Literary Vibes - Edition XLVII

Dear Readers,

I have great pleasure in presenting to you the Forty seventh edition of LiteraryVibes. 
On popular demand we have tried to trim down the pages.

The festival of the holy Christmas is upon us. The essence of all religion is to seek God in truth and in noble thought and action. With parts of the country burning over various issues, people will still flock to churches on the Christmas Day, praying for blessings, for smiles and joy. We join them in prayers hoping that all round sanity will prevail soon. This ancient country, our beloved country, deserves much better than the disruptions and mayhem we see today.  

Hope you will enjoy the offerings in LVXLVII. 
Please forward the following link to all your friends and contacts:
http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/253

With warm regards and wishing you a Merry Christmas,

Mrutyunjay Sarangi
 

 

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THE X-FACTOR

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

A fruit dropped into your basket,

be it sweet, sour, bland;

succulent, or with no pulp,

full of rinds, tasteless.

 

Can crash-land from the blue,

unknown, unsolicited;

could come across you on a road,

growing dear as time passes.

 

Familiarity may be its bane,

living too close too long to it,

could stink; at its best, its pep

and taste grow insipid.

 

But if lost at the outset,

you move heaven and earth –

doggy nose, falcon eye, spyglass,

engaging Scotland Yard to find it.

 

It rises as Phoenix from ashes

if it dies young and unconsummated,

to be immortal, immune to death,

a deity worshipped, loved, longed for.

 

An itch, that subsides

as curiosity dies, as the land

is mapped, plotted, and marked;

if the boat sails even-keel.

 

Easily caught without sacrifices,

it loses its shine, and worth,

seems below its station,

the sheen dulls mat grey.

 

It is worth its weight in gold

if desired but it eludes,

a fragrant draught of wind,

a beautiful daydream!

 

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

 

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DEIFICATION (AVATAAR)

Haraprasad Das

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra>

 

No one has free time –

 

one is taking pumpkins

to Hari-Raajpur market

on bicycle,

another looking for a bird

to shoot from the embossing

on floor linoleum.

 

After finishing studies,

climbing to the top

of my career graph,

taking all the dips in Vaitarini,

the river of ambition;

I am rather free;

 

a ray of light

trapped inside a pukhraj

flashing back and forth

inside crystal faces

of the gemstone

covered with dust;

 

 deified and trapped

in my own façade

of ability and perfection;

I have to go –

 

stumbling along mud roads

bruising ivory elbows,

soiling brass feet,

even missing the last bus

blowing back the dust,

blurring my eyes.

 

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

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

 

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CATACLYSM

Geetha Nair G

 

In this corner, I lie

Licking my wounds.

Flaccid

Placid

Feline of many moons.

 

Beware !

I shall spring

And seize  you by the head;

Jerk you

Shake you

Till you swing dead dead.

 

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ALPHONSA GOES TO ALAPUZHA

Geetha Nair

 

Her youngest brother's call  woke Alphonsa  from a siesta. Their mother had turned  restless  and was asking for her. "I'll hold the mobile to her ear," said her brother.

"Ammachi,  this is Alphonsa. Enna pattiyathu? What's wrong ?" she asked, in concern.

"Alfie, my first-born! I want to see you," she could hear her mother's faint voice.  Tears sprang to the first-born's eyes.

"I want to eat some of your heavenly kappa- and -beef roast before I go to heaven myself, " continued the old lady.

Her voice had become slightly stronger.

Alphonsa walked to the neighbouring market early the next morning to make sure she got the best cuts. The bull was staring stoically at her from a post in front of the shop. The bull's head, rather. Like the butcher, he was immune to the words hurled by Alphonsa.  Her policy was "Bash on, regardless."   It paid dividends sometimes.

The huge urili was taken out of the store room. Soon the house was filled with the aroma of beef cooking in chillies, coriander, garlic and ginger. Onions, sadly, were nowhere in the picture or the urili.

Alphonsa spread  the table with rice, chapathis, tempered buttermilk (every self-respecting Christian dining-room in Kerala  stocked this jaundiced-looking liquid) and runner-beans fry. A massive container of tapioca-and- beef roast was the centrepiece.

Enough to see her family of two growing boys and one grown man -all utterly lazy- through 24 hours.

She left home at 10 am carrying a Big- Shopper bag packed with what her mother was yearning for. 

There were three buses to Alapuzha in various stages of departure at the bus stand.

She was in her old home-now her brother's- by noon.

Her mother looked rather weak but happily tucked into what her daughter had brought.

"To think I taught you cooking ! Now you cook so much better than I ever did," said the old lady through a mouth filled with tapioca and succulent beef pieces. Her youngest daughter-in-law gave an eloquent sniff and wheeled away into the kitchen.

Her mother ate her fill.

"Let me  give some of this to Geetha," said Alphonsa. "Do, there is so much of this, my girl," replied her mother.

Geetha was Alphonsa's childhood friend and neighbour. Having inherited the ancestral home, she stayed there now with her husband and daughters.

"Alfie! Beef !"exclaimed Geetha in double delight as the former showed her the latter ladled on  a plate. They were standing on either side of a wall that had been built fairly recently, separating the two compounds. "No; don't hand it over. I am coming over. At once!" exclaimed Geetha.

She reached in record time and  tucked into the delicacy. Then the two spoke awhile. "My mother-in-law is on a visit here. That's why I came over; I would have been cast out of my home had she seen me eating this."

Geetha had always been a master of exaggeration... .

Geetha missed beef badly. All Geetha's close relatives had turned cow-worshippers in a matter of five years. The sturdy old pressure-cooker that had been used for decades to cook beef was thrown out of the house. It lay in the outhouse like a plane that had crashlanded ; the two handles stuck out  like indignant horns. From their occasional mobile exchanges, Alphonsa had been updated on the stages in the movement from beef-relishing to live- beef-worshipping.

After a refreshing evening and night drenched in nostalgia and April showers, Alphonsa was  ready to leave the next morning.

"Who knows if I will be alive when you visit again... " Ammachi said with a sigh.

Then, making sure that her daughter -in-law was nowhere near, she handed Alphonsa a packet. " I 've been hoarding this, hoping I could hand it over to you soon ; it's precious, dear."

Then she kissed her daughter on her forehead and lay back in bed.

Alphonsa reached home  well  before noon.

After washing the mound of dishes and vessels  in and around  the sink , she opened the packet her mother had given her. 

Smiling lovingly at her were five big onions.

 

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

 

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OF CANS AND BOTTLES

K. Sreekumar

 

That was a bad year for me and my family.

The Saturn period started when my daughter returned from France after losing her job. She had learned some strange language, computer language I mean, which had been of much need a few years back. Both its obsolescence and the economic slump led to her coming back, almost empty handed. I suggested that she should give classes in French language since many were seeking jobs there. She smiled at me and I knew why. I am a moron. She is quick to see irony and paradox.

The second tragedy was when I decided to move from freelancing into office work, out of sheer necessity. Freelancing meant I could stay at home with my family and work on my own. When my daughter lost her job and my income proved to be inadequate, I sought and got a job, a 9 to 5 job.

The third was when a dear servant left our home and could not be brought back. The fourth was the death of our dear dog.

A little more should be said about the third and the fourth tragedies to show their intensity and uniqueness. Otherwise they might sound like everyone’s everyday experience.

We got a pet and also a young boy for domestic help almost the same month. We paid for the dog but the boy didn’t have to be paid for. He came to our home several times to collect tins, cans and bottles and once I gave him some food. He said thanks and left.

The next day I came downstairs ready to go to my office - we live on the first floor now - and remembered that I had put off washing my car for a sixth time the previous day. It was summer and my car was all covered with dust. When I went down, I saw a clean car and that boy was standing near it. From his appearance I knew he didn't understand my language. So I tried my best through gestures to get out of him who had asked him to do that. After wasting some precious time, he understood my question and gestured back. It was my daughter.

He asked me for some food and I called out to my wife and asked her to give him some food and money.

When I came home that evening, he was still there and the this time it was the house that looked a lot cleaner and my wife didn’t look tired. Thus he came and thus he stayed.

We got the dog when my daughter begged me to buy her a pet and I had to relent. It went against my policy of not keeping pets at home or anywhere. My wife agreed on condition that it would be chained and I agreed on condition that it wouldn’t be chained. My daughter used all her diplomacy and agreed with both of us.

She gave it some typical name that suits dogs. It took me several weeks to learn it. The dog had a strange habit of lugging around cans and bottles. It seemed to have read the Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. It would take cans or bottles up the staircase and roll them down and then chase them, creating a lot of noise which, I was afraid, disturbed our rather quiet neighbourhood. A game of its own invention.

One day I gave it a new name, Kuppippaatta, meaning bottles and cans. I reversed it to refer to the boy as Pattakkuppi, meaning cans and bottles.

They were always together, except when they slept because the dog was allowed anywhere and everywhere. The boy was not allowed much inside the house.

While the dog enjoyed the luxury of having its own name, the boy was called by any name that came to my mind. I usually referred to him as Pattakkuppi in his absence and called him Chottu when he was around. My wife called him Balu. My daughter called him a series of names like Prabhakar Chaturvedi, Swaminatha Mahopadhyay, Ambujakshan Naykar, Padhmalochana Rao etc. Her argument was that the boy deserved to have a long name or names since that was all he would ever have. 

Anyway, in our small family, which included the boy and the dog also now, there was a kind of harmony in everything. We all understood each other and respected the lines which were never drawn because there was no need. The boy too, like my dog, had a fascination for all the throwaway things in our neighbourhood. He still went round collecting them and handed them over to a man who came to buy old newspapers every two weeks. 

Several proposals came for my daughter and I kept asking her what she thought about marriage. I was surprised to find that she hadn't found a boy for herself with all the freedom she had to do so. I waited. She might want to continue her studies. I often found her reading so much on Hitler and his people.

Uneventful six months went by. The boy was often hired by our neighbours too for gardening and cleaning on an hourly basis. I found that he was working hard when none of us were at home and was making good money too. My wife was his banker but she never divulged even to me the exact amount the boy made in those six months. Once she shared with me her surprise on how much one can save through manual labour these days.

We also figured it out where he was from. One day while I was browsing the channels and hearing a tribal song from some north east frontier state, he rushed in and was disappointed to see that I had opted a different channel. I understood and let him watch that channel for some time. I had to switch back to Times Now to see if the Citizenship Amendment Bill would be passed in the Rajya Sabha. But I made it a point to tell the boy that he was free to see that channel when we were not at home. By then, we had allowed him a little bit inside the house too.

I had always thought our pet dog was a Pomeranian but when my daughter's classmates came home one day, one of them told me it was an Indian Spitz. He showed pictures of both of them and after a few attempts I was able to tell the difference. Then I realized that Pomeranian was a rare breed and that most of the Pomeranians I had seen were actually Indian Spitz. They are less hairy and much bigger.

Then all upon a sudden, one day our dog ‘Kuppippaatta’ started to behave strangely. I thought it might have to do with the mating season and decided to take it to a kennel as early as possible. I asked several people to refer me to a good one. In a way it gave me and my wife almost the same feeling we get when alliances came for our daughter. Then we realized that the dog’s extreme level of affection for us was not wasted on us. We too had come to regard it as family.

