Literary Vibes - Edition LXII ( 03-April-2020)
Dear Readers,
I have great pleasure in offering you some beautiful poems and delectable stories in the sixty second edition of LiteraryVibes. Hope they will help you to overcome the challenge of tedium and inertia during the days of lockdown.
We have three new writers joining the LV family starting with this edition. Ms.Padmini Janardhanan from Chennai is a senior poet and writer whose writings reflect maturity and wisdom. Ms. Sumita Datta Shoam also from Chennai, is a very accomplished, well-published poet, novelist and publisher . She is a great addition to LV and we do hope that her writings will lend a lustre to our pages in the future editions. Dr. Rupali Mishra from Cuttack, Odisha, combines her professional skill as a doctor with the natural talent of an artist, a poet and a writer. Most important, as a Post Graduate scholar at the SCB Medical College she is currently a part of a team of doctors taking care of those affected by Corona. We wish her the best in her professional duties and hope to host lots of her writings in LV in the coming days.
I am sure, like me everyone is counting days for the lockdown to be over. Although boring to be confined at home, the self imposed isolation has taught us a few lessons. The best positive outcome of the absence of vehicles on the road and smoke from factories is the purity in air that we breathe these days. There is a lightness in air which is so refreshing and energising. Without fast food or restaurant fare the body is undoubtedly getting cleansed. And as far as I can see, the incidence of small ailments has drastically gone down, no attack of Flu, no stomach upsets and no cuts, bruises, injuries to the body since everyone is at home. On the flip side the devastating impact of the lockdown on Corona is indeed frightening. Let us hope we, as a nation, will eventually come out of the massive mess relatively unscathed.
I do hope you will enjoy this sixty second edition of LiteraryVibes. Please share the link http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/292 with all your friends and contacts, reminding them that all the previous sixty one editions of LV, including three anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
With warm regards and wishing you a safe and healthy time,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
- STARSCRIPT Geetha Nair G
- A NEW BEGINNING Haraprasad Das
- MULK Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- CORONA (KARONA) Kamalakanta Panda
- SNOW COUNTRY Bibhu Padhi
- LORD OF THE JUNGLE Krupasagar Sahoo
- SAYING CHEESE Dilip Mohapatra
- SOMETHING UNDER.. Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
- COVID-NINETEEN Pravat Kumar Padhy
- MY POSITION Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
- THE CALL FROM WITH Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- IN THESE EPOCHAL… Lathaprem Sakhya
- GENERATION NEXT S. Sundar Rajan
- BLYTHE'S REED.. Sumita Dutta Shoam
- MARCHING ON... Padmini Janardhanan
- MIDNIGHT OIL Dr Rupali Mishra
- THE PYRE OF PRE.. Sumitra Mishra
- BLOOMS Sheena Rath
- BIRD Hema Ravi
- A THING OF BEAUTY Setaluri Padmavathi
- PERCEPTION Anjali Mohapatra
- PARENTING IS NOT . Subha Bharadwaj
- HYENA Mrutyunjay Sarangi
( For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
Fear death? Why must I,
When, to gaze at the sky
Is to see that brilliance there
To read the stars on fire-
Four new stars
Born of four new days
Set in a diving line
Vertical;
Four brilliant scorpions
Stings in their tails
Blazing on high
My very own tales.
A brand new constellation.
Fear death? Why should I?
When, so long as they shine in the sky
So will I .
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
A NEW BEGINNING (AYAMAARAMBHA)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Hurdles like hooded serpents
shouldn’t deter you;
don’t yell at your shadow,
“Don’t follow me, you stupid”;
the crimson east of the daybreak
doesn’t predict bloody evenings.
Do not pick up a fruit
that looks red
like a woman’s luscious lips,
it could be a trap;
so could be the succulent fruit
dropped from a crow beak.
Don’t pull yourself
to safety from a pit
clutching at enemy’s rope,
a noose worse than the pit.
Now that your efforts
are blossoming;
the hour is redolent
with the smell of success;
you may hear distracting noises -
a drum pounding inside the chest,
breath gasping
like a mad flautist’s off beat notes,
an inner voice calling you back
to the past’s complacent rut,
the claps of applause sounding
like the squall before a storm….
But, your hurdles overcome,
a new dawn awaits you
with open arms.
Launch a new beginning.
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)”
Agarwal brothers were identical twins, almost look alikes, in their late thirties; and they were travelling by Kanyakumari-Bombay express in their three-tier sleeper compartment with reserved berths. They belonged to the Parel area of Bombay and had been visiting their relatives in Kanyakumari for the occasion of a marriage. When they had come to their berths, they found a young dark lanky boy of around twenty sitting on the window seat of the lower berth that had been allotted to the older brother (older though by a few minutes only) Jagdish Agarwal. The middle berth above had been allotted to the younger one Jignesh. The boy at the window looked at them with melting eyes that immediately trapped the two Marwari twins in a strong bond of brotherly affection. They almost fell over each other to ask him, “Which is your berth boy, where are you going, what is your name, are you from Kanyakumari?”
From what the boy gestured with complicated signals and a few grunts, the brothers knew that he was unable to speak. He then took out a new spiral-bound little notepad from the inside of his inner pocket sewed behind his lapel area of the grey safari suit he was wearing and a pen that would henceforth work as his mouth and tongue to articulate his thoughts.
He wrote on the notepad in clear long hand, “Sir, my name is Mulk. Because my father is an ardent fan of the writer Mulk Raj Anand, and loves his novels in English, he has named me after his favourite author. I can’t speak, but I can hear, am mute but not deaf. I have landed an inspector’s job in the Central Excise department of Government of India in handicapped quota, and my last date of joining at Bombay Central office is tomorrow. My job being in handicapped quota, a reserved category, if I miss to join there tomorrow, they have stated in the call letter that the job would go to the next claimant in the shortlist who has been called also. I can’t afford to miss the date. But I couldn’t reserve a berth at such short notice, so I would request the TC on the way to adjust me; I have boarded with my ordinary ticket. After reaching Bombay I am also to arrange a place to stay, as I know none in the big city. I come from Kerala’s Palghar, and sir, my mother tongue is Malayalam.”
The Marwari brothers read the vivid note together and exchanged loaded glances, loaded with unbounded love for the boy (he was almost a young man but his soft looks misled the brothers), who knew none in the big city of Bombay except them possibly, and also the glances were equally loaded with a thought that each of them appeared to be thinking simultaneously, “Bhai, are you thinking of the golden goose that may lay golden eggs in days to come?”
Now the brothers who often could read each other’s mind, were thinking of a more profitable period for their pickle and jam factory. They were daydreaming of smuggling out their products to market without paying the central excise duty, and keeping the loot for themselves with help of Mulk, their mute mole inside the Central Excise department who was to join there the next day.
So, the brothers fell, one over the other, to express their love and concern for Mulk, almost usurping his space, time, responsibility, well being, and his future, making the energetic young man surprised but happy. The other co-passengers, of course, were a bit curious about this sudden spurt of affection within a few minutes of acquaintance, but thought, “Our world has accommodated seven wonders, why can’t the eighth be on its way?”
By bribing the Ticket Checker (TC), the twins booked a berth for Mulk but got it in the adjacent bogie. Giving the plea of his handicapped condition, they won over the occupant of uppermost berth on their side to exchange his berth with Mulk’s, and go away happily to the neighbouring compartment. Now, Mulk would sleep above them on the top berth like the third brother of their family.
More talks and notes were exchanged between the twins and Mulk. The twins came to know that Mulk was a suddha vegetarian from an Aiyar family at Palghar, Kerala. They were rich land-owner brahmins. They had a pet elephant. The film actress Padmini (she would be, of course, a heart throb of India in a few years from that date, after her role of a femme fatale in thespian Raj Kapoor’s blockbuster Mera Naam Joker of 1970) was a family friend and treated Mulk like a didi (older sister). She would tie a rakhi on Mulk’s wrist every Raksha Vandhan day or would mail it across if she was shooting outside the state.
Mulk would learn that the brothers had a small bungalow in Parel area of Bombay. It was not far from either Prabha Devi where Bombay’s presiding lord Siddhi Vinayak had his temple, or from Bombay Central area where he would join in his job as a Central Excise Inspector. It was also not far from Haji Ali Dargha, a tourist attraction for all, but a pilgrimage to Muslims. The Gir Gaon Chawpatty, an expanse of beach of white loose sand on shallow salinity of the Malabar bay, overlooking the posh Malabar Hills, was not very far from the bungalow. The beach was a playground of Bombay residents along with its serene attractive bay wearing the Queen’s Necklace, the garland of lights that kept winking in her insomniac nights.
The Gir Gaon Chawpatty beach was also the joy-park for the young Bombay, men and women, girls and boys, sitting lip to lip, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and hand in hand, seeking relief from their suffocating chawls or from one BHK affairs where any numbers from five to fifteen of normal Bombay population might live like tinned sardines, and where privacy was an alien word. Though the beach and its extensions towards hotel Horizon were not so private to the married couples and unmarried lovers, but in course of habit they could assume their impervious space for their mutual feelings, but were privy to oglers walking, sitting, standing to follow with vicarious excitement each of their intimate movements visible and invisible.
Beside the topography around and near abouts of the Agarwal Bungalow at Parel, Mulk would learn other important information about the brothers. They lived in the ground-floor, a spacious apartment with their young wives, maintained a colour-code for their attire for distinguishing one from the identical other, especially for the wives who were liable to commit sacrilegious mistakes. Jagdish wore yellow and red or their mixes and pastels, whereas Jignesh went for blue and green or their sheds. They had a car, a small spice-cum-pickle-and jam factory in MIDC of Chakala area in Andheri located in the middle of the city.
The factory was not earning much profit because of government’s high taxes. The bungalow had a twenty by twenty feet paved garden of potted flower plants in the front, and garage space behind; the garden was considered a prize possession and relief to eyes in a materialistic city like Bombay. A gardener came every day to tend the garden. The brothers spent most of their woken-time at the factory and the two young wives managed the house with two young helping hands brought from Jaipur, their native town, their names Ramu and Shamu, who lived in a room on the backside of the house. Mulk could stay with them in an extra room they had adjacent to their bedrooms, and could partake their frugal suddha vegetarian Marwari fare with them. Mulk had no objection to this lavish shower of love. He kind of drowned in happiness in that syrupy, viscous affection, both lodging and boarding problems solved and settled.
What overwhelmed him the most was that the bothers had a pretty tenant who lived upstairs on rent with her mother and retinue of servants, occupying the entire upper floor. She was a wannabe big actress of the Bombay’s filmland and its silver screen and was on her way to go places. She was courted by various aspiring young men from film fraternity, but not yet going steady with anyone. Often small crowds gathered in front of the Agarwal bungalow just to have a glimpse of the fair lady. Jignesh had a hearty laugh while describing one incident. The fan who had claimed to have seen a slice of the side profile of the diva for a fleeting moment, was carried away by his friends demanding a party from him for his great luck. The news of this fairy queen crystalized Mulk’s determination to accept the Agarwal brothers’ invitation to stay with them.
Days passed. Mulk joined his job and stayed at the bungalow, accepting the shower of affection and hospitality of the brothers and their wives.While settling down in his comfortable room in the Agarwal house, he found time to befriend and mildly flirt with the two young wives who mostly had been passing lonely time not only on week days but also on Sundays as their husbands were too busy in running their pickle-jam factory, expanding its capacity, finding new ways to cheat taxes (misusing indirect help from Mulk who had developed familiarity with the inspector looking into their tax books and gate-passes), and satisfying senior bosses of various departments that looked into different supplies of essential things to run the factory, like validity of license, electricity, water, vigilance angle, resolving pending cases, theft from the factory premises and its policing etc. They had little time for wives. It was no surprise that the two couples had no kids, where was the time for that! Resident-servants were like excuses and emergency temporary arrangements for the wives’ assistance and diversions. Mulk would notice both the servants sort of vied with each other for favours of the young ladies and that would often throw a spanner into the works of the two women of the house creating a lot of heartburn between them.
