Literary Vibes - Edition LXVIII
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the sixty eighth edition of LiteraryVibes.
In the seventh week of Corona-induced lockdown we struggle to remain indoors, rein in our desire to go out and see our beloved city in the radiance of the day and the glittering light of the nights. But we live with hope. I am sure at the end of it we will return with renewed zeal to live life to the full, to laugh, enjoy and relish its pleasures. I found this wonderful inspirational poem in the Internet and want to share it with you:
And even though it's hard
And I may struggle through it all
You may see me struggle...
But you will never see me fall
(Joyce Alacantara - biographical details not available.)
And I remember Robert Frost's famous quote, "In three words I can sum up everything I have learnt about life - It Goes On!"
So while life goes on, creative persons write poems and stories, draw and paint, sing and dance. We present a slice of that beauty for you to enjoy. We do hope you will like the offerings in our sixty eighth edition. Do share the link with your friends and contacts: http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/302
I have great pleasure in publishing a beautiful essay on Haiga, a form of Japanese painting with beautiful Haiku poems engraved on it. The illustrative essay is by Pravat Kumar Padhy, an internationally renowned exponent of Haiga and Haiku. Because of abundance of images I have published it separately at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/301 Hope you will like it and share it with others.
To fill your days of lockdown with lots and lots of poems and stories, travelogues and anecdotes please visit http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes for the previous sixty seven editions of LV. There are four anthologies of poems and short stories in this site.
Take care, stay safe,
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
- THAT UNPRECEDENTED.. Prabhanjan K. Mishra.
- THE SURREAL (UPAAKHYAANA) Haraprasad Das
- NIRBHAYA Krupa Sagar Sahoo
- THE POSTER PASTER Dilip Mohapatra
- THE AFTERMATH Dr Ajay Upadhyaya
- END OF WANDERING Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- A HEAVY HEART Thryaksha A Garla
- LONGING TO NOT LONG Thryaksha A Garla
- MY TWO WHEELER Sundar Rajan
- WHAT'S IN A NAME Sundar Rajan
- AN OYSTER Sumitra Mishra
- OVER MY SLUMBERS AND... Molly Joseph
- TRANSFORMATION Madhumathi. H
- SURPRISES. . . Madhumathi. H
- AYN RAND AND MY MOTHER Sridevi Selvaraj
- THE SERPENT DANCER Vidya Shankar
- SWEET INSIGHTS FROM TEA.. Dr K Srikala Ganapathy
- INCLUSION Sheena Rath
- THE MESSAGE OF THE MASK Kamar Sultana Sheik
- STREE SAKTHI Padmini Janardhanan
- LUCKY EYES Setaluri Padmavathi
- VISION Ravi Ranganathan
- BEYOND FEAR!! Anjali Mohapatra
- THE ETERNAL ILLUSION... Akshaya Kumar Das
- THE MUTE WITNESS OF... Akshaya Kumar Das
- PRISTINE PORT BLAIR Meera Raghavendra Rao
- TRAVELING IN A GROUP.. Meera Raghavendra Rao
- HURT Kabyatara Kar
- MARX AND THE PAUPER.. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
- WAITING.......... Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Mind has been a waste-bin
brimming with howls and whimpers.
A deafening stillness
reigns over the stifled outdoors.
Myriad fire-flies blink
inside the deadened head;
the houses and streets of Cuttack
are ruled by the dark lord -
electricity cut off, not a drop
from taps to quench the thirst;
prisoned are our reveries,
outer world, going berserk.
The shaken trees cannot
be cajoled by the balmy breeze
to trust its caress, the last night’s
Rudra Tandava makes them tremble.
The cracking sky’s fallen pieces
congest the rivers and ponds;
the scourge has defeated all
except the survivors
who, stretch bent backbones,
resurrect dreams, rise,
fill wind into their sails
to navigate life with new zeal.
A new flag flutters merrily
atop God’s house, the lord
sits indoors in cozy comfort,
unconcerned but a bit petulant
for the delay in repairing
damages, resetting rituals,
often throwing tantrums,
and is pampered by devotees,
thanking him for saving them
from the catastrophe, assuring
him of his free board and lodging,
the sinecure post without portfolio.
A mystery, the sun smiles smug,
is it for its unreachable distance?
Didn’t he hide shamelessly
behind the clouds, when the sea
turned a predator, joining hands
with the cruel wind to prey on
the hapless, kill the innocent,
entering the homes of the rich and poor.
corpses reek, wounds fester,
buried ones choke in mass graves,
they would rot and turn into manure -
futile lives would turn the soil fertile!
It’s evening, the moon has turned up
with an oily smile, face dabbed with
the ‘fair and lovely’, behaving
like a pimp for the soliciting stars.
The lovers are conspicuous
by their absence on beaches,
the sand weeps, no names
are written on it by smitten fingers.
Lucky lovers, not washed away,
frown over the one-night-stand
between the sea and the wind,
their orgiastic climax killing millions.
(The Odia poem “Bhulihuenaa Jhadara Bibruti”, written in 1999 and published in ‘April-June, 2000, issue of journal Katha Katha Kabita Kabita’, spoke of the super-cyclone that devastated Odisha in 1999, killing around fifteen thousand people. Here is the poem’s English version self-translated.)
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
A voice says, “We have to go”;
raise an echo of responses -
sing multitude of birds
carved on shishu-wood furniture,
“We have to go,
we have to go”.
A languid flame sits up
on its dying ember-bed,
straightening lazily
its frozen limbs,
getting ready
to leap out and go;
the hornet bee,
painted on a chaamar hand-fan,
flaps its wings unsteadily,
getting ready to take off;
a clap enters a well,
returns from its depths,
the echo parroting, “Yes, yes,
I am also coming along.”
Someone shouts,
“Nowhere to go,
no thoroughfare is open;
all outlets are closed.”
He then axes the half-truths,
unsheathes his knife,
hacks the jugular
of the half-lies.
No one goes anywhere;
all are mortally scared
to enter the truth’s domain,
not even the killer of truth and lies.
But the surreal zeal
has a salutary causality,
the town’s bald heartland
is undergoing afforestation.
Mr. Hara Prasad Das is one of the greatest poets in Odiya literature. He is also an essayist and columnist. Mr. Das, has twelve works of poetry, four of prose, three translations and one piece of fiction to his credit. He is a retired civil servant and has served various UN bodies as an expert.
He is a recipient of numerous awards and recognitions including Kalinga Literary Award (2017), Moortidevi Award(2013), Gangadhar Meher Award (2008), Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award (1999) and Sarala Award (2008)”
Translated from Odiya by: Malabika Patel
Kring! Kring! The control phone in the cabin rang out incessantly. Pawan Kumar could hear the long tone as he took rapid strides towards his room after exchanging the signal of the Down Shalimar Goods Train. He rushed to pick up the phone; all the while cursing his job in this godforsaken station.
Pawan Kumar was the ASM of Bhalulata station, at the outskirts of the Saranda forest. The station was indeed godforsaken. Neither a human settlement nor a market had ever sprung up during its long existence; not a ghost of a chance for any entertainment either. Two years into his marriage, Pawan Kumar hadn’t yet felt confident enough to bring his wife, Muniya, where he had been posted, which only added to the young man’s agony.
Picking up the phone, he replied, “Hello, Bhalu speaking.”
From the other end came the Section Controller’s yell. “Hello, Bhalu?”
“Yes, Bhalu.”
“Where did you vanish to, Pawan?”
“Where will I vanish, Sir? I was passing the Down Shalimar, Sir.”
“Why didn’t you send the porter for the signal exchange?”
“The porter will be on the off-side. Don’t I have to be at the station platform, Sir? Have you forgotten the lessons of Sini Training School, Sir?“ Pawan Kumar was getting brusque.
“Okay, okay. Don’t try to teach me. Mumbai–Howrah Mail has left Rourkela. Grant line clear.”
There was no stoppage for the Mumbai–Howrah Mail at Bhalulata station. A through pass had to be given from the mainline. So he put down the phone and dialled the Magneto phone that was connected to the switchman in the West cabin.
There was no response from the West cabin. He kept on dialling the Magneto phone again and again, which only resounded with gurgling sounds and no response. In an agitated voice, he asked the porter who had come back to the station, “Where is that idiot Gobardhan?”
Tikra, the porter replied, “I don’t know, Chotta Sahib.”
“What? It’s not yet 6 in the evening,” he barked. “Has he drunk mahuli and gone to sleep or what?”
Tikra brought down the hand signal lamp from the lamp room, then said, “Sahib, I am putting on the hand lamp.”
Meanwhile, calls started to come in from the Control Room.
“Hello! Hello, Bhalu! Why are you not granting a line clear?”
“Telling the West cabin to do so,” he said. “Hey, Tikra! Go and see where that stupid Gobardhan is? Is he dead or alive?”
Carrying the hand signal, Tikra set off for the West cabin.
Bhalulata station had neither a good shed nor a parcel office. Only two rooms made up the station. One was the Station Master’s room and the other was the ASM’s. Adjacent to that was an asbestos roofed second class waiting hall. A small partition separated the waiting hall and the ASM’s room. From the window, tickets were sold, above which was displayed a signboard that read “Booking office”. In the daytime, the Station Master carried out that duty. In two other two, two ASMs performed the job. In each shift, there were one porter and two switchmen.
On both sides of the station lay a thick sal forest. Even during the day, the station appeared deserted, with an emptiness that gnawed. For the employees of the station, life was tough. One year ago, Maoists had attacked the station and kidnapped three employees.
Pawan Kumar apprehended danger. How had such a thing happened?
Gobardhan, the switchman, had come for duty at four in the afternoon. Before coming in for work, he had eaten a sumptuous feast in the basti, which was a good reason for his bowels to work overtime. After granting the line clear to the Down Shalimar Goods Train, he had rushed to attend to nature’s call, keeping the hand signal aside on the windowsill. The cabin had no provisions for a toilet, so the workmen had to traverse the jungle nearby. Downstairs from the cabin was the battery room. The room was opened only when the signal department’s workmen visited. The points and signal levers jutted out of the roof of the battery room, much like spears. Besides the levers, the room had one table, on which was kept the block instrument, a stool to sit on and an earthen pitcher with drinking water in it. From a distance, the decrepit cabin looked like the room of a departed soul and the hand signal lamp on the windowsill, like the eye of a ghost.
The Magneto phone rang incessantly. Govardhan was barely able to get up until nature’s job was finished with. Then he had to clean himself with water from the lota. Rushing through his ablutions in that mildly chilly evening, he was about to climb the stairs up to the cabin, when he saw something that made him freeze. He was barely able to steady himself at the bottom of the steps. Where would he go? By sheer instinct, he climbed up the banyan tree that canopied atop the cabin.
Mumbai–Howrah Mail had stopped near Bisra station. The Controller was like a storm. “The mail is being detained, Pawan Kumar! You will lose your job.”
“Sir! What can I do? The switchman is not in the cabin.”
“Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know, Sir. He is not picking up the phone. I have sent the porter.”
Pawan Kumar was at his wits” end. He was musing, “Why me? Why do I get such a posting and have to die every day?”
Tikra was approaching the West cabin with the hand signal lamp swivelling in his hands, with a tune on his lips. In that semi-darkness, the yellow light of the lamp reflected on to his violet-coloured shorts, which hung loose on his curved and rickety legs. He almost looked like a headless phantom.
Coming close to the cabin, he yelled, “Govardhan kaka … Govardhan kaka!”
He was startled when the response to his yell was a whistle that came from the treetop nearby. Reflexively, he spat upon his chest. Then he heard Govardhan’s whisper. “Shh … Shhh … Don’t go there … shh. Bears … two of them.
