Literary Vibes - Edition LII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Fity second edition of LiteraryVibes. We are back with some brilliant poems and delectable stories for you. Hope you will enjoy them.
We are about to complete seventy years of our glorious Republic. All of us who have struggled to manage a family, will realise how difficult it is to manage a country with a staggering population of 1.3 billion people. Yet we have not only overcome many internal and external challenges, we have also shone in various fields. We have held our heads high and earned the respect of the world. To that indomitable spirit of the Republic we pay our humble homage. Jai Hind!
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Wishing you a Happy Republic Day and with warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
EDITION LII - TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. DEATH OF A SAGA -- Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2. GIVE ME THIS LAST CHANCE (AITHARAKA) -- Haraprasad Das
3. SEEMAS -- Geetha Nair
4. A WALK TO REMEMBER -- Sreekumar K.
5. FOR PABLO NERUDA -- Bibhu Padhi
6. CONVERGENCE -- Dilip Mohapatra
7. MARY'S DAY -- Nikhil M. Kurien
8. RIHAN -- Lathaprem Sakhya.
9. BACK TO CHENNAI AFTER A GAP -- Dr. Molly Joseph
10. WHAT AWAITS..? -- Dr. Molly Joseph
11. FAMILY -- Sheena Rath
12. MANNERS DO MATTER -- Narayanan Ramakrishnan
13. THAT'S THE SPIRIT -- DrBCNayak
14. RICE -- Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
From rowing paper boats in drains,
they had got up and moved
away to separate towns
with parents; met again
in college after a decade,
revived memories, fell in love,
married, and rowed around
their private lagoon in own canoe.
My parents could hardly
live together, or slept in one bed,
their jobs in different cities,
and scanty pay was their bane;
the money not enough for children,
parents, and in-laws; for building
a house of their own, to eke out
a decent living for us all.
On Summer and Diwali Holidays
or social events, visiting friends
and relatives took sadistic turns
to occupy their hours, keeping them apart.
“Getting bored of the lifelong bond?
We all do. Let’s give you tips and
our sweet company.” They sniggered
at our exasperated parents!
My parents missed each other,
all trough prime days, except of course
the storky-breaks, receiving gratefully
their packets of joy - me and my sister;
enjoying our faulty irrigation pumps
wetting their bed, laps, and faces;
keeping them in splits. They often
forgot the joy of their boat-rides.
They built their dream cottage
in father’s village, hugged
by sylvan land and humming
of pastoral birds and bees.
Attending to calls, mundane or spiritual,
retiring at last, parents returned home
to tend the dying garden, row the canoe,
and doze by the whispering stream.
I, one of their surviving parasites,
visited them, once in a blue moon,
they sitting in separate silent zones,
of front veranda; drooping, withering.
My heart broke, I returned empty;
on revisit, found them pottering
together in their private garden,
make paper boats for the stream.
Father, in half a decade, gave up ghost,
a bit of ash in an urn, a photo on a wall;
mother, a sphinx, I would never
understand her gibberish or silences.
In my next visit I found mother
playing with her own shit,
happier than ever after years,
but her shitty joy would end soon.
Before dressing her up for pyre,
I meticulously cleaned her nails
of the deposited grime, painted them
red, attiring her as a new bride.
I wouldn’t know, how and where,
or when father would receive her;
if they would do gardening, boating,
or play with shit balls in heaven home.
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
GIVE ME THIS LAST CHANCE (AITHARAKA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Don’t give up on me please,
your fond creation –
collecting: the wetness
of perennial stream,
fire from rubbing
the juicy teak
with robust mahogany,
curls of smoke
from a house on fire,
a lock of hair
from the wind’s tresses
blowing in palm grove,
a streak of the sky
from blue-jay’s feathers.
You made me
with so much of care;
if I disintegrate,
can you put me
together again?
Give me one last chance –
to blaze the cold star again,
light the lamp,
protect flames from the wind
with palms.
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)”
Geetha Nair
Alphonsa had a green thumb. Correction; she had two green thumbs, eight green fingers and ten green toes. Her magic had transformed the hard, bare terrace into an emerald oasis. Green leaves swayed in the breeze. Ladies' fingers pointed piously skywards. Snake gourds slithered almost to the floor. Pumpkins sat like feng-shui fatsos on their own leaves. Runner beans strode long-limbed. A papaya tree rose miraculously out of the concrete.
It was a cool evening. As usual, the women had gathered on the terrace. That was where they destressed after the long day's tensions and toil. What men claimed they accomplished in a bar or a toddy shop, these women accomplished with nothing more intoxicating than fresh air, each other's company and a baby to pass around instead of a bottle. This baby was gratefully deposited every evening in welcoming arms by its harassed young mother. These older women had lived through that stage; they knew how much forty winks could do for a young mother and housewife.
I was the newcomer; having moved into one of the eight flats that made up the simple complex. I was different from the other women, being a woman alone, a retired professional and considerably older though not wiser. They didn’t as yet know the last bit, though. Like that lone eagle wheeling low over the terrace, I too was an observer, waiting to snatch whatever I could from this group to feed and fortify myself.
"If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!" - my attempt to turn Amir Khusru was bettered by Sajna who recited the Farsi couplet with elan:
"Agar firdaus bar roo e zamin ast,
Hameen ast-o, hameen ast-o, hameen ast!"
Sajna was a sprightly woman with three grown daughters, though she looked only as old as them. Her husband was in the Gulf and visited twice a year.
We applauded her and seated ourselves by the huge water tanks on the two mats which were spread on the floor every evening. The baby started crawling on the mats , simultaneously chewing on a fish-shaped soft toy. Four human walls protected her from crawling farther.
Today, the topic of discussion was a murder that had been committed in the city two days back. A middle-aged woman had slashed her sleeping husband's throat and then surrendered before the police. Her declaration that she had nothing more to accomplish had been avidly discussed and dissected on every news channel.
"He deserved it, that stinker, that stud bull !" said Alphonsa with such vehemence that the baby stopped short on its crawling spree and stared doubtfully at her, half the fish dangling from her mouth.
