Literary Vibes - Edition XXXVIII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Thirty eighth edition of LiteraryVibes.
Like the rest of the country I am on a high at the singularly bright piece of news about Prof. Abhijeet Banerjee getting the Nobel Prize. I share the euphoria particularly because he, his wife Prof. Esther Duflo and Prof. Michael Kramer are not typical arm chair theoreticians. They have experimented with ideas and tried them out in the field, yielding far-reaching results of positive change. Many institutions all over the world have benefitted by their practical approach.
I was lucky to be participating in a Seminar on the afternoon of Sunday, the thirteenth, when the news broke out all over the media. Among the participants was a class mate of ours, Prof. Satya Prasanna Das from the United States, who is a personal friend of Dr. Bannerjee for many decades. Satya says, apart from their dazzling brilliance, the Nobel couple impresses everyone by their sheer humbleness and friendliness. Whoever comes in contact with them becomes their friend. Satya told us a few instances of their visit to India where they made friends by the dozens. This is what greatness is made of! Such a sweet departure from some of the snooty, snobbish intellectuals one often comes across in some gatherings! Hats off to the relatively young couple! LiteraryVibes wishes tons of good work from them in future to bring joy to millions of people across the globe.
In today's edition we are happy to welcome Mr. Ishwar Pati, a retired Banker prolific in his story telling. He writes with a lucidity which is the envy of every writer. Today I am also happy to present another brilliant piece of reminiscence of Cuttack, my beloved city, by Mr. Debjit Rath. His Meories of Cuttack - My Malgudi Days will certainly bring smiles to the readers and ring a bell of nostalgia.
Today's edition is crisp and sweet! Hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed compiling it. Cheers!
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With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THREE APHRODITES
Prabhanjan Kumar Mishra
MISTRESS
Shelve the work-dinner for tomorrow,
dearie, and let’s postpone
buying of the boss’s birthday gift.
Before we call it a day
don’t bring up
the L&T Power Project file.
I insist, we have a quickie, baby,
here on the sofa, blessed upon by
Bapu’s benign smiles, inspired by
‘The Story of My Experiments with Truth’
on the shelf, and intrigued by the mystique
of Mona Lisa smiling from the wall.
WIFE
You need a little airing, honey,
a spin through a mall or two,
and dinner at Rajdhani or Thackers,
and on our way home
some nice shoes and roses;
may be chocolates and pastries
to outlast your sweet tooth
until you stir out of the house again.
From you to you
has been my pilgrimage,
through your rapids and Pacific.
Give panacea to this penitent hubby.
MUSE
When do you allow me to enter
your shrine, Rageshwari?
Your world
of colons and commas,
parentheses and hyphens,
the syllables that bleed
from your fingertips?
Words riot, phrases roll,
and lines wiggle,
heaving my world
to kaleidoscopic colours,?
dreams redolent with rhythms.
THE LORD’S LAMENT
Prabhnajan Kumar Mishra
Lanes of Puri
blister my soles with hot sand.
The town’s serene soul
bellows in my ears
distant bugles of agony. In tears,
Laxmi would be lying in bed
darkened by her gloom,
cluttered with the shards of our last quarrel –
broken lamps,
smashed tumblers,
scattered dice
of our last game, and other tidbits;
irked by the annoying staccato
of figurines carved on temple walls
making rapturous love endlessly
to their insatiable consorts.
Baldev, my big brother, is missing.
Prone to hunger, he would be
tearing his hair in another lane.
Now he would be obliged
to taste his own ‘foot in mouth’,
his desiccated sense of sarcasm;
much married, but away from wife,
a champion of shadow-boxing.
In wifely matters,
he takes stands shifting
from Alfa to Omega,
leaving the intervening spaces
as no-man’s-land,
I, the victim
of his oddities,
his many a tongue-in-cheek.
Vyasa called me omnipotent,
(ha, ‘me’ the loser!)
in his Mahabharata;
cheekily chronicled me
as a wheeler-dealer in the war,
again called fairer than the fairest.
All skipped to record how weak
was I before my feisty Laxmi!
How would Vyasa know -
a husband, playing checkers
with his whimsical wife,
bully of a brother, breathing down
his neck, umpiring the game;
he has little chance to win,
Neither is any gambit possible,
nor a castling in bed.
Vyasa would be wiser by the folklore
of two repentant brothers
on knees at Laxmi’s feet
groveling for pardon, promising
to celebrate her antics.
He should see my Smart Alec brother
playing the jester in Laxmi’s court
just for two square meals.
FREEDOM STRUGGLE: THE INDIAN CONTEXT - ITS JOY AND ANXIETY
Prabhanjan Kumar Mishra
Waiting for a local train at the station, the train running late for Sunday’s mega-block for track repair, my ears pricked up to a conversation between two men sharing my bench; one, I gathered, was a young lecturer of political science, and the other, an MBA student. They appeared to have struck up a friendship on the platform itself.
The student was saying, “During my visit to Sabarmati Ashram of Bapu on his 150th birth anniversary, 2 October, 2019, I saw a bizarre thing. The counter selling Gandhi memorabilia, had prominently displayed handmade wooden pens with embossed pictures and a caption reading, ‘India’s Freedom Fighters’. But there was a major mistake. The pens had four pictures – Narendra Modi besides the Mahatma, Nehru, and Sardar Patel. I pointed to the odd man out; said - ‘he was not even born by 1947 when India got her independence’; but the Khadi-clad woman behind the counter gave me a helpless shrug.” The lecturer went dreamy, “Yes and no; I mean, Modi may not be the odd man out; he may not be an anachronism. Modi, our present Prime Minister, belongs to an organization, the RSS, that still struggles for India’s real freedom, i.e. founding a Hindu Rashtra, though that may sound weird to most ears. They rejoiced in 2014 when Modi took over as India’s Prime Minister because to them it was the daybreak of the real freedom, in plain words the beginning of a Hindu Rashtra, the real free India of their dreams.” The student got curious, “Sir, tell me all you know about our Freedom Struggle, it appears you know a lot.” The student’s humility impressed the friendly teacher who went into a teacherly soliloquy (I reproduce from memory as best as I can),
“Before the arrival of the British in our land, the present concept of India did not exist. A conglomeration of small and big kingdoms formed a subcontinent that would later be called the Indian subcontinent. Those kingdoms were ruled by sovereign rulers. Politically, they could be classified as monarchy. The British came as a trading company (the East India Company) and by deception founded a colony here, gobbling up kingdom after kingdom. They literally looted India like thugs and thieves. But one good thing resulted as a side-effect – the highly balkanized land got politically united and governed as a single colonized state called ‘British Colonial India’. It was an unwitting unification of the balkanized India under one British banner. The oppressors brought another welcome side-effect. Earlier, Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Rajput, Pathan, and Mughal rulers ruled big or small states of the peninsula, but despite their origin and faith, they had embraced their kingdoms as their homelands. But the British were an exception. They did not consider it as their homeland but as their colonized fiefdom, and exploited its resources ruthlessly. They treated Indians as their slaves. Indians slowly but surely developed reciprocal sentiments and held the British in equal disdain. They hated and disliked the foreigners.
By 1857, the cup of Indian tolerance brimmed over. ‘Sepoy Mutiny’, or ‘First War of Independence’ took place. Irrespective of caste, creed, and religion, Indians from various pockets of British India rose in armed revolt against the excesses of British rule. They wanted to snatch the power from the British, drive them out, and enthrone an Indian king, the last of the great Mughal monarchs, Bahadur Shah Zafar, as their ruler. It wouldn’t be out of place to recall a few unforgettable heroes of the great mutiny for their sacrifices, and valour like Mangal Pandey, Rani Laxmi Bai of Jhansi, Nana Sahib, Tantya Tope, Bakht Khan, Chakhi Khuntia and others. But the rebellion failed as the better organized British snatched victory from the jaws of defeat by getting the army support from the Punjab States. The ferocious Sikh soldiers defeated the rebellious Indians. It would sound odd to hear that the Sikhs, who have always prided themselves on their patriotism, had no sympathy for Indian mutineers. The Indian Rajput rulers, Gujarat, Maratha, and Bengal area also had stood by the British. Neither the Sikhs, nor the Rajputs could be blamed, because the concept of Pan-Indian nationalism had not yet been conceived.
Though the British crushed the revolt ruthlessly, killing or deporting most of the participants, yet they couldn not sanitize the air of a virus that was spreading a pandemic fever, the fever of self-rule and a pan-Indian spirit. People of the Indian subcontinent started dreaming of a future when they would rule themselves. The concept struck stronger roots when after the 1857 rebellion, the British Queen Victoria, took over the control of India’s administration in 1858 from the East India Company; and with her famous proclamation of 1858 endowed Indians with equal rights and status allowed to other British subjects. Rich Indians thereafter were emboldened to send their children abroad for higher studies, as well as for playing cricket and polo. They returned loaded with happy tidings about inventions, discoveries, new political thoughts, philosophies, and information about the other peoples on our globe. India was shaping up as the homeland of Indians, a pluralistic cluster of peoples from various castes, creeds, origins, and religions under a banner of Indian Nationhood, the air resonating with the birth-cry of Nationalism.
Colossal figures like Tilak, Gokhale, Gandhi, Jawaharlal, Sardar Patel, Lala Lajpat Rai, Rabindranath Tagore, Abul Kalam Azad, Bhagat Singh, Bhimrao Ambedkar, Arobindo, Netaji Subhas, and many others walked on Indian soil in the later period. They each fought valiantly with the British with their own devices. This was the second and the longest phase of the Freedom Struggle in the Indian context, starting in 1885 with the foundation of the Indian National Congress and ending in India’s independence in 1947.
Most of these heroes fought in ill-organized groups with little homework. Valiant Bhagat Singh fought as a member of a minusculeunderground armed group of dedicated patriots, but their violent activities were easily suppressed by the mighty British machination. Arobindo tried something similar, but got disillusioned soon and sought asylum in Pondicherry, a French enclave at that time. Beloved Netaji in an exceptional show of courage raised the Azad Hind Fauj with the help of Japan to defeat the British army. His efforts were still-born as he was killed in an air-crash, and then his mentor Japan surrendered before the British and their allies after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic disasters. Poet and Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore did his bit along with other great writers of the time to spread the awareness of the spirit of self-rule. His soul-exhorting patriotic song ‘Jana Gana Mana Adhinayaka…’ was later adopted as free India’s National Anthem.
Gandhi, however, succeeded, fighting at the head of Congress, and giving Indians their self-rule in 1947. He organized a mass movement of non-cooperation based on non-violence, truth, righteousness, courage, and humanity. The British government got tired of suppressing millions of nonviolent freedom fighters. The bloodshed by their police nauseated the foreign rulers. They packed and left India in 1947. Indians got their political freedom, self-rule. Beloved Bapu was shot and killed by a deranged man, Nathuram, a former RSS member, who hated Gandhi’s secular India.