Tikra looked here and there, up and down into the cabin and what he saw inside made the lamp drop from his hand. Finding no other escape, he too climbed up the banyan tree.
Now, the two of them, both holding on to dear life on two different branches of the same tree started to whisper to each other. Govardhan hissed, “Not one bhai, there are two of them. I saw one hanging on to the lever handle. Tikra whispered back, “but how did they enter the cabin? Did you keep the mahuli vessel there?”
“Na re baba, na … After they have tightened the safety drills, I am one to bring my malpani to the cabin. Don’t I love my job?“
“Now tell me what we should do. There the mail train is stuck. Chhota Sahib is restless. Our jobs may go.”
“Let the train remain standing. Who cares? We have to survive fast. If we die, will the Railways give back our life? Now look, look … one of the bears is coming down. Let the night pass. Let the other one come down too.”
“You remember that person in our basti whose nose was pulled up to his forehead by a bear?“
“Ya … I remember his disfigured face; his eye was dangling near his mouth thanks to the bear’s attack. How ravenous these animals are!“
Meanwhile, seconds and minutes were ticking by. Fifteen minutes must have passed. No sign of Tikra. Pawan Kumar was pacing up and down inside his room. Each minute felt like an hour for him. He sensed that something horrendous had happened.
“Hello, Control … Bhalu speaking. Bhattacharya Babu! I think some disaster has happened. Both Govardhan and Tikra have vanished.” His voice was so nervous, he was unable to say anything more.
“Where is your Bada babu?“
“He has gone to Rourkela, Sir. His family stays there.”
Section Controller got irritated and went to the CHC chamber.
A bewildered Pawan Kumar sat down to ruminate; his head clasped in his hands and his elbows on the table. Muniya had been adamant that she would come with him to Bhalulata. He had comforted her, saying that he would bring her with him once was posted to a better station. Every fifteen minutes a train passes through Bhalulata, and taking a leave was a difficult sum to crack. Lack of relieving staff. That was the usual response of the Divisional Traffic Inspector(DTI). “What about the overtime you are earning, Mister?” used to be his own snide remark to them. Muniya, unaware about the goings-on in a mammoth organization like the railways, had to keep her mouth shut and she had shed silent tears.
Meanwhile, a commotion had erupted in Bisra and the other stations where the trains had been detained. The Control Room in Chakradharpur was on edge. DyCHC, CHC, AOS —they all reached the Section Control cabin. Section Controller announced, “Switchman of Bhalu station has absconded. Mumbai–Howrah mail is detained in Bisra and is waiting for a signal from Bhalu station.“
“Bhalu station?”
The newly joined AOS was not used to the coded language of the Section Controller.
“Sir, Bhalu is the short form of Bhalulata station.”
“Oh, I see! Suspend the switchman.”
“But, Sir … the entire station is in a mode of suspension,” said the Section Controller. “Both the switchman and the porter have fled, Sir! Please have a look at the chart. The entire movement of trains has come to a dead halt. All the up–down trains are now standing in a long queue.”
“Tell the ASM to speak up.”
“Hello, Bhalu. AOS Sahib wants to speak to you.”
“Yes, Sir!” replied Pawan Kumar in a startled voice.
“Where did the switchman and the porter vanish to?”
“Both of them have left no trace, Sir.”
“Your Station Master?”
“Sir. He stays with his family in Rourkela, Sir.”
“You go and see for yourself what the matter is.”
“But, Sir! Two people have vanished. Sir! This place is a playground of Maoists. Sir, how can I risk my life?”
The young AOS“s temper rose.
“You know what the consequence of insubordination is?”
“Yes, Sir! I will go back to my village. I can’t do this job. You please send somebody else.“
The AOS was perplexed by such a reply. He went to the DOS’s room. Behind him stood the CC.
A few merchants were sitting in DOS Rai Sahib’s cabin.
“Sir, may I disturb you? An emergency …”
The AOS was panting so much that the CC had to report the incident instead. “Sir, both, the switchman and the porter, are absconding from Bhalulata station. All the trains are detained, Sir.”
“Oh, I see. Maoists had attacked the station a year ago. Am I right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
After contemplating for a while, he said, “I am sending the Area Superintendent with a force. Check the mainline—whether it is set, and then, taking the paper line clear from both sides of the station, start the trains with a caution order. I am informing the state government.”
Meanwhile, the night was descending. Pawan Kumar did not feel like opening his tiffin box to eat his dinner. Sitting on the chair, he was murmuring to himself, “I am coming, Muniya. I can’t carry on like this. I don’t mind tending to the buffaloes in the village. Or growing makka-bajra in our fields. But I can’t stay here. To hell with this job!”
At Bisra, Mumbai–Howrah Mail kept standing still. The passengers were getting restless. They alighted the train in groups and gheraoed the ASM’s cabin with shouts. “Why are you not starting the mail?”
The ASM Bisra was not in a position to pacify the agitating crowd. The Station Master came from his cabin and with folded hands tried to appease the passengers. “Please, calm down. Only for your safety have we detained this train. Maoists have attacked Bhalulata station. They have carried away two of our railway staff; the whole station has come to a halt. How will the train ferry passengers across? You tell us.”
The passengers immediately hushed after hearing of the attack. But some still kept arguing, “Why are you keeping us stranded in this place. There is no tea, water or snacks available in this goddamn place. You better take us back to Rourkela station.”
Others supported this demand and again started to make noise.
“I shall inform the Control Room. You, people, return back to your compartments.” He then passed on the demand to the Control Room.
Meanwhile, the Area Superintendent (AS) started from Bandhamunda station with his platoon by road. He and the DTI were in one vehicle, while in another van were huddled the RPF Inspector and the armed forces. When they reached Bhalulata station, they entered the closed door of the ASM and took a report from him.
“Is the mainline set?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Then he ordered the Control Room, “Move the trains with a caution order. Now I am going to the West cabin.”
The DTI requested, “Sir, don’t be so impatient. This is a Maoist area. Let dawn break, Sir!”
The ARS was known for his bold and courageous acts. Rejecting the DTI’s proposal, he instructed the RPF force, “Let us go to the West cabin.” No motorable road led to the West cabin. Walking slowly on the railway track and ballast, they approached the cabin. The searchlights were scattered all around them. No sound whatsoever escaped the quiet night. The searchlight moved on to the banyan tree which was canopying the West Cabin.
As the searchlights spread and the ARS and his platoon were visible, Govardhan and Tikra moved up the branches to disguise themselves behind the lush leaves.
“This sahib is a monster. Everyone knows about him. The only words that come out of his lips are ‘Suspend’ and ‘Transfer’.”
“Shh … Don’t move, Tikra. If he sees us, he will butcher us.”
Now the AS climbed into the cabin. Suddenly, from one corner of the cabin flashed two red hot eyes and a ghastly roar. The searchlight dropped from the hands of the AS. He would have had a nasty fall if the RPF jawans had not been right behind him. He had to be carried down to the Station Master’s room in an unconscious state.
AS regained his former self when water was sprinkled on his face, but he kept mumbling, “Why are you surrounding me? You bloody fellows go and shoot the bear. I say, shoot it.”
The DTI, Jagga Rao, gave a report to the Division Office over the control phone.
“Hello! There is a bear invasion in Bhalulata station and not a Maoist attack!” The news spread fast and thick from the Division Office to the Head Office.
The next day at Chakradharpur’s division office, a meeting was called in the early morning to discuss the bear invasion in Bhalulata station. The DRM and all the departmental heads were present. The Senior DOS announced that ten trains have been affected. Five Mail and Express trains have lost their punctuality. The RPF may be instructed to shoot the bear.
The RPF commandant protested. “Sir, we cannot shoot a wild animal. As per the Wildlife Act 1972, it is a punishable offence.”
“You please take action. Otherwise, I will call shikaris from Manoharpur station and have them shoot it. I don’t know whether my two staff members are dead or have been injured by this bear. I can’t wait any longer.” The Senior Divisional Operating Superintendent warned.
“How do you know whether your staff have been injured or killed by this bear? Don’t take any hasty decisions. You will have to go to jail afterwards! You inform the Forest Department. They will take proper action.”
Cutting through this war of words, the DRM instructed, “Prepare a special train. We will go to the spot, assess the situation and take action accordingly. DFO, Sundergarh may be informed.
Then started Operation Jambaban. With five saloons and one engine, the special train started from Chakradharpur to Bhalulata station. Meanwhile, the DFO did not give permission to shoot the wild animal.
While one night and half a day had passed, the word was spreading about Bhalulata station being invaded by wild bears. The unheard name, Bhalulata, suddenly acquired some fame in the state. Curious passers-by, people of neighbouring villages made a beeline to the site, while one of the cleverer TV channels was quick to dispatch its reporters to capture the never-seen-before footage and soundbites.
The DFO arrived with his subordinates in tow. His refusal to shoot the animal might have been a response to his earlier spat with the Railways. He had been miffed with the Railways for not giving him a free pass to check the illegal ferrying of forest products and costly timber in the trains.
By midday, Bhalulata station had attracted a crowd. Instead of trains, people were found standing on the tracks. On one side of the cabin was the Commandant with his armed RPF platoon; on another side were the DFO and his forest protection forces. The TV channel had made a makeshift podium, on which were seated the crew. Though the Commandant and the DFO were facing each other, they were not on speaking terms. The Commandant was rolling his moustache while the DFO was stroking his beard. Both the groups” body language was bent on showing the other in a poor light.
In front of the cabin were the enthusiastic village folk. They had their indigenous weapons. Some had sickles, some had bhujalis, some had spears, and some came with spikes. Some had sticks and tangias. Whatever they could have laid their hands on, they came with it.
All the noise and commotion outside stirred the bear, which was still trapped inside the cabin. She took a look outside the window and could see a swarm of black heads. A glimpse of the animal from the window sent a ripple through the crowd.
“Why are these RPF and Forest Department behaving like mute spectators? Why can’t they take action?” Murmurs were heard among the restless crowd.
A few minutes ticked by.
Then came a shrieking roar that tore into the land and sky. The astonished crowd was staring at the entrance of the cabin, where the bear was standing—two-legged, like a Homo erectus; and in her two hands were two new-born baby cubs. The babies, with their closed eyes, were clasping on to the mother’s breast.
The bear, as if inciting the crowd, roared. “Come you civilized, armed people! Catch me, kill me … if you can … if you have the guts … you dare cast evil eyes on my children!”
The spellbound crowd was stunned; they watched a fearless and proud mother with her new born cubs. Suddenly, their muttering stopped mid-sentence. The birds seemed like they had stopped twittering. The wind seemed like it had ceased whistling.
The RPF’s guns came down. The nets, held by the Forest Guards, fell to the ground. The cameras of shutterbugs stopped clicking. The assembled crowd was stunned into a hushed silence, watching a besotted mother, tenderly protecting her two innocent new-borns.
The non-threatening silence of the crowd prodded the animal to climb down the stairs with her babies. In the same posture, with two hands full, she trotted to the back of the cabin and slowly disappeared into the jungle.
Now, she is a mother, she is brave; she had no fear, no panic and no fright in her eyes. The vast wilderness of Saranda forest was beckoning to her. The railway personnel, the Forest Armed Forces were breathing a sigh of amazed relief. The assembly of villagers started to melt. Some of them were found muttering, “Why did the bear leave such a vast jungle and come to the station for her delivery? Is it her mother’s place?” The public somehow always had the answer. Someone was heard saying, “Don’t you know there is no safe haven in the jungle these days for an animal to give birth to their kids. The jungle is on fire. Behind the hills, there is only fire. Fire from the ammunition.”
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.
