Literary Vibes - Edition LIII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Fifty third edition of LiteraryVibes.
I write this today, on Basant Panchami, the day dedicated to the worship of Maa Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning. We at LiteraryVibes pray for the Goddess's abundant blessings on you for knowledge and enlightenment.
Hope you will enjoy the poems, short stories and anecdotes. Please share the link
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With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
EDITION LIII - Table of Contents
1. THE PAINTER Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2. HOURS BEFORE A DAYBR Haraprasad Das
3. TWO FACES OF DESIRE Ms. Geetha Nair
4. TC, BYE! Sreekumar K
5. WALKING ALONE Dilip Mohapatra
6. SARASWATI PUJA, BASA~~ Jawhar Sircar
7. WOMAN Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien
8. AN ODE TO SAUDADE Ananya Priyadarshini
9. WEAVES OF TIME Sangeeta Gupta
10. TEA TIME Sheena Rath
11. ENCOUNTERS Narayanan Ramakrishnan
12. Light Dr. Preethi Ragasudha
13. I AM INDIAN Aboo jumaila
14. YOU GO GIRL Biswa Prakash Sarangi
15. RAIL TURNTABLE EFFE Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak
16. GOOD, BAD AND UGLY Mrutyunjay Sarangi
THE PAINTER
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Years troop by.
The hairs of his brush
screech on evanescent easels
smearing time on paint,
with the knowledge of his limits,
meandering among possibilities,
sketching exact curves,
they climax at the right contours.
The pigments know him
by dilution and density,
their tantrums and twitches,
the siege within.
Murals scandalize, and so do frescos,
decadence bends and breaks the sun beams,
the palette and the easel tire his patience
till the gripping brush draws blood.
Dilution makes him pastel,
age, subdued and soporific.
Masculine and bold strokes gone;
spontaneity, and serendipity bowed out.
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
HOURS BEFORE A DAYBREAK (SHESHAYAAMA)
Haraprasad Das
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Daybreak is yet awaited;
hubs for the wheels
getting ready.
Listen,
a carpenter is sawing wood;
the night sails unconcerned.
He joins pieces
hammering one into another;
a god nailing stars to the sky.
Could be…
the late hours would pull out
pigeons from empty hats;
miraculous as picking out
a sparrow’s corpse
from the flood-debris?
A night’s last hours
are tricky, surreal,
things pop up from nowhere!
You fancy things,
they materialize
the next minute.
You think of wood,
the charmed hours conjure up
carpentry and woodwork.
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)”
1. Stone
This summer I burn,
I yearn.
I am parted from you
Parched.
I cannot reach
I cannot touch;
In silence
I mourn.
The monsoon gives you to me.
My wetness spreads over you
I colour you dark
With my wild caress,.
And soon I gurgle
My song of love
While you listen, silent;
I cover you,
Dance over you,
Submerge you in my depths,
Sing loud my love.
Stone in my sandy bed,
Mute, unchanging;
This eternal summer
It is of you
I dream.
2.METANOIA*
“Relax”, croons the super beautymaker.
Her face is a painted mask
Her scarlet talons hold a gleaming drill,
Some instrument of torture
Poised above my face.
“This will hurt a bit
but make your dead skin burn
and fall in tiny bits.
Exfoliate;
So you look smooth, sleek, young.”
The instrument whirrs to life:
I lie back, tense.
Metanoia.
Will it work with you, I wonder...
Some burning, some scraping
Till I am free of you ?
Half animal -half stone,
Will I stop hungering for a lick, a pat
And rise, turned two-legged,
While my passion shatters in pain
and lets fall its shards
on your inert face,
Leaving me old, cold, sane?
*the process of changing one's heart, likes, life, self.
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
Since no one had any disagreement regarding the incurring of expenses, the resolution to build a new building for the library was passed unanimously by the Vivekodaya Library executive committee.
Prashobh was happier than anyone in the committee. It was his father, a freedom fighter and later a war veteran during the Indo-Pak war, who had donated the land for the library decades ago. Prashobh had declined several times the offer of the executive committee to rename the library after his father. He knew his father wouldn't have wanted that.
However, he decided to donate an amount which was equal to a whole year's salary, for the construction fund to be set up for the library. He knew his father would have patted him on his back for that.
Two months later, when the ground plan of the new building was presented to the construction committee, Prashobh expressed his disagreement rather vehemently. The main hall was too long, extending all the way to the north wall. This meant a vaka tree his father had planted and he had watered as a child, had to be felled. That was too much for him personally.
He didn't base his argument on this personal note, but rather expressed his sentiment that the tree was a pride of the village, especially in spring when the only colour one could see there was yellow, bright, almost luminescent yellow.
But there was no way to avoid felling the tree. Prashobh made another request. Let the tree bloom once more that spring which was only two months away.
This second request, though it sounded quite impersonal, wasn't entirely so.
Prashobh's marriage was coming up that spring and disagreeing with all his friends, he had decided not to choose any of the new convention and marriage halls in the town nearby. He had decided to put up a pandal, a canopy, in conventional style in the library courtyard where he had spent most of his life as a child. His eldest sister's wedding which happened three decades ago had been held there. He also wanted the tree to be there as a witness when he was getting married. He wished his in-laws would also get to see the tree in full blossom. The tree was family to him though he didn't talk much about it.
The committee had no problem in granting this request. Everyone thought it was a good idea. There was no one in the village who didn't have their memories about the tree and they all felt a pride when they saw people from other places on their way to somewhere else would stop their vehicles to take a good look at this boundless generosity of nature. Sometimes they would come out to take pictures. Nowadays every home had a selfie with the fully blossomed tree looming large in it.
