Literary Vibes - Edition XLIX

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the Forty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes in the New Year. 
As we are getting ready to take out the Fiftieth issue of LV next week, we have assembled a few poems and short stories for your perusal in this week's short edition. Hope you will enjoy them. 

We are happy to welcome Ms. Aparna Tripathy, a young and budding poet from Bhubaneswar. Although a student of Biotechnology, her heart brims with poetic emotions and she wants to write a lot. We wish her a lot of literary success in future.

After a tumultuous end to 2019 the new year has started relatively calm. Let us give peace and stability a chance. Let us hope the new year will bring more industries, more manufacturing units, more skilled personnel, more jobs, more money into pockets and more all round prosperity. Let 2020 be remembered as the year of greatest happiness of the greatest number, a joyous year, a year of blessed contentment. And God, the All Meciful, let this not be an empty hope! 

Please share your happiness by forwarding the following link of the Forty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes to all your friends and contacts:
http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/257

With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
 

 

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NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION

Prabhanjan Kumar Mishra

 

What am I, a man,

woman or a eunuch?

All I know, I am ‘the’ numero uno;

ah, my prima-donna posturings!

 

Call me the poster boy for fear,

prince of fake; the Time’s pin-up girl,

or show-stealer of the world-ramp.

A doubt - am I really the joker of the pack?

 

What I eat, a little rice-gruel?

What I drink, a drop of Aqua Pura?

What I see, the dour faces of colleagues,

or my own, cut and pasted on others?

 

Son of a poor mother, sleeps alone

without wife, poor me, bulletproofed;

bayonets and guns my bedfellows;

wife? Name: Chimera, address: nowhere.

 

My dresses stitched in Parish,

shoes Gucci, watch Cartier,

glasses Chopard; in brand-poverty -

so expensive! Don’t don, can’t afford…

 

that’s just my window dressing,

my inner world, a dismal clutter,

I am a charlatan’s talisman-parrot,

a repeater of hollow homilies.

 

Surrounded by Betals, Hanumans,

and Dushasans, I can’t lift a finger

when Panchalis are disrobed, can’t

save a man when lynched in cold blood.

 

Made famous by my dirty-trick-men,

the handmaidens of my man Friday,

I languish in a white-wash machine

with plenty of Nirma, his favourite.

 

How I miss my wife Chimera,

am I a messed up Siddharth?

He left Yashodhara on coital bed,

why does his Rahul haunt me?

 

I tell lies, in fact to underscore the truth,

I lie more often to get counter effect.

Would my epitaph read, ‘Here lie

late lies beneath this inverted-crosses’?

 

Would I be my people’s last straw?

Or they, the last nail on my coffin?

Should I descend to hell, or rise

to bring them Amrit? Amen.

 

How would I die? crucified

inverted on a cross of truth and kindness?

But surely as naked as I had

arrived at my mother’s holy thighs.

 

So, this First January 2020

I resolve to take home

my orphaned truth, –

I will not lie, will not lie again.

 

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EKANT, THE OUTSIDER

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Ekant, after joining the local office and taking over his new charge, and living in a cheap hotel for a month, moved into a self-contained one-room rented accommodation. It was a side room of a ground-floor bungalow with two doors, one connecting to the owner’s sitting room and the other opening to outside for the tenant to come in or go out. The bungalow belonged to the Patels, a middle-aged couple with a boy and a girl, both school-going. The area was a suburb of the city.

It was his first day in his new accommodation. Previous evening it had been a second Saturday of the month and his office had a holiday. The transporter’s tempo had moved his small luggage here. As Ekant was arranging his books that Sunday morning, a pretty face of a middle-aged woman peeped inside at the connecting door, then the owner of the face revealed herself in full, a tending-to-get-plump person entering the room. Ekant had seen her during his previous visit to this house when he had signed the tenancy agreement. She introduced herself, all the while with low giggles, elaborately and described her family members in absentia. She was the land lady Mrs. Pankhudi Patel. Ekant responded in monosyllables with appropriate polite grunts.

She kept standing for a while looking at Ekant’s books, single bed, laptop on a side table. Ekant had stopped sorting and arranging his books to pay attention to Mrs Patel. She was in a lovely night gown that showed her body to advantage. He decided to remain quiet and let Mrs. Patel take the floor. What could he anyway say to a woman who was a stranger to him?

With small giggles she asked, “Are you bringing your wife to stay with you?” Ekant said with a smile, “No”. “Is she beautiful?” another giggly question. Ekant resented, what a question to ask, but replied a bit gruffly, “Very”. He did not smile this time. Mrs. Patel was silent then, perhaps waiting for a lead to continue her talk and giggles. She seemed like a patient python to Ekant, and he smiled on his own inappropriate mental compliment. So, he kept his lips tightly shut, fearing betrayal by his lips.

She was tall and stately, of a pale pinkish complexion and black-copper hair that she wore flowing down her front on both sides of her long transparent neck. It made her chest prominently attractive. Good growth of hair, Ekant thought, compared to mousy tufts the women wore around the city. She had a very charming smile if one forgot her continuous nervous giggles.

Mrs. Patel seemed growing tense, something was making her upset. She had perhaps noticed Ekant assessing her profile with a valuer’s eyes. Then she might be thinking why this newcomer is sitting so gaunt. She now donned a scowl, a difficult job for such a pretty face as hers. With these assorted thoughts when Ekant was going to pay some compliment, she suddenly left. Ekant was taken aback and looked around, was it a book’s ugly title, a cheap looking picture-postcard, or an exposed underwear of his which offended her? No, Ekant was cured of that ‘male-malady’ called clutter years ago. But he knew, ladies could go to endless refinements, and Mrs. Patel might be making mountain of a molehill, and might have taken offence on some trivia.

Mrs Patel left the room for she had found her tenant uncouth, outwardly polite, but with an offensive silence. He even did not compliment her on her complexion, luxuriant silken hair, the exotic perfume she wore, that had been almost the talk-of-the-town, at least in her area. Every adult, even children of her neighbourhood added the word Gori (fair) before their addressing terms for her like Gori-sister, Gori-aunty, or Gori-darling. People even would tell to her face, “Gori madam, were your parents from a white race of European origin?”

One evening, Ekant found his landlord Karun Patel, who had preached about the goodness of total prohibition in their city in earlier meetings, lounging in his lawn on a comfortable chair with a glass of beer. He was portly, amiable in a jeering way. Ekant had noticed he had a penchant for jeering at anybody and everybody all the time. So, it was difficult to say if any malice was intended or not. He decided on the positive side.

Karun Patel asked him to give him company over a glass of beer. Ekant politely declined, “No, Karun ji, I am a teetotaller.” Karun opened his big mouth with a guffaw, pieces of half chewed peanuts flying out, and added, “Oh, good luck to you and to your flock of good-for-nothing teetotallers. All of you sour puss people adhering to outdated goodness. My wife was really observant. Anyway, why to waste good beer?” Ekant was flummoxed and could not decide if it was a joke or a rebuke. He uttered, “Oh” and left.

 

Another time Karun advised, “Another thing for your survival Ekant bhai, you are to buy a small note book. I would advise you to meticulously observe all activities of your colleagues and neighbours, eavesdrop on their talks, open a chapter on each of them, and jot down their weaknesses, slips, mistakes, and lies there. We all do it here. That comes very handy in life when you feel cornered. Rest you would understand, I presume.” Ekant really didn’t understand Karun’s idea. He however decided to be careful in his behaviour, if Karun was observing him and making notes. He however felt watched, someone somewhere might be recording his slips already.

One evening, his friend Prithivi came to see him in his office. Ekant took him to a cafe, they had tea and snacks, then Prithivi took him to his house to introduce him to his wife, children and old father. Prithivi had been an infrequent visitor at his Mumbai office, four to five times a year for work related to a company whose accounts were audited by Prithivi as their hired chartered accountant. By and by, discussing Gandhi and Prithivi’s Kutch origin where Bapu was also born and brought up, Ekant had developed a liking for Prithivi. Every time they met, he would take him to a restaurant for tea and snacks in Mumbai. Ekant was elated when Prithivi took him to his family. At last some friends with whom he could be carefree, and some jolly company.