It was the morning hours and traffic was slowly building up. Ravi who worked for a local newspaper got down from the Metro at Begumpet station and walked across the over bridge. As he descended down the stairs he found a guy frantically sticking posters on a long blank wall. In search of a story, he approached the young man, who continued with his work with a frenetic pace and didn't even acknowledge his presence. The poster read,' No Placement, Don't worry. Earn ?500 to ?1000 a day in 5 Star Hotel, Part time or Full time. Daily cash payment, Food free plus tips and overtime, contact 9910803671'. He took out his mobile to click a photo of the man still busy in his job.
' Hello sir, are you recording me?,' he turned around and asked.
' No, only taking your photo. I am a reporter and writing a story on odd jobs. Would you mind if we chat a little,' requested Ravi.
' No issue sir, please go ahead. I am Bala Kumar. But please don't print my name,' said the man.
' We always change the name and place in our stories, so don't bother,' offered Ravi.
' Tell me, aren't you scared that Police may pick you up for pasting these posters on walls marked 'post no bill'?,' asked Ravi.
' Sir, there's a little trick here. We first cover these 'post no bill' signs with our posters and then go ahead with our work,' Bala spoke with a devilish grin.
' How did you get into this job?,' asked Ravi.
' I actually work as a part time waiter in a Hyderabadi restaurant, during evenings only. A friend there introduced me to a Poster Pasting Agency in Panjagutta, which hires people on a daily basis for such work.' Bala replied.
' How many posters normally you paste every day and how much do you earn?', was the next question from Ravi.
' I manage to stick about 500-700 posters in a couple of hours and get about 250 to 400 rupees for the job,' replied Bala.
' What are your future plans?,' asked Ravi.
' What plans, Sir? Life just goes on. I spent my childhood in an orphanage. I have no liability. Just me. I share a room in a busti at Alwal with two other poster pasters. But I am now learning Excel during the afternoons and hopefully will join some telecom service provider as a data entry operator. By the way, I am sure you can help me to get a similar job in the media too,' said Bala with a smile.
The chat continued for sometime. Ravi asked for Bala's mobile number, just in case he may be of any help in future, then thanked him and paid him ?100 as a small gratuity and left.
A few days later, Bala was found sitting on a stool on the footpath at the parade ground junction under the banyan tree and Salman Kaka, the roadside barber was lathering up his face.
' Bala, you had such a nice beard, just like that of Ranveer Singh. And with the twirling moustache you looked every inch like him. Rather I would say, better. Why are you taking it off?', asked Salman Kaka.
' Aare Kaka, Don't take his name before me. All these years I almost worshipped him. He was my ideal Bollywood hero. I posted his posters at the most vantage points of the streets with utmost care. I even framed one of his posters and hung it in my room. And finally he betrays me,' cried out Bala.
' Betrayed you? How's that?', Salman Kaka stopped short and looked at Bala quizzically.
' Oh Kaka, he stole the queen of my dreams, my heart throb of so many years from me.', shouted Bala accusingly.
' What are you saying? I don't understand,' Salman Kaka looked bewildered.
' Kaka, come to my room, I will show you,' he hesitated and continued, ' but what would I show you now? All gone up in smoke. I just made a bonfire of her posters. The posters I lived with all these years. I think she betrayed me too. Every breath I took was dedicated to Deepika and lo and behold she goes ahead and marries him. That diabolical scheming oaf. Kaka, please shave off my beard. I don't want to look a wee bit like him. Let me close the chapter and move on with my life,' tears were rolling down his cheeks making streaks on the white lather resembling glacier tracks on the snow.
The other day Bala was sitting with his two room mates in a roadside tea shop sipping tea and gossiping. Suddenly one motorcycle screeched to a halt in front and two tough looking guys alighted from it. The pillion rider was carrying a mutilated piece of paper, which in fact was a eighteen by twenty four inches yellow coloured poster with something written in red and black.
On a closer look it read, ' Are you Warry? Just one call and change your life. Contact Tantrik Baba Azaad Bangali on 8440896453 for Husband Wife Problems, Ex Love Back astrology, Intercast Marriage Problems, Divorce Problem, Career Problem, Visa Problem, Vashikaran, etc. 90000 satisfied clients, Don't west time. Just one call. Also available on WhatsApp’, conveying the message loud and clear but surely amusing the spelling bee.
Both of them advanced to the tea stall and asked the shop keeper Kalu where they may find Bala. As Kalu looked towards Bala timidly, both almost leapt at him like a leopard would do to grab its unsuspecting prey, and caught him by both his arms.
' You scum, did you paste these posters all around the city?,' screamed one of them.
' Yes, sir, but what have I done wrong?,' asked Bala in an undertone, while his two friends got up and were about to flee. Bala implored them with his eyes to stick around and they hesitatingly stayed back.
' You must be this fraud Baba's agent. He has duped me for lakhs. He had promised that after I transfer the money to his account, my wife will sign the divorce papers without a whimper. And now she takes me to court with an alimony demand of one crore rupees! You take me to this Baba right now or else I will beat you to a pulp, ' threatened the big guy.
'Sir, I swear I have no idea who is this Baba. Neither have I read what's written on these posters. I was given the posters by my employer and I just did my job. Please believe me and let me go,' begged Bala.
And then as Bala felt their hold was getting lighter, he freed himself with a jerk and all three of them took off as fast as their feet could take them away.
Bala was taking his afternoon nap when his mobile rang. It was reporter Ravi who was on the other end, ' Hi Bala, how are you? I have a small but special job for you. Please come to our office at Park Lane today at 5 and ask the security guard to bring you to my office.'
Bala was there at the newspaper office sharply at 5 and was escorted to Ravi's cubicle. Ravi received him as if he was a long lost friend and ordered for him a cup of tea and disappeared in the maze of the printers. Bala felt good and sipped his tea in silence while looking at the draft copy of the next day's' front page on Ravi's table. The headlines caught his eyes. It was about the latest clashes between two groups of people, one which opposed the newly promulgated Citizenship Amendment Act by the government and one which supported it.
Bala had no idea who was right and who was wrong. While he was trying to read the details, Ravi called him and took him to the Editor's office. Ravi entered the plush office and surveyed the surroundings with some trepidation. The Editor, a middle-aged man was well dressed in a flawless suit and was engaged in a conversation with a corpulent, bald headed man in his sixties who wore the typical attire of a politician, a khadi kurta, and a high neck sleeveless jacket. He looked somewhat familiar. After a little while the penny dropped. He remembered to have posted his posters all around during the last election. Individually he won but his party did not come to power.
' Hello young fellow, we have a special job for you. You will be paid very well, 5000 rupees for a few minutes job. Will you be interested?', the editor asked while winking at the politician.
' Why not sir, please tell me what do I have to do?', asked Bala apprehensively.
' Look, the job is what you are used to do. Pasting posters. But this you have to do tonight only after 12. And you have to do it very discreetly. No one should know about it. Do you understand?,' said the Editor in a conspiratorial undertone.
' Please tell me sir. I will not divulge about it to anybody,' offered Bala.
' OK. Ravi will take you to our printing section. You will find two bundles of posters there. One tied up in a green band and the other in a saffron band. You have to paste all posters tied in the saffron band on the walls of Mecca Masjid, the mosque next to the Charminar and the ones tied in green band should be pasted on the scaffolding around Bhagyalaxmi temple just below the Charminar. Do the job quietly. Come and collect your money from this office tomorrow at 5.'
Bala collected both the bundles and at the dead of the night did his job with alacrity and in complete secrecy. He didn't even discuss about this with his friends living with him. It was just another job well done. He came back and slept well.
The next day it was total pandemonium in the old city of Hyderabad. The people coming to offer morning prayers at the Masjid were horrified to find photographs of Mahalaxmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth plastered on its walls. Simultaneously the Pujari of Bhagyalakshmi temple was howling in horror to see the green crescent and moon posters stuck around the scaffolding.. Soon, the ominous clouds of CAA protesters' clashes which hovered around some corners of the city took a communal overtone and overcast the whole sky of the old city. The police had to spring into action and soon section 144 was imposed in the entire old city and under strict police patrolling the situation was brought under control, with few lead perpetrators from both communities arrested and put behind bars.
Unaware of the commotion in the old city Bala was making plans with his room mates to have a party in the evening at Rajendra Dhaba, with some extra money that he had come to. In fact he told his friends that most likely he might move into a media job through Ravi the reporter and would have more spending money. He put on a clean T shirt and discarded his slippers for a pair of sandals which he borrowed from his friend and took a bus to Park Lane to claim his remuneration.
He reached the newspaper office and found Ravi missing from his cubicle. The editor's secretary told him to wait in the lounge. Bala sat in a corner, browsing through some old newspapers kept on the corner table. He sat there for almost an hour but nobody bothered about him. People passed by without even noticing him. Bala called Ravi but a recorded voice came that his phone was outside network coverage area. He walked up to the secretary and demanded to see the editor. The secretary told him curtly that the editor was still in a meeting and would see him later. Bala waited for another hour. Then his attention was diverted by an announcement on the TV news. They were showing repeatedly a CCTV clip in which Bala was seen pasting the posters near the Charminar and the police commissioner declaring a reward to anyone who might lead them to the culprit. His close ups were followed by visuals of rioting and arson on the streets. Bala got up, his heart pounding against his rib cage and left the office in haste but blood drained out of his face as he was accosted by the police at the reception. He saw the police thanking Ravi standing at the entrance, for having shared with them Bala's mobile number, which ultimately led them to him.
' You scoundrel, do you know what you have done? You are responsible for loss of five lives and damage to number of vehicles and properties. Come with us, it's time you pay for it,' shouted the police inspector as he handcuffed Bala.
' Sir, I don't know what you are saying. I was just doing my job. Ravi garu , please tell them, I just did what I do for a living,' pleaded Bala with folded hands.
Ravi stood at the door with an evil grin on his face, as Bala was led away.
Dilip Mohapatra (b.1950), a decorated Navy Veteran is a well acclaimed poet in contemporary English and his poems appear in many literary journals of repute and multiple anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections to his credit so far published by Authorspress, India. He has also authored a Career Navigation Manual for students seeking a corporate career. This book C2C nee Campus to Corporate had been a best seller in the category of Management Education. He lives with his wife in Pune, India.
The old, refused a
chance to live.
The young, forbidden
to go to work.
Babies, missing
grandpa’s cuddle.
The dead, denied
a decent farewell.
Traders
can’t show off
their ware,
crafted to perfection.
For, no matching zeal
for mall-crawling.
Garden plants
in nurseries
die from vanishing
admirers.
The RNA strand
moves on,
jumping from
species to species,
leaving behind
raging cytokine storms.
It’s glittering crown
blinds the
stock markets
in their trajectory.
But birds regain
monopoly of skies,
whose eyes lit up,
with sight of the
beloved,
snow clad peaks.
Their unveiled faces
aglow in anticipation;
to resume their
rendezvous:
No fear of
ogling from
monstrous smog
of two-legged bandits.
The strangle of
its sly entry
chokes the unwary.
But the planet
can now breathe easy!
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England. A Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
It is getting clear
Now, after many years
As the clouds recede
The moon comes out
And proudly reveal
The beautiful face of love
Removing the black veil
Of ignorance and illusion.
I was never aware
The source was so near
I kept ignoring the signals,
As I felt it was difficult
To capture and decipher.
I have been a wanderer
All through my life
Never satisfied
With any place or destination
I was alway in look for something
I was never very sure
Which made me wonder
What was my success and failure.
Probably, I was in search of love
The idea of which
I got from some seekers.
But, nobody could tell for certain
As those who knew
Could not utter
And those who didn’t
Kept confusing others.
