Literary Vibes - Edition XLI

Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Forty first edition of LiteraryVibes.

In the present edition we are fortunate to get a glimpse of the creative genius of a great Odia poetess Kabiratna Dr. Manorama Mahapatra whose poem has been translated and presented by Prof. Sumitra Mishra, one of our regular contributors. Dr. Mahapatra enjoys an iconic status in the literary firmament of Odisha and has been an inspiration to many poets and writers. 

I am happy to note that 'I Know', a poem by Ms. Sangeeta Gupta, another of our regular poets in LiteraryVibes, has been adjudged as one of the Highly Commended poems for October 2019 by "Destiny Poets" International Community of Poets (ICOP), Wakefield, UK. Our heartiest congratulations, Ms. Gupta! LiteraryVibes wishes you many more laurels in future. 

Last week I received in WhatsApp a wonderful, heart-touching story "Music To My Ears", which moved me to tears. I am reproducing the story here for those who have not read it earlier. However, WhatsApp being a playground of smart people, there were many protests, claiming that the the story is a hoax, there is no Music Teacher named Mildred Hondorf and there is no town called DeMoines in U.S.

I went to Google to know the veracity of the story. There is a site called Snopes.com which conducts investigations into such stories. Its verdict was, the story was False. That saddened me. I wished the story were true, to inspire and kindle the spirit of love. But then I consoled myself that even if the story is false, it is an incredibly beautiful piece of writing. One need not seek veracity in everything to enjoy its beauty. Beauty in itself is an absolute truth. Stories like "Music To My Ears" soak into our heart and soul and drench them in pure, eternal beauty. Search for veracity in a story becomes too mundane when beauty pervades its every fibre.

Wish you happy reading of LVXLI.

Please share it with your friends and contacts through the following link:
http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/240

With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

----------------------------------

Music to My Ears

At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name is Mildred Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from DeMoines, Iowa.
I’ve always supplemented my income by teaching piano lessons — something I’ve done for over 30 years. Over the years I found that children have many levels of musical ability. I’ve never had the pleasure of having a protégé though I have taught some talented students.
However I’ve also had my share of what I call “musically challenged” pupils. One such student was Robby. Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother’s dream to hear him play the piano. So I took him as a student.
Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn.
Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he’d always say, “My mom’s going to hear me play some day.” But it seemed hopeless.
He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but never stopped in. Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons.
I thought about calling him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that he had decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!
Several weeks later I mailed to the student’s homes a flyer on the upcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mom had been sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing.
“Miss Hondorf … I’ve just got to play!” he insisted. I don’t know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it
would be alright.
The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance through my “curtain closer.”
Well the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked like he’d run an egg-beater through it. “Why didn’t he dress up like the other students?” I thought. “Why didn’t his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?”
Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he announced that he had chosen Mozart’s Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories.
He went from pianissimo to fortissimo; from allegro to virtuoso. His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart played so well by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause.
Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. “I’ve never heard you play like that Robby! How’d you do it?” Through the microphone Robby explained:
“Well, Miss Hondorf … remember I told you my mom was sick? Well actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And well … she was born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make it special.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil.
No, I’ve never had a protégé but that night I became a protégé … of Robby’s. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it was he that taught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even taking a chance on someone and you don’t know why.
This is especially meaningful to me since after serving in Desert Storm Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995, where he was reportedly …playing the piano.

 

---

 

AN OLD UNDELIVERED LETTER TO WIFE

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

An aurora in your south,

another in the north;

your breath, a heady lotus,

a sultry red lily blinks in the middle.

Time, we give up living in dreams.

 

Nonsense, we say aloud;

excellent, our eyes shine quietly;

we carry each other in love and lust,

wish, we breed like crocodiles;

wish, we could cry like those reptiles.

 

A lightning dances in our east.

Blizzards threaten us from the west.

Jasmines rule stillness in our hearts;

the wafting fragrance rinses your hair.

Our lurching dreams repose in calm.

 

Wonderful, we think with breathlessness;

a pity, we say aloud, when flesh sloughs

exposing the truth’s barebones.

Dreams, congealed in our visages,

go out in our children’s school bags.

 

---

 

THE TRICOLOUR      

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Void all around,

it threatens to swallow her up;

in the neighbourhood

hungry pariahs gnash teeth,

salivating for her flesh;

she is red meat, mouthwatering;

but the neighbours’ wives tag her –

“Bad for our husbands’ hearts.”

 

Married young,

husband and she

had warmed their bed

every winter for many winters

when he came on leave

from country’s borders.

One winter

he came home in a coffin,

 

draped in Tricolour,

carried on military shoulders.

He looked a martyr alright.

He was cremated with a gun salute,

Military men gave her the Tricolour

for keeping as a souvenir;

unfurling it as a symbol of pride,

on Republic and Independence Days.

 

Her pride died with her husband,

besides his martyrdom,

and the promises of awards –

a few lakhs, a few acres

delivered stillborn; she didn’t know

where to hang his Vir Chakra.

Unaware of his sacrifices on borders,

she warmly recalled his sacrifices in bed.

 

Years passed, bland and blank,

dreaming young dreams, hallucinating

his flushed face, close and above hers,

her eager passions opening wide

to receive his sweet candy floss

in melting impatience. The dreams

kept the predators at bay, their barking

blacked out by her coursing blood.

 

The Tricolour remained locked away,

except once in a blue moon

when her inner demons

gnashed teeth, chewed her flesh.

She would take the memento out,

inhale deep into its folds where lay

his body smell, drape it around her

as an armour against the demons.

 

---

 

A PAGE FROM LEGENDS: KAIKEYI – LITTLE KANT’S TRANSPORTATION TO THE HOARY PAST OF HIS LAND

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

           One morning during a desultory walk with father, Kant came across a mother bird with two little baby birds in a nest. The mother appeared to be pushing her babies out of the nest. The helpless babies fell from the nest, however, just managed to fly back to their mother’s side. But hardly a baby had managed to return to the nest, the mother would lose no time to push it out again. It was heartrending for Kant to see the distress of the baby-birds. He picked up a stone to hit the mother. His father smiled and stopped him, “Dear Kant, it is not what you think. Often the reality is different than what our eyes see. In fact, the mother bird is training her babies to fly. Let’s wait a while more and watch.” To Kant’s surprise, after a while, one of the babies didn’t return to the nest for a foot hold, rather it flew over a longer distance to seek a perch on another tree branch. After a few more minutes, the second baby followed suit and perched by its sibling. Lastly, the mother herself flew to her babies and sat by them, chirping aloud. Father turned to Kant, “See my boy, the mother is expressing her satisfaction for her little babies’ achievements.” Father went dreamy and added, “I will tell you a similar incident about another mother from the pages of Ramayana. People of Ayodhya, just like you Kant, wanted to stone Kaikeyi, the day she had conspired to send Ram to forest for fourteen years.” As Kant leisurely strolled in the Municipal garden with father, he listened to his father  -

            “I have, Kant, at different occasions, narrated the stories from Ramayana, but today I would tell you an incident that is not recorded. Shri Ram was returning from his fourteen-year long banishment accompanied by brother Laxman, wife Sita, and his entourage of heroes from the monkey and bear clans who had fought the Lankan war by his side to defeat the vicious demon tyrant Ravan. The subjects of capital town Ayodhya, led by the three widow-queens Kaushalya, Kaikeyi, and Sumitra, and the brothers Bharat and Shatrugna, had walked out of the township to the forest’s edge to receive Ram, their future king. All were eager to say ‘hello’ to Ram and others with him. The protocol demanded that Ram and company were to greet the senior most in hierarchical order to start the ceremony. Kaushalya, Ram’s mother, deserved that seniority privilege.

             Ram, however, with a rare composure, wearing a pleasant and open smile, walked coolly to Kaikeyi, his step mother who was junior to Kaushalya, to pay his regards in an open defiance of the age-old protocol practice. Further queen Kaikeyi was considered a vile selfish woman by all the Ayodhya people. Ram touched her feet and took her in his arms with an affectionate hug. He uttered kind words, further surprising all, and infuriated a few, “Thank you my dearest Kaikeyi mom, for all your sacrifices. I never can console you enough for your pain and hurt. I, besides the entire humanity, would remain ever grateful to you for your sacrifices for the welfare of the world.” Then he proceeded in his dutiful way to greet one and all according to social diktat, paying respect to elders, embracing equals, and blessing the younger ones. His gesture to Kaikeyi, however, baffled all who knew how selfishly she had sent Ram to forest by her ugly machination to secure the throne for her son Bharat.

            Before marrying king Dasharath of Ayodhya kingdom, Kaikei had been the princess of Kaikeya kingdom, a large deserted tract of landmass spreading north-westward of Aryavarta from the rivers Saraswati and Byas.  She was the only ‘girl child’ to her parents. She grew up with her seven brothers, learning the tricks of taming and riding horses, expertly driving chariots, drawing war plans, sword fighting and archery, and above all, mastering the subject of esoteric medicinal treatment of wounds, especially inflicted in battles. These rare attributes including her being a feisty wife in bed endeared her to her husband. In all his expeditions to war fronts, Dasharath would take Kaikeyi, his second wife, with him. She would stay by his side as his personal charioteer, bodyguard, horse-tamer, doctor, and fond wife. In one such battles, a fatally wounded Dasharath, while convalescing back to health in Kaikeyi’s loving care, he had an emotional outburst. In that weak moment, he made a major mistake of promising Kaikeyi two unconditional boons. That sort of commitments were contrary to Rajadharma  (kingly discipline), because the recipient of the boon could misuse them to the kingdom’s detriment. As was feared by many, Kaikeyi did similar misuse of her boons just before Darharath’s retirement, and Ram’s coronation.

              Beyond every one’s wildest imagination, Kaikeyi asked her husband to fulfill his commitment by allowing her son Bharat climb the throne as the king instead of the oldest son Ram, and by ordering Ram to go to forest for fourteen years. Her cruelty and malicious wishes shocked Dasharath no end; and he collapsed and passed away in a few hours. To respect his father’s will, Ram quietly left for the forest accompanied by his life partner Sita and loyal brother Laxman.

             Ram quietly watched the surprised faces of all around when he was paying his first obeisance to Kaikeyi instead of Kaushalya, and was thanking her stepmother so profusely. He smiled to himself. People standing close to him later claimed to have heard him mutter under his breath, “These simple folks wouldn’t know how indebted am I to mother Kaikeyi, how bountiful had she been to me, and what had she to suffer for my sake. What they see is the surface coating. If they scratch it a little, colossal mysteries would walk out and unravel themselves.” He paused as if to hold back a tear that was cracking his kingly composure.

           He continued, “Had not mother Kaikeyi sent me to forest, I would have ended up as any ordinary ruler, with a trophy wife, doting brothers, a father and three mothers spreading their hands in benediction over me, fighting a few battles, killing a few demons, raising a brood of kids, and finally dying like all the forefathers. But for my mother Kaikeyi, I would never have destroyed the presiding Devil on earth, king Ravan, bringing the balance to Darma and peace to mankind. Only mother Kaikeyi’s far sight has deified me as a living god. My name is on all lips as the savior of mankind and the messenger of virtue. From Ram, I have become Shri Ram.” He paused to marshal his thoughts and leaf through another page of memory.

            He continued with a distant look, “But what did mother Kaikeyi get except being reviled as a bad woman; a greedy, heartless, selfish crone. She would not be remembered by posterity for her healing touches to Dasharath, but for her shocking demands that killed him. She would be remembered as a mother who was not satisfied by snatching away stepson Ram’s rights to the throne with a stepmotherly jealousy and giving it to her own son Bharat; but going ahead to rub pepper to the wounds, and asking Ram to go on exile to the forest. She would never be worshipped, her name would never be taken with affection, and none would ever name their girls after her name. No one would ever understand what she lost, what she had to suffer, but all would hate her as a malicious woman, holding her in scorn for having destroyed Dharma. No one would fathom her pain, or recognize her sacrifices and her gift to mankind?”

           Kaikeyi appeared to have read Ram’s mind, and was thinking allowed, “I don’t really mind, my Ram, if the whole world misunderstands me. It is enough that you have fathomed my true intent. Your gestures for me, a wretched old woman, bring tear to my eyes. Don’t give me more kindness, my boy, I may lose my queenly composure and burst out crying that, I fear, would be labeled as crocodile tears by this gathered public.  Let me bear my Cross to my grave alone.”

             Kant sputtered out, “Baba, many a thanks, had you not told me this little ‘see-through’ analysis into the minds of these great icons of our myth, I would have condemned Kaikeyi all my life as a vamp of the great epic story Ramayana. Likewise, had you not revealed the good intentions of the mother bird, I would have killed it with a stone. Thank you, Baba. You are great.” His father beamed with satisfaction.

(Certain modern terms and concepts like ‘to say hello’, ‘thanks mom’, ‘Cross’ etc. that were not existing in the days of Ram, have been used figuratively for effect.)