But these days, Agarwal household looked more contented and peaceful as Mulk would return home at seven in the evening and kept both sisters-in-law occupied (he unwittingly had occupied that vacant post for the third brother in the family, so gaining the social sanction of the local culture of lightly flirting with the wives of brothers and keeping them in splits). He kept them riveted to games like playing cards, ludo, or snake-and-ladder. He also made them talk their hearts out, when he wrote his continual notes as rejoinders to their statements. The exchanges, especially from Mulk’s end were more like net-chats, more open, free, bold, and less tongue-tied than spoken words. After reading certain notes the young ladies would turn into blushing tomatoes and felt too shy to have eye-contact between them, or with Mulk. Their behavior for some mysterious reasons became less shy as days passed, but grew rather coy in Mulk’s presence.
On Sundays, when the tired brothers carried on their factory visit like regular days, or wanted to rest their tired bones, they would push Mulk to take his sisters-in-law to movies. The ladies took to movies as a fish would take to water, the dark movie theatres were their haven of joy, the lanky young brother-in-law, Mulk, sitting between them in most secluded corners of the dark theatres.
The servants, whose prying eyes did not skip any of the exchanges of nuances between the threesome, suspected a rat while cooling their heels helplessly watching a mean fly from Kerala spoiling their glorious Marwari ointment. When in frustration they would be cooking their own goose, while boiling a dish of vegetables, or ladling a pot of lentil soup, they burnt fuses after fuses listening to the giggles emanating from Mulk’s room where both the young women would be camping after their Sunday breakfast, their husbands returning to beds to gather some strength after the week’s running around.
The servants were out of their wits how a mute could elicit those happy titters from the young women. They didn’t know that Mulk felt rather free to write risqué-ridden notes, that would be generally difficult to mouth, now crossing the threshold of mild flirting to enter the domain of hard hinting sexual undertones. That vastly entertained the women, resulting in naughty titters. Being from conservative Marwari stock they felt guilty, the guilt soon got reduced to zero level by sharing each double entendre with the other, sort of partaking the forbidden fruit in an open manner on a dining table before all eyes. An open secret need not be considered a secret and so, even the doubt associated would be a big no-no.
The servant, who were rather inimical to each other, however felt like rising in revolt together. These days, by joining their jealousies against the common enemy Mulk, the mute alien usurper on their feminine Marwari affection that rightfully belonged to them, they brewed various conspiracy plans to catch Mulk with his pants down. They decided to do video recording of incriminating events and to bring them to the husbands’ notices but their plans failed.
They being illiterate boys from Jaipur’s downtown slums, could never decipher Mulk’s notes to their fair princesses even if the pages were lying on the table when Mulk was in privacy, attending to nature’s calls. They had noticed that though Mulk looked like a spring chicken and was mute, but the brothers respected him like a sahib. In spite of Mulk’s objections, they nowadays were addressing him as ‘Mulk sir’. “Ah, sir, my foot” the servants would exclaim together. That further warned them to play carefully with the fire called Mulk. They kept burning and turning into cinders in their personal hell helplessly.
The jealous servants noticed another adventure the mute was undertaking. After Mulk returning from the parlours of the two young ladies around ten in the night, they would often find him climbing the outside private staircase to the film actress’ floor and standing in the shadowed area in front of the entrance to the upper-floor apartment for long minutes like an unmoved ghost. He seemed almost a part of the silent night. They knew the pretty actress would be there behind the door, as she would leave for shooting at around eleven when a big chauffeur-driven car would come for her. Her name was Babita, and she was famously rumoured to be the hottest stuff of some of the coming blockbusters.
One day their impatience overpowered their restraint. They, around three in the afternoon, took surreptitious entry into a room where both the young women were lying like semi nude figurines of Khajuraho. The servants were confident of their moves from earlier hobnobbing experiences with the women. On earlier occasions, either the ladies slept too deep to know what was going on, or were perfect actresses to feign deep sleep, not even betraying a sigh or grunt to the servants’ activities. But it was different that day. They became wide awake the moment the servants moved to them and switched on the lights, making the curtained semi-dark room blaze with bright light. The surprised servants returned after begging profuse apology for their slips. But the matter didn’t end there.
When the husbands returned home and finished dinner that night, the wives whispered in their ears about the misbehavior of the servants that afternoon. The next morning the servants were dismissed with one month’s salary, and the Agarwal mother at Jaipur was asked to parcel replacements, two young girls this time, to remove bothersome male servants out of their wives’ hair. The dismissed servants moved around the area like ghosts. Though they were looking for jobs, they had not yet lost the hope to return to their cushy jobs in Jagdish and Jignesh Agarwal’s household with the special perks.
Around a fortnight later the two dismissed servants were in a tea-stall sharing an insipid glass of tea when they saw an out of the world scene. Mulk, the mute, was talking at a pan-shop on the back of the tea stall. They were overwhelmed with joy like Sherlock Homes solving a knotty riddle of murder. Keeping themselves well hidden, they went closer and found the mute central excise inspector serving in a handicapped quota, very eloquent, rather absolutely capable of talking, though they could not make head or tail of the conversation. Mulk was rapidly speaking some sort of language from south with the pan-shop owner. One of them made a video recording of Mulk in action as evidence of his cheating the bungalow residents and his govt. department, as a mute, and both left as if having won gold in Olympics.
The marooned sailors had found land. They ran to Agarwal house to tell the women that they had been outright cheated. It was four in the afternoon, and the ladies were sipping tea prepared by the two girl servants. But the ladies shrugged off the great breaking news after hearing their revelations. The younger one asked, “What was he talking?” The helpless servants replied in unison, “We couldn’t understand a word.” To that the older of the two wives rebuked, “Fools, haven’t you seen the mutes uttering gibberish all the while that is no speech. They can’t talk, so, they make sounds. Anyway, how does that concern you two?” Then, all the four women simultaneously giggled them out of the house. But the two servants still had faith in their discovery. Mulk was not uttering incoherently but rather having a dialogue with the pan-shop owner. A doubt bothered them – did the ladies know some secret that they didn’t? Otherwise, when they proposed to play the video for them, why were they simply asked to get out of the house? So, they left in frustration and decided to return at eleven in the night when the brothers would be around, back from the factory.
At eleven when the servants returned to Agarwal Bungalow, another out of the world scene was unfolding at the mansion. There was a big crowd, a lot of light, camera with flashbulbs, white-clad waiters with food and drink trays going around for all and sundry to have a bite or a sip, a band was playing exhorting joyous numbers from hit movies, some film stars were there, of whom a few younger ones were shaking a leg with public; the whole jamboree looked like a movie set of a big celebration.
The servants learnt from bystanders that Babita was getting married that night, and she was expected to come down the stairs in her bridal dress any time to go to the church for her wedding. At that time two things happened simultaneously, Babita appeared at the top step of the staircase surrounded by her friends. She was looking pretty as a fairy in her dazzling white wedding gown flowing down to the floor around her. Like a discordant note in the whole celebration, a howling Mulk appeared at the bottom step of the same staircase. Mulk was bawling like a big brat, stamping his feet on the ground and howling incoherently. From his teary shouts “Don’t marry that bastard, my Babita” was the only decipherable words followed by some south-Indian gibberish that astounded the servants. The guests were holding Mulk back from running up the stairs. Some bodyguards, big and clad in black, took over and throwing Mulk down on the ground, kicked him black and blue.
This sight was very pleasing to the servants, and they enjoyed the eloquent mute’s mauling as a bonus dish. Finally, Agarwal brothers intervened and Mulk was taken away to his room, left in charge of the women of the house who tried to console him, “If Babita got married, so what, we are there for you, baby. Are we less than her? What has she got that we don’t?” When the women were trying to act Babitaish to the distraught Mulk, the brothers were wishing well to Babita in front of the bungalow, and letting the marriage party leave their house in peace and pomp. The two servants now moved in and crouched by the dinner table, waiting to tell their bosses the great secret they had found out.
When the brothers returned to a cold wifeless dinner, they found the two servants in a conspiratorial whisper, eager to say something. They asked them to wait, leisurely ate their dinner, and then the elder brother Jagdish came to the point? He rasped in a whisper, “You two rascals want to show us a video recording of Mulk talking. You two fools, what you know today, we know from the day Mulk came here. We know Mulk knows we know. Our wives know. But you two half-wits didn’t know and didn’t know that we know. Now you know we know and all know. His full name is Mulk Hyder Abdulla. So, what? He is a good man and lion-hearted, not a rat like you. Now, get out.”
The two servants ran out like they had bees in their bonnets. Older Jagdish looked at his brother, “How was my English, Bhai?” “Very Badhia, Bhai” replied the younger Jignesh.
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
Translation: Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Exiled into a siege at home
crouch alert our sobs
that dare not heave out,
the cry is swallowed back
from throat;
the bogeyman stands
before closed gates, roams empty streets,
with his can of worms; and a creel
in in hand. It waits like
a thieving cat for the dead fish.
Last night, I talked to a friend
in another city over phone,
a poet, who tried to douse
my pandemic scare,
with his life’s smiles and tears,
to drive away my desolation
that had trapped me like a cow
tied to its rope, the obsessive fear -
if a tomorrow would dawn
to picking up the loose ends?
Across the open windows
float away sweet memories
of childhood,
puffs of cotton clouds.
Why do reveries rather
haunt me with pain and anxiety
in my solitary confinement,
of a widower
in his lonesome labyrinth?
The fear is a cruel hunter.
Would we ever forgive,
receive this predator-time
like a beloved guest
at our doorsteps;
the time that has locked us
behind doors
in mortal fear;
has built barriers
among loved ones, blinding us
with bare bright days?
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 Minu
Bibhu Padhi
1.
I imagine.
Voices remain aloof, lost to me.
My old gods peer through the snow
like bits of memory.
Where have all the years gone?
No voice can answer.
All that belonged to me once,
has quietly become snow:
beliefs of other times, deceptions,
meetings that wait under
the vast fields to be born.
Between long, weary stretches
of silence and cold feet,
I’m greeted by snow gods,
frosted like their
almost invisible citizens.
Each step forward is a surrender
of faith, a step further towards
a vast foreign presence.
I lie down on the snow--
solid, forgetful.
2.
Conditions are defined by
the lingering snow, on faces
that perpetuate a kind a peace.
Everything seems innocent
and simple, once more.
This peace, declared on my face,
becomes the truth of the landscape,
reverberates in the distances.
Other griefs are not known
or are made to disappear:
in the retreating sun, everything
is forgotten, except the snow.
I shed off the day. Blocks
of darkness start their games
as would some dark animals.
I gather my dissipated soul
into a fearless body of faith:
I touch my own presence.
A certain numbness is achieved
on the surface of what is
believed to be a living thing.
Nothing is remembered now—
not even the snow.
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
Even the Royal Bengal Tiger shivers when it comes face to face with him. The elephant changes its direction if it encounters him. The very sight of this animal freezes the rest of the animals and birds in the jungle. The bird cries stop abruptly if he is nearby. In the forest, no one challenges his rule. All accept his sovereignty. All obey his rules for the jungle.
He is the python of the dense forest, the lord of the jungle, the destiny of all animals in the Satkoshia forest.
For the human forest-dwellers, he is the god to be worshipped with veneration. His image carved in stone is kept at the entrance arch of the tribal village. They worship him at many spots in the jungle to protect them from calamities. On Nagapanchami day a large fair is organized in his honour to please him. The python gets very happy with these elaborate arrangements. Devotees come from far and pour pure milk on the stone image and offer him flowers. The fragrance of the joss sticks and burning diyas permeates the entire forest.
