Literary Vibes - Edition LXIV
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the sixty fourth edition of LiteraryVibes.
We are fortunate to have three new poets with us, all from Chennai.
Ms. Meera Raghavendra Rao is a very accomplished poet and writer with years of contribution to reputed literary journals. Ms Vidya Shankar, a motivational speaker and Yoga enthusiast, excels in awareness about mental health and is a recipient of numerous literary awards and recognition. Ms. Thryaksha A. Garla is an extremely talented poet who is also very prolific. At the young age of eighteen she has her own blog with more than two hundred poems! A first place winner in the competition conducted by the India Poetry Circle in 2018, she has the potential to climb the highest summit of literary excellence. I welcome the three newcomers to the family of LiteraryVibes and wish them tremendous success in their literary career.
Prof. Geetha Nair, on the cusp of distinguished literary eminence with two new books at an advanced stage of publication, has compiled an Anthology of poems which have been published in LV from time to time. These are going to be a part of her new book of poems. The second book is a collection of thirty three stories, all published in LiteraryVibes over the past one year. She has been a sterling contributor to our pages and we look forward to her continuing association with us for years to come. I have great pleasure in publishing her second Anthology in LiteraryVibes today along with the sixty fourth edition.
The country continues to cope with the Corona crisis with grim determination. Patience is wearing thin, but we go about our life with hope. In these difficult times I am reminded of a short, inspiring poem by the modern Greek poet Constantinos Grigoriadis:
If the road of hope makes you tired,
remember,
i exist,
you exist,
we will exist.
With an extended lock down of around three more weeks one has plenty of time in hand to pursue literary interests. Those of you who want to write to get over boredom, we will be happy to publish your writings. If you have the urge to write, we have the space to spare. We are proud to have hosted many new writers and poets, sometimes as young as ten years in the past. In fact this eMagazine has been launched to encourage new writers. Please do write and send your articles to me at mrutyunjays@gmail.com
The present edition has some excellent poems and outstanding stories. Hope you will enjoy them. Please forward the link http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/296 to all your friends and contacts with a reminder that all the previous sixty three editions of LV along with four Anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes
Looking forward to your feedback in the Comments section at the bottom of the page of LVLXIV. Take care, stay safe and healthy.
With warm regards,
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
- GLORY OF LOSS Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- REWRITING THE... Haraprasad Das
- A PANTHER ON ... SALABEGA
- FLYING COLOURS Sreekumar K
- TREES Bibhu padhi
- DOCTOR'S DIARY Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
- FAR HORIZON Krupasagar Sahoo
- BLACK HOLE vs ... Dr Bijay Ketan Patnaik
- TIMELY ACT Lathaprem Sakhya
- GANDHIGIRI Dr. Sumitra Mishra
- BATTLEFIELD Sharanya Bee
- THE MYNAHS TALE Sundar Rajan S
- MYNATHS DAY Sundar Rajan S
- PURPOSE Sumita Dutta Shoam
- THE PERPETRATOR Padmini Janardhanan
- MORNING MUSE Hema Ravi
- A Book of Three.. Setaluri Padmavathi
- The Flame Sheena Rath
- THE UNPAIRED.. Sheena Rath
- CONTENTED!!! Anjali Mohapatra
- THESE ARE NOT.. Ravi Ranganathan
- HEART BEAT Geetha Subramanian
- SERENDIPITY Thryaksha A Garla
- AQUIVER Thryaksha A Garla
- WEAK HEART... Meera Raghavendra Rao
- UN-QUESTIONED Vidhya Shankar
- JUDGE SAHAB Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Your beauty takes away
my breath, how selfish!
I surrender my soul,
the sponge in you
sucks it up.
My empty shell wallows
in a glory of loss,
hugging my virtual victory:
like Ashoka of Magadh,
who lost his machismo,
in the War of Kalinga,
no residue was left;
only a memory, here or there,
a sliver of light, prisoned
in a gem, warped
inside the primordial labyrinth.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra writes poems, stories, critiques and translates, works in two languages – English and Odia. Three of his collected poems in English have been published into books – VIGIL (1993), Lips of a Canyon (2000), and LITMUS (2005).His Odia poems have appeared in Odia literary journals. His English poems poems have been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. He has translated Bhakti poems (Odia) of Salabaga that have been anthologized into Eating God by Arundhathi Subramaniam and also translated Odia stories of the famous author Fakirmohan Senapati for the book FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM (VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI). He has also edited the book. He has presided over the POETRY CIRCLE (Mumbai), a poets’ group, and was the editor (1986-96) of the group’s poetry magazine POIESIS. He has won Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award and JIWE Poetry Award for his English poems.He welcomes readers' feedback at his email - prabhanjan.db@gmail.com
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
The body goes numb,
the dismal night-breeze
plays a freezing sonata,
deathly as dirge,
on reeds of the old ribcage
with cold fingers.
A realization at last:
writing love poems
to the sweetheart,
whispering sweet nothings
in her flowering days,
spending more intimate hours;
mounting her smiling face
in a lovely frame
in the spring of our prime,
could have saved
these dreary nights,
from deathly cold fingers.
While rejoicing our union,
we had to be more attentive,
navigating with more ardour;
giving more leisure
to our togetherness
saving time from the rat race.
The extravagant youth
had to be better invested
to receive back bigger dividends;
leading to more
satisfying later days,
healing life’s dreary nights.
Even singing silly praises,
behaving smitten, besotted,
could be excellent love ploys.
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)”
A PANTHER ON THE PROWL (BAAGHA MAATILAARE NIKUNJA BANARE)
SALABEGA (BHAKTI POET, Year of death 1607)
Translated by Prabhanjan K. Mishra
Out of its dense woods
a panther on the prowl,
gone rogue
not finding its mate;
crouching by Yamuna
keeping watch
on all pathways
leading to Gopa,
pounces on a maiden
on her way to the River;
dragged to its lair,
the captive maiden,
bewitched by
the panther’s beauty,
his shining teeth,
his gleaming claws,
feels her heart torn apart;
the beast’s dark looks,
heightened by its hypnotic eyes,
the touch of his scarlet lips,
fuel the maiden’s desire.
Where from this panther,
sandal mark on forehead?
No one knows its origin.
But Salabega says:
he is none other than
Radha’s kanhaai.
FOOTNOTE – 1. Krishna humoured his beloved Radha in various guises, as bangle-seller, female barber, flower-girl etc. Once he wore a tiger’s skin to gain her favours. 2. The last three lines of the poem is in Bhanita tradition of Salabega’s time, where, sort of, the poet would leave his name like an artist’s signature on his painting.
SALABEGA, who lived and wrote in the cusp of 16th and 17th century AD (said to have passed away in 1607 at Puri), was born to an inter-religiously married couple, a Muslim army general and a Hindu widow. He grew up in Islam faith, but because of his mother’s influence, became an ardent devotee of lord Jagannath of Puri. He composed Bhakti lyrics in meter-rhyme-raga tradition of his time. He created a large oeuvre of poetic work in the praise of the lord of Puri, and the lord’s other manifestations, especially as Krishna, addressing him affectionately as Kaanhaa or Kanhaai. His lyrical hymns would be recited in rural Odisha by people with love and devotion. Once his scripted works thought to be lost were found in the palace library of the king of Badamba in the form of palm-leaf recording (pothi). These poems have been fondly collected in book form by various literary lovers of Bhakti Poetry.
Getting off the bus at that inconspicuous town where I used to teach decades ago, I hoped I might see some familiar faces. It was not such a strong desire or anything; just a wish to go back in time for a day.
My wife asked me repeatedly to check out the address with someone. Obviously the place could be even five to ten kilometres away . The ride can cost an arm and a leg. I would have brought my car had my foot been completely healed. I made a rough calculation and finally opted to hire an auto rikshaw.
The guy said he knew the place though not the exact location of the church. That meant I would have to get down where he took me and then walk around. With my foot, that too would be hard. Another local auto rikshaw after landing there might be the only option, I thought.
We got in. After a kilometre I caught him looking at us through the rear view mirror. I got nervous. I knew they do that but my newly adopted city ways had made me an alien to such things.
Then all on a sudden he turned back, risking ramming into a bus coming our way and asked, “You used to teach here, right Sir?”
I said yes and asked him whether I had taught his children. He looked too old to have been taught by me.
“No, Sir. But I used to drop kids at your school.”
OK. Now that meant I wouldn’t be able to negotiate with him.
I was sure he had done that on purpose.
The auto rikshaw left the main road and was now following roads which were happily meandering though labyrinths. I had a doubt whether he was doing it on purpose to charge me two arms and two legs. Man, my one leg is no good.
The place looked quite unfamiliar but I could still spot the place where I had gone with my father on his first motorbike ride. He was eighty and I was half his age. The bike was brand new.
I was able to get a peek at the river now and then and spotted the place where I had taken my mother-in-law to watch the boat race. I could still hear the shouts and loud announcements about the boats and their positions.
The man was asking memore frequently which way to take, right or left. I answered him with my gut feeling. The butterflies fluttering there told me which way to take. Once we went half a kilometre in one direction and then reversed because it was a dead end.
It was a hartal day and judging by the intensity of the hartal I was sure it was an exhortation from some unknown party. A few shops were still open. But the roads were deserted. No chance of getting help from the local pedestrians.
We would have gone almost six kilometres when I saw a church with a small crowd. I asked the driver to stop and got out. I asked the first person I met whether he knew Joji
He stared at me and said yes and walked away. I ran after him and asked him whether this was the church Joji’s son was getting married in. He again said yes and rushed away. The he turned around and said, “Time to milk my cow.”
Oh, thank you gentleman. You are excused. Please pardon me for the small inconvenience caused. I hope the agony is abated, I mused.
I gave a 500-rupee currency note to the driver and he had no change and that is a whole story. Let’s telescope. The Biriyaani might be getting cold.
We were late as usual. The wedding was at its last stage. I saw Thomas and his family and waved at them.
In another five minutes the ceremonies were completely over and it was time for the photo-shoot. After the Priest had his turn, before anyone else, we were invited, rather forced to be with the couple for a click. That was amazing.
We said thanks to the family. They were really busy and were inviting the next group of people for the shoot but both the parents had their eyes on us with that sweet smile on their lips.
I told my wife we could wait outside. It was too hot inside the church. We had no idea where the Biriyani was.
Outside, under the colourful canopy, looking at the beautiful flowerbeds on the premises, I recalled the school days of the bridegroom. He was not interested in his studies. He was good with vehicles. Once I sat with a palpitating heart with him as he was driving his father’s brand new car. He was only fifteen and had no license.
That day I knew trigonometry and compound interest had nothing to do with driving skills.
His other passion was flying kites. I think he got it from me. If so, I did teach him something.
I remember the day when both of us were flying kites. We were staring at them high up in the sky till our necks were a pulp. Then I had this eerie feeling that there was something happening behind us without our noticing it. We were on a road which cut across an extensively paddy field. Nervous, I turned back and saw that here was a real traffic jam. Several truck driver and taxi men had come out and were trying to spot our kites which had shrunk to the size of mustard seeds. I was excited but acted embarrassed.
