,
Shades of purple nowhere to be seen.
And I'm standing where we once stood.
Why am I here?
"To take everything that belongs to you."
A voice echoed.
Startled, I looked around.
*The winds smell of green*
Out of the corner of my eye,
I caught a glimpse of a familiar scenery.
The puddle was no more there.
The water dried,
And nothing of life remained.
The earthy fragrance romanced the winds.
My lips confided a smile as
Memories rushed in frame by frame.
Shades of green all around,
Heavenly and mystical.
The flowers dancing to the endless tunes of God's beloved orchestra,
engrossed in His praise.
*The winds smell of dust*
While the puddle looks deserted.
My heart confided a few happy thoughts, as I placed one foot after another towards the place I once used to rush for.
The ground beneath my feet,
hard and dusty.
The winds smell of dust,
And smoke,
And rubble and ruins.
Of heavens burnt to ashes.
The smile on my face,
Never budging.
Leaned down to take a closer look,
A few impressions on the bed.
Footprints.
A pair of smaller ones, neatly parting away.
While, Another. Untraceable after a few steps.
*The winds smell of rain*
The night fell silent,
As it watched me caress the footprints.
The orchestra stopped.
A hushed silence surrounded everything near me, as nature watched in awe and gloom.
As my vision got blurred,
And I felt this weight on my heart melting,
It was as if God couldn't take it anymore,
Few drops of drizzle tapped my arm.
Another one caressed my forehead and grazed my cheeks to my chin.
The drizzling turned into rain.
As I kept looking towards the skies,
With my eyes closed.
Every drop of rain falling on my face, taking a few drops of tears with it.
Sitting still in the rain, with my knees on the ground, I murmured a few prayers.
*The winds smell of soil*
As my eyes felt void of tears
And my vision became clear,
I glanced towards the ground and witnessed the footprints soaked.
I looked towards the sky and
A smile took over my face.
My heart easing up,
My veins relaxing and my mind,
As light as if floating.
Nature came to life around me,
The orchestra began again.
Slowly and carefully, so as to not hinder me in my thought.
The flowers began their dance,
Revolving and swaying,
Chanting God's praise in one breath!
Until the smoke and the dust and the rubble and the ruins were no more to be seen.
*The winds smell of dawn*
"It's time."
The voice came back.
This time with a hint of affection.
I smiled again and glanced around me.
The orchestra slowed down,
It was as if nature watched me from a distance, smiling and laughing, with a few tears lined up in her eyes,
While the flowers kept to their own.
I placed my hands on the ground,
Feeling moist soil slip through my fingers,
And swept them to one side and then the other.
Until the footprint was gone.
One after the other, the footprints vanished under my palms, as the winds smelled of soil.
At some distance, the call to prayer was heard as I, wiping my hands on my pants, walked away.
Afnan Abdullah is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. He completed his schooling from Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi. A person of varied interests Afnan likes football, medicine and Urdu poetry and literature in general.
AN EAST EUROPEAN DIARY - PART 4
Kumud Raj
Budapest! This is a fairy tale city. Remember all those illustrations in fairy tales? Well, they have their origin here. Absolutely exquisite!
We go on a bus tour and see a few of the city’s landmarks. Two cities on either side of the River Danube – Buda and Pest. Buda is the old city with the citadel and the beautiful church. The palace of the Hapsburgs is beautiful – am running out of adjectives!
We have dinner at Spinoza, with deep bright red walls and a man at the piano who plays the Blue Danube, Mary Poppins, My fair Lady and sundry classical pieces. I’mn not really enjoying the dinners – always meat in some form with plenty of potatoes! The soups are always very good and the breakfasts are always excellent.
The next day is a free day in Budapest where we are left to our own devices. We plan to go on a Hop-on Hop-off tour which includes a cruise on the Danube.
The palace of the Hapsburgs in Budapest.
Many of the buildings in the city are gilded as you can see from this one.
This is a statue of Bishop Gellert who brought Christianity to Buda about 800 years ago. He was put into a barrel studded with nails on the inside and rolled down this very hill by local folk who saw no merit in his religion!
Parliament House seen from the river
The cruise reminds me of the one in Thailand, with the modern city on one bank and the old palaces and churches on the other.
We go for a walk in the evening. I visit a flea market with antiques – very interesting but a lot of junk too! We find a Turkish restaurant next to our hotel and decide to try it out.
WE are now on our way to Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, en route to Vienna. It is a beautiful little city. We go on a trolley to the top of the hill where the palace stands.
There is a lovely view from the palace grounds of the Danube and the city across the river. We see all the famous landmarks of the city. That’s Sara, our tour guide, and the trolley we travel on.
Vienna – such a grand beautiful city – all that I expect it to be!
The marvel of this bronze statue is that the entire weight of the sculpture rests on the two rear hooves. There is only one other statue in the world like this and that is of Simon Bolivar and it’s in Bolivia! The city is full of stately beautiful buildings and we go on a walking tour. Our guide has a dry sense of humour and tells us that Austrians are classy Germans! We refrain from reminding him about one particular Austrian who wreaked havoc across the continent!! When I trip over the tram rails and have a bad fall, he makes a rather uncharitable remark about Indians who always create confusion wherever they go. Unlike him, my fellow travellers are most sympathetic and kind. I’m in a daze after hitting my head and narrowly miss being run over by a tram – one of the others pulls me back just in time!
The city is full of beautifully laid out gardens ...... everything looks so beautiful and well maintained.
The next day starts rather gloomily with a grim reminder of Man’s inhumanity to man. We visit the Nazi concentration camp at Mathausen on the way to Prague. It is ironically set in the most picturesque surroundings! Feel very depressed after this halt. All the countries have put up memorials for their people. The Italian one is particularly touching as families of the victims have put their pictures on the wall of the memorial. Very very sad.
After seeing the gas chamber, I can’t wait to get out of there! And kids screaming and running all over the place – absolute desecration. This was basically a labour camp whose inmates were forced to work in the granite quarries and in the armaments industry. I don’t know why they haven’t destroyed the entire camp instead of preserving it like a national monument!
And then we visit Cesky Krumlov and the coldness in my heart melts away for here is the most beautiful little town I have ever seen! A more fairy tale-like town you can’t imagine – complete with castle, church tower and cobbled streets. Hundreds of interesting little shops line the streets. Simply delightful! We have lunch in a little garden restaurant.
We reach Prague at 6 pm and a walking tour is announced for 6.30! My body still hurting after the fall – I take a crocin and cry off the tour. The next day we decide to take a six hour tour of Prague city. Though it is very tiring ( it is a walking tour!), we see all the best that Prague has to offer. It is a day well spent – a walk in the castle complex and the royal gardens, a visit to St.Vitas’ Cathedral, an absolutely beautiful Gothic church with soaring arches and exquisite stained glass, a ride in a lovely boat, all polished wood and glass and brass, lunch in an underground medieval restaurant (looks like something out of Harry Potter!) and a look at the Astronomical clock as it strikes three.
View of the city from the castle on the hill.
St.Vitas’ Cathedral – Gothic in design – 14th century.One of the stained glass windows in the cathedral – there are many of them, all different in design!
At the John Lennon wall – apparently one is allowed to draw or paint anything one wants to! As visitors keep leaving their imprint on it, its form changes almost from week to week! Love locks on the bridge! Young lovers seal the locks and throw the keys into the river below – supposed to secure their love!
W return to our hotel by the metro. All the cities have excellent public transport systems. We have now travelled by the underground metros in London, Paris, Rome, Vienna and Prague! The streets are full of shops with crystal – look very beautiful.
I must elaborate on that medieval restaurant. We go down some steps into a dark cellar lit up only by candles! It has a truly medieval ambience – wooden tables, candle wax that had melted through the ages, all kinds of crude, rough looking stuff hanging on the walls and from the ceiling! Our companions were all old couples. There was an English couple who told us that the best holiday spot they had ever been to was Kerala!!
I have enjoyed all the aspects of this trip. For me, it is seeing in reality all that I had read about. Tomorrow it’s back to Munich via Nuremberg.
