Literary Vibes - Edition XXXIX
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Thirty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes.
We are happy to bring to you some delicious poems and delectable stories to add to the festive spirit of Deepavali.
In today's edition we welcome Ms. Hema Ravi from Chennai who wears many hats and is an accomplished writer. She is ably supported in her creative activities by her husband, Mr. N. Ravi, an IT professional and an avid photographer.
A few days back I received a clip on my WhatsApp which speaks of a blind boy sitting on a street corner with a placard "I am blind, please help me." Only a few coins drop into his bowl. And then someone comes along, drops a coin, and writes a new placard for him. Surprisingly coins start pouring and the boy is overwhelmed. The same man comes after two days and from the sound of his foot steps, the boy knows it is him. He greets the man and asks, "What did you write that made so much difference to me?" The man smiles and says "I wrote the same thing that you had written, but in a different way: 'It's a beautiful day. But I can't see it.' That moved people, they became aware of what they have and what you are missing. They wanted to share their good luck with you."
This Deepavali and during the ensuing festive season, when we go out to celebrate, let us set aside a bit for those who can't do so because of the adverse circumstances of their life. Let's share our good fortune with them.
Hope you will enjoy the poems and stories in LVXXXIX. Do remember to share them with your friends and colleagues. And if you wish to write something and share with other readers please send it to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
With warm regards and wishing you a Happy Deepavali,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PEBBLES AND A FLOWER
Prabhanjan K Mishra
A talkative flower
among mute pebbles,
air abuzz with echoes
amid grit and petals,
no water to reflect their beauty,
not a drop to soak parched lips,
horizons join the earth
in a mirage that ever recedes away,
the sun stabs with red-hot pricks,
nights scratch with chilled nails,
the stones and the flower
know the truth -
the former an illusion for eternity;
the latter is the truth, its frailty.
KAMAKHYA
Prabhanjan K Mishra
The ghost who walks by night
across river Bramhaputra,
can he be the besotted Shiva
with a rotting load on his shoulders
asphyxiating the air into stillness?
Is it the half-burnt corpse
of his beloved consort
retrieved from sacrificial fire;
she having immolated herself
for her love for the maverick lord?
Rotting on his shoulders
his love’s sublime mulch,
parts falling off: Devi’s tongue,
limbs, eyes, yoni ---,
transforming places into pilgrimages.
People pile their faith
hill-high at Kamakhya
where Devi’s yoni had landed,
making it the abode
of enchantment and sorcery.
They have built Guwahati town
by Kamakhya, the pilgrimage
that enshrines the holy relic,
hallowed, surreal beyond mortals,
its mystique and magic.
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
TAJ MAHAL
Haraprasad Das
Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
When would my dream
come true;
the dream
that keeps visiting me?
Now it hurts,
its every revisit, as if,
giving the serene moonshine
edges of a blade;
sharpened on the whetstone
of lichen that grows
on my dream’s old walls
mouldering with time.
Would it build us
a dark Taj Mahal of love
instead of the serene beauty
that shimmers in moonshine?
Should I reshape my dreams
from a new perspective,
separating the sensual
from aesthetics?
Tell me sweetheart,
have you
a better plan to write
our love’s epitaph?
THE EXISTENTIAL (KARMAYOGA)
Haraprasad Das
Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The early sun spreads
its blood-red wings
over vegetable patches;
the morning collects pearls
in the silk of spider-webs….
Mother Nature
can bestow her bounties, unsolicited;
can play stingy as well,
giving her gifts in frugal doses.
Mornings are
the propitious hours
for the thanksgiving
to the cosmic mother.
This hour of awakening -
one is to hurry,
collect Mother Earth’s bounties,
as much as possible.
As the serene hour passes,
lecherous insects seeking nectar,
notorious for their greed, would prey
on pristine Jui and Jaai flowers.
The insects would ravage
the flower’s freshness,
they would fade, a stink of decay
replacing the sweet fragrance.
O savant,
don’t bother us with
the prognoses of an after life
that none is sure of.
Let’s live and love
in real time, earn
our wherewithal
with a clear conscience.
Let’s tackle the afterlife
when it arrives,
find ways and means
through its thick and thin.
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)”
IMRAANAA, FOR YOU…. ONLY (IMRAANAA, KEVAL TUMAPAAIN)
HRUSHIKESH MALLICK
Translation – Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Neither a god, big or small,
nor a prophet, eloquent or silent;
neither a man, nor a woman,
it’s me, a humble word-smith.
The moon plays hide-and-seek
among patches of clouds, “Catch me
if you can…”, a merry-go-round.
But the game reminds me of a pale hand,
yours, bloodless and hanging out
of your flower-bedecked coffin;
how would the decoration matter
to your unseeing marble-eyes?
Your subdued Nikanama in air
is drowned by the roar
of a rampant tiger at large,
a two-legged (wo)man-eater.
What’s the time, Imraanna?
Night seems unending,
my pretended sleep
is ajar behind closed eyes.
Such solitary nights goad me
to wake you up from your grave,
take you for a leisurely walk
in silence along the riverbank.
What would we talk about, all topics
are no-no, and have lost their perspective.
Don’t cry Imraanaa, the tears would
soak your shroud, sobs tear your chest.
Why did you surrender to death
so quietly, Imraanaa; didn’t give a fight?
Wasn’t anyone by you to help
when the old tiger went berserk
in your bed; couldn’t you find
a shard of glass to stab him,
or use your sharp teeth to pull out
his entrails, a woman’s ultimate tool?
Might be your husband was looking
for salvation at a country liquor bar,
your amma-in-law had gone out
to earn her daily wage, children playing
with marbles out of earshot.
You knew, it would be a waste of time
to ask for help from a hymn-buff Ishwar
or a Namaz-addict Allah in stupor.
Why did these saviors of humanity,
turn a Nelson’s eye, when the tiger
ravaged your soft bosom, muddied
the serene stream between your thighs?
It was like disrobing Panchali
In the open Kuru-court, like unleashing
A plunderer and feeling safe after
putting a few crumbs in his pocket.
The activists shouted louder slogans,
held candle-marches; the leaders,
visiting to console your family,
slyly groped your minor girl.
Like the weaver bird least bothered
about its strong nest against the wind,
your neighbor Chaitaa, the rickshaw-puller,
visited his routine liquor bar after hard work.
It is only me, whose head was hung
in shame, as you gave up the fight
like the ever-tolerant Sita and sought
your peace in the mother earth’s lap.
So I would give you the long arm
of my pen, not the long arm
of law, to invoke you, Imraana,
to rise and fight for your peers in pain.
Neither a god, big or small,
nor a prophet, eloquent or silent;
neither a man, nor a woman,
it’s me, a humble word-smith.
(The poem is from the poet’s book AJAA DEKHINATHIBAA BHARAT, 2015, meaning roughly ‘an India never visualized by grandpa')
Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)
A FILMI STORY
Ms. Geetha Nair G.
There are forty of them we are shepherding. Forty very young ladies bursting with joie de vivre. Every corner holds promise. Every whisper is a shout. And now we are nearly home. The day is waning. Just 200 kms more.
After a long, lovely day in the water theme park they are freshly-powdered, hair damp and gleaming, faces a-glow with youth and camaraderie, ready for the last treat -a movie; a second show. After that, in the wee hours, the bus driver will have to perform a slow race. He will have to take 5 hours to traverse the 200 kms to our home town. Otherwise, we will reach before dawn. And very few will have parents waiting in cars or two-wheelers to take them back home. No city buses ply before 5 am. So what would my young ladies do if they arrived in the pre-dawn darkness ? Hence the slow-race, a
challenge for our driver.
My flock are students of Little Flower College for Women, a little institution on the sea coast catering mainly to first generation learners, children of fisher folk. My forty little flowers are having probably what will be the treat of a lifetime.
Forty two tickets had been booked. The movie was a big hit of the time-a nail-biter, a Tamil thriller-Anniyan. The story of a mild Brahmin lawyer who suffers from Multiple Personality Disorder. Hidden within him is a super strong vindictive killer of wrongdoers who surfaces at every injustice and unleashes destruction and death.