My daughter had told us once that the dog was so attached to us because it had no other family but us. We had got it before it knew who its mother was. Had it been taken away later, such an attachment would not have been there and it would have gone on searching for its mother all its life. Just like us human beings. Our dog thought that we were its parents somehow. When my daughter ended her lecture on relationship among canines, I told her that such a theory made her its sister and she said she was, in fact, honoured.

Once my wife said that the boy might also bring home a wife making her the mother-in-law and me, the father-in-law. I found the title an agreeable one.

When the dog began to act more and more weird and it stopped eating properly and followed only the boy wherever he went, I was sure it was sick. I took it to the vet but we were told that there was nothing wrong with our Kuppippaatta. The doctor joked that the dog might have got some depression. How could that be a joke!

The doctor had no idea about our dog. It showed all the emotions my daughter showed. Happy, annoyed, anxious, sulking, depressed, just plain sad, or ruminating and it was not so hard to distinguish among its varying moods.

With two more months for a new year to begin, the tragedy struck again and again. First, the boy expressed a desire to go home. He had been missing his parents for long, he said. He was recently feeling very worried about them. He was wondering whether they had gone back across the border. I was not feeling very comfortable about him going back at a time like that.

Four days after our dog fell sick, one morning, my daughter came in from the garden where the boy was playing with the dog and asked me an interesting question. I was sitting in the veranda, reading my newspaper and sipping my coffee.

“Couldn’t you figure out why Dondu got sick for no reason?”

“No, even the vet was helpless.”

“I feel so stupid that I saw this only now.”

“OK, what do you see now?”

“The dog fell sick because Chandrasekhara Manikk is going away.”

"You mean, Pattakkuppi?"

"Yes. I would like to bring to your notice that it is not politically correct to call him that."

I appreciated her comment on me. We discussed what to do when the boy really went away. I wondered how the dog came to know about him going away.

“I am sure the dog knew it even before he knew it. They can read our thoughts.”

I glanced at the boy who was now giving the dog a good bath. It liked water so much. I could not take my eyes off them. The boy could not read and the dog could read his mind. Did it read my mind too? Did it read everyone's mind? O, god!

I congratulated my daughter on that discovery and we decided to ask the vet what to do as soon as possible.

But, that evening when I talked to the vet, he just laughed at me as if I was returning his joke to him.

Two days later, the boy took all the money back from my wife and caught a train to Assam or somewhere there. He assured us that he would come back.

Our dog did exactly what we expected. It stopped eating and fell sick. We took it to a vet and he gave several injections, drips and tablets. Its condition improved a little and then went on like that for a week. We knew its days had come. There was no more hope.

The boy had taken our address with him but we didn't hear from him for two weeks. We all found our home very depressing. We realized how the boy and the dog were an inseparable part of our home and our lives.

Then we got a letter from some government clinic in Assam. They were asking me what to do with the unclaimed dead body of a young boy. This had been the address he gave at the hospital. He seemed to have no other address. I rang them up and transferred some money to their account asking them to give the boy a decent burial. I didn't want to know how he died. None of us, who were mourning the death of our dear pet, was in a mood to travel. We had given a decent burial to our Kuppippaatta the same day it died.

 

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

 

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THE LAST RAINS IN CUTTACK
for William Meredith
Bibhu Padhi

 

Their long arrivals have turned episodic now;
now they come in between long waits.

They do not embrace the earth anymore with that
perfect angular gesture of a kind mother.

They have lost their old sense of touch,
their feeling of growth and new life.

My trees are dry now, like my own fingers;
they no longer bear the smell of wet green

and loving rain. The last rains are falling now—

on the mango tree widespread against the sky,

on my closed eyes, on the seeds of winter, softly,
on the last blade of grass. Let them fall.

 

 A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi  has published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as  The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry,  Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton)  60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi  welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com   

 

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EGOSURFING

Dilip Mohapatra

 

As I stand in front

of the cyber magic mirror

trying to figure out

my outlines and contours

my profile emerges

and takes shape

as the world sees me

describes me

and defines me.

 

I discover

the online tattoos

that are engraved

on my skin

by others' attestations

and testimonials

which perhaps remove

my blind spots to some extent

sometimes making me

wonder if this is

what I really am

and if this is what

I really stand for.

 

As I follow

my own digital footprints

on the virtual wilderness

wary of the identity thieves

lurking in dark corners

I play Dumb Charade

with myself

while trading off

my safety for

others' opinions.

 

Let me assure you

it's not pure vanity

nor my self promotion

that eggs me on

to go on

but my attempt is

rather serendipitous

just to throw a little more light

on my blurred image

and I am not

the evil antagonist

of the tale of Snow White.

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

 

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DIVINE WAVE

Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura

 

I get unmindful

Even in the crowd

In the midst of soulful music

While the world is busy

Concentrating deeply

On the heartfelt melody.

I try my best

To find the reason

But, nothing satisfies me,

As I feel,I am seized

By some strange disease.

 

It is not painful

Rather quite exciting

Also very fulfilling,

But, difficult to decipher

What exactly it is ?

I see dreams fully awake

I talk endlessly to myself

I hear noise in silence

And, perceive air

Without the touch and smell.

 

They say it is love

The feelings of the God

The waves of which

Makes an ordinary person delirious

As he starts behaving weird

In a world that misrepresent

Each and every behavior

To suit the need of the hour.

I am least interested

In the nomenclature,

I just like to be in the state,

Unmindful of the pseudo endearment

To float in His divine wave.

 

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

 

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THE GAWKY HILL

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

Dhanush, a haughty gawky hill surrounded by bareness. A hill who believed himself to be the most supreme of all the things in the nature and kept all plants and animals far away and below himself. He didn’t want anything around or upon him for he always had a fear in him that the moment anything climbed on top of him, he would lose his supremacy over the nature around him. He was so concerned about his dominance that he didn’t even allow the clouds or the wind to trespass over him. Thus he spent years in loneliness and foolishness.

Dhanush was not like this before. He once was a lush green hill with cattle, birds, trees and flowers living blissfully. The breeze danced around the hill and the clouds rested upon him. But now the only company he had was an army of boulders and the chief of them, the Rotund boulder that sat on his shoulder, ill-advising him in everything.

Thus, the years passed along idly till another idle day when Dhanush saw some men build something along the ground at a distance. Dhanush observed for sometime the men who worked hard under the sun clanging on the iron and welding the metal.

“What is it that they are doing?” Dhanush asked the Rotund boulder sitting on his shoulder. The Rotund boulder studied the events taking place down the hill and then as usual he ill-advised Dhanush.

“These men are building a ladder, your majesty, to climb on your top and conquer you”.

Dhanush became concerned and furious. Humans were building a ladder to climb on him  and make him submit! He at once gave the order of attack to his army of boulders and Dhanush himself shook violently. The army of boulders darted down towards the men who were working down at the bottom of the hill.

At ground Satya and his team of men were laying a railway track. This new track, when completed, would greatly reduce the travelling distance between the north and south side of the country. So they were sweating over their job in the wilderness when suddenly they were startled to see a set of boulders speeding towards them. At the warning of Satya, the team of men jumped out of the way of the boulders, but they thrashed whatever Satya and his team had built till then.

Satya couldn’t make out the reason for this sudden drastic event but figured that it must have been an earthquake that shook the hill. But few of the workers  who came from the nearby village to work in the railway construction went up to Satya who was in charge of the construction.

“It’s the hill who attacked us, sir. He is angry because we are building this track through his territory without his permission”.

“Is that the problem?” Satya was puzzled. ”Then I will get his permission now itself.”

“But that will not end the matter”, the workers said

“Then what will?” Satya enquired

“Dhanush the hill does not want anybody or anything near him”,  one of the workers pointed out. “He believes that he is the most supreme of all the creations and he wants all others to be frightened and in awe of him”.

“But I can’t take ‘no’ for an answer” Satya exclaimed. ”I have to build this railway track for the people who otherwise would have to travel extra miles to reach their destinations.” The rest of the team members supported Satya. “I will go to Dhanush and somehow get his permission”, saying that Satya walked towards the bad hill who only thought of himself.

As Satya started to climb the hill, the Rotund boulder who sat on Dhanush’s shoulder whispered into his ear.  “That is the man who is attempting to build the ladder to climb on your top. Kill him.”

“Stop there”, Dhanush ordered angrily and the ground beneath Satya shook. “What do you want here?”

“I seek your permission to build our project across your territory”, Satya replied.

“And what is your project? Isn’t it a ladder to climb on me?” Dhanush asked.

Satya was surprised at the suggestion of Dhanush and he tried to control his laughter.

“It’s not a ladder”, Satya said smiling but the hill snorted.

“Don’t lie”.

“Of course it looks like one but it’s really a railway track which will be laid across this barren land and it will considerably reduce the travelling distance between north and south. It’s in the interest of the people and I think you being a noble creation should allow us to build one."

“But I don’t want anyone around me “ the hill asserted.

“They won’t stay around you” Satya promised, “They will just pass by you in a few minutes”.

“In a few minutes?” Dhanush questioned back.

“Yes” Satya said wittingly. “Different people from different parts of the country will pass by you daily for a few minutes and for those few minutes all their eyes will be on you”

“Why?” Dhanush asked wondering.

“Because such is your stature”. Satya began to flatter the hill. “They must be seeing such a big hill for the first time, standing in full authority with head held high. They will offer you a thankful prayer for making their journey short and sweet”.

Dhanush was taken up by Satya’s words. ”Really?”

“True”. Satya stressed. “But ‘O’ King, let me add sadly, where is your crown without the clouds and where is your sceptre without the breeze.  Where is your royal robe without the greenery and where are your pageboys without the birds. Where are your subjects without the cattle and herds and your treasury is empty without the flowers and herbs. Without all this can you call it a kingdom and without a kingdom how can you be a king? I can’t see any subjects over whom you can sway your authority except for this set of ugly boulders which sit on you like warts and make you appear horrible. The Rotund boulder on your shoulder is the one who is ill-advising you time and again and check for yourself how he has climbed upon you.  He was lying at your feet and over the years he has risen up to your shoulders and now he is up to your ears. Very soon he himself will get on top of you and he will rule you”.

Dhanush slowly understood what Satya was pointing out. He reflected his past. Satya was right. Once he was a rich and nice hill to all around and there was happiness floating around. But ever since the rotund boulder started advising him, pride got into his head and he believed himself to be the highest of all creations. Pride turned into arrogance and arrogance into wickedness and very soon he banished everybody from his kingdom. Now he was an ugly creation with lumps of swelling called boulders all over his body.

“Don’t listen to him”, all the boulders growled together. But Satya encouraged the hill to shake himself of his bad company and to allow the loyal subjects to take back their rightful place. Dhanush wisely listened to Satya. He shook himself up and the boulders trembled. One by one they fell down and the chief of them, the Rotund boulder who tried to climb the peak of Dhanush was the last to fall. Dhanush thanked Satya for opening his eyes and Satya thanked Dhanush for all the boulders which his men broke into smaller pieces to be laid along the track.

Years later, Satya who was now a director in the railway department was travelling from north to south along the railway track he had once built. At some point he heard all the people in the train exclaim, “Oh! What a beautiful hill!” It was then that Satya remembered that the train had reached the Dhanush hill. He looked out of the window and indeed what a beautiful hill it was.

“A prosperous magnificent hill”, someone beside him exclaimed.

