Literary Vibes - Edition XLVI
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Forty sixth edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with a bouquet of scintillating poems and delightful stories. Hope you will enjoy them.
Close on the heels of the Hyderabad encounter and killing of the four accused in the despicable rape of a veterinary doctor, reports of rape and harassment of vulnerable women have been appearing in media with sickening regularity. The attack on the Unnao rape victim leading to her death is followed by a story that has appeared in today's newspapers about a rape victim in Meerut being threatened by the accused, of 'consequences more serious then the Unnao victim.' What trend does this show? A serious disregard for legal reprisals and as in the case of Hyderabad, of street justice? Absence of fear of the police and the long arms of law? A serious breakdown of ethical society? A moral bankruptcy? Perhaps a combination of all these.
Yet we have hundreds of heartening stories of individual kindness and sterling examples of personal honesty from all over the country. A 92 years old Sarla Tripathy distributing water to train passengers in Gwalior station (she has been doing it for close to forty years), a Jyotsna Gandhi, the physically challenged beggar rushing to pay up her municipal dues of more than thirteen thousand rupees in Vadiadara on receipt of the demand notice, are as inspiring as the astounding honesty of K. Sudhakaran, a lottery ticket vendor of Kanhangad in Kasargod district of Kerala who unhesitatingly parted with one crore rupees prize money for someone who had just blocked ten tickets over phone and one of the tickets turned out to be the winner!
Yet when it comes to rescuing a hapless citizen being beaten up by hooligans, or victim of a road rage, or of molestation we become mute spectators. Is it the fear of reprisal by the antisocial elements, or the reluctance to approach the police, which make us dysfunctional? No country can call itself civilised if there is no fear of law or the law enforcement agencies, whether police or judiciary, in the minds of criminals and anti-social elements. It is time for the civil society to deliberate on this burning issue. Those who rest with complacency thinking that it is somebody else's problem, should remember that widespread poverty, deprivation and pessimism can be a fatal threat to prosperity in a few isolated pockets of the country.
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With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
PANCHALINGESHWAR
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The hills sprawl naked.
Bald and smooth contours with pits
growing dark clumps of bramble,
a hot sun confuses the tourist
as the bogey-heat,
palpably flogging the humming wind.
In a shallow ravine pebbles clog
the oozing sweat of stones,
higher up, spittle flows down
from a dark little cavern
shrining the five sacred phallic rocks,
the fertility Lord, manifested.
Our fingers grope
for the penta-phallic Lingams,
in the lichened slush
of the dark dank cave.
The swirling stream
flowing slow and soft,
reminiscent of Neruda lover
and her nocturnal piss,
receives you with a pelvic giggle.
The hot humid sweet smell
recalls the oldest ruse,
the serpent teasing with an apple.
Recalling
the mystic striptease in Eden,
we emerge
wise and stolid,
and roam the hills
with an unconvoluted psyche.
Footnote - The Panchalingeshwar (Penta-phallic Lord) Hills, a part of Eastern Ghat hill-range, sprawl in North-east Odisha. A little cave houses penta-Shiv-lingam submerged in a little stream, a fertility manifestation of the Lord.
GOLDEN BALL
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
I don’t remember playing with it ever.
Its size and brilliance,
a new sun to a late riser,
escaped my grasp. I always lost it
before ever chanced to grab it.
Before father gave it to me,
mother took it away,
kept it under her fellow,
and diverted my attention.
I gingerly stepped into puberty.
Searching for it
among my sleeping mother’s spaces,
guarded by her breasts that had fed me,
thighs that had delivered me,
I came of age.
One day, mother put it under my pillow.
Into my slip it wiggled as eel.
Before I woke up, wife stole it away.
In her body it dived and swam
turning her skin auburn and hair silk.
Sitting in the mustard sun, wife and me
watch our children play with
their own golden balls without fuss.
Cool, they don’t seem to be bothered
of what they might be missing.
RETIREMENT
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
People of the village of Sarangpur, these days, notice the old couple spending time in the large and lush green lawn from eight in the morning until nine in the evening. They would sit in a spacious sofa-like box-swing fixed in the shade of a large Kadamba tree, or they would take walks on the soft grass of the lawn, bare-footed. They would eat breakfast and lunch, drink umpteen cups of tea, and go into their silent and grand yet gaunt bungalow standing behind the lawn, only after finishing their dinner on the lawn late in the evening. The meals and tea were served on a small side table by a maid who flitted at their beck and call, while a gardener remained busy in the background, watering or mowing the lawn, or tending the luxuriant flower pots. During the day, many from the village would drop in to have a chat with the friendly old couple, and at times to ask their advice in social matters, or to touch them for a small loan that the latter gave them without any hassle. Many among them would recall a time when the house and the compound were less opulent, but more crowded with joyous shouts and laughs of children and adults.
Navin Das worked and lived in Calcutta. He held a managerial position and earned a good salary in an upmarket company. His wife Champavati Devi lived in their village house with the children, looking after the sizeable inherited landed property that was cultivated for two crops annually through share-cropping. Their son studied in class five, and daughter in class three of their well-reputed village school.
Navin babu visited his family in the village once in a fortnight, reaching home Friday night, and leaving for Calcutta by Sunday morning, covering the two-hundred odd kilometres by train. In spite of his busy schedule in the village, like attending to various odd needs at the house or to problems of the share-farmers, he apportioned sufficient time for spending with children and wife to compensate for his fortnight-long absence. By ten in the evening, dinner would be over. Then the children retired to bed. Most of the Friday nights during his visits, the couple would spend sleepless, and their children would be surprised to notice their parents looking sleep-starved, fatigued, and lethargic the next morning. Most baffling would be their otherwise prim and proper mother, punctual to a dot, coming out of her bedroom quite late in the morning with ruffled hair, unkempt sari, and at times an earring or an anklet missing.
The next night together would be more sedate and soft for the couple. An hour would be kept aside for whispering sweet nothings to oil the aging engine of mutual affection, and quite half of the night to rest the tired bones carried forward from the previous night’s sleeplessness. In such lucid and intimate nights, Champavati would burrow deeper into Navin’s arms, and whisper, “What sort of life is this, my husband? Most of the time we are two hundred kilometres apart. When would we get to sleep together every night like a normal couple? Even my housemaid is luckier than me.”
Navin’s reply would be a warm affectionate helplessness, expressed in a tighter hug than usual, or a lovey-dovey peck on her mouth, at times, the gesture leading to more serious physical exhibitions of affection. Such a spontaneous question from wife, and husband’s affectionate reply-sessions were a kind of ambrosia to both. Champavati knew Navin’s helplessness, besides her own limitations in their compelling situation. Navin could not leave his job at Calcutta and live in the village, neither could Champavati shift to him permanently, leaving the village land to the mercy of their share-farmers. Neither the salary, nor the income from their land, alone, was enough to fulfil their needs, like giving children good education, building a good house, saving a little for old age, in addition to living comfortably in the present.
But that question of Champavati, that had really had no answer, was sort of saying ‘I miss you every night, my sweetheart, when you are not in my bed’. It worked as the much-needed drop of lubricant in their relationship that was no doubt growing rusty with age. It also gave the couple something to look forward to in their life that was yet to be achieved. Also, it gave more meaning to the sacrifices for the children they made by staying apart in the prime of life.
Before Navin’s eyes, the river Hoogli (Ganga) flowing by Calcutta got muddier with industrial waste as factories multiplied in the city, governments changed, his company expanded growing into a group-company. He himself got promoted from a manager to the post of a general manager, and then becoming one of his group-company’s vice presidents. Grey started appearing amongthe pitch-black strands of hair of Champavati, that gradually multiplied in number. She, like most women of her age, raged a battle against these unwelcome changes to hold back her runaway youth. She coloured her greying hair to look youthful, resorted to brushing her teetha a second time before bed, and took morning-walks. Her walks along the village lanes and orchards made elders raise their eyebrows. They little understood the benefits or aesthetics of morning-walk in nature’s serene lap, it being an imported urban idea. Even village dogs expressed their surprise with little yelps, ‘Who is this lady disturbing our morning’s forty winks?’
Navin and Champavati’s children completed their schooling in the village, moved over to Calcutta to live with their father for pursing higher studies. A beautiful bungalow was built in the village replacing their smallish inherited abode, their surrounding compound being walled and spruced up adding the lawn, and flower garden to match the upmarket bungalow.
During this gradual climbing up the social and wealth ladder, Champavati realized that her dreams of sleeping with Navin in a cosy togetherness every night, all the year round, had still remained a dream. It rankled, when intervals between Navin’s visits to the village had rather gone longer, from a fortnight to a quarter of a year or more. Those days, the children and Navin visited Champavati together during the former’s college vacations. After the long hiatus in the children’s company, she would be so starved for them that she stayed glued to them most of the time. Navin felt neglected. He would sail through his village lanes and fields like a derelict ship drifting without a rudder. When finally, happy and fulfilled with her children’s daylong company, Champavati entered her bedroom to feast upon her marooned husband, she mostly found the solitary reaper softly snoring in her bed. She would make a face, “Look at this man, I live waiting for this hour the whole of my life, but my Calcutta lover can’t wait for an hour for his sweet-heart. Poor me!” With this little critical remark with an edge of acute love in her low monologue and with a smile and quip ‘I will see to your crises tomorrow night, sweetheart’, she would burrow into him and lapse into a dreamless six hours.
On certain nights she tried to hurry up her schedule with the children to keep her appointment with her waiting husband. But to her surprise, it invited the children’s soft ridicule, “Oh Mama, we know the old man wouldn’t miss you much, as much as we would. Let’s play one more hand of cards before you go to bed. We give you our word that he would be thanking us to keep you out of his hair; ha, ha!”
These insensitive words would raise a doubt about her own children’s sensibility towards her and Navin, and a bit of self-rebuke crept into Champavati’s mind about the sacrifices they had undergone to bring up such a brood of rascals. She wondered what onecould expect from those rude children who made fun of their parents’ closeness. The children’s remarks would haunt her even deeper. She doubted, “Should age have killed her hunger for Navin’s company altogether? Was she giving it an overdose?” Her other doubt was, “Are we being watched by our grown-up children, even when we are together behind bolted doors?”
Their son went to America, sent by his IT company, fell in love with an Indian girl doing an IT job for another company there, got married to her, and they decided to settle down there. Champavati’s daughter was given in marriage to an IAS officer of Kerala cadre, and she settled down with her husband at Trivandrum, almost two thousand kilometres away from their village Sarangpur. Navin retired and came home to live in the village bungalow with Champavati. It was hunky dory for a few days. The house was serene and silent. No worries prevented Chamavati from spending as much time as she wished with her husband. They slept every night like copulating snakes, intertwined, to their heart’s content.
But slowly Champavati missed her children. She also missed her grandchildren whom she had hardly known; she had met them just a few times. The son, with his little kid and wife, was living an over-busy life with his American dreams. He had no time to spare for his parents. Their daughter at Trivandrum, embroiled in her domestic chores with ailing parents-in-law living with her, could hardly find time to come and stay with them with her kid daughter. They didn’t visit her to avoid increasing her misery of struggling for time from looking after two ailing in-laws, a husband, and a little kid. Their loneliness in their huge bungalow haunted them.
Champavati noticed that the taste, feel, and the fragrance of ambrosia in their staying together was eroding with the passage of time. Her favourite novelist, Marquez, she recalled, had observed in one of his novels, ‘Age makes men and women stink like hen-coops.’ She had not agreed with the author’s sweeping statement in her youth. But now she noticed Marquez had returned to roost in her mind. She became enormously conscious of her own body’s cleanliness, and insisted that her husband also should take a second shower before bed. She couldn’t appreciate Navin’s remark, “You smell like a cake of Dove soap in bed, not like yourself.” In her youth she would have recorded this remark in her scrapbook as an undying statement of love, but mighty time had taken its toll. She also detected that Navin didn’t smell like Navin after his late-night shower. “What a dilemma for aging couples!”, she would wonder. One side they had the Devil, on the other, a deep sea.
Navin developed high blood pressure, and Champavati, arthritic knees. Their pleasure of long walks had to stop because of Champvati’s knee condition. Navin did his bit on a treadmill he had brought from Calcutta. The too grew feeble with age. The big, silent house seemed haunted by silent unbearable memories of a better time. Living indoors became painful. So, they moved onto the lawn except for their bed time.
