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

We return to you with some delicious fare including two brilliant reverse poems from Ms. Ananya Priyadarshini. They can be read from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. I have written a sequel to the Digambar story. And all our regular contributors have presented their delectable offerings. Hope you will enjoy this edition like all the previous ones.

Three of the very accomplished poets from the LiteraryVibes family attended the Kochi Literary Festival last week and dazzled the audience with their brilliant poems. I have great pleasure in publishing a photograph of Ms. Geetha Nair, Ms. Molly Joseph and Ms. Latha Prem Sakhya in the back ground of the Kochi LitFest, 2019.

Recently I came across a heartening news I want to share with the readers. In five Naxalite-infested villages of Bijapur district of Chhatisgarh the schools had closed down for fourteen years since the Naxals wouldn't allow them to run. They demolished the school buildings and threatened the people against sending children to schools. Recently the people decided to defy the Naxals and converted their Devagriha into Gyanagriha. Schools have started running in the temples. Villages where gunshots from Naxalites used to rend the air, school bells chime with great sweetness. Children enjoy the classes, thanks to special efforts by the local authorities in providing friendly teachers. What stands out is the brave spirit of the people and their bonding with the government agencies. I hope this will be a model for many other villages in Chhatisgarh, Maharastra, Odisha and Andhra Pradesh, beleaguered by the Naxal menace. We at LiteraryVibes salute this noble initiative and wish it far-reaching success.

Wishing you a happy reading. Please share LiteraryVibes with your friends and contacts through the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/242

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

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IMPERSONATORS

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

The evening is drunk

with a cavalier mood,

gallops by, stopping

to press its nose

against my window glass

leaving a smear.

 

Feeling like Eliot,

I sit etherized,

searching the Phoenician

deep down my eyes,

the unblinking pearly orbs

of time; the dusk is gathering.

 

I go out to collect mud

in my thought’s receptacle,

sculpt hobbits, elves, goblins,

and other magical creatures

before trying my hand at Mona Lisa,

in your mirror image.

 

Am I a hermaphrodite

balanced on a sword-edge,

waiting for the push

by the weather cock;

 Janus’ back face,

God’s template in His own image?

 

Would I rather lie in stupor

in my casket’s closet-dark

until the midnight chimes;

when I open my dead eyes ajar,

grow fangs and talons

to fly out into the predator night

 

from my house’s upper window

like my friend Rashid’s eyes

that flew out every night

searching for the souls of men

who in death slept naked

rotting atop the Tower of Silence,

 

awaiting vultures to feast

on their flesh and the chute

of salvation open up

as spake Zarathustra.

He picked up his curiosity -

‘Am I a Parsi, or a human?’

 

The night has passed

in a blink, perhaps we

have looked into each other’s eyes

along a line of vision, all night,

across the earth, sea, and sky

consumed by an urge to unite.

 

Eliot, Leonardo, Zarathustra,

and Janus may be our props

like the wigs, moustaches, masks,

fangs and talons to stay incognito.

We search each other among weeds

and fog, impersonators with alibis.

 

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MY DOLOROUS AUNTS

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Cherry-picked,

indistinguishable from behind,

the three nubile, subdued,

podgy bean bags;

 

rotund, not corpulent;

floating around

languid, liquid, dusky,

speaking in stumbling rasps;

 

sweeping, mopping, washing,

fixing course after course -

tea at daybreak,

snacks for late morning,

 

next, the midday meal,

so on and so forth, followed by –

 savouries and tea in the afternoons;

at night, an elaborate dinner;

 

they waddled to bed late

mugs of milk in hand: cold, warm,

or hot as husbands relished,

the night vitalizer for both,

 

laced with chocolate, or turmeric

to please the varied taste buds;

occasionally, a little brandy

to do away with inhibitions.

 

Ah, those dolorous aunts,

docile dollops of daytime,

in whose mouths

butter wouldn’t melt;

 

bloomed as mysterious lilies in bed,

their fiery rubies setting fire

to my cold blooded

bleating uncles.

 

Their alma maters

of fine arts and science;

history, geography, or be it biology,

remained bottled-up as genies,

 

never un-stoppered;

but as natural carvers,

they etched epitaphs of uncles

by their pools-side.

 

Granny chuckled toothlessly

when my dolorous aunts

touched her feet

after the morning bath,

 

resembling temple-virgins,

wet hair, droopy eyes, et al,

but the nightly secrets,

written all over them, tell all.

 

Granny would bless them

to blossom, bear fruits in cart-loads;

they blushed, recalling husbands

snoring etherized, kings in bed.

 

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‘MOHAN & MOHAN’, and the OTHER MOHAN

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

           ‘Mohan & Mohan’ is not the name of a business firm like the Gupta & Gupta store of our neighborhood. They are rather two of our revered icons; one Mohan, lord Krishna Vasudeva Yadav, the Hindu heartthrob, the ultimate founder of Dharma (righteousness); and the other Mohan, Mahatma Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, India’s venerated Father of the Nation, a heartthrob also not for his good looks but for his sacrifices for  humanity. How similar were these two great sons of India in spite of their stark dissimilarities!!!

             Both were intimately associated with the soil of Gujarat. The ancient Mohan (Krishna) was born at Mathura of Uttar Pradesh roughly five thousand years before Christ (BC), but in his prime he was chased away by Jarasandha to Dwaraka of Gujarat where he established his kingship as Dwarakadhish (the king of Dwaraka). Here he would found the edifice of the ‘Rule by Dhama’, that he expanded later beyond his kingdom’s limits. The other Mohan (Gandhi) was born at Kathiaward of Gujarat in 1869, spent his prime period partly in South Africa and the remaining years in India. His was a life of sacrifices with the unique aim of alleviating especially the people of India and the peoples of the world in general from their suffering and misery.

              Krishna was born in a prison of Mathura. Mahatma Gandhi spent half of his life in prisons. Krishna returned to his land Mathura from the forced exile at Vrindavan, to liberate the kingdom from the clutches of the tyrant Kansa who was a vicious oppressor of mankind. After killing Kansa, he established the rule of Dharma (righteousness) there. He put Kansa’s father Ugrasena on the royal throne of Mathura and supervised the affairs of the kingdom as a kingmaker. In an almost parallel play of destiny, Gandhi returned from South Africa after a stay of almost two decades there,he took the mantle of the freedom struggle against the oppressive colonial British rule from the then leaders like Tilak and Gokhale, freed India from the foreign clutches, got Indians their self-rule, and relinquished all power in favour of Nehru, Patel, Abul Kalam Azad, Ambedkar, and others after India’s independence.

          Krishna’s methods were highly different from the Mahatma’s. Krishna wielded his power with brawn, brain, and weapons; and through violent combats and wars he founded the reign of Dharma on the soil. He would be ever remembered for the epic Battle of Kurukshetra, in which he led the virtuous Pandavas to victory, destroying the evil Kauravas, and establishing the kingdom of Dharma. Likewise, Gandhi fought for India’s freedom with the colonial rulers through mass revolt but totally spurning violence, never resorting to swords or guns, but by a novel and potent weapon –‘non-violent non-cooperation’. Even the mighty British Empire, on whose soil the sun dared not set (euphemistically said, as the vast British empire spread all around the world from the east to the west), got tired of killing, maiming, and imprisoning lakhs of Indians who refused to obey but also refused to combat with the oppressors, the police or military. They peacefully non-cooperated to obey the unjust rules imposed by the British, for example - breaking the Salt Law, the non-cooperation initiated by the Mahatma during his Dandi March. The rulers got tired of fighting against this millions-strong passive army of Gandhi and finally left the Indian soil. Gandhi’s weapon of ‘non-violent non-cooperation’ kind of got patented in his name that was based on Satyagraha (The intent of truth) and Ahimsa (Non-violence), as Krisna’s name was associated with his unique weapon Sudarshana Chakra, the whirling all-powerful disc-weapon against which there was no defense.