Nuremberg is another pretty town complete with castle on hill, gothic churches and town square. The square has a market in the middle – flowers, fruits, vegetables, gingerbread, dry fruits – very nice. They are selling plants too. I see a bunch of deep bright maroon velvety liliums. The dried flowers were also very pretty. I get into an ancient church with murals on the walls and beautiful stained glass.
We have lunch at an Italian restaurant – spaghetti Bolognese and minestrone soup. I go straight back to the bus after lunch and sit there waiting for the others – cannot walk anymore! It’s been two weeks since we started the tour.
We’re back in Munich now. This is such a pretty city. We say our good byes to everyone. We plan to keep in touch with our new friends from South Africa. Goodbye, beautiful Europe.
Ms. Kumud Raj is a retired English teacher. She enjoys teaching, loves books and music, gardening and travel.
THE BIRTH OF CANONS IN LITERATURE
Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj
Many a time the following questions are asked amidst scholars: What is the actual use of critical theories? Why should one even bring in these critical views into a scholarly discussion? Isn't it mere jargon?
Applying a critical tool to a literary work is application of an enquiry on a human perception. Texts in any genre, including epics- written or oral -carry the prejudices and thought processes of the people. The next generation has to review earlier concepts. Nanool says: “Palaiyana kazhithalum Puthiyana puhuthalum Valavanakala Vagaiyinane.” It means that getting rid of the old and bringing in the new is the principle of time. Nannool (Tamil: ???????) is a work on Tamil grammar written by a Jain ascetic Pavananthi Munivar around 13th century AD. It is the most significant work on Tamil grammar after Tolk?ppiyam. The work credits Western Ganga vassal king Seeya Gangan of Kolar with patronising it. About 20 commentaries have been written on Nannool up to 19th Century AD. The book is divided into five sections: written language, spoken language, semantics, poetic language and rhetorical devices. The latter three sections have been lost, so only the parts on written and spoken language are extant today. In Tamil, nool means book, and Nannool means good book
Creative writers represent their conscious and unconscious thoughts, socially upheld values and regional philosophies. These representations may underplay or exaggerate reality. Nevertheless writers themselves are caught in the world view of time and space - the period they live, and the culture they have inherited.
After the rise of nationalism and linguistic territories in the democratic nation /state model, literary theories have become more critical of social representations in literature. Critical theories are now concentrating on moral and ethical issues, and question if all cultures are equally represented. The world has moved into a knowledge society and universities teaching philosophy, sociology, psychology, and literature and languages do research on societies and most of the time literary works are treated as data to interpret society.
Literary research today cannot be restricted to structuralist poetics - studying the form and meaning - alone. The writer is today perceived as a socially responsible person, who has to understand the implication of his writings. Very interestingly, viewing literature as a subjective representation of an individual, which may be much away from the reality, is also the western classical critical thought. Post structuralism which views 'meaning' as ambiguous and dynamic is also the view Plato had about popular culture. Hence it becomes essential for literarily scholar to understand the thought processes of criticism for the past 2000 years.
The history of young European languages is recent and has been well recorded. It gives us insights about the way a language is born, the political and economical forces that standardise its spelling and grammar at some point of its growth. The language becomes the medium that is used to communicate with Gods and fellow people, and is deified. The word now becomes rigid -structure of culture- and now people use it to solidify their identities.
Currently Indian literary criticism also has come into western critical practices. It studies the structures of poetics- alamharam, dwani and so on. It views literature as popular culture. People can draw parallels in their minds about ancient languages and modern languages and find out the differences and similarities in the way they have grown and established.
Without criticism there is no literature and without literature there is no criticism. A recent thing like a movie review is a form of criticism that has sprung up quite naturally. Creative and critical values go hand in hand as the writers of both are social critics. The creative writer weaves a story that has open or hidden comments on his society and historical experiences. Similarly, the critic is a writer who compares literary works with earlier works and contemporary works and brings in a kind of new knowledge about a particular work, and sometimes, even the writer. These forces of society balance each other controlling the social development and monitoring its movement. Hence a history of criticism, inevitably, is a history of literature.
Researchers and critics who work on literature during contemporary times have a mammoth task, which has made literary research a very big challenge today. When we comment on a literary text we touch on matters that range from meaning of words to the nature of man. Profound insights on man are found in philosophy, psychology, political theories, sociology and works of other literary and critical texts.An average literary researcher/scholar or critic has to acquire at least some knowledge in these areas to interpret the representation of humanity in imaginary works.
Lots of scholars/critics are also creative writers who embed their works with literary and philosophic knowledge. The present knowledge society with its abundant e-resources has empowered creative writers with knowledge exposure. Their works embrace so many interests as social critiques have shaped these writers minds.
For example, the contemporary writers in most parts of the world are aware of the classics of many languages, the history of nation-state based on linguistic principles, the history of the concepts of feudalism and capitalism, the history democracy and so on. To be able to interpret them a scholar or a critic has to acquire some knowledge in these areas.
Literature has evolved as literary studies and has been institutionalized as a degree, qualifying for a job. The curriculum demands objective critical tools so that the subject can have a rigid scientific framework. Criticism has evolved as a colossal aid to the teacher in the classroom- it helps in interpretation and supports the expansion of ideas. Literary texts can now be interpreted based on its textuality, language, and genre, reading process, social/historical/cultural context, sexuality, gender, psychological aspects, intentions of the author, and the politics and economics in the text.
Students can choose any suitable perspective to interpret the literary text. Institutionalizing of texts, lead to developing interpretation strategies. Harikatha, kathakalakshebam, rhapsody, seminar in monasteries, commentaries are all strategies that have been in vogue in human civilization. Canonical texts like The Ramayana, Mahabharata, Bhadavad Geetha and Quran have always been interpreted. Theology has become an established subject in Christendom and Indian philosophical treaties.
Today literature has separated itself from religious literature and theology continues its journey of interpretation. Literature claims to be secular and academicians in the twentieth century have studied the implications of its secularity at philosophical, economical and political levels.
Looking back, the English Chaucer in the 14th CE and the Tamil Kamban in the 12th CE had a feudal critical evaluation method to become socially accepted. The earlier critical tool was strictly within grammatical and rhetoric, accepting the hierarchical social order. Today's criticism is operated by democratic social order and the critic checks if the writer is democratic or not. The rhetoric today has to be a democratic one in nature.
A reader can read a literary text in two ways - general and scholarly. Generally a literary work is read for pleasure and enjoyment. Literary research is a scholarly reading that brings out the historical background of the text, the reasons for it being written, the strengths and limitations of its ideologies, the nature of its language and the period it refers to- a study of semantics and syntax.
After the Second World War, France and America emerged as critics of the European culture and philosophy. French and American social scientists in Universities began questioning the European tradition of calling itself the enlightened or civilized. The horrors of wars operated by the Europeans opened up questions about the real nature of man - his capacity for violence and destruction, despite being trained by a religion that insisted on civility.
The French and American critics began an ethical programme demanding to know the validity of European established concepts. They used a highly conceptual language not wanting to be politicized and contextualized. They did not use real life historical examples to deconstruct the European Enlightenment. Instead they became abstract and created jargons for arguments. Criticism was no more limited to literature- it extended to human morality, its origins, purposes, roles in society and its subjectivity.
These aggressive examinations of man's political and survival nature created a philosophical skepticism towards life and art. They became suspicious of all types of knowledge, claiming it only leads to power, domination and suppression of others. From this angle all forms of human knowledge suppress the marginalized – a Marxian view. The classical Platonic view of literature came back in vogue.
A simple appreciation of a poem or any literary text came to be looked down as an act of profound ignorance, as the text might contain meanings that suppress the marginalized of the humanity. Literature came to be viewed as a by-product of politics and social power systems that manipulated innocent readers.
Cultural elites – the publishers, patrons and academics- create canons of literature according to the criteria of a specific period of time and space. These criteria may refer to a particular society, a university, a school of thought or a political ideology. These may shift from time to time – as social values and political systems change. Sometimes a text that has been ignored in the past as unimportant may be revived by the next generation scholar who might review the work from a new perspective and make it a canon. Mentally academics keep building canons of literature against populist likings of a work.
