Literary Vibes - Edition LVIII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the fifty eighth edition of LiteraryVibes. We have come to you again with some brilliant stories and beautiful poems. Hope you will enjoy them.
With the country in the grip of fear of Corona virus, normal life has been affected badly. Primary schools have been closed for a month in Delhi, stock markets are in turmoil and worst of all, a fear psychosis has spread all over the world. There is nothing to impede human life more than fear. In Bhubaneswar, our small little capital of Odisha, people have taken to wearing masks, cinema halls have lesser visitors than usual, a hush hush whisper going round everywhere not to go to crowded places, to stand "at least four feet away" from the nearest person, as if everyone is carrying the virus, unknown to others!
Yet, in this gloomy environment, there are heartening tales about struggles overcome, success, and innovation. One such story is that of Shabnam Ramasway who was married off early in the eighties of the last century and suffered severe domestic abuse from her husband. She ran away from home and landed up at a railway platform from where she founded Jagriti, a shelter home cum kitchen for street children. She studied interior designing and got a chance to work in Mira Nair's film project where she met Ramaswamy, her future husband and partner in Social Development Projects. Finally she came to Katna in Murshidabad district of West Bengal and started Street Survivors India, an NGO to educate and empower poor children and downtrodden women. She also runs Jagriti Gramin Library to help the poor children borrow and read books. A sterling achievement for a battered woman who stood up to fight for the helpless and hold their hands in the path of hope and success.
Similar is the effort of Sanwil Srivastava who has taken upon himself the task of bridging the digital divide in Rural India. With a van powered by Photo Voltaic cells from solar energy, he has launched the project EDIMPACT to go from village to village in the state of Jharkhand with laptops to spread digital education among the rural students. So far he has helped more than 74000 students.
Another wonderful initiative that electrifies the heart comes from Kukma panchayat of Kutchh district in Gujarat. Here the panchayat councillors have named the streets after the meritorious girls from the Panchyat who have excelled in studies. This initiative has been welcomed by the Women and Child Development Officer of the district who has issued a circular to all other Panchayats to adopt the idea. So, as we look with a shine in our eyes at Hemani Marg, Shivani Marg, Ruchita Marg and many such Margs, we do hope that the Hemanis, Shivanis and Ruchikas of Kukma panchayat will grow up to blaze new trails for the country and make all of us proud.
We at LiteraryVibes salute these initiatives and wish many others will come forward to light lamps of courage, determination and inspiration.
Wish you a happy Weekend reading.
Please forward the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/281 to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous fifty seven editions of LV can be accessed at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
1) MY CROWDED LONELINESS Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2) SUN, THE TYRANT.. Haraprasad Das
3) MONSOON (VARSHA) KALPANTA
4) DESPERATE REMEDIES Geetha Nair
5) POEM FOR MY SON Bibhu Padhi
6) THE UNDAUNTED DENT Ishwar Pati
7) THE CONTRACT Dilip Mohapatra
8) REUNION Dilip Mohapatra
9) LOVERS IN EQUAL... Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
10) IN MEMORIAM Lathaprem Sakhya
11) WOMEN EVOLVED Ananya Priyadharsini
12) MANIPULATED LIKE.. Sharanya Bee
13) PRIVILEGES Preethi N R
14) GANDHI Molly Joseph
15) MY SPACE Sheena Rath
16) SANTOSH - A DISABLED.. Setluri Padmavathi
17) TREE-FRESH MANGOES Hema Ravi
18) THE PYRE Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
The retired parents,
away from their rural poverty,
live in air-conditioned comfort,
breathing ozonized sea-air.
They drink from ‘Aquaguard,’
go to ‘laughing yoga’ lawn
in mornings, and eat
nutritious fare on our dining table.
They sleep in a room
in privacy, after decades
of gregarious and crowded living,
a one-room Mumbai chawl.
After their morning jaunt
to the ‘laughing yoga’ group,
mother lapses
into grumpy silences.
Her eyes light up
when the maid arrives
to sweep-clean our house.
They discuss father’s bad heart,
and the maid’s polio afflicted son;
father having gone down
to hold spiritual discourses
with security guards at the gate.
After six o’ clock tea
my old dad and mom
go to crouch in their zone
waiting for me, to take possession
of the apple of their eye,
who would also be jealously
taken over by a young wife
and two little kids.
I arrive home in three-quarters,
a lonely father-son-husband ensemble;
the jolliest quarter, I myself,
left outside somewhere.
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
SUN, THE TYRANT (SURYA: SHATRU)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Every errand
is important -
receiving Subhash
at the railway station,
driving away
marauding birds from the field,
climbing the twenty-two steps
to worship Lord Jagannath,
buying canopy
from the Pipili market,
or, getting out of mother’s womb
to be the early bird to get a worm’;
but equally important to stay away
from the competition among fools.
But look at this tormentor
walking barefoot, and holding
a scorching unfurled umbrella,
without a bother in the world -
He travels the same route daily,
unworried about any one’s problems,
even that of a bird lost in the sky
from its peers’ flight-formation.
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)”
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Clouds bend low,
extend tender hands,
touch the earth’s parched lips,
bringing there a smile.
Its muted rumbles
take care not to ruffle
the earth’s timid aching
for the rains.
The rain drops
tickle the earth’s underbelly,
barren over the long summer,
urging her to conceive.
The languid river gets restless,
its pregnant fish,
heavy with burden, moves sluggishly
filled with joy of perpetuating its race.
Green shoots emerge
from the wet earth
after the drought of summer
has taken its toll.
As new ideas
are ushered in
from the portals of dialectics
over contradictions;
love puts a leash
on flesh, tumescent with
blinding desire, and it
approaches as a whisper.
(Kamalakanta Panda published this lovey poem in a literary Odia quarterly ‘Samayara Shankanada’ July-September 1996 issue, editor – Dr. Prasanna Patshani; and the poet has kindly allowed the translation to be published in Literary Vibes.)
KAMALAKANTA PANDA (KALPANTA), a renowned Odia poet lives and writes from Bhubaneswar, the city of temples, writing over the last forty years. He is often referred to as Kalpanta in Odia literary circles. He is a poet of almost legendary repute, and if one hasn’t read Kalpata’s poems, then, he hasn’t read the quintessence of Odia poetry. He is famous for a quirky decision that he would never collect his own poems into books himself. However, one may not find an Odia literary journal, or an anthology not enriched by his poems. (He can be reached at his resident telephone No.06742360394 and his mobile No. 09437390003)
DESPERATE REMEDIES
Geetha Nair G.
( For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
Photo by Col. K. V. Nair
Shantha worked in five of the flats in the housing complex where Heera stayed. She was a strong woman of about forty five with an impassive face, a loose plait of black hair and a red triangular sticker-bindi. She arrived at 6 am and left at 6 pm. Heera was lucky; she got Shantha first as she had to leave for work by the cab that honked for her at 7 am without fail. “All the others are housewives; they can wait,” Shantha would say dissmissively. The fact that Heera worked for the leading TV channel of the city gave her star value in Shantha’s serial-struck eyes. Two dishes and rice first, followed by washing up, sweeping and swabbing of the two rooms- by 7, Shantha too was ready to leave, her sari, bindi and plait still immaculate. She returned by 5pm to cook Heera’s dinner-cum-the next day’s breakfast. By then, she would be tousled, crumpled and the bindi, just a memory.
It was then that both the women unwound. Heera would make tea on the induction stove and they would drink it companionably together, Shantha taking occasional breaks from rolling out rotis or pressing out string hopper dough to do so.
Heera knew that Shantha’s husband was a plumber and that they had two sons who had become plumbers themselves and worked for a prominent construction company. Shantha had worked for years in the house of the big man who owned this company; this had paved the way for her children’s employment. The elder had already found himself a wife; the younger preferred to stay with his friends. So Shantha at forty five had a near-empty nest. Her husband was a busy man of late; he kept odd timings. Heera asked about his meals one day. "O! I always keep a packet of those half-cooked chapathies in the fridge; that and a few eggs made into a bujjiya would be all he needs- if he comes home for dinner,” she replied cheerfully. Heera was intrigued that Shantha, who probably made a hundred rotis every day, had to depend on half-cooked ones at home. “I can’t bear to cook after all the cooking I do here!” she exclaimed in response to this. By evening, the two small containers she carried in her little plastic bag would be filled with whatever took her fancy from all the dishes she had cooked that day. "Some of the madams are generous; they tell me to help myself. I help myself to good stuff from the stingy ones' kitchens as well” she said with a smile. That was a shock to Heera, though she observed that Shantha looked very pretty when she smiled. She rarely did.