            Both these great saviors of mankind had to live their last years as frustrated men. Under Krishna’s own nose his sons and grandsons grew more and more powerful and unruly day by day; were pampered and protected by their mothers, Krishna’s beloved wives. The situation was a ‘Catch 22’ position for him making him helplessly obliged to stay silent. His rule of Dharma was going to the dogs, but he could not wield his all-powerful Sudarshana Chakra against the little devils thriving in his own family. His filial love and his wives’ endearing affection held back his hands of justice. He lived his last days guilt-ridden and frustrated. In Gandhi’s case almost the same situation came to play. After the transfer of powers from the British to the leaders of free India, Gandhi sadly watched from the wings how corruption, greed for power and lucre, lies and falsehood were entering the rank and file of the leadership, consisting of his trained disciples, by the backdoors. He saw Indian National Congress, the organization he had built over decades with great care and whose spirit of sacrifice and truthfulness he had felt proud of, going down the drain. Before his unbelieving eyes, a young patriot Savarkar had propounded the ‘Two Nation’ theory, an upstart Jinnah followed it by fueling that fire of division with communal poison, and finally a stunned Gandhi saw at the Nirvana-Hour of freedom, his beloved India getting apportioned between a bizarre land called India with Hindu majoritarian population, and a Pakistan given to Jinnah’s Muslim followers exclusively. The partition also caused unmitigated violent riots killing lakhs of Hindus and Muslims. It was Gandi’s saddest hour when the free India celebrated the occasion jubilantly. He became a shadow of himself after 1947, totally withdrawn from politics, attending prayer meetings, or spreading the message of brotherhood among Hindus and Muslims, especially trying to convert the communal elements among them to the path of Dharma, brotherly feeling, secular thoughts. The people out of love put the crown of Mahatma, the messiah-hood, on his frail head.

           There is an uncanny resemblance between the two icons in death also. An aging, tired, sad, and lonely Krishna, one day retreated into a nearby jungle just to have a few winks of rest and peace. He was sleeping peacefully in a self-made swing like lair made of foliage and creepers, when a hunter hunting in the jungle noticed a pinkish thing protruding from the bushes. It was Krishna’s foot. The hunter took it for a deer’s ear and shot at it. The poison-arrow killed Krishna.

            Gandhi was loved by one and all, not only in India but all over the world, except a few misguided men like Nathuram Godse. He believed that Gandhi all through his freedom struggle had sided with the Muslims at the cost of Hindus. Nothing could be farther from the truth. However, the communally charged fellow hated the Mahatma due to his misconceptions. Finally, during one of the Mahatma’s prayer meetings, the undefended Mahatma fell to gunshots of Nathuram in the evening of 30 January, 1948. His last death cry was, “Hey Ram…”

            Even after their deaths, the two heartthrobs of humanity would lead the people in an almost identical manner. Krishna’s mortal remains were believed to have been consigned to the Arabian Sea at Dwaraka by the tribal hunter who had killed him by mistake. It is believed that his human form got converted into a massive wooden log in the course of time, and was pushed by the sea currents to the East Coast of India. The first idols of Lord Jagannath of Puri, his brother Balbhadra, and sister Subhadra, were believed to have been carved out of that log by no less a carpenter than Vishwakarma (the divine builder), who came in the guise of a feeble carpenter. Krishna who was believed to be the incarnation of God in the Hindu pantheon, sits in his present avatar as Lord Jagannath, famously reputed for his goggle-eyed nonchalance, wooden stance, and apathy. His stance is attributed to his stunned state at the sight of people openly practicing aDharma (sin). What a bizarre transition from an all-powerful, playful, Adonis of women’s hearts, the Sudarshana Chakra wielding Krishna Vasudeva Yadav to a silent and non-responsive goggle-eyed spectator, the misshapen painted wooden Lord of Puri!

              Speaking of the Mahatma, the author of Satyagraha and Ahimsa sits as statues and paintings at all places of importance like our parliament, rooms of leaders, judges and bureaucrats. But his images are used as a pretense. All sorts of evil acts are practiced under the gaze of his images. He is used as a political pawn, a business mascot. 

          While singing hosanna to the two iconic Mohans of our past, we must not forget a third Mohan living in the present time, Dr. Manmohan Singh, the revered Prime Minister of India from 2004 to 2014, one of the world’s reputed economists, and the father of the new age liberal economic policies of India. He propounded the new vision of liberal economy in 1991 as India’s Finance Minister, and salvaged India going down a recession phase. The cornerstone of Manmohan’s principles is “Let our work speak aloud for itself, when we, the workers, keep quiet.” 

 

Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com  

 

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INADEQUACY (AJOGYATAA)

Hara Prasad Das

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Who would be more aware

of my inadequacies than you?

 

Never could I preserve a trophy

for long, even your trust in me

couldn’t be an exception, despite

its Polestar-like warrantee.

 

Being a committed archer

was not enough,

chasing big dreams, or daredevilry

could not sustain expectations.

 

Life passed by

missing all goalposts,

neither could I convince you,

nor could I even convince myself.

 

My utopian values,

reflected in the water scooped

in my palms, wordlessly justified

my stand, a pity!

 

The irony became a tease -

my inadequacies,

my lack of achievements,

wallowed in weird fulfillments.

 

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LIFE IS A DRAMA (AAKHYAAYIKAA)

Hara Prasad Das

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Subtlety was possibly missing

in your surrender, your eagerness

made you kind of

an easy-earned worthless trophy,

won without struggle,

without paying a price.

 

My smug snobbishness

made me consider it

unnecessary to give you

loving home and hearth.

 

In your hurry to please me

you swallowed your pride,

hook, line, and sinker;

so, your sacrifices

didn’t appear different from

a go-getter’s overtures.

 

I also could not rise

above my material outlooks,

discard my prejudices

to know your real worth;

 

kept pointing accusing fingers,

picking up venomous words

out of context in its totality

from your innocuous utterances.

 

I made my sacrifices

look more gory, and bloodletting

to overshadow my splurging

 on amusing myself.

 

One of these days

you would meet me,

in the most tragic scene

of our life’s drama, I acting a knight

draped in a make-believe zari-armour,

hiding insidious daggers –

 

it would be too late by then

for our relationship

to look for grace

in your soulful submission,

or look for dignity

in my smug acceptance.

 

Our bodies and minds

might have gone numb

to the pain of our wounds

inflicted by each other.

 

But we might turn

into opponents

without animosity;

one gladly offering the dagger

to the other, with little bother -

who might wound whom.

 

 

Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.

He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”

 

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JAGANNATHA, THE ALMIGHTY LORD OF PURI  (JAGANNATHA)

Kamalakanta Panda (KALPANTA)

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

You are the quintessence,

my Lord –

 

the determinant of our qualification,

our qualifier;

 

at the root of all feelings,

but feeling-less yourself;

 

we build our proud sand-castles,

but fragile before your tide and ebb.

 

My inner chambers reverberate with your name, filling me with peace and tranquility;

 

like cicadas’ cacophony

bringing stillness to an afternoon.

 

I breathlessly chase your mystique, Lord, you turn more mysterious.

 

I surrender with earnest eagerness

to you with unconditional devotion;

 

how can you, my Lord, be so indifferent, to me, remaining an insoluble riddle?

 

You dangle before me a ruthless mirage

when life passes through a hopeless desert,

 

but before long, you rise as the new sun bringing a refreshing morning.

 

I see Ram and Rahim in you,

you define the alpha and omega

 

of my faith; the pain of living,

the joy of Nirvana.

 

We thankfully receive your gifts,

bask in your compassion.

 

(The Odia hymn-like poem appeared in the autumn issue of Nabarabi, October, 1996.)

 

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)  

 

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USED GOODS

Geetha Nair G.

 

In a flash

I pick it up from the Used Goods counter-

A box of assorted chocolates.

Scratch marks all over.

Pretty picture peeling here and there.

Contents edible, says the card dangling above. 

"Assorted flavours -Caramel. Vanilla. Coconut. Honey."

 

The honey-flavoured Hearts with deep teeth-marks on them;

Those I dumped into the dust bin.

The blueberry boob-shaped pretties

I flung out of the window (god rot them !).

Nutty ones, I tested. Hard middles,

Sweet as they come.

Sticking to the palate.

Licked the rest.

Found at the base, 

Soft centres spurting a strange new essence.

Tangy-sweet… Heady.

Now I nibble at one every night.

An opium nibble;

 

You never know when it’s going to dawn -

Your Chocolate Night.

 

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THE MIRACULOUS CHROMO-MINDSCOPE

Geetha Nair G.