A hill with clouds streaming above, breeze whistling past, birds chirping, trees swaying, flowers that bloomed throughout the year and the cattle mowing the grass all through the day. Satya kept his eyes on the hill till the train passed by and then sat back on his seat. Here was the best scenery of the land.

 

 

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

 

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LIKE BEFORE I LOVE YOU

Ananya Priyadarshini

 

Let me cry, and sink in my tears

Let me fall into the dark and succumb to my fears

Let me break my own heart, and get mad

Let me stand before the mirror and call myself bad

Let me see where I went wrong and shoulder the guilt

Let my dreams shatter and let the plans fail that I built

Let me weep alone and let me whine

Before I handle 'our' mess, let me learn to handle mine

 

Let me laugh, and adore how it sounds

Let me adventure like I know no bounds

Let me pick my pieces up and build myself, again

Let me watch myself smile and know I'm no mundane

Let me celebrate the decisions I made, the risks I took

Let me be proud of all my small steps every time I turn back and look

Let me get insane and high, in my own light let me shine

Before I get happy about 'ours', let me learn to be happy about 'mine'

 

Let me deal with my chaos, and hug my imperfections

Let me enlist my voids and calm those internal frictions

Let me fill myself up, with all that I seek

Let me fight alone till I believe I'm not meek

Let me be complete so you don't have to fit into me

So I don't want to mould you

Let me love the whole of me

Before I fall in love with the whole of you

 

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

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

 

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LET'S FIND HOME

Sharanya Bee

 

Let's dip our palms into these waters and see

if they'll rise up holding translucent river-rocks,

Let's stare at our misty reflections in it for a moment,

Maybe what is seen could be strange faces-

Brighter, smaller and eyes more wider;

Let's hold it still as it cries out more water

dripping through the betweens of our fingers

Let's hold it for longer, out in the scorching sun, until it speaks,

Until it confesses, those strangers are us.

Then maybe we can stare into each other's eyes,

Cry a little for our lost and anonymous selves,

And then find home in them.

 

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.

 

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KARN (Odia poem of the same title)

Hrushikesh Mallick

Translation by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

The regular dry fish vendor

roams our village lanes,

a married woman, wearing a spot

of Kumkum on forehead and bangles.

 

She is nameless to villagers,

except her identity as Kata-ma’

(the mother of Kata), an inviolable tie

binding her motherhood to her son.

 

Kata-ma’s cry, ‘Would you buy

a piece of delicious Hilsa?’

splits the silence like an assurance

to our village, its serene security.

 

Another vendor, Anaadi, follows suit,

not as frequent, selling assortment

of goods - peacock et al;

reassure us of our quiet life.

 

Childhood we cherish, celebrate it

in our village’s warm motherly lap;

we lose count of time, evening birds

return to nests daily, monsoons repeat.

 

I bothered my mother for this and that

one restful afternoon; she, cross

with me, pushed me out of her lap,

“Don’t harass me, lucky son of a bitch.”

 

If she said, tongue-in-cheek,

it escaped my kiddish notice,

“Not my son, you little lucky brute,

I found you lying by the river bank

 

where your bitch of a mother

had dumped you.” My heart broke

to bits to see my village aunts

join her tch…tching…shaking heads;

 

I look out for sympathizers to dispel

the doubt, but our little calf jumped

and ran around with joy to join

the teasing crow, “Yes, son of a bitch.”

 

Gecko on the wall also agreed, “Tick tick..

that’s right, that’s right, you, lucky son of…”

my own doll hid face from me,

even a cicada scurried away into cesspit.

 

The words surround me, its curse

laying a siege to my loveless house,

its motherless kid in the alien village

marooned by non-stop rain;

 

worse than a worm-holed

discarded wheel of a bullock-cart

left to rot in a dump

among unwanted things.

 

Footnote - Karn, born to unmarried Kunti, was put by her in a float and discarded in a stream. Though, picked up by a woman who loved Karn more than a mother, but the adoption rankled, and he was haunted by insecurity till his last breath.

 

Poet Hrushikesh Mallick is solidly entrenched in Odia literature as a language teacher in various colleges and universities, and as a prolific poet and writer with ten books of poems, two books of child-literature, two collections of short stories, five volumes of collected works of his literary essays and critical expositions to his credit; besides he has edited an anthology of poems written by Odia poets during the post-eighties of the last century, translated the iconic Gitanjali of Rabindranath Tagore into Odia; and often keeps writing literary columns in various reputed Odia dailies. He has been honoured with a bevy of literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Akademi, 1988; Biraja Samman, 2002; and Sharala Puraskar, 2016. He writes in a commanding rustic voice, mildly critical, sharply ironic that suits his reflections on the underdogs of the soil. The poet’s writings are potent with a single powerful message: “My heart cries for you, the dispossessed, and goes out to you, the underdogs”. He exposes the Odia underbelly with a reformer’s soft undertone, more audible than the messages spread by loud Inca Drums. Overall he is a humanist and a poet of the soil. (Email - mallickhk1955@gmail.com)   

 

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MYSTERY INSIDE THE CAVES  
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra

Once inside the Jay Vijay cave in the Khandagiri hills, Sudha turned to her friend Maitreyi, who was visiting her in Bhubaneswar after a gap of twenty four years, to show her the huge black spider hanging on the ceiling with protruding egg sacks. She was so scared that she almost ran out of the cave. Maitreyi was busy photographing the carved statues on the external walls of those old caves, Jain monks in different postures of prayer and meditation. Sudha, a bit flustered by the sight of the black spider grasped her friend’s hand tightly and said,
"Arey, what are you doing? Come inside, I will show you something! O my God! How big they are! How terrifying!”
Maitreyi was surprised. Terrifying, here? In this crowded place? That too this is day time! 
She kind of retorted, “Are you kidding me? Terrifying? Is it a snake? What’s it?”
“Arey, no, no, not a snake! Come inside, you will be shocked!”
Sudha almost dragged her into the cave, but entered stealthily and silently. Then she looked at the ceiling of the cave. Now she was shell shocked! What! What are these! There were almost a thousand black spiders, very similar in size and appearance sitting in a formation that looked almost like an arrow, very similar to the formation of an army platoon ready for a battle. Sudha tightly grasped her friend’s hand and muttered something to vent out her fear, "Errrrr…..”
Maitreyi was not as afraid of spiders as Sudha. She put her right hand on Sudha’s mouth and looked intently at the swarm of spiders on the ceiling of the cave. Some spiders looked like wheels with their twin eyes shining like mirror. On observing more closely Maitreyi saw the silken egg cases at the end of their abdomen. She whispered, “Wolf spiders! They are Wolf spiders!”
Sudha was more surprised than ever. She never had heard this name of a spider.
“What! Wolf spiders! What’s that!”
Though she believed Maitreyi’s words for she knew that Maitreyi was a biologist, yet she could not contain her exclamation! Sudha asked “Aren’t they poisonous? So many!”
Maitreyi pulled her out of the cave and mumbled, “Ya, ya, they are poisonous! They can bite people to death!”
Sudha rushed away from the cave in apprehension and shouted at the tourists, “Don’t go inside, dangerous spiders are there.”
Tourists were roaming around the hill watching the caves and taking snaps, selfies and group photos in a celebratory mood. Some of them looked at her askance. So she repeated herself in a higher pitch, “This cave…what’s it? Oh…the Jaya Vijay cave ….inside there are poisonous black spiders. They can kill with their sting.”
Someone exhorted, “Whoever died of a spider bite? Huh…! They are not snakes! They eat the insects and clean our houses!”
Another gentleman retorted, “Have you heard of Black Widows? They are also spiders! They can kill only ants.”
Somehow Sudha could not reconcile herself to these arguments about spiders. Desperately she haunted for a tourist guide or some local gentlemen who can explain or control the situation before something happens or some tourist suffers from a poisonous spider sting. But she could only see tourists in multicoloured attire, gaily enjoying their outing! She marked the distinctly designed dresses of the groups, which separated them in their identity; rural- urban, traditional- modern, young-old, hetro-metro. 
Sudha walked slowly sweeping her eyes on the tourists trying to identify their social identity. It was one of her favourite timepass during a travel or in any gathering. She noticed some saree-clad women with pallu over their heads, bathroom slippers on their feet and small babies clinging to their waist following their husbands walking at least some feet ahead with cloth-bags and water bottles hanging from their hands. She knew those were the local village folk who have come to the city either for some medical reason or for some festivals. During this season, there were no festivals in Bhubaneswar. So they could have come to visit some relatives or family members admitted to some hospital or nursing home. She knew the rural areas in Odisha lack adequate medical facilities, for any serious illness people have to rush to the nearest cities. The rural Odia women hardly ever came out of their houses unless there was some emergency. She rued in her mind that despite the development, education and employment facilities available for women, most of the rural Odia women are still playing the same archetypal, obedient domestic servant roles. 
Some other tourists gathered around the Ranigumpha were dressed in contemporary attire. Gents in pant, shirt and shoes; ladies in salwar kurta or jeans and T-shirt. Their children were well dressed and smart. They ran around shouting playfully and giggling. She particularly noticed a newly-wed Bengali couple, perhaps on their honeymoon trip to Jagannath dham,that is Puri and the Golden triangle of Odisha: Puri, Konark and Bhubaneswar. Both were dressed gaudily, the lady wore a lot of fake jewellery and the typical white bangles made of conch shells, considered as auspicious and a must for married Bengali women. They were holding each others’ hands showily and walked clinging to each other. Sudha’s voice startled them. They started to walk faster to escape that area. 
Maitreyi was trying to explain to Sudha the habits and habitats of the Wolf spiders while they walked down the steps towards the hutments of saints who lived there with the hope of getting some explanation to the behaviour of the spiders. 
“Do you know Sudha, these Wolf spiders are found mostly in cold countries, mostly in Canada. Their speciality is that they don’t weave webs. They stay in groups inside holes or in empty spaces. They carry their babies like the Kangaroo in a pouch attached to their body till the babies are grown up enough to fend for themselves.”
“Ok, Ok, madam, enough details about those terrifying hideous creatures. Can you tell me exactly how poisonous they are and can they kill us?”
“No, no, true, they have poison on their sting, but men won’t die of that. Their stings are like the scorpion’s; hurts, pains, creates inflammation for a few days. That’s all.”
“Then why are we so afraid? Let’s go and watch their behaviour.”
“I would like to do that. But I am intrigued by their formation. Could be that they have sensed an enemy somewhere….”
While they were coming down the steep steps carefully, they heard a loud pitched noise like hulahuli, a sound created by women with their lips and tongue, during any auspicious ceremony. 
“What was that?”asked Maitreyi. She was not acquainted with many customs of Odisha. She belonged to Karnataka. Sudha had befriended her during her stay with her younger sister Shobha, who was also a school teacher in the town of Madhera, where Sobha’s husband worked as an engineer in a mining company. Maitreyi was not only her neighbour but also a good friend. She had come to visit Sobha at her house in Cuttack, after three years of their retirement. She was a reputed biology teacher in her school but was a spinster. Before going back to Karnataka she was visiting Sudha, who enjoyed her company and took the responsibility of showing her around Bhubaneswar. 
Sudha replied, “Some puja ceremony might be going on in some matha or ashram somewhere here. So many Jain monks, sadhus and saints reside here at the foothills of Khandagiri, you will be surprised.”
Maitreyi exclaimed, “What! Jain monks? Real ones or fake ones? I want to meet some! Can you arrange?”
Sudha said, “ Of course, I can. Jain monks usually don’t talk. If you are so interested I can arrange a meeting with a mystique sadhu baba. I know one particular baba about ninety to hundred years old! I visit him every time I come here, because he is a very good palmist. He can tell one’s future very well.”
“Don’t be silly Sudha. You still believe in astrologers and palmists! Do you also believe in ghosts and wicked souls?”
“Actually I do. Never experienced anything exactly…..ghostly or supernatural. But I have heard so many stories and tales about them, I have started believing them. You don’t?”
“Never! All bullshit! They generate only fear!”
Sudha noticed a small crowd gathered around the hut of Dhuni baba where she intended to take Maitreyi. Dhuni baba was an ancient looking bearded old man with a huge jatta on his head. His entire body was smeared with bibhuti, the holy ash from the havankunda. On his forehead he sported a long stripe of sindoor and on his right hand he always held a big chillum, from where he smoke ganja and kept himself surrounded by a ring of smoke. People called him Dhuni baba because of his habit of smoking. People thought the baba had super natural power as no one had seen him eating anything or sleeping. He was always seen sitting in front of a havan kunda that held the holy fire meant for yagnya.
As they reached a barricaded garden after descending about a hundred uneven steps of the Udayagiri hills, Sudha explained to Maitreyi the significance of the Khandagiri  and Udaygiri caves built by King Kharavela of Kalinga, presently known as Odisha. 
She stated, “I am referring to archaeological records which suggest that these caves were built during 1st or 2nd century BC as residential quarters for the Jain monks. The mighty King of Odisha, King Kharavela was a follower of Jainism, which teaches universal love and peace. So he built caves for the Jain monks who wanted to live as sanyasi. There are around thirty to forty caves on the two adjacent hills , Khandagiri and Udayagiri. In the records they are known as Kumari Parvat. You saw those inscriptions in Brahmi language on the walls of the caves. They are about the king and his successors. Some historians say the King also lived here as a monk to avoid some enemies from other parts of India.”
While talking to Maitreyi about the caves Sudha heard a number of conches blowing in unison. She looked around to find out the explanation for the ceremony. She spotted a crowd gathered around the hut of Dhuni baba situated at the foot of Khandagiri hills. It was the month of March, the peak of Spring. Nature all around looked redolent in the delightful warmth of the sun. But it was already past afternoon. The sun had gone down over the hills. The Western sky was already smeared with a spread of colours. Birds had started chirping around the trees declaring their joy about returning to their homes. The dark green leaves on the trees on the Udayagiri hills were glistening, a golden hue of satisfaction reflecting from their surface. Sudha felt a tremor of ecstasy in the air, as if something mysterious or enigmatic was happening somewhere here. 
They neared the hut of Dhuni baba least expecting what they saw. The weird-looking baba was sitting in Padmasan, his eyes closed. The havan kunda was burning brightly. Smoke filled the air. The baba, in the place of his favourite chillum was holding a trishul in his right hand and a damru in his left hand. Adorned around the big round jatta on his head and neck was a real looking snake. He was wearing a piece of cloth resembling the tiger skin. On his forehead an eye was painted using red sindoor and kajal. A big monkey was sitting in the kneeling position in front of the baba with folded hands. The verisimilitude of his appearance to Lord Shiva baffled the audience. In awe they stood with folded hands or knelt down with their heads touching the ground. People could not believe that some mortal being could sit so calmly with a snake around his neck, and that a monkey could be so respectful towards men. So they had started chanting “Jay Bholenath! Jay Bholenath ! Jay Hanuman, Jay Hanuman!”
Sudha and Maitreyi pushed the crowd with their hands and went closer to have a better look at the baba. Sudha pinched Maitreyi who was suspiciously scanning the area. She did not respond the way Sudha expected. She shouted, “Fraud baba, fraud baba!”
The crowd looked at them in anger as if deeply offended by this comment. One young monk in kaupuni rushed towards Maitreyi and shouted, “Go away, go away, if you don’t want to be cursed, you papini.” Another  saffron-clad monk with three prominent stripes of sandal paste on his forehead shook a stick like the spear and chanted in loud voice, “Om Namo Shivay, Om Namo Shivay!” as if in a frenzy. 
Sudha felt perplexed by the confusion and bewilderment of the situation. She dragged Maitreyi as if to hide her from some expected attack and knelt down among the crowd to express her faith and respect for the mystic baba. She forgot all about the Wolf spiders and her plan to get an explanation about the mystery of those spiders from Dhuni baba. She had visited Dhuni baba many times in his chillum avatar sitting poised before the havan kunda,but had never seen him in such a pose. Was it real or fake? How was it possible? Was the snake a real or fake one? But the monkey…. What does he intend?
Suddenly something happened, quite unexpected, quite baffling! Dhuni baba shouted a panic stricken “Oh, Oh…” and fell to the ground.
The crowd looked crestfallen! The general reaction was “What happened! What happened to our divine baba!”
Maitreyi looked delighted! Her doubt was real! The façade of the baba has been ripped! But what magic happened to unfold the mystery?
Everyone saw a long fat snake crawling out of the baba’s body nonchalantly. Did he bite the baba? The monkey held the snake in his hands and tried to girdle it around his body and started swinging its hands like the padmatola.
The crowd shouted and started dispersing, running helter and skelter to avoid the snake. But suddenly the snake behaved strangely. It started dancing swinging its fangs and hissing softly as if a snake charmer was blowing the pungi and waving his hands to hypnotize the snake! Then someone shouted, “Spider! Spider!”, Someone else cried, “Ghost ! Ghost!”
There they saw, fifty to sixty Wolf spiders, their eyes blazing, riding on the snake, looking like glow worms. Both Sudha and Maitreyi were stunned! 
What the hell! Spiders riding on a snake!
Dhuni baba had been laid on the floor by his attendants. He was not bitten by the snake but it seems his meditation was broken as the snake left the baba’s body and he fell to the ground. Did that mean even the snake was tamed by the baba ? The monkey, the snake and the spiders respect the baba like his innocent devotees? Did that mean the baba had some real supernatural powers?
A group of monks sporting long beard, jatta and kaupuni (very short loins cloth) appeared there chanting slogans like; “Jay Shiv Shankar, Jay Bholenath, Jay Dhuni baba.”
They did not care for the crowd but straight went towards the snake. One baba held the neck of the snake fearlessly and talked to it.
“Arey Dholu, why are you creating this drama? These village people are our devotees. Don’t frighten them with your tricks!”
The monk was talking to the snake as if he was talking to his son with a deep affection. Other monks caressed the snake and chanted, “Shiva, Shiva” loudly. The crowd which had dispersed again gathered around the scene to enjoy the drama hearing the loud chanting of the monks. Sudha and Maitreyi looked at the snake and the monks in awe. The Wolf spiders riding the snake climbed on the monk holding the snake and sat on different parts of his naked body. None of the monks tried to repel or kill them. The young monk sitting with Dhuni baba came forward with a bowl full of milk and a plate full of cut fruits and offered these to the monk holding the snake and the spiders. The baba put the snake down and the spiders came down themselves and rushed to the plate of fruits, while the snake drank the milk and slithered away. 
The entire scene and the experience mesmerized Sudha. She tried to convince Maitreyi of the supernatural power of the monks and Dhuni baba. But Maitreyi silently disapproved this theory and said, “Can’t we talk to your baba?”
Sudha tried to assure her by tapping on her shoulder and replied,
“Yes, we can! But we have to wait till the crowd is gone. Do we have time"
Maitreyi just nodded, as if unsure about the consequences. Yet she wanted to unravel the mystery of the Dhuni baba, the snake,the monkey and the Wolf spiders. She must not let this opportunity for an exotic experience get out of her hand. She suggested,  
“Let’s go for some tea and snacks. It will be easier to wait for the crowd to disperse.”
Sudha looked around for a comfortable tea stall where they can sit in ease and chat. At the foothills of the twin hills, there were a few shops; some selling cold drinks, some tea and pakoda. The others were mostly trolley rickshaws carrying their fare such as green coconuts, dahi-vada, gupchup, chat and ice cream. Sudha scanned the tea stalls near the bus stop at the foothill, doubtful about the quality of tea served there. But most were already crowded, no space to sit. She could spot a number of tourist buses halting at the base of the Khandagiri hills, many with number plates of West Bengal, a few with the number plates of Tamil Nadu and Andhra. She knew that Bengalis constitute the major tourist group to Odisha because of their fascination for Lord Jagannath and the attractive sea beach at Puri. However at this time of the year tourists and artist groups from other parts of India flock around the caves which is a tourist attraction being a World Heritage site. The Konark festival is organised every year for seven days to attract tourists and artists from all over India. The festival becomes a Kumbha mela of dancers, singers and comedians. On the other hand the Khandagiri Kumbha mela, which is organised during the winter from Magha Saptami towards the end of January for a month, is significant from spiritual point of view. It attracts the monks, saints and sadhus of three different sects; Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism. They come from far off places to take a dip in a pool situated on the top of the Udaygiri hills , which they believe contain holy water because the Hindu, Buddhist and Jain monks including the revered Jain guru Pareswarnath, whose statue stands at the top of Khandagiri hillock as a memento of the ancient times, washed themselves in this pool. What is surprising is that though this pool is not very deep, the blue water of this ten feet deep pool never dries up despite the scorching heat of Odishan summer. Legends mention that a Gupta Ganga, a secret stream somewhere, flows inside the heart of the hill, feeding the pool.  
Sudha could not decide where to go. She thought of going to the Sulav Souchalaya, a Government effort at keeping India clean through pay toilets, which has been constructed at a corner just at the base  of the hills, but shuddered at the thought of the condition of such public toilets which are almost always filthy. Then she remembered the Jain Ashram close by which has a clean and calm ambience, maintained by some Jain businessmen for the convenience of the Jain tourists coming from different parts of India. Jain people have distinct food habits. They don’t eat any non-veg food, not even food prepared with onions or garlic in it. So the Jain tourists rest and reside in this Ashram which has thirty rooms and five dormitories. The washrooms in the Ashram are always sparkling clean. She also knows one or two receptionists sitting at the front counter, so it would not be much of a trouble to attend to nature's call and pass some time here. She dragged Maitreyi towards the Jain Ashram bounded by a high wall and a heavy iron gate.
It was about to be evening. The lamps on the high boundary wall started twinkling as they opened the gate. The campus was cool and tranquil owing to the numerous shady trees towering over a well manicured garden. A luxuriant bed of marigold and dahlia flowers welcomed them with bright, luscious, multihued, exuberant smiles. Maitreyi wondered at the diversity of Indian culture. Just a few furlongs away the naked and semi-naked sadhu babas and their followers created a scene of depressing glum, mystery and murky shadiness, whereas the atmosphere at the Ashram was refreshing and rejuvenating. The Jain monks were cultured, suave and disciplined, on the other hand the Hindu babas with their kaupuni, long beard, jatta and chillum looked so uncouth and showy! Do they really have some extra powers? Who knows!!! Their behaviour with the snake and the spiders had challenged her rational being. Would she be able to resolve this uncanny issue of faith?
Sudha wanted tea very urgently. She queried to the receptionist,
“Can we get some tea here?”
“Oh, sure! The restaurant is over there. The tea stall closes at 6.30. It’s already six. You must rush to get the coupon.”
As they hurried towards the restaurant, which they were sure must have a clean wash room, they saw some Jain monks clad in white dhoti and chadar. Maitreyi was overjoyed to see the Jain monks so close. She asked Sudha,
“These must be the Swetambar monks, no? Do they stay here? Have you seen the Digambar monks anywhere? I haven’t.”
Before Sudha could answer her they saw two completely naked monks with picchi (a broom made of peacock feathers) in their right hand and a kamandalu in their left hand. Sudha tugged her friend’s hand in shock and said, “What a luck! Here they are, just for you!”
Maitreyi could not believe her luck. She had hoped to see a number of monkeys here, but all these uncanny sights as well as the appearance of these Jain monks right in front of her overwhelmed her. She recollected her mother who always cursed the clan of monks as wicked hypocrites. She had been subjected to sexual abuse as a child by a Jain monk. That monk visited her mother’s paternal home every Sunday to induce them to accept his proposal to convert her brother to a monk. Her parents finally had given in to the persuasion of the monk and her only brother had left home to become a monk at the age of fifteen. This had pulled her mother into a pool of depression who ultimately left for her heavenly abode at the age of fifty two. Maitreyi, since then carried a deep grudge towards these monks and never believed in their supernatural power. Today she was facing an ordeal at these caves since she saw those Wolf spiders. They passed the monks pretending a serious mood to show them respect and quickly entered the restaurant. 
“Why do they not wear clothes, these hypocrites?”asked Maitreyi.
“Don’t you know, their main principles are aparigraha, which means renouncement of worldly possessions and ahimsa. They consider even clothes to be symbol of attachment to earthly possessions. They carry that broom to sweep any insect or living beings, which they may kill by treading. That’s funny, isn’t it?” Sudha explained. 
Maitreyi’s mind sniggered in silence, “aparigraha, huh…!!!”
They had their tea and refreshment. As they were about to return, something happened. A monkey entered into the restaurant and sat on a restaurant chair like a familiar personality. The waiter served the monkey a few chapattis and a bunch of bananas, which he consumed like a gentleman, quite unlike a monkey. Then he took out a chalk from behind his left year and started drawing circles and lines very much like the ones the astrologers do. He kept his forefinger on a quarter of the circle and blew a whistle. Two three attendants ran out from inside the kitchen and stood in front of the monkey folding their hands. Some tourists who were having their refreshment started walking up to the monkey . One of them asked,
“What is he trying to convey?”
Another tourist said, “Oh, don’t you know, he is the famous monkey who predicts the results of cricket matches, sports events, elections, even the rise and fall of shares of different companies. I had read it in the newspapers, but never thought I will see this in my own eyes.”
Another tourist, who must be a very austere Jain, as he was wearing only a white dhoti and a number of tulsi- malas around his neck burst out,
“Please don’t disturb him or tease him. He is the incarnation of our twenty third Tirthankar Parsvsnath, who used to tell the future just by looking at a bowl of water. He has the powers to predict truthfully. He is now pointing at the circle which he thinks is going to win the election this year, because he was asked this question yesterday. He looked into a glass of water standing on the table and went away. Look, look, there’s a lotus inside the circle.”
The tourists gathered around the monkey and keenly observed the drawings made in chalk by the monkey. Someone shouted, "Oh, ya. There is a lotus inside the quarter he is pointing. Does it mean the lotus party is going to win?”
The Jain tourist with the tulsi mala said, “Of course! He never tells a lie!”
Maitreyi and Sudha who had been observing the scene silently could no more contain their eagerness. They came close to the brown monkey with his long tail trailing on the ground. They were surprised to see the perfectly round circles and quarters drawn by chalk, but what shocked them was the picture of a lotus with seven petals inside the circle where the monkey had kept his finger. The tourists started doing pranam to the monkey, who for them was no more just a monkey but the incarnation of Parsvanath, whose statue stands at the top of the Khandagiri hills. Sudha didn’t know what to say or do, but Maitreyi extended her hand to the monkey for a handshake. “Can he talk?” She asked the Jain sitting on a chair chanting some mantras while rotating the beads of the garland around his neck. 
He answered without any fluster, “Yes, he can. Not with his lips, but with his fingers. You can see that.”
Sudha felt a bit panicked lest the people here take offence by their queries or behaviour. She dragged Maitreyi out of the restaurant saying; “Let’s go! It’s time for more surprises!”
When they reached the hut of Dhuni baba it was almost dark. The blue sky was covered with a black blanket adorned with golden stars. The atmosphere was eerie, smoke covering the front of the hut while a bright fire burned inside. Sudha didn’t dare to advance towards the hut. The images of the snake, the spiders and the monkey had dazed her brain with a sense of mystery around the place. Yet they had to know the truth, and this was their only chance. How would she approach the baba? What might be his mood, who knows?
Sudha took out a five hundred rupee note from her purse to offer the baba though she knew he never accepted money or offerings. May be, his attendants will be pleased and allow them to meet the baba. She asked Maitreyi to wait and closed in towards the hut. 
“Pranam, babaji. Can you give us a minute?”
The young attendant monk came out with a shadow of annoyance on his brows. He looked intently at the visitors and said, “Babaji is meditating. What do you want?”
Sudha politely bowed at him with folded hands and replied, “We want to pay our regards to the babaji. My friend has come from a long distance to meet him. We will take only a few minutes.” She extended her hand and offered the five hundred rupee note to the monk cautiously. He came out of the hut and indistinctly said, “What do you want? Why are you offering money? Who are you? Babaji is meditating, I don’t want to disturb him.”
“Sorry, very sorry. We respect you. We know you don’t have any need for money. But we want to know something. Can you explain to us, please!”
The young monk who was wearing a saffron cloak but had no jatta or tilak like other babas said, “What do you want to know? Why?”
Sudha said, “We are teachers. What we saw today in the afternoon surprised us. That snake and the spiders…around the baba’s neck like a garland! How are these possible? Is there some magic or divine power?”
The monk said,“ Don’t you know our baba has mesmerising powers. He can tame not only a snake, he can tame even a lion. The snake Dholu is his pet. The spiders are Dholu’s friends. They stay inside the caves. They don’t harm anybody. They entertain the visitors only when the baba wants. “
“So, he is a snake charmer! I thought so!” Maitreyi spurted out!
“What! This is what you think! Really Babaji was a snake charmer in his past life. He had pleased thousands of snakes by feeding them milk. So Lord Shiva was pleased with him and gave him power to control snakes and all poisonous reptiles.”
“But we were shocked to see so many Wolf spiders on the ceiling of a cave. They had taken a position like the soldiers with their stings up and eyes blazing! Why?”
“They are not mere spiders. They are the spirits of Odia soldiers killed in the battle. They are hiding here waiting to destroy the enemies.”
“What? Spirits? Nonsense! Which enemies?”  
“You don’t believe! They are waiting to kill some demons which have descended upon these hills!”
“Please speak in normal language, we don’t understand! Who are the demons? Don’t mystify things!”
The monk went inside the hut and took out a pouch with bibhuti and offered to smear that on their heads.
“Don’t ask questions! Smear this bibhuti on your foreheads if you want to keep yourselves safe. There may be an attack anytime!” 
As Maitreyi looked at Sudha furrowing her brows, Sudha accepted the bibhuti from the monk’s hand and smeared it on the forehead of Maitreyi, and on her own. Before any words or protest could escape her friend’s mouth, she forcefully shut her lips with her hands and rushed out.
 

