Literary Vibes - Edition XL

 

Dear Readers, 

Welcome to the Fortieth edition of LiteraryVibes.

With the light and sound of Deepavali behind us it is time to look forward to some interesting and entertaining literary feast. LiteraryVibes offers you that and much more in the present edition.

We are happy to have  four new contributors in this edition. Ms. Sulochana Manohar from Trivandrum is an established bilingual writer who has distinguished herself In Malayalam and English literature. Ms. Subha Bharadwaj is a social activist from Chennai whose passion is poetry. Ms. Sultana Sheik from Chennai calls herself a wordsmith who excels in writing beautiful poetry. Ms. Srikala Ganapathy, another vibrant poet from Chennai is highly gifted. We welcome them to LiteraryVibes and wish them lots of laurels in the world of literature. 

I had the opportunity to see a part of interior Odisha in the past few days. Having spent forty two years away from my home state, I am unfamiliar with many important places here. With a bunch of friends and their families, all retired oldies like me, we travelled to Saatkosia, a Twenty one kilometres long gorge which makes the river Mahanadi dance to the beautiful tune of nature, nestled between two ranges of huge mountains. It is breathtakingly beautiful if one looks at the blue sky and the green mountains. Looking into the water will send shivers down the spine since there are hundreds of large crocodiles in this gorge which has been made into a Crocodile sanctuary. Fishing has been banned and one can go for guided boating only after taking permission from the Forest department.

We came across a young, dynamic, lady Divisional Forest Officer who has transformed the area with her innovative and imaginative interventions. A beautiful Eco Park has been set up by her on the bank of the meandering river in the midst of thick vegetation, fully equipped with trekking gears, bicycles, boats and suspended foot bridges. We also visited other parts of the area which were earlier hotbeds of illegal poaching and timber smuggling. In the last five years she has put a stop to all that by enlisting the support of the local population who have a new zeal to protect their forests from unscrupulous and anti social elements. She has made them stake holders in the Eco Tourism projects and ensured that man, nature and animals coexist in perfect balance. We felt that if the country can have a hundred officers like Ms. Anshu Pragyan Das, it will be in safe hands.

We also found the roads have improved tremendously compared to what we had seen forty years back, Internet and telephone connectivity exists even in deep interior villages and there is a marked abundance in goods and services in small towns and large villages. Unfortunately, our last stop on the return trip at a famous ancient temple was painful. The priests, the guides, the shop keepers selling puja articles hounded us like hunters after hapless prey and turned our spiritual quest into a miserable experience. Having lived in Tamilnadu for more than fifteen years and visiting temples in neighbouring states like Andhra Pradesh, Kerala and Karntaka, my heart breaks at the utterly despicable, exploitative behaviour of the priests and others in temples of Odisha, Bihar, Jharkhand, West Bengal, UP and Madhya Pradesh. It is also unfortunate that the state governments are either helpless or unwilling to come to the rescue of the devotees and pilgrims to ensure a smooth and stress-free darshan of the deities.

Let's hope in some golden age things will change for the better. Till then, wish you happy reading of LiteraryVibes! Please remember to send the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/238 to your friends and contacts. After all sharing shows you care!

With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

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KONARK BY NIGHT

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

It’s midnight and the sea moans.

The casuarinas sigh like bereaved widows.

I have come with my wife to see love

chiseled on Konark.

 

Under the full moon

the ruins command magic –

a monarch riding his giant chariot,

its wheels clogged

with a rusting past; its cracks whisper.

My wife sprawls like an apsara.

 

Another night

In the past’s recesses;

a full moon was frowning overhead,

twelve hundred masons kept vigil;

when twelve year old Dharma

was crowning the stone Devil.

 

The twelve hundred masons,

chained to the tyrant’s whims,

away from home for twelve years,

were building the rock titan;

 

carving ballads of love

on dumb granite, peck by block.

But the stone Devil refused

to be muzzled;

 

the masons failed

to crown the temple.

The tyrant threatened

to behead them all.

 

The twelve year old Dharma,

the son of chief mason Vishu,

came to meet his father,

away from home for twelve years.

 

The senior masons watched

with shame and relief

the little boy

crown the Black Pagoda;

the waves of the sea opened up

to receive his frail body.

 

The secret died,

a legend grew.

 

Tonight, we would put

our souls together

to sculpt the legend again

out of the dark’s flesh,

 

attune our desires

to bodies’ waves and stones,

and plant a seed lovingly

to take back home

 

a souvenir

of joy and poignance.

 

THE HISTORY AND LEGEND: History has it that Konark Sun Temple lying presently in ruins at Chandrabhaga  beach was built by the king of Kalinga (the then Odisha), Narasimha Dev, in the 13th century AD. But the legend has it that the king enslaved 1200 masons away from their home and hearth,(Vishu was their chief )for 12 years to build the black titan. At the end, the masons failed to crown the temple, to erect its top piece. The king gave them a deadline and warned of  beheading them in case of failure. A relief came. Dharma, the twelve year old son of Vishu, born just after his father’s departure from home, came to look for his father. He had learnt the art of masonry from the palm leaf scripts stored at home, and had grown into a child prodigy. The senior masons were relieved to see Dharma successfully crown the stone Devil. But they felt ashamed before the inexperienced child’s ability. Their second relief followed as Dharma jumped into the sea from atop the temple to keep their failure a secret.

(This much published and applauded poem was written in the early nineteen-nineties.)

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GRANNY’S NUPTIALS

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

A case of perpetually married:

my granny had married

almost from her cradle.

When her husband died

she was in her flowering teens;

her memory froze

him as an ever-young face.

She remembers loving him,

loving his body parts,

his body-functions as well.

 

She obeyed him as her god

except in bed, there 

she ruled as goddess Aphrodite.

I, her present accomplice,

fool, and court-jester;

privy to her complicities,

her toothless peccadilloes;

also the keeper of her cob-webs -

grandpa’s last disobedience,

his heart stopping mid-coitus.

 

A demure grandpa

in his exuberant prime,

a rapturous child grandma

wearing a toothy smile

sticking to his side,

look upon us

from a sepia-vagueness,

ensconced in grandma’s

brittle wedding photograph,

hung on her bedroom wall.

(A new poem)

 

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MOLE TO MONK: Little Kant’s Dream-adventure.

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

           It was a rainy evening. Little Kant sat by the family fireplace where mother was cooking dinner. Kant insisted on a story and his father opened the box of his memories -

          “It was the horrendous days of World War II. The Axis Powers led by Germany’s Hitler on one side, and on the other side, the Allied Powers with the democratically ruled British at the forefront were engaged in an all-pervading war, fought on the land, in the sea, and in the air. The world was engulfed in misery because of this devastating conflagration. Millions of soldiers and civilians were killed and wounded in battle fields. Hundreds of cities, villages, other human habitations, and civil facilities like universities, hospitals, heritage sites, museums and other establishments were destroyed by bombs and tanks.

            A sense of jingoism, the exaggerated false patriotism, was injected into peoples’ minds by their rulers. The indoctrination made ordinary men believe that they would be martyrs if they died in the war. The warring governments took away all adult able-bodied men to fight in the war. Even students in their teens and men in their fifties and sixties were not spared by the draconian law of conscription (compulsory military service). At the war fronts, thousands of defeated, wounded, and surrendering soldiers were arrested by the opposite sides as prisoners of war (POW). These prisoners of war (POW) were kept in POW camps in inhuman conditions where most died of untreated wounds, malnutrition, and lack of hygiene and medical attendance. Many were tortured to death in the process of extracting war secrets. In this charged and tragic scenario of the world war, many a little drama was being played in the wings.

           An interesting incident, I am going to narrate to you, Kant, happened in one of Germany’s POW camps where about a thousand defeated British soldiers of all ranks were kept as prisoners. In spite of third degree torture, and offer of pardon in lieu of cooperation, hardly any useful military secret was elicited from the British prisoners of war. So, the Nazi bosses planned an ingenious method. A German spy in the guise of a British prisoner of war was introduced into the rank and file of the prisoners to work as a mole. Spies like him, of those days of jingoism, were ready to sacrifice their lives and compromise their morals; and would not even hesitate to sell their souls to the Devil (Satan). They were like the misguided jihadis of today, my dear Kant, just like the Muslim, Hindu, and Christian terrorists who kill innocent people in the name of God. 

            The German spy (say, Mr. X) was middle aged. His identity in official documents was forged as an English man of Catholic origin. He mixed with the real prisoners of war, overheard their conversation, gathered military secrets about the enemies, and passed them on to his bosses secretly. His genial Englishman’s guise made it easy for him to merge seamlessly into the British crowd of prisoners in the camp. He ate the same poor camp food, and availed the camp’s subhuman facilities in matters of sleeping quarters, toilets, washing facilities, health care, etc. He quickly made friends among the English soldiers, and won their trust as he seemed a very amiable and helpful man. The thing that endeared him to others was a well-orchestrated false story spread by him. He confided in many that he had served as the pastor of a church before joining the army. So whenever someone died in the camp, he was invited to conduct the last rites as a priest. The prisoners had kept aside one of their tents for prayer, and called it their chapel. X was now appointed as the priest in that chapel. The brutish spy with a blackened soul became immensely popular among the war prisoners for his spiritual outlook and duty (pretended), and his altruistic pre-death and post-death services (another pretention).