By nine, all topics of camaraderie exhausted, when Ekant stood up to leave, the entire family in unison invited him, “You must come to dinner tomorrow. We would serve you the dishes of our native Kutch. We eat at ten, so please come by nine-thirty at least.” Ekant’s firm ‘no’ changed to a hesitant ‘I will try’ when the children joined the chorus with parents, but finally changed to ‘I will definitely come without fail’ after the old father earnestly insisted, “Come beta (son), you would enjoy our Kutchhi food,  and carry away the Kutch taste in your mouth for a long while.”

Next evening around nine-thirty, he reached Prithivi’s door and rang the bell. Repeated ringing brought out the old father’s face at the 8” x 8” peep-hole that opened, but he could not recognise Ekant. After another round of references, his old eyes lighted up, “Oh, it is you? But Prithivi and his family are out to join the birthday party of his business partner. They would return late. I will tell them of your visit.” Ekant asked, “But uncle, I was asked to dinner tonight?” The old man was dismayed, “What dinner? That invitation was our Kutchhi style of hospitality. We ask all visitors to return for a meal.” 

Ekant was surprised, “How could such a culture produce a Bapu, who was so truthful and firm on his every word?” Ekant found the old man shutting the face-size peep-hole on his face. He quietly left. He was expecting a call and an apology from Prithivi, but that never came that night or the next day.

The next night, on his return after a frugal dinner in a decrepit restaurant, Ekant found Karun Patel with wife, both carrying small glasses of black liquid, loitering on their lawn in tandem. Karun loudly started with his usual jeering smile, “This is another bad habit of ours, Ekant bhai, a glass of black coffee with a dash of cognac. What does your rule book say about it, ha ha…(he jeered more rudely) but you are so naïve. Didn’tyou try Prithivi’s house for dinner last night, when they were out?” Ekant was aghast, “How did you know?” 

This time, Mrs. Patel replied, not exactly with a jeering tone like her husband, but with sort of tongue-in-cheek mild sarcasm, “Why,… Prithivi himself called us to say about your misunderstanding. Every bit of it. Tch tch, now the entire town must be knowing it.” Ekant felt betrayed by friend Prithivi. Karun Patel took over from his wife, “And your uncouth behaviour with my beautiful wife Pankhudi. Every second man or woman would be knowing about it by now.”

“What uncouth behaviour are you talking of? We have hardly met. In our last and first meeting I was very polite to her.” Ekant’s protest was countered by Karun with a guffaw, “But why did you ignore her, ticked her off like a speck of dirt on your shirt-sleeve? You had no nice words for her, for her beauty, her smiles or perfume? Oh, you and your English educated stiff upper lip, ‘wham, bam, thank you mam’ attitude!”

Ekant visibly blushed on Karun’s careless use of the slang expression ‘wham, bam, thank you mam’ which had only one meaning. He heard Karun Patel continuing, “Would the people believe you, or this beautiful, comely, pretty neighbour of theirs, this Mrs. Pankhudi Patel?” Ekant had no words, no energy left to argue or convince the two individuals before him, rather feeling tired of the uphill task of convincing a whole town’s population now. He felt he was an alien, an outsider, an outcaste in that town’s culture.

 

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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NIHAARIKAA TAKES A NAP (NIDARE NIHAARIKAA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

How do hollow homilies

help us, when bitter fights

ruin our household;

not dousing the fire

that threatens to burn down

our house?

 

Why do we ignore

the nitpicking and nagging,

‘not this, not that’?

Like the flowering laburnum

of summer that sways,

oblivious of imminent storms.

 

It would be better

if one of us blinks,

takes initiative,

sponges the sweat

of nightmare

from the other’s face

 

We should tread our way

in dark, a blind man

tap-tapping

his way with his stick,

avoiding the scattered pieces

of squabbles.

 

We must avoid vitiating

the half-negotiated calm

and save our relationship

from collapsing

like the unfinished figurine

cracking up at its hip.

 

Have you dozed off,

Nihaarikaa, my sweetheart?

Have your nap

with no worries,

I lie awake by your side

guarding you.

 

There is still time,

and space amid the ruins

to build our dream home

together, if

we tame unruly moods,

adjust weird ambitions.

 

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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WREATHS

Geetha Nair G

(Written, October, 2018 - In memory of Sri Ram Mohan, serial and cine actor)

 

His last ride is our first together;

Jostling

Bumper to bumper with the flower-hung float

That bears him home.

 

Home is the twin-towered desolate structure

Howling to the sky In acrid smoke,

Beside the unleaving grove.

 

I walk up just behind him

Marigold wreath tarnishing

In my lonely hands… .

 

Ah Phlebas !, you have reached too late;

You turned the wheel too slow:

Welcome, nevertheless.

 

See, he is hauled out;

Fragrant roses jasmine gerbera lilies

Hide him from our view,

I add my bright marigolds… .

All lie upon the low wall now

Their mingled scent suffocating this house of death.

 

He moves in;

Into his final shoot.

 

Come, Phlebas ; let us follow.

He lies now upon the cold clean floor

Shrouded in silence.

 

Stars shine around.

Not one,not one can warm that white-clad shape;

He who starred in a million drawing-rooms

To warm them every evening…  .

 

We depart as he departs

To turn a bucket of ashes

Swept aside for the next.

 

What made me hurtle out

That wild afternoon

To hunt for wreaths and hands to hold them ?

Surely not just the veiled command from afar?

 

Was it that woman serene,

Sharer of silent exchanges

 On lonely afternoons

Whose smiling insights made me bare my heart

And take her in ?

Was it her muted grief ?

 

Or was it that Other,

Sudden

Inexorable

Whose silent presence is a signboard

Pointing at self,

Whose every coming signals the grove’s unleaving ?

 

Phlebas, bold Turner of the Wheel ;

When my turn comes,

Bring me a sunflower wreath:

Bright yellow

The colour of madness

The colour of rebirth.

 

Remember:

Do not be late.

 

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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FACILITY

Sreekumar K

 

The stench met my nose much before the site met my eyes. Site, because the building was only half built. Iron bars were sticking out from all over it in all directions, as if not sure whom to accuse of, or of what. The jeep stopped and we had to get off. Just a few steps up the path, but the jeep won’t go up. The mud on the path was so squishy. No other state gets this much of rain, a fact I was proud of it always but irritated now, since I was facing its downside.

There was no compound wall as the inmates were not allowed outside the building. The stench had become familiar to me by then. It was the same no matter which facility I went to. Facility was a funny name since there was no facility for anything at all. About three thousand people crammed into such a small space which could hardly accommodate five hundred. They were dying off like flies.

My mobile rang and I looked at it. Not a call. It was a reminder Surabhi had set for me. It read ‘Shahina’. After I was put to this job, my mobile rang every three hours or so and flashed the same name. No picture, not even the impression of a little hand smeared in blank ink. Just a name, Shahina.

An image of the girl remained in my mind. It was reinforced by the numerous stories of adolescence my young wife had been entertaining me with ever since we got married. She could not come for our marriage and visited us only once, two months later. My wife insisted she should stay with us for a day or two but it was a month of vigil for Shahina and she didn’t want to break it.

But we made it a point to make her father comfortable though a little aloof from the informal home party we held in her honour.

Shahina had nothing to be shy about. There was nothing my wife didn’t know about her and there was nothing she didn’t relate to me about her. But all through the day, Shahina was unusually shy in my presence. I could understand that because such was the extent to which my wife had stripped her in sketching her adolescent friend for me.

In fact, it stripped me too of some of my conservatism. Born as the youngest son of an aged mother and brought up with five brothers and no sister, I had no idea about the world of women and whatever I learned from romance novels proved to be just romantic.

Like men, may be more like other men and not me, they too had their share of lustful desires which they did not restrict themselves from revealing to their close friends. Shahina and my wife were close friends.