My companion, a senior teacher with a headache, stuffed cotton into her ears and prepared to go to sleep. We had set out at 4 am that morning and she was exhausted. ‘I hate such movies” she said, grinding her teeth. This made her headache worse, of course. She had handed over responsibility temporarily to me; I was one of the junior-most in the Department and she was my mentor. We called her Madam. I had been warned several times by certain senior teachers that it would be easier to carry 40 eggs all the way and bring them back unbroken than to take 40 girls on an overnight trip. I had dared to go on this trip only because of this venerable colleague’s solid presence. But right now, she was dead-beat.
The movie had all the girls clapping,shrieking, jeering and cheering at all the right places. I felt a helpless love for these fledglings, temporarily happy, knowing as I did, the kind of homes most of them came from, the kind of battles they fought daily.
We had arranged with two of them to let us know when the movie was almost over ( these two had seen it already) so that I could give a call to the bus driver. The bus was parked about two kilometers away, in the parking ground allotted for tourist buses in this cramped city.
The movie had me riveted. I am an ardent fan of boisterous, high voltage Tamil movies with song- and dance sequences a-plenty and this one surpassed even my high expectations. The timid lawyer kept turning into a fearful, muscled man whose long, curly hair, thrown forward, made a mask for his face.
Revenge is mine, said the Protagonist , and I will have it! And how! One villain was thrown into a huge cauldron of boiling oil for forcing his reluctant menials to serve sambar which had a well-cooked lizard in it, not permitting them to pour it drain-wards. Another was sucked to a slow death by leeches. The punishments were in tune with those described in Garuda Purana, a favourite with our pious hero. I came back to reality when the two girls entrusted with the alert turned in their seats to hiss loudly at me -”Miss, Miss, only a few minutes left.”
I took out my mobile and scrolled down the impressive list of contacts I had saved just for the trip.
Proprietor, Wings Travels; Manager, Wings Travels; Receptionist, Wings Travels; Branch, Kochi; Branch, Trivandrum; SP Crime Branch, Trivandrum (a distant relative, just in case…)All these were good old BSNL landlines; let me shed a crocodile tear for them. Driver Jithin; he alone had a mobile phone as he needed it in his line of work. The conductor or companion, ubiquitously called “Kili” in Kerala, possessed no phone. This was India, 2005 AD when mobile phones were as few in circulation as men in a ladies’ college.
I called Jithin. His phone rang merrily. It was, appropriately enough, a song from “Anniyan”; but he did not respond. Five such calls later, I got very worried. I woke my sleeping companion and told her the problem. “Not a word to the girls!” was her instant reaction.
The movie was ending. The cured Avenger had just pushed an offender off a fast-moving train! But it left me cold. The girls were rising from their seats, chattering and laughing. We moved into the yard and stood to one side. The crowd was fast dispersing. Soon, there were just a handful of stragglers and one or two cars left. It was exactly 12. 45 am. There we were, in a strange city, 45 young ladies and 2 teachers with no idea what had happened to the driver and no way of reaching the parked bus. There was a security guard at the gate. “Bus late?” he inquired, coming up to me. When I nodded dumbly, he said, kindly,”I will wait awhile. Don’t worry.”
Five more minutes dragged past with five more futile phone calls. The girls were getting restless. They suspected a hitch. Madam told me to ask the security guard for advice. She stayed by the side of our flock while I went up to the security guard and told him the situation. His kind, old face looked worried as he told me there seemed to be no viable options. There were no autos plying at that late hour. All of us or a few of us walking the two kilometers along the deserted streets was unthinkable. He could go on his scooter to find out what had happened to the bus but that would mean leaving his place of duty. He could lose his job if he were found out.
“Call the police station.” he advised. As I turned to share this with my companion, I saw a terrifying sight. The last parked car was moving slowly out of the theatre compound to the road. As it crossed the gate, two young men jumped out and quickly pulled the girl standing closest to the gate towards it. She screamed. Everyone stood frozen. Then, like an arrow, Madam lunged at the two men. Punch. Kick. Elbow strike. The two attackers turned into the attacked. In a few seconds, they had bitten the dust. The girl was pulled back to safety. The two men got up from the road and jumped into the car which roared away. The poor girl was still trembling. She went up to Madam who smiled gently at her. Then, Madam dusted her hands, smoothed down her sari and tied up the long curly, locks that had whirled during her karate moves.”I was a black belt in my young days; I am a little rusty now” she said modestly.
Cries of wonder and adulation were drowned in the roar of the bus. Driver Jithin explained that he had inadvertently switched on the silent mode and then gone to sleep with his phone securely next to his ear… . Luckily, the Kili had woken up and woken him up. Madam aimed at him a blistering speech that would have made Martin Luther King feel under-confident. The security guard shook her hand with great warmth. We boarded the bus last, as usual. As Madam entered, the girls rose as one and stood in silence. Then they started to cheer.
Need I add that Madam earned herself a nickname that night? Thereafter, she became everyone’s superwoman - Anniyan.
THE DRIFTER
Ms. Geetha Nair G.
Lapping waters
Lull him on... .
Now and then a fish rises
Iridescent in the sun.
Into his boat it leaps, flails, beats;
He watches with wary eyes,
strokes it
with a finger turned frenzied
And then tips it back
To turgid depths.
Fisherman
Seeking a fish too fey
At sunset the banks turn bright
with lights that leap and dance
Burning flames
That shrink to wicks
Smouldering, silent.
The boat drifts on
Aimless
Towards the last sea
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
A HIGH SCHOOL COMPOSITION
Sreekumar K
I was supposed to meet Sravan that afternoon. I sent a note to his hostel warden, Renu the Music Teacher, that I would go over to her place. I also rang her up just before lunch to ask her whether it was a good idea to meet him in her drawing room or whether I should look for another place. She said her drawing room was a good idea. At least, that way you would come over for visit, she added.
That was true. We both shared a deep interest in drama and music. I always felt it nice to be with her, go for walks with her, help her organize painting exhibitions and music festivals. But I always shied away from going over to her hostel. I decided to visit her that afternoon and spent some time with her after my encounter with Sravan.
Sravan was in the ninth grade and was under suspension for kissing a tenth grade girl named Radha. Boy! I won’t blame him, the girl was so charming. I could understand. But my liberal views were not going to sell in a school like that. Since I had had some experience in counselling, I was asked to deal with the issue, talk to him and make him see the point and write an apology. Till then he would be grounded. I knew what that meant to such an outdoor person. He was spending his time sleeping and reading a little in his hostel room, I was told.
I too took a nap in the afternoon. In fact, that was not my intention. I wanted to finish reading a book of anecdotes from Zen Buddhism. The stories were thoroughly enjoyable. I liked the tone of writing as well as the point each story made. Some day after I get tired of teaching and writing, I too should go to the Himalayas, find some Zen monastery and settle down there. I was trying to do some rough calculation to see how many years later that might happen when I found a heaviness all over me and before long I was sound asleep.
It was time for tea when I got up. I rushed to get my tea. The time slot for the evening tea was only half an hour. If I missed it, I might feel very drowsy. The nearest tea shop outside the school was two kilometres away, the school was in such a remote village. I was running to the dining hall when I suddenly remembered that I would be visiting Renu, and I could get some tea from there. There was no need to run to the dining hall. But, I reached the dining hall well in time for my tea. It was a relief.
I went back from the dining hall taking the longer route around the football court. There was a lot of dust up in the air and the air was thick with hooting and shouting. I watched the boys play for some time and then hurried to my room to get ready to go and visit Sravan. I wondered how I was going to tackle that boy. He was always fine with me. I knew he would nod his head and say yes to everything I suggested. In this case, the trick was to provoke him and make him come out and then start a discussion on whatever his words revealed of him. I had mastered that technique in hundreds of cases in my career.
I diverted my thoughts to Renu. Why was she so eager to be with me in her place? We had had enough interactions even otherwise. She was not so old. Was she expecting a relationship to start between us. Personally, I wouldn’t mind. But, how would I start? How would I know if she had no such intention.
I sprayed an extra amount of perfume over my jogging dress. She might want to go for a walk with me. Or, would she want to spent the whole time in her place? I didn’t want to disappoint her in whatever she hoped to do.
