Literary Vibes - Edition LXIX
Dear Readers,
Welcome to the sixty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes.
We have some astonishingly bright short stories and brilliant poems for you this week. Hope you will enjoy and send your good thoughts to the poets and writers who toiled to produce them.
In this edition we are happy to welcome into the LV family Mr. Ujan Ghosh, a leading architect and academic doyen of Delhi who has written about some happy moments of his life. His cute little home town of Athgarh, from a princely state of Odisha, has also come out alive and beautiful in the memoir. It is written with exemplary lucidity and is thoroughly enjoyable. We hope we will have similar gems from Mr. Ghosh in our future editions also.
With the lockdown considerably diluted, we were getting ready to return to some semblance of normalcy when an unwelcome visitor spoilt our party. Amphan kept us in suspenseful tremor for a good ten days and finally hit us on the 20th. We at Bhubaneswar escaped only with some howling wind and incessant rains for about fifteen hours, but others were not so lucky. Our heart goes out to those who bore the brunt of the monster. May God (and Mamata Didi) help the affected people in West Bengal get back the snapped threads of their life within the quickest possible time.
I want to share a mini-Kubla Khan moment of mine with the readers. Early yesterday (Thursday) morning I suddenly woke up to a few lines of poetry which kept ringing in my mind. I sat up on the bed, jotted down those lines and went back to sleep. They came back to me throughout the day like a floating fragrance and late last night I wrote a short poem. 'Walking Down A Lonely Path' in today's LV is not a great piece of poem, but it is a testimony to a living, throbbing mind still capable of imagining things and responding to literary stirrings! One cannot produce an exquisite garland out of lemon grass, but can always weave a string of flowers plucked from dreams!
Speaking of dreams, let me also confess that my story "Red Dreams" in today's LV is the result of sleepless musings on a fretful night last week. It all started when I was shutting the window of our upstairs bedroom and I saw a big, round patch of green on the street under the streetlight. It was undoubtedly the tell tale remnant of a liberal dose of droppings left by an itinerant cow ruminating on big philosophical issues of life, but my imagination went into overdrive. I started weaving a story on green colour. But cow dung being sort of gross and unable to produce much of productive stirrings (!), I switched over to red colour and lo and behold, sequences came tumbling one over the other to help me conjure up a story of Red Dreams which appears in today's LV.
I called my poetic inspiration a mini-Kubla Khan moment, because this famous poem, one of the immortal pieces of English literature by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) is, by his own admission, a record of what appeared in his dreams on a balmy October night of 1797. Kubla Khan: A Vision in a Dream was composed one night when he experienced an opium-influenced dream after reading a work describing Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol ruler and Emperor of China Kublai Khan. Upon waking, the poet set about writing lines of poetry that came to him from the dream until he was interrupted by "a person from Porlock'. The poem could not be completed according to its original 200–300 line plan as the interruption caused him to forget the lines. The poem which is a Fragment of his vision is only of fifty four lines, but over two centuries it has stirred the imagination of the critics in a way very few poems have done. 'The Person from Porlock' has been now accepted as a term to describe interrupted genius. When John Livingston Lowes, the American scholar and critic taught the poem, he told his students "If there is any man in the history of literature who should be hanged, drawn, and quartered, it is the man on business from Porlock."
What better way to pay a tribute to the genius of Coleridge other than quoting the last few lines of Kubla Khan? "The man with the flashing eyes, the floating hair" will always kindle our imagination and stir primordial emotions as long as poetry is read in the world and people like you and me try to get into the bones of written lines and look for hidden treasure of pristine beauty:
"That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise."
Do enjoy the sixty ninth edition of LiteraryVibes. The link is at http://www.positivevibes.today/article/newsview/304
Please share the link with all your friends and contacts, reminding them that all the previous sixty eight editions of LiteraryVibes including four anthologies of poems and short stories are available at http://www.positivevibes.today/literaryvibes Feedback is welcome in the Comments section at the bottom of the LV page.
Please take care, stay safe.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents
- DEATH: THY ROMANCE Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- CHIMES FROM THE SKY Prabhanjan K. Mishra
- AVATAR (RUPAAYANA) Haraprasad Das
- LONELINESS, LUST AND.. Geetha Nair G.
- BORDERS Sreekumar K
- POWER-CUT IN MARCH Bibhu Padhi
- FOR RAJA Ajay Upadhyaya
- COLLATERAL DAMAGE Dilip Mohapatra
- THE TELEGRAM THAT.. Ujan Gosh
- BRITO Dr. Nikhil M Kurien
- I HAVE GONE MAD Dr. Bichitra Kumar Behura
- INEFFABLE Thryaksha A Garla
- SOMEWHERE NEW Thryaksha A Garla
- THE CRUSHING WHEELS Lathaprem Sakhya
- THE RED MOON Major Dr. Sumitra Mishra
- MORNING BREEZE Dr. Molly Joseph M
- KALEIDOSCOPE... Madhumathi. H
- YOURS WHATEVERLY... Madhumathi. H
- THE MANGO TREE Sridevi Selvaraj
- GIFT OF HAPPINESS Sheena Rath
- FETTERED Ravi Ranganathan
- "MINTY" MOMENT.... Hema Ravi
- THE RETREAT Gokul Chandra Mishra
- IF I WERE AN AFRICAN… Ibraheem Anas Sakaba
- HEIRLOOM Malabika Patel
- A LETTER AND MOBILE.. Setaluri Padmavathi
- AN UNFORGETTABLE.. Anjali Mohapatra
- SILVER THREADS Padmapriya Karthik
- LOVE TO HATE Meera Rao
- RED DREAMS Mrutyunjay Sarangi
- WALKING DOWN A.. Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Knock, knock. Who?
Corona. No, don’t like
asphyxiation, organ failure,
untouchability, mass-disposal.
Knock, knock. Who?
The undertaker. How would you
like your package? Drowning,
road-rage, coronary crises,
Koch’s infection, or more romantic,
with thrills and frills included -
near-death experience, post-death
memorials, and other fanfare?
Of memorials: would you love
to lie in a patch of lawn by a stream,
with a few periwinkle bushes
by your resting site, a Robin on roof;
a cement bench by water’s edge
to sit on and hang your ethereal feet
into the stream; in rare evenings,
your loved ones sitting there, missing you.
Even a gym can be attached
with a few dumbbells, a treadmill,
and a bull-worker for your workout
during your long wait, to fight
termites and other vermin
until your loved ones join you
in your beautiful abode amid
lush jasmines, by a murmuring stream.
To live long and in shape, fragrant
in death’s reeking embrace, we offer
a package you can’t refuse –
embalming – we use imported herbs.
Talking of exotic land - we have
a patch in Seychelles by the bay,
a garden, lawn with a small shrine,
breakfast for weekly visitors, thrown in;
the only problem – the cost not quoted,
to be decided ‘dot on spot’, balancing
the supply-demand quadratics.
But, isn’t posthumous-money just dirt?
Choice is yours, as Baudelaire sings,
“O Death, old captain, it’s time! Let’s
weigh anchor! / This land bores us,
O Death! Let’s cast off!” (To Seychelles?)
CHIMES FROM THE SKY (a translation from Odia original)
Dreaming is no one’s legacy,
even fools can enter its portal.
The rich don’t deserve to be hurt
at the fall of a hat, the poor
don’t deserve to wield it as weapon.
How easily do we die as pawns,
victims on the combat board,
or get killed like Duryodhana,
breaking heap-bone for false pride?
Do our kids enjoy a better chance
to live, commas and periods in our text?
Let outgoing roots, blossoming flowers,
succulent fruits, lush foliage give them
milestones across life’s uneven terrain,
to survive worries, ups and downs.
Let impatient dreams of far horizons
explode into their placid ambitions;
fire their unachievable hopes,
convert tired nights into alert vigils,
prod them to take giant strides,
smear their wings with prolific pollen,
fill their sails with unlimited sky,
ring in their ears the chimes of success,
make their fingers itch with confidence
to fly away before weighed down by age.
We were born handicapped,
growing up mechanically, victims
of indifference, breathing the air
of decadence, drinking the water
of placid turbidity and mistrust;
yet we crawled through life, tortoises.
How do we expect our kids
to dig gems from graveyards,
rise like phoenix from pyres
unless we give them knight’s armour?
(The poem ‘Digbalayara Gungura’ that appeared in Odia journal BARTIKAA, Dussera Special Issue, 1999; is self-translated here as ‘CHIMES FROM THE SKY’.)
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 Kumar Mishra
(1)
Argument in matters of faith
weakens the spirit,
in the darkest hours
the hands rising in benediction
disappear;
Doubting Thomas is awakened,
the confused skeptic
rises from the deep heretic pit.
I keep my messiah
at arm’s length from logic vultures.
Our messiah prays for us
from his house in our hearts,
as he prayed for his oppressors
while shedding his blood
in agony.
His promise to lead you to light
was not a lie; it’s you
who failed to accept the savior,
rather preferred to live
the hounding days of darkness.
You saw the tiger-claw
on the moon
but missed the milky rays
streaming down in sparkles,
the Lord’s river of compassion;
you, perhaps,
are not aware -
the soul is eternal;
it lives beyond
the mortal flesh.
(2)
People keep coming and going -
a tourist arrived here
on a camel from distant lands
bringing loads of goodwill;
a native left our soil
carrying its curses.
Ignorance has landed you
in your present plight,
you face a blind lane
of half-baked truth,
dividing you as a people,
driving wedges into your unity.
It kills your identity,
your quintessence -
coded in mantras,
settled as lichen,
etched on rock faces,
edicts.
(3)
Our messiah remains
unmoved in his resolve,
his arms spread out
like the wings of an eagle
to take off and take you all,
to salvation in his secure hug;
I believe, he will fly high
like a flash-wind,
sweeping together the decadence,
the withered leaves
and consigning them to flames
of the sunset.
(4)
Do you know him,
can you guess his identity?
When the balmy mountain air
turns chilly
on advent of a dusk,
have you not noticed him
sprawled as parting golden rays
across portals of mansions?
Or, when a poor farmer
tills his field for sowing seeds,
his plough hitting against a rock
that hurts his hand, it bleeds;
have you not seen the lord
getting out wounded
from the blood-soaked furrows,
bleeding himself, thrashing in pain,
but he heals the farmer
with the elixir from a pot
he carries
with whatever little is left?
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)”
( For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's stories, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/276 )
( For a short Anthology of Geetha Nair's poems, Click - http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/297 )
“Loneliness, lust and laundry- marriage is the only permanent solution to these,” proclaimed Mukesh, fondling his second glass of whiskey. He was seated on the most comfortable sofa in his friend’s drawing room. Amar and Johnson were seated opposite him. For almost a year now, the three had been meeting regularly on Saturday nights at Amar’s place. It was the most suitable meeting place as Amar’s wife, Shyla, went to stay with her ailing mother in the neighbouring town on weekends. The other two could not offer this facility; Johnson was a paying guest and Mukesh stayed in a little room in his uncle’s house.
“Why don’t you?” asked Johnson.
“Why don’t I what,” queried Mukesh. He had already forgotten the catchy line he had read in some advertisement the previous week.
“Get married,’ replied Johnson. “We could meet at your place. Shyla’s mother won’t last for ever, you know… .” He had great respect for Shyla whose whiplash of a tongue he had suffered from on one or two unforgettable occasions.…
“Of course, once I get married, I shall move to a bigger place and we can meet there as often as we please”, Mukesh said warmly.
“Suppose your wife is like mine,” warned Amar. “She won’t permit you to drink… .”
Mukesh threw back his head and laughed.