Prashobh now faced another problem. He could not find, even in nearby towns, anyone who had the facility to put up such a kind of canopy. Most of them he met had long ago sold all their wares to scrap mongers. There were halls of any size to choose from in any town and it meant no more business for them.
Finally, in the district capital, Prashobh found some people who would do that. They did it only for party meetings, any party that is, and they agreed to make some extra arrangements to make it look more like a welcoming site than a campaigning mission.
Another problem Prashobh faced was from his friends who wanted to add some glitz and glamour to the occasion. He himself had wanted to keep it a simple affair. The only thing that he didn't keep limited was the number of guests. He wanted to invite the whole village; not a huge task since it was not such a thickly populated place. Surrounded by barren paddy fields and an almost dried up river, this was not a favourite habitation any more and more people left the village than those who came in.
His friends told him there should be some kind of a theme which was basically nothing but colour coordination. One of his close friends was a painter and he explained to Prashobh that colour coordination was not all about using the same colour all over but using compatible colours. The guy seemed to know much about it and so Prashobh let it out to him and his friends to manage it all.
Very subtly, he suggested to them, that he would prefer yellow to be the dominating colour. They did tease him about. His community too kept that colour as its mascot. But they all knew that he had no such sentiments.
Everything was going fine when the bride sent a note expressing her desire to have a violet wedding sari. Prashobh said they could override it but his friends told him to shut up. Wedding is an once in a life time affair and the sentiments of the bride had to be considered, they argued. Prashobh had to relent. When he asked them whether violet and yellow were compatible colours, they laughed at him.
Finally, Prashobh's friends were the stars of the show. The canopy, the seats, the centre stage, the rather heavy garlands and practically everything was so well colour coordinated. The cameramen and the videographers met Prahshobh's friends personally and complimented them for their work. Even the bride mentioned it when she met them.
That year, people from far and wide thronged the village to see the huge vaka tree's last blossom. More so, since that year the tree blossomed in violet.
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.
I try hard to decipher
the silverfish infested
brittle page from
my father's album
that perhaps held
the sepia toned picture
of the first ever
steps that I had taken
but cannot make out
if someone was
holding my hands
to steady me up.
But I distinctly remember
the faces of my friends
though not the names any more
on the narrow streets
of my ancestral city Cuttack
who walked with me to my school
on river Kathjori
and walked on its embankment
to take plunges in turn
into its water in spate
only to be caught
by our stern headmaster
standing on the banks
with his shining and well oiled cane.
I remember too
when I walked the aisles with you
under the crossed swords
and over the clouds
and amongst the cheering crowds.
I recall when I walked
under the shadow of your smiles
in harmony with your
gasps and groans
and those solitary strolls
in the park
under the fronds of the
midget date palms.
I remember when we
walked our children to
the kindergarten
and when we walked them
turn by turn
to the waiting cars
bedecked with flowers
and displaying the board
Just Married
and how we walked back
to our empty homes
to a vacuum that hounded us
for many a days.
I remember when the
walks became ambles
and continued to
become gallops
and faces that I passed by
became blurred
and indistinct without any identity
of their own
and I carried on.
The grass burnt under my toes
and with many a fallen trees
in my wake
I moved on relentlessly
climbing up
sliding down
again climbing
trying to reach the stars.
Now we got corns under
our tired and blistered feet
our arthritic joints squeak and cringe our shoulders are frozen we
can't even support each other but our spirits still soar and so our
faiths and hopes .
We got to cover
miles and miles of tracts
ahead of us
both walked and un-walked
for we were born to walk
to walk along our lonely roads
leading to our graves
unaided unguided
on our own.
Alone.
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.
SARASWATI PUJA, BASANT PANCHAMI ~~
The fifth day of the bright fortnight of the month of Magh (January-February) is a special date in India. While most parts of India celebrates it as Basant Panchami, Bengal worships it’s Saraswati on this very day.
In the north, it is the first of the two Spring celebrations, the other being Holi — that is always 40 days later. The fields are yellow with mustard and bright yellow heralds the season of joy. In fact, people bring dholaks out and perform merry dances — with Bihar leading the way by playing with colours — in anticipation of Holi. In many parts of north India, it is mandatory to wear yellow clothes or turbans and saffron is used a lot to colour rice and sweet halwa or boondi. In Brajbhumi, the countdown to Holi begins, with very colourful and lively celebrations. All temples are decorated with yellow flowers and even rice, milk and burfis are all very yellow.
In Punjab, both Hindus and Sikhs celebrate Basant Panchami with gusto and pray to Ma Ganga, not Saraswati, by placing their books, pens and musical instruments before this river. One washes away all sins by taking a bath at the Sangam on this day and pilgrims get triple benefits from the Ganga,Yamuna and the mysterious Saraswati. Kashmiri pandits are different, as on this day, they worship neither Saraswati nor Ganga, but a Tantric goddess named Tiky Tsoram. To add to variety, we also find Jagaddhatri and Siva being worshipped in some places of the north and west. Even Kamadeva, who was reduced to ashes by Siva’s laser glance, is also worshipped during these 40 days, along with his wife Rati of course.
Very few know that many Sufis have actually been celebrating Basanta from the 12th century, ever since the legendary poet Amir Khusrau wore yellow just to brighten the mood of the sad Chisti saint, Nizamuddin Aulia.
