Literary Vibes - Edition LIX
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the Fifty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes. It contains some memorable poems and scintillating stories. Hope you will like them.
Please forward the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/284 to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous editions are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes/ We have also published the third Anthology of our series - A Collection of Poems of Sharanya Bee, a young and talented poet. It can be accessed at http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 The earlier two Anthologies are at http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 (Prof. Geetha Nair's stories from LiteraryVibes) and at http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 (A few short stories of Mrutyunjay Sarangi published in these pages).
Last week on 5th March a wonderful thing happened. I came across a poem of Anne Lee Tzu Pheng, a 73 year old poetess from Singapore. It was about enjoying life in slow sips. I published it in the WhatsApp Group of LiteraryVibes. Promptly Dilip Mohapatra sent the poem Slow Dance by David L Weatherford. That's how the idea came that we could write some poems under the series Go Slow Zindagi! The poets of the LiteraryVibes family came together to weave a web of beautiful poems which I reproduce below from our WhatsApp page.
All of us at different phases of our life, have been victims of the Fast Forward Syndrome. When we are doing one thing, we are already thinking of the next and hurry to be immersed in that, only to come out and rush to the next tick in our chart for the day. We often miss out on the simple pleasures of life, like stopping and watching a butterfly fleeting by, a bud blooming to a beautiful flower, a Bulbul singing, a sparrow building a nest, a baby crawling to its mother or an evening silently slipping into night under a canopy of colours. No one has described it better than William Henry Davies in his poem 'Leisure' : "What is this life, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. / No time to stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as the sheep and the cows./ No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hid their nuts in grass./ No time to see in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night./ No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance./ No time to wait till her mouth can, Enrich a smile her eyes began./ A poor life this, if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare."
How we wish, we can all slow down and relish the leisurely pace of life, absorb every throb of our heart and celebrate it with a melting joy!
Please do share this glorious moment with us!
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
GO SLOW, ZINDAGI!
SIP YOUR TEA
Lee Tzu Pheng
Sip your Tea
Nice and Slow,
No one Ever knows
when it’s Time to Go,
There’ll be no Time
to enjoy the Glow,
So sip your Tea
Nice and Slow...
Life is too Short but
feels pretty Long,
There’s too Much to do , so much going Wrong,
And Most of the Time You Struggle to be Strong,
Before it’s too Late
and it’s time to Go,
Sip your Tea
Nice and Slow...
Some Friends stay,
others Go away,
Loved ones are Cherished, but not all will Stay ,
Kids will Grow up
and Fly away,
There’s really no Saying how Things will Go,
So sip your Tea
Nice and Slow...
In the End it’s really
all about Understanding Love,
For this World
and in the Stars above,
Appreciate and Value who truly Cares,
Smile and Breathe
and let your Worries go,
So, Just Sip your Tea
Nice and Slow....
SLOW DANCE
David L. Weatherford
Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round,
or listened to rain slapping the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight,
or gazed at the sun fading into the night?
You better slow down, don't dance so fast,
time is short, the music won't last.
Do you run through each day on the fly,
when you ask "How are you?", do you hear the reply?
When the day is done, do you lie in your bed,
with the next hundred chores running through your head?
You better slow down, don't dance so fast,
time is short, the music won't last.
Ever told your child, we'll do it tomorrow,
and in your haste, not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch, let a friendship die,
'cause you never had time to call and say hi?
You better slow down, don't dance so fast,
time is short, the music won't last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere,
you miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
it's like an unopened gift thrown away.
Life isn't a race, so take it slower,
hear the music before your song is over.
(Some, including Wikipedia, believe David L. Weatherford is a hoax)
DANCE IS ON
Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Dance is on dear
not yet over, you go dancing
join your heart and thoughts
that have danced through years
without bothering to stop.
Go dancing darling,
shake a leg to the drone of cicadas,
low drum-beats in ears
of the blood's rhythmic thumps,
the cuckoo's cry.
Call God to join you,
your beloved friends and pets, birds and bees as well.
Invite your life and business partners and
the muse for a jig by your lane,
by your shores.
Live full-throated like a musical,
arms full with others' blooms of smiles.
Dance is not over sweetheart,
not even the last beating the retreat is announced,
no need to rein in the coursing blood,
no hurry to go slow,
your time is eternal,
go on and on until
unknown and unseen hands erase your page
to a soundless motionless and sightless
white; the last period of the last thought put in place.
(A dedication to Weatherford, he might be a ghost poet, but strums an inner chord)
CHANGING TIMES
Dilip Mohapatra
You need this and need that
the basics to start with
and then the list grows
and you keep ticking them off
till you feel that
you are at par with your peers
if not better.
Then you pause and wish
to tip the scale
and slowly get caught in
the Tantalus trap
and ask for more and more
you deepen your pockets
and fatten your wallet
and your cupboard shelves
need to be redesigned
and enlarged.
You find yourself running
whether in a race or not
whether someone is in pursuit or not...
Whether your staying ahead
or falling back matters or not
you just keep running
sometimes from pillar to the post
sometimes round and round
there’s no respite
there’s no stopping.
The I that you were so familiar
with something that always
came in capitals
grows out of proportion
and towers over others
perhaps only in your eyes
and you keep working at it
to keep it growing
as much as you can.
But a day comes
when you see the light
and seek solace in solitude
and in your austerely seclusion
in letting go
your need
greed and ego
you cleanse your conscience
you detach and detoxify
but then before you
could set yourself free
the new age swallows you up
and again you find
yourself entangled in the
cobweb of the Web
living online lives
and drifting aimlessly
in the digital deluge.
The solitary shores of
gadget free getaways beckon you
to enrol yourself
for a digital vipasana
to take a break from your devices
which perhaps are threatening
to become vices
to redraw your digital boundaries
and to create your device free zones
where you may still yourself
and transcend to the void
and just do nothing...
and cure yourself from the addiction
of instagramming
from the addiction
of tweeting
and to go slow on your blogs
and your indiscriminate posts
to deal with the trolls
to desist from posting the forwards
and perhaps to rid you of
the incurable malady of
phubbing.
FLOWING SLOW
Bichitra K. Behura
I am little slow
But I wish to be in flow
Let me catch each and every drop
While they rush down the slope
As a beautiful stream
From the distant hill.
I am waiting for a while
To witness each and every step
The sun is taking to hide
Between the blue mountains
Beyond the river
Jumping out of the clouds.
Quietly , I am flying
With the multi colored butterflies
Touching carefully the flower
Kissing each and every petals
Smelling mindfully the fragrance
Without worrying about the time.
Sitting under the tree
I observe minutely the dry leaf
As it falls down shaking in the wind
And touches the ground
Without making any sound
Completing its journey of life.
Let me capture her smile
With all her facial curves
Singing verses of love in varied style.
Time stops for a while,
To enjoy the divine beauty
Along with me, in spontaneity.
I am no more in a rush
Let me relish every moment in hush
As I have already missed out a lot.
Unaware of even a single breath,
I have run through at a stretch
Without relishing the treasure,
Concealed inside every moment.
The object and the beholder
Are tuned to the universal order.
Let me not miss out the splendor
Sprouting every moment in nature,
Better being slow and wiser
Than being a wasteful observer.
WHAT'S THE RUSH?
Preethi N R
Those lazy hazy days
Have suddenly become bright and shiny
To what should I credit this change?
Me? you? Or the wisdom of the old?
All I can say is that,
Life does hold its own surprises.
Whether you are prepared or not,
It will happen at its own pace.
Where are you rushing?
Why don't you just wait and relax?
Look up at the sky and count the stars
Don't be hesitant to listen
To the flutter of a butterfly's wings
Don't miss out to drink up
The enchanted nature around you.
Don't be too hard on yourself
Treasure your laughter a lot.
Cherish these moments of life
That throbs within you.
And remember, you are not too old
To smile upon your lost love!
MAKE THE CLOCK CRAWL
Geetha Nair
(For Preethi NR)
March is marching by;
Let him go.
Here I lie
In perpetual June.
The monsoon of my days
Lashes against my face.
I let it fall
Drop by drop
Upon memory 's waves.
Butterfly girl
I cheer with you
Your words are nectar
Drunk from flowers
That make me dream
Of lost hours...
Memory and desire
Warmth and fire
A sweet way to spend
My chill December.
Let me gaze at the Hunter
And at Sirius, my Love
And marvel anew
At the brilliance above.
Let me fill every hour
With sweet moments all;
It is in my power
To make the clock crawl.
MARIGOLDS IN JUNE
Mrutunjay Sarangi
Tread softly on my dreams,
Zindagi! I am here to stay.
Sitting in the shadow
Of the floating clouds
Listening to the murmur of lilting streams.
Voices come floating
From lands known and unknown,
And keep playing in my heart,
Songs laden with love and loss.
Of sighs and moans,
Of cries and groans.
Leaning on a tree,
I want to look deep into time
And rummage from it
Priceless nuggets
That will bring me
The roses in December,
And marigolds in June.