          X listened carefully to conversations among the British soldiers, at times asking subtle questions like a curious individual, and gathered secrets regarding the locations of military cantonments, army camping sites, plans for army movement, weaponry, arsenal-stockpiling, war plans, etc. The information was of immense value to his masters. The most valuable sources of information used to be the new batches of prisoners brought to the camp from the war fronts. They were loaded with fresh military information. But the gung-ho success of the scheme did not work for long. For no apparent reason, the flow of information was drying away, from a gush to a trickle. Finally, the spy passed on bland, repetitive, useless information. His bosses wondered if their mole and his method were detected by the British prisoners, and the latter were getting wiser by the day. Before they thought of any corrective measures, they sent another spy (say, Mr. Y) as another prisoner whose job was to know the truth. What Y reported was bizarre to the cruel Nazis –

            ‘I found X as a devout Christian Father serving in a little chapel built inside a camp tent. He conducts excellent mass on every right occasion for his parishioners, the prisoners of the camp. I attended one. Tears came to my eyes to hear him preach. He neither preaches from the Bible, nor quotes from the Gospels. He preaches from  the heart on humanity, compassion, goodness, charity, and all noble human values. In privacy, he revealed to me  his disillusionment with the war, and the violent, selfish, and malicious ways of his military masters. He said his revelation came when he saw the young boys from colleges and ordinary walks of life conscripted into military service, and how those boys missed their parents, beloveds, and peaceful lives, and how they hated to kill the boys of their own age in the enemy’s rank and file. He also has found great peace for himself in prayers and in the service of the Lord. He feels close to God and that closeness has liberated his spirit. X sounded very convincing to me. Not that his access to the prisoners’ secrets has died away, no, rather that floodgate is wide open. Prisoners repose their trust completely in him, and bare their hearts like little kids do to their mother; in fact, the majority of the prisoners are still kids of eighteen, nineteen, or twenty. But he finds this business of betraying the trust of his parishioners  a vile sin. He convincingly told me that he would prefer death to betraying their secrets to his Nazi bosses. I feel too overwhelmed not to agree.”

           The report of Y disturbed the cruel Nazi bosses no end, but before they could marshal their wits to eradicate the disease by sending Z, another spy into the camp in guise of a prisoner to liquidate both X and Y, the latter duo had vanished into thin air. They were never heard of thereafter. Perhaps the company of God and good men had converted their blackened hearts into burnished gold.”

            That night Kant had a peculiar dream. Biju, the big bully among his friends, came to play with them, the lane’s children. He came wearing an ensemble of the Devil - two small horns on head, two fangs protruding out of the corners of  the lips, and a little tail behind. He played with them, the friendly lot, and surprisingly, when he was leaving the playground, he was seen in the saffron garb of a benign monk.

 

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  

 

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THE EVER-FAITHFUL ORANGE-PEEL (KAMALAA CHOPAARA AVINASHWARATAA)

Haraprasad Das

(Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)

 

A lifetime’s association,

had kept me in the dark

until his mask fell off

baring his dark side

 

just before his train chugged out of

the station. The credit goes

to the humble orange peel

that he was licking

 

in perverted abandon

before gulping it down hungrily

along with the juicy pods;

oh, how bizarre was his wolfish greed!

 

I have wasted years

enslaving my free will

to his insidious seduction,

a werewolf in human guise.

 

How did his phony demeanour

defile my pure faculties

honed on the whetstone

of the sacred Gayatri?

 

I feel obliged to you,

O! dear orange peel,

for exposing his lie

just before he departed,

 

revealing not his normal hunger

but the wanton perversion,

that does not even spare a peel

while wolfing down the pulp!

 

Who would believe

that ever-humble an orange peel

would prove so potent

in detecting life’s hidden truths? 

 

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JASMINES AND THE TAWAIF (MALLI MAALA)

Haraprasad Das

(Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra)

 

O! my dance queen,

go and garland your blue Lord

with jasmines;

only the lingering fragrance

stuck to your visage

would hold me in thrall.

 

Before leaving for my forlorn dwelling

let me wish you well,

O! my co-patrons gathered here

to watch her dance;

 

My house would be lying bereft

of souls, its floor wet

from open taps,

clean laundry stacked on the floor

gone soggy. The very thought

scares me to  goose-bumps.

 

Unwashed dishes in the sink

would be waiting with whetted hunger,

grubby cockroaches moving

in the kitchen wall like Ursa Major

around the old aerial rod

obstructing my roach-swatter,

delaying their moksha

from their miserable roach-life.

 

These are the grim realities of life,

my dear friends,

so, we gather here

for a few hours of relief,

 

and leave this forum of joy

taking home a dream,

investing it in soulful hobbies

like gardening; 

 

often wearing it around necks

as a garland of jasmine;

our drab hours suffused

with her jasmine-sweetness. 

 

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)”

 

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OLDER BROTHER’S WIFE, MORE THAN A MOTHER (NUAA’OO)

Hrushikesh Mallick

(Translation by Prabhanjan K Mishra)

 

(ONE)

A delicate dew drop

on a slender paddy  leaf,

brings home your memories

soaked in the aroma of sandal paste.

 

Memories come rushing –

your bangles’ muted tinkles

filling the dawn as you leave bed,

most of the world still asleep;

 

except  for distant poundings

from the house of flattened-rice makers,

who are readying breakfast for villagers.

You get busy in household chores;

 

sweep and swab floors,

wash dishes, decorate the ground

by drawing the endearing footprints

of goddess Laxmi to entice her indoors.

 

It appears the blossoms on trees,

and marigold flowers wait

for blooming until you wake up;

they celebrate, exuding their fragrance.

 

Late nights, tiptoeing and whispers

from your room softly stir the silence;

I wonder what keeps you awake

so late, so cautiously busy.

 

The mystery thickens by morning

when you blush to my remark,

“You seem to have lost your left anklet;

also the right earring and the hair-clip?”

 

(TWO)

At night you make a paste

of the black gram your husband

brings from market, leaven it overnight

to make delicious dumplings, badi.

 

Our mouths water for the delicacies

from your kitchen, tongues tingle

when aroma wafts around the house

of chutneys, or sauteed vegetables in pans.

 

You seem too worried about the sad fate

of the under-dogs; you equally worry

for the hungry orphans; feel helpless,

looking sad like afternoon’s village lanes.

 

Who knows, your worry may bring milk

to the hungry little mouths, succour  to

the deprived; I am not joking, a glance

of yours turns a fallow land lush green.

 

Your blessings have made gnarled trees

blossom with foliage, the bare sky fill up

with rain clouds. It is not a joke at all,

you are generous like  Mother Earth;

 

your gifts and charity in our life

are legendary, fragrant and bountiful

as the fertile earth’s; but if displeased,

you can turn as pungent as  the salty sea.

 

(THREE)

Dry bamboo leaves blowing in the wind

recall your delicate hands with a broom,

the vacant shore by our pond

is missing you. I relate you

 

to an appetizing flavour when

aromatic mango fruitlets are squeezed

into pakhala, so deliciously made,

adding water to steamed rice,

 

lightly seasoned overnight; the riverbanks

of Kathjodi miss your desultory walks.

Your husband is missing you differently -

as the smouldering queen of his bed,

 

the joy of his life, blurred away like mist.

Your ma-in-law is missing your oil massages

in restful hours, your husband’s sister

looking for you to pick lice from her tresses.

 

You cared for all, but neglected yourself,

your undone hair is down with no hairdo,

the wild jasmines in the fence wither,

waiting long hours to adorn your coif;

 

and henna flowers flood our courtyard

to colour your beautiful palms pink.

 

(FOUR)

I go out to sow seeds in the field

as dark clouds surround our village,

a white cactus flower blooming against

the dark clouds brings you to mind.

 

A desolate star feebly twinkles

in my sky after the moon’s departure.

If I go hungry or thirsty, or feel like

an orphan, I seek you in that star.

 

(The original Odia elegy for the poet’s sister-in-law (older brother’s wife) was published in an anthology of Odia poems under the name SRESTHA KABITA, first edition in 2005, by Odisha Sahitya Akademi. The poet confesses that his late sister-in-law was more than a mother to him, and that he wrote the elegy not with ink but his blood.)                          

 

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)   

 

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DEEPAVALI

Geetha Nair G.

 

It was Shiva’s first Deepavali away from home. At home, it was just another day except that his mother went to the temple at dawn and later made a sweet dish with jaggery and coconut milk. There was no money to burn on crackers or to consume on sweets available in shops ten miles away. But here, in this sprawling house in the city, a day’s journey from his village, all was new, bright, sweet.

One of the numerous servants had pounded on his door at an unearthly hour. When he stumbled to open it, a ladle of warm oil was thrust at him. He was bewildered; the man said, brusquely, ‘Deepavali oil bath; no breakfast otherwise.”

Obediently, Shiva smeared the warm pungent oil all over his muscled, dark body, then took his towel and made for the bath rooms in the western corner of the house. All three were occupied and there were two men waiting outside. “ All this is new to me,” Shiv said to one of them, the gardener. The young man flashed his teeth; “ Great day; plenty to eat and crackers at sunset. And a chance to steadily view the beauties of the house. What more do we need?” he replied.

 

The house of the high-ranking police officer was well-known to all in the capital city. One of its attractions was the fact that it housed four beauties, all between the tender ages of seventeen and fourteen. Two daughters and two nieces. All cast in the same lovely mould; glowing, golden complexion, long black,wavy hair and nubile shapes. They went out only to school or college and never on foot. They were the cynosure of all eyes.

“Lucky Master,” continued the gardener, moving deftly into a just-vacated bathroom, “you get to spend hours with them every day.” 

 

Shiva had joined the city college as an undergraduate in Physics. His father, a farmer in a remote village far away, had been unwilling to send him for higher studies. They had plenty of farm land; couldn’t Shiva just be a farmer like his forefathers or maybe join the local primary school as a teacher? But Shiva’s Headmaster had called his father to the school. “Your son is a brilliant student, he will go far. I advise you to get him enrolled in a college in the capital.”

“Who will meet his expenses?” queried the doughty old farmer.

“I will arrange his accommodation. He can stay free of cost in a house I know. Besides, he has won a scholarship which will just about pay his fees.” The Headmaster’s assurances settled the matter.

 

So, Shiva, elated and anxious by turns, had reached the capital city. The accommodation was a corner room in the huge house of the DIG.The great man had a soft corner for promising young students; he had been one himself many years ago. He had taken an instant liking to the tall, young man with a bright, intelligent face and a deferential manner. Shiva was asked to tutor the children of the house every evening in return for food and lodging.

 So it was that every evening, a group of six would seat themselves on chairs and stools on the veranadah. There was a small table behind which Shiva sat. There were two boys- the young sons of the house - and four girls. The two elder girls were in college, doing their Pre-University course.The others were in school. 

Shiva revised, cleared doubts, gave explanations, corrected their written work. He handled all subjects with ease. He found they were all average students except for one of the college girls. She was well-read, had an incisive mind and the two often spoke of contemporary poetry, a shared love. The other college-goer was a dreamy lover of books and singer of songs. She was also the most beautiful of the four. Throw a personable, normal young man into the company of two good-looking young women and what do you get ? Throw two good-looking, cloistered young women into the company of an attractive, pliant young man and what do you get ? Passion, conflict, intrigue, jealousy, despair!  