Let it happen,whenever,
Why should I bother
Love needs me more
Than I require of it
How can it be complete
Without my favour
It is destined to descend
From the heaven like a fairy
In search of its companion.
I wish I don’t miss this time
The elixir fruit, called love
In my over enthusiasm .
"Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura passed out from BITS, Pilani as a Mechanical Engineer and is serving in a PSU, Oil Marketing Company for last 3 decades. He has done his MBA in Marketing from IGNOU and subsequently the PhD from Sagaur Central University in Marketing. In spite of his official engagements, he writes both in Odia and English and follows his passion in singing and music. He has already published two books on collections of poems in Odia i.e. “Ananta Sparsa” & “Lagna Deha” , and a collection of English poems titled “The Mystic in the Land of Love”. His poems have been published in many national/ international magazines and in on-line publications. He has also published a non-fiction titled “Walking with Baba, the Mystic”. His books are available both in Amazon & Flipkart.". Dr Behura welcomes readers' feedback on his email - bkbehura@gmail.com.
I'm trying to fly,
But it pulls me down,
The weight in my heart,
Is too heavy to fly.
My wings are getting clipped,
As I try so hard to fly,
Now I've jumped off the cliff,
I've got nowhere to land.
I know what I should do,
Oh, I should drop the weight,
But the weight is in my heart,
My heart will drop too.
My shoulders ache now,
I can feel a storm coming up,
The clouds are grey and heavy,
But not as heavy as my heart..
It's in that smile on my face,
That goes unnoticed,
By everyone around,
That I feel the longing.
It's when I say something,
And I expect to hear something back,
But I'm greeted by silence,
That I feel the longing.
It's when I see something,
Turn halfway round,
The words dying on my lips,
That I feel the longing.
It's when a day goes by,
But I don't hear my name,
Being called all twisted,
That I feel the longing.
It's when I'm making new memories,
But I'm reliving the old ones,
Inside my head, alone,
That I long to be home..
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/.
(Picture Courtesy : S. Neeraja)
Since buses, I couldn't board,
And taxies I couldn't afford,
I went in for a bike,
Which everyone came to like
It had wheels and pedals, two,
Other parts, it had few,
All it asked was for some air,
At times to attend to puncture.
It took me everywhere,
Without charging any fare
It served me well for over a decade,
But slowly began to fade
And one fine morning,
It died without a warning.
Our fond memories, my dear friend,
I will carry to my journey's end.
(Picture Courtesy : S. Neeraja)
Lilly, Daisy, Jasmine, with Mala (flowers and garland)
Were all around pretty Jwala (lamp)
When we saw Krishna with Murali (flute)
The support for Sangeeth and Kavi, (song and poet)
We all rose with Asha. (hope)
With Shyam (evening) ushering in Sandhya(late evening)
Joining the revelry, Nila, (moon)
Fantastic is the artistic Kala. (art)
As quietly comes in Madhu, (liquor)
All jump up like Balu. (bear)
As fills the air, Kushboo (fragrance)
You see all around, Santosh (happiness)
Note: This is a Macronic/ Bi lingual poem
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
S. Neeraja is a healthcare professional with a Masters in Chemical Engineering. She is multifaceted with a passion for art and Carnatic Music. She is an animal lover who cares deeply about their welfare.
- AN OYSTER –
An oyster in the blue oval sea
I’m circling the safe islands in glee
Multitude aquatic beings dive over me
I don’t bother if they are from the river or sea.
Some predator sharks constantly on prowl
Some whistling whales ready for a brawl
But smiling dolphins never damage or spoil
Attacking my flesh like the vultures foul.
The pretending crocodiles angrily stare
Waiting to snatch my body, when bare,
Still I merrily sail with the waves and swim
Careless of the sea’s dangers, prank and whim.
For I’m full of the viscous juice of love
I can neither croak nor caw, sting or stab
Like the dogfish, swordfish or the creepy crab
I cannot hook or prick, for I’m innocent as a dove.
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”.
OVER MY SLUMBERS AND DREAMS...
My tribute to my Bard..
you
dwell
over my
slumbers
and dreams
my Bard !
with
the velvet
touch
of
thy verse
that lifts
me up...
my heart
brims
over...
the sea
lashing out
on shores
full,
then
settling,
rising
again
whispering
to
horizons
wide...
together
we
travel
search..
a sweet
sadness
envelopes..
the fleeting
shadows
of life
can't
deter us...
nor the
engulfing
darkness...
our tired
limbs
long for
rest..
the glen
its shady
nook
invites..
we
slumber..
hah !
how it
filters in..
the celestial
light,
flooding
our sleep
with smiles..
Oh,
my Bard
I need
this much,
only
this much...
Dr. Molly Joseph, (M.A., M.Phil., PGDTE, EFLU,Hyderabad) had her Doctorate in post war American poetry. She retired as the H.O.D., Department of English, St.Xavier's College, Aluva, Kerala, and now works as Professor, Communicative English at FISAT, Kerala. She is an active member of GIEWEC (Guild of English writers Editors and Critics) She writes travelogues, poems and short stories. She has published five books of poems - Aching Melodies, December Dews, and Autumn Leaves, Myna's Musings and Firefly Flickers and a translation of a Malayalam novel Hidumbi. She is a poet columnist in Spill Words, the international Online Journal.
She has been awarded Pratibha Samarppanam by Kerala State Pensioners Union, Kala Prathibha by Chithrasala Film Society, Kerala and Prathibha Puraskaram by Aksharasthree, Malayalam group of poets, Kerala, in 2018. Dr.Molly Joseph has been conferred Poiesis Award of Honour as one of the International Juries in the international award ceremonies conducted by Poiesis Online.com at Bangalore on May 20th, 2018. Her two new books were released at the reputed KISTRECH international Festival of Poetry in Kenya conducted at KISII University by the Deputy Ambassador of Israel His Excellency Eyal David. Dr. Molly Joseph has been honoured at various literary fest held at Guntur, Amaravathi, Mumbai and Chennai. Her latest books of 2018 are “Pokkuveyil Vettangal” (Malayalam Poems), The Bird With Wings of Fire (English), It Rains (English).
In total surrender
Flows
The light divine
Illuminating
The tunnels
Of our heart
Mapping
The labyrinths of our mind
Inviting us
Into
A nest
A home
Of perpetual rhythm…
Sieving our dissonances
Notes
Blossom in harmony
From
The roots
Of sacred silence
An omniscient conductor
With His baton
Communicates
With our soul
Kindling
The forgotten songs
In nectarous composition
Buried under
Jarring existence…
Renouncing
The glittering palace
Choosing
The glory
Of forests
The journey
Begins
Remorseful
Hulking baggage
Transform
Into trails
Every stone
Of sin
Falling off
The raw earth
Scented
With redemptions…
Seeking light
The layers
Of darkness
Evaporate
Rays
From the radiant sun
Shimmer through
The louvres
Of trees
The branches
Connecting
Canopying
The vastness
Deeper
And
Deeper...
The seeking
Grows
Brighter
And
Brighter
The light flows
A sudden pull
Into the magnificence
Of the invincible glow
Lose sight
Of the self
And
Become
The light.
Waking up from an unfinished dream
She searched frantically for the unseen
A cup of coffee, didn't calm her
What we lose, is what we treasure...
Smile dried up, and the brittle curve withered...
Reluctantly, pushed the door
To meet her elixir in the green, the rain, and the moon...
And there He is!
Like a celebration! A surprise!
A bunch of luminous smile!
Her unfinished dream...
Sometimes
Behind the closed doors
Life places moments in the colors of love...
Love places life, in the colors of hope...
Madhumathi is an ardent lover of Nature, Poetry(English and Tamil), Photography, and Music, Madhumathi believes writing is a soulful journey of weaving one's emotions and thoughts, having a kaleidoscopic view of life through poetry. She experiences Metamorphosis through writing. Nature is her eternal muse and elixir. Poetry, to Madhumathi, is a way of life, and loves to leave heartprints behind in gratitude, through her words. She strongly believes in the therapeutic power of words, that plant love, hope, and enable a deep healing. Madhumathi loves to spread mental health awareness through writing, breaking the stigma, and takes part in related activities, too.
Madhumathi's poems are published with the Poetry Society India in their AIPC anthologies 2015, 16, and 17, the multilingual anthology 'Poetic Prism' 2015(Tamil and English), Chennai Poets' Circle's 'Efflorescence' 2018, 2019, India Poetry Circle's 'Madras Hues Myriad Views'(2019) celebrating the spirit and glory of Madras, in the UGC approved e-journal Muse India, in IWJ-International Writers' Journal (2020), and e- zines Our Poetry Archive(OPA), and Storizen.
Blog for Madhumathi's Poems :https://multicoloredmoon.wordpress.com/, http://mazhaimozhimounam.blogspot.com/?m=1
My mother was always right. She planned things well, studied the advantages of what she would be planning. She would give instructions to everyone assuming they all looked at the situation in the same manner. She was a beautiful woman, and she knew she was in charge.
When I went abroad for higher studies, I came across this concept of feminism in humanities departments. I joined one such forum. The secretary was a smart lady, a great scholar in literature and sociology, I was told. She spoke on any subject - on and on. Some of us actually did not understand much, but we pretended to have understood. There were a few boys too. We all sat in profound silence – profound ignorance may be.
She had a reputation in the University for attracting lots of students to her classes. Then, she must be good, I consoled myself. Often she spoke about Ayn Rand. She spoke on self-interest, individualism. She spoke on the virtue of selfishness. Women have to practice these virtues, she told us day after day.
These ideologies disturbed me a lot. May be I have been living like a fool. Many people have taken help from me, and have promptly forgotten my existence later. I realized my past has been a meaningless existence. I decided to change little by little.
Ayn Rand seemed to be quite right. We have to take care of ourselves. Good point. If each one takes care of himself, the universe will be a much better place. We will get power too. Easy way to reach the top.
Some of my friends became successful practitioners of this brand of behavior. They all looked bright with confidence, sure of their personality and had no sense of guilt when they trampled another person’s success. One friend called me dumb, as I was not able to cope up with their speed in development.
A conflict grew in me. I realized I had developed a new self which clashed with my normal self.
Meanwhile my mother fell ill and I was asked to come straight to the hospital. A lot of relatives had turned up. My mother was the eldest in her family of twelve children, and all of them, except two were there.
‘This time your mother might not survive,’ one of my aunts told me, as we were waiting outside the ICU.
‘She is our strength. But even now I am scared of her.’ My male chauvinist eldest uncle said to no one in particular.
‘Yes. Even me,’ added another uncle.
‘She brought us up, practically. Do you remember her classes?’ – one of my aunts said.
‘Oh! That stick she used to have – taken from the tamarind tree!’ – this response came from my eldest uncle.
‘When I was down with typhoid, akka did not sleep for a week,’ said another uncle.
‘For all of us…she would serve all of us. What a support she gave our mother those days!’ – one more aunt added.
This discussion went on for hours.
Luckily, my mother survived the massive attack.
The next day we were allowed to see her. She asked about every person, every child, apart from enquiring about us – her children.
As she was speaking, the images of Ayn Rand and the scholarly lady who was speaking about individualism flashed in my mind.
I understood the power of my mother much better.
Prof. S. Sridevi has been teaching English in a research department in a college affiliated to the University of Madras for 30 years. She has published two collections of poems in English: Heralds of Change and Reservations. Her prose works are: Critical Essays, Saivism: Books 1-8 (Co-authors-C.T.Indra & Meenakshi Hariharan), Think English Talk English, Communication Skills, and Communicative English for Engineers (Co-Author-Srividya). She has translated Thirukural, Part I into Tamil. Her Tamil poetry collections are: Aduppadi Kavithaigal, Pennin Paarvaiyil, Naan Sivam and Penn Enum Perunthee.
