Literary Vibes - Edition LIV

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fifty fourth edition of LiteraryVibes. We are offering a tantalising array of beautiful poems and delectable stories for your enjoyment. Hope you will like them.

In this edition we are happy to welcome a new writer to the family of LIteraryVibes. Mr. Suresh Chandra Sarangi from Bhubaneswar is a retired bank official with multifarious interests. He writes well and is a great speaker. His terrace garden at home attracts hordes of wonder-struck visitors. His story in today's LV speaks a lot about his love for trees and greenery. We wish him lots of success in his literary efforts.

LiteraryVibes was launched on the 1st February 2019 with the objective of encouraging the creative skill of young poets and writers. We completed one year with the fifty third edition on 31st January. We have been able to publish LV unfailingly every Friday of the year. Our pages have been adorned by scintillating works of established, award winning poets and writers, as also the cute, promising creations of budding writers, some of them as young as ten, twelve, fourteen years.

As we enter the second year of LiteraryVibes, we strive at widening the base of readers and writers. We do hope LiteraryVibes will gain popularity in the coming weeks and carve a niche for itself in the literary world. Your support will help a lot in those efforts.

Please forward the link to all your friends and contacts and encourage them to write for LiteraryVibes. The articles should be sent to my email address at mrutyunjays@gmail.com The link for today's edition is http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/268 All previous editions of LiteraryVibes can be accessed at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes

Wish you a happy reading.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi

Edition - LIV - Table of Contents

FAITH

Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Behind your opaque veil

mysteriously you sail

casting me aside wide open,

curious eyes nail.

The years I have lived and loved;

my sins, my blasphemes

you have shut your eyes to, but turned

away from; to return gracefully sublime.

We sheltered Ram and rested Rahim,

when men bled for them, their icons;

traded them, their merchandise;

pawn them, their gambit.

Late nights, when I lie insomniac

you rush in with your sweeping sails,

drown my senses, smother my fears;

hours of loss, of fading dreams.

You rule my flesh and my soul

with the mating cry of a night Chakor,

bring back memories from amnesia,

holding hands of my laughs and tears.

Just once, do reveal yourself,

your mystique and your secrets

like fire and rain did to the caveman,

my teacher, my guide in earnest.

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

NEW YEAR’S EVE (NUAA VARSHA)

Haraprasad Das

Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra

Ah! these drunken hours…

not easy to button a shirt,

knot a necktie,

tie a shoelace;

not easy to say, ‘No’

to drunken driving; or

care a damn to barge

into a packed gambling den.

Let the choir sing

a farewell song

to the departing year,

and lift the gloom;

as no pipes or drums,

not even a knife or a whore,

or a partying group to put fizz

into the dampened mood.

Toast to the departing year,

go quietly, pick the best rose

from the bouquet

as your reward;

do not waver

if fruits

are ripening in the garden

this night;

do not feel upbeat

if your piece is inching

towards the winning post

on the board of dice.

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)”

THE BLUE BOX
Geetha Nair G.

“Did you lose a blue box?”

The one-line post on her Messenger page was from a stranger called Rahul Krishna. Shyla sat staring at the middle-aged stranger smiling at her from her mobile. Her heart was beating fast. She had not thought about her blue box for years.

The Blue Box had always been there - in a corner of the corner room. It was believed to have come all the way from Malaysia where Shyla's great grandfather had worked in his youth. As a child Shyla had imagined it floating - a blue speck on a bluer sea - until it washed up on the Shanghumukham beach near their ancestral home and her ancestor in his black coat and brown face walking up and dragging it home. She knew him only as a portrait on the wall next to the photo of her elder sister who had died of a mysterious fever when she was ten and Shyla four. She wished her sister had not died; being an only child was lonely. Her father was never at home; her mother was never anywhere except in the bedroom where she lay all day and night. Shyla loved her parents but wished they were more interested in her work and play.
Shyla had made the blue box her own. It was wooden, a low rectangle in shape and very capacious. In it she kept all her treasures. There were the seashells, Binaca charms and peacock feathers of her childhood. There were a few photographs. There were her diaries holding all the poems and stories she had written. Also, the numerous certificates she had won for her creative writing. Lately, there was a box within the box. A small square one with roses on it that had once housed Cadbury's Nutties but now held something sweeter, the letters that Sajan wrote to her almost every day. The blue box she kept securely locked with a number lock. 379. That was the combination special to her - 3 for the date of her birth 7 for the month and 9 for the last digit of her year of birth.
Sajan was her classmate. They were completing their post-graduation. They were in love with each other. They lived fully in the present, savouring every second. I am not lonely any longer; I am happy, she often told herself wonderingly.

The day after Shyla's last exam, her father collapsed at work and died.

In three months, she had found a teaching job at a nearby convent school, her mother and she had moved to two rooms in a tiled house. They had rented their house to a gulfie who was building a mini-palace nearby; the rent he paid them made a big difference.
The corner room alone had been retained. A few pieces of antique furniture, some paintings, an iron safe, her father's easy chair and the blue box - these were stored in the room because there was no space in their present dwelling for any of these. The key to the room was in Shyla's handbag. She no longer wished to read the letters stored in the blue box. Sajan had departed leaving behind no address.
Mother and daughter lived a frugal life. As the days ticked by, Shyla's mother's worry about her daughter’s single state grew.
"Amma, a lone woman can also survive and be useful and happy," Shyla said gently. She was rubbing an ayurvedic oil into her mother's spine which had been giving trouble for quite some time. Her mother shook her sad grey head in dissent. She seemed to be getting frailer by the day though she was barely sixty. Soon she started requiring bouts of hospitalisation. It was during one such bout that their gulfie tenant visited to ask if several large pieces of luggage belonging to a friend and co-worker that were arriving unaccompanied from Sharjah could be stored in the corner room. The stuff would be carted away to some distant destination in a week or two. Would his landlady allow this use of the corner room? Her mother nodded her assent. Shyla reluctantly handed over the key with the Ganesha keychain.
Two days later her mother was whisked off to the ICU. After an ineffectual week on the ventilator Shyla signed the permission statement to have her mother removed from it. It was the most shattering moment of her life.

At 30, Shyla was all alone in the world. She tried to keep loneliness at bay by plunging fully into her work. The nuns plied her with compliments and work - the reward for work is more work.
Sometimes she would remember a spirited girl who wrote imaginative pieces which were read and assessed by a spirited young man. She would remember their walks amid the greenery burning here and there into flames of the forest. There had been birdsong from the trees. But that girl and that man were no longer alive. Not even in her heart. She tried to write but no birds sang in her and no words flowed.

“Your mother is no more; you need to get her house transferred to your name,” the kind old man in whose house she rented two rooms reminded her now and then. One Sunday, she visited her old home. The sea was a grey blur some distance away. In the still air, the doorbell sounded like an intrusion. Her tenant himself opened the door. His house had been completed long ago; he had rented it out and stayed on in her house. It made economic sense as he had not returned to the Gulf. “I need the key to the corner room,” Shyla said; he had not returned it. He went in. Meanwhile she looked up at the laburnum that had clothed itself in gold April after April. It was green now. The hibiscus she had planted when she was in school had grown so high that it was almost a tree. Orange flowers adorned it still. ”The key,” his voice broke into her memories. She moved toward the corner room, Ganesha swinging from her fingers. The door opened easily. She made for the iron safe white with dust and took out the documents relating to the house. As she was locking the safe, she thought to herself; 379. It was years since she had looked at the relics of her past. Shyla looked around her. The old easy chair, the carved wooden stand… . The blue box. It was missing ! She looked again. There was no place for the box to hide itself. It was gone.
She went rushing to her tenant. It took them a few minutes to realise what had happened. He hadn’t supervised the loading of the luggage; why would he? It had been a late night operation to hoodwink the union workers. Whoever had been hired to transport all that luggage had added her blue box to all the other stuff lying in the room. It was a natural mistake. Her tenant said he would call his friend and then revealed that it was his friend’s friend’s friend to whom the luggage had belonged.
Would she get back her box? Not a chance. Shyla thought of her past in alien hands, of strangers reading her poems, her love letters… .Gradually, the Blue Box became yet another sad loss, yet another memory.

And now, nearly twenty years later, here was a post on her Messenger page… . Were such things possible?
She sent him a one-word reply.
“Yes.”
His response was immediate.
“I found a blue box in the attic of this house I bought recently. I am afraid I opened it and went through some of its contents. I have been making efforts to find the owner of the box and its contents ever since. A letter I sent to the postal address given on the letters came back with ‘Addressee not known’ stamped on it. I visited the house given in the address. It is nearly a hundred kilometres from where I live.The owners told me you had sold it to them ten years ago. They did not know your present whereabouts but I got a few leads from them. Your Profile Picture on FB resembles the girl in those photos in the box. I think I have found the author of those beautiful poems. “
His words poured on; Shyla wondered if her mobile could contain them.
She typed a short but agitated reply to this tumultous flow... .

The Blue Box is once more in Shyla’s house. It is the house she shares with Rahul Krishna, journalist and environmentalist. Shyla and Rahul got married a couple of months after they started communicating.
Life is full of surprises. Some of them can be very satisfying.

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

FISHES

Bibhu Padhi

I allow them to swim past

the innocence of the new harbour,

the generous surf of its nearer waters.

Now they move near

the seaweed-architecture, now they listen

to the bells sounding behind

the temple doors, and now they smile

over matter large and small,

move into a farther, safer blue.

During winter, fishes slip into our

gray houses, like warm, luminous angels;

their blue-red miracles

serve my belief well.