And fill my heart with the colour of the sky,
Those moments would come back
And dance before my eyes
With a delightful abandon.
I want to see again,
My village pond, its emerald water
And the moon swimming in it,
The dust laden path
And the bullock cart
Slowly trudging by,
In a timeless journey,
The palm trees from my orchard
following it in a silent procession
In the moonlit night.
I want to inhale
The fragrance of solitude
Taking the shape of nubile desires,
I just want to close my eyes
And feel the slow throbs of my heart
Singing a celebratory song.
You move on Zindagi,
In your swift caravan,
I will give you a bye,
And sit here looking at my trail,
Strewn with the shadows of my dreams,
Dancing to a cascading music
Played by unseen fairies,
My past lovers coming back to me.
Table of Contents
1) SHACKLED FREEDOM Prabhanjan K. Mishra
2) WOMAN Prabhanjan K. Mishra
3) THE GUISE Haraprasad Das
4) SOLITUDE (NIROLAA) Kamalakanta Panda (KALPANT)
5) TOO EARLY, TOO LATE Geetha Nair G
6) ORANGES FROM NAG.. Krupasagar Sahoo
8) OCEAN IS JUST WATER Sreekumar K
9) WOMANHOOD Dilip Mohapatra
10) HOLI Dilip Mohapatra
11) JANHA THE MOON Dilip Mohapatra
12) LOVERS IN EQUAL.. Bichitra Behura
13) LIFE PravatKumar Padhy
14) SEA PravatKumar Padhy
15) LONELINESS PravatKumar Padhy
16) A DEAL Sharanya Bee
17) DROPLETS Narayanan Ramakrishnan
18) MYSELF Sheena Rath
19) RAT TRAP Setaluri Padmavathi
20) THE UNKNOWN HUM.. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Night ajar, a knock,
the day behind shut door;
who is outside,
the arbiter?
The dark bounds free,
light – limited, minimal, rationed;
by the turn of the street
a queue inches
towards a window,
rationed light trickling out.
The window closes on my face,
I hear with a throbbing heart
a panic rising behind me
of a vague cry without syllables;
it howls in all hues –
front, behind, insides.
The freedom is trapped
like a rat in a cage,
a house of open windows, barred;
I can see freedom freely
through the asphyxiating silence
bouncing among sycophants.
Owl hoots at night –
myth, death, ill-omen
it dispenses, free and fare
like air and water;
unlike the light, rationed,
sold by the arbiter
who designs our freedom
in the shape of shackles.
Don't take me for granted,
Needle me, fiddle with me,
Don't tickle my thin skin.
Keeping a day aside, or a week,
Giving me the handle to your account,
Or a few of your heartbeats,
Don't buy me, I don't believe in barters.
I want all of that on a platter or none,
I have powers to force those out of your control,
Don't be complacent, you false messiah.
Don't hoodwink me with words like 'ever-tolerant',
'As benign as mother earth',
'As soft as petals of rose',
I see through your pretences,
Don't garland me before butchering.
I have lived, I will live, like the roach through millennia,
Fear me at Shaheen bagh,
Fear me in Parliament,
Even God fears my entry at Sabarimala and Haji Ali.
You don't take me to bed, I do that to you,
From your first cry till your last sigh,
While going back to your maker,
Don't ruffle your mother,
Only I can say if you are not a bastard.
(I bow my head before you, o mother of mankind, with worshipful gratitude - prabhanjan.)
Dedicated to all the women of the world On the International Women's Day
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
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Getting rid of me, and
wallowing in your wishful pleasure,
you find me lurking
in the underbelly of your joy -
tapping the stick of your curses,
wearing the monkey cap
you hated so much, putting on
soundless shoes you never trusted.
Sweetheart, pleasure
never harbours bliss. Your guilt
returns to haunt you as a spook
frightening you in hours of your joy.
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
Come on my friend,
come out of the crowd
of despondent shadows;
articulate the word ‘hope’
and sing a line to a future,
pregnant with bounties.
May your quest be timid,
may your nights remain grounded
with clipped wings,
but the daybreak would surely
give you back your wings,
bring you the morning lark.
Out of your crowded retreat
to the quiet lap of solitude,
the cacophony would give way to
the lovely hymns of love and life,
strummed on heart strings,
your ultimate haven of joy.
(NIROLAA (Solitude) appeared in the 3rd/4th issue of SUDHANYAA edited by Bina Pattnaik, in the 1997. The poet has kindly allowed the translation for the Literary Vibes. Grateful thanks to the editor and publisher of the literary journal Sudhanyaa.)
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)
( For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
At the temple that evening
I was early, too early.
The flowers were still askew upon the tiled floor,
The lamps rested like soldiers, on their sides.
Walking around, I saw the old priest,
Lean legs exposed,
Crouching by the well,
Scrubbing a figure.
It was dull grey and big
I saw him right it ; a human shape
With a projection for nose, sockets for eyes and a dent for mouth.
I hastened away and waited by the gate again.
The sanctum was closed.
He shoved it open
With his towel-wrapped burden.
In time the bells pealed
The door swung open
A hundred lamps sent flickering rays
Upon His ornate face.
Big lustrous eyes
Scarlet smiling mouth
A gleaming crown
Shimmering robe-
The works.
While the devotees swung in worship
And in praise;
I too closed my eyes...
All I could see was that grey figure,
Stripped, wet, true.
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
Once we had ordered a basket of oranges from Nagpur.
The city of Nagpur is famous for its oranges. The oranges from here are very sweet and cheap. That is the reason why in the orange season many people particularly ask for those from Nagpur.
We who work in the Railways find it easier to get the fruit. You simply have to make a call and the basket of oranges would be delivered at your doorstep by the earliest express train by some employee of the railways.
A basket of oranges reached my home one morning, delivered by one of the staff. He left after taking money from me. That was the first basket of oranges we had that year.
My daughter, Kusum, is extremely fond of fruits and she would prefer to live on them rather than have regular meals of rice or breakfast. She was particularly fond of oranges. That is why my wife had requested me and I had ordered Nagpur oranges. She had not forgotten to add that, "You are getting older and you also better start eating fruits now. Fruit juice is good for your health. Stop eating all those fried pakodas, vadas or piazis now."
That is how the basket of oranges had landed at our house that day. I had asked for slightly firm fruits as they would last longer.
Through the chinks of the wooden box I could see that the oranges packed in straw were king-sized. It meant the segments would be pulpy and yield more juice.
But neither my wife nor I had the time to open the basket and inspect the fruits as I had to hurry to office.
When I reached my office, there were some visitors waiting for me. They had come from my village, obviously seeking some favours. There was an advertisement in the newspapers for some jobs in the Railways and Jagu had responded to it. He was of the opinion that if I wanted I could easily get him a job. With hopes he had come to Bhubaneswar to meet me personally.
We had advertised the jobs in the newspapers some days earlier. There would be a written examination first and then interviews would be conducted. But the candidates had begun canvassing already!
The village people are very naive really. They cannot be convinced about the red-tapism of government organizations and the ways of their functioning.
I was wondering how to wriggle out of the tricky situation. "Okay, let me see what can be done. When you receive the call letter come and see me. "I said and added, "Listen, Jagu! Will you go back to the village today? Then can you do one thing?" I was thinking of my basket of oranges that had arrived that morning, specially from Nagpur. My chances of going to the village then seemed difficult. I asked him, "I will send something for my father. Will you carry it hand it over to him?"
Jagu was only too happy to be of some help to me.
I rang home, "Listen! Don't unpack that basket of oranges. Jagabandhu has come from my village and he will return at noon by the 12 o'clock bus. I am sending the vehicle. You send the orange basket. Jagabandhu will give it to my father."
There was some rumbling sound from the other side of the receiver.
"What did you say? Can't you even wait to send the oranges to your village? You want to send them as soon as they have arrived? Did you order them for us just to sniff at? Why did I have to ask for them especially?"
"Listen, we will talk about it when I reach home. Now I am extremely busy. There are people around and I don't have the time to argue. I have sent the vehicle. Please send the basket with the driver."
At the other end, I guessed the poor telephone instrument was subjected to unspeakable violence. It made a shrill moan like the cry of the dog being hit and then became quiet.
When I came home during the lunch hour, I found the house strangely quiet. Silence reigned everywhere. Everything was hushed. The children had not yet returned from school.
The silence was unnatural. In the drawing room, the bedroom and in the balcony, an eerie silence prevailed. My wife who had opened the door for me to enter had gone back to sleep without saying a word to me.
I followed her to the bedroom trying to mollify her, "Look here, my father has become old and he cannot chew. Can't you see how happy he will be to get the oranges?"
"And I had a golden opportunity too. There was someone from the village. Such persons think it a privilege to carry a parcel for me and they would deliver it safely. Besides I don't have to spend anything extra for transport."