Shiva found his heart torn in two. He was half-in-love with both of them. They swayed like blossoming flowers to his ardent breath; the others were  mere buds and leaves. His favourite poem became the tragic pastoral elegy, Ramanan, in which a lad of humble birth is loved and then spurned by a girl from a rich, aristocratic family. The lad hanged himself at the end of the poem; Shiva had no such ending in mind, though. 

 

That evening, everyone in the household gathered in the vast backyard for the fireworks session. Dumm! Whizz!! Dhoom-dhoom-dhoom! Wheee! Amidst the noise and the smoke, Shiva glimpsed his twin heart-throbs holding lit sparkler after sparkler. They looked enchanting in the halo of light around them, like twin goddesses in the sanctum sanctorum.

When he got back to his room, he opened the notebooks in which his students wrote out answers for correction. In the Intellectual One’s book, he found a letter. “I find you very enriching to interact with. You are my match in all things literary. I believe I am in love with you. I think I would like to make ours a life-long relationship. Our social strata are different but that can be bridged though it may be a long and difficult process. Let me know your views on this.” 

 

Shiva was elated; so, he had not been mistaken in identifying that look in her eyes as love.

He sat awhile, the open notebook on his lap, lost in reverie. His choice had been made for him.

 

A deafening chain-cracker set off in a neighbouring house made him jump up. He went back to correcting the notebooks. Long-division, the Tudor Kings, Boswell’s Johnson, The Miller of the Dee… . he was almost done for the day. The last notebook, that of The Loveliest of Them All, opened to release a sheet of paper neatly folded. 

“I love you,” she had written in her bold, clear hand. “ You are my Nala, my Shiva. Make me your Damayanti, your Parvathi.”

 

Shiva was swinging again on his flowery swing, back and forth, back and forth. Two of Kamadeva’s floral arrows in one night. What a Deepavali!

 

In the following weeks, at tuition times, he was careful not to meet their eyes or to let his feelings show in any way. He ignored the mute appeals in two pairs of eyes.

 

In a month, his mind was made up. He appeared for a selection test; he became a Second Lieutenant in the Travancore State Forces. It was a glamorous post and he looked dashing in uniform. He did regret the abrupt ending of his studies. But one can’t have everything. A good job was of paramount importance now.

One evening, he rode up to the house of his former patron, dismounted and was shown into his presence. He was trembling inside. “Sir,” he said to the dignified Head of the State Police Force, “I wish to marry your daughter.” There was a minor Deepavali in response. Explosions and flames. Shiva was shown the door unceremoniously. But his beloved was adamant; Shiva or no one. Persistence won; Shiva won his bride.

 

*****

Decades later, when I was old enough and bold enough to discuss such matters, I asked my mother, who related the story of her romance every Deepavali (not to mention other days !), “How did he  choose between you and Auntie?”

My father, walking in just then, answered for her.

“Heart over head, my dear. In a wife, what one needs most is a heart. I compared the two love-notes and my mind was made up.”

A loud burst of crackers from the soldiers’ quarters made us jump.

 

“Deepavali, with just the lovely lights, that is what my choice gifted me. No crackers at all !

He put an arm around my gentle mother and added, Right, Parvathi?"

My mother smiled her reply.

 

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GROUP  ACTIVITY

Geetha Nair G.

(Dedicated to all critics in Whatsapp poetry groups)

 

Squat on the sand;

Crunch peanuts;

Doodle

While you wait…

 

Splash! 

He rises high

A sudden spout:

Falls beached, berthed:

LEVIATHAN

Shimmering on the sand

 

Knives out !

Gather round

Exclaim at his fins

Praise

The iridescent patterned scales

Speculate

On his worth

His kith and kin.. .

 

Knives out

Careful now:

Heave him over

Prod that gleaming underbelly,

Make a cut or two..

 

Splash!

He disappears

Into the unplumbed sea

 

We flounder 

In the ripples.

 

Back to the beach,

Sheathe the knives: 

Crunch those nuts;

Wait. 

 

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 

 

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UNTIMELY VISITORS 

SreeKumar K

 

 

The door bell had been ringing for quite a long time when I noticed it. I had gone to sleep, reading one of the page turners that I borrowed from the lending library right across my apartment. The book gave me a wonderful dream. So, before I opened the door, I had decided what my tone of voice should be to this stranger who had come without any notice on such a drowsy afternoon.

It was a young man, may be thirty-two or thirty-three. The first thing I noticed about him was his face. Such a sad one. I thought he would have come with a request for charity or something. All donations from our apartments were to be given only through the association which practically meant me.

“I heard there is an apartments available for rent on the seventh floor,” he said. 

“Yes, but they won’t give it to bachelors.” 

“I am married.” I wondered what made me think he was a bachelor. There was something about him which told me he was a loner, a gulf returnee who had forgotten to marry.

“OK, there are three available on the seventh floor. Which one are you interested in?”

His answer kind of shocked me. It was Sally’s apartment he had come for. 

“How did you come to know about it?” I wanted to ask but kept quiet. That apartment was always known by by her name, the hapless daughter of the last family which had occupied it. I had the key. The family had asked me to find a tenant.  Now, they had gone away to settle down somewhere in north India. No one in fact knew where they were. Only Sally’s whereabouts was clearly known. She was buried in a cemetery nearby. She had committed suicide.

“A friend of mine told me about it recently.” I found the answer satisfactory. I remember having put an ad in OLX.

We walked up the stairs. The lift had been out of order for days. Twice I got caught in it. Once Sally was with me. It took some twenty minutes for someone to come and open it from the outside. Old lift. All the time Sally was humming songs. Some old and some new. I panicked. She didn’t.

“Are you planning to move in soon?”

“Yes. Actually no.” He seemed quite absent minded and in deep thought.

I was almost sure that he was not going ot take it. He didn’t seem to be a proper tenant. I had arranged several tenants for the other apartments in these twenty five years. I knew the signs. Those who were eager to rent a house always came with their family or a friend. Actually, coming to think of it, no one came alone to look for an apartment as far as I knew. 

And that too a house in which a suicide had happened. And that too a beautiful, young lady. But, what had beauty to do with it? Or being young for that matter. It is one thing to feel bad about someone death. But it made no point to feel bad about death itself. It can come to anyone born, beautiful or ugly, wealthy or rich,sooner or later. In  college, I had taken part in a debate about the phrase ‘Untimely Death’. I didn’t win it but I remember I had made a good impression on everyone by arguing that the phrase didn’t make sense. That was a full forty years ago.

I inserted the key and first turned it the wrong way. Then I realized my mistake and turned it the other way. The door resisted a little and then budged. We both got in. I looked around. The air was thick with the smell of dust and dampness. I felt really bad. The family had asked me to get someone to clean it. But even two years later, it was still left the way they had left it, except for the dust from two summer and dampness from three monsoons. Papers and rags lay everywhere. Only the noose which had been tied on to a hook in the ceiling ws gone.

I hadn’t been able to find someone to clean it. No one liked to come to clean it.

I had taken it seriously in the first place. No prospective tenant yet. And not much hope of getting one. I always thought may be it was not yet time to clean it.

And now all upon a sudden it was time.

I wanted to ask him whether he was aware of who had lived there and what had happened there. But I didn’t find any reason why I should rake over the ashes. Anyway, he was not going to take it. So, why?

The young man walked into every room as if looking for something. It was like he had a map or something about the place in his mind. He went into the room on the the westside and opened the window.

Marvellous. There was nothing blocking the sight for miles. Sally had once told me that one could see all the way up to the beach from there. I looked over his shoulders to catch even a faint glimpse of the sea. I noticed that he was also trying to get a view of the sea. 

A cold wind came in and went past us like a rude relative paying a visit after a long time.

The young man turned around, stood for a while, as if trying to figure out directions, and then went straight into Sally’s bedroom.

I hesitated for a while and followed him. 

I tried to turn on the light. It took several tries to make it work. It was a reading lamp fixed on the wall near her bed. It lit up the bed rather brightly as if making a grim statement. The rest of the room was only dimly lit.

He walked towards the walls and stood close to them. I too followed him to see what had caught his attention. 

Poetry.

There were poems written all over the wall with pencils, chalk, crayons, eye brow pencils and whatnot. Some poems were on paper pasted on the wall. Some of them had partially come off the wall and were hanging there. 

All upon a sudden he began to show signs of agitation. Before I knew what was happening, he was sitting on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I am fine. But, I need some.. I need some water”

I didn’t know what was going on. He might pass out any time. He was drenched in sweat and wiping it off his face with his shirt sleeves.

Where could I find water, I wondered.

I didn’t want to leave him there all by himself. But there was no other option. The closest occupied apartmets were one floor below us. There was another one on the floor above us too.

“I am all right. I need some water. That is all.” He reassured me and I went to one of the lower apartments to get some water.

I ran down, braged into one of the apartments there, panting and mumling an excuse. I ran back, spiling the water in the jug all the way up.

He was still alive. Thank God. I would have been away for more five or six minutes.

On the floor, where the water fell in drops, the dirt receded in small circles.

He took the bottle from me, threw his head back and carefully poured the water into his mouth. From the way he was drinking it, I doubted whether he was really thirsty.

I noticed his eyes though. Bloodshot eyes. And it was not sweat he was wiping off his face now.

Tears. 

“Let’s go down”

“So, are you taking it?”

“No, I am not taking it. I only wanted to see it. See it once.”

He was being honest now. He only wanted to see it. And he had seen it. Fine with me.

I had not told him anything. So, it was not proper to ask him anything now.

We walked down the stairs. He was in the front and I was following him. When we reached my floor, he turned around to thank me. He shook myhand.

I unknowingly put my hand on his shoulder as if we had known each other for years. 

“Enjoy the rest of the day, goodbye.”

Back in my room, I took the novel up to resume my reading. I was in no mood to read.

No, not today. May be another day.

It was better to go for a walk.

 

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. 

 

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KONARKA

Bibhu Padhi

 

1.

It connects our desires

with the open sky.

 

The late summer evening makes the sun-god

dance over our sterile hopes.

 

Questions are asked

and are never answered.

 

In the retreating light there are

figures that you may not lose.

 

And how does one lose? By dying?

Or by inventing ways to live with the dead?