" A real brute too " said Sajna, kajal-lined eyes narrowed in disgust. "Can't blame that Seema. What she must have gone through... ."
"Men... ." Rekha uttered a single word. The cool air vibrated with the nuances emanating from that monosyllable, softly uttered. Rekha was the quiet one among the three. She and her businessman husband stayed in the flat directly above mine. Their two sons were in a reputed boarding school in Ooty.
"Seema", I began; that was the name of the woman in the news. "I once had a friend called Seema. She too had a depraved husband... ."
"Tell us about her," said Alphonsa with alacrity.
The others added their agreement. I had become their storyteller of late.
Seema and I had been colleagues, sharing a corner of the staff room for more than a decade. When she joined, she was a starry-eyed bride. Her husband, Suresh Kumar, was a lecturer in a nearby government college. It seemed to be a very convenient marriage.
I was a chronic spinster by then but Seema and I got along very well.
A month into life with Kumar, she had come to college one Monday morning with a welt on her fair slim cheek.
She claimed she had walked into the door of a kitchen cupboard; I don't think anyone bought her story.
Then there was the time during the next summer vacation when she called, frantic, to say he had disappeared without a word. As I was staying in the working women’s hostel, having no home to go to, I was able to keep her company awhile. She had been half-mad with anxiety until he called to say he would not be back awhile. Five days later, a group of strangers had stormed into her house, threatening all sorts of things. I was witness to this visit. Her husband and another woman-the wife of their cousin- had been living together happily in a cottage by the sea. They had taken the woman away by force… . Seema's husband was back the next day. He walked into their bedroom and I could hear the water flowing in the bathroom.’You are taking him back?' I asked her in wonder.
Seema was looking fixedly at the flowering red hibiscus bush near their gate.
She did not reply.
“That stupid woman!” Sajna's contemptuous exclamation from behind me brought me back to the present. "She had a job, income; why didn’t she throw him out?” Sajna was plucking runner beans for the next day’s fried dish; Alphonsa shared all her greens with her friends. She was generosity personified.
”Money’s not everything” countered Rekha, mildly. I had noticed that her left hand kept stroking her right shoulder. Yesterday had been one of the bad nights; I could hear her husband clearly from my bedroom.
“What happened after that?” asked Alphonsa. The baby had gone to sleep on her wide lap.
Feeling like a failed Scheherazade I resumed Seema’s story.
They continued to be together. There had been no children.
After about ten years, I joined another college a day’s journey away. Seema stopped communicating with me after a few months despite my efforts. I lost touch with her.
From common friends, I got to know that Kumar had become even more depraved with time. They were urging Seema to separate from him.
Well, the years went by; they have this trick of doing that. I retired. I draw my pension from the Treasury; many of us prefer it to banks. Last November, I had gone there for mustering. As I climbed up, I wondered as usual whose brilliant idea it had been to house the District Treasury here. Second floor. No lift. Just two steep flights of stairs.
Mind you, this was where hundreds of pensioners came to draw their pension. I had seen decrepit human beings being hoisted, pushed up, even carried up, particularly in November when one had to prove that the tiger was still alive at mustering time.
I had dropped onto one of the hard chairs and was waiting to get my breath back. My eyes fell on an old, withered man being half-lifted, half-tugged by a scruffy young man. They were moving towards the stairs I had just laboured up. He was almost in front of me, when recognition dawned. “Kumar!” I exclaimed involuntarily. He stopped short. “You haven’t changed much.” he said. I saw that his eyes were still bright and moved expertly to all the customary places. But physically, he had changed drastically; he was miserably thin, had a protuberant stomach and a near-bald head.
I sent up a happy prayer of thanks. So Seema had finally taken the plunge and escaped. Here he was, the dirty rotter, dependant on paid help in his last days. ”Come on, make a move, old man,” his companion said roughly to him. Kumar shuffled on.
My work at the Treasury was soon done. I made for the stairs.Then I saw the same scruffy young man climbing up, helping a woman whose leg was in plaster to make it to the top. We faced each other at the top of the steps. “Seema,” I said softly to my old, dear friend.
“Parvathi chechi!” she exclaimed with geuinine joy. We had a brief exchange standing right there.
She said she had had a fall in the bathroom a month back. So, they had hired this young man, a male nurse, to tend to Kumar who was almost crippled with arthiritis.
We had created a little traffic block. So I kissed her goodbye on her greying head and went downstairs slowly. At the gate I saw Kumar seated in a car. He waved to me. I did not wave back.
My companions were still waiting for the climax of my story.
“That’s all ! There are Seemas and Seemas,” I said, "What would you have done had you been in her place?”
Alphonsa muttered something and looked reproachfully at me, obviously disappointed that my narrative had had such a flat climax.
“Given the bastard talaq!” laughed Sajna. But there was no laughter in her beautiful eyes.
Only Rekha was silent and still. Her arm had reached out and her small palm covered mine. I held it.
Suddenly there was a wail from the baby.
"Mosquitoes! " exclaimed Alphonsa . "Time to leave".
As we rose to leave, I looked up at the darkening sky. The eagle had vanished.
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
Sreekumar K.
.
It gave Sashank such a strange feeling to stay overnight at a hospital neither as a patient nor as a visitor. He was there to sell a scanner machine. Dr. Ramani, Sarala's sister who had signed the MOU after so much deliberation was also kind enough to let him be the hospital's guest for that night.
The next morning he had to catch a train to the next city, to another hospital, to see another doctor.
It was by chance that he had enlisted this hospital in this remote town in south India as a potential customer. He often forgot the hard learned lesson that there are no potential customers but only customers. One never knows.
Sitting in the dining hall, he looked around. Everything was either white or gray. The beetroot curry someone had spilled on one of the tables stood out in dark pink. The nurses around him were all in white and the walls were off white above the eye level and gray below that. There was nothing to catch one's eyes except the pretty faces and cute smiles of the nurses. How did they manage to maintain their pleasant bearing even this late at night? Most of them would have got into that uniform before sunrise, he was sure.
One of the nurses came over to him and said Dr. Ramani was waiting for him on the ground floor. He suddenly recalled his appointment with her. She had told him they could meet after dinner and go for a walk around the campus.