By then my wife was sobbing like a bird who had lost her eggs. I could sense that the situation was getting beyond my control and I opted to sneak out quietly to my office. The office was like a refuge to me. The air-conditioned room was like my well-protected sanctuary.
I returned home in the evening. But there was no lull after the storm yet. My wife was sitting in the balcony all alone. The bungalow peon fetched me a cup of tea. I went up to my wife to win her heart with the cup of tea in hand.
I held her hands and asked tenderly, "Are you still angry with me?"
Just that much, and she burst out as if she was a reservoir of tears that had burst. She told me tearfully, "I had asked for the oranges for my children. Could not you order for oranges again and send them to your village? Don't I give anything to your home in the village? Do you think I am so selfish? You could at least discuss this with me before sending the vehicle?"
There was no chance for me to reply during this barrage of words. I thought it wise to remain silent.
That day, the storm blew over. The next morning there was a minister's programme in Bhubaneswar. Since the minister was a local person, he visited the city at least twice a month. Sometimes he would inaugurate a new station building or even a newly built platform. Sometimes he would arrive to flag off a new train and at times it would be a new line survey that he would come to open.
I left for office early that morning. I had planned to have lunch and dinner outside. I had no chance to come home. By the time, I reached home after seeing off the minister and other guests it was ten in the night.
Bimala and her children were at the dining table having dinner. Bimala is my youngest sister.
"Arey! When did you arrive? How come you did not tell me that you would be coming?" I sat down to join them.
"I reached only this evening", replied my sister, bowing to me.
Bimala is married in the neighboring village. She had come to my house for the first time after I was transferred to Bhubaneswar, that is why I was very happy to see her.
Bimala said, "Bhai, I had not seen Kusum after her birth. I had no chance to see her after that. She has grown up so fast! I had heard that she has a chubby pink chin. And that she loves fruits. I have brought some oranges for her."
"Bhauja, my brother is fond of ladoos of til and kakara cakes. Will you fetch me those from my bag, please?"
"Arey, don't bother. I have had my dinner. I will eat them later". I went to the bathroom to wash.
When I faced the mirror there, I found there was an expression of surprise. I thought at least my wife's desire was satisfied. We have oranges at our village haat which are grown in Angul. Although they are very small in size, they are sweet.
I thanked God for being so benevolent to me and went to bed.
When my wife finished her chores, and came to the bed room there was a mischievous smile on her face, which I understood a little later. She told me, ''Your oranges have come back."
"What do you mean? Did my father send them back?"
"No, no, it is not anything like that. At the time our orange basket reached them, there were some people from Bimala's village there."
Then I could easily guess what must have happened after that. The oranges which I had sent to my father with so much love, had been sent immediately to my sister’s place.
Bimala has a tough time financially. Her husband does not earn much from his petty business. The villagers always borrow and one cannot even recover the loan, and they suffer heavy losses in consequence. How could he become a thriving businessman then? That is why my father is always worried about Bimala. And he would send her anything good that reaches our home.
Bimala must have felt ashamed to come to her brother's house empty-handed and only now had she picked up enough courage to come, after so long.
I could not sleep any longer. I got up and switched on the tube light. The oranges were stored below the cot. In the bright glow of the tube light the oranges which were slightly greenish in hue when they came from Nagpur, had turned deliciously red like ripe Kuamaita fruits by now.
The oranges appeared to me even more fleshy, juicy and delectable. I could not sleep till late in the night in that sweet aroma of love.
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.
By the time Radha reached the tea shop, five people returning from their morning walk had already arrived and were waiting outside for their morning tea, browsing their newspapers and discussing the dangers of an upcoming epidemic.
Radha opened the shop and got in. She quickly checked her face in the reflection on a small cupboard in the shop.
She looked fine. Her bindi and sindoor were very much there on her face. She pulled the pallu of her sari more onto her face to cover it. Then she invited her customers inside.
The snacks in the cupboard were from the previous day. The customers obviously knew that but they did not mind. She apologized to them for being late and then quickly made a cup of tea for each.
One of them turned on the TV and browsed the channels. She could hear news in several languages as he went from one channel to another. She knew only one, Hindi, and that too only to speak. Her husband and children had learned to read and write a little. She had no such luck.
From one of the channels she heard a familiar word. By now she knew that the word was a name. Devananda. The name of a six year old girl. A couple of channels in some strange language had been flashing her picture for a week.
The name was a familiar one to her. It had been the name of one of her neighbours, and she remembered a movie in which the heroine was called Devnanda.
She was keeping track of this news for days. When no one in the shop was particular about which channel they were watching, she would search for these channels. Now she knew how to find them without searching much.
She could not understand the language, but from the visuals she had been able to comprehend what the story was. It really felt like a story, one with no funny moments but cries, sobs, tears and screaming all through. A little girl had disappeared and her body was found only a couple of days later. No one knew whether the girl slipped and fell into the river nearby or someone had murdered her and threw her in it. She looked very pretty. More chance for her to be murdered by some bad people.
A few more people came in for tea and snacks. It was time for the shop owner too to pay his routine visit to see if things were OK.
Radha was so scared of him. She had learned that there was safety only in fear. When her dear deities look the other way when bad things happen, being cautious and taking to one’s heels were the only options.
By eleven the morning business would get over. Then she had almost an hour or two to prepare lunch which was only chappathi and sabji. Not many people visited this small restaurant in such a remote place. But here she felt safe. Crowds scared her.
It was three months ago that she found this place. She worked here all day and went to sleep in a small hut a few miles away, in a discarded hut at the foot of the barren hillocks in the suburbs. It was the shop owner who found a place for her to sleep in. In return, she was very loyal to him and took only a small amount of food and tea to keep herself alive. There had been no mention of money at all.
She now had no need of money anyway.
As the crowd in the restaurant thinned out, she changed the channel to see what had happened to Devananda. Today, it seemed that the story was taking a strange turn. The police had become sure that the girl had slipped and fell in the river. Natural death.
Radha couldn’t believe it. The girl was such a young, innocent, pretty girl. God does not end such a cute little thing’s life just like that. It had to be a man or men. She wanted the police to find the culprit so that the court could punish him. The court may not punish him, after all. But she knew the police would see to it that the culprit was tortured enough. Sometimes, he may end up in the hands of the mob. That would be worse but it wouldn’t be a bad thing to happen if he had really done it.
She started kneading the dough. She found that she was taking all her anger on the lump of dough on the table and wondered why. She didn’t know this girl but she too used to be a mother. She too used to be a home maker once. She knew how painful the mother would be feeling now.
She switched the channels to see if there was a different report in another channel. Some Hindi channels also had taken it up. There the story was a little different. The police had a slight suspicion on a twenty-five year old man.
Radha was happy to hear that. She wished they would find a culprit so that she didn’t have to blame God as she used to do. She had blamed God a lot and now she didn’t want to do it any more. There was no point in blaming gods for whatever happens. In the end, we go back only to them. Who else is there? Whether God is there or not, whether He is so good or not, He is surely a great relief. It is a great relief to think that someone is there when no one else is there. She tuned away from the TV to raise her eyes towards the sky.
As she looked at the TV again, there were so many policemen at the spot where the girl’s body had been found. There were a lot of big cars and big people. She found it very strange that the death of a small girl from a poor family was taken so seriously. So many people and several channel reporters had been around the house for days. She remembered some protests also shown in a channel. They were all clamouring for justice for Devananda.
She was very thrilled to see that. Now she was getting surer and surer that she might be able to see some justice after all. She would really see the hand of God in action. It was true that God let the girl die but it would be worse if the people responsible for this little girl’s death went unpunished.
During the lunch hours, Radha was busy serving the few people who had come in. They were so eager to watch news about the new disease. She wondered how much of fear could be there in people. People do not understand that life could be taken away from anyone, no matter how careful they are. Once we understand that, there is some peace of mind. But, true, it is hard to understand that.
When there was nobody to be served, Radha took a look at what was left over in the kitchen. Two burned chapathis which everyone had rejected and some sabji like a smear at the bottom of the pan. Not bad. She was not feeling so hungry.
She lay on a bench munching her lunch and drank some black tea. Watching the news which was just repetition, she went to sleep. Even in her sleep, she could still hear people sobbing, weeping, whining and screaming. The words of the anchors were not clearly audible though.
Very few people came for the evening tea. It was getting too hot. The government was also warning people not to venture out much since more and more people were falling sick in the cities. No case had been reported in Delhi so far but there was no way of saying how safe the metro was. Radha told herself that it might take some time before it came over to visit the suburbs.
By seven the shop owner came to collect the money. He was kind enough to send her home early that night. He said that there wouldn’t be any customers at night for the next one week or so. Business would be generally dim.
Radha felt a chill down her spine. Would he ask her to leave? Where would she go? She had to wait for her time. Till then, she had to find some food and some kind of shelter. Watching the expression on her face and sensing her worry, the shop owner told her not to worry. Things would change in a week and then he would not want to go looking for a new person to mind the shop. She knew he liked her. His words made her happy.