Then slowly and surely another struggle started to take shape in the minds of many Indians who loved their country – a struggle for AZADI (freedom) from poverty, illiteracy, female backwardness, corruption, communalism, caste system, untouchability, fanaticism, blind beliefs, and other evils that bound the society in regressive chains. A few examples from the social scenario may explain the struggle smouldering in Indian hearts. A commercial movie ‘Rang De Basanti’ (the title was from the patriotic song that Bhagat Singh was said to have sung when taken to the gallows. He sang it in a celebratory mood, meaning ‘O Mother, Dye My Robe the Colour of Spring’ while dying for Mother India), was released in 2006; showed four bright students exposing corruption in the government, and getting hounded and killed like terrorists and antinationals. The movie played to full galleries, but hardly taught anything to our leaders...."
He probably had a lot more to say, but the train was announced. All stood up and got ready for the usual Mumbai scuffle to enter the overcrowded local.
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
FORGIVENESS (KSHAMAA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Making excuses,
asking forgiveness,
keep increasing
these days –
a guilty boat,
the repentant river, and
inauspiciously aligned stars;
all come with sorry faces!
With the penitent sun,
the dark night joins the procession;
the pontificating self-pride
follows suit with lame excuses.
Walking along footsteps
of the unforgiving world,
right kind of words may save
the situation, help me dodge
the ever increasing supplicants;
using the tongue to advantage
may save my soul from the guilt
of my inability to forgive all.
But I fear, it may convert me
into a cruel wordsmith
carving a jungle of
Sweet-sounding savage words.
THE ECLIPSE (GRAHANA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
There is little time
to hatch elaborate excuses,
only immediate patchworks
may save our morning
from going to the dogs
before the scenario changes.
Let doubts be swathed
in a facade of conviction,
anger be masked
with benign postures,
grudges be pushed under
the carpet of forgiveness.
Smiles can be pasted
on threatening snarls;
like any other newlyweds
we engage ourselves
in silly cooing and billing,
other coy indulgences.
If challenged, we swear on
the Sun God, make lame excuses,
“Believe us, everything
was just fine last night,
except the moon
had undergone an eclipse.”
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)”
STRICTLY FOR THE BIRDS
Ms. Geetha Nair G
Set me free.
I cared... .
Dared
Bared
Was ensnared -
Happy prisoner.
Now
Barred
Scarred
Caged
Aged
I peck your bits of chaff and grain
Again and again.
Such pain
In vain.
Set me free !
You have opened the door?
I am hurt to the core.
Don't do that to me !
Don't set me free.
What if I said, set me free?
Never take a bird
At her word.
FLOODS
Ms. Geetha Nair G
Once in two years or so, when vacation time came around, they would travel down from the faraway hill station where Preetha’s father had his business, to spend two happy months in her grandmother’s house. The house itself was enchanting. A huge, two-storied European-style bungalow, rearing high on a mound, with a sweeping view of the benign Periyar, the most famous river in Kerala. Her grandfather had had it built when he was quite a young man, serving in the Travancore police. He had made the house a blend of traditional and European- though there were bay windows and a portico in front, the interiors had wooden rooms and a “nadu muttam”; a central courtyard with a little lotus pond. A wooden verandah ran the length of the sides of the first floor. Perhaps he had built it that way to symbolise the blend of the two disparate cultures that later colonial years had gifted his country Her grandfather had spent barely two years of retired life before a heart attack claimed him. His wife had continued staying in the vast house with a small army of domestic staff.
Her grandmother would sit after her bath every morning on the swing-cot, moving gently to and fro. Her three-stranded gold chain would gleam against her ivory neck and breast as the swing-cot moved.The air in the wooden room with the red floor would be redolent with the scent of turmeric and sandalwood. Soon the maid would bring in the smoking frankincense to dry the matriarch’s hair. The fumes from the little vessel would then overpower the other scents. The child loved to sit in her grandmother’s room. She would perch gingerly on the moving cot and the old lady would put an arm around her. She would look up in awe at her grandmother’s earlobes which touched her shoulders like huge” U”s,in which heavy gold pendants and studs were fixed. “Doesn’t it hurt,?” she would ask. By way of reply the old lady would smilingly tell her granddaughter to pull the dangling earlobes. But the child could never bring herself to do that. Instead, she would plead for another story. Not so much stories as anecdotes about her ancestors and about by-gone days.
Today the old lady was in a good mood. “ I have not told you about the great floods of 1099. Your mother knows it well; I told her when she was old enough to understand it. Now it is your turn. I was a young woman then…”
“But that was centuries ago, Grandmother!” exclaimed the child who had been counting mentally. The old lady chuckled. “Do you think I am a witch that I am still alive after centuries?” She explained to her that the older generation still kept to the Malayalam calendar, the Kollam Era, which was a good ten centuries behind the one the child and the whole of modern India followed. “So, which year is it now?” asked the English-medium child in wonder. “To me, it is 1045; to you 1969. So,nearly half a century ago, when I was 20 or 21 and the mother of 4 children, there came a terrible flood in the monsoon month. It was the worst that people in living history had seen… .
As the floodgates of the old lady’s memory opened, the terrible disaster of 1099 unrolled vividly like a violent movie before the child’s mind’s eye.
Their ancestral home was almost on the banks of the Periyar; it was a solid and spacious mansion of wood and stone. Beyond it in those days wound the road to the tiny town of Aluva . On either side of it for nearly a mile stretched their green fields of paddy. Their labourers lived in the little houses that clustered here and there along the road. The monsoon of 1099 was a very heavy one. All the 44 rivers of Kerala were in spate. By mid-July, it felt as if the heavens had burst.The Periyar had flooded following the opening of the sluice gates of the Mullaperiyar Dam. Their road was transformed into a river mingling with the overflowing water bodies... paddy fields were innundated… carcasses of dogs, goats and cows floated everywhere…people ran seeking refuge from death, clutching their children, weeping… .The land was drowned in tears. Their labourers and retainers whose houses were ruined or submerged were all accommodated in the servants’ quarters of the big house.
“Your mother was about six years old then; she had a wonderful time playing with the children. They were low-caste; but all such barriers had come down temporarily. There were all sorts…”
“Grandmother,” interrupted the child, “Is that why their houses collapsed ?”
The old lady was thrown off-track by the question.
“What do you mean?” she asked in puzzlement.
“Because their houses were low cost ones”, explained the child.
The old lady threw back her head and laughed till the swing went berserk and the gold beads on her bosom twinkled erratically.
Preetha’s father was a flourishing builder and low-cost houses were part of everyday talk. Caste she had barely heard of, living as they did in a remote town, isolated from their community.
That was Preetha’s introduction to the caste system.
Her grandmother explained to her that caste was the reason she had forbidden Preetha to play with Velu’s son. The little girl had wondered whether he had some contagious disease… .Now that she knew why, Preetha’s mind was made up.”I shall not play with Ravi ; don’t worry, Grandmother,” she said.
All those children in the Enid Blytons she devoured were truthful. But they often played with truth to suit their needs. If Julian declared that he had not been to the beach that morning, it was the truth. He would conceal the fact that he had gone right up to the little cliff that marked the beginning of the beach. If Daisy was asked if she had eaten the forbidden ice-cream from the local shop, she would truthfully say she hadn’t. She had, however, eaten several scoopsof similar stuff in the shop in the next village .So, Preetha decided to take a leaf out of the books she loved so much and to emulate her white role models.
Definitely, Preetha never did play with Ravi. But she went out at his distant whistle and he taught her to climb trees and to catch the little fish that gleamed in the stream. In return, she spoke in English to him. He wanted to improve his English. Ravi was an ambitious boy who wanted to study well and have a super career. Not for him the blacksmith’s forge which had been the life and livelihood of his father and grandfather.
This wasn’t play, Preetha convinced herself. This was the exchange of useful skills.
But the most gripping part of Grandmother’s story was still to come.
“I was pregnant. My pains started towards nightfall. Someone brought the midwife in a canoe to this verandah-yes, this very verandah; the water had reached the first floor! There was no other way except swimming. I heard about it much later, of course. I was in the inner room, wild with pain.”
Preetha could see it all- the little boat battling the current created by the overflowing river, the bobbing lights, the cries…
“You didn’t go to the hospital?” Preetha asked in wonder. Her mother was a dedicated doctor who worked in a hospital in Ooty; Preetha knew all about deliveries and babies.
“No upper caste ladies did, in those days. Nowadays, hmm. Look at your mother, working daily in some filthy hospital… All my babies were delivered at home; my parent’s home for the first three and this, my home, for the rest. Right here, in that room.” The old lady pointed a proud finger at the inner room.
“It was a girl. My youngest, though I did not know that then. Your grandfather named her Jalaja- lotus; she who was born from water; he had an odd sense of humor.” The old lady smiled wryly.
The child visualised stylish Jalaja Chitta from Bombay, always made up and perfumed, as a wailing baby in an island-house… .
Preetha’s father passed away soon after she enrolled for the MBBS course at Madras Medical College. Early exposure to the medical profession had influenced her choice of profession. A few years later, her mother gave up her work in Ooty and settled in the Aluva house with her still-strong mother. Preetha was in her final year MBBS at the time. Her grandmother wanted to see her married but her efforts failed against the combined onslaughts of her daughter and grandchild. Preetha went on to complete her post graduation and found suitable employment in a hospital in Mumbai.
In 1984, in1179, the Matriarch passed away peacefully one calm night. She had just completed a hundred years. Preetha rushed down from Mumbai where she worked, to pay her last respects to the indomitable, beloved lady. The scent of agarbathis filled the quiet room.“Grandmother,” she whispered to the lifeless body, “I love you; I always did. I couldn’t bear to hurt you and I didn’t, I am glad I didn’t.” She kissed the cold, beautiful face for the last time.
Preetha’s mother, who had inherited the house, continued to stay there. The retinue of servants had dwindled to two faithful retainers. She had a roaring practice; she charged nothing.
The Periyar flowed on, bringing memories of the dreaming Sahyadri to the waiting sea while Left and Right continued their regular five-year see-saw game.The handsome pilot piloted the telecom revolution. STD booths sprung up next to the calm temples, churches and mosques that dotted the banks of the Periyar and then collapsed as the mobile revolution stormed in. The calm places of worship began to lose their calm. There were ominous shadows slowly darkening God’s own country; there were murmurs and clashes in His own name.
The once-green paddy fields burned bare and brown under the sun.There were no labourers to labour. They had gone Gulfwards or migrated to the big cities.Those that remained looked down on manual labour. The old retainers retained their bits of land. Preetha’s mother sold most of the dry fields and enlarged and modernised the small hospital.
Preetha got married in 1984, just two months after her grandmother passed away. Her only child, a daughter, was born a year later. She was named Gouri, after the vanished Matriarch. And a Gouri she was, glowing golden as the old lady would have wished; not Shiva-dark like the father. Preetha had come to her mother for the delivery. Her husband, the busy doctor who was also her colleague in Mumbai, came to peep at his daughter, then rushed back. He was not at ease in his wife’s home. He was constantly aware of his mother-in-law’s dislike and disapproval.
The years flowed by,as did the Periyar
July 2018.
Another monsoon. Heavier than usual. And then, suddenly, it was terror. Rain water and dammed water filled the hapless land. Preetha had come on a holiday to Aluva; her husband and daughter were in Mumbai. She remembered her grandmother’s account of the Great Flood of 1099. After more than ninety years, at the close of 1193, it was happening again.Floods overpowered Kerala. The Periyar had risen to several feet. Before the waters climbed to the verandah, Preetha and her mother moved to a room in the hospital.