However, it took me some time to realize that the Shahina my wife painted for me wasn’t so realistic after all. Slowly, I found that my wife had managed to colour the image of Shahina with some hues and tints from her own life’s palette. That was my wife’s way of telling me what women actually were. In a way, it was through the image of Shahina that I came to understand my wife more and better. To that extent, I was also indebted to her. In other words, when my wife told me Shahina’s concepts about an ideal man, she was only telling me her own dreams.

Pushing the mobile back into my pocket, I walked up the muddy path not daring to get my foot wet in the puddles. It might have been just rain water in those puddles but the stench in the air made me think it was human urine stagnating there for days. I twitched my nose and Gopal showed his plaque covered teeth and chuckled. He usually did that and then he looked nothing more than an animal.

I don’t know which department or office he worked for but he was going everywhere with me since I was given this assignment of visiting these facilities and offering whatever medical help had to be given. Mostly, it was just an official reckoning of how many were going to die and how soon. As they died off like flies, new ones were brought in from all over. Strange names, but roughly the same look. Impoverished and starved to the extreme, all human beings have only one look. A look beyond death itself. Life’s unnecessary fight to be here longer than was required. Required? Who is required here? As a youngster, I too had ideas about natural justice and all that. But life taught me a lot about itself. There were more people among those whom I met everyday who were more fit to die than live. But, of course, life is precious. I was taught that at home and at school.

I signalled to Gopal that I was not going in. He ran in and brought out a list written in some language I never thought existed. More than a thousand languages, that is India according to the Guinness Book of world records.

I managed to move as far as a freshly built room which had no roof. Rain had washed the floor clean and it was a relief. I asked him to read all the names fast. I wanted to see if Shahina was there. Shahina, the unusually tall girl. An athlete who made her school proud, a dare devil who fought with a boy for playing the fool with my wife. A smile flowing like a stream from her lips to her eyes.

I longed to see Shahina at some point in my life. Somewhere. For me, she was what my wife wanted to show me about herself. Not that I possessed the original, but the image was also intriguing.

Gopal read the names in one go, without stopping. I doubted whether he was reading at all or repeating the names that just came to his mind. I knew he was smart enough to do such tricks.

I asked him to go and bring them out and I put on gloves and wore a mask.

They came out one by one and walked towards me like zombies. Several of them eyed my water bottle and were wetting their lips.

O, my god, this is disgusting. I wouldn’t want to touch that water after that. I gave it over to one of them. I sat there on a wooden stool covered in newspaper as Gopal pressed the stethoscope onto their sunken chests and backs. Rarely I heard a feeble sound and often none at all. Maybe I had blocked all sensations coming to me in that hell-hole. The last patient was a young woman with two babies. She had a heavily infected foot. Gangrene had set in but she was somehow dragging herself around. Nothing could be done about it. There was no medicine for such problems. In fact paracetamol and some mixture, I had no idea what it contained, were the only medicines available. She might last for two or three days and develop seizures and leave her babies and the world forever. Her moksha from this cruel world.

When she too disappeared round the corner, I turned to Gopal and as usual asked him how many I had seen. As usual he made a rough guess and told me some random number. I quickly calculated thirty percent of that and wrote my one line report. 13 to die in another fortnight. Gopal told me that some of them didn’t want to come out and see me. Right, what was the point after all! I wanted to ask him to go in and check whether a tall girl named Shahina was there. Would he honestly give me a reliable report? Even if she was there, was there anything I could do about it? She might be one of them who was too sick and didn’t want to come out. Or she might be one of the few unfortunate ones with no reason to die soon.

Walking back the path, I took my mobile and sent a message to my wife assuring her Shahina was not among them. I thought for a minute and added ‘hopefully’ and wondered what she would think about it.

I enjoyed the drive back. Rolling hills and tea plantations. Under the hot sun, the mist still lingered. On the way, we stopped for a cup of hot tea. That was really energising. Going downhill in that slow moving jeep put me to sleep though. The day got washed off from my mind as I had such a good sleep.

It would be two more days when I would have to sign a post mortem report on an unusually tall girl, with the figure of an athlete and a shy smile still moving from her lips to her open eyes.

Brought dead from another facility.

 

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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BREATHINGS
Bibhu Padhi

 

Through the December cold
they sail smoothly
to where other forms wait.

They curl into
every lonely dream.

Over the sleeping eyes they dance
like shadows or mists.

They play a long dark game
with silence and slow time.

Breathings fall on me
quietly, quietly.

 

 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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DOTS AND DASHES
Dilip Mohapatra

Someone had said
life is not about
how many breaths
you take
but about those exquisite moments that take
your breaths away.

It’s not about the sounds
that you make
to make
your presence felt
but the intermittent silences that
intoxicate you
overpower you
make you
discover the songs within.

It’s not all about righteousness
and commandments
and the stark and stoic
virtuousness
but a little bit of sin
a little bit of imperfection
a little bit of mischief
also a little bit of dust in your eyes
in a sanitized room
that makes it what it is.

It’s not about the continuities
the predictability
that tells you what
is in store in the days to come by
but about those uncertainties
and discontinuities that
make it a worthwhile existence
defined by those
ubiquitous yet unseen
dots and dashes.

 

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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THE STREET FURNITURE

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

 

He was a man who was never seen walking but helped others walk. The old cobbler used to sit leaning onto a milestone adjacent to the telephone booth with a torn umbrella cantilevering over him to give him a sun shade. Covered in a brown shawl all the time he used to be a part of the street furniture which the people took to be part of the roadside utilities which were kept for their convenience.

The old man indeed was an utility to the people who used to come to the telephone booth to make their phone calls. When they needed a one rupee coin to make the phone operable, there was this old man near the milestone who could give them coins as a change for their bigger currency. In the process of money exchange, sometimes they would leave him a small change of twenty five or fifty paise. The nearby post office too was a blessing for him as people used to come to him to get a change of smaller coins to buy the lower priced stamps. There too he could make some small denominations of money as the mailers gave it as a gratitude to a man who helped them in their need for a change.  His main source of livelihood, however, was from the  people who arrived at the ATM counter. There were many regular customers who would require a quick polish of their shoe or an immediate stitch on their sandals when they got out, rich with a wad of notes given to them by the machine. But the most notable utility of this old man to the society was his kerosene lamp which stood like an old light house warning the pedestrians about the open drainage just beside. It was the only source of light in that dark street after all the shops were closed. The street lights never worked.

He was satisfied with the life he had and had no complaints even against God till the digital era swooped over him. He saw the iron towers coming up at a distance and soon people were walking by the telephone booth talking to themselves with something kept to their ears. The telephone booth had lost its purpose. Those people who frequently bought the stamps for mailing their letters gradually trickled and he wondered if all personal relations between friends and families had come to a halt. It was much later that the postman on his last trip to the mail box explained to him that people now  sent their mails electronically and no longer used paper. The mail box was redundant. The rush of people to the ATM also came down and the cobbler wondered if they didn’t want the money too for living till the day a kind customer elaborated to him while getting his shoe polished that all the people now preferred digital transaction of numerical money rather than paper cash. That kind customer didn’t have the money with him to pay the the old cobbler for the polishing work done though his bank account reeked with  vapour like digital cash. He advised the old cobbler on getting a card swiping machine and promised him to pay next time if he had one.

Life got hard on the old man and then suddenly one day he found that the road before him was being widened and another new road was being created just behind where he sat. Earth movers, road rollers worked on both sides since the street was being turned into a four lane bypass road which would connect the city to the highway. The old man who  sat on the street side now suddenly found  himself as part of the divider which seperated the vehicles coming into the city on one side and those going to the highway on the other. The milestone and that strip of land where the cobbler sat was not disturbed as that strip of soil was converted into the divider for the two lanes.

The mailbox slowly rusted, the telephone booth got wrecked, the ATM counter was always out of order and out of cash. The digital era had swooped in and had conquered the sky but nothing much had changed on the ground. The electric post stood just as a pole with no lamp, the drainage system still had no covers and the new road was guttered.