When the python begins his journey, the blossoming trees sprinkle flowers on his path. The tall massive trees wave their leaves to fan him. The jungle fowl pilot his movement screaming. "Hoshiar, Hoshiar!" The whole forest reverberates with cheers for the snake.
"Long live king python, the one who can crush to death even ferocious lions and tigers! Long live the serpent, the Vasuki snake, the emperor of Satkoshia, the king of all snakes!"
The python gets mighty pleased hearing such eulogies about him. His muscles swell with delight. And his neck swells with joy. He moves with a royal gait, and enormous self-pride.
The hilltop where the tired clouds come to rest, the crest that the sun touches with its rays in the morning, the hill where the rising moon spreads its beams, and the birds flit through the jungle searching and gathering food, happens to be the abode of this king of the forest, a densely-forested cave. He lives there with his queen, maids and a bunch of eunuchs for company. Even the sunshine or moonlight is not allowed entry here.
Hundreds of fireflies are assigned the job of illuminating the fortress. In that mysterious cave, there are many unknown ferns lacing the dark recesses of the walls like decorative foliage with bouquets. There, in a secluded cell, the python sleeps on a cool bed of moist moss. Listening to the tune of the tanpura played by the crickets he goes off to sleep at dusk. In the morning, he wakes up to the prayers of the kumbhatua birds.
Now the life of the same invincible python was in great danger. He was held captive inside the cell of a zoo. There were high walls around his cell. And above them was a wire-mesh enclosure. Inside the cell there was a trench filled with water. Everywhere there was the putrid smell of stale flesh. There the python, the king of the forest, was kept as a prisoner.
Too weak to move the python reminisced about his palace. Up above was the vastness of a blue sky illuminated softly by moonlight. And below a carpet of soft green meadows stretched far. The tall trees competed with one another to reach the sky. There the sal, piasal, arjuna, asana, peepul, banyan trees grew luxuriantly. And there too were the fruit trees like mango, kendu, and wood apple. The scented trees like neem and sandalwood spread their heady smell everywhere. The forest advocated giving liberally as the guiding principle of life. If the trees would not be to bestow their fruits, they could at least give shade to the tired souls. The creepers, adorned with colourful flowers added to the beauty of the forest. For Nature, everyone contributed something or other with warmth, like a gift.
That forest is a self-sufficient world. In it was the abode of the python.
He would wake up from his sleep lazily on the carpet of moss and would lie for long time enjoying the golden early morning sunshine. He would sit there curled up and hear the flute played by dahuka birds floating in from the forest. But he had become homeless that day. He was to be blamed for his own lack of foresight. It was a small mistake on his part. But how grave was the consequence!
On that occasion, the Sky God was very annoyed with Mother Earth. He created panic through a thunderstorm, and lashed it with lightning. Hundreds of elephants poured water with their trunks at a time on Mother Earth's head, who was already suffering terribly. For seven consecutive nights, there was a great deluge. In the quiet waters of the Satkoshia, the storm played havoc. As if someone smeared the dark waters tinge of the Brahminy kite. The python had thought, "Let me go and survey the flood."
He strode out and was accompanied by his army headed by his commander-in-chief. And the ministers and attendants followed the troop. Also, accompanying them was the police and a drummer. Then he ascended a giant banyan tree. The low branches and the drop roots of the tree were eager to touch the river water. The river was in spate and was overflowing its banks. She was carrying away everything that came in her way with her current, be it pieces of straw or helpless animals. The dead animals floated with their feet upturned. And some men tried desperately to save their lives. Their hands were lifted to the sky.
Seeing their plight one of the attendants burst out laughing Then the laughter became infectious and soon everybody laughed. The python did not even find the time to stop them. Suddenly, the branch, which was touching the river, broke and the serpent perched on it fell into the river with a loud splash. He latched on to the detached branch and floated away. The floodwater carried him to some distant, unfamiliar land. The hills and the clouds camping on their tops all lay far behind. And the dense forests of Satkoshia remained far behind. The chorus of the chirping birds, the noise of the animals too was left behind.
The river was called Mahanadi. In her vast body the giant serpent was floating away. It was twenty-two feet in length. On its slight yellowish body were marks like those of a shield.
He was the king of the forest. He was the undisputed lord of the Satkoshia forest. It was only due to his bad luck that he had lost everything. He was exhausted fighting the strong current of the mighty river. That is the inevitable way of destiny, however. Here all are equal before death, be they king or his subordinates. Everyone was heading for the durbar of Mahakala, the lord of the nether regions. There they would have to face the consequences of their deeds, be they good or bad, sinful or pious.
In the river, there were many carcasses of jackals and rabbits, and dead crows and parrots. The lion and the tiger were in a fatal embrace when they were heading towards inescapable death. The flood had washed many riverside villages and carried the ruins in its flow. The river devoured the villagers and their cattle. Their laughter and their tears had mingled in the floodwater. Their world had drowned. The trees, which having stood for years had looked as if they were invincible, got uprooted and carried away by the river. The whole world seemed to be lifeless, numb. There was no sound except of those struggling and crying for their lives in the floodwater.
There were some frogs that were now fearlessly jumping on to the branch where the python had taken shelter. After some time, they again dived into the water. They mistook the python for deadwood. Some of the frogs also sang merrily, 'ken, ken... katara katara'; Some continued their endless song, 'tarrra, tarrra'. It was bereft of any rhythm or melody. Their chorus was indeed jarring to the ear. But they were singing uninterrupted with their croaking voices. They did not recognize that the python was the sovereign of the forest, the god of the forest. That is why they celebrated life with such abandon.
It was a luxury for the python to bathe in the hill stream, splashing the water with its tail. He had never imagined what it was to fight against rushing water. It was beyond him. In his kingdom, when the stream flows on top of the hilly terrain, the boulder shivers. When it flows in the heart of a dense forest, the forest gets excited. In that stream, the crystal-clear water gleams. and in it the reptile would peer at their own reflections. They would be enchanted seeing their faces in the water. Here the water was deep, as if it was a sea. It was so different from the hill stream There he used to bathe lazily, here it was like struggling against the water devil.
The python was famished. All around him there were lots of fishes jumping gleefully. While it was a catastrophe for the rest it was the time of celebration for them. That is why they were jumping in the water to varied heights. He only had to open his mouth to swallow many fish. He only had to move his tongue and at a time he could devour at least a dozen fish. The python wondered, what was wrong about surviving on that at least for a day!
Then he had second thoughts. No, he decided. He was the king of the forest. He could not eat fish, frogs; they are not fit for his royal platter. These are not edible; they are not to his taste. He had peacock meat for breakfast every day. And a deer for lunch, and in the evening, he would be happy with a rabbit for dinner. Everything else was untouchable, tasteless to him. Does a Royal Bengal Tiger eat grass when there is drought and not an animal in sight?
At frequent intervals, the rain was lashing at his back mercilessly. And soon after, that glistening sun would singe his skin. After floating like that for a night and a day, he did not know where he would land up at last.
By the time, he awoke from his slumber he saw there was a crowd around him. He had never in his life seen so many people together wearing colourful clothes and behaving differently. The old men and the women were whispering and the youths were excited. On the embankment, there stood hundreds of people watching the spectacle. Some brave and adventurous fishermen were standing knee-deep in the river armed with spears, and wooden staves to hit the reptile. After the flood, when he was trying to breathe again, he was encountering human beings. He was truly caught between the devil and the deep sea.
The civilized man's acts are savage, merciless. All of them now real the python with combined strength. The reptile after being battered had a swollen head and his eyeballs were bloated and looked like spectacles. His belly after being fed lavishly by the floodwater and wind looked like a balloon. And he spewed water through his mouth now. Everybody thought the monster had died after being beaten so pitilessly.
Then they marched in a procession. A clarion call accompanied their victory procession. And the drummers played loudly. The nagaras played. Clarinets played. A dozen men carried the dead body of the python on their shoulder to the cremation ground. But the band played a happy wedding song "rajaki ayegi barat, rangili hogi raat, magan me ..." The band party was leading the procession. Some among the crowd were in a dancing mood and swayed to the tune of the song. And some followed the funeral procession behind, quietly. Is this how civilized people should behave? The python could not understand why those people were making merry. It was against the rule of the forest for the victor to abuse the victim. The tigers and lions of the forest do not ride in processions when they overpower an animal, they don't insult them.
This was a barbaric act, not at all heroic. The true hero knows to pay respect to the conquered one. These civilized people were perhaps in a drunken state. The python was murmuring to himself, "O God, these people don't know what they are doing. They are not in their senses. Please forgive them."
The python was thinking that god created man as His greatest creation in the world. But then why is he so uncharitable? Why is he so narrow-minded? How large-hearted a python is in comparison, really! Like the vast sky, very compassionate. Why is the greatest creature of the Creator so merciless?
The procession suddenly came to a halt. The drummers stopped playing loudly. The nagaras stopped their music. There was a whistle, the sound ringing loudly. A khaki-clad uniformed policeman gave instructions waving his baton in the air, "The python is a wild animal. It is a breach of law to capture and kill the animal." He ordered his patrolling men to rescue the python from the people.
The police started a lathi charge and in seconds the men dispersed. Then the loud noise of the police van was heard. On the shoulders of men, the serpent was carried to the machine-cart.
As if there was no end to his journey and his plight. In the end, he reached a place called Nandan Kanan-the sanctuary for animals and birds. Here animals and birds are given protection. That is why it is called a sanctuary. He could listen to many birds chirping and the calls of animals. He heard the elephants trumpeting as well. The tigers and the lions were also roaring nearby. The monkeys were making noises too. The shrill cry of the peacock and the quacking of cockatoos, koels cooing nearby and the owls hooting were familiar sounds. That is why he could know that although the animals and birds made so much noise everything appeared as if they did not have their heart in the confines of their cages. It seemed so lifeless. The bird cries did not have an enchanting melodious quality. These bird-calls seemed as if they were the sound of their lamentation, a chorus of their piled-up hopelessness and misery. The python was wondering how such a place could be called Nandan Kanan. It can be so for the naughty monkeys jumping from branch to branch merrily. Maybe they are for the lazy crocodiles who bask in the sand bed or the distorted ugly hunched jackals, but certainly not for him. For him it was worse than hell with its stink.
He was the lord of the forest, the monarch of all he surveyed at Satkoshia. It was not enough for him to have a snatch of the blue sky visible from the windows of his cell. He needed the unlimited sky. He needed the cool pleasant breeze blowing everywhere. Not the knee-deep dirty waters of the artificial trench, but the continuous, pure rainwater.
The forest has a soul and its richness is resplendent with flowering trees. That is why everybody bursts into dance there. There, even the rains come dancing gaily. Like the soft shampooed hair of the daughter of the sky, the clouds cling to the breast of the Mother Earth.
The peacock would break into dance seeing rain clouds in the sky. Seeing the peacock, the peahen also feels inspired to dance. The python would get bewitched watching the couple dancing. He would also feel like dancing. They would appear to him as if they were two highly skilled performers. In that moment of adoration he would never think of killing them to quench his appetite. He was reminded of that forest again and again.
He remembered the rain-washed glory of the forest. The enigma of that chequered lights in the shadowed corners was so captivating! How the sunrays would come secretly and penetrate through the fort of rainforest! How the chequered lights of the moonbeam would filter through the maze of leaves! How dream -like were those days, really! And the evenings would be intoxicating, too. There the nights would be colourful, mysterious. The flowers of many hues would bloom in profusion and spread their sweet smell around. The kurei flowers would fill the early, mornings with their maddening fragrance. And the gangasiuli flowers would spread their perfume after dusk. On the carpet of moist grass there would be so many orchids. They would captivate him with their unique charm.