"It is not as charming as your Kerala, but still it has its own beauty," she had told him that morning.
He doubted whether she was trying to imply something. The comment sounded strange to him at that time. Now that he had toyed with it much in his mind, it was no more interesting or intriguing.
Down below, on the ground floor, Ramani was waiting for him, browsing though a magazine. He could see that she was no more in her doctor’s drab uniform but in a kind of party wear. Was she returning from a function or something, he wondered.
As they walked down the steps into the moonlight, he asked her whether she was returning from somewhere.
"No, I am here to see you. There were no other engagements anyway."
That was interesting.
"How long do you know my sister?"
That wasn't a question he had expected.
"Not long. We don't even know much about each other. We met at a railway station two years ago. It was a long wait for the train and so we got to know each other. I found her an interesting person and connected with her on FB. I put up a post asking whether anyone could help we with finding some clients for that machine and she was the first one to comment."
"You're right, she is an interesting character. People generally think she is my younger sister but I am the younger one. Four years younger to her."
Now that was an interesting fact. He too had made that mistake and now he corrected it in his mind.
"She was not an academic person, more into dance and stuff. I was only academic. Top scorer in every class. But that is all about me. She..she has gone to become the pride of our family. Almost a celebrity by now, right?"
"More than a celebrity. She is considered a scholar in her own field. Many dance and very few know why. She knows how and why."
Ramani laughed at that. He didn't think it was proper to stare at someone who couldn't be called an acquaintance.
He looked up at the sky. It was a full moon. The faraway hill to the east and the north looked like they had gone to sleep under a thick burnt brown blanket. Around him, the plains lay washed in gold and silver.
"She is actually a blessed soul."
"I know," he agreed. "But she fought for all that. It can't be called blessing. She told me how she suffered when her man left her."
"Still, it is a blessing. Many fight and lose out to fate. She strong-armed her fate."
An ambulance went past them, its siren freezing them for a moment.
"At any moment now, I may be wanted back at the hospital. Shall we walk back."
"Yes, yes, sure, duty first."
"I am sorry, we had to cut short our walk. Such is a surgeon's life."
"I know, I understand."
But did I, he wondered. He could go back to his room, read something or watch a movie on Netflix or jut go to sleep. But this lady would have to keep herself awake, probably the whole night and pray for the life of a patient, a stranger to her.
He looked at her. She was more beautiful now than when he had first met her.
They walked back and as they were close to the hospital, her phone rang again. She moved away and talked hurriedly over the phone. She was warm but firm in her tone.
"No need to hurry now," she said. "She is gone. Brought dead, says the duty doctor."
He didn't know what to say. Dead for how long, he wanted to know. Was ti a dead body that went past them a few minutes back? What was the point in all this commotion then? But who knew? Every minute of life is also a life long enough. Same dynamics, same principles, and mysterious the same way.
"When is your train?"
"Five thirty."
He found himself rather reticent now.
"I have asked the caretaker to arrange some vehicle for you. The railway station is three kilometres from here."
He still didn't know what to say. This was all new to him. People falling off like flies. He was sure that it would have been the same way for Sarala too.
Suddenly, he felt an awe for the person walking with him. He walked a little bit away from her. He sensed that he was not getting the smell of the sanitizer on her. A doctor smells like mothers. A fragrance that cannot be washed away.
At the entrance to the hospital, she stopped to say bye to him.
And then she gracefully walked up the steps towards her office to sign a death certificate.
He waited till the door closed behind her and then turned around to walk back to his room.
The moon was still shining bright.
Somewhere else some would not have finished their walk.
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.
Bibhu Padhi
You moved among forgotten men
and told them love was
still available in delightful plenty.
You paid back all that you owned
to them through every single
mountain wind,
although the summits of Machu Picchu
made you feel that you
could have given them a lot more.
You would have said; “They won’t
kill me; they don’t kill poets.”
Lorca was wrong to think like that.
They didn’t offer your blood
to any unappeased goddess of
love. They would have said:
“His blood is not of such worth.”
Can they ever know with what grief
you descend on the green valleys,
the familiar summits of Machu Picchu?
The unvoiced words swelling
in your arteries and veins?
Give a handful of them to me,
so that this night
I may speak with your words
and your precious blood.
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published twelve books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
Dilip Mohapatra
Yesterday I wore the saffron
and sported on my forehead
three parallel lines
of white sandalwood paste
while sometimes I used
the mark of vermilion
in stead
and offered waters to the Sun
streaming from my cupped palms
picked up the trident and opened
my third eye when I felt
my existence in jeopardy.
The next day it all changes
and I put on a kufi cap
respond to the call of
the muezzin on the minaret
and offer salat five times a day
end my Ramadan fast
with the sighting of the Moon
call the non believers kafir
and have no qualms to have
the blood of the
infidel on my hands.
Tomorrow I will change my robes
to a pristine white and be baptised
with sprinkling of holy water on me
hoping to wash away the sins
of my life time and
visualise the Star of Bethlehem
singing hallelujah
but I too have to join the crusade
against the ISIS and the like
and batter them to a pulp
for you can only extract
a thorn with a thorn.
Beyond that lies a different future.
The canvas is still blank
yet to be painted with the long brush
of desire that is dabbed with delusion
and in that unpredictable existence
there is nothing that is definitive.
Dispersed into many hues
I don't know where I belong
while I seek the meeting point
where all roads merge
under the luminous halo
that kills the diabolical shadow
of the horns and the forked tail.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.
Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
The day was a bit humid and the Sexton was there early in the morning at the St. Bernard’s church to prepare the things for the day. Three events were programmed as activities for the day in the church. A christening ceremony, a wedding and a funeral. But somehow he had the feeling that this day was going to have a bit more than the other days he had been in the service of this church.