The old man still sat leaning onto the milestone expecting something good to happen in his life too. He sat starved, thirsty and sick. He realized the trap he was in now. The world around him had moved so fast and still was speeding but he was caught in a time warp. The road before him was in darkness inspite of all the drastic developments happening around. His kerosene lamp was still the only beacon to the drivers to warn them from crashing onto the concrete divider which didn’t have a sign board or even a reflector to warn the drivers of a concrete structure in the middle of the wide road. He wanted to escape form the dividing strip which divided the right side from the left, but couldn’t.  His legs had been amputated after he stepped onto a mine during a combing operation when he was in the army. He tried many times to crawl out to one of the sides where new life and trade was developing but couldn’t. He would be too slow to cross the breadth of the high way as the speeding vehicles sped past to and fro like a lightning. There was no one to help him though humans bustled on both the sides with mobile phones in their hands and technology in their minds.

It was the road workers who came to paint the divider and found him sitting lifeless crushed against the  milestone with a truck sitting on the divider. Evidently the truck driver didn't see the kerosene lamp in the drizzling night and had crashed onto the divider. The workers had nowhere to take him and so they silently buried him in the little soil which was inside the two concrete borders of the divider and the milestone became his tombstone. A milestone which heralded the arrival of digital era and a tombstone for the bygone era. He still is a part of the road furniture.

 

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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THE FAREWELL
Ananya Priyadarshini

 

"Oh look how enthusiastic he is!", A guy commented when he was at the sweets shop buying his daughter's favorite delicacies.

"Did he just win a lottery?"

"Or maybe, his daughter just robbed someone!"

Two guys laughed as they found him buying prawns that his daughter was very fond of.

He didn't have a lot of money left with him after paying the best lawyer of the town for seven hearings. That's too much of an expense for a middle class man who runs a grocery shop and pays monthly bills for his only daughter's coaching classes, karate classes etc. Still, he bought everything his daughter loved. She was back home after having spent forty eight days in lock-up and was about to leave for Delhi in a week. He had got only a handful of days with his daughter before she clears the Civil Services exam to become an IAS officer. He had mortgaged his shop to pay for her accommodation and coaching in Delhi. He had full faith in his daughter's merit, hardwork and dedication. He knew he was investing on the right thing.

He didn't react to people rubbishing his daughter's character and this didn't go very well with people who wanted to poke something out of him.

"Oh dear Lord! Has he gone crazy? His daughter has recently been let out of jail. The boy she attacked is still in the hospital, struggling to save his eyesight. And this old maniac is celebrating like he's sending his daughter off to her in-laws!", his naivety had infuriated those who, otherwise wanted a good dose of dramatic response.

"Let him do all he wants, Sir. With such record, his daughter isn't going to find in-laws for herself anyway", the insults grew more violent, words more bitter and they should've hurt deeper but this man was made of some different element.

However, he reached home and asked, "Gudiya! All set to leave or do you still need something? If so please don't hesitate to say!"

"Papa! You don't have to do all this", she took a brief notice of the prawns he was washing in the kitchen sink. 

"Who told it's only for you? I'm going to have a bigger bite than you!", he chuckled.

"Not just this..."

"Then, what?"

"Papa, you know what I'm talking about!", A tear rolled down her cheeks.

"I can join DLP and order the materials from the institute. I promise, Dad like lakhs of others I too can crack UPSC studying at home. I don't want to leave you alone here and go."

"Dear, the people won't let you breathe in peace here. Not everyone is like those members of Women's Association who stood up for you, came onto the roads and took the entire administration and media by storm demanding Justice for you. The society is full of idiots who sympathise your assailant and accuse you for having defended yourself. They'll always tell something that'll provoke you. Can we afford any type of disturbance right at this stage? You tell me!"

"You have to listen to a lot of things just because of me...."

"Yes! You've made me so, so proud. Look, never blame yourself for what happened. Had you not fought back, you would've still been a victim shamed for life. Now that you attacked the bastard and screwed his eyesight before he could pounce upon you, they think you're cruel. The society still has a long way to go when it comes to dealing with women's safety. Just go! And return only after you've reached a height where these ridiculous opinions can't be heard. This has always been your dream, my child. Do it."

Both the father and the daughter were sobbing.

"Remember, you encountered a devil here. There, you'll face many. You met with one at night here when you were alone. There, you might meet them in broad daylight on a busy street. Don't step back. Today, you bust his eyeballs. If you have to, break their spine. Just stay safe and never worry about the legal issues. If anyone tries to mess with your self -respect and pride, your Papa is all prepared to fight every legal battle", he was breathing heavily by the time he finished speaking.

The daughter's face was still wet and red with  crying.

"With that crying ritual done, I guess you've officialized your 'vidaai'." He said as both of them burst into an usual bout of laughter. The walls were glad to have heard it after quite a long time!

 

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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UNADAPTABLE

Sharanya Bee

 

In search of a treasure chest I've dived into this deep, blue sea

If that could pass as an excuse.

I heard the sea bed's comfortable for imbecile souls like me,

who forget to breathe until skins turn blue,

Bluer than the depths of these waters.

We have eyes that see shipwrecks and carcasses as things of beauty,

I walk on the sea-floor, swim through a whale fall,

I swing on an anchor's edge and rest in it's curve,

 

From my closed palms escape schools of fish,

My exasperation leaves as air bubbles perishing at the surface,

Until there's no more left to exhale

I selfishly crawl through a fat rope reaching out for air,

It was wrong to think of the sea as my home

 

I wash upon the land, handful of weeds, headful of excuses

For the imbeciles waiting on the shore

I am sorry my hands are so full,

I am sorry

There's no treasure 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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A PRAYER
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra

On this New Year 2020
When the world
Is drowned in jubilation
I offer this humble prayer to you
O’ Lord, our Father!

I offer my eyes to you
My Lord
Intoxicate them
With the happy visions of your world.

I offer my ears to you
My Lord
Infatuate them
With the melodious music of the loving heart. 

I offer my limbs to you
My Lord
Strengthen them
With the desire to serve any one in need.

I offer my mind to you
My Lord
Enlighten it
With the holy words of gospel to dispel fear.

I offer my heart to you
My Lord
Conserve it
Load it with the jewels of love for one and all.

I offer my life to you
My Lord
Consecrate it
Lead me beyond the lakes of pretentious faith.

 

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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THE FINAL JOURNEY (MAHAJATRA)
Kabiratna Manorama Mohapatra
(Translated by Sumitra Mishra)

 

Everything will be forgotten
In the flow of time
Sorrow and happiness will elapse
As per the rule of nature
Wounds will be healed
In the salvific beams of Time.
But unforgettable are the pious memories 
Which do not burn off in the fire of grief
They emit light and flames of joy.
To bathe in the pool of memory
Is cooling and satisfying, refreshing and calming.
It’s like secretly bathing in the holy river of Gangaes
The experience is unique and immortal.

Like the divine light 
Rays of reminiscence enlighten the soul
Sometimes the currents of memory
Flowing like colorful dreams
Hinders the stagnant sleep. 
Sometimes memories create a vacuum
Sometimes a sense of completeness.
But nostalgic flashbacks are marvelous.
Memory is like the sandal paste of liberation
Like paying off the loans
The path of memory is a Divine journey; Mahajatra. 

 

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

XXVII

Eating samosa?-
Oh that, of taste-buds,
no mere indulgence;
a ritual, rather,
of rememberances
of memories
as fresh as
morning dew.

My evenings were once 
filled with the steaming 
samosas you brought
and I, always, could see 
a samosa transform from 
inane to metaphysical— 
abstract, and so 
ephemeral as love.

You are not here more
so now I buy that one
once in a while
eat it, with a smile
as ritual
in the elation of what was.

 

XXVIII

Sitting in my dingy studio—
listening to
the song of songs—
of silence—
the trees outside window
dancing
with the breeze
as if they all had a bath
in the rain
last night
while I slept.