He scraped through the tenth standard and I didn’t see him much after that.
On my last visit to this town, I ran into him near the bus station. He was going to attend some class at Kochi, the nearest metro. That was such a coincidence. Both of us had missed the train. Fated to meet. He had a tale to relate which he did as usual. It took me another half an hour to make meaning out of it. I did that on my bus.
This was what I figured out. His friend was attending an interview at Kochi and took him along for company. Just for the heck of it, he too attended the interview with no idea what the course was. His friend failed in the interview but he got in. He had to ask his dad to rush to Kochi with 37,000 rupees to fix the admission. His father didn’t even know that he had travelled that far that day. He had noticed only that there were fewer sibling fights at home. Anyway, his father obliged. He got the admission. The institute was called IATS. I didn’t know what they taught and he had not mentioned that. Institute of Advanced Training in Kite Servicing. But where is the damn K, I wondered.
The food was good. We were taken around and displayed to all the relatives as Thomas’ favourite teachers. Both of them were in tears while talking about those days to a close relative of theirs.
I really wanted to find out what he was doing. But they seemed to assume that I knew.
So, while no one was noticing I dragged Thomas aside and asked him.
“Actually, you moron, what do you do now?”
“SK sir, I am with the cabin crew.”
“And what on earth is a cabin?”
“Sir, you have not been on a flight?”
“No, but what has that to do with a cabin?”
He taught me what a cabin is what cabin crew means and what the members of a cabin crew do.
He taught well. Even his teacher is supposed to be good at his job.
On our way back, on the bus, I had this hunch. I took out my mobile, turned it on in a hurry, logged into my google account and typed.
“How far above kites do airplanes fly?”
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.
Anon
Since the time I began to remember,
they have been here, standing perfectly
still and erect, as angels do.
Shades of green come and go,
and perhaps the barks fall off
when no one sees.
During the day, under the tropic sun,
their leaves shine as emeralds do
on the goddess’s ancient body;
under the moon’s light, words move though
the distances, from one to the other,
until each one receives the message of the night.
As we walk down the road, hand in hand,
“I’m six,” my son says, “but how old
are these trees?”
I take time’s help, talk about how
a tree is born of a seed, how
the sapling grows and waits for the rain
to wash it clean, how freely
the leaves accept every small breeze.
“ Just like you,” I tell him. And, as he laughs
and we walk further down the road, I ask,
“Can you tell what colour are the leaves?” “Easy,
they are green. But tell me how old are the trees?”
He repeats his questions, but this time,
and I’m quick to answer, “They are six”.
I thought the same when I walked
this road, holding my father’s hand
twenty-nine years ago, and was told,
“They are six.”. Perhaps I still think they are so.
Somewhere, at some unfrequented corner
of the mind, the trees are always six—
young and shining above us gods do.
The barks will keep falling,
the leaves will take on shades of green
I might not know, the ancient messages
will continue to be transmitted
through the night. Perhaps, several years
from now, my son, holding his son’s hand
would walk down the same road and hear
the same old question, “How old are
these trees?” and would answer “They are six”.
First published in The Poetry Review (London)
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
For the first time, after serving on the ship for five months, Abhijit heard his name announced on the ship’s PA system. The call was to attend to the Sick-bay, which meant, his professional touch was needed. But this voice carried a sense of urgency. As he was thinking about what could it be all about, the announcement was repeated.
He rushed to the Sick-bay. His worst fears were confirmed. There was a commotion and a small gathering at the sick bay. Abhijit cut through the crowd and on entering the sick bay, found Satish, a fellow Officer on the ship, lying on the bed, unconscious.
‘While coming down the stairs, he slipped Sir, and banged his head’. A voice came from behind me.
Abhijit looked at the sailor for a moment and shifted his glance at Satish, scrutinizing his body from head to the toes. Then he questioned him ‘did you see it yourself?’
‘No, Sir, actually he saw’, pointing at the man standing next to him.
This young lad pushed himself forward, started narrating the incident.
Abhijit had his eyes on Satish’s chest heaving gently up and down, with his fingers on his pulse and requested the staff gathered around to vacate the sickbay, He caught hold of the eye-witness of the incident, asking him, ‘when did this accident happen?’
‘Just now Sir, only a few minutes back’
Abhijit continued feeling his pulse and called out his name, shaking him gently. But there was no response. He checked his eyes, examining his pupils carefully. He looked carefully at his head and neck but saw no sign of injury. He brushed his fingers through his hair. Again, there was no injury there and looking at his fingers for any clues found nothing but a couple of hairs.
He carefully examined his blood pressure, and Carotid pulse and listened to his chest and was satisfied that his heart and lungs were working well. Then he turned to the eye-witness for a fuller account of the accident.
‘He was coming down the ladder Sir. His foot must have slipped and next thing I saw was him lying on the floor’
‘Where were you when you saw this?
At the foot of the ladder Sir. I was about to go up when I saw the Saab coming down. I stopped and was just waiting for him to come down.
‘Then what happened?’
‘He fell down and didn’t get up. I thought, he would get up by himself. I waited for a few moments. As he didn’t, I shook him but he was senseless’.
How did he get here?’ Abhijit asked
He couldn’t get anywhere by himself Sir, he was completely senseless. Soon all the others gathered, who carried him to the Sickbay.
I looked at Satish, trying to shake him again. He was lying there motionless, except the gentle movement of his chest up and down. There was no response at all. Abhijit ran his hand on Satish’s headagain, looking for any obvious injury.
‘What’s wrong with him Doc’ came the Captain’s voice from behind.
‘Nothing serious, I hope, Sir’ Abhijit replied in a hesitant tone’.
‘But he is unconscious’.
Yes, Abhijit replied.
Then, why is he unconscious?
‘That’s what I am trying to find out’, was Abhijit’s answer.
‘Come on Doc, do something’, the Captain said with a tinge of command in his tone.
‘I am doing my best Sir; it isn’t clear as to….’, Abhijit’s voice trailed off.
‘What is the cause of his unconsciousness? It looks pretty serious to me’, the Captain said.
Abhijit could feel a bump on left side of Satish’s head. He replied, ‘Maybe it is a simple case of concussion, and he would come aroundsoon’
Abhijit had his other hand on his pulse, while talking to the Captain. He felt a jerk of his hand in his fingers. Satish was moving his hand away. Abhijit looked at his face. He looked back at him and looked at the Captain. Then he mumbled something.
‘Satish’, he called out
‘How are you Satish?’ Asked the Captain.
‘I am fine Sir. But how come I am here?
‘You fell down the ladder, banged your head and became unconscious. Don’t you remember what happened?’ Abhijit told him.
‘Oh’, Satish exclaimed and after a moment sat up. Then, he tried to stand up.
Abhijit put his hand on his shoulder, stopping him from getting off the bed and said, ‘Are you feeling OK?’
‘Yes, what is wrong with me?’ Satish asked.
‘You should stay in bed for some time, until we have checked out….’
Before, Abhijit finished, Satish moved his hand up to his head, ruffling his hand through his hair, and let out a faint, ‘Ah!’,’ Here my head feels a bit sore. That’s all’
‘Is there any other injury, Doc?’ Captain asked
‘No Sir’, Abhijit shook his head.
‘O K, Doc. It seems, everything is well’, Captain turned and left the sickbay.
Abhijit indicated to his assistant to measure his blood pressure one more time before removing the cuff off his arm.
Satish got up and sat on the chair, running his hand on the bump on his head. Abhijit checked the bump, making sure there was no undue tenderness.
‘How did you slip yaar’, Abhijit questioned him.
‘Accidents happen; what else can I say’ was the reply.
Abhijit looked through the pothole at the stretch of blue water. They were sailing on a long cruise to Australia, touching several ports on the way and, it was the second day of sailing. Abhijit was in a jubilant mood, on the first voyage to foreign ports. The long-cherished desire to visit foreign countries was planted in his mind at the time of joining the Navy. Nursed lovingly, the seed had grown into a tree, which was about to bear fruit.
Satish and Abhijit knew each other for a while and had become close pals through long hours spent together in close confines of the ship. The had spent long hours in evening, talking over drinks, sometimes into late night. They shared views, exchanged ideas and compared notes. This programme of the foreign voyage had plucked similar strings in their hearts, producing a concordant note.
‘Yaar, let me get down to my job’, Satish interrupted Abhijit’s chain of thought
‘You feel OK, Don’t you? But I advise you to take rest today.’
‘Don’t treat me like a kid. Minor accidents like this happen all the time and nobody takes any notice of them’ Satish said.
‘But, what’s the bloody harm, if you take rest today?’ Abhijit snapped.
Satish reflected for a moment and said, ‘OK, it’s difficult to argue with the Doctor’
‘And, not advisable either’, Abhijit completed the sentence for him.
‘Yaar, tell me, why do you look so serious; there is just this small bump?’
‘Ya’, Abhijit dragged it before adding, ‘I think, you would be alright’.
I don’t remember, how many times I had such small bumps, as a child, in school and at the college’, Satish said.
‘Sure, forget about it; there is nothing to worry about’. Abhijit said looking away and turning to Satish directly, added, ‘But, you will have to stay in the sickbay today’.
‘If there is nothing to worry about, why should be I staying here?’
‘That is just to platy safe’ Abhijit said, in a tone of finality.
Head injury with loss of consciousness, Abhijit reflected; not a thing to be trivialized. It can indicate serious damage to the brain. There is no way of knowing the extent of damage. Most often, a minor blow like this is a concussion. But the possibilities are many; hence safety must come first.
Ideally, any case of head injury, however minor it appears to be, should be observed in a well-equipped hospital, with facilities for resuscitation and emergency surgery. Transgression of the principle, Safety comes first, is no joke. He shuddered to realize that not only he was violating the golden rule of his profession, but he was compounding his mistake by closing the exit route from a possible catastrophe as the ship was sailing away further away from the coast. Sailing back to the shore for an emergency evacuation if his condition suddenly deteriorates, would take that much longer, reducing the chances of survival from a deadlyneurosurgical emergency.
Abhijit looked at the sea again. The ship was treading upon the blue sheet of sea, fluttering her flag to glory. They were in the middle of the ocean. He could of course watch him closely. But it was all pointless if something came up later. Sailing back to the hospital in the shore would take far too long. Then, he would be just be watching him slowly marching to his grave.
A sudden chill ran through him, throwing his whole body into a momentary shiver.
Abhijit got up from his chair and went up to check upon Satish. He was resting comfortably. But Abhijit’s mind was not at rest. ‘No, I have no right to take such a chance, at the cost of his life’, he said to himself ‘I have made up my mind; I must advise the Captain to sail back to drop Satish in the hospital., as he kept walking towards the Captain’s cabin. But that means, poor Satish would be miss this whole cruise. I shall be depriving him of this splendid opportunity, shatter his long-awaiteddream, out of an imaginary catastrophe, which may never happen.