The old couple would spend most of their waking hours on the lawn, relaxing, walking in the lawn, having their food there, meeting people, and finally returning to the bungalow when they felt very tired by nine in the night, to rest their exhausted bones. After taking showers, they would collapse into each other’s lap, to put it euphemistically, until the first crow cawed the next morning.
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
EXAMINATION
Geetha Nair
The exam hall…
The known sights, sounds, smells -
Bent heads, pens galore,
Watches with urgent dials
Supine on desks,
Rustles, shuffles, sighs,
Sweat, blood, fighting the pleasing scent
Of print and paper
All rising to the resigned ceiling.
Only,
This time, no strolling
In crisp saree, swivel eyes, detached mind -
On the bench, at the desk, pen in trembling hand
Staring at the answer book
Blank as pitiless eyes.
The questions
Romano-Greek;
Multiple choices spewing
Mockingly.
Not one did I know;
Not one;
I, who had supervised
Sixteen thousand
And topped in eight!
LOVE - ACTION - DRAMA
Geetha Nair
We had known Sukhwant Singh when he was a lieutenant. He was a very young and likeable man, tall and muscular, the very picture of fitness. He loved the fiery chicken curry and string hoppers I made now and then. "Gunpowder, Ma'am!" he would exclaim, eating with great relish, sweat trickling down from his forehead to the part of his cheeks left free and onto his neatly-packed beard.
After my husband opted out of the Army and we went back to our native Kerala, SS, as we called him, kept in touch with my husband who was two courses senior to him but whom he regarded as a friend.
Three years later, SS sent us his wedding invitation and phoned to say the two of us had to attend. The bride was Balwinder Kaur, a nineteen year old from the outskirts of his hometown. She looked shy and pretty in the two photos he had sent along with the invitation.The wedding was to be at Patiala, a place that held pleasant memories for us. We were all set to go when my husband's precious Bullet skidded. It ditched him-literally. He landed in a ditch. His left tibia had a fracture. His leg was in a cast. There was no question of travelling to Patiala or to any other place for a couple of months.
SS sent us some photos of the wedding. The bride looked lovely. They made a good pair, tall, slim and trim, elegant. He wrote that they were going honeymooning in Thailand. A few days later, he posted photos of their Thai trip. There were euphoric scribbles too. We were happy for him; he had obviously found a soul mate.
My husband requested him to make a trip to God's own country: he assured SS that our state, a mere chilly on the map, had beaches, backwaters and undulating hills clad in tea bushes. And spices galore, of course. Finally, a year later, the young couple flew down from the north to Trivandrum. The intervening three years had made very little difference to SS. Balwinder was all we had hoped she would be; sweet, friendly. I took to her at once.
Over lunch, we discussed the itinerary. It was our standard one for dear guests who came to Kerala and stayed with us. First, the sights of the city with an evening in Kovalam, famed for its beaches. A day in Kanya Kumari, Land’s End. A long drive to Munnar, a hill station famed for scenic beauty and for tea. After a night there, a drive back to the sea coast, to Alapuzha, a Venice-like town. We would spend an evening in a house-boat, cruising the fabled backwaters andspend the night in it as well. Balwinder's eyes shone at the prospect. SS was looking at her with adoring eyes.
I had given them the best room in our house, of course; it had wooden walls and a wooden floor, Kerala-style. The verandah opened onto the back yard. There was a view of our blessed land's greenery- chakka trees, a nutmeg tree, banana plants and the ubiquitous coconut palm. "So green, so cool" said Balwinder, drinking in the scene.
"Bet there will be dozens of birds in those trees in the morning; wish I had brought my air gun," responded her husband.
There was a gasp from his wife. I looked at SS and was reassured to find he was grinning.
They loved Kovalam; everyone does. We reached home around eight pm.
When my husband got ready to pour the customary, pre-dinner drinks, SS raised a polite hand : "Not for me, Sir. I am off drinks"
The bottle froze in mid-air as its holder stared incredulously.
"You? Off drinks.Why?”
No reasons were given; SS blushed and murmured something, looking all the while at his smiling wife.
"No Kaala Doreya tonight, then ? Alright; I shall sing instead,”declared my husband after he had recovered a little from the unexpected blow..
"No!" I protested, “Don't send them back; they have just arrived."
I remembered boisterous nights when SS had entertained us with his raucous rendering of Punjabi folk songs accompanied by the inevitable bhangra. It was difficult to get him to stop.
After a dinner of freshly-made string hoppers (Balwinder was at my shoulder, learning how to make them) and fiery chicken curry, we called it a day.
“Uxorious b******,” snorted my husband as we were getting ready for bed. He was still indignant at having lost a drinking partner. Uxorious was one of the words I had introduced him to, hoping he would accept it as his creed. He complained about me to our friends, calling me a Tharoorist, one who terrorised people with long, difficullt words. But I didn’t mind; I knew he was actually proud of my verbal skills.
The days passed smoothly; we were enjoying them as much as the young couple did. My husband and SS kept up their fouji talk peppered with sound and fury while Balwinder and I discussed domestic and personal matters. I learned that she had led a rather sheltered life. Her mother had passed away when she was a child and her grandmother had brought her up. She had four elder brothers of whom she seemed to be in awe. Her loves were painting and embroidery and recently, SS, of course. She was settling slowly into army life. I assured her it would take time. “It’s the parties I can’t bear. He drinks and then he sings and dances. O! I can’t bear to watch him making a fool of himself…” she lamented softly. I had difficulty believing this was a Punjabi ‘kudi’ in front of me. Had some perverse fairy exchanged babies in the cradle soon after she was born? Maybe she was actually a Malayali manga(womanl) of the north Kerala rural kind… .
At Kanya Kumari and Munnar too, SS didn’t touch a drop. My husband lost his patience on the drive from Munnar to Alleppey.
“Scared of your wife, eh?” he taunted SS. “Not scared,Sir. Just don’t want her upset,” the young man replied.
“You’re uxorious, man; that’s what you bloody are. Uxorious!” said my husband. There was silence in the car after this outburst. The term sounded dangerously like a bad word. I hastened to explain that uxoriousness only meant being excessively fond of one’s wife. “There’s another word that Balwinder knows already,” I added. “It’s maritorious.” Balwinder turned her startled doe-eyes towards me. I patted her arm. “It means being excessively fond of one’s husband,” I smiled. My husband digested that, then retorted with,”That’s a word not found in my wife’s vocabulary, anyhow!”
SS then told us he had promised his wife that he wouldn’t drink during their stay in Kerala. Thailand had been spoiled by his drinking. She had told him that she didn’t want an encore.
The houseboat was waiting for us, rocking gently on the grey water in the narrow canal. “Wait till we reach the backwaters,” I reassured the couple who were gazing at the dark water in doubt. I had noted that all visitors to Kerala liked the houseboat ride along the backwaters best. We boarded.There was a cook-cum-boatswain at our disposal. He showed us the just-caught fish lying on the slab in the little galley.”My name is Kannan. And Pearl Spot,” he said to Balwinder; “that is the name of this fish.
“It’s absolutely delicious,” added my husband, a chronic fish-lover.
The two tiny bedroms and the even tinier toilets were met with squeals of delight from Balwinder.
“It’s like a doll’s house!” she exclaimed.
The boat sped along a narrow canal bordered with little houses.We were seated on the open deck. Children at play on the banks waved to us. One group chorused, “One pen! One pen!” Kannan who had come out of the galley with tender coconut water for us explained that many children said this because foreign tourists sometimes gifted them pens.
Soon the houseboat was sailing along the vast expanse of the backwaters. We sat silent, taking in the calm beauty of the scene.
When the sun started slanting in the west , my husband went in and came out holding something behind his back..”What is life without the teacher?” he said holding up a full bottle of “Teacher’s”.
“It used to be your favourite, SS”, he said. The cool breeze, the blue expanse of water slowly turning dark, the sun an orange laddoo in the west, birds returning to their homes… .
“I’ll have a drink, Sir” said SS, jumping up.
At ten o’clock, the two were still at it. Then the singing began. Punjabi songs. And then the bhangda .How can one listen to a Punjabi song without dancing? Balwinder had become totally silent. SS tried to coax her out of her chair. “Come, do a giddha. Why are you upset? There is no one here except us. Madam will dance with you.” He pulled her out of the chair and swung her round and round. He was singing at the top of his voice all the time. Exactly what happened I do not know but she skidded and in a second had fallen over the railing into the black water.
The boatman and Kannan alerted by my shrieks came running. But SS had already dived in like an enormous cormorant. A rope was thrown by the men.SS clambered up with his wife over his shoulder.
She was trembling with fear and shivering with cold.
They went into their cabin to dry themselves and to change. I knocked to see if Balwinder was okay. She was.
Their dinner was served to them in the cabin. Kannan came out looking stunned.”What is it?” I asked in apprehension. “He has looong hair! Upto his knees! Krishna Krishna. A man with such long hair!” came the reply. I had to laugh at that though merriment was nowhere in the picture. My husband and I had a silent meal and a silent night.
Thus ended the holiday.
We dropped them at Kochi airport the next morning.
There was no communication for several weeks except for a brief formal note of thanks.. My husband was very upset. So was I. Were they ok? Were they still together, we wondered?
Dispelling our doubts and fears there came a photo from Meerut. It showed SS and Balwinder seated in a cafe. On the table in front of them were two half-drunk bottles of Fanta. The faces of both husband and wife were wreathed in smiles.
“Uxorious or Maritorious??” I murmured to my husband.
”Both,” he replied, with a playful whack on my head.
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
REBIRTH
K. Sreekumar
Trials over,
They threw away
The cast iron rod
It made a musical note,
As it hit the pavement
To call the scavenger's attention
They still remembered
The girl in pigtails
Rust and dust
And blood blackened
With time,
Tears, dried into
A salty whiteness,
Bundled with other scraps
Like a judge's useless gavel,
An old bus seat,
And a deaf stethoscope;
It left the sinful city
Months later,
Being smelt in a furnace,
It heaved a sigh
Like a girl's last breath,
Seeking redemption,
To be recast as
A true knight's sword!
NEWS REVIEW
K. Sreekumar
Looking over the prospective corpse
Headlines vied at each other
Pools of blood on the roadside
Blackened into ink on newsprint
Those who had done it
Told those who were shouting
That everything will be done,
Though nothing could be undone now
They were politely told
To make no noise about it
In a soft tender voice
Her heart beats told her breath
Not to leave now
Her eyes told the sight not to vanish
They had made her sign a paper
Saying she didn’t want anything done
In her name.
Her mouth was covered in linen
Thin linen
The water from the water canon
Tasted of salt
Not from the sea far away
But from an ocean within
BACKGROUND SCORE
K. SreeKumar
She really missed it
It had never left her before
The pain she was born with
Her teachers had told her
Only lepers missed it
She wanted to pinch herself
To see if she was dreaming
How can all her pain vanish
One chilly night just like that!
It had given her an identity
Added meaning to her life
She knew all the colours of blood
From orange to black
And all the shades of pain
From tears to tearing
It came as shiny threads
Black, yellow and crimson
Also as flimsy silk threads
Or chains and chains of yellow metal
Or as words in holy books
Her anklets made no noise
Her bangles had gone silent
Her heartbeats couldn’t be heard
Her breath had become noiseless
She wouldn’t have figured it out
Had the vultures not told her so
Why I wrote these poems
It was very painful even to think about the incident in Delhi. Though there had always been atrocities against women, the incident at Delhi was shocking. Some friends asked me why I had not responded to that in any way. The extreme level of cruelty had numbed me as a writer.
I thought poetry may be a good way to respond since there were other kinds of responses. The first poem is about an iron used as a weapon to kill a girl. Going through the furnace is for the iron road an act of absolution and redemption. The second poem is on how the individual response is drowned in the political turmoil. The third poem is about how pain is the theme of a woman’s life, anywhere anytime.
Coming Home
Sreekumar K
Dear Amma,
I have your letter here. They opened it and would have read it too. But they were kind enough to bring it to me the same day they got it. The policeman asked me whether I know to read. I told him I passed the tenth. I didn’t want to tell him I have a degree too. He wouldn’t like it, I thought.
Don’t worry about me at all. I am fine here. It doesn’t feel like a jail at all here. I have my own room. It is called a cell, but it is as good as that small room I like so much at home.
I am not allowed to mingle much with the people here. I like it that way. Most of them look more frightening than the cops. Cops are not frightening at all. They are rather friendly to me. I don’t know why.