Two hours later, in a small hut at the foot of a hillock in the suburbs of Delhi, with the bindi taken away and the sindoor wiped clean out of her forehead, Sahiba, from under her mat, pulled out a family photograph, its frame mostly burned off, placed it near a small picture of a kabar in Mecca and offered her gratitude and prayer to the Almighty. She did not forget to mention in her prayer the name of a small, cute unfortunate girl she had never seen.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Yes, I am the woman
meant to be the wow
for the man
and not his woe.
Why do I have to proclaim
and substantiate
my identity
again and again
and why should I want
to be singled out
to celebrate a special day
once a year?
I am the soil that's
tilled again and again
to sprout life and souls
that are as pure and pristine
as the petals of His lotus feet.
But alas how soon a few
that are born out of me
become sullied and besmirched
and wreak havoc on me
and bring on themselves
the shame
to destroy my name
my fame
and my existence
to whom they owe
their very own existence.
Let there be no special day
to commemorate me
to remember me
to laud me
to eulogise me.
For every other day
belongs to me and
is my day
at my calling
and I am here to stay.
I know what and who I am.
I don't need any one's
acknowledgement
nor anyone's sympathy
nor favour.
I am the mother
I am the lover
I am the daughter.
I am the source
I am the sink
I am the power
I am the prime mover
and am
the perpetual giver.
I am the woman
of all the splendour
of all the honour
that no one can ever
deny me
or deprive me of
or snatch away.
Dedicated to all the women of the world On the International Women's Day
The sun has set
and as the dusky darkness
descends
the pyre is lit.
As the flames do a flamenco
and the offerings of
coconuts and sweets
turn into cinders
Holika's shawl of invincibility
is swept off her body
to wrap around the little lad
on her lap
praying to the Lord
and Holika burns
till her bones turn to
tiny trinkets of
carbonated Calcium
while the boy Prahlad
comes out unscathed.
The crowd claps
and sings
dancing around the bonfire.
The next day
is the day to rejoice
and celebrate
with colours galore
splashing and smearing
colours on one another
painting many a rainbows
on the day's canvas
heralding a spring of
unbounded joy
and of spirits that soar
and overshadow
the woes and despair
the pains and penury.
Just as the riots
of colours drown
the black, white
and brown.
‘Ma, Janha is here.' I shrieked in my high pitched voice, while peeping through the crack of the front door with fearful eyes. She stood there with her long matted hair almost golden brown in colour sprouting like serpents from Medusa’s headband with slit eyes carved atop her high cheekbones, and with a smile exposing her nicotine stained yellow teeth. I had been seeing her almost every Sunday morning with a much dented aluminium bowl into which my grandmother generously pouredsome rice gruel and handed over in a banana leaf packet some left over vegetables, green chillis and a piece of dried mango. Janha thanked her, her slit eyes further stretched in gratitude, sat on the cemented step leading to our cattle shed near the gate and enjoyed the meal till the last morsel, got up and slowly walked away till I saw her disappearing in the distant mango grove. For a ten year old boy Janha always appeared to be an enigma, a mystery for she was like no one else in the village.
Weaned away from my parents at the age of four, I lived with my grandparents who had settled down in a village near Talcher, known as the city of black diamonds for the coal mines around it. My grandfather who was considered as an aristocrat of those days for having been a minister in the court of the erstwhile king of Talcher lived in a sprawling house with a tiled roof, with a huge compound with our own vegetable garden, our own well and a small pond with our own fish. The village had three distinct areas, one inhabited by mostly poor Brahmins whose livelihood depended on priesthood and whose educated children had migrated to the towns and cities, one was a street of farmers and cowherds mostly known as ‘Chashas’ and ‘Gaudas’, and a remote locality earmarked for the lowest caste, the ‘harijans’ mostly from the ‘Paana’ and ‘Haadi’ communities. We the higher caste children were not allowed to even visit this area. If by chance we crossed over to these restricted areas we were to purify ourselves by taking bath before we were allowed to enter our homes. I remember about a friend Duryodhana from this community who studied with me in the lower primary school. Once I visited his home on Ganapati Puja and had taken some ‘til laddu’ as ‘prasad’ offered by his mother. Our servant boy Gautam who had accompanied me snitched on me and I still recall the resounding slap that I had received from my grandfather which almost made me deaf for a couple of days.
Janha was a widow and stayed with the family of her husband’s brother on the outskirts of the prohibited street of the ‘harijans’. I couldn’t figure out why she looked so different from the others from her community. She was much fairer in complexion, her hair though unkempt and matted was of a brownish golden colour and she had slitted oriental eyes. Her Mongolian features somehow looked more sinister to me and I always was a bit scared whenever she came in front me. One day when I was returning from the school, I heard Janha wailing at the top her voice while her meagre belongings were being thrown out of her house. And soon I found her tying up her stuff in a dirty cloth and carrying the bundle under her arm slowly walking towards our home.
I quietly followed her from a distance and saw her speaking to my grandfather, tears rolling down her face, my grandmother standing at the doorpost with moist eyes and imploring my grandfather to do something. Later when I asked her about what happened she told me that Janha had been evicted from her home since she refused to sign on the property papers to hand over the rights of her piece of paddy field to her brother in law. And she was homeless now. I asked grandma why can’t we give her the maid servant’s job at our home and she reminded me of her low caste.
Janha was allowed to spend couple of nights in the corner of our cattle shed. Later I was told that she moved into her new hut in our mango grove outside the village precincts near the village pond and was employed by my grandfather as ‘watchman’ of the grove. Her remuneration included some rice and pulses and a sum of five rupees a month. But she continued to pay us her weekly Sunday visits for her gruel and leftovers. Meanwhile my fears had almost gone away and I started responding to her smiles with mine. Then one Sunday she signalled me to come near her and as I cautiously approached her, she took out a colourful candy shaped like a cigarette and offered to me. I looked around to ensure that no one was around, then snapped it up and ran away before she could realise what happened. This became a routine and I was looking forward to each Sunday. One such Sunday she told me that she had kept some very sweet mangoes for me in her hut and if I come along all that would be mine. I couldn’t resist my temptation and boldly accompanied her.
I was pleasantly surprised to see how neatly she had kept her hut. It had a clearing in front that was neatly plastered with cow dung paste on which were intricate patterns of rangoli in a white powdery substance. Inside the hut was a clean mat spread from wall to wall. In a corner was a earthen hearth and some earthen pots stacked in a pile. In another corner were some half burnt firewood neatly stacked. When I asked why did she keep half burnt firewood, she smiled and said that she usually collected these left over firewood from the nearby funeral ground during night. When I asked if she was not scared of ghosts, she laughed and said that they were her friends. One day she would also become a ghost, just like them. What actually scared her were the living beings and not the dead. I really didn’t understand what she meant. As I was leaving, I noticed a bamboo fishing rod leaning against the wall and asked her if she knew how to fish. She said yes and agreed to teach me how to.
The next Sunday she again asked me if I would like to come with her so that she can teach me how to fish. I readily agreed. She led me to the village pond close to her hutand taught me how to thread the worm to the hook and how to cast the line. She told, “Now focus on the float. Be patient. When you see it dipping, give slack to the line. Once you are sure that the fish has swallowed the bait, pull it out with a tug.” After few failed attempts, finally I could get a small cat fish dangling to the end of my line.And that was perhaps the greatest joy I had ever experienced till then. Then we retired to her hut and she fried the fish for me. Now I was really keen to know more about her. When I mustered enough courage to ask her why she looked so different from the rest of the villagers, she smiled and promised to tell me about herself when we meet next.
I couldn’t wait enough for our next meeting. I wanted the week to pass as quickly as it could, but it only seemed to linger more. Then finally the much awaited Sunday came and as we sat in the shade of a big mango tree opposite her hut she started her story. Her real name was Sandar and she was actually a native of Burma. Sandar in Burmese meant ‘moon’. And her father, a Major in the Burmese Army, had named her so because he thought his daughter to be as beautiful and as cool. She met Dharmu Naik her husband-to-be in the teak forests of Tenasserim hills, where he was working as a supervisor in the plantations. Her father’s regiment was deployed nearby and she had a chance meeting with this young man from India who caught her fancy. Their chance meeting soon blossomed into love but they couldn’t make it public. The political scene in Burma changed in rapid succession, first it transited from British-India to British-Burma and then came Japanese invasion in 1942. When most Indian immigrants fled on land to Assam, Dharmu and Sandar joined a small group and managed to escape. Dharmu decided to come back to his native village near Talcher with his beautiful Burmese bride whom he lovingly called Janha, the equivalent of moon in his native language. His savings were good enough for him to buy a plot of agricultural land and soon he settled down as a land owner, which was a rarity in his community. Mostly they worked in the fields of others as daily or bonded labourers or at best worked in the coal mines. His fraternity looked at him with awe and envy at the same time. His own brother Karmu, a daily labourer, couldn’t stand his good fortune. But destiny had other plans for Dharmu. His good days were numbered. He had been a chain smoker while in Burma and in couple of months after his return, he showed signs of tuberculosis. Soon it was aggravated and he succumbed to it, leaving Janha alone in this alien land. But Janha didn’t give up easily and soon picked up the local language and adopted the local customs. But her savings gradually got depleted and she had no way of continuing with the farming activities. Karmu graciously came forward to help out and offered to take care of her. Then she moved into their house to stay with the family. Karmu took over the farming responsibilities. Couple of months passed by smoothly but now Karmu wanted his pound of flesh and asked her to transfer her agriculture land to his name, he being the patriarchal head of the family. Janha didn’t relent and refused to sign the papers. Then the torture started. They abused her at the drop of a hat, deprived her of two meals a day and one day kicked her out.