Abhijit had reached the Captain’s cabin and before he could talk about what was uppermost in his mind, the Captain dragged him into some other discussion. At the end, he added, the program of the cruise had been revised, extending the stay at the foreign ports by ten more days, for our ship’s participation in some ceremony. Quite a happy news indeed.
‘By the way, how is Satish?’ he asked
Abhijit searched his mind for a suitable answer, but did not find one.
‘I hope he is OK, after all, it was a minor injury, just a fall, he added.
‘It appears to be a minor one Sir, but we don’t know, what damage has happened inside’.
‘But, if there is damage inside, how come he is up and about? He has no problems whatsoever’.
There are instances, where serious brain injury does not declare itself for some time. It’s called Lucid interval, when the person appears fine, only to become unconscious and die from a bleeding inside.
There is case of a football player, who sustained a head injury, while playing football. He dropped unconscious but soon got up to resume his play. He went to bed that night and was found dead next morning. Bleeding inside his head, causing serious brain damage, was discovered on post-mortem.
‘But it must be rare’, the Captain said.
Abhijit was not sure how to respond to this. The Captain, not getting an instant reassurance, looked at Abhijit. He was struck by the serious expression on his face.
‘Are you advising me to sail back and drop Satish at the hospital?’, he asked.
‘But there is a pretty good chance that nothing will happen’ Abhijit replied.
‘Then, why not take the chance, we go by probability, don’t we?’ Captain asked.
Abhijit was impressed by his philosophical tone. He merely nodded and walked out of his cabin. His mind was clouded with never-ending arguments. After all, Satish was hale and hearty. This is most likely a case of simple concussion. The unconsciousness lasted a few minutes, if at all that. There are no neurological signs. Perhaps, I did the right thing by agreeing to the captain’s decision. Otherwise, I would be depriving Satish of this wonderful trip, out of my own fear. He would never excuse me if I ordered him to be dropped off at the hospital and nothing untoward ever happened to him.
Abhijit instructed his assistant on all the checks and went to his cabin. He wondered how and why he gave in to the Captain’s suggestions so easily. His inner turmoil was in clear contrast with the serenity of the clear sky above and blue sea around, stretched like a huge canvass, the ship was tearing into two identical halves. His dilemma had defied all his attempts at a resolution.
He reminded himself again of the saying of Hippocrates, by common consent, the father of Modern Medicine: No head injury is too slight to neglect or too severe to be despaired of. The profound wisdom, in this saying, pronounced two thousand years ago, stands true even to this day. He must not despair and try harder to contain his own demon. At the end, all he could do was to scribble it down in his diary, as if to unburden himself of this heavy load.
Day rolled into evening. The gentle blue sea took a steely grey hue. The ripples of water rose like shimmering blades and merged into the vast expanse of water. This was going to be the night of waiting for Abhijit, the longest night in his life.
Before he knew, he dosed off on his chair and the nightmare was dancing before his eyes. He saw Satish sinking into unconsciousness, suddenly his pulse and blood pressure falling rapidly. He could see the blood dripping from the torn vessels inside his head, forming a large pool of blood. It was pressing on his brain, as if strangling his brain cells to death. Millions of brain cells were lying scattered on a vast landscape like the mass casualty in the aftermath of a tsunami.
There was a knock. He could not make out if it was for real or he was still dreaming. The knock was repeated, this time, louder. He opened his eyes and looked up to see his assistant was standing at his cabin door.
Surely something is wrong, he thought.
‘Saab is unconscious Sir. He was fine just minutes back’.
Are you sure, he was well until a few minutes back?
He rushed to the sickbay without waiting for his reply. This is the end, he said to himself. He flung open the door of the sickbay. Satish was lying on the bed; his face was serene. He took his wrist and shook him up, calling out his name. But there was no response.
‘No God, I have committed a murder. I deserve to be damned for this’ he could hear talking to himself.
He started pumping up the blood pressure cuff to take a reading of his blood pressure.
Suddenly Satish opened his eyes and smiled. Abhijit could not believe his eyes.
Satish’s grin broadened, baring his glistening white teeth. He was looking at Abhijit’s face. He saw a strange look on his face, as if he had seen a ghost. Abhijit was too stunned to speak.
‘Hey, don’t give me that horrible look. I was just acting’, Satish said.
‘Acting? What for?’
‘Just to watch the fun. How was the drama?’ Satish said.
‘What got you into this acting mood?’ Abhijit asked
‘I got the idea from your diary’, was Satish’s reply.
‘Oh Gosh!’ He exclaimed.
Then, he realized, in his state of mental turmoil, his diary was left in the sickbay.
‘Tell me, how was the drama?’ Satish asked softly.
‘You rascal, stop playing with my sanity’ Abhijit shouted back.
April 2020 - This is a work of fiction, based on true events in 1970’s, when modern Brain scanning was not in widespread use.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
Netaji Subhash Bose was flying from Saigon to some undisclosed destination when his plane crashed and ended his life. The Japanese aircraft’s debris was scattered over the little Formosa Islands. The disaster took place on 16th August 1945. The news was broadcast from Tokyo radio after four days.
Although it had shocked every Indian, they could not accept it and thought everything had been stage-managed and shrouded in mystery.
Such a rumour had been spread in London three years ago also. Reuters had declared that Netaji had died while he was on board a plane flying to Tokyo. But a few hours later, a thunderous voice addressed the world on the radio, “I am Subhash speaking. The British are spreading lies about my death in the plane crash. But to their ill-luck I am still alive.” That is why no one in India was prepared to believe the news of Netaji's death. It was quite natural that everybody thought the news to be false and concocted.
India achieved freedom. The Indians, who had all along believed that Netaji’s plane accident was only a figment of imagination, hoped that Netaji would soon return to his motherland. In such a climate of hope and anticipation much sensational news made the rounds. Many were of the opinion that Netaji had become an ascetic and was living in the mountains of the Himalayas, and there were others who spread the news that he was roaming the country in the guise of a Buddhist monk.
As days passed, all kinds of sensational rumours began floating around. This gave rise to anxious speculation in everybody’s heart. The government was under tremendous pressure to unearth the truth about the mysterious disappearance of Netaji. Two commissions were set up to unravel the truth. They gave their report very soon that Netaji had indeed died in the crash and that his ashes were preserved at the shrine of Renkoji in Japan.
But no matter what those reports pronounced or even his daughter Anita said to the press, Bholanath could never be convinced that Netaji had died.
Bholanath Ghosh was the Station Master of Ledo Station. It was a small hilly railway station on the Dibrugarh-Ledo section of the North-Eastern Frontier Railway. Although this station was not remarkable enough to find a place in geography books, its Station Master, Bholanath was not all that unknown. It was because of his efforts that the nondescript railway station got occasional coverage in the local newspapers. He was the boss of six employees including the ASM, the cabin man, the porter and the safaiwala-all who worked at the station.
Netaji was his hero. He used to say that in the history of India’s freedom struggle, Netaji was the real commander. The fearless man who could throw dust in the eyes of the British and escape from Kolkata to Peshawar and traverse the impregnable hilly terrain to reach Kabul and ultimately arrive as Orlando Majota at the British airport, would one day reappear on India’s soil and startle everyone. He could appear from anywhere, from any direction, perhaps sailing across the mighty Brahmaputra and crossing the mountains barefoot. Bholanath was certain that his hero would reappear and he was waiting eagerly for that happy moment.
Bholanath used to say, “Netaji is immortal. The man whom the iron fetters of the prison could not suppress and who could surmount any obstacles that hindered his progress could not be claimed by any deadly disease. All the mishaps only made him more courageous; he could not be cowed down by defeat. He used all those hindering blocks as stepping-stones towards his destination. He was hell-bent on achieving independence for his beloved motherland. His horizon was wide and extended to the whole of the Universe. That is why his return was inevitable. Lal Kila was calling him. He would hoist the national flag on it one day.
That is why Bholanath used to scan the newspapers everyday to find even a slight mention about his hero. No matter whether he was at home or the office, his ears were alert to the small radio, as if some good news would filter in, as if he would one day hear the familiar thunderous, heavy voice announcing, “I am coming back to my beloved motherland, Jai Hind.”
Thus, Bholanath, the dreamer spent his days in the nondescript small station in the hilly area, waiting for his hero’s homecoming.
He was the master of Ledo station. And yet he was doing everything himself. He had to keep control of the passing trains. And sell tickets at the counter, too, before the arrival of a train. He would stand at the gate to check the tickets of the arriving passengers. Sometimes he would book parcels, too. And yet, for a workaholic like him, it was still not enough to keep him completely occupied. That is why he would create jobs to be done, even at that small station. He would be the chief convener of the Puja committee during the Dusserah festival. He would personally supervise the small and lovely garden he had raised at the station platform with the help of the Permanent Way Inspector. There was a tall flag post too, where they would unfurl the national flag on the Republic Day and Independence Day. He would address the audience from there on these occasions.
In fact, much of his time was spent on making speeches. His regular audience comprised the two to three coolies at the station, a beggar who lived on the platform and an emaciated stray dog. The gist of his speech was that although the country had attained freedom from the foreigners, it was not the ideal, total freedom at all. The country needed freedom from the shackles of ignorance, poverty, and all sorts of evils. One day Netaji would definitely emerge like a phoenix from the ashes and he would put an end to all misery, sorrow, pain and oppression.
Bholanath was past fifty. He was lean and thin and emaciated. But when he would address his audience with his spirited voice, it seemed as if warm blood rushed in his veins. Most people considered him a crank, half mad. And whenever his name cropped up, they would turn a finger in their ears as if to indicate that the screws of his brain had become loose.
There was a reason for believing that his screws were not in their proper place. For a serene and secluded station, he was unnecessarily creating jobs to be done and thereby raising many avoidable problems. For instance, when he would get the message that a high official would pass by his route, he would stop the train or the motor trolley and would not let the officer leave without taking tea and snacks. Sometimes the official would get delayed because of these unscheduled programmes and would naturally get annoyed at Bholanath’s persistence.
It is only due to his foolhardiness that a stupid incident happened. A wild bull had come on to the track and was fatally hit by a running train. The bull had turned into a heap of flesh under the giant wheels of the train. And the train had to be detained for its hose-pipes had burst in the accident. Since the station’s telegraph center was out of order, the train’s guard wrote a message and handed it over to Bholanath Ghosh to be delivered to the control room.
The message read like this: “A bull run over and killed at Ledo. My train suffered detention for one hour.”
After the hose-pipes were replaced and the vacuum was created, the train bellowed its whistle and started to roll. Bholanath read the telegram message minutely before sending it. He read it several times but did not like the guard’s language. He said, “Look now! The bull is the sacred conveyor of Lord Mahadeva and is being worshipped by the Hindus. The devotees bow first to the image of the bull when they enter the gates of the temple for Shiva. But the guard has used such derogatory terms for the sacred animal!”
He changed the contents of the telegram to read: “Reverend Bull passes away at Ledo. My train suffered detention for fifty-five minutes.” He had deducted precious five minutes to shield the inefficiency of his station.