I don’t know why you are so worried. You and me are pretty sure I had not done it. Then why are you worried? This is only an arrangement. They want to show on the TV and all that they have got the murderer. They are still searching for him, they told me. And I am sure he (or she) might be caught by now.
I know why you got all worried so soon, though I had been picked up two weeks ago. You are worried because you watch those stupid news channels. Turn it off. Or, watch some serials or something. They are more honest and truthful than the news.
I agree with the cops in what they have done. If this happened to our little Paru, I too would have wished it to happen to the one who did it. No, I don’t think I would have done it myself. Blood makes me sick, you know. Those four did the worst they could do to a lady. For that they got paid really well. I don’t think they were taken to the spot of crime at three in the morning for investigation. The police had planned the whole thing perfectly. Those guys were animals. If they were taken to court, it would have taken a long time for the verdict to come out. And what when the verdict comes out? They too will go out and walk free. So, this was a good thing to happen, except that it is worrying my silly mother like anything.
That happened far away in Telengana and I don’t think it will even happen in our place. OK, some Maoists were shot dead in our place a couple of months ago. But, didn’t they show on the TV what kind of weapons they had with them? It is just a lie that they were shot dead while they were having their food. Two policemen here told me all about it. They said they don’t shoot people just like that for nothing.
I am pretty sure abut how things are going. I don’t think we have any reason to worry. Or to put it more simply, the four in Telengana deserved it, I don’t. And you know I don’t. Is it hard to understand, amma?
True, I had gone there that night to see if a hare or something had fallen in the trap. I was sure something had fallen into one of the traps we had set. I heard that kind of a noise. All living things make the same sound when they are about to die. That is what I heard. Remember, you called me that night while I was there? I didn’t answer your call because I knew it was just you wanting to know where I was so that you can start worrying no matter where I was. It was tracing that call that the police caught me. But they knew all along that it was not me at all. They have no doubt about it.
I am writing this letter because I have nothing else to do here. Jail is not what they show in the movies or like what we read in stories and newspapers. It takes your freedom away, true. But, then you are treated like a human being. Nobody here refers to me by the name of our caste or the village I am from. You know it worried me a lot during my college days how even my professors addressed me by the name of our caste or our village or even the language we spoke at home. No such thing here. We are all the same.
I said this letter is useless because I might come home tomorrow early in the morning. I am going to bed early tonight because they want to free me early in the morning without making much fuss about it. They have asked me to wake up at three in the morning. They want to leave me where they picked me up from. I am sure they would have got that fool by now. Amma, pray and make sure that they did catch that guy.
It is good that you told Paru, I am at my uncle’s place. I don’t want her to find out that her elder brother is in police custody. Let her not watch the news or read the paper for a few days. May be just one more day.
I feel so happy writing this letter. It felt as good as talking to you on phone.
Just wait for one more day.
Yours affectionately
Chachchu
NB: Amma, if by any chance, something else happens and things go wrong, do make sure you pay back the 300 hundred I once borrowed from Raghu when our appa was in hospital. I don’t think you will have to do that. But, just in case.
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.
THE SPIRIT
Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
The portrait on the wall, of a deceased old man wearing a baggie cap, with large whiskers, wrinkled face and thick eye brows looked more life-like as the setting sun’s last orange rays lighted up the picture against the back drop of the old grey wall of the front room. Below the portrait stood a table with the feet of a creature carved on to its four legs. A spirit lamp alone was kept on it and next to it on a rocking chair sat an old lady reading the news paper; the widow of the ferocious man in the portrait. Though the eyes ran over the printed words on the paper, her mind was actually running over the thoughts of her grandchild, Ruth, who had gone out to post a letter as asked by the old lady.
Ruth, a queer clumsy child of around 12 years with inquisitiveness as her sword and a strange power of reasoning as her shield was here with her grandmother in the village for her summer vacation. Her father had left her here for two weeks so that the generations would form a bondtogether. The father believed that the bustling city which offered all comforts to a person was not actually nurturing his child with the simple essentialities of learning life.
The old lady who was worried as it was getting dark breathed a sigh of relief as she heard some podgy steps at the door way and she asked aloud in an affectionate way “ Is that you, my pretty child?”
“Yes, it is me, grandma. It’s your little Ruth” replied the young girl courteously.
The letter Ruth was asked to post was important and the old lady wanted to confirm if it was mailed, but before she could ask, the child said, “I didn’t post it, grandma”.
The old lady was taken aback a bit. “Why didn’t you post it. Wont it get delayed now to reach its destination?”.
Ruth felt she had to elaborate on her wise action, “ Think well, grandma. Tomorrow is Saturday and day after tomorrow is Sunday. If the letter goes by tomorrow’s morning mail then the letter will take four days to reach its place instead of only three. That is, an extra day is taken because day after tomorrow happens to be a holiday. But if we post it on Monday morning, the letter will take only the usual three days to reach where it should. Did you understand, grandma?
Grandma didn’t quite understand what the logic was but she left it there because by now she had understood that her grandchild had a bit of mental clumsiness in her and she took solace that it would pave the way for better wisdom as she grew up. Now the old lady’s concern turned to her pet black cat which had accompanied Ruth to the street. She asked the child if she knew where it was but Ruth had no idea as to where the cat with the menacing look was. It was there along with her when she started out of the house and but it seemed as if it just vanished from the earth after that.
To Ruth this cat was always a mystery as its appearance made it look straight out of the ghost tales that she had read in the school library. “From where did you get such a terribly black cat, grandma? She really looks like a cat from the various supernatural stories." Ruth was vociferous in her dislike for cats and especially this black cat.
“Aha, then you should see its burning eyes in the dark. It can freeze a person in his steps “ said the grandma elaborating on the mystic feature of her pet.
To Ruth it sounded like her grandma was talking absurd words of contradiction and she believed it could be her senility or else how could eyes that burn freeze a person.
“Tell me grandma, from where did you get such a black cat ?.
“Your grandpa found it in the woods” Grandma replied.
Ruth felt a little sorry for the poor cat and enquired, “Was it trapped in between logs of wood ?”.
It took a bit of time for the old lady to figure out the picture that Ruth had created in her mind. After an exclamation the old lady stressed what she had really intended in her mind, “From the jungle, child, deep jungle”.
Ruth could now grasp what her grandma meant by the term woods as Grandma went ahead with the story of how this cat became her husband’s best friend and a constant companion in his hunting trips to the woods.
“He loved it more than anybody” and then with a blushing smile on her face, Grandma added, “Of course, besides me”.
The depth of love was unfathomable to Ruth and of whatever she could measure she asked, “Then both of you must be missing each other very much, aren’t you?”
“Yes”; there was some moisture in the old lady’s eyes even as she said that.
“How much do you miss him, grandma?”. Ruth couldn’t assess the feeling of love and separation and she wanted to measure it.
“Well…”. That word kept lingering on grandma’s tongue and then she paused the word and then put a full stop. “Not much”.
Ruth was totally taken aback. She was trying to measure the love between this couple and now suddenly the old woman was saying something different from what she had been expressing till then.
“ What, don’t you miss him at all ?” Ruth reiterated.
But the old lady sat well poised and repeated what she meant, “Not much”.
“Why is that?” Ruth was much dismayed in not getting the answer which she was expecting.
“Because I always have a nice feeling that he is always around me when I need him”. Grandma continued as though she was in a trance. “He guards me and guides me in this worldly darkness. Your grandpa’s presence encircles me. The scent of alcohol emanating from him fills the room when he is around and it reminds me of the nights when he came inundated in alcohol.”
“Was your grandpa a nice man?” Ruth was turning bit inquisitive about the old man.
“Yours”, Grandma had to correct her grand daughter that it was the child’s grandfather and not the old woman’s.
“Yeah, sorry, mine. Was he a nice man?”. In her anxiety to know more of the old man she didn’t care whose grandfather it was.
“Yes. Nice and absurd like you. But he did have a nasty spirit too. I still can’t get my full breath when I think of those days when he used to swell with fury. Those were the occasions when he would prowl around agitatedly and that was a dangerous time. There could be some harm done to somebody if anybody toyed with him”. The entire character of the former old man was described in that one sentence and Ruth could imagine how terrible the old man could have been at times.
“Did he ever harm anybody?” Ruth enquired, frightened.
“Not quite. Only some small skirmishes. But Mr. Nelson nearly had it once.”
Nelson was their neighbour who lived just a few houses away. Ruth’s grandfather Jethro and Nelson were the best of buddies till the day when they went for a fishing trip where Nelson accidentally pushed Jethro into the river. Jethro nearly got killed that day and the icy waters froze their relation forever. Jethro’s chest got bad after that and ultimately he was diagnosed as having pneumonia and Jethro didn’t live much after that. The best of friends turned out to be the most bitter of enemies till the day of his death and Jethro’s revenge was still pending. This history gave Ruth an idea about the anger of her grandfather if he was to get wild. She could imagine how very careful her grandma would have been in dealing with him. Jethro’s nature was such that he demanded respect for his humble quiet spirit. He never liked being pushed around. An accidental ignorant handling of his ego was enough to make him prowl around with vengeance, waiting for the right opportunity to jump at the offender.
“Goodness! Still you love him ?” Ruth asked, wonder in her words.
“Yes I do. I love him to the sum when love is multiplied a myriad times with infinity. I do miss his physical status but yet I am happy and fine for he has not left me alone. Though he died years back, his presence is still with me. His spirit is with me and that was his promise before he closed his eyes. That he will be beside me, shedding light on each and every step of mine in the hour of darkness.”
Ruth was astonished, “You believe in all this nonsense ?”
“It’s a fact child. His spirit’s glowing light is a beacon for my feet and is my guiding light preventing me from stumbling”. The old lady found assurance in her own words.
The things Ruth heard were as frightening as they were absorbing. Meanwhile Grandma was looking around for her spectacles to inspect the time on the big round wooden clock which had withstood the test of time for more than fifty years and when she failed to find her eye accessory she asked Ruth for the time.
“ It’s almost seven p.m. Grandma”, Ruth replied
At seven in the evening the power cut would start which would last for an hour. It was the way of saving electricity thought up by the administration. during months of drought and energy crisis. Darkness always created a scare in the old lady and she knew it would cause a greater fright in her grandchild.
‘Go and get the spirit lamp on the table,” said the old lady so that she could light up the room before the electric light went off.
Ruth was a bit mystified on hearing that term, “spirit lamp.”
Grandma pointed and gestured at the table below the grand portrait on which stood a small spirit lamp. At the same time Ruth was reasoning to herself as to what this spirit lamp was. Is this the thing about which grandma was talking till this time , that grandpa’s spirit was still with her and will shower the light around her during the time of darkness. She had heard of urns in which ashes of the deceased were kept but not about a spirt-holding lamp. But suddenly her mind flew through the pages of Arabian tales which spoke of lamps that held spirits in them which were ever waiting to come out into the outside world. The little girl was really getting more anxious now and wanted some answers from the old lady.
“Is the spirit really in it”?
“Yes and it is full” was the reply from the grandma indicating that she had filled up the spirit lamp very recently.
Ruth was more perplexed now and she was clenching her fingers. Is the spirit going to really show forth the light? If so, then truly grandpa’s spirit was in that lamp and grandma was going to ask him to bring out his radiance during the period of power cut so that she wouldn’t stumble.
Grandma by now went and took up the lamp herself for she found that Ruth was lost in her own thoughts and she was not actually listening to her. In a moment the elderly woman shrieked holding the lamp high in her hand. “The lamp is empty, the spirit is out. Someone has been careless with the lamp and its lid has become lose”. Grandma then turned her head to Ruth and asked, “Did you touch the lamp, my child?”
Ruth refrained from replying.. She didn’t want to be accused in this ghostly kind of events. The old lady was sad and scared. She had always hated darkness and now she and her child would be in total darkness for it’s the time when creatures of dark come and sneak around to create nasty incidents.
“Are you sure you closed the cap tightly after refilling it yesterday?” Ruth was frightened and she wanted grandma to take up the responsibility of irresponsibly handling the spirit.
“Maybe it’s my carelessness. Spirit always awaits a chance to escape into thin air.” Grandma then paused for a moment and sniffed the air. “Can you smell it child, the smell of alcohol ?”
Ruth turned pale. She could easily imagine that her Grand father’s spirit had escaped into the atmosphere and now he was here somewhere around. Grandma could easily smell the alcohol emanating from him. Grandma had acted carelessly with him and his quiet spirit was agitated now for being careless with the lamp which held him. He could turn nasty and punish them all now. Ruth’s only bewilderment was what held the spirit back from punishing them till now. It must be the lights for spirits abhor light, Ruth reasoned to herself. The spirit was waiting for the right moment of darkness to fall to release its anger. “What will we do now?” Ruth asked feebly as her stomach churned and head reeled.