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

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

 

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FIRE GIRL (AGNI KANYA)
Kabiratna Dr. Manorama Mahapatra

Translated by Sumitra Mishra

When I discovered myself with
Distended eyes and distressed body
Dusting off the doubts
I cleaned my soul.
In silence I scanned me
Trying to judge myself
I got no answer.
I felt alone, all alone,
But whose shadow was there by my side?
Oh, my God!
It was Supreme Goddess Mother herself!
As if I was standing on the peak of a volcano
Both my hands burning
Lava, lava… all around 
I can feel the fire burning atop the hill
Yet I felt like a golden girl 
Basking in the beam of confidence!
 

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

 

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WEAVES OF TIME

Sangeeta Gupta

XXIII

My hip hip hurray baby has 
grown to be a man
and so now not to be cuddled n
or, no more for it the lullaby 
to make him sleep deep

But then he still is
the greatest of God gift to 
me— a best friend—
my best, the most creative craft
masterpiece
lifeline
as serves
my biggest source of 
strength true inspiration my 
reason to be.

Some things in life—
do what you like—
just do not change
even with the passage of time, 
that headlong running thief.
 

XXIV

For a change,
this evening, I don’t have
a “to do list” tagged to it

so, unplanned, un-structured
I decide to scan
newspaper
listen to music
perhaps to do nothing
but only to realize to my utter 
surprise that a kind of sadness has 
crept up inside me,
and that as well a sense
of sea-deep emptiness.
I search unknowingly
and suddenly stop
and of self ask
is doing something
or the other
all time—
seemingly mindful
still mindless?
is it to drop dead,
hit bed post in deep slumber

the purpose of living?—
The question lingers long in my hurrying heart

is this then the goal and 
purpose of life!— any life?

 

Sangeeta Gupta, a highly  acclaimed artist, poet and film maker also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer,recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. Presently working as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts. She has to her credit 34solo exhibitions , 20 books , 7 books translated , 7 documentary films.

A poet in her own right and an artist, Sangeeta Gupta started her artistic journey with intricate drawings. Her real calling was discovered in her abstracts in oils and acrylics on canvas. Her solo shows with Kumar Gallery launched her love for contour within the abyss of colour; the works seemed to stir both within and without and splash off the canvas.

Her tryst with art is born of her own meditative ruminations in time, the undulating blend of calligraphic and sculptonic entities are  realms that she has explored with aplomb. Images in abstraction that harkens the memory of Himalayan journeys and inspirations, the works speak of an artistic sojourn that continues in a mood of ruminations and reflections over the passage of time.

Sangeeta wields the brush with finesse, suggesting the viscosity of ink, the glossiness of lacquer, the mist of heights, the glow of the sun, and the inherent palette of rocks when wet. The canvases bespeak surfaces akin to skin, bark and the earth. 

Her first solo exhibition was at the Birla Academy of Art & Culture, Kolkata in 1995. Her 34 solo shows have been held all over India i.e. Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Lucknow, Chandigarh and abroad at London, Berlin, Munich, Lahore, Belfast, Thessolinki. one of her exhibitions was inaugurated by the former President of India; Dr. A.P.J Abdul Kalam in August, 2013. Which was dedicated to Uttarakhand, fund raised through sale proceeds of the paintings is  used for creating a Fine Art Education grant for the students of Uttarakhand. She has participated in more than 200 group shows in India & abroad, in national exhibitions of Lalit Kala Akademi All India Fine Arts & Craft Society and in several art camps. Her painting are in the permanent collection of Bharat Bhavan Museum, Bhopal and museums in Belgium and Thessolinki .  Her works have been represented in India Art Fairs, New Delhi many times.

She has received 69th annual award for drawing in 1998 and 77th annual award for painting in 2005 by AIFACS, New Delhi and was also conferred Hindprabha award for Indian Women Achievers by Uttar Pradesh Mahila Manch in 1999, Udbhav Shikhar Samman 2012 by Udbhav for her achievements in the field of art and literature and was awarded "Vishwa Hindi Pracheta Alankaran" 2013 by Uttar Pradesh Hindi Saahitya Sammelan & Utkarsh Academy, Kanpur. She was bestowed with Women Achievers Award from Indian Council for UN relations.

