Literary Vibes - Edition LI ( 17 Jan 2020 )

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the Fifty first edition of LiteraryVibes.
We are back with many beautiful poems and interesting stories. There is also an exquisite travelogue "Himalayan Odyssey" by Dr. Ajay Upadhyaya who came down all the way from England to the foothills of the gigantic mountain range to test his stamina, determination and nerve. He was accompanied by two of his classmates who are close to seventy years of age, yet still very young at heart. The story of the indomitable spirit of these three adventurers is accompanied by beautiful photographs. Please don't miss it. It is the magnum opus of the current edition.
Hope you will enjoy all of these at
http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/261
Please forward the link to your friends and contacts with a reminder 
that all previous editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at 
http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Wish you a happy reading.

With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
 

---

 

---

 

 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

(A new interpretation of the legend dedicated to Literary Vibes on scoring its half-century, its 50th run)

 

Smoke and dust settled,

the princess was assured

of a soulful heart

beating inside the Beast’s ribcage

despite his coarse hair,

horns, fangs, and the little tail.

 

Wounded, the beast was whimpering,

he had refrained from killing

wicked Gaston begging for mercy,

who would hit it back in foul;

perhaps dying now. Her heart melted.

In a blink, was she in love!

 

The beast looked beautiful,

his coarse hairs felt silken,

covered with stardust, bolder

than the boldest of all princes.

She gushed, “Ah, your cutie tail;

your grunts, my sweet nothings.

 

Oooo! Am I in love… in your love!”

The beast, her first love,

perhaps her last. She must capture

the last moments of her beloved,

his touch, his feel in her being,

his love’s due, her love’s debt.

 

She took the big beast

in her delicate arms, a rock

in her soft periwinkle lap,

his lolling head in dainty hands,

placed her mouth on his,

drank deep in the fountain of love.

 

Unexpected taste of honey

made her blink; and lo, a prince

had materialized in her arms,

“Where is my beast, my love?

How dare you take advantage

of a damsel in distress, O’ prince?”

 

A wicked wizard stood by leering,

wringing his obsequious palms,

begging for mercy; the prince

snarling at him; the echo-jungle,

the ruined palace, and stone figurines

coming alive as gardens, palaces, courtiers.

 

But her vacant eyes were searched

for her beau, the beast.

The prince stood resplendent,

courtiers fawning over him,

the cool air with spring’s fragrance

wafting among arches and cupolas.

 

She felt miserable, when the prince

on his knee, asked for her hand.

Her eyes brimmed though the sorcerer

narrated his vile curse, “O’ proud prince,

turn into a beast, let your opulence turn

into wasteland, until a kiss of true love.”

 

But the nubile princess pined away

for her beloved beast, missed the ruins,

whispering woods, whistling wind,

haunted Halloween lamps -

“Would I ever resurrect my beast,

or love this prince? I rue my kiss.” 

                           

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  

 

---

 

THE NEIGHBOURS (PADOSHI)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

Now that we are neighbours,

exchange-visits, and inquiring

after one another’s wellbeing

would be our routine;

 

besides the spirit

of good neighbourliness -

like hurting each other

on the slightest pretext,

 

but never really staining

each other’s clean reputation;

the minor wounds

healing themselves;

 

like during boat rides,

one pushing the other

into water, each laughing it off

as big jokes.

 

Time would pass happily

in neighbourly leg-pulling;

until an evening, a bunch

of curious stars,

 

leaning over the edge

of their sky to enjoy

our neighbourly pranks,

topple over into a murky pit.

 

While watching our ongoing antics -

I asking you, “Who… you?”

and you bantering back,

“You…who?”

 

the poor stars, soaking wet

in murky pit-water, but

amused by our humanly

neighbouring spirit,

 

would be wondering -

“These good neighbours

have summoned a vehicle

but go nowhere;

 

none boards it,

though one is all decked up,

while the other sharpening

his sneer’s edge!”

 

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)” 

 

---

 

COLLEGE  STUDENTS  ENTERTAIN  OLD AGE HOME  INMATES

Geetha Nair

 

Young resonant voices, nubile shapes

Make spoof of  love-sick maiden and lusty hunter-king

Circling like charmed bees this gentle afternoon… .

 

New soap and towel safely tucked away,

They sit on creaking chairs

To taste new fare:

White-clad wizened toothless forms.

Their ancient laughter wrinkles the stale air.

Briefly freed from

Serpent tooth of child,

Blade of bereavement,

Homelessness,

Heartlessness,

They chirp and chortle  at antics young,

Echo old songs on stage,

Songs of their sawn-off hearts

In black-and-white burning time… .

 

A life-sized pain pierces me

For the echoing void of their December days

For those calendars torn for ever;

Then hear behind me a rasping sound.

 

He, mist of pain in eyes, coughs on, bent;

She, with gnarled hand strokes his last grey strands.

He straightens up;

I catch their faces

Live;

The phoenix lives on !

 

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 

 

---

 

NTOLERANCE: STORY FOR A MOVIE

Sreekumar K

A man and a woman (Shamla) come to see Alosius, an entomologist. They don't speak Malayalam well but the stranger renews some long lost friendship and requests for shelter for a single night. Together they revive some old memories and the stranger is keen on doing it more and more.

Everyone goes to sleep and later we see the stranger waking up and kissing the woman and quietly walking out.

The next day's morning news says that the stranger was killed in the next town.

The credits

Alosius, has some problems with his wife. His wife, Smitha, a forefront journalist finds her husband behaving strangely and trying to hide something. He is actually trying his best to protect the girl from the militants and the police. One day he has no other way but to take her home since his car breaks down. He tells his wife that the girl used to be part of a militant group and is wanted by both the police and the militant group. He lies to her that he will take her back to her brother the next morning and the next morning he leaves with her. But at the press she finds that the girl's brother died sometime back. This creates a tension between them and Smitha traces out the childhood connection between her husband and Shamla. Smitha reacts violently and a rift between them begins. Alosius gets a dream assignment to go on a butterfly survey and he decided to take Shamla along with him since there is no place to leave her. Smitha does not know this and Alosius assures her that Shamla has gone to north India. Smitha finds out from a travel agent that Shamla is still with Alosius. Smitha thinks of tipping off the police about Shamla but she doesn't do so since it would get her own man also into trouble. She talks to a friend about it and she suggest to her to resort to occult. She does so.

Shamla's life is threatened by some strangers too. As Shamla gets more and more into trouble and Alosius' plans to protect her fails, Smitha is reveling in her vengeance.

Those who are stalking Shamla are tipped off by the police that it is Alosius who protects her. They threaten Alosius who goes into hiding with Shamla. They are in a deep forest and Shamla falls sick. She tells Alosius that he should leave her and go back to his family. Alosius refuses to do so. Shamla says that she feels it is time for her to surrender. She is not surrendering before her enemies but before the Almighty. Shamla asks him to take her to a hospital.

Once in town, Shamla leaves Alosius and goes to her militant group. When she is about to surrender, she is shot by the police. The militants are all rounded up after a shootout. Shamla is badly hit. The police make it look like an attempt on Shamla's life and this gives Shamla a chance to be considered a victim of the militants rather than one among them. Alosius is praised for protecting her.

Smitha's news paper decides to run a story on Shamla and Smitha takes upon herself to do the job. Her own motive is to confront Shamla in person and mortify her even more. She gets to be with Shamla every day privately for an hour. In the beginning, Smitha is wreaking her vengeance on Shamla. But she also has to be professional and so, she listens to Shamla's story of torture and abuse at the hands of the militants. Her editors ask her to add more and more punch to her initial reports, but as days go by she sees herself in Shamla's position and her reports become more and more moving.

Shamsuddin and Shamla were siblings. Their parents ran a bakery in Gujarat and were killed by their own neighbours. The children escaped and were taken to a shelter. At the shelter, they learned Malayalam from an ayah. They were very close to her and her giving them special consideration always got her into trouble. She was like a mother to them and she spoke only Malayalam to them and so the children's mother tongue was Malayalam in a way. They even spent some time in Kerala and met Alosius. The ayah was suddenly taken ill and died. The children sensed trouble and ran away from the shelter. They kept moving and once Shamsudeen had to fight a person who tried to molest his sister. Seeing his fierce nature, a seemingly good natured man took them with him and they were brought to Kerala where they grew up to be part of a militant group in north Kerala. They were used mainly as couriers. In a way they were also responsible for a bomb blast.