(Photo Courtesy: Mr. Shankar Ramakrishnan)
They loved the garden, Truth and Love,
The idyllic sylvan of tulasi —
The Brindaranyam.
It was here that they danced to their love songs,
Played catch with friends,
Giggled to sweet nothings, in the garden they so loved,
The idyllic sylvan of tulasi —
The Brindaranyam.
Kaliya lived in the waters by the garden.
Truth and Love respected him, were polite to his angry snarls,
Often giving up on their own Happiness
In consideration of his space.
Yet Kaliya felt threatened.
Kaliya the snake required not their respect, nor their politeness
Or their consideration.
The sounds of frolic made him feel
Insecure, ignored, displaced by youthful exuberance.
Should he not be feared?
He had to show that power lay only with him,
That only his voice was heard and only his space mattered.
So he hissed and snorted, his disapproval and indignation
Emitting spurts of poison.
Fear spread.
Kaliya, a loving parent, a considerate soul,
Hurt by Garuda, terrorised by the large bird,
Believed that the unfairness of that treatment
Could only be righted by this meanness.
So he persecuted Truth and Love, kicked them about,
Made them an outcast in the very garden they so loved,
The once idyllic sylvan of tulasi —
The Brindaranyam.
The flowers were shocked, Truth and Love devastated.
They cared not for the power, for they were strong
With the strength of their Inner Self.
But poisonous Fear held them captive
And they had nothing but Hope to hold on to.
"We will triumph, Truth will be reinstated," maintained Love.
"Love, you will resurrect our life for us," Truth asserted.
The more they believed in themselves, the more hurt they were,
Till, bruised and bleeding, they cried —
We believed in You, Oh Lord!
We believed in You who is in Us, in Ourselves;
Yet here we lie,
In the once idyllic sylvan of tulasi —
The Brindaranyam,
Defeated, helpless, scared to believe again.
Their cry was heard; Krishna picked up his flute.
The charmer that He was, he slithered on to Kaliya's crown,
Set the rhythm, swayed and skipped,
Till one by one of Kaliya's heads, drained of ego,
Fell in surrender.
Kaliya was liberated; Truth and Love, their life reclaimed,
Rose to live again. In rising, they faltered from weakness,
But the hands that held the flute now took theirs in His,
Led them on to the garden they so loved,
Where he tended to them with care. They bloomed
With the flowers, joyously adorning His Being,
Engrossed in the calm,
As He played Divine music on His flute
to the dance of the peacocks, the mooing of the calves,
The swaying of the lilies and the smiling ripples of the waters
In the idyllic sylvan of tulasi —
The Brindaranyam.
Footnote:
Brindaranyam: “Brinda” meaning tulsi and “aranyam” Tamil for forest
Kaliya: The several-hooded poisonous snake that lived in the river Yamuna
Garuda: The mount of Vishnu, a mythological bird, probably an eagle, with human features, believed to be an enemy of the Nagas (serpent-tribe)
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.
Photo Courtesy: Mr. Shankar Ramakrishnan. He is also the co author of the book, The Flautist of Brindaranyam
Drinking my cup of Tea( T)
The Elixir
As if tickling my mind
Irrigating my heart
These thoughts bloom
Revealing what T stands for
T is for CreativiTy and CapaciTy
To create new right thoughts and better todays
T also means to
Take ResponsibiliTy in life to keep learning
To remember the powerful Tool "Choices"
That give directions in life
To face ups and downs of life
With EquanimiTy
Accepting them is RealiTy
Symbolising MaTurity and IndividualiTy
Holding truth's DigniTy
Perceive life with ClariTy.
When life surprises me with beautiful movements in mind,
Carrying these little inspiring insighTs from Tea(T)
I collect these glimpses of moments
That warm my heart
Despite life's inevitable cold adversiTies
I also discover my brain finds reason and freedom
from automated conditionings
To discover beauTy in the Now
In these ordinary InfiniTesimal moments too..
Dr. K. Srikala Ganapathy lives in Chennai with her beautiful family. She has passion for academics, thirst for knowledge and loves subjects Science and English. She has completed PhD in Botany, interdisciplinary Microbiology. She is a University State Rank Holder in her undergraduate study. She has published several Scientific Research Papers in National and International Journals. She has presented her research papers in various conferences and seminars and won several prizes and awards. She has worked in schools and taught Biology, English and handwriting to children. She happily involves herself in Volunteers for Teaching (VFT) a wonderful initiative to reach out and teach Greater Chennai Corporation School children for the cause of education. VFT has helped her to connect with beautiful and talented people.
She loves words and loves to write more. Writing gives her happiness and clarity. She has authored few articles & children’s stories for The Hindu “On a freedom Trip”, “Pitching it right”, “Discovering life”, “Look within”, “Write to refresh”, “Time to celebrate” and “Friendship Bracelet”. “Me and my inner voice” was published in Infinithoughts, a wonderful holistic magazine. Few of her short stories for children are also available online worldwide web.storyweaver and quotes on Yourquote.in... Her poetry is featured in reputed anthologies like Metverse Muse, Efflorescence, Are we mere spectators, Scintillating Scions, Rise to Higher essence and more. Her verses are also on online literary platforms such as Muse India- Your space, spill words and boloji. She has to her credit a poetry book, Flight of words from the Self published by Zorba books and review of her book is available on Amazon.
Talking about Inclusion, it will have a positive impact on students. It sensitises them and exposes them to the fact that everything is not perfect. They have important roles of responsibility to play ahead in Life, also teaches them to understand the needs of others. Inclusion imparts a more balanced way of living.
Life is not just about physics, chemistry nor about the marks you scored in your board or entrance exams, as time goes by people won't even remember the numbers. What's more important is to understand how to live life and face the unforeseen challenges that are thrown at you in different phases of your life. It's about being mentally strong and extremely positive in the most difficult of situations to face the hardships that follows,as it's the only thing that works .
Lockdown is the best time and way to understand what our children go through. We as special needs parents have been maintaining social distancing for years as of now, just with the fear of stepping out. I am sure each one of you must be feeling extremely restless to reach out to a parlour, visit a friend, restaurant, cinema or mall etc etc, but you have no choice other than to remain indoors. Lockdown is for a short period but it seems endless. But for our children and for their families there is no fullstop, this will never end.
This can only happen if these children are included in our society, fostering inclusive societies where all people feel valued, their differences are respected, their basic needs are met so that they can live with dignity. They need to step out, apart from going to special schools, they need to be exposed and surrounded by normal people like you and me only then, learning can happen. They need friends as much as we do. Trust me in fact they are waiting for us to enter into their world and bring them out of their comfort zone.
We need to learn much more before we can teach or bring about a change in their lives.
With different minds we can create more. They need to be away from loneliness and isolation, participation and being part of a group boosts self esteem.
In fact community service and social work should be introduced at school level so that children learn early in life and grow up to be more compassionate human beings.
***
"I thought I will teach my child about the world, but looks like i have to teach the world about my child. ""
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)
Hallmark of Covidtimes, unique costume accessory,
The Mask.
The expensive ugly-looking masks of the 'well-to-do',
Flaunted like a status symbol..
Home-made, humble, apparatus, hanky-masks, handy-masks, rough-made,
Protection of the poor, worn with genuine virus-fear..
Unable to afford neither disease nor death, nor the next meal..
The masks of the fashionable, in varied preferred hues,
Festive masks for birthday bashes,
House-party masks, showcasing craft skills,
A 'maskquerade' party..!
Talking about them for ages, on virtual meet-ups..
This saga of Masquerade,
What was its message through the Ages?
Those of the era of Romeo and Juliet,
Has it not taught humanity a lesson, of humanity, yet?
The ancient spirit-ceremony mask dance,
Taking on the body of the wearer, merging as if mask and visage were one..
The swap of identities, spirit power consecrating the wearer..
Coronavirus, have you brought back a totem ancestor, of the masked people?
To cast out the demons of greed and hubris?
The Golden funerary masks of the pharaohs,
What message did they have on death?
The Samurai masks of war, what lessons do you teach, of peace?
The world has witnessed masks, enough,
Are we, this time, learning the lesson of more silence, and less noise,
Especially from that dangerous organ, the mouth?
A post-pandemic world is on the brink of emergence,
Let us learn our lessons, fast!
Ms. Kamar Sultana Sheik is a poet, writing mostly on themes of spirituality, mysticism and nature with a focus in Sufi Poetry. A post-graduate in Botany, she was educated at St. Aloysious Anglo-Indian School ( Presentation Convent, Vepery) and completed her degree from SIET womens' college, Chennai. Her professional career spanning 18 years has been in various organizations and Institutions including the IT sector. She is a self-styled life coach and has currently taken a break to focus on her writing full-time. Sultana has contributed to various anthologies and won several prizes in poetry contests. A green enthusiast, blogger and content-writer, Sultana calls herself a wordsmith. Sultana can be reached at : sultana_sheik@yahoo.co.in
in honour of the legendary savitri wife of sathyavan
Padmini Janardhanan
Savitri – sakthi saturated
With the will, competence and passion
To live, to triumph, demonstrated
Stree sakthi beyond comparison
This woman chose to assert her own
Neither reacting nor complaining
Undaunted, persistent she has shown
It wins, the spirit uncompromising.
Savitri a legend, a symbol
Of poignant love that’s empowering
Of an endearing love that’s, soulful
Never desolate never succumbing
The day she won Yama we celebrate
Our day of woman empowerment
Resilient resolve, instant wit
Bowing to stree-sakthi – Yama quit
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.
How lucky your eyes are, dear!
You ever fill them with info
Ah! Books are a treat for you
Fiction, romance, or comics
Your eyes cherish everything!
E-books, articles or any news
They never escape from sight
Mesmerising videos one side
Beauty of nature on the other
They close and open to a globe!
Curious to speak as they read
Abundant feelings, they show
I can see your soul in them
You can’t show a lie in them
Happy or sad, they speak straight!
The most beautiful sense organs
cherish this universe, each inch
They speak heart’s language
They have no malice or greed
I know you from the eyes, I read!
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 Monk in Ochre robes
stood tall, and erect
His feet firmly planted on earth
raised his hands involuntarily
rubbed both palms gently
his moist eyes shining on his calm face
we’re soothing the palms
As much as palms were soothing eyes...
Leaves softly touched
edge of visioned branches
serenely wet with recent rain
Its wooden beams caressed the green
cocooned in soft comfort:
The Tree stood straight
feet firmly grounded
Its root well entrenched in soil...
Both of the Earth
Both want to breach rebirth...
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.
Stok Kangri peak view from Leh
Sweat dripped from my forehead, and face. I deliberately kept my head up, trying not to look down. Thoughts of plummeting to my death gripped me! I was almost 18,000 ft above sea level and yet the summit was beyond my reach. The cold winds bit into me through the thick jacket.
My mind was split between two states: happiness and sadness. Elation at having crossed my fear by reaching as high as I had. Sadness because…no, I mustn't think of it.
For a few minutes, I stood frozen at my spot. No one was nearby, my friend were yet to catch up with me.
I recalled my childhood. I had a long aspiration of climbing to the top of the mountain! Maybe, I was inspired by the Himalayan trekkers. Whenever dad was watching the National Geographic channel, I joined with him, and enjoyed every bit of the adventurous journey. I had a feeling as if the beautiful nature was calling me to explore her secrets! Out of all the mountain ranges, I was totally fascinated by the incomparable beauty of the Himalayas! Like day dreamers, I was always hovering around the chain of Himalayan ranges. I knew that the day I expressed my wish, the instant answer from my dad and mom would be a big ‘No’! So I just kept my curiosity to myself. I was good at art. So many times, I drew the picture of mountains, and the trekkers. However it didn't end there, thoughts of trekking lurked under my skin endlessly.