 

.2

How much love is lost in these dark stones,

and how much still remains to be shared?

What meaning lurks with our

 

smoothly conducted tours, nightly dreams?

We know that what remains now is only

a lingering quality of decay and pain.

 

At this hour, something seems to be watching

all our blind efforts to raise the ruins

to an endurable sight, our efforts to celebrate

 

that which we never learnt to love.

Do we really know the hard way

of love and loss?

 

We shall only take a long walk about it

in bare feet. That is one way

of doing it. The other is to leave

 

these loving, desiring stones

to themselves, and just forget.

 

3.

The stones diffuse into space and sea wind,

dissolve in the air we breath

 

As I decide to go back from its

absence of speech to a safer time

 

and place, I find its grief attack

all my objective defences,

my mere observation.

I smell its loneliness—

insistent and tender,

like the love that it holds, far within.

 

4.

The dark fate lies hard

upon stones that never speak.

 

I suffer quietly the rough

sandstone texture of its body

and, as I long to return, I’m followed

by its shadows, sad old shadows.

 

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    

 

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MAN ON THE RUN

DILIP MOHAPATRA

 

I am on the run

chased by my very own shadow

hounded by the guilt of my betrayals

sins that I committed clandestinely

haunted by the dreams that turned into

nightmares

tormented by the spectre of the

ominous and incurable maladies

and lost in the

mystic maze of mirrors

seeking a way out.

 

I hear from far the baying of hounds

in hot pursuit

and my past gaining on me

and I run for cover

of the dark dungeon of my reclusion

and take refuge in the words

that ensue from my pen

in myriad poems

and embedded in the ever widening gaps

between the lines.

 

I hide behind the firewalls that

I build so very surreptitiously

with the bricks of solitude

cemented with glues of repentance

and feel safe and secure in my

impregnable sanctuary

but then I realise that

I could have succeeded

in running away from others

but perhaps

not from I

me and myself.

 

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.

 

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PEBBLES OF LOVE

Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura

 

During recess, we friends talk about various things under the mango tree of our  school. Today, I was so busy chatting that I forgot about Vashali. I always wait to have a glimpse of her during this time. No one, not even my close friend Kaustabh, is aware of this. I am on cloud nine today as I scored full marks in Mathematics. I wanted to see her and know her reactions. But it's difficult to leave the group.

After recess we started  for our classes. My heart started beating faster as she crossed me on the way. Our eyes met. I tried to say something but failed as usual. I wanted to share my happiness with her. Waited with bated breath for her to congratulate me on my success. But she was silent as usual. I tried reading her beautiful, expressive eyes. I felt as if she was saying something to me "Don't think you are the best. The question paper was too simple. Wait till the annual examination.” I came to my senses when a friend admonished me for being absentminded.

 

Am I in love with Vaishali? She is neither extremely beautiful nor very studious. But there is something in her which attracts me towards her. Probably her tall,slender, graceful figure. Maybe her innocence and carefree smile. I think I have fallen in love with this unique girl. What does she feel about me? How will I know?

She is a bubbly 14 year old girl. Early signs of womanhood are visible in her. She looks lovelier, day by day. My heart misses a beat whenever I see her stunning, graceful demeanour.

Nowadays, I am not able to concentrate in the classroom. Her attractive face always dances before my eyes even when she is not around. I rush to school early just to have a glimpse of her. If she doesn't come to school, I become very restless. I do try to be calm and composed. But inside my heart a tempest goes on. Can't even share my feelings with anyone in this strict school of ours. No one has got any inkling of my turmoil.

 

I try my level best to forget her. But I can’t. It doesn’t matter if she loves me or not. I carry a belief that my true love for her will be reciprocated one day. Let me make this my strength.

It's better I concentrate on my studies as the final examination is knocking at the door.

 

******************************  

With a jerk, I came back to the present when the plane landed at the famous Lake City, Udaipur. The pilot announced about the beautiful weather. This trip was special, though it was one of my routine business tours to this place. This is because, I am going to meet my childhood friend Vaishali, after four decades. She is still there in some corner of my heart, even after so many years. You can sense my ecstasy. Thanks to technology and social media networking, I got connected to her, very recently. I was heading to meet her as she lives in the city along with her family. The airport is about 20 Kms from the city and that gave me the time to recollect my school days. Life has never been the same after that golden period of childhood days.

 

With the enthusiasm of a school boy I reached her house earlier than the stipulated time. She was waiting for me at the entrance of her bungalow and welcomed me very warmly. She was vivacious as earlier, this time in a pink coloured sari. Even after so many years, it was not at all difficult for me to place her in my mind. She was the same girl of my class, Vaishali. Couldn't take my eyes off her. She introduced me to her husband and her lovely daughter who is a carbon copy of her sophisticated mother. We had never talked in school. Those days it was not very common to talk to girls in the class unless required, mostly during school functions or other celebrations. But here we met as if we knew each other very well. Frankly speaking, we were overwhelmed to see each other. Felt happy seeing her family. I had a sumptuous dinner prepared by Vaishali, with lot of fondness and warmth as confirmed by her very sweet daughter. It was a dreamy experience.

 

We talked about our lovely school days. Those were the days when boys and girls were not allowed to interact. We shared those occasions when we wanted to talk to each other but couldn’t and we both laughed about it. The society and the circumstances have changed so much. It sounds so unreal now.

There were so many restrictions during that time. Nevertheless, we were bound by an invisible thread. That is the reason today, all our school classmates are so very close with each other. After the dinner, both of us went for a walk in her beautifully maintained lawn. There were flowering plants all around and a swing placed at one corner. The garden was adequately lighted; it did not interfere much with the moon light, spreading all over. It was probably the half- moon day and the sky was clear and bright.

Casually, I asked her about her passion for English novels and whether she still reads them or not.  She used to be very good in English literature in school. I thought, I could start the conversation with that. But the response was quite unexpected. All of a sudden, her bright face saddened and her sparkling eyes glazed with tears.

I felt a  little shocked and embarrassed for asking such a question which had made her uncomfortable. I asked  her forgiveness. She made me comfortable again with her sweet loving nature. Then she started talking about the journey of her life. She became a  little emotional seeing me, a childhood friend. Life for a girl is different. For the sake of the family, she had to sacrifice all her hobbies. She is a happy go lucky girl, in the school. Accepts life as it comes. But still she yearns for some unfulfilled wish.

 

Her pent-up feelings of so many years flowed like a river in front of me. I was flabbergasted. I didn't stop her. It's better if she empties her heart. Then gradually she became her usual self. Like a little child she sat beside me on the swing and coaxed me to talk about myself. I became relaxed and happy. I felt as if we are in school. Both of us were in a  dreamlike state. Couldn't believe we are face to face with each other.

 

Had a memorable evening with Vaishali and her family.

In the end she told me " I don't know what came over me. I am sorry I bothered you with my story, Malhar. I am a caged fairy. My creativity is no more. Don't prick me to come out from my long sleep. Leave me in my state".

I looked at her lovingly and said" Still there is time, Vaishali. This is the time for you to start life afresh. Every moment we have a new life, and a new possibility. It is never too late to start doing what you love to do the most. You have finished your regular family duties. Children are more or less settled in their respective job or studies. Moreover, you have some leisure time. So go and fulfil your wishes. I am always there for you".

She smiled expansively. Seeing her divine smile, I started seeing a new possibility.

Slowly, the chrysalis in the cocoon inside her is getting ready to be a butterfly to fly out. I could sense that the foundation of a true friendship is laid. I said goodbye and goodnight to the family. While getting into the taxi, I looked back to see Vaishali for one more time. She was waving at me, happy and confident. I was assured inside me that my sweet, beautiful childhood friend was preparing for the long cherished leap of her life, which she had been nurturing as a passion in her heart of hearts for so many years.

"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of  English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.

 

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WEAVES OF TIME

Sangeeta Gupta

 

IX

As artist
I wish to paint nought 
else but pin-drop silence

wish to weave
the texture of that special 
sound that is unheard

wish to share with you
this, an element out of ear-
shot, on the blank of a canvas

silence
so abstract

well, you may feel it
but not define it
for words just cannot 
express what is rare

strange
that one can sense,
it, that is simply unsaid.

 

X

When is silence, 
when speechlessness a poem’s kin?

I know it in my bones
its really the roll back
of the tide of times
we spent together,
times that seemed timeless
those so secretly stored
in the invisible most pore
of ones being

the joy of knowing without being 
told— bliss of understanding, the 
satisfaction
of being understood without 
strain minus speech
and once more one is aware,
of a Presence
during when the molten silver of silence
flows like a poem,
like a flowing pen.

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.

 

---

HEY MOSQUITO!

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

 

It’s a pity, it’s sad

Tiny little dragons,

To whistle in my ears,

Then stab me, innocent,

To drink my gifted blood

And leave a sore behind.

 

Sleep for which I pray is lost,

Blood for which I labour is stolen,

Skin for which I care is damaged.

Your wish to live, I understand 

Or you are extinct,

But then I too have to live 

And I have to sleep too.

 

So then let there be a compromise.

Stealthily steal my blood 

After sleep fondles me 

So that your stab is not known.

Drink then, much 

But don’t drain me to death,

For I’ve got a morrow.

But a firm pact is - 

Don’t seek permission before

Nor give thanks after:

Mind you, just don’t whistle

In my little sensitive ears

For I am fed up of slapping myself.

 

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.

 

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SWEATER

Ananya Priyadarshini

 

Radhya cried herself to sleep again. I felt really sorry for the little child but what could I do for her when I myself was just a grown up Radhya with no liberty to cry and seek what I want?

 

Radhya is my 5 year old daughter- a happy child who creates much lesser fuss than kids of her age. I've seldom struggled feeding her with veggies or cereals. I don't remember spending sleepless nights trying to get her to sleep unless she's sick. Her behavior is adored by all our visitors. In short, Radhya is the baby every parent would dream to have.

 

Recently, she's obsessed herself with her favorite pink sweater. My mom had woven it for her some three years back. My girl feels a deep attachment to this cozy piece of garment. Last Sunday when I opened the trunk with woolens to take out the necessary ones, Radhya sat by me eyeing it like a treasure. She was waiting for her pinky to suddenly pop out.