Shamsudeen was heartbroken when his sister fell sick. She needed an operation and he expected his co-militants to divert some funds to help him. But they only asked him to leave it in the hands of God. He asked them why they didn't leave other things in the hands of God. His questions made him a defector and he fled with his sister. He was betrayed by his own friends and got in the middle of a fake encounter shoot out. But he was able to escape and leave his sister Shamla with Alosius, their Ayah's nephew.

Shamla's story wins the heart of many and it has a strong effect on the news paper's circulation to say the least. The whole nation prays for Shamla. Smitha, now a transformed person, patches up with Alosius.

And suddenly, when Shamla is doing fine she dies and the postmortem report shows an overdose of a certain medicine. The suspicion falls on Smitha too. The story of her own family problems almost gets into the newspaper. Smitha pleads with the editor not to publish it. As the inspector questions her, she has to confess how much she hated Shamla because of Shamla's closeness to Alosius. She says that no one, not even the militants had wished for Shamla's death as she had. When the police come to her doorstep she is ready to take up the blame. She says bye to Alosius.

But the police came to get her to identify the real criminal, a doctor who was connected to the militants.

 

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. 

 

---

 

MY HIMALAYAN ODYSSEY

Dr Ajaya Upadhyaya

 

If you care to look at the back of an Indian 100 rupees note, you will be greeted by the picture of the mighty Khangchendzonga (It’s spelt in a number of ways, but for sake of simplicity, from now on, I shall use the popular version).  At a height of 28,169 feet, it is the third highest mountain in the world. This Himalayan range , with several peaks, stretches across the Northeast Indian State of Sikkim, endowed with exceptional natural beauty, sandwiched between two sovereign countries, Nepal on its west and Bhutan, on the East. But unlike her better known neighbours, she suffers from a relative poverty of publicity.

 

Kanchenjunga on the Money

 

In October 2019, I was fortunate to get an opportunity to trek on the foothills of this Himalayan range in Sikkim.  When I first contemplated it, almost ten years ago, I was already in my fifties and was doubtful of my ability to undertake such an arduous journey.  I felt, I had  left it too late and had perhaps missed my chance.  But in each successive year, I did consider it but chickened out every time, on some pretext, with a reassuring, ‘I must do it next year’. Procrastination has an amazing capacity for elasticity but in my case, it inevitably reached breaking point.  Eventually, I was faced with the ultimatum: Do it in 2019 or give up this dream altogether.

 

Finally, in May 2019, I did bite the bullet and decided to undertake this long-deferred-trek in October.  It was organised by a batch mate from my Medical College days, a veteran with more than twenty-five years of trekking experience.  But I was a novice; my experience in this field, limited to hiking for a day or two, at best, covering only a few miles at most, and up to a height of about ten thousand feet.

 

            

My Trekking Mates…….

 

The route chosen was the well-known Goecha La  Trek.  But this is not suitable for beginners and is considered to be of moderate difficulty level. So, the standard trekking programme was adapted for my special needs.  We settled for a truncated Goecha La route with an extended duration: The 85 kilometre long route from Yuksom, at a height of 5,700 feet, to  Lamuney at an altitude of 13,700 feet, and return in ten days.

 

                                                     

Our Trekking Route

 

By disposition, I am not naturally athletic. Physical stamina is not my forte, although I am generally fit for ordinary walks of life. And, I had never trekked on rugged Himalayan terrain. And, by now, I was ten years older, well into my sixties. So, the daunting prospect of physical demands, the primary reason behind my procrastination, now assumed almost terrifying proportions. Nevertheless, any doubt over my ability to undertake this physical feat was matched equally by the strength of my resolve to go for it. So, as soon as the trekking programme was finalised for October, my preparation started almost on a military mode.

I joined a gymnasium and I doubled my walking routine from about five  to ten kilometres a day, the additional distance covered by brisk walking on a trade mill with a 5 to 10% gradient.  I also included some rowing and cycling in my exercise schedule.  My aim was to improve my stamina and lose some weight.  The target for weight loss was ten kilograms, although I could manage just about half of this.   This exercise programme felt quite burdensome but I ploughed on, comforting myself with the thought that even if I could not complete the trek, this preparation would do me a world of good anyway.

Our trekking started from the base at Yuksom, a place of great historical and spiritual significance fro the locals.  Yuksom literally means, “Meeting place of three religious monks”. It was the first capital of Sikkim, established in 1642 by the first Chyogal King of Sikkim.  It held its sway for over 300 years, until 1975 when Gangtok became the new capital.

              

Welcome by the Himalayan Range…….

 

We trekked from Yuksom up to Sachen, for our first stop. The air was cool and pleasant. After walking about seven kilometres and climbing 1,500 feet, we reached Sachen. Soon after we started our journey, we lost all mobile network and internet connection. Sachen is a rather nondescript place, but it provided a convenient campsite for the night.  This night also gave me my first taste of  sleeping in a tent and life in its elements.  We drank water from the flowing river nearby. The ground here was far from smooth.  The tents came with a thin plastic padding and the only other thing that separated us from the bare ground at night was our sleeping bag. By the end of the day, I was so exhausted that I just had to imagine the comfort of my mattress at home before drifting off at night.

 

Getting ready in the morning…..

 

The next day we covered a track of nine kilometres from Sachen to Tshoka.  The camp site at Tshoka was more substantial; it had a building with cooking and dining facilities and   the tent site was a flat ground, making our nights more comfortable.  Tshoka is at an altitude of about ten thousand feet and gave me a taste of cold mountain climate.  All the warm clothing; thermal leggings and vests, marino wool socks and thermal cap and gloves, I had carried with me, now came very handy.

 

                   

First Glimpse of Pandim at Tshoka

 

Here, we also had our first view of the snow peaked mountain, Pandim.  While I was resting in the tent, I heard a commotion outside and came out to see the entire crowd of about fifty trekkers, gathered  at the edge of the campsite, poised with cameras, jostling for a view of the magnificent snow covered mountain in the sky.  It was a majestic sight, with crisp white jagged surfaces, dazzling in bright sunlight.  This  view of Pandim, in its full glory, recurred throughout our trek.

 

Drying my cap at Tshoka

 

The journey from Tshoka to Dzongri was hard and long; the terrain was rough and rocky  in patches. We covered a distance of about ten kilometres.  Although I was totally exhausted, I was pleased; I managed to cover this stretch of Himalayan terrain, without falls or accidents.

                 

Campsite at Dzongri

 

The night in Dzongri gave me the first taste of sleeping in freezing temperature.  At an altitude of 13,000 feet, the air was thin, and  simple walking at the campsite for a few hundred feet for performing the morning rituals was strenuous enough to make me breathless.  So, I would be already panting before starting the hiking for the day.

 

Resting Kanchenjunga: At dawn-break

 

Next morning, we had to wake up at 4 AM, for the two hour long trek, and a climb of about five hundred feet to Dzongri Top.  We had to trek in total darkness in order to be on the top in time to catch the sunrise. The climb was treacherous but as this was undertaken in total darkness, we did not  realise this until we saw the hazardous terrain during our descent.

 

On top of the World

 

We all gathered in anticipation, for the first glimpse of sunlight on the face of Kanchenjunga. Finally, when it appeared, the view simply took our breath away. And the first ray of sun, lighting up the face of Kanchenjunga, like an orange lamp with jagged edges, made us forget all our hardship and fatigue.  The play of sunlight  on the mountain range, as the sun moved up on the sky, was a heavenly sight.

              

A days rest in Dzongri camp site helped us to  recover from the cumulative fatigue of trekking and the early morning rise to catch the sunrise.  I certainly appreciated this thoughtful feature of our itinerary.

          

Dzongri Top

 

Our daily routine involved walking for about eight hours, reaching our camp site before sunset.  It was usually broken into two halves, divided by a lunch break.  The four-hour blocks were punctuated by mini-breaks of rest. We aimed to walk for at least an hour before pausing for rest.  I was the slowest in our group, but my friends and our Guide took turns to keep me company to ensure that I was never left to trek alone.

 

Mini-break at Phedong

 

On our trail, we had to remain constantly watchful of approaching animals, who travelled in batches, crossing our path periodically.  They were the mules and wide horned yaks, who unflinchingly carried our rucksacks, camping and cooking gear.  Usually we could hear or even see them from a distance, and gave them way by suitably perching ourselves in lay-bys on the trekking path. Occasionally,  this required us to hang on to our dear lives by precariously clutching at rhododendron trees by  the edge of our path. At places these interruptions were annoyingly frequent  but mostly they came as a welcome relief, offering compulsory rest to our

fatigued muscles.