She is a bilingual poet and has   anthologies of poems in  Hindi and English to her credit. Her poems are translated in many languages ie in Bangla, English and German, Dogri, Greek, urdu. Lekhak ka Samay, is a compilation of interviews of eminent women writers. Weaves of Time, Ekam, song of silence are collection of poems in English. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography. Mussavir ka Khayal and Roshani ka safar are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.

She has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films. Her first film “Keshav Malik- A Look Back”, is a reflection on the life of the noted poet & art critic Keshav Malik. He was an Art Critic of Hindustan Times and Times of India. The film features, several eminent painters, poets, scholars and their views on his life. The film was screened in 2012, at Indian Council for Cultural Relations, , Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, Sanskriti Kendra, Anandgram, New Delhi and at kala Ghora Art Festival, Mumbai 2013. Her other  documentaries “Keshav Malik – Root, Branch, Bloom” and “Keshav Malik- The Truth of Art” were screened by India International Centre and telecast on national television several times.

Widely travelled, lives and works in Delhi, India.

 

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MY FATHER’S TREASURE

Ishwar Pati

 

            My father was a professor of English. He would be pained if anyone called him an English professor and took pains to explain the difference. A professor in any discipline, he said, hailing from England is an English professor; while one who teaches English language and literature is a professor of English. His study was full of books, ranging from novels, poetry, essays to biographies. Many a summer afternoon I have spent savouring classics from R.L. Stevenson to Charles Dickens, compositions from G.K. Chesterton to Henry David Thoreau, and lyrics from William Wordsworth to T.S. Eliot. ‘Cheap’ writers like James Hadley Chase, Arthur Hailey, et al, were banished from his collection.

            His was not exactly a ‘library’ with its books properly catalogued and indexed. They jostled for space on the rickety bookshelves and fat volumes that were too bulky for the shelf lay strewn on the floor. For affording access to the books, one had to make one’s way among the piles along a winding path that curled around the room like a jungle footpath. I would wind my way around the shelves at random and make the acquaintance of many authors whose names I had never heard of before.

            In his correspondence too my father was equally disorganised. The letters he received from publishers for selection of their publications for the college syllabus rubbed shoulders with his own scribbled notes. His handwriting looking like cardiac cycles on small titbits of paper, his notes would go floating from corner to corner like balloons. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how he could instantly retrieve whatever paper he wanted. To test his ‘method in madness’, I picked up a tiny slip of paper from one corner and ‘relocated’ it to another bundle without his knowledge. A couple of days later I found him frantically rifling through all his files and piles. He was shifting mountains of paper this way and that way in exasperation.

            “What are you looking for?” I asked him, alarmed at the dust and sweat he was creating. He grunted and ignored me. But when I took the ‘misplaced’ chit and showed it to him, his eyes shot up in understanding. Then came a spark of lightning, followed by a thunderclap from his hand that sent me reeling and rolling across the room—and out of it! That remains my last sojourn to my father’s study.

 

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

 

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THE RED FLOWER

Sheena Rath

 

Amidst the jungle wild

Blooming red tiny sparkles

Shining rubies, adding colours of joy .

Creeping all over the lush foliage

Uplifting the mood of every passerby.

A photographer's mirth and gaiety

A Shrine's exquisite beauty.

A women's ornament (Gajra) intricately designed

Weaves into a garland for the deity.

Another blesses the departed soul,

And a bouquet for auspicious occasions.

Flower blooms in myriad colours and hues

Designed perfect by nature alone

Enriching the garden of life with its divine exhilarating fragrance.

 

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). 

 

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PAPPAJI'S ODYSSEY
Betty Kuriyan

 

Pappaji the patriarch  Engineer from MIT worked under the British 
colonial rulers in India and turned to religion after he retired .
In his youth,he eyed a large sloping hillock to build his dream home. He saved up for over two years and bought it without a backglance, land being cheap in those days.
The homestead sloped down to one side of the Meenachil river, making it ideal to teach his children swimming and ways of fishing.The home he built was an architectural wonder in Ayemenam. Large rooms surrounded a largely central courtyard making the home cool in summer and protected by the clever use of slats to ward off the torrential rains of the monsoon and a clever device of rainwater harvesting known to traditional builders of yore.

Nothing escaped his interest in any field, for his sharp knowledge of 
umpteen scientific knowhows, including most branches of progress 
whereever it could be found, filled his active brain. A Chief engineer by profession his skill lay in making roads, which lasted indeterminably for long years without any potholes or breakages. Legend has it that the road to Thrissur from Kochi was impassable when flood waters entered and made travel by vehicle or on foot hazardous.  Pappaji was entrusted with the task of finding a viable solution as ordered by his superiors. His solution astounded the British and the Royal Maharajas, Atop an elephant, with the mahout guiding it Pappaji noted that the elephant trod only on firm ground.The solution was found and the road built the way the pachyderm trod.No traveller ever witnessed flooding on the road for over a  a century Pappaji worked in tandem with British engineers including the famous Sir Robert Bristol.Together they devised and put in place fool proof structural engineering marvels which stand as silent tributes to excellence both in Tamil Nadu and Travancore.
Pappaji travelled extensively and brought back with him saplings of flora especially of fruit trees alien to tropical areas. Many were grown in hothouses till acclimatised to Kerala climate. Many were the curious farmers who took lessons from him of budding, layering and so on successfully. He even propagated environment protection and helped to teach cultivators fertiliser farming through homegrown methods.
By now he had a burgeoning family of four sons and six daughters. Higher education was the norm for the whole brood who credited themselves in their chosen fields. Some bloomed as professionals and others shone in their own capacities. One daughter became a byeword with her culinary skills and manufacturing home products. Many of Pappaji’s grand children showed their acumen in education, music and administrative skills.
Pappaji’s eldest son Howley worked in Geneva in an international organisation,and he fell in love with an English woman. She was welcomed into the family fold. Her arrival in Ayemanem,where the homesteads built by men who toiled and worked their way up,  was a point of jubilant happiness.They had built up a rural but cultured world for themselves.
An incident that brought smiles and gleeful curiosity was about an object one hardly gloats about. The English daughter-in-law law, unused to native toilets was provided with an imported toilet seat from France. Many locals came to see this imported arrangement, a new sight for them.
Pappaji turned to renew his religious studies. His one aim was also to educate the umpteen Dalits who were a part of the village of Ayemanen. He built a class room on his land and his stentorian voice summoned all to compulsory attendance on Sundays.
It was a tough job to focus their attention not only to his interpretations of the holy book but also a desire to impart knowledge which he had garnered from his extensive reading. 
He locked the door once they were all in, and men, women and children he mesmerised by his encyclopaedic knowledge. He lifted them out of the stigmatised classification society had put them in and often sponsored the education of the bright ones. Some of them became engineers and professionals solely by his blessings.
Pappaji's large family house was filled to the brim, when in summer nieces, nephews,and cousins came to spend a few halcyon weeks. The only stipulation he had was that everyone should learn swimming in the slow moving Menachil river.
Meanwhile Mamma kept the kitchen fires burning, aided by her army of home grown chefs and maids. Her army boiled, baked, and cooked food to satisfy every appetite.
Large tins of fried snacks dear to the heart of children and lot of fried stuff were kept and replenished as soon as they were empty. There was no dicta that coconut oil was bad for the system. It was coconut oil for oil baths tempered with medicinal plants, and coconut oil for consumption. No one thought of the plethora of refined oils except olive oil minimised in cooking.
Cakes and cookies were baked when the English daughter in law came visiting. Mamma had a touch of the cordon bleu. She never grumbled or yelled at anyone. At dusk she would sit by the riverside in solitary meditation till it was time for family prayers.
Pappaji and Mamma were an admirable couple and the children learnt from them how to successfully manage their own lives.
Pappaji lived to a ripe old age and slipped away one evening. Mamma followed him soon. And the house Pappaji built fell silent after a glorious epoch.

 

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

 

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HOW I EXITED FROM THE CHAKRAVYUHA (THE WHEEL FORMATION)

Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak

 

Three non-collinear points on a plane,

Joined to form a triangle,

As simple as wink,

Turned to Bermuda(triangle),

Most mysterious graveyard,

When prefixed with “love”,

The sweetest word of the lexicon.

 

The female fatale, a village girl,

The fiance of two officers,

Being fooled by the cutie.

And the doctor(myself),

Silently tangled in the love triangle,

Just a foot from death!!

 

Both the officers came to know,

When posted in the same unit,

Adjacent to their fiance's place.

 

Love made them really blind,

Wanted to eliminate each other.

 

One officer must have threatened,

The other,

With a hand grenade,

with the safety pin in situ,

The other must have been terrified,

In the process of finding ,

An escape route from the room.

 

 

And the grenade blasted in the melee

With their love turned into

Multiple geometrical shapes,

Of burnt flesh !!

 

I rushed to the scene,

As a medical doctor,

In spite of nauseating

burnt flesh smell, and smoke,

Entered the room of the accident.

 

Having examined them,

Declaring them dead,

While about to leave the room,

Shocked to see two live grenades,

With safety pins out

Beneath the bed,one foot apart,

Staring at me !!!

 

To exit the vyuha without any movement!!

How??

Any slightest movement of the grenade

Would trigger blast ..and….

With utmost care,

And with technical guidance of,

Bomb disposal squad,

Negotiated to the door,

And ran out of the nine yard killing range of the grenade.

 

A shower in my own sweat,

Settled quickly….

With hugs from unit people,

“Having been blessed with a second life.”

 

(It is a true story, but where and when it happened can’t be revealed due to security reasons.)

 

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

 

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WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Narayan Ramakrishnan

 

We come across various names of persons beginning with the alphabet A and a few names have X and Z. Names beginning with X may be very common in China, Japan and Korea. Numerologically compatible names are in vogue now, with additions or subtractions of an alphabet to your name as per the value of each alphabet and this has opened a new lucrative avenue for milking money from the gullible.

Mr.X is famous as we immediately call a person X if his christened name is unknown. In  arithmetical problems, you have find out the age of X or we have to begin solving a problem with X to find who among the many probables is Mr.X.

When Chinese Premier Xi Jinping was in India, couple of years back, a newscaster with Doordarshan pronounced his name, mistakenly identifying the first name Xi as Roman letter XI and announced as Mr.Jinping the XI. For this brazen error, she was dropped immediately from the panel of news readers. Mr.Zig Ziglar is the only name that crops up in my mind for a person with names beginning with Zs. I enjoy his famous quotes on Facebook. I had actually typed his name as Mr. Zig Zagler as zig zag automatically comes  to one’s mind. On second thoughts, I did a google search and found out the correct name. Thank God. Had the newscaster taken the help of the readily available search engine Google, she could have saved herself from this embarrassment and  ignominy.