It was the first day in the zoo at Nandan Kanan. The zoo doctors came and scrutinized his body minutely. He was completely numb. And there were bruises all over his body with frozen blood marks. It was too painful to describe his pain. And it was even more painful for him to open his eyes. That is why he was taken out of that tiny cell to a spacious enclosure outside.
The doctors went away after giving him injections. As he was too weak to eat live animals, a basket of meat was sent for him. The smell of meat reached his nostrils. Although he was famished, he did not even cast a glance in that direction. He is the lord of the forest, all-in-all-in-all the jungle. He was not a beggar. He was not born to eat stale meat. Never.
The stale meat was taken away. Two rodents were sent for him. When the rats saw the serpent, they started scampering around him with fear. They began whispering among themselves in shrill noises. The python could not control his laughter. He never swallowed rats, not since his childhood. That is why he simply knocked his tail on the ground indifferently. The rats, scampering to save themselves from the predator, ultimately landed up in the knee-deep waters of the trench and had a watery burial.
There were many visitors at the zoo who had crowded at the python's den. By then the news had travelled far and wide that a dinosaur had been brought to the zoo. The python was not looking at them. That is why they were throwing biscuits, peanuts to draw his attention.
Now a rabbit was sent to his enclosure. His beady eyes had fear writ all over. The elongated ears were standing in alarm. It was the rabbit's turn because the zoo officials thought the sick python would be able to consume the animal easily. The rabbit was staring at the python trembling. It was like the deer, which is stunned with the powerful searchlights of the hunter, and stands as if rooted to the ground, unable to move. The brawny eyes were fixed on the serpent. His clear white body had paled in fear. His playful feet were shaking and unable to keep their balance on the ground.
He was facing the Yamaraj himself. That is why he was waiting for everything to be finished. For the visitors, it was a very entertaining spectacle. And the crowd at the enclosure was swelling gradually. They were clapping loudly to wake up the sleeping python. They were throwing nuts and other eatables towards him so that he would be charged up. They had never witnessed such a happening in their lifetime. They were waiting anxiously for the moment when the python would charge and gulp his bait like a small white tablet. They would get the value for their ticket money. And would treasure the memory.
The python looked at the rabbit. By that time, the poor creature was lying prostrate on the ground with eyes closed. The serpent had mercy. It was such a small baby! He has not seen the world. He has not become a part of the mysteries of the world. His mother must be searching for him in the bushes. And not finding her child must be sitting on the bed of wild grass and shedding tears, lamenting.
The thunder of clapping reverberated. The python was thinking, let them get tired with the activity. But he could not swallow the rabbit to please them. He is the python of the forest, almighty of the forest. He had never hunted an animal for another's excitement. The entire forest belonged to him. It was a pleasure for him to roam anywhere in it. He went on hunting expedition at his own will and none dictated when he would eat, sleep or wake up or have sex. He never had to fulfill his desires at other people's bidding. And finally, he hated human beings.
The baby rabbit opened his eyes timidly, slowly. He found himself alive and kicking and in one piece. Yamaraj was also sleeping like a dead wood. Then whatever his mother had warned him about the monster animal was wrong? The snake with specks of mustard flowers on its body is not an enemy but a friend? He had seen since yesterday, the terrible animal had not taken a morsel or even had any water. He was so huge. Then how does he survive? On wind? And dew drops? Is he some great ascetic in the guise of this big python? Then he started roaming around without fear in that barricade. He happily started making use of those nuts scattered around.
It was about sunset. The spectators started dispersing slowly, depressed. The zoo officials were depressed. They gave up the hope of reviving the sick python. They assumed the serpent was too sick to eat anything. He was incapable of swallowing even small animals like rats and rabbits. How was he going to survive then?
The python was thinking, strange are the ways of men. First, they will attack, try to kill and then they would try to make amends with lots of care and nursing. But what is the use of first uprooting the flowering tree and then pouring water at the root to bring it to life?
Soon it was night. The stars in the sky appeared as if they had fallen down on the leafy boughs. After some time, the moon rose in the sky. With the rising moon his pain became excruciating. He became sure that he would never get to see his near and dear ones. He would never get to hear their sweet talk.
He remembered the moonlit nights in the forest. There the moonlight was like the caressing balm of sandalwood paste. But here the silvery beams seemed to pierce his skin. Could he ever return to his beloved forest? And could he again fill his vision with the dense forest, the rocks, and the open glades stretching endlessly? Could he ever get to see the beauty of the months visiting the forest, rains, winter, autumn and spring? With his eyes closed he was recollecting those wonderful scenes. The sight of deer grazing, the dancing peacock couples, the butterflies flirting from flower to flower. He was lost in his fond memories and it all kept adding to his sorrow. It was not the hunger but for being homeless that pained him tremendously.
He was saying to himself, "Why do I have to go through this turmoil? Am I paying for my sins committed in my past lives?"
He was lamenting, why has someone who is fit to be on a throne, suffer in a hell like this? He had never caused any harm to anyone consciously. He had killed animals only to feed his hunger. But it was a necessity. The animals and the birds are his food and he had done nothing wrong by eating them. He never hated or been angry at them.
The serpent was thinking, is this the mystery of life, the hide and seek game? Today there is happiness unlimited and tomorrow there is sorrow unending? Today he laughs heartily and tomorrow laments silently?
Up above was the vast sky and azure open space. The vision of the endless blue sky filled his heart with excitement. The moon had climbed high up and the moonlight was gleaming brightly everywhere. When he was young he would jump from tree to tree top to catch the moon.
Now he could hear the absorbing Nageswari raga of the forest, and the blood started circulating again in his veins. The forest was like his beloved. The invitation of the beloved is absolute temptation. And her blue waving hands cannot be ignored. He had to go anyhow, he would go back to the lap of his beloved forest.
There were dewdrops raining from the sky. The python stretched his tongue to quench his thirst greedily. It was like nectar to him. The soft moonlight seemed like the Sanjivani herb that revives one's life. Then he drank plentiful of the tender cool breeze of the pre-dawn moments. Now the desire for freedom tilled his veins, his muscles, each drop of his blood. When such enthusiasm for freedom overtakes one, even the lame one can surmount the high mountain. And the blind one can sail across the warm Baitarani River. Only he who could traverse the forest of Satkoshia from one end to another knew the taste of freedom.
No, he was not meant for defeat. No failure in his horoscope. He would soon surmount his temporary captive stage and would return to his enchanting forest. And would embrace his near and dear ones.
Satkoshia was his beloved. His beloved's wink for him was irresistible temptation. He slowly started to move forward. His tail brushed the rabbit. But he was in deep slumber. The moonlight shone on him slightly. In that faint glow, he could see that the eyelids of the rabbit were tightly closed and dreams crowded there.
It was extremely tough for him to move with his injured body. And yet he somehow managed to reach the water source and gulped down two mouthfuls of water. And then, using all his strength, he jumped across the water.
Beyond there was the wire mesh as if they were trying to frighten him with thousands of eyes. But he was no longer afraid of anything. He bit the net of iron wires desperately. Beyond this fence, he could see the road to the forest of Satkoshia vividly. And it was as if the green map of that forest was dancing before his eyes.
Blood oozed from his injuries once again. Since he was biting and climbing up the wire fence he started bleeding all over. But he was nonchalant about that. He reminded himself of the powers he had. He was the king of the forest and was extremely powerful. Often, when he slid down the hill, large boulders would roll from the cliff with his weight, and there would be sparks of fire in them. He could climb up to the top of the tree easily. And he could cross over the tall mountaintops of the Satkoshia forest. He could break down any branch of the trees at his will.
Again, there was the call of the peacocks ringing in his ears. And the songs of the dahuka birds at the side of the hill streams. And the fallen leaves rustling, with their shout of greetings for their lord, "Long live the emperor python. Long live the one who can vanquish the tigers, lions and smash their egos easily."
The murmur of the streams made him restless. And the whisper of the wind maddened him. And now he would fly away like the green pigeons. His heart was aflutter and the mind raced ahead. But there was this tiresome weakness overpowering him. And he could sense the numbness in his body. As if he had not a speck of strength left in him. He was unable to ascend the fence anymore.
He climbed up to the rim of the fence wire with much difficulty. But how could he carry the load of his massive body to the other side of the fence? Then he stood in the position of praying to God with closed eyes, and murmured to himself, "O forest! O my lord! O my creator! I am so attached to you ever since I have developed my senses. I have held you with great regard. I have obeyed the rules of the forest word by word. I cannot recall when I have committed any mistake knowingly. If unknowingly I have caused your wrath please be gracious, please forgive me. Please give me strength to escape this endless maze. Free me from this bondage. If you cannot do that, then give me death."
While he uttered these words, he hissed in agony. He had never screamed like that ever in his life. And even the animals and birds in the zoo had never heard such a pitiable cry before. The hill, the lake, the water and wind of Nandan Kanan had never heard such heart-rending lament before.
And then the python could not utter another word. Before his scream could reach the forest of Satkoshia tearing apart the predawn darkness, it had melted into eternity. And the loud cry resonating everywhere in the corridors of Nandan Kanan finally became still forever. The cold touch of death settled on the leaves and in the trees.
With the soft cooling of the cuckoo in the dawn, the rabbit woke up and started blankly around. The sky was changing its attire from an azure-hued one to an ochre-coloured one. At the top of the tree nearby, the moon was hanging like a balloon.
What was he seeing then? Where was the giant monster that had been sleeping, curled up, near him gone? Was it simply a bad dream then? But yonder what was it? There was a long staircase to the sky above the trench.
He stood up, shook his long ears, and climbing up the staircase, jumped across the fence.
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.
I always wondered
why in almost all my photos
I find my smiles missing and
playing truant to the camera.
May be while in the cradle
someone shook the rattle
to draw my attention and
someone made faces while
making strange clucking sounds
with his tongue and his palate to incite
that toothless
and priceless curve on my tiny lips
but as the flash goes off
all he gets is an inverted smile
for unknown to him
my diapers have gone weightier
and wetter.
And then when the teacher
herds us to the school quadrangle
and lines us up in cascades
for creating the first ever
memorabilia on celluloid
we wait expectantly for the boogeyman
who hides behind a huge contraption
balanced on a tripod
under a black cloak and keeps
adjusting the protruding lens
and at the final moment
barks the command to be steady and
tells us to look into the lens to see the
birds that may fly out
and most of us focus on it hard
with eyes agape in wonder
but the birds never come
and our expressions invariably glum.
Then comes the
proverbial post wedding photo
in the confines of a local studio
that uses a romantic backdrop
with a painted window with a bough
of pink and red bougainvillea
running from top right corner
to the bottom left corner diagonally
and on one side a decorative pillar
with a porcelain vase
and a bouquet of gaudy plastic flowers.
The photographer switches on
the flood lights under the white umbrellas
and takes position to begin his count down
tells you to tilt your head
a bit towards your bride and then
almost hops to you in quick steps
and nudges your bride's chin
to lift it up a bit
much to your chagrin
and finally just before clicking the shutter
closes his left eye
and you think it was a wink
and then surprisingly your smile vanishes.
Now that the latest fad is posing for a selfie
I learn the trick from my daughter
to get the right angle
and choose the right background
and stretch my hand as far as it would go
and rotate it in small arcs to and fro
like the turret of a gun
trying to seek the target and finally lock on
and just before I click
even though I practice
several versions of my smile
cannot really decide which one to freeze
a toothy one or a suggestive one
with just a semblance
and in my indecisiveness and
self consciousness the
smile goes missing as ever.
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.
Every dog owner is aware of the benefits of having a dog as a pet. The health benefits come to mind as an obvious first. Walking the dog on a regular basis, come rain or shine, or snow, for that matter, enforces a minimum level of physical activity, which is like a tonic against the toxicity of our sedentary lifestyle. The emotional atmosphere at home is livened up by the dog, which draws the whole family together. But for me, there was an entirely unforeseen positive effect our dog had on our social life.