The news of Reverend Bull’s accident spread like wildfire. The Christians from Dibrugarh and adjacent areas rushed to Ledo station. Reverend Bull was the father of the Dibrugarh Church and had gone away for some days. When the news of his death came, his well-wishers thronged the Ledo station to have a last glimpse of the beloved priest. They were overcome by grief. Only when they arrived at the station did they come to know the truth and were understandably angry at the misleading news. In their fury, they bayed for the Station Master’s blood.
Bholanath, fearing the angry mob, had to hide in the nearby Tipang Hills locking up his office. Not finding him anywhere, the crowd ransacked and damaged his office building.
Bholanath returned after hiding for two days in the jungle only when the anger of the people had subsided. The people commented that the eccentric Bholanath had become a lunatic chanting Netaji’s name day in and day out.
When night descended on this small meter-gauge railway station, the station, too, would sleep blissfully. There were no night trains plying on that route and only once or twice a week a coal-laden train would arrive in the night. That is why, at night time the porters and the cabin men would go off to sleep happily at the station. The birds nesting in the nearby deodar trees too would sleep quietly, in bliss. . Except for the soft whisper of the dried fallen leaves and the cricket’s incessant call or occasional howl of the jackals out in search of food, there would be no sound breaking the stillness of the night.
Although everybody slept, sleep eluded Bholanath night after night.
During the day, he would be too busy to think of anything. But when night fell, the image of Netaji would appear before him. The round face, the round eyes and the conical cap on the head. The line clear block instrument’s stand would appear to him as if it was the bust of Netaji. When the semaphore signal post raised its hand at a distance it seemed to him that Netaji was standing there in his usual posture. And ordering everyone around, “Delhi Chalo!”
Of late, he was becoming so obsessed about his hero’s homecoming that he believed Netaji’s appearance was imminent. He could reappear any day and anywhere. That is why he would search the compartments of the trains standing at the station. Sometimes he would peer at the faces of the passengers and also lift the blankets of sleeping passengers to find his beloved Netaji’s face. He would look at the people queuing up at the ticket counters. Sometimes he had to pay a price for his obsession; it often led to awkward situations since he was unable to explain his strange behavior.
That night Bholanath had to perform night duty even after finishing his duty for the day. Since the newly married ASM was on leave, he had to do a double shift that night. He had finished his regular day duty and was listening to the radio news attentively. He had talked about Netaji to his regular audience, too. The station staff had told him, “The control room has sent a message that there won’t be any train passing by this route. You better go home and take a nap. We will keep watch here. Don’t worry.”
Bholanath declined, saying, “The D.O.S, Gupta Sahib is like a cheetah. He suffers from insomnia and I have heard that in the night he listens to the conversations between the station staff and the control room. Sometimes he shouts to check whether the staff is awake or not. Anyone who does not respond immediately to his shrill call receives a suspension order the next day for negligence of duty. Why into such a mess? It is better to do one’s duty.”
Night falls early in the hilly areas and he kept fully awake throughout. Dawn came lazily that winter month. A thick mist had gripped the tiny station like a heavy blanket. The silhouettes of the nearby trees were indistinct in the misty daybreak. Even the red signal lights could hardly be seen and the porter had to hold a fusee signal light in hand to give directions to incoming trains. Bholanath had opened the booking counter half-an-hour before the next train was due. He had already completed the line-clear drill and had come to sell tickets at the booking window. Beyond the counter was the second class waiting hall. There, dense darkness ruled like an emperor. Although there was a single bulb burning, it could not fight back the anarchy of darkness.
At the booking window, there was an iron net with a small opening to collect the fare and hand over the tickets. Bholanath saw there was one gentleman at the window waiting to buy a ticket. He asked in a somber voice, “Can you please give me a ticket for Dibrugarh?”
After taking the ticket from the ticket tube, Bholanath stared at the gentleman who was now searching through the folds of his chaddar to give him the money. Bholanath peered at his customer once again.
In that faint light, he saw that the customer had a slightly - balding head. He had a round face and two round eyes. He wore spectacles and it seemed to him as if there were two streaks of bright light flowing out of those eyes.
Suddenly he told himself, “Why, it is Netaji.”
Bholanath came out of his room and rushed to the second class waiting room. “O Jagan! O Khokan! Getup.Netaji has come.”
He was screaming joyously as if in delirium. The man standing at the counter was startled and rushed away hurriedly. Bholanath followed him through that misty night, through the silhouettes of the surrounding trees. He could see the tussar chaddar vanishing into the mist-laden forests and he pursued his idol through the layers of mist trying to catch a glimpse of his hero.
After some time, the chaddar was no longer visible. Bholanath continued to go after him. He followed him through the pine forest, and began to ascend the foothills of the Tipang Hill in a state of stupor.
Bholanath’s feet were not in control any more. He was under a spell. He was climbing the hills. And when he reached the peak, it seemed as if Netaji had disappeared into the far horizon at the end of the trail.
Bholanath too rushed in that direction to the edge of the horizon, in search of Netaji, his hero.
The sleepy round face of the sun appeared a little late that morning. After the thick mist wafted away from the sky, the horizon appeared clear and bright. Again, the birds flew away noisily in search of food. The passengers of the morning train too went to their workplaces as usual. In the evening, the birds returned to their nests. The passengers too returned to catch trains to go back home. But Bholanath did not come back.
Not that day. Not even the next day. Bholanath, who had gone searching for Netaji and had rushed to the far horizon, never came back. He too became lost in the mists of time just as his hero, Netaji had disappeared.
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.
As a pulsating star sinks
Its periphery crumbles, squeezes
However mass increases leaps and bounds.
The process goes on and on
till all the fuels exhausted
the pulsating star
stops emitting, blinking
no radiation, no vibration
its only and only a Black Hole!
In a broken relationship
the process seems quite similar
but, with some differences,
initial vibration faulters
with passage of time radiation drops
relationship gets squeezed
mass gets separated
neither increase in mass
nor the gravitational force.
It reaches a breaking point
no periphery, no diameter
only a point,non recoverable
where all questions stopped
no answer ever returns
no escape, whatsever
light, vibrations
electro magnetic radiations
all got sucked in both cases
one is Black hole, other a Black spot.
Only a pronounced difference
noticed in both cases
Black hole has length and breadth
In a broken relationship
no perimeter, no diameter
Its a wholesome vacuum
A point, only a point!
Bijay Ketan Patnaik writes Odia poems, Essays on Environment, Birds, Animals, Forestry in general, and travel stories both on forest, eco-tourism sites, wild life sanctuaries as well as on normal sites. Shri Patnaik has published nearly twentifive books, which includes three volumes of Odia poems such as Chhamunka Akhi Luha (1984) Nai pari Jhia(2004) andUdabastu (2013),five books on environment,and rest on forest, birds and animal ,medicinal plants for schoolchildren and general public..
He has also authored two books in English " Forest Voices-An Insider's insight on Forest,Wildlife & Ecology of Orissa " and " Chilika- The Heritage of Odisa".Shri Patnaik has also translated a book In The Forests of Orrisa" written by Late Neelamani Senapati in Odia.
Shri Patnaik was awarded for poetry from many organisations like Jeeban Ranga, Sudhanya and Mahatab Sahitya Sansad , Balasore. For his travellogue ARANYA YATRI" he was awarded most prestigious Odisha Sahitya Academy award, 2009.Since 2013, shri patnaik was working as chief editor of "BIGYAN DIGANTA"-a monthly popular science magazine in Odia published by Odisha Bigyan Academy.
After super annuation from Govt Forest Service in 2009,Shri Patnaik now stays ai Jagamara, Bhubaneswar, He can be contacted by mail bijayketanpatnaik@yahoo.co.in
I am a marmot. I became popular through a photograph by Yongking Bao that won an award. It shows a cruel wolf ready to pounce on a frightened marmot. The story goes that I was soon killed by the wolf and taken as food for her hungry cubs.
But let me tell the real story. I am a ground squirrel, bigger than a cat. I live in a colony of thirty families, in a burrow that spreads under a grassy, rocky land. We live on the juicy grass. We are inactive for seven months during the cold season.
On that day, I came out after hibernation to look around and give the safety signal to my colony waiting to come out to feed. Hearing a sound I turned and saw a wolf crouching and another glinting monster, looking at me. I froze with fright, then a sudden flash, I screamed and bolted. I fell head long into a hole before the wolf could grab me. I lay stunned for a moment in the darkness. I soon found it was an unused burrow of our tribe. I heaved a sigh of relief. My timely reaction had saved my life.
( 200 words)
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
- GANDHIGIRI -
Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra
Ridicule, rebuff or refuse
Gandhigiri is nature’s law,
Written on the ancient barks of the trees
Surrendering silently to the axe
Yet greening and blooming nevertheless,
Settled on the rocks, the sky and the sea,
Capitulating mutely to the dynamite,
The dredging machines, the jets or kites,
Yet never minding
The mining, bursting, scouring or ruffling!
We may choose not to notice
We may opt not to care,
But simpletons like Munabhai and Muni
The buds and bushes, whales and kites,
Do care and notice
Offer the ‘Jadu ki jhappi’
Accepts the mantra;
“Tell the truth, confess, confide”.
Attitude changes outlooks
Forgetting and forgiving
Leads from hate to love
From violence to nonviolence,
From bullets to beliefs,
Have you tried and failed?
Happens sometimes,
But patience follows success
Spring only comes after the winter
Don’t lose hope, dear!
How soon have we forgotten
Gandhiji and Gandhigiri
The lion cloth clad bespectacled old man
And his universal love for humanity!!!
But we love the paper with his head;
The Gandhimunda
Printed on bronze and silver coins!!!
Don’t challenge
Gandhigiri as irrelevant and sham,
The love for truth and nonviolence
The harmonious motion
Of the sun, moon and stars,
Still rules the universe.
Though we may
Choose to ridicule, rebuff or refuse!
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”.
( For a short Anthology of Sharanya Bee's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/285 )
We move forward, You and I
One step at a time
Stamping on plots black and white
One thing I know
We don't walk towards each other
So we don't hope
To meet or to greet
To share a shy smile
Or to give an awkward hug
They are perhaps trying to teach us
This world is graver than our imaginations
The tension rising with every step forward
I hope to hold your hand atleast
You're on my side but no looks from even the corner of your eyes
So I prepare myself with courage
Not knowing what for
Eyes straight ahead like yours, anticipating,
I get ready for war.
While asking myself these perplexing questions
Who are You and I in this game we play for someone, purpose unknown
The King and the Queen?
The Soldiers or their shield?
Or mere, unseen ammunition
Wasted away to unheard cries
In a fictional battlefield...?
Sharanya Bee, is a young poet from Trivandrum, who is presently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature in Kerala University. She also has a professional background of working as a Creative Intern in Advertising. She is passionate about Drawing and Creative Writing.
“Tini, it’s time for me now. Can we look at a quiet place this time? I need a change too”.