By the time she finished her story I was sweating and looked at her differently. I didn’t know whether it was sympathy or compassion, but surely my young heart was in pain.
One day after a game of seven tiles we friends were relaxing on the ceremonial pandal at the village centre. There were three school dropouts Jagga, Bishu and Haria in one corner who appeared to be in a conspiratorial conference. We all wanted to know what was going on. Raghu, one of our friends who was quite close to these boys volunteered to find out. He went and joined them and few minutes later came back with the story. They were talking about the village rumours involving Janha. Apparently some insisted that Janha in fact was a witch and practised black magic. They even had evidence that she visited the funeral ground at night in search of skulls and bones. Some even said that they had seen her naked walking on her hands at the dead of the night relishing human feces. She was the reason for all calamities that befell the village. She had the history of devouring her own husband. Recently Bharat, who had called her a witch, was killed in the coal mine in a sudden blast. Kamala, her niece hanged herself from a mango tree close to her hut, three days ago. And the new born baby to Shyam babu was fighting for life, all because she cast her evil slanted eyes on him. It’s time, she had to be eliminated. Destroyed before she destroys the whole village. I was surely very disturbed. I wanted to warn her the next day which happened to be a Sunday.
I was waiting for her to appear at our gate as usual in the morning, but there was no sign of her. I waited for a while and soon got impatient. Then I could wait no longer and almost ran all the way to her hut. As I approached it I found a small crowd in front of her hut. With my heart pounding hard, I came closer to find the village policeman at the door. I peeped in and found Janha sprawled on the mat, her head in a pool of blood, her fair hand sticking out exposing her left thumb that was smeared with a violet ink that is used on stamp pads.
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.
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.
I woke up suddenly
and
the faint memory of dream
flashed out of sight.
As half-shadow, they played
In front and beyond my eyes.
I saw my window.
It was weeping eagerly.
I couldn’t see anything through the glass.
I wiped out it and opened.
The morning sun was dancing on the lawn.
The butterflies were flying from door to door,
Congratulating on the birthday of their
sweet flowers.
Oh! I remembered
I dreamt last night,
Life is not the weeping tomb.
It is to make others laugh and love.
Publication Credit: Intercontinental Poetry Number, Rajasthan Journal of English Studies, 1979
I see you, in the smiles of the full moon
On the pure seashore
And in your love
I forget my thousand pains
As there are stars in the sky.
Beyond your dreamy eye
I see the cause of the waves
The silence of the vast expanse sand
And the self-exposure of shells.
In the midnight silence of this world
One is still awake, believing in the truth
These waves of love in a
Different shape.
The rose in your hair
May wither away tomorrow
One day we may become shells on this beach.
But our love and these waves
Will last forever.
(Translated from Odia poem “Samudra” by Goutham Ghosh).
Publication Credit: International Collage Issue, Byword, October 1979
I look around
Through the grills of window.
I see the wind sleeps
On the leaves.
I move my fingers
On my dry lips.
The curtain of my door is
Just hanging like a dead skeleton.
Husain’s art on the wall
Too speaks scratches of loneliness.
Time moves from light to dark.
Your shadow takes me high
Beyond the time
Where the morbid music
Of loneliness still lingers for me.
Publication Credit: Modern Trends in Indo-Anglian Poetry, 1982
Pravat Kumar Padhy, a scientist and a poet from Odisha, India, has obtained his Masters of Science and Technology and Ph.D from Indian Institute of Technology, ISM Dhanbad. He has published many technical papers in national and international journals. He is amongst the earliest pioneers in evolving the concept of Oil Shale exploration and scope for “Ancient Oil Exploration” (from Geological very old strata) in India.
His literary work is cited in Interviews with Indian Writing in English, Spectrum History of Indian Literature in English, Alienation in Contemporary Indian English Poetry, Cultural and Philosophical Reflections in Indian Poetry in English, History of Contemporary Indian English Poetry, etc. His Japanese short form of poetry appeared in various international journals and anthologies. He guest-edited “Per Diem, The Haiku Foundation, November Issue, 2019,” (Monoku about ‘Celestial Bodies’). His poems received many awards, honours and commendations including Editors’ Choice Award at Writers Guild of India, Asian American Poetry, Poetbay, Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival International Haiku, UNESCO International Year Award of Water Co-operation, The Kloštar Ivani? International Haiku Award, IAFOR Vladimir Devide Haiku Award, 7th Setouchi Matsuyama International Photo Haiku Award, and others. His work is showcased in the exhibition “Haiku Wall”, Historic Liberty Theatre Gallery, Oregon, USA. His tanka,‘I mingle’ is featured in the “Kudo Resource Guide”, University of California, Berkeley. The poem, “How Beautiful” is included in the Undergraduate English Curriculum at the university level in India.
He is credited with seven literary publications of verse, Silence of the Seas (Skylark Publication), The Tiny Pebbles (Cyberwit.net). Songs of Love - A Celebration (Writers Workshop), Ripples of Resonance (Authors Press Cosmic Symphony (Haiku collection), Cyberwit.Net, The Rhyming Rainbow (Tanka collection), Authors Press), and The Speaking Stone (Authors Press). His poems are translated into different languages like Japanese, Chinese, Serbian, German, Romanian, Italian, Irish, Bosnian, Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Punjabi, Telugu, and Odia.
He feels, “The essence of poetry nestles in the diligent fragrance of flower, simplicity of flow of river, gentle spread of leaves, calmness of deep ocean and embellishment of soothing shadow. Let poetry celebrate a pristine social renaissance and beautiful tomorrow of the universal truism, here and beyond.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
Dear Destiny, here I am approaching you
with an offer no human may have ever made before, it's new.
This is what I am putting out to you
after much careful thought, that is.
Don't you worry from here onwards
about mending my future,
cutting out paths,
designing the twists and turns, the pits and peaks.
For I have sieved out some treasured moments
from the tracks you made for me so far,
They're safe in my hands, like vibrant marbles.
I'll throw them to you,
just make some replicas
and fix them on my future's path
I'll be more than happy to tread on them, so will you
Your work has been cut short
So please consider this deal
and don't worry too,
This could be our own private agreement
that to no one, I will ever reveal.
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
1.
I slowly descended on my chair humming a yesteryear hit song. ‘broche varevaru’ from a runaway hit film ‘Sankarabharanam’, in my gruff voice, but in a very low tone. I had the least intention of disturbing my lady colleague who had joined a few days ago. I had a very limited knowledge and control over that Carnatic song, modified for its application in that hit movie of the 80s. My voice, sounded similar to the noise that was generated when you unload gravel from a truck.
I doubted whether it was rebuke or appreciation when my colleague remarked, “Sir, are you trained in Carnatic music? Nice to hear”. That comment from her, blew open her knowledge about this branch of music and I retorted, “To a mediocre, mediocrity appears great”. Not to be outdone, she continued, “Had you studied under a musician, your fate would have been different”.
“You don’t know my dear friend; I changed the fate of a family in just six months”. I slowly unwound.
Amused at my answer, she pumped another question, her eyes wide open, “Did you? Tell me more.”
“I was then hardly five or six. My father engaged a music teacher for me, ‘recognising’ the latent talent hidden in me and to tap that. I was his only student and my dedication, doggedness, determination and love for music endeared me to him. But I had such a limited range that I could not muster ‘varveena mridupani’ even after rigorous training. So, that pained and strained his heart so much that he suffered a heart attack and succumbed to it, one morning. Story did not end there. The news spread like a wild fire. Soon, prospective music teachers banished me and vanished from our sight whenever they saw me along with my father, fearing a request from my father to take me under their tutelage.
****************
2.
This happened in 2012. That was when a girl was mauled and raped in a moving bus and the gruesome act she was subjected to by the goons, was too much to bear that she succumbed to it afterwards. Now she is remembered by another name, Nirbhaya. The culprits are still languishing at Tihar, groping still for any loopholes to escape the noose.
Trivandrum was chillier during rainy season than in winter. That was the reality. Mornings were clear and hardly misty. To create a semblance of winter, it seemed, Corporation workers burnt waste in the morning and the smoke emanating from it presented a misty look from a distance, till the smell of smoke choked you when you neared it. How many tourists, viewing it at a distance, would have mistaken it for a misty morning, I wonder!