Landslides. Innundation of roads and houses.Snapping of power lines. Floating bodies of man and beast.The wails of the terrified, the hungry, the ill. Overflowing, stinking refugee camps. Contagion.
The hospital was full. Preetha and her mother were working almost round the clock. Preetha ‘s husband arrived, braving flooded roads and railway lines; Nedumbassery Airport was closed, of course. The trio of doctors stepped up their efforts. Working cheek by jowl, going often by country boat to distant refugee camps, they barely slept or ate. Days turned into weeks.
Finally the rains trickled to a stop. The floods receded. The effort had taken its toll on Preetha”s ageing mother. She was close to collapse.They had moved back to the house. The first floor was still inhabitable.She lay in bed. Her daughter and son-in-law stood on either side of her. She grasped their hands in hers and said to her son-in-law, “I am grateful to God for the gift he gave me. Forgive me, Ravi, for all the years of narrow mindedness and hostility. This flood has cleaned my vision.” He reached down and she embraced him with affectionate graitude.
Preetha wondered how her grandmother would have viewed this scene. That dark brat, the son of Velu, the blacksmith,now a member of her family, being thanked and embraced by her daughter!
Sun-starts burst and sparkled on the Periyar as it flowed on.
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
REFLECTIONS
Sreekumar K
Saranya went around the house and checked all the doors and windows. They were pretty old and might not be able to withstand much force if someone tried to break in. With not another living soul in the house now, she was feeling very uneasy.
For days, riots stalked up and down the streets around the block where she lived. People danced with blood-stained swords, shouted slogans and searched houses and shops to kill and loot. Every time she looked out the window there were a few new dead bodies adding to the week-old rotting ones. She wondered where the new hapless souls had appeared from and who was hacking them to death without making a single mistake. If it moved, it got killed.
She missed her evening serials so much. They used to give her some moments of relief. There were several she was watching. When the hero was winning in one, the villain was scoring in another. So, there was a certain amount of catharsis and poetic justice in every one of them.
That thought took her back to her college days. Macbeth and The Scarlet Letter were her favourites. Later, when she read that one’s favourite Shakespearean play revealed a lot about one’s psyche, she tried to fall in love with one of the comedies, one after the other, with no success at all. Finally, she marked The Merchant of Venice as her favourite, though she secretly loved Shylock more than Portia.
She heard someone screaming and running down the street. Switching off the lights, she moved to the window. From the window, before looking down into the gloomy street, she looked back at the knife and made sure it was where she had left it. She wondered whether she should pick it up and hold it.
Anyone could come in at any moment. Either politely requesting a glass of water or breaking open the door demanding her life or her money or her body. Whatever their motive was, she was sure to be in deep trouble. She was hardly prepared for that.
The thought scared her. A cold wind blew in through the open window and gave her goosebumps all over. She pulled together the collar of her dress and crossed her arms across her chest. She looked down into the street and witnessed one more person hacked to death. There were more than three assailants this time.
By now, she knew that it was not easy to kill someone. People don’t fall off like flies as they show in movies and serials. Everyone has their share of struggles in life. They either go through it taking a long time and then die someday or take a few minutes before their imminent death and display all that struggle in a matter of ten or twenty minutes. Life is nothing but struggles anyway.
She looked at the TV. She had not turned it on for a couple of days now. The last time she watched the news, the death toll was 3000. Going by the fact that the government was on the side of the rioters, now it would be well over 4000 or 5000. Even the newsreaders would have lost their interest now and might be making it sound like a weather report, just a bad one.
For the last three days, there was a nauseating stench everywhere. First, she thought it was something rotting in her own house. She checked the kitchen and threw away some leftover food down the balcony. She was too afraid to go down to the street with it though not a living soul was left down there anyway.
Every time a wisp of smoke from a shop or something getting burned down rose up from some street corner, she imagined that it was the foul stench from some dead body rotting in there. The stench was by now so intense that one expected to see it in a tangible form and not just a sensation. If it happened at night, and if there was creamy moonlight filtering through it, it looked like a soul rising up to the heavens. Then she would unknowingly cross herself.
She wondered whether there was any point in being religious any more. God himself would have been butchered by people a long time ago. Evil was the rule of the day. If you had a problem, you fixed it without giving it much thought. But religion had its own advantages, at least for a few. Could such a thing that serves only few could be called religion? God was a convenient thing people invented to excuse themselves from being humane. Only God could be humane. What a paradox!
Three or four times, every day, some religious leaders with their political friends paraded up and down the street perched on jeeps and motorbikes. They either wove through the dead bodies strewn in the streets or simply ran over them.
She could never understand politics. People killing others for the sake of others. That was what politics meant to her. She was not far from the truth. Those who were butchering one day got butchered the next day. The streets were just like a stage where the eternal Karma cycle went round and round. She smiled at the thought that it would have made a little more sense if they killed for personal gains. Then, at least, one wouldn’t look stupid in the end.
She had gotten used to the stench now. It had become so intense she was not sure whether it was coming in from the street or going out into the street from her apartment. There was no way of saying whether things were going this way or that. Was it nights brightening up to be days or the other way?
She felt very tired. All that work the whole day had broken her back. Her mind had gone blunt like an overused knife. She looked in the fridge for a drink. She was happy to find a half-empty bottle.
It had the colour of clotted blood but was as thin as tears. Her habit made her spill a few drops for those who were not giving her company.
She thought she heard someone stirring within her house. She went around and made sure there was no living soul inside. She stopped at the door and listened carefully, holding her breath. She could hear the footsteps of someone going away. She heaved a sigh.
She inched back to the dining table, bent down and took up the knife.
She wiped its handle clean.
She groped her way back in the dim light and reached near the window. She opened the window very slowly and threw down the knife. Watched while it landed exactly where she wanted it to fall.
Near the iron gate. Perfect.
She turned around, walked over or around the six bodies of her family members and managed to squeeze herself into the bedroom.
Closing the bedroom door and bolting it from inside, she dialed an emergency number on her mobile.
Then she screamed into it as loud as she could.
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.
A NIGHT AT ELISINORE
Bibhu Padhi
While you are still here,
you should watch the midnight awakenings
to new knowledge. I’m sure, they won’t
harm you. After all, you are not
my cousin or my brother.
Horatio? Oh yes, Horatio. He has
long been dead; but sometimes, during
the uneasy quiet of the night,
he does appear with that same
doubting smile he carried
when it was all so different.
I have sent Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
to another land, together with
Polonius and his tribe.
Ophelia’s husband has taken up my case,
but then you know how difficult it is
to win against a king!
So these days I just sit
at these battlements, losing the evenings
to the moon and the stars, waiting
for the final judgment, sharpening memory
to keep up the belief that things
are no longer what they used to be.
But frankly, with you here, the night
raises very different questions.
Friend, run your fingers
over this undying body
that wouldn’t listen
to my own commands.
Let your fingers know
where the old and tired wishes reside.
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
THE DANCE IS OVER
(KATHAA TA SARICHI)
Runu Mohanty
(Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)
Nothing is left
unsaid or undone,
the dance is over.
Let silence prevail
wishing well
for each other.
Uncanny things happen –
beads break loose
from their string’s hold; strewn,
they exhibit a sadist’s lust
for the stormy dark,
over the pristine moonshine.
My choking entrails
feel pulled out, exposed;
dreams melt away
to hide in desolate nights;
a pervading isolation
rules the roost..
Even rains visit
with lost enthusiasm,
the flames go out
without giving the wind
to do its bit, I stand holding
the string, shorn of its kite.
Should we discuss
why the sun hots up,
or why our island
goes under a watery grave?
Let me rather savour
my bitter silence.
Days pass by, a frigid time.
Is this calm a messenger
of the advancing storm?
Only sleep’s soporific retreat
doesn’t bother me,
does not needle my silences.
In fact, you being out of sight,
are out of my mind;
allow me my solitude,
as I have let you have yours;
let’s be as good as
dead for each other.
Runu Mohanty is a young voice in Odia literature, her poems dwell in a land of love, loss, longing, and pangs of separation; a meandering in this worldwide landscape carrying various nuances on her frail shoulders. She has published three collections of her poems; appeared in various reputed journals and dailies like Jhankar, Istahar, Sambad, Chandrabhaga, Adhunik, Mahuri, Kadambini etc. She has also published her confessional biography. She has won awards for her poetic contribution to Odia literature.
SAYING CHEESE
Dilip Mohapatra
I always wondered
why in almost all my photos
I find my smiles missing and
playing truant to the camera.
May be while in the cradle
someone shook the rattle
to draw my attention and
someone made faces while
making strange clucking sounds
with his tongue and his palate to incite
that toothless
and priceless curve on my tiny lips
but as the flash goes off
all he gets is an inverted smile
for unknown to him
my diapers have gone weightier
and wetter.
And then when the teacher
herds us to the school quadrangle
and lines us up in cascades
for creating the first ever
memorabilia on celluloid
we wait expectantly for the boogeyman
who hides behind a huge contraption
balanced on a tripod
under a black cloak and keeps
adjusting the protruding lens
and at the final moment
barks the command to be steady and
tells us to look into the lens to see the
birds that may fly out
and most of us focus on it hard
with eyes agape in wonder
but the birds never come
and our expressions invariably glum.
Then comes the
proverbial post wedding photo
in the confines of a local studio
that uses a romantic backdrop
with a painted window with a bough
of pink and red bougainvillea
running from top right corner
to the bottom left corner diagonally
and on one side a decorative pillar
with a porcelain vase
and a bouquet of gaudy plastic flowers.
The photographer switches on
the flood lights under the white umbrellas
and takes position to begin his count down
tells you to tilt your head
a bit towards your bride and then
almost hops to you in quick steps
and nudges your bride's chin
to lift it up a bit
much to your chagrin
and finally just before clicking the shutter
closes his left eye
and you think it was a wink
and then surprisingly your smile vanishes.
Now that the latest fad is posing for a selfie
I learn the trick from my daughter
to get the right angle
and choose the right background
and stretch my hand as far as it would go
and rotate it in small arcs to and fro
like the turret of a gun
trying to seek the target and finally lock on
and just before I click
even though I practice
several versions of my smile
cannot really decide which one to freeze
a toothy one or a suggestive one
with just a semblance
and in my indecisiveness and
self consciousness the
smile goes missing as ever.
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.
WEAVES OF TIME
Sangeeta Gupta
III
In this post-noon solitude
a playful sun
kisses your eyes
but softly so
and then instead
of weaving dreams
you weave silence
The inner fire is ready
as though to explode
like a playful butterfly
The rebel is reborn
as if looking for a new horizon to grow in—for
an awareness near total,
for not else
but reconnect
to re-bond
to be sheerly,
so you are
alive each moment
alive here and now
and for as long
as ever is.
IV
Love is so abstract
it is of no guaranteed definition
Each one defines it differently
You can feel
its there somewhere
between earth and space
may be all over
words fail
it can be understood
only in the completest of silence
indeed it is hid in the innermost
core of an elusive existence
Touch core
and it you will know.
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.