Brahma was originally regarded her father, but the Matsya Purana and the Brahma Purana make her Gayatri, his wife which is why her Gayatri-mantra is repeated every day as a powerful invocation. When Vishu’s influence increased, the Puranas glorified his role on this day and the British administrator, Murdoch, noted in 1910 that “the designation of ‘Sri’ before Sri Panchami indicates that Lakshmi is to be worshipped. The same text, however, also directs that Saraswati be honoured and hence ‘Sri’ also meant Saraswati”. Brahma Purana invokes Bhadrakali, along with Saraswati.
In the second half of the 19th century, the Bengali white collar class fished out this Vedic goddess and gave her a new life after three millennia of hibernation — just as Vishwakarma was brought from the Vedic age and worshipped by the workers as their industrial god. After all, the new aspirational class of Bengalis from humbler backgrounds required education to get their coveted jobs of clerks under the British. This worship was picked up by Pandit Madanmohan Malaviya who introduced Saraswati pujas in the new Benaras Hindu University in the 1930s. But, except for Assam and Bengal (and Uttarakhand) we hardly find her worshipped anywhere else on this date. In the south, they celebrate her on the last day of Navaratri in Ashwin.
Saraswati is equally important as a river and in fact, it is Saraswati that Aryan tribes held as the holiest. Her banks were hallowed by the composition of hymns and sacrificial rites.
From the 5th century, Vedic-Puranic deities were one of India’s most popular exports to many Asia-Pacific countries and their values found deep favour, as much as Buddhist ones. Mahayana Buddhism also adopted and transformed many Hindu deities and thus our peaceful Saraswati became Vajra in Tibet, where she is portrayed holding a dangerous thunder-bolt.. In neighbouring Myanmar, we find her in the Lakshman Sen-period Mon inscriptions near the ancient capital of Pagan and Saraswati is honoured as Thurathadi, the protector of Buddhist scriptures. From the 7th century onwards, we find Brahma and Saraswati in Cambodian epigraphy and she is praised by the Khmer poets as Vageeswari, the goddess of eloquence, writing and music. In Thailand, she is known as Suratswadi or Pra Surasawadi, the goddess of speech and learning and one comes across several old icons at old Thai temples.
Let us now visit Bali, one of the few places outside India where she is still celebrated as a major deity. Balinese Hindus invoke her as water and consider it holy to bathe in rivers or in the sea or at sacred waterfalls on this day. Very large images of Saraswati adorn schools, colleges and universities, where she is revered for learning, music and wisdom. In Japan, we find that she had arrived there in the 6th century, with many other Vedic and Puranic deities, and that she was worshipped there till the 8th century. She is called Benzaiten, from her Chinese name Bian-Chaiten, and she is still quite visible in many temples like Kamakura, Nagoya and even Tokyo. She is seen playing a Biwa, a traditional Japanese stringed musical instrument and she was actually promoted as one of the Seven Gods of Fortune. Saraswati is primarily the goddess of flowing water and everything else that flows, like words, speech, music etc, but she is also associated with snakes and is actually married to a sea dragon.
After such hectic travels, it is now time for us to return to Bengal. But when we look at Ma Saraswati now, we do so with new respect. It is also befitting to commend Brahmanism for its superb flexibility and its adroit management of contradictions — that helped Hindu culture emerge as one of most plural and tolerant civilisations in the word. May Ma Saraswati keep it thus.
Mr. Jawhar Sircar is the Chairman of the Centre for Study of Social Sciences, Kolkata. He is Ex Union Culture Secretary and Former CEO of Prasar Bharati (Doordarshan and All India Radio), New Delhi.
Strange art thou, woman,
Strangeness thy beauty.
Strangely thou behave
Stranger am’ I to thine world.
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.
"He said it was good and that he loved it!", Shefali came out of Rohit Sir's chamber, hustling. "And he said you did a fine job, Maya", she added. Rather as a taunt, or at least I thought so. Everyone congratulated her with a mixed expression on their faces - of admiration as well as jealousy. I suddenly realised that I'd stopped feeling jealous of this gorgeous lady - Shefali. Though it was a relief, the reason behind my feeling made me rather sorry for myself.
I've always envied her beauty, her appearance, her popularity, her conversational skills and of course, diplomacy - a thing that could get her all she had wanted. I, a skilled employee with deep thoughtful eyes and high efficiency had always been hiding a mound of enviousness behind my glasses.
I remember the first time I'd shared about this Shefali thing haunting me every now and then with my boyfriend, Siddharth.
"Maya, you're excellent at your job. Also, you're pretty. You just don't put efforts to look anything extra. And that's absolutely fine! The boss might flirt with the gorgeous employee but deep down all bosses know whom to treasure. And you're the asset every boss would like to treasure. Trust me. Believe in all that you can do!", Ah Siddharth! How this man could just blow away all my worries in a puff with his witty words.
Everyone had warned me against getting engaged to Siddharth because of the ten years of age gap between us. But I'd laughed off all of their concerns - my parents', my friends', everyone's! That particular innocence in him kept me tied to him. How blinded I must have been, isn't it?
Siddharth was the husband every girl would dream to have - supportive, caring, respectful and understanding. He was the MD of a company while I was an employee at another. I ought to have joined his but we both decided against it for the sake of my career's growth. We were in two different cities. Every well-wisher had warned me against that as well. But we had both jerked off their opinions about the geographical distance between us. Another instance of me being blind, and a fool.
Everything was going off well between both of us till he started mentioning Sana every now and then.
"Hey, there's this new employee at the office and she's too good for her age and experience", "Sana did a fantastic presentation and clients were so impressed", "Sana sang so well at the office functionn".... Sana, Sana, Sana! I loved his being vocal about everything with me. I loved having no secrets. but I just couldn't digest so much of Sana. In one of the group pics of him and his colleagues, I spotted Sana right beside Siddharth. A fine looking girl with an absolutely charming smile on her face. Siddharth too was smiling candidly. Something cracked inside me that day.
