Literary Vibes - Edition LVII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the fifty seventh edition of LiteraryVibes.
This week we are happy to introduce to you two new writers. Dr. Harish Patnaik from Bhubaneswar is a retired Chief General Manager of the State Bank of India who has written an emotional, heart touching article on his mother on the occasion of her first death anniversary. The sacrifice made by mothers for their children is the stuff of Indian folklore and it is indeed a rare privilege to experience it first hand from a son's pen. Shri. S. Sundar Rajan from Chennai is an accomplished and well-published writer. His story published in the present edition of LiteraryVibes is an entertainer par excellence. We wish them a lot of success in their literary career and look forward to more stories from these two new members of LV family in the coming weeks.
We are proud to announce that at the Bharat Award for Literature, International Short Story Contest - 2020, promoted by xpress publications and www.poiesis.online three of our regular contributors to LiteraryVibes won laurels. Prof. Geetha Nair was placed second, Dr. Anniamma Joseph, seventh and Dr. Molly Joseph got the eighth position in the competition. Our heartiest congratulations to them and we wish them many more awards in future.
The mayhem and lawlessness witnessed in Nort East Delhi in the past few days have been quite disturbing. A country of around 1.3 billion people, grappling with problems of poverty, unemployment and economic slow down really cannot afford to waste its precious time and energy on meaningless violence crippling a part of the capital, throwing life out of gear. We do hope that good sense prevails in all quarters and we return to a positive, conducive atmosphere soon for peace, progress and prosperity.
Yet, amidst this gloom there are glimmers of hope when one comes across acts of exemplary goodness. Whether it is the Apna Bank helping the cause of poor women's empowerment in Mushari and Bandra blocks of Muzzafarpur district of Bihar, or the noble mission of rehabilitating more than 2051 Physically Challenged couples by Narayana Seva Sansthan of Udaipur, there are stories of supreme kindness, determination and valour which give us the hope that despite dark forces unleashing mindless terror, there will be always beacons of light leading our country to glory. LiteraryVibes salutes these symbols of hope with the song, Hum hungoey kaamiyaab ek din, manmey hei biswas........
Hope you will enjoy the present edition of LiteraryVibes. Please share it with all your friends and contacts through the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/279 All the previous fifty six editions of LiteraryVibes, including two short anthologies of stories by Prof. Geetha Nair and Mrutyunjay Sarangi can be accessed at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Wishing you a happy reading of LiteraryVibes and with warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
1) GRANNY RETURNS Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2) ROUNDS OF WILD… Haraprasad Das
3) PIGGY BANK Geetha Nair
4) DOPPELGANGER Geetha Nair
5) DRAUPADI Krupasagar Sahoo
6) TRANSIENT LIGHTS Dilip Mohapatra
7) GRIEVING IN THREE... Bijay Ketan Patnaik
8) MIRROR Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
9) THE EQUATION OF ... Ananya Priyadarshini
10) MAA AND MANGO Harish Pattnaik
11) TRAP Lathaprem Sakhya
12) A GUIDANCE Sharanya Bee
13) TU (YOU) Sheena Rath
14) OBEY TRAFFIC RULES Hema Ravi
15) INVITED INJURIES Narayanan Ramakrishnan
16) TRIAL Biswa Prakash Sarangi
17) SMILE – THE LIGHT... Setaluri Padmavathi
18) PARADOX Dr.Jinju S.
19) EAR DROPS FOR YOU S Sundar Rajan
20) YES BOSS Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Me and my loneliness
that evening
joined the granny’s old swing-chair
beside the grass in our lawn
spreading its dark green carpet,
cicadas buzzing tanpura in bushes
awaiting the special guest.
Cacophony was dying in nests,
birds having returned to their loved ones,
reveling them with their day’s adventures.
The last streak of red lipstick
on the sky’s dark blue mouth
getting smeared over on cuffs
of the newly arrived evening.
A slice of moon had come out,
an excuse, to hang over the western hills.
Granny like a shadow
seemed to steal in by the back gate,
the gate’s creaking giving her away;
besides her smell from fresh dips
in the river behind the house.
I got up, left the lawn to go in,
leaving the swing-chair for her,
to bring her a cup of ginger-tea,
her favourite, and her reading glasses;
also, a lamp to see her
naughty toothless smile.
On return I found none, perhaps,
she had given me the slip again,
leaving behind an empty chair
swinging in the swishing air.
This day fifty years back,
she and me had gone for our dips
in the river behind our house;
I returned but she stayed back
for a while longer in the river;
a dead mermaid was fished out,
scales for skin and sliver for hair.
Every year, this day,
I wait – she may return
from her last refreshing dip
from the river,
shedding her mermaid skin,
wearing her toothless smile.
(Another poem from my Granny Archives)
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
ROUNDS OF WILD GOOSE CHASE… (CHAKA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The real reason
not yet revealed,
search is on for words
to cushion the truth.
Hints and allusions,
from the repertoire of euphemism,
sweating over their exhausting search,
are gone for a refreshing bath.
A few dutiful similes,
like sincere night watchmen,
thread through the dark
tapping their sticks.
The train for Mughalsarai,
that left at five-thirty
with much huffing-puffing,
and guzzling water, hasn’t arrived.
Overnight, you have collected
the goodwill of guests
in your ruffled sari-end
tempering their red ant anger;
the night guests
are up on their feet;
the daybreak
is imminent;
the truth still isn’t revealed;
taken for a ride, it’s time
perhaps for another round
of wild goose chase.
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)”
(.. For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
I have begun hoarding again.
Sepia prints, dried petals, stones,
Feathers, coins, old notes
Scribbled with moans,
Modified crisp ones too;
All gathered with love
And stuffed into this old blood pot
That throbs for you.
When full and ready to burst
I shall smash it in front of you,
My darling boy,
So you smile your baby smile
And toss your baby curls
And sweep it up all
To run to buy
Your newest toy.
(.. For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
If I turn the mirror
To Serpent Town
And show you your face
Then tilt it this way
To reflect mine
And let you gaze
Does that make me
Friend or foe?
Why must it lay you low?
Clear sight
Is the poet’s might.
Didn’t you know?
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
Ahmedabad-Howrah Express halted at Surat station; it was a two minutes’ stoppage. A couple with bedraggled trunks on their heads and cloth bags under their clutch, running breathless, just about managed to enter a compartment. From their attire, they appeared manual workers. Seeing them, a passenger at the door scoffed, ‘Hey you! Don't get in here. This is reserved.’
The couple ignored the scorn, wriggled in, found a place near the bathroom, placed their tin trunk and finally sat on it. They did not go inside to check for seats. As if the place near the bathroom was allotted to them. With great trepidation, Hazari, the man asked the passenger on the aisle seat, ‘Will this train go via Odisha?’ The passenger uttered a perfunctory ‘yes’ and turned his face, as if the couple’s presence was irritating him. A glimmer of relief crossed the lined face of Hazari. On the trunk, sat his wife Kajali, dumb faced.
The train chugged along from Surat and expectedly the mandatory visit of TTE started. Seeing Hazari and Kajali nicely ensconced on the trunk, the TTE got irked, as an Alsatian would, when a cow enters the Saheb’s premises. He scowled, ‘Hey! This is sleeper class. Get out of here.’
Hazari requested ‘Babu I have the tickets.’
‘Aare.... this is ordinary ticket. With this ticket you will not get a berth in this compartment.’
‘Babu! ....We don’t need seats we are sitting on the trunk.’
‘So what? You are in the compartment’ baulked the TTE. Hazari started pleading in his broken Hindi. ‘Riots have broken out in Surat, Sir. All workers are fleeing the place, trains are all packed, not an inch to get a foothold, myself, going home with my woman. Pardon my mistake Babu.’
The TTE took out his receipt book from his black coat, ‘Ok if you want to go in this train you have to pay a fine of Rs 106 each. Agreed?’
‘Where will I get so much money to give Babu? My shack was burnt in the riots, whatever little was there, have become ashes. With great difficulty we have sold our utensils and got this ticket.’
‘Ok, if not 106 Rs. then at least give 58 Rs each.’
‘Babu not even a rupee I have on me.’
‘Such a bunch of liars!’ exclaimed the TTE. The same story every time. No money. Then why do you get out of your place in the first place? Are the Railways your in-laws?’ Hazari was going on making pitiable sounds when the TTE clinched the matter with an air of finality, ‘I cannot handle this. Let me get the TTE squad’ and walked out of the compartment via the vestibule connector.
After a while, he came back with other TTEs from the TTE squad along with hammals. From the stout bodies and thick moustache of the hammals they were looking like thugs of grandmother’s tales, so thought Hazari. The hammals were carrying sticks.
The hammals brandished the sticks in front of Hazari in good measure. Even then the fine could not be extracted out of him.
The squad-in-charge ordered one hammal, ‘Take him to the bathroom and search him.’
Hazari was taken to the bathroom. His dhotis, his underwear, the lining with hidden pockets were all thoroughly searched in vain.
Silently sobbing Hazari came out of the bathroom. He was shaken. Such insult, in front of his wife!
Sitting on the trunk, awestruck Kajali was watching the drama from inside her gunghat. She moved her hands to gasp her mouth when her bangles started tinkling.
The TTE exclaimed ‘Aare! …your woman has all the money. Better, take it out from her.’
Hazari’s patience caved in. He started sobbing even loudly ‘Babu! Kick me, slap me, beat me. Do whatever you want with me. But do not touch my woman. Honestly Babu, we have no money to go up to the village or eat.’
One hammal said ‘Sir! It is all dramabazi. Shall we search the woman?’
The TTE thoughtfully said ‘No, … No ...the situation will go out of hand. Do not touch the woman. Give a message to the next station. Let a Lady TTE come and search her. Surely she has the money. See the heavy silver ornaments she is wearing on her nose and hands.’
‘Yes, Yes’ the rest of the hammals agreed. The squad was in no mood to give up. Surely they knew how to extract water from a dry twig.
Other passengers in the compartment were unmoved. A game of card was going on in the adjacent seat.
It was time for the next stop, Bhusabal, the city of banana and orange. That was a good fifteen minutes halt.
Hazari’s heart started pounding. What will happen now? Will they come and harass again? When will his trials end? What will he do? What will happen to Kajali. A loudspeaker nearby was belching out a Hindi film tune, ‘Choli ke picche kya hai! Choli ke pichhe....’
At Bhusabal, the squad members came back along with a lady TTE into the compartment. The team was clearly recharged and knew their mission well. From Kajoli’s silver ornaments their attention was now shifted on to the red blouse, she was wearing, an old-moth-smelly piece that clung to her slender body covering her treasure trove. Huddled on the trunk, Kajoli sensed it and clasped her arms on her chest in a bid to cover the booty she possessed.
The crowd in the compartment became vicariously expectant. The Lady TTE was explained her job by the male TTE. She took one look at Kajoli. Such a poor woman and with a few silver ornaments to boot, jutting out of her slender arms, she thought. A storm was brewing in her head. She knew how it feels to come from a poor background, she having come from one. No she thought. She cannot search her in front of such a rapacious crowd. She went near her in a bid to coax her. As she came near, Kajoli thought the woman with the black coat was another ‘Dushasan’ out to disrobe her.