What the two containers held would be Shantha's dinner, eaten as she sat glued to the TV screen. Priyahrudaya her favourite serial, came on at 6.30 pm. all weekdays. This was why she saw to it that her working hours ended at 6 pm. Shantha adored the actress, Sona Sudan, who played the sweet, suffering wife in this marathon runner of a serial. It was the programme with the largest viewership on Indianet, the channel for which Heera worked. One morning, Heera had taken Shantha along to view a shoot and to meet her adored Sona Sudan. That had been, for Shantha, a Day of Days. She still hadn’t recovered from the euphoria when she came to cook and clean the next morning.
Shantha had confided that morning that her’s had been a runaway marriage. Her husband, Sudarshan, had come to the first house she worked in, to repair a leaking sink. One thing had led to another and in a month, she left her home one Sunday morning, got married in a temple nearby and never went back. “My home wasn’t anything I would miss,” she said wryly, “but my father would never have agreed; my husband belongs to a lower caste.” She pulled out the gold objects that hung from her black bead chain. ”I insisted on this mangalasutra, though; my people’s. But I learned how to cook fish and chicken for him and for the children. He wasn’t so busy then; he ate two meals a day from home.” Her mother tongue was Konkani and she spoke Malayalam fluently but with a characteristic, jerky rhythm.
Shantha’s married life was refreshingly different. Her husband did not drink or beat her up. He was good to her and she was devoted to him. Twenty seven years of married life had not dimmed her love for him.
“Why don’t you get married? You are still quite young,” she urged Heera now and then.
“I am happy as I am,” she would reply with an evasive smile.
Shantha was averse to mobile phones. Though Heera had offered to give her a spare one she had and offered to teach her how to use it as well. “You are a smart woman - you will pick it up in no time, ”Heera said encouragingly. But Shantha had shaken her head till the plait danced on her back. “I have managed without such gadgets all these years; I don’t need them now!” she had declared. Heera left it at that. She remembered how smart and resourceful Shantha had been when it came to the question of her transportation. In a month, she had become an adept in the art of driving a two-wheeler and now rode one to work and back. It was her very own; she had bought it with three “home loans” from three of the women she worked for, including Heera.
So, it was quite a surprise when, one Saturday, Heera’s day off, Shantha turned to her with a request,“Teach me how to use a mobile phone. Your kind, the kind you stroke with one finger.”
The lesson continued on Shantha’s day off as well; she was at Heera’s flat by ten in the morning. Shantha was a fast learner; by Sunday afternoon, she was fairly adept at using a mobile phone. What had caused this change in Shantha, Heera wondered, uneasily. Was it that last tango of the hormones that sometimes changed Seethas into Shurpanakhas and Penelopes into Helens?
There was certainly a marked change in Shantha. Her face, always impassive, revealed nothing. But it was obvious that her mind was elsewhere. She rarely spoke. Her bindi was often askew. Her sari was badly-draped. Her rotis got burnt. Her sabjis got too salty. One morning, Heera found her wiping away tears. "What is it, Shantha?" Heera asked her gently. But she only shook her head mutely .
One Saturday morning, Shantha was rattling pots and pans in the kitchen. Heera had gone into the bathroom for her weekly elaborate bath and shampoo.She was laying out the required magical potions when she noticed that the shampoo bottle was nearly empty. She came out abruptly and made for the cabinet in the kitchen for a fresh bottle. A whiff of smoke hit her nostrils. She saw Shantha holding what looked like sheets of paper over the gas flame. Shantha whirled around, to face Heera.
-What are you doing, Shantha?
-Burning something.
-What thing?
- Nothing.
-And what's that on the slab?
Heera picked up the small deep blue plastic folder. Republic of India was emblazoned on it in golden letters.There were no pages inside it.
Shantha stood with clasped hands. ”Don't tell him”, she whispered.
The story fell from her lips.
For a few months now, her husband had been somehow different. Away too often, for one thing. She had put it down to work. But at home too, he was distracted, always glued to his mobile phone. Shantha overheard a part of a call one day. There was a mention of a visit to Dubai. When she asked him about it, Sudarshan told her he had chances of getting a good job there. He planned to make a trip on a visit visa soon. Shantha was disturbed. She knew her husband of twenty seven years very well. He was lying. Something was brewing. She knew she had to get to the heart of the matter.The mobile was the holder of his secrets. That was when she had requested Heera to teach her how to use a mobile.
A couple of nights, when her husband was fast asleep, Shantha managed to read vital messages and listen to voice mail on his mobile. The story emerged. Aswathi, a nurse working in Dubai, was the lure behind the visit visa. They had met by chance a year back when Aswathi had come home on leave. There was a photo of her in uniform, in front of the hospital she worked in. "White outside; black inside" hissed Shantha.
Aswathi was free for two weeks starting with the first of the coming month. She was leaving for Saudi on a new assignment after that. She had planned "two weeks of heaven" with Sudarshan; his ticket to Dubai was booked for the coming Monday.
It took a few minutes for Shantha’s world to stop spinning. Once it was fairly steady, fire took over. She was on fire with hatred, betrayal, jealousy, wrath. “I could see flames dancing in front of me, flames into which I wanted to throw that woman,” Shantha cried, unconsciously echoing a piece of dialogue from her favourite serial. After hours, one thought emerged clearly in her mind. She had to prevent the trip. How, was the question. Needless to say, words, pleas, would not work. Only underhand methods would. But what method? The TV was switched on; Priyahrudaya was blaring. Then, like a gift from the gods, it came to her. She remembered the wronged and now resourceful wife in the serial who had accomplished a similar feat. Shantha had found the answer.
That morning after Sudarshan left for work, Shantha had removed his passport from the cupboard and tucked it into her blouse. She had hoped to burn or cut to pieces all evidence and stay unsuspected but Heera's unexpected emergence had foiled that.
Shantha's narration ended and she gazed at Heera with wary eyes.
“You think this prevention of his trip will end his passion?” demanded Heera.
“Madam, if he goes, he will never come back to me. I can’t bear to lose him. If he can’t meet that ***** now, she will fade from his mind. Soon. It is only an infatuation, a madness.”
The tears were gathering in Shantha’s eyes.
-Won’t he suspect you?
-No; never. He won’t believe I am capable of this.
-So isn’t your act too a kind of betrayal?
-Madam, sometimes one has to use wrong to right a bigger wrong.
Ah! Heera remembered that pithy line. It was a bit of dialogue spoken by Sona Suda in the climactic scene of Priyahrudaya.
“Do you know that a passport is the legal property of the government that issues it?” Heera asked sternly, “You have no right to destroy a passport.”
Then, before the tears in Shantha’s eyes could fall, Heera said,
"Give me that sharp pair of scissors, the one you use for snipping fish fins."
Then, very thoroughly, Heera snipped the incriminating little folder into very small pieces as Shantha watched in disbelief that turned to relief. "Flush them down the toilet," Heera said.
As she heard the toilet being flushed, Heera remembered that Sunday morning ten years ago. Her husband was getting ready to go on a week-long business trip to Mumbai. He had smiled his incredibly sweet smile, the one that had enslaved her, and said, “Darling, get my breakfast ready fast, won’t you? I have to leave by 8 or I will miss the flight.” As he was showering and singing, Heera had gently bolted the bathroom door of their little seventh floor flat. She picked up the suitcase packed the previous day with all her personal belongings of value. Then, she let herself out of that repulsive web of his deceit that had been her home for two years. She locked the front door after her. Emerging from the lift, she gave the key of the front door to the security guard and told him to hand it over to the maid when she came the next morning… .
Shantha was back in the kitchen. Her face was calm and bright now.
“Get my idli-sambar ready,’’ said Heera and reached for the bottle of shampoo.
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
I seem to know all about you:
your time, your place, your name,
the clean Indian-wheat colour
of your skin, your unpolished words.
But I know that there are also sounds
you do not know, shapes
you wouldn’t recognize.
For instance, the owl’s lean dark cry,
or the sea at Puri
during a small moon’s night.
And, at this hour, when
you are breathing so quietly
beside your mother,
I seem to hear a faraway whisper
that almost tells me you are not mine.
I hear the owl’s cry,
the gently expanding roar
of the blue waters of Puri.
Never mind. I know where
my night sleeps, undisturbed by
every sound and thought
so peacefully.