Newspapers gave wide coverage and all humane hearts were with the family. Eager to read, while walking back home, slowly and surely on the paved footpath, during one of those tragic hours of the nation, I do not know how I slipped and fell like a ripe jack-fruit on the road. It all happened in a split second. All accidents happen like that. It was hurting everywhere. Two men pulled me up and one offered me a cup of water. They really had a tough time in pulling up a heavily built body. I then weighed more than 80 kgs. I also heard one man remarking, ("Eeyalku veettil chennu vayichaporey"?) “ Whycan’t he read at home rather than while walking? Why this hurry?”. He was right. But Ihad wanted to save that time for sweeping the floor as a part of physical exertion, as soon as I reached home.
I gathered all my strength to walk back home, after some ten minutes of rest. The distance to my home seemed longer than usual and I soon found it an uphill task. I asked passersby to get me an auto. To rub salt into my wounds and sprained shoulder, I had to hear another comment too.”He is drunk to the brim”.( "Ravile thanney pambayi"). That I had to retort to and tears flowed because of pain and insult. The world, luckily, is not totally bereft of good-natured people, soon I was helped and accompanied to my home by two gentlemen.
I was rushed to a clinic by my wife and son and I returned home with a sling and was advised two weeks rest at home. It was gruelling days ahead for me. Sleepless nights, pain, humid winter nights all compounded my pain.
But my horrible days proved to be a revelation to me. The love and care showered by my son and daughter were beyond words. They were competing against each other, to make me at ease. They quarreled over me. They together found short-falls in their mother, too. Excruciating pain met more than a match in the caring game, so that, now more than eight years after the incidental accident, my heart yearns for one more fall.
***************
3.
If you are in hurry, please relax a bit and do not be in a hurry. Because it creates more hurdles and it might even hurt you physically or financially, as I found out later, much to my chagrin. .
Last week I was in a hurry. I had to catch the 4.15 train to Ernakulam. At that point it was already 3.30 and I had hardly an hour to do that.
I had to withdraw some cash from the nearest ATM. I had to endure a mini traffic snarl and when I reached the nearest ATM, with my light luggage, alas, it was not functioning. I rushed to the next one. Here five persons were already waiting. I was the sixth. It was 3.45 then. Then as we watched patiently, the one who was now engaged in withdrawing money had a collection of debit cards. One after one he was inserting and drawing cash. At his wits end, one man shouted, much to my delight, "Mathi akado. Onnu thirinju nokku" (Please stop and look behind you). Then the man responded "Please, just one more". Then another responded, "Iyal kaliakkiyitte povu"(He is likely to empty it).
Butterflies in my stomach were becoming crocodiles, as the time was flying fast. With all respect, I begged,”Please help me. I have to catch the 4.15 train”. ("Ellarum onnusahayikanam. Ennikku 4.15 train pidikkanam".) Kind-hearted, they allowed me in. I just wanted a two thousand rupees note. All that came out was in hundreds. While collecting, because of the pressure I fumbled, cash fell on the floor. I thought I collected all and I immediately got an auto with money clutched in my hand, I began to count. I found hundred bucks missing. In my hurry I did not say even a word of thanks to those who allowed me in out of turn.
That was more a hurt than the money lost. Perhaps, it was a fine for my discourtesy. I took it that way.
******************
4.
"Glass broken?”, thundered my wife from the drawing room. She was suddenly distracted by the noise while she was allowing herself, eagerly and voluntarily to succumb to the emotions aroused by soap operas.
I was busy, battling mosquitoes in the bedroom, resting on the wardrobe top, with the newly acquired bat shaped gadget. I did not notice the detached glass of a discarded wall clock kept there. It fell down and cracked in no time. " A glass falling from a height is bound to break", I said without meeting her eyes. "I don't want to hear any comments from you. You are callous" in a stentorian voice that reminded me of the Inspector of Police in the film ‘Dhrisyam’. Obvious fear of something untoward happening owing to this fall was very clearly writ on her face.
Soon sentimental comments followed, while I was silently picking up the shards one by one. "Don’t you know, it is the first day of the month (Malayalam Meenam), Friday, and in the late evening, very very inauspicious". The Rationalist in me added to her chagrin, "A day after Thursday and just before Saturday". I raised my head to see my better-half, with a broom in hand and fire and ire to the brim in her eyes. I just looked up like an innocent child.
All over, debris cleared with a broom and a wet cloth, she returned to her serials and I got a cue for jotting down for self-satisfaction, a few lines.
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.
Why should I fit in
When I was born to stand out
Your world is black and white
Come hold me tight
And set things right
There is so much you do not see
But trust me it is there
If you had a spectrum mind
These things we could share
All the things rare
I am different not less
So do not mind all the mess
Yes, just bless
I love music - vocal and instrumental
Don't always be judgemental
You have to be kind
The world needs all types of mind
Do offer prayers for me in the shrine
I hear all
Just don't let me fall
I don't have words
So I don't get heard
Might sound absurd
I'm just like a bird.
Help me soar higher and higher.
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)
Tiny and big fish, immovable
Caught in a net large, by the sea,
Fishermen, trapped in the ocean
Full day on the boat, big wooden!
The innocent lamb, immovable
Spotted by the king of the jungle,
No more liberated wanderer
Within an hour, it’s grabbed!
Smart and super cute child
Told a white lie, to mother,
The mother wisely dappled
Her lying big, black eyes!
The nomad with no thought
Paced in the jungle, lush green
Perplexed with no clues,
Thus, trapped, he by paths!
A diplomatic rat trap seller
Spoke his mind to an unknown,
Trusting him, opened his book
But, lodged easily by the unknown!
A rude and greedy traveller
Met a man, in a large firm
The man sheltered him with love
The traveller stuck in his hand!
What is this beautiful world, dear?
You love liberty, but ever trapped,
Listen! The world is a big rat trap
Be aware! You’re always caught!
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
(Humsafar = Co-traveller)
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
After two days of incessant rains, the sky cleared on the July afternoon in Bhubaneswar. But the air was still damp and a light drizzle kept people indoors. With a heavy heart, which matched the melancholic weather, I entered my compartment in the Calcutta-bound Dhauli Express. The train was to leave in twenty minutes.
The wet weather must have discouraged people from travelling. The compartment was empty. I felt scared. Is it safe for a lady to travel alone all the way to Calcutta? I looked out. Rats were scampering on the adjoining track looking for bits of food. From nowhere a cat jumped in and caught hold of a rat and shred it to pieces. I shuddered. The macabre scene added to my depression.
A shadow fell on me. I looked up. A man walked in to occupy the opposite seat. With his back to me, he took out a couple of magazines and newspapers, and lifted his stroller to put it on the overhead rack. Then he turned and sat down. A tall man of middle age, he must have been four, five years older than me. Decently dressed with nice glasses, and a soft, handsome face, the gentleman was a picture of quiet dignity. Without a glance at me, he took out a newspaper and his face disappeared behind it.
I felt relieved to find that he didn’t want to start a conversation. Feeling low by the burden of sadness, I was in no mood to talk. But I was happy that there was company and I wouldn’t have to travel all alone. Suddenly my mobile phone rang. It was my daughter.
“Mummy, Papa is asking if you have reached the station?”
“Yes Mamuni, I am already in the train. It will leave in five minutes. Please remind Papa, I am not like him. I always reach trains and buses in time.”
Mamuni must have spoken to Anang, my husband. I knew it will take time to convey his answer. He will have to write it on a piece of paper in his shaking hand.
“Mummy, Papa says you are always the best, No one can be like you”
“And what do you say? Will Papa say everything? Not a word from you?”
“Mummy, what can I say? You are my best Mummy, now and forever!”
I felt happy. Mamuni continued.
“Mummy, you know, Chinu cried yesterday, after returning from school”
My hart sank.
“Why, what happened?”
“Leave it, Mummy, I will tell you when you reach here”
“No no, please tell me now. Otherwise I will keep worrying”
“One of his friends told him that Papa’s illness is hereditary. So he will also become paralytic when he grows up”
For a moment I was speechless. Oh my God! Who is this insensitive friend? How can he say something like this?
“Don’t worry Mummy. I told him his friend was wrong. Papa also drew pictures on a piece of paper and explained to him how he had a stroke because of high blood pressure.”
“Please Mamuni, tell him not to believe the words of such worthless friends. Give the phone to him. I will explain to him”
I could hear her talking to Chinu.
“Mummy, he doesn’t want to talk to you now, he is busy drawing pictures. He is asking what have you got for him?”
“Tell him I am bringing a beautiful painting box for him. And what about you? Don’t you want to know what I am getting for you?”
“I don’t want anything. I only want my Mummy near me, always. Please come early. I have already missed school for two days. Of course I got the school notes from Madhu and finished the home work. But I am lagging behind. From tomorrow I will go to school”
A brief pause.