Hazari stood stupefied. The members of the squad and other hammals were in a charged mood. The passengers in the compartment got out of their cocoons and became onlookers of the impending spectacle. Even the passing chaiwalas, kelawalas on the platform stopped on their track and started peeping inside. The loudspeaker was mercilessly belching out ‘Choli ke pichhe kya hai .Choli ke picche’
Then all of a sudden Kajali jumped into the ring of hammals with a jig and a war cry. In her half Hindi, half Odiya she started screaming ‘All you Yamadutas! Don’t you have mothers or sisters? You have no one but these poor people to suck to. Are all the travellers going with tickets? Why don’t you check the rich? Why do you let them go? Why do you treat us like dogs and monkeys?
Then like a demoness she lashed out, ‘Which Father’s son will disrobe me? Who wants to see what is inside my choli. Take this. Then in a blatant act she tore open the red blouse from her body and threw it on to the Lady TTE.
All the curious onlookers with gaping expectant eyes would have noticed a desert land where there was only a plateau with no mountains ever. It was a place which had never seen a spring nor autumn nor rains. Neither flowers nor fruits have ever blossomed in that desert land .With her bony outstretched arms Kajali was still dancing an outrageous jig and dangling her bangles. This is all that I have you swines, these bangles are my wealth, my shield and they protect me from all evils you monsters’ she kept screaming and shouting.
The squad was turning their face to shoo away the crowd.
The Lady TTE threw back the choli to her in a bid to cover her. Then she cut a receipt and handed over to Kajali. ‘Go, No one can fine you now.’ The loudspeaker was still blaring ‘Choli ke pichey kya he …Choli ke pichey…’ and a quietened Kajali was still dangling her bangles when the whistle of the train blew. (1373 words)
Krupasagar Sahoo is a leading name in contemporary Odia literature. With twelve collection of stories and six novels to his credit he has created a niche for himself in the world of Odia fiction. Many of his works have been translated in to English and other major Indian languages. Drawing upon his experience as a senior Railway officer, he has penned several memorable railway stories. He is recipient of several literary awards including Odisha Sahitya Academy award for his novel SESHA SARAT.
Stars blink and wink in the skies
fireflies flounder in the foliage
sparklers shine and die.
The Northern Lights dazzle
Indra wields his Bajra
the bolt from the blue
and the dews of dawns
entrap trillion suns for a while.
Semaphore signals flash
on the ship's mast for sometime
and when the message is gone
dissolve into
the dense darkness around.
Eyes twinkle to iron out
the furrows on your brows
as your smile sublimates
and the minds
overpower the words.
Memories come in contingents
and parade in a procession
in flashbacks
with pangs of pains
and spurts of pleasures.
Beacons and bonfires
beckon and warn against the pillager
you keep moving on....
till you reach your destination
or may be beyond.
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.
GRIEVING IN THREE DIMENSIONS (Shokara Tinoti Pankti)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
When My Youngest Daughter Died
Your arrival was fortuitous,
never begged for, nor intended;
yet, a harbinger of spring
in my life’s winter;
an unwritten happy sequel
but brought to end unceremoniously.
“Good things don’t last,
que sera sera.” the consolation bleeds!
When My Eldest Son Died
You always looked to me
as my just-born, out of my womb
after the months-long gestation;
even in death, you seem
to be there, as the flesh of my flesh,
a spark in my soul;
your throbbing memory, my son,
would keep you alive in me;
but what of your new bride
who shared your life,
and four of your nights
in bed with you?
Where would she find
the memories
to last a lifetime?
When My Husband Died
I recall, our birth-charts
were matched by astrologers.
The priest said, “This couple
would live endearingly
an everlasting married togetherness.”
My father emptied his purses,
the celebration matching the predictions.
What a travesty of hoaxes!
You have left,
our nest in tatters!
(Original Odia poem borrowed with thanks from the Odia literary journal ‘SAMAYARA SHANKHNAADA’ – July-Sept. 1996 issue.)
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
There were a few tribal villages untouched by modern civilisation which existed scattered in the Western Ghats where people lived in their own world. What they saw from their mountain tops, they believed was the entire world. The clouds that sailed below the mountain tops were their extreme boundaries beyond which they believed all the evil lay. The mountains were their guardians and the sun, moon and stars were their gods. They were a folk of innocent people who lived a simple existence with bare essentialities of life and spent time on hunting and agriculture for their existence. A bunch of people who had not even seen their own faces and so depended on others to describe their facial features and characteristics.
Among these tiny mountain villages travelled Odiyan, an orientless shrewd young man who earned his living with his quick flashy tricks called magic. He had mastered the tricks from an old sage who claimed that he was the only one from the hills who had visited a place called town somewhere far down the hills, beyond the seeming boundaries formed by the clouds where the cunning and evil set of human forms lived. Odiyan’s parents who were ardent followers of this sage placed their only son at the feet of this sage with the aspiration that one day Odiyan too would get the enlightment and become a renowned sage to show the right path to the fellow beings. The sage shared his spiritual wisdom with the boy and along with it he also taught him few tricks. Odiyan was brilliant enough to quickly grasp the sequence of events performed in a trick which happened in a flash before his eyes. Very soon the growing boy could successfully emulate the same tricks much more skilfully and in greater perfection than the old sage who was growing old. Before the sage finally closed his eyes he gave Odiyan the most treasured of his possessions which he said to the nearly grown adult now, “This can change your destiny”. Three small round pieces of silver like objects was unfurled from a skin pouch which reflected everything shown into it in light, which the wise old sage called as mirrors.
“Handle it carefully and show no trick with it for this is something which the villagers in the mountain haven’t seen or heard of till now. The moment they see these objects, the narcissistic attitude in them will start growing and their thoughts will be turned onto themselves. The refelection of self will occupy their simple minds and separate one individual from another and the unity of the people will be lost forever. Use it only when you think is the most appropriate time in a wise manner and only if it is necessary. The sage showed him how the three mirrors worked according to their reflective character when placed towards the light and Odiyan was mesmerisied in the activites displayed by the mirrors. Odiyan had made it up in his mind then itself that these mirrors were going to be his biggest trick one day, at the most appropriate time and opportunity. The thought of his own self had stepped into him the moment his eyes met the mirrors.
Time passed down the valley along with the clouds and its shadows and it became years as monsoon followed summer and spring followed winter. Odiyan had matured into a seasoned magician of repute who could thrill his audience to the shores of mystery. He was a vagabond and travelled from village to village as and when it pleased him. The mountains were his bed and the wind his cloak and he roamed about on his legs with a bag of mysterious tricks. His thick eyebrows created a fur of mystery above his eyes and hisprotruding eye balls could pierce into a person’s mind and command it to believe whatever trick he showed. Whether he had a nice face or an ugly one was difficult to say for it lay buried under an unkempt beard which gave his appearance a hideous look.
The winter this time was a bit more harsh and it snowed at the peak much earlier than the usual time and that bore the message of a long winter ahead. Odiyan had decided to spend this season in the village that was on the greener side of the mountain range where the sun gave its light more and kept the people warm. It was a splendid village with some simple nice warm people inhabiting it. It was about afternoon when Odiyan was preparing himself for the performance in the evening when a person by name of Kathri came to meet him on a beautiful white horse. Odiyan had seen this man before and he was an acquaintance from a few shows performed by Odiyan on his earlier trip to this village before.
“What can I do for you?" Odiyan asked politely seeing that the man was eagerly trying to speak to him which was of some importance but he seemed to require some privacy for he was concerned about the people who stood a bit away.
“Nothing much” Kathri said, for he being a prominent member of the community in the village didn’t want to stoop low before a vagabond magician, but still he had to seek the magician’s help if he wanted his wish to be fulfilled. “But one thing", he said in a pleading tone,"I need your help, for it is only you who can help me”. Odiyan still didn’t know how he was supposed to help such an important person in the village but he promised that he would if it’s something which he could.
Satisfied, Kathri began to tell what he wanted or rather he was describing a plot that was to be enacted that day. “In the evening almost the whole village will be coming to see you perform, for we all have heard how good a magician you are and among them will be the village chief and with him Rukma too”
Odiyan wanted to ask who this Rukma was but Kathri was continuing without a break. “She is the chief’s daughter, the most beautiful woman in this world, the one I would die for”.
“So are you both in love?” Odiyan interrupted with a pleasant smile on his face which cracked through his dark forest of a beard.
“Not exactly” Kathri continued. “I have expressed my love and affection for her but she does not care for me. She loves Neelan, my friend”.
That was a usual glitch which Odiyan had witnessed many times in his travels, a pattern of love which led to broken hearts, jealousy and hatred. Odiyan understood Kathri’s feelings but the kind of help Kathri was expecting from him couldn’t be read from Kathri’s face though Odiyan was good in the trick of telling out what people had in their minds.
“How am I to be involved in this “, Odiyan asked surprisingly.
“Don’t you magicians call upon a member from the audience to help them in a trick or two?” asked Kathri to which the reply from Odiyan was “Yes”.
Kathri began to elaborate his plot. “You should ask for the most beautiful woman in this village to come up to the parapet around the banyan tree here to help you in doing a trick. The crowd will naturally ask Rukma to go up because she naturally is the most beautiful female on this earth. I too will urge her. She can’t refuse because the limelight will be on her”.
“And then what should I do” Odiyan asked anxiously for he could now clearly see the objective the other person had in his mind.
“Once she is with you”, love brimmed from the feverish eyes of Kathri as he said, "Hypnotise her and change her heart forever. Make her hate Neelan and make her love me. Me alone, forever.”
Odiyan was taken aback and that was the first time in his journeys that he was challenged to change the fate of a person. “I can’t do that. I don’t know any such black magic to change other people’s hearts or minds. I am a simple man who lives by doing simple tricks”
But Kathri wouldn’t accept that. He believed Odiyan the magician could set everything right for him through his powers granted to him by his gods. “I will give you everything and anything you ask for," Kathri pleaded.
Odiyan tried his best to make Kathri understand the facts of his magic and send him away but Kathri was adamant on what he thought could be easily done by a person who had strange powers. He was ready to offer anything to Odiyan for the favour done. Alcohol, gold coins and leopard skin were suggested but Odiyan wouldn’t take anything of that for a job he was uncertain. But Odiyan had by now realised how love was blinding Kathri. Odiyan's ever observing eyes were now fluttering around like a butterfly around that beautiful white horse of Kathri which stood majestically against the back drop of the mountains. Odiyan was not sure of the job he was about to undertake but he decided to take a chance. He would try to advise or persuade or even frighten Rukma into loving Kathri within the short time he had with her on the stage. He would go ahead with the plan of Kathri and if by his stroke of luck everything worked out well then he would get the possession of that beautiful white mare. If he was to fail in his job, well, there was nothing he was going to lose. Thus a deal was made over that white horse to which Kathri reluctantly had to agree for the sake of Rukma. The agreement was that the horse would be handed over to Odiyan once Rukma came upto Kathri and smiled at him for she had never smiled at Kathri in spite of his best efforts. Owning a horse was always a dream of Odiyan which could take him galloping on the wind across the mountains and maybe beyond the mountains one day. He had the best of the opportunity of owning a horse provided he was succesfull in his job.