By seven in the morning he had set everything inside the church in its place. The half burnt candles were removed and fresh ones were lighted in front of the idol of Bernard in whose name the church was dedicated. The Sexton stood there in silence for two minutes praying for his family. He chanted a routine sentence which was there in the liturgy book of the church. The verses he sang out loud were an appeal to the saint to protect the church and increase the sheep in the fold. There has been no improvement in the membership of the church since the last few years and even the current members were not attending the service regularly. Most of the young members had migrated from their native place to get good jobs and now it was only some old citizens who constituted the church . The monetary balance in the church treasury was running very low and it could barely meet its activities. The church needed some repair works immediately and even his own salary for the last few months was pending. He was much worried about the future of the church on which he and his family survived till now. His belief in the diety was going down. The church committee members were already growling about the fate of the church and they blamed it all on the incapability of the priest Basil. They whispered among themselves that the church badly needed a revival.
In today’s fast world the church stood out as an old relic, failing to attract new believers who were necessary to make the church stand. The priest had tried everything to uplift the spiritual and religious commitment of the community but nothing happened to the hearts of the people. Fall in membership of the church was equated to a fall in the faith on the church. By now even priest Basil was trying to get a transfer from this church as he was blamed for the poverty in faith and poor finance of the church. Only a miracle could save this church now.
The Sexton then went on to open the windows to let the morning sunlight streak in through the stained glasses which gave a rudimentary effect as if blessings were coming forth from the heaven. Some flowers were kept in the vases on the altar and the seats were arranged tidily in their rows. When everything inside the church was ready he went to the front portico of the old church to clean the things there. As usual he went up to the five feet wooden statue of Mother Mary which was kept in the area beside the entrance to the church. He dusted it and placed a figure of cross along his chest. He didn’t pray there in front of that figure since the diety of the church was St. Bernard. The wooden figure of Mother Mary was there for long and nobody could remember how or who placed this in the church belonging to St.Bernard. In the old moth eaten registers of the church it was recorded that a gift was given to the church by a Portuguese traveller and there was enough evidence of Portuguese craftsmanship on the wooden piece. A rumour that wafted in the church was that this female wooden figure was not allowed to be placed inside the church by the then male dominated church as they thought that for males a male diety was enough. Hence the church saw it more as an old wooden antic decorative piece which adorned the entrance to the church.
The Sexton stood before the figure of the holy Mother of the Saviour with a curious eye. It seemed to him that there was something like a tear drop in the corner of Mary’s right eye. It appeared incredible to him and he inspected it further. It indeed was a drop of liquid as though frozen but glistening. He had stood in front of this statue for the last thirty years and he had not witnessed such an event till now. Was it a miracle, he wondered in his unbelieving heart, for miracles happened only in Bible. If it was so then the priest and the committee members had to be informed immediately.
The priest came up from his chamber hearing the incoherent words of the Sexton and the committee members followed one by one hearing the obscure news. Some suggested that it must be the morning dew while one said it should be the humidity making the wood to perspire. A member dealing with timbers said it is the wood sap. The church secretary wanted to suggest that it could be a drop of candle wax. They tried to be scientific and practical as much as they could till priest Basil put a halt to their thinking process.
“We just have witnessed a miracle and are we trying to see it just as another natural event? If so we are refusing to accept the fact that the holy Mother's presence is here with us. Our church has been blessed with the tears of Mary and we are not ready to accept that shower of blessing. Shame on you unbelievers.”
There could have been some more sensible reasonings for the drop of liquid later on during the day as more people would hear and come about to witness this phenomenon, but since a declaration had come from the priest that it could be a miracle it would be unwise for any of the believer in church to formulate any more theories. The priest called up an emergency committee meeting. They had to take some important decisions. The patriarchs of the sect had to be informed. The priest had to conduct a baptism in the morning, a wedding in the noon and a funeral by evening. Now along with that he had a big job at hand with the church committee members. Their church could suddenly be turned into a pilgrimage centre.
The doll like baby giggled and showed forth her palm with her thumb folded in reply to her mother who was showing to her only her four fingers. It was a demonstration by the mother to the small crowd around them to show how intelligent her baby was even at her infancy state. The crowd of family members who had arrived to witness the baby’s baptism was thrilled and they appreciated the baby’s intelligence quotient and her doll like beauty. One of the elder male members of the family with large whiskers tried to kiss the baby but the child refused to offer the face by turning her head away and covering the cheeks with her hand. All these brought peels of laughter which echoed down the big old building till somebody reminded them that they shouldn’t forget that they were in the holy church of St.Bernard.
The priest started the rituals of baptism at nine a.m and it went on for half an hour. They christened the child Idoll Mary and the mother had a reason for putting such a special name for her child. The alphabet ‘I’ stood for the intelligence she showed and promised forth even at this infant age and the word doll for her cute and pretty features which made her so doll like and loveable. And her surname Mary was after the child's grand mother. The choir team led by Boaz played the song “how blessed can a child be in God’s arms” with some extra bass.
By noon a new larger crowd gathered at the church for the marriage ceremony of “Idle Mary”. The nick name of idle came onto the name of bride Mary for her idle characteristic nature. A female who idled her time, money, education everything, till she was found to be fit only to be married off to somebody. The great church hoisted the marriage function and Boaz and his choir team sang the unplugged version of ‘how blessed a couple can be in Gods arms”. Priest Basil started the rituals in joining the couples together to form into a new family. The crowd in between the marriage sermon whispered amongst themselves the idle stories of Mary the bride, as the crew of photographers absorbed the moment of union and the idle smile of Mary’s face into their cameras.
At around four in the evening most of the crowd which was there in the morning and afternoon ceremonies came back to the church again. But this time there was a pall of gloom on every face and grief in the atmosphere. The hearse had arrived with the lifeless body of Ideal Mary and a train of mourners walked behind the hearse led by the choir of Boaz singing the song, 'how blessed can be a soul in God’s arm’. This time the stanzas were in a melancholic tune . The noun ‘ideal’ was added to Mary when she was a high school teacher because of her ideal beliefs, punctuality and principles in life which she followed through out her life till the age of ninety. She was a prominent female activist in her days and hers was a firm voice for the rights for women. She was an ardent believer in Mother Mary and always raised her voice against the idol of Mother Mary being left outside the church. She had already prophecied that a day would come to be named in the name of Mary. All people in the neighbourhood had set Mary as example to lead their life but none seemed to have succeeded in matching upto Mary’s life.