I was almost a stranger in the small English village, which has been our home for over a quarter of a century, until we got our first dog. As I began to walk him, the change in response from the villagers was noticeable. I struck up conversations with many villagers, during my long walks, whom I had seen before but with whom I never had any interaction. Many of such acquaintances probably knew me by the name our dog. We have all heard the phrase, the tail wagging the dog; but the situation here is best described as the dog identifying his master.
Most of the people I came across during such walks were friendly, at least they would reciprocate my greeting, and some would engage in a brief conversation. But there was one exception.
I saw a lady often during my walks, who would not even acknowledge my presence. In the beginning, I was unsure, if she heard my greeting. So, I thought, I must give her the benefit of the doubt.
The next time our paths crossed, I made it a point to slow down whilst approaching her from the opposite direction. I almost stopped briefly before making my greeting, “Good Morning”, articulating the words distinctly. But again, there was no response.
‘Did she hear me?’ I wondered.
However, there was no mistake in my mind as to whether she heard me or not. Even if she did not hear, she certainly saw me, uttering the words. I made allowances for the possibility that she was hard of hearing, but she could not be blind as well, I thought. She could not avoid reading my lips.
This was repeated again and again. I was convinced that she was deliberately avoiding me and had resolved not to talk to me. I must admit, I was hurt by her indifference, however hard I tried hard to rationalize her behaviour.
Soon, days rolled into weeks and then into months. In every encounter, her response was just the same, no different from the very first.
So, what else could it be; it must be a subtle from of racism. She is white and I am brown and that is that.
I wish, I could let it rest at that. But I was smarting from my pricked pride. It lingered like an irritation from a speck of dust stuck in my eye, which I just couldn’t get rid of.
One day, when I was in a contemplative mood, our paths crossed again and the old experience was repeated. It suddenly occurred to me, could she be mute? This would be a perfectly logical explanation of her behaviour. This mere possibility, by itself, eased my sense of hurt and brought in a tinge of guilt for labelling her behaviour racist.
But, the next time, I saw her from a distance, I heard her talking with someone and that dispelled my theory of mutism, confirming my worst fear of racism as the sole explanation for her behaviour.
Gradually, with passage of time, my resentment receded, giving way to a mixture of indifference and curiosity. But the hurt of being totally ignored did not leave me completely.
I saw her from time to time but I stopped greeting her and avoided crossing her path by changing my direction.
Soon, the whole saga became a footnote in this chapter of my life.
One day, I saw her again, but under very different circumstances. I was in a pensive mood; our dog had been ill for about a week and the vet had made a diagnosis of cancer. There was no viable treatment for him and the prognosis was grim.
The most distressing thing about his cancer was that he had gone off food. He was also not his usual lively self and certainly not keen for his usual walks any more.
While I was about to cross her on the foot path, she stopped and looking at our dog, said, ‘Is he not well?’
I was taken by surprise as this was totally unexpected. I was rather unprepared for a suitable response.
Before I could think of an appropriate answer, I blurted out,’ How did you know?’
‘I guessed; something was not quite right with him. He is usually well ahead of you, as if he is taking you for a walk. But he seems sluggish and his eyes look sad’.
‘Yes, you have got it right, I said, debating in my own mind, about how much detail I should be giving her.
‘I can see it on your face as well’, she came back.
He has got cancer and it has spread already. And, he doe not have long to live…. I could not continue as my voice was faltering.
She put her hand on my forearm and looked at my distraught face. I was consumed by the prospect of our dog’s imminent death. So, I was trying to avert my gaze out of sheer embarrassment. And her hand felt like the comforting caress of an angel to my bruised soul.
She looked at me silently for what seemed like an eternity. Before I gently moved my arm away, from the corner of my eyes and I caught her ’I know how it feels’ look.
I managed to regain my composure and we chatted for a few minutes more about our dog’s illness, diagnosis and treatment or rather lack of it, before I indicated my departure.
Before she turned away to get back on her path, she said, ’Perhaps, this is not the time to talk about me but I assure you, this too would pass. A couple of years ago, when it happened to me, the world around simply ceased to exist. But I pulled through and so would you…….’
I slowly resumed my walk with our dog. My despair at our dog’s condition was still raw. But sharing my feelings with someone, who understands, gave me a temporary reprieve.
I remember how much I resented her for not reciprocating my greetings. How rash was I to conclude that she was avoiding me in a deliberate act of racism? I couldn’t have been more mistaken in my judgement!
We pride at our faculty of language, which makes us uniquely human, adding an extra dimension to our consciousness. Language, in its myriad forms, is the bedrock of human communication. Words can project a picture of precision; yet like a clever juggler, can conjure the slippery science of nuance. It is also a master at masquerade; adept in the art of concealing more than what it conveys.
But language has its limitations. it fails us miserably when we are in the depth of despair. A lot of what remains unspoken is better expressed by our eyes. Their moistness is a more accurate reflection of the turmoil within and their uncensored gestures a more proximate gauze of the feelings bursting to come forth. And the real truth, that is unspeakable, is left for the fingers to reveal.
How naïve was I in resting all my faith on language for communication and rely exclusively on words alone? I was so prompt in projecting my prejudice: No wonder, it turned me blind to what she was dying to say all along!
March 2020
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Till today, we live
Under the canopy of moon-shine,
Breathe in the open air,
And bathe in the morning sun.
Children play in the garden,
Merrily rush after butterflies
Carrying smiles of colours.
People move here and there
Like birds in the freedom of the sky.
A sudden eclipse snatches away
The colour of brightness.
The world is darkened
As if we plunge
Into a black hole of despair.
The dark wind blows
Across the border
And thousands succumb to victim
Like birds stripped off their wings.
Parents are drowned with fear
For their dears.
In the forest of silence
The scratch of breath steals away
The hopes for survival.
Ray of hope lies
Like deserted sand dunes.
Thousands have their one last sleep
As if for them the sun sets forever.
Some could never meet
Their kith and kin
As tears roll down the cemetery lane.
The bridge of movement is collapsed
And within the thick wall of confusion
Man is detained within his own self.
Why do you visit us like an invader?
Better you return back, Coronavirus
To your original abode.
Let mankind take a bath in the flow of purity
And live graciously with nature
Offering everyone to dwell in peace.
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
My north was his south,
My right was his left,
My front was his back,
My roof was his floor,
Things mesial to me was distal to him.
So where am I actually?
Suspended among apparent reference points?
How differently positioned I am
from the people next to me!
The right thing I say
Might be left wrong to you.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
Who is it calling?
Is it the bird on the tree
Or the little honey bee?
May be it is the wild flower
Demanding my attention
Before the night sets in.
I take a closer look
All around me,
Walking beyond the crowd
I hear a deep sound,
Perhaps, it is the stream
Dancing down the rocks
Making a beautiful music.
But, the call is quite unique
Nothing like the usual kind
That I have ever heard
Anyone singing.
It is neither the sky
Nor the twinkling stars
Not even the mountains
Staring from the far
But, the call gets louder
Deafening my ears
As if it comes from very near.
Helplessly, I wonder
What is this beautiful number
So soothing and clear
That captivates my heart
Making me free from fears,
Profound and empowering,
Is it the call from within?
"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.
In these epochal times
Life itself has simmered down
Everyone immersed in self preservation
Except for the altruistic, the eternal sacrificers
Born to serve and protect others.
Slow down, pause, stay still
"Know I am God" the universe screams out
As the revamping goes on.
The tortured sons trapped in their own houses
Having nothing else to do
Observe plenty, their eyes blind with living
Hitherto had ignored many things.
Now they perceive everything inside their house
Including the old man in the corner
Once hale and healthy,
Who had carried him on his shoulders
As he carries his children now.
Had sacrificed everything for his joy
As he does to his children now.
Now discarded and marginalised
In a room where he treasured his memories
And things he could handle.
Now all this becomes focus of attention
For the stranger trapped In the house
Who leaves the house in the morning
And comes almost late every night
His wife, the only being waiting to serve him
Before resting her legs and her head on pillows warm.
Yes his "pappa", the word itself he had forgotten
The wrinkled, shrivelled being with hollow eyes
Waiting for God to call him.
Yes papa' s proximity gives him a strange pleasure.
He ventured into the room and looked around
Yeah, it is cosy and comfortable!
There near the window was a divan.
He had seen his children lying there
And watching the TV with their grandpa
He moves towards it and sits gingerly on it.
All the while his papa watching him
Eyes brimming with love, smiling toothless
Like million bulbs flashing
A peace dawn's on him.
Oh, how could he have denied this?
Like tiny barbs pierced his heart.
Slowly once more the chord is drawn closer
How much had he depended on his papa?
As a child, later as a boy and then a youth
When did he drift away from papa?
He had plenty of time to analyse himself.
Like strangers they started conversing
The wisdom that poured forth amazed him
He was no more the dumb old man
Oh, how could he have missed all this?
Pappa became loquacious
The room filled with mirth and laughter
So peaceful and happy he was
His children too gathered around them
Hitherto silent room became the hub of activity
Pappa sparkled with new life.
Oh , how could he have missed all this.?
No more of this marginalisation!
No more of this alienation!
Yes, these epochal days have done wonders for him
Drawing him out of his his egoistic self
To look around and to look into himself
To draw closer unto his strong, warm fold
His pappa and other elderly people
Marginalised in the "sick hurry and fret of living".
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
The advent of the new century,
Brought rapid strides in technology,
Obsolete became MS DOS,
Replaced now by Windows.
Standalones got wired through LANS,
On- line, real time, brought WAN.
Close on heels came E mail,
To see information sail.
Mere surfing of the Net,
Provided info, now easy to get,
We now head to a single gadget
That can handle your every facet.
With Apps becoming handy,
The gadgets have become trendy.
Unable to fathom this revolution,
With hated breath, we herald the innovations.
And for the coming savvy generation,
It's bound to vet their aspirations.
Mr. S. Sundar Rajan, a Chartered Accountant with his independent consultancy, is a published poet and writer. He has published his collection of poems titled "Beyond the Realms" and collection of short stories in English titled " Eternal Art" which has been translated into Tamil,Hindi, Malayalam and Telugu. Another collection of short stories in English titled "Spice of Life" has also been translated in Tamil. His stories in Tamil is being broadcast every weekend on the Kalpakkam Community Radio Station under the title "Sundara Kadhaigal". His poems and stories have varied themes and carry a message that readers will be able to relate to easily.
Sundar is a member of the Chennai Poets' Circle and India Poetry Circle. His poems have been published in various anthologies. He was adjudged as "Highly Recommended Writer" in the Bharat Award - International Short Story Contest held by XpressPublications.com.
In an effort to get the next generation interested in poetry Sundar organises poetry contest for school students. He is also the editor of "Madras Hews Myriad Views", an anthology of poems and prose that members of the India Poetry Circle brought out to commommorate the 380th year of formation of Madras.
Sundar is a catalyst for social activities. He organises medical camps covering general health, eye camps and cancer screening. An amateur photographer and a nature lover, he is currently organising a tree planting initiative in his neighbourhood. Sundar lives his life true to his motto - Boundless Boundaries Beckon
Blythe's Reed Warbler
Sumita Dutta Shoam
Tiny body, restless as thought
Hopping on verdant boughs
Flitting past my blindness
Until arrow swift flight
Jabs my consciousness
Couldn’t be accident
That I found your nest
In the fold of two leaves
Of a delicate potted plant
A tiny chick left within
Trusting Nature
To hide from harm
Of predatory claws
Or the gardener’s
Gushing hose.
You dance away your mate
Warbling songs in trees
While your chick grows alone
In silence, gathering speed.