 

                                    

Ethereal Landscape

 

Our crew, a Guide, a cook and two porters, was a co-operative bunch.  With their boyish face and short stature, they looked like kids but their competence and expertise was never in doubt.   The service they provided was exemplary, often going beyond the call of duty to ease the burden of the journey.  The vegetarian meals were basic but tasty.  The menu was different each day, adding variety to our meals and refreshments.  Often, they brought my dinner to the tent, as I found the act of getting out of the tent and walking up to the kitchen area to taxing.

 

Greenery and the Snow

 

Our next leg of this journey took us to Thansing, our next stop. By now, my fatigue was slowing me down, delaying our  arrival at the campsite.  At sunset, we were still trekking, wondering how much further we had to cover that day.  Imagine our relief to see one of the crew members heading our way.  He had walked about a kilometre to meet us on the track and serve us a hot cup of tea.  Their thoughtfulness, coupled with the exhaustion from the day’s hiking, made this one of the most delicious cup of tea, I ever had.

 

Campsite at Thansing                                      

The altitude of Thansing was similar to Dzongri but it felt colder.  Perhaps, because it was more open and breezy.  The landscape was barren, surrounded by mountains at a distance .  Their view was partially obscured by cloud and mist, and they looked like they were hanging from heaven, transforming this arid valley into a fairyland. The changing shapes and density of the clouds produced a magical atmosphere; a surreal feel, as if we were floating in air.

 

A Few Minutes Rest!

 

I was so tired by now that I thought of ending my trek here, abandoning any hope of climbing beyond Thansing.  However, I am so glad, I changed my mind next morning.  For, the relatively short journey from Thansing to Lamuney offered us the dramatic views of the River Prek Chu, giving us constant company throughout this route.  We also enjoyed the most colourful  scenery in this trek; the bright red coloured Heather plant growing wild, covering the ground almost completely.  The landscape looked  like a vast tapestry of bright red irregular motifs with River Prek Chu knitted across it. The air was heavy, laden with cloud.  Their whimsical play with the snowy peaks produced the most enchanting scene, as if the mountains were playing hid and seek.

         

In Full Trekking Gear

 

Our next stop, Lamuney, at a height of 13,700 feet, was really cold.  Although, I was comfortable inside the tent with four layers of warm clothes, getting out of the tent for attending to calls of nature was quite an ordeal.  On that evening, we experienced the first snow fall and the temperature plummeted to minus 4 degrees that night.  The view of Kanchenjunga from close quarters was one of the highlights here.  Although its peaks were mostly covered with clouds, we could catch occasional glimpses when the sun somehow managed to break through.

 

                                               

Candle light dinner every night

 

Next morning, some of our friends proceeded to Samiti Lake, at height of 14.500 feet, for a closer view of Kanchenjunga and capturing her reflection in the lake.  But I had no strength left, physical or mental, to trek further.  I congratulated myself for my supreme achievement: reaching as far as Lamuney, without incidents.  Mercifully, my tent-mate opted to forego the Samiti leg of the journey.  I am certain; this decision was made purely in my benefit, in order to keep me company. And, thus we embarked on our descent.

            

Canvas of Colours!

 

I was hoping that the descent would be easier than the climb.  But I could not have been more wrong!  For, the trekking route was rarely flat and the descent entailed considerable climbing. Wherever the incline was steep, our toes bore the brunt of the entire body weight, taking a heavy pounding against the inside of the boots, with each step.

Although the descent was equally tiring, the prospect of imminent completion of the trek and reaching the base made the exertion of the last two days bearable. The last night in the tent was spent at Sachen. The atmosphere at the campsite was jolly and we shared a fare-well meal with the crew, who made a cake for celebrating the birthday of my friend here.

 

Fortunately, weather was kind to us as it did not rain at all throughout the ten days of trekking. The scenery varied as we climbed up the Himalayas.  It started with dense forest with massive trees and as we attained height, the trees became shorter.  They were soon replaced by shrubs. Beyond Dzongri, there were no tall trees at all.  Fast flowing rivers with pristine clear water enhanced the scenery;  the music of gurgling water working like an anodyne on aching ankles and toes.

 

Beautiful Himalayan Brook

 

Snow peaked mountains remained constantly in our view from Kochurang onwards.  Of the lot, Pandim with her shining snow, was the most prominent.  Only 21,700 feet high, Pandim did not the height to boast of, but her dazzling white slopes provided greater visual delight than her taller neighbor,  Kanchenjunga, whose view was frequently obscured by cloud.

 

Ever-so-shy Kanchenjunga

 

Since my return, I have tried to take stock of the whole journey, reflecting on how worthwhile it was.  First thing first: the trek was physically grueling.  I just cannot think of a more apt adjective. But trekking is more just climbing mountains. Living in the lap of nature for ten days, without the customary interruptions of phone calls , emails or messages of daily life, was uplifting for the mind.  The serenity of jungles enhanced by its flora and fauna, and the tranquility of mountains unspoilt by human carelessness provided the perfect medium for soothing minds, worn out with worries.

 The second obvious ingredient of the trek was the scenic beauty of Himalayas.  It offered glorious views of lush green mountains, flowing rivers, snowcapped peaks, Sunrise on Kanchenjunga range and the rhododendron fields.  The spell they cast was magical; temporarily transporting us to an ethereal world of beauty and bliss.  The bonhomie and spirit of camaraderie, cozy tent life and candle light dinners, added to this mix, made this journey truly unforgettable.

 

 

Mountain playing hides and seeks

 

But a deeper psychological gain for me was what I learnt about myself.  It taught me the art of patience and virtue of perseverance.  I realised that I could climb thousands of feet only if I took my strides at the right pace.  I could achieve this seemingly impossible feat by simply adjusting my pace to match my physical attributes.  In the past I had given up climbing when I had got fatigued, erroneously concluding that I was not fit or strong enough to continue climbing. 

It brought home the realization that fatigue is as much a mental phenomenon as it is physical. The simple trick, my friend taught me, i.e., to look at the ground and to avoid looking up the slope, while climbing, worked wonders in dispelling despondency.  When I felt I was too exhausted to take one more step, my friend offered to sing and this filled me with renewed vigor.  Boosting the spirit can really invigorate flagging muscles.

I remember a close friend of mine, asking me why I was undertaking this hazardous task, which entailed hardship of sleeping in a tent on almost bare ground, spending nights in sub-zero temperatures, and going without a shower for ten days in a row.  Was it meant to be a test of endurance?  I had no time to think of this whilst I was in the thick of it.  Upon my return, I pondered over his question. It was more than a mere test of my physical prowess.  It was meant to test the limits to the extent physical endurance can be augmented with spirit of adventure. It was, in final analysis, a triumph of dedication over doubts, determination over demoralization, and of strength of spirit over physical frailty.

Looking back, this Himalayan journey was undoubtedly my highpoint of 2019, not least because I spent half of the year preparing for it. Initially, not many of my friends and family could share my enthusiasm.  Most were polite enough to express their surprise in a tone of caution over the dangers of trekking, including altitude sickness. One of my colleagues put it in his tongue-in cheek warning, “This trek will make you to return either super-fit or in a box”.   I am glad, none of these diminished my resolve nor detracted me from my mission.

These ten days gave me plenty of opportunity for introspection. My friend’s questions on the merits of such a journey kept coming back to me.  I wondered if the motivating force was a subconscious desire to capture my lost youth.  I find it hard to deny it.

 

I also reflected on my procrastination, which delayed this experience of “heaven-on-earth” for me by so many years.  What was holding me back?  It must be fear, I guess.  And, if so, fear of what? No doubt, it was fear of failure and the ensuing loss of face.  Then, it occurred to me that perhaps this fear was far darker and primal:  it was the fear of death.  Overcoming this was surely my most proud achievement in this trek.  As I have written earlier, “When I embrace death, I start living”.  For me, this insight represents its spiritual dimension. 

The challenges of this expedition were seemingly insurmountable and its successful execution was equally fulfilling.   The returns on my investment of time and effort were beyond my wildest dreams.  I was amply rewarded with an overwhelming sense of achievement and self-discovery. At the outset, I was filled with trepidation and throughout the journey remained apprehensive of its outcome.  But I was in for the surprise of my life!  I was afraid that it might put me off trekking forever. Instead, it has whetted my appetite for more.  I am glad to say, I am planning to return to Himalayas for my next trek in May 2020.

 

Acknowledgement:  I am grateful to my friends, Dr Bibhuti Pradhan (BP), and Dr Prasanna Mishra (PM), for organizing this trekking programme (BP), and  for their constant encouragement and guidance, without which this trip would not have been possible.  PM was my tent-mate, whose company and support was crucial to my completing this expedition. BP also made valuable suggestions for this write-up.

 

Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.