It was evening and the setting sun had created a golden hue for the show to begin and the people came in small groups to see the magician perform. Some of them occupied the rocks which gave them the convenience of height and others occupied the ground in front of the parapet around the great old banyan. The crowd was impatiently waiting for their chief to arrive for he had announced that he was coming to see the magic show with his family. Odiyan’s fame as a magician and the confidence with which he cheated the eyes of the observant audience had spread widely around the mountains. But Odiyan’s confidence was little disturbed this time for his focus was more on convincing a beautiful female to love a person whom she didn’t love. To do that convincing part he had to see that person at the earliest and he had to study her from her mannerisms and character she displayed. But to add to this Odiyan was also eager to see this woman whom Kathri had described as the most beautiful female that could be seen in this mountainous world.
The evening sun that sat above a distant hill was glaring into Odiyan’s eyes from the angle where the chief and entourage came. He blinked his eyes and protected it with the palm of his hand to see the chief’s party walk in. It was very slowly that a body got into the way of the sun and Odiyan didn’t require any protection for his eyes anymore. There was a lady appearing as if she was walking from the sun to him and the sun now formed a halo around her. Rukma had appeared to him and he didn’t have to ask anybody about who she was. Odiyan was captivated. Kathri had hardly described her beauty to him. In a moment the plot that was scripted by Kathri was rescripted by Odiyan. He himself wanted her.
The entourage walked to the front of the crowd as they stood up to show respect to their beloved chief and his beautiful daughter. The chief’s family sat on a bench and then he gave the signal for all there to be seated and the show was allowed to begin as others sat on the ground and rocks around. Odiyan began his tricks. He was so much well versed and deft in his tricks that his hands were now performing the tricks very well on their own while his own mind was occupied with Rukma. He wanted her somehow. The impossible job before him now was to convince a very beautiful female into loving a stranger when she already had a lover. Then something flashed into his mind as if it was reflected from a mirror. Maybe this was the most appropriate moment and opportunity where he could use the ace of tricks that was with him unused all through his life. Maybe this was the event for which the mirrors were created. Odiyan changed yellow roses into blue and then made several cut pieces of rope into one single piece. The people applauded. He made the pebbles disappear only to find it in the pocket of a young boy in the audience and the crowd was amazed. He drank water in between from a pitcher without bringing it near his mouth and refilled it everytime with water from heaven. The crowd couldn’t believe it. By this time Odiyan had formulated a plan even while he was doing his tricks. He was going to use the trick of glass pieces which will reflect anything shown into it and along with it he was going to perform the biggest trick he had ever performed.
“For the next item I need a person from the audience” Odiyan announced. Five or six people stood up or raised their hands gladly to be a part of the show. Seeing the commotion the magician quickly declared, "Let the most beautiful girl sitting in this group come up because beauty is the essence of this magic”. Naturally all eyes fell on Rukma who herself gave a proud look.
“Should she?” the village chief asked.
“Yes she should”, Kathri was there beside them to prompt her and he beseeched her to go forward. She got up and Odiyan helped her upto the parapet and he thought he touched a divine being. Then Odiyan again spoke to the crowd. “Now I want some private time with her behind the banyan tree so as to explain the vital role she has to do in this great vanishing trick. Kathri supported the request and the whole crowd clapped in expectation. Kathri believed everything was going well as planned and he already was thanking the magician in his heart. He waited for a transformed Rukma who loved him and only him to come out from the shadows of the banyan tree.
“So till the time we finish our discussion, all of you please enjoy this music” and saying so Odiyan invited the village bard to sing one of his nature related song on his three stringed harp like instrument. Odiyan wanted to keep the people entertained and to divert their attention away from what he was doing with Rukma.
The village bard came up and sat on the parapet and began his rendition softly and the people slowly focused onto his instrument which gave out a hollow heart pulling sound which drifted out into the valleys.
Meanwhile Odiyan had called Rukma behind the banyan tree. The plan was ready and all he had to do was to enact it carefully without any delay or panic.
“I suppose all the villagers here are blind", Odiyan said to himself, loud enough for Rukma to hear it well.
“What?” Rukma asked. “Did you say that this village is full of blind people?”
“Yes” said Odiyan casually, “or else will they ask you to come forward when I asked for the most beautiful woman in this village to come up to me”.
“Why, am I not beautiful?” Rukma asked arrogantly
“Oh God!” Odiyan laughed. “So you too believe that you are beautiful!”
“Have you seen anybody more beautiful than me?” Rukma asked with resentment.
“Please don’t use the word beautiful” Odiyan said shrewedly. “Use the word ugly as it best describes you’.
Rukma was on the verge of tears. She was about to run back to her father when Odiyan used the opportunity and said “Do you want me to prove that to you?”
Rukma stood silently. She didn’t quite understand what this man was claiming. Odiyan took a small leather pouch which was nicely wrapped in a thick cloth and took from it the concave mirror.
“Have you ever seen for yourself your own face?” Odiyan asked her.
“I have tried to observe it but whatever water we have here is not clear” Rukma said. “It’s always muddy, murky and constantly rippling in the frequent westward winds”
“Then see for yourself how you look in this magic thing called mirror”. Odiyan gave the mirror to Rukma. Rukma took it with caution and viewed her face. She was aghast.
“No, I won’t believe it” she nearly yelled. “This is not me. You are doing magic on me”.
The image she saw was a lean tubular hungry face with sunken eyes.
“If you can’t believe it, try touching your nose or eyes with your finger as you look into the mirror," Odiyan said. She did as said and much to her dismay the mirror followed her actions.
“This is what you are” Odiyan stated. Push your finger against your cheek and feel the hollowness and then palpate the nose which stoops down.
Rukma stood in disbelief. “Then why did my father say that Iam the most beautiful".
“Which father wouldn’t say that to a child? Any child is beautiful and precious to their parents, am I right?” Odiyan asked to which Rukma nodded her head.
“Then why did Neelan say I’am the most beautiful woman in this world” Rukma asked puzzlingly.
“Because he could marry you and then become the next chief. Who wouldn’t want to be in that position and what easier way than flattering”, Odiyan was quickly building up satisfactory answers to all her queries.
“Then what about the villagers who say all the time I am the most beautiful in this village," asked Rukma.
“Shouldn’t they praise the child of their chief and pay their respects. What better way to get favours from him than by talking about your beauty. They have no other option”. Odiyan slowly explained to her that she was not at all beautiful as the rest of people claimed, but that she in fact was an antonym to the word beautiful.
“But I can change your face” Odiyan claimed effectively and quickly. “I can make you beautiful. The most beautiful female of the mountains as your father said, the most beautiful of the village as the people say”.
“How can you change a face from how God has made it?” Rukma asked in disbelief.
“I can do it for you if you accept a condition of mine," Odiyan said.
“No, I won’t believe it” Rukma said
“Ok” I will show it to you how I can do it and to prove to you that I can indeed change your face. But first I will change your face into a different form before I make you completely beautiful”. Saying that Odiyan held forth a veil over her face and chanted something and then gave the convex mirror into her hand. Rukma slowly took the mirror and through her eyes flashed an ogre like ballooned up face. Her fragile psyche was being played upon by Odiyan in all his craftiness and she felt a bit dizzy as her face kept on changing shapes.
“Now tell me in one word, do you want to be beautiful?” Odiyan asked in a hushed tone. When the word beautiful reached Rukma’s ears, she brought down her cupped hands with which she was covering her weeping face.
“Can you really make this ugly creation beautiful?" Rukma asked pleadingly.
“I can do what the God didn’t bless you with, but grant me a wish of mine” Odiyan used the opportunity appropriately like a devil.
“What?’ Rukma asked expecting that she would have to give gold or something expensive in return.
“If I make you beautiful, you should come with me” Odiyan said calmly.
“What? Rukma said, exasperated.
“I will make you beautiful provided you come with me right now and marry me. I will take you to a place beyond the barriers of these mountains and clouds where a beautiful place exists. We can live happily as one enjoying all the comforts and wonders that we haven’t seen till now”.
Rukma felt dizzy. Something strange was happening to her. To her alone, of all the people in the world.
“The Gods are willing to make you beautiful and that should happen before the sun set because today there is an alignment of the stars and things can turn in your favour if you act now” Odiyan instigated her to speed up her mind. "Once you become beautiful you should be with me always in this life for with my magic only can you preserve this beauty or else your ugly form will creep back in." Rukma had fallen into his trap. She remembered Neelan who loved her and felt hatred towards him. He loved her only to become the next village chief. She felt pity towards her father who called an ugly creature like her beautiful so as not to worry her. Her heart sympathised for the villagers who were forced to praise her for their own welfare. Alas! How could she live with such people again? She realised who she was, though late but now she had an opportunity right before her to be really beautiful as she once thought she was. A boon was given to her by the Gods. It’s wise to live as a beautiful woman far away or anywhere than live as an ugly woman here. She looked at Odiyan. He was not handsome yet he was not ugly as she was. He could get a pretty female from anywhere but he chose her. She was lucky. She thanked him in her mind. Then collecting a deep breath she said, “Yes. I will come away and marry you”.
Odiyan smiled. He didn’t want to waste another moment. He took the veil and placed it over Rukma’s face and chanted a set of words. Then he unveiled her and gasped, “This is incredible. When I said I will make you beautiful, I never thought you would turn out to be so much beautiful”.
“Is it?” Rukma was exulted, “Show me the mirror”.
Odiyan quickly veiled her for a moment and pulled out the plain mirror from the pouch and gave it to her. Rukma looked into her reflection and she was bedazzled. She couldn’t be this beautiful, she wept in joy over her metamorphosis.
“It’s all because of your good mind“ Odiyan flattered her.
“No, it’s all because of your kindness on me and your great wizardry” Rukma thanked him and Odiyan was satisfied. His plan had worked and Rukma was in his palms. Now he had to immediately put into action the second part of his plan.
“Now do as I tell you” Odiyan detailed out the plan to her so that he could elope with her. “Do you see that tree”, he said pointing to a neem tree at a distance to which Rukma replied “Yes”.
“Once I make you disappear before the audience and ask you to run, go there and wait for me behind that tree, I will join you soon”, Odiyan gave his instruction to her.
“What about father and others” Rukma enquired to which Odiyan replied “I will take care of that”.
Now the vanishing trick was about to begin. Odiyan held his breath and then he took Rukma to the front of the banyan tree. The audience was well engrossed in the mesmerising song of the village bard and when Odiyan came up, the bard slowly pitched down his sound and finally put a stop. Now the full set of eyes was on Odiyan and Rukma with all expectations.
“The trick we are going to do has been done only a few times in the history of magic. The lady whom you see here in front of you will disappear before your eyes in no time. She will be passing from this world to the world of shadows and you people have to pray for her safe return”. The announcement of Odiyan made the crowd sit uneasy and collect their breath. Kathri sat anxiously thinking of what could have happened behind the tree. Did Rukma agree to Odiyan’s word or did she reject it? But from the smiling face of the magician and Rukma’s expressions of acceptance, he imagined that everything was going according to his plan.