 

 

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  

 

---

 

LIVING IN LIES (MICHHA)

Haraprasad Das

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Suffocated by

unexpressed desires,

his insides smoulder,

wet logs in fire

under an empty pot

making farce of cooking.

 

Asphyxiating diffidence

to cater to a false sense of civility

inhibits his free thoughts.

The inhibition has settled

into his social layers.

Shouldn’t he express

his true feelings

as do the figurines of Konark

before it is too late,

before the curtains come down?

 

Would it be ever possible

for him to call the shots?

 

Well versed in theoretical expositions,

aware of practical solutions,

having perfected the skill

of separating the grain from chaff;

it’s a pity, he can’t find the courage

to call the spade a spade,

to dish out

before goddess Aphrodite

her due of truthful sensuality;

bring home the spirit of Konark.

 

There lie his doubts and inhibitions

like Himalayan hurdles.

 

If his mirror

teases him after dark

egging him on to fulfill

the needs of his flesh,

but he has no company

to spend the hungry night with

except a few women of easy virtue

walking the streets;

 

and he stumbles into one

of the luscious honey traps,

why should he turn

into a Majnun looking for

his Layla, a gem stone

in that ordinary pebble?

 

Why should he look

for immortal love

in an one-night stand;

ambrosia in a frothing goblet

of wine that can quench

his night’s thirst?

 

He should rather pretend

as if partaking

of a well-deserved feast,

garnished and served

on a burnished platter

though his plate is empty.

 

His joy can be heightened

by painting the empty cooking pot

with the image of fish curry,

while feeding the fire underneath

with wet wood refusing to burn,

its smoke asphyxiating the air,

as his goose is cooked

by social compulsions.

 

---

 

MANIMAL (AMANISHA)

Haraprasad Das

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Am I growing hideously suspicious

by the day -

apprehending the pristine lily

might be growing

ugly talons on its smooth stem

behind the opaque water face?

 

In my murky vision

the milk of moonbeam

turning insidiously dark,

life’s rosy pastures

turning deathly,

a bloodless pallor.

 

Helplessly I watch -

my dire needs

forcing me to be beastly,

human qualities bowing out.

 

One of these days, I would

be a full convert,

a beast

wearing a human skin.

 

Don’t look for me

among beautiful glowing specks

dancing amid the sunbeam

that has pried

into my dark sanctum

though a crack in ceiling.

 

I am no more in that serenity;

nor am I in a denial mode.

I admit the change,

I admit I don’t repent for

what has come over me.

I don’t give excuses

for my ugly claws that

they are for self-defence.

 

Rather, look for me

where innocence is deflowered

in depraved dark like woodworms

devouring sublime woodwork.

 

You may find me

among soulless skunks,

wallowing in filth

in the arms of Amor.

 

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)”

 

---

29th AUGUST, 2004, SUNDARGARH 

Kamalakanta Panda (Kalpanta)

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

(ONE)

The dark was lifting from the hills,

looking for hideouts in jungles.

The dawn had put a tentative foot

on river Ib’s sandbank,

 

on the wake of the other foot,

the pale moon was completing her

last round of ripple dance

in Ib’s water, its parting shot.

 

Never had guessed,

my first impression of Sundargarh

would settle in my mind so fondly,

a piece of curio to take along.

 

The evening I left Bhubaneswar,

it had been raining heavy

many poets were prevented,

soaked to skin, from taking the bus.

 

They wouldn’t know

what they missed - a beautiful meet,

its venue’s serenity and poetry,

just across a wet dismal night.

 

(TWO)

Sundargarh, you have carved

a space in my heart; it goes still

when I decide to leave;

perhaps, it’s its way of saying adieu.

 

To me, your name would spark

a romance like a couple’s first born,

a farmer’s first harvest, a fond memento,

this poetry-meet would be ever-cherished.

 

I am in a night bus, homeward,

it’s dark and rainy outside again;

even this desolate night

can’t make me forget you,

you’re not a pair of disposable ear-studs,

to me, you are a lot more.

 

You would be etched in memory

like the imprint of a sliver of moonshine,

would stalk me, a sweet stalker,

inspire me as a muse.

 

KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA), a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, writing over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute, and if one hasn’t read Kalpata’s poems, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision that he would never collect his own poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)  

 

---

MASKS

Ms. Geetha Nair, G.

 

When two, I tugged at a mask,

A Santa’s; to see what hid within.

 

I do it still

With far more skill,

Peeling face after face

To try to view

The Real You

The Real You

The Real… .

 

---

 

AN AVERAGE   LIFE

Ms. Geetha Nair, G.

 

There are nights when I cannot sleep at all, when I re-enact things ill -done and done to others' harm, which once I took for exercise of virtue. Those are T. S. Eliot's words, not mine; he puts it much better than I ever could. They find an echo in many of us, don’t they?

 

Anuradha walks through my mind then, short hair riding her slim shoulders,  spectacles falling off her small nose, eyes gazing sadly at me... .

She was just another girl in the class I had charge of that year. Average in height, weight,  looks, studies.

I knew she stayed very near the College as once  or twice I had seen her standing at her gate. A pink-washed house, average in size and appearance;  like its occupant, I remember thinking.

One  Friday morning, another student from Anuradha’s class came up to me and said, “There is something I want to tell you, Ma’am.” What she told me was this:

Anuradha was planning to elope the next day with an auto driver she was in love with. The friend felt it was her duty to inform me; would I inform her people?

 

All day, I was in turmoil. What right had I to interfere in another’s life? A girl of nineteen can surely make her own decisions… . Then I thought of my own daughter, just ten years old then. Would I want her to do such a thing when she was nineteen? Run away with an “unsuitable” man, leaving her future,possibly, and her parents, certainly, shattered?

 

  At 3 o’clock, I walked swiftly out of the college and made for the pink house. When I rang the bell, a  middle-aged woman opened the door. She looked a little too old to be Anuradha’s mother. “I am her aunt; what is the matter?”she asked.

I told her what the matter was. Then I left as swiftly as I had come and went back to the staff room.

 

 I didn’t have a particularly peaceful weekend. On Monday morning, the Principal called me to her room. She said that one of my students had run away from home on Friday night. Anuradha P.S.  Anuradha’s uncle and aunt, with whom she stayed, had confronted her with her love-affair with an auto driver; they  had refused to permit the union. She had left home late that night without their knowledge. Her uncle had informed the police. The Principal also told me that Anuradha’s mother had passed away when she was a child and that her father was a labourer in a distant city.

 

Where was she now?

In a Rescue Shelter.

 

She remained there for  several days. I heard that she was sent back to her father.

 

I never saw her again. I do not know what became of her.

Anuradha, I would like to believe that you are leading an average life somewhere, that there is average happiness in your heart.

Forgive your average teacher if you can, my child.

 

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 

 

---

 

THIS THING CALLED CULTURE

Sreekumar K

 

When we are young we try to change the world,

When we are old we try to change the young

                                                        --Anonymous

 

     A document attributed to none less than Socrates says exactly what we think about our students today, and in specific details too.

    "The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and tyrannize their teachers."

 

    Don't we say the same thing even today, without getting bored? This clearly shows that things aren't going to change much, no matter what we do. If they have not changed much in two millennia, we should consider this ailment as 'here to stay rooted'.

 

   Discipline is not an easy thing to understand. If it means obedience, it also should mean docility. If it refers to right and wrong, it also means morality. If it means following the rules, then the question is 'whose rules?' Obeying a rule that you don't endorse is called slavery.

    So discipline cannot be dubbed as the right behaviour, when it is forced. Living according to rules that you don't consider right is not the right thing to do.

 

   This puts a heavy responsibility on any teacher or leader. We have to enlighten the children about themselves and their surroundings so that they make better choices than us. This is what we need to discipline them in. Logic being the most essential accessory to teaching, this sword is going to cut both ways.

    How many of the rules around are logical and purposeful, let alone effective?

    How many of those who try to discipline are themselves well disciplined, let alone successful in their attempt, without forcing it?

 

    These are the questions for which the answers may be inconvenient. These are issues for which we don' have an immediate solution. We need to wait till convenient answers offer themselves.

Meanwhile, there are a lot of things to do. First of all, we should look at what worries us.

1. The students don't listen to us. This is not true. They DO listen to  us to such an extend that we wish they don't. They get to listen to what we say, understand what we think and observe what we do. We are lucky they don't repeat a lot of things we say or copy a lot of things we do.

     On the other hand, do WE listen to the students. Of course we do. But being adults and teachers, we are all judgmental and the children are not unaware of this. So, they tell us only what they think we want to hear, share with us only those thoughts we want them to think and show us only what we want them to do.

    Not true? Please check how we react when we catch them off guard and create embarrassing scenes.

2. They have no values. Again not true. They stand by their friends, are open to their soul mates, become part of societies whose boundaries are not geographically limited, and they do share, cooperate, collaborate and also gang up against their enemies. At least they try their best not to make us feel bad. They almost never give feed back the way we do. Guilty of dishonesty, not of lack of integrity.

    Again, what about us? We have to quote from others when we want to illustrate values. By being dishonest to ourselves we are being dishonest to the whole world, and we don't want others to set us right. We shy away from the smallest bit of criticism and play defensive so that the fault finder will never come back with more. So, we have stopped reading the classics, our newspapers are stacked unread, we nurse our nostalgia, call an ancient period of slavery our golden age, hold on to beliefs and gods whose only business seem to be to keep us divided so that demigods can rule over us, and, most important, forget that we have been to our ancestors what the new generation is to us. 

 

 3. They have no respect. Again, not true. They are also people like us who have an innate tendency to adore, admire and worship whatever is beyond them. They respect what they like and what they like is different from what we like which is again different from what our parents liked. To quote Wilfred Owen, this is the "eternal reciprocity" (of tears, as he was talking about dying soldiers). They have their walls covered with sports star posters, their i-pods cracking with tons of Jazz, Reggae and things we generally call noise, their facebook walls are held together with shares and postings from people all over the world, their virtual neighbours, their organizers are crammed with birthdays and anniversaries when we can't even recall a single person's zodiac sign, and their brains glow with ideas, fresh, daring, unique ones.

 4. They have no respect for us. Finally, true. Do we want them to respect us? What have we done to earn their respect? Voting for politicians who sell our mother (earth), being silent when trillions are siphoned out of our country, creating different citizens by bifurcating education and making it a privilege, keeping the fair sex the second sex, hoarding our worshiping places with gold and diamonds when millions are starving to death? Are these what we want them to respect us for? We do exploit labour, harness loop holes in our legal system, quote scriptures to silence insurgence, steam roll over genetic problems with Article 377, and allow religions and castes to divide and rule. We may say we have not done any of this. Really. What do we say 'not being part of the solution' make us? And what about unity and shared responsibility?

    Good thing they don't respect us.  What is so great in us to respect? Our holier-than-thou attitude?

5. They have no fear of consequences. True. They are a little more daring than most of us.  But instead of encouraging them in this path they have forged with grit and determination, we send them back to the path of fear which have taken us no where in particular, but away from the sublime things in life for sure.

 

Now what are their complaints?

 

1. Discipline kills creativity. Not true. Artists (successful, not mediocre)  and innovators are highly disciplined. They sweat it out. The 1% is not useful without the 99% .

 2. Discipline is against freedom. Not true. Our problem with freedom is not that we don't have enough of it, but that we don't use enough of it. Moreover, real freedom is to be felt inside of us. So long as we are not imprisoned, straight-jacketed or in shackles, we have a lot of freedom to go around. But we have enslaved ourselves to those around us, and on a common pact they have done so too. Conventions and traditions which failed to make their way into the Penal Code are two ways in which we curb our own freedom as well as others'.

3. Look, life has no rules. Not true. Nothing has more rules than life itself. And they get imposed like hell, no pun intended. What goes around comes around was discovered way before the wheel itself.

4. Difference makes us. True, you are here only because you are unique. Nature doesn't allow for redundancy or clones. But dear young man, how unique are you? How you hide that uniqueness under the guise of fashions and trends and peer pressure!

5. We are like this because of you. Not true. We are what we are because of the choices we make. So long as we make our minds run the show for us, we will continue this blame game. It won't support our cause at all. We all have to take responsibility for what happens to us. Not to do this is blasphemy since we are in a way saying that we have an unfair god. In life, the one who chooses the right casket wins happiness, not Portia. On this casket appears Newton's third law of motion. The more we observe life, the more we see the clear cut patterns and this would have made Newton state that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, after an apple he threw at his friend bounced back right on his nose.

 

Where do we go from here?

     Schools were the palaces where culture used to be born. Now they are the tombs where tradition,  an anti-Darwinian name for obsolete culture is preserved and glorified. We don't acknowledge the fact that it is not our world anymore; it is theirs. They are like this because we have been like this. It is high time we came down from our moral high horse and took a new look at ourselves. What have we got to teach? How many of us truly exemplify the values we uphold? To what extent can we pride ourselves to be better than them? We have overused Gandhiji in our classes and exhausted that resource. We ourselves have to be the resource now.