Nothing is complete without a character and an episode from films. The role played by the venerated critic and comedian, Mr.Cho Ramaswamy in a Tamil film released way back in the 70s, comes to mind. His friend asks him, much to his annoyance, how on earth he got such a quirky and puzzling name. He replies : “ What can I say? My parents were childless for a considerable time after marriage. They were so desperate to have a child that my father didn’t mind if it was a poochi (insect) or puzhu (worm). My mother conceived. I was born. They rejoiced, celebrated my birth, and named me Poochi. They have made me a laughing stock. Mothers who are feeding their tearful and protesting children amuse them by pointing me out and yelling at me whenever they sight me. “ Here comes poochi! Here goes poochi!” When these children grow up, they are so familiar with my name, they do not even call me, Poochi Anna (elder brother). Calling me Pooch, Poochi, has become an amusement for every Tom, Dick and Harry.”

I remember one incident way back in the late seventies.  It was about 8’o clock in the morning.  My friend’s elder sister, who had been married for some years but was yet to conceive, called on my mother, tears in her eyes.  After she left, I asked my mother the why and what of it.  My mother explained, this is a form of vow, by which they beg (pitchai) in every home and the money they collect is donated to a particular deity and when their prayers are answered they would name the child with a suffix ‘pitchai’.  Later on she conceived and she named her daughter ‘Pitchai Lakshmi’.  Another world famous Indian icon is Mr. Sundar Pichai.  Only his parents know the legend behind his name

When I was engaged in selling tea to tea shops and canteens way back in 1999, a hotelier had a doubt to clear. He said to me, “Narayanan, I have a serious doubt. I know Saurav Ganguly, Rahul Dravid, but this one name confuses me. Is Sachin Tendulkar the name of one person or two. Sometimes newspapers mention the name as Sachin and some other times as Tendulkar”, in a muted voice, lest somebody hear. I too, cleared his doubt, in a low tone that only he could hear. My issue here is entirely different.

I man the front office segment of our brokerage and share the space with my senior, not by age, but by sheer experience, Mr.Anil on one side and a lady on the other. Let her be Mrs. X. We exchange harmless light humorous words in between to enliven our working hours and pull one another’s legs, sportingly.

Clients approach us for account- opening and with various other enquiries, and the person who is free at that time, interacts with them. About two weeks back an employee (Mr.Y) of a large textile-cum-supermarket visited us for a/c opening purpose. My counter was free at that time and Mr.Y was ready with all the necessary documents.. As he could not write in English, I volunteered to do that for him. As in every application form, we call it KYC, we have to add details like, Name, father’s name, DOB, and Pan card details.

I began by filling up his name. When we came to the second line, Father’s name, I was taken aback. His father’s name was Smasanam, meaning burial ground. I concealed my shock, and after the formalities were over, I shared this information with Mr.Anil and Mrs.X. Oh! They wouldn’t believe me and checked the proof for confirmation. Anil added, we have another client by name, Sudalai that means ‘pyre’.

I wondered why parents give such horrendous names to their sons. One possible conclusion is this. Mr.Smasanam and Mr.Sudalai’s father would have been childless for a considerable time after getting married and somebody would have suggested, that the child, if conceived, must be christened Smasanam or Sudalai. Happily and coincidentally their mothers would have conceived and turned models overnight, prompting several aspiring, desiring and delayed parenthood people to do the same and now, may be, many Smasanams and Sudalais are roaming the streets of Tamil Nadu, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand with Pey and Pisachu. (Forms of ghosts)

By the way, there is a beauty parlor in Paruthipara, on the outskirts of Trivandrum, that goes by the name, MEDUSA.

 

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.

 

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THE JOURNEY

Kabyatara Kar

 

Never had I  seen such a beauty

A person with prettiness of greatest degree.

Her spectacles thin rimmed enhanced her well crafted eyes.

 

Mesmerized with her beauty

I couldn't hear her saying something.

O! "Did you say anything dear", I  asked her,

 

Amidst rolling of the wheels of the train,

I passed her the answer.

May I know when the next station comes, she told me.

 

As if gauging the distance well

The wheels regressed in speed and entered the station.

Dragged out of this mesmerizing personality

I was jolted with a shock.

When the beauty questioned me

"Which station is this?"

 

My heart broke,

Almighty, if you had to snatch her vision

Why did you craft her eyes so perfect..

Parallel to life, I feel,

Almighty gifts us with a life in this journey,

Then snatches every happiness of ours.

Such a  bitter journey!

 

 

Kabyatara Kar (Nobela) 

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

Passion: Writing poems,  social work

Strength:  Determination and her familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others

 

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THE LONG NIGHT
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Across the sky ran
streaks of white lights,
aching, whining,
warning of an impending Apocalypse.

It lasted the whole night, the long night 
None had seen lights like that, 
never in their life time, 
no one knew what to make of them.

The wise men said
the world is coming to an end,
Scientists broke their head
to fathom which elements had collided.

The festivities stopped,
Movie halls closed down,
Shops closed their shutters,
weary revellers rushed home.

But the night stretched on and on
till panicked people ran unto the streets, 
blaming each other for all the ills 
and fighting fierce battles.

Blood flowed on innocent streets.
Buses were burnt, stones pelted,
Dust and smoke filled the air,
as did cries of the anguished.

And the sun never rose to end the long night.

 

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A JOURNEY OF LIFE

Mruryunjay Sarangi

Sheetikantha, an Associate Professor at the University of Arizona, receives a letter from his elder brother and rushes to India to rescue Anshuman, his favorite nephew from a terrible catastrophe. Anshuman is an eminently successful surgeon whose only notable failure occurs when his wife dies at his operation table. He lapses into a coma-like state, blaming himself for the tragedy. Sheetikantha is shattered by his nephew’s trauma. As he starts talking to the young genius, he shares the pain of a journey of life gone awry by a lethal combination of success, fulfilment, alcohol and narcotics……..

 

 

Anshuman, my brother’s son, was quite a handful as a child. We were seven brothers and his father was the eldest among us. Bhai had a strict and severe personality and all the brothers were scared of him, but Anshuman used to treat him with a disdain only a child can show to his doting father.

Although Anshuman had six uncles to choose from, for some reason he had taken a fancy to me. I was his favourite uncle. God had given him powerful legs and as a four year old he could outrun everybody else. Whenever he went missing, Bhabhi, my brother’s wife, used to plead with me to go looking for him, knowing that only I could persuade him to come home. On hot, summer afternoons in a small town like Kendrapara, I could often be seen wandering in the neighborhood like a mentally deranged person, hollering Anshu’s name.

It was not easy to find him since he had acquired a large territory to spread his mischief. He might have taken a fancy to a big pile of bricks and hiding behind it. Or, he would have gone to a distant playfield to play cricket with boys three times his age. Blessed with an uncanny expertise to climb trees, Anshu would often be lying on a thick branch fifteen feet above the ground waiting for me to locate him and coax him to come down.

The neighbours’ houses were his favourite hunting ground and that’s where I had the most trouble, since I was of a very shy nature and found it extremely embarrassing to go and knock at peoples’ doors to ask if our Anshu was with them. Invariably Anshu would be in one of those houses, teasing girls, smaller than him, pinching their cheeks or pulling their hair and making them cry. If I asked him to come home, he would run and sit on the lap of the lady of the house and plead with her, “Mousi, please don’t let chacha take me away. I want to be here, give me some rice and fish curry for lunch. Please, please Mousi, let me be here.” So Mousi would assure me that she herself would come and drop Anshuman at home after giving him lunch. I would return home and in fifteen minutes Mousi would knock at our door in panic to report that Anshu had run away from her house!

It’s not as if my brother didn’t try to discipline Anshuman but by nature my nephew was frightfully active and couldn’t sit still for a moment. One afternoon he had gone out to play, when he spotted a snake in a pit. He came home, took an iron rod with him and kept poking at the snake till it came out. Anshu beat it up and brought it home like a war trophy. My brother, who had a textile shop in the market, had just arrived home for lunch. When he saw the half-dead, writhing snake at the end of a rod, he gotmad at Anshuman and kept beating him till the hapless boy promised that he would never play with a snake again. Later my brother gave me money to take Anshu out and give him lots of ice-cream but somehow for a long time we didn’t forget our brother getting so angry with Anshuman and beating him up badly.

Anshu’s favourite trick was to go to a neighbour’s house, play some pranks there and demand that my Bhabhi should come to pick him up. The moment he saw his mother, he would pick up a fight with her on some issue that would have irked him at home. Then he would keep crying and rolling on the ground as if somebody had tortured him and he is still suffering. Bhabhi would be standing there, her face down and pleading with him not to make a scene and come home. Anshu would enjoy her helplessness and embarrassment. It was at such moments that Bhabhi would send for me and ask me to rescue her and her wayward son. Being Anshu’s favourite uncle, I had the grand honour of negotiating the peace accord, promising him cessation of hostilities and ensuring a free hand for him at home. Buoyed with a sense of victory, Anshu would insist that I carry him on my shoulder. On the way home, he would make faces at Bhabhi and poke fun at her.

When Anshuman was five years old, he developed a fascination for birds and lizards. He would catch hold of sparrows and pigeons and pluck their feathers. He would also chase the lizards on the walls and kill them. He would collect eggs from the nests of pigeons, bring them home and ask Bhabhi to cook the eggs.   She would feel awful and hiding from his eyes, would drop the eggs on the ground. Anshu would shriek at her and threaten to take the eggs to the neighbours, but Bhabhi had warned everyone in the neighborhood about Anshu’s obsession with pigeon-eggs. A few times we found him breaking the bird’s nests and advised him not to do that. But I suspect Anshu shifted his war against the birds to other places and must have destroyed quite a few nests in his childhood. Knowing him, I won’t be surprised if he had broken a few eggs and eaten them raw. Quite a devil, our Anshuman was those days!

Anshuman got admitted to the same school where all of us – the seven Mishra brothers - had got our education. He was exceptionally brilliant and precocious. When other kids in his class were learning the alphabets, Anshu would ask about train engines, rainbows and ships. The teachers were amused, wondering about this young Einstein in the making. By the following year Anshu had taken a great fancy to what can be loosely called biology – for example, enquiring how fish can survive in water without breathing, why human beings can talk, but not the animals. When Bhabhi sat down to clean the fish, he will examine its body, check its eyes, and wonder how it breathes. All my brothers started predicting that he would be a big doctor one day. We even started teasing him by addressing him as Doctor Anshuman. 

The year I finished high school and left for Cuttack to take admission in college, Anshu moved to the fifth grade. During vacations, when I came home, Anshu used to be my constant companion, telling me his stories and his ideas! Yes, his ideas! He had become more playful, but was more into football and cricket.

In six more years, I left for the US for a Ph.D. program in Environmental Engineering and settled down to a job in Arizona. All these years I was in constant touch with Anshuman. It feels like yesterday, when Anshu finished his high school and got admission in the medical college in Cuttack. But during his high school days, he had become a legend in Kendrapara town. He had excelled in every game he played and every championship prize in athletics was his, year after year. His daredevilry was an example for other students in the school. He could outswim anyone of any age in a swimming competition. And his best feat was to jump into a well, no matter how deep, swim there and climb out with a rope.

When I was in the US, finishing my Ph.D., my three elder brothers had got married. I couldn’t come for any of the marriages. But during my wedding, Anshuman danced like crazy with his friends, telling everyone that it was his favourite chacha’s marriage. My wife came with me to the U.S. immediately after marriage. In the first few years we were visiting India every year. But after our two children were born, the frequency came down. We haven’t been to India for the last seven years now. My wife is reluctant to take the kids there – the fear of polluted air, contaminated water and infections from various imaginary sources has held her back. The other excuses include the son’s baseball practice, and the daughter’s music classes and ballet training. Four years back, she had agreed to visit India, but when she started planning to take two suitcases filled with mineral water, I nixed the idea of a trip to India. If one has to carry water from America to visit India, it is better not to inflict that insult on one’s own motherland.