“Yes, sure Mini. We can look at a cosy corner in the balcony of the newly built house that has come up recently. There appears to be just a few people residing in that house and we will not be disturbed often.”
We flew to the balcony of the new house and perched on the railings. Being a newly constructed house, we could not locate a hole or crevice in the building and initially, we were a bit disappointed. Suddenly, Tini started chirping excitedly. “Look Mini. There is a wooden nest on the wall over there. It looks like the owners are nature lovers too. Let’s see if it will be suitable for us.”
It looks like a nest made for sparrows, Tini. But we can try this out for a change. Let us bring twigs and leaves and make it very cosy, as we usually do at the time of nesting.”
“Tini, it looks like there are only four people in this family”.
“But, how do you know, Mini?”
“When we flew in this morning, I noticed four pairs of eyes looking at us with curiosity, through a parting in the curtain. They were also careful to ensure that they do not disturb us or frighten us away. There is a sweet girl looking gorgeous, who must be in her early twenties. I saw her parents who look like a pair made for each other, just like us. Then there is an elderly lady, who I presume is the grandmother of the girl. She very affectionately keeps calling her Patti”.
“On seeing us, I heard the girl call her Patti and she started talking to her excitedly”.
“Look Patti. Mynahs have come to use the nest we have kept for sparrows. And the colour range is awesome. From rich wine brown on the lower breast to deep black on the head, neck and upper breast. It has a splash of white on the lower edge of its wings and its bills and legs are a bright yellow. And what enchanting eyes. They appear to be full grown mynahs, about 30 cms long. They have come for breeding. I am thrilled they have found this nest. We can enjoy watching and hearing them. The calls include croaks, squawks, chirps, clicks, whistles and ‘growls’. They often fluff their feathers and bow their heads in singing. The mynahs are of starling variety which consists of about eighty species of noisy and active small to medium sized birds”.
Mini, meanwhile, had moved into the nest, with Tini always around to keep vigil. The family of four frequented the balcony whenever time permits, to watch our activities. It looked like all the members in the family are bird lovers. They seemed to watch very keenly, all our movements and also share such moments with each other. We also became very comfortable, though initially, we used to fly away on seeing any of them. As days passed, our chirps grew louder and regular.
In a little over two weeks, the girl silently called her Patti and told her, “Do you hear the chirping noises coming from the nest? I think the little ones have come out of the eggs. But I am not able to spot them. I find the parent mynahs always in the vicinity. The mother mynah would regularly come to the nest, carrying in its beak worms and other tit bits. It will stick its beak into the nest to feed the little ones, perched securely on the opening to the nest.
After a few days, the family found that there were three little mynah birds or fledglings, sticking their beaks out of the round opening in the nest, eagerly waiting for the mother. The chirpings were louder and more frequent, especially when there was delay for the mother mynah to turn up. All hell broke loose on the little ones seeing the mother, with each one vying with the other to get their share of tit bits.
As the routine fell in place, one day Tini found Mini is a very pensive mood.
“Tini, my feelings are mixed. It is three weeks since the little ones have come out and very soon we are planning to fly away from here. We have started to teach the birds to flap their wings and learn to fly. I am so touched by the feelings of the family towards us. We should make it a point to come back here soon to make the family happy”.
Sometime back, I overheard Patti telling the girl, “I have come to love and long for these mynahs, even though they have nested only for a brief period in our house. I will definitely miss them once they fly away. I only hope they come back again. The balcony floor is in a mess with a strange odour, due to the droppings of the mynah and the twigs strewn all over the place. These are but small inconveniences when compared to the joy I got on seeing the mynah giving birth to the little ones in our house. We are really blessed ”.
“I also realize that you will be packing your bags soon to leave the shores for higher studies abroad”, Patti continued. I will be missing you too like I am going to miss the mynahs”.
The girl lovingly hugged her Patti and said, “You chill out Patti. Before I leave home I will make all arrangements here so that we are always in touch and stay connected”.
Mini continued. “The same day she got her Patti a mobile and started to teach her the basics in handling it. She started her off with making local phone calls, how to save the phone numbers and how to select the numbers to be contacted. She taught her when to use the silent mode and how to keep the mobile charged. She then took her through the basic features of Messaging and Whats App. She also connected her on Imo and shared the features of Video calls with multiple participants.
Mini proudly told Tini, “Patti soon learnt taking photos too and the first photo she took was of me with our little ones. I am so happy for it, that I plan to come here more often and soon make it my home.
Mini said, “I wish we don’t have to search for a new,quiet place.We can go to the same house and hope our nest is still there.I remember leaving or nest in a mess.Our droppings and twigs were strewn all over the place. Poor Patti ! She had to clean it all by herself.However, she did it with a smile on her face and was not annoyed by it. I am looking forward to meeting all the residents of the house.Archana must have gone abroad for her higher studies.”
They flew to Archana’s house and perched themselves on the railing of the balcony.The two of them looked around and felt great relief upon finding their wooden nest intact.
“Thank God ! we don’t have to build a new nest.And look how clean the place is! We had a terrific experience last time.All the residents were very affectionate towards us.”
All this chirping attracted Patti’s attention.She came towards the glass door and moved the curtains aside.Her face lit up the moment she saw two mynahs sitting on the balcony of their house.She immediately went inside the house and came backwith her mobile phone.She took few pictures of the mynahs and send sent them to someone.
“Looks like she is sending the pictures to Archana.” Said Mini.
“Yes.The last time we were here,Archana was planning to go abroad.To stay connected with Patti,she had purchased a mobile phone and taught her how to use it,” said Tini.
“ I remember that very well.Patti took my picture first when she was learning how to use the mobile camera,”recalled Mini with a twinkle in her eyes.
“That call must be from Archana.”said Mini as Patti attended to her buzzing mobile phone.”She must have seen the pictures that Patti sent her now,”said Mini.
“Hello Patti ! Have the mynahs come back? I miss them a lot.I would like to see Tini and Mini and say hello to them,”said Archana over the phone.
“Just a minute,kanna.Let me focus the video on them.There,can you see them now?” replied Patti.
“Yes.They look beautiful,”said Archana while she waved at the mynahs.
Patti glanced at the mynahs and found they were also staring at the mobile camera with curiosity and crackling excitedly.
“There,you see? Archana is waiving to us,”” said Mini gleefully
3
Archana Continued,”Tini and Mini will be with us for some months.Please take good care of them Patti.I know you will.Bye!”
Patti said good-bye over the phone,gave a glance towards the mynahs and went inside to attend the chores of the house.
Mini and Tini looked around and noticed how green the neighbourhood was.They could see a cluster of red and white flowers blooming on the Rangoon Malli creepers.While on the other side,tjere were yellow flowers of the Almanda creeper.The white Jasmine flowers filled the air with an enchanting fragrance and the colourful bougainvillea flowers formed a canopy over the parking area for cars.
The busy bees and colourful butterflies were sucking neetar from the flowers while the grasshoppers,caterpillars and other insects were feeding on the leaves.
“Do you see the feeder with a variety of grains there and also the earthern vessel with water hanging from the window? We don’t have to go searching for food.Everything is available right here,” said Tini.
Mini nodded and said,”We are really lucky.Our little ones will grow up to be healthy.”
They settled down in their abode quickly and were happy that Patti and Appa took great care of them.They would come to check the nest frequently and would also share updates with Archana over the phone.One night when Patti and Appa had gone off to sleep,Mini and Tini heard an unusual noise in the garden.Tini peeped from the balcony and saw that two people had entered the compound.They were whispering to each other and pointing a finger at the first-floor balcony.
“Mini,thieves are trying to break into our house.We must warn Patti and Appa,”said an alarmed Tini.
The mynahs began to chirp loudly but there was no response from Patti or Appa.
“Let me go inside the house and wake them up,” said Tini and flew away.However,tini had to fly back to the nest since all the windows were closed.
By then,the two men were standing on the bonnet of a car and trying to enter the balcony.Tini saw that the thieves were near the Rangoon Malli creeper.There was paper-loke nest that the wasps had constructed skilfully.
It was their home.” I had an idea,” said Tini and then whispered it into the ears of Mini,who nodded in agreement.both of them went to the creeper and startedruffling the leaves.Once the wasps came out,Tini and Mini flew back to the nest in the balcony.
The wasps saw the two men standing on the car’s sun shade and started stinging them ferociously.The two men tried to protect themselves but the stings were continuous and very painful.After a few minutes,they just jumped off the car’s sun shade,scaled the wall and took to their heels.
4
Tini and Mini looked at each other proudly.
Mini said with a laugh, “I wish patti was hereto record this on her mobile phone and share it with Archana.She would have jumped with joy.”
Tini replied affectionately, “i realise how much we have come to love this family and I am glad that we stopped those thieves from robbing our home.”
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
I am a bird today.
A wader,
Dredging the shallows
With my talons
(Wrinkled, scaly and razor sharp)
Disturbing tadpoles,
Insects, larvae and yummy plantae.
Neck snaking with speed and grace.
Hooked spoon that nature carved
With an artists’ eye to colour and shape—
Beak, scooping with precision.
I stretch my wings on a whim;
Wind flirts through my waxed feathers.
On a sigh I fly,
A hop and a skip,
I wade slush once more.
Swooping on my food,
Eating, gulping, defecating.
My flock mingling with others
Living life on instinct alone.
No judgement,
No aspirations.
Created in all its glory,
My body
Purpose
Ingest and egest.
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
THE PERPETRATOR AND THE VICTIM
Padmini Janardhanan
And yet death is lenience;
End of guilt is no answer.
Pain of shame, devoid of pleasure
Condemned and outlawed for ever
To the solitary cell
Befits the perpetrator
But what would befit the victim?
Hashtags to express agony?
Generalised purusha dvesh?
Victim of revenge vicarious
Of other women settling scores?
Not any or even all of these.
To offset the heinous wrong
Can we give a genuine hug?
Not judgmental not opportunistic
Not solicitous, not altruistic
Not use her pain to voice the indignation
Of our own repressed feel of hurt and pain.
Can we simply put in positive vibes?
As she reworks the shreds into her she
With pride and with confidence
Establishing her rightful presence
Can we with empathy simply be
As she resurrects her true identity
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.
I awake to a bright new morn
The early birds are already airborne
Soaring high, with zest, in search of food
For a while, I gaze, my mind subdued
The alluring moon is about to retire
Fixated, in ineffable joy I admire...
Domestics signal before long!
No time to linger longer to listen to the birdsong
trapped in the rigors of daily life
No time to bask in Nature that is rife,
offering without bias, in return, expecting nothing
Why do I, to material possessions still cling?
My myopic vision has left me in the cul de sac
Is there a way to append, retrace or backtrack?
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.
We are quite unknown to the unknown world,
as our birth to an unknown person is unfurled.
Our initiation commences on this foremost page,
and our identification evolves as we grow in age!
New relationships are usually forged at every stage,
Relatives and friends meet us on this second page.
Misunderstandings often happen because of rage,
and conflicts can be resolved only outside a cage!
Physical and mental growth provide recognition,
Our various virtues lead us to new destinations.