When I reached her place, Sravan was right there in the drawing room with her. They were in some kind of a card game. Uno, I know. I smiled to myself since even in thoughts it rhymed. But playing cards or any game with Sravan was not a good idea since he was grounded for a week. He was to be entertained in no way by anyone. But, I didn’t want to bring that up not because of him but because of Renu. Actually because of myself since I wanted to have a pleasant evening with her. No rubs.
She welcomed me in and excused herself soon after. Before she left the room she asked me whether I wanted coffee or tea. She told me to sent Sravan back to his room and ring the bell to call her. Coffee would be ready by then, she assured me.
Sravan stood there as if he were in a witness stand. I asked him to sit down and asked him.
I began the conversaion far off from the issue. I asked him what his parent did.
“What do you mean? Like, what they do for a living?”
“Come on, what else can it mean? Remember, I am your English teacher”
“Yes, sir. But that was not in the syllabus. Anyways, my father is a professor.”
“O, good!” As soon as I said that I wondered why I did. What does it matter what his father did? Maybe this adoration for professors showed my regret at not being able to be one. His father might be getting close to two hundred thousand per month.
“And your mother?”
“She is no more. She was murdered.”
“What! Murdered?”
“Yes, SK sir. She was murdered. She was a social worker with the central government and she was implementing some charity work in a village. You know there are this extreme leftists in north Indian villages? They asked her to shut shop and leave. They threatened to kill her.”
“Why? She was doing what they wanted to do themselves. She was helping the villagers, right?”
“Yes, she was. But that mitigated the situation. They wanted the people to feel the heat so that they would rebel and all that. But since they were getting some help from the government, none of them were aware of what problem they had. There, no one went to school or took a bath. Scarcity of water. Not even enough to drink, let alone have a bath. And malnourishment and all that.”
He went on and on. It was like he didn’t want to continue the story about his mother. So, I asked him how it had happened. Maybe he would come out that way.
“She knew these guys meant business. Even the day before, she had told my dad that she was expecting the worst and he tried his best to dissuade her from continuing there. But she was courageous, too courageous. She called me over the phone that day. I was at school. Unusually, she gave me a kiss over the phone that time. I wondered why she did that. The same afternoon she was hacked to death. I didn’t dare to see her body.”
I sat there without knowing what to tell him. Was there anything I could tell him? I told him to go back to his room and that we would continue that conversation another day.
When Renu came back she had a cup of hot coffee in her hand. I noticed that her nails were beautifuly manicured. I suggested that we should go for a walk. I told her I preferred to be outdoors as much as possible.
Outside, when she closed the main door, she was standing very close to me; I felt her warm breath. She smelled so nice.
We went all the way down the hill that evening, climbed back up, panting and trying to manage a conversation. Later we sat on a cliff, out legs hanging down over a valley which lay far below us. It was not safe to sit there like that. I did not say anything, but turned my face left and right as the wind blew past us. She asked me why I was so quiet.
I told her Sravan made me clam up for the day. She too didn’t say anything. I was sure she knew.
Sravan didn’t write a letter of apology though he was put under great pressure by my colleagues. Reportedly, he asked one of the junior teachers why the school made an issue of it since she liked it.
A week later the school gave him a transfer certificate. His father came to pick him up.
I was not there when he left. I didn’t dare to look at him when he left.
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.
WE THE INDOOR PEOPLE
Dilip Mohapatra
Hey you outdoor guys listen
you have only one Sun
and we have many
captive in our cozy little caves
which can be switched
off and on at our will
to enslave the darkness
dancing to our tunes.
Hey you outdoor dudes listen
you breathe the air
that Nature wishes to lavish on you
or even cool off under
the shade of a tree
but we have tamed the air and the wind
captive in the blades of our fans
and in the blowers of our AC.
Hey you outdoor freaks listen
you take a sip of the cool water
from the natural springs
to quench your thirst
without a care
and we have bacteria and salt free water
purified through reverse osmosis and
chilled in our five star rated fridge.
Hey you outdoor aficionados listen
you jog along the beach
climb the mountains
lift the loads and paddle the boats
and we the smarter ones
walk on our treadmill
sweat it out on the Smith machine
within the four walls of our basement.
Hey you outdoor blokes listen
you spend an evening
watching a movie at the drive in
or enjoying an opera at the amphitheater
but we love our recliner
and a book in our hand
or surfing channels on our smart TV
with our furry pet purring on our lap.
But how come
you are so cheerful
and fresh all the time
and we so grumpy
and stale most of the time
your skin glows though tanned
and ours like a pallid parchment
with blotches of red
your breathing so very smooth
and ours laboured
with streaks of asthma?
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.
HOPE OR HYPE
Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
People say:
Pain is dulled with music,
So, can it lull labour pain?
Yes,
music is a pain reliever.
So, conceivably,
It should work
for pangs of labour
Conceiving is the first step;
like an idea in the beginning.
But,
Does it work in the end?
Can it replace painkillers?
Music works
for all kinds of pain.
But, labour pain?
Isn’t it a parting gift
to the baby?
For a nervous entry
to the wider world
Music would be
welcome,
a change to beats
of mother’s heart:
like a soothing balm
for jaded nerves
and a tired body
from the arduous journey.
In theory,
Music can ease
pain of labour.
But,
the difficult question
remains:
In practice,
can it deliver?
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
WEAVES OF TIME
Sangeeta Gupta
V
In this
sunkissed afternoon
I realize
you are often
in my thoughts
the warmth of the
soft velvet sun
also has
the warmth
of your deep recall
VI
evening—
filled with your laughter—
suddenly makes me realize
I am alive, that I am talking to myself
that life itself is
the key poem.
VII
In an utter silence
I hear you
hear the unsaid
hear that
which never touched
your lips
I hear feelings
which are hidden
secreted with utmost care
in the in-most
bole of your being
the pure, the raw truth
is not spoilt,
nor expressed
in words
which have lost
their meanings
in this, so utter a silence
sans communication, sans connection
yet see
how still I hear you understand you completely.
VIII
It is now I can grasp
the silence—
appreciate
the steep beauty,
the bliss of what is not
The sound and fury inside
vanishing
and the void is replate
with the gong of silence
each moment of this same supreme quiet making you grounded in the here and now—
of no sound
only song.
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.
REMAIN LIKE THIS
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
Remain like this,
Little anger,
Few smiles;
Be the way you are.
You don’t have to care
What anybody may say;
Scale the height of joy
Which nobody ever
Would’ve dared.
At times,
You can be mad,
Nothing wrong in crying
And being sad.
Just be what you are,
No body to please
Nothing to gain or achieve
As your journey is vital
And everything else
Is inessential.
Continue to be natural,
No need to act
That puts you in dilemma,
If one has to just follow
Or create one’s own karma.
You are born brilliant,
Keep expressing the aura
That is more than required.
Don’t try to attract,
Never worry over the detracts,
Without self-denial
Just walk along the path
Which I have spread
With my love
From time immemorial.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
TEMPTATION FINALE
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
Lucifer (beguiling)
“ Am the omnipotent
Swaying all authority
Not thy father.
Am the omniscient
Bearing all knowledge.
Not thou.
Am the omnipresent
E’er present everywhere
Not that spirit.
Am omnificient
None else.
Am omnifarious,
Me alone.
Worship me now.
B’ come my omen,
Lo! Kingdom below is thine.
B’ come my ombudsman,
Aye! Whole world is thine.
B’come my omega,
Nay ! even stars are thine.”
The God’s Son (potently)
“Away you ominous.
Away from me omitted,
Always the kingdom was mine
And to kneel before
A father I own.”
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
JUDGMENTS
Sharanya B
I thought maybe sleep would help,
shutting down these heavy eyelids,
slowing down the rapid eye movement,
they don’t need to dart around in darkness;
But maybe closed eyes mean another veil lifted off the mind’s vision,
visuals more clear, precise and felt.
And I was too exhausted to let my creativity meddle,
so they played right off the tape of my memories
randomly picked from the archives;
There were words I could’ve chosen with more care,
statements I could’ve made more clear,
incidents I could’ve ignored for the better;
How easy it feels now, being the judge of my own past,
Watch what was real as if in reel,
dissect the scenes, actions and actors
And just judge, make reviews;
With not a pinch of regret, resentment or worry;
no dash of emotion
When sleep lets you forget its your own life you’re reviewing,
it is easy you see,
You can even go wrong with your opinions,
Or worse, you can know your judgements are false
But still fashion them to your fancy;
who cares as long as its somebody else’s story...