      For a third world war not happening, we should thank the new kids on the block and not the veterans in uniforms. Good discipline entails obedience, but it is obeying oneself and not just the dictates of another. So the value we need to teach the children is to follow their heart with determination and perseverance. We need to help them enrich their hearts, true. But we won't be able to do it so long as we stay impoverished in our of hearts. We need to have a wealth of love and compassion in  lest we should have nothing to share and enrich them.

     As a world, by being insensitive to the need to change, we have lost the new generation's trust in us. Now, they are on a tangent of their own while we go round in circles. What happens globally can happen locally too. So, this happens in schools, homes and wherever we come together. Unless we understand ourselves honestly and openly, confess to ourselves where we failed, how and in what, we have no right to discipline a new generation. Even if we go ahead with it, it is all right since it is going to have neither positive nor negative effect on them. They are too smart for that.

 

---

 

ANY TIME MONEY

Sreekumar K

 

I sat back on my chair and started drumming on its armrest. Money was always necessary, but not this necessary.

Only eight thousand rupees. Not that I didn’t have it. I had it. I had procured it for Sajeev days ago. It was safe in my bank.

The only problem was my ATM card. I had lost it. I thought I could use my check book when he would come around for it the next day. But he was about to come for it at such a short notice.

I could not blame him. His brother was in hospital.

I looked around. Who might give me eight thousand just like that? It was close to the end of the month. No one would be able to help me.

There was no harm in asking. I looked over the partition into Ashok's cubicle. He was not there. His lunch box was there. OK, he would come back. I decided to wait.

I had lost the card a week ago and had not told the bank yet. I was being careless, of course. What if someone got the card and tried random passwords and got the right one? Bad luck for me, what else to say!

Actually, I had even gone back to get the card out of the machine. With the new system of keeping the card in the machine, one always forgot to retrieve the card. I went back to see if I had left my card at the ATM. First, I didn't see it. But then, when I went back one more time, there it was. I grabbed it and ran back home.

I was quite happy till the next morning when I tried to take some money using the card. It showed the wrong password. After trying three times, I took a good look at the card.

"Hey card, why are you doing this to me? Don't you know I am always short of money and time? I have to catch my bus and reach my office at ten. Please stop acting up!"

The card, like it happened in those Russian fairy tales that we had all read when we were young, stared at me and asked, "Who are you you? I think you are quite mistaken, Mister!"

That is when I checked the card and found someone else's name. God! It was someone else's.

What should I do? I thought for a long time and then decided to visit the bank and hand it over to them. But, the bank was two kilometers away. Yet, I decided to go there and give it and I did.

The accountant was a bearded jolly fellow. He didn't say anything but accepted it and looked at the name on it.

And two days later, there I was. Sitting at the office waiting for Ashok to come back from wherever he was.

He came, I asked him, but no money. He said sorry.

My mobile rang again. It was Sajeev. I didn't pick up the call. He called again and still I didn't respond.

He rang me up a third time. No, it wasn't he. Thank God! I didn't want him to confront me. And who knew what would turn up?

Yes, I had no idea what that phone call was all about.

It was from the bank. From the voice, I figured it out that it was the accountant.

Good news. They had my card. I was asked to go and collect it as soon as possible.

I got out from the office, took an auto-rickshaw and went to the bank.

I went straight to the accountant and he returned my card. I checked the name. Perfect. The card rewareded me with a smile.

The accountant too smiled at me and said someone had brought the card there.

The lady in the next cublicle added, "He brought it here when he came looking for his own card which he had lost. Luckily, someone had brought it here.”

I very humbly said, "It was me who had brought it.”

"O, yes, I remember. That is what!" said the accountant.

I was standing there all puzzled. Did this really happen?

Back in my office, I called my friend and told him to come and collect the money. He very apologetically asked me if everything was alright.

"Yes, perfectly all right. Nothing to worry. Really."

I wondered what I would have sounded like to him.

Drunk? Yeah, sure.

Dama dum Mast kalandar... dama dum mast kalandar..

 

---

 

OLD SONGS

Sreekumar K

 

 

whatever I wanted to write

they had already written,

whatever I wanted to express

no one had ever felt

I didn’t know that

I have read all they wrote and

thought they felt like I do

but when I sang my lines in the streets

Nobody stayed to listen for long

I found I was mistaken

I found I misunderstood

and then you came by

feet sore from walking long

heart sore from the longest longing

my songs had ended

my breath had abated

but as you repeated the

wisp of the last line of my last song

I heard myself singing again

I found myself alive again

only to be killed by your eyes

only to be buried in your heart

I thought it was the spring

I thought summer had been too long

And hoped the spring to do the same. It did.

and I flowered like the gulmohar

which the mooning wind had hugged last night

and wanted to tell the flowery tale

to those who could keep a secret

and talk about it only in whispers

 

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. 

 

---

 

WEAVES OF TIME

Sangeeta Gupta

 

XI

A glorious day
slowly crosses
the river of a misty evening only to dissolve
in a mysterious night
and I go through it
all the way

may be, as part of it—
but at the same time
only a witness to it—
of the magical happening

In deep silence
I talk to me
Who am I?
The real I?
one who, of it is part
or perchance
simply one witnessing
that same it?

and in my heart of hearts
I answer
may it be I just know
I am both
A universe that exists in me and I
in that very universe.
 

XII

Adam,
an evolved being, dove-tailed into a 
whole, by nature stands alone on the 
crossroads
to create life afresh
the life of his choice,
as a being, not just thing.

Though it’s always easy,
secure and comforting
to follow the proven path
still one is also given the 
choice to carve only an own 
path to walk on and on
on an uncertain, unknown terrain

to explore in the freedom,
the invention of an own destiny, 
to avail the opportunity of a 
vertical take off

to transform the mundane
heat and fret
into blazing night light.

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.

 

---

 

MORNING JIGSAW

Prof. Sumitra Mishra

 

As Sudha entered the Kharavel Park for her daily morning walk, she observed something unnatural. A group of young men, mostly athletes, were hitting a man with their hands, fists and sandals. She looked askance at her companion Mr. Bibhuti Bhushan Choudhury, a 75 year old man, her neighbor of forty years. Being a man of varied experiences of life and a socially active personality of the locality, he understands things more clearly than Sudha, who is more of a domestic cat than a street dog. Bibhuti babu pats her back and consoles her with a look of indifference; meaning that “Don’t bother, such things happen. Nothing important or odd.”

Sudha ,a deeply compassionate human being and a regular jogger in the park always keeps herself attuned to the environment of this popular park in the Khandagiri area as a regular jogger. The morning walking and jogging make her mind clear as well as helps her to appreciate Nature and her variegated colors and shapes. When she enters the garden a roar of laughter from the members of the Sunshine Laughter Club welcomes her along with the rustling breeze. The pathway of the park is always crowded in the mornings. People from all age groups come here to exercise and train their bodies to keep fit. Besides this, the ambience of the park is cool and peaceful. The park has a lush green cover to provide shade and rest. There are numerous big trees like Banyan, Peepal, Neem, Seesham, Asparagus, Arjuna besides the bushy plants and creepers. The park ground is covered with lush green grass sprayed with colorful seasonal flowers all around. All along the jogging track there are differently structured and colored cement benches with comfortable backrest for the walkers and joggers. In the middle of the park there is an open gym with equipment to help in different kinds of exercises for the limbs and other body parts. In another section, there is a children’s play area with swings, sea-saw, hanging bars, rides, slides etc. Another corner of the park is organized as a tea table set up with a round cement table in the center and ten chairs around it for a relaxing chatting session with tea. At each turning there are penguin shaped garbage bins to keep the park free of rubbish.

Sudha, naturally compassionate by nature, couldn’t tolerate the violence in such a calm and quiet place in the morning. She shouted at the top of her voice “Stop! Stop!” commanding the bullies to cease their attack on the stranger. But as the young people stopped their beating, the victim stood up with his head hanging in shame. Sudha was surprised to discover the identity of the victim of violence! He was none other than the Gym Instructor Mr Gaganendra Pattanaik, popular as “Gagan Bhai”! Sudha had met him often at the park, training the children, young men and senior citizens the techniques of operating the outdoor gym equipment. She was not sure if he was employed by the government or some club or some private agency, or if he was helping people of his own accord. But she always found him friendly, civil and courteous to others. What could he have done to deserve such punishment in the early morning?

“Should we go there and ask what happened?”, she asked Bibhuti Babu ,her experienced neighbor, whose wisdom regarding public behavior she trusted more than her own.

“Will you want to come with me or continue your walk? I will catch up with you and inform you the details.”

“No, I would like to come and see for myself what happened! I am really curious!”

“OK, let’s speed up”

They reached the quadrangle where the incident had happened. Already a crowd had gathered around the victim and the perpetrators of violence. Sudha saw Gagan Bhai sitting on the ground with his head hidden between his knees while two young persons were trying to blacken his face with ash gathered from a nearby house that used the wooden hearth. It was simply incredible!!! Sudha felt bitterly sad for Gagan and exclaimed “What the hell are you doing, boys? This is inhuman!”

“Inhuman??? Certainly not more than what he did!!!”,shouted one of them.

Before Sudha could intervene, Mr. Bibhuti, her companion gave her a push with his elbow and dragged her away from the place. She was made to sit on a cement bench under a shady tree while her companion rushed back to the spot to gather more information. Sudha looked around for a glass of water. She was feeling desiccated from within. She imagined various crimes that could have been committed by this young, agile, smart gentleman. The newspapers everyday served numerous reports regarding the heinous crimes happening around here as well as everywhere. While she waited for Mr. Bibhuti to come back with information, Sudha saw a group of girls escorting a tender twelve to thirteen years old girl, who was crying uncontrollably. Suddenly she imagined the entire situation and felt a nauseating feeling as if a rattlesnake had bitten her.

Sudha was reminded of her childhood trauma. When she was almost a girl of the same age, about twelve or thirteen, just matured, one of her relative uncles who visited their house so often had tried to molest her in a dark corner of the store house, where she had gone to steal some pickles, which her mother kept hidden in a wire shelf, away from the sight of her pickle-crazy daughters. The uncle had suddenly come upon her and embraced her tightly, fondling her newly budding breasts. She had given a big push to the man and ran away swiftly to her sisters. She had kept this incident hidden from everyone including her mother till the same happened again in the barn, when she was playing hide and seek with her younger brother. The same man came searching for her with a Cadbury’s chocolate in his hand. He found her behind a heap of straw and embraced her tightly, making her feel suffocated. Then, before she could shout he pressed her mouth with his strong right hand and fondled her breasts, even tried to open her panties. She turned numb in fear, but she used her legs well and kicked the man on his groin. He groaned. She ran away in haste and shouted. Then she shouted and shouted like a wounded tigress and made a big hue and cry. Her father had tried to protect his cousin but her mom had become furious and shooed that dirty man away from her home. That incident had left a permanent scar in her mind , so much so that she had failed to trust any man however good or kind he  looked and behaved !

Sudha wanted to pat and console the sweet, young, vulnerable, distressed girl. But Mr. Bibhuti arrived on the spot with water in a plastic disposable glass, provided by the park caretakers and kept near the purified drinking water tap. He held Sudha’s hand with affection and said,

“First drink the water. I know how distressed you are! Calm down. I will inform you everything.”

Sudha was tempted to offer the glass of water to the girl, but she was already gone with her friends. She drank the water and threw the glass in the Penguin shaped garbage bin. Mr.Bibhuti sat down near her. When he was about to start the story, a constable, smartly dressed in his khaki uniform arrived in the park in a police jeep and swinging his ruler rushed towards the crowd around Gagan Bhai.

Sudha felt apprehensive and nervous. She looked around the park to calm her nerves. The park had dressed herself with autumn colors. The trees seemed to laugh and dance in glee due to the golden sunshine. The branches and trunks of the big trees and the leaves and flowers of the bushes were happy like a crowd dancing in a carnival. The carpet of grass inviting in its cool calmness seemed to anchor her tired spirit. She held her walking stick tightly in her hand and got up to walk away from the scene. Both of them walked briskly for five minutes around the park on the jogging track silently. The police jeep passed them with a screech and a whistle. Sudha craned her neck and saw Gagan Bhai sitting on the back seat with his head down. Then she felt calmer and addressed Mr. Bibhuti,

“Would you please tell me now what happened?”

Mr. Bibhuti was a little hesitant. He said, “Don’t worry. It’s the usual stuff with the young men. They don’t know how to control themselves. So sad!”

“Who was that girl?”