** First published in Encounter (London)
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
After a lot of argument and haggling with my children I went in for a new car. I should have been over the moon with the new ‘toy’. But I was not. The old one was giving me excellent service and there was no cause to ditch it from my household. Besides, it had endeared itself to my whims and eccentricities. But the winds of democracy had penetrated our domestic world as well and a majority family vote overruled my feeble ‘veto’ for a status quo. I suspect my wife vigorously campaigned after she spotted a gleaming sedan in the next-door portico. There’s no way out from the folly of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’. Owner’spride; neighbours’ envy!
I don’t deny that it was exhilarating driving a powerful glittering machine and I hit the road soaring. But city traffic had grown in leaps and bounds and I should have been more cautious. As it was, I was brought back to reality sooner than later when bump! A mobike cruising on the wrong side of the road scratched my fender.
“See where you are going, Uncle!” the biker upbraided me with a stern eye before disappearing in a jiffy. I was stunned, not by the impudent remark of an upstart but by the dent to my spotless vehicle. It was enough to give anyone a heart attack. Thanks to modern ‘plastic surgery’ for cars, the damage could be undone and the car restored to its original splendour in no time. I returned to the roads with renewed vigour, though my driving had become a bit shaky. I looked at every car and two-wheeler with trepidation and drovecarefully. But how could I ensure that the other fellow would follow the rules? What if he indicates to go right, but goes left instead?
A few days later there was a loud bang on the rear of my car. A new bump wasmocking me in the face. It necessitated another visit to the service centre for another mending. But dents are relentless. You take care of one and another pops up somewhere else.I see vehicles carrying on with their bruises, as if a smallpox virus were at large among cars.As dents march on undaunted, exhausted car owners and wily insurance companies are forced to let them be. The only sensible thing to do is to embrace the much-dented car as a new fashion icon, like gunshot jeans in clothing. The more dents to show to the world the merrier!
Ishwar Pati - After completing his M.A. in Economics from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack, standing First Class First with record marks, he moved into a career in the State Bank of India in 1971. For more than 37 years he served the Bank at various places, including at London, before retiring as Dy General Manager in 2008. Although his first story appeared in Imprint in 1976, his literary contribution has mainly been to newspapers like The Times of India, The Statesman and The New Indian Express as ‘middles’ since 2001. He says he gets a glow of satisfaction when his articles make the readers smile or move them to tears.
They say souls are eternal
and live forever.
But when they sign an agreement
and make a deal
and complete it with a seal
how sure are we
if they will survive
and will not bleed
and will not surrender and succumb
to the change of hearts ?
Contracts are conditional
and don't last forever for some.
Sometimes they are breached
sometimes they gather dust
and remain unopened
sometimes the fine prints
spring surprises
and you wonder and regret
'How did I miss the obvious!'
Sometimes you are lured to
sign in blood
the Mephistophelian contract
and when your ship
is threatened to be drawn into the vortex
of the giant whirlpool
and your compass goes awry
for you defaulted in paying back
the Devil's debts
you kneel down and pray
and soon the sea is a mirror
the sea gulls leading you to the shore.
You and your crew
thank The Master together for his mercy
and now you know
that His contract with you
has no expiry date
or any condition hidden or explicit.
‘Hello, am I speaking to Mohan?’, it was a familiar voice yet I couldn’t make out who was on the line.
‘Yes, who’s there?’ I hesitatingly asked.
‘You bum, you have forgotten the tyrant? Genghis here,’ bellowed my good old friend Vice Admiral Bhushan, who was named after the Mongol emperor for his imposing and sometimes intimidating personality. Now retired, he leads a quiet life in NOIDA and surely I was not expecting a call from him after almost a decade when I also hung my boots and decided to settle down in Mumbai.
‘Hi, what a pleasant surprise! How’re Rosie and the girls? Hope everything is fine,’ I asked.
‘All fine my friend. I just called to tell you that the guys in the Nigerian Navy are looking for you. I gave them your number and they may contact you.’
‘What’s it about?’ I was curious to know why after about forty years someone from Nigerian Navy would want to contact me. It was the early eighties when we, a team of six Indian Navy officers, were deputed there to set up their first ever Naval Academy at Port Harcourt. I never heard from anyone since our return. It was strange that they were trying to contact me now, so many years after my retirement.
‘How the hell do I know? They just wanted your whereabouts and I gave them your mobile number,’ Genghis hung up in his usual characteristic matter of fact manner… a bully he was and continues to be so I presumed. But surely an adorable bully.
The next day I received a WhatsApp message from one Nigerian Lieutenant, the staff officer to the Commandant of Nigerian Naval Academy. He politely informed that the Academy was organising a large scale reunion shortly and his boss Captain Chima was very keen that I attend the same. They of course would cover all the expenses on travel and stay. He also requested if I may respond to an interview questionnaire and share my Nigerian experience which they would publish in the journal which was under compilation.
That triggered my memory of the three years that I had spent in Nigeria. Walking down the memory lane I saw the events flashing past in succession. Our arrival at Lagos from Delhi through Frankfurt, from freezing cold to blasts of loo, our domestic flight from Lagos to Port Harcourt, a pathetic departure from the Lufthansa luxury to clucking chickens in wicker baskets for company in the luggage bins. But all the discomfort and uneasiness soon disappeared with the warm reception that we received from our Nigerian colleagues and that paved the way to a great stay for the next three years. On the work front we brought into force our expertise and experience to set up various training facilities for the officer cadets and soon the Academy shifted into top gear.
About a month after the staff officer contacted me, I received a formal invite and air tickets for the reunion and packed my bags for Port Harcourt. As I deplaned I found a small contingent of Nigerian Navy guys waiting for me on the tarmac itself and a tall, smart, rather handsome four-ringer in spotless crisp whites welcoming me to a waiting limousine. He introduced himself as Captain Chima, the Commandant of the Academy. With his youthful looks and impeccable manners he surely made an instant impact on me. As we drove to the guest house of the Academy I was keen to know which other Indian officers had arrived or were expected. But then I was told that I was the only one who had been invited. I found that a little strange.
After the red carpet treatment that I received I was overwhelmed and perplexed at the same time. Yes, I surely had contributed significantly to establishing the Academy as one of the pioneers but there were others too. I couldn’t figure out why was I singled out for this honour. The next day they had a ceremonial parade to commemorate the day the Academy was established. The Chief of Naval Staff of the Nigerian Navy was the Chief guest and I the Guest of Honour. In his address the Chief waxed eloquent of the Indo-Nigerian friendship and gushed over the signal contribution of the commissioning team of Naval officers from India. I also reciprocated with all humility and spoke of the great camaraderie that we enjoyed during our three year tenure. Then the announcement was made about the Academy Dance that was scheduled in the night. The Captain promised to the officer crowd an experience of their life time and asked one and all to put on their best dancing shoes.
Later in the evening, Captain’s staff officer escorted me to the venue of the dance. I had put on a Zara floral shirt with large green motifs on a yellow background and black trousers in contrast, with black shoes with a wet shine, a typical Nigerian way of party dressing. As I entered the huge covered area bathed in subdued light, interrupted by psychedelics synced with typical upbeat loud music that Nigerians love, I went back in time to our first ever Academy Disco as it was known then. I remembered how six of us Indian officers dressed almost formally for the dance landed up, accompanied by our wives in their immaculate sarees at about 9 in the evening to find a young officer testing the sound system, with not a single soul around. Soon we were instructed in the Nigerian way. Wives are a strict ‘no no’ for such disco parties and the evening begins only after 11. We all made a U turn, dropped our wives at home and were back around 11.30.
I remembered that night which would stay alive in my mind for ever. Yes that magical night. The night that was intoxicating. The night that was enchanting. The night that was enthralling. The night that was overpowering . And with the same breath, I still wonder if the night was in fact a folly. Whether it could be a night of repentance and remorse !
Our first ever social with our Nigerian hosts. Instinctively we surveyed the surroundings as we were trained to. The dance floor was gradually filling up. It seemed there were more women around than men. The bar in the corner was bathed in a sensuous purple light. Few were picking up their drinks, men mostly beer and women ‘Sprite’ the lime drink in green bottles. Music was blaring from the tall column speakers from four corners. A young Sub Lieutenant was acting as the DJ. The then Captain of the Academy was surrounded by a bevy of Nigerian beauties who were trying their best to persuade him for a dance. He was the most boisterous one in the gathering, loudly guffawing between some jokes he was sharing with the girls and benevolently picking up someone from the group for a close dance. We took some time to get acclimated but didn’t know how to strike a conversation with girls floating around. None of them came on their own mostly due to apprehensions about the officers from another country. We were the first batch of non-indigenous officers they had met socially perhaps. The best bet was the bar. We ordered for some chilled beer and just to juxtapose, some hot goat-meat pepper soup, a typical Nigerian delicacy which we were getting used to.