Sumita Dutta Shoam is the founder of Adisakrit, a publishing house that takes pride in publishing books in a variety of genres. She enjoys most creative mediums of expressions. She has a degree in Fine Arts and loves photography. She is multilingual and fluent in English, Hindi, spoken Bengali, and has learnt rudimentary French. She loves to explore places and cultures and has been lucky enough to travel to twenty-two countries across the globe. She has grabbed opportunities to work in different fields apart from publishing, designing, and editing, including teaching O and AS level English in an IGCSE school, and jobs in marketing and PR. All her experiences are fodder for her writing, which has been a passion from her teens, growing out of her obsession with reading all sorts of books. She believes that there are three necessities that enrich this world and her writing is liberally tossed with these ingredients—compassion, beauty, and humour. Her work can be found on several websites and some of her poems have been published in print anthologies. The Heart of Donna Rai is her debut novel. Blog: https//zippythoughts.wordpress.com, Email: sumid18@gmail.com
I can. I will. In fact I should.
Said one earnestly;
Albeit thoughtlessly
All resources fully used
Polluted. Depleted.
If in development today
Tomorrow's desolation lay
Should I? Even if I can
Asked one thoughtfully
Albeit silently
I can. I will. In fact I should.
Next gen came by
'Back to basics' came the cry
Centuries of efforts to scatter?
Throw the baby with the bathwater?
If the price of preservation
Is development's stagnation
Should I – even if I can
Asked one pensively
Albeit painfully
I should 'cause I can
Said one sensibly
And optimistically
Respect inventions, innovations
Enjoy it all – our inheritance
Respect posterity – their aspirations
Leave behind an inheritance of abundance
Hedonism, greed, stupidity
Replaced with Inherent integrity
Sustainable development
Replaces thoughtless development.
Padmini Janardhanan is an accredited rehabilitation psychologist, educational consultant, a corporate consultant for Learning and Development, and a counsellor, for career, personal and family disquiets.
Has been focussing on special education for children with learning difficulties on a one on one basis and as a school consultant for over 4 decades. The main thrust is on assessing the potential of the child and work out strategies and IEPs (Individual Educational Plans) and facilitating the implementation of the same to close the potential-performance gap while counselling the parents and the child to be reality oriented.
Has been using several techniques and strategies as suitable for the child concerned including, CBT, Hypnotherapy, client oriented counselling, and developing and deploying appropriate audio-visual / e-learning materials. Has recently added Mantra yoga to her repository of skills.
She strongly believes that literature shapes and influences all aspects of personality development and hence uses poetry, songs, wise quotations and stories extensively in counselling and training. She has published a few books including a compilation of slokas for children, less known avathars of Vishnu, The what and why of behaviour, and a Tamizh book 'Vaazhvuvallampera' (towards a fulfilling life) and other material for training purposes.
When the world takes a snooze
Crawls under the blankets of fear
The artist burns midnight oil
She takes out her doggie
Together they walk
Shoot stars in nature's studio
Together they admire
A green shoot with two leaves
Life taking shape
Fearlessly lush
Damn-with-Corona fresh
Glowing a signal of hope.
Her dog says ... "Hoooooo.. "
She a finger on lips... "Nooooo...
Let all sleep their forty winks .."
Dr S.Rupali Mishra is a 2nd year Post Graduate of SCB Medical College and Hospital, Cuttack, Odisha; sketches and reads poetry, stories and articles, besides being engaged in medicine research and application ; presently working, in a workforce of doctors fighting against Corona. She can be reachable at docrupalimishra@gmail.com.
Devastated by the pyre
And the fire in her mind
She tried to dip
Into the river head on
Cool, she felt; protected, she doubted!!!
The bald gathering under the banyan tree
Upset about her tearless eyes, bindi on forehead,
Life may have cheated her but she was not defeated.
The pundit chanted mantras in a hoarse voice
The barber used his sharp razor to cleanse the impurity
The washer woman yelled cheerily collecting the saris,
Someone called her name twice, thrice, and a fourth time!
Is she being missed?
Did anyone miss him, who is no more?
Last night they were calculating the finances
He has left in the banks in fixed deposits
They were deciding upon the menu for the party.
A thousand or more people have been invited
They discussed the amount of ghee and butter
They selected the VIP guests for special treatment
Is she or he being missed?
Cool! The water felt safer and cooler
Than those beckoning shrewd hands.
Should she come out?
No, let water be her savior,
“Mother river, clasp me, grasp me, engulf me
I don’t want to be burnt
In the pyre of prejudice every day every moment!
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra is a retired Professor of English who worked under the Government of Odisha and retired as the Principal, Government Women’s College, Sambalpur. She has also worked as an Associate N.C.C. Officer in the Girls’ Wing, N.C.C. But despite being a student, teacher ,scholar and supervisor of English literature, her love for her mother tongue Odia is boundless. A lover of literature, she started writing early in life and contributed poetry and stories to various anthologies in English and magazines in Odia. After retirement ,she has devoted herself more determinedly to reading and writing in Odia, her mother tongue.
A life member of the Odisha Lekhika Sansad and the Sub-editor of a magazine titled “Smruti Santwona” she has published works in both English and Odia language. Her four collections of poetry in English, titled “The Soul of Fire”, “Penelope’s Web”, “Flames of Silence” and “Still the Stones Sing” are published by Authorspress, Delhi. She has also published eight books in Odia. Three poetry collections, “Udasa Godhuli”, “Mana Murchhana”, “Pritipuspa”, three short story collections , “Aahata Aparanha”, “Nishbda Bhaunri”, “Panata Kanire Akasha”, two full plays, “Pathaprante”, “Batyapare”.By the way her husband Professor Dr Gangadhar Mishra is also a retired Professor of English, who worked as the Director of Higher Education, Government of Odisha. He has authored some scholarly books on English literature and a novel in English titled “The Harvesters”.
Blooms of Hope
Blooms of Trust
Blooms of Scope
Blooms of Dust
Blooms of Fear
Blooms of Despair
Blooms of Tears
Blooms of dare
Blooms of Determination
Blooms of the Nation
Blooms for Motivation
Blooms for each and every Situation
Blooms for Caring
Blooms for Sharing
Blooms to Unite
Blooms for each and every Fight
Blooms for Separation
Blooms for Sacrifice
Blooms of Anguish
Blooms for You and Me
In every corner you can See.
(in context with the lockdown or present situation)
Sheena Rath is a post graduate in Spanish Language from Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi, later on a Scholarship went for higher studies to the University of Valladolid Spain. A mother of an Autistic boy, ran a Special School by the name La Casa for 11 years for Autistic and underprivileged children. La Casa now is an outreach centre for social causes(special children, underprivileged children and families, women's health and hygiene, cancer patients, save environment) and charity work.
Sheena has received 2 Awards for her work with Autistic children on Teachers Day. An Artist, a writer, a social worker, a linguist and a singer (not by profession)
BIRD
osprey
large raptor
sits atop tall pine
resting while heading South
dives into lake to catch fish
“white-bellied diurnal raptor”
Poetic form: CLARITY PYRAMID
Designed and Constructed by Jerry P. Quinn
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
The green world amidst hills and deep valleys
The musical fountains and flowing waterfalls
A treat for my eyes, soul and longing mind!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show alluring beauty around me!
I’m really tired of physical and mental pains
And my heart finds solace and solitude here
towards the rhythmic brook and rusty lands!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show riveting beauty around me!
A gentle breeze brings jasmines’ fragrance
Whistling wind sings a sweet welcome song,
and a flowing lake lets me feel the real serenity!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show startling beauty around me!
The Rocky Mountains lie besides lovely streams,
Refreshing water kisses my tender both feet,
and chirping bluebirds welcome me from afar!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show enthralling beauty around me!
Swaying branches set a soft swing ahead
Lush green orchards always enchant me,
How blessed I’m to be in the lap of nature!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show engrossing beauty around me!
O, dear! I beg you not to leave your black cam
As I wish for more fantasy in pictures around,
Paint the frames with rainbow colours ahead!
Your fingertips gently touch the black cam
When you show thrilling beauty around me!
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
Manu was a good cook. Don't ask about his fame or the demand he makes. It's not a joke. Seriously, he is too good. Yes, his absence, even for one day, jolts the whole Rathor family, especially the eighty years old grand mother. Her demand for Manu is sky high. Every now and then, she calls his name. Sometimes, her son Mr. Sanat teases her, "Mom, without food you can sustain, but without Manu, you will die!" He laughs at this witty comment and other members of the family share it heartily. Even the old lady laughs too.
Mr. Sanat had to take great pains in finding this boy Manu. His mom's stubbornness kept ringing in his mind. She wanted a brahmin boy to cook, otherwise she would not eat. Of course the alternate choice for taking the responsibility of cooking, was Amita, her daughter-in-law. To avoid the second option, Rathor Saab did whatever was possible. About two months back, when Manu was not in their family. Grandma kept on grumbling, "All are going out. No one is there to talk to me. Who will serve me food? Arre, Sana, bring a brahmin boy, so that at least I can talk to somebody, while eating."
The day Manu made his entry to the Rathor family, grandma's grumbling converted into chit-chatting, gossiping. She was delighted, when Manu served her varieties of food, and stood in a corner, leaning on the wall. It became a daily routine. "Grandma, should I give you something more ?" asks Manu. This is his daily chore. After grand-mother's lunch and dinner, he massages both her feet with mustard oil. He spreads out her bed cover, keeps everything ready, whatever she requires. Not only that, early in the morning, before aanybody gets up, Manu neatly cleans up the 'Tulsi Chaura', keeps flower, agarbatti, chandan, everything ready for grandma's pooja. Oh, yes!! Manu is quite intelligent in that respect, he knows how to manupulate a person. At least, for the time being, Rathor Saab is relaxed. Often while chatting with his wife Amita, he takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh of relief, "Oh, God! How many days!!!" Only he and his wife understand the real meaning of these words. Sometimes, he debates with himself if what he has done is right or wrong. When he can't decide, he leaves it to God!
Rathor Saab remembered the day he had discovered Manu. He had come back to his car after shopping, he found a boy cleaning the front glass of his car. He presumed the boy was a beggar, and handed over ten rupees as a tip. But, the boy earnestly asked him to give him some work. Rathor was surprised and asked him if he knew cooking. The boy happily nodded his head and gave his assent to be a cook. When Rathor Saab asked about his caste, he politely told him. After a second, the boy said, "Sir, trust me, I will be a very good cook. I can do any thing much better than a brahmin boy. Please sir, give me some work. I am not a begger. I can work, but I am not getting anything of my choice. I came from a remote village in search of work. But till now, I have not got anything. I don't want to do daily wage work, because I need a monthly salary. There is a reason for that. Please don't ask me about that now." Rathor Saab stood silently for a few seconds, then in a sympathetic voice asked,"Your name?" The boy replied "Manu, sir." After a little interrogation of his family background and address, Rathor Saab agreed to employ him as a cook. From that day onwards, Manu became the cook of Rathor's family. Only one thing Manu was advised, not to disclose his real caste before grandma.
Gradually, Manu won grandma's heart by his sincere work. He was not only a cook, he had become the sole entertainer of the whole family. His sense of humor was excellent. Sometimes he starts with a comedy song, and switches to narrating some cute jokes. He is appreciated by all the family members. If he ever asks for a short leave, grandma starts her excuses that she is not feeling well, so Manu would be granted leave only after she gets well. But that day never comes. Last night Manu was pressing grandma's feet and after oil massage she started, "Arre Manu, I have seen so many brahmin boys, but no one cooked like you. How old were you when you had your thread ceremony? Now a days, people have become so stupid, that they don't care for caste at all! They are going out, eating food in hotels, restaurants and what not? Who knows, who cooks these foods? They are not bothering at all about their own caste, culture, and tradition. God knows what has happened to our society!!! Whatever it is, Manu, you will never eat from non-brahmins, O.K? Because, you know why? If you eat from them, how will you cook for me?" Manu heard everything, but kept silent. Grandma fell into sleep peacefully.