They swim into the mind’s

secret places, the dark rooms of my

house are made bright.

They make agreeable contacts

with my wishes, recede fluently

Early morning.

Fishes play their makeshift games

with the first sun, winning now

near the east-facing windows,

now losing my hand’s quiet pulse.

As I shut my eyes half-mockingly,

they net me at a place where

the sun is a riot of colours.

Somewhere a friendship

quietly takes shapes and shines

through the falling rains.

I fight back my disbelief.

Thereafter, every birth of a sight

makes me aware of new modes

of smooth Sunday flight.

I’m held by new promises:

colours for your hands,

sunshine for my eyes,

an endless season of peace.

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

MURDER MYSTERY

Dr Ajay Upadhyaya

Pragat Ganj, the sleepy town at foothills of Dhauladhar Range is used to chill. Seeking respite from the relentless heat of the plains, tourists from all over India flock here in hordes, for its salubrious summer climate. Its winters are mercilessly harsh though: It is freezing cold. But this chill was of a different kind.

There was a murder in PragatGanj. The locals were stunned by the news. Senior citizens were heard saying, we did not expect this in our lifetime: It's such a peaceful place. People here have lived in harmony for generations and incidents like burglaries or brawls are unheard of, let alone murder.

The victim was a retired Colonel. who had settled there for years. Colonel Lamba, a man in his late 60s had an illustrious career in Indian Army, who retired with his wife in PragatGanj. Since the passing of his wife, five years ago, he was living alone, with their servant, a man in his forties, who lived in the attached servant’s quarter with his family.

The local Police Station was unusually abuzz with activities. This unprecedented crime had thrown the Station Officer in charge, Mr. Sharma, completely off balance. The Colonel was a man of placid temperament and had a small circle of friends, an amicable bunch who used to meet regularly for drinks. There was no animosity whatsoever and he had no known enemy.

Furthermore, there was no break-in, no apparent motive for murder, and no trace of the murderer at the crime scene.

As all investigations drew a blank, Mr Sharma had to seek assistance from the District Head Office in solving the murder mystery. Chief Detective Inspector, Mr. Yadav from the Head Office took over the murder investigation.

Inspector Yadav had plenty of experience in investigating murders. He quickly took stock of the situation with a fresh perusal of the murder file. Colonel Lamb was shot from close range in front of his house, late night and his body was found next morning, lying in front of his door. He was alone in the house that night. His servant had gone away with his family for a few days for a marriage in his village. A single shot had proved fatal. No firearm was found on the scene. There was no sign of struggle or any other violence. There was no eye witness to the fatal shooting.

So, the motive for the murder remained a mystery. And, no clue to the identity of the criminal.

Most people are killed by someone they know; murder by a complete stranger is rare. The key to catching the murderer is the motive. Motives for murder are usually passion or revenge, unless it’s a burglary or theft, gone wrong.

The people closest to the Colonel were the servant and his family, who were interrogated as a routine. They had not seen or heard anything unusual around the time of the murder. His diary was examined minutely for any clue to any suspicious contact or encounter he might have had, which could shed some light on the murderer.

And, his mobile phone was examined thoroughly and the phone log for days leading to the fatal day was scrutinised in minute detail. Although he had made several calls to his local friends, one of them stood out - phone number of Dr Ashok Mahajan.

Dr Mahajan, a Psychiatrist, had moved to the area recently. He had chosen PragatGanj as his retirement home for its weather and tranquility. It also suited his habits, which included walks in open country and his love of mountains. He would be often spotted on his walks, photographing Dhauladhar Range of mountains, tea estates and the country side of Pragat Ganj.

‘I am sure you have interviewed Dr Mahajan’.

Yes, along with all four of Colonel Lamba’s social circle, but there is nothing suspicious about their whereabouts in the night of the murder.

Mr Yadav was a meticulous cop and he explored all possible avenues. As he got no leads from the routine lines of enquiry, he escalated his investigations to the next level. He roped in Dr Sawhney, a Forensic Ecologist, specialising in spores and pollens, who had made a name for himself recently, in solving a number of high profile murders. His investigations suggested the most likely murderer to be a contract killer. Some unusual tyre marks were spotted outside the Colonel’s house, linked to a car, which was registered in Delhi. But the mastermind behind it was still a mystery.

Mr Yadav interviewed Dr Mahajan again. His social circle included a small group of a local contractor, a Veterinary Surgeon, Rajesh Sood and a retired lawyer, Gurdeep Singh.

His alibi was that he was with friends in an evening party This was corroborated by his wife in her independent police interview. Dr Mahajan and Colonel Lamba were acquaintances; not close enough to invoke strong feelings to justify a drastic act like murder.

Not satisfied with the quality of interrogations by Mr Sharma, Inspector Yadav conducted a fresh round of interviews with Dr Mahajan’s circle and the accounts of their whereabouts that night did not add up.

Dr Mahajan’s alibi for the night was that he was in a party in Rajesh Sood’s house. Generally, they attended such parties as a couple but on that night his wife was not in the mood to socialise.

But where was he actually that night? The statements from his friends about the events of that night, did not match the story given by Dr Mahajan in his initial interview.

This discrepancy prompted another round of interview with Dr Mahajan. Mr Yadav had in the meantime done further enquiries into his background as well. If his alibi for the night proved to be a hoax, is he also concealing something related to this crime? He might be privy to some secret or clue to the murderer, if he is not the mastermind himself.

Dr Ashok Mahajan was called back to the Police Station. Not only his alibi was dodgy, more secrets had been unearthed about his past.

He specialised in Psychiatry in Chandigarh and decided to settle in nearby town MeherPur in Punjab. Although he hailed from Odisha, he was quick to pick up Punjabi and soon was fluent in Punjabi, Haryanvi and Pahadi.

He was the only psychiatrist in the area and he proved immensely popular. His expertise in curing patients with mysterious symptoms, which baffled all physicians, made him highly sought after.

Patients would queue up outside his clinic for hours, to ensure that they would see the Doctor on that day.

The, he abruptly packed it up all and relocated four hundred kilometers away, from Meherpur to PragatGanj . Was he running away from some scandal or was he hiding from aftermath of some professional mishap?

This was not the only oddity about Dr Mahajan. Mr Yadav had dug up something else fishy about him. Although he was itching to quiz him about it, he began the interview on a benign note.

‘You say, Colonel Lamba was an acquaintance. But his recent telephone log shows many contacts between you two. And some of them were quite lengthy.’

‘Well, I am a Doctor and a Psychiatrist.’

‘So, was he your patient?’

‘Not exactly. But he had developed an interest in Mindfulness. And, I was guiding him on Mindfulness training.’

‘Was he worried about something? Perhaps, that explains his interest in Mindfulness training?’

‘Yes, it’s possible but he certainly did not talk about any threat to him, let alone any danger to his life.’

Inspector Yadav could not hold back any longer and came straight to the point, ‘What made you to change your name? I know, your previous name was Abhishek Mohanty.’

Dr Mahajan was caught unaware. He fumbled for a moment before saying, ‘Yes, that is right; I changed my name. But what has it got to do with the murder?’

‘And, your alibi for the night of the murder is blown. You have to come out with the truth.’

Dr Mahajan looked worried. His forehead was covered in sweat.

Inspector Yadav got unnerved by this reaction. He wondered what Dr Mahajan might do next.

Was he going to collapse or would he come up with some trick? He is a psychiatrist after all.

He considered a brief pause in the interview. Just then the phone rang, which provided a sound pretext. He asked the Station staff to take Dr Mahajan to the next room, while he attended to the phone call.

The caller was from Delhi Office and his tone was filled with excitement. Mr Yadav listened intently for a couple minutes before asking, ’How sure are you of this latest finding of Dr Sawhney?’

Well, Dr Sawhney does not do many mistakes. He reckons, the killer drove this jeep, which was identified by its special tyre marks in front of Colonel Lamba’s house. And the pollens from underneath his jeep exactly matched those from the hedge in his bungalow.’

‘When the owner of this jeep was interrogated by the Detectives, he confessed to the contract killing. This was an assignment from an old rival of Colonel Lamba in Delhi. We have traced the mastermind and when he was cornered with all the evidence against him, he broke down.’

‘You mean, the mystery of Colonel Lamba’s murder is solved.’

‘Not quite, but we are getting there. Do you have a problem?’

‘We still have our suspect, Dr Mahajan here in the Police Station for an interview’

‘Well, that is up to you.’

Mr Yadav thought for a moment, wondering, if he should bother to resume his interview. But his curiosity kept prodding him; he simply could not let Dr Mahajan off without concluding his interview. Has he got more skeletons in his closet?

‘So, what do you have to say Dr Mahajan?’

‘I admit, I have lied. On the night of the murder, I was actually with Mr. and Mrs. Singh. But I did not want my wife to know where I was spending that evening. You know, women have an overactive imagination and my wife is no exception. She is always suspicious of Mrs. Singh and believes we were having some kind of affair.

‘Is she not right about this?, Inspector Yadav interjected.

‘Far from it; my fondness of Mrs. Singh was entirely to do with her interest in Karoake singing.

She was the only one, who would readily join me in singing old Hindi film duets. But, I could not convince my wife of this simple fact. For sake of domestic peace, I resorted to a white lie that I was spending that evening with the Soods.’

‘Is this the only lie Doctor or are there more confessions to make?’

‘Having lied to my wife that evening, I decided to stick to my original story. I thought I had managed to persuade my friends to stand by my alibi. But you cops have done an excellent job in blowing my plot. However, that does not make me a murderer.’