 

We all have our favorites, don't we? Favorites we just love for reasons unexplained. Favorites we never want to get rid of, no matter how perished they're. Just like I loved my pair of specs. Had Aniruddh, my dear husband not found it so old school, I'd be comfortably roaming around wearing them! But now, just so I fit in this stylish world, I've to deal with the troubles of contact lenses. Aniruddh, such a fanboy of fashion and class!

 

We both were equally heartbroken to see Radhya's pink sweater having been torn at a point but Radhya wasn't experienced with heartbreaks. Tears welled up in her eyes. She clenched it to her anyway and ran away. That evening she was a happy Radhya again wearing a torn sweater.

 

You know why children are often happy and carefree? Maybe because they don't go Gaga after perfection as we do. They love things the way they're.

 

"Rima! What's Radhya wearing?", Aniruddh almost shouted from hall after he picked up Radhya in his arms. He'd just returned from office. I knew he won't listen or even if he does, won't understand.

 

"We'll talk about this later! You...", I was cut in the middle of the sentence.

 

"What later..." He blabbered as he took the sweater off Radhya, forcefully. I felt angry, seeing Radhya struggle with his fists. Why does Aniruddh do this, always? Why can't he accept people who love imperfections?

 

Radhya was bitterly crying when Aniruddh tossed the sweater at me and said, "what if someone sees Radhya in such torn woolens?"

 

Even I was upset by then and Aniruddh, the darling husband of mine sensed it. He came closer to me with a red faced Radhya in his arms and said, "please care a little about our reputation, Rima!"

 

Neither the mother nor the daughter looked convinced. Aniruddh came up with his 'give gifts and solve issues' idea and said, "get ready, ladies. We'll go out for shopping and dinner! We'll have a new pink sweater for Radhya and her mom's favorite red wine!"

 

We were still not convinced. Sometimes, we just want one thing and not something else to replace it. Aniruddh didn't realise it. He hadn't realise it when he'd got me to straighten my wavy locks just because he 'thought' that they'll look prettier on me. Ask me, I felt so alien to myself for quite a long time.

 

"Rima. Get ready both of you!", Aniruddh's 'take gifts and solve issues' approach. It wasn't new.

 

I don't call out Aniruddh as a villain. My parents, friends, siblings, everyone thinks he's perfect. I don't disagree. But it gets obnoxious when he wants me to be the same for I'm a mess. I've always been and I love to be one! Sometimes I feel, I've had enough of this.

 

Aniruddh took us to a posh mall and almost pushed Radhya into children's winter wear section. I could see dejection in her little eyes when dozens of pink garments were spread before her. However, Aniruddh chose the most expensive one for Radhya.

 

"Our maid's daughter's birthday is in a week. Let's buy her a gift as well.", I said before leaving the mall.

 

"Why buy something? Give her Radhya's old pink sweater. That's how the rag will stay out of her sight and would soon leave her mind as well!", Aniruddh kept walking towards the parking.

 

Did Aniruddh just tell me to gift a child an old, torn piece of cloth? Is this what perfection is about? It was so unacceptable. I was fuming. Maybe, the poor child will accept the gift for the sake of her necessities just like Radhya will have to accept her new sweater because her father is stubborn. But who's going to be happy?

 

That night I kept turning around. Sleep felt like a distant dream. Radhya had again gone to sleep with tear in eyes. "Mumma please bring me my old sweater back. I'll never wear it when Papa is around. Promise!" I had to do something. For Radhya, for our maid's kid, for me.

 

"Mumma you too know weaving!", Radhya asked as she was having breakfast the next morning.

 

"Your granny had taught me a little. I'm not as good as her, but I certainly know how to draw leaves to cover a hole in my little fairy's dearest sweater!", I was so happy seeing her happy again.

 

"Rima!", I heard Aniruddh call me, angrily. He'd heard our conversation and seen Radhya wearing the same old sweater. Just that it had a leaf now right where it had a hole a day ago.

 

"Yes!", I turned at him. He was shocked to see me in my old specs.

Before he could recover from the shock, our maid entered with her daughter who was wearing the same sweater Aniruddh had bought from the mall the last night. The kid touched my feet as Radhya ran up to her shouting "Happy Birthday!". They both went out to play in the lawn.

Everyone was happy. And Aniruddh? He just had to be happy about this. Sometimes life leaves you with no choice!

 

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.

 

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LIFE 

Lathaprem Sakhya

 

We sat  huddled together under the leaves. It was raining heavily and we were trapped. There was nothing else to do. Our fledglings were safe at home with their granny;then, why worry. We watched the rain; he was lost in thought so I let him be. I drifted from one plane to another flitting from experience to experience - all teaching me valuable lessons.  To make the best of the quality time, I snuggled close to him and dozed off, to gather my weapons to face life when the sun shone.

 

---

 

MY TEACHER

Lathaprem Sakhya

 

My failure in two papers in English was a turning point. Being a final year BSc Zoology student, I stood only one more chance in September. I sat crying. I felt a gentle touch on my shoulders. My English Professor gently wiped away my tears and said, "Let us think of future action." She offered to teach me. She taught me the texts and prepared me for the examinations. I went home confident I would pass. And I did. Now when I look back I thank God for giving me such a teacher who reopened my life for me.

 

---

 

MISCREANT

Lathaprem Sakhya

 

One day while bathing Juny, Kanaka was flabbergasted to find that from the right forearm to the tiny palm she was spotted with bluish- red bruises. "What is this child?"

"Mamma don't  touch. It hurts." Kanaka finally extracted from the sobbing Juny that it  was the cruelty of  Dennet ,her KG classmate. That afternoon, during the interval,Kanaka went to Juny's school full of fury at the miscreant. When she saw him her fury disappeared. He was so small and frail that she did not have the heart  to bring  punishment upon him. So she asked the teacher to shift  little Juny's seat.

 

---

 

THE HE-BIRD

Lathaprem Sakhya

 

The she- bird suddenly disappeared.  After  one day of mournful search, the he-bird sat on the two eggs she had left behind. The eggs hatched and two healthy chicks came out. The he- bird became  busy tending to their hungry demands. He was tired everyday, gathering food for two hungry mouths. And the day came when their  wings gathered strength.  He loved them inordinately as he had also been a mother  to them. He wanted to keep them with him but one fine morning they flew away with not even with a backward glance, breaking his heart for ever.

 

---

 

ECHO

Latha Prem Sakhya

 

Mamma's stories were not to Juny's taste. One such story was that of  Echo  in which Echo pines away to a mere voice after Narcissus rejects her love. Mamma loved it, she asked Juny  to read it  and comment. 

Juny, just ten, read it and  wrote her evaluation. Reading it mamma hooted with laughter. "This is a stupid story. If I had been  Echo, I would have written the words on the sand for Narcissus to read  and  gain him and not pine away to  a voice. “ Mamma stopped sharing her stories. The new generation kids are of a different make.

 

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 

 

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THE DANGLING DEW DROP

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

 

The hanging 

           dew drop

on the flimsy

            fragile 

shoot,  

       defying 

transience 

         how you 

dangle in 

             glory

reflecting 

        the universe

encompassing 

                 all... 

 

I know   

           how you

emerged

          ouliving 

the aches

     and agonies

of the thick

             night

saturating 

       its sorrows 

into  

       scintillating

hopes.. 

 

while

      you  sway  

  and  shine, 

I smile...

         smile in 

understanding

 

we are

           one...

 

on fringes 

       of transience

together

we weave out

          radiance..

 

---

 

O,  SRI LANKA. !

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

Shrouded in green, sheltering Sita, 

you started history...

 

I met you on Visak,  Buddha Pournami day

when you greeted me with food stalls free,  on all pathways, offered for all..

 

how you outlive the wounds of the past,those

strife ridden days,  where

even children were trained,  for violence,   warfare.. 

 

While I circumambulate the

Temple of Tooth at Candy hilltop

Peace settles in through the  conch calls  of Buddhist worship, 

pure as the lotus stretched as  offering...

 

I love you, Sri Lanka.!

 

how you smile,  share and care...despite your pains, 

you struggle  to rise up, 

tourism your only means  

to rise.

 

Your Pinnawala  Orphange

offers solace to elephants, naive  on nature's lap... 

 

you offer a wide berth 

to flora and fauna..

 

your palm fronds wave 

 inviting all,  in love and peace..

 

O, Sri Lanka !

I see in you 

the true spirit of Asia... !

 

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).

 

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MISTY MORNINGS

Sharanya B

Unblinking eyes stare up at the sky,

Misty figures tell tales and vanish into hues of white and blue;

Untended leaves gather dust,

they're plastic to the mind;

Cemented in mud-filled pots,

they were better off in the ground;

Foliages nod with the wind shaking off

remnants of yesterday's downpour,

Earthy scent wafts in to this cemented box,

for reasons unknown;

Floors and floors above, caged in the sky,

some lonely soul hums away fragments of a long forgotten melody...

 

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.

 

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-YOUNGISTHAN-

Sumitra Mishra

Some call it arrogance

Some other cockiness

The confident strut

The assuring ride

On the passion of pleasure,

And the know-it-all attitude

The wizardry at videogames

Googling their way to knowledge

 On their Smart phones or I-phones

Continuous furtive looks at the notification

From Facebook and Whatsapp groups

The Youngisthan

Is no more the small wonder

But the gigantic yahoo

Of the futuristic wonder years!!

 

More in sync with the

New world wide web, (w-w-w)

The Facebook their oyster

And the Twitter their voice,

The laptop their magic mirror

And the mobile their trapdoor

Status updates and selfies their passion,

Transacting business through Quicker, e-biz,

Plastic money and Paytm, Hi-Fi malls

Amazon, Flip cart, Myntra in seconds

That marvels us into a stupid silence!

 

Independent and innovative ideas

Stagger and thwart the parents’ hesitation

Tech-savvy and corporate clad

They dismiss the old world wisdom as foolhardiness

Myths, legends they discard for the sitcoms,

Star plus for Star One or Star Movies

Zee classic for H.BO or Star Music and M-TV,

TV soaps for Netflix and Amazon Prime,

The comic banter of Talk Shows and You Tube

Their channels of entertainment.