The criteria for deciding a literary canon are generally decided by the way the literary texts are read and interpreted. Hence reading strategies become very significant in establishing literary canons. The university system has produced lots of strategies to read and interpret literary texts all over the world. Various spheres of intellectual activity contribute to these strategies.
Literary criticism is shaped by socio- cultural and political frameworks and hence tends to be subjective in its stand. And, we are back in square one – we are where we have begun our journey. The critic is motivated into approaching the written text based on a motive – to be part of an academic ring, to support an ideology or to launch a writer. Classics are born from critics, sometimes, as they keep on emulating certain books. It is here the critics become powerful as they decide if a book has to stand the test of the time.
I remember and will never forget how T.S.Eliot re-launched the metaphysical poets in the twentieth century. The essay ‘The Metaphysical Poets’ in Times Literary Supplement, 20 October 1921 describes the Elizabethan poets’ strategy that Donne had mastered – “telescoping of images and multiplied associations.” He argues how during the seventh century a certain “dissociation of sensibility” came around. Poets began reflecting. Now universities continue to prescribe Donne as he has been launched as a complex poet. That is how academic canons are born – given birth by critics.
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.
DIAMOND STUDS
Dr S Barathi
"Renu, did you see the diamond stud that I kept on the dresser?"
"No mama..what's the matter?"
"Its gone ... I ...I think that it's stolen" .
"That's been a gift from dad right ? Now what you gonna do ma?" Renu, the thirteen year old girl with bubbling energy asked her mother.
After thinking for a while, she said, "Maa ... I think it must be our maid Sophie. I have seen her intendedly gazing at your diamond studs. She must have stolen it in a weaker moment."
For a microsecond Sulabha too suspected her maid. But how can she suspect Sophie the maid who had been with them since Renu was born. It's silly to be carried away by the suggestion of this little one. So, brushing off such thoughts she asked her daughter if anyone entered the room.
Renu said , "yes, I got it.. Mamma... it must be the delivery boy. He came to the room to give the bill."
"Stop blabbering like this Renu, let me think" saying so she scratched her head to recollect all the events of the previous day. "I must do something before Sunil finds this out". With this, she entered the kitchen. "Let me have some coffee and relax" she muttered to herself. Suddenly she remembered oh yeah, ..sugar bowl.. coffee..."yes!" saying so, she sprang open the sugar bowl and the diamond studs were lying there smiling at her with all its glitter.
TAILESS LIZARD
Dr S Barathi
"Oouch ...mom look at that lizard," yelled Kanmani.
Kanmani our protagonist is a beautiful girl in her teens. She has just joined First year at REC.
Kanmani, like her name, really had eyes that looked like beads. Her long flowing dark hair compete with her dark eyes. She liked everything that appealed to her like the gargeous red rose that beautified her hair, the diamond studs glistening in her ears, the sandalwood powder on her silky soft skin..and the list goes on.
Let's come to the matter of Kanmani s concern. It is a poor tailless lizard clinging to the wall like a frightened baby clinging to its mother. With its tiny mustard eyes it looked at Kanmani.
It seemed to plead .. Hey kaanamma why do you look at me that way! Don't try to shoo me out. I'm homeless . But she didnt care. Immediately on spotting the poor creature Kanmani screeched. The sound she made was so sharp that the glass cup which her mother kept on the dining table broke exactly how into two halves. But still she did not stop. In high pitch like a trained stage singer she started screaming till her mother came to the spot. Though Kanmani's mother Kanagam was in her early forties , she stilled retained her youthful radiance. With great concern she turned her eyes towards the direction pointed by her daughter. There she saw a tiny tailless lizard blinking innocently at them. Kanmani could not speak she just gestured to remove the ugly looking thing from her sight. But that lizard was not so ugly as perceived by Kanmani. If you move back to its past, it was like any other lizard. But on a fateful day when Kanmani was rushing out of her home, this poor lizard out of curiosity crossed the path to drink the beauty of this young lass. Without knowing what's happening around, innocent Kanmani tripped on the tail of this lizard. Instantly he felt an unbearable pang . Hyshhh... He lost his tail. It would take a few weeks for him to regrow his tail. He thought of Keats lines "A thing of beauty is a joy forever!" Oh.. how mistaken the poet is !! He thought. It's not always joy atleast in my case ... I lost my tail to enjoy the beauty.. he grieved and brooded over his fate.
Now his female partner had moved away pointing to his tailless condition. He started to self-pity . It was at that moment Kanmani's mother took pity on him and with a long curved stick, picked him up and left him in the garden. He landed on a rose bush.. Hush!! Where am I?! He admonished.. atleast for now I am safe, he thought. Unlike the beauty inside the house, the sweet scented rose smiled innocently at him.
Dr S Barathi is a writer, translator and Assistant professor in the department of English, Srinivasa Ramanujan Centre, SASTRA Deemed to be University, Kumbakonam, Tamilnadu, India. She is an executive committee member of GIEWEC, Kerala and a member of South African Association for Language Teaching SAALT, South Africa. She has to her credit numerous poems published in various national and international anthologies. She has co-edited a book on Diaspora literature with Dr K.V. Dominic titled "Diasporas and Dilemmas:The Voice of an Exile" and translated Mr. Sundar Rajan's short story collection "Eternal Art" in Tamil titled "Nithiyakkalai" and Mr. Jayanti M Dalal's Novel "Ordeal of Innocence" in Tamil as "Arindum Ariyaamalum" . Besides she has translated two poetry anthologies titled Winged Reason and My shadow in Tamil titled Gyanach chiragugal and En Nizhal respectively.
THE SILENT WRITER
PART ONE
Sarada Harish
“A story needs to be plotted, within 5 days; a storyline that convincingly connects the ancient past and the neoteric present, a few unfathomable characters, candid humour mingled with suspense till the end”- after providing the raw material, Keshav looked at me pleadingly. I showed no interest. Hostility was written all over my face, yet Keshav the manipulative came near me and sat on the floor. I could see what was coming. He will put forward a complete list of perks though he knows very well that I would be unaffected. Money, fame, luxury and family life – none of these is my calling. I, out of sheer altruism, write for him. He publishes my stories in his name. In a way I am his breadwinner. My essential requirements are food, water, shelter, a serene place to read and write and the freedom to travel once in every two months. Whoever provides me all these essentials can live on me. I am a slow writer, taking my own time to complete the story, plotting, replotting, giving birth to new characters, killing the existing ones, mocking the unfit ones, praising the brilliant ones, describing the locales, interchanging the personas, creating critical conflicts, bringing mysterious circumstances and finally making sure that the book is not only a page turner, but a ‘cry’ for more of the same author from the mass. Each time I emerge successfully, filling Keshav’s pocket to the brim.
Keshav happen to be my distant cousin, who discovered my innate talents and the lucrative possibilities behind it. Being a post graduate in finance, he has the brilliance to turn any treasury in his advantage and never spares an opportunity to worship the ‘Lakshmi’. I, on the other hand is considered to be the gifted sage who was born in the wrong era and at the wrong place. But you can’t really say the wrong place, because I was born in an ashram, situated in a peaceful valley, away from the hustle and bustle of city life, amidst austere people. My parents met at college, fell in love and got married at a young age, in spite of the disapproval of both their parents. My father had lost his mother when he was around four years and was brought up entirely by his father. I don’t know why exactly my paternal grandfather opposed his son’s marriage. Nor have I got any information on my parents’ early life after they got married. I have heard a lot of stories of them getting inclined towards an ascetic life and moving on in pursuit of Buddha’s doctrine. It happened a few months before my birth. Everyone had seen it coming, yet was shocked when the actual announcement was made. They left, leaving everything behind and sent back home the clothes they were wearing at the time of departure. My mother was carrying me at that time and she gave birth at the ashram after three months without any medical practitioner or equipment. She was put under a simple diet of fresh fruits and vegetables and had no difficulty in labour. This was told to me by my paternal grandfather, who brought me home when I was two years. My parents had no remorse handing me over. They would have looked at me as a hindrance to the self imposed detachment from the mundane world.