 

---

 

THE KNELL

Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

It was past midnight and most of Mumbai was fast asleep. Those whodidn’t sleep had either insomnia or had some work to be completed before Mumbai woke up again for yet another bustling day.

In the Lalbaug region, inside a huge shed made up of bamboo poles, tarpaulin and asbestos sheets, the work on the idols were going fervently. Ramnath the renowned artisan in Mumbai was chiselling out the final details on the elephant god Ganesh. It was usual for him to work even into the early morning hours as time as a dimension did not exist for him once he got immersed in his work. He found himself more at peace with his work after the workers left molding up the gross structure of the idols and then he in his own solace of spirituality and craftsmanship gave the finishing touches to every idol that was made in that shed. The huge quantity of work that kept on increasing as his business grew didn’t allow him to prepare each idol by his own hand as he used to do but still he made enough time to give perfection to each God as desired of that particular diety with his own hand which  would endear that God to the pious folks. It was this dedication that led to the accomplishment of his creativity which had made him and his products famous throughout the land. He had that rare ability in him to bring to life the clay or plaster on which he placed his finger and mind. He had sculpted the images of almost all the Gods in heaven and it was said that his sculptures of Gods and Goddesses were so full of life that it would appear to the believers that the Gods were indeed listening to their pangs with a pacifying smile.

                     His work was talked about not just in and around the region but in the heavens too. Ramnath had made the gods in heaven so much popular on earth through his work that the people became more religious through their own favourite dieties. They were no more stones but living images. So the gods considered it as their duty to blissfully and lavishly shower on him all the blessings which no other mortal man ever did or would receive. Love and respect from every corner, growing wealth and fame, health and peace lasting forever were only some of those blessings. Things were all well set in Ramnath’s life and it looked as though eternity too belonged to him on this earth with all the Gods on his side.

                           Well, it was believable until late that night when after a full night's work he decided to have some sleep in the wee hours of the morning. It was a peaceful sleep as there was nothing on this earth or in heaven to cause him any worry, for he was loved and cared for by the people around him and blessed and protected by the Gods above.

            Not quite. Wandering in his sleep, Ramnath saw a big black buffalo throttling towards him. It had two well curved horns and it was snorting. On it sat a dark well-built man with a big curled up moustache, the thick ends of which covered his sunken cheeks. A big metallic crown adorned his head and he was dressed in magnificientblack robe of silk. Before Ramnath could make out who he was or what it was all about, a braided rope sprang from the rider’s huge hand and it entwined Ramnath’s neck. The sculptor tried to pull himself free out of this trap but he couldn’t. He was dragged on by the dark man on the buffalo.

               It was with a scream that Ramnath woke up from his perturbed sleep. Beads of sweat trickled over his body and his tongue lay parched. He realised that he had had a lethal dream of death approaching him. For the rest of that period till the sun rose high up in the sky, Ramnath couldn’t sleep, for he feared that the moment he closed his eyes, Yama, the god of death would come for him again. Would the Gods who loved him so much leave him to be taken off by death? Ramnath sat there on his bed without any sleep, deliberating over certain questions that had now arisen along with this fatalistic dream.

                For that day this dream kept troubling Ramnath’s mind suchthat he began to lose all interest in his work. He sat huddled in acorner of his workshop, thinking about the impending death and what it might be like after that. Those who worked under him  noticed thisgloomy change and the gods above watched it too as the new images that came out of the workshop lacked that pious nature or lustre that was required of a diety which could only be conjured by this sculptor.

              Then a few nights later Ramnath had another dream and in that he saw Narada, the messenger of heaven, approaching him singing a plaintive note on the veena he always carried with him. As soon as Narada came before him, Ramnath bowed his head in respect.

             ‘What is that worries you so much, my dear sculptor?’ Narada asked. 'The gods in heaven have observed your neglect of work and they are worried. They have asked me to find out from you what it is that worries you so much.’

              The distressed artist was ready to explode with anxiety and he poured out all his anguish brought on by his dream.

              “Is there something the Gods cannot do?  Surely, there has to be something after all the good work I have done for them down here”, Ramnath deplored. For a while Narada kept quiet.

               Then calmly he said, “Son, you humans are mortal. For each and every person there is a definite period prescribed during which you have to do the work assigned to you on earth. Now in your case, you have done what you were sent for and now your time on earth must be up, that is the reason the God of death has shown you a vision as a way of asking you to prepare yourself for that long journey.’

               But Ramnath was not ready to accept this explanation so easily. It was his life and he had to save it.

                `Isn’t there any way for all those powerful Gods above to save me from this undesirable death?’

               Narada remained silent and so Ramnath kept on pestering him. Pestering which brought forth no answer, led to frustration and in his frustration Ramnath started accusing the Gods for not loving him back as he loved and worked for them. Narada still remained silent and was patient with the agonized man for the celestial one could understand a mortal man’s anxiety and struggle to keep on living when death had issued its sentence.

“Each God loves you and that is the only reason why you have been blessed in your work like no other human has been”, Narada said gracefully, breaking his silence. “But to you I will explain how the things work in heaven since you are a good devotee. In heaven we have different departments, each looked after by a god. Thus we have the god of knowledge and wealth, the god of health, the god of love, the god of fire, the god of thunder, the god of war and thousands more like that, all governing each aspect of this big universe and every aspiration of those on earth. And it so happens that Lord Yama is concerned with the department of death. He alone can decide on any affair concerning death and fate of each individual. In our heaven no god can interfere in another’s work, for that is the rule stipulated by the great Brahma, who is respected by all. So, now you are at the mercy of Lord Yama and him alone.

               Narada took great pains in explaining to Ramnath that there is death for every living thing and it is an essentiality of this entire system. But whatever he said fell on unreceiving ears. Ramnath couldn't be convinced of this fact because he believed that Gods could do anything and he kept on insisting that Narada find a solution for him. All this nagging irritated Narada but the heavenly being kept his composure. Narada, known for his wily nature, finally proposed a solution, mainly because he wanted to get out of this fix.

“Well then, there is a way. But you will have to manage it yourself’.

“What? What is it?’ Ramnath asked anxiously as some of the blood came back onto his pale face.

“You have made life like images of all the gods in heaven which have pleased them so much and in return they have blessed you in many ways. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes”, Ramnath listened keenly.

“So then, why don’t you do the same thing for God Yama too?” The sculptor sat pensively and Narada continued to explain the sly plot.

“Sculpt out a beautiful piece of his and present it to him when he comes for you. The image you created might please him and if that is the case, pounce on the chance and plead with him to give you your life back so you can do many more such works for him. He might probably let you go free”.

              The sculptor was pleased with the idea and he was already creating a blue print of the God with a thick moustache, the god and his masculine animal vehicle. When he turned aside to thank Narada, the celestial being was already on his way, singing another plaintive solo praising the Almighty creator.

             So right from that moment Ramnath started his work on Yama, the God who was concerned with the aspects of death. He never paused for a moment and fatigue was a stranger to him. All that mattered to him was to evolve Yama himself out of the earthly materials. Very soon, he had a very beautiful sculpted image of Yama in his workshop. The work was so impressive and elegant that Ramnath himself declared that this was his best work ever. He was sure that this sculpted image would please the hard-to-please God of death. All he had to do now was to present this larger than life size image to the God on the buffalo when he came for him.

             That night when the work on the image of Yama was over to his full satisfaction, Ramnath slept a little earlier which was unusual for him. His body was tired after the heavy work and he was little weary in his mind too. But he was more hopeful and confident now since he had an opportunity to regain his life. He reached a state of unconsciousness when he saw that big man with the big moustache of his earlier dream come riding up to him on his buffalo with a rope in his hand. The scene in which Ramnath found himself was that of Yama waiting in front of him with an ugly intent.

“Ramnath!” Yama’s voice crackled. “Renowned sculptor, your time on earth is over. Come with me”.

                 The invitation to yonder land was expected and Ramnath was quite ready with his plan. “Wait, O great God of death”, Ramnath implored. “Before you take me I want to give you a gift.”

“A gift? For me?’ Yama laughed out loud and his buffalo snorted.

“Yes, dear God,’ Ramnath said as he guided the great God Yama, the God who maintained death for every birth to level life in its proportion, into his workshop where the marvellous sculptured figure stood. For an instant Yama was taken aback on seeing his very own image, so life like. He was so bewildered and surprised that he alighted from his vehicle to admire it for some more time up and close. So much pleased was Yama with the work of the sculptor that for once the hard to please god smiled pleasantly. This was the moment which Narada had predicted, which Ramnath was waiting for.