“She is a regular in the park. She comes to train herself as a weight lifter. She is from a poor family. She has no money to pay to enroll herself in a proper gym or weightlifter’s club. So she comes here with one of her friends who trains herself for running. She practices in the open gym with whatever equipment is there.”

“Oh! How sad! The poor are often vulnerable, aren’t they?”

“Ya, for sure, they are! This man took advantage of her poor status and her tender age to exploit her by alluring her to give her special coaching in her sport. She easily believed him because she had seen him watching her regularly from a distance and offering her pieces of advice unsolicited. She thought being a trainer he must be able to help her improve. And then the obvious happened. He allured her into his trap and tried to molest her.”

“The man is above forty! How could he…..?”

“Age is just a number! You know, that’s what they are saying now-a-days!”Mr. Bibhuti laughed out loudly!

“Will he really get some punishment, that rascal ?” Sudha  butted in through his laughter.

“Oh, that again is a big question! Who is getting punishment these days? Even the murderers are moving freely on the streets without any regrets or shame. They are all under the protective wings of the politicians. You know, that man Satura, the goon who raped his own niece and murdered his elder brother is now going to stand for the post of Councilor of our area! He has joined the Congress party! People of our country are so credulous, so forgetful!!! Just imagine the state of law under Satura, the councilor! Who knows, one day he may be the Mayor of Bhubaneswar!!! The ministers are using him and his goon allies to terrorize the poor and common people, or bribe them in kind for votes, of course!”

“What? Satura will be the Councilor!!! My God! You know, Bibhuti Bhaina, he came to my house for collecting money for Durgapuja with ten or twelve followers. They all were wearing the Congress party T-Shirt with their insignia “Palm” on them. No one dared to refuse them what they demanded. When I offered a five hundred rupee note, they laughed out loud and said,

“Are you giving us alms? Give five thousand, not five hundred!” I was so terrified by their outfit, their honking bikes, their attire and the banners in their hands, I had to give them five thousand. What a terrible menace these goons are!”

“Absolutely! They have started harassing the young lovers who go to the Khandagiri caves or Kharavela Park for some privacy. They threaten and loot them!”    

Sudha was again perturbed. She recollected the horrid experience of discovering the dead body of a young girl at the foothills of Khandagiri hills during her walk at five a.m.! She was taking a brisk walk in the early morning before the sunrise as a rule to help her reduce weight and cure diabetes. What a ghastly sight it was! A young girl was lying in the bushes, her legs protruding ! Only her violet color salwar and the payal on her ankles were visible from the footpath leading towards the hills. She had shrieked like she had seen a ghost. Some early walkers crowded by her side and informed the police. She could not get over her fright for a long time and did not go for a walk, till her husband requested Bibhuti Bhaina to escort her during her morning walk. Pravat could not escort her because he was a late riser who hated to leave the bed before eight and before having his bed tea. He always worked till  mid-night. Since then she has left walking on the lonely footpaths around Khandagiri hills. She preferred the crowded Kharavela park where people start roaming around 4 a.m. Besides there were houses and colonies all around constructed by the Bhubaneswar Housing Board with gates on the four directions.

Sudha was groping in her purse for her inhaler as she felt a bit suffocated by the excitement of the morning. Someone from the back touched her shoulder very softly. She felt a bit astonished and turned back. To her utter surprise, it was Pravat, her husband. What a surprise!

Pravat said, “Don’t look at me like that! Bibhuti Bhaina telephoned me! I was sleeping though I could not sleep hearing the panic in his voice. Let’s sit down a bit and relax!”

The three of them sat down on a bench in the park and laughed heartily! 

 

Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.

A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her  four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.

 

---

 

THE LORD OF TIME  (SAMAYA PURUSHA)

Kabiratna Dr. Manorama Mahapatra

(Translated by Sumitra Mishra)

 

Who can write

A preface

To the book of my life

Besides

The Lord of Time?

 

Who can witness

The dimming sparks

Or the sparkling ashes

In the hearth of my life

Besides

The Lord of Time?

 

Kabiratna Smt. Manorama Mohapatra is a renowned poet of Odisha who is revered as the ex-editor of the oldest Odia daily newspaper “Samaj”. She is a columnist, poet, playwright who has also contributed a lot to children’s literature in Odia. She has received several awards including the National Academy Award, Sarala Award and many more. Her works have been translated into English, Sanskrit and many Indian languages. Her works are replete with sparks of rebellion against dead rituals and blind beliefs against women. She is a highly respected social activist  and philanthropist.

 

---

 

SOIL

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

 

Phew ! Forgot since when

I lost contact with the earth

Though ‘am very much in this world.

Can’t recollect when it was last

That my feet touched the soil.

 

Ah ! Along mosaics, tiles, carpets

I moved.

Cemented, cobbled, tarred roads

I travelled.

In slippers, boots, sneakers

I strolled.

Synthetic turf, plasticised compounds

Below even when I was barefeet

 

Oh ! ‘am disconnected from the soil,

the mud, gravel, sand.

I know not when I can feel

the earthly soil once more

under the sole of my feet.

 

Ahem ! Certainly I know a thing,

That I will assimilate

Into the soil around me

once ‘am completely detached

from the earth.

 

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.

 

---

 

CAN TECHNOLOGY ALONE ERADICATE CORRUPTION? OR IS IT ABOUT MINDSET?

Rohini Dibakar

 

Shri. Jhoote ‘Raja’ Topiwala, a veteran MP allotted portfolio of Telecom Ministry, had drawn upon himself the “noble mission” of ushering Digital Revolution at “supersonic speed”. He quickly announced the spectrum distribution on first-come-first-serve basis. Various service providers were allotted the spectrum for telecom services in various parts of the country.

On a subsequent investigation by Comptroller and Auditor General, it was revealed that the minister had adopted arbitrary parameters to allot the spectrum. Eligibility conditions were overlooked in order to favour a few service providers. The overall loss on account of the above to the national exchequer was placed at Rs.1.6 trillion (US $ 27 billion). The scam put India in the “Top Ten Abusers of Power” list by the Transparency International.

Smt. ‘Chikki’ Rani, was sworn in as the Minister of Health and Family Welfare. She was “too eager” to improve the nutrition of the school children of a state. “Wasting no time” she made a Rate Purchase for supply of chikki sweets for the school children.

On a subsequent investigation it was found that the chikki was adulterated, overpriced and many other things that were supposed to have been bought for the purpose of school children, like water filters ,were found to be missing on the ground and present only on paper. Investigation also revealed that the vendor did not fit the eligibility conditions to be a supplier.

Incidents like the above do not evoke a sense of ‘deja vu’. Such news items are read and heard on a day-to-day basis in India.

Both the above examples epitomize the nature and extent of corruption that have shaken public faith time and again and also jeopardized nation’s interest in matters as sensitive as  security of the country, and health and nutrition of our children. Both of them highlight the fact that despite the availability of infallible modes of public procurement like e-tender and e-procurement, persons occupying public office have developed ingenious ways to depart from the foolproof techniques with vested interests.

Technology cannot enforce itself. Human interface with the technology cannot be obviated to the fullest extent. And it is this interface that harbours scope for corruption. This in turn facilitates Cronyism, Nepotism and other corrupt practices which in turn feed on corruption, thus creating a vicious cycle.

Technology has the potential to alleviate corruption. It has reduced human interface, thus substantially reducing the possibility of human interference in the business process of public service delivery.

There are success stories galore.

The arrival of Electronic Voting Machine on the scene changed the map of the election process and dwarfed electoral malpractices. The Electronic Voting Machines are devoid of human error and are not prone to inaccuracy during counting. It also has defenses against certain types of booth capturing. For example, the polling officer can press “close” button as soon as he or she sees intruders sabotage the polling station, after which no voting can happen. Further the Electronic Voting Machines can poll only 5 votes per minute. This naturally frustrates the efforts of booth-capturers, who in a jiffy, would like to skew the votes in favour of their candidate, before the police reinforcements arrive.

In the field of land records, computerisation, initiated by many states, like Bhoomi in Karnataka, E-dhara in Gujarat, have nullified corruption in the field of accessibility of land records. The land records were computerised at the Tehsil or Block level. These projects snapped, at once, the defrauding of land ownership by illegal usurpation. It arrested the fabrication of fake documents for the purpose of land transfer/mutation of rights which particularly affect the poor, who would be bound by unscrupulous money lenders into a usurious trap with the purpose of usurping their lands, often with the collusion of local revenue officials. Now,the land records can be mutated only at the district level operatives and that too in the personal presence of the land rights holder.

Notable amongst the other e-governance projects are Sakala - Karnataka Service Guarantee to Citizens Act. It is known by the name E-Seva in AndhraPradesh. These E-Governance projects provide for speedy and ensured delivery of public services. On a grand scale, it networked most of the government departments including police, provided window on the website to post their complaints and track their progress to obtain timely feedback on their complaints. This paves the way for an auditable and transparent delivery of public services.

Income-tax Department’s pride, Centralized Processing Centre and AST software were one of themost ambitious E-Governance projects of the Government of India. The processing of IT Returns which was earlier manual and hence prone to error and manipulation is now computerized, error free, speedy and most importantly inconducive to manipulation. In fact, the Centralised Processing Centre has no public interface at all. The software enabled processing does not allow any variation or tampering with the IT returns and its demand/refund intimations. The AST is a similar software available with the field formations.

Glaring gaps, however, remain. And these gaps limit the realisation of the full potential of the technology-driven-crusade against corruption. While the EVMs did succeed in preventing one form of booth capturing, it failed to fetter other forms of booth capturing like vandalism wherein the henchmen make away with the EVMs thus defeating the process of election itself. The feudalistic pattern of society that rests itself on caste and hierarchy provides the breeding ground for poll related violence and vandalism. Although Bhoomi project brought down corruption to a substantial extent, incidents of fudging and fabrication of land record have been reported time and again. Similarly, Citizen Services Guarantee Projects have met with limitations due to the lack of will of the officials who control these projects. The much celebrated computerised processing of Income Tax Returns, met with a shocker when a huge refund scam was unearthed, that had spread its tentacles over vast regions of many states. Refunds were either generated in fake names or had been split to avoid scrutiny by the senior authorities.

All the above incidents show that technology and society have not kept in tandem with each other's pace, as the technology has moved faster whereas the society has changed slowly. This has created a wide gap. And this gap or void is to be filled by what we better know today as “values”.

The hierarchical nature of society fostered values of passive submission to the authority. The unquestioned authority made people accept corrupt practices like bribery as “natural” and until recently even looked upon as legitimate. Government officials were seen with a certain awe and their illegitimate demands were not perceived to be unlawful or illegal. This routinised corrupt practices. Similarly caste based and in-group based politics have given raise to Cronyism, Nepotism and other forms of favouritism in conductance of the business by Public Official and People’s Representatives. This has not only caused huge losses to the exchequer, but has also denied basic amenities to the poor.

The absence of a nationalistic, Pan-Indian outlook coupled with a sense of responsibility towards the society is missing in the parental teaching to their children. This has created a narrow perspective of “self” and facilitated self perpetuation at the expense of others. Overall, these voids in the value system arrested the development of spirit of nationalism and a sense of national growth.

“Self” has always been put before nation and national interest.

Thus it can be concluded that corruption in all its facets can be tackled only if the mindset changes and the values of national interest are inculcated in our upcoming generations. These values should be instilled in their childhood, when they are in a mouldable stage of life. In addition to this, a comprehensive reform in Criminal Justice System, Police, Law, Land Administration with stringent punishment needs to be achieved. Preventive vigilance also needs to be stepped up.

While these short-term reforms achieve results to a limited extent, long-term measures like inculcating values in our human capital, that is our children, through a value-based education and parenting, only can guarantee the elimination of corruption.

 

Ms Rohini D, is an officer of the Indian Revenue Service-2008 Batch and is currently posted as Joint Commissioner of Income Tax in chennai. She holds a post graduate degree in Psychology from the University of Madras and has now begun the doctoral study in the same subject. She has served in various capacities in the Income Tax department.  In her stint as Deputy Commissioner (Central ) Bangalore, she was assigned the task of  assessing, penalizing and prosecuting the  cases of the illegal mining barons of Karnataka and was instrumental in bringing to tax an undisclosed income of about 700 crore in the hands of various mining barons.

She  had edited the in-house magazine “Sankalp” of the National Academy of Direct Taxes, Nagpur during her tenure as Officer-trainee in the year 2009. She was one of the 12 invitees from all over India for the ‘Discover- Israel’ programme , sponsored by the Consulate-general of Israel in South India.

She had also represented India at the United Kingdom in the year 2001 as part of a Youth Exchange Programme of the NCC. She represented Karnataka and Goa at the Republic Day parade in New Delhi for two years-1998 and 2001. 

She has keen interest in music and is trained in carnatic classical music as also Bharat Natayam.  She was in NCC during her school and college days which initiated her into her current passion – shooting.  She is a shooter in the category of 10 meter Air Pistol. She is also a keen reader and a prolific writer.  She writes in the fortnightly column called Mindspace in The New Indian Express. She is married to Saroj Thakur an IPS Officer of the Tamilnadu Cadre and is blessed with two sons.