My upbringing happened in the most normal fashion at my grandfather’s home, which was called “the abode”. I called him Paapu and he called me kiddu. He was not an affluent person, yet had enough savings for my education and comforts. He was an ordinary man who wished a healthy and prosperous life for me. We had an amicable relationship and I enjoyed being the cynosure of all eyes at his home. He lived alone with two helpers and a driver. His numerous siblings, cousins and their children often visited us so that I never felt as an only child. I was given a good education, both school and college. I never opposed him on the choices he made for me, didn’t feel the need to. He sent me to study Computer science at a prestigious institution. My academic performances were always outstanding and Paapu must have been proud of me especially on the day when I got selected to work at one of the topmost computer giants, which was famous for its brilliant brains. Fortunately he didn’t wait to watch me rejecting the offer and settling down for my passion- writing. Paapu passed away with complete contentment as he had done everything possible to secure my life. I felt relieved that the burden of obligation was no more. I no longer had the onus of making him happy. Attachments, societal pressures, a routine and disciplined lifestyle; I was looking forward to freedom from all such futilities. That never means I was hostile towards other people. I never showed any indifference to him or to any of my relatives. In fact, I had deep reverence and genuine affection for him throughout. I was greatly indebted to him for making my life worth and solid. Paapu had left enough for me to linger in the house for a few more years. In spite of all these, responsibilities used to tire me out. When people visited me or invited me out, I felt my space narrowing and couldn’t stand the liability of entertaining them. I felt happy and contented with myself, being in my own space, taking care of my health and fitness, enjoying the long drives, listening to a variety of country music and writing at my own pace.
By the time I finished school I had completed my first novel, a satire humour suspense thriller. But no one except Keshav was aware of the secret talent. Somehow I let Keshav into my space at times. What I liked about him was that he never tried to intrude into my space or judge me on the basis of my inhibitions. When he visited, though we sat in the same room, he focused on his activities, either browsing in his lap or reading or gathering his thoughts. We did talk, and the talk was always on common interests, which we soon found out to be almost all. We devoured the same books, liked to travel exotic places, enjoyed country music and long drives and detested responsibilities. But one thing that differentiated us was that though, he detested any kind of responsibility, he was ambitious and he wanted to be rich and famous one day. But he hated the idea of hard work behind any form of success. When he read my first novel, he was thrilled and urged me to talk to publishers. As teenagers we had no clue of the intricacies attached to the publishing world. Moreover, I preferred to be a silent writer, who wrote for oneself. I pledged him to secrecy and we continued as nothing happened. My second novel was kind of a sequel to the first one. By that time both of us had completed our academics and Keshav had started his career in a leading financial enterprise. I was trying to discover ways of rejecting the offers coming my way in accordance to my brilliant academic scores. And then came Paapu’s demise which freed me from all kinds of ties as he was my liaison to the community. I kept everyone out of the boundary walls. Sensing my indifference people started judging me as the true hire of my ascetic parents. They expected me to soon abandon the materialistic life and follow my parents’ footsteps. But I had to disappoint them as my intentions were nowhere near. I wanted to enjoy life in my own terms. Keshav stepped in at this juncture and convinced me to market my stories. I was adamant at my decision that I would remain inconspicuous. Even adapting a pseudonym was out of question for me. My happiness lied in the sheer magic of creation. The imaginations flying high as sky as the limit, the abundance of possibilities in a story, the twists and turns and the exultation felt at the completion- all these were my sole possessions which I refused to share. Keshav tried his best to pacify me, as he had connections in the print media and was sure of the marketing success of my stories. He was no longer the ignorant teenager who fancied himself to be in a wonder world. He had come out of his fantasy long ago and was deviously plotting his luxurious life. Still he remained in my good books. He came daily and made me visualize the immense prospects of publishing my works. Finally I was the one who forced him to takeover my name and relieve me from the devoir. I couldn’t ignore his enthusiasm of the whole affair. Guilt was the devil which played spoilsport for a few days, but it bowed in front of the greed. Keshav was more interested in fame than money. Both the books were a huge success as predicted by him. The royalties kept on pouring in. He bought me a posh villa with all the high class amenities, near the lake side, as promised. He took care of my expenses, bills and all other financial matters. I lived a luxurious life as Keshav plunged into the literary world as the emerging promising author of the decade. He was invited to almost all the scholarly meetings, book discussions, debates and literary fests. In the next two years I had completed two more books which were also sold like hot cakes. Keshav, the new young charismatic author was stealing hearts with his satirical one liners, sarcastic pun and the brilliant denouement in each story. I watched with a smile, having no regret. He was a born actor, with subtle actions and a composed demeanour. My days were nonchalant, with reading, writing, music, yoga, long walks and good food. I chose places to visit once in every two months. Keshav arranged the whole trip leaving me completely relaxed. I came back rejuvenated after each trip with a lot more creativity bursting out. No one smelled anything as I lived a complete secluded life.
Sarada Harish: A Mathematics teacher by chance, a passionate reader by choice and an unbiological mother by luck.
THE LONG QUEUE
Dr. Molly Joseph M
the long
queue
taut
compact
squeezing
into each,
compulsion
driven,
slowly
loosened
like a
highly strung
elastic string
loosening..
air gushed
through
spaces
in between
rendering
welcome relief...
what if
our mindsets
reclaimed
this elasicity....!
VAISHNAVA JANATO...
(Gandhi Jayanti at Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences, KISS, Bhubaneswar)
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Gandhi Bhajans resonated
while we walked our
way to KISS
the world's largest Tribal
School
founded by a Gandhian
so true
Achyuta Samanta, the one
dedicated to his cause..
Little innocent faces greeted
with smiles, folded hands
on both sides...
what a walkway, nay
a pathway to heaven..
hah! the bhajans reached a crescendo, Vaishnava Janato..
when we neared the podium, the stage facing a vibrant ocean of kids
pulsating each voice repeating "Vaishnava janato"
Yes, God's own children
braving the sun
a multitude sitting, cheering welcome..
God !
with goosebumps I stand !
tears, flowing down my cheeks..!
Where else need I seek thee
except here where each little face,
voice incarnate your presence,
your feel
thy infinite power of being
sweeps through ....
Bapu! how you stir human souls
through centuries
through samaritans
like Samanta who
translate you to action
caring for buds
relegated, steeped in mud...
how through children's
laughter and cries
the world renews
its hope for a dawn
that can outlive the dark..
awestruck, we stand
the world poets
facing the teeming crowd
of children
spreading pavilions...
baby voice, rumble
stretching..
silhouetting sanguine horizons of a future of love and promise..
a Gandhi Jayanti
unique, etched in gold
in memory
on shores of the temple city,
Bhubaneswar..
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
DUSSEHRA IN MY VILLAGE - A GLIMPSE INTO THE PAST AND THE PRESENT
Gokul Chandra Mishra
Mo Gaon, a previously sleepish village, has now grown up considerably with a vibrant agro based economy. Situated in the laps of mountains on three sides and the proudly flowing Mahanadi in the north, it used to be the last block Headquarters of the erstwhile undivided Puri District and now the newly carved out District of Nayagarh. The unique geographical feature of the village is that it is the border of four districts, Nayagarh, Boudh, Cuttack and Angul. Probably being situated in such a remote angular place, the village had the most pristine unscathed beauty in the past.
Dassera, or, Dussehra, as people proudly speak about, has been a great event in the life of my villagers. The topography of the village is very simple- having “sahis” or lanes on caste lines. The village was founded by the Royal family of Daspalla about three hundred years ago to cater to the security exigencies of the estate because of its territorial significance. The prime settlers were some “Paikas” or soldiers who provided security to the estate. Brahmins, Vaishyas and Sudras also settled in respective lanes allotted to them so that the entire people of the conglomerate could get service of each community. Mo Gaon, about 4 decades back, was just a cluster of one family. Every person was related to others, not by blood but being a member of a big family irrespective of caste barriers.