 

     The Muse Poetry Fest was progressing smoothly. I had read my poems quite early and was now sitting back, trying to concentrate on the ongoing readings.The train journey early in the morning and the humid heat of the hall were making me drowsy. I rummaged in my bag for a chocolate and my fingers closed on a little metallic object. What on earth? Then, I remembered. My grandson, Panthu, a budding Edison, had slipped something into my bag just as I was leaving to catch the train.

"Just switch on your mobile, fix this to the screen and hold it in the direction you want. Look at the screen; Grandmother, you are going to be amazed!" I remembered his parting words, "It is a Chromo- Mindscope," as he bounded off for football practice. His nickname had originated from his passion for balls from the tender age of one(“panthu” is Malayalam for “ball”) Of late, he balanced sport and high-tech experiments; a quirky combination.

   I examined the object as it lay on my palm; a big question mark. It was black and white, like a bonsai zebra. Idly, I held it to my mobile. At once it clasped the screen like an ardent lover. Interesting. Must be a magnet. Panthu did come up with weird creations now and then. I generally humoured him.

 

  Just then, an acquaintance hailed me with both arms waving. I raised both mobile and hand towards her by way of acknowledgement. Immediately, I felt a jolt; the mobile screen had turned a bright red. Words kept typing themselves. Panthu’s invention was working! Amazing! My eyes absorbed the words even as my heart beat in indignant protest. The words were her thoughts about me! In black, against the red background were the words: Hag. Go to some old-age home. You deserve that. Stole my prize. I looked up,startled, at her. She was still smiling sweetly at me from where she was seated. I looked at the screen again. It was still blazing red. Next time I’ll buy the prize. Horrid Crone.

 

  I quickly put my phone on my lap. God-in-Heaven! That pompously-named competition last year in which my poem had won a prize and hers hadn't... . So, that was eating her up, this big skunk who wrote prosaic statements in atrocious English yet projected herself as a first-rate poet. I was fuming.

 

  I looked the other way. There was a handsome young man sitting to one side of the room between two pretty young ladies. I had been a little in awe of his noble expression when he had been introduced earlier. He looked like he was in a trance - contemplating the ways to Truth. I focused on his head with my raised mobile. Purple washed over the screen. Fun, Fun. Both these sweet things adore me. Lucky me. Lucky lucky me! I am an emperor today. His thoughts, in curvaceous Malayalam letters, chased each other over my mobile screen.

 

This was getting to be fun.

 

Big Mother 's Watching You; folks, watch out!

 

Next, I tried out the chief guest, a lovely lady. White went the screen. Serene, gentle. The words were in a script I did not know. Not quite Devanagari. Sad. They would have been worth reading.

 

I aimed at the lady next to her. Another eminent writer. The two had come in, arms linked. The screen turned into a jungle. Green all over. A virulent shade of green. I am a better writer than her. Much much better. She is so lush; so they gush over her. Men! That’s how she gets these honours. I’ll cook her goose, I will.

Wow! What a revelation! So, this eminent lady was actually a green-eyed monster hiding her envy under a cloak of smiles. Lady Iago in the flesh. What a schemer!

 

 I had stopped listening to the poetry being intoned. I was enraptured by my new toy.

 

There was a sturdily-built young lady I had noticed when I arrived. I didn’t know her. What I noted was that she had no smiles for any one. She had read two very good poems just before my reading. I aimed the mobile at her. Why was she so glum? I could find out, perhaps.

 I am a warrior; like Unniyarcha.* I am on a mission. I have come to see justice done… .The screen had turned black and then went pristine white. I was still clueless but I wished her all success in my mind. A formidable opponent, indeed!

 

The cute little organiser was resting her poor legs awhile. Right in front of me. An easy target. I aimed for her thoughts. A delicate lilac was painted on my screen. My baby. Milk. Pray. God. Let all end well. The endearing words danced on the screen.

 

The young woman who had wanted me locked up in an old-age home was at the rostrum now. Hag. Crone.The insults surfaced like spiders. They crawled all over me. O, I wanted to howl! How truth can hurt! It was then that I saw him. My gentle fan of those long-lost college days. He had just come into the hall; he was very late indeed. But then,he always had been. He had seen me and was smiling his slow, sweet smile. I poised the mobile, masking the movement as a gesture of acknowledgement.

The screen went a misty, lovely pink.

Her eyes are beautiful still. I always did love them. My Van Gogh girl. Still wearing yellow! How happy I am that I made it today! I came only to see her again.

 

Suddenly, the lights were shining brighter, the fans were whirring faster. I wrenched the mindscope off the screen and held it in my palm. He had sat down next to me. We spoke awhile.

 

  At lunchtime, my friend came up to me. I beamed at her. I didn't need a chromo- mindscope to read her mind. She would be all gold and white. There was only love. I got up, took a step and tripped over a lead. Her strong hands pulled me up. I had hit my elbow and forearm against a chair. It hurt.

Then I remembered the mindscope.

I searched wildly for it on the floor. I found it finally; it was in three pieces.

Panthu, I am sorry, dear boy. Your Chromo- mindscope! I broke it. Sorry! Sorry!

 

My grandson’s voice broke into my cries. He was calling out to me, shaking me.

"What’s wrong, Grandma ? Grandma? Wake up. What chromo? What scope? Amma says tea is ready. Come."

 

I got up from the sofa I had slept on after a heavy lunch. My arm was hurting still where the train door had whammed it several days back on my return journey from the Muse Poetry Fest.

“Your bruise has turned black-red-pink-purple,” said my grandson, examining it from different angles. "Like my box of paints.”

“Yes, or like the human mind” I said. Before he could ask for explanations, I broke half a soya cutlet and popped it into his mouth. I ate the other half myself, chewing it slowly.

 

*Unniyarcha is a legendary north Kerala female warrior; stands for a brave woman who fights dauntlessly for a cause.

 

Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English,  settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature  for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems,  "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com 

 

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JIGSAW PUZZLES AND LIFE

Sreekumar K

 

It is a common phenomenon for things to have a pattern of the whole hidden in their parts. The presence of DNA in every cell is a perfect example. A jigsaw puzzle is another. It is present around us and tells us a lot about what goes around us and how they go.

Jigsaw puzzles had been interesting toys for children for quite a long time before they were used as teaching aids in schools. It is very interesting to watch children put together a jigsaw puzzle.

They often start with a random piece and then they figure it out and go by the shape of those pieces and manage to find the corners first. Shape is a tangible quality. That way it has a quantity. Next the children figure out the picture which is not totally tangible. They use their imagination to assume and predict the rest of the picture and as they go forward they become very fast. It looks like the pieces are offering themselves to them. The last pieces fall in very quickly and at this point the children are full of excitement which seems to wane after completing the picture.

Now we know that there is more to solving a jigsaw puzzle than the entertainment it offers. A puzzle represents a set of questions. The data as well as the solution is always in those questions. Mathematics, a pure science, sees the solution to a problem as the right arrangement of the parts of the question. In other words, questions, like the jigsaw puzzle or life itself, are fragmented solutions.

When children are allowed to learn, we see the same thing happening. For example, in problem solving, half of the data is inside and the other half is outside. The theorem to apply is inside; the situation to apply them in is outside. Each is meaningful in its own way. And one reflects the other like a fractured mirror. This is the basic pattern of all learning. Nothing is learned totally from the outside world, nor totally through introspection. In fact, but for the ego, there is no outside or inside. Small babies go on shaking their hands even after the rattle has dropped off their hands. Small children cry when they hear other children cry. School is the place where we are ‘taught’ not to do that.

More begets more, especially in learning. Here again, we see the patterns of a jigsaw puzzle. As ideas and concepts build up in the mind around one missing link, the missing link falls in by itself like a natural response. Thus holistic ways of education always have an advantage over linear ways. It is hard to solve a jigsaw puzzle if we work in a linear way.

Reflection has always been a major metaphor in Indian thought. The conscious part of mind is often referred to as ‘mind, the mirror’,manomukuram. This is probably because it gives an inside projection of outside things. This mind could also reflect the inside things and such thoughts are referred to as ‘reflections’. Thus the conscious mind is supposed to act as a stage where the inner and the outer come to play. This is also the part with which we learn, or the part that learns since learning seems to alter the very nature of the mirror, changing the reflections forever. The things outside are not altered. But they are seen differently as we grow up and learn. So, surely the mind is altered. The same is applicable for the inner world that gets reflected in the mind. It is the mind that gets altered and not the inner world or the outside world. Since the mind is altering all the time, it is not possible for the outer world or the inner world to change and for the individual to maintain his or her sense of self or continuity at once. In other words it is not our static mind that gives us a stubborn ego but the inability of the mind to be static that gives us the sense of self or ego. Our concept of the mind is that of a sea where a single wave is up all the time. But quite differently, like the needle on a phonograph, it is the wavering that gives the mind its existence.