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 IMMERSION
Ananya Priyadarshini
“And finally, here I get my leave sanctioned!”, Vikram came in, euphoric !
“So the plan is ON!”, The euphoria was contagious enough to hit Shivangi as well.
Arvind, Suyash Tvam and I had also contracted the fever but kept ourselves from expressing it their way! We were job holders, bachelors, staying away from home in hostels and weren't granted leave for Durga Puja. For all of us, this puja was our first one after being away from our families. We were all anxious and irritated when the wisest of all of us, Tvam, came up with this master plan.
“We can't help the fact that we can't go home for puja. But six of us together can't be alone if we collectively choose not to!”
All of us rolled our eyes upwards, listening to his motivational boring speech but what followed felt like a real solution.
“We’re friends and we’re all in a city famous for Durga Puja. Let's look at it this way. It's our first Puja together. Let's make it happen!”
“Happen like what!?” Suyash asked half annoyed and half curious.
“Let's make a plan. Every evening we’ll go out pendal hopping. We’ll eat locally famous dishes. On Dussehra we’ll go see the iconic Raavan dahan (ritual of burning effigy of demon Raavan) and maybe, visit the river side during the festive immersion ceremony (visarjan)", Tvam explained.
“Wow that sounds so cool!”, gaining a thumbs up from Shivangi kept Tvam talking.
“We’ll be busy through the day in office and if we get something like this to do in the evenings, I don't think it'll be difficult battling homesickness!” I too supported Tvam.
“Okay done!”, even Arvind, the naivest guy, agreed.
Then the days began. We’d go dancing in Garba nights for the first few days of Navratri since pendals weren’t open for Darshan. From shasthi (6th day of Navratri) we began visiting pendals. We'd get going by late evening and keep roaming till midnight. The otherwise heavily crowded roads were almost bereft of people by the time. We'd get pics clicked with Arvind’s newly bought DSLR. But he was more keen about clicking pics of the idol. He was a passionate photographer and loved still- life photography.
There were more than a hundred idols in the city and over a span of four nights, we managed to visit almost all of them. But Arvind was left spellbound at one.
“Look at her hands. That Alta design drawn on her palms. So intricately beautiful!”, he spoke, zooming in the picture of one of the idols.
“It must have taken a whole lot of time and effort. And, think of the whole idol!”, Tvam’s eyes opened wide anticipating the labor put in by the artists. We took turns to see the pic.
“You’re enjoying yourself a lot over there. Looks like you aren't even thinking of us. And we’re here missing you terribly!” my mom had replied to a status of mine that had a pic of all six of us before an idol and everyone of us flashing as many teeth as possible.
The days went by, looking at idols that were so different from each other despite being of the same Goddess. All were beautiful, yet differently. Finally, we went ahead to watch the gigantic effigy of demon Raavan burn. The invited guest of honor (some politician) shot a burning arrow at it and as it caught fire, there was an outburst of loud, delightful crackers that filled the air. Arvind was capturing the whole thing in a video that we all uploaded on our social media handles later on.
“I can't believe it's all over. I mean ten days of craziness and still Dil maange mor!”, Suyash said looking at Shivangi. The two had developed a romantic chemistry after the days of roaming together.
“Let's apply for a leave tomorrow and pray it gets sanctioned so we can all go and watch the immersion as well. I mean, we've seen the whole puja; why let this opportunity go?”, Tvam proposed. Had this been some other time, it'd have opened enough windows for 'Whats, 'Are you mads’ and 'Noways’. But call it a miracle that everyone got on their phones typing mails to their bosses. Yes, it was a miracle that all the leaves were sanctioned.Yes, it was a miracle that all the leaves were sanctioned. Maybe be because the bosses themselves were on leave! The next day we all walked to the river nearby. There was a lot of chaos regarding parking; so we had to walk.
The drum beats, conch blowings and loud holy chants had takenl over all.. The idols were queued. There was strict control by the forces everywhere. We chose places to stand from where we could have a good view. Suyash and Shivangi found a comparatively secluded place away from the rest of us. Arvind kept searching for angles for clicking the best pics. Tvam, Vikram and I were just hanging around.
The sacred noises suddenly grew louder and with a huge amount of water springing out of the river’s chest, an idol felll into it. Arvind was overwhelmed to have captured the very moment of the idol touching the water surface and was hooting already. I could see the paint of the idol gradually getting dissolved in water. It promoted me to call home and advise Mom to take extra care about drinking water. I walked a little away to make the phone call but soon realised there was no scope for speaking or listening over phone amidst these celebrations.
I was about to return to my friends when I saw an old man, probably in his early sixties, wiping his eyes. Maybe his valuables have been stolen or he had got lost in the crowd I thought of walking up to him and having a word with him. At least I could take him to a cop!
“Baba, are you lost?” I asked gently.
He looked at me and said, “Ever since I opened my eyes, I have been seeing this city, Beta. I can't lose my way here. Never.”
“Then….”, before I could complete my question another deafening noise was followed by another idol falling into the blue. The old man began crying loudly this time. I didn't know what had gone wrong suddenly? Was it I who had done something wrong? I took out my handy water bottle and offered it to him. He took a sip. I didn't probe him any further. We both looked at the drowning idol. It was the same idol with that gorgeous Alta design on its palms. The red hue was slowly taking over the blues as the palm turned pale. The idol was completely immersed. The water stood still again. Ready to gulp down another idol like a bitter pill. I turned back as the old man asked,
“Do you know what does the word 'visarjan' mean, Beta?”
I kept mum as I didn't know.
“Vi- means the opposite of something and sarjan means to create. It's the opposite of creation”. I knew he'd more to say and I was right. ” It took me months of hardwork, tens of sleepless nights and deep imagination to create that idol. Nobody, not even the priests worshipping it over five days, feel about it the way I do. As I see people cheering over its drowning, my heart sinks’ Beta. I feel like my brain child is being killed right before me and I can do nothing but watch helplessly.”
I had no words to console him. He left and I just watched him vanish. I went back to my friends who were having kulfi. But Arvind, however looked a little lost.
“That old man has been coming to the immersion ceremony ever since I've started selling kulfi here. He is a murti artist. He comes and cries as his murti gets dumped….”, I cut the Kulfiwala short and said,
“Immersed, it is. And let's go back!”
“Yes, let's go back”, Arvind said before others could ask the reason.
On our way back, Suyash said how all were talking about me and the old man while having kulfi. I couldn't really focus on what he had to say. I caught a glimpse of Arvind’s camera screen. It held a still of the Alta design beginning to dissolve. His eyes were glued to it.
Soon, he looked up and our eyes met. We smiled and began looking at the heart blreaking picture, together.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.
A CRY FROM MY HEART
Latha Prem Sakhya
I
I come from Chemunchimotta in Agastyarkooodam
I come embracing the Western Ghats, its flora and fauna
I come singing and dancing to join my fiance
Awaiting me in all his Glory at Thiruvallam
Kariyar, Attayaar, Vigapadiyar and Thodiyar are my sisters
I have been flowing for centuries enriching Parashurama's capital Thiruvananthapuram
Where in all His glory resides Sree Ananthapadmanabhan
I am the daughter of Ananthapuri my beloved city
Loved and cherished much by my own people.
II
I am Karamana, named after the illustrious suburb
Where resides Thiruvananthapuram's most celebrated sons and daughters
Their names in gold adorn history
In the fields of art, music and literature
The musician King himself created his oeuvres
On my verdant bank listening to my music
Even now I am a source of inspiration for many an artist
Vanamala they call me as I dance along forest and woods
Greening the land and sustaining the fauna.
I am the pride of Thiruvananthapuram, the capital of god's own country.