The doorbell made him stop. It was the Zomato man with their order.
Soon the fragrance of fish fingers, mutton roast and butter nan battled that of whiskey and won.
“Make sure your wife is a good cook,” said Johnson. He was the youngest of the three and had no intention of getting married at all. He had been brought up in the stifling company of five sisters and valued his new-found freedom too much.
The three were colleagues; they worked in the same office in the City. They had met just a year back and had soon become bar-dosts and then yaar- dosts.
Mukesh’s mother had been urging him to get married for quite some time now. She had suggested a couple of suitable girls in their neighbourhood. Mukesh had been toying with the idea. Then, something precipitated his decision. Shyla’s mother’s condition turned critical; she had at the most a couple of weeks left; they would lose their week-end den very soon. Mukesh called up his mother and said, “Ma, I have decided to get married.” His mother heaved a sigh of relief. Mukesh continued, “I want a wife who is educated but not keen on working. She should be good-looking, skilled in cooking- especially in non-veg cooking -and in all household matters.” His mother, a retired teacher, swallowed the caustic words that had risen to her mouth. ”Sure, son, Bharat Matrimony and our very own broker - both will get active from tomorrow.” As she put down the phone, her dear, departed husband seemed to materialise in front of her. Genes, she reflected; she had been a science teacher. Her husband had permitted her to work only when his business went downhill and he needed the extra income. She sighed as she remembered how he had regularly cribbed about the time she spent away from home, “neglecting” her family.
Very soon, Mukesh had his BM number. At the office, when he was free, he viewed profiles on the site. Sometimes, he showed a photo or two to his friends. It was fun, making flippant or indecorous observations. But Mukesh wasn’t satisfied with any of the “doordarshans”.
That Saturday, Shyla’s mother finally breathed her last. Amar had left on getting the news. In the evening his two friends reached Shyla’s ancestral home. The place was crowded. They were just in time to listen to prayers in women’s voices from the inner room where the dead woman lay. Next, elderly men in white uttered prayers before bundling the body and taking it away on its last journey.
Shyla was sobbing, her face pressed against a girl in a white kameez. She was bending over Shyla and stroking her head. She looked up and her eyes met those of Mukesh. In that second, something happened. Afterwards, Mukesh could never be certain what it was. He remembered the effect it had on him, though. There was a quickening of his heart beat as he gazed at her lovely eyes filled with tears. There was a weakening in his limbs and a dizziness in his head. She averted her eyes but Mukesh continued to stand still, staring at her.
As they partook of the mandatory meal, Mukesh’s eyes kept searching for her. The strict segregation of men and women made it a futile exercise.
But in two days he had found out everything he needed to know about her.
Meena. Shyla’s childhood friend. Now working in an IT firm at the nearby Infopark. Only child of retired parents who were settled in a distant town. Not married. Not engaged.
Mukesh was bowled over, conquered, lost. He crooned love songs, gazed dreamily into the distance for minutes on end… . “A bleeding baa lamb!” thought Johnson in disgust. He found the change in his friend hard to stomach, especially after two or three pegs in some bar or the other; there was no other place they could congregate in for drinks. Mukesh would start quoting bits of poetry and prose his friends never dreamed he knew…I have been falling from the rim of a great high place, somewhere back in time, for many more years than I have lived in this life. And through all of those years, I have been falling towards you… was such a hot favourite that very soon, his two friends could rattle it off and bring it to a swift conclusion when he started intoning in a dreamy tone, “I have been falling…”
Love will find out a way, goes the old song. Persistence paid. Mukesh’s adoration was hard to resist. In a month, Meena was won over. Horoscopes were exchanged and astrologers on both sides waved the green flag. Formal visits were paid. The date for the wedding was fixed. Mukesh started visiting Meena’s house. He steadily bored his friends with catalogues of Meena’s merits. She could sing, dance, drive, dive, read fiction,write poetry… .”Can she cook?” broke in Amar during one such tedious monologue.. “Of course,” replied Mukesh. “That was one of the first things I asked her. Both veg and non-veg. On one of my visits, I saw that her father was drinking.There was a Johnny Walker Black Label on the side-table! He even asked me if I would like a drink. So, rest assured, comrades. All shall be well.”
Once the date was fixed, Mukesh swung into action. A flat, centrally located and quite spacious, was the first requisite. His friends joined the hunt with total commitment. Finally, it was found and taken on rent. “Perfect!” said Mukesh. It had a fairly big sitting room. “This will be our nook” he said, pointing to the corner by the big window. There was a good view of the busy road and the hills beyond. “A round table and three comfortable chairs to put here,” Johnson said with a broad smile, “that is going to be our wedding gift to you.” “Perfect!” replied Mukesh, beaming at Amar and Johnson.
The wedding was on a hot day in May. Meena, in red and gold, made a beautiful bride. Mukesh managed to look quite handsome in a cream jubba and dhoti. The couple left two days later for Bangkok. Mukesh sent photo after photo to his friends. They were ecstatic ones. “I bet you are contemplating matrimony,” commented Amar to Johnson with a laugh. Johnson nodded silently. He felt a surge of envy and loneliness.
Both Mukesh and Meena had been granted only two weeks of leave. Soon they were back in the city. Mukesh messaged his friends to say that they were busy settling in and hoped to invite them over the coming Saturday. But on Saturday, he called to say that Meena and he were going for a movie. Meena was free only on alternate Saturdays.
It was the third Saturday after Mukesh and Meena had moved into their flat that the awaited invitation reached Johnson and Amar. Mukesh sent them a message asking them to drop in by half past eleven in the morning. At the appointed hour, the two were at Mukesh’s door. Amar carried an official looking bag which contained a bottle of good quality gin he had been keeping for the occasion. Johnson had added four yellow limes and packets of potato chips. Mukesh took his time answering the door.
“I was in the bathroom,” he explained, smiling widely at the sight of his friends. The two walked in. “I will be back in five minutes,” Mukesh said and hurried away towards the interior. The two friends looked around them. Sure enough, there was their expensive gift adorning the corner which had been proposed for it. Three chairs and the round table. They adorned their gift further with the gin, the four yellow limes and the packets of chips.
“Looks like one of those European still life paintings,” said Johnson observing the result with a pleased smile.
The two moved around the flat examining its furniture and furnishings. Finally, they reached the kitchen and picked three glasses and a bottle of chilled water from the fridge. They placed these too on the round table.
Mukesh seemed to be still in the bathroom. “What on earth!” exclaimed Amar. They pounded on the bathroom door. Mukesh opened it and peeped out. He was fully clothed. “Just two minutes more,” he said apologetically. Johnson put his foot against the closing door and pushed it open. A washing machine stood in a corner with its huge mouth open. Out of it spilled clothes that had obviously been just pulled out. A big blue bucket stood in front of it, half filled with laundered clothes. “I’ll just hang them out to dry on the balcony and be with you in a jiffy; the power went off at 10, otherwise the laundry would have been done long back” Then, seeing his friends’ expressions, he added, a little defiantly, “Beautiful machine, state of the art technology; Meena’s aunt gifted it to us.”
From their corner seats , Amar and Johnson watched their friend pegging the clothes to the lines strung across the balcony. Soon, Mukesh was back. He looked at the table. Then he sat down on the third chair. His expression was rather distressed. He addressed a lamp above their heads.
“Look, friends,” he began, “there was something I did not know about Meena’s family. I knew she had had an elder brother; his garlanded photo is on the wall of their drawing room. When my relatives paid the formal visit, her father told us he had died very young, in an accident. When I asked her about him one day, she wept silently. As it pained Meena to speak of her brother’s death, I never did ask her about him again. Her elder brother died as a result of drunken driving; Meena told me this only after our wedding.Though her father still has a drink now and then, Meena is totally against drinking. Naturally. You will understand, I know.”
He looked pointedly at the forlorn bottle in front of them and ended, “I have decided to abstain from alcohol…”
There was a rather long silence. Amar started rotating a lime on the table.Then, Johnson pushed back his chair and rose.
“Don’t leave,” said Mukesh.“Have lunch with me. That is why I invited you over at this time of the day. Meena says she has time to do elaborate non-veg cooking only on alternate Saturdays when she is at home. Let me order some good non-veg from Paragon Hotel to complement today’s dahi rice and potato fry. Meena makes delicious dahi rice, you know.
Johnson looked at the clothes fluttering merrily in the breeze.
”I thought you said marriage was the solution to loneliness, - and laundry… .” There was a nasty edge to Johnson’s voice
“You can’t have everything, can you?” replied Mukesh.
His eyes were velvet with contentment.
Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English, settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems, "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com
we have this dog
bought from a shop,
gifted by God
who named
the moonlight after her
when we talk to her
(which we do a lot)
we refer to one another
as deedi, dad and mom
coming from the far north
summer is hell for her
she sheds her fur
to fight the heat
we panic and call the doctor
he gives her shots
we give her pills
and together we manage
to put her fur back
she wakes with me
goes to bed with me
reads all I write
suggests nothing
won't come in
unless we all are in
howls at us
in case we return
late from the city
howls at my brother too
for he skips his visits
dislikes what she eats
barks at the kites
fur flying over our roof
scares those who walk
by our house
alerts us
when the kettle whistles
milkman knocks
water tank overflows
phone rings softly
fights cats
chases butterflies
catches mosquitoes
knocks over flower pots
rattles cans
I killed her
in a story, of course
cursed be the question
whether I would have done that
to someone else at home.
Sreekumar K, known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
It has been happening for
the past four years, beginning each March.
The water-level behind
the high embankment on Mahanadi
drops to its bottommost
and fails to work the hydraulic turbines
any more. The officials make
polite statements, offer similar
instances of failure
in the neighbouring states.
The afternoon moves into
the darkness of waiting.
Inside the rooms, lantern-light
seems enough. The shadows
are everywhere,
on the walls, the high ceilings.
In a sense, we like it.
On the terrace, lying down
on the reed-mat and waiting
for the light to come back much later
than the appointed hour, we watch the sky.
The stars are brighter than ever,
Jupiter’s light steadier;
after a long time the shooting stars
seem ready to fulfil our remoter wishes.
“How do they stay so still unless
their hands support each other?
Is the star out there, faint
as lantern light, grandmother’s?”
My son’s questions are many
and remain unanswered.
I count his pulse, then mine;
their measured beats link us to the stars.
And then, strictly following yesterday’s
weather forecast, the nimbus clouds from
the north gather, the wind gets heavier.
The first large drops of spring rain
fall on our faces. We move within.
The same rain I guess must be falling now
at the point where Mahanadi originates
among forests and boulders,
seven hundred miles above us,
in Madhya Pradesh, making the water
rise at the right places. The television
announcer had said: “Large convective clouds
seen from the satellite picture
suggest heavy to very heavy rain
for most part of the rest of the week.”
The afternoons will no more move
into the evening, then night;
we will forget the terrace once more.
As the rain comes down louder than ever,
through the windows we try to locate
the particular stars, which now seem
to be suffering the burden of bewildered space,
their once-joined hands separated now
by the clouds and gathering dark.
My eyes strain to retrieve that one star
which, on the western sky, had become
my grandmother to my son,
now obscured by the rain.
.
Contemporary Review: The London Magazine. It is the oldest magazine of the world--it began publication in 1732..
A Pushcart nominee, Bibhu Padhi has published fourteen books of poetry. His poems have been published in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, The American Scholar, Colorado Review, Confrontation, New Letters, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, Poetry, Southwest Review, The Literary Review, TriQuarterly, Tulane Review, Xavier Review, Antigonish Review, Queen’s Quarterly, The Illustrated Weekly of India and Indian Literature. They have been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. Three of the most recent are Language for a New Century (Norton) 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry (HarperCollins). He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, Odisha. Bibhu Padhi welcomes readers' feedback on his poems at padhi.bibhu@gmail.com
Like a king,
doing all business
by a nod and a wink,
he didn’t have to speak.