Priest Basil hurried through the rituals. He had been busy the whole day with a lot of committee meetings in between each of the ceremonies he had conducted till now. Finally the church had come to a decision in the committee room behind the curtain. The church had to be saved. It could be saved only by attracting the crowd to it. The committee inferred that when the crowd come to see the unbelievable, they turn into believers and believers will bring their offering and fill the coffers. For that the church had to be reordained in the name of Mary. Saint Benedict had to go and Saint Mary had to come in.
Idoll baby with her mother and Idle Mary with her newly wed husband were also there since they were all neighbours of Ideal Mary. Idoll Mary made some intelligent signs lying in her mothers arms while idle Mary placed idle steps walking beside her husband wondering when this would all be over.They all walked behind the coffin carrying Ideal Mary as she was taken out through the big entrance of the church. At the steps to the door stood the Idol of Mary which had showed a miracle in the morning and now was being cleaned and polished before it could be taken inside into the alter of the church. She was going to occupy the position of St.Bernard. The church committee had proposed that business was expected to improve with this change in position and the Sexton had a sigh of relief. His family was going to be saved at last. He believed so. The priest placed a cross of thanks. His job and reputation was going to be saved. The committee members were to plan and execute a religious marketing strategy. Already people around were trickling in hearing the miracle and they were expecting a rush in the next few days if the news could be crafted up carefully like a myth.The Sexton was already claiming that he could see better without his spectacles after seeing that tear drop in Mother Mary’s eye.
That day was eventful for the church which was nearly a century old. It had never conducted three different ceremonies on the same day. In fact a fourth was about to take place soon before the day ended. The ceremony of dedicating the church to the new person, Mother Mary.
As the cremation got over Ideal Mary’s family stood along with Idle Mary and Idoll Mary in front of the old church and they prayed to the newly coronated statue of Mary as it turned into an idol. Indeed it was a day in the name of Mary as prophecied.
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.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya
Rihan was very sad. Why should this happen to his mother? she was such a quiet dignified lady, very matured in all her actions. Why? why? why? He went on questioning himself. Finding no answer he rolled onto his stomach and went to sleep.
Rihan was in the 9th standard, very sharp and intelligent and very studious. He was also a born farmer with green fingers. He worked as his father's right hand in the farm until he left for school. Recently he was worried about his mother. She had withdrawn to herself and wouldn't speak to anyone. His young heart yearned to make her happy by settling all her problems.
She never shared her troubles with anyone. But he knew that something had happened which had destroyed the peace and happiness of his home. No one told him anything. Though everyone was talking in hushed tones about the unfortunate event. Even his boisterous father, full of energy and fun, seemed to be switched off. He hardly spoke to his mother or even to the children. As usual he finished his farm chores before going to the office, answering only in monosyllables to queries, even of the children.
Rihan decided to find out what ailed his mother and what had happened to his happy family. He kept his eyes and ears open.
"That boy, whoever thought he would do this, hardly a man, yet cunning as a fox". He overheard their maid aunty speaking to their neighbour who had come to buy milk.
Who was this boy? Rihan racked his mind. There was always this reference to the boy who had destroyed the happiness of their home. How dare he do this, he raged. Who was this boy? There were so many students coming to his father for tuition he couldn't identify that boy. No one mentioned the boy's name, so Rihan found it all the more difficult to find him. He kept his ears and eyes wide open for a clue.
Once while attending a wedding in the church he saw his aunt pointing to a boy,
"How dare he come before us! Don't look at him. Just ignore him."
His mother and aunt then moved away. Rihan who was standing behind his mother looked at him. He used to come to his father to clear his doubts in Statistics. His father often taught him and helped him with his lessons. But for a long time he had not come home. He was a slim, skeleton of a boy. Now Rihan knew why he had stopped coming.
The boy played the organ for the choir whenever the church musician was away. He was a very popular figure in the church. Rihan had often seen him earlier, before the unfortunate event, chatting with his parents after church. But he was very friendly to his mother, Rihan suddenly remembered. Tagging behind her with one thing or another. The realisation that it was this boy who had fractured his happy home hit him hard.
Now he decided to be more astute in his investigation. Bit by bit he found out that the boy had been troubling his mother for a long time. He found answers to all the questions that tormented him. Why was he following his mother like a shadow? Why did he call her on the mobile frequently? Why was he messaging her constantly?
Like a jigsaw puzzle everything fell into place. She had been trying to shake him off in her own way. She was ashamed to speak about it to anyone. She couldn't imagine that a boy, almost like her brother or son was behind her, troubling her. Whatever she did only enticed him more and more. And she was finding it intolerable. It was then that she decided to stop going out of the farm for anything. And he started blackmailing her by sending messages. When she refused to succumb to that, he started sending fake messages to his father, supposed to have been written by his mother.
His father confronted his mother with the messages. She denied having written them. It ended in a fight and the whole family came to know about it. His father's sisters were on his mother' side. That was a relief to him and it also helped his mother to resume normal life. But their home had become as silent as a tomb. The love, trust and laughter that throbbed in their home was lost. The relationship between his father and mother had become stiff and formal. He fumed with anger whenever he saw his mother' s agonised face and his father's sad one. If ever he got the boy in his hand he would bash him up, he told himself.
And soon it came. He had gone to the church that Sunday and the boy had come to play the organ. After service the church folk stood outside talking to the priest and greeting their friends. The church being a small one in the village, its congregation was a closely knit one. Rihan went inside the church. His hands itched to beat the boy. No one was there. Only the boy was sitting at the organ fiddling with its keys. Rihan took him unawares. He knocked the boy out of the seat. As he tried to get up Rihan pushed him down and the two boys rolled on the church floor. Just in time the verger came and shouted for help. He tried to separate the wrestling boys on the ground but in vain. Soon the priest and other members of the church entered the church and pulled them apart.