III
Oh I am falling, falling, falling
I have shrunk, my banks have come closer
The water has turned black and murky
No one bathes or swims or plays on my bank anymore
I am dreaded, almost a leper diseased and dying
Loaded with filth from sewages, drains and factories
My fish are dying,
my waters filled with e coli
I am shunned, people keep away from me
Illegal sand mining and tourism have drained me
Oh! I am dying, dying, dying,
No more oxygen in my murky waters.
IV
Oh, help me please, singers of songs
Revive me from this untimely death.
I have to live as I have obligations
Though the shortest river I still have two dams Aruvikkara and Peppara,
For irrigation and life giving water
My beloved city depends on me.
I have rare fish in my water
In writings as old as eighth century
Yes I have to go on and on so that my city survives.
V
My wailings and prayers are answered
Attempts to revive me from my source is progressing
Death no more terrifies me
My water cleaned of garbage and scum
Steps are being taken to stop pollution
My banks are restored and trees are planted
Day and night the river lovers work to reinstate me
To the former Glory to be the pride of Thiruvananthapuram
A blessing to Sree Padmanabhaswamy's land
To provide crystal clear water for my beloved city
And once more be the cynosure of every passing eye.
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
TAMARIND AND CHILDREN
Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj
The car slowed, down as the little one was screaming, tongue out.
‘I want to see this tree.’
We all got out and saw the huge tamarind tree- wild and gigantic, with a thick foliage, and it stood on the side of the road. Actually, there were many trees lined on both sides of the road, probably to create the effect of an avenue. The other trees were meek and docile compared to this giant like tree. It was fat and portly, sprawling like a race course, with lots of tamarinds hanging like some decorative graffiti – all in brownish grey, downcast and subdued.
I love tamarind trees and I had forgotten this aspect of my life.
Those days we visited relatives and simply stayed on. Wanting to come back home was considered ‘ill manners’ – it meant that those particular family people are not good ones. Only a bad family will send back relatives in a week. Normal families accommodated relatives for months. It was an accepted norm. Nobody questioned it.
So, in those old fashioned days, I used to visit one of my many aunts for summer. My mother had ten siblings and so these visits were simply a part of our lives. No one took them as an unusual thing.
Hence, I used to stay with my aunt for weeks. Not only would myself – many children of the many siblings also arrive. It was like a grand and magnificent ‘children get-together.’ And therefore, the games would also be many too. Right in front of my aunt’s house was a huge tamarind tree. From a child’s perspective, it was an asuran. Mammoth and colossal. I used to stand underneath and imagine it having a heart. ‘Where would it be located?’ I used to wonder. We were just then learning human anatomy.
The tree was steady and was ideal for a ‘hide and seek’ game. If you hide behind, others can’t find you. And you can keep moving depending on the situation’s intensity. It gave you tremendous opportunities to win. Finally other children banned me from hiding behind the tree, as I was always winning. That’s another story.
The most interesting part of the tree was its raw and pungent fruits. We have to collect them, grind them on a stone with salt and chillie, and the taste was simply divine. The mature fruits have a slightly yellowish pulp and my uncle would give us a cup of the garden honey and these legumes of tamarind of inches long, and we have to dip them in the cup and suck them like a kulfi – the taste of sourness and the heavenly honey smelling of flowers in its original sweetness melt in your mouth as a fluid exploding and shocking your senses.
We ate the tamarind tree alive practically. Girls loved the tender leaves and boys jumped up high to pluck them and offer them to their favourite girl cousins, which will be put silently in frock pockets and throughout the day some mouths would be munching them now and then.
The best are the tamarind flowers which are so small that ordinary eyes do not understand their beauty. You need the eyes of a child. I collected them – they would fall down- and hoard them, and later would put my analytical brain and examine them, and in fact, forget to analyse, mesmerized by their exquisite beauty. They were different from any other kind of flowers we usually see, like rose or lotus. They were miniature beauties, unrecognized by the world, silent in their outfit, good looking and quietly pleasing the eye. What colour combination! An artist’s true delight! Dark red paling into thin streaks of red bleached completely as half-white, and alternatively stacked petals in contrasting colours – all neatly ordered and arranged. Nature’s dance of symmetrical colours! And the buds – no words! They are so self-absorbed and completely self-sufficient and closed like a yogi’s mind. Only later in life I understood that the whole pattern is more like an orchid.
Also, the fallen flowers taught me a great philosophy – all the flowers don’t become fruits.
Prof. S. Sridevi has been teaching English in a research department in a college affiliated to the University of Madras for 30 years. She has published two collections of poems in English: Heralds of Change and Reservations. Her prose works are: Critical Essays, Saivism: Books 1-8 (Co-authors-C.T.Indra & Meenakshi Hariharan), Think English Talk English, Communication Skills, and Communicative English for Engineers (Co-Author-Srividya). She has translated Thirukural, Part I into Tamil. Her Tamil poetry collections are: Aduppadi Kavithaigal, Pennin Paarvaiyil, Naan Sivam and Penn Enum Perunthee.
WHAT AWAITS..?
Dr. Molly Joseph M
What awaits
the long distance
runner...?
She was
running,
racing,
with eyes
focussed
on the distant
that receded
as she proceeded...
hah!
chasing horizons !!
fun was it
the run....!
the wind
mild and harsh
blowing on you,
the sun soft and sultry
turning you
bright yet drooping..
the moon
soothing, nascent,
evanescent...
the faces so varied
caught up
in compulsions
galore...
the voices, cheeky
chirpy, flamboyant
seeking buoyant
company,
some
the genuine, confining...
the noisy,
self projective....
variety
so infinite !
she loved
the run
not the race..
distance lent
lustre
to shapes
and sights...
what awaits
her run..?
lone, languid
moments,
flashing sights
that wax
and wane
on memory's plane,
strunng on
fatigue so
plain...
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
WHEN I MET HIM AGAIN...
Dr. Aniamma Joseph
I met him after decades nearly four and a half
He looked the old self
Save for a little greyness in the hair
He had survived a paralaytic stroke
He was not my lover
(I had tightly bolted my heart against all such love
and thrown the key away.)
But he did love me
Writing poems of love
Once he wrote to meet him in the library
I didn’t; nor did I respond
One day, I was looking for some books
When in between the racks in a corner
I spotted him
Sitting with bent head
To my casual query his friend replied,
“Headache!”
I prescribed a foolish tablet
I deafened my heart to the ache in his heart
My friends made fun of me
I ignored and took care
Not to step beyond the formal lines
When I met him four and a half decades later
He couldn’t walk by himself to our classmates’ circle
Ushered by his wife did he come in
Father of two young sons
Many a name he had forgotten
But he did remember mine
In fits and starts he talked
He used to be eloquent in poems
But he was mumbling for words
Words had slipped away from him
For the first time I talked freely to him
But I felt a choke in my throat
A pain filtering into my heart
He would have become a good poet!
Aniamma Joseph is a bilingual writer. She writes short stories, poems, articles, plays etc. in English and Malayalam. She started writing in her school classes, continued with College Magazines, Dailies and a few magazines. She has written and published two novels in Malayalam Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye—1985 and 2018 and Ardhavrutham--1996; one book of essays in Malayalam Sthree Chintakal: Vykthi, Kudumbam, Samuham--2016; a Non-fiction (translation in English) Winning Lessons from Failures(to be published); a Novel (translation in English )Seven Nights of Panchali(2019); a book of poems in English(Hailstones in My Palms--2019).
In 1985, she won Kesari Award from a leading Publisher DC Books, Kottayam for her first novel Ee Thuruthil Njan Thaniye. She worked in the departments of English in Catholicate College, Pathanamthitta; B.K.College Amalagiri, Kottayam and Girideepam Institute of Advanced Learning, Vadavathoor, Kottayam . Retired as Reader and Head of the Department of English from B.K.College. She obtained her PhD from Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala in American Literature. She presented a paper at Lincoln University, Nebraska in USA in 2005.
She is the Founder President of Aksharasthree: The Literary Woman, a literary organisation for women and girls interested in Malayalam and English Literature, based at Kottayam, Kerala. It was her dream child and the Association has published 28 books of the members.
STROLL ON THE TRAIL BY THE LAKE
Hema Ravi
Two paths diverge in the blueberry farm,
the trail's been trodden upon by countless others!