The old lady was not going to put themselves in this predicament when anything could happen and she had a solution. “Rush to Nelson’s house at the corner of the street and ask Mrs.Nelson if we can borrow her husband’s spirit”.
“Her husbands spirit?" Ruth was dismayed and astonished. Was her grandma asking her to bring another man’s spirit into this house to shed forth light. That too one of grandpa’s worst enemies? Her reasoning power was increasing. ‘Maybe it was necessary, for without a spirit’s light they might not escape the impending danger that was lurking. It was in the darkness that grandpa was waiting for to punish them for being careless with him’.
“ Hurry, go and bring the spirit she gives you. It’s about to be seven. Now don’t waste a moment in absent mindedness if you don’t want us to be in entire darkness inviting trouble,” shouted the grand mother. Ruth rushed out in panic.
Nelson’s house was at the end of the street and Ruth was quick to reach it. At first Mrs.Nelson didn’t quite understand who Ruth was because she had never seen Ruth except maybe when she was a baby in her mother’s arms. But once she understood who Ruth was, there was much excitement in her for she had heard a lot of memorable mischevious things about Ruth. Mrs.Nelson enquired about the journey she had and the number of days she was going to spend here in the village before her father would come and take her back. Ruth wanted to tell Mrs. Nelson the emergency she was in but the old woman was still continuing her joyful enquiries.
”Your grandma was waiting expectantly for your arrival. She must have asked you to go and meet the other grandma here, isn’t it?” she chuckled as she said it.
Ruth didn’t have time and she had to tell her case , “No. Yes. But I came for Mr.Nelson’s spirit. Grandma asked if you could lend her his spirit.
“Is it? What happened to the one in your house?” Mrs Nelson enquired anxiously.
“It escaped” Ruth said exasperated.
“Into thin air”. Mrs.Nelson interrupted the sentence of Ruth. That is what spirit does. The moment you are careless it disappears and blends with the air. “Your grandma must have been careless with it, is it not?”
“Yes, I think she was”. Ruth didn’t want another person to accuse her grandma but still she had to admit.
Mrs.Nelson was pensive for sometime for she knew an empty spirit lamp is a cause for concern for who can sit peacefully when darkness envelopes.
”Now that the spirit had escaped, Grandma is a bit frightened. She asked me to bring Mr.Nelson’s spirit immediately if you would give it,” gushed Ruth in anxiety.
Mrs.Nelson’s reply to Ruth was in a hushed tone, “Yes my child. You shall surely have it but ask for it quietly so that Mr. Nelson doesn’t hear you asking for his precious spirit. He is sound asleep now, but still you should be careful in not waking him up for if he wakes up to know that his spirit has been borrowed, well, he would kill me. Ask your Grandma to return the lamp early in the morning itself so that Nelson won’t know that his spirit had been shedding light in another house”.
Little Ruth was a lot concerned about what would happen if Nelson woke up to know that his spirit was in another house and that concern was very much evident on her face. Maybe it was after seeing this that Mrs.Nelson started reassuring the worried little girl. “Don’t worry, Right now he is in a peaceful deep slumber. All you have to do is to take the spirit lamp quietly and carefully to your house without disturbing him and burn it. Mr.Nelson wont realise anything. But it’s your job to return the lamp before he wakes up in the morning. It’s a risk we are taking. The spirit is his and like what I said before, if he finds that his spirit had been taken out, that too into his enemy’s house, well, it’s better we be dead.”
Ruth knew how precarious her job was in transferring this spirit-containing lamp, for her grandma had told her the whole story and now Mrs.Nelson was repeating to her the same story of how two good friends came to be at logger heads with each other, an enemity so bitter that her husband’s revengeful spirit was still seeking a confrontation with Jethro’s spirit even if it be in heaven. At a point Ruth even wondered if all this was necessary and sitting in darkness would have been better than inviting trouble. But Mrs.Nelson seemed to be reading Ruth’s mind.
“Even I don’t like to spare my husband’s good spirit and earn his wrath, but think of your grandma who sits uneasy contemplating on the impending darkness and the offshoots of trouble it may bring along.” Saying this the old lady walked up to a cupboard and took out a lamp which she then carefully handed it over to Ruth. “Take it child and place gentle foot steps as you go along so that you will not wake up my slumbering husband with an inadvertent step.”
Ruth nodded her head as a guarantee. But before she embarked on her return journey she felt like enquiring to Mrs.Nelson about the missing black cat of which her grandma was so fond of. “Did you see our black cat?” she asked.
“No child. That cat strays out a lot. Ask your grandma not to worry for it will creep back into the house on its own” said Mrs.Nelson with a weak smile as she escorted Ruth till the doorsteps. Once the girl went out of the gate and on turning back into the house Mrs.Nelson found that the name board on the door was displaced upside down. She carefully repositioned it back to its original position and then wiped it with her hands with much fondness. On the name board was written, Mr.Nelson, Chemist.
Soon enough a rough sleepy voice came up from the inner room, “Who is there? Is it somebody to see me?" Mr.Nelson enquired. He clearly was disturbed from sleep by the movements in the house.
It was with careful but fumbling words that Mrs.Nelson managed to reply, “Oh yeah! It's nobody. Only somebody at the door. Wrong house.".
“Well then, don’t forget to put the bolts of the door”, Mr.Nelson warned his wife before he went back into his sleep again. She was now praying that the small girl should return the spirit lamp first thing in the morning.
On the return journey, Ruth’s mind was preoccupied with a lot of questions and reasonings regarding the spirits and the lamp. She was regretting that she had brought forth the spirit of her Grandpa’s greatest enemy while her Grandpa’s spirit was restlessly hovering around after having escaped from the lamp. Even Nelson’s revengeful spirit was waiting for a chance to have a brawl with Jethro’s spirit. If any accident were to happen then Nelson’s spirit would spring out to attack Grandpa’s already furious spirit and thus they who had been waiting for an arena to settle their old earthly scores would make the house their battle field. Caught in midst of this draconian melee would be Ruth and her Grandma. Ruth felt dizzy but at the same time she was relieved that nothing of this would happen if she was careful with the lamp. As long as Grandpa’s spirit didn’t know whose spirit was inside the lamp and as long as Nelson's spirit didn’t realise that his spirit had been carried into his enemy’s house… .
“Is that you, my child?” the grandmother enquired as she heard some podgy footsteps at the entrance to which Ruth replied “Yes it's me,” without losing her concentration lest she trip and fall on the doorway steps.
“Did you get Nelson’s spirit, my child?”
“Yes. Safely in my arms, but talk quietly about it”. Ruth was scared even of the voice now, lest it should wake up the sleeping spirit.
“It's almost seven o’ clock and I was getting worried about you”. The old lady was a bit anxious.
Ruth had just placed the spirit lamp onto the table when she heard the old woman asking her, “Did you see the match box ? I can’t find it”.
Ruth had no idea where the match box was and she expressed her dismay clearly with a firm answer of no.
“Quick. Look around immediately. The darkness is going to encirlce us at any moment.
A frantic search for the match box began. At that very moment the power supply went off and darkness engulfed the room except for a faint beam of the waning moon creating a silhouette of the two. Ruth stood motionless while grandma continued her search for the matchbox in a blind frenzy. Suddenly a clanging sound reverberatedin the room.
“Oh God, no” Grandma gushed
“What is it grandma” Ruth could sense the panic in Grandma's gushing tone.
“The lamp”. Grandma could utter only that much.
“What happed to the lamp?” Ruth asked in emergency
“I knocked it down accidentally” Grandma shrieked. “I am afraid, the spirit is out and the lamp is empty”
Ruth’s head reeled. She was imagining the spirits that were around now since Nelson’s too had escaped. “Now they will meet each other. The brawl is about to begin any moment now. It’s the end of us, grandma. End of you and me”.
“What rubbish are you talking ?’ Grandma asked, bewildered. Ruth had no reply but a frightened cry erupted, “Ahhh”.
“What is it” Grandma asked, alarmed
“Somebody is prowling around. Don’t you hear it? It’s Grandpa. He is prowling around us as you said he used to. Definitely he is preparing for an offensive.”
“I don’t understand anything of what you are saying” Grandma was fully confused as to what this small girl was talking incoherently.
Hardly had the old lady finished her sentence when Ruth let out another wild yell, "Ahhhhhh”.
"What is it now ,” Grandma asked in a bit of frustrated anger.
“Don’t you see that over there’, Ruth pointed to the window beside the doorway. “ Two burning pieces of coal. Just like what Mrs.Nelson had said. Those are Nelson's glowing eyes. He is preparing his defense, all set to fight till the end."
“Is that the thing you are worried and crying about” Grandma asked much relieved. “It’s the cat, our own black cat. She has crept her way back in. She was the one that was prowling around and it’s her eyes that glow in the darkness.” In that encircling darkness, the old lady stepped slowly to where she thought the little girl was standing to pacify and comfort her.
“Ahhhhhhhhh”, this time the scream from Ruth’s throat was rougher and horrifying. “Help me grandma, I have been caught by a spirit.”
“It’s me child, It’s me” Grandma reassured the frightened girl. “It’s my hands that are on your shoulders.”
“Is that yours, grandma ?” Ruth seemed a bit comforted hearing that but still she insisted on confirming it. “Are those that are on my shoulders yours?”
“Yes, child” Grandma comforted her like the guardian angel. “Now be at peace”.
“Then whose are those on my head?” Ruth shot an arrow into the old lady’s heart of common sense for which she found no answer.
“Ahhhhhhhhh”, yelled the grandma in a reflex action when she found her life was in danger. It was Ruth who put an end to her frightful scream . “It’s ok, grandma; stop screaming. They are mine own”.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
GODSPEED FOR MOUNTAIN PASS (GHAATIRE ISHWARA)
Hara Prasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Rambling talk made us lose
track of time.
Meanwhile, someone had
taken out a morning,
an unsheathed shining knife,
from the hill’s waistband;
as our bus negotiated
a precarious river bend, heading west.
Yesterday,
had the same one
hurled a string of pearls,
a pale constellation of stars,
over our mustard field
at daybreak?
Once again
could it be the same sentinel
from his hideout,
out of sight and out of mind,
who had helped our bus cross
the perilous pass safely?
Perhaps…. !
CONNING (BHOJABAAJI)
Hara Prasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
These difficult days
keep us on tenterhooks -
would the monsoon in the offing
bring bounties;
would the half-built bridge
be completed this year?
Would we survive until
the advent
of the twenty-first century?
Doubts numb the mind;
the monsoon may play foul;
forcing us to learn living
without much expectations,
sustaining on happy memories alone;
to practice laughing-yoga;
even to wean ourselves off
all hopes
for a good time ahead.
An incomplete bridge shouldn’t then
matter much, nor if the old man be
pushed into a make-believe train
chugging off to the twenty-first century.
Wouldn’t that be wonderful,
our conman’s awesome tricks?
Or does one expect more
incredible mind-games?
Perhaps yes,
more are on their way -
like giving kudos
to the rainless clouds,
taking a U-turn and
walking into nostalgic lanes
of the past, mango orchards,
balmy winds, and cuckoo songs;
like sleeping and dreaming
of a brilliant future
built on junk steel
from the half-built bridge.
Finally
the conmen, like bombers
done with their targets,
would bolt to their safe havens;
but not before
the last sleight of hand -
gleaning all
to their last bone
by convincing to sow
the seeds to the last grain
on a fallow land,
promising a bumper crop.
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)”
THE FLOWERS, UNREAL (MICHHA PHULA)
Arupananda Panigrahi
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
“Don’t pluck flowers.
You may play around the bushes.”
The children felt let down
at the gardener’s rough warning.
“What would they play with,
if not flowers in their playhouse?”
The flowers would anyway wither away
in a few hours without purpose.
They had a doubt, “Are these
real or just plastic flowers stuck there?”
They obeyed the gardener, but
not before taking a closer look.
At home they found
beautiful flowers swinging
in a calendar; they looked lovelier
than the ones in the garden.
Even a few dew-drops
lingered on their petals.
They caressed them, touched
them with fingers and lips.
The flowers in the calendar
felt alive and real for they
communicated with the children’s
inquisitive mind, their taste and tests.