His eyes and tail did
all the talking.
A true Peter Pan:
Always a child at heart,
till the end.
Unlike our children,
he let out,
to kingdoms of their own;
infused with a zest for action
and a penchant for play.
To brave their banal battles;
geared with
the armoury and a shield.
In his lexicon:
strength is no
antithesis to tenderness:
Affection his forte.
Made no promises.
For, future was too fickle,
Present too precious
to fritter away
on trivialities.
No room for when and how.
When world is filled with
Here and Now.
His chronicle:
A long lesson on
living in the moment.
No tomb,
to mark his memories.
His lasting legacy went
beyond bricks and mortar:
An awakening,
that knows no arrest.
Raja was our much-loved family pet, who died four years ago.
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 was about five in the evening. Venkatesh dragged his rickety bicycle onto the footpath and made it lean over the telephone pole. The highly corroded cycle stand was limply hanging with its spring missing and the rubber padding had fallen off the pedals exposing only the rusted steel rods jutting on both sides. Just in the corner, where the footpath took a right turn, he had built his shack under the Gulmohar tree, using few discarded bamboo sticks and couple of discoloured plastic sheets borrowed from the nearby construction site, where he worked as a mason. He pushed the jute curtain made out of mutilated gunny sacks and entered his 'home sweet home'. In one corner his wife Subbulaxmi, whom he endearingly called simply Laxmi, was trying hard to light the fire in the hearth. Close to her, his five year old little daughter Pallavi was combing few strands of left over hair of her rag doll, that he had bought for her from a fair for her third birthday. Tommy, a stray pup which Pallavi had adopted few days ago, was sniffing around to find his rubber ball which she had hidden somewhere.
Venkatesh plonked himself on an improvised divan , made of stacked bricks with a cotton mattress on top, which also served as a bed. Laxmi rushed to him with a glass of water and Venkatesh finished it in one go.
Venkatesh belonged to a remote village named Chintapatla of Rangareddy district in the suburbs of Hyderabad. He started his working life as a labourer in a brick factory and soon picked up the craft of bricklaying. Gradually he learnt the masonry trade and worked in various construction projects in Hyderabad. About six months ago he was recruited by a construction company who had some mega projects going on in Pune. Since the labour rates offered was much more lucrative than what he was getting locally, he couldn't resist the temptation and accepted the offer. He then shifted to Pune with his family and started working on the construction site near Hadapsar. Like anyone else Venkatesh also had dreams. But his dreams concerned only with his daughter. He wanted to cut corners as for his own comforts and save as much as he can for giving her a better future. He wanted his daughter to get the best of education and be an achiever rather than learning the household chores and growing up to get married. Laxmi respected her husband's wish and offered to supplement the family income by picking up a housemaid job in the nearby society. They managed to get their daughter admitted to a nearby Municipality school, and things appeared to be on track.
This evening however appeared to be rather sombre. Venkatesh sat for sometime, deep in thought, his eyes unfocused with a vacant look. Laxmi stood and watched him silently. She knew something ominous was coming. Venkatesh called her and told her to sit next to him. He broke the news to her about the countrywide lockdown that had been announced to combat the corona virus attack. He told her that all shops were to be closed. All trains and buses would stop running. No one would be allowed to get out of their homes. There would be limited supply of food items. Schools would be closed. And most importantly, with immediate effect all construction activities would also stop. Then he explained to her the ramifications of the lockdown effect, particularly which would affect them directly, the main point was that, there was no job for them now. No job, means no money and no money means, no food, no medicines, no nothing. Laxmi heard him patiently and went to pick up a small canister. She opened it and pored the contents on the bed. Some coins and currency notes pored out of it. Then both started counting them. All in all it was just a little above seven thousand rupees. That was their life's savings. Both looked at each other without finding a plausible solution to the problem in hand. They discussed various possibilities and finally came to a consensus. They decided to go back to their village. But since all public transport were cancelled, they couldn't figure out how will they manage to travel more than 500 kilometres! Left with no other option they decided to walk it down. Venkatesh did his arithmetic : if they can manage to walk 8-10 hours a day they could manage to cover about 50 km a day and that would take about 10 or 11 days to reach their village. Laxmi did the logistics planning and cooked enough 'pulihora' rice, at least enough for 3/4 days. Pulihora is a popular rice preparation from Telengana cuisine made with tamarind, rice, tempering spices & curry leaves. She also bought few bunches of bananas. She filled up a cloth bag with flattened rice, the main ingredient for 'poha' and packed some jaggery too. The next day they were ready to start their ordeal.
Venkatesh tied a bed sheet to the forward frame of the bicycle, to give it a cushioning effect and asked Pallavi to make herself comfortable. They loaded the carrier with food stuff and their meagre belongings tied up in a bundle and as they were about to start, Pallavi wanted to take Tommy along. Venkatesh tried his best to persuade her to leave Tommy behind, but Pallavi won't budge. Ultimately her tears had their way. Venkatesh tied Tommy to the cycle with a coir rope and they started off around six in the morning, from Hadapsar towards Pune-Solapur road which leads to Hyderabad.
The road was almost empty with few tempos and two wheelers plying. With the initial enthusiasm , they were making good progress. After about 20 km of walking they found a shady tree on roadside, with a brook nearby. The family sat down for savouring some ' Pulihora' for lunch on paper plates. After a little rest, they again started their journey slowly and steadily and by about 5 PM they were nearing the Yavat toll gate. Before they could reach the toll gate they were stopped at a police check post. The police wanted to know who were they and where were they going. Venkatesh showed the police his Aadhar card and told them that they were on their way to their village in Telengana. The constable on duty glowered and growled at them as if they were murderers and asked them if they had obtained any government pass permitting them to travel during lockdown, and threatened them to arrest them for breaking law. Venkatesh, pleaded with folded hands to let them go. He tried to reason out with the police about their predicament and requested them to help. After lot of coaxing, the policeman appeared to yield. He called Venkatesh aside and whispered that he can convince his superior to let them go but that would cost them a little money. Venkatesh looked at him helplessly and silently nodded. The policeman said that it would be 500 rupees per head. He totalled it to 1500 rupees for three persons. Then with a wink he highlighted that he was generously letting the dog to be taken away free of cost. Venkatesh counted three 500 rupee notes and slipped to the eager hands of the policeman.
On reaching the toll gate, Venkatesh went to the supervisor, told him about his plight and requested him to allow his family to take rest for the night in their office verandah. The supervisor looked at the tired kid on the bicycle and the dog whining presumably in pain and consented. Early next morning the family used the public convenience facilities close to the toll gate and started their journey once again. In the morning hours they could cover fair distance but as the sun rode the meridian, the scorching rays and the fuming asphalt road slowed them down considerably. The little puppy perhaps was the worst sufferer and Pallavi asked Venkatesh to put the pup in her lap. They found a suitable shadowy place about 20 km short of Bhigwan and rested a while. When they resumed their journey Pallavi discovered that the puppy was lying still and not responding to her call. She started wailing loudly and Laxmi comforted her. Venkatesh took the limp body away and using his knife, dug a small pit to lay Tommy to rest. With tears in their eyes the family started off again.
Weary and tired the trio reached Bhigwan in the evening and found a small passenger shed near a bus stop to spend the night. Early the next morning, two small vegetable shops opened their shutters to receive fresh vegetables being offloaded from a small pick up truck. Venkatesh found few people gathering around the truck and talking to the driver. The truck after off loading the vegetables at Bhigwan was heading to Solapur and had the permit to ply since it was engaged in carrying essential commodities. Venkatesh also joined the crowd and asked the driver if his family can also be given a lift. The driver told that he was charging one thousand rupees per person towards fare. And for his bicycle, he has to pay an additional two hundred. Money would have to be paid in advance. He would drop them at Solapur and it would take about five hours. Venkatesh readily agreed and paid him the money. He lashed up his cycle to the side of the truck and climbed with his family and others into the cargo bed which was covered with tarpaulins. After few minutes the truck took off towards Solapur.
The first township it crossed was Indapur about 20 km from Bhigwan. The driver stopped there for a while for tea and again moved on the highway. After about 5 km beyond the town limits, he pulled over on the side of a dilapidated stretch and was seen disappearing on a dirt road. All 'passengers' thought that he was perhaps answering the call of nature and waited for him to return. But there was no sign of him. The clock ticked by, soon it was almost two hours gone but the driver did not return. Venkatesh was now sure that all of them were taken for a jolly ride. He and his family got down. He unlashed his cycle and the family was back on the road.
The next three days on road had been excruciating for Venkatesh and his family fighting with the summer and fatigue. To make things worse, the slippers that Venkatesh wore had given up. It was a pair of very sturdy slippers with soles made out of motor tyres. It had survived the corrosive cement and water which he dealt with day and night for the last three years. But now the straps have given way. Venkatesh found blisters appearing on his feet soon enough. But the family was determined to go ahead and reach home at any cost.Somehow they inched towards Solapur, with the hope that they may get some help here. It was about ten in the morning when they entered Solapur and suddenly a van with a disc antenna on its top slowed down and stopped short of them and few other migrant labourers who had joined them en route. A smart lady with short hair accompanied with a cameraman carrying a video camera on his shoulder got down from the vehicle and approached Venkatesh who was slowly pushing the bicycle with Pallavi astride, and Laxmi in tow. The lady smiled and asked Venkatesh about his experience on the road so far. She asked a number of questions with whys and why nots. Venkatesh answered the questions as accurately as he could. She even asked how the family felt when they lost the dog. And how does it feel to walk barefoot on the hot tar road under a tyrant sun ! Venkatesh didn't know what to say. He only asked if madam can help them to reach Hyderabad. She quickly regretted her inability telling that she has to meet many more people like Venkatesh and speak to them. But she informed Venkatesh that the government has started a special train service called 'Shramik Trains' which are now conveying labourers to their home states. She advised Venkatesh to go to Solapur railway station and check about any train going to Hyderabad. Venkatesh thanked her and headed for the railway station.
As he reached the railway station, he found the station bare and dilapidated. There was not a single soul except for very few railway employees who were seen relaxing on the benches. He asked Laxmi and Pallavi to rest on a bench under a fan and started towards the station master's office. Suddenly Laxmi yelled to call him and he made a U turn. Laxmi asked Venkatesh to check if Pallavi had a fever. Venkatesh touched her to know immediately that she had a high fever. His heart skipped a beat. The very first thought came to him if she was getting a viral attack. But she had no breathing difficulty and she was not sneezing. He told Laxmi, it could be due to fatigue.
He then saw the station master approaching him. Venkatesh ran towards him and asked if any special train to Hyderabad is scheduled. The station master said that one train from Mumbai was expected in an hour. Venkatesh' joys knew no bounds. Then he asked the station master to issue tickets for three of them. The station master asked if he had registered at Pune as a migrant labourer needing this service. If so, then the ticket would have been issued by Pune authorities. There was no provision for Solapur station master to issue the ticket. Venkatesh' face fell and he pleaded with the station master to treat his case as a special case since his daughter was unwell and was having high fever. The station master expressed his helplessness and went back to his office to return with a strip of Crocin tablets, and a packet of biscuits which he handed over to Venkatesh.
Venkatesh checked with the station master and found out that Hyderabad was another three hundred km away. And their ordeal continued.