Woshipping Shakti was the prevailing cult of the estates and Mo Gaon was not different.The timing of Dussehra festival synchronises with the leisure time available to the agrarian people, paddy being their main cultivation. Almost 95 per cent of households earn a living from agriculture and therefore, the celebration timing is best suited to them eagerly waiting for the harvesting to be done after the spring.
Paikas or erstwhile soldiers of the King were jobless after the merger of estates to Indian Union and these sections became most vulnerable to economic challenges soon after. They did not own enough land but depended upon other communities for survival working as agricultural labourer/ share cropper. They could not provide education to their children although the school was situated adjacent to their habitats. The children were engaged in helping their parents once they were able to do so. But the Paikas used to keep the ancenstral weapons like swords, spears, arrows etc. and used to worship the ammunitions daily. During Dussehra they keep the ammunitions in a common puja house and perfom “ Shashtra” (Weapons) puja through the Brahmins.
On Dashami, the Dussehra day, the ammunitions are taken out in a procession, followed by all the male population of the village, in a procession to the open market place, called a Haat, in the outskirt of the village. The members of other communities follow the procession keeping with their family traditions, carrying symbols of their respective clans in their hands such as Brahmins carrying Bhagavad Gita, the Vaishyas carrying weighing scales etc. The villagers congregate at the Haat and “Shashtra puja’ takes place. All villagers eagerly wait to see this ritual as they believe that the moment is very auspicious for the village. They start doing brief solemnization of their family business and consider themselves blessed.
The “Paikas” perform demonstration of martial arts and entertain the villagers while making their retreat procession. The fervor and tempo of celebration is high if the harvesting appears to be good. Otherwise, everything would be subdued, waiting for one more year to welcome the new season.
The present scenario of Mo Gaon is a bit different. With the opening up of the area, the simplicity of life and relationship have completely vanished. Modernity has abolished the lasting cordial atmosphere and the people are divided on political affiliations. Poverty, which was prevalent during the 60’s or 70s’, is no longer seen. Hunger has almost gone away. So also the true character of the people. Now, Mo Gaon is no longer a single family unit, the integrated fabric has been shred into pieces. Economy growth has eaten away the subtle values of life. Complexity has taken away simplicity.
THE GHOST
Gokul Chandra Mishra
The autumn had cast its mesmerizing shade in the sleepish village of Mulabasanta. Kashatandi flowers sung their goodbye poems along with the farewell of the winter. People were busy in closing down their assignments outside and returning to the village before darkness engulfed.
Festive moods began with the chanting of melodious songs on the arrival of Dola festival and the Holi. The temple bells signalled the timimg of arati in the nearby Gopinathjew temple.
But Shanti was burning inside due to the usual negligence of her parents in law. Somanath, her husband, was a plumber working at Sambalpur . He usually visited home once in a fortnight and pours out all his income before the parents and returns back. Shanti never complained of any insecurity thinking always about the good days to descend to the family. Somanath's two younger brothers were school going kids and a lot of expectations were on them to earn income for the family once their studies were over.
Shanti was always praying for the well being of the family and sending garlands of flower to Gopinathjew, the Head deity of the village almost every evening.
Life is not always smooth for every body. Somanath suffered from fever for a week. He could not send the monthly remittance to his parents. Suddenly the environment at home started changing. Shanti, the bohu, who was the centre of all admiration and attention, began to be ignored and hunted upon by all others. Reason being her man failed to send money to family.No body tried to know the truth but believed that this could be the malafied design of Shanti, who, by that time was an expectant mother.
Atrocities were heaped on her day by day and for Shanti it was unbearable.
Shanti's parents were living in a near by Village called Barua, which was approachable by concrete road and also through the vast green-carpeted rice fields.Distance by road was about 3km where was through the green fields it would be hardly 2kms.
Nature was at its best in these sleepish villages. The silent breeze hovering over the vast rice fields provided a unique natural fervor of the nature.
Shanti never had thought of any situation in life where she would be treated as a persona non grata member of her wedded family.But situation changed for reasons no body was willing to believe. As she was targetted day in and day out, she decided to leave for her parents’ house in darkness. She always prefered to go by the green fields during day time.But that day she could not venture to go by that route owing to the darkness of night. She came out of the house and picked up the fair weathered road. But she was known to the villagers and so she decided to take up the adjacent rice field boundaries near the road to avoid being noticed. This was her maiden night venture to her own village where she was brought up from birth. Feeling nervous, wearing a red saree she was cautiously making her way. Suddenly she noticed in the darkness some body was following behind in a cycle with a torch. She fell totally nervous and could not know how to deal with the situation .The person was on the road where as she was in the fields almost running at high speed. Suddenly, she felt that she must loosen her hair and keep the white shawl on her shoulder partly covering her face.
The person on cycle, noticed a moving object on road side greenery, and was equally nervous to find such an object in the dark night. The stray jackals were shouting from a distant horizon and the atmosphere was ghastly insecure. He thought, probably he was seeing the ghost about which the village folk always talked. He began to speed up pedalling of the bicycle but the huge
nervousness in him did not allow him to go at a high speed. The gentle breeze was blowing as usual and wild insects were singing from the nearby trees. The Cyclist was repeatedly looking at the moving object and calculating the distance between the two, horrified inside. The moving object was looking as if it was changing colours when Shanti was passing through the Kashatandi trees on the boundaries.
The cyclist managed to reach the village first and straight away went to his home. He fell unconscious and began vomiting and dehydrating.He narrated how he could come out of the clutch of tha Ghost about whom villagers often speak.
There was no hospital near by and he got very high fever in the night. His family members were on their toes, running around to call the village quack for treatment. The news spread in the village like wild fire. A crowd of villagers gathered at his home and prescribed so many natural remedies to cool down his high fever. His wife was sobbing and applying cold water on his head to cool down the high temperature.
Shanti was oblivious about the situation and reached her parental home after sometime. Her parents were surprised to see her in odd hours and asked a thousand questions on her abrupt arrival. Her father even admonished her for venturing to walk down the road in dark night as ghosts regularly roamed around and many people had encountered them.
Her mother revealed to her about how Pitabas, her cousin, who had encountered the ghost just before her arrival and was suffering from high fever. She also reprimanded her not to venture to travel on dark nights again.....
Shanti understood what had happened and rushed to her cousin's house to tell the truth to Pitabas. The fever vanished and Pitabas survived.
(The story is based on a true incident in the Writer’s village)
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
THE LADY TAXI DRIVER
Major General Ramesh C Padhi
Ola and Uber are silently transforming the way people travel in India despite the presence of unhelpful government establishments, hassle of legal and policy issues. I realised the advantages of these services for the civil society, customers, taxi owners and government after my superannuation from the government service. The retirement is a great leveler and enriches our experiences ,gives another opportunity to interact with people without any barrier.
I had been missing the comfort of being driven by a driver in a government car after my retirement and getting used to self driving on the unsafe Delhi roads. After several minor unpleasant incidents and minor accidents my family convinced me to avoid self driving and employ a driver instead. However the job seeking drivers whom I interviewed told me that they can come at fixed timings only during the day and available for my duties for eight hours in a day with weekly off etc. Further, I could not be sure of their loyalty and faithful service in my urgent need hours to drive me or my family. I was most fortunate and privileged like many in the government during my service of thirty-six years plus that the government drivers served me on call at any time, including odd hours, reporting for duty sharp at the time given without ever giving me an opportunity to feel unhappy. On the other hand the private drivers working with fixed duty hours meant that I still have to self drive at odd hours and the person may or likely to take days off when his services are required by me the most.
Second option was to hire Ola/Uber taxis but that requires a small training to get used to the mobile apps which my son taught me like a professional instructors. Hesitatingly I became in a few days regular customer of these app-based taxis and found them convenient and safe. Many times during the ride I started chatting with the drivers to overcome boredom.