Odiyan picked up his pot of incense from which smoke came out and he fanned over it to thicken the smoke so as to envelope the entire stage. The smoke not only created a white screen but also brought tears into the eyes of the crowd blinding them for a certain time. Rukma stood behind the pot with eyes closed as instructed by Odiyan. Odiyan then swayed a small curtain like cloth over Rukma for three times and uttered some magical words loudly. Then he folded the sheet in a quick flash and Rukma had disappeared. The village chief searched for his daughter through the smoke but his daughter was not there. The crowd clapped strongly. Some among the crowd suspected that she was behind the tree or on the tree. Odiyan signalled at Kathri to come onto the stage and Kathri immeaditely volunteered himself to go up to the parapet and inspect the stage on behalf of the audience so as to prove that Rukma had indeed vanished and was not hiding anywhere. Kathri palyed his part in the drama very well and he believed all this act was carried out for his own good. Kathri carefully looked up the tree and then he walked around the banyan tree and signalled to the crowd that indeed there was no trace of Rukma. The crowd was satisfied with the certificate that Kathri gave.
“Now I have to make her appear again, shouldn’t I”, asked Odiyan
“Yes” the crowd agreed loudly and the most prominent voice among them was that of Kathri.
Odiyan again fanned up the smoke pot and held up the sheet. A minute went by and he brought down the sheet. Nobody appeared. With a desperate face he again fanned up the smoke and held up the sheet, but nothing happened. The crowd sensed that something had gone wrong.
At last Odiyan admitted, ”It seems something has gone wrong. Maybe it’s this strong breeze. It seems to have carried Rukma’s body which has been dissolved into the atmosphere to make her invisible.”
The crowd groaned, “Now what”?
“What about Rukma, where is she?” the chief asked anxiously
“I myself have to go and get her” Odiyan said.
“From where?” Somebody asked from the back of the crowd.
“From the thin air” Odiyan said. “She is caught up inside the thin air and right now you can see that there is a strong wind building up and that is dangerous. Rukma can be carried along with it and I must act in haste”.
The crowd was in suspense. Kathri smiled at how Odiyan was building up the suspense though he wondered as to why the drama should be prolonged any longer.
“Shall I go get her?” Odiyan asked to which the crowd loudly implored him.
“It is a very risky trick and to catch up with the wind that is already carrying Rukma I need a horse which is fast enough” Odiyan said to which Kathri was baffled. The chief was more than willing to give his horse to Odiyan but he had arrived here on foot. Some youngsters in crowd reminded that Kathri had come on his horse and Kathri had to oblige to the chief’s and crowd's demand. Thus the beautiful white horse on which Odiyan had set his eyes was brought to him and Odiyan climbed on the horse in a flash without giving anybody the time to think more. The events were now increasing in pace and now Kathri and the villagers were just obeying Odiyan's wishes. Odiyan who now was sitting on the horse could look down on the rest of the people. “Kneel and pray for us with eyes closed. If I’am to appear again it will only be with your dear beautiful Rukma or else let it be as the plan of our Gods."
The crowd immediately got onto their knees and started praying for the safety of Odiyan and Rukma. Odiyan asked Kathri to fan up a thick smoke like never before with the help of few villagers and Kathri did it without questioning though he wanted to ask him as to what was happening beyond their agreed plan. Using the thick white smoke as his curtain Odiyan galloped off with Rukma who wanted to remain beautiful forever.
As for the villagers they knelt and waited in their prayers the whole night and it was finally a herdsman who was back to the village from the mountains who asked them what the matter was that everyone looked sad and in prayers. They told him how Rukma was stranded in thin air and about the magician who went to save her. “The breeze which turned out to be a strong wind must have carried them both away” the villagers chanted together.
“Yes” the herdsman said. “As I came up the mountain side, I saw in a distance a lady and a man on a white horse being carried away by the strong wind along the mountain ridges.
The story has become a myth and the villagers still pray for the safe return of their village chieftain’s daughter, the magician and the white horse.
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.
THE EQUATION OF RIGHT AND WRONG
"That's not how it is. See, you don't exactly understand...", unknowingly I was loud enough to attract folks around us, including the tea seller.
Shruti grew quite conscious, embarrassed apparently. Shruti, the only colleague of mine whom I could call a 'friend'. I'd joined this office some six years back and Shruti was just a year old here. And I must admit, I'd been living a friendless life at my office until this lady, all full of life crossed paths with mine. I was on good professional terms with almost everyone at office. I was the go-to person of majority of them in case of troubles but I could never really find a 'friend' in anyone. That was a different kind of loneliness, a loneliness none around you has even the wildest guess about. Then came this girl- Shruti.
It was our mutual love for tea that brought us closer. In an office that has coffee dispensing machines after every hundred meters, two tea persons used to meet at a stall right outside the tall glass building of the MNC. We talked. And somehow, she was at my place over lunch on the first weekend itself! She too didn't talk much to people despite being courteous and often grew uncomfortable discussing private affairs with colleagues. But the wall between both of us was probably built of glass- crystal clear, transparent. We talked everything. Absolutely everything. And you know what, sometimes that's all you need- a person to hear you out without judging you. We'd found that person in each other.
"Look Shikha! Puppies!", Shruti shouted, breaking the awkward silence between us lingering since quite some minutes. I looked in the direction she was pointing. A brown momma dog was nursing four pups- two black, one white and one brown. They were all newborns, eyes not fully opened, not able to walk. Just small round balls of fur left at Mom's care. I smiled. It disguised the ongoing argument between us, but only temporarily.
Recently, there was a difference in opinion between us over making a decision at office. I onIy wanted her to listen to me because she had two years less work experience than me but she didn't back out owing to her qualification in the branch involved. It wasn't for the first time that we were in such situations. There had obviously been such situations earlier and we'd dealt with them quite maturely, never letting professional and personal relations superimpose each other. But no matter how fine a line we draw, there's always a grey zone. Probably, we'd already landed in one.
The pups were growing up. Trailing behind their momma, suckling milk, running around and playing false wars with each other. They were living bundles of joy.
"You didn't call me today."
Shruti's voice startled me. She had certainly been standing behind me and watching the pups since long.
"You were at the manager's. I thought I shouldn't disturb."
She smiled, faintly. She knew it was an unsaid ritual to come to the tea stall together. If one was busy the other must wait and there had never been any deviation until that day. I too felt that something was missing.
"I was discussing my plan with the manager. He sort of liked it", Shruti told casually but I felt personally attacked.
"Ignorance, yes of course", I replied trying to act unaffected.
"Sorry?"
"The manager is new and so are you. That's why you can't see the consequences of the silly decision you're about to make."
"Whatever the decision, our department has to deal with it. Shouldn't it be us who decide? We hold an expertise, as well!"
A sudden outburst of continuous barks caught our attention. It was the mother dog. She was barking as loud as she could and stopped only to catch breaths in between. Soon, we knew why. A trolley puller, who we often saw drinking tea at the stall, had picked up the brown pup and was taking it somewhere.
Both of us ran towards him.
"What are you doing?", I shouted. "Where are you taking the pup?"
"There is a household that wants a pet dog. I'm taking this one to give them."
"It's just a few months old! You think it'd survive away from its mother?",
Shruti was red with anger.
"Yes, it will. Dogs do survive...."
"Shut up and leave the pup right away! Else I'm going to call someone from the animal helpline and inform them about your hateful business of selling puppies!", I ignored the trolley puller's explanation.
He didn't argue further and set the pup free. It ran to its mother, scared. The mother licked it all clean. I and Shruti came back to the stall to pay for our tea. The tea vendor had watched the entire ordeal of how we'd saved the pups but didn't look quite appreciative of it.
"All good between you two madams?", He asked as I paid.
"Yes... Yes... Why?", I replied as I saw Shruti walking towards office, without waiting for me. As I heard my own voice, I felt the lack of some confidence in it.
The tea vendor simply nodded as I left. Was the spat between us too evident for him to guess?
We'd changed our tea times. We used to arrive at different hours at the stall as a token of avoidance. We'd not hung out since long and dearly missed each other (yes I still could say that for her). But something held us back. The glass wall between us had been painted with an opaque paint, an ugly shade of it.
One fine morning, I stopped at the tea shop en route to office upon noticing a little crowd. I reached there out of curiosity and was shocked to see two pups- one black and one brown having been crushed to death by some vehicle. I looked around for the mother dog. She was resting in the morning sunlight at a little distance. Her belly had swollen. She was pregnant again. The other two puppies were no where to be seen. I was genuinely worried. They were growing up but weren't grown up enough to be let on their own!
"This is what happens, madam. The mother dog abandons her pups as soon as she gets pregnant again and mostly, the pups aren't self sufficient by then. And then, they meet with such unfortunate accidents. That trolley puller you'd scolded the other day, actually searches households that want to foster a pup and takes the pup to them. Undoubtedly they get separated from their mothers and siblings but live a secured life there. The one who comes here with supplies of cakes and biscuits, has also adopted one. That dog is almost four years old and quite healthy!"
"We made a mistake forbidding him that day. Didn't we?", Shruti cut the tea vendor in the middle. I looked at her. She must have been standing there since long, as always.
"No madam. You were ignorant. You didn't have the wrong intentions. You did what you thought was the best thing to do. It's okay. Don't blame yourself for that now. Also, we can't blame the mother for the deaths. She's just following rule of nature", The tea vendor walked up to his shop leaving me and Shruti looking at each other, like something lost was found again.
Two persons can be right at one time. One doesn't have to be wrong for the other to be right. And we both, two highly educated fools were about to destroy a beautiful camaraderie out of our unacceptance of this very fact! How simple it was! How easy and see through! I wasn't wrong. So wasn't Shruti. We were just having different opinions and had their own degrees of righteousness.
"I'm taking my proposal to the CEO on Thursday.", She told.
"So am I."
"I'll put forth every point to support mine."
"So will I."
"There will be a contradiction."
"A major one, of course"
"The final decision will be that of the CEO to which all of us shall abide"
"And on Friday after work, we'll go out to catch a drink."
"A movie on Saturday. Matinee show..."
"I haven't shopped since ages. I'm running out of groceries. How about visiting the supermarket on Sunday, then?"
Our voices were pouring down, as fresh as the first rain. The color on the glass wall between us, was being washed away.
Ananya Priyadarshini, Final year student, MBBS, SCB Medical College, Cuttack. Passionate about writing in English, Hindi and especially, Odia (her mother tongue).
Beginner, been recognised by Kadambini, reputed Odia magazibe. Awarded its 'Galpa Unmesha' prize for 2017. Ananya Priyadarshini, welcomes readers' feedback on her article at apriyadarshini315@gmail.com.
Come Summer, we brothers & sisters would gather for a gossip near Maa’s bed. If it is mango season, invariably the topic will be centered on the renunciation of mango by Maa. Through such discussion, I came to know that Maa had renounced mango since 1968, the year I left for Delhi university for pursuing my M.Sc course, thinking that I may not be getting my favourite mango fruit in Delhi. Maa herself was a great lover of mango. During such innocuous discussions when Maa would be lying down in bed or resting, my younger brother Lunia would say “Mintu bhai is enjoying the best of mangoes in Delhi, Bombay or Ahmedabad and here our Maa has renounced mango for him since 1968, assumingthat he is not getting mango!" Maa would be listening to all these and her reply would be a big smile.