They concluded, “The flowers
in the garden were illusory,
fixed on bushes for visitors
to see, not to touch; an unreality.
Real as people in our story book,
are so real, unlike most people
in our lives. They shout,
even a loudspeaker can shout.
Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)
JUNE SUN
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra
“See, the river is dry and dying
Desiccated in agony as I am;
How rude the June Sun is!”
Said the hungry turtle to the fish.
But the cocky crabs were trotting
Reveling on their sandy beds
“The June Sun is so warm and mirthful.”
They whispered to their mates.
But the large shoal of shrimps dreaming of
Swimming in the gorgeous lakes thought;
“The June Sun is mighty and dreadful
When will the August showers come?”
But the crocs crouching under the rocks
Drooling eagerly to dupe the thirsty,
Clapped for the June Sun and exclaimed;
“You did well to scorch the green trees
They don’t share their flowers and fruits with us!”
A MOTHER’S AGONY
Sumitra Mishra
The ghastly wound on the skull
Gaped
With blood-shot eyes
Reprimanding my shocked silence,
The thick black hair
Soaked in blood
Turned stiff in my hands
Like a stalk of hay
When I tried to wash them
With my tears
My bruised heart pulsated
Like a blocked engine.
Your fair face seemed
To shine
With the angelic grace of innocence
No sign of anguish or fear.
I was shocked
Was it the knife or the bullet?
Were you inside the trench
Or on the tank?
Were you shouting
When you fell or daydreaming?
Your engagement ring was broken,
So was her heart.
The media report
Of last night’s scuffle at the camp
The orders
To march up the frozen dark hills,
How did I sleep
When you were lying so cold?
Your words last night
Echo in my ears
Gnaw like cancer on my marrow,
Yet they debate, dispute and discuss,
Hardly they understand
The agony
Of a Mother’s heart,
For them death or massacre is also politics,
Like temples, religion, and humbug compensation!!!
Don’t stare like that!
Blink, blink or wink in your naughty way!
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”.
BEYOND MY REACH
Kabiratna Dr. Manorama Mahapatra
Translated by Sumitra Mishra
Sometimes I find myself
Standing speechless on the beach
While the ocean of life is roaring
Dispersing beams of beauty
I am just an enraptured witness of life.
Sometimes in gay abandon
Sometimes terrified, troubled,
At times wonder-struck and captivated.
I feel, as if I am performing
The role of an astounded, overwhelmed actor
While standing at the proscenium of life
As a spectator.
Oh, what a wonderful experience!!!
Then-am I Belalsen’s new metamorphosis?
Is there anyone to judge the value of my mindscape?
I see countless spectators in front of me
Watching the drama of life like me
But I know my place is on the podium
Why am I standing backstage,
No dialogues for me
Playing the part of just a spectator?
Now the stage seems beyond my reach.
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.
WEAVES OF TIME
Sangeeta Gupta
XXI
wish I could carve you
on the palm
of my hand,
carve you
as my one and only destiny!
wishes are,
alas, nought
but wistful thinkings.
Inspite of this being so
how I wish to carve
a destiny.
Am told, that,
I perforce am given this choice
Oh, pray why?
For am I not destiny’s own
child and you
that very destiny are.
XXII
You
my reincarnation seem,
seem my mirror image
and that even
while I am
not yet gone.
I wonder, though,
how such things transpire!
I speak to self, say
that once in a while
magic will come about,
though not known how
Remember,
there is a gap of decades
between our two births
on this top-like whirling planet
and still I am dogged,
namely that you are none other
than my twin
I over and over speak to self, tell:
that at all times, miracles and
magics will happen.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed artist, poet and film maker also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer,recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. Presently working as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts. She has to her credit 34solo exhibitions , 20 books , 7 books translated , 7 documentary films.
A poet in her own right and an artist, Sangeeta Gupta started her artistic journey with intricate drawings. Her real calling was discovered in her abstracts in oils and acrylics on canvas. Her solo shows with Kumar Gallery launched her love for contour within the abyss of colour; the works seemed to stir both within and without and splash off the canvas.
Her tryst with art is born of her own meditative ruminations in time, the undulating blend of calligraphic and sculptonic entities are realms that she has explored with aplomb. Images in abstraction that harkens the memory of Himalayan journeys and inspirations, the works speak of an artistic sojourn that continues in a mood of ruminations and reflections over the passage of time.
Sangeeta wields the brush with finesse, suggesting the viscosity of ink, the glossiness of lacquer, the mist of heights, the glow of the sun, and the inherent palette of rocks when wet. The canvases bespeak surfaces akin to skin, bark and the earth.
Her first solo exhibition was at the Birla Academy of Art & Culture, Kolkata in 1995. Her 34 solo shows have been held all over India i.e. Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Lucknow, Chandigarh and abroad at London, Berlin, Munich, Lahore, Belfast, Thessolinki. one of her exhibitions was inaugurated by the former President of India; Dr. A.P.J Abdul Kalam in August, 2013. Which was dedicated to Uttarakhand, fund raised through sale proceeds of the paintings is used for creating a Fine Art Education grant for the students of Uttarakhand. She has participated in more than 200 group shows in India & abroad, in national exhibitions of Lalit Kala Akademi All India Fine Arts & Craft Society and in several art camps. Her painting are in the permanent collection of Bharat Bhavan Museum, Bhopal and museums in Belgium and Thessolinki . Her works have been represented in India Art Fairs, New Delhi many times.
She has received 69th annual award for drawing in 1998 and 77th annual award for painting in 2005 by AIFACS, New Delhi and was also conferred Hindprabha award for Indian Women Achievers by Uttar Pradesh Mahila Manch in 1999, Udbhav Shikhar Samman 2012 by Udbhav for her achievements in the field of art and literature and was awarded "Vishwa Hindi Pracheta Alankaran" 2013 by Uttar Pradesh Hindi Saahitya Sammelan & Utkarsh Academy, Kanpur. She was bestowed with Women Achievers Award from Indian Council for UN relations.
She is a bilingual poet and has anthologies of poems in Hindi and English to her credit. Her poems are translated in many languages ie in Bangla, English and German, Dogri, Greek, urdu. Lekhak ka Samay, is a compilation of interviews of eminent women writers. Weaves of Time, Ekam, song of silence are collection of poems in English. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography. Mussavir ka Khayal and Roshani ka safar are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.
She has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films. Her first film “Keshav Malik- A Look Back”, is a reflection on the life of the noted poet & art critic Keshav Malik. He was an Art Critic of Hindustan Times and Times of India. The film features, several eminent painters, poets, scholars and their views on his life. The film was screened in 2012, at Indian Council for Cultural Relations, , Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, Sanskriti Kendra, Anandgram, New Delhi and at kala Ghora Art Festival, Mumbai 2013. Her other documentaries “Keshav Malik – Root, Branch, Bloom” and “Keshav Malik- The Truth of Art” were screened by India International Centre and telecast on national television several times.
Widely travelled, lives and works in Delhi, India.
A LEAF'S TALE
Sharanya Bee
And here upon I lie,
A detached, flipped over green of ivy,
abandoned by the family, to the swirling wind
that fostered me all the way to this obscurity,
Never a chance to bid goodbye to my kinfolk,
never a chance to beseech to unknown,
For the season, our fate-maker, had me chosen
to shed away, sundered and solitary;
And time will now wither me away, little by little,
powdered into the soil, parched and dry...
Until then, here upon I lie, face down to the brown earth,
reciting my tale of agony...
SALINE MEMORIES
Sharanya Bee
Time glides away from tightly clasped hands,
like waves of the sea that withdraw and come back,
Leaving them moist with saline memories...
In a while, the vision captures another one approaching,
different speed, size and force,
But hope persists, that it may stay,
And stayed it did, just a while longer,
Drenching me throughout this time,
And leaves, just like the former...
They play me the game of betrayal, the intensity varying with each...
But how they all seem to posses this common aim,
To leave me in utter dismay, gifted with
memories saline - each time the exact same...
Sharanya Bee, 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.
SPARK
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya
Was there no positive spark, a speck, a flicker
To keep you going my child?
Didn’t the ever green classics, you read
And the great souls you communicated with
Provide a spark
To keep you going my child?
Uncared-for, unloved, a vagabond-
Exposed to the sinister side of life;
What led you to the freakish cruelty?
An abused being, never enjoying
The warmth of affection, what else
Could his child brain teach him?
A hermit –you crawled into yourself;
Dwelling in the dark subconscious.
Your arrival in the juvenile home
Was a blessing, but short lived.
Yet you left a glow behind
For millions of little ones like you
Exposed to the seamier side
Of this wide world -
No loving hands to guide them,
To stroke them and pat them with understanding;
No loving lips to appreciate them, to encourage them;
No one to help them discern the black and the white-
So cursed to live in shades of grey-
Confused, bewildered.
All that a child needs for blossoming,
Denied and nipped off from the bud!
But— you, my child, had a chance of coming back-
A saviour -brought you back to normal life
Building up your inner strength,
Identifying your taste for reading,
Opening a new world of books.
Swimming up the dark stream of Subconscious
You reached a new shore-
You waded through the world of letters
A fish, enjoying the freshness of new water.
Thriving in the new knowledge
Of the Koran and the Bhagavad Gita,
Basheer and MT were your favourites,
APJ’S books you perused avidly,
Kadamanitta’s poetry rejuvenated you,
“Kozhi” your favourite, you recited
With a flourish to your enthralled listeners;
A talented singer, a wizard with colours-
Yes- you came back to life!
Within a short span thousand and more books
You perused. But all brought to naught.
The dark shadows of two-faced life stalked you.
No soul could stop you child
From destroying yourself.
No spirit was there to extend a loving hand,
To pull you out of that slushy mire
That swallowed you up.
Yet you will remain a spark,
A guiding spirit,
To children like you—
A shining light to lead them,
Through the world of letters
To a better world.
(In memory of 17years old Shakeer who is no more to receive the Best Reader Prize for reading 1,166 Books from 20-6-’06 to 2 -5-’08. Based on the newspaper Story By C.Santhosh I read . ( in The Hindu)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
CLOUDS
Dr. Molly Joseph M
Tearing open
my cloudy envelope
I emerge,
melt out..
my radiance
floats through
the undulating
waves...
prayerful
they were
in patient
wait
for me...
now
the glistening
waterbed
lies
in content
absorbing
the moment...
even the
dark clouds
that shrouded
my entry
now
graceful
in giving way
their kindness
merging
with the infinite....
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).
SUNSHINE AND SHADOWS
Sakuntala Narasimhan
Anand picked up his cup of coffee and sank wearily back in his chair.
“Usha is getting married,” he announced.
Yes? Who’s the boy? The question rose to the tip of her tongue but she stifled it. What did it matter, whom Usha married, or for that matter, what the rest of the world did? Her own life would go on predictably and inescapably along the same routine, like a toy train on a circular track – nothing to look forward to, nothing to break the monotony. How different everything would have been if only she had married Ramesh !
They would have gone for long walks, she and Ramesh, hand in hand, chatting gaily, building a thousand castles in the air. They would have dashed impulsively off on impromptu picnics and gone to the beach every weekend and let the waves tickle their feet while they stood holding hands…. They both loved outings and adventure and they would have made an ideal couple – if only Fate and her parents had not intervened, to raze all her dreams to the ground.
Once again, for the thousandth time in two years, she remembered that fateful evening when she had returned from college to discover her father with a letter in his hand.
“Come here Meena, there is something we want to tell you,” he said.
“You are a very lucky girl, dear,” began mother, and between them, they recited all the details – such a handsome boy, very rich too, and from a highly cultured family. The kind of boy, they said, only one girl in a million could get. She listened in stony silence. At last she spoke up.
“But mummy, I’m… I mean .. you know Ramesh—”
“Ramesh? Well; what about him?”
“I’m in love with him and I won’t marry anyone else, that’s what.”
She got it out at last. Father laughed. Mother was amused too.
“In love indeed.. and with Ramesh! Don’t be silly How do you think you’re going to live?”
“But he wont be a tutor forever. This year he’ll get through his IAS and then –”
“Has he proposed to you?”
“N-no, not yet…”
“There you are, child. Enough of this drama now, and mind you, put on hour prettiest smile for Anand next week…” Her father patted her back indulgently and was gone.
She turned to her mother desperately but she too wouldn’t listen. Tears, sulks, scenes, she tried them all, but to no avail.”