 

Too impatient

Too indolent to make sherbets

Tropicana and Cola they adore,

Cappuccino and old coffee

They prefer to hot tea or Bournvita

Burger, pizza and sandwich, their standard

Lunch or breakfast in place of Dosa, Samosa or Upama,

The Youngisthan

Self-imprisoned in a cubicle of quest

For selfhood and success

Their feet hanging in the global vacuum,

The young Tarzans

Fly higher than their parents’ ever dreamt,

But often crash midair in the melee and mayhem

Of expansion and economic slow down

Collapsing banks and closing companies!

 

Scratch the surface

The confused moral blinks

Bolts down the head and the heart

Confounded by confusion of

Choices and plenty all around,

Despite matter and material

Abound in abundance

Despite indulgences profuse

Lavish dinner, buffet, wedding parties

Western music, movies, dance bars,

They cling to the Dandia,

Modi, Indian cuisine,

Bande Mataram, M.S. Dhoni or Sachin.

 

Who says the Youngisthan has lost it????

 

Smt. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor Engish from Bhuvaneshwar, Odhisha. She is an accomplished poet and writer of short stories. She is passionate about Literature and spends her time in reading & writing.

 

---

 

TRAIL TALK...

Hema Ravi

 

Dawn and dusk, rain or shine,

I stand as lady in waiting

awaiting the footfalls; not a day

passes without paying heed to

the echoing impressions.

 

Whose footprint is this? I wonder

if it is the garrulous woman

who walks with her poodle alongside,

never letting go of the leash

or her ear plugs.

 

Yesterday, I felt a wren’s footstep;

tail upright, on the lookout

for prey, stealthy in step,

conspicuously attired.

Before long, she will migrate to the South.

Daylight has crept in. The song sparrow,

cedar waxwing, robins and the ravens

are up to catch their worms;

somewhere nearby, a racing car whirs past,

casting a slur on the reigning peace.

 

More footsteps.

 

A couple walk hands locked in rhythmic gait

filled with the abundance of youth

several yards behind, someone trudges along

bent with age in face, stick in hand;

no more goals or ambitions in life!

 

Here comes a gadget geek with a robotic walk;

Self-engrossed, he lacks time to enjoy the stroll.

The continual texting gets a break

as there is a sudden passing shower.

Hurriedly, he tucks mobile in sweat shirt.

 

The footprints have all been washed away

by the rain; I stand drenched 

without worry in the vast wilderness, waiting

for more souls, for that choicest one

who will walk across from trail to trail.

 

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.

 

---

 

HILLS 

Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj

 

I am always mesmerized

 

The blocks of blackness lined up

Wavy  stretches of blue

Brown stories

Stones arranged in order

Dominated by green at times

 

They are deceptive, look small

When you measure them faraway

At proximity they are closed minds

 

Their size lost in distance

Their thoughts lost in air

From the top you see

Human race as ants.

 

It is all perception.

Elephants are beetles

Micros are macros

 

Beautiful framework

To wandering, aimless clouds

Rigid guidelines of authority

Teaching unshakable justice

From a particular fixity.

 

This moralizing is the hallmark

Of human thinking

Responsible for religions and cultures

Our uniqueness to shape us up.

 

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.

 

---

 

LOOKING GLASS

Anwesha Mishra

 

Excerpts from my life,

About the men I have dated.

Scene involves rain.

Each time.

 

 

Prototype- 1: The Charmer

 

I knew he liked me first.

He liked to flaunt.

His speech was laid back;

Stressing every word,

Spearing with his beautiful fingers in group discussions,

Exploiting the attention he was bestowed with.

I envied that.

It started raining at recess.

We were making paper boats.

Mine drowned first.

Sulking, I left.

He followed me to the corridor,

Across the kindergarten section.

(I wonder how-)

He had the audacity to pull my pigtail.

And then, he chuckled.

His laughter reverberating in my ears,

Like wind-chimes in the breeze.

Smitten, but I, only thirteen;

We became best friends.

 

Prototype - 2 : The Idealist

 

Half past eight.

In the middle of torrential rain,

Getting colder by the hour.

I glanced at the diversion, wishing,

It'd be him,

Instead of my mum,

Who'd appear out of the corner,

And brought my thighs together,

Blowing on my icy fingers.

A cycle parked-

I watched him wear his bag,

Ruffle his hair,

(With his long, slender fingers)

shaking off droplets of water.

That same violet tee.

Made him look skinny.

(Did I tell you it was 13th of February?)

We smiled to each other,

As he walked up to me.

 

Prototype- 3: The Mother

 

We were on a date.

A cloud burst.

Poured like cats and dogs.

Never stopped the same night.

Way past the time (which I was allowed),

Braving the rain,

We missed three signals,

Speeding to eighty.

I held onto him tight.

Musk mingled with petrichor,

He smelt delicious.

I caught a sideways glimpse of him,

He was composed, calm.

His lashes stretching more than mine.

I hummed a song.

I had gotten used to the rain by the time we got to my place.

Sensing alarm in my eyes,

He said with his eyes, I got this.

Then touching the cusp of my lip with his tender thumb,

He smiled,

As the elevator closed.

 

An insatiable need,

To belong to somebody,

Ever since I've known what love is.

A freshly stuffed carton, everytime.

Tempted by the bubble wrap,

popping, fishing deeper.

Tearing the cardboard eventually.

M&Ms.

Popsicle.

Wine.

I've had all.

A crooked picture, in each mirror.

Diabolic for a new reason.

And as much as they loved it,

They hate the aftertaste,

The cotton candy tinged their tongues,

Rose. Never to part.

.

I walk the walk, they say, 

Belong to strangers-to-self.

Chasing a kitten, after all,

I fall prey to this carton,

Wretched long before.

In that warm debris,

embracing the kitten in my stench,

I turn pink, finally- my native place.

 

Anwesha Mishra is a first year medical student at Pandit Raghunath Murmu Medical College, Baripada, Odisha, India. Hailing from Bhadrak, Odisha, Anwesha's interests include singing, dancing, sketching, poetry writing, learning French and Astronomy. 

 

---

 

MYRIAD FLOWERS MYRIAD MOODS

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

According to Leatrice Eiseman, Executive Director of the

Pantone Color Institute, “Our response to color is intensely emotional,

and flowers can be a catalyst for  feelings that stimulate more than

just our senses of sight and smell.”

 

Calms the mind and soothes

The jaded nerves,

Encourages creativity.

That is violet.

 

The colour INDIGO is sedative,

balancing, and purifying.

Indigo promotes feelings of intuition,

mysticism, and clarity.

.

 

Blue sky, blue ocean,

Ever trustworthy and dependable ,

Calms, cools and sedates

The ever busy lot.

 

Red for love and romance,

Stimulates immune system,

For a postoperative patient,

Acts like healing agent.

Energizes the fatigued and exhausted.

 

Happiest in the vibgyor spectrum,

Symbolises sun and

Stimulates memory and nervous system,

Yellow - with its radiance and energy.

 

Orange for optimism and success,

Makes one determined, 

And socialisation crazy.

 

Nature’s greenery,

All green,

Acts as tranquiliser,

Everything appears

As fresh as dew

A symbol of prosperity

And progress. 

 

Pink for joyousness,

Though shoots up blood pressure,

And the heart accelerates,

But mild pink makes all

Milder, smoother and sweeter. 

 

White, equal balance

of all the colors of the spectrum.

The color of perfection, innocence,

wholeness and completion.

The color of new beginnings,

it opens the way for the creation

of anything one can imagine.

 

Black indicates protection ,comfort,

strong, contained, formal, sophisticated,

seductive, mysterious, endings and beginnings

And the negative aspects

being aloof, depressing, pessimistic,

secretive, and withholding.

Notes:  Flowers from my garden. Courtesy, my wife.

 

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FIGHT BETWEEN HUMAN BEINGS AND DIVINE BEINGS

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

Do you know a war was fought between human beings and divine beings, between manav and

devas ?

Could you guess the winner ?

Any idea about Parijat flower ?How it came to earth ?

Parijat is Nyctanthes arbor-tristis.

The Parijat came out during the churning of the ocean, and Indra took it and planted it in

Nandankanan.

Once Krishna and Satyabhama while visiting the garden saw it and Satyabhama immediately

fell in love with it. Krishna uprooted the plant and  loaded it on Garuda’s back. They were

returning, but the guards at the gate of the garden obstructed them and there was a fight

between Devas , 33 crores and the Prince of Dwarka, alone.

Krishna defeated all of them. Indra shamelessly ran away from the battle field, but subsequently

apologized to Satyabhama and they eventually returned to Dwaraka with the Parijat.

 

---

 

KAUMODAKI - KRISHNA’S MACE

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

 

The Swing is swinging
In the cool breeze
Of mythological absurdity,
bringing the aroma of
Ecstasy,enjoyment and inquisitiveness,
On “the fight between
human beings
and divine beings”.

Belligerents ?
Human beings commanded by
Krishna,and alone !
Divine beings commanded by
Indra and 33 crores devas.

And the trigger,
the whims and fancy
of Satyabhama, Krishna’s wife,
infatuated with “Parijat”flower,
when enjoying the “NandanKanan”.

“Produce of churning
of ocean, took by Indra “ explained
Krishna.
She wanted
to bring it to Earth,
Which was being enjoyed
by Indrani alone.

While bringing it on Garuda’s back,
Obstructed by guards at the gate
of Nandan Kanan,
leading to the fight…

Indra with 33 crores of devas,
while Krishna alone, Garuda by his side.
Varuna arrived with his
own special missile
but Garuda broke it to pieces.

Yama, the king of death
threw his mace at Krishna
which turned to powder
the moment
it touched Krishna’s Kaumodaki .
Kuvera dashed to attack Krishna ,
but a victory ,shattered like his chariots.

The sun and the moon came next
but a mere glance from Krishna
made them lusterless,
Agni, the god of fire
froze to 0 degrees centigrade,
when glanced by Krishna.

Finally Indra himself ,
ran away from the field
without a fight,
“Who could have dreamt
that a prince from the earth
could defeat the
King of heaven and his entire army?”

Indra came back and apologized
Satyabhama.
Ultimately, Parijat was brought
to Dwaraka and from there,
the fragrance
spread all over.
 

 

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

 

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UNFULFILLED DREAMS, SHATTERED DESIRES

Dr. K. Srikala Ganapathy

 

Unfulfilled dreams, shattered desires,

Missed opportunities

Harsh challenges 

We all face in 

Everyday mundane life.

 

But is it worth brooding and complaining ?