 

---

 

OH! KONARK!

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

magnificent monument

of Kalinga architecture !

how well  you showcase

art  that is immortal...

 

With the icon of Sun-God

wearing a horse rider's high shoes ,

with  a giraffe

on your panels,

two genetic types of elephants on the walls,

your specialities...

 

how well promote

pluralism,  where God is there for everyone who seeks..

hailing, heralding, 

the Sun's role in protecting

all,  with vital strength,  saving all,  from ailments on skin or soul,

 

through reflecting the

radiant, healing,  morning sun

offering light therapy,

you stand perennial,

a monument of giving...

 

divested of poojas and ritualistic routine

you now remain, 

an abode of silent worship,

cutting across

ages, on thresholds of history,

speaking volumes

on Odisha's heritage

so rich, relevant to the core,

to  these  troubled times of resounding cat calls

clamouring dominance..

 

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).

 

---

 

MOTHER NATURE IN HER FURY

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

The unleashed fury

Of  the  nurturing

and caring

Mother nature,

a couple of hours cry,

a couple,sob

and a couple of hours yell

made  life,

Living hell.

 

Kept the inhabitants

under house arrest,

At the doorstep,

threatening to enter inside,

showed her soft corner

not to add salt to the injury,

retrieved.

 

The deluge,

man-made,

Dumping all the waste

of excavated clay

during metro rail construction,

in canals carrying waste water,

choked mother earth.

Distressed, sorrowful,

Started shedding tears .

tears and tears ,

raining cats and dogs,

created ponds, rivers,

And lastly ocean.

Once fury unleashed

no control,

till naturally subsides.

Science comes to the scene,

explains scientifically..

Suggests preventive measures,

adopted by the children

of mother nature,

till another fury…

And the cycle goes on….

 

---

 

MY INCOMPLETE POEM

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

My incomplete poem

Is yet to be climaxed

Lot to be told

Can’t be expressed in words,

Unsearched past is lost

On the overflowing river bank

Foggy mind restlessly regrets.

Memory goes on changing sides

In counting the stars till dawn.

 

Your silence turns poetry,

Unable to put

in black and white

“The End,”

And no further progress.

Shadow and light

play  hide and seek

over the flame of trust.

Wiped  with palm the past

Bookmarked with memory

of flowers

closed your

book of poetry.

 

Dysrhythmic tune

And perturbed mind

nobody can understand.

Thou complete

the untold portion today

half of which was told.

 

In which country my king

and in which, my queen ?

With whose hope  and smile

Would the web

of my expectancy

be woven ?

 

With great hope,

With pen and paper

to write the last line of

the incomplete poem,

sitting  on the unslept-in bed...

 

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

 

---

 

"LIFE, THY NAME.."

Akshaya Kumar Das

 

just living a life of uncertainties,

How long can I afford ?

How do you all live ?

I don't know,

But ?

 

Leaves a big ? mark on existence,

Oh ! Life you are too fickle to live,

Here some relish with too much of opulence,

While some perish before eyes,

 

Some surrender to life,

Some falter with the words,

That never explain the purpose of life;

Why you are born

Why you die

 

For love you blackmail life,

Behave insane & blind,

Searching the meaning of existence,

Evolution playing the gimmicks since infinity,

None there to answer your accumulated anxieties,

 

---

 

SHE WAS A CHILD WIDOW

Akshaya Kumar Das

 

She was a child widow,

Before the onset of life,

Everything was lost,

Lives with a tonsured head,

A white saree wrapped,

Without bangles or mark of vermilion,

Suffering the ordeal without her fault,

A poor child widow by default,

Compulsively banned comforts,

Her life left to a tortuous desert,

The vast vacuum that life presents,

Suffer like the deserted sand particles innocent,

Until the last breath...the last breath,

A lack-lustre life with a dry face of suffering,

Surviving with the centuries old customs,

She is a child widow through no fault of hers,

Imposed burdens levied on her by default,

 

Akshaya Kumar Das is the author of "The Dew Drops" an anthology of english poems published by Partridge India Publishing House. Shri Das has many publications to his credit published abroad & in India. A regular contributor to various anthologies under print. An awardee from various Poetry Bodies organising events in India. Shri Das is an Admin & Analyst for many Poetry Groups in Facebook that are conducting fortnightly competitions in theme based poetry. A receipent of Ambassador of Peace award from Hafrican Peace Art World Ghana. Shri Das conducted an International Confest at KIIT University in April, 2017 under the banner Feelings International Artist's Society headed by Armeli Quezon from USA."

 

---

 

THE GAMBIT TO SUCCESS

Betty Kuriyan

 

Jaynee tried to wake up her sleeping daughter Marisol, for it was time for the child to get ready for school; besides, Jaynee would be late for her work as housemaid.

Marisol sat up ,with tears streaming as she said,” I don’t want to go to school, Ma ,it’s a horrible place.”But Jaynee replied “You always liked school and your friends.Now what has happened? Tell me Marisol”.The girl said in between sobs “I have no friends now,They talk among themselves and I heard them making fun of me for coming by public transport,wearing  last year’s uniforms, when they wear new ones. Even their shoes are new while mine are scuffed. Look at me ,Ma. Look where we are staying now.How can I go to St Claire’s,  we cannot be what we were before, and I’m now like an outcaste to them!

 

Jaynee hugged her close and she tried to  comfort her 13year old daughter.She knew their lives had changed the day her husband Ranjit died.Till a few months ago, they had lived in a posh gated colony, as befitted Ranjit’s status.They had two cars,a fancy BMW for him and an Audi  for her and Marisol.They had lived a life of comfort. Ranjit was Assistant CEO for a group of financiers and entrepreneurs .He was well paid and worked with a keen sense of loyalty. He never probed or asked questions about the financial dealings of his bosses for they would brook no questions.

 

All was well till one day the bubble burst.The partners absconded and left the country unbeknown to anyone, leaving crores in debts and borrowings from banks under false flybynight schemes.Their plush offices were sealed. It was mayhem as officials armed with authority began grilling the staff and Ranjit was among those suspected of aiding the absconding me. Even though they realised his innocence ,the damage was done.

Jaynee remembered the raids conducted by the tax officials in their home and the consequent repercussions of their neighbors and social friends. Whispers and innuendos were to be the consequences, and so Ranjit sent Jaynee and Marisol to his ancestral home till things quietened down. Jaynee was in constant touch but one day, not having heard his voice,she hurried back to find Ranjit unconscious and alone. He had suffered a massive heart attack and soon mother and daughter were left alone.

The court attached their home and everything they owned though Ranjit was exonerated. Jaynee and Marisol left with only their personal belongings. She was in a quandary to find a safe shelter.She had always treated those who worked for them with deference and now help came her way through their driver, Madan, who took them to a suburban colony of small houses which he knew would be safe place for the people who lived there were social activists.He assured Jaynee that she and Marisol would get help when the need arose.

Jaynee knew no skills having been married to Ranjit when she had just completed the preuniversity course. But her resourcefulness came to her rescue.She realised that she had to learn to live and in a couple of days got two jobs as housemaid which would keep the wolf from the door. Those activist women never asked for her antecedents but lent a helping hand when she needed it, especially as she was a widow.

 The problem arose when Mariso lhad to resume her education in her school. She began to face ostracism from her peers. Within the next  few months, they acted as though she were an outcast. Parental talk and social stigmatising from those who had known them,were keenly felt by Marisol,for Jaynee was out of their sight. Innuendos about her faded uniform and travel by public transport,and other factors added to the intensity of Marisol’s tragedy.

And now Jaynee realised that her daughter’s education was at the cross roads .Jaynee told her that she would find her admission in a new school. She asked around and found a Kendriya Vidalaya near by,which would suit Marisol’s education.Though the girl was reluctant at first, Jaynee met the Principal who admitted Marisol ,for her academic report was good.

For the first few days Marisa felt alone but as days went by she made friends who came from average social backgrounds ,not coloured by power and pelf. Her class mates shared their lunches and dreams.

Marisol needed help for Physics for which Jaynee substituted as tutor for she remembered her studies of long ago. Jaynee meanwhile worked at two jobs which helped to provide food and shelter for both of them. She kept telling Marisol that as her ambition was to enter the Civil Services, she would have to work hard. She also wanted  her to know the privations that life would bring them.She told her of the youngsters in the colony who took up small jobs,to complete their professional education.They took up any decent part time job during their spare time and could study  as well. Jayesh a nineteen year old had taken up a job,as a security guard at nights, Reema  went to a mall to check on accounting,and so on.

She just left it at that,and she saw a changed Marisol a few weeks later.Gone was the ennui and selfishness which had characterized her earlier.She had managed to get a salesgirls job when the shift changed and had time to study when she had the spare time.

Fortunately there were well- meaning parents who kept a vigilant eye on young boys and girls of the colony. Safety of the young was like a girdle for  this was a colony of working people of average means ,where no one played foul.

Marisol scored the highest marks in the final All India board exams. She herself was stunned and the media had a field day portraying her as heroine for all aspirants.The colony folk were jubiliant. They strung banners and distributed sweets for their own heroine.

The most surprising event was when the headmistress of her former school and a few teachers,visited Jaynee and congratulated Marisol. They said the were proud of her achievements and offered her a walk-in admission to the 12th standard. Adi Vidyalaya had not fared well at the board exams, most markedly because the students of the elite who studied there had always been sidetracked by their social mores.They thought Marisol would be a good beacon of education for all their students.

Jaynee andMarisol heard them out in silence.Then Marisol said in no uncertain terms that she preferred continuing her studies in Kendriya vidyalaya for her teachers helped her to study well and her companions had no qualms about each other. ‘Its like a big family, Ma’am, and we are joined together in play and study.What I experienced as a teen in your school ,was an attitude of whose father’s purse is bigger. I don’t want to come there any more Ma’am. Forgive me”.

Jaynee added as a footnote,”I can’t afford to pay your school fees any more.”They offered Marisol  a big scholarship which would cover not only her schooling ,but all her needs. Jaynees answer was ‘No Ma’am.” Jaynee remembered the indignities her child had suffered after Ranjit’s death and the subsequent trauma they had to undergo,for lack of support when even his personal account ,in the Bank had been frozen pending investigation.

Now ,when they were going on an even keel and they had adjusted to a peaceful life though not without hardship, Jaynee thought ,”Maybe it’s all for good that things happened as they did’.She refused to cry over spilt milk.

Marisol’s determination to aim high didn’t surprise her any more.Even her character had undergone a sea change for the better. Now the girl understood their needs and worked hard to achieve her goals for they lived among people who taught her the value of sincere work and a camaraderie of sharing and learning. She had begun to realise that power and pelf were not the criteria she needed.

Thanks to Jaynee’s no nonsense and practical living,Marisol rose to academic heights and finally was able to join the Civil Service isn the cadre she had aimed for.

Jaynee knew that all would be well for now her daughter’s life would be anchored on the bedrock of grit and determination and would also be in touch with the grass root level of humanity.

 

Prof. Kuriyan taught for forty two years as a Professor of English, in a Women’s college in Kochi, Kerala called St Teresa’s College for Women.  After mandatory retirement she continued teaching out of her love for Literature. She had completed her school education in SriLanka and acquired her BA Honours degree from the University College  in Trivandrum creditably.  She has published about forty fictional stories in Women’s Era, short humour snippets in Femina of yore , and newspapers. 

 

---

 

A MORNING WISH

Barathi Srinivasan

 

Golden beams flashing 

on the faces

innocent and dashing 

with traces

of youth bashing.

Green grasses

like combed hairs

of the lasses

sitting in pairs

worrying about their special classes.

Buds yet to bloom 

nod their heads, that releases

onlookers from their gloom.

The swift Southern wind toses

those tender branches.

Bees buzz around

the fresh flowers 

singing the joy of life, that surround 

the lovers

sitting on the emarald ground

enjoying the summer showers. 

 

---

 

WHERE IS SHE GOING?