A TRIP TO KASHMIR:PARADISE ON EARTH
Gourang Charan Roul
In order to get a respite from the oppressive summer heat wave, I escaped to the cool environs of Kashmir valley, along with my soul mates, Sarada Prasad Mishra and Sarat Kumar Choudhury with spouses in tow, in the first week of June. We took the Air India flight from Bhubaneswar to Srinagar via I.G.I Airport, Delhi and arrived at the Srinagar airport in the afternoon. As the aeroplane circled for landing at Srinagar Airport, we were awestruck, peeping through the window, by the captivating and scenic beauty of the valley surrounded by the Himalayan and Pir Panjal mountain ranges.
Our tour operator had arranged a luxurious cab to pick us up from the air port to our holiday resort in Dal gate area. The cab driver cum guide Abdul Hamid greeted us at the airport and drove us to our holiday resort –a modest and well furnished guest house, at a distance of 19 kms from the airport on the eastern fringe of Dal Lake. We were ceremonially welcomed with the welcome drink “Kehwa” (made with saffron, cinnamon, green cardamom, and sugar) by our tour operator, Tariq Hamid Wani and his cute little daughter Fatima. After settling down and freshening up, we headed for exploring the world famous Dal Lake, which had already cast an enchanting spell on all of us, as it came on our way to the resort located near Dal Lake. Dal Lake is Srinagar’s most distinctive landmark. The Lake is not a lifeless body of water, but is unique for the communities that have made it their home, from fishermen to houseboat owners. There are fields of lotus blossoms in parts of the lake, vegetable patches, shops, boat houses and even villages. The best way to explore the lake, and the sites on its shores, is by Shikara boat. Enchanted at the first sight as if the lake had cast a spell upon us, we could not resist the temptation to take a Shikara and cruise the interiors of Dal Lake to visit the Char Chinar-the floating shopping arcades, a rose garden, a floating post office and the beautiful Nehru Park, enjoying the Dal culture, beauty and hospitality of Kashmiri people. Perhaps a floating post office in a lake is a unique feature of Srinagar, rarely seen elsewhere in the world.
Rightly touted to be a paradise on earth, Kashmir has been providing serene and picturesque locations to many Bollywood blockbuster movies like An Milo Sajjana, Jab Jab Phool Khiley, Kashmir Ki Kali, Junglee, Kabhi Kabhi, Andhi, Bobby, Betab, Roja, Henna, Mission in Kashmir, 3 Idiots, Haider, Jabtak Hai Jaan, Bajarangi Bhai Jaan - the list is never ending . Most of the super hit movies have a deep relation with Kashmir and most of the romantic songs are picturised on location in Dal Lake. Kashmir is unarguably known as a Paradise on Earth, primarily for its captivating landscape, scenery and enchanting climate all through the year. The climate of Kashmir has been compared to that of Switzerland with its snow capped mountains and picturesque landscapes, and it attracts millions of people to visit Kashmir’s virgin beauty throughout the year to fulfill their much cherished adolescent dreams. The awestruck visitors compare the beauty of Kashmir to a glimpse of heaven and so Kashmir has been the No. 1 choice of travellers.
NEHRU PARK: This park in the middle of Dal lake is not a Mughal Garden, but a supplement, which was laid out in the post independence period. Located just below the Zabarawan mountain range and 100 meters from the main Boulevard, on a small island, it has been considered a vantage point to take a look at the Shiva temple on top of the Shankaracharya hills. We took a shikara to land in the park .The park being an ideal location, we enjoyed the splendid views of the Sankaracharya hills and the panoramic Dal Lake, sipping tea on the balcony of the restaurant.
SONAMARG: On the 2nd day of our arrival in Srinagar, we took an early breakfast and set out for a day of adventure and sightseeing. Our guide cum driver Hamid , an affable young Kashmiri, drove us through the lush green and picturesque valley, and it took us 2 hours to reach Sonamarg, famous for glaciers, trekking and pony riding. We hired ponies to reach the glacier Zero Point. Sonamarg which literally means ‘Meadows of Gold’, is a picturesque hill station in Kashmir valley. Situated at an altitude of 2800 meters and surrounded by majestic glaciers and dense alpine forests, the valley of Sonamarg looks highly captivating with its snow capped mountains. Sonamarg is an ideal holiday destination for nature lovers who can unwind amidst its scenery, and for adventure buffs who can indulge in pony riding to the Sonamarg glacier Zero Point. Much excited to reach the glacier, we ventured pony riding in a difficult terrain, on a treacherous mountain track, led by the horse owner. As soon as we started on ponies, it started raining. We braved the drizzle and rode on ponies a distance of 5 km to reach Zero Point. To our great relief the rain had subsided and we found some tea stalls in makeshift tents selling snacks, coffee and tea. After enjoying steaming cups of coffee and snacks, we engaged ourselves in sledging and sliding on the snow for some time. Sonamarg serves as a scenic haven for weary souls who want to unwind and rejuvenate themselves. After a soulful enjoyment in the lap of nature, we returned to Srinagar via Kheer Bhawani shrine in Tulla Mulla village.
KHEER BHAWANI: En route to Srinagar from Sonamarg, our guide cum cabdriver drove through Tulla Mulla village, a Hindu heritage site, The temple has been turned into a virtual fortress guarded by C.I.S.F, as the area is prone to civil unrest and sporadic violence. But in reality we didn’t mark any hostility in this small village and enjoyed our afternoon snack and tea in a restaurant. The temple of goddess Ragnya Devi is positioned in the middle of a spring which has been turned milky white as devotees offer ‘Kheer’ to the sacred spring as a traditional way of worshipping the goddess affectionately known as ‘Kheer Bhawani’. It is believed that the spring water magically changes color if any disaster is to occur in Kashmir. After paying our obeisance at the shrine we returned to our resort in the evening enjoying the captivating landscape on the way.
PAHALGAM: As per our itinerary, on the 3rd day our cab operator drove us to Pahalgam a distance of 90 km from Srinagar through the state highway lined with Kashmir Willow Bat manufacturing units, saffron cultivation fields and apple orchards. We arrived at Pahalgam - Kashmir’s premier resort; cool even during the height of summer in June. Pahalgam is situated at the confluence of the Sheshnag and Lidder streams. Pahalgam is ideally surrounded by many places of interest, the best being Betab Valley a panoramic and picturesque valley popularly called the Switzerland of India. A number of Bollywood movies were shot here from the early sixties to nineties. Most famous among them was “Betab” - a Sunny Deol, Amrita Singh starrer, before the rise of militancy. Hence the valley got its nickname- Betab valley. We scaled the upland mountainous road on pony, escorted by the pony owners, enjoying the adventurous and exciting experience to our utter satisfaction. Even the ladies could maneuver the intricacies of horse riding, instructed by the horse guide and we reached the picturesque and idyllic valley without any untoward incident. We were told that Chandanwari at an altitude of 2895 meters, 16km from Pahalgam is the starting point for the annual Amarnath Yatra in July. The Amarnath cave at a height of 3952 meters from sea level, houses an ice stalagmite in the shape of a natural Shivling which is worshipped by thousands of devotees after trekking the much hyped journey to the Shrine. We returned to our holiday resort in the evening.
GULMARG: On the morning of the 4th day, we took our sumptuous breakfast and started for Gulmarg, 56 km away from Srinagar. Pahalgam, Sonamarg and Gulmarg are regarded as the Golden Triangle in the Kashmir tourism jargon. The tourists feel something is missed, if they fail to visit any one of these three most picturesque sites in Kashmir. Gulmarg at a height of 2650 meters, is one of the premier hill resorts. The most attractive feature of Gulmarg is the Gondola cable ride to the upland meadow of Kongdori and beyond to the top of Apharwat range to a height of 14000 ft for a spectacular view of Himalayan snow-capped peaks in summer and for downhill skiing in winter. We immensely enjoyed the Gondola ride with much excitement, fun and frolic.
SHALIMAR BAGH: The most distinctive feature of Srinagar is the Mughal gardens –Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh with their terraced lawns, cascading fountains and bright flowerbeds, overlooking the panorama of Dal Lake and Zabrrwan in the backdrop. Shalimar Bagh was built by the Mughal Emperor Jahangir for his queen Nur Jahan, in 1619. This Mughal Garden, considered the high point of Mughal horticulture, is called the crown of Srinagar. We spent some quality time strolling on the sidewalk of artificial springs (Chashmashai:Royal Spring) flowing languidly through stone lined channels with a murmuring sound . There are a number of water fountains positioned in the water channel sprinkling water vapors in the air. Even though the garden has weathered 400 summers, still the garden looks as refreshing and enchanting as it was when described by the creator Jahangir in early 17th century AD. In the words of the lover- emperor who laid this captivatingly beautiful garden for his beautiful queen -
“Agar Firdaus bar roy-e Zamin ast;
Hamin ast-o, Hamin ast-o, Hamin ast-o.”
(If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.)
SRINAGAR: LOCAL SIGHTSEEING: On the 5th day of our stay in Srinagar we were taken by our guide for a local sight seeing tour. Srinagar, an ancient city dating back to the Mauryan period, is endowed with many historic buildings and heritage sites. Kalhana the great Kashmiri historian of 12th century AD has authored ‘Rajtarangini’ in Sanskrit- a historical chronicle of the Kings of Kashmir. According to Kalhana’s Rajtarangini -a king named Pravarasena II established a new capital Pravarpura . It has also been mentioned that a King named Ashoka had earlier established a town called ‘Srinagari' in the 3rd century B.C. Based on topographical details, Pravarpura appears to be same as the modern city of Srinagar. According to the eminent historian, V. A. Smith, the original name of the ‘old town’ Srinagari was transferred to the ‘new town’ Srinagar. Since that time, Srinagar has been attracting visitors and nature lovers from all over the world to its fabled valleys. We started with a visit to the Shankaracharya temple, one of the most prominent landmarks of Srinagar. The temple is built on a high octagonal plinth, on the hill known as Takht-i-Sulaiman. The hill top leading to the Shiva temple is under the cover of C.I.S.F and we had to pass through security checks. Visitors with heart problems are advised not to take the risk of ascending the steep steps to the shrine. We enjoyed the scenic beauty of Dal Lake from the vantage points of the Shankaracharya hill top. This historic site dates back to 250 BC, in Mauryan period, and is associated with the Adishankaracharya who visited Kashmir in early 9th century, 1200 years ago.
After visiting Shankaracharya temple, we drove to the ancient and most prestigious Hazratbal Mosque situated on the western shores of Dal Lake. This mosque is very important for the Muslims because it houses a hair of Prophet Mohammed. Then we visited the old city area which has a quaint medieval charm of its own and a strong tradition of handicrafts. Moving through the labyrinthine alleyways, we could see gaily-embroidered fabric - raw material for exquisite carpets and shawls, hanging out to dry from top-floor windows of houses. We purchased some dry fruits and saffron at reasonable rates compared to our Bhubaneswar price. While we were in a woollen garment shop, selecting some shawls, the shopkeeper could recognize our Odia dialect and happily informed us that they used to visit Bhubaneswar every year to participate in the annual Fairs like – ‘Sisira Sarasa’ and ‘Handloom Garment Expo’ usually held in the winter months in the Unit-3 exhibition ground to trade their handicrafts and woolen garments. We felt comfortable with them and exchanged some pleasantries.