The outside world undergoes perceivable changes. Trees grow, rain falls, winds blow, crow flies. Mind could naturally be influenced by these changes. But what about looking at a painting? Here the mind fragments the picture into fleeting thoughts and creates a sense of flux to give itself an existence. Learning as we know happens in the other direction. It is the assimilation of parts into whole. Even when the nature of learning is that of analysis, we are actually taking apart something to send the parts to their empirical or theoretical categories. So our main task in learning through analysis is assimilating the items in respective categories.

It is possible for one to get fed up with this business and stop learning altogether. One might then go inward or insane. Some have gone insane. Some others have gone inward. They have a chance of seeing the nature of their own mind because of the great recording device called language. An awareness of the nature of mind tells us that it is possible to have something beyond that antechamber. A further awareness of what is beyond the mind, the real static self, gives us a better understanding of the mind. The mind cannot play games with the inner self as it does with the world because the inner self lacks the entity called time which helps the mind break the outer world down to fragments and make the parts scurry around. Language, being fragmented and linear is an accomplice of the mind in doing this. It is used by the mind to create past and the present, when the truth is that only the present exist. It is also a double mirror, if there is such a thing, that can display the mind’s activities and make its dynamic nature appear static.

So, without basing oneself in that inner self, otherwise called awareness, it is impossible to understand the true nature of our mind. This is one major difference among the great psychologists, seers and their followers.

This fragmentation and synthesis work also in the cosmic level, in real life situations. Time has fragmented the world into cause and effect. Every effect becomes a cause in its own time. These causes and effects can come from all directions. Newton was sage-like when he said that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Going back to the mirror imagery, life is like playing chess with the mirror. For every piece we advance, a piece of the same nature is advanced towards us from the opposite direction. In our desperate effort to win we try random patterns without understanding that life is not playing with us to win or lose. Its aim is beauty, the beauty that Keats saw as Truth. Beauty is what we perceive in our awareness, before our mind and thoughts take over. Modern writers and artists have understood this principle and creates works which do not lend themselves to our thoughts and thereby prolong the period of being in the awareness.

Even among fragments there is beauty in symmetrical patterns. One can arrange the pieces to make a beautiful pattern, forgetting the opponent. Artists and writers do this. One can also cooperate with life, mimic it and create a symmetrical pattern. Seers do this. It is also possible to play hard, forgetting the patterns.

Ignorance lies in seeing only our part of the game board and judging success and defeats. Intelligence lies in having a bird’s eye view of the board before we judge. Wisdom lies in seeing the beautiful symmetry on the board, whichever way we play.

Thus we see that putting together jigsaw puzzles is an activity that goes on in our life in gross and subtle ways and on varied plains. Children, who can sense how a piece offers itself to join the pieces they have already arranged, do it easily. People who have the right idea about the consequences of their actions also find it easy.

 

Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala. 

 

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WEAVES OF TIME

Sangeeta Gupta

 

XIII

The Creator
Of creators
has gifted humankind
the choice
of hewing his own life

so go ahead
create a day by far 
beautiful, indeed so
each moment of your life,
to enjoy this lucky freedom of choice.

make own path
alone walk
that One
always holds
your solitary hand
nay is always
part of your beating heart

so creative be
it makes the maker
proud of thee.
 

XIV

a lazy
unstructured Sunday:
the luxury of
going for a walk.

The humming bees of silence, the 
enjoying of my all alone time

the dew on wet grass
looks happy
perhaps being sunkissed
on this, the wintery morning.

Sun making every shivering 
being live after the cold, dark, 
impersonal night.
 

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.

 

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STRAINS OF SYMPHONIES

Dilip Mohapatra

 

Have you ever tried to listen

to the residual notations

of the music that were left behind

within the invisible bar lines

brackets and braces

etched on love stained sheets

and tried to read

the shadows of the clefs and

the accidentals

in combinations of

flats

sharps and naturals

before they dissolve

and disappear for good?

 

Have you ever tried to listen

to the songs that the rivers sing

with a bit of dread and agony

in harmony with the

boatman’s oars

which continue to slap

the water with every stroke

they make

and the wail wilting in the wake?

 

Have you ever tried to listen to

the threadbare tune of the

nozzle of the kettle

as hot tea is poured into the

ceramic cup that sloshes over

with a chest-choked

garrotted whimper

and the mirthless dirge

in the crunching

of the cookie crumbling

in your mouth?

 

All these years you have been

very vocal and sang

songs of love

songs of malice

songs to please

songs to incite

songs of eulogy

and songs of conceit.

A time will come

when perhaps you would

sing a swan song in reverse

not for the world to hear

but only to yourself

a perfect symphony

the song of silence.

 

Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies  worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.

 

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OLD LITTLE LOST DREAM

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

 

On a noble night, stately entirety,

Standing alone, counting stars,

I saw an old slender yellow man

His golden hair plaited

His silver beard knotted,

Rowing the crescent white moon

Through the deep blue sky .

His glittering net he cast

And all the clouds were caught ,

But he let them go one by one .

His glittering net he hurled once more

And all the stars were trapped ,

But he let them go one by one.

His glittering net he tossed out again

And all the comets were prisoned ,

But he let them go one by one.

 

Surprised by this action so strange

I cried out to the sky,

“Who are you yellow old man?

What is it you seek?”

Down came a resounding voice,

“I am a dreamer dreaming ,

Dreaming for an old little lost dream .”

Mystified I blinked at his answer

And the old slender yellow man

His golden hair plaited ,

His silver beard knotted,

Rowing the crescent white moon

Though the deep blue sky

Called out for his old little lost dream

As he moved along pitching his net.

 

Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working  in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books.  A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002  and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.

 

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FIGURES

Sharanya B

Daunting thoughts take form of ghosts at midnight hour,

They float around in darkness,

white smokes, shapeless clouds

Resonating fear in the chilly air,

They hum in harmony,

with opened eyes you see twirling spirals

 

Whirlpools that sink you until you're hypnotised,

They glide through your skin, raising hairs,

freezing thoughts,

sending shivers down the spine;

 

They make time stay still,

mute the ticking clock, keep the dark intact;

They let you walk, they let you run,

until you circle back to the same place where you had begun,

They mock you silently.

 

They let you pant, they let you faint,

they let you wake up gasping for air,

They let you mistake all of it for a dream, 

you feel silly about the fright.

 

You feel the relief,

you are thankful for the light,

you are glad to be alive,

And then you spot the misty figures on your window glass.

 

Sharanya B, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.

 

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TWO SNAKE AND LADDER POEMS

Ananya Priyadarshini

(1)

You can't do it

Because you're afraid

Never say again

It's worth the pain

Weigh it against your comfort and safety

Confidence will be your only gain

To overcome the fear

It's not important at all

How much does it scare you?

Since when and how?

Remember;

There's a monster to chase everyone;

Why fight?

And you still wonder,

What if your courage goes, right?

But, Honey

What if it goes wrong?

You've in mind the worst anticipation

You can be the best

You can be free

If once you beat

"Why?"

You rather ask,

With the fear in you

You're still good

Don't believe when they say,

For a fear overcome, a thousand risks are worth it

 

(2)

I can't be happy

All on my own

Also

I need you, or them

To bloom, to flourish;

Don't console me, that

Lone buds still bloom

Pole star still shines

I've witnessed

The oak tree wilted

After centuries of standing alone.

I've heard tales, where

I find myself play the villain

The hero finds his better half

The villain keeps on living alone

Oh dear! You tell me the story

Let me decide my 'hero', my 'villain'

I perceive 'evil' and 'good' differently from you

I've read pages, and learnt

Some never split into halves

Some souls are complete, a whole.

What if that's how it was meant to be!

That's what I choose to be

Now that,

You wonder why and how,

I'm alone

And

I'm happy

 

*Now read both the poems from bottom to top*

 

Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).

Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.