I was gradually getting to grow fond of my new boss - Mr. Rohit. A middle aged man, still going single at the age of forty four. He wasn't like the previous boss who used to dance to the rhythms sung by Shefali. Rohit Sir would sit by me during lunch, drink coffee with me, talk work to me, believe in me, endorse me with heavy responsibilities, appreciate me and offer me a ride to home when I fumbled to find a taxi for myself. Though he never asked me personal questions, I still felt special. Increasing frictions between me and Siddharth could be one of the reasons why I felt so. But I can't deny that a handsome man like Rohit Sir choosing my company over Shefali's was casting a spell on me.
I'd begun shortening our call durations - mine and Siddharth's. I'd blatantly decline his requests for video calls. I'd cut his calls and text 'I'm busy'.
"What happened, Mayyu? What has changed?", he'd once asked me in his deep appealing voice. A voice that once used to soothe me.
"I'm getting busier day by day, Siddharth. Rohit Sir trusts me with the major projects and I don't want to disappoint him under any circumstances", I'd emphasised on 'Rohit Sir' intending to make him feel the way I feel when he repeatedly uttered Sana's name. But I didn't have much success. He'd stopped calling me much. But one day he texted- 'please call when you're free. It's urgent'.
It wasn't his natural self to seek my permission to call. I was glad he was finally learning his lesson. However, I called.
"Yes, Sid. What's it?", I spoke in a relatively polite tone but with a pinch of 'I'm busy' hint added to it.
"We're flying to the US to hold a business meeting with the clients on behalf of our company. I'll be away for, say a month. I thought you must know..."
"We?", I asked what concerned me the most.
"Yes - me and Sana"
"Sana? Why Sana?"
"She has really worked on this project, Maya. And she deals with clients in a way nobody else can!"
Had it been another occasion, I would've celebrated his honesty and decision making. But there was something wrong with me, surely.
"Oh! I see you've explored a lot of her. Talent, I mean."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. All the Best!"
And I cut the call. I still wondered why did Siddharth choose Sana over everyone else in the office? Potential? Hard to believe. I could hear the breaking sounds of a few strings between us. I had my face hidden in my palms and was still contemplating the weird situation when Rohit Sir tapped his fist on a desk to make some important announcement for all of us.
"The project we've been working on since long, has finally been approved and we are to travel soon to Japan to officialize things. I'll soon declare the team I want to fly with me."
After his heavy, attractive voice stopped plopping words, an ecstatic wave of 'yeah!', 'hurray' and 'cheers' ran across the hall. I could feel a tap on my shoulder and a 'Good Job, Maya' in the same heavy, attractive voice. I'd almost got past what had happened over my conversation with Siddharth.
'Rohit Sir is different. Not like other men who hold a higher position or power. He's different. From Siddharth, at least. He won't choose good looking women to accompany him. He will choose the deserving ones. He'll choose me. Because I've worked so hard to make this project a success and Rohit Sir acknowledges that. Or maybe because....' - I'd spent the entire night anticipating who Rohit Sir is going to pick. I was so hopeful, so optimistic.
"Hey! Congratulations! You made it. My girl did it!", Siddharth's reply to my status regarding the project flashed on my screen after I'd rejected three of his calls. I could listen to his voice - as happy as a child who had just stood first in a race.
"Thanks!", I replied trying to make it look as formal as it can.
"Why didn't you tell me. Like, in person?"
"I was too busy and excited actually, so...", I didn't say 'sorry'.
"Oh, it's okay. I understand. Anyways, congrats again. I'm proud of you", something was missing in his voice. Like a light that'd just gone off.
The next day at office, I was startled to see Shefali announcing how Rohit Sir loved the biryani she'd cooked and brought for him. Is this going to work in her favor? She being picked over me just because she got him homemade biryani? Rohit Sir can't get biased this easily, can he? But everyone was almost lauding Shefali for being the girl to fly to Japan!
"They're all same. All of them", I thought to myself as I started to feel sick simultaneously. I decided to call the day off and told the HR to grant me a half day leave.
"Sure. But Rohit Sir wants to see you before you leave.", The HR lady said.
What now? A made up explanation about why I wasn't picked for my own project, every word of which I'd know to be false?
"Sir, did you want to see me?", I asked after knocking.
"Yes, Maya! What happened to you? Why do you want to go in the middle of the day? All good, I suppose."
"Yes, Sir. Just a little sick. A day on bed should fix it."
"Make it a day at doctor's, if necessary, but fix it before Monday. I don't want a sick Maya to fly to Japan.", I couldn't believe my ears.
"Sir, am I supposed to accompany you?", I asked, half joyous, half skeptical.
"It's your project. Who else do you think should be able to deal with it better than you?", I heard another sound, maybe that of a blow's. The words were so similar to what Siddharth had said he had chosen Sana for. How I'd been loathing him for the same, ever since. For a moment I was in Sana's shoes and put Sid in Rohit sir's. For a moment, everything looked fair, and just, and obvious. I anyway left the office and got home. I'd gone too far - from loathing Sid to admiring Rohit Sir, I'd gone too far and wondered if there's any U-turn.
We were at the airport- me and Rohit.
"Can we click a selfie?", I asked half afraid he'll deny. He took his cap off and smiled looking at my phone's front camera. I uploaded the selfie in my status.
"Reached airport?", Sid was the first to view it and reply. I didn't text back.