Is there any point in wasting life in dwelling on things that didn't work?

 

May we listen to our inner most powerful voice

Of our True Self

And love life

Carrying the zest of life

Continuing to believe in our dreams

Focussing on our goals and purpose.

 

Smile, wear a new vision

Gathering fresh new hope

Remember, not all is lost

After all, there are myriad ways 

That will unfold to rebuild

And sustain our lives

Just realise this and keep walking your path..

 

Dr. K. Srikala Ganapathy lives in Chennai with her beautiful family. She has passion for academics, thirst for knowledge and loves subjects Science and English. She has completed PhD in Botany, interdisciplinary Microbiology. She is a University State Rank Holder in her undergraduate study. She has published several Scientific Research Papers in National and International Journals. She has presented her research papers in various conferences and seminars and won several prizes and awards. She has worked in schools and taught Biology, English and handwriting to children. She happily involves herself in Volunteers for Teaching (VFT) a wonderful initiative to reach out and teach Greater Chennai Corporation School children for the cause of education. VFT has helped her to connect with beautiful and talented people.

She loves words and loves to write more. Writing gives her happiness and clarity. She has authored few articles & children’s stories for The Hindu “On a freedom Trip”, “Pitching it right”, “Discovering life”, “Look within”, “Write to refresh”, “Time to celebrate” and “Friendship Bracelet”. “Me and my inner voice” was published in Infinithoughts, a wonderful holistic magazine. Few of her short stories for children are also available online worldwide web.storyweaver and quotes on Yourquote.in... Her poetry is featured in reputed anthologies like Metverse Muse, Efflorescence, Are we mere spectators, Scintillating Scions, Rise to Higher essence and more. Her verses are also on online literary platforms such as Muse India- Your space, spill words and boloji. She has to her credit a poetry book, Flight of words from the Self published by Zorba books and review of her book is available on Amazon.

 

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TAMASOMA JYOTHIR GAMAYA... 

Kamar Sultana Sheik

 

Tamasoma jyothir gamaya... 

As I light you, take form, O lamp,

And lead me to the Formless Light.

O noor-e-ilahi,

I'm all set to be the wick,

Let your effulgence shine through me.

My singed soul rejoices in the flame!

As I assimilate you to be

The third of mine eyes,

Let me Be,

A shrine unto myself..

My lamp is lit

With timelessness.

I journey with it,

It guiding me, sometimes,

I, showing the way…

Until we meet ourselves

Each merging into the other..

That is why,when You shall come

To light my lamp,

You shall see Me.

 

Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in

 

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SLEEPLESS NIGHTS

Subha Bharadwaj

 

Sleep away my buddies!

from the never sleeping land of poetry!

 

Words flowing through

between thoughts, 

weaving a tapestry of sublime texts .....

 

Sleep!

Else,  how will we witness the sunrise, the crimson pink beauty!

In the blue grey skies!

 

Sleep well!

None of the thought wells will dry up,

The nurturing moon will keep it moist!

 

Sleep away my buddies

From the never sleeping land of poetry!

 

Subha Bharadwaj is an environmentally conscious and responsible mother who volunteers with various NGOs to encourage people to 'Be the change.' An ardent participant in resolving civic issues.

A social activist, an amateur artist and writer, linguist, mentor, works for woman empowerment. A multi lingual poet, being poetic has always been a hobby and as a member of India poetry circle, now pursuing her passion for poetry.

 

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Hidden Strains of Creativity

Sulochana Ram Mohan

 

When we entered her room, Dr.Sareena was absorbed in a book. Leaning back comfortably on a sofa placed near the window, she was totally relaxed while reading the book with total concentration. The artist inside me was suddenly excited. The scene unfolded before me as a very exotic painting. The sunlight streaming through the window touched the doctor's cheeks in a soft caress while she held up the book as if to see the printed words glow in the golden light. The sun ray, maybe recognising a kindred soul in the reader, stroked her pale cheeks till it blushed in pale pink pastel. The light yellow walls, the bright green curtains pushed to the sides, a grey patterned rug on the floor by the sofa .. ...a mix of colours, co-existing in peace, no clash or mismatch anywhere. Something tingled at my fingertips, aching to hold a brush once more, to combine colours on the palette and see new tints being born.

 

  I had always wanted to paint women in their idle moments, dreaming, thinking, maybe meditating, or just sitting and watching Nature in all its varied glory, but Sudarshan used to discourage me. Painting portraits, especially enhancing the feminine beauty, is passe, he taunted. You need new subjects, a whole new vision, no more tame natural scenery, no more beautiful faces. He was always searching for themes, attending exhibitions and art talks, forever improving himself, while I lagged behind, going back to the Masters, more enamoured by the shades used, lines drawn, the basic process involved in creation rather than end products, their marketability, the viewers' preferences. 

 

The clashes were repeated every now and then, till Sudarshan walked out one rainy day, and my life became a still life of dark,cloudy, moody mornings. Colours leached out, a monotonous grey spread over the canvas and I called the painting 'depicting depression.'

 

For months, the monotone continued, inside and outside, till I was fed up with myself and threw away the paints, brushes, palette, canvas; stopped looking at paintings, blocked out colours. “You were never a painter, I could hear Sudarshan's mocking voice in my ears, you just copied and coloured. Added nothing of your own. Your paintings do not reflect your soul”. Maybe it was time to accept my failure, I decided.

 

But now, totally unexpectedly, a picture unfolds before my artist’s eye, Woman Reading A Book. The yellow sunflowers, growing in abundance with a will of their own, smiled complacently from the cover of the book she was holding up to the light. Again, an image that reminds you of a famous painting. Were these mere coincidences or something more? I kept asking myself. The Muse, smiling to herself, flitting about in the sunlight?

 

By the time all these thoughts passed through my mind, Lena had reached the doctor's side and introduced me. I could see her surprise, the sudden coming back to practical matters, the flurry with which she got up, flinging the book aside and searching for the slippers she had abandoned on the floor, looking towards me in half- apology. Behind her, the sun ray, deprived of its lover, retreated in a huff, leaving a halo over her head for a minute, the room turning dark after that. 

 

Bemused by the change in the colour patterns, I forgot to smile but she touched me lightly on the arm and guided me in.  We, Lena and myself, were seated in chairs arranged before the table in the centre of the room. The doctor went around the table and perched on the high backed chair there, hastily pulling on her professional veneer too, maybe to impress the patient, myself.

 

“Hello, doctor, am I encroaching on your leisure time? I thought Lena here had booked an appointment for my consultation”. I put on my friendly face, over- bright voice, trying to please.

 

“No,no,there was a cancellation, got some free time unexpectedly, for us psychiatrists it's very important to get time to unwind, to refresh the mind and keep it open so as to listen to the next patient carefully. It's a combination of intuition and observation that helps us to reach conclusions, not just text book knowledge, you know.”

 

When she smiled at me, I felt that the sunray that had sulked out had come back to fill the room with light.

 

She pulled out a letter pad from a drawer and taking out a pen from the pen holder shaped like an elephant, looked at me expectantly. Lena said, “Give your details, Vijaya.”  After name, age, occupation, address etc, she asked about my family. Lena said, irritably it seemed, “ Married, but separated for some time.” The doctor eyed me apprehensively and murmured, “Children?”

 

I laughed out loud, “Did not make that mistake, at least.”

 

Lena's irritation increased. She chided me with a warning look and began to give my life sketch herself. But the doctor put up a palm to stop the flow and looked at me curiously. “Surely the patient can speak for herself? I would like to hear her talk of her life, what problems she finds  insurmountable, what she needs help with, why she came to me… .”

 

Again, Lena barged in, “I persuaded her to come here.”

 

“She is afraid that I might commit suicide,” I laughed, “She wants you to give me the will to live a successful life. But really, she doesn't realise that this unimportant life can be abandoned casually, it's not worth the effort of rebuilding from scratch.”

 

Lena got up in a hurry, pushing back her chair so that it dragged on the floor with a screeching sound and said loudly, “ This is the end. I have no more patience left to deal with such stubbornness. Did my duty as a friend, brought her here for professional guidance, now it's up to you, doctor. And Vijaya, it's goodbye. I don't intend to interfere in your life anymore. You can fight or fail, it's your own decision. Just don’t call me up when you need a shoulder to cry on.”

 

She slammed the door behind her and stormed off, high heels clicking on the floor in tune with her mood. I looked at the doctor apprehensively, and said humbly, “This is what happens in my life. My tongue runs away, spoiling all relationships, even when others are trying to help.”

 

She gazed at me for a while, as if to find things hidden deep within me, but then smiled and let the brightness in again. She spoke softly but firmly. “Don't worry about that, Vijaya. Our responses are not always calculated or studied. That's human nature. It's only when it does harm to normal living, working, feeling, responding, etc that psychiatrists like me need come in. Majority of the problems can be handled by individuals themselves, we just guide them on how it can be done easily. But often, the patients do not accept that there is something wrong, they are unwilling to seek help, they remain in denial so long that problems aggravate and grow complex. It's good that you came to me now, you can talk to me freely, don't keep anything bottled up inside you thinking it's too bad or too silly or rather negative. Just open up.”

 

Her voice had that soothing quality that calmed fraught nerves and I pondered briefly on whether she worked at it, cultivated the tone and timbre as needed in her profession or whether it came to her naturally, her concern for people like me being an innate part of her character.

 

I might have been silent for too long, maybe she took it as my inhibition; did I hear a faint note of impatience when she repeated my name, “Vijaya?,” as if in a query?

 

Coming out of my reverie, I looked at her blankly. What had she been asking? She just shook her head, laughed a little and said, “It must be this artists' switching off that Lena sees as the main symptom.”

 

I joined in her glee and said, “It does irritate her, especially when she just gets into her nagging mode and begins to enjoy the flow of words. Anyway, doctor, what was your question?”

 

She shook her head again and said, “It doesn't matter. Let us try another method. See, in accompanying your friend to consult a psychiatrist you have subconsciously agreed to the fact that you need some help to put your life in order. So the next step is to figure out what you want to put right. We have to start from that point. So why not lie down on that sofa, relax, close your eyes and concentrate on all those problems that you seek solutions for? Take all the time you want, don't worry about my appointments, just come back with some answers, or maybe, questions for me.”