In deep slumber
I could not hear
the whispers . . . .
you were unfailingly sending 
me in your dreams all through.

Oh but
I prefer to stay away
from all night dreams
for do I not dream 
throughout the day!

I? I’m the perpetual
day dreamer.
 

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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GOING DOWN MEMORY LANE

Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya

Going down memory lane, 
I came to my old homestead- 
Where, for seventeen summers 
I was nurtured. 

The old rambling house, with its spacious rooms; 
The sweeping land; the gigantic tamarind trees- 
Four great pillars- sentry like 
Guarding the terrain. 

The second one, nearest to my homestead - 
Our favourite haunt! My siblings 
And I, with childish enthusiasm, played 
Making doll houses and keeping house. 

Oh, it was such fun then!
No care, no worries, 
Only, innocent mirth and grief. 
But alas gliding years, 
Weaves a nostalgic dream 
Unwinding the spool of yearning, 
To regain the golden days of childhood.
 

 

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EXTENDED FAMILY
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya

 

He comes stealthily with the dawn
Settling down comfortably, his tiny feet astride
The thin branch of the nutmeg tree,
Eyes glued to the kitchen window,
Ears straining to grasp our movements
He waits patiently. If silence greets him
He breaks into shrill chatter
Piercing my ears to roll off my bed.
Prayers forgotten, I run to my kitchen
Straining the rice kept for our wild family
I empty the cupful on his empty platter.
Watching him scramble in excitement
I extend my hand pleadingly inviting him
To feed from my hand.Rushing down
Fear assaults he stops, flicking his tail
He scoots off to his favourite corner.
Bidding him to eat, I hasten to tell
My morning prayers.

There are days I sleep off through his call
Rushing out, I scan the branches
The emptiness sears my soul.
I place his share on the plate and wait hopefully
A dull ache permeating my being
I start my morning chores.
As we settle for breakfast we hear him
I rush to my kitchen
There framed by my window I see him
Daintily eating on one side of the plate
On the other in companionable silence the one legged crow.
The sight splashes rainbow colours of joy
Brimming eyes full of gratitude
For my extended family
I continue my chores.
 

Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a  poet, painter and a retired Professor  of English, has  published three books of poetry.  MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE  AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.

Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle  and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony 

 

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EXILES

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

Merciless you are

         denying justice

when you brand 

         me and mine

as exiles... 

       

you needed 

           the sweat

of  ours

           to water

your crops..

 

you needed

      to ooze out 

our youth

         and health

to build 

        mansions...

What not ! 

 

on top of 

       our  broken 

spines, 

       bent down 

heads

        you erected

 fly overs

           bridges.

    

in slums  

         we slept 

with dusty

          nothings

scattered

       all around...

 

only

        the vagrant 

wind 

          brushed

us  past

       with whispers

of solace..

 

now you ask us 

            to  leave, 

say,  we are not 

               part of 

this earth..!

 

if not for us,  

       how could 

you live 

          like this

to shout

          out and 

suppress

         our rights

to claim our

      little space...  

 

     this world

bears 

        our signature

more than 

             yours..

this earth 

         breathes

our presence

      more than 

yours, 

      which no cult

or creed

        can erase..

 

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

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

 

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THE PAIN (Kasta)

Arupanand Panigrahi

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

I am blind,

also, my flute;

it’s toneless.

 

I attach my lips

to its eye.

 

It starts singing,

my lips go mute,

pleasureless.

 

THE BOSOM (Chaati)

 

The sun is going down,

long shadows

darken the ground,

the terrace is still sun-washed.

 

Some gossips are sprouting wings.

But neighbourly terraces

behave like strangers, some gossips

learning the art of silence.

 

Your sari doesn’t show your shape

to advantage, take it for airing

on the terrace, tomorrow’s sun

may bring it crispy contours.

 

Your dark colour sari on terrace

catches attention in sunlight;

the white one shows

your best profile on the dark terrace.

 

The night’s dark subsumes

a storm that plays Petrel with

your white sari, play of black and white.

Even jackals of night go berserk.  

 

Arupananda Panigrahi is a senior Odia poet, his poems mostly rooted in Odisha’s native soil; has four collections to his credit; he writes his poems in a spoken tradition in an idiom unique to his poetry. Sprinkled with mild irony, his poems subtly closet at their cores the message of hope even at the moment of proverbial last straw of despair. (email add – arupanadi.panigrahi@gmail.com)

 

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REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL

Sheena Rath

 

Raising a Special child has never been easy. In fact no one knows why autistic children are often so charming, they are exceptionally good looking, resplendent, of course for every mother her child is the most beautiful on this earth.

Is it the absence of human emotions like - guile, malice, greed? Their smile is infectious and serene. They are always focussing on an inner world not known to us and looking beyond us. They are God's children!!

A spectrum disorder is where no two individuals showcase similar behaviour patterns.

Whenever we have marched  out into the open with our son, many a times people have walked upto me just to say, "Is that your son? He is so handsome!!" We are always on our guard as you never know what behaviour might crop up next and probably people have noticed it on our faces. With much awareness now, people are more sensitised. Sometimes just looking at my child gives me solace. Despite the encumbrances we face every minute,  there is something to be content about. There are always "Reasons To Be Cheerful".

Raising our kid is challenging and sometimes involves an abundance of of hurt and frustration. But we tell ourselves, "Don't give up even if it has been a difficult day, stay away from negative energies, think positive always come what may, there is a solution for every difficult situation that keeps cropping up now and then... Deep breathe, stay calm and say to yourself...I Can!! "

Children who are Autistic are considered to be on a higher spiritual level almost like angels.

Every child is a beautiful flower, let them bloom and spread their fragrances whereever they go.

 

All that they need is our Love, Acceptance and Inclusion.

 

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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LOVE

Shruthy S. Menon

 

Is love something to be expressed with words or with your feelings?

Is love,  just like the two sides of coin?

where it's just not their priorities, 

or just yours,

It's what the society terms it 

to be fallacious & mysterious 

and yet , 

what love ought to be.

To conquer the world, 

with all of its love upon you

or that which you assume it to be.

You listen to your heart

just like  filling a jar

and emptying the same.

So can love, be trusted or is it deceitful? 

You know it and 

yet be unknown to it.

 

You love the rains,  

Its rhythmical tones soothes your heart.

Yet the storm,

a fearsome enemy in a war.

 

Love,  is it wavering your emotions

and tampering it with its fluidity?

Then how can love exist 

and be existential ? 

Think on it !

SRUTHY.S.MENON is an Assistant Professor of English Literature at Swamy Saswathikanda  college, Poothotta , Kerala. She is the Co-Author of 15 Anthologies of poems, quotes.She is passionate about art and literature.Her poems and articles have also been published in “Deccan Chronicle”.Her poetry reveals the strikingly realistic and fictional nature of writing on the nature of love, life, death, and afterlife.

You can reach her in Instagram@alluring_poetess.  

 

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GIFT

Narayan Ramakrishnan

 

Sunday evening itch began by 5.30. With money in her bank a/c remaining untouched for more than a week, my daughter was getting restless in transferring that into somebody’s pocket. “My dresses are getting old, I want to buy a pair or more of churidar material. Moreover, I want to gift one to Kuttu’s sister who scored all A Plus in her 10th and came out top in her school.” That last sentence won her my consent for the outing along with my always reluctant better-half.

So the process began at 5.30 and we went out by seven. A gestation period of more than an hour, a normal for our family.

Enthusiasm is very contagious, it seems. While my daughter got enthused by her itching to get new dresses, her inclination to gift one enthused me. When I readily agreed to visit my wife’s cousin's house after shopping, that enthused her more than ever.

The resultant goodness of enthusiasm immediately got us an auto, and we had a seamless journey. Nowhere in the three traffic signals were we held up, we got green signal the moment we were about to stop. Air was filled with enthusiasm.