Why, oh why, did Ramesh and his family have to go away on holiday just then? Anyway, Ramesh would be back the day after Anand was expected, she thought, and she wouldn’t lose anything by falling in with her parents’ plans till then.
It was on a Saturday that Anand came with his parents and, instead of the customary “we will write and let you know after we reach home” reply, his parents started discussing plans for the wedding then and there. The formalities were practically completed the same evening and even two tentative dates were suggested for the wedding. What can a girl do but cry bitterly and plead? Her parents were, however, unmoved.
“Your Ramesh has already failed in his IAS exams twice. Where’s the guarantee that he’ll pass this time? And with his ordinary degree, what sort of life do you think you’ll have with him? And he has no thrifty habits either – always dashing away to parties and pictures and picnics; you’re the same frivolous type, and a mature, stabilizing influence is what you need from your husband… you don’t know your own mind dear, you’re but a baby at heart – a romantic one…”
Full of pride and satisfaction in having found a good match for his daughter, her father dismissed her and her problems from his mind and busied himself with the wedding arrangements.
She and Ramesh had enjoyed each other’s company. She was madly in love with him and she knew he too returned her feelings, although he had never exactly said so. Perhaps he is waiting to pass those exams of his and making sure of his future before bringing up the subject, she had thought.
But now she could wait no longer. She sent him a note on Monday morning asking him to walk home with her that evening. But the peon brought her note back saying that Ramesh had extended his leave and wasn’t expected back for another two weeks.
Throwing all scruples to the wind she wrote to him. There was no reply.
Inexorably the days passed and then it was the evening before her marriage. The groom’s party had already arrived and there was hectic activity everywhere when the telephone rang.
“For you,” someone said, handing her the receiver.
“Meena, Meena, this is Ramesh. I got your letter only yesterday…”.
The room heaved and resettled. She was angry, disappointed, dazed, furious, and happy all at once.
“Only yesterday ? But how –"
“Floods Meena. Our town was completely cut off for a week. And then I had gone to visit some relatives and got back only yesterday and found your letter… Meena, can I see you, just this once?”
He must have something in mind, she thought, otherwise why would he want to see her?
“At the college library, in half an hour,” she told him briefly, and after getting permission from her mother on the pretext that some library books were overdue, she went forth.
Oh, how wretched they were ! Loving hearts need no words to understand each other, and they sat staring at each other in miserable silence.
“ I was hoping, Meena. “ he began, then shook himself abruptly. “I… I hope you’ll be very happy, Meena…” he finished.
Was that all? Was that what she had come to hear from him? The tears came scalding down her cheeks and she leaned forward to bury her face in his chest but he swerved away and, bidding her goodbye, darted out of the room.
In the eyes of the world she became Anand’s wife but Ramesh was constantly in her thoughts, and she was forever making comparisons between him and Anand, and finding the latter wanting in every respect. How could life with anybody but Ramesh be interesting or enjoyable? Determined not to let Anand usurp the place that was Ramesh’s, she kept the doors of her heart resolutely barred against her husband. Life dragged on as mere existence – meaningless, drab and disappointing. Picnics, parties and plays, Anand suggested them all, but she refused to be diverted. What was the point in enjoying herself when she could not be Ramesh’s? In course of time, Anand stopped asking her and left her alone to brood over the ashes of her past.
And now Usha, Anand’s sister, was getting married. Had she had dreams too, about her future? She wondered, and would her dreams come true?
They reached Anand’s village the morning before the wedding. The entire village looked gay and spruced up. There was a colourful arch with huge paper lanterns and glittering “Welcome” banners at the crossroads before the entrance to their street. Large, intricate rangoli designs adorned the approach to their house, and the house itself – a huge, old, rambling, two storied building, sprawling through spacious courtyards and old-fashioned corridors – looked bright and shiny with new whitewash and paint. A big pandal had been erected right across the street and workmen were putting up festoons of fresh mango leaves and coloured bulbs in the doorway. People swarmed about, dressed in finery, and the air was full of music and laughter and the scent of sandalwood and jasmine.
Mechanically Meena helped with the preparations, distributing drinks here and supervising work elsewhere. But her thoughts again and again returned to the agony of the days preceding her own wedding.
She and Anand were to give the bride away since her father-in-law was no more, and when the hour came to start the rites, Anand came to call her.
With an auspicious tray of flowers and sweets, she went to lead the groom in. He was sitting with his back to her, having his garland adjusted, and when he turned, she froze in mid-stride. Her head started spinning and she shut her eyes, clutching a nearby chair.
This …. this was the bridegroom for Usha? It couldn’t be – it can’t be ! A wild scream rose in her throat but the shock of the moment blew the sound back into her mouth.
There was a jolt of impact as their eyes met and the blood drained out of Ramesh’s face. But the next moment he squared his shoulders and stepped calmly forward and walked up to the pandal.
She did not know how the minutes passed or what she did. Memories came flooding back, like an album spilling open, and with each incident that she recalled, the fever was shooting higher and higher in her till she was gasping for breath like some blinded animal clawing away to get through to open air.
The bride, looking radiant, came trailing behind the bridegroom. They sat side by side, the cynosure of all eyes. Hemmed in a corner, Meena stared at the couple, unable to take her eyes off that calm, radiant face, unable to believe that it was not all a dream.
“He’s an IAS officer and a handsome boy too. What more could a girl want?” someone commented. So he did pass his exams after all. She felt cheated and furious. How could her parents blow away all her happiness like chaff on the wind?
“A nice pair they make,” another replied. A nice pair? How absurd ! As if Ramesh could make a nice pair with anybody but herself. What an odd pair they were, she thought—he so tall and well built, and Usha such a short, tiny thing, mostly large eyes and a wide mouth. How could he ever consent to marry anyone at all, after having lost his heart to her? And he wasn’t even looking miserable; he hadn’t glanced longingly in her direction even once !
When the time came to give Usha away, Anand dragged her in and she performed the rituals in a daze, keeping herself conscious with an effort of will. She was giving Usha away to Ramesh – she who ought to have been his wife ! O cruel destiny!
They were taking Usha away the next morning and after breakfast the bridal couple went round bidding everyone goodbye. Presently they came to her.
“Goodbye sister-in-law. Give me your blessings,” Usha said and touched her feet.
“Goodbye sister-in-law., give us your blessings,” repeated Ramesh and he also stooped to touch her feet.
The words burst like shrapnel in her ears. How dare he call her sister-in-law after all that had happened between them? His glance met hers placidly without flinching. In that moment of truth it was as if a veil of sleep had suddenly peeled off and yanked her back to the present.
To a married girl, they say, every man other than her husband is a brother. Lost on an errant cloud she had flouted that canon. On the other hand, the minute she was promised to Anand, Ramesh had refused to see in her the same girl he had loved, and now that he was married to her sister-in-law, he was claiming her for a sister-in-law too, and asking for her blessings !
The way he stood by Usha, protective and possessive, full of tenderness and solicitude, seemed to say, ‘Now that we’ve both gone our separate ways, it would only be sensible to forget the past and make the best of our respective lives. We owe it to our partners to do our best and to turn our backs resolutely on what-might-have-beens…’.
How different it was from the way she had been living with Anand ! Keening for spilt milk, she had built herself a maze of sorrow and stubbornly refused to see her way out of it. What was the good of stoking up the fire of an old flame? She had only made herself and Anand miserable in the process.
Obstinately turning her back on the sunshine in her life, she had concentrated on the shadows and lashed herself into a furious sulk all these days. The shadow had led her only to darkness. All that was over, and beyond lay a new world. Memories of old passions, she realized, were just so much cobwebs that deserved to be swept mercilessly out of one’s mind.
It had rained during the night and the air was clean and sweet and fresh. The bridal couple stepped out to the car in a shower or rice and rose petals. Usha’s mother hugged the bride, her eyes brimming with tears.
“May you be happy, dear,” she said, “and shed happiness around you. And remember, happiness or the lack of it, is entirely in your hands.”
The words were meant for Usha but they seemed to have a special message for Meena too. She stuck out an arm and found Anand’s, and together they watched the speeding car till it disappeared round a bend.
(This story appeared originally in Femina dated 14 Nov, 1969).
Sakuntala Narasimhan has won prestigious awards in journalism, classical music and consumer activism, all at the national level.
She has two doctorates – one in women’s studies and another in musicology. She has taught music, journalism, women’s studies, and economics at the post –graduate level, at Bombay and Bangalore university, and also in the US on a Fulbright fellowship.
She has presented papers at international conferences on media, music and feminist studies, at Boston, Oxford, Norway, Pakistan, Nairobi, Kampala (Uganda) the Philippines, Barbados, Bali, Bangkok, Sydney and Nepal.
She reported on the U.N. Global Conference on Women in Beijing (China) for the Deccan Herald in 1995, and on the UN general assembly session at New York in 2000. She was also one of four Indian journalists selected to attend and write about the World Summit on Sustainable Development in Johannesburg (South Africa) in 2002.
She received the Chamelidevi award of the Media Foundation for Outstanding Woman Journalist, and the PUCL national award for Human Rights journalism for her investigative lead stories. Her fortnightly columns, on gender issues and consumers’ rights. ran in the Deccan Herald for 27 years till 2009 and won her many awards. One of the first short stories she wrote won the first prize in a national fiction contest organized by the Times of India group in 1968. The Karnataka government conferred on her its prestigious Rajyotsava award of Rs one lakh, for her multiple achievements, in 2016.
She has published around 3,800 articles and authored 11 books, on consumer rights, music and feminist issues. Her writings have been translated into Russian, German, Swedish, Japanese, Hindi, Tamil , Malayalam , Kannada and Telugu.
She has translated and published stories by leading Tamil writers like Sivasankari and Rajam Krishnan, besides trsnlating famous writer Sujatha's science fiction from Tamil to English, for serialisation in Science Today
She has been interviewed on radio and television in five languages – English, Kannada, Hindi, Tamil, and Telugu. She turned to journalism when she lost her singing voice for nine years during the 1960s, and has subsequently continued her involvement in both disciplines, as performer and teacher. As consumer activist, she was Vice President of the Consumer Guidance Society of India (Mumbai) during Justice Lentin’s tenure as President, and received the government of India national award for consumer protection twice, in 1994 and 2000. Her short stories have been published as a collection titled Lucky Days (Writers Workshop. Kolkata).
UNTOLD STORY IN MAHABHARAT (Duryodhana's Greatness)
Dr (Major) B C Nayak
Exemplary was the
Friendship between Karna and Duryodhan,
And also the loyalty.
So honest was the friendship,
So deep was his trust in Karna
That it made Duryodhan blind,
To the scene of
his half- dressed newly- wed wife
Bhanumati,with her pearl trimmed shawl,
Being pulled by Karna,
And the slipped veil along with it.
Yes it is an offence in the present day,
“Outraging the modesty of woman”,
Under section 354 IPC,
Molestation of women.
Had Duryodhan been
In this temperament throughout,
Kurukshetra war would have been avoided.
While busy with other royal duties,
Recently married Duryodhana,
Once asked Karna to take care
And entertain his wife Bhanumati.
Both started playing dice.
with Karna winning,
Duryodhana had returned early,
and entered the room.
Bhanumati stood up .
Karna, whose back was facing the door,
misjudged her intent.
Thinking the loser leaving the game,
He immediately reached
for her pearl-trimmed shawl,
and accidentally pulled .
The pearls were scattered all over the floor.
And her veil slipped along with the shawl.
Karna, following Bhanumati's gaze,
turned around to see Duryodhan
observing the incident.
Embarrassed, shame-full and
Guilty, Karna awaited the wrath of his friend,
and the punishment for impropriety.
But Duryodhan, the great,
Quietly picked up the pearls,
of implicit faith and great love
for his queen,
and even greater was his faith in his friend Karna.
Not for a moment
did he suspect that
the man he had considered his brother
would ever betray him.
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
HUSKY TALES
Sheena Rath
We are proud owners of a Husky. He walked into our lives in the Autism month of April ( April is known as the autism awareness month) and life has never been the same again.
Hakku came to us as a puppy, much to my annoyment, as bringing up a special child, facing challenges each day every moment was getting toughter and tougher for me as time went by. Having a pet is like having another child, where a whole lot of time,energy and enthusiasm is needed. The man of the house was very keen as having a pet provides companionship, emotional support, builds self-esteem and helps to manage anxiety and mood related challenges in a special child. Moreover the breeder had told him....if you have an autistic child then Huskies are the best; though i wonder if she was interested only in the money she was going to receive soon.