                   He lost no time in seizing the opportunity. Slowly, meekly, he asked Yama pleadingly as the God stood admiring his own replica: “Great God, one who governs death, will you please give me some more time on this earth so I can do some more work?”

                 Yama might have heard him but he stood there as if he hadn’t heard anything. So, the sculptor repeated his request in a despondent voice.

“Respected one, if you will allow me some more time on earth, I can make some more fine sculptures of your’s like this one’.

               Yama turned his head towards the creator of Gods and smiled broadly. Then in his turbulent voice he said: `Son, while you had the time you made images of all the gods, except me. But now that you have made one, a fine one, I am very pleased with it. If, as you said, you have the desire to sculpt more such images of me then why not come with me? The people on this earth are hesitant to die and have an aversion for me because I am the god of death. So, my image will not be accepted here on earth. So come with me to where I live, and where your work will be accepted and rewarded.”

             Ramnath tried in vain to interrupt the God with some incoherent words but Yama continued: “Moreover, I am building a new palace and I would be very pleased to have a great artist like you to guide the artisans there. Besides, why do you want to live in this materialistic world when eternity is right before you?”

            Ramnath gradually realised that the game was over and before he could say anything more he felt himself becoming buoyant, being detached from the rope of gravity that had secured him to the earth from the day he was born. He could see a living man being dragged off from the living world to the world of dead by the God of death. He wanted to save that man from his plight but he was helpless.

            The next morning some of the temple committee members who came to visit Ramnath, to assign him a new work on Lord Vishnu’s incarnations, found him in eternal sleep. Right over him stood a masterpiece, the finest idol Ramnath had ever carved out, which enthralled and captured the visitors' hearts.

 

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.

  

---

 

WHALE OF A BEACHING

Ishwar Pati

                The vast blue ocean spread on all sides. Playing under the belly of his vigilant mother, Flabber the baby whale moved effortlessly through the waters. He loved his mother’s milk and suckled her whenever he felt hungry. There were many types of fish, big and small, swimming under the ocean. But he was not afraid as long as his mother was close by. He had the company of other baby whales in their pod, clicking away in whale code.

                Suddenly their way was blocked. Flabber saw they were close to a beach. The whales, unable to swim in shallow waters, were flapping their fins in desperation. “Mother, mother, why did we come here?” Flabber asked in a high-pitched whistle. Was something wrong? He flopped and flipped under his mother in panic. Unlike the bigger whales, Flabber was not stranded. He was small and also weighed less. But what about his mother?

                “I don’t know, son, how it happened,” his mother puffed out in short breaths. “May be the leader of our pod drove us in a wrong direction, or human signals upset our sonar system to land us on a beach. If we don’t get out into deep waters soon, we are doomed.”

                The whales were tiring fast, trying to breathe in the shallow waters. They would die painfully, one by one, unless a miracle happened. And a miracle did happen. A horde of men and women on the beach, both locals and tourists, ran into the ocean and pushed the whales into deeper waters. Flabber clicked in glee, “We are saved!” But Flabber’s mother shrank away from the humans in fright. “What’s wrong, mother?” Flabber asked.

                “These are evil beings. They hunt and kill us with their spears.” She had seen many of her fellow whales harpooned and butchered by men. Men were not to be trusted. But she was exhausted, marooned on a strange beach, and in no position to resist the men as they surrounded her and tied her up with ropes. She could almost feel being taken away from Flabber and the men’s knives cutting her huge body into pieces. Flabber...what would happen to her little baby?

                But she saw no sign of glinting steel blades. Instead, the men pulled and pushed her bulk with their bare hands, urging her to move deeper into the sea. There were cheers all around when Flabber’s mother regained her strength and swam away from the beach, with Flabber playing closely by her side. She had seen human beings as ruthless killers; now she found them as saviours. What a strange and complex breed was man!

                Flabber let out a high-pitched whistle, his way of saying ‘Thank you!’

 

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.

 

---

 

TRAVELLERS (BATOI)

Arupananda Panigrahi

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

 

I feel like having

a word with father.

Even I am not sure,

what should we talk about?

 

Daily we come

almost face to face

with each other,

pass each other silently;

 

he looks at me

and I at him, but

nothing comes to mind,

or a word on lips.

 

When I come before him,

my mouth goes dry,

the tongue loses its way,

and spit chokes in throat.

 

Perhaps, father knows me

better, his shy son; his eyes

brimming with affection hover

over me even when I am asleep.

 

Father is approaching here,

may I try a word with him now?

None seems to be around

to make me feel shy, tongue-tied.

 

Perhaps we, the solitary travelers

of our separate worlds;

Shouldn’t I begin to walk across

that cold bridge separating us?

 

In search of that inviolable bridge:

to join our worlds of hesitation,

inhibition, inward struggles, we have

walked long tiring parallel distances.

 

The bridge yet awaits our footfall,

its edges, with florally decorated

for our welcome, have gathered dust

from our feet, tired over unending walk.

 

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)

 

---

 

TO WAIT

Sharanya Bee

 

And now we wait

Because anticipation is what we do best

We wait

To see dull faces returning back, exhausted

And some thrilled passengers to be lost in it forever -

For the better or for worse..?

Expecting one familiar face on his way back with a content smile

 

Every path looks the same now, unidentifiable

For how many miles will this resemblance last,

Lost in the labyrinth of judgements,

Where the quest for guidance only takes one to arms pointed at all directions

 -North, South, East and West

Where there is no 'Road not taken' or path less travelled

It is a stampede on every route.

A rush of people forwards and backwards - eager, disappointed

And now my companions have also picked their way and parted

I gladly bid them farewell.

But before I make my call, I wait.

I wait for the one who left

To listen to his tale of adventure along the road once-less travelled.

 

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.

 

---

 