The mall, always brisk, presented a very lively and lovely ambience for the shoppers. Festive season or not, this Mall attracts people from far and wide and it is a celebration once you enter. A group of fifteen was waiting outside with all paraphernalia for live performance of chenda melam.

“Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who are happy!”, a line in the Garden Party, a short story by Katherine Mansfield, struck me. All were happy and enjoying. They did not show any freckle of pain or disappointment, which people normally have in the interiors of their heart. Cinema theaters, ice-cream parlor or an amusement park are centers of happiness, where one must throng to once a month to relieve themselves of the daily strain and pain. Better said than done. A deep pocket is a necessary concomitant.

The selection process, I know, considering past experience, will be laborious. So I kept aloof in a corner. To include me also in the  process my daughter frequented me and put a question to me. “How is this one?”. Not to let her down, I said, ” You have one more or less in the same color”. I am not sure if she heard it half or full, but she disappeared immediately.

The tube music that was  flowing, took my thoughts to 1980, when I was in Delhi. The mall culture was not there then. But Palika Bazar was a golden rendezvous for many like me, from the interior taluks of Kerala. Film songs of Qurbani and Abdulla, coming in a sequence, simply transported me to that time almost 37 years ago.

Standing in a corner, lazily, but observing beauties moving around in plenty from all age groups, I thought some familiar face would say a sweet hello. It didn't happen.

Then I remembered having shared an information in Facebook, about the new Rs.500 counterfeit notes which are suspected to be in circulation. The warning was about the security thread away from the normal position than in a genuine currency.

I took out my wallet to check the fate of the few notes in it. I had eight numbers of it. I patiently checked the security thread. All were ok. But not uniform. Three on the line, two within the line, two just inside the border and the last one well within. Why this variation I was in the oblivion. The counterfeit had its security thread over the signature of the Governor of the RBI.

Disappointed at finding no familiar face, I did not lose hope. When it rains it pours, not the way it rains in these parts of Kerala, especially in a rainy season. Then I saw a glimpse of a man, a familiar face, holding a chubby child in his hands and another young boy walking close by and beautiful lady just behind. The innocence of the chubby child was more attractive than his mother. It was none other than my ex-colleague. We exchanged pleasantries, and we parted. The minute he went away, another man touched my back. He was a Development Officer of LIC, who helped me in reactivating my Agency, and smoothly reminding to start procuring business. In a Mall, Cinema theatre, ice cream parlour, hotel or in an amusement park, you need not ask your friend what brings them there. Then I saw a client who was about to pack up after purchase. Just as my MD who often  makes a regular remark, when a former regular client walks into his cabin after a long gap, I too asked him, “Kandittu orupadu nalayallo, Sir, evideyille? ” ( Long time since we last met. Are you not here?). So I had a hat-trick, within a gap of three minutes.

By the time my daughter finished he shopping it was 8.20. She asked me, “Which one of the churidhar material should I gift?”. “The best of the three  and the one you like the most; then forget ever having given a gift”, I said.

 

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 leading brokerage firm 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 2ND UNIVERSE WAR

Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak

 

Having heard of

2nd Universe war,

First, between Vishnu and Shiva,

And the second, between Vishnu and Brahma

Got reeling of head…??.

Relax, relax.

Who cut Brahma’s fifth head and why ?

 Why Ketaki flower was cursed ?

Now scratch your head…….

.

 

Lord Brahma,

Born from a lotus,

Grown out of Vishnu’s navel(umbilicus),

With five heads,

Facing five directions,

East, West, South, North and upwards.

 

Each direction represents one of the Mahatattva,

 5 elements of basic creation ,

 Jala (water), Agni (fire), Prithvi (solid),

Vayu (gas) and Akash (either or bounding element of all)

 The upward head shows

Akash tattva or the Isha head of deity.

 

Having descended from the navel,

Brahma took lotus as his mother,

And demanded that he should be worshipped

By Vishnu, which was vehemently refused ,

Leading to a war,

Mainly a display ,

Of divyastras, like Brahmastra, Narayanstra.

 

Both the warrior’s divyastras,

Got neutralised by a

Big column of light,

Whose ends couldn’t be

ascertained as it passed

Through all the “lokas”.

 

Both Brahma and Vishnu

 were surprised by the cosmic pillar of light

 and decided that whoever found

 the top or bottom of the fire first would be superior.

 

Brahma in the form of swan

Flew upwards and Vishnu, as Varaha

Started digging downwards,

To find the ends of the light column,

The “Jyotirlinga”.

 

Brahma reached satya loka,

Further, impossible !

Met  ketaki(umbrella tree or Screw pine or keura flower,)

And made it agree to

tell a lie that Brahma found the end.

 

On return from patal loka Vishnu told the truth

That he couldn’t find the end.

But Brahma, an utter lie,

With witness ketaki flower,

That he found the end.

 

Vishnu,to acknowledge Brahma’s superiority

About to touch His feet,

Appeared from the Jyotirlinga the Bhairava,

A form of Shiva,

Frowned at Brahma,

And cut his upward looking head,

With a curse to ketaki,

To be used only for Brahma.

 

Brahma’s progress arrested at satyaloka,

Lost his fifth head,Ishatwa.

And Lacks satwa guna,

Created only the body,

And all his creation will perish one day.

But soul,atma belong to Vishnu,

And immortal.

 

Notes:Who cut Brahma’s fifth head and why ?

           Why Ketaki flower was cursed ?

           Ketaki flower is cultivated in Ganjam district of Odisha.

Ref. - www.quora.com

 

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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I AM A GIRL AND PROUD OF IT
Aparna Tripathy

I am a girl, proud of it,
Strength, dignity, confidence is all I need,
With the freedom to what I feel to speak,
Living my dream is what I want to achieve......

I know being a girl isn't easy,
Pretending all the time that life is too cozy,
A soul of patience,
Only a girl knows about her hardships....

I am a girl of worth,
Coz I know what I want,
Fewer the needs, greater the happiness I gain,
Alas!! I have learnt how to sustain.....

Evil society, burdens of life,
All they give is experience for life,
Connecting my heart with purpose and passion,
I let go of all worldly misconception....

Being a princess since the day my mom gave me birth,
All I need is my family's support,
Learnt to live being an independent soul,
Being a girl, I am priceless and i know my worth

 

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IGLOO
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

Abhijit sat up. Oh my God! Didn't someone say, to be forewarned is to be forearmed? Nervous, he took a sip from the cup of tea and read again the message from the Daily Horoscope column of The  Indian Express, "Tread cautiously today. Danger is lurking in unexpected corners. Avoid any kind of confrontation. Watch your words. Try to be prudent in dealing with friends and relatives."

A year back Abhijit rarely read the horoscope column in the newspaper, but things had changed suddenly one fine morning. A casual glance at the prediction for Taurus out of idle curiosity and unknowingly he hit the bull's eye. "A day of unexpected pleasures. Food and drinks fit for a king will be spread on a platter for you. Eat and enjoy, a day like this comes but rarely in life!"
Abhijit felt like laughing at the bloke writing this ubiquitous column. Food and drinks fit for a king! On a working day! Has this unfortunate bloke tasted the fare Jayanti, his wife dished out! Day after day, night after night! Shortly after their wedding two years back, she had once brought some hot beverage to the breakfast table, Abhijt took a sip and said,
"Darling, it looks so good, but its taste is pleasantly ambiguous. If it is tea, can you please get me some coffee, and if it is coffee, can you get me some tea?"
Being newly wed, he was forgiven, but the laughterof his wife was ominous, carrying a silent but firm message; only once, such a wisecrack, not again! He understood and had been gulping down whatever was offered in the name of food. Had it been a Sunday or a holiday he would have taken her out to some restaurant for a dinner fit for a king, but not on a working day when he would return from his bank around nine. As the manager of a branch,he had to reconcile all the entries, account for the cash, lock up the strong room and leave around eight thirty to reach home at nine.
But, Mr. Astrologer was right. At lunch time he got a call from Pradip, his class mate from college who was visiting from the U.S.;he invited Abhijit to dinner with spouse, along with Arabind and Gokul, two other friends. They met at Hotel Mayfair at eight and over four bottles of Californian wine brought by Pradip, they had mutton biriyani, chicken tangdi kebab, fish cutlet and prawn masala, followed by the best rasmalai and pudding a chef could produce! A feast fit for a king! Hah, Mr. Astrologer, you are too conservative, it was a meal fit for an emperor, for a king of kings!