Huskies are known to be aggressive animals, and have hierarchy issues. They always move in a team and there is a leader who leads them; they are popular in Siberia and are working dogs hence hyperactive and dominating as well. These were facts little known to us when he came curled up in the arms of someone loved.
When the door bell rang, I rushed to open the door, and shrieked at the sight of the unusually different looking animal, followed by the cage, dog food, eating bowls, shampoos. I very clearly mentioned to the man of the house that I just wouldn’t have the time to look after the puppy as my hands were full, and that it was going to be his responsibility looking after it as he had brought him along. Anyway, things never work the way you plan,the man of the house being busy with his shipping company and travel itineraries, I was the only one left to look after him, and i said to myself…” I have to handle two non-verbals.” I could never think of a better name for him, Hakku, his pet name came in naturally as time passed.
As time went by, it has taken us almost two yrs to totally understand his nature .Being an animal still he understands and shows concern for his 'Rahul Bhaiya’ .If Rahul, our son, is in distress, he is in distress too,something so simple which humans don’t understand. Hakku loves to play ball, he initiates the ball game involving every family member in the activity, then moves on to solitary play. Something so pure and beautiful. He loves to look out from the long windows, into the forest world, surrounded by chirping of birds,monitoring some of his pals going for the routine walks and of course his best friend “The Crow”.
One thing that I figured out was he is very human, 99% human and 1% animal. Dominating and with a high level of ego. The other day as I sat on the window sill beside him I Realised that I had left the balcony grill door open. So I immediately rushed to lock the grills. Hakku immediately walked till the passage at the end of the hall and barked. I understood he was trying to communicate very strongly, and then I said to myself....'Does he want me to sit on the window sill again?' I swiftly went back and neatly perched myself on the window ledge, and he with much ease raised his two legs onto the window and paused. Goodness gracious!!! Yes, I was correct, he wanted me there beside him petting and chatting with him. I have not known other dogs to be so human. Everyone who passes by and enters the society gets a quick glimpse of him at the window and their faces break into smiles, washing away their stress and misery....and then a Click!! Click!! I think if I charged for the selfies that each one takes, I could become a millionaire soon. A husky is no ordinary dog, he is a Siberian after all.
Most of my money gets washed away at the Pet Salon, quarterly. And look at myself looking like a vagabond electrified, unkempt, no time for the parlour as the non-verbal creature keeps me on my feet the entire day, communicating in his own special way, only need-based.
Hakku is someone who detests Pedigree as well as Royal Cannin. If the air is filled with the smell of suji halwa made with ghee, or the chicken bones from the curry, or the bones from the shrivelled fried fish, it's party time and nothing like it if the party is accompanied by his favourite sweet dish...curd rice. Mmm.. He is ok with fruits as well....watermelon, thaiguavas, kiwis, apples. Oh!! how could i miss out on the mangoes!!!.
At home we are left with not a single pair of socks that is not airconditioned, nevertheless we keep buying now and then, thanks to Amazon for making our work simpler. I still remember we had a full-time helper for around a year last year. Hakku always seemed to tell him, "Everyone has done their job and left the house,....what about you!! High time you left!!,...." The poor boy was petrified of handling this breed. For Hakku his family members were always top priority: ’Papu’, his leader (the man of the house), Rahul Bhaiya his responsibility, the crow his loyal and best friend to the extent that he is allowed to eat his Royal Cannin, chicken rice and have a hearty sumptuous meal. Hakku enjoys eating Rahul’s leftovers that he spills on the ground while eating.
This month with the man of the house travelling I have had to leave Hakku at the boarding with a family, feeling guilty and just exhausted; couldn’t have managed through.
Before he left, I packed his bag with carrots, beans, meat jerky, watermelon, and his ball not to mention a big packet of Govardhan curd. I told him....’Hakku !! Mommy sends you to boarding and lodging to be more independent!!...you good doggy, ok!!. As the car left with him, I was almost choking. The next day I quickly rushed with the car just to know where he had been put up, as the man of the house had arranged contact details.
The window looks empty and less decorated without him, his ball, his chain, his bowl, all stay unmoved, reminding me of his mischievious presence. Everyone in and around the society as well as the helpers are asking about him as they no longer see his loving face at the window.
He showed us what love is all about.
Come back home Hakku!!, Heite Papun!!, Heto heto hetoli Papun!!...Keto keto keto keto ketoli Papun!!...Awwwwww!!
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession).
MY SILENT SAVIOR
Narayanan Ramakrishnan
A Facebook post kindled my interest. It had a message in Malayalam, “ningalude maranathinu sesham, facebookum whatsaapum kananamengil, kannukal dhanam cheyyu”. I immediately shared, translating it into English, for my friends to whom Malayalam is Greek and Latin: If you want to view Facebook and Whatsapp after death, donate your eyes. A thought provoking statement, indeed.
It was a real soul-stirring thought. When I reached my office that morning, a Saturday, my colleague, after usual pleasantries, told me, “Narayanan, nowadays, people have become large-hearted.”
Why Anil, what happened?” I asked. “See this,” He pointed to a news item in the vernacular newspaper about the organ donation decision made by the family soon after the death of their family head, a man of 60, who had died after a severe cardiac arrest. It was a brave decision taken by the bereaved wife and daughters.
“It is happening, Anil” I responded and added, “Recently, a family in my neighborhood donated the organs of their only son, who was killed in an accident. See their alertness even while a grave tragedy struck them all of a sudden, totally upsetting their lives”.
That made me think. Why not donate my organs after death so that the blind can see; deaf and dumb can speak and hear; my healthy kidney can bring more life to the one who is on the brink, and whatever can be retrieved within a brief period after my death be utilized? Most importantly, why not donate my body for pathological studies rather than let it get reduced to ashes on the funeral pyre?
I googled. Found the site. Immediately filled up the form and now it was ready for downloading and taking a print-out. Anil intervened, “I will get you a color print out and get it laminated”. The process was over in a jiffy. The Donor Card in full splendor was in my hand and I proudly kept it safely in my purse.
After this, I don’t know why, I have been very cautious not to lose my life in any accident and I put on my helmet whenever I went riding my bike.Upto that day I had not been like that. I found some excuse for going without and riding without it, awaited signals from fellow passengers for warning about checking en route. If I got any alert I used to take an alternate route and as a matter of reciprocity, whenever I was in the know, gave signals to others riding without helmets. Life as usual continued while I was aware all the time, with helmet or without, the number of days for me on this planet was coming down every minute, hour and day.
A diabetes patient, myself, I was very causal in keeping dates with my blood sugar tests. I did not experience any difficulty in my normal life, but the donor card in my purse, the new talisman, some way or other prompted me to go for a check-up. Regular in morning walk and intake of drugs prescribed almost two year back, I was confident that nothing untoward would happen.
But a shock was in store for me. My fasting sugar read 230 and sugar level after food stood at a whopping 350 plus level, leaving me shell-shocked. I gave a serious thought- how can it go through the roof in a span of two years? My family had been away for nearly ten days and I had been thrown onto the street. With nobody at home to oversee my medicinal intake, I took full advantage of the time and might have skipped my regular drugs and that might have caused this havoc.
Left with no other alternative, I decided to go for a further check- up, got an appointment from a leading physician and obtained an hour’s permission from my superior for the purpose. “I will be back by 11.30”, I declared, and left promptly wearing my helmet to the hospital hardly two kilometers away. To come out of an air-conditioned room and ride in the sun in the peak of summer was very arduous but I had to put up with that ordeal.
I went in at the appointed time and presented the papers of my present diabetes record. The doctor, as old as me, asked many questions and designed a chart for investigation into my problem.
“Narayanan, your blood levels are very high, much above the permissible levels.”
“That’s why I am here, Doc.” I said.
“I am giving you new drugs. You needto take these tablets for 10 days and do all these tests after 10 days. Let me see if your blood sugar can be brought into control or insulin needs to be administered”.
He immediately called Pharmacy, “I am sending a patient. Do you have all these drugs?” He checked with them.
I was a bit annoyed with him at this. Then he continued, “Please go to the ground floor; to the left of the D Block is the pharmacy. You can get all the medicines from there”.
I was a bit circumspect in all these. While handing over the prescription to the attending salesgirl, I enquired about the price.”Sir, first one you have to take two times a day, costs Rs.460 and the other one Rs.160/- totaling Rs.620/- for ten days, and you may have to take these drugs for a minimum of 3 months”.
I did a quick mental calculation. The figures were staggering. That would literally hike the budget by nearly 1800/- per month and I would have to be on this drug for another three months. I now understood the doctor’s design when he picked up the phone and ensured the availability of the drug. I politely declined and as a retaliation asked the sales-girl to inform the doctor, that I can afford only fees and cannot be a party to get him ‘motivational’ gifts from the makers of the drug.
I was running out of my permitted time and a bit anxious to reach the office by 11.30, I started my return journey. At a turning to the left, two constables were standing, casually talking to each other. Unaware it was a ruse, and without my helmet on my head, I proceeded further. Then a hand suddenly appeared on the road and a voiceasked me to stop. Inside the by-lane was parked a vehicle of the Traffic Department. “See, I do have a helmet, in my rush to the office I forgot it”. “Tell all these to the SI”. The SI was inspecting the driving license of a youngster. When that was over, it was my turn. Unaccustomed to dealing with police personnel, my mouth went dry and I was stammering slightly as I tried to impress the SI, who was a lady, that my helmet on the platform of my bike. “No excuses. All have hundreds of reasons and we are not here to listen to them!” thundered the lady SI. I took my wallet and handed over my driving license. There was a sudden change in her expression; it turned benign, and she returned the card.”You may go this time”she said with a wry smile. I looked down at the card she had given back to me. It was not my driving license, but my donor card. I realized I had a savior in my DONOR CARD.
The talisman is proving its weight in gold.
Narayanan Ramakrishnan began his career as a sales professional in a tea company from 1984 selling Taj Mahal, Red Label tea and Bru coffee. After that he joined a local brokerage dealing in stocks and shares. Last one year, he is in pursuit of pleasure in reading and writing. He is based out of Trivandrum.
THE MAN IN THE RED SHIRT
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Evening was creeping up like a silent shadow on an azure sky when Gautam got down from the train. The station was crowded. The train had disgorged hundreds of weary passengers. This western town of the state was the final destination of the train. Gautam looked around. He needed no porter, he had only a small suitcase which he could carry by himself.
Suddenly, Gautam jerked himself to attention. A man in a red shirt, standing a few feet away, lost in the crowd, was looking intently at him. Gautam felt he had seen this man earlier, but could not remember where. He looked so familiar, like a part of his past. The smooth face, the sharp eyes, and that smile! The mocking smile, a challenge to Gautam, asking him to come near and get to know him better.
Unknown to him, Gautam felt drawn to the man and started walking towards him. He pushed the crowd around him to reach the man, but missed him. Somehow the man vanished in a flash. Gautam felt frustrated, he wished he could have met the man and asked him why he looked so familiar, why his face is hidden beneath a heap of memory, where had they met earlier, why the sharp eyes and the mocking smile were making him so unnerved, so drawn towards him.
Gautam started walking towards the exit. He again saw the glimpse of a red shirt, exactly similar to what the man was wearing. The man in the red shirt was getting out of the station. Gautam followed him, hoping to catch up with him. Outside the station there was chaos, a sort of mayhem. Taxiwallahs, auto rickshaw drivers and rickshaw pullers were competing with each other to entice passengers, shouting and trying to grab their luggages. Suddenly a fight broke out among them, a taxi driver was slapped by an auto wallah.
Gautam shuddered at the scene and steered clear of it. He came out of the auto stand and wondered whether to take a left or right turn in search of a hotel. He had come for a surprise visit, his first to this town, to investigate why the sale of Allout has suddenly dipped drastically. Someone had phoned him to inform that the retailers had been bribed by the Good Knight wholesaler. As the Regional Sales Manager of Johnson's he had been worried, he could not afford to lose customers for his product.
Gautam again had a flash of the red shirt on the road in the right. The man was so near! Walking fast, Gautam thought he could catch up with him. He was desperate, trying hard to remember where he had seen that face earlier. Was the man in the same school or college as him, though not in the same class? Was he in the neighbouring seat in a movie hall or a football stadium, absent mindedly picking up a few popcorns from Gautam's packet? Or was he a co-passenger in a train journey? Where had he seen these piercing eyes and the mysterious smile?