Many a times I feel guilty that Maa had to make such a sacrifice for me. Many a times I thought of not having mangoes myself. I thought of asking her “ Why did you do this? What was the need for all this? Why did you do this for me and make me feel guilty?’ But I never ventured to ask her because I knew the answer within. She would not reply or would say that she did this for herself and not for anyone else. Some times I get a secret pleasure assuming that I was the chosen son for whom she made this sacrifice.
Mango is not just another fruit for Maa or for me or for any family members in Badamba. Maa had a strong emotional bondage with our “Amba Tota”, the green field mango orchard developed by our grandfather Buxi Loknath Pattnaik. There are nearly 100 mango trees with many unique and grafted varieties like Baiganpalli, Rasaballi, Godavari, Lat-sundari, Nobatpana, etc. We have one “Kanchaasuadi” mango variety which is very sweet when it is raw and tasteless when ripened. There is a variety named Batish palia (22 palas equivalent to one and half kilo).
During our childhood days, our home will be full of activities during the Mango season for a period of 3 to 4 months. Maa would be extremely busy and sometimes disturbed during this period. She would be very worried if flowering in mango trees are delayed or destroyed due to fog. Sometimes a summer storm would come and damage the raw mangoes. I have seen Maa getting restless during such occasions and invariably would rush to our Puja room for prayers to save the mango crop. As a child, I would be scared and follow her footsteps during such times. The day after such a natural calamity I would go to the AmbaTota with our servant Bira and get the mangoes back home in our buffalo driven cart. Then Maa would swing into action. The raw mangoes would be washed, dried, cut into pieces and sundried to make varieties of pickles. Owing to the huge amount of mangoes, invariably, 3-4 cutters would be engaged and as children we also used to help in these activities under the guidance of Maa. The whole scenario would look like a Cottage Industry enterprises. Maa, as the daughter-in-law of a reputed family, had hardly visited the Amba Tota, yet she had detailed knowedge about each and every tree, her information collected through our lady helper Chhotama. She would say “The branches of the Baiganpali tree at the east side entrance is now touching ground due to weight of fruits and we have to give some support”.
Once the mangoes had grown, it would be plucked by skilled workers. I would often urge our servant Bira or Bainsi to allow me to climb the mango trees to pluck a few mangoes. But they forbade me under strict instructions from Maa, as the trees were full of poisonous ants. Once the mango comes home, Maa would supervise the cleaning operations and then it would be kept in a separate room called “Amba ghara” and wrapped with Suneri leaves to ripen till the colour becomes golden yellow like suneri flower. Once ripened, the mangoes would be ready for eating, distribution among family & friends and for selling. During mango season, sometimes our three meals in a day would be mangoes only. Like a seasoned salesperson, Maa would arrange for the sale of mangoes in the nearby village haats. Our uncle, Nani Mamun, who was doing his Engineering during that time, used to visit our place during summer break and would help Maa in the selling of mangoes. I took over the task gradually and remember selling 10 mangoes(roughly 5kgs) for one rupee. Though the Badamba King had 3-4 big mango orchards, our mangoes were the best quality in the market during those days. Hence there was lot of demand for our mangoes in the market. Maa also used to send mangoes to important people and dignitaries like the local Tahasildar, BDO, SDO, Postmaster and to our relatives in Cuttack and Denkanal. Maa used to serve Chhunchipatra pitha and fresh mango juice to special guests in the house. The mango sale would earn around Rs 250-Rs 300 per year during those days, and it was like a bonus for Maa to manage the family. Jeje (our grand father) used to get a pension of Rs256 per month out of which he used to give Rs 150 to Maa to manage the family of 11 children. Thus this additional income from sale of mangoes used to provide her great financial strength. In retrospect, I find that she had the enterpreunial ability to get things done.
Maa’s apprehension that I may not be getting mangoes during my 6 years of stay in Delhi was correct to a large extent. In front of our hostel “Jubilee Hall” in the University campus, there was a fruit seller named Lalaji and I was a regular purchaser of Banana from him. To my horror, I discovered from him that a kilo of Safeda mango (Baiganpali) cost Rs2 in Delhi which was almost 10 times the price of our Badamba mango. I just could not digest this abonormal disparity and thus could not buy mangoes during my entire stay in Delhi as a student. In addition, whenever I saw mangoes, specially golden coloured ripe Baiganpali mango, I got very nostalgic and emotional. This habit continued even after my marriage. My wife Paras just could not understand the logic or economics of not buying mangoes. During my posting in Bhubaneswar, subsequently for nearly 12 years or so I would buy mangoes for religious purpose like Savitri or for my daughters Mitali and Sonali who are also great lovers of this royal fruit. I normaly wait for mangoes to come from our orchard in Badamba and would buy mango from market very reluctantly.
Maa had not been taking mangoes since 1968. However, I realized this very late in the day. In the initial years when I was in Delhi I had no idea about it. Even while I was in Odisha for 12 years after my marriage I was not fully aware of this. It was some time in 2000 or so I came to know about it with certainty. I knew that she started doing Shani Puja for me since my marriage and the Puja is still continuing at our village in Badamba and we also take vegetarian food on Saturday for that. But it was beyond my imagination to think that Maa was not taking Mango since 1968. When I realized the implication of it, I felt ashamed, guilty and devastated for not knowing about it for such a long time. Maa had great love for her children and I realized that I have greatly underestimated her love all these years which made me further miserable. I just can not imagine how could some one who survived on vegetarian food and who liked mangoes, renounce the same for 50 years. It reminds me about the episode in Ramayana wherein Lord Ram discovered that his brother Laxman had not taken any food for more than 12 years or so, though he was very much with him all along during this period.
Maa is not there now with us. Even today, thoughts come to me to forgo mango as a mark of respect to Maa. But I donot know whether she would have liked it during her life time. Her love
for her children, grand children, was supreme and equitable and on this day of her 1st death anniversary, I seek her continued blessings from her heavenly abode.
Mintu
(Written on occasion of the 1st death anniversary of his mother Sudharani Pattnaik)
Harish Pattnaik did his schooling from his village school Mohan Subudhi High school in Odia medium. Susequently he did his graduation from Ravenshaw College Cuttack in Chemistry Hons in 1968 and M.Sc in Chemistry in the Centre of Advanced Studies, Delhi University in 1970. He holds a Ph.D degree in Nuclear Chemistry from Delhi University. After teaching in Delhi University as a lecturer for one and half years he joined the State Bank of India as a probationary officer in Jan 1974.
He served in SBI for more than 35 years in India and abroad and retired in 2009 as the CGM of SBI in Gujarat where he oversaw the merger of SBI with State Bank of Saurashtra. Subsequently, he served in GVFL, a Govt of Gujarat Private Equity/VC company as ED for a tenure of 6 years. He is now settled in Bhubaneswar. He has three daughters who are well educated and pursuing their own professional careers.
The little cottage stood surrounded by walls. It nestled among huge houses. Cats and bandicoots haunted the yard. Kanaka never bothered as she loved cats. But the bandicoots were destructive. They dug out the earth and made holes which were hidden traps for Kanaka. She twisted her legs many times while sweeping the yard and one day she complained to Niranjan. He was waiting for it. He feared her wrath if he spoke about killing the bandicoots. Now that she had complained he happily set a trap. The next morning he was excited. Kanaka was not that happy. Yet she followed him to find what had fallen in the trap. To their great dismay they found a beautiful cat with her left paw under the spring. Niranjan and Kanaka somehow extracted her paw but it was totally shattered. Kanaka was crying throughout with the cat as it howled in pain. As soon as it was freed it ran off on all three legs to lick its wounds to cure. Few days passed by. Kanaka saw a cat's shadow on her veranda. She went out and saw the beauty with her cured left paw dangling and looking at her mournfully. It became a routine. She would sit there her left paw hanging in the air making Kanaka writhe in agony with guilt. She stowed away the trap in the cellar and stopped going to the veranda when the cat came so she could forget the agony she had caused unwittingly.
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
Don't search for me in the places I've left,
Don't track my ancient footprints,
refused to fade but partially concealed in dust,
Only walk along, don't step on them,
they're highlighted in red;
Don't let the echoes of my long-forgotten cries,
resonating in air decieve your tread,
Do not bend down, pick up the rubble scattered and wonder
whether to adore them or simply analyse,
For they're just the debris fallen over, fragments from shattered dreams,
Not your's to keep, not your's to examine.
As you walk barefeet,the gentle pricks of brown mud on your skin,
Don't be tempted to draw figures on it with your toes,
They won't seperate to your designs, the impressions have already been made...
Here and there, pools of sparkling, iridescent liquid, you may find
Don't lean over, for on it, you will never find your reflection...
Only walk and walk,
Until you're tired of the journey, until realisation strikes,
This place won't react to your existence,
You're welcome to then bid goodbye, a gentle snap out of the hologram
I've created to someone curious of my journey so far.
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.
Tu hi meri muskurahat
Tu hi meri shuruaat
Tu hi meri aarzoo
Tu hi meri khushboo
Tu hi meri inayat
Tu hi meri ibadat
Tu hi meri jannat
Tu hi meri shakti
Tu hi meri bhakti
Tu hi mera aasra
Tu hi mera basera
Tu hi meri khwaish, subah aur shaam
Tu hi meri pratibimb
Tu hi meri zindagi puri.
****Footnotes
1. Khwaish.... Wish
2. Aarzoo....... desire, spiritual context
3. Pratibimb.... Reflection
4. Inayat.......... Grace
5. Ibadat.......... Adoration, Prayer
6. Shuruaat..... Beginning
7. Khushboo.... Fragrance
8. Jannat.......... Universe
9. Shakti........... Strength
10.Bhakti..... . .Worship
11. Aasra......... Support
12. Basera....... Abode
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)
Look to the left, look to the right……
Cross when the signal says GO!
They did not pay heed
Not crowded, so they felt no need
Terrible Noise!
against each other the motorbikes grazed
Drivers down and dazed
Injured arms and legs, clothes torn
Earphones on, did not hear the horn.
Thankfully it did not happen on the main road
And one of them had slowed
Averted head-long collision
Heed Traffic Rules
Better to be Mr. Late
than Late Mr……….
Look to the left, look to the right
Cross when the signal says Go!
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.
After more than three decades in the field of education, Sakthidharan retired as the District Education Officer. He was slowly settling into his new life as a retired person. He had an inkling that morning would not turn out to be as good as he would have liked it to be. He found his wife, Sarojini, who too had retired, but as a Headmistress in a private school more than a year earlier, ill at ease. Whose father concocted their date of birth in their service records was so easy a guess! He had earned a sobriquet, ‘Prem Nazir’, soon after his wife’s early retirement. Sakthidharan too justified that with his tidy getup and zest. Sarojini complimented his young looks by her comparatively disheveled dressing, un-dyed hair and hanging double chin and in totality appeared the senior. But it was her early retirement that turned the tables against her, once for all.
It was about eight O' clock that he heard the calling bell ring. He expected, it being the first week of the month, this might be the beginning of the parade of monthly payment collectors like newspaperwala, milkwala, cablewala and all sundrywalas. Why, even those who were out share the blessings of a far away ‘powerful deity’, too, select Sundays for making a kill! They came with a color pamphlet showing the gory picture of Mahakali holding a severed head of an asura, to instill a measure of fear.