Then I spotted her. A tall, lanky young lady in an emerald green gown almost floating like an apparition from one corner of the hall gradually gravitating towards the bar. Seemed she was alone and not yet hooked up with any Nigerian Officer. Sitting on a tall stool in the corner and sipping the hot pepper soup, I tried to size her up. She appeared to me elegantly attractive, erect, trim, with very well chiseled features of an ebony statuette, with high cheek bones, a rather long neck and with no jutting posterior, that is considered beautiful in Nigerian eyes. Her features were rather that of a Somalian, smooth skinned, stately and sharp. Suddenly our eyes met and I could see her lips slowly spreading into an unmissable smile revealing a set of very white teeth. Spontaneously I smiled back which soon was absorbed in the twinkle of her eyes.
She then came close and introduced herself as Remy, an Igbo girl, the daughter of a Col Chima.
She had just finished her internship after graduating in medicine and currently was serving the country in the ‘Youth Corps’ attached to the Naval Academy. She had seen us at the Academy and was keen to know us better. After a bit of small talk, we had some beer and then she asked me for a dance. My friends looked at me mischievously and pulled my legs in Hindi, with mock threats to tell my wife that I was having a ball with a local dame. After a couple of dances and drinks, as the clock ticked by I was feeling a little tipsy and slowly walked towards the washroom to relieve myself. When I came out I met her in the long lonely corridor with no one around. It seemed that she was unsteady on her feet and was about to collapse. I rushed to help her out and next thing I know, she was in my arms and her lips were on mine. Before I could gather my wits, she pointed to a nearby room and told me to lead her there and as if mesmerised I almost carried her into a small lounge. Then the inevitable happened. There was no discussions, no preliminaries, no justification, no logic, no pros and cons, just pure raw passion. It was like instant coffee contrasted with one that is prolongedly brewed drop by drop.
After the heat of the moment passed off, there were no tantrums, no regret, no guilt, no hurt, no accusations, just a sense of satisfaction, a sense of fulfilment, a sense of joy and exhilaration. The last statement she made while looking straight into my eyes, was just to thank me with gratitude and a promise that I will never hear from her again.
“Sir, may I offer you something? I heard that you were fond of goat meat pepper soup and Congo meat. I got some very special stuff for you. Cooked by my mother. I am sure you would relish it.” Captain Chima woke me up from my reverie.
‘Oh. Sure. You have been very kind.’ I said.
‘Sir, please follow me to the lounge. I have made exclusive arrangement for you there.’ Capt Chima escorted me to the lounge.
‘And sir, by the way, you may like to call me by my first name Rohan, ‘ he continued.
On a small table there was a dish of Congo meat, a Nigerian speciality of garden snails and a large bowl of goat meat pepper soup. To complement that there was a bottle of Cakebread Cellars' Napa Valley Chardonnay. And the table was laid out for three.
As I sat down at the head of the table and unscrewed the wine bottle, there was a knock on the door and a lady dressed in an emerald green gown entered. Almost floating like an apparition. The Captain got up and cordially chaperoned her to the table.
Then he looked at me with a look that I will never forget and said, “Hello Dad, may I have the pleasure to present to you my mom Dr Remy Chima, the Chief Medical Officer of Port Harcourt Hospital?”
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.
LOVERS IN EQUAL MEASURES
Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
I will no more call you a god
As I have started behaving
Like a street beggar.
Before I express my thanks
I think of asking for more,
As there is no end to my wants.
It doesn’t make you feel better
As nothing satisfies me
In spite of all your efforts.
Let’s just be lovers,
No one is a beggar or giver.
We can look at each other
With equal measures,
Without any kind of expectations.
Holding each other’s hand
Let us both walk
On the river bank,
Enjoying the divine bliss
Where me and my lover,
Get locked in an eternal kiss.
Once you help me practice
The act of giving
And,showering of love
As you have been doing,
I will start feeling like a king
Relinquishing all my so called needs,
Bothering less and less
About what happens to me.
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
Devananda, the cynosure of every passing eye
Bloomed in the remote village and school
Like the "nandiavattam" she planted
To green her school on environmental day.
One fine morning, her mother assigned a task
To babysit her little brother hardly
six months' old
Fidgeting she sat, for it was her play time
She had planned to go by the riverside
To collect wild flowers for her vase, to decorate
Her home she loved so dearly.
Naughty she was that day, the moment
Her mother to wash the baby nappies, left
Disappeared Devananda through the backdoor
Down the meandering path to the roaring river bank.
The flowers were closer to the water
Surrounded by shrubs and bushes wild
She pushed her way, her eyes on the flowers
Never watching where her feet led.
The bank had caved in, she never knew
The last step she took hand outstretched
To pluck the wild flower, the mud gave way
Down she went, no one heard her desperate screams
As the murky water swallowed her.
Drenching the whole village in tears
A search was on, eighteen hours passed
The numb lifeless body, a decayed flower
Was brought home from the river bank.
The lovely slender hands holding fast
The wildbloom that tempted her
To leave her little brother's side
Forever, forever, forever, forever.
(Actually no one knows what happened to six years old Devananda. Lots of speculation is going on one side while Kerala police are trying to crack the mystery. It is a torment for all mothers with little daughters. Kerala is weeping for Devananda)
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
(Written for the occasion of World Womens' Day' 8th March)
For Strong Women
Here is a reminder for all those strong women out there! Yes, only for strong women. Because no woman is ever weak.
Not the one who doesn't work to earn but is a homemaker. Not the one who cries at small things. Even not the one who loves to put on make-up, wear brightly colored dupattas and big dangle drops. Also not the one who doesn't know how to drive a car, or the one who has never boozed/smoked. Not even the one who always needs someone by her side- a friend or a kin and isn't much good at doing things alone. Yes, not the one who permanently stays in kitchen and keeps trying new recipe.
Your strength is huge, women. And you really don't have to wear it on your sleeves all the time. You're strong enough to prioritize your family and children over any work that'll pay you pennies. You're strong enough to wipe your tears, roll your sleeves up and destroy whatever made you cry- big or small. A torn jeans, loose shirt and top knot can make you a tomboy and you've every right to pull off they cool and comfy look anytime you want. But dear ladies, your strength is much beyond your attire.
It's okay not to be good on roads. Not everyone can play a guitar and how does that make a difference, either? It's real strength to put your health above everything else and not get addicted just to fit in, you know! You need someone always but also, you stand by everyone who needs you. Kitchen is heaven for all foodies and if you've fallen in the vicious cycle of cooking-eating-cooking, we raise a toast to your passion.
Strength and femininity can totally go hand in hand because girl that's how you're designed. You really don't have to give up on your one to find other. So don't settle for anything less, don't compromise. And just because some idiots say that only the one who's afraid to embrace her own self does make up, you don't have to shy away from trying all those crazy shades of lipsticks! When someone tries to eye your lips and question your confidence, just smile and say 'your opinion doesn't make you look any better, dude!'.
For Badass Women
When her lipstick or Kohl is smudged, be the one to pull a tissue and fix it instead of the one who joins mockery gang.
When you hear someone bitch about her behind her back, be the one to throw a befitting reply and shut them up instead of spewing out some more filth.
When she wears a dress that the society finds short, compliment her and offer her your jacket if it's cold.
When she finds it difficult to parallel park her car, help her out instead of questioning who the hell got her this car.
When it takes her too long to come out of the boss's cabin, dare to knock and ask "what's up?".
When she gets promoted at work, don't ask what man she slept with but hug her and congratulate her because you're really happy for what she achieved!
When the man standing between you both in a metro with his face facing her back and his back facing you stealthily sliding his fingers towards her waist, don't hesitate to punch his neck hard.
When you see her being bullied by some perverts late in the night, stop your vehicle right next to her and make a call to the cops loud enough for them to here.
She can be anyone- a friend, a colleague or an absolute stranger. Do take a stand for her.