Next morning, when Grandma called Manu, nobody responded. At last Rathor Saab himself came out from his bed room. He searched for Manu and didn't find him. Manu had simply disappeared! He asked his mom, "Maa, did you say anything to Manu? What was your conversation with him last night?" Grandma narrated everything she talked to Manu last night. Rathor Saab's facial expression changed immediately, "Mom, I don't know whether I have done a paap or a punya but one thing I know for sure, I helped a poor boy who badly needed some service and also you who absolutely required an attendant. But I am sorry Mom, Manu was not a brahmin boy. Your demand was so insistent that I had no choice but to keep Manu as a cook. By the way, Mom, just tell me, was he not good? Were you not satisfied what services he had given to you? Why didn't you admit that you were really happy in his works. You might have told him something which hurt him badly, because of which he felt guilty and left the house. Maa, where from I will get another Manu? He was really a wonderful chap. Perhaps, happiness is not in our destiny."
Rathor Saab slowly stepped forward. Grandma stood like a statue for a little while, then sayid, "Sanat, I had a wrong concept about caste, but Manu's behaviour, his humbleness, his sincerity was much better than any brahmin boy's. Please, Sana, find out where he is. Tell him, I want him back. I will never hurt him again." Even though grandma is an old fashioned lady, she realised her mistake about her casteist feeling.
In this twenty first century also, there are many people in our society who are objecting to eat from non-brahmins. Actually, Brahman is defined as: "Bramah janayeti iti brahman", nothing else. Bramha precisely means 'Param Pita' or God Himself, so the person who knows and feels the presence of God within every single matter and respects it accordingly, is a true 'Brahman'. Simply donning a sacred thread does not make one a brahmin.
Ms. Anjali Mahapatra is a retired teacher from Mumbai who taught Mathematics and Science to students in Ahmedabad, Bhubaneswar, Lucknow and Mumbai for more than thirty years. She took to writing after her retirement and has penned close to a hundred stories so far. Her stories have appeared in Sunnyskyz and other magazines. Two of her collection of short stories, 'An Amazing Letter to Me and Other Stories' and 'Granny Tales' have been published in Kindle Unlimited.
PARENTING IS NOT JUST RANTING!
“Don’t drown in your gadget!”
“Have you finished studying?”
“Don’t throw clothes all around!”
“Your room needs cleaning!”
“Clear the clutter on your table!”
“Are you even listening to me?”
Sounds familiar?
These are some of the slogan(m)s moms chant! It’s universal.
With change in the familial status, from joint families to nuclear and nano families, today the role of a mother has become more complex. Earlier moms took care of nutrition and healthy atmosphere at home. Today she’s expected to be a ‘Super Mom’.
Every woman goes through a super woman complex these days. Most of them are working moms. They must be sociable in their place of living, workspace and family circles. The ‘Me’ time they need to unwind, brings in hobbies of various kinds.
Managing to go through a day with activities and work, juggling between domestic chores, work & social calls, the demand on a woman is super high.
Coming to our topic of parenting, Kids these days are born smart! They know what they want at 3 months, how to shout for attention at 6 months and to throw tantrums by 9 months, as against the turning, sitting and crawling milestones given in the books.
It’s a struggle for a new mom to understand what is happening and before a strategy and action plan is worked out, the whole situation changes. Dynamic daddies and great grannies are also at a loss as to how to deal with each unique piece of smartness that is there in the form of a kid at home. If there are more than one, they’re poles apart without fail! Their needs are different, tastes are varied, one needs cajoling, other needs to get rolling. One wants to cuddle and other needs space. Oh Lord! Give these moms some grace.
Schools are a different topic altogether, need I elaborate the pressure on the mother. Homework, projects, assignments, competitions, sports! After school classes, tuitions, weekend classes, holiday workshops, summer camps. The debate and deliberation to enrol in which academy is no less than choosing a college to study, after all it’s a lifelong hobby or sometimes a career also.
Moms walk a tight rope, balancing all other things on one side and parenting on the other.it is No longer managing between work and home a debate. It’s a piece of cake against parenting stakes.
So next time you hear a mom shouting (yes, to be heard over the headphones) any of the slogan(m)s, don’t rate them as ranting, it’s just parenting!
Dedicated to all the new age moms, who become stepmothers to gadget geek dudes!
Subha Bharadwaj is an environmentally conscious and responsible mother who volunteers with various NGOs to encourage people to 'Be the change.' An ardent participant in resolving civic issues.
A social activist, an amateur artist and writer, linguist, mentor, works for woman empowerment. A multi lingual poet, being poetic has always been a hobby and as a member of India poetry circle, now pursuing her passion for poetry.
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
The voice at the other end was fluctuating, but there was no mistaking who was on the line. Mantriji! After so many years! Amaresh was thrilled!
"Hello.o.o, Hello.o.o.o, is it Amaresh? Pehchaanaa? Are you able to place me?"
Place him? Of course he would place Mantriji from anywhere in the world! For five long years Ameresh had been like a shadow to him, officially he was his PS, but he, Jyotsna and their two kids had almost become a part of Mantriji's family. Amaresh replied to him, happiness brimming over his voice,
"Yes Sir, can I ever forget you, your affection for me and my family? I am just like a younger brother to you, remember how often you used to say that? It's such a pleasant surprise to hear your voice after so many years!"
Mantriji was pleased,
"Yes, yes, theek hai, theek hai. I got your number from your old PA in the Ministry. How are you in your new place? Darangbadi?"
Amaresh wanted to correct Mantriji, the place is called Daringibadi, the only hill station in Odisha, a hundred and twenty kilometres away from Berhampur, the nearest big town. And it was no longer a new place for Amaresh, he and his family had shifted there eight years back, immediately after Amaresh quit his government job and decided to take up horticulture farming in this quaint little place, famous for its salubrious climate and fertile soil. After serving Mantriji as PS for five years, he had to return to the Ministry of Finance to report to his parent department, but somehow he was made to feel unwelcome. He was posted in a ministry where his boss was known to be very very difficult, throwing tantrums at the drop of a hat, shouting at subordinates and often flinging files at their face like guided missiles.
One evening after a particularly disgusting day he came home with a massive headache and asked Jyotsna whether she would like to quit Delhi for ever. She was more than happy. A school teacher's daughter from the small town of Balasore she had never been able to adjust to the fast life of Delhi. So Amaresh resigned from service, spent a couple of weeks at Daringibadi to locate a chunk of twenty acres of land where he could raise his farm and live happily. The local school for the children was half a kilometre away, the air was pure, the water crystal clear and the surrounding forests, and hills with cascading streams made the kids feel at home and the parents happy beyond their wildest imagination.
Amaresh had lost touch with Rajesh Singh, his old boss, the Minister. The year Amaresh had got back to the Ministry, the minister lost the elections to the Lok Sabha. He went back to Chhatisgarh and next year became an MLA and a Minister in that state. After five years he again lost in the elections and his party also got unseated from power. The last he heard about Rajesh Singh, he had settled in Bilaspur, was active in politics and managing his three hotels and half a dozen petrol bunks.
Amaresh wondered how Rajesh Singh remembered him after so many years. As if Mantriji could read his mind, he spoke to Amaresh,
"I want to ask you a favour Amaresh, a very small one. I am sure you won't disappoint me".
"Please don't embarrass me saying that. Just tell me what you want. Your wish is my command".
Mantriji chuckled on the other side,
"I know, I know I can always depend on you. Do you remember my son Ajay?"
"Yes, of course. He was a such an active, vibrant boy those days. He must be around twenty years now?"
"Twenty two to be exact. After I returned to Chhatisgarh and became a minister here, he became extra active, bunking school, enjoying life and spending money like a Maharaja. Got into some wrong company and picked up some bad habits. I want him to spend a couple of months with you and your family so that he can become a good man again. I want you to exert some good influence on him and teach him the good ways of life".
"Yes sir, I will do my best. When is he coming?"
Mantriji laughed, an open hearted, cunning laugh,
"He has already left for Darangbadi, with an attendant. His train should reach Berhampur by ten in the morning, he should reach your place by two o clock."
Amaresh was startled. How come Mantriji did not think of asking him first before sending Ajay to live with his family? Mantrij had anticipated this doubt,
"Actually he had to leave in a hurry. Some of my political opponents are targetting him to settle score with me. Amaresh, please take good care of him. And make sure nobody knows he is with you. This is absolutely important. If my opponents come to know he is in Darangbadi, they will come after him. There could be fireworks because of that. Politicians and their followers are not very civilised in this part of the country."
Before Amaresh could ask any more questions the phone got disconnected. He wanted to call back, to ask a few questions, did the Mantriji mean that Ajay was to be kept in hiding, not stepping out of the house at all? What did he mean by fireworks? But Rajesh Singh had called from an unlisted number, there was no way Amaresh could call him back.
Next afternoon around two thirty a tall handsome young man alighted from a taxi, accompanied by a short dark person who carried his master's stroller bag into the house. Ajay bent and touched the feet of Amaresh and Jyotsna. They were happy to see this nice, well mannered, soft spoken young man who was more like a grown up boy. They all had lunch together and Ajay's attendant left after two hours. He had to catch the night train back to Bilaspur.
When the kids came back from school, they were really happy to meet the big Bhaiya. They were thrilled that they could speak to him in Hindi, their Hindi had got rusted after they left Delhi. The expensive chocolates brought from Bilaspur were grabbed by them and finished in no time. Fifteen years old Abhijit and Kajal, younger to him by a year and half, soon became great fans of Ajay Bhaiya. There was a door from Ajay's room opening outside to the farm, Ajay set up a badminton court there and they played in the evening after school.
At the dining table Ajay showed impeccable manners addressing Amaresh as uncle and Jyotsna as Aunty. He would help Jyotsna carry the plates to the kitchen, despite her forbidding him to do so. Amaresh and Jyotsna's room was next to Ajay's. After a few days of Ajay's stay, Jyotsna heard a slight creak in the door one night after everyone had gone to sleep. She went to the window and peeped out. In the dark a light was glowing, it was clear someone was smoking a cigarette. She got terribly scared. What is this boy doing, doesn't he know, it was an open farm and all kinds of animals come there in the night?
The next morning at the breakfast table Amaresh suggested to Ajay that he should not go out into the open in the night. Ajay smiled,
"What will happen if I go out?"
"Animals often come into the farm looking for a stray hen or a rabbit."
Ajay's tone got slightly harsh, surprising Amaresh and Jyotsna,
"What kinds of animals?"
"Jackals, foxes and sometimes hyenas, all violent and dangerous species."
Ajay dismissed them with a derisive laugh,
"You think I am scared of them? I am a Rajput, I can kill them with my bare hands."
Amaresh and Jyotsna looked at each other, this was a different Ajay, over confident, arrogant and reckless! They had not seen him like this before. The next moment Ajay softened,
"Uncle please don't worry, I won't step out in the night unless it is absolutely necessary".
Jyotsna checked for the next two nights. Ajay didn't go out.
The attendant Preetam came exactly on the fifteenth day. Ajay was waiting eagerly for him. Preetam left after two hours. That evening Ajay was restless before dinner. In the night the glow of cigarettes reappeared in the open. It also lasted lasted a long time.
In a few days balmy October nights gave way to chilly November weather. Winter is known to be quite severe in Daringibadi, occasionally going below zero. Ajay had been in the Samaresh home for almost three weeks. Outwardly calm, it was obvious he was getting restless. One evening Abhijit came running to Jyotsna,
"Mummy, you know what, Ajay Bhaiya has a pistol, he showed it to me today. You know, he said he has shot three people with that pistol. He showed me how to shoot.and we killed a rabbit in the dense part of the farm."
Jyotsna was horrified! Teaching shooting to a fifteen year boy! Has Ajay gone out of his mind? At the dinner Amaresh asked him if it was true that he had killed three persons with his pistol. Ajay smiled,
"No uncle, I was just bragging, wanted to impress Abhijit."