 

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DOWNSIZED

Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra 

 

Downsized

From a full-fledged OTG

To an humble toaster,

From a well staked refrigerator

To a frail biscuit-tin,

I felt

Hapless and helpless

When life –

Sliced my hopes into

Shreds like the cabbage I cook

And ground my ambition

Into a fine paste of chatni, I love,

I felt like

And inanimate food processor

In the vast cook house of life,

Heavy in demand

But quite disposable.

 

Befuddled I was

For I could not

Unravel the cause,

The problem

How and why

I was turned

From the most hankered after

Consumer interest

To the rubble on the roadside!

From a bolstered ton

To a bewitched big zero!!

 

I could have tried

To turn the table,

Mow down the lawn

Of demands,

Derail the train

Of desire,

And thunder down

The road of life

To sweep the rubbles

Of selfishness, self-aggrandizement

But I felt

Hapless and helpless

Roasted and toasted

In the grill of my own desire

For pleasure,

For security

For solace!!!

 

Though downsized I was-

From a Mercedes with a red light

To a ram-shackle Tata Bedford!

 

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”.

 

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MANUSCRIPT (PANDULIPI)

Kabiratna Dr. Manorama Mahapatra

Translated by Sumitra Mishra

 

Roaming around many bathing ghats

By many means and modes

Finally I bathed in the Ganges

At the Tribeni ghat.

 

I have witnessed a lot

Recorded a lot,

However I have surrendered

The manuscript of my life, my brain

At the lotus feet of the Supreme!

 

So soaking in the blessings

Amid the riotous milieu

I am wandering all day,

Dawn, dusk and night

Around the Shiva temples

My soul replete with joy.

 

Yet I can view His shadow

In my mortal frame,

So in my ultimate manuscript

 I am singing the euphony

Of contentment

In tunes melodious

Only for Him alone

Day and night

Commemorating His memory.

 

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.

 

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THE LAST LETTER

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

The last letter from Amma came with the address neatly written, but when Malu opened it, it was totally blank.

The expanse of the white blank page spoke volumes… .

The pent- up agonies of a soul that craved for self expression..

It grew vivid in Malu’s mind’s eye… the tension-drawn moments of Amma’s letter- writing when her daughter- in- law would be shouting at her for opening out everything to her daughter who lived far off. Amma would shudder at her shouts; she who ruled the roost.  Many a time pushing open the door she would enter and the pen would fall from Amma’s shivering hands… .

O, my ! Malu felt her heart breaking up into pieces..

Amma was a shining star in her days, a motivating teacher, leader and an active person with church activities. But her opportunites with people outside were ruthlessly denied after retirement on grounds of grand parenting. Lacking interest in life, later, her health had declined . After the death of  Appa and the arrival of the little ones, she felt all exhausted in mind and body.  All the wrath of the working woman of a daughter in law, fell on her. She treated her as a nuisance. In fact, Amma was now an exile in her own home, which she and her husband had built up with so much of toil. How many days and nights they had run on a shoe-string budget, saving money to buy that one acre of land that surrounded the house! Every single thing in the household bore their signature, memory - the wooden loft, the multilayered cabinet. How cruelly they pulled it down to erect new ones.

Yes, she was ready to let go, cornering herself to her little room and rack of books.

Out in the yard stood a great number of trees she had planted, envisaging a household surrounded by trees. It pained her deep when they fell with a thud under the grinding axe . They wanted to clear the ground in front  to make  a tile spread pathway.  Heat was getting worse with their progressive measures, but Amma was just a silent bearer and a mute spectator.

Times were changing, and old age is the time to let go… . She was teaching her mind only that repeatedly. From her broken phone calls Malu could read that; she stopped saying things abruptly as if afraid of someone. Sometimes the very phone calls Malu made were denied to Amma; the other one so insecure about her image as a daughter in law.

Malu felt guilty. Why couldn’t she redeem the situation?  Many a time she had planned to take  Amma with  her, but she was not allowed to do so.  With her sons living around, it was a shame for them to see that Amma was looked after by her only daughter. But Amma wanted to be with her daughter, at least though letters, or phone calls.

Even that was cruelly denied. There was encroachment into her private space also. Her book racks were dishevelled, often Amma would be seen searching, searching…they attributed it to her dementia.

How suddenly Amma’s end came! her pressure was mounting up, verging on suffocation…she wanted somebody near her,  and called out aloud; the door was shut… .

She suffered a stroke and went into a coma. Malu found her  on the ventilator in the hospital.

She had shut her eyes for ever… .

The blank last letter told her all Amma wanted to say; Malu held it close to her heart and sobbed… .

 

Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.

She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).

 

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OH! LIFE........

Akshaya Kumar Das

 

Between the thin edge, Life ;

Birth and Death, cardinal truths,

You arrive with breath and leave with the last breath,

In between get sandwiched like a paste,

As you touch the glue of life,

It sticks; the closer you get,

You unknowingly fall into the trap

Called life ,

From where you can't escape on your own,

Can't stop to live,

You don't know your end,

The trap keeps you waiting then,

You struggle to eke out a living,

Face the unwarranted changes,

That gallop day in and out;

From a breast-sucking baby,

To an adult human being,

Create and procreate your creations,

Nourish them, nurture them,

Till they grow in life,

Follow the rule of evolution,

in a quite unwanted way,

In your ignorance things change,

Keep happening to baffle you,

To confuse you throughout,

Leaving you to wonder at times,

Blinking in appreciation,

Oh ! this is life ???

Is this ???

 

Sri Akshaya Kumar Das is poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha the author of "The Dew Drops" available with amazon/flipkart/snapdeal published by Partridge India in the year 2016. Sri Das is an internationally acknowledged author with a number of poems published in India & abroad by Ardus Publication, Canada. Sri Das is conferred "Ambassador of Humanity" award by Hafrican Peace Art World, Ghana. Sri Das organised an International Poetry Festival in the year 2017 under the aegis of Feelings International Artist's Society of Dr.Armeli Quezon held at Bhubaneswar. Sri Das is presently working as an Admin for many poetry groups in Face Book including FIAS & Poemariam Group headed by Dr N.K.Sharma. He is the recipient of many awards for his contribution to English literature & world peace. A featured poet of Pentasi B Group, Sri Das, a retired Insurance Manager, resides at Bhubaneswar.

 

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TELL ME A STOLY PLEASE

Ishwar Pati

 

My grandson loves to listen to bedtime stories from me. He plops on my belly and yells in his lilting voice, “Tell me a ‘stoly’, Grandpa. Please!” No reading out stories from a book; I must deliver them extempore, like a magician plucking a rabbit out of the hat! Frankly, I am no reservoir of stories. So I quickly leaf through a collection of old fables or Panchatantra tales and select a story for the night.

He looks at me wide-eyed as I begin ‘Alice in Wonderland’, an assortment of stimulating adventures that have been a source of wonder to children of all ages through the ages! Alice’s escapades may appear harebrained to us, but with Lewis Carroll’s unique imagination, they open up thrilling new horizons for kids. Why does the White Rabbit look at his watch constantly as he hurries down the path and complains, “I’m late! I’m late! I’m late!”? Is it to remind us of the futility of our rush against time? The vain and pompous Queen of Hearts demonstrates how her set of characters should be treated—as two-dimensional paper tigers! With ‘The Pied Piper of Hamlyn’, I am enthused to amuse my grandson by playing the mouth organ. But I am tongue-tied when he asks: “Grandpa, why don’t the children come back home?”  

Our own Panchatantra is full of not only moralistic anecdotes but also lessons in bonding with all forms of life. The smart monkey, who outwits the alligator by pleading he had left his liver behind, exhibits how one needs to be street-smart. The pigeon may be a defenceless bird, but together a flight of pigeons can escape a deadly hunter. The tale of the old, feeble tiger, who lures greedy travellers with a gold necklace, reveals his inborn ruthlessness; like ‘pure’ vegetarian businessmen sucking the blood of society—and loving it!

The one story my grandson never tires of listening to is of the jackal that turns blue after a dunking in indigo dye. Other animals, alarmed by the sight of a strange-looking creature, yield to his every wish—till one day a jackal’s natural instinct to howl exposes his true identity. The deceived animals are so outraged they promptly kill him. When I ask the young boy whether he had learnt any moral from the story, he gibbers sleepily, “The molal of the stoly is...don’t tuln blue!”