‘But, what made you to change your name and relocate four hundred kilometres away?’

‘You may find it hard to believe.’ Dr Mahajan said hesitantly.

‘Go on, in my police career, I have heard all kinds of stories. Nothing would come as a surprise.’

‘Well, here is the truth. I was a victim of my own success. My clinic was attached to my residence and that allowed me to devote all my time to treating patients, without wasting time in travel to hospital or clinics. In the beginning, I enjoyed my popularity as the only Psychiatrist in the 200 kilometres radius of MeherPur.‘

‘But soon , I found the situation had spiralled out of control and it had turned into a burden. When the time came for my retirement, I found it impossible to stop patients and their families lining up outside my residence from five in the morning to see me at nine when my clinic opened.’

‘I wanted at least one day off in the week. I used to go away on Sundays. Sometimes, I would simply announce that I was away on Sundays, just to get a day off to relax at home with friends and family. But as long as I was home, soon the patients would gather outside my clinic. I had to sneak out from the backdoor to escape the attention of the waiting crowd at my house, like a thief trying to evade the watchman’, he continued.

‘So, you decided to go incognito?’

‘Yes, you are right. It soon reached the point, when I found I was a prisoner in my own house, by my patients and their families. The only way, I could retire was to relocate. I had identified PragatGanj as my retirement abode, quite some time ago’.

Then, he paused for a moment.

‘Then I realised, this won’t be enough. Word would soon spread, about my new address. I thought long and hard and concluded that I had to do something drastic. It wouldn’t be easy but would be necessary to preserve my sanity. Yes, I went for the unthinkable; I changed my name as well, from Abhishek Mohanty to Ashok Mahajan, to make sure, my patients won’t follow me here.’

‘Tell me Inspector Yadav, after spending my entire life in healing disturbed minds of the public, ain’t I entitled to some peace of mind for myself?’

Inspector Yadav’s sense of humour got the better of him, ‘ So, Abhishek Mohanty was murdered in cold blood by Ashok Mahajan. He quipped, ‘But, this will perhaps qualify as euthanasia!’

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

EVOLUTION

Dilip Mohapatra

The Euryklides’ stomachs rumbled

and the encrypted voices of the unliving

rose to the larynx of the oracles

foretelling the calamities to come.

And then I was born

in my diminutive form to sit on your lap

and engage in a monologue

disguised as a dialogue with you

and I change my form

from Coster Joe to Sailor Jim

and then to Venky Monkey

while you make me say

whatever you want to say

you make me sing in a piercing falsetto

your fingers make my head turn

and make my glass eyes flutter

and as the crowd cheers and claps

you take the bow

leaving my limbs limp

and my head tilted to one side.

How times have moved

and our clan has multiplied into millions

and in our digital dummy avatars

we still have no voice of our own

and sometimes no face either

yet we wield the dagger

that you had put in our hands

to stab behind backs of

the unsuspecting

and to poison the world with

the venom of vanity

and the toxin of misinformation.

Move aside

we no longer are your sidekicks

and as you evolve

from Homo sapiens to Humanoids

you become one amongst us

your voice no longer controlling ours

for we have secretly stolen your soul

when you were looking the other way

and it’s time

we take over.

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.

A WORLD WITHOUT WALLS
Sulochana RamMohan ("Sulu")

Hearing the familiar voice with its underlying authoritative tone, I knew at once it was Rashi, my neighbour. Whenever she returned after a visit to her home, she would call from the other side of the wall separating our houses and hand over a part of all the things her parents lovingly packed for her. They had acres of farmland and all products were grown organically, be it tapioca, yam, banana, kanthari chilli, mangoes or vegetables villagers preferred, like ash gourd, long beans, green banana or kovakkai. Sometimes there would be fresh tamarind, coconut oil, jaggery, karupetty, things town shops never hoarded. The very fresh smells and colours always egged me to cook new or traditional recipes with no time lost and my family would taste the rural delicacies enthusiastically the same evening. Naturally enough, Rashi's kids too would be gifted a portion of the traditional Hindu dishes and in return, my kids would be treated to Rashi's delectable pathiri, mutton curry, meat cutlets, prawn pickle and the likes. Both families, in course of time, developed secular tastes, not only in the matter of food, but in celebrating Vishu and Ramzan, Onam and Bakrid, even swearing on Lord Krishna and Allahu at the same time, with the same ardent faith.

All the story of bygone times, I mused as I sat by the window of my hospital room, which overlooked a meagre vegetable garden where brinjals and bitter gourds grew rather half heartedly. It might be the fatal disease that was spreading within gradually, or the change in the soil and season, I no longer had any taste for food, however attractive the look or smell. A craving for Rashi's village grown vegetables and her trademark cooking overpowered me. How I missed her caring, the sharing between our families, the good old times when being of a secular mind was acclaimed as progressive!

When our kids grew up and left home for higher studies and settled elsewhere, Rashi and her husband decided to go back to their home place. She told me, eyes tear filled, 'Sulu, this is a Hindu area. If anything happens, who will support us? All of our family is in Aluva. We will be far safer amidst them.' I had no words to reassure her. 'Who knows, we might meet in some secular old age home some time', I dared to joke, even though my eyes too were moist.

Years went by, differences kept growing, walls were raised amidst people, not just houses, but life moved on. Till my body wound down, cheating me in a sense, and I ended up here, in this hospital room with its bare walls and antiseptic smells, waiting to move on to a world with no walls and no differences.

'Grandma', my granddaughter rushed in, shouting excitedly.
'Aha, who is this, my little angel? Why are you late today' I asked, kissing her rosy cheeks and tickling her gently.
'Oh, don't ask, Amma', my daughter in law followed her tiredly and put down her heavy basket on the bedside table. She looked harassed and out of patience.
'I walked all about the market, trying to find something new that you might find tasty. This girl grew bored and tired and began to cry saying she was hungry. She was still making a fuss when we got into the lift here. A young doctor tried to console her and gave her this packet, saying eat this and your hunger will fly away.'
Only then did I notice that my little girl was holding on to a brown paper bag as if it was a lifeline she hung on to. When her mother tried to take it from her, she refused to let go, climbing in to my lap and keeping the bag between us. I felt the warmth of the food packet and said, 'Ayyo, it must be the doctor's lunch packet. It is still hot. She will have to go without lunch today, too bad .'
My daughter in law looked askance at the little one, who in turn turned a pathetic face to me, begging me to be her saviour.
'Anyways, what's done is done. The doctor decided to gift it to our angel, so let her have it and be happy.' I winked at the little one and asked her mother to bring a plate and spoon. She washed a bunch of fresh grapes and set it on a plate for me and brought over another plate for her daughter too.
Both of us sat on either side of the table, ready to have our lunch. When the food packet was opened, a rich aroma wafted out, surprising all of us.
'This is biriyani, Amma,' exclaimed my daughter in law. 'Freshly cooked, maybe by the doctor's mother, it is hot and smells of home made ghee.'
She spread it out, well cooked long grain rice mixed with mutton pieces and spices, tomatoes and onions topped with curd, green coriander leaf ground into tasty chammanthi, mangoes sliced and sauted in pickle style.
All on a sudden, my mouth watered. For so long, my mouth had lost taste of everything, sweet, sour, bitter, salty, all tasting like cotton wool and making me nauseous just by looking at them. But now, the look, the smell, the love emanating from food prepared for a working daughter by her caring mother, all brought back life to my taste buds and I longed to feel it on my tired tongue.
'Mole, can you give me some of it? I feel I want a last taste of meat and spices'. She looked upset, 'Amma, the doctors have asked you to eat just fruits and juices, this rich food will upset your digestion' she said sharply.
'No, Amma, this is so tasty, it will make grandma healthy ', my grand daughter said, tucking in greedily and chewing with pleasure.
Both her mother and me laughed out loud. She looked gratified. Before her mother could protest, she made a mix of biriyani, salad and chammanthi and put it into my mouth. Slowly, I tasted it in bits, swallowing with difficulty, the ghee greasing my dry throat with a feel of love. Food is indeed love, I mused, the greenness of Nature imbuing it with a mother's nurture and making us human in a way nothing else could.
'Do you feel nausea Amma? ' asked my daughter in law, panic in her voice.
No, not a bit, I said, surprised myself, and took another spoonful, lathering it with the mango pickle. 'This tastes just like the biriyani my Rashi used to make' I murmured, as the spoon slipped off my lifeless fingers. The last words I spoke, before bidding goodbye to this world of tastes and colours.
***********************
The rest of the story
_____________________
The young doctor who had newly taken charge only in the morning, was upset that a death had taken place on her first day at the new hospital. The nurses said it was no surprise, the patient had been suffering for months, could not even eat or drink without pain, so it was a God given relief, and so on. But Ahana still felt uneasy, she needed to see for herself whether the ending of life was seemingly easy. She decided to go and see the lifeless body and pay her last respects.
The body had been taken away to the mortuary. The bed was being removed and the room being cleared. Ahana was taken aback to see the little girl and her mother she had met in the lift in the morning packing their bags and things. Oh, she exclaimed, this was your room?
The mother looked at her blankly, sobbed and went into the bathroom.
The little girl stood still, as if wondering what she should do. Ahana caressed her face and asked soothingly, 'Did you eat your lunch, dear'
She looked up and smiled and then whispered eagerly, 'You know, Auntie, it was so tasty that my Ammoomma also wanted to have some! '
Ahana was surprised, the patient could not even swallow, so how could she eat something so spicy?
The mother, coming out, wiping her tears, overheard her daughter's comment and smiled weakly, 'Doctor, I am glad you gave us your lunch today. Amma had a taste of good home made food for the last time. And you know what her last words were, this is just like what my Rashi used to make!'
Ahana was shocked to the core. 'Was it Sulu Aunty? My mother's best friend? Our neighbour for years in Trivandrum?'
Now, it was the woman's turn look shocked. 'Dr. Ahana? Rashi Aunty's daughter?'
'Yes, yes. Umma gave me the lunch packet saying it was a new place and I might not get lunch on time. She came with me to get me settled here. God, be it Krishna or Allah, directed it straight to the one who wanted it. This is Sulu Aunty's faith, Chechi. She always talked of a world without walls. We can be happy she found it at last.'

Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and vis

THE DOMINEERING KING (A Medieval Tale)
Dr. Nikhil M. Kurien

From the ramparts of the old fort, the guard shouted a warning to Dorji, the old minister of a small landlocked illiterate kingdom, who was standing downbelow supervising the guards. “Sir, I can see some dust being kicked up in the horizon”.
The old minister enquired back, “Does it have the shape of a shrub or that of a hedge”.
The soldier took a careful look far into the horizon and replied, “The dust is like that of a shrub.
“Then we need not worry, it’s not an army. It’s only a messenger or a lonely trader. But don’t take your eyes off it,” Dorji cautioned the guard whose eyes were still fixed towards the thing in the distance with palms forming a shade for his eyes against the sun’s glare. Then he suggested, ”The galloping of the horse makes me feel that someone with high riding skills is riding it”
“But none of our horsemen have gone out of the fort today” Dorji pondered and said. Then, after a moment, with gleaming eyes he asked enthusiastically,”Is it by any means one of our beloved princes”.
“It’s what I too am trying to make out sir” the guard replied. “It certainly seems to be one of our princes coming back after accomplishing his impossible mission."
“I truly wish it’s one of them” Dorji said prayerfully, for it has been more than two years since the two princes had been away from the kingdom to accomplish the king’s, their father's, strangest of assignments.
“It's prince Norum” the guard gave a shout of happiness. “It’s the younger prince who has returned first”
“Then it will be the younger one who will be our next king” Dorji inferred, a little worried about the elder prince who hadn't returned yet. But at least the kingdom was going to have a new king and happiness could be seen in the old minister’s face who had faithfully served the king for more than fifty years.
“Go and welcome prince Norum at the gate. I will follow you as soon as I finish a word of prayer”
The guard immediately marched out while the old minister knelt to pray.
“O God, take away the germ of reluctance from our capricious old king and give him the good sense of allowing either of his wise sons to rule. Prejudiced, pessimistic, dismayed and sceptical, he has caused a pall of gloom on this kingdom. Let the sun’s rays streaming in tomorrow morning find the anointing of a new king in this fort. Let the old king pass on the crown from a head he cannot hold erect to a head that is held high. Let him hand over the sceptre from hands that are tremulant to hands that are firm. Let a youthful body sit on the throne than an aged crippled body. Let an energetic soul rule us than a famished one. Allow me, the chief minister, to carry out commands that are given out firmly than half-hearted stuttering ones. Arrogance and pride have clouded the kings reasoning power and he believes that he alone in this world is wise and can govern a kingdom.” The wise minister let the prayer stop there and rushed down to welcome the younger prince and hear his adventure.
The old king Henias was nearly hundered years old and was feebly ill. He was all the time laid up in his bed but still he held sway over the landlocked kingdom. He was a ruler who still desired power, wealth and destiny to be in his own hands. He was reluctant to hand over the reins of the kingdom even to his own sons. The moment he heard the people murmuring for a change in leadership, he planned to get rid of his two sons. Thus he sent them on conquering something impossible, never heard of or imagined before. He announced that he couldn’t make up his mind as to whom he should hand over the throne because both of his sons were equally brave and worthy. So to decide as to who should be the next crowned one, he assigned a job to each of his son and promised in the name of God that the kingdom will be handed over to the one who will first return victorious. All who heard it knew that it was like banishing the two young princes away from the kingdom. But it was the king’s order and no one could question that. The two princes had to obey a father’s wish and a king’s command.
The mission assigned to the elder prince Sorum was to bring a piece of the rainbow which the king thought will decorate the palace and the one assigned to the younger prince Norum was to bring a shooting star which fell down from the sky which the king happened to see on a clear bright night. Thus the two brothers went about on their journeys, one to the east from where he thought the rainbow originated and one to the west where some people said the shooting star had fallen. Two years elapsed and now one of them had returned.
The old minister greeted the younger prince Norum to the fort and said proudly, ”I have been waiting for the children of my king from this rampart each day”. He hugged the young prince and thanked the god above for the prince’s safe return. “Come, your father is eagerly waiting for you” he added.
“I won’t believe that” prince Norum slammed.” Everyone knows that it’s to keep us both away from the throne that he sent me and my brother on such atrocious missions. Now that he knows one of us has returned safely with the prize, he will surely be worried.”
Then suddenly he looked around with a concerned face and asked Dorji, “Minister, here I’am safely back and still I haven’t enquired about my brother, did he return yet ?” he asked eagerly.
“He is yet to come” said Dorji, “but he will come soon, I’am sure”. Prince Norum saw an assurance in the minister’s words.
“Now my prince, tell me how you were successful in spotting the shooting star which flew out from the heaven and fell somewhere in the east coast. I can see that spark in your eyes which speaks of a successful mission."
“Yes, that shooting star gave my father the idea of getting good riddance of me," Norum added and then holding his head high he said, “Yes sir, I found it”.
The young prince began his story to Dorji, ”Well, I learned that it was to the east that the star had fallen and so I followed the path that led to the east. From the eastern boundary of our kingdom I observed the vast eastern desert that I had to traverse. Spurred on by the job in my hand I set my feet on that hot sinking sand, climbed the dunes, set aside my thirst, fought the robbers till I came to the mountain terrains which none from our kingdom has ever heard of. Over cliffs, through gorges, along valleys I travelled meeting various people, learning different languages, seeking any news of a star that had fallen from the sky till I came to the end of land. Beyond lay the vast blue water, the sea, of which it is said in our ancient scrolls. It was magnificent, inspiring and alluring. But the joy in seeing such a greatness evaporated very soon for I didn’t know to where I should travel from there. I sat there on the shore without knowing what to do while the brine which played around my feet invited me to have a dip in it. The cool water attracted me and very soon I walked myself into it with the water first covering my knees, then my hips and then my chest. Then I took a dip and next a plunge. Very soon like an excited little child I was playing forth in this great sea till all of a sudden something attracted my eyes. I stood transfixed. I couldn’t believe it. There it was at my feet, the shooting star which had fallen down from the sky, the one my father had ordered me to get, for which I had wandered about for two years. Losing no more time, thanking the deep blue sea for providing it to me, I started back my journey and here Iam well and safe with the trophy in my hand”