That's all a woman needs- another woman to stand by her, known or unknown. Remember the embarrassments you'd gone through for your spoilt make-up, those tears you'd she'd because your 'bestie' had bitched brutally about you when you were not around, the comfort of your shorts or the cocktail dress that 'society' kept you from wearing, the dents on your car when you were a learner, the day when you were suffocating in the boss's cabin desperately awaiting a knock, your struggles to earn your current position, those scratch marks on your body that are sitting raw on your soul and the fear you dealed with every evening while walking from your classes to your hostel.
Dear badass, confident and witty women out there, recall your journey and help other ladies come this far. That's the only way to raise some more strong sisters for yourself. That's the only way to keep the spirit of WOMANHOOD burning.
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.
Somewhere, sometime, when catastrophe made its way to you
who were formless, covered in dust and coal but still with a soul
When the heat turned unbearable to you, they saw
Your lustre, as you melted, disintegrated,
your outer shine, that could be their gain
And then made their way to you, feigning sympathy, a helping hand,
Turned up the heat with one, and as if gently patting with the other,
Molded you into the shape they wanted,
And then cooled down the temperature, as though comforting
Only to make you cemented to their fancy, an ornament
As you admire yourself in the mirror, with your new shine and shape,
Your soul now almost as hollow as you've been cast to be,
I hope with deep empathy,
May realization make its way to you as well,
And awake your mind to the sad fact that,
You, my dear, have been manipulated like melted gold
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.
Unprivileged... a boon it was!
Not that I sought it, but I was born that way.
My pedigree didn't help either
And my empty pockets mocked at me
My torn clothes flaunted my vulnerability
My shrunken stomach has forgotten to be hungry.
Yet I was previleged! I could be anything
I didn't have to compete, not even with myself.
Nothing was expected of me and I could be invisible
I might as well be an alien, I thought
No one knew of my existence and that was my previlege!
I am truly blessed...for I am "unprivileged"!
Dr. Preethi Ragasudha is an Assistant Professor of Nutrition at the Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences, Kochi, Kerala. She is passionate about art, literature and poetry
Bapu !
more than ever
we need you, need you
in these turbulent times
your lifeblood, sedimented in our DNA
and flows through the veins
of India, its teeming millions
celebrating oneness amidst the cacophony
of the diverse, that divides..
You taught us, love
kindness, tolerance
the success mantra
of any rising nation...
Your Godhead lay in seeking God in each..
Bapu, inspire us
to erase the evil of greed, divisive fight,
to uphold the dignity of man
sans race, cast and creed...
Let it blow from North
the winds of justice
the cool Himalayan winds
floating over, hills, dales and plains
to reach the southern tip
where the waves lash over the Vivekananda ridge
with brushes soft
to cleanse and cool
Kanyakumari
sweltering in heat, unrest...
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
Once in a while I smile
Once in a while I walk in the aisle
Once in a while I sing
Once in a while I cling
Once in a while I spin
Once in a while I stim
Once in a while I clap
Once in a while I flap
Once in a while I laugh
Once in a while a little difficult to choreograph
Once in a while I yawn
Once in a while I frown
Once in a while I sleep
Oh!! so so deep
Once in a while I run
Once in a while I love all the fun
Once in a while I utter words
Once in a while only those preferred
Don't force me
I need my space
Give me time to register instructions
After all I am a different operating system
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)
SANTOSH - A DISABLED DANCER
Setluri Padmavathi
“I was abandoned when I was three years old by my father as I was diagnosed with polio in my both feet. My mother died and he married for the second time. I feel this situation made him send me out of the house. But, my disability didn’t stop me from learning dance as my teacher didn't treat me as a disabled, but as a talented dancer.” Santosh said.
I was shocked and sympathetic to see him for the first time while he was occupying his seat as a judge in the ‘Solo Dance Competition’. He looked very confident, brave and committed which impressed the audience and participants in the hall. All the participants were bit nervous and tensed up to perform on the stage. Their colourful attire and makeup made me stare at them constantly.
The programme began and all the dancers performed excellently.
Santosh, who’s 28 year old, is an energetic dancer though he is disabled physically. He was brought up by his grandparents and admitted in a missionary school later. He was extremely happy to study in the school and to get noticed by a great dance teacher. The dance teacher, Mr. Subramaniam identified his talent and encouraged him to learn dance regularly. As a student he used to complain to his teacher about his physical ailment and pain in feet, but the teacher always told him to ignore his disability and made him continue his dance lessons. That’s how he developed his confidence and learnt various types of dances. Besides, he performed in various competitions and on important occasions. He was praised and applauded by the audience everywhere.
"I didn’t stop my education. I secured very good percentage in graduation in Psychology. I'm currently pursuing M.A. Psychology and teaching students who’re physically and mentally challenged in a school which is located in my village." Santosh said. His words impressed everyone in the auditorium.
He acted in a film and performed in wonderful dance programmes, in India and in many foreign countries. The best thing in his life story is, he didn’t give up his education which changed his life. Thus, he could earn well and fulful the needs of his family members. He is sincere, hardworking and very much determined at his work. He advised all the participants to continue their dance practice and perform well in their studies. He inspired them. He believes “Education is a weapon which can be used to change the world.”
In the end, he performed an extra-ordinary dance with good facial expression which amazed all. Thereafter, he thanked the head of the institution for giving him an opportunity to be a judge in the competition and disclosed that his dream of acting as judge came true. His humble voice and way of talking certainly impressed me. After the programme, I wished him well and asked him to be mentally strong. I felt he was quite happy to hear it.
I strongly feel, though many people are physically well and healthy, most of them do not try to bring out their innate talents. Being talented is really good, but showcasing one’s talent in front of the public is better. Nobody knows when a golden opportunity knocks at the door.
(The story is based on a real life experience)
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
Ambling down the road, I ducked
As a flying missile went past
Fell with a thud.
A stone hurled at
Fruit on the sprawling tree
Its stooped branches
Stretching out of the compound
Laden with mangoes
Offering with all humility.
Glaring at the urchins, I desired
To given them a mouthful
When my eyes fell
Upon the delicious mangoes
Lusciously attractive!
'Who'd not wish to devour them,'
I said aloud, walked on
With a mischievous grin
As the urchins stood gaping.a
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.
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
"Jitu, did you speak to Anupam? When is he coming?"
BadaBapa was waiting for me anxiously. I had just returned from the post office, where we had the only telephone in the village. I shook my head.
"No BadaBapa, I could not speak to him. He was not at home. I left a message in his answering machine. He will probably call back".
BadaBapa's haggard face lost colour,
"What's the point in his calling back? He should come immediately. How long can we wait with his mother's dead body lying here?"
BadaMaa had passed away early in the morning, probably in her sleep, without bothering to trouble anyone. She had always been that way, an epitome of great patience and tolerance. BadaBapa was a contrast. Possessed of a high degree of dignity and rectitude he was prone to extreme spurts of anger and impatience. Yet, he was venerated by the villagers like no other person. As the head master of the local high school BadaBapa must have taught half the villagers and commanded their fearful respect even many years after they left the school.
A man of great learning, BadaBapa's words were law in the village and many an evening was spent in settling disputes among villagers. Any disobedience of his verdict would result in prompt ostracisation by him, making the guilty party a pariah in the village. His compassion was legendary, he would visit huts of even an untouchable if some one was ill and give money to buy medicines, but at normal times he won't let him come any where near him, or touch him. A strict disciplinarian, he had brought up his children Anupam and Renu teaching them good manners and the best values. BadaMaa complemented him in every respect, although in the matter of loving her children she was more effusive.
Strictly speaking, BadaBapa was not the elder brother of my father, but being their neighbour in the Brahmin section of the village, I looked upon him as my BadaBapa and mentor. Anupam was my closest friend and class mate and almost all our time was spent together, studying, gossiping, stealing mangoes and guavas from the neighbouring orchards. Renu, four years our junior, was a limpet, clinging to us despite our best efforts to shake her off during our escapades. I was an only child and treated Renu as my little sister. We took great pleasure in teasing her, but between me and Anupam we loved her and protected her from all kinds of known and unknown dangers. She used to exploit this weakness, often manipulating us with,
"Ok, let me see who loves me more, Anupam Bhai or Jitu Bhai, whoever gives me a bigger size mango or guava loves me more."
We knew she was making a fool of us, but somehow we loved to play a fool with our cute little sister. Anupam got a first division in High School exam and went away to study at Cuttack in the big college there and after that got admission in IIT, Kanpur. My father, an agriculturist, could not afford to pay my hostel fees, so I went to the nearby college and finished my B.A.. Immediately after that BadaBapa asked me to join the High School as a teacher of History and General Sudies. The Management Committee of the school respected BadaBapa's judgment and appointed me as a regular teacher.