After that Abhijit got addicted to the horoscope column. Six months later the prediction in the horoscope again hit the bull's eye!
"Money from unexpected quarters, possibly through acquisition of immovable property. Overseas communication is likely, keep your options open."
Options, what options, Abhijit thought; for acquisition of money, he could keep his whole heart open, like a dissected watermelon.
At two in the afternoon someone called from the village; a distant elderly relative had kicked the bucket an hour back. His only son was in the U.S., he had no time for the poor father in India, busy as he was in earning his dollars in the country of the greenbacks. The elderly relative, Biranchi Chacha had to undergo repeated surgeries for an abdominal cancer last year. He had come to Bhubaneswar for chemotherapy and stayed with Abhijeet's family. Jayanti somehow took a liking to him and took care of him. He had to come repeatedly and felt immensely grateful to Abhijeet and Jayanti for their care and devotion.
On getting the news Abhijeet took half a day's leave and rushed to the nearest internet centre to call Biranchi Chacha's son in the U.S. Lalu Bhaina was aghast at being disturbed at four in the morning,
"How dare you disturb me at this ungodly hour? Don't you know when it is two thirty in your India, U.S. time here is four in the morning?"
Abhijeet felt very small at this chastising, before he broke the big news. Lalu Bhaina refused to come immediately,
"How can I go? It's not like your India, just push off, leaving an application! You want me to lose my job? And your Bhabhi just can't go, children are in the thick of their semester. Do one thing, you and your wife do all the rituals. I will come for three four days towards the end. Don't worry, take leave from your job, I will compensate you for that. Okay? Now let me go back to my sleep. I have two important client's meetings today. And one thing, Abhi, in future if you call me, remember there is a ten and half hours’ time difference between your country and the U.S."
Lalu Bhaina banged the phone down. Abhijeet felt drained. What a way to mourn one's father's death! On the way home he suddenly recalled the conversation and realised Lalu Bhaina hadn’t even had the time to ask what the problem with his  had been and how he had died!
Since Biranchi Chacha had no other child Abhijeet and Jayanti carried out the funeral and performed all the rituals. Lalu Bhaina came on the eighth day and participated in the ceremonies. Abhijeet was seeing him after twenty three years. He had almost forgotten his Odiya accent and spoke mostly in American English; even his Odiya sounded like that, liberally sprinkled with, you know, tell you what, say that again, awesome, Jeesuss, Lord bless my soul and all that.
On the second day, he sat down with Abhijeet and asked him what would be the best way to sell off the house and land in the village and what price it would fetch.
"Now that I am an American citizen, there is no point in holding on to this property in India, you know."
Abhijeet said he would check on the sale price of land and let Lalu Bhaina know.
"Yes, yes, do that. You can charge a little commission for that also. In U.S. we don't believe in getting free services from any one. There is a price for everything, you know.  Like, you work, you get paid. No hanky panky like your miserable India."
That evening Lalu Bhaina invited Abhijeet to help him in arranging the things in the house, sort out all the papers "and throw away all that awful garbage, you know." And then the bomb exploded! In the second drawer of the old table, they found a Will executed by Biranchi Chacha bequeathing all his property to Abhijeet and Jayanti. There was a letter also for Lalu Bhaina, lamenting the fact that the son was so busy that he never had time to call his father, and that the grand kids, well into their teens, had never visited India to meet their grand father. The selfless care and love given by Abhijeet and Jayanti made him feel as if they were his real children, hence the property was bequeathed to them. Lalu Bhaina flew into a rage, his face got red and eyes became evil. It appeared he would pounce upon Abhijeet and tear him to pieces. "So? It's now clear you and Jayanti are dangerous snakes, biting the hand that feeds you! All this drama of selfless service was to get the property, wasn't it? How cleverly you tricked him to give away his property worth lakhs to you? And the vile, despicable old fool, he didn't think of the love that we have for him. And his grand children, why should they carry the old man's surname? Once I go home I will change those surnames. Now, get out of my sight. I don't want to talk to you again."
Lalu Bhaina didn't talk to Abhijeet again for the next two days and quietly slipped away after the tenth day ceremony was over. Abhijeet realised the prediction was true, though it involved unpleasant situations.

Three months after that, Abhijeet's mind filled with a mild excitement when he read the horoscope column. "A pleasant day. Romance in the air! Keep flowers and music ready. Loosen the purse strings if you want to get the best out of it." Abhijeet smiled to himself. Ah, romance! Should he take a day off? He and Jayanti could have lunch in a restaurant and then go to a movie! Then he remembered the Audit team was visiting the branch and his presence was essential. Anyway he would try to return early and they could go for dinner late in the evening. And if not anything else, night could be made romantic with a few flowers on the bed and a range of passion could fly like the colours of a rainbow!  
Throughout the day Abhijeet's mind remained mildly intoxicated. On the way home he bought some flowers. He wanted the prediction of romance to come true. To his surprise Jayanti opened the door with a red saree covering her head and half her face. Ah, the fever of romance! So contagious! He presented the flowers to her and lifted the veil from the face wanting to gather her in a tight hug. The next moment, he recoiled, as if bit by a snake! Who was this lady, opening the door to him and now giggling like a school girl! She broke into an uncontrollable laugh, like a woman possessed, and from the loud laughter Abhijeet recognised her. Sulata! Jayanti's cousin, the ever playful, naughty, flirty, seductive beauty! When had she come? She must have come during the day and the two sisters must have kept it a secret, to spring a surprise on the unsuspecting Abhijeet!
Abhijeet smiled and gave a small pat on Sulata's cheek.
"You scared me, I thought I had entered some wrong house!"
"Yes, Jiju, it's my fate, I was waiting for a hug from you, but I always miss you by a whisker. Remember your wedding day?"
Abhijeet started laughing. Of course he remembers! On the wedding day he was smothered by a dozen sisters in law of all ages, sizes and colours, Sulata was the loudest and naughtiest among them. The wedding was over and the bride sat in another room holding small kowries in her hand, waiting for the husband to open her hands and take away the kowries,  When Abhijeet held her hand, his first touch of the freshly minted wife, the bride started laughing and rolled unto the ground. From under the saree a pair of jeans peeped out, the veil slid off. It was Sulata laughing like a horse and shouting, "Hai, hai, my bad luck, if I had not laughed and rolled unto the ground Jiju would not have known and tonight in the bridal chamber he would have lifted my veil and sung, Suhaag Raat hey, ghunghat utha rahahoon mein." She started singing the song loudly, in her thick manly voice and all the other girls started punching her and tickling her till she ran away.
Next year it was her turn to get married and there was so much fun! She married a doctor and they were living three hundred miles away in a small town. Sulata was still the best friend of Jayanti and the two sisters used to spend hours talking and exchanging all kinds of gossip. Today her husband had dropped her at Jayanti's place and gone off to Delhi to attend some conference for two days. They had dinner at home, Sulata talking all the time and pulling Anirudh's leg, playing pranks like she was still the Sulata who wanted him to lift her ghunghat in the bridal chamber!  Jayanti enjoyed the discomfiture of Anirudh and the three of them talked till late into the night. The next day Anirudh was in a great mood, buoyed by non-stop praise and adulation by Sulata; his handsome personality, his shy nature, and his gentlemanly manners all coming for high appreciation from her. Jayanti also joined in the banter and by the time he left for the bank, he felt like a bird flying in the sky trying to touch its blueness and its vast splendour. In the evening they went to watch a movie, Sulata cracking jokes all the time.
"Jiju, be careful, don't try anything naughty with Didi in the dark. You are under watch."
Anirudh asked her, "Why, what does Subhash do in movie halls with you?"
"Oh, he is a thorough professional, like a good doctor he examines my body once the lights go off in the movie hall."
And she broke into loud giggles, winking at Abhijeet in a suggestive way. The movie got over quite late, they had dinner at home. The next evening Sulata wanted to go to Pushpak hotel for dinner. Abhijeet ordered good, mouth-watering dishes for his 'charming Saali' and she ordered exotic ice cream for her 'darling Jiju'. She kept on praising him for the excellent choice of dishes, for being so smart and handsome and for being 'God's gift to Jayanti didi'. She licked the bar of Heavenly Delight and handed it over to Jiju, who licked it like it was Manna from heaven. He handed over his cup of Cream of Passion to Sulata, who rolled her eyes and said 'Fantabulous'! Jayanti watched this fun and frolic with a fixed smile on her face. On the way home Jayanti was unusually silent, but Sulata and Abhijeet kept exchanging banter and laughing all the time. The chemistry between the handsome Jiju and the rollicking Saali was getting stronger by the minute.
Subhash was to return at eleven in the morning and they were to drive off to Baripada after lunch. Before going off to sleep Abhijeet suggested the two sisters should go the market in the morning and buy a saree for Sulata. Jayanti snapped at him,
"No need, her husband is a doctor, they have enough money to buy sarees for Sulata."
Abhijeet went off to sleep, dreaming of colourful ice cream bars, wrapped in sizzling noodles and dripping sweet droplets of honey. The next morning before leaving for the bank, he invited Sulata to visit again, reminding her of the nice time they all had, thanks to her sweet nature and effervescent manners.