The meandering path leads to the leafless perch where
cedar wax wings, chickadees and Downy
woodpeckers bask in the warm, teasing sun
streaming through erect pines, lofty oaks
colorful maples and tall grasses.
The blueberry farms laden with juicy berries,
colorful flowers on the hedges around the lake
offer food aplenty to bees and birds;
the cool waters of the Larsen lake
teeming with fish never fail to satiate the hunger
of the great blue heron, elusive kingfisher and
the migrant Osprey ; the resident Mallards
forage forever in the waters, occasionally
waddle off for a snack of blueberries.
The berry picking’s long over!
The cornucopia of colours across
the blue autumn sky is intoxicating
the evergreen pines lofty as ever
in contrast to the crimson, yellow
and jaw - dropping scarlet around;
squirrels hurriedly gather acorns,
wax wings, finches and shinned hawks
have flown Southward. Anna's humming bird,
the resident flits from flower to other
with that distinct 'chee, chee' hum; soon,
the dreary cold will drive him into torpor.
The sudden ripplet in the blue-grey water
stirs a ripple of excitement from within...
Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi (Larsen Lake Trails, Great heron with catch, Hema Profile picture)
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
POLICE-CIVIL SOCIETY COOPERATION
Rohini Divakar
A Work-Life Balance has long been established as ideal living. It has in fact been regarded as the panacea for stress and an impetus to the feeling of Individual well-being.
However, one segment that this mantra eludes is the Uniform Services. By design these forces including the Police, Armed Forces and paramilitary Forces are regimental in nature. The training and service rules are skewed in favour of work with little room for personal life.
The State Police Forces often work in a complex environment. They have to walk on a fine edge of carrying out the strict orders of the superiors and having to bear in mind the local sensibilities. Contrary to the popular perception, an unruly mass or protests are not met outright with Enforcement. A lot of restraint and constructive engagement precedes the enforcement. Very often, the Police brave grievous injuries.
The state police constitute the emergency service within the contours of the borders. Accidents, crime don’t come with a forewarning, hence making policing a 24X7 job .
Not to forget the routine jobs. The traffic management. The Traffic Police officer with her or his constabulary is present when we drive children to schools early in the morning. They are still standing when we leave for office or what we call the peak hour. When I return from office they are still there. When people return home from their late evening revelries, the traffic cop still stands tall and alert. And that leaves me pondering “when do these super-humans go home ?
Such high degree of alertness, long hours of work, tough working conditions invite a host of physiological and psychological hazards. But for the Steel mettle that these women and men in khakhi possess, it is humanly impossible to carry out duties under such high degrees of stress.
And what complicates it further, is the politicization of their work. The net result - all the sweat and blood that the force gives in the line of duty ends up getting discredited.
The police forces are battling hard to fight the “unfriendly” image of the police, by introducing sensitization and training to its force to adopt a citizen friendly approach.
An equally important step of acknowledging the efforts of police needs to come from the civil society. All it takes is an attitude of gratitude. There is a need to obliterate the mindset of “Us v/s Them”. The police-civil society cooperation goes a long way in building a Society of Partnership and Harmony.
Ms Rohini D, is an officer of the Indian Revenue Service-2008 Batch and is currently posted as Joint Commissioner of Income Tax in chennai. She holds a post graduate degree in Psychology from the University of Madras and has now begun the doctoral study in the same subject. She has served in various capacities in the Income Tax department. In her stint as Deputy Commissioner (Central ) Bangalore, she was assigned the task of assessing, penalizing and prosecuting the cases of the illegal mining barons of Karnataka and was instrumental in bringing to tax an undisclosed income of about 700 crore in the hands of various mining barons.
She had edited the in-house magazine “Sankalp” of the National Academy of Direct Taxes, Nagpur during her tenure as Officer-trainee in the year 2009. She was one of the 12 invitees from all over India for the ‘Discover- Israel’ programme , sponsored by the Consulate-general of Israel in South India.
She had also represented India at the United Kingdom in the year 2001 as part of a Youth Exchange Programme of the NCC. She represented Karnataka and Goa at the Republic Day parade in New Delhi for two years-1998 and 2001.
She has keen interest in music and is trained in carnatic classical music as also Bharat Natayam. She was in NCC during her school and college days which initiated her into her current passion – shooting. She is a shooter in the category of 10 meter Air Pistol. She is also a keen reader and a prolific writer. She writes in the fortnightly column called Mindspace in The New Indian Express. She is married to Saroj Thakur an IPS Officer of the Tamilnadu Cadre and is blessed with two sons.
UNNUMBERED
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
After years of counting
the days have surrendered,
tired of being treated as mere numbers,
sad of the neglect
heaped upon them.
They just want
to fade away,
carrying all the smiles
they brought to children
leaving for their schools,
throwing pranks at each other.
And to the salesman
who made a kill,
selling an Afghan carpet.
The painter rejoicing
over the splendid nude
he drew on the canvas.
And the teen
who wore her sweater
upside down,
thinking of the cute boy
with dimpled smiles.
The mothers looking indulgently
at children frolicking in the park.
Days don't want to be
counted any more,
they would rather become
pictures and kept in albums
to be seen years after
amidst smiles and sighs,
as remnants of happy memories.
JOURNEY IS ON
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The song is ended,
but the melody lingers.
Soldiers have returned home,
but the marching band is on.
The battle has been won,
but the fights are still on
in the narrow minds
of the leaders and their hangers-on.
The economy limps,
but the arguments are on.
The shops are closed
but the shopping is on.
Plates are empty,
but the meals are on.
The horse has fled,
but the carriages are drawn.
The clouds are gone
but the rains are on
The lamp is dry
but the light is on.
Hordes of people are on the street
but the noise is gone
Everyone bears a wound,
A silent procession is on.
Students wait in the classroom,
the teachers are gone,
buying a ticket to the state capital
where a big agitation is on.
Patients are left on the operation table,
the doctors have left
looking for dollops of ether,
the pains are on.
The roads have ended,
all hopes are gone,
still we keep marching
the journey is on.
A STRANGER IN TOWN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Suresh came out of the railway station a little after nine in the morning. Even at that early hour it was unbearably hot outside. 1990 was one of the worst summers in recent memory. And the summer lingered right up to end of Sepetember. Suresh was sweating horribly.
The two bearers who had carried his father in the ramshackle stretcher put him down on the dirty floor, removed the stretcher and said,
"You got the body, should we not get something?"
Suresh winced, as if someone had stabbed him with a sharp knife. He looked down at his father, lying helplessly, oblivious to the noise of the crowd, the filth, the stench of the railway station and the two irreverent flies hovering over his face, waiting to settle down on him. A wave of uncontrolled grief swept over him. Tears blinded his eyes.
A crowd was forming around them. The two bearers had started waving their dirty, thin piece of towel, to show their annoyance at the delay. He took out a hundred rupee note and gave it to them. They lingered, hoping to extract some more, but with tears streaming down his face Suresh just shook his head gently. The two bearers went away, cursing him silently. If anyone was offering prayers for his dead father, Suresh knew, these two heartless bearers would not be among them.
Suresh made a silent calculation in his mind. How much would be left in his pocket? A thousand? Or maybe about twelve hundred rupees. Last night when he boarded the train at Varanasi at eleven, he had little more than two thousand rupees left with him. That would have sufficed to reach his village along with his father. But who knew Baba would have a massive heart attack early in the morning, and collapse in the train? The TTE put his hand near his father's nose, and advised Suresh to get down at the nearest station and rush him to the hospital. His father was still breathing feebly when they alighted at this small station, but within five minutes he became still. Suresh touched him in panic, it seemed there was no life left in him.
The train had already left. Suresh started howling in anguish. A few passengers waiting for their trains carried his father to the office of the Railway Protection Force. Two constables sleeping in the small mosquito-infested room got up from their deep sleep and started shouting at everyone - "What tamasha is, who brought the body here, how can you disturb the policemen on duty......." Suresh folded his hands and prayed to them to help him take his father to the hospital, maybe he was still alive. The smarter of the two constables got up from his bed, touched Suresh's father and said,
"Nah, don't waste your time and money. He is dead, as dead as a slab of stone. You just wait here. we will send for the railway doctor. He will give you the death certificate. After that you remove the body. This is summer. The body will start rotting in a few hours."