 

Moulding a child from clay is no child’s play.

 

Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.

 

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AUSTERE GRANDEUR

Hema Ravi

 

As the earth attires herself anew

casting her charm on the lofty peaks

the gentle autumn sun plays hide and seek

luring and transporting

the prosaic into the divine.

The silvery streams below

meandering for miles

past lush fern carpets

and perpendicular pines

quench the thirst

of parched souls.

Sheer magnificence from the skies

the senses stop in bliss!

 

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.

 

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HALCYON DAYS ADRIFT

Betty Kuriyan

Blue skies

Fleecy clouds

Bird wings in formation.

Green grass

Greener leaves in plenty.

Tiled roofs shading the heat,

Sounds of water flowing placidly over stones,

Wading in clear streams,

Strolling thro rubber trees

Forming rubber balls,

Of residue latex.

Gently sloping grass knolls,

Laughter of children,

Unalloyed bliss.

 

Emptiness,desolation,

Crass deprivation.

 

The engines rumble on,

Automated switches,

A finger moving inexorably,

To nature’s decimation.

Fields and ponds disappear,

Grass and leaves,

Sold at a premium.

Children’s voices stilled.

Childhood stultified,

Growing up in a plethora

Of mixed signals,

Nothing seems palpable.

Where unto,where to?

Is life today a paper boat,

Rocked on the relentless seas

Of an inexorable

Kaleidoscope?

 

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AN ISLAND CALLED HOME

Betty Kuriyan

 

The island was once called the pearl of the Indian Ocean.The island had a serendipitous ambience found nowhere else.

    Buddhists,Hindus, Muslims and Christians of all persuasionslived harmoniously together for centuries. European influences tempered subtly the cultural fabric that was evident in later generations.

    Sri Lanka the island paradise, where Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim and Christian places of worship, and people of all faiths lived in a camaraderie envied by other strife-ridden lands, was a wonderful place to grow up in.

    I spent my growing-up years in Sri Lanka before ethnic cleansing and its ramifications ever touched our lives. I grew up in a town of three Churches ,two Hindu temples, two Mosques,and numerous Buddhist places of meditation marked by whitewashed Viharas.

  We lived cheek by jowl as it were, with people of different persuasions and growing up we went to school and to the celebrations of all. We ate in their homes and they in ours .We shared our teenage hiccups jointly weeping or smiling. Our food tastes were authored by the delicacies that we had shared. Non vegetarian fare for Ramadan, Kiribath and savouries for wesak and my mother’s Christmas cake for Christmas.

  A celebration of any religious observance was one we jointly enjoyed.

       Today my heart breaks when I think of the carnage especially in peaceful Negombo and other places. Negambo, a coastal town with churches galore was never a town of fanaticism. Its people-ordinary folks, lived their simple lives in a largesse given by the sea and air. People smiled and greeted visitors and all who came to the town which bespoke their calmness in a savoir-faire of a world far away from sophistication.

     Fisher folk selling the day’s fresh catch in the kiosks on the main road, home grown fruits and vegetables in woven cane baskets, and homespun curios and seashells sold by the beaches was the air of a serene place. The tourist influx brought boutiques to Negambo for purses jingling with dollars .But the dress code for ordinary people was a standard simplicity.

  As a child, I remember running to catch the frothy waves on the pristine beach. I vividly recall the Angelus bell,the Hindu conch call, along with the muezzins cry summoning the faithful to prayer at eventide. Life resumed its even pace day after day.

    Today even tho the tourists surge to Negambo luxury seaside resorts; a part of it remains with tiled roofed houses wreathed in flowery creepers; a sight for tired eyes.

 Another attacked icon was the Cinnamon Hotel. Its large foyer catered to bridal celebrations for the well- to- do. Well run and managed by smiling staff, surrounded by vases and exotic orchid flowers arrangements, it was a hotel that knew no religious restrictions

What motivates hatred-filled bigoted minds to commit crimes against innocent people? What satisfaction do they gain?

 What pardon can the masterminds of the perpetrators be given? They have not won, for those who worshipped that day died martyrs… .

 

    That alone suffices.

 

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. 

 

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HAVE HEART, NO WHY, HOW AND WHAT

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

Having won Draupadi

At the Swayamvar,

Came with her to meet Kunti,

Arjuna won alms, O Mother,

“Share equally, my children!”

A mother’s command;

No deviation.

 

Yudhisthir explained to Kunti,

“Thou shouldst not repent, mother,

Marisha was married to ten Prachetas,

Jatila, to Saptarshi

And mythology

is replete with examples

of Polyandry.”

Neither would Panchali

be the first,

nor the only one.

It was not accidental,

but by design.

 

Lord Shiva’s boon to

Nilayani’s prayer

to have a husband with 14 qualities,

but found in five and granted.

“Boon or bane O lord,”

“Every morning upon bathing

thou shall become a virgin

my child , dear Nalayani.”

But how ??

Hymenoplasty !!

“Have heart

no why, no how, no what”

Enjoy mythology!!

 

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THAT ‘S  THE  DIFFERENCE

Dr (Major) B C Nayak

 

Still in jet lag or equivalent,
Dysrhythmic Circadian rhythm.

For nearly two weeks,
From plain to peak,
from low land to high,
from downs to ups,
from valley to peaks,
from water reservoir
to waterfalls,
from low altitude to high
from “vibgyor”,
to vibgyor carpet,
enjoyed by the one,
arduous and adventurous,
his sojourn.

A trekker 
acknowledges instantly 
each and every
birthday wishes !!

In comparison
To some 
Habituated to wait
Till late evening,
And the acknowledgement,
Just  "Thank you all".

That is the spirit,
That is the difference,
being a trekker,
always resolving.
"If you want to do something
do it today, and now."

Hats off to You,
Keep it up.
 

Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin

 

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THE SCREAM

Prof. Sridevi Selvaraj

 

The old man went on screaming. The walls were shivering in fear.

              ‘Take the pillow and move it this side. Adjust the fan speed. Where are you? Come fast. How many times to call you? Can’t you hear me? You and your deaf ears. Just like your family. Fools’

                The old woman could not move faster because of her age and she was moving at her own slow pace towards him and heard the onslaught with a smile of apology on her face. There was no smirk. It was a simple and peaceful smile. 

She quietly came up and adjusted the pillow and moved away to do one more chore in silence. She was used to this racket and screaming. She had lived with it for fifty long years. She also knew how to give all these insults back. Over  the years she had developed her own scheme of retaliating so powerfully to cow down her husband’s stentorian commands and to tackle his offensive screams. She knew what to do. She was calm and quiet.

               Time does not move fast when you are old. You have to push it patiently. It stands in front of you as memories, bringing your children and grand children in visions. The old man and the woman lived in separate worlds of their pasts. They were looking out into the garden in silence.

The old man suddenly started talking about his lovely garden in front of the house.

               ‘What a wonderful garden! These flowers  have really started blooming. Aren’t they?  How lovely! Those bright yellow flowers and these little red ones are great. Look at the colour combination in this purple and white flower. God is an artist. But here it’s all my work. My hard work. My idea. You never bother about the garden. Your background is like that. Your family never had any taste.  Your brothers and sisters do not know what it is to have a garden. Only I know the value of flowers. Now I am sick and  I am not able to look after them personally, but once I am well,  I will get a few more varieties and plant them along the compound wall. I want red hibiscus to grow in a long row on the other side of the house.’

                The woman continued to maintain her silence. Her face did not show any expression at all to any of the comments made on her family. She was thinking of something else.

‘A few more years to live for me. When a man constantly feels great only when he belittles others what can a woman do? Men can express their need to dominate. Lucky.’

              The next day the garden looked extraordinarily clean in the morning. The man got up as usual and finished his quota of shouting and finally looked out and saw his plants in bloom missing.

‘What happened? What happened to my flowers? Where are the other plants? What? What? Where are the flowers?’ the screams continued.

                After what seemed to be ages, the woman said,   ‘they were creating a lot of problem to me. The leaves and flowers keep falling down and the whole place has become so dirty and I have no time to clean up the place. So I ordered them to be cut them away’ in a simple tone that could have irritated any objective onlooker too.

The man’s voice jumped up and down. He screamed louder, cursed, blasphemed and his voice was heard across the street.