The boy was taken away to be admitted in a nearby hospital for a check up so as to build up a case. Rihan's father was stunned by his son's reaction. He had struggled hard to pull him off the boy. Rihan was shaking with rage. Now he stood within the protective arms of his father. Suddenly all his pent up fury was released in a fit of sobbing. Rihan's father hugged him and consoled him. He was also shocked. He never thought his son would retaliate like this. He looked at Rihan closely. On his face was writ in large the stress and the strain he had been suffering. Suddenly it dawned on him why his son was getting low marks for test papers, and why his son was lost in another world when he was teaching maths to him and to the other boys. He felt sad that he was also a reason for this sorrow in his son. He silently vowed that he would once more bring his family together, forgiving and forgetting everything. Yes, he would chase away the insecurities in the heart of his little one. Still hugging Rihan close to him he bid farewell to the members of the congregation and turned around towards his car.
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Dr. Molly Joseph M
a train journey to Chennai
was frequent
once in a month, to and fro those days,
two decades back, while doing research.
with longing eyes that waited both sides
anchoring the journey,
of an aging mother there in Kerala
and a doting family with children here in Chennai..
you then the elastic string, stretching, spreading out
receding....
exodus of time..
the kite, floating, floating...
later when you could unwind
from narrow domestic walls
Chennai offered kindness with like minded poetic pals,
each journey turned a thrilling rendezvous...
today
I see Chennai Central
wearing a new look inside,
with new floorings clean, systems computerised
every exit and entry
burring in security check,
though the human flow
keep the same tempo throughout as of yore...
you keep your pace with
the rush of modernity, Chennai..
It rained on streets
in the early hours of this otherwise hot Jan this morning..
are you welcoming me Chennai,
sprinkling water all around?
the service road we took
to reach Crescent homes
offered the less crowded
view of Marina Beach
where poor fishermen live
mending their nets for their day's haul..
litters are there around
spread over the sand which
evening, nocturnal revels
have left
as remnants hassle free..
speeding past Adayar
I see people coming out with brooms to clean up the way side,
flanked by cool vast stretching trees..
those ancient looking
trees, know me and wave back..
hi! Chennai, I am.back
to see the old and new
shaking hands in your soil
though we tread so fast
on shores so shaking,
perilous...
Molly Joseph
What awaits
the long distance
runner...?
She was
running,
racing,
with eyes
focussed
on the distant
that receded
as she proceeded...
hah!
chasing horizons !!
fun was it
the run....!
the wind
mild and harsh
blowing on you,
the sun soft and sultry
turning you
bright yet drooping..
the moon
soothing, nascent,
evanescent...
the faces so varied
caught up
in compulsions
galore...
the voices, cheeky
chirpy, flamboyant
seeking buoyant
company,
some
the genuine, confining...
the noisy,
self projective....
variety
so infinite !
she loved
the run
not the race..
distance lent
lustre
to shapes
and sights...
what awaits
her run..?
lone, languid
moments,
flashing sights
that wax
and wane
on memory's plane,
strunng on
fatigue so
plain...
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).
Sheena Rath
Together we stand
Accomplishing each others demand
Many a times we disagree
And thats a guarantee
Each individual is different
Always ready for a confront
Ready to chuckle together
At each and every get together
Covering up for one another
Such a tenacious bond
Every morning gobbling almond
Standing tall through bliss and pains
Each one interlinked as sturdy as a chain
Ready for sacrifice
Listening to each others advise
A bond so strong
No one can ever go wrong
Family is precious
A beautiful bond that will never leave you helpless
Loosing it is senseless
The journey through every phase is endless
My family my pride
In every ecstatic and gloomy ride.
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)
Narayanan Ramakrishnan
Some twenty years ago, I was a free lancer. I was extending share dematting services that provided me avenues to sell insurance policies. Persons who were holding shares in physical form had to convert these into electronic form for liquidating. Many bank employees were holding shares in physical form. One of the members of the staff of a nationalised bank required my assistance in getting his shares converted to dematerialized form. The branch was situated a little away from the city.
The journey to the branch was an arduous one. I had to bear this ordeal as I expected this demand to be not a one-off case but nurtured hopes of getting more accounts in the coming days. At the bottom of my heart I yearned for one or two more insurance policies.
I was proceeding smoothly but was a bit circumspect when I found the road was spread out with hay for drying. An ordeal soon struck as my two-wheeler came to a screeching halt. The hay had got entangled in my front and rear wheels and I got struck. Help was forthcoming immediately; a hefty man with a mustache similar to one our Balakot hero Wing Commander Abhinandan has, rushed in with a knife in hand and dexterously finished the process in a jiffy. He confessed with a wry smile that the property on the road was owned by him. I also retorted, not entirely concealing my anguish over his act that impeded my sweet ride, “Don’t go for lunch, tea or for answering nature’s call, many will need your service”. Hardly had I finished when the man had another job at hand.
When I reached the branch, I was not aware who among them was Mr.Sukumaran, who had called me. I inquired at the front counter and was shown into his presence promptly. Mr.Sukumaran gleefully acknowledged me and immediately ordered a tea for me. I made my usual inquiries and began the process.
Just then, somebody from behind patted me on my back. I turned back, rising from my seat. I saw a tall and heavily built figure. Even the security guard of the branch stood pale before him. “What are you up to?”, he asked rather sternly.
Mr. Sukumaran intervened and clarified. I understood he was the Branch Manager. I was still standing. “Come to my cabin”, he said softly. Incompetent to read between the lines, I thought of another prospect and considering his position in the branch, with Mr. Sukumaran’s permission, I followed the BM to his cabin with all paraphernalia.
He asked me to sit and gently opened his mouth. I had given my visiting card earlier. “You are Mr. Narayanan, from Capstocks. Do you have an account with us?”. I shook my head. “Ok. Don’t you know this is a financial institution and you cannot have free access to our premises without my permission and during banking hours.”
“Yes Sir”. I agreed in toto.
I profusely apologized for my fault and told him I was leaving. I thought he would allow me when I said I was leaving. But it was not to be. Mr.Sukumaran was waiting for me by his table and I just waved to him and walked away. When I turned, I saw Sukumaran rushing to the BM’s cabin.
I came out and blamed myself for my casual behavior and entered a nearby tea shop for my staple food, vada and chai. I was mentally penalizing myself throughout. Had this happened when I was in my early twenties or late twenties, there would have been some excuse because of my lack of experience. But as a veteran, then around 40, having been in sales in a multinational company, I ought to have known better. I cursed myself.