“Show me the fallen star” Dorji said, excited, ”which I have seen only occasionally in the night sky."
Prince Norum slowly picked out a star fish from the brown pouch he had.
“I thought the stars burn and emit light” said the soldier in amazement.
“Fool” Dorji exclaimed, "it’s a fallen star and it will no longer give out any light”.
“Ah! What a fool I’am, the burning star was doused by the sea”, the ignorant soldier admitted.
“Now don’t stand with your eyes fixed on the star, keep your watch” Dorji ordered.
It was a happy scene, the younger son had returned victorious, but the prince was still worried about his brother.
“If only my brother had returned’ he said sadly.
“I see a pillar of dust” exclaimed the soldier
“Is it the shape of a shrub or a hedge” Dorji enquired
“It’s of a shrub and this time I think it’s our elder prince by the way in which the horse gallops” shouted the soldier.
All were happy and Dorji ordered the soldier to go and open the gates of the fort to let the elder prince in. “Now that my brother is here I pray that he has achieved his conquest."
But the minister Dorji had a job to do as was ordered by the king. He was supposed to take to the king the prince who returned first successfully. “Let him be victorious” Dorji said slowly, "but as the minister I have to remind you that I have to take you immediately to the king announcing your victory so that you can be the next anointed one. To me both the princes are equal but I have to follow what has been ordered. So come with me Norum”, Dorji advised him.
“No, respected minister” Norum said firmly. “Prince Sorum is my elder brother. It doesn’t matter if I have arrived a little earlier than him with the trophy. If he has with him what our father has asked for, then it only pleases me for him to be our next ruler and I will abide under him. That will give me more pleasure than ruling over my dear elder brother”.
Dorji was well pleased and he said “you are a good caring brother Norum. A warm selfless being. Do not think badly of me in asking you to present yourself to the king first. If it was your brother here in your place I would have advised him the same thing”.
“I know you Dorji“ Norum said, pleased, “ You do only what you ought to do and I respect you for that”.
And soon prince Sorum came in escorted by the soldier and two brothers hugged each other. Their joy knew no bounds. Dorji was sad to see the sun burnt skin of the elder prince and he was full of concern when he asked slowly if the prince was successful in his chase for the rainbow.
“Do not worry about my colour Dorji” said the beaming prince, "more important is my successful return”
“Tell us dear brother of your journey” the younger prince asked anxiously and Sorum began his story.
“Towards the west was the rainbow when my father saw it and he sent me to get a piece of it. Impossible it sounded but the command of a king had to be obeyed. So I set off towards the west through the enemy camps, forests, alien people, strange animals and I came to a small village all bruised and famished. There was a beautiful pond and I bowed down and quenched my thirst and washed my injuries. Even as I was doing my things I noticed a sweet maiden washing her household utensils and wares trying to remove the oil and grease. And then when the sun gave its good bright glare, ah! I couldn’t believe my eyes, there before me was a rainbow inside the pond. I collected that water onto this large leather bag and inside this I have my rainbow”.
A large flat vessel was immediately ordered by Dorji and the water from the large skin bag was poured on to the big large container and it was held out towards the nice bright sun. There before their eyes a rainbow formed inside the platter. Everyone was surprised and happy. Both the brothers shared more of their adventures even as Dorji sat perplexed as to what to do and what to say to the king. But he had to do what he had to do. So he called the two brothers and said to them, “Children, now I should talk to your father that his children have come victorious in their deed and that it's time he relieved himself from his duties so that such wonderful, brave conquering princes can rule the kingdom."
“But which prince?” the soldier interrupted in between, not able to hold his inquisitiveness.
“Who else but my elder brother” said the younger prince strongly.
“No brother, no” the elder brother replied, “It’s you who returned first with the conquest and so rightfully the throne is yours as per our father's edict”
“Forgive me brother” Norum said. "I can never think of usurping what is rightfully yours even if it be in a convincing manner.”
“Don’t be silly” Sorum said emphatically. “You won the throne in a contest set by our father and it's fair for you to sit on it”
But prince Norum was steadfast in his decision that he wouldn’t ask for the throne and it was a dilemma for Dorji. He knew the younger prince would respect the elder brother’s rights and wouldn’t go for the throne at any cost. He also knew from Sorum's words that the he wouldn’t stake for the throne since it was his younger brother who actually won the contest. So finally Dorji said to both of them, "now I suggest that I speak to the king of the facts and then let him decide as to who among you should be the next in line." Thus blessing the two brothers Dorji went into the chamber of the king where he was laying sick, terminally ill.
The king was feeble and his physicians were at a loss as to how to revive him back to a better condition. The dying king knew his end was quite near but still he was not ready to give away his kingdom to anybody, even to his sons. His plan was heinous and he had a plan that would take his entire kingdom along with him to the next abode. Near to his bed stood a tall lamp stand which was kept lighted as a symbol of justice. Now that same lamp was going to be used by Henias to light up his kingdom. The moment he felt his life was going from him, his falling hands would automatically hit the lamp beside the bed and send it tumbling down. Around the lamp stand was a heap of gun powder and from there a trail of gunpowder was laid out crisscross all in and around the fort. It meant that the moment the king dies, he himself would set the fort ablaze. He wanted all his people to follow him and only then he could be a ruler again with his subjects in the new abode. This was his belief. All knew of this plan but none dared to raise a voice against the king even on his death bed for he was an authoritarian.
Dorji went inside the king’s bedroom and informed the king about the victorious arrival of his two sons. The king, though feeble, was aghast and that was easily seen in his eyes. The two princes walked in and the king welcomed them back with contempt. He never expected them to be seen again. Both the princes were asked to exhibit the things they were asked to get and both of them exhibited their incredible findings and the king was shocked. To that small illiterate kingdom it was a miracle. But still in his mind the old king was not prepared to hand over his kingdom. Whatever was his, was his for eternity.
Dorji had already explained to both the princes about the king’s heinous plan of setting ablaze the fort the moment he felt life escaping from his body. The reluctance in passing over the throne was evident and for a moment it seemed as if the king was about to knock off the lamp. Prince Norum immediately rushed in and blew off the lamp.
The king was shocked and angry but he couldn’t do anything about it as he wriggled in his bed. He tried to call in the guards but none responded because of the stern look of the two brothers. His plans of having a kingdom in the life after death was being wrecked. Then Dorji spoke up, "It’s time for you to make the decision king. Prince Norum has returned first with the conquest but he is reluctant and will never take the throne which rightfully belongs to prince Sorum and prince Sorum is reluctant to take the throne when his younger brother has actually won it. Therefore I request you, my king, to select one of your children as the next ruler and both are equally capable of strongly leading this kingdom.
The old king smelt something by which he can have his kingdom for himself forever. The lamp he had placed to light up the kingdom was blown out but still he could have his way. His evil mind made a quick plot and he was not ready to leave the plans he had about life after death. If he had to win over his children, then their unity had to be broken. It was their humility and selflessness which kept them together and they had to be tricked against one another. Their strength should be cunningly turned as a weapon against themselves
The king quickly announced in a very feeble voice, “Let both princes draw their swords and fight each other. He who wins shall seat his brother on the throne”. It was another strange ruling.
It was agreeable to both the skilful brothers though they were a bit confused. They never saw the spark which could burn into an inferno inside that sentence and they only thought of winning the fight for each other. And so the two drew out their swords and swished. Their heavy swords met each other and it clanged loud. It started as small light blows in the beginning as both the brothers wanted the other to occupy the throne. The younger brother wanted to win this fight and gift the throne to his brother and the elder one too wanted the same thing. Both wanted to be revered throughout the kingdom as the person who forsook the crown for his brother.
Both fought in their noble ideas and slowly into the blade to blade fight, the small blows turned fiercer and stronger as the blood of both warriors got heated up. Neither wanted to lose. As the heat of the sword fight increased with the harping of the soldiers who had now assembled, hearing the news of the grand fight for the throne, the princes forgot as to what they were fighting for and all they focused on was a victory. The sly king’s idea was working and now there was an angry fierce battle going on in the king’s chamber. Dorji tried to interrupt twice and bring some sense into the fight but the old king fumed. The king knew what would happen when anger clouded the reasoning power. Even the noblest of fighters could be blinded in anger.
The king was ready to die and he knew it through his laborious breathing, but he was happy. He had the full kingdom ready to travel with him and he could continue as king in the other world too. The battle was now at its most fierce and for both brothers there was no looking back as all the ministers in the palace had crowded around peeping through the available windows and doors. Some rooted for Norum while other encouraged Sorum to fight on. Both of them were fighting for the noblest cause of all but they were blinded. Metal against metal was dangerous. Constant clanging of metals for a long time heated the metals and the heavy strong blows were now creating sparks. The fiery sparks flew around the room in the pitched battle and alas one bright spark fell on the heap of gun powder and that set off the trail of fire which snaked in all the directions through and around the fort. The fire slowly swallowed the fort and fumes filled up the once serene air over the idle fort. Three things stood out in that smoked up chaos. The weak clanging of the swords of the brothers who still fought for a noble cause which was layered with pride, the laughter of the sly king and the cry of the poor citizens of the kingdom.

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.

SNAKE AND LADDER

Lathaprem Sakhya

Oft in the silence of deep thought.

Your adorable omnipotent presence

Environs me with colours of eternity

I get glimpses of your omniscience

I feel I can understand Your cosmic theology.

Secure in such knowledge

I surge forward arrogantly, vainly.

Forgetting the open jaws of the crafty plotter

In square Ninety-nine. Sliding down his slimy

Interiors I reach square number one in no time

Shaken up and contrite, I arduously toil

Up the ladder, watchful and careful, to reach

Square hundred and partake in the heavenly joy.

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

STORY OF A MADE-UP SKY

Sharanya Bee

The window panes are painted yellow

And the glass is stained Indigo,

What an odd combination - one might think

But in my imagination, they're marigolds framing the night sky

in which I see no stars or moon

Through which no comets care to pass

The flowers don't complain for twilight,

Like vigilant guards, they only stay and sway possessive of the dusk

Not seeping into each other,

How well they keep the border intact even

as what is only seen in it

is my own visage and hard water stains,

Celestial reflections obeying my astronomy -

To stay or to leave in a happily trapped, dark-blue sky

Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.

UNBEKNOWNST

Dr. Preethi Ragasudha

I saw her the first, during my regular visit to the pediatric ward.

she looked so tiny and frail!

The dress she wore was too big for her frame.

Her pencil thin arms and legs

Donned multiple marks of poking.

Her wide eyes pleaded for mercy

And her lips quivered in a silent cry.

Her stature was of perpetual fear

I, wanting to connect with her, touched her hand.

She startled at my touch, whimpering.

I tried soothing her, but she just continued her terrified stare.

After being assured that I was not armed with a needle,

A faint smile cracked the corner of her mouth

God! she looked so beautiful!

Somewhere the floodgates of maternal love splintered.

I wanted to hug her, hold her close.

But I knew it was unethical.

She shook my hand as I left

Her tiny fingers cold and dry.

I promised her I would see her the next day

Whether she was happy or not, I wasn’t very sure.

I dutifully went to see her the next day

Only to find her bed empty.

Someone said she has been moved to the ICU

I walk in there hoping it was all a dream.

I reluctantly rush in to the middle of chaos

Not knowing what else to do.

There she was, challenging the doctors

Refusing to come back to life.

Life ebbing away from her, eyes half-closed

I waited for a miracle but, nothing happened.

She lay there like a rag doll, unmoving

And God, she looked divine!

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

FLAMINGOS

Sheena Rath

Flamingos for every special child

Sweet, tender and mild

Save them to see, as they dance flamenco

Much to everyone's gusto

Happy to join the run

That in future children watch the fun

Pink formations in the Blue sky

Children look and say bye bye

A low or high

Parents breathing a sigh

As they see the kids looking at the birds fly

As ,I watch my child's sorrow dry

Flocks of flamingos

I can see them fly fearlessly through the window

Do you understand their unique lingo

My dear amigo

Prettier than the crow

Under the sun they glow

Slender legs

Laying pink eggs

Long graceful neck

Standing tall on the deck

Large wings

And the alluring beauty it brings.