It was no surprise for him when a beaming, Narendran the cablewala, stood at the door for collecting the monthly cable subscription of three hundred rupees. Today, he appeared a bit more busy than usual. Narendran was different from all others. He was well dressed, fresh from bath with a sandalwood paste topped with a maroon color sindhoor on his forehead and a smile on his lips. Whenever he talked with Sarojini, he addressed her as Teacher. He was readily invited inside at every house wherever he went for collection. Such was the rapport he had built with his clients over the last few years, that he could ask for a cup of tea, if he so desired, without any delicacy.
Sakthidharan paid the money and soon Narendran left without his regular remarks about something or the other that hadhappened in and around the locality. Sakthidharan, was eager to know more of ‘who eloped with who’ genre. But Narendran was not forthcoming today. Sakthi was disappointed that he could not share some of his anecdotes when he had been in service. He had one or two up his sleeve, every month, reserved for Narendran. But today, luckily for him, another man was in the queue.
The hidden truth in most cases was that, while the teller had enough time to relax and recall his memories, the man at the receiving end, especially when he was on collection mode and umpteen calls to be made that day, would only reluctantly listen and try to wriggle out at the earliest opportunity. Today, Narendran came well prepared for that eventuality and exuded an air of urgency.
Sakthi was about browse his newspaper that he suddenly remembered that Narendran had left without paying the balance of Rs.700 against Rs.1000 he had paid. He was sure he had paid a single currency note.
He called his wife, who was busy in the kitchen, “Narendran did not pay the balance of Rs.700”, he announced gingerly, to which his wife responded rather tamely, “Just be calm, you may have put it in the table drawer or in your shirt pocket. Check”.
That indirect missive made him more furious. “You trust him more. He is not such a person to cheat. He was busier today morning, may have forgotten to pay the balance: but you cannot trust each and everybody blindly”.
Not to lose the battle, his wife added. “He has been coming for collection for the last three years. Not in any way has he behaved to think badly of him. You check again”.
This infuriated him further. “I have checked everywhere. Only he came in the morning. I know his house. I must go immediately”.
To this his wife made a calming retort. “You know his mobile number. Call him on that. Or call on his land line number. Both are with you.”
Sakthi immediately called. When he heard the ‘switched off’ message on the mobile and he frantically tried the landline. The bilingual voice informed him the landline was temporarily out of service. That compounded his misery.
Sakthi, a habitual walker always, and if the situation warranted more quicker action, a cyclist as well, had a bicycle to reach nearby spots. He pulled his old Hercules cycle out and began pedaling his way to Narendran’s house. In his anxiety he lost the road sense and a reckless auto rickshaw knocked him down. Sakthi made an evasive turn, the cycle turned upside down and he fell on the road. Soon people gathered. His whole body was writhing in pain, because of the sudden impact. Many abused the auto driver for his reckless driving. But Sakthi was more concentrated on his money in suspense than on the road. His right arm caught between the handle and the front of the auto bore the brunt. He was conscious but in great pain.
The news reached his home. His son reached the spot in his car. Soon he was taken to the nearest hospital. En-route, his over speeding car hit another vehicle and there ensued a war of words, between them, while Sakthi remained inside the car cursing Narendran for all that happened. The car suffered damages. Somehow, they reached the hospital.
Narendran was about to reach home when he got the news about the accident. He immediately rushed to the hospital to see his client. He saw his son who was restless and walking up and down. Sudhir had listened to his father’s rant against Narendran throughout the way and he had taken a position and almost ignored Narendran.
The moment he saw Narendran, he was about to spit fire. His mother gently entered the scene and by symbolic signs implored Sudhir to maintain calm. Narendran was entirely in the dark about his deemed role in the entire mishap. He approached Sudhir’s mother and with all innocence in the world asked her, “Teacher, How did it happen?”. He saw Sakthi sleeping deep in sedation, his right hand suspended in a sling. He had injuries around his forehead as well as legs.
Without revealing anything that was supposed to be the cause, Sudhir’s mother narrated, “In the morning after you left, he took out his cycle to meet somebody. Then he met with this accident. Sudhir bright him here. His right arm, you saw, has suffered a fracture that may require two weeks to heal. No other major problems seen in the X-ray”.
Then after hesitating for some minutes, Sarojini asked, “By the by, Narendran, may I ask you a doubt? Sakthi Sir, pay you Rs.1000/- or Rs.300/- in the morning?”.
Narendran thought for a moment but he did not suspect anything untoward in that question and replied, “Yes he gave me Rs.1000 . But at that moment I had no money. Then Krishnan Kutty also came with his milk bill. That was around Rs.700/-. Sakthi Sir asked me to give the Rs.1000 to Krishnan and he paid balance Rs.300/- to Sakthi Sir and soon he settled my bill too. That’s all. Teacher, I shall come in the evening, I have some more collections to make.” Narendran left, waving his hand and acknowledging another man at the reception.
She immediately turned to her son, when Narendran was gone. “Your father himself is responsible for the agony he is going through”, and narrated the rest. Sudhir stood dumbfounded at his father’s unnecessary rashness. A wave of regret rose in his heart. He rushed in to meet his father but reduced his speed. He was aware it would pain his father more than the physical pain he was in, if he revealed anything now. He walked in with a chocked throat.
Narayanan Ramakrishnan began his career as a sales professional in a tea company from 1984 selling Taj Mahal, Red Label tea and Bru coffee. After that he joined a leading brokerage firm dealing in stocks and shares. Last one year, he is in pursuit of pleasure in reading and writing. He is based out of Trivandrum.
i sit ill
i sit still
I sit burning down my will
the winds blow
the winds howl
the winds are freezing my soul
the past burns
the past churns
the past torments me taking turns
the pain hurts
the pain blurts
the pain causes too much reverts
the mind plays
the mind slays
the mind sets all the happiness ablaze
but
i'm here
I'm clear
I'm moving through all my fears
i wont frown
i wont bow down
i wont wither in a meltdown
i will cheer
i will adhere
i will, to the very end, persevere
cause
life tests
life quests
life throws battles only for the very best.
life scars
life chars
life makes out of us sheep or if we want, jaguars
life is dance
life is trance
life is an opportunity to advance.
Biswa Prakash Sarangi is a doctor currently undergoing Post Graduation in Surgery at Cuttack. He is a prolific writer of short stories and is also a sensitive poet.
SMILE – THE LIGHT IN YOUR WINDOW
Infant smiles reminding a rose
A child smiles to become close
Naughty boys smile and doze
We smile for a photo’s pose.
A teenager smiles to attract
A dreamer smiles to enact
A beggar smiles to please
We smile for mental release.
A villain smiles to attack
A protector smiles with knack
A director smiles for success
All of us smile to express.
An old man smiles with love
Doctor smiles using a glove
Nurse smiles with patience
We smile with prominence.
Some smiles are very natural
Some of them are artificial
Every smile is very essential
Let’s smile to look beautiful!
Mrs. Setaluri Padmavathi, a postgraduate in English Literature with a B.Ed., has over three decades of experience in the field of education and held various positions. Writing has always been her passion that translates itself into poems of different genres, short stories and articles on a variety of themes and topics.
Her poems can be read on her blog setaluripadma.wordpress.com Padmavathi’s poems and other writes regularly appear on Muse India, Boloji.com and poemhunter.com
We sit next to each other in the cinema,
Munching the same popcorn,
Inhaling the same cold air,
Watching two different stories
unfold on the same screen;
Our hearts bursting with contrary fires,
Cuddling the silence between us.
Sometimes, love is knowing you can converse
only in deep silences,
But loving each other, nevertheless.
Sometimes, love is counting the stars
in your beloved's eyes that are beyond
your reach, but being content, nevertheless.
Sometimes, love means acceptance.
Caged in these arms, embraced by moonlight
that tiptoes in through the open casement,
Ensconced like a pearl in familiar comfort.
Sometimes, love means bondage.
And bondage means freedom.
Dr. Jinju S. is an Assistant Professor of English with the Government of Kerala. A PhD holder in English Literature from the English and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad, literature has always been her first love. She finds joy and solace in poetry, which she has been dabbling with since childhood. She has been published in an international anthology of women’s writing titled Women like You and Me brought out by ATLA Publishing, a UK-based publishing house. Her poems and short stories have also appeared in literary magazines like The Taj Mahal Review, newspapers like The Hindu and The New Indian Express and been broadcast on All India Radio. Her life is an everyday struggle to juggle teaching, research, reading and writing with the most demanding and yet most rewarding journey of mothering a toddler. She loves reading, writing poetry and short fiction, playing with her son Jizan, deep conversations, travelling to new places and listening to music. Inspired by everyday life and the world around her, writing poetry is for her cathartic as well as a way to reach out to people. She welcomes readers' feedback at dr.jinjus@gmail.com.
There was a buzz of activity going on in the house. The twins Kartik and Kirtika were getting ready along with their parents, Kumar and Kanaka, to attend their cousin’s betrothal function that evening. They were in their final class 12 and their ambition in life was to set up a detective agency once they grew up. Their passion for problem solving led them to trace lost items and hand them over safely to the owners. They had formed an informal agency, “KaKi Trails” for this purpose.
Kartik smiled at Kirtika and said, “I am sure we will have something interesting coming up today. It is usual at such functions.”
“Yes”, said Kirtika eagerly. “I am also looking forward to something interesting, other than meeting our relatives.”
The family of four left by car and reached the function hall well in time. They were warmly received at the entrance with offerings of sandal paste, kumkum, sugar candy and roses.
“Arranging such functions have become easy nowadays, with event management teams around,” said Kumar as they entered the hall. There were smiling faces in the hall as greetings were exchanged between the near and dear ones. A young girl with a smiling face had a tray on hand offering coffee and tea to the arriving guests.
Kartik and Kirtika took their coffee and moved over to a corner as they sipped their coffee. Kirtika suddenly stopped sipping her coffee and became serious as she turned to Kartik.
“At the entrance, the arrangements for receiving the guests were neat but did you notice anything missing, Kartik?”
“No Kirtika. Nothing comes to my mind,” said Kartik.
“Don’t you see the gift covers that are given to guests on such occasions missing at the reception gate?”
“Oh! Yaa. It never struck me,” said Kartik. “Let’s bring this to Periappa’s notice immediately,” said Kartik. “He may not be aware of this.”
They both gulped their coffee hurriedly, dropped the paper cups at the dust bin and ran off to find their Periappa.
Periappa was busy talking to the sastry for starting the function.
“Periappa”, said Kartik, “I want to check with you whether the organiser has arranged for the gift covers to be given to the guests, because we did not find them at the reception gate?”
“Good you have brought this to my notice. It would have been very embarrassing had we come to know of this at the concluding stages of the function. I will check it out. There is every likelihood of things getting missed out in such functions. We need to be alert,” said Periappa.
Luckily, Periappa spotted the event organiser, Murugan and waved to him.
“Murugan. Have you arranged for the gift covers to be given to the guests? I did not find them at the reception gate,” asked Periappa.
Murugan said, “I will check and come back to you immediately sir” and he went off hurriedly to check at the entrance.
After a few minutes Murugan returned with a serious face and spoke to Periappa. He looked sheepish and said, “Sir, it has got missed out. I have arranged for it now and it will reach here shortly.”
Periappa breathed a sigh of relief, placed both his hands lovingly over the shoulders of Kartik and Kirtika and hugged them with a smile.