 

Now her soft voice held a note of command, urging the patient to do her bidding with no reluctance; really, all these scales in her tones fascinated me, as if they were linked to different shades I could use for my paintings. Vague ideas skittered around on my mental canvas, pictures forming and dissolving in turn, leaving behind a riot of colours.

 

When I lay down on the sofa, I felt embraced by the warmth she had left behind and was comforted by the friendly feel it evoked. The book she had been reading reclined lazily beside me, the painting on its cover pleasing to my eye. I looked out through the window, into the distant greens and browns and let my mind be still, wrapped up in the totality of the moment.

 

I do not remember how long I stayed like that, in some indefinable state between sleep and wakefulness, dreams and reality, suspended in a seemingly vacuum space of subconscious thoughts; maybe I answered all her questions then, maybe I spoke on my own with no prompts at all. I do not even know whether the doctor took down notes, whether she prescribed any medicine, whether a follow up was reserved, whether I walked out in a trance, how I reached home safely. But I do remember how the colours blossomed in my mindscape, rich, lavish, fulsome, bold, responding to all human emotions with a wantonness I had hitherto controlled. The brush flew over the canvas with a driving force of its own, with more speed than my as yet unformed thoughts, all the submerged ideas dancing out into colourful pictures of life.

 

The exhibition, my first solo one, was deemed a great success by critics and connoisseurs alike. The naked female figures, cleverly hidden within bold contrasts of rare shades celebrated life with a vigour unimaginable. They danced and rolled about, hugged and jumped, skated and ran fast and furious, all the restrained energy tumbling out and upsetting set norms of feminine etiquette. 

 

I was surprised that Sudarshan had attended the opening ceremony; I had not sent out any invitation. Strolling about and examining each painting with the X- ray vision he boasted of, he came back to me and looked at me quizzically. “So, who is your new teacher? Initiating you into the wonderful world of the avant garde? Forsaking portraits and landscapes, you explore new territories with a hitherto unseen conviction.” I could hear the underlying suspicion in his voice, as if wondering whether some one else had helped me paint with such a vivid balance of colours and thoughts.

 

I did not have to search for a retort, Dr.Sareena was gracefully making her way towards me, her smile holding those bits of sun-rays that had brought enlightenment to my dark soul.

 

I took hold of her hands and held up our linked palms before Sudarshan. “See, this is my Guru, the one who taught me to free my feminine self from the expected and the demanded paths and find one of my own.”

 

The doctor laughed, in that pleasingly soft tone of hers and said, “Don't flatter me dear. I am not capable of freeing any one nor hindering them in their individual journey; they do it all by themselves. I just clear the path of all that unwanted, scattered, rubbish and see how they rush forward, just like my friend here.'

 

We smiled at each other just as a camera clicked on that robust happiness. Later, seeing it published in the Arts Section of some daily, I was amazed to see the jealousy shining green in Sudarshan's eyes and took it for the final accolade for my creative ingenuity.

 

Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.

 

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GRIEVANCES

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

 

I was born screaming at the top of my voice,

Yet it gave pleasure to my parents.

I scratched the face of my mother when I wanted to be cuddled,

I spat saliva on my father when he cajoled me with love and tenderness.

 

I grew up and entered another grade of life,

My mom spent all her savings adorning me with best of dresses.

My father starved himself

to get me a platter of delicious food.

 

My parents spent the whole night guarding me when I was sick.

They spent the whole day for me when I went to sprint.

 

They moulded me into a figure

Not just with life

But to bring happiness in so many lives.

 

I flutter in happiness when I get the joy of giving..

Then why my life is full of grievances in my living..

 

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists

Passion: Writing poems,  social work

Strength:  Determination and her family

Vision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others

 

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FLEETING

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

I sit here by the window

looking at passing moments

in the canvas of time,

wondering what to do with your shadows

left behind years back,

or was it a few decades? 

Very little comes back to me

when I think of you,

except the thrill of having you;

the closeness,

and the obsession to cling to you

to possess you forever, 

not to part with you

nor to share you with anyone.

You were so elusive,

but when you came

I was washed away

in an euphoric wave.

I held you in a tight hug,

promising I would never let you go,

I thought you became mine

and mine only for ever

and would never desert me.

 

Today I look back,

and realise with a pang in my heart,

you were a passing visitor.

You were so fleeting, Success!

You have no idea how hearts

break into pieces,

Never to mend

by your false promise of fidelity.

You do not know how

life collapses like palaces of sand

when you desert someone

never to come back again

as you did with me!

 

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A DONATION

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

There will be no function

to mark this humble donation

of something I possess,

something entirely my own.

 

But sometime after I am gone,

my gift will be shown

to the world at large

in a different form.

 

Some wall it may adorn

as a decorated art piece,

smiling at the onlooker

in someone's home.

 

Or maybe an ashtray

a pen stand or a lamp shade,

a bowl to keep key rings

or a small tub for a Bonsai plant.

 

Ah, in life I was noticed by none,

but when my skull is of use to some,

please tell, my friends, those who ask,

it sat upon a big heart but an empty dome.

 

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TWO PAGES FROM ZINDAGI'S DIARY
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

On a cool, pleasant November morning in 2016, my wife Geetanjali and I finished our darshan of Lord Dwarakadhish and proceeded to Bet Dwaraka, a small island in the Arabian Sea about thirty four kilometres away. It is popularly believed that a darshan of Dwarakadhish in his magnificent temple is incomplete without a visit to his grand palace at Bet Dwaraka. 

The ancient palace was indeed impressive, dipped in a deep sense of history and religion. The return journey by boat was equally uplifting. The calm, still water, the deep blue sky and the cool, gentle wind made the boat ride an enchanting experience. The quiet air was punctuated by sporadic twitter from birds. We looked up and were mesmerised by groups of cranes and white eagles flying above us against the backdrop of white clouds in the blue sky. Even today we often close our eyes and recollect that lovely scene.

Geetanjali was deeply moved by the magical beauty of the moment. She turned philosophical. Looking at me she said, "Look at these birds, their freedom and sense of happy abandon. They don't have a care in the world, no need to worry about cleaning the house, cooking a lunch or a dozen other chores. They move in a group, talk among themselves, occasionally swooping down on the sea to capture a fish and flying away. Such a care-free life of peace and quiet! Ah, I wish I could be a bird like that and enjoy a life of complete freedom, away from this mundane world of worries and stress!"

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Geetanjali's words took me back by a few years. Memories of a cool evening in Delhi came alive, opening an old scar.  It was the summer of 2013. I was working as Secretary to Government of India. My Minister was an octogenarian politician, a man with no scruples and not an ounce of conscience. He had asked me to carry out some totally dishonest orders and I had flatly, firmly refused to do so. The 'Honourable' Minister had threatened me with dire consequences. I had only two months left to retire and although this was not the first time I had refused to carry out illegal and dishonest orders, that day it hurt like a blistering sore. Because it made me wonder whether the thirty six years I spent as a civil servant were worth this precious span of my life if I have to face such ignominy from an uncouth person.

I returned home early that evening and after a cup of tea left for the nearby small park for my daily walk. But after one round of walk I didn't feel like continuing. The frustration and sadness of the day were weighing me down. Despair at the fate of my beloved country in the hands of dishonest, unscrupulous politicians disturbed me. I sat down on a bench weary with thoughts. It was an early summer evening and fading daylight was still on.

Suddenly the twitter of a bunch of birds brought me out of my reverie. I looked up. A group of birds was flying in a semi circle heading home. A bird had fallen behind. The group slowed down so that the lone bird could catch up with the others. It was an edifying sight and I kept looking at the birds mesmerised.

The lights were coming on in the surrounding houses, ladies were lighting evening lamps at the Tulsi plants with slow, steady chanting of Jay Jagadisha Harey. And suddenly from one of the houses the soul-stirring song of Lata Mangeskar wafted in "Ye jindagi usiki hey, Jo kisika ho gaya...." Followed by "Jaanathaa humsey dooor, bahaaney banaa liye, ab tum kitiney dooor thikaney banaa liye...." I sat up, startled by the ethereal beauty of the songs. A young couple was walking down the path, holding each other's hands, whispering and giggling. A small girl was holding her mother's hand, an ice cream stick leaving marks of sweetness on her dainty face, and her brother looking longingly at her after finishing his own stick of ice cream.

I was moved. Moved back to the realities of life. Despite all the imperfections and aberrations life had so much beauty in it! I realised if I became a bird, I would gain the freedom of the sky, but it would be an empty freedom, bereft of smiles, laughters, loving whispers, ice creams, songs and music. I returned home, buoyant, ready to face another day, and to seek joy in the midst of murky Ministers and unscrupulous politicians.

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That November day in 2016, we returned from Bet Dwaraka, fulfilled with a satisfying visit to the holy palace and a soul-stirring journey on the sea. In the evening we went for another Darshan of Lord Dwarakadhish and were walking back to the guest house. Geetanjali wanted to have something to drink. We went to a milk parlour and bought a bottle of flavoured milk. We came out, she was about to open the bottle when we saw a young woman sitting on the pavement with a child on her lap crying its heart out, flailing its hands and legs. The young woman looked at us, deep hunger and pleading clouding her eyes. I can never forget the indescribable sadness I saw  in them. Geetanjali went to her and handed over the bottle of milk to her. She gave the milk to the child and it stopped crying.

The smile on Geetanjali's face was no match for the look of gratitude in the young woman's eyes. I offered to buy another bottle of flavoured milk for Geetanjali, but she declined. We resumed our walk to the guest house. She was deep in thoughts and philosophised, "Lord Dwarakadhish is so powerful, yet there are so many beggars here in this town! Can't the Lord take care of them and alleviate their sufferings? People donate lakhs of rupees to the temple, but no one thinks of the poor. Did you see how the baby stopped crying after drinking the milk and how the face of the mother glowed when the child's hunger was met? I think I earned more punya by giving that bottle of milk to the child than the hundred rupees I put in the Donation box at the temple. Ah, may God give me enough to bring some relief to the poor whenever I can."

I smiled, "But have you forgotten your wish in the morning? You want to become a bird, remember? To enjoy the freedom of the sky? If you become a bird how will you serve the poor?"

Geetanjali looked at me and gave me a smile tinged with sadness. She just shook her head and took my hand in hers. Holding hands we walked back to the guest house silently, lost in our own thoughts, to write one more page in Zindagi's diary.
 

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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