The woman had an expression of calmness on her face. She continued to be quiet. There was no victory in her eyes. They were calm. Her silence now looked like a strong will. Her expression was pure iron.

Slowly the man came around and settled down to complain instead of screaming. Gradually even that changed to murmuring – a kind of mumbling. His voice became subdued and finally stopped. He too became silent and began staring at the empty space.                   

The neighbours were discussing how bad the woman was to destroy a lovely garden like that without any mercy at all and how badly she had been treating her husband.

 

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.

 

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WHEN I AM GONE....

Subha Bharadwaj

 

i shall be the breath of fresh air,

the warmth of winter sun,

The tranquil waters,

The calmness of mind &

the rich soil in which i shall grow,

provide a canopy, blooms, flowers and fruits.

 

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

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

 

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BRIDES

Sulochana RamMohan

 

All girls want to be

beautiful brides

They go on dreaming

in the extreme heat

of sultry noons

the air growing heavy

with the weight

of unfulfilled yearnings.

 

When the monsoons rush in

On the wings of

lightning brilliance

the dreams are washed away

Diluted into colourless hopes

they taunt the thunder

and spark off rebellious streaks.

 

In Spring the brides are decked

in tender green sprigs

and orange blossoms

Tritely they follow

the Wedding March

Disciplined in their virginal whites

they suppress wayward passions

and smile vacantly

for endless snapshots.

 

All girls dream of being brides

But none think of life as a wife

By the time the wedding veil is removed

and orange blossoms wither away

into dry petals of crushed dreams,

Winter creeps in.

Cold seeps into the bones and solidifies

A layer of ice

stiffening pride.

 

The brides wait passively

for the turn of season

Autumn leaves falling desperately

Onto indifferent routines

Nights straining to set tunes,

New rhythms denied expression.

 

The seasons repeat in monotonous cycles

And the girls grow out of

their daydreaming lethargy.

All brides are but beautiful dreams

Innocent in white,

Stilled in photographs.

 

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

 

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OF SPRITE AND COLA
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

In the face that stared back at him,
all bearded and smiling,
Bhola found the famous Baba levitating,
gently chiding him for a glass of sprite he was holding.

Don't you know, 
Gomutra is much healthier 
than this sweet poison you are drinking,
this sprite and cola,
the blood of the oppressed and deprived,
this liquid of the corporate tribe! 

Bhola looked guiltily at the Baba.
Levitating, who said, see,
I am already off the ground,
I can reach the heaven
in the twinkle of an eye,
have lunch with Gods 
and a dance with the Apsaras. 
It's all because of the strict life I lead,
no meat, no alcohol
pure thoughts and clean living overall.

And look at you, sinner!
You drink this poison,
this water from the gutter,
and you eat flesh of innocent animals!
Have you ever thought of the after-life,
you ignorant fool?

He shivered inside,
his heart jumped like a demented frog.
Wondered poor Bhola, 
when the Baba was so anti-Cola,
how could he tell him,
his glass was half sprite and half Gin! 
 

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THE EMPTY TRAIN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Deep inside my core
where a train engine moves all the time 
with a bevy of empty bogeys 
and a trail of deafening roar, 
I carry loads of memories of green mountains, 
the open sky and the blue sea.

There were days in the past
when the bogies were so full
with smiling men and women sipping tea.
Young boys and girls holding hands
gazing out, lost in their dreams,
Little children running around
chirping like happy birds,
Hostesses in dazzling blue,
serving cookies and lemonade,
and blushing on being complimented
on their virginal beauty. 

Over the years everyone got down,
leaving a trace of sweet melancholy,
of vanishing songs and silent melodies, 
the pantry car has no more lemonade, 
the dining car is deserted.
Ah! only if the noise could stop
and the engine stood still,
I could lean on the railings
and look at the abyss of time
with melting eyes and silent sighs.

 

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USELESS DIGAMBAR
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

 

On a late October afternoon about five years back, I was getting ready to leave for my usual walk in the nearby park when my mobile phone rang. It was Archana, my friend Digambar's wife on the line. Before I could say Hello, she blurted out.
"Bhai, can you please come over to our place urgently? It's about your friend and a bit serious."
All my friends and I knew that with Digambar nothing less than serious ever happens. But it must be mega serious for Archana to sound so frantic. I asked her, "What happened? Is Digaa alright? Is he sick?"
Archana sounded quite helpless,
"It's difficult to explain things on the phone. Please come over as soon as you can. Your friend has dropped a bomb and the house is on fire. I had called two days back and came to know that you had gone abroad and would be back this afternoon. That's why I am making this call."

I promptly dropped the idea of going for a walk and rushed to Digambar's house, more out of sympathy for Archana than a concern for Digaa. Her life had been one big roller-coaster ride from the moment she decided to hitch her wagon to this mad star.

Of course anyone who had married Digaa was bound to have gallons of excitement pouring in dollops almost everyday of life. Digaa was born to give heart attacks to others. In our college days he used to pinch everything pinchable from our rooms. One summer morning on the eve of final exams he moved in the corridors of the hostel stark naked like a shameless baboon demanding a lungi from any son of a bourgeois who cared to feel offended by his nudity. He lost his government job after spending six months in jail for beating a corrupt official to pulp, invalidating him for the rest of his life.

And he created a big faux pas when he announced to the world that his son had died whereas the one who had died was his pet dog, whom he treated like a son. Digaa was a sort of living legend among his friends and admirers.  For his otherwise cool wife he was a hurricane who could uproot anything that even remotely bears a semblance to normalcy. Yet Archana, the sweet wife of this maverick, was devoted to her husband and doted on him like a lady Python on her slithering cub.

Archana opened the door with the mobile phone glued to her ear, talking animatedly. She sounded apologetic, yet stoutly defensive. I could hear only her side of the conversation and kept wondering why it sounded so strange, "No, no, he certainly did not mean it....... Arrey, forget it Bhaisahab, you know him for so many years..........He doesn't bear malice towards any one. OK, I am ending the call, one of his friends is here.......Yes, yes, he came just now......Stick? no, no, he is not carrying any stick. Why should he carry a stick?...... No, of course not.....he has not come to beat up his friend! Calm down Bhaisahab, I told you Na, he didn't mean it! OK Bhaisahab, bye."

Hardly had she disconnected when the phone rang again, "Hello, how are you? So nice to hear your voice......No, he is unwell, sleeping now.......No, of course not, he didn't mean it,....Hah! How can he say that to a gem like you! Just forget it, Forget Na! We will all have a big dinner at our home after he gets well.... Yes, yes, promise. Bye"

I was about to ask her what the matter was, when the phone rang again. The voice on the other side was so loud that Archana kept the phone a few inches away from her ear and I could clearly hear what was being said, "Hello, where is that rascal? Where is he hiding? And why are you taking this call?"
"This is my phone. Has he given this number to you? See, how absent-minded he is! Who are you Bhai sahab? I am not able to place you"
"Oh, you don't? Good that you don't, otherwise I would have made you also a party to the defamation suit. My wife has threatened to divorce me, thanks to your useless husband. Where is he? Give the phone to him. Tell him advocate Sarat Mahanty is on the line."
"Namaskar Bhai sahab, he is unwell and sleeping now. I will tell him".
"Sleeping, you said? He is sleeping? How can he sleep after setting my house on fire?"
"No, no, he meant no harm to you, he is an innocent soul. You know him, don't you, can't even harm a mouse, let alone a big lawyer like you. Why are you talking of a defamation suit and all? Let him recover, I will ask him to go and apologise to you for something he did without knowing the consequences........"

The man, being a smart, stubborn lawyer, was still shouting when I went to the nearby room to check on Digaa, I presumed that is the room where he must be sleeping. The airconditioner was on, cool air was blowing noiselessly in the room, a dim blue light was creating a dream like ambience. I went near the bed to greet Digaa, but he was sound asleep. A look at his face gave me the shock of my life, I was about to shriek, but controlled myself. Digaa's face had swollen like a small football as if some one had given him a couple of solid blows and knocked out a few teeth.