"Happy journey! Do drop a text after you've landed.", I could again hear his dropped voice.
Rohit Sir helped me with my luggages as we boarded the flight. He sat next to me, flipping pages of a business tabloid, sipping coffee. Contrary to what I'd expected, there was no personal talks between us. Rather, I was mind storming why Sid was never jealous or angry about all that I'd been doing all these days. I knew he was different from the very beginning.
We landed. I remembered Sid had asked for a confirmation text but chose not to comply. I knew he was at no fault. I knew he had chosen Sana for the sake of all the reasons that I had been chosen by Rohit Sir. I was ashamed of all that I'd built up in my mind, for having taken Sid for granted since so long. But now I had walked too far from the point where everything could be fixed, be same again. I was standing close, very close to Rohit Sir. And, I saw no U-turn.
The meeting went better than any expectation. We bagged big deals. Rohit had spent half a day's time appreciating what an intelligent and efficient employee I was and predicting the brightness of my future. I was at cloud nine. By then, I stood a step closer to Rohit.
There was a gala dinner at the Hotel we were staying at. It was unsaid but none of us ordered dinner to be brought to our rooms. I dressed like I haf to impress someone for the woman I was and not the employee I'd been. Hair done, dressed more elegantly than ever, dabs of make-up. I wore a look I doubt my colleagues had ever seen before. I went downstairs to the hall and surfed through the tables. I found the face I had been searching for without much trouble. I looked at myself in one of the numerous mirrors in the hall and walked ahead to his table.
I stood by him and waited for him to notice. It was not a long wait, I must say. He was taken aback at the sight of me. He paused before he could speak.
"You look amazing, Maya", I blushed. "Would you mind enjoying by yourself tonight for I've got some company", he was being utmost courteous with me. He took a framed photo out of his tuxedo pocket and placed before him on the table. The woman in the photo looking straight into him.
"That's Prachi, my wife. She's been dead for eight years but loved being by my side in occasions like this."
"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't know", he casually waved his hand at me and laughed briskly.
"Oh, this isn't as sad as you perceive. We're just in a long distance relationship, just that the distance is verryyyyy long!" He rolled his eyes as he said that. He wasn't his real self. He wasn't trying too hard to be funny. He was different when with Prachi, of course.
I turned and started walking away from him. However, I stopped.
"Rohit Sir", he looked at me. "Thank you!" I shouted and almost ran away from him without seeing the puzzled look on his face. I'd been on Sid's mind like Prachi had been on Rohit's all this while. Prachi couldn't come back but I could. I'd found my U-turn and I had to take it.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.
XXXI
I loose sense come night
though only to wake up every sun-
break with a fresh discovery: Me.
It is the day’s challenge
to know this one
and I’m dying to explore
an ever strange new me, day after day
This alone is for me life—
this journey
is for me to meet me
but only to loose that one;
to meet it once again
and so it goes on and on, and on.
XXXII
Life’s biggest hurdle?
to understand and comprehend
your own tiny dot called self
Yet I do not expect to be
understood, that is,
since I have not even
understood my own allotted life-cell.
Sangeeta Gupta, a highly acclaimed artist, poet and film maker also served as a top bureaucrat as an IRS Officer,recently retired as chief commissioner of income tax. Presently working as Advisor (finance & administration) to Lalit Kala Akademi, National Akademi of visual arts. She has to her credit 34solo exhibitions , 20 books , 7 books translated , 7 documentary films.
A poet in her own right and an artist, Sangeeta Gupta started her artistic journey with intricate drawings. Her real calling was discovered in her abstracts in oils and acrylics on canvas. Her solo shows with Kumar Gallery launched her love for contour within the abyss of colour; the works seemed to stir both within and without and splash off the canvas.
Her tryst with art is born of her own meditative ruminations in time, the undulating blend of calligraphic and sculptonic entities are realms that she has explored with aplomb. Images in abstraction that harkens the memory of Himalayan journeys and inspirations, the works speak of an artistic sojourn that continues in a mood of ruminations and reflections over the passage of time.
Sangeeta wields the brush with finesse, suggesting the viscosity of ink, the glossiness of lacquer, the mist of heights, the glow of the sun, and the inherent palette of rocks when wet. The canvases bespeak surfaces akin to skin, bark and the earth.
Her first solo exhibition was at the Birla Academy of Art & Culture, Kolkata in 1995. Her 34 solo shows have been held all over India i.e. Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Lucknow, Chandigarh and abroad at London, Berlin, Munich, Lahore, Belfast, Thessolinki. one of her exhibitions was inaugurated by the former President of India; Dr. A.P.J Abdul Kalam in August, 2013. Which was dedicated to Uttarakhand, fund raised through sale proceeds of the paintings is used for creating a Fine Art Education grant for the students of Uttarakhand. She has participated in more than 200 group shows in India & abroad, in national exhibitions of Lalit Kala Akademi All India Fine Arts & Craft Society and in several art camps. Her painting are in the permanent collection of Bharat Bhavan Museum, Bhopal and museums in Belgium and Thessolinki . Her works have been represented in India Art Fairs, New Delhi many times.
She has received 69th annual award for drawing in 1998 and 77th annual award for painting in 2005 by AIFACS, New Delhi and was also conferred Hindprabha award for Indian Women Achievers by Uttar Pradesh Mahila Manch in 1999, Udbhav Shikhar Samman 2012 by Udbhav for her achievements in the field of art and literature and was awarded "Vishwa Hindi Pracheta Alankaran" 2013 by Uttar Pradesh Hindi Saahitya Sammelan & Utkarsh Academy, Kanpur. She was bestowed with Women Achievers Award from Indian Council for UN relations.