“Mummy, you know, I had prepared noodles last night. Papa liked it. Chinu relished it so much that he polished off everything!”
“Thank you Mamuni. You are the best daughter in the world!”
She felt embarrassed by the praise.
“Mummy, no one can cook better than you. In two days we are missing you and your cooking as if you have been away for ages! Please come soon. Ok Mummy, love you, bye!”
“Love you too.”
My depression grew. How can Chinu’s friend be so heartless? And the friend doesn’t even know the full facts! I felt as if someone is hammering a nail into my heart and I am becoming totally helpless. I can never see tears in my children’s eyes. I have become even more sensitive after Anang’s illness. Both the kids have adjusted so well with the adverse situation. Now there is no vacation, outing, eating out at restaurants or new dresses for them, but they don’t complain. Earlier, Chinu, the eight year old son was a bit naughty and unreasonable, but he has become very understanding of late. Mamuni, my twelve year old daughter, is incredibly sweet and loving. Anang says her nature is exactly like that of mine!
Anang has always so much praise for me! After suffering a paralytic stroke he is confined to bed for the past two years. His job in a private company was terminated within six months of his illness. We survive solely on my salary from my teachership in a private school. Mamuni shares the burden of household work, Chinu sometimes helps in cleaning. It is no more like the old days for them, they have no friends and no games, yet they never complain.
Tears welled up in my eyes. Before Anang became immobile, he was very active and believed in good living. He enjoyed our eating out, watching movies every week, roaming around in the mall, buying things recklessly, wandering around in the park – life was on a roll. And one day our blissful world crashed like a palace of glass. I always told Anang to be careful, not to be crazy for oily and spicy food, but he never listened to me.
These days Anang looks at me regretfully, and tears fill up his eyes. His left side is paralysed, and the movement is slow on the right side. He is not able to speak, only I can understand his grunts and whimpers. Sometimes he holds my hand with his trembling right hand and tells me through his imploring eyes, “Pray for me. Ask God to give me just one more chance. I will never stray again from a simple, healthy life.”
I pat his head, “Don’t worry. All of us are praying for you. God will listen to our prayers. You will be alright. We will go on vacation again - may be on a pilgrimage, to Badrinath and Kedarnath, and bow our head before the Gods and Goddesses.”
The phone rang. It was Mamuni again.
“Mummy, Papa is asking if you have wrapped yourself with a shawl. You had told him it is raining and he is worried you might catch cold”
“Mamuni, tell him I am ok. Can you give the phone to him?”
Mamuni must have put the phone next to his ears. I heard a grunt. I knew what he was asking. I had not spoken to him since last evening.
“No, Bhai did not agree”
Another faint grunt.
“He is not in favour of dividing the land now. He says he has his constraints. I folded my hands and implored him. I told him we need at least fifty thousand rupees for your surgery. But he was unmoved”
Anang’s grunt bore a clear mark of anguish. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his elder brother also told me, “Bahu, why do you want to waste money on him? His problem is beyond cure. Just leave him to his fate.”
Mamuni came on the line.
“Mummy, what did you tell Papa? Tears are coming out of his right eye. Please speak to him.”
Unknown to me, I started crying slowly. I tried to hide my face from my co-passenger, but could not succeed. I found he was discreetly looking at me from beyond the newspaper, his eyes curious and sad. I was embarrassed but helpless.
I wanted to reassure Anang, to give him some hope.
“Please don’t cry. We will find some way. Trust in God. It is only a matter of fifty thousand rupees. I will take a loan from the bank. Dr. Sen has assured us the surgery will be a success. Once you become all right, you will take up a job and we will pay back the loan. Please don’t lose hope. Now stop crying and take some rest. I have to stop now. We have just reached Cuttack station and there is too much noise. People are getting in. Wait for me. I will make your favorite rice pudding when I come home in the evening. Bye.”
Suddenly I found a lady trying to stash her baggage at every available space near us. Hers must be the seat next to the gentleman sitting opposite me. She had two suitcases, two huge fruit baskets, a big steel carrier stuffed with food and two big bags with a dozen packets of sweets from the Ganguram’s.
The lady must be my age, but quite fat. Every inch of her body, the swarthy face, the huge necklace, the earrings, the costly saree and her general bearing bore the unmistakable sign of opulence. Sweating heavily, she had stood up to switch on the fan. The gentleman opposite me wanted to dissuade her and raised his hand, but stopped midway. Because the lady had blurted out at me, like a loud cracker bursting,
“Anjali! You are Anjali Acharya, right?”
I was struck by her massive presence, and by the avalanche of loud noise she had made. I nodded.
“Anjali! Don’t you remember me? I am Bina! Your classmate! Remember, that idiot History lecturer used to call me ‘the Bina with the runaway mind!’ Because I was always absent minded in the class! How the class used to laugh every time he said it!”
I peered at her closely. Yes, she was Bina, my classmate in the college for the first two years of B.A. Those days also she was quite plump, but not as fat as now. She used to be a playful, garrulous girl, known for the heavy make-up on her face. She was the daughter of Sudhakar Mahanty, the stinkingly-rich hardware dealer of Cuttack.
She was one of the three girls in our class who used to come to college in their cars. Those three had their schooling in the English medium convent, and formed a gang of their own, something like the rich men’s daughters club. The rest of us were from lower middle-class families and were not very comfortable moving with them. We used to keep our distance from them.
“Hey, Anjali, where are you lost? Are you not able to place me? I can never forget you. If you had not lent your notes to me, I could have never cleared my exams. I was not interested in studies. I didn’t have to, you know. Only middle class girls like you needed to study hard, so that you can get a job. But thanks to your diligence, girls like me could pass in the exams. Gosh, how jealous I was of you, and how angry, when my daddy used to see your notes and tell me to be half as bright as you!”
After so many years I again felt uncomfortable in the company of Bina. Her comments on my middle class background unnerved me. I suddenly looked at the gentleman sitting opposite me. He was looking curiously at Bina’s excited face. Bina’s words were flowing like runaway water from a tap whose valve has come unstuck.
“Your group was so attentive in the class, trying to latch onto every word of the lecturers. Ragini, Himani and I used to giggle all the time, pinching each other, making fun of the strange English accent of those rustic lecturers. Those idiots were fit only for village primary schools. God knows who made them lecturers in college!”
We were aware of the contempt these three girls had for our lecturers. They were usually joined by a gang of upstarts among the boys who also had their schooling in the English medium Stewart school. These boys used to behave like bohemians and liberally sprinkled their talk with words like ‘yaar’, ‘shit’, ‘so what’, ‘bloody’, ‘bastard’. They used to be louder in our presence, just to impress us.
Bina was so carried away by her words that she didn’t sense my discomfort.
“What a coincidence Anjali, meeting you after so many years! You know, I never travel by train. But what to do? The national highway has breached near Chandikhol due to heavy rains and there is no way one can travel by car. So! Where are you these days? And where are you going? ”
“I live in Calcutta, with my family.”
“Calcutta, the metropolis? Wow, what a big jump for you! But you haven’t changed a bit. In the college days you used to put on ordinary dresses, now also you wear the same kind of cheap sarees! And why are you looking so weak, almost anemic? Don’t you eat properly?”
“No, no, it’s not like that. Nothing is wrong with me. May be my constitution is like that.”
“Possible. In fact if you don’t have proper nutrition in childhood you can never pick up later. I remember in your group almost every one was like this - weak, painfully thin.”
I felt distinctly restless. Bina and I were meeting after almost twenty years. But Bina was not leaving any chance to remind me of my middle class background. My father was a teacher in a village school on the outskirts of Cuttack. Most of his income was spent on the medical expenses of my ailing mother. Both of them passed away five years back in quick succession, but Bina’s cruel words on my childhood brought back sad memories of my loving parents.
The gentleman opposite me was now constantly staring at my sad face and Bina’s garrulous mouth which was spewing unpleasant nuggets from the memory lane. His expression was grave, but tinged with a hint of sadness. When he saw me looking at him, he felt slightly embarrassed at this intrusion into our personal talk. His gaze returned to the magazine.
“So Anjali, what are you doing? Are you a big officer in Calcutta? After all, you were so good in studies!”
There was a hint of sarcasm in Bina’s words. I felt annoyed at this kind of questioning.
“I work as a Geography teacher in a private school near our home”
“Geography teacher? That’s interesting. And your husband? What does he do?”
“He was working in a private firm.”
“Was? What do you mean ‘was’? Is he jobless now?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
“Was he thrown out by the owner of the firm?”
I hesitated. Given Bina’s insensitivity, I was not sure how much I could disclose to her. This meeting with Bina was not exactly a pleasant experience for me. Bina had not changed – she remained the same snobbish, rich girl that she was twenty years back. Bina could sense my hesitation
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Sometimes, if an employee embezzles money, the owner throws him out of the job. We had an accountant like that. My husband Ranjit kicked him out. He threatened he will tell the whole world what wrong-doings are going on in the firm. Ranjit gave some money to a gang of ruffians. They beat him up so badly that the fellow became invalid and after three months vanished from the town. What happened? Why did you start? Has your husband also vanished?”