Horrified, I ran back to the living room to find Archana on yet another call, cooing like a mother hen over a docile chick, "You call me Bhabhi, but you are not prepared to believe me!......Yes, he is really asleep........yes, he is really unwell,........ no no, he is not hiding from anyone.....Yes, yes, you can meet him after a week, he will tell you everything.....what has happened to him? Nothing serious, he will be alright in a few days. Let me go, I have to make tea for his friend who is here... what? Ginger tea? Yes, I am making ginger tea......yes, yes I will make for you also, when you come next week. Now let me go...I will tell him you had called. OK?" Before the mobile phone rang again, Archana put it on silent mode and got up, "Let me go and make some tea for you, don't take any call, just ignore if the phone rings. Meanwhile take this mobile, which is your friend's and see the messages that came to him. This had been switched off for the last two days after more than fifty calls were received in a span of two hours. I switched it on for you to read the messages. Tell me, how come you have not received any message from your friend?"

I explained to her that I was abroad for the last one week and had taken out the SIM card there and put a local SIM. Hence no messages came till I returned to India four hours back. Archana left for the kitchen and I opened Digaa's message box. I was shocked to see the number of messages received and their tone and tenor. All of them were explosive in nature. Digaa must have set off a bomb under the pants of many, the way the messages read: "Hey, Digaa, have you really gone crazy? Go and get your head examined by a good doctor", "Digaa, you bastard, who are you to give lecture to me? Go and see yourself in the mirror". Our friend Ajit had lamented, "Digaa, after all that I did for you, is this how you pay me back? You should have thought about my family when you sent the message to me!" Another friend had threatened Digaa using some colourful languages and giving a good description of what he would do to Digaa's various anatomical parts, dwelling extensively on the sensitive parts of the body. Many other messages contained unprintable abuses doubting Digaa's lineage and wondering if he was born out of wedlock.

My head was reeling with shock when Archana entered the room with tea and some cookies. I had no interest in tea anymore, I was bursting with curiosity to know what caused this avalanche of abuses. Archana started by asking, "Do you remember Lokanath Babu,  your friend from college?"
I replied, "Who? Lokaa? Yes, of course I remember him. Last heard, he has become a good for nothing fellow, although at one time he was a very successful contractor. He has fallen into bad times after he got addicted to alcohol and acquired other bad habits, wasting a lot of money on women of questionable repute. But tell me, what has Lokaa got to do with Digaa? Are they still friends?"
Archana winced at my question, "Yes, it looks like my husband is the only friend he is left with."
I was surprised, "Why is Digaa still keeping contact with him? Everyone  has dropped Lokaa like a hot potato!"

"You know your friend. Loyal to his friends to the core. It seems during college days Loknath Babu had given some financial help to my husband. That has earned him a life time loyalty. Once in a month or so he calls and they talk for a long time, my husband mostly pleading with him to give up his bad habits and return to a normal life. Loknath babu promises he would change, but apparently nothing has gone well with him recently. My husband tells me Loknath babu has lost almost all his money, beats up his wife, the kids and visits the red light area every evening. Spends money on prostitutes, that's what my husband says. It's really a pathetic situation."

I was getting impatient, "OK, OK, I understand, now tell me what did Digaa do to get all these nasty messages."
Archana continued, "Day before yesterday Loknath Babu called around ten o clock in the night. Your friend listened to him for some time and since he was not able to speak, sent him a message. But you know your friend, he doesn't know anything about mobile phones. The room was semi dark, because I had gone off to sleep. It seems he typed out the message and pressed some buttons. At some point there must have been a prompt, "Send to all?". Without knowing what he was doing he must have pressed 'enter'. And the message went to every number listed on the contacts. Within a few minutes all hell broke loose."

I interrupted Archana, "Why, what was the message?"
Archana winced, hit by a hard memory. She opened the message box and showed it to me. The moment I read it, my head started reeling. Of all the bomb shells Digaa had liberally dropped over the years on his unsuspecting friends, this was the mother of them all. It read "Better reform yourself. How long will you keep tasting the forbidden fruits of other people? Don't you have a small bit of conscience? At least think of your family, do you want them to drown because of your black deeds? Reform when there is still time, you sinner, otherwise you will go to hell! When you die".

In utter shock I blurted out, "O God! this is what Digaa sent to all his contacts?"
Archana nodded, "Within a few minutes the calls started pouring. The first call was from your friend Santosh Babu. Since my husband could not take the call he woke me up and handed over the phone to me. There was a big blast from the other side, 'Abey Digaa, you rascal, why do you want to break my home? Don't you have anything better to do? And why me, you idiot?..' I interrupted him, when he knew it was me on the phone he calmed down, but wanted an explanation. I told him my husband was unwell and was sleeping, he was not convinced, 'How can he sleep in peace after setting my home on fire? Wake him up, I want to tear him to pieces.' So I asked him what was the matter. He screamed, 'See what message he has sent to me, the half wit rascal' and kept down the phone. I went to the 'sent message' box and when I saw what it contained, I almost fainted. I asked your friend what he meant by sending such a message to Santosh Babu? He was surprised, shook his head and went back to sleep. Within a few seconds the phone buzzed again. It was the priest from the Lingaraj temple. Before I could say hello, he started heaping the filthiest abuses using utterly unprintable words. I cut him short immediately, he stopped the abuse but asked me to convey to my husband that next time he comes anywhere near the temple, all the priests will gang up and break his legs. This sordid saga continued late into the night, till I switched off the phone. It had remained switched off till I gave it to you now to read the messages. But most of his friends knew my number and kept calling me.. Thank God, he is not able to speak and could not take the calls, otherwise he would have gone crazy by now".

I wanted to ask Archana when was Digamabar anything other than crazy, but my mind was nagged by another question. Why was Digaa unable to speak and why his face had swollen like a mini football? I asked her. She smiled an utterly pathetic smile, it looked beautifully sad on her serene face.
"Your friend's life is an endless adventure, it's very difficult to say, where one episode ends and another starts. The day prior to the explosive message episode, he had an urge to have a glass of lime soda at midnight. So he got up and went to the kitchen, mixed sugar with soda and sliced the lemon. A few drops of lemon juice clung to the knife. Your diligent friend did not want it to go waste. So he licked the drops from the knife. The knife was awfully sharp and there was a big cut on the tongue. Blood started pouring out of the cut, he panicked and started screaming. I woke up and rushed to the kitchen. His lower face had got coated with blood and the flow was frightening. I applied some ice to it, but didn't know what to do to stop the flow of blood. It must be hurting like hell, your friend started whimpering. After a few minutes of applying ice the flow of blood stopped. I gave him a Crocin and we waited for morning. At seven we got into a rickshaw and went to Dr. Behera's home".

I asked her, "Guna Behera? Our class mate?"
She nodded, "Yes we usually go to him for minor ailments and for advice. My husband's face had swollen, particularly on the right side. Dr. Behera for some reason was in a vey jovial mood, far from the depression we were going through because of a sleepless night. The moment he saw us he started laughing, "Abey Digaa, why is your face swollen like a big monkey's posterior? Has Archana given a big bite on your cheek? So romantic at this ripe age, haan?" I blushed, but your friend gave a big grunt and through his swollen tongue, gave a tongue lashing to Dr. Behera, who of course understood nothing of it. He stopped laughing, took out some antibiotics and pain killers and told me to administer the drugs to my husband, "Sorry can't prescribe any ointment for the tongue, these antibiotics will take effect in three days. Keep giving him the painkillers. Digaa's face will swell even more, but don't panic, it will become big, like the posterior of a langoor.

Once the antibiotics start working his face will shrink and get back to its original shape of a monkey's behind'. With that Dr. Behera bent again with a rollicking laugh. My husband couldn't stand it any more, he uttered some utterly ghastly words which no one understood and dragged me out by my hands. And here we are, he sound asleep and me answering phone calls and giving explanations to people. I have taken leave from office till your friend becomes normal."

At the mention of the word 'normal', I started laughing. Normal? Will Digaa ever be normal? I had half a mind to go and see Digaa in his room, but the thought of his swollen, langoor's-posterior face sent a shiver down my spine. I left for home, letting Archana wait for the day when her dear husband will get back his monkey's behind of a face. 

 

 

Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. 

 

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Reader's Feedback Corner 

 

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Dear Editor

 

Congratulations ! The  Forty First edition of LiteraryVibes  contains wonderful collection of poems, short stories, translations.. 

Editorial - very touching ! 

Enjoyed the short story of Gokula Chandra  Mishra .( Gokula Bhaina)

 

Warm regards

Dasarathi Mishra

 

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