The day I joined as teacher Renu was at home, waiting for her admission in college. She started laughing like a horse till BadaMaa asked her to be quiet and tell us why she was laughing. She pointed at me, and said,
"This Jitu Bhai, a teacher? I can't believe it! Thank God I am done with High School, otherwise I would have made his life miserable, asking question after question! I know all his secrets, Even the big, black mole he has on his left shoulder! I would have told all my friends. See Maa, how he is blushing! A blusher becomes a teacher! Who will obey you in the class Jitu Bhai? You will be a total failure. Thank God I will be going away to the hostel, otherwise you would have cried on my shoulders!"
She again burst into hideous laughter and I ran to catch her and twist her arms till she stopped laughing.
Renu had to virtually wage a battle with BadaMaa to wrest the concession of her going to the college at Cuttack and living in the hostel. BadaMaa had refused, she wanted her daughter to stay at home and attend the local college. Renu had pleaded with her, sulked, refused to touch food for two days. And finally the matter was taken to BadaBapa. His love for the daughter was boundless, a soft stream under a rough exterior. Renu had pleaded with him,
"Baba, I have learnt all the sanskar from you. Don't you trust me? Give me your hand, put it on my head, I pledge my life, I won't do anything to bring dishonour to you"
BadaBapa had hugged her, blessed her and agreed to send her to the college at Cuttack, the same college where Anupam had studied for one year before leaving for IIT.
Anupam was in his final year. He had come during the vacations to the village in the last three years, but he had gradually changed. It was as if he was moving away from us, into a different orbit, no more jokes, few laughs, hardly joining me in teasing Renu. We had continued to be simple villagers, Anupam had become one of the townsfolk. In the past year he had also been seized by the American dream, a distant light beckoning him to a new shore. He was talking of American universities, new research, jobs and dollars. He was very happy to learn that Renu was going to his old college and had gifted her a watch, bought out of his scholarship amount.
Renu was quite excited about going to a good college, the best in the state. The first time she had a vacation she came breathless to her home, hid her face in BadaMaa's saree and cried. She had missed home, BadaMaa's cooking, the village and the reassuring, towering presence of BadaBapa. She kept harassing me with questions learnt from the big college and challenged me on Karl Marx and Hegel, but her favourite subject was my marriage. Both of us had gone to the Dussehra festival and once we returned she ran to my mother and told her she had already selected a girl for me. When my mother asked her who it was she grandly announced that it was the young girl selling glass bangles at the fair.
"Kaki, you should have seen the way they were exchanging amorous glances, she was trying the bangles on my hand, but blushing all the time stealing glances at Jitu Bhai, and this pervert brother of mine put me to so much shame, looking at that young girl as if he was going to put her in a plate and eat her like a big rasagolla! Chhi, Chhi, I was so embarrassed! But I know now they are made for each other. When Jitu Bhai goes to school my dear Bhauja will go from house to house with a basket of bangles on her head".
And Renu did a nice act of holding a basket on her head and shouting, come come, here are bangles for you, red ones, green ones and blue ones. Come and buy my bangles!
My mother started laughing, enjoying every bit of the fun. I chased Renu, finally catching her at her home and started twisting her arms till she cried out in pain. BadaMaa saw it and shouted, "Arey Jitu, stop it, if you break her arm who will marry your sister?"
Renu snatched her arm from me, made a big face and said,
"Yes, who will marry a girl with a broken arm? Out of frustration I will hang myself from the mango tree outside and become a ghost. My spirit will sit on your shoulder and go to school with you. I will twist your tongue so much that when you teach history it will sound like ghostry! And I will scare the daylight out of your bangle selling wife."
With that parting shot Renu ran away, to bury her head in some book.
At the end of the year Anupam left for the U.S. having got a good scholarship from a very big university. Eventually he would complete his Ph. D. and do a big job there. He had come home after the first year in U.S., but he was a completely different person, quiet, dignified and hardly talking to anyone. He stayed just for a week and left.
Renu had also become very studious, reading books all the time. I got married the year she completed her second year in college. My wife Malati got very close to her, whenever Renu came on holidays she and Malati were inseparable, planning little pranks to play on me. Some days, after reaching school I would discover Renu had replaced a chappal with a different one putting me into embarrassment and from the way she and Malati had exchanged conspiratorial smiles in the morning it was clear that Malati was a party to the mischief! Some other day Renu would sprinkle ink on the back of my white shirt unknown to me and the students would smile looking at that. But I still loved her, as much as Anupam did, more so because all of us had begun to miss Anupam's presence in our daily lives.
In the third year of her college Renu became very serious, she had started asking me why there was so much poverty in one part of the village compared to the prosperous part, why some people were treated as untouchables and why many in the village considered the untouchables as subhuman and treated them so badly. She started giving me lectures on class struggle, the sufferings of the disadvantaged, exploitation of the workers, below subsistence wages to farm labourers, and on squalor, disease, death in the Harijan basti in our village. In one of the vacations unknown to us she visited the Harijan basti almost daily, talked to the women there, played with their children. When I came to know of it from Malati, I advised Renu against it, but she picked up a fight against me, asking me whether as an educated man I also believed in untouchability and class differentiation. It left me dumb founded. Renu, our little prankster Renu, had she become a rebel against the norms of the society?
Renu had changed beyond our comprehension. She remained absent minded most of the time. At our home she would still chat with Malati and play with Mithi, our new born daughter, but at her home she would be silent, sitting alone, often under a tree in the orchard, lost in her own thoughts, immersed in a world of her own. In her final year she remained so aloof from BadaMaa that the poor mother got very worried and asked me to check with Renu. She also broached the subject of her marriage and asked me to find out what kind of husband she would like.
Renu's eyes flashed with anger when I asked her about marriage,
"Jitu Bhai, what kind of question is that? You want me to be married off and lead the life of a door mat like Bou has done all her life, living like a slave under Baba? What a ridiculous idea! I don't want to get married like that and waste my life. Let me finish my studies, I will go for higher studies and one day I will become a Professor, I will not rot in a village as a teacher like you!"
I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. Renu had never spoken to me like that. What had happened to my little, innocent sister? How did she change so much?
In the summer after her final B.A. exams, Renu was hardly at home. She kept going to Cuttack frequently telling BadaMaa that she had to go and check about her admission for M.A.. At home she was often tossing on the bed spending sleepless nights. Her eyes were heavy, weighed down by a weariness. She was absent minded all the time, as if she was getting torn by an inner struggle, some unseen force was tearing her heart into pieces.
I will never forget that damp July day as long as I live. It had rained for the previous three days, the sky was overcast, clouds were hanging with a heavy face as if with the slight touch of a sensitive sigh of the wind they will burst into rains, the birds were hiding in the trees, occasionally wailing a sad, melancholic cry and there was a silent, suppressed sadness in the air as if someone was mourning the loss of the bright sun light.
I was getting ready to leave for the school, it was around nine thirty in the morning. Renu came to me, slowly dragging her feet, dark circles under her eyes showed great amount of grief and stress. It appeared as if she had not slept the previous night,
"Jitu Bhai, leaving for school?"
I nodded, already worried by her dishevelled appearance,
"Yes Renu, did you have any work with me?"
She looked at me, a sad penetrating look that sent shivers down my spine,
"Jitu Bhai, are you not my dear brother, as much as Anupam Bhai?"
I was shocked at this question, my voice choked with an unknown fear,
"Yes, why are you asking this question after so many years? Did I do something wrong?"
Renu smiled, on her sad face lined with worries the smile looked grotesque,
"No, no, you have done nothing wrong. Ever since I learnt to walk, to speak, I have always felt the presence of two brothers on my sides, you and Anupam Bhai. That's why I have come to ask you for a favour."
I was worried. A favour? Why is my little sister being so formal, is there anything I would not do for her, favour or no favour? Somehow my eyes started filling with tears.
"Tell me Renu, what do you want from me?"
"I will tell you, but first bring your hand, put it on my head and pledge to me that you will do what I ask, take the pledge in my name and in the name of Malati Bhauja and your daughter Mithi."
I recoiled as if struck by a hissing cobra and shrieked,
"What is this Renu? Do you know what you are saying? What kind of rope are you using to tie my hands?"
"A very small favour, nothing big. Just promise to me you will do what I ask you to do, and don't break that promise, for the sake of your little sister."
I was getting late for the school,
"Ok, what do you want me to do?"
"First you promise, pledge on my head!"