That was three months back. Abhijeet's faith on the predictions in the daily horoscope had gone up tremendously after the pleasant romantic interlude with Sulata. Today the warning about impending confrontations unnerved him. He wanted to seek Jayanti's help in overcoming the dangers associated with his mercurial nature, his tendency to get angry at the slightest pretext. She smiled and said she understood. She promised to call him a couple of times during the day and remind him of the warning. At breakfast Abhijeet crossed the first huddle. The Upma was extra salty, Abhijeet wanted to ask if makers of Tata Salt were having a scheme of Buy one Get one free. But at the last second he remembered the warning and held himself back. Today was not a day to play with Jayanti's sentiments.
At the bank there was a minor pandemonium when he reached; the cashier had not turned up and a crowd was forming at the counter. He called the cashier's home and was told that the cashier had been taken ill. He wanted to shout at the bloke that courtesy demanded that he should have at least called and informed. But Abhijeet restrained himself, the cashier was the General Secretay of the State Bank Employees' Union and today was not the day to rake up a fight with him, not after what the horoscope said. He made alternate arrangements and the transactions started.
At eleven thirty Mrs. Samal stormed into his room. The old professor had been a pain in the neck for the last two years, ever since Abhijeet had joined as the Manager. Today she was picking up a fight on why she should fill a form for the Live Certificate to continue her pension. She just looked at Abhijeet and said, 'I am, so I exist'. Abhijeet had been suffering from her tantrums for a long time and he wanted to hold her by her fat neck and squeeze the life out of her, but remembering the warning in the horoscope column, he hid his potentially maniac hand under the table, sported a plastic smile and asked the Assistant Manager to fill up the form on her behalf.
An hour later the local MLA stormed in with a few hangers-on and started firing straight away,
"How dare you issue a notice to Jitendra Swain? Don't you know he is my right hand man? Is he the only defaulter in your branch? Is it your father's money you are giving as loan? It is our money, the people's money. How dare you? How dare you....."
On any other day Abhijeet would have started an argument with the MLA, who was talking as if the Manager of a bank was his father's servant. But no, not today, of all the days. The warning was fresh in his mind. He simply promised to look into the matter; it was not possible to do it today because the computer was down. The MLA left with a parting shot,
"Yes, you better do it, unless you want to be transferred to some remote branch in a Naxal-affected area. Remember, we are the masters of the people, you are only paid servants!"
Abhijeet badly wanted to speak to someone, he called Jayanti and spoke to her for fifteen minutes. She asked him to keep patience and somehow see the day through, may be tomorrow would be a better day. In the evening Abhijeet went to preside over a loan mela, where his branch was disbursing loans to the weaker sections of the society. The Chief Guest was the President of a local NGO, who had a few scores to settle with Abhijeet. The function went on for two hours; many from the local area were grateful to the bank for giving them the financial assistance.
The President of the NGO was not convinced. During his speech he looked pointedly at Abhijeet and fired shot after shot at egoistic, self-centered, arrogant Bank Managers who sit in air-conditioned rooms and do not feel the pulse of the people. Abhijeet wanted to tell the audience how unselfish the President was and the kind of beneficiaries he had sponsored, which Abhijeet had rightly rejected. But somehow he didn't want to pick up a fight. He had been treading cautiously, as advised by Mr. Astrologer and didn't want to take a risk late in the evening.
He came home, all smiles, and gave a big hug to Jayanti. Over dinner they went through the events of the day and were happy that Abhijeet had come out of the day's ordeals unscathed. Jayanti smiled and reminded him how many times she had prayed during the day for Abhijeet. She was getting increasingly lovey-dovey, the night promised to be romantic. Time to plan a child, Abhijeet told himself.
They went to bed, Jayanti remembered the quarrelsome Professor, smiled and just to tease Abhijeet, she said, "I am, so I exist". She tickled him and brought him to a romantic crescendo. Abhijeet realised that she was getting more and more flirtatious. Flirtatious! He suddenly remembered Sulata, who had called during the day. He thought he would break the news to Jayanti,
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. Sulata had called, she said she tried your number but it was continuously busy. Her husband Subhash is again going to Delhi for two days and she is coming to stay with us next week. She was very excited, she made me promise I will take leave for a day and the three of us will go to visit Nandan Kanan, the beautiful zoo on the outskirts of Bhubaneswar."
Jayanti had suddenly become silent, all playfulness gone in a minute.
"Why does she want to go to Nandan Kanan? I can't go with her. She has become insufferable, jabbering all the time. Last time she talked so much, I got a headache!" Abhijeet was still riding the crest of a rising romance,
"O O, I thought she is your most intimate sister! OK, if you don't want to go, I will take my favourite Saali for an outing at Nandan Kanan."
Suddenly the room became still, gripped by a palpable tension. Jayanti froze, moved away from Abhijeet and went off to sleep facing the wall. Abhijeet heaved a deep sigh, he felt as if the room had become cold, very cold, an Igloo, and Jaynti's breath was hanging like heartless icicles suspended from a stone-cold roof.

 

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THE FORMAL DINNER
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

How do I interpret the dinner I just had?
A grand meal,
or a modest feast,
a gourmet's delight
or a Chef's pride?

How do I look at Mrs. Iyer sitting on my left, 
talking of her Paris trip, 
Mrs. Jacob reeking of a costly perfume, 
and ruminating over a rare champagne.

The dinner had many codes,
one that said the angle at which the fork should be lifted, 
the knife to maintain a respectable distance form the mouth, 
and the tea spoon not to be used till hot beverage arrives.

And did my eyes see right,
when Mrs. Malhotra's dainty fingers
were caught by Mr. Chopra
while lifting the salt shaker?

I had warned the host I was a poor eater, 
He had laughed at me, 
When will you grow up Sir, 
You come to such dinners not to eat, just be sociable! 

But how can one socialise when no one talks, 
Mrs. Iyer's smile was fixed at a quarter centimetre, 
Mr. Lamba's lecherous eyes were half closed, 
peeping stealthily at Nina Shah's cleavage! 

But a formal dinner it was,
Followed by the host' speech,
We stiffly said Bye to each other
And went home to have an omelette or half a banana.

A full dinner?
A half dinner?
A quarter dinner?
A large peg of a meal?
Or a small peg of a snack?

WHAT DO I MAKE OF MY LIFE? 

 

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

 

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