Suresh's heart sank. Body? His father, a body? In a matter of just one hour a living man became a body? And how cruel of this policeman to say his 'body' would rot? What does he mean, rot? How can his father rot? It was only yesterday around this time he was bathing in Dasaswamedh ghat in Varanasi, getting ready to have one more round of Darshan at the Kashi Viswanath temple. This dignified man, a teacher to thousands of students at the village Primary School, how could he rot? Does this policeman know, how, till a few years back the students would fall at his feet and touch them in great reverence!
The policeman suddenly realised the body was kept on a long bench in the room, he started yelling at the crowd like crazy, "Hey, who kept the body on the bench? Are you all idiots? You want to spoil my bench. Take the body down, take it down, now, immediately!" Suresh's voice choked, he wanted to tell the insensitive man not to keep calling his father a body, and please to allow his father to rest on the bench. But before he could say anything the constable cast a stern, burning glance at him and shut him up. The man had measured Suresh up with his expert, hawk like eyes, this grieving, grovelling man must be a nobody from some village from somewhere, sounds like a Bengali or Odiya. The policeman could unleash the full power of the state without any possibility of a protest! Couple of men gathered in the room brought the body down to the floor and left. Suresh sat down at the feet of his father.
Suresh slipped into a reverie. His father's face which was so radiant yesterday, having accomplished the mission of darshan at the famed temple, had faded into an melancholic frown. Lines on the forehead were looking prominent. Yet, his father was so normal last night when they boarded the train. He had relished the poori and sabji outside the station, taking an extra filling. Did he know it would be his last meal? Do people have a premonition of death?
His father had talked so many times about his death. He was very particular that Suresh should not waste too much money on his funeral ceremonies. No need for a big feast for friends and relatives, "What friends, what relatives? Has anyone come in the last ten years after I retired, to see me, to enquire about my health? All ungrateful people! My students whom I moulded in the beginning of their early education forgot me. When I sought their help to get a decent job for you in the nearby town, no one helped. You had to settle for the job of a Panchayat clerk in the village! You have been a good son, your wife a kind daughter in law. Just listen to me, don't waste money on my death ceremonies. Save it for your children's education."
Suresh remembered his father's words as if he was speaking to his son in person.
"These days women are getting a Deputy's job, they are becoming magistrates, you will see our Kanak will become a Deputy. And your son? Arjun? Such a gifted child! I have taught him everything I knew about mathematics. He will always top the class, you will see he will become a Collector or a Commissioner one day. Give the children a good education. Use my savings for them. Don't waste any money on feasts and feeding the Brahmins. These Brahmin pundits are all fraud, I can chant better mantras than them. But I cannot chant mantras in my own funeral, can I? Don't worry, nothing will happen to my soul, it's a pure soul, I never cheated anyone in life, did no harm to anybody. Whether you give a feast or not, I will reach heaven, where your Bou is waiting for me. Ah, only if I could have taken her to Kashi with me! The poor thing didn't give me a chance to do that, here today, gone tomorrow! Pneumonia! Pneumonia took her away from me! Tomorrow I will withdraw ten thousand rupees from my Post Office Savings Bank for the Kashi trip. Go and buy the train tickets as soon as you can. We will take a bath in the Ganges, have a Darshan of Baba Viswanth and return the next day. We have to come back before Dussehra so that I can do the annual puja at the temple like I have been doing for the last forty years."
Remembering his father streams of tear continued to flow from Suresh's eyes. His worries were piling up. How would he do a cremation here, in this strange town, where he knew nobody? Who would guide him, he had no idea about the rituals. And how would he do it with just a little more than two thousand rupees? And where was the doctor? It was past eight thirty now. Already three hours have passed after his Baba's death.
Suddenly Suresh was rudely brought back from his reverie. The two policemen had appeared from somewhere, with a doctor in tow. They demanded one thousand rupees, even before the doctor touched the body. Suresh pleaded with them, he had very little money with him. Everything was spent at Varanasi. But the policemen were unmoved. The doctor had to take his fees. And if Suresh doesn't pay, they have to hand over the body to Bihar Police to check if there is any foul play in the death of the old man. Then the matter will become very complicated. Suresh paid the thousand rupees and asked them if there was a train to Odisha from that station. They shook their head. "Only two trains stop here, one to Ranchi, the other to Assansol. Both come after midnight, if they are on time. But they are never on time." The policemen sent for two bearers and asked them to take the 'body' outside.
After Suresh got rid of the two bearers by giving them a hundred rupees, he felt like sitting down near his Baba and cry to his heart's content. But time was running out. He had to do something, arrange for Baba's cremation.
Suresh felt a presence near him, somebody was tapping him on the shoulder. He looked at the man. Clad in a dhoti and a kurta he was looking like a minor political leader or a broker. A smile appeared on the man's face.
"Myself Giridhari Lal, social worker. I help people in distress. Tell me, have you thought of cremation, do you know where is the cremation ground?"
Suresh shook his head in despair,
"No, I don't know anything, I am a stranger in the town"
Giridhari Lal suddenly tugged at Suresh's shirt,
"Do you see these two police men coming towards us? They will ask for some money. Just give them two hundred rupees each and we will move the body away."
Four hundred rupees? Suresh felt helpless,
"But I just paid one thousand rupees to the RPF police! Why should I pay again?"
Giridhari smiled, convinced that this simpleton needed a lot of explaining.
"That was for RPF, this will be for the Bihar Police, they are as different as Congress and Jan Sangh, don't you know? Wait here, let me see if I can ward them off, the blood suckers!" Giridhari approached the two policemen and talked to them animatedly. They nodded, smiled and for some strange reason shook hands with him, as if they were giving their blessings to him. Giridhari returned to Suresh,
"I told them everything, they won't bother us. So now we have to do something about this body here. Don't worry, as a social worker I have seen this before. I will arrange a good auto rickshaw driver, they all know me here. We will go to the cremation ground by the river Ganges. I will arrange everything, you don't have to do anything. Just hand over ten thousand rupees. That will cover everything, the wood, the Pundits' fees and the transport to and from this station. You will be safely deposited back here by the evening, buy your ticket and go home, carrying your father's ashes."
Suresh was desperately trying to interrupt him but Giridhari believed in doing a thorough job, so he couldn't stop before giving the full picture to this simple looking man. Suresh had raised his hand to stop him from his non-stop blabbering, he brought it down, folded both his hands and said,
"I don't have so much money. At Varanasi the priests were relentless, putting the fear of several births in my father's head. We had to pay them four thousand rupees for all kinds of puja. The hotel manager charged two thousand rupees for room, but another one thousand for food. All the money I had brought with me is gone. I can't pay you ten thousand rupees." Giridhari cast a malevolent look at the dead body and flashed an evil grin at Suresh,
"Looks like the old bugger screwed you right royally before departing!" (Lagtaahey Buddhene jaate jaate tumko achha chuna laga diya)
Suresh flew into a rage and shouted at Giridhari,
"Hey, don't say such things about my father! You uncouth scoundrel, how can you talk like this? Who are you? Did I call you? Just leave me alone. I don't want your services, go away."
In a moment the experienced Giridhari transformed himself to his obsequious self. Turning on a measured oily smile, just good enough to entice the victim, he said,
"Aha, don't take offence. The priests in Varanasi are real Devils. And the hotel wallahs are heartless leeches. We are not like that here, we will charge you only the cost of materials. Our services will be free. All of us are doing social service only. Come, let us leave this place first, you hold the legs, I will take the legs. Let us leave the station premises. Some other police men may come running if they see a dead body. Once you get into their clutches, they are like Otopus, they will not let you out."
Suresh and Giridhari lifted the body and took it outside to the pavement. The rays of the sun were like burners emitting heat. Giridhari came down to business without further delay. Like a snake, he was sure of the prey, he just wanted to numb Suresh with shock so that he could not run away,
"So how much money do you have with you. Let me see if I can reduce a few hundred rupees here and there."
Suresh shook his head,
"It won't work, a thousand rupees is all that I have."
Giridhari Lal's face collapsed, like a punctured balloon,
"What? A thousand rupees? You can't even cremate an one-legged cat with that much money!"