She dragged my hand and put it on her head. And I promised. She took an envelope from a small purse and handed it to me. Her eyes were brimming with tears,
"Keep this letter with you. Don't open it today. You can open it tomorrow morning. Remember, you have taken a pledge on my head, if you love me, your little sister, you will keep the promise."
For some reason I could not control my tears,
"What is there in the letter, who is it for? Why are you doing this? What is bothering you? Tell me, I will help you. Don't you trust me, your Jitu Bhai?"
Renu had started crying,
"Because I trust you, I am giving this letter to you, please, please don't open the envelope till tomorrow morning. Promise?"
I nodded, I just could not speak, for some unknown reason my heart was seized with heavy grief.
Renu bent and touched my feet and ran back to her home.
My day was spent in an unspeakable agony. I could not concentrate on teaching, many times my hand went into the pocket and touched the letter, I felt like breaking my promise to Renu and open the letter, but her pledge in her name, as also on Malati and Mithi, held me back. My heart remained heavy.
When I returned from school I asked Malati if she had seen Renu during the day. She told me Renu had come around noon and left for Cuttack. She also wondered why Renu was looking so sad, her face swollen like she had cried a lot. In the evening I felt like opening the letter a dozen times, but the pledge given to Renu stopped me. I spent a restless night, and the moment it was dawn I opened her letter. Half way through the letter I felt like the earth was slipping from under my feet and any moment I would collapse like a felled tree. Tears blinded me, I read it again,
"Jitu Bhai,
I don't know whether you will love me or hate me after reading this letter, but next to Anupam Bhai I trust you the most and I love you more than your own sister would have done, if you had one. That's why I am opening my heart to you, because I have to say a lot before I leave my home forever, never to return to the place I was born, where I took my first steps, where I fell to be picked up by the loving hands of Bou, and where I ran with my two brothers, fought with them, laughed, cried and felt my heart expanding to touch the sky, pluck the moon and offer it to you, Anupam Bhai, Baba and Bou.
Jitu Bhai, how I wish I had remained a small girl, always under the care and protection of you all. But unfortunately, I grew up and lost the little world that had covered me with its reassuring embrace. I drifted and I lost myself. When I met Arjun in the college, my world changed completely. He is the one who taught me to question inequality, hypocrisy, and injustice. I started wondering why we have dismal pockets of heart-breaking poverty, why Baba would not allow certain people to even touch his shadow, why on festivals we will wear new clothes where as Dambaru Bhoi's children will be roaming around with the same old tattered cloth, his wife will be ashamed to come out in the open, unable to hide her young body with a torn piece of old saree. I wondered why children in our Harijan basti would be going to bed with only water as their meal, when we would be eating paratha and pulao.
I fell in love with Arjun despite my promise to Baba not to bring any dishonour to him. Arjun is not a mere person that I fell in love with, Arjun is an ideology, a thought that grew and completely encompassed my body and soul. I became a helpless fallen leaf floating away in a running stream after a rain. I thought of him, his goals, our goals, every waking moment of my life. My world turned upside down and I became a little shadow chasing a small little light lit by my soul mate.
Jitu Bhai, Arjun and I will get married today in some obscure temple a hundred miles away and dedicate our lives for the poor, the down trodden, the untouchables. I am sure this is not the marriage you, or Baba or Bou had in mind for me, but as I said, I am no longer your little Renu, some one has transformed me completely.
Last two nights I slept with Bou, clinging to her, enjoying the warmth of her body, inhaling the fragrance that only my Bou has and for a few moments I thought I would change my decision, stay back with Bou forever, in her warmth, her protection and cocooned in her love. But I started drifting again, I cried, my fate dragged me slowly, but steadily down a path no one can retrace. Arjun is from a caste which Baba doesn't allow to come near him, he will not accept Arjun. Bou will keep crying, her heart breaking again and yet again, pining for her little daughter, but I will be away a few hundred miles away in the midst of forests, among poor and helpless people.
Please don't try to look for me, Baba will never forgive me, nor will he accept us. Leave me to my fate, think of me as a moon that strayed into a different orbit and got lost in the wide open sky.
Jitu Bhai, please tell Baba and Bou to forgive me if possible and send their blessings to me. One day Mithi will grow up and will leave you to build her own little nest, you will know how much blessings mean to children. It's my misfortune that I will not be able to touch Baba's and Bou's feet and get their blessings.
Please forgive me JituBhai for giving you this trouble, but tell me is there anyone else in the world who I could have opened my heart to? Give me your love and blessings, I need them. And take care of Bhauja, Mithi, Baba and Bou. When you meet Anupam Bhai ask him to forgive me, like me he has gone away in a different orbit and our paths will probably never meet.
Good bye, JituBhai! What a way to leave home on a wedding day! Forgive me, all of you, please forgive me.
.."
I could not read Renu's name because the spot was drenched with her tears. I sat down with the letter in my hand and looked at BadaBapa's house. Lights were already on, for as long as we remembered, he had got up at four in the morning and started his Pooja at daybreak. BadaMaa must be busy in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for him.
I took the letter and went to BadaMaa. She looked worried, for Renu had not returned the previous night. She was surprised to see me, my ashen face. With trembling hands I handed her the letter. In a few minutes she let out the loudest wail I had ever heard and fell down on the floor unconscious. BadaBapa came running from the Pooja room and asked me to sprinkle water on her face. She came to her senses and started howling in a way one mourns for the dead. BadaBapa saw the letter in her hand and read it. He did not cry like BadaMaa did. He just slumped on a chair and stared vacantly at the Pooja room.
BadaMaa kept on sobbing and asked me to get ready and leave for Cuttack to find out if any news can be had from anyone. Or if someone knew which village Arjun came from. I was about to leave when BadaBapa let out a thunder the like of which I had not heard before, neither at home nor at the school,
"NO!, NO! No one will go to look for Renu. From this moment she is dead for me. Do you hear, she is dead for me. Jitu, if you go to look for her, remember, the door of this house will be closed for you forever. She is dead for me, Renu is dead for me."
With that BadaBapa stormed into the Pooja rom and shut the door from inside. BadaMaa kept wailing, holding a framed photograph of Renu close to her heart. She would look at it and kept kissing it like a mad woman. I felt an ache in my heart which usually happens when one cries within. It creates a scar in the heart and the agony never stops. I left BadaMaa to her grief because there was nothing I could say that would console her.
BadaBapa didn't come to school that day. I saw him in the evening again at home, he had summoned the barber and got his head shaved, like one does when someone in the family dies. BadaBapa never grew hair again, every month he would get his head shaved, such was his anger against a daughter who he used to love like a piece of his heart but who deserted him to run away with an unknown person of a low caste.
Life returned to some semblance of normalcy after a few months. We never heard from Renu and despite discreet inquiries I could not find out where she and Arjun had gone to. Months turned to years. BadaMaa lost weight and became thin like a reed, BadaBapa virtually stopped talking to anyone. Anupam, who was still a student in U.S. doing his Ph.D., had come to visit for a few days, but he had nothing to say which could console his parents. We talked a lot, I told him about Renu's last day with us. He opened a wound in me which had festered after Renu's disappearance.
"Jitu, if only you had opened the letter before going to school that day! You would have saved many lives from misery. Bou would have probably persuaded Renu to change her mind. But I can't blame you. Finally it is fate which prevails. Renu is destined to suffer her fate. Neither you, me, nor anyone can save her from that".
Ten years after this incident I heard a knock on my door at home on a hot summer day. It was a Sunday and we were taking rest after lunch. I opened the door. There was a man standing outside with a suitcase in hand and a small boy of around seven holding his hand. The man was looking much older for his age, a rugged, weather beaten face, thin emaciated hands showed a man who must have suffered a lot in life. The boy was also very lean and looked hungry for food and love. He looked timidly at me, holding on to the man's emaciated hand. I called them inside. The man smiled and introduced himself,
"I am Bijay Soren, this is Arun, my son. I am the new teacher in your school."
He extended to me a transfer order issued by the District Education Officer, Sundergarh, transferring him to the school in our village. I was happy to see a new colleague. Malati immediately arranged some lunch. Mithi took to Arun like a long lost younger brother. In no time she was washing his feet, his face and made him feel free enough to smile. Ah, such a cute smile he had, his eyes lighted up when he smiled.
I offered a room in our out house to Bijay and he gladly accepted it. Arun spent practically the whole day with Malati and Mithi, their love and affection for him was boundless when they came to know that he had lost his mother a year back. In the evening Mithi would drag him to BadaMaa who would always welcome them with some pitha, the sweet rice cake made in all Odiya homes.