Author’s Note: The family while on their way to Hyderabad from Solapur was picked up by a good samaritan trucker plying on the route, free of cost, ending their agony.
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 TELEGRAM THAT CHANGED MY LIFE
Ujan Ghosh
(The Post Office where the Telegram came - this was a part of the Athgarh old palace)
It was the summer of 1970, maybe mid June. I was in my hometown Athgarh, a sub divisional small town in Cuttack district of Odisha. Like many, I had completed my pre-professional (schooling) education and was waiting to join college. I am the youngest of six siblings. The eldest, our only sister, an MA in English and married, was incidentally holidaying with us at that time. Our father, a lawyer, for some reasons, was not very keen for his sons to become lawyers. Perhaps because law was not taken as a much sought after profession in those days. He always wanted one of his sons to be a doctor. My four brothers had already got into engineering disciplines and were residing in various towns across India. I was the last hope of my father. I had done pretty well in the qualifying pre-medical course (1st year B.Sc with Biology from Ravenshaw College, Cuttack). So I could easily get admission to the Cuttack Medical College, the best place to do medical in Odisha those days, maybe even now. All the formalities had been completed and I was waiting to move to Cuttack in July.
As a routine, I used to go to the Post Office, there was only one in Athgarh, on a cycle every day in those terribly hot summer afternoons, to pick up the mail. The idea was to get the mail as soon as possible, otherwise it would be delivered to your house at the end of the day by the lone post peon. There used to be enough mail coming in with our extended family spread across the country. Telephones and telephone calls were rare. One had to go to the Post Office to book a trunk call and wait for a connection. A telegram was another method to send urgent messages.
On one such trip to the Post Office in that summer, along with the mail, I was handed over a telegram which in fact changed the direction of my life, almost to the opposite. Before I get to the contents of the telegram, let me explain telegrams. Telegrams were the fastest way to send messages for a very long time from the mid-nineteenth century until the advent of telephones. It worked by transmitting Morse Code via electrical cables or wires from one station to another. At the receiving station, messages got printed on thin strips of paper using a special printer. These strips were then pasted on a particular telegraph form and delivered to the recipient's address. The cost of a telegram used to depend upon how many letters have been used, including the address. So, naturally everyone tried to make it as short as possible. Our address couldn’t have been any shorter. We being the only Ghosh in Athgarh and the Post Office knowing us well, our address was: Ghosh Athgarh. The paper on which the message strips were pasted used to be pink, maybe to show its urgency. The pink piece of paper I got that day said: “ARCHITECTURE ENTRANCE TEST DELHI SECOND JULY COME SOON”. It was from my eldest brother Dada, in Delhi where he had a reasonably good architectural practice. It was a surprise for me, as was it for my father and the rest of the family present. I remembered my brother mentioning to Baba, my father, during his last visit to Athgarh the previous summer, that since I was good at drawing, I could become a good architect. No one knew, at least I didn’t, that my brother had applied to few architectural colleges on my behalf; perhaps without any knowledge that Baba had already admitted me to a medical college. I was quite alright with the message. As such I was not supposed to make any decision on this and just the prospect of going to Delhi, even for a test, was after all not a bad idea.Baba became kind of quieter for a couple of days, perhaps charting plans for my travel. Ma, my mother was seen grumbling intermittently, worried how her little son would travel to this far away place Delhi. Our sister’s presence was a blessing as she could manage to maintain calm in the family.
(Author's house at Athgarh)
Sensing that I would soon be leaving for Delhi, I started meeting friends for longer hours. There were two types of friends. Some were like me, waiting to go out of Athgarh for further studies, mainly engineering and medical. The others had no such ambition in life. They were content with their basic education in school or at best getting a BA from a nearby local college. Even the first group did not quite know what Architecture was, but they assumed it to be something better than engineering and medical, otherwise why would one relinquish a confirmed seat in Cuttack Medical College and travel all the way to Delhi to sit for an admission test. So those week-ten days before I left for Delhi I spent with my friends in a privileged status.
The day of my departure came. I took a bus from Athgarh to Cuttack to catch a train from there to Calcutta. Some friends came to the bus-stand to see me off. I could see my father standing a little away with a worried face. He stood there till the bus left. He was worried because this was the first time I was travelling beyond Cuttack alone, that too without a reservation. I knew the Cuttack railway station well as I had studied at Ravenshaw College there for two years. From there I took an overnight train to Calcutta. Two of my brothers lived there. One of them picked me up and after a day or two pushed me into an unreserved compartment of a Delhi bound train with the help of a coolie. I reached Old Delhi station after 36 hours, around noon on the 30th of June 1970. Dada, the person behind my hurried journey, was to pick me up. I was already instructed to get off the train and wait on the platform and not venture anywhere, as my brother could be late as he was a busy practicing architect. And he was late. I was naturally very happy and relieved to see him at that busy station. Other than a trunk and bed roll as my luggage, I also had a ‘surahi’ for drinking water, an essential item for all train travel in summer those days. Dada didn’t like the surahi, I think because it was too down-market for his status. So, he asked me to put it back into the train which was still standing there empty. We took a long walk to the parking lot with the coolie following us with my luggage. I was particularly happy without the load and responsibility of my rather unwieldy luggage. We got into my brother’s red Standard Herald car. It was a very fancy, low chassis car and I had never seen one before. I felt proud sitting in my brother’s own car. We only owned two second hand cycles in Athgarh. On the way, Dada showed me Lal Quila to the left, Jama Masjid to the right, passed through congested Daryaganj, then through picturesque New Delhi, India Gate etc. and reached home in Defence Colony. His wife, my Boudi,was happy to see me. I was wearing tight-fitting ‘drain pipe’ trousers, which were very much a trend in Odisha those days. The first thing Boudi asked me was, how I managed to get in or out of those trousers. I surprised her by showing the zips which ran from the ankles to the knees. She was not impressed and I was politely asked not to wear them again. Luckily that was the only trouser I had which was that trendy. Soon my brother hurriedly left for office and I settled down in the impressive guest room of my architect brother.
Next day, 1st July was my niece’s second birthday. Although I was 18, I was completely unaware of birthday celebrations. Birthdays were never celebrated in our family in Athgarh. Some years, if Ma remembered our birthdays, she would prepare payesh (kheer). I had never attended nor even heard of a ‘birthday party’. 1st July 1970 was the first birthday party I ever attended. Throughout the day preparations were going on, setting up furniture, blowing balloons etc. A few close friends and relatives of Boudi were there to help. Dada came back from office at the end of the day and faced a highly annoyed Boudi. Evening came and family after family arrived with their little children. Soon the modest living-dining of the house was overflowing. I was introduced to all but I couldn’t converse. I was very uncomfortable and nervous as well. At the right time cake-cutting took place. That was the first time I saw a real cake of that décor and size. The only cake I knew till then was Britannia cake slices and local cup cakes. When the children got busy with snacks, cakes and cold drinks, the adults lifted their glasses. This was also the first time I saw bottles of various shapes and sizes filled with different types of alcohol. A party was on. Within a year I would know the importance of parties. Over 36 hours had passed after my arrival in Delhi, but Dada had not uttered the words ‘admission test’ even once. I was worried and even more nervous.
The party finally ended, the dining table cleaned and furniture brought to its right location. Servants continued cleaning dishes while Boudi retired with my tired baby niece. Then suddenly Dada remembered about the admission test next day and hurriedly summoned me to the empty dining table in the quiet drawing-dining room. He explained to me in great detail about ‘still-life’ sketching and asked me to draw what he quickly assembled on the table using a glass, a bottle and a cotton napkin. He was impressed with my drawing. I think he actually didn’t quite know much about the contents of admission tests those days but the one thing he knew was that one could not really prepare for them. So, it was ok to just land up at the test centre.
( School of Planning and Architecture, New Delhi )
On 2nd July 1970, Dada took me to the School of Planning and Architecture (SPA) on Ring Road, near ITO, in his red Standard Herald. SPA actually operates from two locations, just about 100m apart with two other properties in between. We went to the place where the department of Architecture was located. Dada parked the car under a Gulmohar tree, asked me to wait in the car and he vanished into the building. There were many Gulmohar trees there and all were in full bloom. But as it was already July, leaves also had already come, resulting in a beautiful scene of red and green. For some reason I was neither worried nor nervous about the test. I was kind of enjoying the moment. In fact I am quite nervous now while writing about it after 5 decades. Shortly after,Dada came out of the building, rushed me in and handed me over to a peon. I remember the well groomed peon. He was well dressed too, in the SPA uniform. I still wonder why I was looking at the peon rather than worrying about the test. The peon opened the doors to a large hall where quite a few students were seriously engrossed in doing something very strange with two pieces of paper which did not match with any possible method of testing for admission, that I could ever imagine. A bearded smart person, perhaps a professor, seemed to be expecting me, showed me to the only empty large table with a tall stool to sit on. He gave me two A-4 size papers and explained what to do. I found it quite easy, actually it appeared to me like some kind of a game. I finished the task in no time and waited for the rest to finish. Most of them looked very baffled and were actually not doing anything. Soon, that part of the test was over and two other rounds followed till lunch. One of the tests taken post lunch was ‘free hand sketching’. I was quite familiar with this one due to the last minute experience of the night before. But I didn’t know what ‘free hand’ actually meant in this context. So, I very confidently started using a ‘set square’ (a large plastic triangle) which I had, to draw the ‘book’ in the still life composition we were drawing. Of course, the candidates on either side continued to give me dirty looks, until one of them explained to me what ‘free hand’ sketching meant. I rubbed off what I had drawn and drew again without using the set square. When I finished, the same candidate, a girl, asked me why I was using the set square if I was so good in free hand drawing. I did not confess to her that I didn’t know the meaning of ‘free hand’. The admission test ended. I waited for my brother to pick me up.
On the way home, Dada asked me about the test. Hearing about what all we were asked to do, he kind of looked hopeless without even knowing what could have been my answers. I guess he figured the tasks were too difficult for someone from a small town in Odisha who had done his schooling in Oriya medium.
In a couple of days the result came and my name was in the list of successful candidates. I was of course very happy. But frankly I was not very concerned about a possible failure either. I would have been quite satisfied with just this bonus holiday in Delhi before joining the tough medical course back in Cuttack. Dada was naturally very happy for my success and also perhaps because his independent efforts to get his youngest brother admitted for further education had paid off. Boudi was also very happy but both were visibly surprised. On hearing the result, Boudi twisted my ear so hard that tears came to my eyes in pain. Apparently, ear twisting is also an act to show extreme happiness. This was another ‘new’ for me. Till then I knew it just as a punishment.
It was decided by Dada and Boudi (I was not consulted) that I need not go back all the way to Athgarh before joining SPA in a week or so. I probably would have liked to go back, if not for anything else but to show off about my great achievement to my friends in person. Also to return a bunch of fat physics, chemistry and math books which I had borrowed to prepare for the entrance test, which of course were never opened.
Boudi prepared me for my hostel stay. Required purchases were done including clothes as I hadn’t brought enough thinking that I will go back. Admission formalities were done in a few days and I moved into the SPA hostel. Hostel living was not new to me but this one was very different with unfamiliar surroundings. Thus I began the most important five years of my life at the School of Planning and Architecture, which not only gave me a degree in Architecture but also my beautiful wife.
Ujan Ghosh did his under graduate studies in Architecture from School of Planning and Architecture (SPA), New Delhi in 1975. After working for two years in Delhi he went to University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia where he completed Master of Architecture and Master of City Planning in Urban Design. He worked for few years in USA before coming back to India and joining Upalghosh Associates as a partner.