Sipping hot tea and chewing the fresh vada, I recalled an event that happened to my elder brother, when he went to his school after finishing his SSLC to obtain his character certificate from the Headmaster. Unaware he was under watch, he took a short cut, jumped on to the veranda, disturbing the garden that enveloped the HM’s room, and entered. As he was there to get his character certificate, he was more polite than normal and wished good morning and namasthe at one go. HM was unusually unmoved and asked him, “How did you come in?”. Suspecting nothing foul and with innocence writ large on his young face my brother replied that he had jumped on to the veranda through the garden. “What are steps for?” thundered the HM. That shook my brother. Immediately, he got out of the room used the steps to go out and immediately came back by the same way. HM was watching that too. The world changed for my brother, by that simple act and timely common sense. Overwhelmed by his spontaneous action, the HM took out the printed format and issued his Character Certificate: EXCELLENT, in capital letters in green ink.
I contemplated my next move. Going back and coming another day was out of question. I decided to walk along the road, leaving my fuel guzzling vehicle at my primary destination, to see if any other opportunity was available elsewhere in the town. Central Polytechnic Institute, a wing of VSSC, also functioned in the area. I expected branches of more nationalised banks or leading private banks also. I spotted one and walked into the branch of another nationalized bank. Not to repeat the earlier mistake, I waited outside the cabin of the Senior Manager for the present occupant to come out. I walked in, introduced myself and told him of the purpose of my visit. Very affable in nature, the Manager listened to me about the procedures to open Demat a/c and the advantages of keeping shares in electronic form. He asked me to come after 2.00, pm, when the regular banking operations would be over. I told him I had an appointment after two but assured him I would try to make it.
By then it was around 1’O clock and after a rethink, I decided to have another go at my primary target, through proper channel. As I entered, Mr. Sukumaran noticed me and asked me to go to his table. He understood my body language. That portly man inside the cabin was watching all this. My intentions were obvious to him. The busy atmosphere, I saw in the morning had eased a lot. Mr. Sanatanan Nair, signalled me to enter.
I greeted him again as usual and as an introduction would be superfluous and very much exuding an air of apology on my previous ‘introductory’ entry into the premises, I took the seat very delicately.
“Sir, you taught me the right manners. It does matter.” I said as I walked in.
Up came the comment: “You did the right thing now. That is the way to walk in. Now you may go in finish the task and come to me. I too have shares to be dematted. You are an Insurance agent too, aren’t you?” That made the adrenalin flow. Without waiting for my answer, he said, “I want Jeevan Suraksha policy for myself and my wife. Come to my house tomorrow morning.”
That “EXCELLENT” certification in my brother’s character certificate reverberated in my mind. It had acquired a new meaning.
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.
Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak
Still in jet lag or equivalent,
Dysrhythmic Circadian rhythm.
For nearly two weeks,
From plain to peak,
from low land to high,
from downs to ups,
from valley to peaks,
from water reservoir
to waterfalls,
from low altitude to high
from “vibgyor”,
to vibgyor carpet,
enjoyed by the one,
arduous and adventurous,
his sojourn.
A trekker
acknowledges instantly
each and every
birthday wishes !!
Anniversary wishes,
Miscellaneous as well.
In comparison
To some ,
Habituated to wait
Till late evening,
And the acknowledgement,
Just "Thank you all".
And, some purposefully,
make the wish
belated.
That is the spirit,
That is the difference,
being a trekker,
always resolving.
"If you want to do something
do it today, and now."
Hats off to You,
Keep it up.
Dr. (Major) B. C. Nayak is an Anaesthetist who did his MBBS from MKCG Medical College, Berhampur, Odisha. He is an MD from the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune and an FCCP from the College of Chest Physicians New Delhi. He served in Indian Army for ten years (1975-1985) and had a stint of five years in the Royal Army of Muscat. Since 1993 he is working as the Chief Consultant Anaesthetist, Emergency and Critical Care Medicine at the Indira Gandhi Cooperative Hospital, Cochin
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The next stop was Haridaspur station, may be fifteen minutes away. Sitanshu stood near the door of the compartment and looked out. Afternoon was waning, the silent shadow of the evening was creeping slowly over the small hills. Rains had been copious this year, it was green everywhere. Late October flowers dotted the hillside, a riot of colours lent a celestial beauty to it.
A familiar, intoxicating smell overpowered his senses. Ah, Ketaki flowers! Yes, there was a row of Ketaki bushes here, he remembered from forty three years back! Looked like Ketaki bushes still made the passers by forget themselves for a few moments even now.
The last time Sitanshu had got down at Haridaspur station was forty three years back, to attend the wedding of Kamalini, his friend Narottam's sister. He had walked down the half a mile distance to their house. There were relatives everywhere. Narottam, his room mate in the hostel was very happy to see him. Kamalini came half an hour later, her hand decorated with Mehndi, head covered with a veil, eyes, her beautiful eyes, glowing with an unspoken joy. She touched his feet and smiled coyly. He wanted to tell her, "See, I came, because I had promised to you, remember?" But he just stood there, transfixed at her beautiful, blushing face and she quietly slipped away.
This was the second time he was seeing Kamalini. He had come there a year back with Narottam when they had a two days' vacation in college. Narottam's parents were happy to see their son's room mate and his mother made all kinds of delicacies to feed them, particularly daalma and fried potatoes, Sitanshu's favorite dishes.
On the evening Sitanshu arrived, he sensed Kamalini's presence but did not see her. He knew the daughter of the house was helping the mother in the kitchen, but when she was asked to come and serve the two friends, she refused. Narottam's mother smiled and said, "Look at her, she is too shy, God knows how this girl would manage in her in-laws' home!" Narottam whispered to Sitanshu, "My sister, Kamalini, her wedding is already fixed."