She is a bilingual poet and has anthologies of poems in Hindi and English to her credit. Her poems are translated in many languages ie in Bangla, English and German, Dogri, Greek, urdu. Lekhak ka Samay, is a compilation of interviews of eminent women writers. Weaves of Time, Ekam, song of silence are collection of poems in English. Song of the Cosmos is her creative biography. Mussavir ka Khayal and Roshani ka safar are her books of poems and drawings/paintings.
She has directed, scripted and shot 7 documentary films. Her first film “Keshav Malik- A Look Back”, is a reflection on the life of the noted poet & art critic Keshav Malik. He was an Art Critic of Hindustan Times and Times of India. The film features, several eminent painters, poets, scholars and their views on his life. The film was screened in 2012, at Indian Council for Cultural Relations, , Kiran Nadar Museum of Art, Sanskriti Kendra, Anandgram, New Delhi and at kala Ghora Art Festival, Mumbai 2013. Her other documentaries “Keshav Malik – Root, Branch, Bloom” and “Keshav Malik- The Truth of Art” were screened by India International Centre and telecast on national television several times.
Widely travelled, lives and works in Delhi, India.
Did anyone say "Tea Time"!!!???? ????
I usually look forward to my first cup of tea in the morning, beginning of another new day., with summer fading and winter setting in - a whirl of flavors to choose from Jasmine, Ginger and Tulsi, Lemon tea, Chamomile, Peach, Apple Cinnamon, Masala chai, Darjeeling tea etc etc.
Pushing away melancholy and surrounding me with positive vibes, with magic in its fragrance, boosting up your spirits and finding solace in its taste. With every sip the aura of hope, determination and the desire to live on gets stronger. Outside our window scattered bougainvillea flowers tinting the earth fuchsia pink.
Tea time pushes away solitude and welcomes company of a soul mate,, a book or music.
The signs of my brewing tea puts a smile on my face, with my pet sitting amongst us and once in a while chasing the chirping birds.
Tea is soothing, sit down and sip away your worries, surrounded by lush green foliage and fresh blooms of roses.
With every sip I hear my Autistic son playing the best of songs on his IPad.....
"What is Love "?
Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more.
(song by Haddaway)
Tea time a pleasant family time, bonding stronger, healing relationships, with every sip from an intricately designed cup, a new adventure, surrounded by cakes, sandwiches and cookies-what more could one ask for?
Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors.... Alice Walker.
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)
So it has happened again. It was not the first time, nor is it going to be the last. Returning home after visiting a very senior friend of mine at Pettah, it happened.
Just a month ago, I had taken membership in an international club, Toastmasters International, to sharpen my public speaking skill, which continues to be a nightmare even after three sessions. The best thing about this club is that here you have all-round encouragement and all your fumbles in your attempt to speak go totally ignored. So there have been very good sessions, so far, all Saturday evenings from 6 to 8. You will find out later why I recall this here.
All sessions with my octogenarian friend have been enriching. I had left the meshed entrance door slightly open as I entered. Mr. Menon noted that and said, " Narayanan, you have kept the door ajar. That is the word for keeping a door slightly opened". Soon his sister walked in with a cup of hot coffee. It was too hot and as I was busy I began sipping it quickly. Another comment followed, "Don't gulp, sip". Meanwhile, I handed over my mobile to him to let him read my previous day's short write up. He finished and commented, "Don't you know the word for keeping mosquitoes and flies away". I said I did not. "It is swat". I never interrupt, even if I know. I allow him full liberty. Then came the question, "Narayanan, do you know the name of the camera Americans took to the Moon in 1967?". I was all at sea. I dumped my lack of knowledge again. "Why I am asking this question, you know, is because, I will forget if I do not refresh it once in a while. The camera taken to the Moon was Hasselblad; note it, share among your friends, as many times as possible, whether they like it or not, then you will never forget".
So what happened on my ride home?. A man on his bike, overtaking me, lifted his helmet to spit. I felt as if he overtook me only for this exercise. I honked from behind repeatedly and waved my hand which he saw in his mirror. He slowed down. Then I moved and stopped in front of him. He removed the helmet to show the world his youth and asked me. "Why, what is the matter?". Setting politeness at its pinnacle, I replied, "You spat a few minutes ago and I just escaped being smeared with your saliva. Is it good to spit on the go and with the wind like this? Couldn't you have done that inside the open sewage rather than on the road or on a rider who is behind you". There was no semblance of regret in his reply. "OK, I shall take care", he pulled back his helmet and rode fast. I felt happy that he loved his dear ones, I assumed he was in a hurry to meet them.
Coming back to my Toastmaster exposure, we have a session called Tabletopics in which 10 questions are put to the members; they are then called forth to answer questions posed by the tabletopic master. All choose questions for themselves blindly from the shreds of printouts given to them, all in two minutes. The sessions are neatly structured and all are encouraged to take part to come out of their shells. Last week I was the Tabletopic master.
Due to time constraints only seven questions could be put and among the three that remained unanswered, I experienced in advance the answer for it that day. My question was, "How would you react, if a two wheeler rider riding in front of you, spits and spoils your new clothes".
Then I had an encounter with a man who was unabashedly parking his car on the footpath, while I was on my usual morning stroll. Stung by his casual behavior, I was not one to let him go scot free for his callousness.
"Sir, this is not the way to park; it is the pedestrians way", I said to the violator, who was slowly pulling up the windscreen, before coming out of his car. He gave an authoritative look with no expression of any regret over his act and replied, "Wait".