Since then he has been practicing architecture and urban design in various parts of the country. He is also a visiting professor at SPA, New Delhi and has been teaching Urban Design for the last 38 years. He was nominated to the Senate of SPA, Bhopal and has been a member of the Board of Studies in different departments of SPA, New Delhi. Presently he is a member of the Academic Council, DIT Univercity, Dehradun and on the Board of Studies,Sushant School of Art and Architecture, Ansal University, Gurugram.
He is the founder member of Institute of Urban Designers-India and its former President.
Brito was munching on the delicious apple he took from one of the vendor’s fruit spread beside the road and he talked patiently to the encroachers as if he was one among them. He wanted to project himself as a leader of the mass. A person who could amicably deal and settle a situation. He was an elected member of the municipality and he along with some officers had come to check on the encroachments that were happening all along the sides of the market road. They had received numerous complaints from the residents and wayfarers. He didn’t want any altercation to happen and wanted to settle this matter as peacefully as it could be done.
The state elections were round the corner and he was very much sure to get an opportunity to stand as a candidate for contesting a seat to the legislative assembly. The political big wigs in the Forward Democratic party had half agreed in favour of him but still they had a doubt on his popularity. Being popular and having a good will among the voters were the necessary basic factors to win any election. He had won the municipal elections but winning a state election was a different ball game. He knew he was popular among the people and he could win the votes but he had to convince the party’s core committee who decided on the final list of candidates. His name was in a balance before them and Brito was trying his best to prove that he indeed was popular and he could assure a win. He was seeking an opportunity to showcase his popularity and that is how he undertook this job. At this time each individual vote was important and it was with much patience and gentleness in voice that he approached the situation before him. Finally the way in which he approached the problem and the quick decision he took saw a result coming out from the ruffled matter. The encroachers agreed to the settlement that Brito drew up. Brito for certain had won that section of the people and at the same time he had settled an embarrassing situation which was a burning issue before the municipality.
It was at that time he saw a funeral procession pass by. It was a long mourning train with most of the people attired in black dresses. Brito threw away the half munched fruit which he had held on to for a long time, walked up to a person who was at the end of the procession and asked him.
“Who is this dead man for whom so many people have gathered?” The other man astonishingly looked at Brito and asked back.
“Don’t you know him? He was a great man”. So saying, he walked on in remorse. But Brito didn’t leave him alone.
“What makes you say he was a great man?” Brito asked with some reverence.
“Because he was a very good man”, said the stranger.
“How did he die?” Brito asked
“He had a heart attack and he was immediately taken to the hospital. There they tried to revive his life by giving chest compressions but to no avail. His soul was taken away to the presence of God."
“What good did he do to be called a great man?”
The man in the procession then began to relate the many good things the dead man had done and what a loss his death was to all of them. When the man finished his story, Brito left him to continue his mourning and slowly returned to the car where his personal assistant Moni was waiting for him.
“People talk copiously about one’s goodness only when he is no longer alive.” Brito began talking to Moni. “They say all the nice things only when he is in the grave and by then it is too late for the good man to hear all the appreciation”. Will people talk good of me too when I die, he kept thinking. How will I know whether I had a good reputation or a bad one among the people? How will I know whether people loved me and how much they loved me?
Moni had started the car and even as he drove the car he was nodding to everything which Brito said sitting by his side. He talked continuously for around five minutes on the paucity of love and appreciation shown by humans. But soon the topic slid back to the fervour of politics and on how he could ensure himself a ticket in the rat race for the assembly seat.
”I have an idea if you can help me” Brito said with a resolute voice to Moni who just then applied the horn to scare a pedestrian who seemed ready to cross the road without paying attention to the advancing car.
“What idea sir?” Moni asked interested, for he knew Brito was prompt in taking a decision and that too wise and explicit ones.
“This could be a way to gauge my popularity in our constituency and at the same time I can show to the party leaders the strength I have among the people.” Brito then sketched out the plan. “I will act as though I am dead and lie still till they are about to bury me. But at the moment before burial you have to come crying, beating and thumping on my chest and I will open my eyes. It will look to everyone as indeed I breathed my last and then you accidentally resuscitated me up by pumping on my heart. Thus I will be able to know who cries for me and speaks well of me and also we will have an idea as to if I can win this election. My name too will get popular with each and every person as a man who cheated death. Maybe they will begin to see some supernatural power in me. All this will favour me in getting an election seat and ensuring a victory.”
So the next morning according to the plot Brito lay still. His wife had left him one year back after some constant fights and it was Moni and his family that took care of Brito’s household things now. It was Moni’s job to inform all the people about the sudden demise of Brito and only the two of them knew about the drama that was being enacted.
The town folk heard about the tragedy and they streamed in to pay their last respects to the departed soul. Brito was laid in the living room and he lay still, inhaling the pleasant whiff of the fresh flowers on the wreaths. Brito took shallow breaths as quietly as possible and the flowers decked over his abdomen hid the respiratory movements. Moni had cleverly avoided in stuffing the cotton pieces into Brito’s nostrils. He could hear the lamentations of the people as some touched his feet, some kissed his forehead and some his cheeks.
“How could you do this to us. You were our light and saviour and now we are in darkness," cried a woman. Brito recognised her voice immediately. She was the inconspicuous old woman who sold vegetables down the street. He didn’t know that this woman had so much affection and respect for him. So Brito lay still, thinking what a wise thing he was doing.
Many came to pay their respects to the leader. Some cried, while some stood shocked. Brito could recognise many voices and he was pleased. Then came the priest. He made a small speech about how good-natured Brito was and what a big a heart he had. Tears rolled down from the priest’s eyes when he spoke of the large donations and the services the dead man had rendered to the church. Brito was even acclaimed as a soul who could be beatified as a saint for the priest saw no sin in him. Finally a long prayer was said for the good soul of Brito and as all eyes closed for the prayer, Brito carefully peeped out between his upper and lower eye lids. He took a quick glance around and saw all his loved ones around him. He was glad that all had assembled. Indeed a good crowd had formed but the person he wanted to see most was his wife and she was not there.
When the prayers were over, Brito’s loved ones came one by one and placed a kiss on his forehead. His eldest daughter pressed her face over him and cried for nearly a minute, making it difficult for him to breathe. His second daughter wailed, talking of his endless love. Her tears fell on Brito’s cheeks and tickled him as they gradually trickled down. Brito was more than happy with the agony and pain he saw in others when they wept for him. He measured their emotions and translated them into a quantity of love.
They took the coffin out of the house and placed him on the hearse. The procession started moving and the dirges began. As they moved on Brito heard somebody beside the hearse say that his estranged wife was on her way after receiving the tragic news and that she was in a state of shock.
“So she is in a state of shock because of my demise,” Brito thought with happiness.
“So she loves me after all!”. But still he wanted to assess her more. “If strangers can cry for me so much then how much more would she cry for me” He thought. He would forgive her if she could cry out more than others. He evaluated each one’s love according to the tears they shed.
As the procession moved along, he heard people walking beside him talking about his goodness, kindness and the respect he had earned for himself. One person reminded another of the speech Brito had made during the last meeting of their club.
“It was the best speech I have heard in my life”, said the man. “So much authoritative and informative it was”. Lying there Brito recognised the deep voice. It was the textile merchant who owned a chain of textile shops. He was the person who competed against Brito for the post of president in their club. Brito always held him as an opponent in everything he did and now he was talking high of Brito.
“So he too respected me. When I wake up I will surely make him one of my closest friends”, Brito planned.
Then on the other side of the hearse Brito heard some low voices. One was telling the other how Brito had helped him build a small house while the other spoke of how Brito had helped him in paying his loans. Then together they talked about his big heart, wide mind, and his untimely demise. Brito couldn’t recognise the voices that spoke so well of him. So, he raised the lid of his left eye and took a quick peep.
“Oh! It’s the milk man and the farmer. How could I fail to recognise their humble voices.” Brito said to himself. “Wait till I get up, my dear men, I will build for both of you a bigger business”.
As the hearse rolled on and as the procession moved forward, he heard many speak of his good character, abilities, benevolence and leadership qualities. What he heard tickled him to proud thoughts. “Surely, I must be the most ideal person in this world” Brito thought, as he admired himself. He had his minds desire fulfilled and he was happy. He saw the reactions of the people that had gathered around. But he would have been much happier had his wife been there, crying over him. He wished his wife would come soon so that he could get up and start loving and rewarding those people whom he had heard speak well of him, for in his mind he already had a list prepared.
They took him to the graveyard and placed the coffin beside the grave. He concluded that his wife had not recovered from the shock. The priest had finished the last rites. It was time for the close family members to give a final kiss to the departed. According to the plan, Moni had to make his entry now. Moni was supposed to kiss Brito and then wail loudly beating repeatedly at Brito’s chest. At that moment Brito would open his eyes to come back into the world of the living. Accordingly Moni paved his way through the crowd to reach near the coffin. He was almost near the coffin awaiting his turn to fall over the body of Brito when suddenly there happened to be a rustle and shuffle among the people as the crowd made way for somebody important. Surprisingly it was the Chief Minister of the state who was also the chief of the Forward Wing Democratic party along with many of the party workers that followed him everywhere. The chief minister’s security men and the rest of the policemen cordoned the area around the coffin. The next ten minutes belonged to the leader of the state as he babbled on about the length and width of Brito’s heart and his abilities, comparing Brito to great leaders of yesterday like Sardar Vallabhai Patel and Chatrapati Shivaji. By the end of the politician’s speech, Brito was in the category of patriots in the country. The Chief minister then loudly declared that a statue would be erected in memory of Brito, at the centre of the market if his party would be voted back into power for five more years. There was a loud cheer from the big crowd around.
Brito was happy to know that a statue was coming up in his memory and he thanked the chief in his mind for elevating and proclaiming his name and goodness aloud. The priest once again offered a parting prayer but Brito wasn’t hearing any of it. He was more concerned with his statue now. Poor Moni was pushed to the back of the crowd as more important people occupied the area around coffin making it now appear as more of a political spectacle. One of the party worker passed the party flag to the Chief Minister who unfurled it and spread it over Brito’s coffin.
“If they are going to build a statue in my honour, then will it be a black one sculpted out of rock or will it be white, of pure marble?” Brito needlessly began to immerse himself in thoughts regarding a memorial of him which would always make the people think of him.
“What should I wear in the statue? Should it be simply a dhoti and a shirt or should I wear a suit like an English man? A suit would be better because all the people will think highly of me and the children of the town, when they grow up, will think of me as a great modern man. But how should I stand? Should I stand with my right hand stretched out pointing east or should I stand straight. I think I should have a scroll too in my hand to give the appearance of a scholar. I will remove my spectacles for that will make me look younger. Or should I wear them? They will probably impart to me the look of a learned man. Also, I should ask someone whether it’s a neck tie or a bow tie that suits me more. Whatever it is, I hope that somebody puts up a canopy shade over me, otherwise all the crows will perch on my head and shoulders and their droppings will be all over me. How I hate those crows!”
The priest finished reading out the final verses of the last rites and traced the figure of the cross three times in the air. The coffin had to be closed now. Moni tried his best to jostle his way from the back to front but the police stood as a strong wall prohibiting anybody from crossing the ten metre radius of the coffin.
“But I think a bust would be much better for that will be more tidy and neat. If it is a bust then I don’t have to worry about the pose in which I would have to stand. But then I will have to be more careful about my facial expressions. Should I keep a stiff face like that of a statesman or should I smile a little to please the people? I think I should trim my moustache a little, for it often gets into my mouth. But what I am worried about is my receding hair line. What if I bring some hair from the back to the front. Will that improve my appearance? The knot of the tie also should be correct or it will mar the entire bust. The bust should also be placed on a marble column and an iron fence should be built around it, otherwise all the beggars will come and sit around me and I hate those beggars.