Barathi Srinivasan

 

She has a beautiful smile . Not only that, she looks so elegant and stunning in the red crepe silk saree,with bright yellow thread around her neck.  A big red dot decorated her forehead.
The first time when I looked at her I thought myself, she is goddess Mahalakshmi redefined. Such is her aura. My eyes wandered beyond her as she stood alone. Where is her husband? Why at this odd hour she is out? Is she waiting for her husband to return? What made her to come here to this busy street? Multitudes of unanswered questions hovered my mind.  
Once again, I steal a glance at that heavenly face. God must have taken utmost care while making a woman like her.  She must be in her early twenties. Not having the courage to talk to that pretty woman, I was about to retire to my house. Just then, I heard a sudden thud.  Has some one fallen? I just turned around to look at what has happened. Three men with a tall, hefty woman stood near the young lass. The hefty woman had slapped the pretty woman. I became curious, wanted to know the reason. But my adrenaline advised "Don't go". They are the local goons. I wondered what had brought them there. Later, I came to know through my mother that this pretty woman had married that goonda lady's brother. I wondered at the young lady's courage. "What a tremendous feat !" I said to myself.
Nothing much I could gather about her other than that she is a newly wed who has incurred the wrath of in-laws as a runaway bride. The hefty lady threatened her spewing out all unparlimentary words. Her wrath knew no bounds and she broke the only thing at home, an LCD T.V. No one raised a question fearing the lady. But I wondered at the calmess of the young lady. The lady in a harsh tone yelled , "look,you can neither have my brother nor his property. How dare you intrude in my life. Your marriage is null and void. I had selected a girl for my brother and he will marry her soon. It's better if you vacate this place." Saying so the trio left.
At that juncture, I cursed my helplessness . I honestly wished to be of some help to the poor destitute. Though educated, she had no proof of qualification. Moreover, she had no money with her. I too was helpless as I did not know how I could help her. Besides, where is her husband? Why he has never turned up to her rescue? This was the billion dollar question that crowded my mind. I found her seeking the help of one of the neighbours whom we considered a low class. Low class due to his low attitude. OMG... I thought. The girl has stooped down . What a pity! With none to help she has turned to him.as a last resort. "Dear brother, can you find some job for me?" She asked . The man, Nick named Pallandi because of his protruding front teeth was trying to show off which seemed too much. But I remained just a silent observer. Pallandi asked her, "what is your qualification?" For which she mumbled in a weak voice,"I am a commerce graduate. But I don't have my certificate. I would be grateful to you if you get me a job".
I controlled my laughter and pitied the innocent girl. Days passed and I had almost forgotten about the girl. It was during Sankranti festival I met her again. This time she looked more cheerful and confident. Later I came to know through mother that she had joined a nearby shop as a sales girl. I felt a great relief. Now she has found a way to live. Though married she has learned to live a secluded life like a sage. What I appreciate in her is the courage to face things and the perseverance with which she has overcome all trials and tribulations. I hope that her life will have a smooth course in future.  With these thoughts I just stole a look at her again and moved inside the house.
 

Dr Barathi Srinivasan is  a bilingual poet, translator and Critic. She has published her poems in various national and international anthologies. Her firsr short story  was published in Literary vibes edition XXXVII, Oct 11, 2019. She has so far translated two poetry anthologies, two short story collections and a novel in Tamil. At present she is working as an assistant Professor at SASTRA Deemed to be University, Kumbakonam, Tamilnadu.

 

---

 

Handlooms

Subha Bharadwaj

 

The hands that loom, the hands that weave,

never clothe themselves in those glorious clothes.

The hands that dye naturally all their lives,

spend a lifetime without donning those colours.

 

Exclusive looms are out-staged by the mills boom,

Expensive handlooms are outcast as prizes zoom!

 

Temple or kutchery, sarees reign!

Soothing sunkudis, enchanting chettinads

shining chinnalampattis, exclusive erodes

all bow to the king of kancheepuram

well worn by the queens of chennai.

 

Loin clothes to loose pants, loomed cottons zoomed!

milled clothes let loose, brought upon their doom!

What to say, when their prices touch the moon,

Easy on the eye and easy on the purse for the common man,

polyester, Nylon, and Rayons rule where the cottons baled out!

 

Crushed are the cottons, by the heart breaking chiffons and crepes,

replacing not only the clothes but also the drapes!

 

Loom owners breakdown to fasting,

yet, their looms produce beauty everlasting!

 

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.

 

---

 

KANAKA'S MUSINGS

Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya

Kanaka was hurrying to her class.  As she cleared the last step of the staircase, through the corner of her eyes, she saw a student sobbing her heart out. She went up to her and put her arms around her. "What is it,  child?" " I failed in English, I will never be able to clear my exams now. I will fail the course. '' It was heart wrenching. Kanaka wiped her tears and told her that she would talk to her after her class.

She didn't  go to Kanaka so Kanaka went searching for her. And she  found out that she was a final year Bsc. Zoology student and that she had scored good marks for her main subjects but failed in English. She had to clear her paper in September and there was only one month to go. Kanaka was disturbed. She knew that the girl had to do the first and second papers together as supplementary. And there was hardly one month.

‎Kanaka slowly through the heart racking sobs extracted the facts that she lived with her mother and father in a remote village. She couldn't  afford tuition and  that there was no one in her village who could teach her  English. On impulse Kanaka said she would help her with her studies ."But how miss?" I can't stay back after class there is only one bus and it will leave by 4 o' clock. Impulsively  Kanaka said "why don't  you stay with me for the whole month?" She saw a ray of hope  behind the tears. "Go, tell your parents  discuss, and tell me tomorrow".  Gina's face lit up. Having consoled the child  Kanaka felt happy. That evening it was a big discussion at her home. Her little lonely, girl was delighted that she would have a sister for one month. Her husband just nodded his head. When it comes to helping someone Kanaka could never be dissuaded. Thus Gina came. To stay with them. It was a  tough time for all of them. In kanaka' s tiny house Gina was accommodated in her daughter's  room and had to share her table.

‎Life was also regimental Kanaka found time to teach Gina three hours daily. All the texts were taught and grammar too was dealt with. A week before the exam Gina's mother came and took her home.

‎ After the exam's Gina came with her question papers. ‎Ka‎naka  analysed it and told her that she would pass.  Before the final years'  were dispersed the results too came out. One evening Gina burst into the staff room as Kanaka was packing up. Like a whirlwind she hugged kanaka. " Miss I passed.‎ The supplementary results have come out." Tears of joy pricked kanaka' eyes. Yes she had brought light into the life of a youngster what else did she need.

‎

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 

 

---

 

THE TEST

Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj

 

                    The bell rang. The first period teacher would come at any time. I still had not completed studying for the test.

Every day we had a test, you know. The timetable was on the black board - a permanent one. Life was miserable, as most of the time we didn’t really comprehend what we were studying. We were asked to learn by heart everything- mathematics, physics, and any subject under the sky. Even when the teacher was on leave someone would come and would  make us write the test. Bowed down by the power and authority of marks most of us had already lost our self-confidence and were despondent and depressed. Our spirits were weighed down by the burden of marks.

‘It all depended on the teacher’s sari, you know. If she wore a yellow one, that day we did not get admonishment. Instead if she wore a red one, it would be a dreadful day for all of us.’  Everyday someone created fresh theories like this. 

We were badly in need of  a break. Our lives were caught between fantasy and reality. Now and then someone would start praying to god to make the teacher fall ill.

All of a sudden I felt someone nudging me.  Padma, my friend, told me in an undertone that she wanted to talk to me.

Actually, I had no time to talk to her. I still had one more page to learn by heart and I did not want to be disturbed. The previous night I had studied till eleven o’ clock and yet I could not finish my work.  I did not want my concentration to be disturbed. The test was in the third ‘period’, and that was just one and a half hours more.

Padma kept on nudging me. Probably, something was really wrong, I thought.

Breaking my mugging up I asked her what it was. She said that she had taken a small bottle full of some chemical, in the morning. The powder looked lovely in its light blue shade, she said.

               At this point,  I really got nervous. As it was I was feeling bad. And on top of that this problem too. This girl, Padma, can sometimes play the fool.  I asked her again whether she really tried to commit suicide. With a dramatic smile on her face she said ‘yes.’

My mind began racing.

‘If Padma dies what will happen? Will the school authorities declare a holiday? What about that day’s test? Will they postpone it? That will give me some more time to study, of course.’

 I asked Padma if she told anyone else – ‘definitely not’. ‘Who would be as trustworthy as me?’

In fact she immediately took a promise from me not to tell anyone else. I felt very proud of such an honour.

               Meanwhile I had stopped studying. ‘Any way the test will be postponed. I can go home and study well later. Now let me watch Padma dying,’ I thought. But she was very normal.

‘Would she really have taken the chemical? Our science teacher had  told us long back that chemicals could be very poisonous. Marine blue copper sulphate is indeed very attractive. How long did it take for someone to die in case of consuming it? If Padma were to die after the third ‘period’ then there is no point in the whole thing. Dying during the second period would be perfect.’

Poor Padma did not show any signs of death, not yet - no sweat, no tiredness – she was not even agitated. Her face was towards her book. She was trying, I was sure, to read. She was calm.

‘Supposing she had lied...’

I got very scared of the test, which would be conducted if she doesn’t die and began studying seriously. This time if I fail, the teacher would put me in front of the whole class and bully me. No one understood how difficult it was for most of my classmates and me to learn all the subjects in a foreign language. They loved insulting us for our lack of intelligence. If we don’t take these tests regularly we would fail in the plus two examinations, we were told.

Last year two students in my school committed suicide after plus two results were announced. Many of the students who had failed became local rowdies as they became unfit for any decent future. I can’t take such a risk. My family was waiting for me to finish studies and get a job and the test was very important to me. I pushed the thought of Padma to the back of my mind.

                 The first period got over. Nobody really paid any attention to the teacher. Everyday this happened, as we were always under tension and could never concentrate on the teaching. Most of us had our guides beneath our notebooks and were studying for the test. The second period also started. The teacher was moving here and there saying something to which no one really paid attention as we were all studying.

I had almost forgotten about Padma when she again nudged and said that she started feeling giddy. Afterwards, what  happened?

I really do not know. My friends told me later.

               “Arun, you suddenly jumped up and ran to the teacher and told her something. Immediately the teacher stopped teaching and went out. The headmaster came along with the peon. An auto was hired. Padma was taken to a hospital. It seems the doctor said that a delay of few more minutes could have cost her life.”

                Even now I cannot understand how I saved her life. The test………we took it in the third period.

Did I pass?

I don’t remember.

 

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.

 

---

 

WINGED WONDER

Hema Ravi

 

sudden bright streak

in the autumn sky

a pair of blue jays

I stood wonderstruck

at the gregarious beauties

foraging for acorns

when the sun emerged

after days of gloom.

 

Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

 

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.

 

---

 

GAHMA PURNIMA

Gokul Chandra Mishra

 

A  vivacious boy, Udia, as he was affectionately called in the village, was motherless from his childhood. He was brought up by his grandfather, amidst the serene and colourful village surroundings. His father used to work as a Forest Guard with his head quarters at a distance of around 10 kms from his village, in a deep and dense forest area. His father used to come home once in a fortnight. So the upbringing of Udia rested upon his grandfather, who was well known in the area as “Dakua” because of his loud voice. The King had granted two acres of land to him, as honorarium to announce his rulings, accompanied by a  drum beater.

 

Since his father was away, the grandfather used to bestow all his love and affection on Udia for  his upbringing. Looking at the motherless boy, the villagers showered their sympathy on him. His friends liked him because of his simplicity and gregarious nature. His grandfather was always keeping an eye on him and cajoling him. Gradually, Udia started bunking classes and was found  loitering by the nearby village pond to catch fish. This became so common that he could not pass out from any class after a single year. To his ill luck, there was a board examination in the 7th class that year and it took almost three years for him to pass that. But his grandfather had no regret about his poor academic performance; rather, he used to ask him not to read too much in the night and advised him to have a nice sleep and to build a good physique.

 

The grandfather, whom Udia called  Jeje, was always proud of Udia and took him whenever he  visited the nearby villages to transmit the royal messages. These frequent visits to different places helped Udia to have more friends and familiarity about the topography of the surroundings. He used to act as a guide to his village lads who were junior to him in age but had become his classmates. He knew the places where different jungle fruits and berries were available, where one could catch fish from ponds, where red, white and blue lilies could be plucked, where “Gunjars”, insect-type tiny birds were available for catching and so on. Since he was taller than his class mates and physically sound, he took active part in the school sports and became the unbeatable champion. In sports, he held the records in high jump and long jump in the school and was a good “ Kabadi” player because of his height and ability to stretch towards the centre line if caught by opponents.

 

His father used to visit his home immediately on getting his salary and would hand over almost the entire amount to Jeje, spending a small portion for purchasing  sweets, candies and clothes for Udia with tons of love. He hardly had time to spend time with Udia as he had to leave soon for duty in the highly dense and  remote forest areas. Udia used to be on cloud nine when his father came home with lots of gifts for him. He could spend those moments with extreme pride and happiness in the presence of his father, forgetting the absence of his mother. After his father’s departure, he moved around the village singing and airing his momentary happiness. The village life was quite open, unlike the atomic life of  city dwellers. The moment the villagers saw Udia singing and roaming around, they concluded  that his father had arrived. Sometimes, women used to express sympathy for him but Udia never reacted to such feelings, as if conjuring a song in his mind. ”whilst thus I  sing, I am the king …”

 

The villagers used to observe several rituals and festivals, worshipping nature, idols and animals conforming to Vedic and Hindu rites. Amidst that practice, they also devised entertainments which were full of life and good for the physique. “Gamha Purnima “ used to be such a festival. This was celebrated as the birthday of Lord Balaram. He, holding the  plough , demonstrated the importance of an agro economy. Thus cattle worshipping  was the main event of that day. The villagers used to apply vermilion on the heads of the cattle while returning home at “godhuli” after grazing and offer them garlands and home-made cakes and sweets.