I remember, I was in ninth or tenth grade. While watching trekking in TV, I rushed to my dad and asked, ‘Dad! If some climbers are almost close to the top of the Himalayan mountains and a sudden avalanche occurs, what would happen to the trekkers?’
He smiled at me, said, ‘No worry! God is there!’
‘Dad, I am not kidding. Please tell me.’
‘Honey, seriously! If ever this misfortune happens to anyone, then do remember, only ‘God’ can save the person, nobody else.’ Being a teenager, I listened to dad but my curiosity for climbing never died! I was waiting for the time to grab the opportunity.
With the passing of time, I grew up with a strong desire - to fulfil my childhood wish! So, after my education, I enrolled my name in an institution to learn mountaineering and trekking without the knowledge of my parents. But, when they came to know, mom was extremely upset. She frowned, yelled at me, ‘Are you crazy?! How can you forget that you have some problem?’
‘Mom, please! Everything changes. Just trust me, I can do it! I can overcome all the hurdles!’
Mom kept silent, and gave a stern look. I knew, I did a mistake hiding from my parents about my enrolment in the trekking course. There was no other way! ‘Trekking is fun, but at the same time it is risky’, that was the all time slogan of my mom. Every time she was reminding me, ‘Honey, this is not for you. You can choose any other fun except this, please! I don't want to lose my daughter.’
I couldn't remember what exactly happened when I was a child, but one incident I do remember when we, my parents and me, were going to Amarnath by road, I clung to my mom, and screamed, ‘Mom! I am scared of this height. I can't go further, mom. Please, let’s go back.’
Mom pulled me to her side and assured me that nothing would happen because we were going on a pilgrimage. ‘He’ would protect us! I fully trusted her! However, height phobia was always there in my subconscious mind. Mom was well aware of my weakness. From that day onwards, she vehemently opposed my idea of going anywhere for trekking.
Eventually, I told mom that I had already enrolled my name in the next trekking camp. While I was leaving mom had warned me, ‘Don’t try trekking at such heights, Sima.’ When I let her know about my wish of ‘Stok Kangri Trek’ in Ladakh, she became upset. But my curiosity of exploring adventurous spots, made me go for it - Stok Kangri, the trek undertaken only by experienced trekkers! At last, with much difficulty, she agreed for my journey.
I was accompanied by two other colleagues. For a second, I was so scared that I thought of my whole family- mom, dad, siblings everyone. ‘I love you all, mom,’ a mild whisper slipped from my lips. My bleary eyes focused on my partner, coming closer to me.
‘Hey, Sima! What's up?! Tired? Don't look down. We can do it! Only a few miles left. Keep going.’ Lisa, my partner consoled me from behind, she then smiled at me. She could guess my desperation. I was breathing so hard, it could be audible to her as she came closer to me.
‘Need help?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks! Just a bit of rest,’ I said in a heavy voice. But my desperation, tired face, revealed my pain. She could understand my uneasy feelings! Immediately she said, ‘Sima, you remember those thrilling days when we started our countdown to reach this date, our adventurous journey of trekking in our dreamland - Ladakh!! It seems it happened just yesterday, dear!!’
I shook my head, but tears rolled down from my eyes! I tried to control but couldn't resist myself. Lisa, by that time was too close to me. She was stunned with my sudden outburst.
‘What's up Sima?! We are almost at the top. Is something seriously wrong?’
I burst into loud yelling, being emotional. My lips trembled. With a choking voice, I said, ‘Lisa, I doubt if I can do it any more. I am loosing my self-confidence.’
‘Why? What's wrong?’
‘Lisa! I had never told you that I had severe height phobia, but it was long back! I feel it again!’
‘What the hell are you talking about?' Lisa’s eyes opened wide with surprise! ‘Then, I am so proud of you Sima! I would announce at the top of my voice, how proud I feel!! You would be the first trekker in this whole world to take such a bold step, despite having height phobia! Make sure, you won it!’
The voice of our other partner, drew our attention. ‘Hey, pals! Be quick. Let us enjoy the lofty mountain ranges -amazing panoramic view - the paradise on earth!!’
I was really fascinated with my partners' inspiring words! Lisa adorably looked at me. With a sweet smile she said, 'Sima! Only few steps left, dear! We are almost on the top, please be patient for few steps more! Come on, dear. Be brave!'
I was excited! Eventually, I restored my courage, and kept going. At last, we landed on the Summit!! Out of joy, Lisa hugged me and cried, ‘Hurray! Sima, we have landed in paradise, this is not out of serendipity but our hard work’s reward! Just look, darling! This is our victory! Beyond fear…the paradise!!!"
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.
The dual confusion,
An eternal illusion,
Truth & lie ,
Birth & death,
In between the struggling life,
Facing the cardinal truths every now & then,
Caught amidst the vortex of confusion,
The cobweb of illusion,
spreading it's tentacles,
Life & death caught by love,
The mad attractions,
The magic of passion,
Holding the reigns ,
Caught by the shadow of illusion,
Life travelling in an unknown destination,
Delving in an unknown horizon,
Where life & death two sides of the same coin,
As you toss the coin,
Whether head comes first or tail,
Life or death in twisted motion,
Sheer luck to experience the longevity,
An enigma of mysterious creativity,
Displaying illusion & reality,
Black & white day & night,
Life struggling in between,
To understand the great confusion,
That eludes life since inception,
THE MUTE WITNESS OF CENTURIES...
The huge Banyan stands like a live monument,
A center of pilgrimage & sacrament,
Umbrage for many to enjoy the cool breeze,
Children rock & roll with the long live rolls enjoying the serge,
At times the entire village used the ground for meetings,
To settles disputes of villagers in no. of sittings,
A feeling of justice prevails in the atmosphere,
As if King Vikram's throne of nature,
None dares to hide truth here,
Self Confessions for penance exists in the ambient air,
Some visit for daily prayers,
Seeking the divine blessings there,
A sacred atmosphere reigning for centuries,
A mute witness of time in measure,
From ancestor's time it stands as a monument,
Who ever passed through felt pleasant,
Today it's branches & rolls rock to surprise,
The soul silently offers obeisance seeking blessings in disguise,
Sri Akshaya Kumar Das is poet from Bhubaneswar , Odisha the author of "The Dew Drops" available with amazon/flipkart/snapdeal published by Partridge India in the year 2016. Sri Das is a internationally acknowledged author with no. of his poems published in India & abroad by Ardus Publication, Canada. Sri Das is conferred with "Ambassador of Humanity" award by Hafrican Peace Art World, Ghana. Sri Das organised a Intenational Poetry Festival in the year 2017 under the aegis of Feelings International Artist's Society of Dr.Armeli Quezon held at Bhubaneswar. Sri Das is presently working as an Admin for many poetry groups in Face Book including FIAS & Poemariam Group headed by Dr.N.K.Sharma. Receipent of many awards for hos contribution to English literature & world peace. A featured poet of Pentasi B Group. Sri Das presently retired Insurance Manager residing at Bhubaneswar."
The mention of Andaman and Nicobar Islands, also known as Emerald Islands, in the Bay of Bengal, conjures up visions of freedom fighters deported to these far-off islands as a punishment for revolting against the colonial rule. But during our visit (before the tsunami) to Port Blair, named after Sir Archibald Blair who was sent by the East India Company to establish a port with the view to creating a Penal Settlement, we found, besides being replete with history, was also ideal for a holiday.
Picture perfect view
Our flight from Chennai landed at the Veer Savarkar airport in less than two hours and as we emerged, the fresh island air beckoned us, so did our guide with his warm smile. The short journey to our hotel, Megapode Nest, which was named after a Nicobari bird, was rather bumpy and once we set eyes on the hotel nestled in beautiful surroundings on top of a hillock, we thought it did justice to its name.
Our air-conditioned cottage with a thatched roof (it had three fans and eleven lights) and a balcony facing the bay, with Ross island on the right and Mount Harriet on the left was picture perfect. Cars were seen plying on the road down below our cottage, and a ship sailed through what looked like a sheet of gray cement, the still waters of the bay appeared so from a distance.
Viper island
Our first excursion for the day was to Viper island, in a cruise from Mahatma Gandhi Marine National Park which has a water sports complex and a children’s park as well. We had a glimpse of the harbour, the Chatham Saw Mill, (established in 1883), Mount Harriet, before finally reaching Viper island at the end of 45 minutes.
This is a tiny, serene, beautiful island situated inside Port Blair Harbour. It derives its name from the vessel Viper in which Lt. Archibald Blair came to the islands in 1789 with the purpose of establishing a Penal Settlement. Before the Cellular Jail was built, this red-coloured jail, built by the British during 1864-1867 on a hillock, served as a prison to many freedom fighters including Veer Savarkar and Nanigopal. Dangerous convicts found guilty of violating the rules of the Penal Settlement were put in fetters and forced to work with their fetters on.
Sound and Light show
That evening, we had an experience of reliving history, the saga of the freedom movement brought through a sixty-minute sound and light show, son-et-lumiere, at the Cellular Jail. The show began with a commentary on how the islands got their name – mythologically the name Andaman is presumed to be derived from Hanuman who is believed to have set foot on the island before going to Sri Lanka (Malays called him Handuman).
Once a self contained town
Next day we sailed to Ross island, the citadel of British power, built by the so-called convicts into a self-contained town with government offices, an Anglican church, houses for British and Indian officers, a printing press, clubs, a swimming pool, tennis court, a bakery, a temple and a bazaar. It was known as The Paris of the East for its grandeur and splendour, but now all that remains of the island are broken walls of these buildings supported by a thick growth of pepal trees. The only structure that has retained its shape is the church on the hilltop. The Ross Memorial Museum, ‘Smritika’ set up in 1993, has beautiful pictures adorning its walls which speak of the glory the island once boasted. We were treated to a video show in the bakery which is now transformed into a modern building.
Sheer ecstasy
We reached Mount Harriet, summer headquarters of the chief commissioner during the British Raj, covering a distance of 55 km partly by a ferry from Chatham jetty and partly by road. It was lined by palm trees and stretches of little forests. Some tourists transported their cars in cargo vessels from the jetty and motored to the hilltop. From the different lookouts all the way to the top we could savour the scenic surroundings and once we reached the top most point, it was sheer ecstasy viewing the mist-covered outer islands and the azure sea. Mount Harriet is the highest peak in the Southern Andamans, 365 meters high and one can find time standing still while enjoying the cool breeze and the sound of chirping birds. The adventurous can trek from Bambooflat to Mount Harriet and from there up to Madhuban through a nature trail and spot rare endemic birds, animals and butterflies.
No birds in sight!
We headed for Chidiya Tapu, an hour’s drive from Port Blair. After driving through lush green mangroves and forest cover we arrived at the most beautiful beach I had ever seen! The gigantic trees here appeared to touch the skies, the silky sand, the bluish green waters and the distant islands added to the quiet charm of the place. But when I found no birds in sight and only holiday makers standing in the waters I started wondering how the place got its name.
Swimmers’ paradise
I found Corbyn’s Cove, the palm-fringed beach near Port Blair had a picturesque quality of its own, it appeared to be a swimmer’s paradise,known for its safe waters. I noticed several honeymooners taking a plunge . Since we wished to take a glimpse of marine life, we headed to North Bay at the foothills of Mount Harriet in a cruise and transferred ourselves into a glass bottom dingy in the midst of the sea ( we had to do some acrobatics to climb into the boat with the boatman firmly holding on to it ) . We peered through the transparent bottom to spot some colourful fish but couldn’t find any.