This empty page is filled with love and affection,
that goes on to facilitate peaceful connections!
We shoulder responsibilities throughout our life;
and provide solace to our near ones in their strife.
Our quest for success leads us through many ways,
Facing many pains and gains in our journey of days!
The last and final page is always rife,
with the possibility of death in this life!
Let’s fill this page with love, faith, and smile,
and ponder over the creator’s truth once in a while!
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
The Flame of Unity
The Flame of Dignity
The Flame of Prosperity
The Flame of Solidarity
The Flame of Darkness
The Flame of Awareness
The Flame of Sacrifice
The Flame of Fragrance
The Flame of Arrogance
The Flame of Devastation
The Flame of Isolation
The Flame of Harmony
The Flame of Symphony
The Flame of Sympathy
The Flame of Empathy
The Flame of Nation
The Flame of Devotion
The Flame of Blessings
The Flame of new Beginnings
The Flame of Hardships
The Flame of lost Friendships
The Flame of Hope
The Flame of Scope
Above All...
The Flame of Charity
The Flame of Inclusion
The Flame of Acceptance
LOCKDOWN TALES :: THE UNPAIRED SOCKS ????????
Rahul in such a hurry to go for his drive, as his drives are restricted due to lockdown, we manage to take him out only once in the evening, a strict routine has been set for him. He quickly ran upstairs, picked up socks on his own, surely the paired ones were not visible or he was reluctant to open the cupboards, and who cares, lest the man of the house, soon makes a change in his plan, who is trying his best to help his wife during this period. Oh dear, !! even my washed utensils are going in for a wash, second time into the sink Grrrrrrrr !!
#Hushkoo::::Mommy I don't care if I don't get my chicken rice, '"stay home stay safe". He hates his doggy food and anyways who would want to eat those dry pebbles when one can have freshly cooked curd rice or ghee upma. The two boys have been extremely well behaved so far and what patience something to learn from them. The lockdown has been truly difficult for everyone in different ways. The time to isolate meaning to look within oneself, meditate and bring out your best. Trust me later in life when you reflect, you will understand how blessed these days were. Stay positive come what may, but the ultimate reality of Life, nothing remains forever. You have to learn to coexist and move ahead leaving a lot behind.
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)
I took a deep breath and gazed at the huge photo of my dad and mom hanging on the wall. Both were looking gorgeous, magnificent in their young age, when they had tied their sacred knot. Then I walked slowly towards the teapoy, poured the blackish hot water and milk on the cup, sipped the hot tea leisurely sitting on the couch.
The well designed album on the side table drew my attention. I smiled silently, turning the pages of my album. I was fascinated and went through page after page. All my past memories with my dad, nanny and my friends are restored in a single album. Almost all are gone, except few who are still alive, including myself. A particular photo in Paris hill top, where dad made a funny face just to make me laugh, lured me most. For a second I rewound that beautiful memory. I was engrossed so much in the bygone days' images, it felt like they happened yesterday!
*****
A curved road leads to that famous church in the hill top in Paris. I can't remember the name of that church, but the view around it is still in my mind! Dad had a business conference in Paris, and as usual I accompanied him, being his sole business partner. I was walking along with dad to see the historic church. So many other passengers, mostly foreign visitors were also headed to the same destination. I looked around the side views of the road. It looked so weird, when I came across the sign boards ‘Beware of pickpockets!’
‘Pickpockets?’ I repeated the word, surprised. Dad gazed at me nodding his head. He was breathing heavily, as he climbed up. ‘Yeah! All around the world, such things happen, nothing new about it,’ dad said gasping for breath. We continued our walk, till we reached the spot.
The church was at the top of a hilly area. Down the church, a wide area was encircled by a steel fence. One telescope was fixed near the fence for the visitors to enjoy the distant views. I stood near the fence. Every thing down the hill seemed so small - houses, buildings, trees.. everything. I was searching, if I could see the famous Eiffel Tower from that spot. But it wasn't visible. The amazing part was - a silver coloured stone statue was there on the passage, leading to the front door of the church. Dad preferred to make that statue as a background for a photo. So he turned his back to the statue, made a funny face, and asked me to stand by his side, then asked a photographer to take our snap. It was done. Instantly, I screamed aloud and, thrust myself back, and dad fell back on the other side as the statue hunched over us. I was stunned! ‘Oh my goodness! A man, not a statue! I can't believe it! Dad, look at him.’
‘Incredible!’
‘Yep!’dad waggled his head.
We all laughed.
However, I knew dad could handle the meeting without me, so after spending some time over the hill top, we changed our directions in two different ways. I just stepped out for window shopping in Paris, and dad went for the conference. But, before leaving that place dad reminded and warned me about the larceny. I shook my head over-confidently, ‘I know, dad. Relax!’ I called a cab, started my journey in the heart of Paris- the dream land of millions!
Besides five story buildings, and wide road, the alleys were spread out, where visitors sometimes lost themselves. I left my cab, walked down on the pavement for my window shopping. Few shops were closed, others were crowded with regular customers. While strolling around across the road near a closed shop, I saw a young man playing guitar, his hat was kept on his side. He was cool, just devoted to the music. People were putting cash in his hat, whatever amount they wished. I never knew that people in Paris too, had this style of earning. ‘Certainly, he earns money in a sophisticated manner!’ I mumbled myself.
After roaming around for nearly two hours, I was too tired, and hungry. I never bought any food for myself. Being a millionaire's daughter, I was always served by the attendants. Suddenly, I felt ‘who cares for rich or poor’! What was my identity over here? Few seconds later, a soft voice distracted me.
‘Excuse me?’
I turned over my shoulder. A young boy was looking at me. I paused a moment, then said, ‘Yes! What do you want?’
He grinned at me, said, ‘Nothing.’
‘But just now, you..’ before I completed my sentence, he babbled out, ‘You hungry? Want restaurant? Come with me, I will show you a decent Indian restaurant.’
I was surprised! ‘How do you know, I am Indian?’
‘Guessing,’ he chuckled again.
‘Oh, thanks!’ I showed my appreciation.
My tummy was aching so badly, I couldn't guess anything, simply nodded my head. He gestured and went ahead of me. I followed him without a word. When I realised that I have left the main road, it was too late. Just near a turning, the boy went so fast, I couldn't see him anymore. Instead, I was surrounded by four or five young adults. Suddenly, I lost my sense, God knows how long! They must have used something to make me senseless. When I regained my sense I exclaimed, ‘God damn it! I have been robbed. My bag, my diamond necklace, everything has vanished!’
I wished to scream at the top of my voice, but stopped myself! I looked around, then I went and sat on a patio. My mind was completely blank! ‘No money, no card, nothing what can I do?’ I mumbled. My vision became a little blurry, might be the effect of something that they applied to me to make me nauseous.
From a little distance, a figure (somebody) was coming towards me. My bleary eyes were trying to identify but I couldn't. When it came too close to me, I jumped off, frowned and yelled loudly, ‘You??!! Stupid junk! How dare you!??!!’
‘Whoa, whoa! Hang a second! Look, these are your cards, right?’ he tossed the cards.
‘Give them back to me, or you will be in jail, I swear to God!’
The young boy quirked his lips, said, ‘Fine! Now, go. You will never get them back!’
I didn't want to lose my cards. I thought for a while. I was in no mood to compromise with the little punk.
The boy stepped ahead, talked to me in a cool voice, ‘Ma’am! They would hit me, if they come to know about these cards. Please, take them and disappear.’
I threw a stern look at him. ‘A new trick?’ I asked fiercely.
‘No, just to help you.’
‘Then, why did you do it, at the first place?’
‘I had no choice, or I would die of empty stomach!’
For a moment, I kept silent, then extended my hand for cards. He handed over all my cards to me and turned back. I called him, ‘Hey, what’s your name?’
‘Why?? Appelez-vous la police??’
‘No, no, no la police! Tell me your name.’
‘Thomas,’ then he ran away quickly. Only a feeble voice echoed, ‘I am not a thief….’
I didn't know, a strange feeling gripped me tightly!! ‘Poor boy!! He must be a destitute, and now under the control of some wrong people. But why do people opt for social crime? Nobody is a born thief, or pickpocket, or anything from the mother’s womb! Perhaps, want and need combined with social pressure, force a person to choose such horrible path!’. I felt pity for that little boy. The boy disappeared from my sight.
Somehow I managed to reach the main road, hired a taxi, and started for the most luxurious hotel in Paris, where Dad and I were staying.
Dad was really worried about my delay. When I reached there, immediately he questioned, ‘Any problem? How was your day, sweetie? Why so late?’
‘Nothing great. I lost my diamond necklace and my mobile. I was robbed.’
'What???' with a sudden jerk the whisky bottle fell on the ground.
'Dad! Are you ok?! I am sorry, seriously.'
‘Hmm, no, no, we should be thankful to God! At least, you have returned unharmed! I told you!’
‘Sorry, dad!’
‘Well, don't worry for the necklace. We can buy another one. It’s already late. Let’s move to the dining hall for dinner.’
After a little while, I freshened up myself, then we walked to the first floor. Amazing dining hall! People were enjoying the delicious continental food. Being tired, I quickly finished my dinner, and went to bed. But, I couldn't sleep well. Maybe, the robbery and that little young boy’s words haunted me time and again.
This was the second such instance of my emotional feeling!! The first incident occurred in Somalia. Few years back in Somalia I really felt miserable for the Somalian children when I was distributing some dry food, books, toys and other accessories to the children there. A six year old boy looked at me, hiding his face behind his mom’s torn out long gown. I couldn't speak to them because of their local language, so I used one translator to help me. Neither the Somalians could understand me.
I gestured that boy to take a toy, but he just stared at me. He had big expressive eyes. The shirt he had worn must be his father's old one. His hair was not combed for a week or more, I guessed. Whoever stood there showed only sheer poverty! I really felt pity for them.
At one point, I was busy in sorting out the toys, suddenly a soft hand draped around my neck and a sweet kiss landed on my cheek. I was astonished, and lifted my face. That same boy stood before me, showing his half baby teeth. His sparkling dark eyes filled with happiness! I hugged him. I didn't know how and why I did that! It was a startling experience!! Never before, I had experienced that feeling! Perhaps, he could genuinely feel my love and reciprocated it!
He held my little finger and pulled me to follow him. Even though my personal guard objected, I went with him. He took me to his house. I was overwhelmed with their hospitality. Dilapidated house, broken vessels and the other poor assets, gave me a distinct idea of their poverty. But even with that condition, his elder sister offered me her home made dishes. Perhaps that kind of love and affection I was never offered by anyone anywhere! I ate the snacks. I have no words to express how happy she was and me too!!! After some time, I departed from them, but their sweet, unadulterated love drew a deep impression in my heart!
From that day onwards, my mind always struggled to understand the conflict between richness and poverty, greed and need.,Maybe, the second incident at Paris with the young boy ignited my sleepy mind! I rolled on the bed, tried my best to have a sound sleep! At last, after 3:30 a.m, I had no more thoughts!