The lid of the coffin was placed in its position and the coffin was slowly and carefully lowered into the grave. Moni tried to shout his way through, telling the policemen that Brito is not actually dead. Of course, the people around understood the agony of Mony and they thought Brito indeed was not dead, for he will continue to live in them all. Inside the coffin Brito was swimming in a sea of thoughts and he completely forgot that he was in a coffin. All that mattered to him at that moment was his image that should be left behind when he died so that the people would always look at him with respect and love. “Why not a portrait!” Brito was continuing with his dreams, paying no heed at all to what was happening above him and to him.
“A portrait it should be. A good oil painting on a big canvas and it should be placed in a big hall. The painting should glow with life and the people seeing it should feel that I am still there to protect and help them. The picture should be mounted on violet velvet and it should be gold framed. It would be nice if there was a halo drawn around my head like that of saints because that will show how religious I was. But what should there be in the background of my picture? Should it be the mountains and rivers or should it be simply a plain black background, which would show me up better. Thinking of black, will a silhouette do? It would be nice to have a black profile of mine etched against a white background. But the problem is that after some years people will forget my face. I think it would be better to drop the idea of a painting because after some time people may move it away or moisture may destroy it. A statue is the best option!”
Down, down, drowning in deep thoughts which were totally self- centred, Brito got into a self-made trance. Above, his children wept and his friend and acquaintances grieved as the priest threw a handful of earth over the coffin in the pit. Soon others followed suit.
Brito lay silent, calm and relaxed, with a smile on his face. He believed he was on his own bed. He was still wading through his ambitious fantasies in a stupor and had completely forgotten that he was in a coffin. It was beyond the frontiers of his realisation that the coffin was now at the bottom of the grave. The grave, a pit at the bottom of the world.
“Then, why should it not be the statue of an equestrian, depicting me on the back of a horse. That will give me the status of a hero. It should be a good stout stallion with a small white star on its forehead. Should the horse be prancing or should it stand on its two hind legs, as though neighing. I think the latter would appear more heroic. Should I have a sword or something that I can brandish? But the problem is that horses can take a lot of attention away from the riders."
Above the grave and in the world of the living all the people had left after burying their dear one and the two workmen had covered the pit almost to the top. Moni who fell down unconscious in grief was taken to the hospital. Brito was buried alive. But he had still not got up from his cataleptic state. He was entirely detached from his own physical surroundings.
“I think the statue will suit me more” Brito said inside the coffin. “It should be bigger than a life sized one. It should be a colossus, making me supreme. It should be so big that people of the neighbouring towns should see it and say, ‘Oh! that is Brito’s colossus’. It should be high so that the clouds will form a crown for me. But if it’s that high will I be able to breathe? Oh! How foolish I am. Do statues breathe?”
Deep in the pit, inside the coffin, Brito felt a bit suffocated. In his state of oblivion he had gone so high, above the world, but in his living state he had gone way down below the world. He did not know what had happened around him and did not know where he was. He opened his eyes and it was dark. He tried to stretch his arms but couldn’t, tried to move his leg but couldn’t. He felt he was tied up. Suddenly, realisation swept in like a sand storm in the desert. He was at the bottom of the world. He was trapped. Frightened as a child, he cried aloud but nobody heard him. He tried to push and kick the lid open but the weight of all the earth was upon him. He lay there suffocating, sweating and desperate.
He had got into the coffin to hear what the people had to say of him and he heard a lot of good spoken about himself. When a man hears a lot of good things about himself, his ego gets inflated and he becomes ego-centric and then eccentric, believing himself to be supreme. The supreme beings have no place on this earth. They have a specific abode above. So one who assumes himself supreme has to leave this humble earth. That was Brito’s fate.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published 2 books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. Dr. Kurien welcomes readers' feedback on his email - nikhilmkurien@gmail.com.
I have gone mad
But, I don’t feel bad
I have regained my soul
No reason to be sad.
I no more care
No need to hide
Behind the shadows,
I don’t feel ashamed
To be naked
Under the sun,
As I am not conscious
Of the outside world.
I create my own lyrics
And sing them as I wish
I don’t bother about my steps
And I dance
To my heart’s content
I don’t need the wings to fly
As I glide in the air
Carrying the sky.
I don’t hear what they say
I come out bare
In the season’s first rain.
First time in my life,
I am having the freedom
Which I enjoy
With total abandon.
It has been a real struggle
To peel up my skin
And reveal my spirit.
No doubt, in the process
I have become bit different,
But it is worth the pain
That makes me free
From the prison
That kept me captive
For so many years.
"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.
She flipped through pages,
Scrolled through the gram,
Her eyes crinkling as she looked,
At the huskies howling on her screen.
Through the day until night,
The only thing running on her mind,
Her first sight after dawn,
Her last sight before dusk.
Petting every dog she saw,
Her heart wavering with every wag,
Every little bark igniting,
Tiny fireworks in her.
The ones she was scared to pet,
Roaming the streets like kings,
She heard them howl at night,
And smiled talking to her friend.
Every conversation turning u-turns,
Coming back to dogs,
Giving virtual boops to all,
The dogs she'd never met.
Going out of her way,
To meet dogs and give pets,
She ruffled little heads,
As they pounced on her with love.
One of them she'll remember,
Until the end of time,
Snow White, her name was,
With a twinkle in her eyes.
She had all the love in the world,
She only wanted to give,
Her tail completely out of control,
As she licked the whole of her face.
Snowy, my little snowflake,
My love for you is ineffable,
The life of a dog-lover without a dog,
Is like a sky without a star...
Is familiarity as much a blessing as it a curse? Looking for faces in a new crowd. Looking for everything you know in the face of the unknown. Looking for comfort in a vortex spiralling infinitely to insanity. Holding on to the ledge as you're being sucked away. Arms aching as you struggle to stay in the past. Maybe the trick is to not hold on. Maybe the the trick is to fly. To fly with the tornado into the abyss. To fly the way the wind blows. Maybe the trick is to allow yourself to step into the future. Not try to find the marked tree in a forest of lights. Instead, step into unfamiliar territory, arming yourself with nothing but your arrow-straight back. Confidence emitting out, even as there's a rumbling in the depths of your stomach, light-headed. Doesn't matter if your eyes are looking out for your body before you can think. Taking a deep breath, your shoe crushing the leaves beneath, turning it into gold dust, your first step. Your first step, so paramount, as the lights go out around you, you're scared, and yet you don't stop..
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/.
How cruel the giant wheels are!
Rolling down, the tankers!
Never seeing those it crushes.
Clanging down the road
The relentless machine rolled on
One after the other
Soldiers at their helm
Turning around to spy
Enemies they suspected
To shoot without much ado.
I took refuge behind a pile of rocks
My baby clinging at my bosom
Screaming in terror, inconsolable
Tears streaming down my cheeks
I crooned to my baby
Trying to calm him to sleep
Prayers, wild horses escaped my being
That no soldiers' eyes or ears
Spots me or hears me.
Oh, what cruel Destiny!
Prof. Latha Prem Sakhya, a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of? all her poems.
Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony
Did you ever notice
How the big Red moon
Looked angrily at the Mother Earth
On that full moon night
Shocked by the rowdy rollers of the Sea
Rushing wildly to unfurl
The green robe of our Mother Earth?
He was dank mad and angry
Drunk with the wine of revenge,
You know why?
Our Mother Earth
Is his mother too,
He worships her
Revolving around her
Like a satellite power station
Or a surveillance sputnik
He shields her from the alien attack.
But what can He do
If we carelessly spoil her veil
The spheres of atmosphere
Her garment, the green silk gown
Or suck away her blood, the rivers,
Devastate her body with heaps of rubbish
Choke her with trash, and litters of polythene waste?
He understands
His Mother is being suffocated
Not an alien enemy, but her own children
Like crazy lunatic nuts looting, molesting
Gagging and smothering their benign mother
Shouldn’t a son be angry, morose and vengeful?
I know, and all of us know
Revenge and spite are wild manners
Rather macabre maladies which
Paralyze the neurons of reason
And play anguished notes
On the strings of the hearts full of hatred.
I wonder
From where from did the moon
Catch this ailment and how?
Did He inherit it in its genes like us?
Or did the virus enter His bruised body
Through the black clouds and the virulent wind?
See, even the clouds
Fail to cover the angry Red moon
The magnanimous sky
Now behaves like a hungry tiger
All red; claws, teeth, the gaping mouth
Waving whips of lightning
And roaring like the thunder
To vindicate the Red moon’s agony.
I always liked the Queen moon
With her heart of gold
The sky her chariot
And the stars her horses
She roamed the universe
To dispel sorrow and darkness
Her amber lips smiling at the lilies
She soaked Mother Earth with her silver beams.
How I hate this Red moon
For it reminds me of the angry faces
Of the malignant in Nature and in men
Red turns the benevolent Nature to a malevolent witch
And the merciful man to an inhuman devil.
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”.
In the broad
expanse
of my
palm fronded
paddy fields
where the
soft sun
of morning
rouse the
sleeping
buds to
blossom
and flickers
through
husky brown
corn
I stand
on way side
waiting
for you...
nothing
to.offer
except
my lonely
self...
saddled
with frets
and fumes...
the sleeping
cottages...
the serene
skies...
Lord!
are you
reaching me
through
the morning
breeze
that brush
me soft
and flutter
through
my curls
caressing....
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).
A myriad ways to see the world
The patterns and colors of the universe
Through the kaleidoscopes of the mind, and the heart
Light is the laughter of darkness
Darkness, light's meditation
To embrace life in moments
Worrying not, about the unborn tomorrows, and
Faded yesterdays
While the Now is evaporating
Even as I write, as you read this...
Shall we all believe
With all its highs and lows
Life, is beautiful
We are all, work in progress
An art, on the canvas of the universe
Each, metamorphosing as a hue, a shape, and a pattern...
Let us evolve, and
Meet at the grand gallery
As a completed artwork, waiting to blossom on more canvases...
YOURS WHATEVERLY... (Am sorry, dear post box...)
A lonely postbox, reluctant to talk
As I stopped to have a conversation
Lost weight, looked weak, barrenness eating from the inside
How many letters were once its happy visitors
Love, joy, tears, festival wishes
Meaningless invitations for weddings, of incompatibles
Letters requesting help, cringing and quivering in poverty
Delightful letters, carrying news of birth
Of the first rose flower, or tomato in the garden
A child writing to his/her doting dad
Who endures the pain of distance, from a faraway land
Letters, that carry the pigments of emotions
Blended with the ink, some words smudged by tears
Letters with eloquent ellipsis, and spaces to fill each other's hearts
Sheer joy, in post office visits
The stamps, inland letters, the glue made of maida with multiple fingerprints
Postman uncle's cycle bell, kindling curiosity
To run to the door, and wait for our names to be heard aloud
Receiving letters in glee, like an award
The restlessness to cut open, and feel the love from another city/state
The clearance timings, and reaching just on time
As if it was a race, well a racing heart maybe
Sigh!
"Where are those beautiful days, dear..."
I asked the postbox, as it began to rain
"Am asking you the same...", said the postbox, sobbing...
We both hugged each other tight
Our tears blended with the rain...
Who else knows the pain of love, better
Than the rain, and the dear postbox...
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
THE MANGO TREE
Sridevi Selvaraj
My daughter wanted me to write a story for Covid for her online assignment. As I am a mother, I am supposed to be a know all. So after so many drafts finally the story took shape.