Meanwhile Anshu had finished his Master’s in Surgery and became the most successful heart surgeon in Cuttack. At the young age of thirty-five, he had achieved success, fame, wealth and virtually everything. He had become an Associate Professor in the medical college, had opened his own nursing home and was a celebrity of sorts. No heart surgery posed a challenge to him. What other doctors took six hours to do, Anshu could finish in four hours. His success rate was close to a hundred percent.  His daring nature, love of adventure, and excellence in sports had combined to give him a unique proficiency. The rush at his nursing home was more than the number of cases of all the nursing homes in Cuttack. 

I had heard about it and felt thrilled. Anshu had got married seven years back, but we couldn’t attend, as we had just returned from India after attending my wife’s brother’s  wedding. Anshu was upset with me, but I couldn’t help it. He called me the day his daughter Julie was born. His joy was boundless. Anshu used to call me once in three or four months to update me on his success, the kind of surgery he was doing, and enquired about the latest instruments available in the US for complicated heart surgeries. I was very impressed with him and felt proud of his success, but somehow, in my mind, I still carried the picture of the little Anshu running wild, plucking feathers of sparrows and pigeons and breaking their nests. I am sure he no longer fancied their eggs, but somehow the picture that had remained frozen in my mind was that of the highly mischievous Anshu. It was difficult to imagine him as a responsible, mature, successful surgeon.

About five weeks ago I suddenly got a letter from my eldest brother, “Sheetikantha, you might have heard, our son Anshuman is in serious trouble. A month back he had the misfortune of losing his wife forever. She had a sudden stroke and Anshu took her to his nursing home and operated on her. Despite his best efforts, she could not survive. Anshu has lost his zest for life since then.  He has become a sort of vegetable, lying on the bed and staring at the roof.

You know Sheetu, you are Anshu’s favorite uncle. We somehow feel that he will respond to you. You can even take him with you to the US for a couple of months and help him in overcoming his grief. Please come for a few weeks and see him. We need you now, please don’t disappoint us.”

My heart sank. I heard about this sad event for the first time. Anshuman had talked to me over phone about five months back. He was ecstatic about the latest machine he had installed in his nursing home.

“Chacha, you must come and see my state-of-the-art nursing home. And meet your grand-daughter. Julie is the sweetest girl on earth. She is a part of my heart, the throb of my life. I can’t live without her even for a day. These days I am taking her to the operation theatre also. When you come, all of us will go to Puri, Chilka and Gopalpur. Let the ladies stay in one room. You and I will sit on the beach and talk through the whole night.”

“That’s a good idea. We haven’t talked like that for many years now.”

“Yes, we will have some beer. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, between an uncle and his favorite nephew what is a beer or two?”

Then Anshuman whispered onto the phone.

“And chacha, may we smoke a couple of hashish!”

“What? Since when are you onto hashish? You never told me that you have started smoking hashish?” 

“Just a year or so chacha. One of my friends opened this gateway to heaven for me. It’s wonderful. You must try it also.”

“Anshu, no way! Why are you doing it?”

“Chacha, I have got everything now, tons of money, lots of fame and success. A wife like Ragini and a daughter like Julie. There is no want left in life. What’s the harm in enjoying new avenues of pleasure?”

“Does Bhai know about it?”

“Nobody knows, except you and my friends who give me company. Next to my wife and Julie, you are my favorite person in the world. I don’t hold anything back from you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, but for the sake of all those who you love, you must give up this dangerous habit.”

Anshu chuckled.

“Yes chacha, I will give up hashish. I am waiting for some pleasure that is still higher. I am bored of this routine life. You come chacha, we will explore life in new ways.”

“Anshu, I will have to speak to Bhai or at least to Ragini and tell them about your new habit. Someone should know and do something.”

Anshu panicked.

“Please chacha, don’t do it. We will talk about it when you come home.”

“Looks like I have to come soon. You need help.”

Anshu chuckled again and disconnected the phone.

After that talk with Anshuman I could not visit India immediately. The semester had just started and I was teaching two courses. But I knew I had to rush to India as soon as possible. Anshu’s problem kept bothering me. I didn’t even have a chance to meet his wife, and now she is no more! I just couldn’t believe it.

When Bhai’s letter came, summer vacation had started and I was not teaching any course during summer. So I could easily take a break. I asked my wife, if she would like to come to India with me. She refused; the notice was too short for her. So I left for India within three days of receiving Bhai’s letter.

I got down at Bhubaneswar airport and took a taxi to Kendrapara. My heart was heavy with worry and sorrow. Bhai and Bhabhi met me, but there was no warmth. An air of terrible sadness hung at home. I found a small, slim, extremely cute girl of five years hiding behind Bhabhi’s saree. She briefly came out, looked at me tentatively and again went into hiding.

I was stunned. Such a beautiful girl and now she has become motherless! Looking at her I knew how beautiful her mother must have been! Going by Anshu’s account Ragini must have been extremely good-natured also. Now her spirit must be pining for Julie, her unseen hand must be trying to touch the cute daughter. Just looking at Julie and thinking about her mother brought tears to my eyes.

I asked Bhabhi, “Where is Anshu?”

“In the next room, lying on the bed and staring vacantly at the roof. Two-three times a day his eyes look yearningly for his daughter, but Julie refuses to go near him. She screams at him all the time, ‘He is not my Papa, he is a murderer, he killed my mummy. He is the doctor who killed my mummy.’ Sheetu, you should see the deep anguish in Anshu’s eyes when he hears this!”

Bhabhi’s voice chocked with grief.

I went to the next room and found Anshu lying there as if in a coma. His eyes hardly blinked. He hadn’t changed much since I saw him seven years back, except that he had lost some hair and his usually clean-shaven handsome face was covered with a thick beard. I touched his hand, it was cold. My presence didn’t register any emotion in him, he simply kept staring at the roof.

I came out. Bhai told me that Anshu has not cried even once after his wife passed away. All the pent-up emotion and grief were just waiting to come out in a flood of tears. But nobody knew when.

After lunch, Bhai told me the whole story. Nobody knew about Anshu’s addiction to cocaine, except one of his colleagues, the friend who had initiated him to the habit. It seems Anshu used to take drugs before performing complicated surgeries. It used to make him more daring and he had become even more successful after his habit of drugs started.  The day Anshu’s wife had the stroke, he immediately took her to his nursing home and started preparing for the surgery. His friends and colleagues asked him not to take the risk, but he insisted on performing the surgery himself. The only colleague who knew about Anshu’s drug problem was out of town. So when Anshu started to sweat and shiver half way through the surgery, no one knew why his hands were failing him. Everyone thought he was nervous because he was doing surgery on his own wife. Within two hours of starting the surgery, Anshu fainted and completely lost consciousness. A junior colleague continued the surgery on his wife, while others tried to revive Anshu. After half an hour Anshu came around, but by that time his wife was gone, beyond revival. The whole town was stunned at this cruel twist of fate. A surgeon who had succeeded in almost every surgery he performed, failed at the most crucial time of his life, unable to save his own wife!

The next day his colleague, the partner in cocaine, returned to town and somehow the word spread that the real cause of Anshu’s failure was not nervousness, but the absence of drugs to which he was addicted.  From being a subject of admiration, Anshu became an object of ridicule in no time. Julie came to know from someone and hated her father for this. She didn’t understand the full details, but somehow she knew her mother had died due to Anshu’s negligence. Whenever she saw him, she started screaming at him, “You are the murderer of my mummy, you are the doctor who killed my mummy.”

In the evening against the backdrop of the distant ringing of bells from the temple and the singing of religious hymns, I went back to Anshu, pulled a chair near his bed and sat down. I lifted his lifeless hand and held it in mine. We didn’t speak, yet I felt a silent communion between us.

By the fourth day, I thought Anshu stirred a bit, and by the seventh day he looked at me. His eyes were searching for Julie. I told him, “Don’t worry, your daughter will come back to you.  She is like an angel, beautiful and forgiving. She will again fill your heart with joy.”

Two drops of tears fell from Anshu’s eyes. My heart bled for him. I knew he was seeking redemption in his daughter’s love, but we had to wait for time to heal the wound.

I sat by Anshu’s side practically the whole day and evenings, telling him about myself, my wife and children, about Julie and about the wonderful world outside. Gradually life returned to Anshu. Finally, the day I told him about the nice things I had heard about his wife, he started crying, sobs raking his body. I locked the door, held him to my heart and let him cry for more than two hours. 

For me, he was again the same little Anshu I used to carry on my shoulder. I told him about the numerous pranks of his childhood, and how he used to make faces at Bhabhi. I consoled him with promises of a new life and described to him the beauty of the deep oceans, the vastness of the blue sky and the wide open world of smiles and sunshine. I told him of the sufferings of human life that need the healing touch of a doctor, the agony of children hungry for love, the anguish of parents helpless in the face of debilitating diseases. I asked him to seek forgiveness from God and rededicate himself to his noble profession.

Next few days, Anshu didn’t speak to me but his face got back a bit of colour and brightness. In the last week of my stay, we found him getting out of the room, sitting on a chair in the outside verandah, and looking at the sky, and the vast garden outside. For three early mornings continuously he was seen walking slowly towards the interior parts of the garden. One day Bhai followed him at a distance. The moment Anshu sensed his presence, he looked back and stood still. Bhai waited for a few minutes, neither of them moving, and then he returned. Anshu resumed his walk. I asked Bhai if it is possible that someone is selling drugs and Anshu is going to him to get his supplies. Bhai shook his head, “Impossible, in a small town like Kendrapara anyone selling drugs will stick out like a sore thumb”. We kept wondering about Anshu’s mysterious outings at the break of dawn.

On the last day of my stay at Kendrapara, very early in the morning when daylight had just started creeping in, I woke up with a start. I felt someone was standing near my bed. I opened my eyes. It was Anshu. He smiled at me, took my hand and led me out. We started walking on the small path in the garden. I asked him, “Anshu, where are you taking me?” Putting a finger on his lips, he bade me to remain silent. We kept walking, with Anshu leading the way.

At the far end of the garden, he led me to a huge Jamun tree. In its trunk, there was a big cavity. Slowly, silently, Anshu went near that. Inside there were a couple of birds’ nests. Anshu quietly removed some of the sticks and twigs. Lying in the nest were half a dozen small cute baby-birds. Anshu took out one of them delicately, careful not to disturb the others lost in their sleep. He gently stroked its feather, brought it up, put it against his cheeks, looked at it with a sense of deep fulfilment and bliss and put it back in the nest. Before my mesmerized eyes, Anshu picked up another baby bird and started caressing it.

Suddenly, I remembered the young five-year old Anshuman, the one whose days were spent in destroying birds’ nests, plucking their feathers and chasing them away to a panicky flight. I realized that this brilliant surgeon, the rare genius of a man, had travelled a full circle and is now fit to start a fresh journey of life filled with new hopes and promises. I folded my hands, looked up to the heaven and implored God not to inflict so much pain on any other living being in his journey of life.

I left Anshuman in his new-found world of bliss and returned home.

 

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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