The last leg of our visit to the old city was a visit to the 14th century Jama Masjid, in the old city. Jama Masjid is a historic building of mammoth proportions, built in the Indo-Saracenic tradition around a courtyard and supported by 370 very long wooden pillars made of Deodar trees. The structure of Jama Masjid bears some similarities to that of Buddhist Pagodas. Located in the downtown central zone in the old city area, having a traditional Char Bagh style of architecture with a tank in the centre, originally built by Sultan Sikandar in between 1394-1402 and renovated by Maharaja Pratap Singh (1885-1925), this Mosque is an ideal place for the religious-political activities of the Muslims who throng in thousands every Friday to offer prayer. We were conducted inside the mosque by the guide and viewed in utter amazement the high roofed, thick carpeted huge prayer hall. The guide informed us that 33,333 people can conduct their Friday prayer in a single sitting. While coming back to the warmth and comforts of our guest house nicely managed by Tariq Hamid Wani, we drove around the Lal Chowk area of the old city and bid adieu to the most beautiful tourist destination of the World. The Kashmiris are extremely welcoming and very hospitable to the tourist. Tourism is one of the major sources of income for them. Our guest house proprietor Tariq Hamid Wani, touched our hearts when we came to know that, his old father used to offer 5 time prayers daily in the Mosque, for our safety and suitable weather to facilitate a pleasant and tension free trip. We were overwhelmed by the hospitality and goodwill gesture of the veteran hotelier, who is in the tourism business for generations. Hospitality, sweetened with empathy, is the key to successful tourism.
MEMORIES OF CUTTACK - MY MALGUDI DAYS
Debjit Rath
We arrived in Cuttack in 1961 on my father’s transfer from Bhubaneswar, on his promotion as Superintending Engineer. It was like many of the earlier movements for us from one part of the state of Odisha to the other. My mother bore the brunt of it, setting up the house, the kitchen and creating the conveniences for all members, while we, the four siblings carved out their own space. We also looked forward to the repetition of the same story – new school, new neighbourhood, new friends, new teachers and a new culture, since every region of the state is known for its variation. Cuttack, of course, is known to be distinct, with its thousand years of history. It has witnessed an interesting fusion of culture and tradition. It has remained as the nerve centre for the region for centuries till the Post independence era, when Bhubaneswar was picked to be the new capital. The influence of Islamic as well as Christian era is amalgamated with the Odia roots that flourished from ancient times.
On our arrival as immigrants to this ancient city we entered a huge bungalow, the official residence allotted to my father. Flanked by the Circuit House on the left and the Post and Telegraph Office to the right, the Bungalow had huge open space and courtyards surrounding it. Within the compound there were two Tennis Courts and a pond. Towards right and the left there was a big field for growing vegetables. The Backyard was cemented and hosed our dogs and had open space for washing cloths and a small kitchen garden. There were five bedrooms – each of around 18 feet in width and 18 feet in length. There were couple of ante rooms besides a long covered corridor, puja room, store room and Kitchen. It was a mini palace right at the heart of Cuttack. At the entry gate there were two lofty Mango trees on both sides. The pathway from gate straight came up to the front Veranda.
Entry to the bungalow was like an entry to a new life, an introduction to the colonial legacy. It was also an introduction to the cultural diversity – the local dialect, the sahi living, the khattis et al. Across the main road was an old settlement – Machhua Bazaar. My mother, being a tough disciplinarian and being in full command of the house, ordered us to keep a distance from the sahi children. This was a short narration of the new life that I was set to sail through and I will come back to the happening thereafter sometime later.
My grandfather, amongst the great luminaries of the state came to live with us in that bungalow.Right here I will like to recount my introduction to the culture of Cuttack through my encounter with the persons who became a part of everyday life during my formative years.
The retinue of helping hands included one attendant of my grandfather, a cook attached to him, one young boy to help household work, one attendant, living in the outhouse to look after the garden and cows and one office driver. A fisherman, engaged by the office, used to visit once in a few days. Lastly there were two peons / orderly – Buddu and Ganga, who reported separately in two shifts.
Buddu was a slim tall man and comparatively fair in complexion. He continued to live in the past, the glorious days when the Britishers ruled. There were many stories that he regaled us with. “Saheb! The entire stretch of the Cantonment Bungalows was occupied by the British people. I used to serve in one of those Bungalows. The evenings were real fun and there were many late night dinner parties. It used to be full of merry making, dance and drinks. Sumptuous food was cooked. The Mem Saheb (Lady of the House) used to get Ghee in big tin containers. We, the helpers used to play pranks at times. Once we, the kitchen helpers, put a dead cockroach in the ghee tin and message reached the Mem Saheb that there was a cockroach floating on the ghee. She was literally scared to see the cockroach and ordered us to throw the entire tin of ghee. We all took the tin away and shared it among us. The Sahebs used to be very large hearted.”
Buddu was one of the two peons or orderlies (as they were designated), posted to our residence. He along with Ganga, the other orderly used to help in household requirements in two shifts. While Buddu was Muslim, Ganga was Christian and both of them never saw eye to eye with each other.
Buddu was quite proud of his lineage tracing it to his ancestors, who used to be a part of the ruling clan. Odisha came under British rule in 1803. Prior to that the Marhattas ruled from 1751 and prior to that the state was under the Muslim dynasties for almost two centuries since 1568. While conversing with the other helping hands in the house he minced no words to express his hope and prophesy that it was Allah’s desire that some day in future the Muslim rulers will come back to rule again. Others were really amused by his prophesies and made fun of it. The society in Cuttack was deeply influenced by Muslim culture. More than 2000 words of Urdu were absorbed by Odia language while the spoken Urdu in the state carries significant influence of Odia. Unlike other parts of the country, Hindus and Muslims had a peaceful co-existence in Odisha. Sufism gained popularity in the state leading to the emergence of Satya Pir tradition, where Hindus worship Satyanarayan and Pir together. Sufis believe in the approach of Doomsday followed by restoration of original faith of Islam. Probably Buddu was referring to that prophesy.
Although Buddu served the house as orderly, he purported a different image in his Mahalla. He lived in a thatched cottage very near to the Samaj office in Buxi Bazar. Those days there were many articles of the house which used to get discarded but had good utility value. Therefore, the persons serving in the house happily took them as gifts and carried them in their cycle as they left for their house. But Buddu was different. On one such occasion one of the old trees in the compound was felled and the employees attached to the bungalow shared the wood. Buddu also took his share, but he did not load it on his cycle. He called for a Rickshaw, which was more befitting a comparatively richer person those days. We were amused and asked him why he did so. “Saheb! Here I am known as Buddu orderly. But when I am back in my Mahalla, all know me as Abdul Wahab (that was his real name). It will be below my dignity to demonstrate that I am carrying crumbs from the Bungalow,” he answered.
When we came to Cuttack I was 11 years of age and was admitted to Peary Mohan Academy, then a school of repute and great heritage. It was the school of choice since it was adjacent to my uncle’s house and where my cousin was pursuing her education in the same school. She became my classmate after my admission. The school was at a distance from our bungalow, considering the standards then. I was considered too young to be allowed to ride a bicycle. The rules of the house were all drawn by my mother. The restriction to ride a bicycle continued till I reached 11th class. So, Buddu and Ganga took turns in dropping me at school and picking me up after school hours in their bicycle, depending on their assigned shifts. I had to sit on the top tube and what I used to hate most was Buddu’s chronic dry coughs. I could feel it against my head each time he coughed and there was no escape for me.
The other orderly and counterpart of Buddu was Ganga. Although quite different from Budu, Ganga had a similar past in serving the British masters prior to Independence. The difference was that he was a Christian and considered himself more at home with his British masters during the British Raj. By the time both Buddu and Ganga were attached to us they were both past their seventies in age. While employing them the British Sahebs conveniently missed out on recording their age. So as per records they were ageless and won’t retire. Ganga was well aware that if Saheb wants he can send him for medical test to determine the age and that will be end of his tenure. So he took all care to demonstrate that he was young enough although he had an ageing and emaciated frame and almost lost sight in one eye.
Ganga’s trademark was his salute, which he had learnt while serving the British masters. We used to have great fun, when Ganga demonstrated his youthful vigour. One of them was asking him to salute just as he did to the British masters. Ganga used to respond without losing a moment. But the trouble comes when he tries close both heels with a thud. One heel misses the other and he tumbles to the ground.
He took great pride in his association with the British officers. The office then occupied by my father was in the past manned by British engineers like Mr. Bennet and Mr.Shaw. Ganga had been serving Shaw Saheb for some years. “The Saheb used to emerge from the bath without a stitch of cloth on him and it was my job to dry him up with a towel”, Ganga used to narrate with great pride.
During his tenure with the British Saheb he worked as their cook and had been a good hand in cooking some exquisite delicacies. He helped my mother in cooking and we savoured some of the dishes prepared him. Biryani, cooked by him had unique flavour and taste.
Ganga had some great phobia. My elder brother and a cousin, who used to reside in the bungalow, used to trick Ganga into one of the sub rooms, which was used as a box room between two bed rooms. Once Ganga got into the room they would lock it from both sides. It was pitch dark inside and Ganga would scream and shout like mad. Later, he would say that the experience was like being in a coffin and as a Christian he believed that it was his last day.
One day Ganga was sent out to bring vegetables from the market. Quite some time elapsed and he did not return. All were getting worried and at last Ganga appeared with bruises and his white uniform totally muddied. With his fading eyesight he had crashed into a Bull which squatted right on the road – not too uncommon a sight in Cuttack. But Ganga thought that it will be hara-kiri to admit his shortfall and if Saheb comes to know his job will be at risk. Therefore, he was on the offensive. “Mem Saheb! All the onlookers said, it was no fault of Ganga. It was the fault of the Bull.” All burst into laughter and my mother saw to it that he was immediately administered first aid.
I loved Ganga for his simplicity and he never had a complaint against the others working in the house, in spite of their taking a dig at him every now and then. What I liked most was the home made cake he used to bring for us on Christmas. I am yet to find a parallel to those delicious home-made cakes.
Ganga belonged to that section of Cuttack’s society, which established a distinct identity for itself after the British took over the reign in Odisha in 1803. Soon after the conquest of the state the missionaries entered the state. Of course, there were stiff resistance to their attempt to persuade the natives to accept Christianity. Then they established numerous educational institutes and towards end of 19th century some of the natives adopted Christianity. At the same time they setup orphanages, where the orphans left behind by the great famine found a home of their own. Sill those opting for Christianity were ostracised by the society. When the orphans – boys and girls, came off age it was necessary to rehabilitate them and few village settlements around Cuttack grew up. They were in Peyton Sahi, Makarbag, Tulispur, Stewart Patna, Sidheswar Sahi and Kosliarpur. Ganga was from Tulsipur Christian Sahi.
Cuttack is unique for coexistence of different streams of culture and its fusion into one. The typical local dialect has evolved from this fusion. Buddu and Ganga had their personal squabbles; yet together they represented that oneness of belonging to the culture of Cuttack which stood on the strong foundation laid by the Hindu dynasties over centuries and which blended wih the culture of the invaders – the Muslims and the Christians.
My introduction to Cuttack was through Buddu and Ganga. Days passed into months and months into years. I grew up through adolescence and teen age to enter adulthood, befriending the city and its people. I loved and endeared the way of life, soon to realise that I am an inseparable part of the Cuttack Culture.