The other day I called for an Ola taxi at Nehru place to return back to my home at Noida. A well maintained Honda amaze taxi arrived and I moved into the rear seat and gave my OTP with destination details to the driver and in reply from the driver, I heard the soft voice of the driver coming from the front seat, a neatly dressed lady in her middle age. With surprise, I exclaimed,” Oh it a Madam driver”. I appreciated her courage to become an app based taxi driver in a men dominated profession.
We started chatting while she drove me home and I was interested to know about her family which she said, Sir, my father was in the army and died at a young age when she was a child and thereafter her mother worked in a defence establishment for few years to support the family. She has a family with two school going children, her husband is not medically well and mother lives with her. She decided to be her own master as government jobs were difficult to get and bought the car investing nine lakhs rupees from bank loan, own savings and have been driving the taxi partnering with the Ola/Uber apps for the last three years. Her driving skill was good, behavior polished and graceful which impressed me. I being an army veteran related her as my extended family , felt proud of her army background ,determination to support her family financially, not afraid of being alone on unsafe Delhi roads. The nation has moved ahead and our girls are no more the weaker sex and have breached every carrier domain.
finally we reached my destination home and said to her " I am honored to be your passenger today and you are the brave daughter of a brave man and an inspiration for many girls" and handed over an extra five hundred rupees to buy some sweets for her children at home.
I could hear her choked feeble voice when she left.
DESI TALENT
Major General Ramesh C Padhi
The monitor screen of my seven year old Dell Laptop with 2 GB RAM went blank. The laptop had given me good service during the past few years and it was time for me to declare the machine beyond economical repair. However my reluctance to part with the machine was mainly for two reasons, one a new home laptop would cost me at least Rs 50,000/- and the second being not sure about the retrieval of the valuable stored data inside the hard disk. I have been treating my laptop as a dear friend and close companion for the past seven years and mentally not prepared to say good buy to my old buddy .
Hence I decided to visit the Dell authorised service center in the IT hub of Nehru place Delhi with my machine to try for its repair which I could locate with the help of google. The Dell air-conditioned office was crowded with people awaiting for their turn to show their machines to the service engineers like the anxious attendants of seriously ill patients in a government hospital . I too collected a token in the Dell service center and joined the queue for my turn which came after an hour of waiting . The service engineer after preliminary examination and consultation with his fellow colleagues gave me a sympathetic look and said,"Sir , your Laptop life had only four years and it has already served you for seven years which is almost double of its service life and the spare parts may not be available in our store as the model is no more sold".
I collected back my old machine disappointed and walked out of the Dell service center not willing to give up in my mission to bring back the machine into active life.
Let me have a try else where, I thought and located a very small shop of size 5 feet by 10 feet with a sign board " Laptop repair shop" with three smart young people inside busy working on with old computers. My inner self directed me to stop and show the laptop to these guys which I did with reluctance with no or little hope. The youngster in the shop opened the machine in few minutes examined the parts inside and assured me that the problem of the laptop could be fixed by him in an hour . He offered me a small plastic stool to sit and watch what he is doing. He opened my laptop piece by piece ,cleaning the accumulated dusts inside, carefully fixing/replacing the damaged parts.
True to his words my Laptop came back to life after an hour or so duly serviced with replaced parts with an improved RAM of six GB for better performance with one year warranty at a total cost of three thousand rupees only!!!!
While handing over the money I thanked and appreciated the young engineer for his skills in computer repairing. I asked the young engineer why are we not able to compete with foreign countries in the computer machine manufacturing when our nation has so many of raw young talents ?.
The young man replied ," Sir foreign companies make profit by selling new computer machines in India and do not prefer after sales service and repairing as it is not profitable to them. With market support and help of the government we can do much better than our competitors like China and America in all aspect of manufacturing service and support ." His confident reply had all the aspirations and hope expected from our new generation and the realisation that the gen next is more intelligent ,capable and energetic than the older ones .
I left the computer repair shop avoiding purchase of a new laptop , thus saving my few thousand rupees, and with an inflated Indian pride ,
Major General Ramesh Chandra Padhi is a former Additional Surveyor General was commissioned in the army Corps of Engineers. He holds the degree in Civil Engineering from National Institute of Technology, Rourkela and post graduate degrees of MBA in Disaster management, Surveying, Remote Sensing and LiDAR technology.
He is currently working as a Professor emeritus of Centurion University, Odisha and Visiting Professor of Center for disaster management studies GGSIP University, New Delhi.
A RENDEZVOUS BETWEEN RIGHT AND LEFT
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
Left ,right ,left, right….
squad..
Halt.
At ease
Right ,left ,right ,left…..
Squad…
Halt.
At ease..
Today…
9 10 2019,
left to right.
9102 01 9,
right to left.
Apparent difference,
in spacing the digits.
Two hemispheres left and right,
left controls the right,
and the dominant.
right controls the left.
It is said,
"Left handers are
the only people,
in their right minds".
Arjuna,known ambidextrous,
Hence,Sabyasachi.
Karna, Aswthamma,
And Sahadev,
alleged to be so.
Left hander, Right hander,
But not the same as
Leftist and Rightist !
A spectrum in politics,
coined during French revolution.
During a drill,
for left handers,
Why not start,
Right, left ,right...
And the drastic change,
would be right,left,right ,left
right,right,right,right…
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
NEVER A DULL MOMENT
Betty Kuriyan
Rabia sighed as she cleaned the sink hurriedly.She had a schedule to keep. Her three children were getting their bags together to catch their school bus.Currently there was chaos at home.Unmindful of her orchestrating the morning rush,Ashok sat reading the newspaper as tho he was in his office.
She saw no purpose in calling him for help,even tho till a few months ago he had been the all caring husband and father to them.But perceptibly he had changed.She didn’t know why but she had a niggling sensation I the pit of her stomach that all was not well.Now for quite a few months she had been steering the children and their lives alone ,since Ashok went of tours and came back mostly immersed in himself.She knew that that his position in his company did not necessitate him going on tours but now he did.She noticed that for over a year he never brought back small gifts for the children:,and even forgot their birthdays.
The children Tiren,Tania,and Therese had grown used to not seeing him every day as before.He never sat or played chess or scrabble with as before,
Rabia had a nine to five job and managed the homefront singlehandedly,for her sense of responsibility to to children was unquestionably strong.Ashok rarely paid the bills or school fees for a long time ,and Rabia never nagged him for money,for his demeanour seemed to have changed to that of someone she couldn’t understand.
One day ,on his return from one of his tours,he got a phone all which made him sprint out of the house.Rabia intent on collecting his laundry walked into his small office room and saw a half opened suitcase and opening it fully saw to her consternation the contents.Bottles of exotic perfumes,body shop sachets ,lacy lingerie and cosmetics.
Rabia took a step backwards.He had never brought her such gifts in all their life together.Now she knew with certainty what she had suspected all along that he was having an affair with his secretary.She had gleaned this much when she met one of his colleagues in a mall that they suspected he had a dalliance with Frieda his secretary.She had kept it to herself smarting at heart.
Ashok came back and Rabia decided to have a talk with him. Without much ado he said”yes I want a divorce for I’m in love with Freida and we want to live together”Rabia didn’t hesitate to give her answer ,for she knew that they had reached the crossroads of their marriage.She said”send me the papers,and I’ll sign them on on condition the clause that the children will be in my care is stipulated.”
“Of course “replied Ashok”the children will be a burden on my relationship.Freida is not keen on having them”
He stalked out of the house bag and baggage and Rabia was left to pick up the courage to tell the children.She did so as soon as the case was filed and the children took it calmly and supported her ,for Ashok had distanced himself already.
Both Ashok and Rabia were summoned for counsellingsessions,but she said courageously”if Ashok doesn’t want to continue living with us ,let him have his way”It took a few months more for the judgement for divorce was legally established.Rabia didn’t ask for alimony or maintenance for children for she knew that Ashok would never keep his side of the bargain.
Two years later ,her son Tiren got admission to pursue medicine,but he told her he was opting out because she was their sole support and he would never burden her with financial problems,but Rabia was adamant that Tiren and the girls should given a fair chance in life.
The house Ashok and she jointly built and the land adjoining it,was still intact in their joint names so she asked the lawyer to inquire if Ashok would agree to her selling off some land.In his euphoria,he complied and soon Rabia was able to invest financially IforbTirens Medical studies.