“No, no. Nothing like that, my husband is with us.”
“Then why did you start, like you have seen a ghost? What is the matter?”
I was in two minds, whether to tell the insensitive Bina about Anang’s problem.
She continued.
“You middle class people have this perennial problem. You give long lectures on honesty and integrity, but when it comes to your own failings, you want to hide from the world.”
Bina’s words hurt me badly.
“No Bina, my husband doesn’t lack integrity. Actually, two years back he had a paralytic stroke and has become partially invalid.”
“Oh my God, oh my God! I am so sorry! Anjali, how unlucky you are. God has never been kind to you. Right since childhood you have led a poor life. I feel really sad for you. So if your husband is jobless, how do you manage? Your salary may not be enough to run the family?”
“It’s ok. We somehow manage.”
“How many children do you have? Where do they study? Hope you have put them in some good English medium school. Or, are they studying in some third rate Bengali medium school?”
“We have a daughter and a son, daughter is the elder one. They study in Central School, near our place.”
Bina wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Central School? I am told that is where the children of poor government servants, like clerks, drivers and peons study! What kind of culture will they learn there?”
I wanted to tell Bina, that Central Schools are meant for the children of all government officials, including high-ranking officers. And there is a quota for brilliant students from the private sector also. And our children are studying under that quota. But before I could speak again, the train reached Bhadrak station. The hawkers entered the compartment, selling tea, biscuits and peanuts. Bina bought two cups of tea and handed over one to me.
“Take a cup of tea. At least some milk should go into your system. You are looking really anemic. Look at me. If you poke my cheek with your finger, blood will spill out. Ranjit has engaged two maidservants only to give massage to me twice a day. Do you remember, just after I passed my second year B.A., how my father gave me away in marriage to the Shah family of Balasore, the famous owners of Shah Transport? They have a fleet of buses and trucks and half a dozen petrol bunks. See my good fortune, I was raised like a princess and now I live like a queen. That’s why when you girls were studying hard to get a job and a middle-class husband, we were waiting in anticipation for a prince to come and sweep us off our feet. Everything is pre-destined Anjali. Otherwise, what sins have you committed? Why should you suffer so much, that too right from your childhood?”
I cursed my fate. Why did I get this particular seat in this compartment? If I had
got it elsewhere, I would have been spared the unpleasantness of this unfortunate meeting with Bina.
Bina was not done yet.
“So, how old is your daughter? What have you named her?”
“She is twelve years old. We call her Mamuni. Her school name is Pratyasha.”
“Pratyasha? What does it mean? You know, I had my schooling in the St. Joseph’s Convent at Cuttack. So I don’t know much of Oriya. We have only one child, a daughter. Her name is Daisy. We had put her in a boarding school in Ooty. But she went out of control there. With five classmates, three of them boys, she went away to Goa without permission from the school. The principal rusticated all of them. We brought her to Balasore and married her off to a boy in the Tej family of Rairangpur. We had to give ten million rupees in cash, a Honda City car and one thousand grams of gold as dowry. We had no choice. You know how it is these days, if you don’t give enough dowry. Sometimes they set fire to the poor girl!”
The gentleman opposite to me suddenly exploded angrily.
“Madam, will you please stop talking? You have been talking non-stop ever since you entered the compartment. I have got a headache. Now please be quiet and allow me to take a nap.”
Bina got the shock of her life at this unexpected attack. Her mouth fell open and for a full minute she remained frozen in her seat. But she chose not to pick up a fight, because her destination, Balasore station, was only ten minutes away. Her eyes spewed fire and she kept on looking at the gentleman, as if like the sages of ancient Indian epics, with her gaze she will reduce him to ashes. He had closed his eyes and was trying to take a nap.
I was also surprised. How could this sober, quiet, dignified gentleman become so explosively angry? Looking at him, no body could imagine him to be capable of such anger. But I was relieved, to be spared of Bina’s continuous harangue, and thanked the gentleman in my mind.
Balasore station was approaching. I helped Bina to gather her suitcases, the fruit baskets and the bags containing the packets of sweets. Bina shook hands with me.
“Next time when we come to Calcutta I will let you know. Ranjit always prefers to stay at the Park Hotel. Anything less won’t do for him. You must bring your kids. I want to see them. They will also get a chance to have Chinese and Continental food in a five-star hotel. With your small income, you will never be able to afford it. Ok, here we are at Balasore station. My two servants are already at the platform. See you at Calcutta.”
With that Bina dragged her fat body and gradually disappeared from my gaze and perhaps from my life. I realized she has no intention of meeting us at Calcutta. Otherwise she could have at least taken down my telephone number!
After Bina left, I was filled with a terrible sadness. I also felt angry at my cruel fate. Within the four walls of my life, I had learnt to live with my own joys and sorrow, fulfillment and anguish. Despite the difficulties, Mamuni’s selfless goodness, Chinu’s demanding affection, and Anang’s unstinted trust had given a new meaning to my life. In my small world I had learnt to face the harsh struggles in my own way. What right did Bina have to come and inflict such deep wounds and shatter my world of peace?
The failure of my mission yesterday to get money from Anang’s brother, and Bina’s merciless battering today, left me desolate. I lost control over my emotions. I knew my lean, weather-beaten body of a thousand storms was going to melt into a nerve-wracking ocean of tears. To avoid embarrassment to my co-passenger, I covered my face and body with a sheet and in no time, tears flowed from my eyes like a flood breaking a dam.
I don’t know how long I must have cried and when my tired eyes had drifted off to sleep. When I got up, Calcutta station was only fifteen minutes away. I realized I could not go to my small apartment with a face looking like a flood-ravaged ravine. I desperately needed to go to the bathroom and wash my face. But the station was approaching and it wasn’t safe to leave my bag unattended. I looked at my co-passenger.
“Please keep an eye on my bag. I need to go to the bathroom.”
The gentleman gave a shocked start, looking at my pale face and the dried up tears. He nodded his head.
When I returned from the bathroom, the train had reached Calcutta station.
The gentleman was standing at the edge of the seat, his stroller in hand, ready to leave.
When I came near, he pointed at my bag and said, “Your bag”. I thanked him and he left.
I too got ready to leave and gathered my shoulder bag. Suddenly, I felt the chain of the bag was slightly open. I felt a little shock. Who opened my bag? I clearly remember I had closed the bag! Is anything missing?
With trembling hands I opened the bag. A thick white envelope tumbled out from top of the bag. What is this? I had not kept it in the bag! How did it come here? I hurriedly opened it. Inside, there was a thick bundle of currency notes and a hurriedly written letter.
Dear Anjali,
Every year, the last week of July is a period of intense burning for me. I feel as if a raging pyre is trying to consume me by entering every pore of my body. Twenty four years back, on twenty sixth of July, my young, vivacious, beautiful sister met her end, set on fire by her in-laws for not bringing enough dowry. Night after night I wake up, suffocating on the thought of how her delicate body would have cried in anguish; how, in her dying moments, she would have silently called my parents and me to come and take her away, pour cold water on her and douse the fire that was trying to consume her.
I was in my final year of Engineering when she left us. If, like today, I were a Manager of a Tea Estate in Assam at that time, I would have put all the riches of the world in her little palms and saved her soft, innocent body from a senseless pyre.
Every year in the last week of July I go to my village, sit under the banyan tree at the burial ground and search for her lost soul. If only I could bring her back, to hear her giggle again, to get my ears pulled by her soft hands, or to be teased by her thousand childish pranks! The solitude at the burial ground only makes me more frustrated and desolate! And I return with a heavy heart.
Please forgive me for shouting at your insensitive classmate. When she spoke of girls being burnt for dowry, I could not restrain myself. Looking at her, I kept on wondering why God has not cared to fit a small heart into that huge body! Then she wouldn’t have been able to hurt you with her cruel words.
Anjali, please think of me as your elder brother and accept this small gift of fifty thousand rupees for the surgery of your husband. I pray to God, in the name of my dead sister’s soul, that your husband becomes all right, and happiness and bliss return to your family.
Your unknown brother
Tears started flowing from my eyes, tears for my unknown brother and his cute little sister. I rushed out of the compartment and tried to locate him. It was no use, he had left a long while back. But under the dim, twinkling light of Calcutta station, every retreating figure looked like my unknown elder brother, a messenger of love, compassion and kindness.
I looked up at the heaven, at the infinitely merciful Supreme Power who is beyond all joys and all sorrows, unlimited by the boundaries of life, death, bliss and anguish, whose glowing touch brightens the darkest corners of every living soul and fills it with fathomless serenity. Overwhelmed, I lifted my bag and started my journey home. Tomorrow there will be a new dawn – promising a day of fresh hopes and dreams.
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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