A self imposed activist against parking of vehicles on footpaths, coming face to face with an encroacher gave a fillip of sorts to my efforts.
He came out and ran his eyes over my grey hair and wrinkled face with his specs perched on the brink of his long nose and in the process lifted his eyes to the heights of a shrunk forehead. Slowly he surveyed the surroundings and asked, "Where is the foot path? I don't see any? There is not any demarking". "You mean the absence of interlocked tiles", I politely asked him. With arrogance writ large on his face came the reply, "Yes. Mark my words, tomorrow also, I will park here only, if this space is available".
A little taken aback by the reply, but regaining my composure, I furthered my position, "Is it right to park on whatever space is available for pedestrians?".
I was a bit mellowed when he addressed me as "Anna", (elder brother) but what followed was, I felt, an assertion of a kind of beadledom. He continued, "By parking here, I am in no way putting people to any trouble. I repeat, I will continue to do so".
Startled and finding it diffcult to give utterance, I stammered, "Is that right?". "Absolutely", he said. "Anna, if you can bend a little, please do it now. You will find a huge gap without a slab and with rusted rods sticking out. If somebody stumbles and falls, that would dispose him off for a minimum of two months of pain and medication. By parking my car over it I am actually saving people. See for yourself".
By the time I had satisfied myself, he had disappeared and I stood like a stone, unmoved. I said to myself, "Sir, this is surely a novel way to save pedestrians!"
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.
I'm straying afar
With no further leads
The dreams are long gone
Only the soul remains.
The wilderness calls out
And choices have to be made
The glass chateau is falling apart
With nothing left to see.
The bittersweet stench of lies
The darkest shades of the moon
The unending depth of the moors
The untamed spirits of lust
Am I just following my heart
Or is this my destiny?
Unknown powers decide the fate
And I just glide away.
Would I be cast aside
Like a rugged log of wood?
Or would I be put in a case,
Like a precious little stone?
What lies beneath the lies
No one seem too see
The free spirit of a gypsy
And That's what I seek.
If I could turn the clock back
What is it that I would see,
A light at the end of the tunnel
And that's where I will go!
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha is an Assistant Professor of Nutrition at the Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi, Kerala. She is passionate about art, literature and poetry.
I don't want to be poet,
I don't want to be an artist.
My desire is not
To become a dancer,
My dreams are not
To draw beautiful pictures.
I don't want to write
Imaginary stories.,
I never like to be
A king of music.
I don't want to be a
Politician nor a priest.
I don't want to amaze you
With fantastic magics.
I want to be an Indian
An Indian, an Indian
I am already an Indian
Always an Indian.
Aboo Jumaila is an upcoming and prolific writer in Malayalam. She is a bank employee from Alapuzha, Kerala.
As tears rolled down her cheek,
She tried a lot, but couldn't speak.
A voice that she knew was her own,
Now betrayed her as an unknown.
With her heart beating up and down in pain,
She clutched her chest but all in vain.
She needed to get out of the cruel shock,
But no matter how she tried, she choked.
A toy can be mended, so can a cart,
But what is the cure of a broken heart.
The pain made her felt all the blue,
It was like drifting through life without a clue.
As she tried to hold on to the memories of a life so romantic,
Strange and grim thoughts made her frantic.
The man who was her love and life,
Had torn her in just a strike.
As she pondered flying off the terrace,
And go into death's cold embrace.
A sound of a chime startled her,
And made her jump with fear.
She looked around and realised it was from her cell,
The one gift from him which she wanted to throw into hell.
Still she reached for it hoping for some good news,
but she saw it was just a ruse.
A simple message was blinking on the display,
The lines left her with awe and nothing to say.
"On your very own life do you have the hold or someone else holds the sway.
Are you living life or sort of drifting away?"
Stunned at the clarity she received,
She realised her emotions had deceived.
Allowing the man to take full throttle,
He just made her struggle.
So into the man she was all the time,
She never realised how was she doing a crime.
Not living her own dreams and hopes,
She was dangling by his mercy and ropes.
But now she was clear with wisdom,
As she was thinking for herself, which she did seldom.
The moon kissed her cheeks with a loving glow,
And the wind, ruffled her long hair with a gentle blow.
"I am the designer of my life" she shouted,
Realising her voice was back, pleasantly astounded.
She stood up and moved in many a twirl
As she happily thought "YOU GO GIRL".
Biswa Prakash Sarangi is a doctor currently undergoing Post Graduation in Surgery at Cuttack. He is a prolific writer of short stories and is also a sensitive poet.
Mentality,flickers
from moment to moment,
if this moment with Tom,
next moment, with Dick,
And they both turn
against Harry !
sometimes after.
General unreserved rail compartment,
Always jam packed,
Sometimes, passengers don’t open the door,
fearing more passengers
will enter in the stations.
You will say ,”it’s very bad”,
But once inside the compartment,
you will speak in their tone,
and behave like them too.
and that is “General unreserved railway compartment
mentality.”
Wonders !
No passenger here,
vibes positive vibes ?
Is it,
Because “Necessity has no law” ?!
Or, the mind is set for one
particular direction,
Like face of a steam loco ?
Can only be changed,
by rail turntable.
As wisely said
“We can’t control the world.
We can only (barely) control
our own reactions to it.
Happiness is largely a choice,
not a right or entitlement.”
Notes: A railway turntable or wheelhouse is a device for turning railway rolling stock, locomotives, so that they can be moved back in the direction from which they came.
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
GOOD, BAD AND UGLY- YE HAI MUMBAI MERI JAAN
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Mumbai!