*****
After many years dad officially announced me as the sole partner of his company. I was twenty-seven then. I had attended every single meeting with dad, across the countries. Enough experience of life! Before his death, he assigned all his property in my name.
Right now, I am eighty-seven! Perhaps after all these years, my brain cells have got matured to reach a good and final decision. There is no one after or before me, I never got married. Yesterday, I told the Press I would be announcing something big. That's why there is a huge rush in my house today!
People are waiting for me, down the hall. I give a final look at my dad and mom’s photo, and whisper, ‘Hey, dad! Do you remember? You were always telling me, 'do what your conscience tells you, never mind what others think!' I have done exactly that. Tomorrow, it would hit the headline of all the news papers and magazines, I am sure you will be happy. I am done, dad! I am fully contented!!!'
'Yes, dad! I can tell you now also, where I have invested your money. But this is a top secret and a big surprise for you too!! Just wait a few more minutes!' 'I know, dad! You trust me!! Love you, dad!!!'
The sound of intercom broke the silence of the room! I responded with a short answer ‘Coming’.
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.
These days, I realise I am surely unnatural
I know, in spite of myself, I am not myself
Daily, from morning itself I see a difference
Not knowing will this continue through day
People stare at me with strange eyes
Not knowing whether they are strange or I
The strangeness extends to leaves, flowers and clouds
They are shocked I am not giving them my hours!
These leaves, flowers and clouds, in all their natural selves
Often, in the past, they were my whole and sole saviours !
They saved me from a free fall of values
From a depression that dipped me in a gloom…
Yet they know my sensitivity is a slow healer
And will take a long to season; to sync with them…
Like my patience, they know the art of waiting,
Waiting for long until I am remedied by them!
They know that I have done this to them before
They know I shall do this to them again!
Right now I am searching for that elusive smile
Solitude needs to whisk me away for a while. ..
Ravi Ranganathan is a retired banker turned poet settled in Chennai. He has to his credit three books of poems entitled “Lyrics of Life” and “Blade of green grass” and “Of Cloudless Climes”. He revels in writing his thought provoking short poems called ‘ Myku’. Loves to write on nature, Life and human mind. His poems are featured regularly in many anthologies. Has won many awards for his poetry including , Sahitya Gaurav award by Literati Cosmos Society, Mathura and Master of creative Impulse award by Philosophyque Poetica.
Heart Beat is a heartfelt poem written by me through my experience in these 16 years of my life. I have learnt that hope beats every crises. Everything in life is in our hands. With hope and an optimistic attitude one can endure any situation.
“ACCORDING TO ME HOPE IS THE SUN WHICH IS BRIGHTENEd BY NIGHT THAN DAY”.
I can hear my heart.
Awe, I can tell you!
It is the hope
Which patters inside.
My silhouette -
It holds my soul.
The voice of my heart
Sweeps the darkness away.
I can,
I can hear my heart!
Oh! It shines so high,
My hope.
S. Geetha, a 16 year old author and a young poet from India. She started her journey in writing at the age of 7. She is a bibliophile and loves reading non-fiction. She has also worked as the student editor of her school magazine for the year 2019-20. She is a mellifluous Carnatic singer. She has won laurels for her sparkling brilliancy in music as well as in writing. She calls herself as the Pink Author Hope. She does her best writing on Women empowerment. She is a blogger and owns 2 websites. https://geethabose.wordpress.com/ & https://thepinkauthor.wordpress.com/
He held a coffee cup in his gloved hand,
Leaning against the thin wooden door frame,
Looking into the fog that was his future,
He brought his cigarette to meet his lips.
He strode back into his smokey cottage,
His eyes skirting the dark floor for his boots,
To walk into the storm awaiting him,
He needed all he could to survive the ice.
His table was topped with a million things,
Each hiding the view of the other's face,
Like his path in life, surface rugged,
With unseeing obstacles popping out.
He looked in all the cabinets he could think of,
Hunting for answers like a wolf on a trail,
But so different without a scent to trust,
He was on nothing but a wild goose chase.
He was left with no leads to look through,
Nothing to just hold onto with his heart,
So that day, he stopped looking,
The answer came to him all by itself.
The serendipity of it all astounded him,
His life slowly fell into place with the single jigsaw piece,
Hanging by a loose cord from the ceiling,
Things we lose have a way of coming back to us..
A long hard day she had behind her,
Her feet bumping against the table,
Waiting for her reunion with her best friend,
As she stretched out like a cat.
Her nerves needed to be on fire again,
She just needed him close,
The smell of him going through her nostrils,
And calming her overworked brain.
Call it obsession if you want,
She just had a lot of love for him,
Her fingers tapping out Morse codes,
That she had never learnt.
At last she saw him across the hall,
Being carried toward her on a tray,
Her body aquiver for coffee,
A smile smoothened on her face..
Thryaksha Ashok Garla, an eighteen-year-old, has been writing since she was a little kid. She has a blog and an Instagram account with about 200 poems posted till date. She touches upon themes such as feminism, self-reliance, love and mostly writes blues. Her poems have been published in two issues of the 'Sparks' magazine, and in poetry anthologies such as ‘Efflorescence' of Chennai Poets’ Circle , 'The current', 'The Metverse Muse', 'Our Poetry Archive', 'Destine Literare', 'Untamed Thrills and Shrills', 'Float Poetry', and in the 'Setu e-magazine.' She won the first place in the poetry competition held by India Poetry Circle (2018) held in Odyssey. She's pursuing psychology. She's a voracious reader, a violinist, and dabbles in art. She can be reached at: thryaksha@gmail.com by e-mail, Instagram: @thryaksha_wordsmith and on her blog https://thryaksha.wordpress.com/.
She worked for us over 30 years
Never a day did she take leave
As she always had our welfare at heart .
A day came when we had to part
As she had a weak heart .
Doctor advised her not to work
But to take life easy
But she believed in being busy
Offering help to the family.
She came down to take care of our house
During our absence
Which made a lot of sense.
While leaving for her son's house
She gave me a bunch of bananas
Please take these amma
Said she with a smile
Her gesture touched my heart
More so because of her weak heart
N.Meera Raghavendra rao, a post graduate in English Literature, with a diploma in Journalism is freelance journalist, author and blogger published around 2000 articles ( including book reviews) of different genre which appeared in The Hindu,Indian Express and The Deccan Herald . Author of 10 books : Madras Mosaic, Slice of Life, Chennai Collage, Journalism-think out of the Box are to mention a few. Her book ‘ Feature writing’ published by Prentice Hall, India and Madhwas of Madras published by Palaniappa Bros. had two editions. She interviewed several I.A.S. officials, industrialists and Social workers on AIR and TV, was interviewed by the media subsequent to her book launches and profiled in TigerTales ,an in house magazine of Tiger Airlines. At the invitation from Ahmedabad Management Association she conducted a two-day workshop on Feature Writing. Her Husband, Dr.N.Raghavendrra Rao, a Ph.D in FINANCE is an editor and contributor to IGIGLOBAL U.S.A.
Questioned I, in quite regretful tones to cope
The remorse in the unfulfillment of a cherished dream
‘Wake up, dear, wake up with patience and hope
The diligence will lead you to live supreme.’
Whispered I an agitated query of lovelessness acute
The silent stilling that my broken heart endured
‘Love yourself!’ floated the comforting music from His flute
Relieved of the agony, my lonely soul smiled, well assured.
I enquired next, the unnerving unsettling eeriness
Of the frightening unfathomable darkness of anxiety
‘Panic not, face instead the fear, revel in fieriness
Rise in belief, trust heartly the grace of piety.’
So, what about Fate, asked I, distressed in doubt
The inescapable inflicting tentacles of destiny?
‘So, make your own laws; just chill out
Break free of the commandments, enjoy your mutiny.’
Then, at least, with utmost patience, enlighten me
The workings of an erratic and uncertain living
‘Now is all you need to be, joy is when you just be
Simple, life has no exotic mysterious meaning.’
Vidya Shankar is a poet, writer, motivational speaker, yoga enthusiast, English language teacher. An active member of poetry circles, her works have appeared in national and international literary platforms and anthologies. She is the recipient of literary awards and recognitions.
Vidya Shankar’s first book of poems, The Flautist of Brindaranyam is a collaborative effort with her photographer husband, Shankar Ramakrishnan. Her second book of poems The Rise of Yogamaya is an effort to create awareness about mental health. She has also been on the editorial of three anthologies.
A “book” with the Human Library, Chennai Chapter, Vidya Shankar uses the power of her words, both written and spoken, to create awareness about environmental issues, mental health, and the need to break the shackles of an outdated society.
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
“Please come back! I won’t let you go out like that, with a bag in hand, to buy vegetables!”
Manjushri, the wife of Justice Harihar Tripathy pleaded with him. The judge was disappointed.
“But why? What’s wrong in my buying vegetables for my home? I am not doing it for the neighbours!”
“I told you, there is no question of your going out to buy vegetables. And that’s final.”
There was a mock seriousness in her words.
“But why? And Your Honour, don’t I have a right to appeal?”
“No, there is no right to appeal in this case. Just come in and relax. You are such a big man, a judge of the High Court! How can I let you go out to buy vegetables?”
“Your Honour! In my defense let me say I am not such a big man. From head to toe I measure only five feet five inches.”
Manjushri cut him short.
“So what? A judge is a judge!”
“And Your Honour, if I was six feet six inches, by your standards I would have been the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court! Since I am not even the Chief Justice of the High Court, Your Honour, I retain my fundamental right of free movement. And, therefore, by a claim derived from the Fundamental Rights I can go and buy vegetables for me and my pretty wife.”
Manjushri was pleased by the reference to her prettiness, but didn’t want to show it, lest the Judge Sahab takes advantage of her softening and runs away with the bag!
“No, you can’t. Just tell me what vegetables you want. Gobardhan will go and buy them.”
Judge Sahab was horrified.
“Gobardhan, that half-wit imbecile? The idiot doesn’t even know the difference between drumsticks and French beans! How can he buy vegetables fit for a judge and his regal wife? If you let me go, Your Honour, I can get the tenderest greens, the juiciest drumsticks, the softest brinjals and the freshest pumpkin. Satisfaction guaranteed!”
Judge Sahab pleaded, with a wide grin. Manjushri was shocked.
“Such a big judge! A great man of pomp and honour! And you are stuck with drumsticks and pumpkins! Can’t you think of things like broccoli, spinach or paneer?”
Judge Sahab shrieked like a wounded tiger.
“Tchch! What kind of weird stuff are you mentioning? Those things are fit only for Memsaabs like you – to cure your constipation! I want the stuff used by my mother to make food fit for kings and emperors – the fish curry with mustard, and mashed vegetables with small shrimps thrown in! Oh! What lovely taste! Gods and goddesses must be enjoying her divine cooking now in high heavens on festive occasions.”