 

For the youth and children several games and sports were arranged. The children were categorized based on their academic class and grouped to take part in various events. Competitions were held in long jump, kabadi and high jump, popularly known as “Gamha diaan”. Proper arrangements were made for each event. “ Gamha diaan” was a special high jump event. A platform  was specially created rising from the  ground level to a height of around 3 feet in an elevated  crease. The falling point after the inclined platform was filled with sand. The prizes were hung on a horizontal bar at an appropriate height so that the competitors were expected to run from a distance, climb up the elevated  platform and jump from the last point to pluck the prizes hung over their heads and land on the sandy ground. Those with good performance in high jump could be the winners, as also those who were taller in the group.

 

Udia, being taller than his class mates, used to be a sure winner of the prizes. Every year, he used to grab maximum prizes in that event , besides in “kabadi’ competition. His Jeje used to hail his victory and loudly announce it in every household, as a proud grand father.  Udia  used wait  anxiously  to greet the arrival of "Gamha Purnima” every year. On that important day he visited the competition site in the morning and lingered around till the events were over.

 

That year, the ‘Gamha Purnima” was being observed with the usual sanctity and jubilation. Udia , as in previous years, was seen moving around the venue of the competition and loitering in the street, singing happy tunes more loudly to inform the villagers about the arrival of the great festival.

 

It was the afternoon hours; the competition was about to start. All the villagers were ready to witness the sports bonanza. The “Gamha diaan “ crease was waiting for its competitors, but the eyes of all the villagers were searching for Udia and his Jeje.

 

The competition could not start without the presence of its assured champion, Udia. Everybody felt uneasy and wanted to know if any unusual thing had happened to Udia.

Suddenly, a group of villagers came in a “Sankirtan”.  Udia was found clinging to the saffron attire of his father who had garlands all over his neck and tonsured head, followed by his Jeje, stunningly silent and looking lifeless. Udia was crying incessantly urging his father not to leave him and to cancel his plan to denounce the world and become a Sanyasi. The villagers were prostrating before his father and bidding farewell for his saintly journey to Puri for his pursuit of the Truth of Life. Udia was inconsolable and feeling  helpless like an orphan. Finally, he followed his father to a distance of about 5 kms and returned  with his Jeje with swollen and moist eyes, never venturing to look at the blue and empty sky.

 

After a month or so, there was a registered letter addressed  to Udia, sent  from the Forest Dept, carrying the message of appointment of Udia as a temporay Guard in the Dept. Udia joined the job leaving behind the charm of his childhood, his village and joys of “Gamha Purnima”. He would never again be seen in the village on that festival day.

 

Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.

 

---

 

OUR BABY AND THE GOLDFISH 
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

Goldfish in a sunken bowl,
comes in our dream many nights.
There was one in our life
many years back,
when our baby was small
and took a fancy to her
in a shop in the mall.

We brought her home
and put her in a colourful bowl,
they became close friends,
our baby and the goldfish,
she used to tell her friend
all her secrets,
tales from her school,
her fights and heart breaks.
The goldfish would go round and round
in her bowl, telling our baby,
this is how life would be, 
moving in circles of joy and sadness,
and everything would even out, 
to become a goldfish, happy and carefree.

Our baby grew up and left home,
to find a new world
in wide-eyed wonder,
The goldfish pined for her 
and one day went away 
to a different world
of beauty and eternity.
Today she comes in our dreams
and brings our baby with her.
Together they play again,
and share their tales in gentle whisper. 

 

---

OF PEARLS AND STARS
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

To those who wrote me off as a failure,
a something which the stray cat
brought home from the lanes of
desolate despair to escape
the deadly embarrassment
of pitiful looks of her friends.

I would like to say,
from this moment on
all my past sins are wiped out,
the slate is wiped clean.
My debts I will repay
with strings of pearl
picked from the heart of the ocean.
I will pluck a basketful of stars
from the morning sky
when they are about to fade
and hide behind the horizon.
I will turn them into songs of delight
to capture the hearts of the young,
And let them dance
to the music of a new life.

From this moment on
my hands will cease trembling,
the cup will not play
a staccato on the saucer.
The shadow that used to haunt me
on lonely streets,
will be led to the garden
behind the cemetery
and buried forever.
The demons in my mind
will be exorcised and be burnt on a stake.

I will build a small castle beyond the hills 
and live there in splendid isolation 
writing poems and building dreams for my friends
in a new world of smiling pearls and dancing stars.

 

---

 

MY FRIEND DIGAMBAR AND HIS DEAD SON

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

It was a little after six when I got the call on my phone. This was in the mid- nineties when phones used to sit smugly on cradles waiting for attention like gentlemen and not slither obscenely in pockets like beauties of ill repute eager to come out. Everyone knows I am a late riser and in my virtual clock six in the morning is like a little past midnight. Groggy, I opened my sleep-laden eyes and lifted the phone. Before I could say hello, Digambar, my close friend from college days, shrieked into the phone, "My son just died, Ashu, I just lost my son" and started wailing. I got up, jolted by the shock. I asked him how it happened, but he went on sobbing and put down the phone.

 

I immediately phoned Santosh, Biju and Ajit, three of our other friends from the college and after a brief wash rushed to Digambar's house on my scooter. Those days Bajaj scooters ruled the streets and one thought he could ride to the rainbow on these reliable contraptions. I found Ajit already there, standing near Digaa trying to console him. Digaa, a man of huge proportions, was leaning against the door frame, with his thick legs stretching across it, blocking the entrance. With teary eyes and choking voice I asked him what had happened, how his son had died. Digaa burst into another round of wailing, pointed to within his house where his son's body was laid, and kept beating his deeply-lined forehead with his grief-stricken hand.

 

Soon after, Santosh and Biju, who usually move in tandem, arrived and we huddled into a mini conference contemplating our next course of action. Courtesy demanded that we should go inside the house and pay our respects to Digaa's dear son, but the way he was sitting on the door frame covering the entire space of the narrow door in the small government quarters, made it impossible. And we didn't have the heart to tell him to move.

 

I knew that his wife, Archana, would be arriving any time now from her two days' tour to a far-off district. I had dropped her off at the railway station two nights ago. She worked as a Deputy Director in the Women's Welfare department of the state government and the official quarters had been allotted to her. She goes on tour at least twice a month. Since an official ban had been put by Archana a few years back on Digaa's driving, he used to call one of us to drive her to the Bus Stand or Railway Station when she had to leave on tour in the night. While returning in the mornings she came by rickshaw preferring not to disturb us. Now also Ajit offered to go to the railway station to pick her up, but we decided against it. Her train was expected at seven and she might be already on the way.

 

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

We knew Digaaa must be sorely missing his wife. Digaa depended on her for emotional support and she had never failed him on those occasions in the past when Digaaa's life had shattered to pieces. Our friend had mellowed a lot over the years, but during the college days he paraded himself as a firebrand communist. His talk was liberally peppered with explosive words like exploitation, oppression, proletariat, bourgeois and stateless society. He was an active member of the Democratic Students Organisation and used to lead processions on the streets of Cuttack with red flags and loud slogans. On many days of the month, Digaa would be in the maidan, organising meetings and giving fiery speeches, although there would be hardly two dozen attendees, including the speakers. But Digaa used to plod on, dreaming of a golden era replete with withering away of the state.

 

Digaa was quite a character in our hostel, universally adored and equally feared. A believer in socialistic distribution of resources , he would nonchalantly pinch food, tea, soaps, razors and pens from friends. And, as soon as he got up in the morning, he would go from room to room and if anyone had ordered snacks and left them on the table, Digaa would shamelessly polish off half of it, before moving to the next room in search of liftables. When cornered, he would give a long speech on need, greed and his socialistic creed,

"My friend, you have food but obviously little appetite, otherwise why would you go away for a bath leaving a food packet on the table? And I have a big appetite but no food. So what's wrong if I brought appetite and food together in the interest of socialistic justice? And you bloody rascal, why are you complaining? It's not as if I have eaten away all your food! Look, you bourgeoise dog, half the food is still left for you. Digaa may be a penniless communist, but you must learn to rejoice at his big heart, you shameless glutton"! 

 

Needless to say, the chastised glutton, hurt to his inner core, would have no appetite left and would distribute the remaining food to his room mates. Digaa was not partial to food alone, he would happily drink half the tea if lying unattended. One of my most painful memories of those carefree hostel days was a severely burnt throat when, hearing Digaa's foot steps outside my room, I had gulped down half a cup of scalding hot tea in a hurry. Digaa would also take away soaps, pens, razor blades and the occasional shampoo, a rarity those days. Often when Digaa set out from his room, there would be a suppressed warning spreading from room to room like rapid fire and the inmates would hurry to hide their valuables like soaps, tooth paste and razor blades.

 

In fact our most unforgettable experience of the hostel days was on a summer morning when all of us were busy preparing for the final exams and like a whirlwind Digaa emerged from his room and started parading on the first floor corridors. The rooms got emptied in no time as if attacked by a swarm of bees. Every one came out to see Digaa in a glorious state of absolute nudity with not a stitch of cloth on his body. We all started laughing and a junior who was a sort of disciple to Digaa in his communistic discourse, ventured to ask,

"Digaabhai, why are you displaying your naked charms to this undeserving crowd? Can't you wear something?"

Digaa turned to him indulgently, like a seasoned Karl Marx looking at a juvenile Lenin with affection,

"Wear? What should I wear? And why should I wear? Just to please these worthless bourgeois dogs?"

"No, no, not for these bourgeois dogs," Lenin replied demurely, "We were wondering if a lungi would enhance your presentability and add to your intellectual personality".

 

Digaa was pleased at this unabashed buttering by a disciple, but shouted,

"Lungi! You said, a lungi? I wore one lungi for three long years till it was reduced to tatters. Now I don't have money to buy a lungi. And you know my name is Diagambar, the name itself means the sky is my lungi. I am happy to roam like this wrapped by the sky. If it offends the aesthetic sense of any bourgeois pig, he can buy a lungi for me."

 

To our amusement Digaa broke into an impromptu speech,

"Comrades, even in this small space of the hostel the disparity between the haves and have nots is suffocating. A day will come when revolution will start from the non-possession of a lungi by the deprived, the have nots. Lungi will become the symbol of a tectonic change, when ground will slip from under the feet of the bourgeois oppressors ......." Digaa would have continued to spew more fire but three of our hostel mates had silently hurried to their rooms and produced a new lungi apiece. Digaa chose one of them, and being a principled communist, returned the other two and marched back to his room clad in a newly acquired lungi.

 

But despite all these eccentricities, Digaa was a much beloved friend; if any one had to be taken to the hospital at midnight with colic pain, if the Superintendent of the hostel was to be heckled for the watery daal or if the principal was to be gheraoed  for liberalisation of the attendance policy, Digaa would always take the lead, organise his group of communist fans and achieve the desired result. I remember once our friend Jogesh wrote an impassioned love letter to Jahnabi and she complained to her brother who came to the hostel with his friends to beat up Jogesh. The poor chap ran to Digaa's room. Digaa stood like a wall between him and the hooligans. He took a couple of blows on his massive body and then lifted one of the attackers by his collar and banged him against the door. Outwitted, the gang ran away. But next day the principled Digaa took Jogesh to Jahnabi and made him apologise to her.

 

Digaa was moderately good in studies and we were wondering where he would finally land up. We knew he came from a very poor family and his father was a landless agricultural labourer from a village, who struggled to educate his eldest son so that he would take care of his two younger brothers and a sister. One day we saw Digaa's father at the hostel pleading with his son to take up a job at the earliest. It seemed things were really bad in the village and his family was facing occasional starvation. So immediately after we wrote our final B.A. exams, Digga joined as a clerk in the Collectorate at Cuttack. Some discipline was brought to his life, he had less time now for his communist activities, but on Sundays he used to attend meetings and deliver his speeches on equality, workers' unity and stateless society.

 

Some of us later shifted to Bhubaneswar for our post graduate studies. Digaa would visit us once in a while and stay overnight at our hostel to regale us with stories about his promiscuous boss and the corrupt head of the office. To our utter surprise, within a year the revolutionary Digaa fell hopelessly in love with Archana, the Women's Welfare Officer and relentlessly pursued her with the same zeal he had shown while pinching shirts and socks from fellow hostel-mates. Archana, a delightfully docile girl, found in Digaa a knight in shining armour and responded to him like an innocent fish to a wily worm and before we could say Bless You, they were married. Archana was a wonderfully balanced person, a perfect antidote to Digaa's wild communistic nature and soon Digaa mellowed down like a domesticated pet. One of the cherished memories of our student days in Bhubaneswar was the occasional trips to Cuttack on lazy Sundays to shamelessly stuff ourselves with Archana's out-of-the-world dishes. Being a girl of exceptionally sweet nature, she also took care of Digaa's family.