From yesterday my neighbour has been calling me for a chat. Though I haven’t talked to her much, I do admit that I admire her personality, her charming smiles and her straight shoulders that reflected her self-confidence. May be she has some news for me.
I am very busy with Covid-19 outside and people inside. I have to keep the outside and inside of the house clean - have to keep the people well fed too.
Suddenly cleanliness has become the goddess of our society and everyone wants everything washed twice.
Also, everyone is talking about distancing from everything else - distancing from desires, from greed, from vanity, from competition and from all symbols of life.
As the above mentioned ideologies only sound good in texts and cannot actually be practiced in real life, we have chosen to shun anyone who do not belong to our family. We even have begun to hate some of these health professionals too. Covid has now become the corona – the crowning glory dictating fear in our minds teaching us to hate everyone.
Thus life is going on, and may go on in future too - learned researchers are telling us every day. It is better to be detached and alone. Solitude seems to be the only option for life.
Now, my neighbour has been calling me. I must listen to her story. After my routine work of reading, writing, cooking, cleaning and washing I went near my compound and stood.
Seeing me she began talking.
‘I have been here for more than thirty five years, even before you were born. Look at my body. I am aged. My bark is black. Some of my branches have died. Most of my fruits are taken by viruses. My leaves keep falling down every day. Some of my leaves are eaten by pests. The crows, sparrows, parrots and squirrels live on me. I am used by all. The human beings collect my fruits. I might live for a few more decades. It seems there is a new virus amongst human beings. Last year even I had to tackle a new organism. Life is tough and we have to be alert. Don’t look as if you have been hit by a storm. Life supports us. You don’t have your servant any more, right? Like olden days in middle class families. How will you manage once you begin to go to office? That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Get the servant back. She is crying in front of me. She needs a job, right? May be you have to get a place ready here for guests and others to wash themselves before they enter houses.’
I wrote this story and felt the plot was too weak. When did a tree speak? Only poets write such crazy stuff. They superimpose their voices on trees and animals. I put the paper aside. I slept peacefully…
My mother came to me in my dreams and told me that my story was just nonsense. She made the mango tree speak to me. The tree now spoke and I didn’t like the gruff voice - Like villains in animated movies. Even in the dream I thought I liked the tree in real life. It is better that way. If all the species begin to talk…we will live in hell…
I woke up. Got into the routine work. Suddenly I remembered my story and my dream…How do I approach the mango tree’s problem or my servant’s issue or my predicament? My husband has lost his job and I have lost my job. How do I support others now? What is nyaa? What is neethi?
Under the circumstances, even Amartya Sen can’t answer these questions.
My daughter didn’t bother. She quickly sent the soft copy of the story and submitted it as an assignment. Now I began having other moral questions. Was writing a story for a child wrong or right?
(Picture courtesy: S.L.Vishnupriya)
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.
My aching arms
Stirring the aromatic chicken curry
Me, always in a hurry
Waiting to walk out of the kitchen
Would love to be part of another mission
Endless chopping of vegetables
Getting a little unbearable
Singing as our son DJ Rahul plays adorable love songs
Will the lockdown be lifelong?
Come, do sing along
A sudden slamming of the door
Startled, I look onto the floor
I see the man of the house
My ever charming, energetic spouse
Standing tall and handsome
Did I hear the sounds of the drum?
A distant orange colour shone amongst his fingers
Oh yes!!.. he's got me a Gift of Happiness,that will linger
Orange flame petals, surrounded by tiny light green leaves
Fresh, like the morning sun, wake up from your grieves
I think I could exert more
Lovingly finish all the house chores
Gift me a smile
So that I can go miles
Now, let me rest for a while
As you traverse the aisle.
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)
Rows of serene trees with dense leaves
Standing as silhouettes of joy
Caress shade as it sunlight sieves
Sheltering the chequered pathway.
Leaves heave a sigh of relief
As breeze bulges with the binge
Fuddled with inebriation
Passes on to pounce
On the next guileless foliage.
Woods with flowers, woods with showers
Breathe in bowers, for long hours.
Beside a woeful window , withered wall
fettered by a faded fence alone
Mired morosely in mundane chores
Sequestered , lost in a mirage of my own
My benumbed senses are deaf to sweet sound
Of the beseeching blue bird to take the call...
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.
With the discarded stems that my neighbour gave
A bunch of fresh leaves I now have
The lush green is a visual delight
Vitality of life at its best
Such simple joys in the lockdown
Can outbeat the best entertainment in town.
Hema Ravi is a freelance trainer for IELTS and Communicative English. Her poetic publications include haiku, tanka, free verse and metrical verses. Her write ups have been published in the Hindu, New Indian Express, Femina, Woman's Era, and several online and print journals; a few haiku and form poems have been prize winners. She is a permanent contributor to the 'Destine Literare' (Canada). She is the author of ‘Everyday English,’ ‘Write Right Handwriting Series1,2,3,’ co-author of Sing Along Indian Rhymes’ and ‘Everyday Hindi.’ Her "Everyday English with Hema," a series of English lessons are broadcast by the Kalpakkam Community Radio.
Ravi N is a Retired IT Professional (CMC Limted/Tata Consultancy Services ,Chennai). During his professional career spanning 35 odd years he had handled IT Projects of national Importance like Indian Railways Passenger Reservation system, Finger Print Criminal Tracking System (Chennai Police),IT Infrastructure Manangement for Nationalized Banks etc. Post retirement in December 2015, he has been spending time pursuing interests close to his heart-Indian Culture and Spirituality, listening to Indian and Western Classical Music, besides taking up Photography as a hobby. He revels in nature walks, bird watching and nature photography. He loves to share his knowledge and experience with others.
Dharani was busy packing up his belongings. He received the call in the evening to get ready by midnight. Few dhotis, two Khurdha-made cotton towels, two half sleeved shirts, a new dress for his son, a new red saree for his wife, some eatables in a tiffin career and a plastic bottle filled with tap water, were all his belongings he was carrying in a bag. He had hardly slept after dinner in the evening and was eagerly waiting for the call from Abhi (Abhiram) to start the retreat.
Abhi and Dharani belonged to the same village, a small habitat of around fifty households. Situated near the river Mahanadi in north and encircled by mountains on all other sides, the village was far from any town or city dwellings. The forest and the river provided unsustainable livelihood to all who lived there. The nearest town having transport, school and hospital facility was around 10 kms from his village. Dharani had been a share cropper and did not own any agricultural land. The economic condition of all the villagers was almost same. Neither agriculture nor nature could meet their wants. Getting two meals a day was a luxury for them till recently when the Govt started doling out 25 kg of rice to each household.
Suddenly he heard Abhi calling, "Dharani, are you ready ? Come out, we have to walk five km to reach the station"
"Yes, I am ready with my bag", replied Dharani and both started for their destination in the dead of the night.
It was a similar journey made by them two years back when they left the village in the dead of night to catch the bus at 5am from the nearby town for going upto the railway station, Khurdha Road. Raghu was the leader of the group who induced him and a few others to leave the village and go to a neighbouring state for a good income. He told him , "Dharani, what you will earn in ten years here you can earn more in just two years there". He thought for a moment and revealed his decision to Malati. She was reluctant initially but looking at the condition of family , she agreed. Abhi and Sura had accompanied him. Raghu had paid them some money in advance and Dharani had given the entire two thousand rupees to Malati, his wife and mother of his newly born son, Kapila. Out of the advance money Malati had put a hundred rupee note in his shirt pocket kept inside the bag.
They walked down to the bus stand near the tiny town and left for Khurdha Road to catch the train. At Khurdha Road, Raghu vanished introducing them to a well built dark coloured man who was supposed to take them to the place where they will earn ten years' income in just two years. That person was initially polite to them and offered them good food and accompanied in the train. Raghu had told them that the work place was in the neighbouring state near Berhampur, but they were not allowed to get off the train for almost two days after Berhampur.
By the time they were asked to alight from the train, they found that there was one more new person leading them. The new Sardar took them in a makeshift van to their work shop, which was a big construction site. Dharani, Abhi and Sura could not understand what the new Sardar was saying, but were put in a small shed and offered food. The new Sardar did not tell them the name of the place but promised all assistance to them but warned them not to leave the site without his permission.The work started from the next day and Dharani used to carry construction materials to a mason who was his group leader. Abhi was in his group, but Sura was kept in a separate group.
While coming Dharani had promised Malati that he would send a letter every month. She was waiting for the post man who used to come every Tuesday to the village. Dharani had not studied much. His schooling ended when he was in class three and his father asked him to support him in managing the family. Sura had studied upto class five and knew how to send letters. He could find out a post office and bring post cards and pens for all of them. For Dharani it was very difficult to write on a post card. He was completely dependant on Sura for writing the letter and posting the same in the box.
But, last one year there was no correspondence with family since Sura had left for home after an accident. He was working in a group which was assigned with lifting building materials like bricks, concrete mixture to top floors with the help of a makeshift lift. One day, he had barely gone upto 4th floor when a snag occurred, the lift jerked violently and fell down. Sura had fallen from about fifty feet height but miraculously escaped from any head injury. He had broken one of his legs and received injuries on his spinal chord and other places. The Sardar took him to a hospital where he remained about a month for treatment. After returning from hospital the Sardar removed him from his job and did not pay his back wages citing exorbitant hospitalisation expenses. Sura, heart broken, borrowed money from Dharani and Abhi and returned home empty handed. For last one year, Dharani had not received any news about him nor about Malati and Kapila.
While leaving home he had prayed to the village Goddess, "Maa Kalapat" for keeping his family safe and making his journey fruitful. But he had to leave the job and proceeded home because of the spreading epidemic. The situation in Kerala was alarming and the workers from the nearby states had hired vehicles for their return. The migrant labourers of far off places were stuck. The Sardar refused to pay wages as the work in the site was stopped. Even food was not made available to them by the construction firm. These labourers were left to their own fate. So a few of them decided to flee and travel to their home state. They did not know how to make the plan but decided to go to the nearest railway station and try their luck there.
After two hours of walk , they reached the railway station. There they were informed that train services had been suspended, The Railway police enquired about their problems and informed about some special trains scheduled to start from Kochi within a day and advised them to proceed to Kochi which was about 30 kms from that place. Both Dharani and Abhi were helpless and did not know what to do. After few hours a well built person came there and promised to arrange an auto rickshaw to take them to Kochi, at a fare of Rs 1000/ each. Both of them did not have any alternative and agreed to go by the auto rickshaw paying the exorbitant fare. Whatever saving they had made within last two years was getting depleted day by day. Their dreams for a good future for family was getting wiped out. So many dreams Dharani and Malati had woven together! A small brick house for their small family and a good education for Kapila! Everything was getting shattered, Dharani lamented while boarding the auto for Kochi. It took almost two hours for travelling the 30 kms as the auto was to ply in a circuitous route to avoid traffic checks. Having reached Kochi station, they approached a police man there and sought his help to catch a train to Odisha. They were directed towards a babu sitting in a room in the station. Dharani and Abhi immediately proceeded to that room which was crowded but felt relaxed to find some other Odisha bound persons. From their talks they knew these were also labourers migrated from homeland to earn a quick fortune.