A few years went by,as she managed the children’s education .Fortunately they studied well,and were into their chosen field of study..They provided her with emotional support.Never once did they speak of the father who had left them,nor did they even once wish to see him.
Then one day she met Ashok face to face in a mall.To her it seemed as tho he had become a shadow of his former ebullient self.They said “hi”to each other She in guarded tones.He broke into her silent thoughts and said,”why don’t we have a coffee together”,
She was hesitant at first as she wondered where the love of his life was.He steered her to a table in the cafe nearby.He seemed anxious to know about the children’s welfare ,but she answered briefly,as she couldn’t forget that he had left themmvulnerable even before they could grasp what had happened.She remembered the nights she spent in tears,wondering if she was to blame,and she had to calm their insecurity.
Rabia didn’t want to elaborate on how her family was getting along and instead asked him about his new family.His face registered despair and she could gauge that things were not as she thought..
She left him as soon as she could,but he kept calling her on her mobile.Shewas irritated by the constant messages ,till once he said”Rabia I need to talk to you”
She agreed .She was by now a self assured woman ,and they met in the quiet corner of a park.Ashok sat silent till Rabia asked him what he wanted to talk about.
He asked her “can you accept me back into your lives,will the children object..Freida and I separated two year ago. She was like a vulture wanting only my money and status.She was party crazy and very often would crawl into the house drunk.I often came into an empty house.She spent all my income on fancy clothes and enjoyment with her friends.I finally blew the whistle and kicked her out.We had only lived as partners,so there were no legal issues.Can you forgive me and can you accept me.?
Rabia could hardly speak till she finally said “the answer is no ,you can’t come back.Ashok it won’t work again for not only are you stifled but looking for an escape route and my family and children are not the escape route.”
He encountered her statement”at least ask the children whether they’ll consider reliving with a repentant father”
She replied”I’ll ask them and let you know but personally Ashok I don’t want you in our lives but I’ll let the children decide for themselves.”
He held her hand and said “please consider”
“I will “she said
Back home she spoke to the children,,now quite self assured.They shouted out “no,never”Trisha said “he wasn’t here when we needed him and now we can live without his presence.”
“Amma “they chorused “please tell him no ! ,no!”
She rang him up to inform him of the children’s verdict “leave us alone Ashok you cannot put the clock back””
Ashok didn’t reply and it was final.
Prof. Kuriyan taught for forty two years as a Professor of English, in a Women’s college in Kochi, Kerala called St Teresa’s College for Women. After mandatory retirement she continued teaching out of her love for Literature. She had completed her school education in SriLanka and acquired her BA Honours degree from the University College in Trivandrum creditably. She has published about forty fictional stories in Women’s Era, short humour snippets in Femina of yore , and newspapers.
MY LETTER TO GOD
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
In the name of God I wrote a letter,
And put in an insipid cover,
Then sealed it for good measure,
My long list of pending complaints.
I wish I didn't have to write to Him
A talk would have been much easier,
It's not safe to put everything in writing,
In these intolerant times, not any more.
I wonder if I should post the letter,
Although I have no doubt the folks at the post office
Know where exactly God lives
In the company of fat priests and fatter trustees.
I am worried what if my letter is intercepted
And gets published in the papers.
All my grievances so personal and secret,
Will be laid bare before a cold and unfeeling world.
They would come back to hunt me down,
My friends who abandoned me
My wife who cheated on me,
The ungrateful children and the unfaithful workers.
The government which kept on making empty promises
With no intention of fulfilling them,
The leader who stole my vote
With a false pledge of loyalty.
The policemen who robbed me of my money
And gave a few blows when I whined,
The doctor who sold my kidney
Pretending to operate on me for appendicitis.
Those who were sitting pretty
Happy in their ignorance of my letter
Would feel the blood rushing to their head
At my betrayal of long held secrets.
All these pious men
Who visit the temple all the time
And put bundles of money in God's gift box,
Will come looking for me, a sinner who spills unwanted tales.
They will cut me to pieces
And feed me to the hungry dogs
And swear their innocence
In the name of God.
THE PROCESSION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Sushant paused and looked back at the house. One last look, he told himself. One last look at the house which was not only a home, but the whole universe to him. A month's absence had made him miss it as much as he missed his dead wife. Both were parts of his life so integral that their separation would open up the raw soul - smouldering, throbbing, festering.
Yet he had lost her one and half months back and he was going to lose the house today. He had wondered for one full hour whether he acted in haste, if life deserved another chance.
And then he had told himself there was no point in regretting. He had reached a point where time went beyond temporality, it was not to be measured by the long and short of it, but by the intensity of his feeling - just asking one simple question and answering it in his mind - should he or should he not? Should he quit or trudge along on a path which had become so rough that a mere step scalded his feet, the skin peeling off like an unwanted appendage of the body. Just like he himself had become an unwanted appendage to his sons and their families.
He looked away, tears filling his eyes. Hopefully no changes would be made in the house. No one would chip away parts of the house, no hammer would hit the parapet, no one would drill holes in the walls. Would the trustees of the orphanage, to which he had donated the house in a Will Deed a few hours back, ever know how much he had sweated standing under the hot sun on the day the foundation was laid? And the drizzle which drenched him, and gave him a fever on the day concrete was poured to make the roof?
Would they touch and feel the corner of the room where Nishant, the elder son lay in a cradle as a baby, crying in the nights? How Tapaswini would run to him and bring him to the small bed being shared by them, how he would get up and leave for the living room and sleep on the floor?
And that small space between the terrace and the skylight? Sushant could hear the cooing noise of the pigeons as if they were still living there, shamelessly making love and breeding baby pigeons. Despite all the mess they made, the poop and the feathers, they were never driven away till about a year back. Some relatives kept on insisting that their poop and feathers were causing the illnesses for Sushant and Tapaswini, and one day he dismantled the nest. The pigeons must have found some other place nearby to build their nest, because Sushant saw them once in a while sitting on the window sills and cooing to each other.
Ah, there, the small stainless steel plate, how is it still lying there under the branches of the hibiscus tree? How has it withstood the heat and the rains? Sushant clearly remembered the white cat which used to eat rice and the occasional fish curry from the plate. When the finances dwindled and there was just enough to feed Jim, the dog, the cat returned without her share of food for a whole week. After that she had disappeared. Sushant had never seen her again.
Mercifully it was a very small plot, so no big house could be constructed there. It would certainly not be sold to a builder because there was just not enough land to build multi storeyed apartments. Just one bed room with a small living room. A room was added later on the first floor, to enable Nishant and Vikrant, the younger one, to study and sleep, prepare for the exams. This was all that Sushant could afford from his meagre income as a stamp vendor at the local magistrate's court.
Jim, the dog barked a painful, whining cry. He didn't want to be tied up in his small shed. The last one month he had lived away from his own little house, protesting, howling his heart out. And today he didn't want to be left alone.
Sushant didn't want to leave him alone. After Tapaswini died a painful, lingering death, partly out of malnutrition and partly out of cancer, the dog was his faithful companion. Vikrant had brought Jeena, his mother, when he was in college. His class mate had gifted her to him. She lived for fourteen years. Jim was already twelve, his emaciated body concealed his age.
The two boys had moved on. They were good students. Nishant had become an engineer working in the State Electricity Board in the state capital. Vikrant went into the legal profession and worked as a lawyer in a nearby town, just thirty kilometres away. Maybe, seeing his father selling stamp papers in the premises of the Magistrate's Court had inspired him. Both had married into rich families, their wives smart spendthrifts who wanted money all the time, never satisfied with what they had.
Three years back Sushant had to quit his job. Two spells of long fever had pulled him down. And then tuberculosis sapped his energy. He was not able to even ride the bicycle to work. Nishant and Vikrant spent a few thousand rupees on him, but it was getting clear that their wives were reluctant to spare the money. Sushant's savings were getting depleted, food became scarce, Jim, the dog had to give up his non vegetarian meal, but after the first two days of surprised reluctance, he understood and adjusted with a plate of simple rice with salt.