Other attractions
A city tour of Port Blair also had its attractions. We found The Cellular Jail ,declared as the National Memorial, is a marvelous structure for its symmetry and design. The jail was completed in 1906 and had seven prongs, but now only three are left. Veer Savarkar’s cell on the third floor has his garlanded picture hung on the wall.
The Anthropological Museum, The Naval Marine Museum, Forest Museum and Chatham Saw Mill, (the oldest functioning saw mill) are worth a visit. We observed people of the island are honest and sincere, and appeared to match its pristine quality.
TRAVELING IN A GROUP – A NEW EXPERIENCE
Having always traveled with my family, within and outside India, I was quite wary of traveling to a new place with a group for a meeting in Kuala Lumpur (KL). To begin with my well wishers expressed doubts about the availability of vegetarian food in Malaysia as it was not a very popular concept with the Malaysians. Next in terms of a warning was to take extra care of my passport and the credit card and not to accept any piece of baggage of fellow travelers as it would mean inviting trouble. “Aunty, be very careful when you are ascending or descending on the escalator,” cautioned my niece after realizing the futility of trying to convince me about all the disadvantages of wearing a saree while traveling abroad. With so much of well meant advice I was dropped at the Meenambakkam airport by my husband.
As our group of five queued up to check in our baggage, there came a burly woman pushing an overloaded trolley and to our surprise she gave all of us a broad friendly smile and we found no harm in returning the courtesy. She wore her saree like a village woman with a corner tucked at the back and sported nose studs on either side and wore large beads around her neck. Taking out two oversized cloth bags from the trolley she said in Tamil, flashing that smile again, “koncham udhavi pannungo, inda rendu payya unga saman kooda veyyungo.” (Please help me and book my two bags along with yours.) Our reaction was almost immediate and our expression made it clear, but the woman persisted with her pleadings. Since none of us was prepared to take the risk of booking a stranger’s baggage along with ours we turned down her request . From the looks of her and especially the way she went about literally imploring every one in the queue to oblige her, she appeared a frequent traveler on the route. Only after getting into the flight I realised why the woman sitting next to me had her face turned away from me till we landed in KL! I wondered whether she managed to find a passenger who finally conceded to her request.
We go shopping and lose our way
After our sightseeing on the day we arrived, some of us wanted to do shopping since the shopping festival was on and expected that we would get a good deal. We entered one of those big shopping plazas which sold a number of things right from electronic items to cameras, shoes, and cosmetics to what not. Since a doctor who had purchased a beautiful pair of high heel slippers for the trip was finding them very uncomfortable and painful to walk, we all headed straight to the shoe mart. She picked up a pair of hawai slippers and her relief at changing over to them had to be seen to be believed. Then we went looking for all kinds of things and in our excitement each one walked in different direction and eventually started going in circles in search of one another. Fortunately, after what seemed an eternity, I was able to spot the rest and found them patiently waiting for me at the shoe mart. We finally emerged from the Plaza stacked with all kinds of things and confidently walked in the direction we thought was right to the venue of our stay. After nearly half an hour of walking, exhausted to the bone we came to know from the local taxi driver that our destination was quite a distance, that too in the opposite direction and the worst part of it was he was not sure of the exact location. Dragging our tired feet we entered a supermarket to enquire about reaching the venue but found people there were equally ignorant. A young Malaysian couple who was returning from work and had come there to pick up some fruits noticed that we had lost our way and came forward to drop us in their car. They were really God-sent, we thought and thanked them immensely at their kind gesture.
A gracious host
We all found our host, the Archbishop of KL extremely courteous and generous who saw to it that our stay was made comfortable and the menu was to our taste and liking. Malaysians are non-vegetarians and basically rice eaters and love hot and spicy food. It was tempered down the following day when our host came to know we Indians did not use too many chilies/ spices in our normal cooking. He treated us to a purely vegetarian nine-course Chinese meal to celebrate Indian Independence day and the 45th year of their independence. The menu comprised fancy dishes. Since there was a lot of time in between the servings, we spent it sharing jokes among us. The joke about a Chinese dinner was that there was a deliberate time gap between serving each dish, so that it is digested by the time the next one arrived and the person does full justice to it. This also left the person hungry when he finished consuming the last of the dishes!
‘One’ Indian family
Though ours was an assorted group hailing from different backgrounds and cultures, we felt like members of one family which probably made the Secretary, a Malaysian lady, working in the Institution that sponsored our visit remark; “I felt you were all members of one single Indian family and not that you belonged to different families in India.” That statement of hers probably explained the Unity in Diversity, that is India and its people. I managed to return to India with all my belongings intact, and equally important, gaining wider exposure about a country and its people and the pleasure and experience of traveling in a group.
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.
Emotions that bleed our heart,
Yet there is no spills of blood around us
A phenomenal metabolism
Which disturbs the adrenaline
Yet the hormone is not to be seen
So invisible it is that no soul around us
Can feel the hurt in us.
It comes with the property of virtual surfacing
Entangling our thoughts,and squeezing out every drop of blood.
Yet nothing is disclosed.
The being next to us tries to dig it in our eyes.
In our movements
In our gestures.
Such royalty it reflects that it remains subtle,
And demands many to excavate it.
When I thought of my pain
I was assured that it would prank on me
With its invisibility.
And none would ever know how much my Heart hurt my Brain.
Kabyatara Kar (Nobela)
M.B.A and P.G in Nutrition and Dietetic, Member of All India Human Rights Activists
Passion: Writing poems, social work
Strength: Determination and her familyVision: Endeavour of life is to fill happiness in life of others
MARX AND THE PAUPER FROM THE GUTTER
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
"Did we have to bring this pig with us, this pauper from the gutter?"
Startled by this explosion from Amlaan, I looked at the back seat of the car I was driving. A gentle snore assured me that Marx was asleep.
"I had no choice," I replied.
"What do you mean you had no choice, you could have simply dumped him in his dingy room and left."
"No, he wanted to come. To see a new town, that's what he told me. Moreover I couldn't have left him at home, Vandana would have killed me for that, you know how she dislikes him."
Amlaan flashed a smile,
"No wonder! She is such a soft, sensitive soul. I am shocked at how you put up with this stinking porcupine."
I was not happy at this uncharitable comment about Marx, my friend from college days, "Amlaan, a friend is a friend is a friend, for good times or bad times. Who should know it better than you?"
"OK, OK, you don't have to rub it in all the time just because I borrowed two lakh rupees from you! I will return it in a couple of months, OK?"
Amlaan fell into a sullen silence. I smiled to myself, he had said the same thing when he borrowed the amount; two months have stretched to two and half years. We live in the same town, Nayagarh, he works as a Lecturer in the local college, I am the District Excise Officer. We share a passion for old songs and meet every week for at least a couple of hours, mostly at my place. Over a glass of whiskey, we start with Rafi Saab and by the time we down the fourth peg what ever we sing sounds like K.L.Saigal!
I was driving my Maruti Zen. We were going to Sonepur, another district headquarters for a meeting convened by the Excise Commissioner. Amlaan wanted to accompany me and I was happy to have his company. We had to pass some deep forests on the way and I thought the lonely road with greenery all around would provide a good back ground for some soulful songs.
But the one more excited was Marx, he wanted to roam around in Sonepur, "getting a feel of the town."
Marx was with us in college. A day scholar, he used to visit us in the hostel and spent long hours, mostly in my room, lecturing us about Communism, stateless society and sufferings of the proletariat. He must have had a name for the records, but none of us remembered it. Someone among our friends had named him Marx and the name had stuck. With great flourish we used to introduce him to others as "he is Marx, Karl Marx", something in the style of "Bond, James Bond." Marx used to enjoy the impression it created and with renewed zeal he would go on about the impending revolution with a song from the famous Odia poet Sachi Routray, "Keep the windows open, you coward, don't lock the door. Welcome the raging storm, salute it from the core."
Marx disappeared from our life after we all graduated. He had taken us by surprise by getting a distinction in History honours and I am sure he would have gone onto cracking a few exams to secure a good job, but he vanished, just like that. We all forgot about him in due course like an abandoned milestone in life's long journey. But somehow fate brought us together on a foggy November morning when I was taking the morning walk along my usual route, on the wide road beyond the High School, leading to the outskirts of Nayagarh town.
I suddenly stopped, a man was sprawled on the big slabs covering the wide drain abutting the compound wall of the Veterinary Hospital. I had no doubt he was drunk and in these areas it is not unusual for drunks to drop dead on the road side. But this man had a coat on him and a pair of sneakers. He appeared to be different. I went close, after all it was natural for an excise officer to get drawn to a drunk, wasn't it! There was a distinct smell of alcohol coming from the body. From the sunken face shrouded by a thick beard, I could detect some familiarity, my heart skipped a beat. Was it Marx? And the coat! Yes, the coat gave him away. In our college days we never saw Marx without a coat, we don't know whether it was meant to hide his severely thin body or to live up to the burden of bearing a great name conferred on him by an unknown friend.
I got some water from a nearby shop and sprinkled it on his face. Nothing happened, I poured the whole bottle on him. He opened his eyes. He appeared disoriented, blinked his eyes and looked around. His eyes focussed on me and looked away. I softly called his name, "Marx!"
He sat up, as if hit by an electric current. And tried to bring some focus into his gaze.
"Anupam! Aren't you Anupam? Fancy meeting you like this, on the sidelines of a gutter!"
Having confirmed it was Marx, I looked at him more closely. He continued to be thin like a reed and his coat made a feeble attempt to hide his famished look. He had acquired a deep cut on his cheek since the time we had last met twenty four years back, but his eyes continued to be sparkling, like they used to do when we were students. I pulled him up and invited him to come home with me. He blinked again, "Home, what home? You have built a house here? What are you doing in this small town? Are you a teacher?"
I smiled at him,
"Come to my Government quarters, I am the District Excise Offcer here."
"District what? Excise? No wonder you could sniff me out from the gutter! But are you sure, you want to take me home? What will your wife and children think of me? This man from the gutter?"
"My wife is a very nice person, she will welcome any friend of mine into the house. After all a friend is a friend is a friend! And our only son is in hostel in an Engineering College in Bhubaneswar. So come home, you need to take a bath and a good meal. My God, you look so emaciated, like you just returned from a famine stricken land."
As we started walking, Marx didn't appear to be too proud of his leanness and just muttered, "I was always like this, even in our college days. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, I remember your lean body and the coat you used to wear. I find they have remained with you. What have you been doing all these years? Where did you disappear after college?"
Marx chuckled,
"I have survived, doing odd jobs here and there. Life has taught me a lot. There is nothing I cannot do, despite my lean frame. Cutting grass, chopping wood, laying bricks, ploughing fields, you name it, I have done it. I even taught primary level children in a couple of schools."
"What happened? Why did you quit?"
Marx didn't answer for a minute or so,
"Restless, always restless, I can't stick to a place. I have been moving around. How far is your place? Do you have a spare room where I can rest for a few days? I promise I won't be in your way and I can leave any time you feel I have overstayed. Just want to rest a bit and see your little town before I move on."
I was happy to welcome him. We were quite close during our college days and there was so much to catch up about the intervening years. I wondered if he was in touch with any of our old friends.
That is how Marx came to be a fixture in my home for the past one month, although to be fair to him, he was the most unobtrusive person one could imagine. We had a small room attached to the "camp office" and that is where he preferred to stay. He was mostly outside, roaming around and "having a feel of the place", as he told me.