"Please don't show that pistol to him again and for heaven's sake don't teach him shooting, understand?"
"Yes uncle", Ajay was his usual humble, well-mannered self.
Two days later early at dawn, Jyotsna got up suddenly to the sound of clothes being washed, the unmistakable sound of soap being rubbed against dresses startled her. Who was washing clothes? So early in the cold morning!
She came out. To her horror she found Ajay washing everyone's clothes, dipping them in water, rubbing them with soap and rinsing them with water. The bundle had her clothes and Kajal's also! What a shame, how scandalous! Ajay's face was flushed, his eyes were red, it appeared he had not slept in the night. She shouted at him,
"What are you doing, why are you washing our clothes? Who told you to touch my garments? Get up, go to your room."
Ajay looked at her and smiled,
"Aunty, am I not a part of your family now? Please let me help."
Amaresh had got up at the noise and come out. He was amused to see Ajay sitting cross legged like a yogi and washing clothes with full dedication!
Jyotsna was still shouting at Ajay,
"Ajay, get up immediately and go back to your room!"
Ajay smiled again and took out a blouse of Jyotsna's and a frock of Kajal's, he started rubbing the soap on them. That's when it struck Amaresh how wrong it was. He thundered at Ajay to stop what he was doing and go to his room. Ajay looked sheepishly at them and walked to his room slowly.
That night the humming started in Ajay's room. It was clear Ajay was humming a song alternating between a high pitch and a low pitch, he would come near the connecting door to Amaresh and Jyotsna's room and start whispering a song in a super low voice. Amaresh was a deep sleeper, but Jyotsna slept light. She got up, she could feel Ajay standing near the door, almost leaning on it. His breath was heavy, the whisper was persistent, the song indistinct. She shook Amaresh to wake him up, the sound of the other side stopped. Annoyed, Amaresh went back to sleep. And the humming started again, rising to a soft crescendo and petering off to a slow whisper. Jyotsna had a restless night.
Next morning everything was normal. Ajay was on his best behaviour, head bent, munching his breakfast slowly and talking politely to Amaresh and Jyotsna. But night was a different story, Ajay's humming started the moment Amaresh went off to sleep. It was a peculiar sound, starting as a whisper like a snake hissing and turning into a slow hum like a bee humming. It got on Jyotsna's nerves. And the worst was when she could see the shadow of Ajay's feet under the door as if he was leaning on the door and then a panting sound. What was he doing, and why? How long would he stay at Daringibadi? An unknown fear had gripped Jyotsna, as if the young man staying with them was highly abnormal, during the day he was good manners personified, but with the night deepening he turned into some kind of a psycho, a monster with his mind in turmoil.
A few nights after that, the humming was accompanied by another frightening sound, the cry of a jackal, the howl of a dog, and the meow of cats. The sound was very subdued, as if Ajay was trying to make it appear like it was coming from somewhere in the farm. But Jyotsna had no doubt in her mind it was he who was producing those sounds. And the day a hyena entered into the farm, trying to break into the poultry shed, Ajay produced the sound of a hyena barking! Jyotsna woke up Ajay, and the moment Ajay asked what was the matter all sounds ceased in the adjoining room.
The next day Kajal came to Jyotsna, a heavy frown crowding her face,
"Mummy, how long Ajay Bhaiya is going to stay here? Why doesn't he go back to Bilaspur?"
Jyotsna looked up at her daughter,
"Why? What happened? Why are you asking this question?"
"Mummy, somehow I don't feel comfortable in his presence any more. He looks at me in a very different way, which I don't like"
"What different way? Tell me clearly Kajal, be frank with me"
"Mummy, if someone talks to me, he will look at my face, right? Ajay Bhaiya's eyes keep roaming over my body, often staying still at my chest. I feel very uneasy when he does that. It's a creepy feeling. And sometimes he comes very close to me trying to touch me, on my hand, my waist or my face."
Jyotsna felt the earth slipping from under her feet. She knew exactly what kind of perversion had gripped Ajay's mind!
"Beti, don't wear frocks at home any more, wear Salwar Kameez, cover your front with a dupatta all the time, please. Please be careful. I will speak to your daddy tonight, let him check with Mantriji how long he is planning to keep his son here."
Kajal was not happy about the restrictions in dress,
"Yes Mummy, please do that. Why should we have to guard ourselves against an outsider? It's getting very frustrating."
Thet evening after dinner Jyotsna posed the question to Amaresh, he also had no answer.
"I am not able to talk to Mantriji, he had called from an unlisted number, Ajay gave me a number of his father, but that phone is always switched off. I don't know how long he is going to hide his son here."
Jyotsna sat up,
"Hiding? Yes, I wonder why he is hiding his son here! What is Ajay hiding from? What has he done?"
Suddenly Amaresh remembered something,
"When is the next visit of Preetam? It must be somewhere close, he comes every fifteen days, right?"
"Yes, he comes on alternate Sundays. His next visit is due four days from now."
"This time I will go to Berhampur to pick him up. Let me try to get some idea about what Ajay is hiding from."
Next Sunday when Preetam got down from the train around ten in the morning, he was pleasantly surprised to see Amaresh waiting for him.
"Sahab aap? Yahan kaise?"
"I had come yesterday to buy some plants, pesticides and fertilisers. Since I was going back today I thought I would pick you up. It will save you the taxi fare."
"Yes Saab, very thoughtful of you, now I realise why Mantriji is so fond of you! Let me go and take a shower in the lodge and we will leave after an early lunch."
"Sure, some lunch and a couple of beer, may be!"
Preetam"s eyes shone with anticipation,
"No Saab, no beer! Wine and Beer are for aristocrats like you, I will have whiskey, Royal Challenge is my favourite brand".
Animesh looked at his watch.
"Sure, let's go".
By the time they reached Daringibadi it was three in the afternoon. Jyotsna was waiting eagerly for Animesh,
"Any news, does Preetam say when will Ajay leave?"
Animesh shook his head,
"Not in the near future, we are badly stuck with this monster. May be for two three months."
Jyotsna cried out,
"Monster! What do you mean monster?"
"Not now, Ajay might hear us. I will tell you in the night."
"Do you know what he did last night, I almost fainted out of fear."
Animesh sat up, waiting eagerly for Jyotsna to continue,
"We were watching a movie on TV after dinner. Ajay sat near Kajal. When everyone was immersed in the movie, unknown to me, he slowly let his hand roam over Kajal's back. She wanted to get away from there but somehow he managed to pull her back. After about ten minutes he took his hand near her thighs and started squeezing them. I saw Kajal squirming and Ajay's hands on her thighs. I got the shock of my life. I didn't want to create a scene, since you were not at home. I simply switched off the TV and asked everyone to go to their rooms and sleep. In the night Ajay kept on humming and imitating the sound of animals. In the morning he wanted to take both the kids into the dense part of the farm to look for rabbits, I forbade them to go out. He has been sulking ever since. Now that he saw Preetam and the bag he is carrying, it cheers him up. I wonder what is it that Preetam brings with him which immediately uplifts Ajay's mood".
Animesh shuddered,
"I know, I will tell you everything in the night."
Preetam left after two hours. Dinner was taken early. Jyotsna was impatient to hear what Ajay was up to.
Animesh was deep in thought, lying on the bed, waiting for Jyotsna to come.
"You know, the person staying under the same roof with us for the last six weeks is a rapist, a murderer, and a drug addict..."
Before he could proceed further Jyotsna shrieked,
"What, do you realise what you are saying?"
Animesh nodded, a deep worry crowding his face like dark clouds on a clear sky,
"Yes, after five pegs of whiskey, Preetam Singh opened up and sang like a parrot. Ajay is hiding because he had shot a man on the day he left for here, he was put on the train by Rajesh Singh before police could arrest him. He had committed two murders earlier but his father was a minister at the time and could suppress the cases. This time it was difficult because his party is not in power. A year back Ajay had also raped a young receptionist in one of their hotels, that case was also buried under the files. Preetam beings him charas and cocaine every fortnight. Ajay also injects himself with some drugs."
Jyotsna's face had collapsed like a paper bag,
"And the humming, the sound of animals?"
"It is a habit from Ajay's childhood. It seems he used to imitate all kinds of sounds perfectly and enjoys doing that. He also has a split personality, with elders he can be very polite and well mannered with others he can be extremely abrasive and arrogant."
Jyotsna started crying, tears flowing from her copiously,
"O My God, what kind of mess your Mantriji has pushed us in? Of all the people in the world he chose you to be saddled with this monster! Is this the price you pay for being decent, polite and helpful to people? What to do now? Tomorrow morning you tell Ajay to leave, we can send one of our farm boys to accompany him to Bilaspur."
"No. No, let's not commit that mistake. Preetam says Ajay has a mercurial temper and can become very violent if provoked, that's how he committed those murders. We must think of our safety and that of the children. I was told by Preetam that Mantriji is trying his best to get the case withdrawn, but it may take two three months, or if the heavy amount of bribe works, it may happen earlier. Nobody knows for certain. Ajay has become very restless here, he is missing his girlfriend who is in Bilaspur. He is also putting pressure on his father to do something. Let's just wait for a few more days."
Amaresh went off to sleep. Jyotsna's mind was in turmoil. She heard the faintest sound of a door being opened. She peeped through the window, Ajay was walking like a shadow down the path to the huge sal tree where he would sit and smoke his charas. Jyotsna shuddered, remembering the way his hand had crept to Kajal's thighs. Was he already under the influence of some drugs at that time? Otherwise how could he do such a vile thing in the presence of Jyotsna?
The next morning Ajay was excessively polite to Jyotsna offering help in the kitchen. He was also eyeing Elizabeth, the young tribal maid who was bending over the wooden board cutting vegetables. His eyes were red and swollen, Jyotsna knew that must be the lingering effect of the drugs he had taken in the night. Jyotsna could read the language of lust in Ajay's eyes, the way he was looking at Elizabeth. She took the vegetables from Elizabeth and asked her to go home. Ajay returned to his room disappointed, his face looking even more sinister than before. In the evening he was looking for Elizabeth, "to bring a glass of water to his room", but Jyotsna sent the water through Abhijeet. Ajay called Kajal to his room to teach her Math, she refused to go. Ajay came out of his room and caught hold of Kajal, threatening her for insulting him with her refusal. She went crying to Jyotsna who pacified Ajay.
It was end of November, Daringibadi was turning colder. In the nights the animals were getting more active, howling all the time.
Ajay had been sleeping quite soundly for the last three nights, his after dinner glass of milk being spiked with a couple of sleeping pills. On the third night Jyotsna woke up. There was the sound of a pack of hyenas howling. She got curious, she had never seen a pack of hyenas. She opened the door in Ajay's room and went outside. The night was vibrant, with all kinds of sounds echoing from the nearby forest. All she could see was the trees swaying to a gentle wind. She tiptoed back to her room.
Around three she and Amaresh got up to the sound of a hyena howling. He wanted to go and check, she pulled him back,
"Must be Ajay trying to imitate the cry of a Hyena, go back to sleep chanting Namah Shivay, Namah Shivay."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Three months have passed since that fateful night. Animesh and his family have shifted to a rented house half a kilometre from their farm. They are still haunted by the heart rending image of a young man of twenty two, shredded to pieces by a pack of hyenas. The kids are traumatised by the thought of how the hyenas had bitten off pieces of flesh from different parts of the body. Amaresh had a tough time explaining to Mantriji how Ajay had this habit of going into the open to smoke his charas despite being warned by him not to do so. Jyotsna tries her best to get over that unforgettable night - the darkness outside, the swaying trees, the sleeping Ajay and the half open door. She shudders at the thought of it and closes her eyes, chanting the Maha Mrutyunjay mantra!
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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