THE UNIMAGINABLE

Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra

Sudha tried to listen, stretching her ears, stretching her upper body into the small crevice onthe temple wall.
“Oh, yes! An infant is crying inside the temple!”
She looked at the sky. The simmering reddish beams of the sun had just coloured the cheeks of dawn. It could be around 4 a.m. or 4.30 a.m. A thin silken shawl of darkness still covered the temple surroundings crammed with dense frangipani trees. Still one hour for the temple priest to arrive! She was there so early to take a bath in the holy water reservoir known as Marichi Kunda. The day was the auspicious day of Ashokastami followed by another auspicious day Ram Navami. It’s believed that taking a bath in the Marichi Kunda inside this temple could change the fortune of barren women. If they get a nut from the depth of the reservoir, they can be blessed with a child!
Sudha was standing beside the Mukteswar temple, The temple is one of the famous temples of Bhubaneswar, the temple city of Odisha. The Mukteswar temple is a 10th century Hindu temple dedicated to the highly venerated Hindu Lord Shiva, one of the three Gods who form the Trinity: Brahma, Vishnu and Maheswar. She knows that this temple is one among the most artistic sculptural wonders of India. The archaeologists and painters speak on and on about the sculpture of the temple, which she hardly understands. She knows that the visitors generally appreciate the external walls of the temple which carry carved statues of ascetics and saints in meditational poses.
But what always baffled Sudha are the statues of some lady figurines wearing a lot of ornaments all around their toes, ankles, knees, waist, neck, ears, nose and head. She wondered “Who are they? Why are they here in a Shiva temple?” A beautiful lady stood in dancing pose surrounded by apsaras carved in stone on elaborately decorated arch. She could be Menaka or Rambha, one of the graceful dancers of Indra’s court. She had no interest in art or sculpture at that time. Her mind was besotted with the pathetic but feeble cry of the infant inside the temple. She looked for help but saw none. Her eyes noticed the figure of some deities kept in the alcoves of the outer face of the compound wall, stone statues of Ganesh, Saraswati and Laxmi, the gods of success, wisdom and opulence according to Hindu faith. She reverentially bowed at them chanting the mantra “Om Namo Shivay!” in her mind and prayed,
“Oh Lord Shiva! Oh Gods and Goddesses!!! Please help me rescue this child!”
Sudha had lost her only child, a daughter, in her childhood. Since then she had been trying for another child, but destiny did not favour her. So she had taken the advice of her family priest, Basudev Mishra seriously and come to the temple to take a holy dip in the Marichi Kunda of this temple. But destiny seems to have other designs for her! Can she get this child live and take it with her without anybody’s knowledge? Will Lord Shiva be gracious enough to bless her?  
A gulp of emotion choked her heart which was thumping like a rail engine. She went closer to the gate but the gate was closed! The big and strong lock hanging on the door bolt smashed her desire to rush inside the temple and gather the abandoned child in her lap.
Not before she could decide what to do Sudha heard the footsteps of an elderly woman who was coming towards her with a broom in her hand. She must be the sweeper, thought Sudha. The woman was wearing a simple, crumpled cotton saree, covering her head with the pallu . Sudha asked her “Who are you?” The woman boldly answered, “Sharada. I work here as the sweeper.”
Sudha tried to judge the woman from her bearings. Her broad brown face had remarkable features, big black eyes, soft full rosy lips, round cheeks and a chin with a big black mole. She looked beautiful like a movie star playing the role of a dalit woman. Sudha felt that this woman must have been the victim of the lust of many men including Brahmins and pundits. She wanted to have a conversation with Sharada and know more about her. But there was no time for conversation. The infant inside was crying pathetically pleading for help. Sudha thought perhaps God has sent this woman to help her. So she went close to the woman and asked her to try to listen attentively.
“Do you hear anything?” Sudha asked anxiously.
Sharada appeared a little unwilling to answer her queries. Then she heard the voice of the crying child!
“Lo!” She exclaimed, “One more!”
Sudha was shocked. “What do you mean? One more?”
Sharada said nonchalantly, “What else? A girl child! Abandoned! In the darkness of night! Somebody must have kept the child stealthily before Punditji closed the gate! Do you know how many girl infants I have rescued from this temple precinct?”
“How many?”
“Twenty two! In these six years! Why is God sending these girls to this wretched earth, He alone knows! But time is so bad, no one wants to rear a girl child! They throw away girls like they are pests or garbage!”
Sudha was not surprised by Sharada’s account. She was well aware of this aversion to girl child among the higher caste people in her society. They hate girls because they cannot pay the heavy dowry demanded by the groom’s side during a girl’s marriage. So she will either remain a spinster - a sinister burden on the parents or else she would be killed or burnt to death after being tortured for not bringing enough dowries. The higher caste Brahmins are mostly poor priests or farmers. They consider the girl child as a curse. But the people of lower caste do not have much of stigma related to girl children, because they don’t have to offer dowry. On the other hand the groom’s side purchases the bride after giving a bride price. So this child thrown here must belong to some poor upper caste family.
Sudha decided to take the help of Sharada for rescuing the child. She asked her,
“Do you know how to enter the temple? The door is locked!”
Sharada said, “Aha! Yes, I know that there is a door with a broken hinge in the backside.  But I cannot enter. I am a dalit, untouchable. I have no right to enter the temple. I am only allowed to sweep the outskirts and steps. But you can!”
Sudha coaxed her, “Forget your caste! Please help me enter the temple and rescue the baby!”
Sharada briskly but silently walked around the temple towards the backside. Sudha followed her nervously. As they reached the back door Sharada kicked the wooden door hanging precariously on loose, junky hinges .The door opened with a loud sound. Sudha rushed inside following the sound of the baby’s cry. She gathered the feeble, trembling infant in her arms, hugged the bundle tightly to her chest and bowed to God. She forgot about her bath and rushed outside. She thanked Sharada copiously and politely asked her where she stayed.
Sharada told Sudha that she had been working as a sweeper there for the last six years and was staying in a nearby slum. She had adopted five of the twenty two girls thrown away. She had also given away the others to childless women craving for babies. The priest of the temple is a kind man who has helped her rescue the girls and given her the right to see them given away to needy parents before the government officers interfere.
Before entering her car with the infant in her arms Sudha looked at the temple gratefully. The temple now looked entirely different to her than when she had entered. It appeared to her as a magical, mystical structure. True, the temple is not as high or large as the Jagannath temple of Puri, it certainly is much more beautiful architecturally than the Jagannath temple. It is the gem of Odishan architecture. A ray of golden light of dawn fell on the torana or the famous arch of the temple on its outer wall, Sudha humbly looked at the imposing arch decorated with subtly designed, exquisitely carved figurines. Even the diamond shaped latticed windows, and the images of monkeys in playful poses looked breathtakingly beautiful to her. She had come to this temple so many times but had never seen the imposing images of monkeys in playful poses or the exquisite figurine of Lakulisha, famous Buddhist monk, the founder of the Pashupat sect of the Shivaites practicing tantrism. She had just ignored the architectural grandeur even when her husband Prabodh tried to draw her attention to those statues of lion heads with open jaws, which appeared mystical in their symbolism to her today. What do these figures symbolize? Sudha felt so overwhelmed by the events of the morning that her head spontaneously bowed down at the supreme ruler of this world. She no more wanted to take a bath in the holy Marichi Kunda. 
This child must be Lord Shiva’s answer to her fervent prayers!
Sharada stood close to her car observing her puzzled expression. She tried to draw her attention by making sounds of coughing. When Sudha looked at her she said,
“Don’t worry, madam. All children are God’s creation. What if she is a girl, she will outshine many sons! Take her as your own!”
Sudha was taken aback by Sharada’s bold, free statement and her courage.
“How much superior is this dalit woman’s thought to hers!” 
“Who is she? A sweeper? No, she is an angel!” 
Sudha thought to herself and felt ashamed that like so many illiterate women she had come to this temple to take a bath in the Maricha kunda hoping to bear a child!
“I have learnt my lesson, madam. I would not give away a girl child to anyone who can’t love or protect them. So many are cowards!”
Sharada started talking about the village sarapanch’s wife, whom she had given an abandoned girl child for adoption. But she did not love her as her own children. When her husband paid money to goons  to kill the girl, she could do nothing. The baby was killed before she was one year old! She could do nothing even to protect her own 16 years old daughter who eloped with a dalit boy, when the cruel father sent the boy to jail and forcefully married his daughter to a pimp! What an imbecile, she must be!
Sudha wanted to leave the temple before the arrival of the priest or other devotees. But Sharada would not stop her lecture about girl children.
She went on to praise Suli, wife of Dhadu, the village washer man. She has such a cherubic smiling face, a sing-song voice, but she had no offspring! Sharada had given her a disabled girl child , who was reared with so much care that she has grown up to be a very beautiful young lady. She is even attending college!
Sudha pleaded, “Let me go! It’s getting late. Be sure I will take care of the child as my own. God has taken away my own but returned her to me again in this baby!”
As Sharada returned to the temple premises, she saw the shadow of a woman, her dupatta covering her entire face besides the eyes. She was hiding in the dark, lurking from inside the grove of champak trees watching them talk. Sharada went closer to the hiding woman.
‘Who are you? Come out! Why are you hiding?”
The woman came forward and fell at the feet of Sharada. She cried, “Ma, Please save my daughter! They will kill her!”
Sharada ripped open the dupatta from her face. She was aghast to see her own eldest daughter Surama. Surama had been married to a rich businessman, a widower with three daughters. He had married Surama not because of her beauty, but because the astrologer promised that her horoscope forecast that she would give birth to a son. But Surama delivered only girls. This is her third daughter, so she has no chance of living beyond fifteen days!
“Oh my God! You, my baby!”
She muttered when she gathered Surama in her arms. 
At the moment the Pundit entered the temple complex with a big cane basket of flowers in the left hand and a brass bucket in the right hand. Sarada dragged Surama into the dark to avoid being seen. Surama was crying inconsolably.
“My child! My baby! My daughter! Where is she?”
“Don’t worry. God has sent her to a real home. Come on, leave before anyone spots you here.”
Sharada felt a sudden outbreak of her asthmatic feat, and coughing severely, was about to fall to the ground, when Surama picked her up in both her hands!  

 

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

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

 

---

 

THE MUSIC  (SANGEET)

Kabiratna Manorama Mohapatra

Translated by Sumitra Mishra

 

Oh! What divine pleasure

Do I enjoy

Sailing in the sea of Music

Disengaged –yet merged in the love of rhyme.

 

Immersed in the waves

Of dulcet divine music

Spurring incomprehensible sentiments 

Friendless, I feel like

 I’m in the company of a friend forever.

 

When plunged deep in the streams

Of thy harp, thy lyre

I feel like

The dulcet music removes

All the hidden darkness

 From the deepest crevices of my heart

And day by day increases

My craving for this musical elixir.

 

Nonparallel is the melody of the Music

Timeless, perpetual.

 

The exhilarating vibration of the Music

Inundates my soul in pious, jubilant emotions

And creates new expectations.

 

When the dulcet tune of the Music

 Streams in my ears

I hear the voice of the Supreme

Like a notice from Time

And feel

A confluence of spiritual passion and devotion.

 

O’ Lord, make me thy lyre

Let me drench in the ripples of the sacred Music

You are the musician, the conductor

I am your bard, your lyre

Lend me the oar of Music, Lord

 I will row the boat of my life

Immersed in that musical melody.

 

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.

 

---

 

WHERE THE SUN GOES UP...