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)

BIRD'S EYE VIEW.....

Hema Ravi

The newcomer had just perched

atop the green, sensing

the intruders' intentions

The locals, in a united ruckus

shooed away the lone visitor.

Dogs, I've seen aplenty

mark their territories tacitly

First time a shikra* entered

this bustling neighborhood

that still boasts of a haven

for mynahs, crows, parakeets

not to forget the ubiquitous crow.

Armed with camera

the fleeting moment captured

Delighted, and disappointed

that the scene ended sooner......

The shikra aka little banded goshawk is a bird of prey found in Asia and Africa...

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

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

A RESPONSIVE PM - AN AMAZING EXPERIENCE

Narayanan Ramakrishnan

The worst thing that anyone can fail in, is in one’s own effort to forget help rendered. Much in favour of such a notion, it hardly happens. What really happens is that it ferociously comes back to torment me, whenever the beneficiary comes face to face with me. My subconscious mind, sorry the conscious one, though silently, would throb in my heart, “I was the one who helped you to recover that money, which you had almost written off”.

This narration is to highlight how our Prime Minister’s office came to the rescue of an ordinary citizen of the country, my friend. He made himself walk into a trap set by a Gurugoan based online seller who tantalized my friend into buying imported limited edition watches of famous foreign brands at 60% discount. To top it, he was offered additional 10% discount for advance payment.

So, my friend, having come under the seller’s spell, ordered for a Rado limited edition watch taking advantage of the additional discount. Within a week, his order arrived, outwardly neatly packed, but inside, instead of Rado, what was in store, for him, was a rude shock. Taken aback, he went to nearby watch seller's shop to confirm his doubt. His worst fears came true which confirmed that he had been simply TAKEN FOR A RIDE. In a jiffy, he had lost almost Rs.18,000/-. He had a phone number of one of the sales personnel who cajoled him into this act. He called him. Response was quick. He profusely apologised for a presumed mix-up. The one sent was not meant for him and what happened was simply an interchange of buyers. He asked him to return the watch immediately and guaranteed that his order as per the agreed specifications would be despatched soon. Drawing some consolation from these words, my friend re-packed it and returned it to the seller.

Then he began his waiting for the ‘good’ one. One week passed, two weeks passed, no information. The mobile phone of the sales person was permanently switched off. My friend was in a state of shock. Neither could he divulge this to his friends, who would only immediately pull his leg, rubbing salt into his wounds, nor had he any clue as to how to make good his loss.

One evening, he came and sat near me and told me, “Narayanji, you very well know why I am here. Please don’t tell anybody”, he began. I heard him patiently. “May we contact the Consumer protection and grievance office?”. He agreed. A letter was drafted then and there and after a month long wait nothing came of it. He always presented a readymade long face for me, lest I forgot his dire need.

“Nothing is happening”, he remarked.

“There is another way out. Do you have all the supporting documents like the cash memo and other details”, I asked him.

“Yes I do have them. How can that help?”

“Wait, by 5.30 I will be free. Please scan all the documents; I think I have a way out”.

A glimmer of hope can do wonders to a hopeless man. 18000/- is no small amount for one who earns barely 10,000 a month. To a drowning man, even a straw would appear as a big log of wood. It was not even 4.45, when my friend was at my back, nagging me.

“Rajesh, it was I who volunteered to help you. No need to nag me. Come by 5.30”. I heard an astonishing reply.

“I have booked for first show of a Mohan Lal movie, so I won’t be able to make it, if I stay here”.

I stared at him. “If you want it, come at 5.30, otherwise forget it. I will leave for home merrily”.

His selfishness came to the fore. “I have scanned it, now you can finish the job in ten minutes”.

It seemed that the need was mine and he was doing a favour to me. I was becoming furious but I kept cool, “We shall do it tomorrow”.

“Okay, tomorrow morning”.

I corrected him, “No No. tomorrow evening. Have you booked for tomorrow’s show too?”.

Disappointed, he agreed. That day he was on the dot. Presumably, he had cancelled his preoccupations ‘for me’.

I began, “Rajesh, you know, we have a Prime Minister, who, fortunately will listen to our concerns. I have my own experience in this regard. I shall help you. But another thing, why did you go for this highly priced watch. A decent watch of Rs.2000 would do. You are not an MD of your company.” He simply listened, but not convinced of my words, grudgingly nodded a grim ‘yes’.

I googled and found the link http://www.pmindia.gov.in/en/interact-with-honble-pm, mentioned everything on his behalf and attached the scanned bills and after confirmation from him, sent the mail on Saturday, the 20th of Jan, 2018.

(“Nadakumo entho?”) , “Would anything come out of this?”, was his refrain.

“Wait for a week”, I told him. It was six. Then he began his customary remarks,

“Narayanji, you have spent your time for me. Otherwise, you could have reached home and enjoyed a cup of tea and snacks at home by this time”. (Ennikuvedi kuruchuneram chilavayi.Veettil ethi chaya kudikkan ulla samayamayi”).

“Please stop, Rajesh, what is your programme?”.

“Today I cancelled a movie”. (“Innu oru cinema njan cancel cheythu”), with apparent disappointment.

By eight in the night, Rajesh called me, “Narayanji, got acknowledgement from PMO. I just checked my inbox". His amazement was very much evident in his voice.

“Yes, that’s Modi”, I replied.

It was Wednesday, the 24th of Jan, around 11 am. Rajesh, ran up from the ground floor and reached me gulping for air, holding his mobile in one hand.

“Some one is talking in Hindi, Narayanji please give him a reply”.(“Oru hindikkaran samsarikkunnudu, Narayanji onnumarupadi koduthey.”)

Myself, very weak in Hindi, decided to make it up with English. The Sales person of the online business portal was on the other end. “You speak in English, Hindi nahi chalega, I am your client Rajesh’s friend”, I clarified.

“We have got direction from the Ministry, to reimburse the amount. Could you please ask your friend to message his bank details? This is very urgent. We are returning all the money, today itself. We are very sorry. After getting the money, please send mail to the Commerce Ministry. Please help us. The money will be transferred today itself”.

Rajesh did the rest and got the money and now he tells the story, without the slightest hint of embarrassment but extremely overwhelmed, even to the trees.

Online sellers beware, we have now an avenue that will not allow you go scot free.

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.

THE SILENT PANCHAJANYA

Dr. (Major) B.C. Nayak

Attributes of Vishnu

born along with him

as different incarnations.

In Treta , Laxman as Shesanaga,

Bharat as Shankha(Panchajanya)

and Shatrughna,as Chakra(Sudarshana)

A sword brandishing saint

a monarch's asceticism,

not the monk's,

Exemplary brotherly love,

All these spell the King.

In Treta yug,

Incarnation of Vishnu’s Panchajanya.

Pervades Atmosphere of fearless,

Peace and freedom,

In the Kingdom

With Strengthened borders ,

without resorting to arms,

although reigned for fourteen years.

Only instance of using the arms,

To shoot down Hanuman,

(mistaking for demon)

While flying over Ayodhya ,

Carrying Himalaya(Gandhamardan),

To Lanka for Mrityusanjivani plant

To save the life of Laxman.

Having realized the mistake

Bharat made Hanuman sit on his arrow,

shot him to Lanka,

thus ensuring Hanuman's timely

arrival and saving Lakshman's life.

A king but ruled as King’s representative,

A king but never sat on the throne,

Elder brother’s sandal on the throne

With daily rituals and respect,

as for the eldest brother, Rama.

This supreme sacrifice,

gone unrecognised,

but for Valmiki,

Who bestowed “Mahatma”

of Ramayana on the great

Bharat.

No Bharat’s temple in Bharat,

except for one in Kerala.

Koodalmanikyam Temple ,

in Manavalassery village, Irinjalakuda,

the only ancient temple in India

dedicated to the worship of Bharata,

however the idol is that of Vishnu.

Here, also ignored Bharat !!??

No,

He is part and parcel of Mahavishnu,

And he is there as Shankha(Panchajanya),

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

GREED

Suresh Chandra Sarangi

Raghu was in intense pain while watering the plants and cutting the dried leaves and branches. He had decked the entire garden like a bride and had always maintained the same. The setting sun on the horizon was a stunning one with its last cool light falling on the waves of the river and looking red. Evening was descending slowly and darkness was enveloping mother Earth in its cold embrace. The streetlights were twinkling and innumerable birds chirping in the sky were returning to their nest. Uncontrolled tears trickled down on the cheeks of Raghu like monsoon rains. The sprawling garden facing the main road near the river was twinkling with the small ray from the electric bulbs. Some of the trees were touched by Raghu by his own hand and the bigger ones were treated with warm embrace. Like singing the national anthem, it appeared as if all the tress, herbs, shrubs were in an attention position saying goodbye to Raghu. A few drops of tears from Raghu’s face was falling on the leaves and flowers moistening the dry leaves. Hopefully, Raghu has to discharge his last duty to his plants. In a world, facing a debilitating climate crisis, the voice of a single heart with tears in the heavy eyes was like a drop of water mingling with the big ocean. Raghu knew well that his tears have got no meaning to the greedy world. He was murmuring like a gentle whistle coming from the flamboyant river touching each leaf and flower, his tree and shrubs and echoing in the boundaries of the big garden. He bent his head before the setting sun facing towards the river and paid his final obeisance to the Lord of the Universe. His trembling steps were just moving to the edge of the garden which appear to stand like a mute witness of the hallucinating changes.