 

In a couple of years Digaa got a son but lost his job. This remarkable loss in Digaa's life happened in the most unexpected manner. When Digaa was a student in his village high school he had a teacher, Maguni Sir, who was a mentor to the young boy bubbling with idealistic fervour. He often used to tell us about his Sir, who had been a freedom fighter and a Gandhian to the core. When Digaa was working in the Collectorate at Cuttack, one day Maguni Sir came to him and narrated his tale of woe. He had retired two years earlier, but the clerk at the DPI office was refusing to clear his pension papers. Maguni Sir had visited the office many times, but every time the clerk would find a new reason to send him back, asking for some missing document, a more recent photograph, or the original marriage certificate.

 

Maguni Sir was desperate. He knew the clerk took a ten percent cut from every pensioner's Provident Fund and Gratuity amount as bribe, but being a Gandhian and a freedom fighter, Sir was adamant. Giving a bribe was akin to chopping off a part of Bharat Mata for whose liberation he had spent a few months in jail. The clerk, being an anti-Gandhian, was equally adamant, "How could someone get his pension without an appropriate offering to the deities in the government office? What for did we get our independence from the British if we didn't have the freedom to sweeten our hands with bribe? Everyday new rules are being made, wise people are breaking their heads to make new laws, only to straighten the stubborn, impractical people like this old school master. If he got away without paying a bribe, what kind of lesson would it be for others?"

 

Digaa accompanied Maguni Sir to the DPI office, pleaded with everyone, met the deputy DPI, but everyone directed them to the clerk. Unless he put up the file, pension could not be cleared. The Deputy DPI lamented that he had paid two lakh rupees to the Minister for a posting in Cuttack. He blamed people like Maguni Sir who had ruined this country by fighting for its freedom. Under the British rule there was no Minister and one didn't pay a bribe to get a posting!

 

That evening Maguni Sir was inconsolable, he simply didn't know how to conduct his daughter's marriage in a couple of months without the GPF and Gratuity amount. Digaa promised  him that he would pursue the matter with the DPI's office and put him on the bus to his village. Two days later he got the news that Maguni Sir had committed suicide by hanging  himself from a tree.

 

Digaa sat for a few minutes, eyes blurred with tears; the fire slowly simmering within him from his student days was waiting to leap into a flame and burn everything in its sight to ashes. When the DPI office opened at ten, Digaa was one of the first to enter it, with a hockey stick in hand. The bribe-seeking clerk got the first blow from the stick on his shoulder, and got up from his seat shrieking. Digaa kept hitting him all over the body; the clerk ran out, with Digaa in hot pursuit and continuing the beating. The clerk ran to his house, Digaa followed him, bludgeoning him with strokes from the hockey stick, till he collapsed on the floor. Digaa wanted to continue, but came to his senses when the clerk's wife fell at his feet and their three year-old son clung to Digaa's feet, tears flowing down his tender cheeks and crying, "Please don't beat my Papa, please don't hit my Papa".

 

Digaa threw the hockey stick on the floor and quietly left the place. The clerk had been so severely beaten that his bones had broken in eleven places; he needed twenty stitches and his eyes had to be operated upon. After spending a full year in the hospital he resumed duty, but never in his life could he lift the pages of a file, nor could he read any papers to look for missing documents and marriage certificates. He lived like a vegetable for the rest of his life.

 

Digaa was arrested from his office in the afternoon. He gave a fiery speech to the people assembled there, including two press photographers and a few journalists, who had been brought there by Digaa's communist friends. The next morning the whole of Odisha saw Digaa's photograph along with the picture of his heavily bandaged victim in all leading newspapers. Digaa's communist friends held a massive meeting at the maidan with a surprisingly large attendance. Cuttack town was warming up to a hero who had taught a lesson to a corrupt clerk.

 

The police filed a case and we found the Judge's son, Anirudh, was a classmate of ours. Through Anirudh we met the judge and gave a full picture of Digaa's life and philosophy. He listened to us and simply said, "Ask him to express his regrets in the Court room". The message was discreetly conveyed to Digaa through Archana. Digaa gave a short, inspiring speech in the Court and conveyed his regret to the clerk's wife and the small son. But he never admitted he had done anything wrong by beating up the clerk. He hoped that in the stateless society of the future, people would be the judges of crime and justice would be instantaneous.

 

The Judge smiled at the speech of this impassioned young man and sentenced him to six month's imprisonment, including the period he had already spent in jail. Digaa was released after one and half months. During this entire episode we had met Archana at least a dozen times and not even once did she utter a word against her husband. She told us she knew she had married a ball of fire and was prepared to be singed by that; in Digaa's position she would have also done the same thing. Digaa was of course thrown out of the government job post his incarceration; he could never secure a job again, thanks to the wide publicity he had got. No one was prepared to risk a firebrand communist in his office.

 

Archana asked for a transfer out of Cuttack and spent the next few years in remote districts. Digaa got surprisingly accustomed to the job of a "househusband", taking care of the domestic chores, getting their son Munu ready for the school, dropping him and picking him up from school, buying vegetables and cooking for the family. Throughout this ordeal, Archana never belittled him nor chastised him. She was happy to have him as he was, a simple, devoted and doting husband, who stayed at home and looked after it.

 

Digaa's transformation from a wild, firebrand communist to a domesticated, docile husband was complete. And in the process his heart melted and moulded itself into a soft, sympathetic mass of subtle human emotions.  It was during their stay in Dhenkanal that Digaa's scooter had once skidded on a slippery road. Munu who was on the back seat fell off and had suffered serious abrasions in his legs. Archana had made Digaa promise that he would never drive a scooter again. She told him that he was too big a man, heavy and round, to drive a puny scooter. Digaa had accepted the judgment.

 

Two years back Archana got posted in Bhubaneswar as Deputy Director of Women's Welfare and the family moved to this capital town. Our group of a few friends from the colleges days were happy to welcome them and it became a standard routine for us to meet quite often for lunches and dinners.

 

One evening when Archana returned from office she saw a small puppy limping around in the living room. She looked at her husband who explained how the poor pup had got in. It seemed the street urchins had picked upon him to inflict some sharp blows with stones and pebbles. Hearing the noise Digaa had opened the door, found him in a piteous state, bleeding from a couple of wounds and whimpering in pain. Digaa took him in, washed his wounds with Dettol and applied some ointment, and gave him some food. Archana looked at the poor brown thing and told Digaa to drop him next day at some other point in the town out of the reach of the street urchins. Digaa smiled and nodded. Next evening when she returned, the puppy was still there, running around and playing with Munu. Digaa was sitting on a chair looking indulgently and smiling at them. It was repeated the third day and she asked Digaa when he was going to drop the puppy at some other part of the town. Digaa smiled and replied,

 

"Let him be here for some more time, see how weak he is. After you and Munu leave in the morning I get bored. At least this young boy gives me company and entertains me!" Archana smiled and said, "If you want to keep a dog, at least get a good breed. This is just a street dog, the sooner we discard him the better." Digga didn't reply, but the puppy who was sitting close to his leg, barked his protest at the insult.

 

And that's how the pup stayed, grew into a reasonably presentable dog and became quite attached to Digaa and Munu. Digaa named him Kunu and made a grand announcement to whoever cared to listen, that the pet was like a second son to him. Both were awfully attached to each other, much to the amusement of Archana. Kunu would make it a point to sit on the lap of Digamabar all the time, and would ignore her call to disembark. He wouldn't eat unless the food was offered by Digaa and would make it a point to compete with Archana for her husband's attention. Whenever we visited, Archana would joke that she would have thought of Kunu as a rival in love if the pet was not a he, but a she! Munu was also quite fond of the pet and after he left for Chennai the previous year for pursuing an Aeronautical Engineering course, he would often call and 'speak' to the pet.

 

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

Breaking our reverie, Ajit pointed at the rickshaw which was approaching Digaa's house. Archana got down from it and panicked the moment she saw a gathering of the friends. The four of us went near her. She started howling, "What happened? Why all of you are here? Has something terrible happened?" With tears in his eyes Santosh murmured, "Digaa says your son passed away this morning." Archana collapsed to the ground for a moment, got up and ran towards Digaa, shrieking, "What happened to our son? I had spoken to him on the night I left on tour! What went wrong with him in the last two days?" Digaa was speechless. Like he had done in the morning in response to my question, he just patted his hand on the forehead, gestured towards the inside of the house and burst out crying.

 

Archana frantically jumped over his massive log-like legs and rushed inside. In a few seconds there was a big shouting from inside, which almost sounded like the asbestos roof of the courtyard had collapsed. Curious, we jumped over Digaa's massive legs and went inside. We got the shock of our life when we saw their pet lying lifeless on the floor of the verandah, a colourful shawl wrapped over his body. Remnants of dhoop sticks were scattered on the floor and a low fragrance was hanging in the air. 

 

Archana went near the door and shrieked at Digaa, "What kind of farce is this? You should have thought twice before announcing to the world that our son has died! Don't you know the difference between a dog and a human being? I know you treated him like a son, but shouldn't you have told everyone that your dog has died?" She turned to us and for the first time since we knew her, she shouted at us angrily, "You have been a friend of this crazy man for more than twenty five years! Are you not supposed to know what kind of idiosyncrasy he can suffer from? Shouldn't you have gone inside and checked whose death he was mourning, beating his chest and crying his heart out? You almost gave me a heart attack when I got down from the rickshaw!"

 

She then folded her hands and told us, "Please leave now. Let me call my office people and arrange a proper burial for the dog; otherwise he won't get sleep tonight or the next few nights". With that she went inside her room.

 

Ajit, Biju and Santosh looked at Digaa pityingly, undecided whether they should laugh or shout at him. They left without a word to Digaa. I stayed back for a while. Digaa was sitting downcast, his head hanging listlessly, tear-filled eyes focussed on the floor. I patted his shoulder. He looked up at me, "Dog! She said he was a mere dog! And look at these wretched bourgeois pigs, leaving without a second glance at my son! Do they know how his heart was beating violently in the dying moments, when he was heaving himself on my lap trying to cling closer to me, silently asking me to cuddle him and shower all my love on him? Can you or anyone ever understand the heart of a dog?"

 

Digaa started sobbing again as I left him, slowly walking towards my scooter, my heart weighed down by a deep sadness. 

 

(The story is true in parts, although my communist friend and the one mourning the death of his pet are two different persons in real life.)

 

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. 

 

---

 

---

 

---

 

Critic's Reviews

 

Ms. Geetha Nair G

 

40 is a milestone. Literary Vibes , Edition XL , aptly enough, is indeed a splendid one. Never has there been an edition of LV so rich, so varied, so beautiful.

Here is God's plenty!

Let me comment on a few of the offerings in this edition.

The nobility of sacrifice, the shame of being its beneficiaries, the pain of death , the fulfilment of conjugal love- Prabhanjan ji 's magnificent poem, "Konark by Night", resonates with these varied emotions.

Another superb  Konark from another maestro- Bibhu Padhi. Words fail me when faced with such controlled yet poignantly evocative writing. What architectonics! "The complete consort dancing together... ."

Hrushikesh  Mallik 's genius ( makes me wish I could read him in the original) has been well-rendered  by Prabhanjan ji,  delicately and skilfully  turning the  beloved sister-in-law into  flesh and blood.

Kamal Sultana Sheik is a welcome new voice. Looking forward to more from that gifted pen.

Molly Joseph's "Dangling Dewdrop" is a poem that defies transience in its beauty and symbolism.

Dr. Nayak 's article gives us very interesting information enlivened by medical terminology and enriched by pictures from his wife's amazing garden.

Bichitra Kumar Behura's short story is a tender, feel-good one that is sure to evoke nostalgia in many minds.

Sulochana Ram Mohan, a new voice in LV, comes across as a seasoned and sensitive writer. May her stories keep appearing in LV!

Latha Prem Sakhya in her Blake-ian simplicity radiates love for all created beings.

Sreekumar K. is at his suggestive best in the haunting short story, "Untimely Visitors" dominated by  Sally, who does not appear.

(I forgive him for his asinine jibe at me in his latest comments-one must be magnanimous !)

Levity is supplied by Nikhil Kurien's tenacious mosquito; what magnanimity on Nikhil's part !

Our Editor springs two surprises on the unsuspecting reader ; in both his poems "Fleeting"and "Donation", he keeps the subject hidden till the very end. Both are ingenious and appealing.

This is only a selection; as I was saying ,

here is God's plenty.

 

---

 

---

 

---