Dr. Molly Joseph M

 

with the sun

         on your face

the wind

           chiming in

a thousand

            whispers

I meet you

           at the threshold...

 

paddling

            through life

its stressful

                waves,

beating

            the  heat

of unbearable

                    angst

with the

         quiet rebellion

of many a

            scorching

summer,

 

I meet you

          at the threshold...

 

behind us

            spread

the yawning

                  void

of beaten

                paths

cobwebbed

             corners..

 

onward

         we traverse

chiselling

            our ways

smelling

          the earth

that 

       stretches

anew...

 

blessed

         our births

destined

           to meet

on  radiant

               shores

where

        the sun

goes up,

              when

the moon

              is low..

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).

 

---

 

REFLECTING

Hema Ravi

 

Flame colored birds in picture postcards

came to life in colonies in the Flamingo yards.

one leg tucked, the other stilt like leg in the water

walking, at times running steady, no totter.

the S shaped head held high

the pink-crimson plumage- Oh my!

 

Their screams pierce the silence

Yet, welcomed without defiance

iridescent coloration and large train

I’d love to see them dance in the rain.

Hovering around in parties

the peahens woo the ‘Smarties’!

The beautiful pea fowls strut fearlessly

in the tropical and subtropical diversity

The Golden Eagle, the Hawk and owls in aviary

the panther and bear in the sanctuary

As the tram moves on unhurriedly

Mask peels off, Man lets go humbly…

 

(First published in Setu magazine)

Photo Courtesy: Ravi N

Flamingo Gardens, Florida

 

 Photo Courtesy: N. Ravi

Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English.  Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses.  Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era,  and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners.  She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada).  She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of  Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’  Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are  broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.

 

Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc.  Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby.  He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography.
He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.

 

---

 

FRIENDSHIP

Sheena Rath

 

Cherished moments spent together

Under the rustic weather

Laughter we shared unfettered

Like tiny marbles scattered.

 

Chatting over masala tea

You, me and the rotund she

Pouring out our mundane stories

In all it's fullest and truest glories.

 

Distances don't matter

Our thoughts wouldn't shatter

Shall remain close at heart

Despite the burdens we cart.

 

Friends are like birds, they never let you down

Always chirping and fluttering around

 

Our friendship is like a devotion

Full of countless emotions

To share life's joys and pains

That no one can ever explain

 

Friendship :: Life's greatest treasures

Valued beyond measure

Enjoying at ones leisure

Devoid of any pressure

 

They lend you their shoulder

Your expressions get bolder

 

How strong is your friendship?

Or does it have a frequent twist?

Slipping out of your grip

Through thin and thick.

 

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).

 

---

 

PONGAL PAATTU

Kamar Sultana Sheik

May the sparrows attain

Lasting marital bliss,

May there be bounty in the harvest of fruit and grain,

Let the cows be healthy and fertile,

In milk and ghee may we gain..

May the bananas be sweeter this year,

And also the sugarcane..

For here comes calling,

Thai,  the month of bounty, again!

Multiplied many-fold is this bounty,

In sacred festivity..

For it is my beloved ?nd?l's ?tmavivaham..

May the hotel make lips redder,

May the bamboo make flutes sweeter,

As the world discards its old,

May the Uttarayanam Sun, grow gold,

Shining on the half-fish of Makara, this auspicious morn..

May the turmeric always adorn,

The foreheads of the womenfolk..

May the vengalam shine as bright as the celestial gold,

Of the swollen prosperous moon of Thai pournami..

May the six pointed star of Poosam,

May the  fire of chaste penance

Like him, of the peacock-mount,

All curses of past karma surmount..

May the twelve inner weapons shine,

May the six war houses grant us victory..

May the kites fly high on this day of Sankranti..

May the fairs of Earth be filled with gaiety..

May the overflowing  pot of milk and rice, taste  every bit

Sweeter than the jaggery mixed in it,

May the scent of raw camphor pervade the senses,

Closing the eyes in thankful bliss,

As the taste of sweetness lingers,

It's stickiness delicious on my fingers..

Amidst the village-womens' Pongalo pongal,chants

I feed the sugar to the ants,

"Surya Mangalam", I say to our Sun,

Thank ypu, our source of life, the only one !

 

Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in

 

---

 

OVER THE YEARS

Narayanan Ramakrishnan

It was around 6.30 in the evening. A cool breeze blowing due to rain in the outskirts of the city, made Gopal's journey back to home from office more stimulating. He stopped for some quick shopping at the margin free market. When he was coming out, he caught a glimpse of a man in his late sixties, zipping past on his two-wheeler. He was riding a Honda Activa, the front loaded with fruits and vegetables. Though the man’s face was masked by a helmet, Gopal could make out that he was none other than a city based hotelier who ran two hotels; his friend, philosopher and guide, Mr. Joseph.

One day, a mutual friend remarked, “Gopal, do you know, he is well past 70. He begins his day at 6’0 clock and returns home by 11 in the night. While many of his counter-parts would simply sit, enjoy and would issue orders sitting inside our cabins, this man takes care of each and everything and is very particular that every client knows him by name. If there is one man who toils that hard in the city, at his age, it would only be him.”

That was a true assessment. Gopal had seen him at close quarters. Junior to him by more than decade, he got to know Joseph when he was engaged in the tea business, catering to hotels. Joseph was one who took a personal interest in his business and also gave support to develop it further. His approach was the same to all who dealt with him. Some called him

‘Achayan’, others ‘Josi ettan’’; but Gopal addressed him as ‘Sir’, as his way of approach and manners were totally different from those of any other hotelier he had come across in the course of his business.

His motto was simple. Maintain value and quality, cultivate relationships, cherish and nourish them. Business would automatically grow. The more you stay in touch with clients, the more they would bring in added business. He had seen Joseph take orders,wait at tables, clean them and even wash vessels. Only a bee could have been busier.

He was a sweet task master. While he cared for his employees as well as for their family’s welfare, he disliked seeing ‘doing nothing spells’ among them. Gopal was witness to an incident. One of his staff was idling and lost in thought. Noticing that, Jospeh called him. In a typically Kuttanadan Malayalam slang, he asked “enthaa da, pani onnumille”, (Why man, you are sitting idle!). His staff, too, in typical Kerala style jerked his shoulders indicated his freedom. “Da, veruthe anguirikathe.

oru table-l keri aa fan okke thudachukude. Oru karyam cheyyu, Molil irrikunna aa thattum, cuppum succers ellam thazheirrakki,nanniiyittu thudauchu moli kettu, Pani avasyam pole undu. Noki noki cheyyanam.” (Don’t sit idle! Don’t be like that! Can’t you step on that table and dust the fans?). Immediately the boy got ready to step on to a table to dust the fans.  “No no, not now.  Customers may come in and it will be awkward with dust all round.  Do that tomorrow morning. Now, take all those porcelain plates, cups and saucers kept in the cupboard wash them, dry them and put them back, safely. If you do not have work look for it, you will find far too much. Clean the fans tomorrow morning”.

 So the boy had his hands full for the moment and for the next morning.

Gopal recalled that day when he called on Joseph one evening.  Joseph was a bit surprised to see him on that day, as he usually visited him only on weekends.

“How come you are here today?.  Today is neither Saturday nor Sunday”.

“I have to come, no other alternative, Sir”. 

He seemed to have read him right.  “Tell me, what is your problem?”

“I need Rs.3,000/- to  meet an unforeseen expense”.

He explained the rest. Gopal always  set a  limit, beyond which he would not ask. Joseph immediately gave the sum without any counter questions.

He was aware that if Gopal was asking for help, it would only be for genuine reasons and that he would return the sum without being

reminded. Indeed, Gopal was not the lone beneficiary of such munificence from him.

Over the years, Gopal after experimenting with various businesses had zeroed in on the tea business that brought him his friendship with Joseph.

That too could not be sustained. He then joined a brokerage company. But he maintained his good relationship with Joseph.

Then he did a bit of financial engineering. He decided to rent out his big house that could accommodate about 40 people, to a textile giant to accommodate their staff and moved to a smaller home, where by, he could service his home loan as well as other liabilities and move out of debt in a

few years time. Gopal called Jospeh and informed him of his decision. He had not fixed the alternative accommodation.  Gopal soon moved to a new dwelling. His employer too shifted him from the branch to the Insurance department.  So, he had to surrender the mobile his company had given him at the branch.

Joseph tried to contact Gopal on his mobile but did not succeed.

He was anxious to know where he had shifted and one morning he visited Gopal’s earlier residence, inquired there and landed at Gopal’s house.He was in a state of indignation.