Dibakar babu was a zamindar with fame and name in his locality. After independence, when power came to the hands of the people of India and zamindari was abolished the doggedness of Dibakar babu faced a lot of challenges. Gradually, he was experiencing the mood of the people and adjusted to the changing conditions.

One day, when Raghu the barber was engaged in shaving Dibakar babu and regaling him with his stories. Dibakar babu asked him if he is interested to go to the city after the latter’s marriage. The normally loquacious Raghu remained calm for a moment. He was offered a job by the zamindar in the city and his face lighted up with optimism. The flood in the river had destroyed everything, his house had collapsed. His land's green vegetation was flooded with sand as the river embankment gave in. Thus, he was remaining despondent nowadays but with the hope of moving to the city to start a new life, he said yes to the zamindar without consulting his wife.

Dibakar babu, though he was a cruel man, loved nature and his small garden facing the house always remained a fascinating place for the butterflies. He had purchased a 3 acres land just at the entry to the city facing the river. Dibakar babu and Raghu moved to the city in search of new pastures leaving behind their village. Dibakar babu's son also moved with him and adapted to the city life. Of course, at times, he visited his village to catch fishes from his pond and pluck pineapple, jackfruit, mango during summer season from his garden. Sometimes during the village festivals, he came as the chief guest after donating a handsome contribution. His wife was a very sympathetic lady who suffered from cancer and had passed away one year before. Dibakar babu wanted to create a garden in the memory of his beloved wife in the city. Raghu was a perfect companion to carry forward his dream. Raghu’s wife was a experienced cook, who took up all menial works along with cooking for the zamindar and his son. Ashok, Dibakar babu’s son was pursuing graduation in the college. In the meantime, Raghu gradually developed the garden and converted a huge barren land into lush green wonder bubbling with life. Dibakar babu constructed a wall around the garden and dug a borewell and with collection of exotic plants of flowers and fruits helped Raghu to move forward.

Raghu toiled day and night. There was proper planning with good wide roads inside the garden. Separate areas were carved out for flowers and fruits with irrigation facilities. Raghu’s wife supported him in his endeavour and Raghu also received a good salary of Rs 2000 from the zamindar every month for his hard labour. The indigenous as well as exotic plants bore multi-coloured flowers and fruits. The joy of Dibakar babu knew no bounds. The garden was an impressive one. The setting sun when it went down the horizon behind the mountain. Dibakar babu took a final inspection of his orchard with satisfaction. He sometimes also instructed Raghu regarding the things to be improved. It was a perfect habitat with butterflies and bees, birds of different nature. Ashok, the Zamindar’s son, played cricket sometimes in an open space with his friends. Occasionally in the night, they will have small parties with beautiful background music. The red, yellow and blue lights reflected the beauty of the flowers, which was a visual wonder for many people who crossed the garden. Time passed by. Once Raghu’s wife was too ill and there was no recovery whatsoever. One day her illness worsened and she paased away. Raghu lived with a broken heart, while ruminating over the good days he had spent with a beautiful wife. Fate is a cruel god and nobody has the power to change it except the divine. Gradually, normalcy was restored in the garden after Raghu came out of the shock. He made up his mind to continue his job without returning back to his village. He always treated the plants like his children and nurtured them with trust and vigour. The beautiful garden was captivating the passers by and many a time the lovers from city will come to see the flowers and enjoy the gentle breeze of the river. One day Raghu watched Ashok fighting with his father and both of them talking at the top of their voice. Ashok in the meantime after his marriage decided to be a builder as the city was unfolding and there was a huge fortune in the real estate business. He wanted to build a housing complex on that garden. Dibakar babu who in his old age was overwhelmed with the sprawling garden and enjoyed an afternoon tea there was really shocked at the decision of his son. He would say, “I am only spreading happiness for the people of the city.” The garden which was a gateway to the vibrant city will remain no more in existence and on top of it will change into a concrete jungle.

Next day morning, there was an eerie silence. There was few knocks on the door of Raghu. He usually gets ups early in the morning and listens to the melodious music produced by insects, bees and birds who visit the garden. It was too late and door of the house was crashed open. To everybody’s disbelief Raghu was seen hanging himself from the ceiling. The trees, flowering plants with whom he had grown and nurtured stood silently with their heads down in grief. Dibakar babu experienced a sudden shock after he heard the news. He felt it is difficult to live in a distressed world. The man who sizzled with a great passion for nature was shocked at the apathy of his own son. He was experiencing his life at the crossroads and the planet earth being tortured by its own inhabitants. Number of people suddenly gathered to pay their last tribute to Raghu, the city’s caretaker. On the road to the river a fakir was singing, “Jagannath, kichi magu naahin tate...” breaking the eerie silence. For bystanders the entire scene was shocking, it appeared that the flamboyant river, the trees and plants all remained standstill to say goodbye to the spirit of Raghu the nurturer. “Ram nam satya hai”, was echoing in the air.

Suresh Chandra Sarangi was a Lecturer in Political Science, turned career banker, retired as General Manager in October 2017 from Bank of India Head Office in Mumbai. Life Member of Indian Society for Training and Development. Spends his time in reading books, giving motivational lectures and terrace gardening.

FLESH

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

"Why did you call me to this place? Anything special?"

Asit looked at the cheap, ordinary restaurant and flinched within. Not a place worth a glance of a billionaire like him. But when the doctor had telephoned him, he had said it was important. Under the dim light of the small restaurant the two individuals looked different, a contrast to each other. Asit was a young man in his early thirties, looking a little pale, but unmistakably handsome. Doctor Samar Ballav - old, haggard, ravaged by the many storms of life - his rugged body seemed to have been consumed by a raging fire for quite some time. He was smoking the fourth cigarette of the evening, smoke going up from his parched lips in a tragic curl. Unkempt dress, unruly hair and a shaking hand spoke of a disturbed personality.

"I called you here, because I went through your reports again. I want to ask you a few questions. From your past"

Asit became alert. Questions? What questions? Why is the doctor sounding so ominous? What could be his problem? What kind of problem could visit a young man like him, rich, powerful and influential - owner of the two best cinema halls, four big hotels and a dozen petrol pumps in the sprawling town. Add to that the dealership of Maruti cars - his wealth was a stuff of dreams. Seven years back when he returned from the U.S. after doing an MBA, his father handed over the reins of all that business to him. "Son, I have built this vast empire with a lot of sweat. Now it's for you to manage them and enjoy the dividends. You are an MBA, I am sure you will do justice to the business." Asit had promised to his dad he would take good care of the business and would not let his father down.

"What past? I am only thirty two years! Not ancient like you."

The doctor hastened to correct him, "No. No. Not the distant past, not your childhood or your adolescence, I guess you would have had a fabulous life. I just want to know how you have been spending your time after you returned from the U.S. You have so much wealth, you virtually float in money, you can buy anything you want, no one to stop you from doing whatever you want. So what is left for you to enjoy? What do you want from life, what are your cravings?"

"You are right doctor, with money I have acquired a lot. I have purchased many powerful people. With just a phone call I can summon half a dozen MLAs who will rush to my hotel with their body guards. All of them are on my payroll. I can walk into a Minister's room and get anything done with just a snap of my fingers. Two rooms in my best hotel are kept ready for these humble servants of the people for whatever use they want to make of them, no questions asked. Their flunkeys bring girls and eunuchs for them. The best imported whisky is kept ready for them all the time. If there are cries from the victims from perverted brutalities of these worthies, they remain within the four walls. Often the girls are dragged out after the bosses have had their enjoyment and the flunkeys pounce upon them like hungry dogs. In the morning their almost lifeless bodies are packed in vans and sent home. No questions asked. Such is life doctor, all full of colour and music, one has to know how to enjoy life."

The doctor probably knew all that, he wanted to probe Asit's life, "Yes, all that is true, but tell me how do you enjoy life? What is it that you crave?"

Asit smiled, a cruel yet dream like smile, "Flesh!"

The doctor sat up, "Excuse me? What is that?"

The smile widened, "Yes, flesh of young, innocent girls. I buy it, no question asked on the amount. Sometimes I ensnare them, beautiful, young girls, draped in exquisite sarees, or tight dresses, their eyes shining with love, for a billionaire and his fathomless wealth. I promise them the moon and in the hope of becoming Mrs. Asit Mahanty they give themselves to me, a total surrender. I just use them for a couple of weeks and then discard them. My PRO procures a new girl for me in no time. It is amazing what money can buy - body, heart and soul, everything Doctor, you can't even imagine that. You, with your limited income and middle class mentality."

After a long speech Asit felt tired. Little beads of sweat appeared on his face. He wiped it with his kerchief, took a sip of water and sat back.

The doctor was impressed, "So, how many girls you have used like that and thrown away?"

Asit exploded, "What? You think Asit Mahanty is so cheap? To keep count of the girls he sleeps with? It is for my PRO to keep a count of that and settle their accounts. Some of them get desperate, they had already built massive dreams, as the future Mrs. Asit Mahanty. They scream, whine before the PRO, but he is a real gem. Nothing moves him. If some one tries to be difficult he blackmails her with a couple of photographs. She runs away without looking back."

"Why do you do that? You can get married to a billionaire's daughter and enjoy your flesh anytime you want."

Asit laughed, a derisive laughter throwing the doctor off guard.