By the time Sushant recovered from tuberculosis, Tapaswini had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her thin, emaciated body degenerated with frequent bouts of dysentery, she died a silent death, in her husband's arms, smiling as always, at a loving, dutiful companion.
Sushant was devastated. Tapaswini had never left him alone, not even to go to her parents' place for the customary festival holidays. His each and every need was taken care by her. The day after her death, he spent an hour in the bathroom crying. For as long as he remembered, it was a daily routine for him to call her, "Tapu, please get the towel". She would come running, shouting in mock anger, "Can't you get your towel before going to the bath room? Who will give it to you when I am no more?" He would shout back, "Don't worry, you will live for fifteen years after me!"
Ah, how life plays these cruel jokes! She left him within three months of the detection of cancer. The sons came for the funeral and left immediately after the rituals were over. No one talked with him, the grand children had come only for a day, and left with their mothers because the exams were on. The sons were busy with their mobile phones, no one had time for him. Their wives came back for the tenth day ceremony and stayed back till the fourteenth day. That's when he overheard the conversation among the sons and their wives one late evening in the living room when they thought he was asleep in the bedroom.
"Vicky, you should take Baba with you. He looks so thin now and without Mama he will not be able to manage".
Shalini, Vikrant's wife pounced on her brother in law,
"Why Bhaiya, you are the elder one, the responsibility comes to you first. And your income is much higher, look at Didi buying all those ornaments, they are certainly not coming from your salary!"
Nishant got shocked by the unexpected direction the discussion took,
"Oh, come on Shalu, you have a such a large house in a big town, and only one son. We have two of them, our expenses are certainly higher than yours!"
Shalini nudged Vikrant to say something, who said haltingly,
"Bhaiya, it's not a question of our household expenses being less. Baba was not doing a government job, he has no pension. The entire burden will come upon me!"
Nishant, the practical Engineer tried to put some reason into the mind of his younger brother, "But think of this plot of land and the house, it will fetch at least eighty lakhs or so when we sell it".
Shalini was off from her chair in a jiffy,
"Will you let us keep the sale proceeds if we let the old man stay with us? Then we will consider keeping him".
It was the turn of Sunita, the elder daughter in law to interject,
"How can that be? Both the sons should have equal claim to the father's property".
Vikrant found a compromise,
"Then the responsibility should be equally shared. Tell you what Bhaiya and Bhabhi, let us keep him for fifteen days each. First fifteen days of the month he will stay with you, I will keep him for the next fifteen days. We will put this house on rent and share it half-half. That way the burden will be divided by half and Baba will have a change of place every fifteen days".
Nishant was not averse to the idea. The rent will be at least twenty thousand rupees, this place being so close to the central market.
Listening to this from his bedroom Sushant was aghast, by the idea of this division of burden. A burden? With a paltry income he and Tapaswini never considered the children a burden! They led a frugal life so that the children would have good food and education. And today the sons were talking of the father as a burden to be shared fifty-fifty!
But Sushant had no choice. His back was broken, with all the medical expenses for himself and Tapaswini, who had to be treated in a private hospital. These days who goes to a government hospital with all its crowd, filth and the stench? Next morning he agreed to move with Nishant on the first of August, after spending the remaining eleven days of July in his house, reliving a few precious moments in the memory of his beloved Tapaswini. A 'To Let' notice was put up giving the contact numbers of the two sons. Sushant folded his hands and made his sons agree that he should be allowed to take Jim, the dog with him.
The first two days of Sushant's stay with the sons were spent in peace, but then the restrictions set in. No playing with the kids, lest it affect their studies, no more than two cups of tea per day, go slow on sugar and oily food, no hot water for bath, no meal for the dog, he had to roam around the street searching for food. After all, the old man contributed nothing to household expenses. What kind of job had he chosen to do which had no pension? Even a peon gets a pension! The renting of the house could not be finalised, a couple of prospects, rejected it for the small size of the rooms, and the electricity connections were considered treacherous. Some one offered only ten thousand rupees. And the 'old man' got lectures from his sons for his lack of foresight in not making the rooms big, not renovating the electricity and plumbing systems with whatever little savings he had. Sushant's life became a long catalogue of regrets and frustrations. He felt suffocated in the homes of his two sons.
And on the morning of thirtieth August Shalini called Sunita to inform her that the same evening the 'old man' will reach his elder son's place. The quota of fifteen days was over for Vikrant and Shalini. Sunita shouted from the other end, No, she can take the old man on first of the next month only. From first of the month to fifteenth, not a day more, not a day less. Shalini raised her voice. What joke is this? Sixteenth to thirtieth is fifteen days, Sunita can calculate if she wants to. Vicky and Shalu were not prepared to keep the old man even for one extra day. And the dog! One look at his emaciated body, she feels like puking!
They were shouting at each other over phone when Sushant left. He had somehow managed to keep enough money with him to pay for the taxi fare for thirty kilometres to his old home. That night he and Jim had a good sleep in their own home, Jim's excitement, joyous barks made up for all the pains of the last one month. The next day, Sushant left home at nine thirty to his old work place, bought a stamp paper, made a Will Deed for his house to go to the local orphanage after his death. He got the signature of two friends on the Will Deed and came home, spent a few hours going from room to room, touching every corner, the bed, the table, the old TV set, reliving bits and pieces of memory. He took out the sarees of Tapaswini, lovingly touched them one last time, copious tears flowing from his eyes in unending streams.
And then he came out, tethered Jim to his usual post, hoping against hope by tomorrow he would be rescued by a neighbour. He had one last look at the house and resolved, he would not look back at it again.
Sushant started walking on and on, he didn't know where to go, he just took the road that goes out of the town towards some little-known villages. Once he reached the open road, away from the crowd, he looked back at his old, beloved town where he had spent sixty six years of his life with all his hopes and dreams, sorrows and despair. Did he ever know the journey would end like this? Was this the dream he had dreamt with Tapaswini, when the sons were small, holding the fingers of their parents, struggling to walk the path of life?
And then he saw Jim, blood oozing out of a fresh cut in his neck, he must have snapped the chain and followed his master's scent, catching him finally and jumping with joy, pawing him, scratching him and crying his heart out. The cat which had disappeared two years back followed the dog. And the two pigeons, the shameless love birds who bred like there was no tomorrow, were hovering over his head, their cooing music echoing in the stillness of the fading day. They all stopped. The old man looked up. The clouds appeared to have stopped moving. The sky was silent, frozen in the bowl of the earth. The wind was still. He knew with his next step forward the spell would break, the sky would open up, clouds would burst , winds would blow and his solemn procession with the dog, the cat and the pigeons would march towards the horizon where the sky hugs the earth in a tight embrace. He knew with the next step forward it would be a final journey from where there would be no return.
He felt a tug at his pant and looked down. Jim was sitting, hunched, wagging his tail, it was the cat which had pulled at his pant. The town he had left behind was taking a pinkish hue welcoming the setting sun. Sushant knew, in this small town somewhere there lived a buyer who would buy his house for eighty lakh rupees. And from the interest earned out of that money he could find a small place to live in, with his Jim, his cat and the two shameless pigeons. He threw away the two strips of sleeping pills he had bought from the chemist's shop with his last twenty rupees note. He and his companions turned back and started walking towards home in a solemn procession, awaiting a starry night which was looming over the horizon.
THE PROCESSION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
(Readers were invited to write stories on the theme from this Drabble published in the Thirty first edition of LiteraryVibes dated August 30, 2019)
The man looked back, irritated, His dog was following him. So was the cat which had disappeared two years back. How is he here? The two pigeons hovering over him appear to be the ones he had driven away from their nest in the terrace last year. They all stopped. The man looked up. The clouds had stopped moving. The sky was silent, frozen in the bowl of the earth. The wind was still. He knew with his next step the spell will break, the sky will open up, clouds will burst, winds will blow and the solemn procession of the man, the dog, the cat and the pigeons will silently march towards the horizon where the sky hugs it in a tight embrace
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.
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