“What are you up to, Gopal? Why you did not call and inform me? I was roaming like a lunatic to locate you”.

Gopal clarified everything and soon normalcy was restored.  As it was Diwali time; Gopal’s wife  packed a box of sweets for Joseph’s family.  She was unaware of Gopal’s financial dealings with Joseph.

“Gopal, come in the evening to my hotel, I have a spare mobile, you can use it for the time being and keep in touch,” Joseph said.

Jospeh, who was on his way to market for his business purposes, had interrupted that to meet Gopal. He was soon in his element, cracking racy jokes. “Gopal, I am very late now, I have to leave”. Gopal accompanied him to the end of the compound which was about 70 meters away.

Suddenly Joseph asked Gopal a question, that sent a chill down his spine. 

“I found it extremely difficult to locate you.  You could have informed me somehow.  Ok, forget it.  Tell me, how much do you owe me?”

Totally caught off-guard, Gopal was speechless.

"Gopal, tell me”, Jospeh persisted.

Gopal stuttered, “Six months ago …….I received………..Rs.3000/-…… from you.  I wanted to return it to

you…….. before you asked.  But…..”

“Stop”, Joseph said, taking out his wallet from his hip pocket. “I know how much you owe me. What you can do is - repay me Rs.10000 - when it is okay for you. Take this additional 7,000.

You have just shifted and would have incurred a lot of expenses.”

Then, he sped away on his bike.

Tears filled Gopal’s eyes.

 

 

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.

 

---

LUNA'S LUNACY
Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak

 

The full moon of January,
Just rising over the horizon,
Not yet  fully bright,
What a beauty !!

Luna arrived in the scene,
With its howl,
“They do howl in the direction of the Moon;
pointing their faces
toward the sky for better acoustics,
because projecting their howl upward
carries the sound farther.”

The beauty,
named “wolf moon”!
Whether wolf or cold,
Snow or Ice,
The moonlight,
is emanated only from moon,
not from stars,
Like love only for one,
not for thousands.

“The sun loved the moon so much..
That she died every night..
Just to let him breathe...”
And ever remains loyal .

Our moods and vibes
Like moon and tides,
Danced to the tune
of each other’s drives.

“Everyone is a moon,
and has a dark side
which he never shows
to anybody.”

Whatever,is the size of the moon
whatever is the color,
whatever is the phase,
Very strong are its vibes,
For instant infatuation !!

 

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

 

---

 

OVATION
Kabyatara Kar

 

A lady on wheelchair, paraplegic,
Rolled towards the podium
The grace, her attitude embellished, 
her beauty.

Her lips could speak a saga of her pain.
Expressive eyes beheld it all, in vain.

As she rolled the wheels towards the dais,
Each and every soul out there was in tears.
Their disabled fairy was about to be applauded. 

A lady of such magnanimous volume,
Disabled yet powerful at grit.
Who dedicated her soul to pacify and lighten paths of so many special kids.

As the beam of light showered on her
The hall was filled with enthusiasm and heartfelt wishes.
Some hanging onto their crutches, dysfunctional limbs
Joined their hands to thank her in every special way
To applaud her for her selfless contribution in their lives.
So intensified was the 'Ovation', every one felt blessed.

 

 

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

 

---

 

RAGE
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

 

The beating was relentless. The blows were heavy, the kicks heavier. Vikas rolled on the ground, writhing, and praying to God to end his agony.
Yet, ten minutes back things had been normal, as normal as a busy Thursday afternoon, buzzing with activities everywhere, would allow. Vikas Aurora had parked his Fortuner hurriedly, just to run to the flower shop at the corner of Khan Market and get a bunch of red roses to present to his wife on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. He was also to take her out for lunch. In a hurry he forgot to notice that he had parked too close to the Alto and the driver's door of the smaller car could not be opened. 
It took him just five minutes to buy the flowers and rush back to the car. An enraged Pawan was waiting for him, cursing loudly and curling, uncurling his fist. The moment Vikas neared his Fortuner, the bunch of roses in his hand, Pawan cursed him,
"Oye, saaley, tera baapka parking lot hey kya?" (Hey, you bloody idiot, is this your father's parking lot?)
Vikas was shocked by the palpable anger and the vile language. He smiled,
"Chhod naa yaar, gussa mat kar, mey apni gaadi nikaal leta hoon" (Leave it my friend, don't get angry, I am taking my car out).
Pawan Behl was not pacified, at twenty five years of age he was much younger, and prone to insane rage,
"Badi gaadi hey, to jyada charbi chadh gayi hey terepey? Abhi nikaltahoon teri charbi." (Because you have a big car, you think you can behave so arrogantly? I will take out your arrogance now.)
Vikas was apologetic,
"Arrey galti ho gayi bhai, chhod na, thoda jaldi mey hoon" (Sorry my brother, just a small mistake. Leave it, let me go, I am in a hurry.)
And he got into his Fortuner and reversed the vehicle. Now there was enough space for Pawan to get into his Alto and leave, but his anger had not abated, a demonic fire was raging within him, perhaps fuelled by the well dressed Vikas, the big car and the roses in hand. The rich bastard! Wants to get away with a smile and a sorry! He jerked the door open and dragged Vikas out,
"Saaley, tu jaldi mey hey, aur mey kya ghass kaatney jaa rahaa hoon? Wo bees foot duripey main road mein traffic jam dekh raha hai, paanch minute pehley kuchh nehin tha wahan. Teri bajahse mey usmey phasoonga. Terey ko do mukkah maroon to akal ayegi, saaley." (You bloody idiot, only you are in a hurry, and you think I am going some where to cut grass? Do you see the traffic jam twenty feet away on the main road? There was nothing there five minutes back, because of you I will now get stuck in that jam. Let me give you two solid blows, you idiot, then only will you learn your lesson.)
And before Vikas could reply, Pawan hit him on the face and the chest. Vikas got angry at this sudden attack and slapped Pawan back. And with that slap Pawan lost control of himself. A maniacal anger seized him. This was not the first time he was hitting some one. This kind of rage was recurrent with him. With his next blow Vikas fell to the ground and the kicks started raining on him with relentless severity. The only saving grace was the sneakers worn by Pawan were soft and did not break any of his bones, but the pain from the kicks was excruciating.
By that time a crowd of about twenty onlookers had gathered, but none had the guts to intervene and stop the beating. Finally one of them shouted,
"Oye, jaan sey maar dalogey kya? Ab toh chhod dey" (Hey, you want to kill him or what? Stop now, let him go.)
Pawan bared his teeth in virulent anger and came rushing to the man, gave him a blow and rushed back to kicking the guts out of the hapless Vikas. The crowd started dispersing, only a few remained to see the end of the maniacal show.
Twenty feet away a school bus had stopped, caught in the traffic jam. The girls were looking out and watching the beating of the hapless man. The cleaner had got down from the bus and was trying to assess how much time it would take for the traffic jam to clear.
Suddenly one of the girls got down from the bus and started running towards the parking lot. All of eight years, she started screaming at the top of her voice,
"Papa, Papa, please don't beat my Papa."
She tried to pull Pawan away from Vikas, but he just jerked himself free. The girl jumped on the writhing Vikas and tried to cover him with her frail body, shouting,
"Please don't beat my Papa, please let him go."
Pawan's next kick landed on her and she screamed "Mummy, mar gayi!" (Mummy, I am going to die!)
A couple of the onlookers became active, one of them quite burly, and pulled Pawan away from there,
"Bachi ko kyun maartaa hai? Uska kya kasoor?" (Why do you kick the child, what crime has she done?)
Pawan wanted to continue the beating, but he was forced into his car. He opened the window, spat at Vikas and drove away.
Vikas was in tears, so was the girl. He got up, pain shooting through his body, and gathered the girl to him. He held her in a tight hug and said,
"Thank you for saving my life. Where do you live Beti? Can I drop you at your place? You seem to be hurt from the kick."
She smiled, "No uncle, I am fine. I will go back to my school bus. See, it is standing there" and she pointed at the bus. Girls had got down from the bus and were cheering her.
"Where do you live? What is your name". Vikas asked her.
The little girl had started walking towards her bus, she looked back and said, "We live in Shakurpur Basti uncle, my name is Neha". 
Vikas could not hear the name, he shouted, "What?"
The little girl,smiled beautifully and shouted back "N..e..h..a,  N.....e......h......a."
At that moment Vikas thought that was the cutest name he had ever heard and the way she said it liltingly, sounded to him like the sweetest music coming from up above where an omniscient Almighty saw things happening down below and made sure little angels were sent in time to rescue forlorn souls form the clutches of demons.

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. 

 

---