Ah, the city that never sleeps, where dreams happen with eyes wide open, and are shattered with nothing left, not even fragments to be picked up from the cobbled pathways. We had an opportunity to live in this fabled land for four years from 2013 to 2017. Our sea-facing government apartment was close to Breach Candy Hospital on Bhulabhai Desai Marg. The wide blue ocean was hardly fifty meters away and often on moonlit nights one could sit in the balcony and feel the gentle white waves washing over the innermost depth of the soul, filling it with a a fathomless joy.
Young girls and boys would come in groups at one a.m., parking their cars and walking towards a coffee shop nearby, with absolutely no care, no fear at all. Having lived in Delhi for nine years prior to that and experiencing an untold, sickening fear, walking even at seven in the evening in as posh localities as Khan Market, Mumbai was a revelation to us. Everything was orderly, disciplined, no honking, no road rage and people going out of the way to help if someone asks for directions or addresses. One can live on hundred rupees a day in Mumbai with Vada pao and roti sabji, but a room in one of the swanky hotels opposite Marine Drive can cost upward of twenty five thousand rupees a night, and an omelette at breakfast there would be billed at eight hundred rupees!
It is to Mumbai that the laborers from all over the country come, seeking work and getting it. Young professionals throng the city to learn the tricks of the trade and eventually earn in millions. Star-struck young boys and girls come there to be in films, modelling, art and theatre. Hardly anyone leaves Mumbai after setting his foot there, Mumbai, like a smiling damsel, has an enticing way of capturing the heart and soul of anyone who chooses to come to her.
Yet, with all the good that the city of dreams offers, there are also bad and ugly sides to it, which creep on people stealthily and leave a dark shadow on the mind. From the many experiences I had during my stay in Mumbai I want to recollect three episodes representing the good, the bad and the ugly side of life in the famed city.
The government apartment that was allotted to us had an attached room with a kitchenette and a bathroom meant for the domestic help and her family. We had an amazing lady working for us, Kalavathy, who was efficiency, sincerity and integrity personified. She used to live with her husband and two college going sons. Mumbai, as is well known, experiences torrential rains during monsoons, often non-stop and pouring for a week. (Hats off to BSES, even in those desperate days, power never goes off in Mumbai. In our four years of stay in Mumbai we had power disruption three times, at an average of less than once a year. No other city we have lived in India, can boast of such a sterling record.). During one such rainy evening, Kalavathy asked for her family some atta, dal, potatoes and onion, which we had stored in large quantity. (It has been estimated that an average Odiya consumes around hundred times his weight in potatoes during his life time, we use potato in every possible and conceivable way, with all vegetables, with daal, meat, fish, egg and of course in isolated splendour as bhartaa.) We gave those items to her. Around ten o' clock in the night when the rain and the wind were at their fiercest and I was watching from the balcony, I found Kalavathy's husband going out of our compound, struggling with an old umbrella. The next morning we asked Kalavathy where had he gone in that god-forsaken weather. What she told astounded us. It appeared there was a cobbler down the street, who was stranded because the bus and train services were suspended due to water logging, he had taken shelter in a small cabin meant for the watchmen of a nearby apartment complex. Since he was hungry and no shops were open, Kalavathy's husband had taken rotis and sabji for him! Hats off to our good Samaritan! On that day we were proud of the human spirit residing even in the poorest of the poor.
Now about the bad episode. About a hundred meters from our apartment was a row of shops selling fruits, adjacent to Amarson's, opposite to Breach Candy Hospital. They sell all varieties of fruits, domestic and imported and it is rumoured that some of the film stars stop there on the way home to buy fruits. These stars of course cause a traffic jam, similar to what happens at Mukesh Chowk at the Muchhad Paanwala's shop where Salman Khan comes along with his body guards and flunkeys to buy paan. I often used to go to those fruit shops to buy our small requirement. Being on the main road no parking is allowed in front of the fruit shops and there is always a police man posted there to shoo away the drivers. One summer evening I found a "Seth" (In Mumbai it is customary for any well dressed man to be addressed as Seth) alighting from the car. It was interesting to see the marauding police man changing his ferocious colour and become an obsequious public "servant" before the Seth, who grandly produced a hundred rupee note and handed it over to the policeman. His car remained on the street for a good ten minutes till he finished his shopping. This is the only time in my life I had seen a bribe being actually given for condoning an illegal act. I was shocked! And I realised Mumbai was as bad as any other place in India when it comes to greasing palms.
And finally the ugly part. About two years onto my stay in Mumbai I suddenly developed a blister on my right toe and it refused to respond to small time treatment obtained over telephone from my doctor relatives. I was advised to go to a Skin Specialist. After some amount of search I found one such specimen whose clinic was located in a beautiful, spectacular building close to my apartment. I called and fixed an appointment. I was there at the appointed hour and was told one has to pay the consultation fee of 1800 rupees in advance before entering the sanctum sanctorum. I did it and went in after a wait of about half an hour. The doctor took a quick, lightning look at the foot and in a few seconds wrote down half a dozen tests. I tried to tell him that I was a diabetic and had a BP problem too. He just dismissed me saying he would discuss all that after I come back with the reports. Before I could ask him anything else, he got busy with his mobile, calling someone. For the eighteen hundred rupees I had paid him, he had not spared even eighteen seconds for me! Disgusted, I came out. The receptionist called me to fix the next date of appointment. I asked her if there was a charge for the second visit, I was told it would be 1500 rupees. I ran out in horror. The beautiful building no longer looked beautiful to me. In fact it looked ugly, awfully ugly.
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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