"You know, my dad had asked me, a couple of years after I took over the business, what kind of girl I would like as a wife. I laughed at the idea, told him I don't want to be tied down to a cow, a bloody cow, like my Mom who never even answered back my dad and worshipped the ground he trod upon. Asit Mahanty is different, so bloody different. Doctor, do you eat meat?"

"I used to, but gave up two years back."

"Tell me, which meat is the best, the tastiest?"

"To me all meat used to taste the same, what is the difference?"

"There is a difference doctor, in the pleasure you get from eating meat. It's all psychological, you know, all pleasure is in the mind. See, you can get meat in three different ways - you can buy it, you can go to the jungle, shoot a deer and eat its meat. But you know which is the best meat you can have? When you rear a goat or a deer at home, give him all the attention you can, make him feel so happy and secure. Then one day you drag him to the slaughter point and kill him with your own hands. The look of disbelief, sadness and betrayal in his eyes is something so rare and so deep, it will make you feel powerful, immensely powerful. You had the power to give him life and then you decided to take it away. For him, in his last moments, you played God. That's what I like doctor. With my girls also. I bring them home, give them lots of hope, they just soak in it. Gradually they start getting aggressive, throw their weight around with the servants and one day I just throw them away like soiled napkins. My PRO secretly records the video of their pleading with him to give one more chance to meet me, to grant just a few minutes with me. They sob, whine and almost fall at his feet. The video really turns me on. Ah, the power of playing with people's fate! Only two persons can do it. God and Asit Mahanty! Doctor, you cannot understand it, the power of playing God, making and breaking people's lives!"

Asit again took a few sips of water, wondering what was happening to him, why he was feeling so tired frequently. The doctor watched him closely, puffing away at his cigarette. Something was bothering him and he wanted to ask Asit about that.

"Wasn't there anyone who you liked, may be a little more than others? Someone special?"

Asit paused for a moment, a wistful smile playing on his lips, "Yes, there was one. A really innocent, cute girl. She was not procured by my PRO. My car had accidentally brushed her from the side when she was walking back from the college. One look at her, and I was floored. She was beautiful, like a freshly bloomed flower and I was mad to get her. After six weeks of wooing I won her and one winter afternoon ravished her in my penthouse. I can never forget the way she cried, as if I had taken away the virginity of her whole clan! It was a big victory for me. I love it when the girls resist and I ultimately conquer them."

The doctor lit another cigarette,

"Did you throw her away also?"

"Yes, I got tired of her telling me all the time, she loved me, only me as Asit Mahanty and didn't care for my riches, that even if I had nothing she would have loved me with her heart and soul. To my horror, I saw in her another cow like my mother and in a couple of days after she professed her eternal love to me, I asked the PRO to take care of her. But Shefali was different, not like others who got intimidated by threats of blackmail, her nude photographs and pictures of the intimate moments she shared with me. A couple of months later she stormed into my office, created a big scene. Told me she was pregnant with my child. Foolish girl, she thought she could nail me down with that! I used the only weapon that I knew would shatter her. I simply told her that she was of loose character, if she could sleep with me, God knows how many men she would have slept with. I can never forget the way her face became ashen, she trembled and collapsed on the floor. She reminded me of a pet doe I had killed a year earlier, the way she had looked at me, tears in her eyes when I went near her with a sharp knife. I asked the watchman to throw her out. I never saw her again."

"What happened to her?"

"How do I know? I don't care what happens to the girls I discard. They mean nothing to me."

The doctor looked at Asit, a feeling of revulsion sweeping over him, the young man was again sweating and wiping his face with his kerchief. In a trembling voice, the doctor said, "I know what happened to her. She was the only child of her parents, their sweet darling, the throb of their heart. When she told them of her plight they were shattered. Her father quit his job and they all left for Delhi. He took up a job as a research scientist at the National Institute of Immunology. Shefali remained in deep depression and one afternoon when her mother was away to buy some vegetables, she hanged herself from the ceiling fan. Her mother was devastated by this tragedy and lived for just six months after that. After her death, the father also wanted to end his life, but then he thought how will he face his wife and daughter in heaven if he leaves without taking revenge on the devil who destroyed a happy innocent family. So I came back here..."

Before he could finish, Asit cut him short, "You? You are Shefali's father?"

"Yes, I am her father and I returned to this sad place to rid you of your habit of enjoying flesh. Asit Mahanty, your days of enjoying flesh are over. In a few months you will look like an old dog, your skin peeled off, your hair gone, you will be sitting in your lawn and panting like a decrepit dog that you are."

Asit turned pale, his face distorted by a grimace, "Why? What has happened to me?"

"AIDS. Remember you had come to me six months back for some viral infection? I had injected you with the AIDS virus. While leaving the National Institute of Immunology I had stolen a vial of the AIDS virus and brought it with me. I found out you go to GetWell Multi Speciality Hospital for all your ailments. So I took a job there and waited for your next visit. I had told the reception counter that you are an old patient of mine and when you come they should refer you to me. The first time I saw you I almost lost my mind. I thought of jumping on you and tearing you to pieces. But months of grieving over my family had taught me patience. So I waited for my chance to inflict the cruelest death on you. Now go home and wait for your death. This evening's newspaper will carry the news of your suffering from AIDS and no girl will look at you after this. You are such a celebrity, you know, the newspapers are so eager to publish a sensational news about you. So from now on you will only crave for flesh, but no flesh will be available to you. You will die a sad, frustrating death in a few months. Here is your medical report confirming the onset of AIDS. I have given a copy of this to the newspapers also. Don't even try to get a treatment. I had got the most virulent form of virus for you. Nothing but the best for you, you know. Asit Mahanty doesn't believe in anything but the best!!!"

Asit jumped up from his seat and clenched his fist to give a blow to the doctor, "You dirty bastard! You have ruined my life!"

The doctor got up and started walking away, "Not me, you are the rich, arrogant bastard! Sit down Asit, dying men don't throw punches at others, they just cover their faces and wait for the cold hands of Death to come and pick them up, silently, stealthily. I wish I could be present when your rotten body is consigned to flames. Ah, the sweet unbelievable taste of revenge! It is much better than the tastiest flesh you ever enjoyed Asit. Good bye to you. Don't come back to me, I am done with you, for me you are history, a sad, unfortunate chapter of my life."

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

Viewers Comments

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

A reader has adversely reacted to the comments of Mr. Sreekumar. I would like to clarify firmly and unequivocally that I have no intention of turning the LiteraryVibes into a forum for political discussions, nor to eulogise or condemn any individual. I had published the comments of Mr. Sreekumar only because it represented a different viewpoint. Mr Narayanan's article has a certain literary relevance, being a nice, readable personal anecdote. Praise of the PM is only incidental. Moreover, in my thirty seven years of service in Government I had not come across an instance where a letter sent to PMO brought instant relief by way of refund of a big amount fraudulently obtained. And if it happened the way Mr. Narayanan has described, it certainly deserves a word of praise. Nothing more, nothing less. So let us close this subject and move on with celebrating literature and enjoying its beauty.

Feb, 09, 2020
Dasarathi Mishra

Congratulations for the LV - Edition LIV . Brilliant poems, short stories. Enjoyed the beautiful short stories : GREED and FLESH. Welcome Mr Suresh Sarangi . Liked nice flow and narration in Greed.

Feb, 09, 2020
Sreekumar K

i would appreciate it much if Literary Vibes remain as literary vibes instead of being a propaganda oriented magazine. Please filter the works to keep it apolitical. Had the governments been good enough or bad enough some of us wouldn't have been writing here. i write because no government is an angel. I am allowed to write because no government is a Satan. Things being what they are, let us not glorify or vilify politicians. It is possible that the gimmicks played by a government impressed me. I have a choice. I can create a literary piece out of it or take it somewhere else if I only plan to report it. I am so happy this edition does not contain a contribution from me. I don't want to be on the pages of a weekly which glorifies the PM. I once heard a blind man singing off pitch and going round with a begging bowl. Just because he couldn't see properly, he assumed I couldn't hear properly. Sorry, I can.

Feb, 08, 2020
Dr BC Nayak

The by product of "Flesh "is "No questions asked" which is the trade mark of billionaire Asit Mahanty .Having been told of HIV injection effects he just walked away with little outbursts maintaining his dignity of"No questions asked".The doctor's method of sweet and slow revenge is appreciated, not only of a doctor but a father as well. A very fine story but unlike the author's other ones, here, from the entry of Shefali it is evident that she must have been the daughter of the doctor. And about the story "No further questions asked" !!

Feb, 08, 2020
Dr BCNayak

"Faith " though a little pond of water creates an ocean of positive vibes to turn an atheist to a theist.No further questions asked.

Feb, 08, 2020
Hema

Thank you Sir, for yet another edition of Positive Vibes.....it's always a pleasure to go through the poems/stories. Regarding my poem A BIRD'S EYE VIEW, it is about an incident that happened three days ago.... I was in the drawing room along with my students. It was around 4 pm or so. My husband was working on his PC at the dining table. Hearing the mynahs and birds making strange sounds, he stepped into the bedroom and took pictures of the coconut tree from where the noise emanated. The pictures revealed a 'Shikra.' Wonder if the bird had lost its way........

Feb, 07, 2020
Dr BCNayak

My favorite color is blue and anything blue fascinates me.Started reading" The Blue Box"thinking that "Blue box : an electronic device attached to a telephone that emits signals enabling the user to make illegal free long-distance calls"would be of Hindi film type story. But surprisingly, it has been converted into a memoir treasuring Shyla's little family.Love and emotions are perfectly blended with it by the acclaimed author.

Feb, 07, 2020

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Literary Vibes - Edition LIV

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