Suresh again shook his head. Giridhari's experienced gaze roamed on Suresh's body and broke into another sly smile, "Don't worry, when will the ring on your finger come to use? And the watch? Just give them to me, keep two hundred rupees for your train ticket and hand over rest of the money. I will try to manage with whatever little amount we can arrange fro your ring and the watch. Suresh looked at Giridhari helplessly. The scoundrel was gazing at the ring with lust, his eyes had narrowed like a serpent's sly eyes and pure venom was oozing out of them. He shuddered. In the flash of a moment, Suresh guessed what Giridhari was - a slimy trickster who might run away with his ring and the watch. He had an emotional attachment to both of them. The ring was a gift from his mother in law at the time of marriage, with strict instructions not to remove it at any time. It was a special ring, sanctified by a pooja and Chandipath meant to protect him from all evil. And the watch? The watch was given by his father after Suresh's graduation from college. He had been wearing it every day of his working life and could never think of parting with it. If he had to sell them for his father's cremation he would do it, but he would not hand them over to this sly trickster, at no cost. He made up his mind, looked at Giridahari and said, "No Bhaiya, I can't part with these two things, I have some emotional attachment for them. If you can manage with thousand rupees I can give it to you."
Giridhari started dancing like he was on a hot bed of coal, "You cheap idiot! You want to do cremation of your father with a thousand rupees? A thousand rupees! This is the respect you have for your father? Take out the ring! Now, do it now, if you don't want to rot in hell after your death! What an idiot one has to encounter so early in the morning!"
Without waiting for Suresh to take out the ring he started lifting the hand, wanting to remove it. Suresh was horrified. He started shouting at Suresh, "Leave me alone, don't you people have a heart? I just lost my father, and all you fellows can think of is money, how to make money out of me? You are behaving like wild dogs running after a hapless rabbit! Shame on you!"
Giridhari recoiled at the loud shout. Just then a cycle rickshaw drew up near the pavement. The rickshaw puller, a tall dark man with a towel wrapped on his head got down and came near Suresh.
"Babuj, come on, lift the body of your Baba and put it on the rickshaw. I have heard everything. This fellow Giridhari who is scampering away like a wounded dog is no less than a criminal. He specialises in victimising innocent stragers. Get in Babuji. We have to get out of here. Look at those two municipality staff coming towards us. Mark the way they are looking at the body. They want their pound of flesh. I will take you away in the opposite direction just to get away from them. Don't delay Babuji, they have started quickening their pace. Trust me Babuji, I am not like that scoundrel Giridhari Lal. And this is not the first time I have rescued a stranger from his clutches."
Going by his experience in this strange town this morning Suresh was far from reassured, but he had no choice. They lifted his Baba's body into the rickshaw and started moving. He asked the rickshaw wallah what was his name. "Moti, Babuji, but don't go by my name. I hardly have any pearl. My pocket is as empty as yours at the moment, although I know you are not poor like me. I come from a village in Mungher district. I stay here in a small hut in the slum. My family is in my village. Babuji, do you want a cremation with a big puja by the pundits? Those pundits at the cremation grounds are vultures, they will loot you mercilessly. And Giridhari Lal is one of their agents. They are heartless butchers. But if you still want to do the cremation through them, I can take you there. We can first go to a jewellery shop and sell your ring which Giridhari Lal was trying to snatch from you. Then we will go to the cremation ground."
Suresh remembered what his Baba had said about wasting money on Brahmins and
priests. He asked, "What is the alternative? My Baba was not very particular about rituals."
Moti replied,
"Alternately, we can do what I have done a few times earlier. We can go to the cremation ground near the Ganges after nightfall. These Pundits would have left by then. We will do a little puja by one of the Brahmins who lives in our basti. We will buy the wood from my neighbour who works in a wood godown. For two hundred rupees he will give as much wood as we need. Babuji, can you count your money and tell me how much you have? You have to keep something for your ticket also. If you need a couple of hundred rupees I can arrange it for you. My friends in the Basti may be poor, but their heart is much bigger than dogs like Giridhari Lal."
Suresh counted all the money he had. It came to twelve hundred ninety two rupees. Moti thought for a moment,
"I think it should be enough. Two hundred rupees for wood, two hundred rupees for the Brahmin to do the puja, about two hundred rupees for the things you need for the puja including some ghee. Don't worry Babuji, you have enough money, we don't have to borrow, nor you need to sell your ring. I have done this before, this simple cremation for those whose relatives die in the hospital and they have no money to return to their village. Now I will take you to my little hut, where you and your Baba can wait till evening. Do you want to eat anything during the day?"
Suresh shook his head, "Only two three cups of tea, if it is available nearby."
Moti smiled,
"Everything is available here. The tea shop is just twenty meters away. I will ask Gajanan, the tea wallah to send you cups of tea at regular intervals. Don't bother to pay him Babuji, I have a monthly account with him. Save your money for the return journey. He will also send some strong dhoop sticks. We will have to buy some ice to prevent the body from decomposing. Summer is really cruel this year. I will go and arrange the ice. Give me two hundred rupees for ice and another two hundred rupees for the wood. Don't worry Babuji, my own cousin works in the ice factory. He also lives here with me in this hut. He will send the ice four five times so that we have a steady supply of ice through out the day."
They had reached Moti's hut. It was quite cool inside because of the thatched roof. Moti sprinkled lots of water on the roof to maintain some coolness inside and then left in search of new customers. There was no bed in the room, but otherwise it was reasonably clean. Suresh dozed off. Gajanan sent tea four times during the day. Moti returned at seven in the evening with five of his friends, two of them with Rickshaws. All of them left for the cremation ground. Suresh sat in the rickshaw with Baba's head on his lap. It was Baba's final journey, in a cycle rickshaw, to a strange cremation ground in an unknown town. A far cry from the village where his Bou's final rites were performed on a rainy evening, made wetter by copious tears from relatives.
The Brahmin had accompanied the group. He performed the puja with minimum fuss and the body was laid on the pile of woods for lighting of the pyre. That's when all hell broke loose. Four people emerged from the darkness,armed with lathis and started beating up,everyone in sight. Moti's group were caught by surprise, but they also had hockey sticks hidden under the seat of the cycle rickshaws. Moti dragged Suresh to some bushes and asked him to lie low,
"Justt sit quietly Babuji, it looks like Giridhari Lal had informed the priests and all of them are in this mayhem together. Don't worry, we will have the cremation. We are six, they are four. We will beat them up and drive them away. Just wait here. I will come back."
Suresh started shivering. Out of fear, anger and frustration. What kind of lawless town is this? Are the policemen prompt only in collecting money from unsuspecting victims, or do they protect the innocent also?
After what seemed an eternity, Moti appeared, blood flowing out of a gash on his forehead. Suresh gave a cry, looking at him. Moti put his hand on Suresh's mouth. "Babuji, we had underestimated their number. More goondas have joined them. Looks like it will be a prolonged battle. Come with me. Your Baba is destined to ride the holy Ganges to heaven. These fellow will not allow us to light the pyre. They have been waiting ever since we had the first cremation about two years back, today they are bent upon stopping us. Come with me, quick, Babuji. The battle has shifted to the nearby gate. Let us finish the job before they come back."
"But Moti, your wound? The flow of blood needs to stop!"
"Don't worry Babuji, we Biharis are very strong. Nothing will happen. It will stop on its own."
Suresh and Moti carried the body to the steps of the Ganges. Suresh had a final look at his father. He lit a lamp and put it in a big leaf bowl. They lowered the body unto the water along with the lamp. Slow, steady laps of water touched his father's feet and serenely pulled him onto the lap of Mother Ganges. Tears were flowing like an unstoppable stream from his eyes. Suresh felt a hand on his shoulder, he grabbed it and broke into sobs. He knew, he had come as a stranger into this unknown town, but found a friend who had transcended all barriers and helped him to bid a tearful good bye to his father. The earthen lamp was flickering and moving away on the water. Suresh thought he could read a message in that flicker. It was his Baba telling him, "Don't be sad, my son, you have done your best, what more could you do? A stranger in this weird little town? Return to your family, my son! Let me go now. Your Bou must be waiting for me."
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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