“Thank you children. You have saved me from a major embarrassment,” Periappa said and departed to attend to his other chores.
Kartik and Kirtika raised their hands for a high five, as they grinned in unison and moved over to the chairs reserved by their cousins. Excitedly, they narrated the recent incident to their cousins, who joyfully gave them a hug.
The religious function started. The boy and the girl along with their parents and a host of relatives were on the decorated dais. The sastrys of both the families started chanting the mantras. Within an hour, the proposed marriage details were recorded, read out and signed by both the parents. The function concluded with arthi.
The guests then moved over to the dining hall for the tiffin. Kartik and Kirtika also followed their cousins, chatting merrily. They found they were a bit late as all the tables were full. They turned round to walk back to wait for the second round. Kirtika suddenly bent down to pick something from the ground. It was a long metallic ear drop, in diamond shape. It looked like it had come off the screw fixed to the ear and had fallen down, as the screw was missing.
Kartik and Kirtika immediately were charged up. They swiftly moved over to a chair and sat down. Kirtika looked at the ear drop, studied it for some time and said, “It looks like it must belong to someone in her twenties or early thirties. These will generally not be worn by people in sarees. So I guess the wearer must be in churidar type of dresses. I hope when we find the owner, the screw will still be in the ear.”
“Let’s take a walk round the dining hall,” said Kirtika. “We can easily identify the owner and hand over the ear drop to her.”
They entered the crowded dining hall and moved along the table slowly, taking care to give room to the servers. Kartik after a few minutes told Kirtika, “Walking like this will not work. We need to take a hard look at the face, especially the ear to find the person who had lost the drop. But it would appear awkward staring at people.”
“I agree with you, Kartik. But having started it, let us complete the walk,” said Kirtika.
They completed their walk along all the tables but could not locate the owner. They felt dejected and walked out of the hall, when Kirtika turned round with a smile and said, “Kartik. I have an idea. In such functions, the videographer is bound to take video of all the guests in the dining hall. We can request him to take us through the video recording. I am sure, this girl, the owner must be good looking and videographers on such occasions take a little longer on focussing on such persons. I am sure we will be able to trace the owner.”
Kartik spoke to the videographer and he was pleasantly surprised at the request from these youngsters. The trio sat down to run through the video.
As the video was played, the trio watched every movement with keen interest. Suddenly, Kirtika called out to the videographer, “Please stop and go back a little, sir.”
As he rewound, Kirtika asked him to stop at a particular spot.
“Oh. This is our aunt Anusha. Look at her left ear.”
On the right ear, she had the ear drop but the left one was missing.
“Yeh. We have done it again!" yelled Kartik and Kirtika. They hugged each other, thanked the videographer profusely and rushed out to trace Anusha aunty. She was just then coming out of dining hall and moving towards the tambulam.
“Hi Aunty, we have something for you,” said Kirtika as she held out the ear drop in her right palm.
“Hey. That’s mine,” she said as her right hand inadvertently went to her left ear to find only the screw on the left ear. “I never for a moment felt I had dropped it and no one else also noticed that it was missing.Thank you, so much. I got this as a gift from my close friend. Thank God I have not lost it. It is very dear to me. She stretched out her hand and took it from Kirtika and screwed it securely on her left ear.
She gave Kartik and Kirtika a big hug and enquired, “Tell me dear, how did you trace out that this is mine?”
That’s the “KaKi Trails” way, gushed Kartik and Kirtika and narrated the entire sequence of events.
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
(.. For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
For a moment my head reeled and I caught hold of the long counter before me to keep myself steady. I had asked a simple, innocent question to the salesman and he reeled off a series of names probably to unsettle me right at the beginning of my encounter with him.
It had been a tiring day for me at the office, with endless meetings, phone calls, visitors and summons from the Minister asking me what happened to a recommendation for an appointment he had conveyed to me a week back. Before I could open my mouth to tell him that the gentleman recommended by him was a buffoon and a rascal, he had ticked me off as someone too upright for his comfort, someone who 'imagines things and sees ghosts where there are none', virtually telling me to go and see a psychiatrist if I knew what was good for me. With a parting shot that Joint Secretaries are a dime a dozen in Government of India and I should be careful of the precious chair I was was occupying, he had uttered some expletives seemingly at one of his flunkeys, although I had no doubt in my mind they were meant for me! Such is life, and at the end of the day when I was leaving for home I suddenly remembered that Manjari, my wife had asked me to buy clothes for the Driver, the peon at the office and the husband of the maid at home. Deepavali was a fortnight away and this task could not be delayed further.
So I had rushed to Sarojini Market, although I was rushing against time. There was a deadline of eight o clock to reach home and Manajari had drilled into my head in the morning that any delay beyond that could lead to unmitigated disaster.
Well, nobody in Delhi knew better than a Joint Secretary in a Ministry the importance of deadlines, we thrive on these wonderful objects, being fed with them every passing hour in the office. So when I left office I had calculated that I would just be able to make it, if I rushed like a startled cow being chased by a playful dog.
So here I was at the shop and had asked the salesman to show me some cloth for stitching pants. The shop was empty, due no doubt, to the unseasonal hailstorm that had visited Delhi two hours back like an unwelcome guest and left the streets slushy, full of broken down trees and mounds of leaves. The salesman was in high spirits, unmindful of the damp weather outside. He perked up like a drunkard after his second peg of the golden elixir, and with a smile that bordered on mischief, reeled off the names, "Yes Saab, Raymonds, Vimal, Dinesh Suiting, Piramal, Bombay Dyeing, DCM, Siyaram, Arvind, Grasim, Cotton, Terry cotton, sanfrised cotton, mixed cotton, terry wool...What do I give you sir?"
For a moment my head reeled, I once had a similar sensation when I had gone to the Coffee House at Connaught Place and asked the waiter what was on offer, he had almost made me fall off my chair with a nonstop reeling out of names in his thick accent, Vadai, Idly, Utthapam, Bonda, Masala Vadai, Idiyappam, Paniharam, Upma, Onion dosa, masala dosa, plain dosa, Rawa dosa, butter dosa, paneer dosa, Kal dosai, ghee dosa, Plain Utthapam, onion Utthapam, ghee Utthapam, vegetable bagoda, plain bagoda, Govi bagoda, aloo bagoda......I knew it was a long and winding highway that he had embarked on and would have run probably for another mile, but I had forgotten the first item by the time he reached the milestone of aloo bagoda. So I ordered that with Filter Kafi though I hadn't the foggiest idea of what bagoda was. I found to my utter delight the mysterious dish was actually aloo pakoda, which is one of my favourite snacks.
I looked at my watch. Six fifty! I had roughly forty minutes to finish the purchase and reach home before the eight o clock deadline set by Manjari. Before I could react to the names of the brands, the salesman, with surprising alacrity, brought down about twenty stacks of cloth material and dropped them in a heap before me. His face almost disappeared behind the stacks and I could hear his sepulchral voice in an eerie sort of way, "Any preference of colour Sahab?"
I was intimidated by the names of the brands and was more worried about the price than the colour. I came to the point, "What is the price of these clothes?"
A hand came out from behind the stack, verified the price, and announced, "This Raymond cloth is 1800 rupees per meter, this Vimal piece is 2000 rupees per meter, the Graviera suiting is slightly higher, let me see, yes, 2150..."
It was obviously high for my budget, I smiled, "No Deepavali discount?"
The voice from behind the stacks replied, "For that you have to ask the owner" and the hand of the unseen man pointed towards the cash counter where a man was sitting, busy with his cell phone. A fat, bald man, he pretended not to have heard the conversation, but I had no doubt in my mind, he heard everything, I being the only customer in the shop. A slight irritation came over me, like an unwelcome rash, what is the man doing? Is he expecting me to beg for discounts? He continued to stare at his cell phone, I returned my attention to the salesman.
"I want something in a lower range. It is for my driver and peons."
The salesman appeared from behind the stack and gave me a dirty look, probably by way of saying, I should have told him before he pulled down all those stacks. With a snigger, he asked me what was my range? The tone was unmistakable, he was regarding me as a cheapo, not worth his attention. I felt a little small, gulped, and told him it was around eight hundred rupees a meter. He had taken out a tooth pick from his pocket, extracted some exotic food from the mouth and started chewing it. He shouted at another salesman two tables away, "Hey Chhotoo, Sahab wants some cheap clothes, show him from your stock."
"OK, Gourang Bhai, please come Sahab, come to my counter".
Gourang dismissed me with a wave of slight contempt. I again looked at the owner. He was looking at his watch, perhaps wondering whether it is worth keeping the shop open for some paltry purchase by a cheapo. I slowly ambled towards Chhotu's table. He took out a dozen stacks and started showing them to me.
I am not one of those compulsive shoppers, but I am certainly quite fastidious when I buy things. I am very very conscious of my hard earned money. And add to that I presume I have some kind of self acquired expertise in the matter of clothes, something similar to the ego of a self taught homeopath. It came instinctively to me. I am also very finicky about cleanliness of clothes. At the age of twenty three I had started my career as a lecturer at Banaras Hindu University and was staying in a ground floor apartment, surrounded by similar apartment on three sides. Every Sunday, I would spend a couple of hours cleaning my clothes and drying them outside. The riot of colours from my assorted clothes in the open sun must have been a jarring sight. One day the young Bhabhi from the neighbouring house came out and asked me why I was taking all that trouble of washing the clothes. She advised, "We all give our clothes to the dhobi, why don't you do it also?"
Poor Bhabhi didn't know the depth of my knowledge in the subject, "Arey Bhabhi, you don't know how unhygienic is the place these Dhobis go to wash the clothes. If you see it once you will not give your clothes to the dhobi,"
"But everyone does it!"
"That's the problem Bhabhi, imagine all the dirt, sweat of so many people, all washed together, ugh, I can't stand it. And all the stains in the clothes!"
Bhabhi raised her highbrows,
"Stains, what stains?"
I tried to enlighten her.
"O, all kinds of stains, there can be tomato ketch up, tamarind, masala stains on the shirts and sarees. So many kinds of stains, and imagine the towels, the bed sheets.."
Bhabhi suddenly remembered something, and said ok, ok, and hurried back to her apartment shutting the door with a loud bang.
So I kept picking at the clothes, trying to find fault with the texture, the colour. I was just warming up, when the owner shouted, "Hey Chhotu, hurry up and finish the sale. I have to leave early"
I turned to look at him, hid my irritation with a poor imitation of a smile and said, "I have to buy some clothes for shirting also"
The owner didn't smile back,
"Yes Sir, please do it a little faster, I have to close the shop early"
"But I thought in Sarojini market shops are kept open till nine"
"Yes, yes, I know that, but I have to close the shop a little early"
I murmured, that's not my problem and turned to Chhotu, who along with the other two salesmen were obviously enjoying the exchange between me and their owner and probably waiting for some fireworks.
My irritation was growing. I took a piece of the cloth and pointed out that the colour might fade after a few washes. And another one appeared to to be too soft, which may not hold the crease after pressing. Yet another one looked dusty even before the pant was stitched, so God knows what would happen once it is made into a pant. Chhotu looked at Gourang and gave a knowing smile. Their suspicion that I was a cheapo had got confirmed. No one made a such a detailed analysis for clothes for his driver and peon, obviously the purchase was for me.