Bijay met BadaBapa the next day in the school and started teaching English to the students. We became close friends, had our meals together and went for long walks in the evening. But I was worried about his deteriorating health. Malati told me of the sound of constant coughing coming from his room the whole night. Sometimes in the school he would have prolonged bouts of cough. A month after his arrival one day I asked Bijay what was the problem. His face lost colour,
"Jitu Bhai, it is an advanced case of Tuberculosis. The doctors have given up. I may not live for more than a few days. Months of neglect, running away from police, hiding in forests with Arun in my arms have completely decimated my body. I lived all these days only to protect Arun from all danger."
I was shocked! Running away from police? Who was this man? Was he a criminal? I shrieked,
"Who are you? Why are you running from police? What crime have you committed?"
Bijay raised his hand, as if in self defence,
"No crime, JituBhai, I swear on the head of my Arun I have not committed any crime. My only crime is I have been branded a Naxalite along with my wife, who was captured, tortured and killed by the police."
Bijay relapsed into a long spell of cough. I gave him some water, he continued,
"Jitu Bhai, you must be wondering why I came to you, of all the people, with Arun and sought a room to stay here? That's because Renu had told me you are the only one I can trust with my life. And now I want to entrust Arun to you and leave."
I recoiled from him as if I had seen a snake,
"Renu? What do you know of Renu? Who are you? You are not Arjun, your name is Bijay Soren!"
He shook his head,
"No, I am Arjun, that transfer order was a forgery in the name of Bijay Soren. Renu and I had worked for six years as teachers in a tribal school in Sundergarh and I had made friends with a few people in the DEO's office. One of them helped me in forging the transfer order. I got that order to come here and meet you. I was not sure whether you and your family would accept Arun if I came to you straightaway. I was not sure if you would forgive me for taking away Renu from you all. So I wanted to spend a month or two with your family before leaving Arun with you."
Again Arjun started coughing. I was impatient to know what happened to Renu after she ran away from home ten years back. Arjun sat quiet for a minute, shaken by painful memories,
"We had big dreams JituBhai, we wanted to serve the poor, educate the tribals, help the downtrodden. We got jobs as teachers in a tribal school and changed our names to Padma and Bijay. No one in the village knew our real name, not even our son who was born two years later. We were happy teaching the tribal children, counselling the parents, helping them with hygiene and health care. Then the Naxal menace came and teachers working in tribal areas were suspected as Naxals or Naxal sympathisers. The police kept on visiting and harassing us. Arun was six years old and kept on asking us why police uncle was coming to question us again and again. One day when Renu was alone at home a police man tried to misbehave with her. When she protested she was immediately arrested, taken to the police station and tortured there. I had gone out with Arun to a far off village to take care of an old man who had fallen sick and could not return in the night. The next morning her dead body was thrown out of the police station saying she had committed suicide in the night. I wanted to go and get her body and question the police, but some of the villagers informed me that having killed Renu they didn't want to leave me alive and were waiting to arrest me. So I ran away to the forests carrying Arun in my arms. In the dead of night I came back alone to have a last glimpse of my beloved wife who had run away from her home and her Baba and Bou to marry me and my ideology. I spent only a few minutes there, tears blinding me, and went back to the forests. The villagers cremated her. After that it was living hell for me and my tender son, we would panic at the sound of every footstep from our place of hiding. It became impossible to live like that and I remembered Renu had told me of you. So I came over here to hand over Arun to you and Bhauja and Mithi. Let Arun sleep with you tonight. Tomorrow morning I will leave before the day breaks."
I had started sobbing hearing of Renu, her suffering and of poor Arun hiding in the forests in fear of police. I had never imagined my little sister would meet her end in a police station, brutalised by the police. I tried to dissuade Arjun from leaving,
"Arjun, why do you want to leave? Tomorrow we will go to the big hospital at Cuttack. We will consult the best doctor. You will be alright."
Arjun shook his head, a sad, despondent shadow clouding his face,
"No use JituBhai, I have nothing left in my body now, every breath is a torture, every day a grim reminder of my impending death. I will be leaving in peace, if you agree to keep Arun with you and bring him up like your own child. Won't you do it? For Renu's sake?"
I held his hands, sobbing uncontrollably,
"Why are you asking me like this? You think I will abandon Renu's son? Renu, who had grown up with me and Anupam as a part of our life? But please don't go away, we will find a cure for you."
Arjun shook his head and kept quiet. We held hands and sat there, immersed in our own thoughts. Sometimes silence is more eloquent than words and life has a cruel way of dealing lethal blows stealthily, silently with deadly accuracy. I knew my life had taken a new turn and I dreaded facing BadaBapa and BadaMaa with this new discovery of a tragic past.
True to his words, Arjun silently slipped away in the night, never to be seen again. Arun shed a few tears and remained sad for a couple of days. With remarkable resilience he reconciled with the absence of his father and tried to become a part of our family. For a boy of seven he was exceptionally mature. When he smiled again I understood why his smile had captivated me from the day he came to us. He had inherited from Renu the cute smile and the lighting up of the eyes with a hint of mischief. It had not occurred to me earlier but now it was clear. I suspect BadaMaa also sensed it, she would often stare at him with a fixed gaze and gradually her eyes would melt into a languid love. She would hold him close to her, make him sit on her lap and feed him with all the sweets and savouries she made at home. But her fear of BadaBapa was so severe that she would never mention it to him. Arun's identity as Renu's son remained a secret only with me, I hadn't disclosed it to Malati or Mithi for fear of BadaBapa's wrath.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
My reverie was broken with loud footsteps from outside. Pramod, the postmaster had come running. He was a classmate of mine and Anupam's. BadaBapa looked at him with anxiety.
"Anupam called ten minutes back. He is away in some other country, attending a conference. He knew about the death from his answering machine. He says he will start immediately but it will take him forty hours to reach, he has to change flight at four different places."
BadaBapa put his hand on his head and sat down, tired, worried and lost,
"O My God, who will light the pyre of my poor wife? What cruelty is this, O God? Is this what I get after doing your Pooja every day for the last fifty years?"
I was touched by his grief. There were two relatives in the room along with my parents, Malati and Mithi. Arun was sitting at a corner, looking fixedly at BadaMaa, tears streaming down his face. He had been sitting like that since he woke up in the morning. Mithi had tried her best to take him home for some little breakfast, he had refused, he was not hungry.
I looked at him and at BadaBapa. Then, in a rush of wild courage I did something which surprised even me,
"BadaBapa!"
I stopped, not sure if I should continue with the daredevilry. He looked at me, the sternness was gone, BadaMaa's death had mellowed him. I continued,
"BadaBapa, let Arun light the funeral pyre."
BadaBapa stood up, as if hit by a bolt! Next moment he thundered,
"Jitu! How dare you? Have you gone crazy, do you know what you are saying? She is a Brahmin lady, died with her sindoor intact. Only a direct descendant can light her pyre. And this boy, who is he, of what caste? How can he light her pyre?"
BadaBapa looked at me as if he was going to burn me with his angry gaze. I don't know how I got a new lease of courage. I slowly walked to Arun, took him by hand and brought him to BadaBapa,
Arun stood there trembling, his eyes on BadaMaa's face.
"Arun is a direct descendant BadaBapa, he is Renu's son. Renu is no more, she died one year back. Let Arun light the funeral pyre BadaBapa, please!"
For a moment the room fell silent, BadaBapa's eyes widened in shock and surprise. He looked at the little boy who looked back at him, his innocent eyes brimming with tears. BadaBapa sat down on the only chair in the room, his eyes fixed on Arun. Gradually the eyes softened, he gathered Arun in his arms and held him in a close hug and started sobbing. No one had ever seen him crying. He hadn't cried in the morning on seeing BadaMaa dead, but now as uncontrolled sobs racked his body, he melted before us. I knew years of accumulated grief had found an outlet, tears of regret and redemption were washing his soul with forgiveness. The unending tears were for his loving, docile wife, for his dead, rebel daughter and for his absent son who had drifted into a different orbit from where it would be difficult to return, although he would cross his father's path occasionally.
The room erupted into a loud wailing. BadaBapa kept on holding Arun in a loving embrace and in a voice choked with sobs, called me out,
"Jitu, assemble the relatives, we will start the procession to the cremation ground. Our grandson will light his GrandMaa's funeral pyre."
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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