Debjit Rath retired from Steel Authority of India Ltd. as Executive Director. He had joined SAIL as Management Trainee after completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College. He had a short stint as Lecturer in Economics in Ravenshaw College before joining SAIL.
REVELATION
Latha Prem Sakhya
It all happened long ago. Kanaka remembered her mother and aunt discussing it. But then she was too small to understand the intricacies.
Now, looking back she could gauge the interest of the two women. Men are supposed to be strong so how can they die just watching. Years later, after her first normal delivery, she realized the truth.
Govind was sent to bring the midwife. As soon as she entered the house all the women gathered around her while the young pregnant girl cried and moaned in the inner room.
He couldn't understand what was happening there. The midwife was giving directions to the women. He saw his mother- in -law scooting to the kitchen. His sister- in -law, hardly 10 years old, was chased off to take her little brother and keep him engaged. Then the midwife came and shut the bedroom door. His wife's moaning became vague. Out of frustration and helpless anger his body shook. He was determined to see what was happening.
There was a staircase in the store room that led to the wooden attic. The attic's floor was also the ceiling to the room in which Rani was lying for her delivery. He cautiously made his way to that part of the room. Rani's screams interlinked with moans racked his heart. He wanted to know what these women were doing to his poor Rani. Finally he found a crack that was big enough to see everything. He lay there watching intently.
He saw his mother in law mumbling prayers and wiping the sweat away from Rani's face. The midwife was busy encouraging Rani to push. Rani was screaming her head off. He could see the midwife put in her two hands and trying to pull something out and even as he watched, with a last scream Rani collapsed and a bundle of blood remained in the midwife's hands. Govind wanted to scream his head off too. In order to stifle it he closed his mouth with the towel he had in his hand.
Rani soon came around and the baby, a chubby boy bathed and swathed in white cloth was laid near her. She dimpled with joy to see a part of her lying so peacefully asleep. Rani' s sister Banu came to look at the baby when he started whimpering for milk. When she saw his open eyes she shouted with joy, "Oh the baby's eyes are open". When they teased her she shyly said, "I thought babies too open their eyes after seven days like Mia cat's kittens". Everyone hooted with laughter and she ran off.
Rani looked around her. She wanted to see Govind. For Govind was one full of dreams for his little one. But he had not come in to see his tiny boy. Everyone said he looked exactly like his father. Her mother immediately sensed that Rani was searching for Govind. She went out and sent Banu to find him. After a preliminary search she reported he was not there in his usual places. So they guessed he must have gone to the nearby town, piqued at being chased out of the room by the midwife.
The women were all into one thing or other and they forgot Govind. When he didn't turn up by evening, Rani enquired. Now the search spread to the neighbourhood. No one had seen Govind. By now everyone was worried. "Where did he go? They wondered. He is so homebound; after his day's work at the mill he was always home by six o 'clock. On the way he would stop at Raghu's tea shop where all his friends gathered. But by six he would be home to shoo in the chickens and bring in the cows and make them all comfortable for the night.
Suddenly the twilight was speared asunder by a blood curdling scream followed by another.Rani' s mother and the other women in the household ran towards it. Neely the maid was gasping for breath, she couldn't speak she just pointed up the stairs to the attic. Rani's mother took the lantern and climbed up the stairs. She could vaguely see a figure in a prostrate position. She went towards it and came back crying, "Someone please help, it is Govind." The men who had gathered outside, as it is usual in every village when there is mishap in the neighbourhood, bounded up the stairs and brought down Govind's unconscious body.
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
LUNATION
Sharanya B
You could fall asleep to the lullaby of my whistling breath,
The rythm of my broken snores, the melody of the whizzing fan above,
or the symphony of the chirping crickets far away,
Or if you find them too lonely, I could ferry you across this wild island,
wave goodbye as you disappear into the horizon, your traverse to the oblivion,
Breathe smoke into the chilly night, trace your figure in them,
and take it company to my way home,
I could spend sleepless nights contemplating your departure;
I could stare at the illuminated bridge far away, count the trailing lights
and hope it'd be your arrival back in one of these days,
My sanguine expectations might seem to have faded away in time,
But know this, they'll always fill back to the brim until reality sips them down,
after which they'll rise again,
A lunar cycle - my moon, your darkness.
And me, a rising tide of curiosity;
How long until there's certainity?
How long until its either a moon-lit or a moon-less sky?
How long until my expectations and your reality stop defeating each other?
How long until they realise, there's no triumph...
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 ETERNAL QUESTION......
Akshaya Kumar Das
Some excel in words while some falter,
Why ?
Some struggle whole of life to eke out a living,
While some relax with life long comfort,
Why ?
No one has an answer to the situation,
Successful ones hold you accountable for your failures,
While failure or success are two sides of the same coin,
While one relishes with opulence the other struggles for a morsel of grain,
Some one is so blessed while some one's life is misory span,
Why this great disparity between man & man,
Probably being born is the only fault,
Human birth by default,
Creates wide gaps between siblings to ponder over,
Wise men say five fingers are not equal,
As a man born out of evolution where is his fault,
While one relishes the other faces the constant assault,
Why ? this disparity between man & man,
Asking you God, please answer my question,
A TOUGH PREDICAMENT
Akshay Kumar Das
Living on the edge of competition,
Survive or perish into oblivion,
Is the diction,
Where is the place for younger generation ?
The podium is full with superannuation,
Everyone grabs the situation,
You feel left out often,
Still compromise with the situation,
In the journey none a true companion,
Every one pushes you back often,
Observe in silences the false admirations,
In promises they show you the moon often,
Let the opportune moment come they dump you down,
Crush you to pieces squeezing like a lemon,
TO HAVE OR NOT TO HAVE
Ishwar Pati
The rain was incessant. Not heavy, just incessant. He watched through the hazy curtain of the drizzle as the waves of the Arabian Sea relentlessly washed the dark sands of Vagator Beach, ostensibly to bleach them white. He and his wife were on their honeymoon to Goa. Not the first, nor the second, but the nth honeymoon of their long-wedded life! Of course, the honey was no longer as sweet as it had tasted in its initial doses. But still each trip to Goa was a honeymoon for him. It rejuvenated his everlasting love for Goa’s magic—its fantastic food and feni, friendly people, bubbly music, lazy demeanour and the beauty of the rains. To huddle with his wife in a Goanese shack on the beach and munch on hot fried prawns while the rest of the world passed by, was paradise revisited!
He was enjoying the spray of the rain and the mist of the sea on his face when his mobile rang. “Namaste,” he greeted his mother at the other end.
“Beta, do you remember what day is today?”
“What, Maa?” He asked guardedly.
“It’s your father’s death anniversary.”
“What?” His tranquillity received a jolt. “Why didn’t you tell me before? What am I supposed to do now?” he asked. Fried prawns didn’t exactly gel with a death anniversary!
Her mother heaved a sigh. “I forgot,” the old woman said. “As it is, your father didn’t believe in such things.”
“That’s why he is great, Maa. He was far removed from the petty rituals thrust on us,” the son opined. “You should feel proud of him!”
She sighed. “Do whatever you want then.”
“What is it?” his wife asked, a piece of chicken vindaloo delicately poised to enter her digestive system, only to fall back onto her plate.
“Don’t worry. We have already tasted non-veg today,” he explained. “So no harm done if we go ahead with our meal. It’s a pity you didn’t meet my father. By the time I came to know you, he had passed away. So unconventional in his ways! He used to say the best way to remember a loved one is by having a blast, not putting on a miserable face and observing austerity! He wanted us to think of him on every enjoyable day, not just on his death anniversary. You know, he asked us not to collect his ashes after cremation. Ashes should remain with ashes, he said, and not pollute our precious rivers.”
The son eyed his favourite dish of lamb xacuti and tucked into it with renewed vigour. Still, thanks to a lifetime of pious conditioning to fear God, a nagging tinge of guilt singed his conscience. Will he be punished by God for living it up on his father’s death anniversary? If only he could be spiritually as strong as his father!
“So,” his wife speculated, “if Maaji would have informed us yesterday, “would you have refrained from non-veg and onion today?”
He fumbled for an answer. Luckily for him, that ‘hypothetical’ situation had been brushed under the sands of Goa—till next year. Luck permitting, his mother would again forget!
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
SUDURI MAA
Gokul Chandra Mishra
The examination was just over. Jogesh was returning home from his college at Cuttack. The distance to his village was about 160 km. There was no direct bus plying between Cuttack and his tiny village. He had to come by train upto Khurdha road . From Jatni he had to take the morning mail bus to reach his village, the last stop. That day he was unusually feeling impatient . Had a feeling that the bus was taking more time than usual and moving at snail’s speed . Jogesh was a national scholarship holder and he had just collected nine months’ scholarship money from the college. Keeping a very large portion of his scholarship money to be given to his father for next year’s studies, he had spent a paltry sum for purchasing few important items for parents and others . The purchases included tobacco tooth paste (gudakhu) bought from the original outlet of Akbar Khan, situated at Chandinichowk, some fruits which were rare to villagers, some toffees for village children and so on. So he was very eager to reach his village but was feeling restless as the bus was halting at every place where some people were standing on the way. Finally, as the bus reached his village, he proudly got off to reach home quickly.
On the way, he could see that the people were not receiving him as pleasantly as before , whenever he returned home . A gloom was clearly visible in their faces, as if some catastrophe had happened. He quietly went inside the home, touched the feet of parents and elders. An uneasysilence was noticed. After few minutes his younger brother, Raju, came to him and greeted him. Jogesh noticed that Raju was also not in his usual mood of garrulity on seeing his elder brother after a gap of almost six months. After sometime, Raju revealed that Suduri Maa had expired the night before. The youth volunteers had just completed her cremation on the river side ground in the morning. Raju used to act as if he were an anchor of the news channels and give all the news briefs about the village to him on his arrival. Suduri Maa’s death was the breaking news that day. Jogesh felt devastated at the news as he had carried some fruits and tobacco toothpaste, her favourite, as return gift. Jogesh could then assess why all the people on the way were grief stricken .
“Suduri Maa” the universal Maa. She was very old but no body knew her age. She had a wrinkled face laced with an innocuous smile. She was living in the adjoining lane in a one roomed thatched house with a small varanda .The little house had an earthen wall, plastered with red and cow dung and marked with various types of white paintings drawn withher artistic hands. No body knew about her past. Her husband had died long before and none one had any idea about her children. No body in her family was there living with her by the time Jogesh came in contact with her in his child hood days. She never spoke loudly. She was fond of children greeting them with unadulterated smiles. No body ever knew about her personal agonies , likes or dislikes. No body had seen her ever visiting neighbors’ families asking for any help or participating in any gossip with others.
She was her lone world. How she was meeting her daily needs was a mystery to all. A small mattress made of palm leaves, few cloths , one or two aluminium utensils, two or three blackish earthen cooking pots and a small home- made clay chulla, a few hanging earthen pots tied to a roof level bamboo piece in a corner - these were her material assets . She had a little hill side land where only maize /ragi was being grown . Since she had no means of tilling the land, the nearby share croppers helped in the ploughing and harvesting. She appeared to be happy with whatever paltry belongings she had. Even though she was in acute poverty, her happiness index was apparently very high.