Gautam tried to take a swift look at his surroundings. This was his first trip to the small town, yet somehow he felt familiar here. It was like many other small towns he had visited, yet there was something special here. He felt something stirring inside him, a feeling of dejavu, a longing for some intimate memory. As if this town was a part of his destiny, he was bound to come here some day.
Gautam could see the red shirt off and on among the crowd walking ahead of him. He thought the man stopped at some point and looked back. A shiver ran down Gautam's spine. Somehow the sharp look and the cunning, challenging smile unnerved him further. He quickened his pace and came to the spot where the man had stopped. There was a sign on the left. Hotel Amar: AC Room 800 Non-AC 500. Gautam thought the rate was reasonable and he could stay there for the night. His return ticket was booked for the next evening. He looked ahead searching for the man in the red shirt, but he had vanished again. Gautam felt disappointed, would he see the man again? God knows! But somehow he wanted to meet him, even for once, just to ask him who he was and why he looked so familiar.
Gautam wanted to have an early dinner and go to sleep. Next day was going to be busy in meeting a few retailers and trying to get a feedback from the customers. He missed his wife, the children and was eager to return home. In his job he was used to frequent travelling and absence from home. But somehow this time he felt different. His twelve year old daughter Sangita had been upset with him this morning when he left. Dussehra was a few days away, she wanted to go to the market with him and buy a good 'modern' dress, not the type her Mom gets her on birthdays and other festivals.
Satyakam, his son,was indifferent to dresses, his obsession was video games. He also wanted Gautam to take him to the market and buy a few video games for Dussehra. And Madhavi, his wife! She wanted nothing, except that Gautam should stay with the family all the time, and avoid so many tours.
He missed Madhavi like never before and dialled her number. She picked up on the first ring, as if she was waiting for this call.
"Reached? Why didn't you call earlier? I have been waiting!"
Gautam felt happy, to be wanted, to be missed.
"I tried a couple of times, but the connectivity from the train was poor."
"Good room? Do you have a tea maker in the room or you have to order room service for your frequent cups of tea?"
Gautam smiled to himself, Madhavis's eyes for details!
"A fairly decent room. No tea maker! For eight hundred rupees a night you can't expect a tea maker in the room! What are the kids doing? Is Sangita still upset with me? Tell her I will take her out and buy the best available dress in the market this Sunday. Is she busy studying? Can you give the phone to her?"
Madhavi chuckled from the other side, "Studying? Are you
dreaming? Your darling daughter is busy talking to her friend Suman, God knows what these silly girls talk about all the time. Just imagine she is not even a teen yet and so much to gossip! And when I go near her she makes a face and warns her friend on the other side that her Mom is close by, as if they are exchanging state secrets and presence of an intruder will compromise the country's security!"
Gautam tried to remind her that she was also a twelve year old
once and must be talking to her friends for hours. Madhavi was horrified, "Me? Talking on the phone? Na Baba, Na, we didn't have mobile phones those days and the office phone sitting on a cradle like an old man draped in a black coat was too intimidating. And you know what your princess is busy doing these days?"
Gautam sat up, what is Sangita doing that Madhavi wants to
report over the phone, "What? Is she planning to blow up her
school as a mark of protest against home work?" Madhavi laughed, "No something more serious than that! She and her friends are exchanging jokes and pictures which are decidedly obscene."
"Oh my God! How do you know?"
"When she is in the bath room I regularly open up her message box to read the messages."
Gautam wanted to pull her leg,
"No, no, what I meant was how did you know the messages are obscene? You always claim you come from a very cultured family, which doesn't know anything obscene, doesn't use a bad word and if a carnal thought crosses someone's mind, he has to go and take a cold water bath!"
It was Madhavi's turn to feel playful, "Oh, that? Don't you
know? All obscene things I learnt from you after marriage! I had come to you as a pure, virginal soul, O Krishna, my playful master, you corrupted my mind and filled me with a passion which you only could satisfy!"
Gautam felt an intoxicating thrill run through his veins at the seductive innuendo from his wife. He could not wait for the night to pass and he would board the train next evening to go home. They talked for some more time, Satyakam had already gone to sleep, he had a football match in the school and had returned home tired. Gautam ordered room service for dinner and went off to sleep.
The next morning Gautam started early. The town was small. Like many other towns the landscape was pleasantly familiar. A main street with shops lining on both sides, lanes and bylanes clogged with crowd and small stalls, street side vendors selling clothes, footwear and utensils, noise all around, bulls, dogs and buffaloes roaming around freely and small urchins begging - almost all Indian towns get their typical smell and flavour from the cauldron of human activity and penchant for gregariousness.
A small market building with elevated shops drew his attention and for a moment he stood still. He had a feeling that he was being watched and he had no doubt the man in the red shirt was somewhere nearby, with his piercing gaze and cunning smile. He looked around and spotted him. There, behind the footwear shop, partly hidden by plastic curtains providing shed to the shop! The man looked at Gautam, his smile became more pronounced as if he was trying to say something to him. Gautam felt uneasy, extremely nervous. Keeping the man steady in his sight he started walking towards him. The man was standing there unmoved, as if silently beckoning Gautam to come near.
Suddenly there was a rush, a group of families emerging out of the adjacent restaurant and for a few seconds Gautam lost sight of the man. Next moment the man was gone, disappeared, as if he was never there. Gautam was very close to the shop now and wondered what happened to the man. He asked the footwear seller, but got nothing from him. Since the man in the red shirt was not a customer the shop keeper had not noticed him.
Gautam left the shop. His uneasy feeling had increased. He felt a mild drumming of the heart, the constant hide and seek game was eating into his consciousness like a nagging pain. He approached his first retailer and started discussing the strategy to increase the sale of Allout. All the while half his mind was busy wondering why the man in the red shirt was appearing and disappearing from Gautam's sight. He went to two more shops, his nervous feeling gradually giving way to his professional spirit. He assured an increased incentive to the retailers and they were happy.
It was getting close to lunch hour. Gautam decided to visit one more shop before getting back to the hotel for lunch. The fourth retailer was a serious sort of person and the discussion went on for some time. Gautam was getting hungry, his attention span was reducing and he was feeling a slight dizziness. Suddenly, the retailer before him started to dissolve from his sight and the man in the red shirt materialised from nowhere. The man was talking but his words became jumbled up and instead of hearing him, Gautam only saw a man with a smooth, oily face, a pair of glinting eyes and a very strange smile. For a few moments Gautam's mind went blank, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. He returned to his sense when the retailer started shouting at him.
The retailer was worried, he gave a glass of Limca to Gautam and dropped him back at the hotel in his motor cycle. Gautam straight went to the dining hall to order lunch. A short, burly man in suit and tie was waiting for his lunch. Gautam badly craved for some company, to talk to someone and unburden himself. He asked the man if he could sit on the chair opposite. The man seemed happy to have someone to talk to.
"New to this town? Is this your first visit?"
"Yes, just for a day. Returning home by the night train."
"Ah, how can you leave so early? It's such a beautiful place, surrounded by small, green hills. There is a huge waterfall about five kilometres away. And the forests, the deep forests full of birds and animals about ten kilometres from here! You must visit them, if not this time, during your next visit. Where do you come from? What's your name?"
"I am Gautam Tripathy, from Bhubaneswar. And you?"
"I am Godabarish Mishra, Professor of Philosophy at the Sambalpur University. I come to this town often to deliver lectures. I have a sizeable fan following here. If you were staying tonight I would have invited you to attend my lecture in the Town Hall in the evening"
"So sorry. My train leaves at seven in the evening. What is the lecture about?"
The professor chuckled,
"'India's Hour of Birth and Her Destiny'. I am a deep believer in Astrology"
Gautam was amused,
"Does the country have a destiny? That too governed by an hour of birth?"
The professor became serious. Their food had arrived. A huge,
cooked, head of a fish was staring at Gautam from the Professor's plate. Gautam had ordered a vegetarian lunch. The professor attacked the head of the fish with great gusto, he was happy to get a captive audience, "Every living being has a destiny, pre-ordained from the moment of his birth".
Gautam tried to pull the professor's leg, "Even this fish? Was
it born to die for you?"
"Yes, just imagine, this fish must have been caught from the river which passes through this town, if the fish had managed to swim a kilometre further, it might have escaped getting caught and might have lived for one more year. Or it would have been caught by someone else and would not have come to this hotel. And if some other person had taken lunch before me and ordered head of fish it would have landed up in his plate. But this fish was destined to be consumed by me."
"But it sounds so frivolous! A fish and its destiny!"
"Nothing is frivolous my friend in this world, particularly for every being which breathes to live. Every breath is a footfall of its destiny. And the country is a leaving being, breathing through her one billion people.You must have read about Delhi's Khan Market incident last week. The poor fellow had come to buy chicken tikka for his wife and got into a brawl with a brat over a parking spot. They had a big argument and the brat stabbed the poor chap to death. Can you see the connection with destiny? The dead man used to live in Vasant Kunj, a good ten kilometres away, he could have gone to at least half a dozen other places, to Rajinder Dhaba near Kamal Cinema, to Kakeda's in Connaught Place, Karim's in Nizamuddin, or Colonel's Kebab in Defence Colony. He could have got chicken tikka for his wife in the evening or even one hour earlier or later. but destiny brought him to Khan Market at that hour, to a particular spot, precisely when the killer brat was parking his car. My present research is about the stellar constellation at the midnight hour of 15th August 1947 and to decipher our country's destiny. I have found some interesting facts and will share them with the audience tonight. I firmly believe everyone's destiny is contained in a package of data. This data is maintained by God and very few highly enlightened astrologers have the ability to access a fraction of that data."
Gautam was astounded,
"You mean God maintains data for more than six billion people
spread over the world?" Professor Mishra flashed a benign smile, "Are you doubting the infinite power of God? Is there a limit to what He can do? Even your coming to this town is a part of your destiny, our meeting here today at this moment in this dining hall is preordained, everything is predestined my friend, I can give you a few more instances....."
Suddenly a waiter appeared at the side of Prof.Mishra and handed
him a piece of paper. The Professor had finished his meal, he got up and smiled at Gautam, "Sorry young man, I have to leave, some people are waiting in the lobby, I had promised them I would visit the Philosophy Department of the local college at two thirty. Hope we will meet again, if you happen to come to Sambalpur, please look me up. I will be happy to share many interesting stories with you".
Gautam left the hotel at three, he wanted to visit three more retailers before returning to the hotel and leaving for the railway station to catch the train. The thought of the man in the red shirt returned to his mind. Would he appear again, at some unexpected turn, in some narrow lane or behind some lonely shop? Luckily, Gautam didn't see him during his visit to the three retailers.
Around six he started walking back to the hotel. Lights were yet to come up in the town. It was still bright, the air was stuffy, hot and humid, probably it would get cooler later in the evening. Lots of people had come out to the market with their families for shopping. Dussehra was round the corner and the festive season had already arrived with promises of fun and celebrations. Gautam's attention was drawn to a young couple walking ahead of him, the father holding the hand of their small child. The boy must be around four years old. He was pointing at some toys hanging from a string in a shop.
The parents had moved near the shop to look at the toys more closely. The father's grip must have loosened a bit. The small boy drifted away and started walking towards the middle of the road. Gautam was hardly a foot away, his heart almost stopped at the sight of the speeding Innova coming from the opposite direction. In a couple of moments it would run over the boy! With a cry Gautam lunged forward and brought the child back to the side of the road, but lost control of himself. Next moment the Innova hit him hard and threw him high up in the air. Before Gautam's head hit the road he looked at the car helplessly. There, sitting on the bonnet of the Innova was the man in the red shirt, his face solemn, as if he was carrying out a preordained, pre-assigned job against his wish. His cunning smile was gone, but the eyes had not lost any of their penetrative intensity. There was a strange melancholy on his face.
In his dying moments, Gautam felt an incredible sadness, for
leaving his dear Madhavi, his darling Sangita and the precious Satyakam. His eyes met the eyes of the man in the red shirt and he whispered, "So you are Death and you have been stalking me, perhaps ever since I was born! That's why you looked so much a part of my past! I wish I had known you yesterday. Had I recognised you for what you are, I wouldn't have followed you to the hotel and returned to my dear family last evening itself! Now you are taking me away, who will look after them? They will miss me, who will buy dress for my Sangita and video games for my Satyakam? Who will talk to my Madhavi, promising her all the love in the world? Who will...........As life ended for him, Gautam's words remained suspended in a cruel, oppressive evening air in a small, crowded town, the last town he would ever visit.
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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