But all the same, Chhotu asked for a glass of water to fortify himself, he had not met such an expert in his shop earlier. My eyes were drawn towards the mirror behind him. To my horror I found the owner looking at another salesman and gesturing with his hand that this customer was perhaps a crazy one, a couple of screws in his head loose. He also pointed at his watch and patted his forehead to indicate that it was his bad luck that such a crazy customer had come to his shop on a day when he had to leave early.
My irritation turned into anger at this insolence. I asked for more clothes to be shown, repeating that I would short list some pieces and after choosing the cloth for shirts, decide on the pieces that would match the colour of the shirts. Chhotu looked helplessly at the owner who shook his head and pointed to his watch. I took my time to short list some pieces of cloth. In my anger I had forgotten that I was getting dangerously close to the deadline of eight o clock.
Suddenly the owner lost his patience,
"Bhai Saab, can you please finalise on your selection? I am in a hurry, I should have closed the shop half an hour back. Just waiting for you to finish."
I whirled around, anger flashing from my eyes like destructive laser beams directed at a helpless target, "Is it my problem, if you are in a hurry? As a customer I am entitled to your service. Haven't you heard the first principle of Marketing, Customer is always the Boss?"
The man was at a flashpoint himself,
"Yes, I know that, I don't have to take a lesson in marketing from you. Just chose whatever you want to buy and let me close the shop."
"How dare you talk like that? If I want I can buy your whole shop! Do you hear me? Are you forgetting I as customer am your boss?"
The man threw a look of utter contempt at me and said, "I have seen many customers but none like you. Do you want to buy anything or should I close the shop?"
The look of contempt on his face was unmistakable, "You can come back tomorrow to buy my whole shop", he added just to rub salt into my wound.
I growled like a wounded tiger,
"What do you mean? Hey, Gouarang, cut three pant and shirt pieces from your costliest cloth and hand over to me. Quick, quick, I don't have much time."
Gourang jumped at the offer. I paid for the purchase and left. Before I had turned the corner I heard the shutters of the shop being drawn.
I sat in the car and looked at the watch. My God, it was five minutes past eight. Suddenly I was seized with a regret. I had wasted so much time just because the shop owner was such an insensitive, callous buffoon! And so much money! Fourteen thousand six hundred eighty to be exact, against a budget of five thousand rupees! What would Manjari say to this?
As if on cue, the phone rang, it was Manjari at the other end. She burst out like a machine gun, "Where are you? Why are you so late? Couldn't you come home early at least one day for a change? Is the entire country running on your hard work? Do you want to spoil everything? Your son is ready for the last half an hour and is sulking. He has asked me a dozen times when would Dad return! Why are you late? Where are you?"
In questioning me Manjari seemed to have traversed a full circle in her excitement, starting with 'where are you' and ending with the same!
I had started having a headache,
"Why did you ask me to buy the clothes for the driver and others today of all the days? And why did your spoilt son choose this day to show loyalty to his would be in laws? The nincompoop has already lowered our prestige. Have you ever heard of the bride's family first coming to visit the groom's home? Or is it always the other way? And why is he sulking? Did he take my permission to fall in love with that girl Pooja? It is all your fault. If you had given him home made lunch in a tiffin box like you give me, the spoilt brat would not have gone to his college canteen and flirted with girls, falling for a Punjabi lass. In stead he would have quietly had lunch in the corridors and gone to the library and studied a little harder."
Manjari, as usual defended her son,
"O my God! Our Rahul topped the Delhi University in Commerce, got a job with a thirty lakhs per year package, what more do you want from him? And lunch in a tiffin box from home for an University student? Are you crazy? Who does it now? And the Punjabi lass? You should see her, such a beautiful girl, like a pink rose in full bloom. Rahul has picked the best. And so cute! Last month when she came here to meet me the way she kept on hugging me and licked away my half eaten ice cream just melted my heart!"
I wanted to give some heart burn to Manjary, "O, Pooja is so pretty! Then I will have a smashing Samdhan, not a bad deal!"
"Yes, if you want to meet your smashing Samdhan, you better come and get ready. Take a shower and change into something smart. Discard your working clothes, they must be smelling of politicians and scoundrels!"
With that Manjari kept down the phone.
I reached home in ten minutes. Rahul opened the door and I was stunned to look at him. Like a bride-to-be decking herself up for the impending visit of prospective in laws, he had groomed himself with hair gel and a liberal dose of talcum powder. He had also sprinkled some perfume on himself. Manjari pushed me to the bathroom. I took a quick shower and I had barely changed into a decent kurta pyjama when the door bell rang. Rahul opened the door, Manjari went ahead to greet Dolly, Pooja's mother, there was a big commotion and from the girlish screams and the boyish howls it was clear that Pooja had arrived and life would change for us forever. Dolly greeted me with a Namaste, Pooja surprised me with a hug, bringing out my long forgotten blushes and from the corner of my eyes I found Rahul hugely enjoying my discomfiture. I asked where was Mehra Saab and Pooja blurted out, "Daddy is trying to find parking place. He will come in a minute. And uncle, you are looking so handsome, I know where my Rahul got his looks from!"
I looked at Pooja, the girl who looked like a full bloomed rose and my heart swelled with pride with her compliments.
The door bell rang again. Must be Mehra Saab. In a daze and still glowing from Pooja's admiration I went to the door and opened it. The next moment I recoiled as if I had seen a cobra with its hooded fangs at a striking distance. I shrieked, "You! You are Pooja's dad?"
The man who had been equally shocked as if he had unexpectedly seen the face of a Gorilla, took a step back, "My God, where have I landed up? You are Rahul Beta's Papa?"
I had not forgotten the insult he had heaped on me an hour back at his shop in Sarojini Market. I almost wanted to tell him, no, I am the driver, Saab is waiting inside to welcome you, but Pooja and Rahul came out at that moment. My beta went and gave a big hug to his father's bête noire and dragged him in by his hand, completely ignoring me.
I came in. The room had filled up with a warmth of Bon homie between the two mothers, their gossip ranging from Khan Chacha's kebabs to Kashmiri Rogan Josh, from Lucknow Chikan to Kanjeevaram silk. By some mysterious trick Rahul and Pooja had managed to squeeze into a single seater sofa and were sitting glued to each other like a sandwich. They were whispering things which were barely audible to others. Only Mehra Saab and I were sitting like two foreigners who didn't understand each other's language. He was busy with checking messages in his mobile, I was roving my burning glances around the room, trying to cause blisters everywhere, particularly in Mr. Mehra.
The two ladies left for the kitchen to get snacks. I found, sitting glued to each other Rahul and Pooja had started exchanging messages in their mobile. I imagined Pooja texting to Rahul, why is your Papa sitting glum like he is bothered by ants in his pants? And Rahul might be texting, your Daddy is also sitting like his rump has been bitten by a deranged monkey, ha ha, they need balms from each other. Should I open a bottle of Vodka for them? To rub on the affected areas!
Pooja suddenly started laughing loudly and they did an exchange of high fives. She slid a little closer to him, if at all that was possible within the narrow space.
Mehra Saab and I woke up from our reverie, exchanged a painful smile. My mind was in a turmoil and I suspect he must be sailing in a similar boat. To break the ice, he asked me, "Is this your own house or it belongs to government?"
I winced within, what an idiot! How can someone have an own house in a government colony!
"No no it is a government house, as a Joint Secretary I am entitled to a much bigger house, but we have been here for more than seven years, so we don't want to move to some other area. How about you, do you have your own house?"
"Yes, in Lajpat Nagar. My father had built the house in the eighties, there is no scope for any expansion."
"Why do you need a big house? Yours is a small family, you are Pooja's only father, isn't it"?
Mehra Saab perked up at the question and looked at me in a murderous way. I realised my mistake. Didn't I say, my mind was in a turmoil, "Sorry, very sorry, Pooja is your only child, isn't it?"
Mr. Mehra just nodded, I realised our attempt at breaking the ice had misfired, thanks to my turmoiled mind. We had broken the ice, but an iceberg had pushed its way into the room!
We were saved by the entry of the ladies with trays of snacks, most which must have been bought from outside by our dutiful son, a potential chamcha of his in laws. But then I remembered the exquisitely beautiful Pooja. I looked at her and was shocked to see that when the mothers were busy making tea in the kitchen and the poor dads were trying to break the ice, the young birds had managed to get more cozy, Pooja had almost climbed on Rahul, half of her body was perched on Rahul and in the comfort of that intimacy they were cooing to each other. Within a moment, in an attempt to climb higher, she slipped and fell on the floor with a loud thud. Manjari was startled, she looked at Pooja on the floor and guess what would have happened. She was pouring tea, suddenly she started laughing like a Hyena, some tea spilled unto the dress of the rolly poly Dolly, my Samdhan. She also saw what we saw and winked at her husband. In a moment all of us started roaring in laughter. By a magic, the room assumed the joviality of a circus, I got up and gave a high five to Mehra Saab, he grabbed me and took my hands in his huge hands and kept on shaking them under the mistaken impression that I was a mango tree and if he keeps shaking my hands mangoes would fall from me for his wife, the beautiful Dolly, to make pickles!
The iceberg was broken and the room was inundated with a flood of joy and mirth. The young couple who had been temporarily uncoupled by the fall, looked hungrily at the food. We all sat down to devour mounds of samosas, sandwiches, mutton kebabs, chicken tikkas and rasmalai. The Mehras were gushing like a soda fountain, full of praise for their cute Pooja and cuter Rahul Baba. Mehra Saab grandly announced that for his only daughter he would not leave any Bank locker unopened, and will celebrate the wedding like a Maharaja's coronation.
I came to my form and tried to puncture his mirth, "But Mehra Saab, we have two demands. You know as Groom's parents we are entitled to make some demands."
There was a stunned silence in the room, as if the Circus had come to a stand still due to power failure. Rahul looked at me with a hurt face, I ignored him. Mehra Saab whose face had darkened, stuttered, "Yes, yes, of course, please tell me. Your wish is my command."
I smiled,
"You know, as per our custom, you have to give pant and shirt pieces for all our relatives. There will be about forty of them. I want to pick up the best pieces from your shop."
Mehra Saab's face brightened as if power had been restored at the circus and the show would resume now. He stood up, bowed from his ample waist, and said, "Yes Boss!"
I raised my hand, my second demand was still waiting, I wanted to rub it in, "My second demand is that myself and Manjari will come to your shop to choose the cloth one evening and you will keep the shop open till we are satisfied with the pieces, even if it would be midnight."
Mehra Saab sighed in relief, a great load had lifted from his mind. He bowed again, "Yes Boss".
With that the deal was sealed, the room broke into an unseen light, it appeared as if loud music broke out somewhere. Pooja and Rahul were impatient to go back into their hugging and cooing. They stood up, gathered each other in a tight hug, like they wanted to merge into each other. Pooja whispered something in Rahul's ears, Rahul grinned and said, "Yes Boss". They tried to make their hug even tighter and in an absolute abandon, started rubbing each other's nose. I looked at them and winced from within, Issss.....does the young generation have no sense of shame! As if reading my thought, Pooja and Rahul kept clinging to each other and disappeared into the darkness outside.
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and managing the website PositiveVibes.Today. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj.
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