Jogesh recollected how he once bunked class with Bharat , a class mate of his and was afraid to return home immediately. Bharat took him to Suduri Maa’s house that was closest to the school. On seeing Jogesh and Bharat at her door, Suduri Maa was delighted and offered them berries preserved by her in the hanging earthern pots. She had collected the berries plucking them herself from plants in the nearby forest. The berries were from different colours; blue , black and red.The traditional names of such berries were, “Kantei koli ,Bara koli , khanda koli, Khajuri koli, jamun koli, Amla etc.For Jogesh it was a new revelation of a source of different mouth watering berries. Suduri Maa was very fond of children and was in the habit of collecting berries and distributing to children who ever came to her house. From then onwards , Jogesh was a regular visitor to her house with the hope of getting berries while returning from school.
Suduri Maa’s day started from pre dawn hours . She used to sweep her house and sprinkle water mixed with cow dung to purify the surroundings. Then she strolled to the nearby forest land to collect fire wood for her daily need. There she collected all sorts of berries which were tasty for human consumption. She used to tightly tie the berries in the corner of her saree and return home carrying the firewood in her head. Her main stock of grain was ragi and she used to barter the same for getting rice in the sole tiny grocery store situated in the centre of the village. She hardly came out of her house unless there was a need. She occasionally walked down to that shop in the evening, after the “Godhuli”, with a tiny bottle, strongly tied to a small thread which she held firmly accompanied by few children as her escorts. She did not have cattle in her house, but she loved to enjoy the return of the cattle herd in the pre dusk period raising the sands of the village road to the air. She used to offer her prayer to the cattle at this hour of “Godhuli”. She never had any money with her but managed to meet her daily need by barter exchange. Her need was only mustard oil and salt. She was a rare visitor to the village temple but she took part in listening to recitals of Ramayan and Bhagabat almost every night in the nearby neighborhood.
The villagers used to respect her because of her soft nature. No body could talk ill of her. She was illiterate .She had seen no school room in her life. But she enjoyed tremendous affection from the educated persons of the area for her message of love and shower of affection shown to children.
A few years back, the villagers aspired to open a high school in the village. There was no high school in the radius of around 25kms and the students who passed out from 7th class from the village upper primary school, pressed their parents to open a high school . They refused to go elsewhere for higher studies. The village elders decided to open a high school temporarily in the Dharmashala situated on the bank of a pond but earmarked an area of about 10 acres for the proposed high school building and play ground . As no public land was available, the elders decided to construct the school near the foot hill where farmers were growing maize and ragi. Rice being the staple food of the people, the rice growing lands were high in demand and no body was willing to donate such land. So the land owners near the hill side were requested to give uptheir right over the land and freely donate for the proposed high school. Suduri Maa was also holding land in that earmarked place and when she was requested to donate the land, she did not think even a second about it, but instantly agreed. When she was asked how she would mange for her subsistence , she simply smiled and raised her hands upwards to the Almighty with great satisfaction.
To fund the school , the students of the upper primary school were instructed to collect seven handfuls of rice from every house hold in a week. The elders were requested to donate free labour for laying bricks, collecting stones from the nearby hill, and transporting sand from the river. Since Suduri Maa had donated her prime maize growing land, she was offered some rice out of the total pool for her consumption.
Whenever Jogesh returned to his village during vacation he used bring “gudakhu”, the tobacoo paste, for Suduri Maa and some fruits like apples or grapes which were not ordinarily available in the village. He had marked that Suduri Maa was happy to receive the products.
The years of 1966 to 68 were very difficult for the villagers as there werecontinuous droughts extending over three years, leading to a famine like situation in the entire state, particularly the rural areas. There was no grain in the house holds. Getting a full single meal a day was a dream. The women and men folk used to survive by bringing eatable green leaves , roots , and mango kernels. But Suduri Maa proved to be an example for others by utilizing the back yards for growing of various vegetables , short duration fruits, green leafy plants. Others triplicated her method and started growing vegetables and various green leafy plants in their respective back yards. The Govt was providing food once a day in the evening and somehow the villagers managed to survive. Their morale was kept high on seeing the proactive support of the women of their families who were greatly influenced by SuduriMaa.
The news of Suduri Maa’s death was not a small event in the mind of Jogesh. He called his school friend Bharat and asked him to take him to the pyre of Suduri Maa to pay homage. He carried the tobacco paste and fruits which he had brought for her and went to the cremation ground. With tearful eyes, he offered the gifts to her and returned home with heavy sigh. The vacation was over and the result of his examination was published in The Samaj. Jogesh left for his hostel without spending more days at home carrying the memory about an old lady who seemed to have influenced the lives of many.
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
August, No More August (2019)
Dr. Aniamma Joseph
August is the cruelest month
No more august she is…
With downpours heavy and floods mighty
Spreading fear, dismay and gloom
August was a month of hope
Of longing for a golden Chingam
An august season in the trail
Of a dark and starving Karkkadakam
A month before festive ‘Onam’
A month you are wistful
‘If Karkkadakam comes
Can Chingam be far behind?’
Waiting was there for a season
Of oneness and gaiety
Of feast and festivity
All of verdure, blossoms and fragrance
Waiting was there for a season
Of singing, dancing and swinging
Of giving and forgiving
In memory of a bygone era
August, you are the cruelest month
Once more you have played havoc
Can you wipe away the tears in our heart
And bring the sparkle of joy back in our eyes?
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.
MURDER IN COLD BLOOD
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak
No resuscitation,
No declaration,
No documentation,
It is dead !!
As per the universal truth,
“Live means to die”.
But the final diagnosis,
said the post-mortem,
“It’s a murder in cold blood”.
Dead slow poisoning,
Since the spurting,
of the seed.
Composition of the soil,
Complete artificial,
pH range for optimal growth,
controlled, not natural.
Fertilisers, Hormones
For enhancing growth,
but at the cost of,
complete change of natural taste.
Pesticides, fungicides, insecticides,
are a must for computerised growth.
Antivirals for potato virus, cauliflower virus,
All boons for plants;
Fatal banes for humans?
Metamorphosis of environment,
turns everything upside down,
Ultimately resistant to all treatment,
leading to death,
Hmm, Murder, in cold blood !!
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
ACCIDENTS STRETCH LONG INTO THE NIGHT
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Accidents stretch long into the night
playing in the shadows of the dark,
running like wayward boys
here and there, over and beyond.
Accidents pile up, and tumble upon each other,
on this night of strange happenings.
The lady who just came out after a long day at work,
missed her bus and sits at the bus stop brooding,
She hears her two small kids crying their heart out,
the husband must be wondering, hoping against hope,
The bell would ring any moment, she will step in,
all cold and shivering, a smile dazzling her face,
seeing her family, so small, yet big in warmth.
But here she sits, the last bus gone into the lights of the city,
plunging her into darkness,
Ah, the folly of leaving her phone at home this morning,
What price she will pay tonight, the night of accidents!
The pizza boy whose bike skidded on a puddle of rain,
it ruined the box of pizza
He sits dazed on the ground,
Will he lose his job,
that pays for his hostel dues
and his sister's tuition fees at college,
Will his dreams collapse like nine pins
this night, the night of accidents!
The beggar who got no food,
and slept hungry under the flyover,
wonders how long he will survive like this,
an empty stomach today,
a bout of fever tomorrow,
and the dog he shares his space with,
almost bit him today on the ankle,
hurt by a stone thrown by a passing boy,
on this night, the night of accidents.
The gardener who came out to see
what the noise was about and got shot in the leg,
Ah, should he have switched on the light?
Having lived here guarding the house for fifty years,
he was in for a surprise,
The burglar choosing this ramshackle house of all the houses,
in the dimly lit street, on this night of accidents
The quiet street dog got dragged by a sleepy driver,
And a bird fell off its perch in the dark, shaken by a strong wind
A big fat mouse got swallowed by the cat and was spat out,
A squirrel ran into the night to gather nuts, nudged by its parents,
hit its head on the thick trunk of the Deodar tree and sits stunned,
Starnge happenings crowded this night, the night of accidents.
A drunk lurched out of the bar
and tumbled into the garbage bin,
wondering why the door did not open when he knocked at it,
And if everyone is sleeping inside this little home, drunk to the gill!
The mongrel in its home of the garbage bin,
welcomed him and hugged him in a tight embrace,
Ah, smiled the drunk,
there is still some warmth left in this night of accidents!
A street girl picked up the wrong customer,
who fought with her all the way to a cheap hotel,
But there was no business,
she got robbed at the doorway
of whatever little she had in her purse
She sat sobbing on the steps,
she will be thrown out tomorrow
from the little nook she stays in, for not paying the rent,
and her poor mother in the village will miss going to the doctor,
Ah, how she would be coughing her lungs out,
this cold night, the night of accidents.
The patient etherised on the table is abandoned
due to power outage even before the operation starts,
the nurses and the attendants, all run outside
to see the wedding procession, the biggest ever in this town.
It's not everyday that the local Don's only son gets married.
The dazzling lights, the colourful fountains,
the glittering lanterns hanging from the trees,
the maidan is a fairyland tonight,
It smiles in delight,
as the hospital opposite, is plunged into darkness,
on this night, the night of accidents
All these accidents stretch long into the night
Looking for a shelter in the lanes of despair.
Ah, the poor city, rich with money and power,
but bereft of a soul, she cries with a silent tear.
BLUE CHECK SHIRT
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The man looked at me with a mysterious smile and asked,
"You look worried, is something bothering you?"
I looked at him startled, and irritated, heavily irritated. First of all, nothing was bothering me at that moment, nor was I worried. Why was this man, sitting on the opposite seat in a moving train, disturbing me? Why was he poking his nose into my life? Why this sudden interest in me from an unknown man? He looked a decent, educated man, dressed elegantly in khaki pants and a blue check shirt.
I replied to him, perhaps a little harshly,
"No, nothing is bothering me, except your unwelcome intrusion. Will you please mind your own business?"
I tried to hide myself behind a newspaper. To save myself from further irritation. But he was a determined type. He chuckled,
"See, I told you just a moment back. Something is certainly bothering you. Beneath your calm exterior your mind is a turbulent mass, waiting to erupt any time. There are some people like that. I used to know one of them. And one day he had to pay a heavy price for that."
Now I was getting interested, if there is a story somewhere I run after it like a sniffing dog.
"What happened to him?"
The man eased himself into a comfortable position. Now that he had caught my attention he wanted to do full justice to his story. Must be a compulsive story-teller, I told myself. I had boarded the train at Cuttack and had two hours of travel left.