On the very first morning as we were having breakfast together Vandana took an intense dislike to him, when after the meal was over, he took out his set of false front teeth and put it on the table with a slight clatter. Vandana had one look at it and went to the bath room and puked. For the next two days she refused to share the table with him. I asked Marx, why was he using false teeth at such an early age. He flashed a toothless smile and said he had lost his teeth under very trying circumstances. When I became a bit more curious, he just shook his head and said, he doesn't want to talk about the incident, there was too much blood and he gets nervous remembering it.
In a couple of days our life moved in an unusual pattern. After breakfast Marx used to leave and return very late in the night, his dinner waiting for him in his room. At breakfast I used to ask him where he had been, he would smile and say, just here and there. A few times I saw him in buses bound for other towns, or walking down to nearby villages. In the mornings he had very interesting tales for me, talking about people, their life and livelihood, including places in the foothills where illicit liquor was being brewed. Not that I didn't know about them, but they were in very small quantities and it was not worth our time and efforts to disturb them when the liquor was used only for local consumption. We often talked about the college days, but Marx had no idea about where the other friends were, although he remembered the names of almost all of them.
There was always a smell of liquor emanating from Marx, confirming my suspicion that he was addicted to drinks, but he never joined me and Amlaan in our drinks session, simply because it would be always close to midnight when he returned to his room and Amlaan would have left by that time after our session of booze and old songs. I also had a nagging fear that Marx, offered drink in my house would create some unpleasant scene, drunk out of control. Vandana, aware of this possibility, had strictly forbidden me from inviting Marx to the drinking and singing sessions. She was happy that Marx stayed away from home, appearing briefly at the breakfast table and vanishing.
Life had settled down to a placid regularity when the notice for meeting at Sonepur came. And that is how we were rolling along the road to Sonepur. Marx had met Amlaan for the first time when we started the journey, although they had heard about each other from me. It was clear Amlaan had great contempt for this good for nothing friend of mine. He didn't even take the hand Marx offered for a shake, simply said Hi, and got into the car. Marx shrugged and went into the back seat and sprawled himself.
We had left the windows open, Amlaan had recovered from his sullenness and broken into the Hemant Kumar song from the film Kohra, Raaha bani khood manzil, pichhey reh gayi mushkil, saath jo aye tum. I joined him soon. Although the wind gushing into the car was drowning our voice, we carried on, one song after another. Jeevan ke safar mey rahi, milteyhein bichhad jaane ko and then Babuji dheerey chalna, pyaar mein jera samhalnaa....... and on and on. Marx lay snoring in the back seat, blissfully unaware of the wind, the songs or the breath-taking beauty of the jungles.
The forest was getting thicker, the canopy of trees creating a shade which light of the sun could not penetrate. We had not seen another vehicle for quite some time and we were really enjoying the solitude. Suddenly I applied the brakes. There were some logs on the road, I stopped the car. In a flash four persons appeared from behind the trees, guns in hand and surrounded the car.
The windows were open. One of them put his hand inside and grabbed Amlaan's shirt and tried to pull him out of the car. Amlaan let out a blood curdling scream and looked appealingly at me. I just shook my head. I knew who they were, these forests being infamous as hotbeds of Naxalites, but I was as helpless as him. A man was standing by my door and tried to pull me out also. What did they want, to rob us or to kidnap us for ransom? I thought of the worst and a dark fear gripped me, a knot in my stomach tightened and threatened to travel up and burst my heart.
Amlaan had started sobbing loudly and his scream and the sobs must have woken up Marx. One of the gun toting marauders had peeped into the back seat and put his gun inside, ready to fire if the passenger in the back seat tried any tricks. I looked in the mirror to see how Marx would react to this unwelcome intrusion. He looked surprised, sat up and like a burst of rapid fire said something in a language which was totally alien to me. Suddenly the gun was withdrawn from his side and the man outside looked bewildered.
Marx opened the door and started walking away from the car, two of the men following him. The ones standing by my side and Amlaan's remained immobile, staring at us with anger and hatred burning red on their dark faces. I wondered what Marx was talking to the two Naxals. In just a couple of minutes he came back and asked me to come out of the car. I had no idea what was happening and like a zombie I got down and followed Marx to under a tree. Two guns were kept pointed at us and I started shivering in fear.
Marx looked at me and put his hand on my shoulder to calm me.
I stuttered,
"What's happening? Are they going to kill us? What language did you speak with them? How do you know their language?"
Marx shook his head,
"Relax Anupam, no one is going to kill you. I spoke with them in a mix of Telugu and the local Tribal dialect. I know their language because I have spent more than twenty years with them. I am their Sub-area commander."
I felt as if the earth was sinking from under my feet. My shivering increased. Marx, a Naxalite? And I kept him in my Government house for a month! What an idiot I was! I wished I had not found him on that fateful morning.
Marx knew what was going on in my mind. He assured me, "Don't worry, no one would have guessed who I was. The only photo police has of me was from our college records. And my face has changed a lot from twenty four years back. You could recognise me only because we were close friends and used to meet almost every day. And my friend, don't think you found me, it's actually the other way. I found you and made sure you would pick me up on your morning walk. I wanted a safe place to stay and collect information about the town. And what better place than a government quarters? Ever since this town became a district head quarters we have had our eyes on the treasury here. I would have disappeared from Sonepur tomorrow, but these small time idiots spoilt everything. We have to abandon the Operation Nayagarh now, at least for some time. I don't want police to come asking and harassing you about your college friend who stayed with you for a month and vanished one day."
Marx smiled and repeated my words, "A friend is a friend is a friend!"
I was still shaken to my roots,
"What will happen to us now? Will you let us go to Sonepur?"
"Yes, you will have no problem today or day after tomorrow on your way back. Just do me a favour. Don't tell anyone about your meeting me, least of all to your friend Amlaan. There is a reward of one lakh rupees on my head, he will be too happy to inform the police and grab the reward. By the by, it's a pity you don't know he is a fake and a snake.."
It appeared my quota of shocks for the day was not over. I looked at him wide eyed, "What do you mean, a fake and a snake?"
"Fake because he has no intention of returning your two lakh rupees, although he has lots of money. Do you know his father in law has gifted him a three bed room apartment at the Zed Towers in Bhubaneswar and he gets a rent of twenty four thousand rupees every month from it? Yet he buys time from you again and again for returning your two lakh rupees. Do you want us to collect it from him? We have our ways, you know."
I shuddered at the prospect,
"No, no, I will get it from him, may be I will ask him to hand over the rent from his apartment to me every month. And why is he a snake?"
"Ah, Anupam, what a naive, trusting fellow you are! Can't you see he has his eyes on Vandana? He mentally molests her every time he comes to your house. She has sensed it, from the hungry looks he gives her all the time, but she is too embarrassed to tell you. She thinks you will miss your booze and singing sessions if Amlaan stops coming. But let me give you some friendly advice for old time's sake, get rid of him as soon as possible. You will be surprised what a good singer Vandana is, she hums beautiful songs all day when you are away at office. She will give you company. And learn to drink alone, anything is better than sitting with a snake who might destroy your happy family life in some moment of indiscretion."
"How do you know all this? You are drunk almost all the time"
"Drunk? My dear friend, I have never taken a drop of liquor in my life. When I joined the movement after college I had taken a vow I would never drink alcohol nor touch a woman. I have kept the promise made to myself. And my knowing what is happening around you? Didn't I tell you collecting information is my speciality?"
Something was bothering me,
"Are you lying to me? Don't tell me you don't drink. How do I get this stink of alcohol from you all the time?"
Marx laughed,
"A clever camouflage my friend, I pour liberal amounts of cheap liquour on my dress whenever I leave home. It helps because people talk in my presence of all kinds of things, thinking that this hopeless drunk need not be taken seriously. That's how I collect most of the information. And don't ask me how I know about your drinking and singing sessions and the snake's evil mind, when I am out of your house all the day. You will be insulting a Sub-area commander! If I can't enter a house without anyone knowing it, I am not worth the pistol I carry in my coat pocket! I have also watched you and Amlaan from behind the window many evenings, he is a good singer, but a despicable lech. And contrary to what you and Vandana think, I sleep in my small little room most of the time even during the day. That's how I know she hums nice old songs when you are not there. Just ask her to sing Jaarey udjaarey panchhi or Phaili hui hey sapnon ki baahen, you will know."
There was a pause hanging in the air, a pause heavy with past memories and present predicaments. I was too shocked to say anything more. Marx knew the time had come to take leave, "So my friend, time to say good bye. I can't even say 'till we meet again'. In the last encounter with the police I lost two of my men and only my front teeth, next time I may not be so lucky. But till I die I will remember the blissful month I spent at your home, in the presence of great familial love between you and Vandana and the warmth of your friendship. What can I give you in return? Except for some advice to be careful when you pass through these forests? God forbid, if you ever get ambushed by Naxalites anywhere in this area just tell them my Naxal name but the name alone is not enough, you have to tell them a code also that goes with the name. Without the code the name has no meaning. That's what I told them today in the car, my name and the code." Marx closed his eyes and whispered a name and a code. My heart stopped beating for a second, that was indeed a big name and I had read it in the newspapers many times. For a moment I looked at him with disbelieving eyes. A faint smile appeared on his face and may be I thought I also saw a hint of sadness in his glittering eyes.
He turned and left, flanked by the two gun toting men. I returned to the car. The two men guarding Amlaan had slipped away and joined Marx and the others.
Amlaan looked relieved. His sagging, pale face had regained some colour. He was no doubt happy to be alive. In a shaking voice he asked me, "What were you talking with Marx?"
I lied to him,
"He told me how he negotiated our safe passage in return for his being taken a hostage."
Amlaan was impressed,
"Oh shit! Where are they taking Marx? Are they going to kill him?"
I didn't want to answer that. I just looked away, at the group of the retreating men. Somehow it occurred to me that I would never meet Marx again. I wish I had known who he was when he stayed with me at my home. I would have probably told him to leave, but would have liked to ask him so many questions! About the movement, its goal. May be, I would have made some feeble attempt at convincing him about the futility and self defeating ideology of the Naxals.
As I looked on, my friend vanished into the thick recesses of the forest. I had no doubt, the image of my frail friend in his coat, flanked by four dark men with guns in hand in a thick forest, would remain etched in my memory as long as I live. I started the car, wondering at the way life throws at us many unanswered questions at odd moments, making our minds swing like a pendulum gone crazy.
WAITING..........
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Do you see the lump of pain
I hold in my hands,
often it grows into a raging fire,
rushing through the street to drown me,
my mind, my body,
and filling me with red shoots of flame,
burning me, singeing me, turning me
into a smouldering block of maniacal anger.
You may ask me
where I got these lumps of pain
that I desperately try to hold in my palms
and I will take you by your hand
to show you the places I picked them up.
The lonely bus shelter
where a girl waits for the bus every night,
holding her skirt down,
against the swaying wind,
to save the shadow of her nubile body
from the gaze of the loafers lounging there.
The small corner of the foot path
and the forlorn mother
who sits with her wailing baby,
looking achingly at the packages of food
being carried into waiting cars.
The hospital where a penniless man
is told to get all those medicines,
otherwise his father
may not see tomorrow's sunrise,
The big garbage bin
and the famished, ravaged man leaning on it,
trying to warm his emaciated body
clinging to the street dog he has adopted.
As helplessness envelops me
and I gasp for laborious breath,
all those owners of the pain
who lent it to me
to store it for them come hurrying,
asking me questions I have no answer to.
I have been to places carrying their pain in my palm,
to show to the Mayor, the Commisioner,
and all those suited, booted ones,
I have put in an application for a balm for all their pains.
That was a year ago,
I am still waiting....
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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