Judge Sahab looked up towards heaven and implored to his mother,
“Mother, when are you sending me the summons? Or, better make it a non-bailable warrant! I want to come, put my head on your lap and eat all the delicious dishes you used to make – the rice cakes, the coconut fries, the puddings and the lovely curries. Just call me, I will come. I have already told your daughter-in-law how to send me up!”
Looking at his wife, he reminded her,
“Manjushri, my caring wife, hope you remember the trick. When I am on my last breath, don’t waste Gangajal on me, just put a few spoonful of chicken-soup in my mouth. That will take me straight to heaven and to my mother with the speed of a jet.”
Manjushri felt scandalized,
“What kind of talk is that! So inauspicious! Don’t ever think of it. I am sure you will live for sixty more years.”
“Sixty years! I am close to sixty-two now. You want me to live for more than hundred and twenty years! My young and cute wife, tell me when all my hair disappears, my teeth are gone and hands are wrinkled, will you still live with me or run away with a ninety year old young man?”
Manjushri laughed.
“What kind of a joke is that! Are you ever serious? How do you write your judgments? Do you put such gibberish in them also?”
“Heh, heh! Yes, my sweet wife! My judgments are full of gibberish like this. That’s why they get published in all reputed journals and readers call me a ‘Judge with a humane face’!”
It was getting hot outside, the tender sun of the early morning had assumed a severe look by now. Manjushri pushed the Judge Sahab into the bed room, loaded a CD in the CD player and started playing his favourite songs rendered by Shamshad Begum, Hemant Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar and Talat Mehmood. The frustration, writ large on Judge Sahab’s face a few minutes back, vanished like the morning dew under a dazzling sun. The Judge Sahab closed his eyes and started listening to the lilting melody like a child lost in sweet dreams.
Justice Harihar Tripathi has the heart of a child and the brain of a genius. Sharp, witty, brilliant and erudite, his court room is full of life and zest. After getting his B.L. degree from Patna Law College, he had joined as a subordinate judge forty years back. Through his high reputation and diligent work, he climbed the ladder of success and became a judge of the Orissa High Court six years ago. Lawyers are terribly scared of him. He easily sees through their dilatory and obfuscatory tactics and pulls them up. Justice Tripathy is pro-poor and never lets the helpless down.
Judge Sahab hates delay. He knows that left to lawyers, no case will reach finality. Among his friends, he tells the story of an old lawyer who retired and handed over all his cases to his advocate son. One day the son came home to his father and triumphantly announced, “Papa, I am a better lawyer than you. Remember that civil dispute you could not finish in thirty years? I got a decree today for that.” The father called him and gave him a slap, “Idiot, you didn’t win a case today, you lost it for ever. For the last thirty years I had managed to keep the case hanging and earn fat fees. Today by getting a final judgment, you lost that case, and you are gloating over it! Idiot! Never commit this mistake again.”
Judge Sahab considers his Sundays precious. This is the day he likes to go on long walks and to connect with the ordinary people. He hates the other days when he has to take a walk within the premises of his official bungalow. Left to himself, he would like to go on a long walk on the street everyday, without the peon following him with an umbrella. He would like to chat with others. Instead of doing Namaskar to him and turning away from a distance, people should come to him to talk about the weather, the rising prices and the crimes in the town. Strangers who have lost their way should stop Judge Sahab and ask for directions, instead of getting intimidated by the presence of the peon following him. Girls returning from school should not become self-conscious, stop their chatter and file past him with their heads bent. Instead, they should behave like typical school girls, nudge each other and roll in laughter looking at his bald head.
Judge Sahab feels suffocated with all the restrictions put on him by his wife. On Sunday mornings he feels liberated and goes out for a long walk. Manjushri is on tenterhooks all the time Judge Sahab is away on his walk. She gives strict instructions to Abhiram, the peon who follows Judge Sahab, to keep an eye on him, not to let him linger at paan shops, and to dissuade him from entering the Buxi Bazaar market to buy vegetables. Still, the Judge Sahab smartly outwits Abhiram and goes to the vegetable market and bargains for vegetables.
Manjushri has given standing instructions to the vegetable sellers in Buxi Bazaar not to argue with the Judge Sahab and give away the vegetables at the price he suggests. She sends the difference in price later through Abhiram. Judge Sahab is not aware of this arrangement. When he returns home, his face is flushed with the joy of victory. He pulls up Manjushri and Gobardhan,
“See, how the vegetable sellers are cheating you openly. For vegetables which are Rs.10 a kilo, they charge you Rs.20 and you people are paying without a murmur. You should know how to strike a hard bargain with them!”
Manjushri tries to boost his ego.
“Of course, they are cheating and we are idiots. Is there anyone in the town smarter than you? Is it for nothing that the President of India has appointed you as a Judge in Orissa High Court? How can the poor vegetable vendors be a match for you?”
Judge Sahab’s face lights up with pride.
Given a choice, the vegetable vendors at Buxi Bazaar will not charge even a rupee from Justice Tripathy. He is like a God to them. Knowing his reputation for integrity, they don’t even dare offer him an extra potato when he buys vegetables. But every time they see him, their hearts fill up with a rare gratitude.
The vegetable vendors, grocery shop owners and dozens of other merchants in Buxi Bazaar owe their fortune and their peace of mind to Justice Tripathy. For fifteen long years they had been made to wander around the High Court for their pending case. Fifteen years ago the Cuttack Municipality had refused to give them their lease deed and the case had dragged on. Lawyers from both sides were happy to get adjournment after adjournment and coolly pocketed the fees. Every month the shop keepers would go to the court, stand there with bundles of papers and return disappointed after their lawyers got another adjournment. This went on and on, till the case was transferred to Justice Tripathy’s bench.
After granting two adjournments, Judge Sahab fumed,
“What is this farce going on? Why are you asking for adjournments without any justification? This case has been dragging on for years! No more adjournments. I am posting this case for next Wednesday. There will be no other case that day. Both parties should come prepared with all documents to argue the case.”
That’s what happened the following week. A case dragging on for fifteen years got settled on a single day. The verdict went in favour of the shop keepers. Cuttack Municipality had to grant them a ninety nine year lease and hand over the lease deed in sixty days’ time. The shop keepers danced with joy in the court. The sweet stalls in Buxi Bazaar market distributed free sweets to everyone that day.
Judge Sahab has dispensed similar justice to many poor, illiterate, simple, innocent folks. The unorganized porters at the bus-stands, the temporary workers at the city hospitals, the daily-wage labourers of the Public Works Department, the destitutes at the dilapidated night-shelters – and many more, are beneficiaries of the kindness and humane judgment of Justice Tripathy. He is a legend among the poor and downtrodden – a God in human form.
Judge Sahab is also a kind-hearted visionary. Left to him, he would like everyone to live in peace, not quarrel with each other and not waste money in filing court cases. In an ideal world, there should be no breach of law, no crime, no theft, and no murder. Manjushri teases, “Then, there will be no need for a Court of Law. How will you be a judge?” Pat comes the reply, “I have no regret if I am not a judge. I will be happy to become a school teacher in a tribal village in Sundergarh district and teach the innocent boys and girls there. My cute wife, only you will have a problem. From a Mrs. Judge, you will be a Mrs. Schoolmaster, with no Abhiram and Gobardhan to lord over!”
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Today is the last day of service in Justice Tripathy’s distinguished career. After more than six years of illustrious tenure as a High Court Judge he will retire today. In the morning their daughter Anuttama had called from the US, “Wish you an honourable exit, Your Honour!” While leaving for office, Manjushri had adjusted his tie and looking at his beaming face, had taunted him, “I know why the smile has not left your face since this morning! Today is your day of deliverance! From tomorrow you don’t have to go to the Court. You will sit at home, read books and listen to old songs day and night!”
On the way to the High Court, driver Yousuf asked him with a voice heavy with sadness, “Lordship, will you come home after the hearings or go straight for the farewell?” Judge Sahab heard it, but the question didn’t register in his mind. Farewell? What is a farewell? It is only a formality. The fellow judges and advocates will shower a lot of insincere platitudes on him. If he meets any one of them for a chat tomorrow, they will keep looking at the watch, wondering how long the old man is going to waste their time!
Farewell! Blast the farewell! Somehow, Judge Sahab will sit through that formality. After it is over, he will come home, take off his robe, his suit, the tie and the stiff shirt. He will put on a loose kurta and pyjama, wear a pair of sandals and go out. He will stand on the street and shout at the top of his voice, he is no longer the Judge Sahab, nor is he the ‘Your Honour’. He is the plain, simple, Harihar Tripathy, who left his Jaagmara village near Pattamundai forty five years back to go to Ravenshaw College for his B.A. and then after completing his B.L. at Patna, became a sub-judge at Brajarajnagar. Today, he is divested of the heavy burden of a robe and all the constraints that go with it. Finally he has earned his freedom.
After shouting aloud in celebration of his freedom, he will walk all the way to Manisahu Chhak and eat bara, piyaji and aloochop from Raju mithaiwala’s shop. Then he will come to Gadgadia Ghat, sit on the steps of the river Mahanadi. He will take out his sandals, dip his feet in the water and listen to the soothing murmur of the flow of the river. His feet will be washed, like his soul, in an endless stream of cool water sparkling in the moon light.
Then he will get up, fill his pocket with groundnuts, hire a cycle rickshaw and go to Gouri Shankar Park. There, under the moon, he will sit on a bench, remove the shell of the groundnuts and eat them to his heart’s content. The trees, the park, the birds’ nests on the trees, the smiles, the murmurs, the whispers of people will be awash with the coolness of white moonlight. Judge Sahab will stealthily glance at the young couple sitting on the next bench and try to listen to their sweet whispers – what are they saying to each other? Is it the same murmur of the heart that he shared with Manjushri thirty-six years back under the street light at Shimla’s Lovers’ Point? Or is it something else?
In a trance he will get up from the park and start walking towards the Chandi Mandir. He will locate the two poor kids he sees everyday, accompanying their mother asking for alms. He will call the small boy and the girl, take them in a cycle rickshaw to the market, buy a nice dress for each of them and give them a bag filled with chocolates and chanachur.
And then, slowly, steadily, he will walk towards Chandini Chowk, on the same route that he takes everyday to his Court. At the traffic junction near Sheikh Bazaar, he will meet the seventy year old man, bent with age, who tries to sell insurance policies for a living. Judge Sahab will hold his hand and lead him to an ice-cream shop. Together they will sit on the wooden bench outside the shop and eat strawberry ice cream. Unknown to the old man, he will tuck an envelope with two thousand rupees in it in his pocket.
Suddenly Judge Sahab will look at his watch. It will probably show 10.30 in the night. Startled, he will hire a cycle rickshaw and reach his home in Cantonment Road. At home there will be chaos and consternation - where is the Judge Sahab gone, missing for the past four hours?
The ex-Judge Sahab will quietly, stealthily enter the living room, look at Manjushri, flash her an apologetic, mischievous smile and tip-toe towards the bedroom. Manjushri will start shouting at the top of her voice about how irresponsible he has become within a few hours of his deliverance! Judge Sahab will enjoy the banter and, face buried in the pillow, he will be rolling with laughter!
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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