"He was travelling in this very train, seated in the next compartment, which was virtually empty, except for him and another passenger a few rows away. At Jajpur Road station, six college students got into the compartment. They were all goonda types, rough arrogance oozing out of them like degenerated pus. Scums to the core, they specialised in harassing other passengers in the train. Three of them were smoking, a strong foul smell coming out of the cigarettes. Must be charas, it appeared from the way the three others were looking at the cigaarettes like hungry dogs eyeing an unfinished piece of bone. They came straight to the place where this man was sitting. They were talking loudly, using the filthiest language, describing a young girl they had seen the previous day in the bazaar. The man was repulsed by the language, wondering what kind of families fostered such abominable specimens! Four of them sat on the opposite seat and stretched their legs putting them on both sides of the man. Two others, one of them the clear leader of the pack, sat by the man's side. The man frowned at the dirty smell coming from the four pairs of shoes. That drew a snicker from the four. One of the boys hissed like a vicious snake, 'Look at the bugger making a face, should we feed the shoes to him? Good snacks for him during a train journey!' The man was boiling inside, his face became red. It caused more laughter among the ruffians. The leader who was sitting by his side gave a slap on the back of his head. The man looked at him, anger flashing from his eyes. The boy sitting on the other side gave another slap on his head. The man turned around, his hands itching to tear the bastard into pieces, but he knew he was hopelessly outnumbered. He got up and started walking away towards the next compartment. But the six boys who had finished their drag of the charas were already high. They also got up and accompanied the man. By the time they were nearing the door they had encircled him, leading him towards the open door. The train was speeding away, the leader came behind the man and gave him a big kick. The man flew out of the moving train and hit a pole. He died in an instant, all his anger, pain, frustration at the degeneration of the society extinguished in a moment."
I sat up, as if struck by a sudden lightning.
"Died? What do you mean died?"
"He died, killed by a pack of insane dogs gone crazy with charas".
"And what happened to them? Were they arrested and brought to justice?"
The man in the blue check shirt flashed a mirthless laugh.
"In which country are you living, Sir? Does the law in our land dare lay its hand on an MLA's son, or a police inspector's lad? And the gang leader's father is a famous criminal lawer in Jajpur, he can win any case by the twist of law or sleight of a bribe-laden hand. The police came and investigated. They closed the case as suicide. What chance did the poor dead man's family have? He was an humble, small time businessman, duly paid his occasional taxes and regular bribes. His family was nothing before the parents of these goons. They were the powerful high priests of the society. In our system the law breakers are worshipped as models of the society, law abiding people are poor suckers who must be beaten to their sense once in a while to instil the fear for the law breakers. We are just helpless citizens of an unfortunate country where not the rule of law but the rule of lawlessness reigns."
I still couldn't recover from the shock of the fatal push of the unfortunate man. I shouted in anger,
"How can you say that? Can we really tolerate such hooligans. If I can lay my hands on these worthless scums, I will beat them to pulp. Bastards! They get away because no one challenges them."
The man broke into a panic.
"Please don't do that. You won't last even half a minute. They carry knives, cycle chains in their pockets. Today also they will board the train at Jajpur station. They will look at you as an easy victim. Just get away from them, don't even look at them. They are extremely vicious, backed by powerful parents. Just move away, will you?"
I was seething with anger, but his advice seemed sound to me. I nodded weakly,
"How do you know all this? Are you a regular passenger in this route?"
He smiled, another one of his many mysterious smiles,
"Yes, I used to be, these days I drop in once in a while, talking to people like you travelling alone and vulnerable to the violence of the group."
"Are all lone passengers likely victims?"
Again a short, measured smile,
"No, not all of them, but you are. You carry too much idealism on your shoulders, out to reform the society. But scum like those six goons are beyond reform. Don't waste your life on them."
The man fell silent. I was also feeling a little tired, listening to this long tale of sordid details. I started reading the newspaper. Gradually my eyes started drooping and I fell asleep. I woke up once, found the man in the blue check shirt gone, and went back to sleep
At Jajpur Road station I got up and went out for a cup of tea. When the train started moving I got in and proceeded to where I was sitting earlier.
I stopped in my tracks, surprised. There were six boys in the same spot where I was sitting earlier, smoking cigarettes with the unmistakable pungent smell of charas wafting from them. They were looking viciously dangerous. Luckily I had no luggage and I had finished reading the newspaper I had left on my seat. I quietly went to the next compartment. I would have been no match for these goons. The tallest one among them was obviously the leader. He had a slimy face, deceptively quiet but capable of unleashing terrible violence. He was wearing two small ear studs and a belt which had small nail like spikes which would draw blood when it hit someone. I remembered the man in blue shirt and thanked him in my heart. I wondered if he was still in the train, but I didn't see him. I got down at Bhadrak station an hour later.
This was six months back. Today I was travelling by the same train again, going to visit my sister at Bhadrak. I was suddenly reminded of the man in blue shirt and wished he was there travelling with me, regaling me with his interesting stories. But i didn't see him. I started reading a newspaper and soon dozed off. Suddenly I felt something slimy touching my left foot, not once, but twice in quick succession. I woke up with a start, certain that it was a big rat, which had probably bitten off a piece of my toe. Mercifully I found no rat, a small boy was sitting on the floor, wiping it with a piece of wet cloth. This wet cloth must have rubbed against my foot giving that slimy feeling. I smiled at my sudden fear and sat back relaxed. The boy wiped the floor of the whole compartment and returned to me, asking for some tips. There were not many people in the compartment. I took out a ten rupee note and gave it to him. He touched my feet and sat there, taking rest.
I was in a mood to talk and asked him why he didn't go to the next compartment. He shook his head.
"That compartment and the next one belong to Chinua. If I go there he will thrash me. This compartment and the previous one are mine."
I looked at the small, innocent looking boy. He must be eleven or twelve years old, but was looking much younger due to hunger and malnutrition. I asked him his name. He said "Radhu, Babu, my name is Radhu."
He paused a bit and then said, "Doing this work in trains is tough, very tough. One has to fight with so many people to keep alive. My Maa cries a lot when she sees the marks of beatings on my body, but I have to come out and earn for my mother and small sister. My father died last year of snake bite".
Just then we arrived at Jajpur Road station. To cheer him up, I gave him another ten rupees and asked him to wash his hands and then get two cups of tea for both of us. Radhu ran out to get the tea. I suddenly remembered the gang of six goons. Would they enter into this compartment like last time? I went near the door and stood there, scanning the station for them. I didn't see them.
The train had started moving when Radhu dashed into the compartment with two paper cups filled with tea. We started sipping the hot tea.
I asked him, "Arey Radhu, what happened to that bunch of rowdies who used to get in to the train at Jajpur Road station and harass the passengers? I didn't see them today?" Radhu showed surprise. "Don't you know Babu, it was all in the newspapers."
"What? What was in the newspapers? I must have missed it."
"That gang will not be seen any more, they don't enter this train or any other train. They were a bunch of worthless guys, going around the train, harassing innocent people, targeting young girls, passing lewd comments at them and sometimes if the girl was alone, they would try to touch her. Everyone was terrified of them, the bunch of useless pieces of shit!"
Radhu obviously was not a big fan of theirs, he spat on the floor,
"My Maa would rather see me beg than do that kind of things"!
I was still clueless about their sudden change of heart, so I asked Radhu,
"But what happened? Why did they stop their activities?"
For the second time Radhu asked me,
"Didn't you read it in the newspapers ? Their leader died while travellingin this train".
I sat up, shocked. The face of the leader with the ear studs and the deceptively sly face floated before my eyes, along with the belt with the spikes,
"Died? How did he die?"
Radhu winced as if stabbed by a horrible memory,
"He and his gang were standing near the door, smoking their foul smelling cigarettes. The gang leader was leaning on the door. Suddenly, no one knows how, there was a big gust of wind which shut the door and the fellow was thrown out of the moving train and hit a pole. His friends pulled the chain and stopped the train, but it was no use. He had died on the spot. You want to see the place where he died? It will come in a minute or two, come to the door, I will show you."
We went near the door. In a minute or so he pointed outside and said,
"See, this is the place. Everyone knows this place now, it has become famous. You know why? It was exactly the same place where one year back another man had jumped out, hit the same pole and died on the spot. Everyone said it was a 'sucite'. I had not started working at that time, but Chinua and others told me about that incident. The death of the gang leader was reported in the papers for that reason only. The newspaper people named the electric pole the killer pole."
Radhu shuddered and said, "My Maa tells me every day when I leave home to be careful while boarding the train, she is always worried about me, my poor mother!"
I was half listening to him, my mind unable to comprehend how two deaths occurred exactly at the same spot. Radhu was continuing his tale, obviously excited to get a captive audience,
"If you ask me Babu, this was a good riddance. Those goons sometimes used to rob me and Chinua of whatever money we had in pocket. And on top of it they would slap us, kick us whenever they got into a mood to beat someone. For the last six months we are able to breathe in peace. After their leader died, they never came again into the train. Something must have scared them."
I looked at Radhu, my mind still busy trying to decipher how the gang leader died at the exact spot where the 'sucite' had taken place earlier. Radhu kept the conversation going,
"You know Babu, people like you are rare, to give ten rupees to a poor boy like me. Usually people throw a one rupee or fifty paise coin at us."
Out of curiosity I asked him, "What is the highest amount you got at any time?"
Radhu's face broke into a bright smile, "Three months back, it was the marriage season, do you remember? One day a newly married boy and girl were returning home with the boy's father and other relatives after the wedding. The father gave me a hundred rupees Babu, a full hundred rupees! When I gave it to my mother in the evening, she burst into tears, she had not seen a hundred rupee note after my father's death. She rushed to the Puja room and offered prayers for the boy and girl."
I was moved. The picture of a young widow praying for a newly wed couple brought tears to my eyes. Radhu had a faraway look in his eyes, "You know Babu, this world has more good people than bad ones. You won't believe if I tell you what happened to me a few days back."
I looked at the watch. I still had half an hour before the train arrived in Bhadrak, "Tell me, what happened."
Radhu smiled at the memory, "About a week back I was going by another train in the opposite direction. The train was already late, I thought I will do just one more round and return, but somehow I felt very tired and fell asleep under a seat. I must have gone into a deep sleep. By the time I woke up it was beyond midnight, the train was standing in a yard at Puri. It was totally dark inside, all the compartments were empty, locked from outside. I panicked, I thought I would die, out of fear and terrible hunger. My stomach had started cramping because the last time I had taken anything was a cup of tea eight or nine hours back. I started crying, running back and forth, thinking of my loving mother and little sister. They must be worried sick by now. And then suddenly, I saw a man sitting in the last compartment. In the faint ray of light coming from the yard, I could see a packet in his hand. I went near him. He handed over the packet to me; it had four pieces of poori and some potato fry. I couldn't believe my eyes and looked at him in tears. He just smiled at me and gestured me to eat. I gobbled up everything and went to the bathroom to drink water. When I came out I wanted to fall at his feet for saving my life. But he had vanished. I kept looking for him, running from bogey to bogey, but he was nowhere. I just wanted to thank him, but he didn't me give that chance. To be frank Babu, I am still looking for him everyday in all the trains I get in. When I find him I will hold his feet and cry my heart out. If he had not given me the packet of food that night I would have certainly died."
I was moved, a second time that day in my brief encounter with Radhu, I asked him, "But how will you know him, if you see him?"
Radhu gave a big grin, "Babu, how can I forget his face and his khaki pants and blue check shirt he was wearing? They have remained etched in my memory." I sat up, stunned. Khaki pants and blue check shirt! It brought back a startling memory to me!
Bhadrak station had just arrived; I stood up to leave. I looked at the innocent boy and murmured to myself, "Radhu, you are not the only one who is looking for the man in the blue check shirt, I am also looking for him, to thank him because I too owe my life to him." I looked up at heaven, folded my hands in silent obeisance to the soul of the unknown Samaritan who must be sitting high above the clouds, planning his next good deed, the next act of rescue.
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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