Sitanshu was shocked. Wedding! How old was Kamalini, when Narottam was just about eighteen! Narottam explained to him, Kamalini was one and half years younger to him. She had finished high school last year and had started going to college at Haridaspur, but a few months back some ruffians harassed her on the way back from college. She was scared and started running, the rascals were chasing her, when a young lecturer drove by in a motorbike and confronted them. They were not locals, must have got down from the train at Haridaspur looking for mischief. They thrashed the young lecturer, but that gave enough time to Kamalini to escape.
Her parents refused to send her to college again. The young lecturer visited a few times to persuade them to send her to college, but they did not relent. But a few visits were enough to convince the young man that he could not live without the young, demure girl who used to come and pay her respects to 'Sir' and hurry inside. It's a different matter that she used to peep from behind the curtains to enjoy the nervousness and restlessness of the young, handsome and heroic man who had taken quite a few blows from the ruffians for her sake!
No one was surprised when the young lecturer's parents came one day with a 'proposal' for marriage of their son with Kamalini and it was accepted with glee by her parents. They were also looking for a groom for their daughter and both the weddings were to take place together.
On the second morning the two friends had gone for a walk and on return were sitting in the outer room sipping tea, when Sitanshu sensed a presence just beyond the curtains. Some one was standing there, a young girl, whose fair, dainty feet adorned by two anklets stared at him. He knew it was Kamalini, listening to them. He got up and quickly moved the curtain aside. Before him was the cutest, loveliest sixteen year old girl he had ever seen, in real life or in dreams. Suddenly she ran away, shy and demure, never to appear again till their stay was over the next morning.
In the evening Sitanshu had a glimpse of her, clad in a yellow saree, pallu on her head, kneeling before the Tulsi plant in the courtyard and singing "Aahey dayamaya biswa bihari.." a bhajan which Is usually rendered in the evenings while lighting the evening lamp at the Tulsi plant. In the dim light coming from the rooms, the kneeling figure of the delicate girl mesmerised him, taking him to a land of lilting songs, soft lights and glowing maidens surrendering themselves at the feet of smiling Gods. For many evenings after that he would just close his eyes and the prayer would come wafting through the air filling him with a fragrance of sandal wood dhoop sticks and flickering shadows of a singing Kamalini against a gently swaying Tulsi plant.
The next morning when they took leave from Narottam's parents, touching their feet, Sitanshu's eyes were searching for Kamalini, he knew she was somewhere close by, but was too shy to come out. He only heard a voice asking from behind a curtain, "When will you come again?" Sitanshu was waiting for Narottam to answer, his friend nudged him and whispered, "She is asking you." Sitanshu replied in a trembling voice, "I will come to your wedding, to bless you." There was a soft giggle in reply.
And Sitanshu did come, to bless this pure, simple girl with oceans of love and tenderness from his young heart. That was the last time he had come to Haridaspur. Every time he went by train this way he would remember her. After finishing his two years of College, he had gone away to Regional Engineering College, Durgapur to get a degree in Mechanical Engineering and had got a job at the Ordnance Factory near Ambajhari, Nagpur.
Sitanshu had lost touch with Narottam couple of years after joining the Engineering college. For his wedding, he had simply sent a card to "Narottam Biswal, Haridaspur, Cuttack" and his friend had come. That's when he was shocked to know about the sad fate of Kamalini who had lost her husband to an attack of Meningitis, two years after marriage. She found it difficult to live at her in-laws' place due to constant torture and harassment. Childless, she returned to her parents. No amount of persuasion made her agree to marry again and with Narottam's consent his father had given half their landed property to her. She was trying to get a job as a teacher in the local primary school. That was the last Sitanshu had heard anything about Kamalini. But on many occasions whenever he heard an evening prayer anywhere, the kneeling figure of a shy Kamalini came to him, a glimpse from the past, like a lovely flower swaying gently to a cool breeze.
He and his wife Abantika spent thirty five years at Ambajhari, a life of apparent bliss, but torn apart by a torturous loneliness. Despite all medical assistance, they could never have a child and a sense of acute melancholy tormented them throughout their life. After retirement he came to settle at Bhubaneswar. And within a year he lost Abantinka to a massive stroke, her heart torn to shreds through constant grief over childlessness.
Sitanshu knew, the world is divided into two types of people - those who can look after themselves and those who 'can't even make a cup of tea'. He belonged to the second category and his life broke into inconsolable fragments. For about a year he roamed around all over the country, going from place to place, eating sundry kinds of food, sleeping in lodges, hotels, ashrams and finally tired, he returned to his three bed room flat. Every nook and corner of the flat reminded him of Abantika and today he had left home heading to his sister's place a few stations away.
Ah, in a few minutes the train would reach Haridaspur. Would she be still there? Kamalini of the past, a shadow that had never left his consciousness, peeping through veils of shyness and giggling coyness? On a strange impulse he collected his small bag and got down from the train at Haridaspur.
Evening had already set in. There were so many shops now, all lit up with bright lights. Forty three years back there was none, except a tiny hut, lit by a lantern, selling paan and cigarettes. Sitanshu vaguely remembered the path to his friend's house and walked on. The village had completely changed, thatched houses had given way to pucca roofs, through the windows he could see television sets throwing off kaleidoscopic colours and blaring music from inside.
Sitanshu stood still after walking for half a mile, he had no idea which of the houses held Kamalini. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Did he commit a mistake, getting down from the train so impulsively? And then from one of the houses he heard bells ringing and the lilting prayer of "Ahey dayamaya biswa bihari"....coming out, floating in the evening air and filling it with a sweet fragrance of sandal wood sticks.
Kamalini! Her voice was unmistakable after all these years, and she was still using sandal wood sticks for her evening prayers! He went near the house and waited for the prayer to be over. And then he knocked at the door, a slow tentative knock. After an interminable minute or so lights came on inside the house and Kamalini emerged, beautiful, dignified and soulful like the prayer which was still hanging in the air. Unknown to him, Sitanshu's heart started beating violently. Would she recognise him, would she call him in?
Kamalini looked at him for a second, pulled the veil over her head, bent and touched his feet. And, as if she was waiting for this moment all these years, she went inside, brought a pitcher of water and placed before him, "Go and wash your feet and come inside. Rice is ready, I will make daalma and fry some potatoes for you. I know how much you love them."
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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