Abhi immediately befriended a fellow labourer and discussed about the Odisha bound train. He came to know that a special train was to leave Kochi for Khurdha Road next day evening and for going in that train registration was to be done. He informed Dharani about registration and both were again disappointed, without knowing what to do. A smart babu came to them and seeing their plight offered to help them for registration. He took their Adhaar cards from them and asked for some money to be given to the babu sitting in the counter. He asked for Rs1000/ each inclusive of train fare. Dharani and Abhi looked at each other cursing their fates for leaving the village two years back. They abused Raghu in their mind profusely for inducing them for this venture but paid out the money to the smart looking babu without having any other option and followed him. Standing in a line for two hours, the registration was over and they noted down the bogie and berth number as announced by the Babu sitting across the counter. They slept in the night in the railway station and were eagerly waiting for the dream train to arrive. They later came to know that there was no fee to be paid and the smart looking babu had duped them. Abhi consoled Dharani, "When bad time arrives, it does not come alone but with plenty of others and this smart babu is one of such blood suckers"
Next day, Dharani dis not feel like taking any meal till he boarded the train and began praying to Goddess Kalapat to rescue him from the hopeless situation. Maa Kalapat probably listened to him and the Odisha bound train arrived in the platform. Dharani and Abhi boarded their compartment and found out their berths with the help of other co passengers. Not a crowded compartment. After sitting on the berth and keeping the bag in safe place Dharani thought as if he has reached home. He thanked Maa Kalapat again before the train started running.
On 3rd day of journey, the train reached the destination in the morning hours and all the passengers were asked to stand in a line keeping about 6 ft distance from each other. Police men were in the platform to keep a watch on them. Dharani was some what relaxed on hearing Odia from all after two years. Putting a Khurdha towel on his face he stood in line waiting for his turn to leave the station. Some ghost looking persons arrived and put some device on his forehead. After that he was allowed to enter a bus kept ready for the next destination. The bus was half filled and took them to their district HQ for stay for about 14 days in a big hall looking like a hospital. The babus had made all arrangement for food and stay in that temporary shed. He was eager to go to his village but destiny was too cruel for him. The inmates were strictly forbidden to go near the beds of other inmates and to maintain distance. He felt he was too near his home but very far from Malati and Kapila.The memory of his family was hunting him day and night.
After two weeks of stay there, the babus permitted them to go to their respective villages but not to touch any one in family or part with their belongings for a week in their homes. Finally Abhi and Dharani were free from the clutches of babus and proceeded to the bus stand. It was a pleasant surprise to them when they were told that a bus was plying to their village and there was no need to walk down. The bus arrived in the evening and both of them boarded the bus with a relaxed mind. Finally the bus reached the tiny village in an hour and both of them got down. The usual darkness prevailed in the surroundings as they walked down the snaky road for reaching their homes. The Mahanadi, which usually looked gorgeous with her blue waters had turned into dark but her breeze could touch their hearts. Suddenly Abhi told Dharani,"Look, what happened to the village, it looks more bright !!" Dharani acknowledged and pointed towards solar panels installed in the villages. Dharani bade farewell to Abhi and knocked at his door with an intense desire to see Malati after a tiring uncertain and cruel journey.
Malati opened the door but could not recognise Dharani who had grown long hairs and a beard. She heard him say, "Malati, see who has come". The earth below her feet began to crumble on hearing Dharani's voice and she was overwhelmed at his home coming. She switched on the light to the surprise of Dharani and bowed before him. But he asked her not to come near him as he had to spend a week in isolation because of the epidemic. He requested her to arrange for a separate space for him but Malati opened a newly built room with brick walls and tiled roof. Dharani was surprised to see the room lit with an electric bulb, his accommodation for next one week.
Malati sat at a distance and narrated about her life during last two years. Kapila was asleep near a corner, after taking his evening food. Dharani looked towards Kapila and said to himself that he would shape his son's future not so arduous like that of his father. He heard from Malati that lot of transformation had taken place in their area. The women were advised to form groups and prepare leaf plates and other forest products and sell them to vendors who collected from them and sell in the towns. Malati informed how an Eco resort was constructed near the river bed and she, along with other members of her group were trained to serve breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner to the tourists there, how solar lights came to village etc etc.
Dharani wondered how the mines of opportunities were stored in the village itself, but he was foolish enough to toil in vain for the last two years going to a far off place, amidst threats to his life. He thanked Maa Kalapat again and rested his head on the bed.
He got up early and looked at the river which had started shining with the rise of the sun. The back ground mountains were looking reassuring to protect their subjects. After some time, he was pleasantly taken aback to see Kapila climbing the outside window and looking at him in a funny manner, as if he was asking, "Who is this stranger in the house?"
Tears started rolling down the bearded cheeks of Dharani at the sight of his beloved son. He folded his hands and looked at heavens for the blessings of "Maa Kalapat"
Shri Gokul Chandra Mishra is a retired General Manager of the Syndicate Bank. He is passionate about social service, reading and writing.
If I were an African woman,
Ankara would conceal my nakedness;
Over my breasts and under my armpit
With my arms and shoulders bare.
If I were an African woman,
I would expose my kinky cowry hair
Or keep it bald
For the admiration of African men.
If I were an African woman,
I will adorn my waist with Jigida
And my feet with Ooyo
To sing me praises while I walk.
If I were an African woman,
I would smoothen my skin with Ori
And design with Uli
To bring out the Africa in me.
If I were an African woman,
I would go natural
Or apply Moju
Then bangle my wrists.
If I were an African woman,
I would expose my baked skin,
So the sun could kiss with passion
And the moon will do same at night.
If I were an African woman,
I would wiggle my hips
And carry my body with pride
For the pleasure of sights.
Oh! If I were an African woman,
Ankara would conceal my nakedness;
Over my breasts and under my armpit
With my arms and shoulders bare.
If really I was an African woman,
I would have been a goddess
Who is worthy enough
To be praised by African men.
Ibraheem Anas Sakaba has B.A in English Language from one of the Universities in Nigeria. He is a teacher who is also a poet and a writer.
The doorbell rang. Anju, still in her night suit opened the door with a yawn, but her lazy expression soon changed to one of sheer surprise. She could barely close her mouth. Standing before him was a dapper young man with a big box of sweets and an even bigger smile on his handsome face.
Before she could collect her wits, the young man with a ready-to-take-on-the-world look had entered the drawing room and was about to plonk himself on the sofa, when Anju blabbered, “Excuse me... Have we met...I mean you are...?"
“You are Anju, Am I right? We haven’t met earlier. I am Golak Uncle’s son Pritam... can I meet your mother, I mean Auntie?”
“Oh! Please wait”, Anju retraced her steps quickly to the puja room and lowered her tone to a whisper, “Maa ...one guy has come, he looks smart, he says he is some Golak uncle’s son. Do you know him?”
“Achha! Pritam has come? ....tell him to sit. Serve him tea and refreshments, I am coming... Let me finish the puja...” Maa was placing flowers on the deities.
Anju peeked through the curtains. She now has to make tea for this young visitor. But what is this?
Suddenly her voice grew louder. “Maa!! The smartie has already left... My God what a tearing hurry? He has left a box of sweets. What a guy!”
Anju’s mother came out of the puja room with the smell of jasmine and agarbatti floating around her.
“Oh Pritam left? So soon? How big is he now? Wanted to see him, that little boy of Golak’s?”
“Which Golak uncle, Maa?”
“Anju! You have seen him when you were very small. But you won’t remember”
“I know Maa; don’t ask me about the details of relatives, with so many of them hanging out of the family tree. I have lost count of them.”
“OK.. Have a look at your almirah.”
“My almirah?”
“Yes Anju”
Anju’s eyes darted to the bedroom where the seven-foot high teak almirah stood like a rock. Its colour was a lovely burnished teak with a finish that anyone would admire. The almirah had four lions’ paws and a beautiful wooden floral motif on its crown. The Victorian antique piece carried the grace of a different era. It had stored Anju’s countless dresses in its huge shelves, held her treasures in its drawers. It had a crystal inlaid brass handle which had suffered countless pushes and pulls. The full length Belgian mirror edged with wooden carvings had captured her image from childhood to teenage and now adulthood. The lovely mirror was so much a part of her growing up, that she had gotten used to it.
“What is the story behind the almirah Maa? Why you have never told me”
“This belongs to Golak Uncle”
“Golak Uncle? Really? ”
“Yes. I never told you his story.”
“What is the story that you have kept hidden for so long?”
“Golak uncle was your father’s distant cousin. He was a spoilt brat who had fled from his village to Calcutta in his teens. That must be in the 1940s..There he had befriended a rich old Bengali widow who had no children. He must have showered much love and care on the lonely old woman. The rich widow was indeed generous. She had bequeathed a nice furnished house in Puri in Golak Uncle’s name. Who will do such a thing? Lady Luck seemed to have shined on him.”
“But that was only for a short period.”
“After the Bengali lady’s death, Golak returned to Puri, lived in that big house but had no source of regular income. With a wife and two sons to feed; he lived on borrowed money to keep up his Calcutta style of lavish living. He got heavily into debt and even mortgaged that property. He never bothered to repay the private loan.”
“Finally the money lender got a court decree against that property. On the last day of notice period, he brought the police. Golak uncle resisted. But he was evicted forcibly from the house and their belongings were mercilessly thrown on the road.”
“That must have been so painful na Maa? Did he not have any idea of the things to come?”
“Perhaps...he did… thankfully a few days before the eviction, he had moved this almirah to our house anticipating trouble. This heavy piece came here lifted by eight labourers.”
“So how much had you paid for it?”
“No Anju...it was a gift, a simple giveaway.”
“So nice of him Na Maa?”
“Yes... Golak was generous even in his darkest days. He refused to take money. In return he only expected shelter and solace from us. He with his wife and two sons stayed in our house for three months till they returned to their village where they had a piece of land to subsist. I wonder what Pritam is doing now after Golak’s death. It has been almost ten years since he died."
xxxxx
This time it was Anju’s mother who opened the door. She swelled with affection looking at Pritam. “How are you Beta? Come sit down. How is your mother? That day you left in a hurry. I was in the puja room. And you came with the sweets...”
“Yes Auntie, I had come to say I have got a job. I have also bought a new house here, Auntie.The sweet was for the new house. Auntie it is a very big house like the one we were staying earlier. You must come and see it. Mummy and Gautama will move from village and stay with me.... Auntie, I would like to take back our almirah; it is an ethnic piece. It will suit our bungalow well.”
“When shall I send the labourers, Auntie?”
Literature, both Odia and English, fascinates Malabika Patel. She has been experimenting on poems and short stories. Her first translation “Chilika –A love story “ of Shri Krupasagar Sahoo’s Sahitya Academy award winning Odia novella, “Sesha Sarat” was published in 2011. She is also into translating of rare old Odia documents and classics into English. A banker by profession, she retired from Reserve Bank of India as General Manager in 2016 and is presently settled in Bhubaneswar.
An inland letter and postcard
bound all connections thence;
Distance departed all people
Love and affection felt, by all!
The black landline at residence
made the life of officers easy once;
The melodious ringing sound then
captured the attention of callers!
The magical touch of the landline
brightened my wide innocent eyes;
The sweet sound of any speakers
Brought their minds closer and closer!
Clinging coins sourced me call
folks from every nook and corner;
Expensive ways soothed my heart,
Audible voices became the only choice!
Mobile brought tremendous change
and altered the common action’s range;
Pocket device eased the life of everyone
Audio and Video calls comforted anyone!
A device often became a heavy holder
Earphones made it an easy carrier
Wired tool objected moving hands
Wireless earphones eased our roam!
Messenger, Skype, video, and calls
Packed in one essential what’s app,
Thumb doesn’t sleep without a touch
Ah! What a life with this phone touch!
Record, watch, re-record, photography
Download, and then read and listen!
One device, several comforts forever
Yeah! Life without a phone, hard here!
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
It was just another Tuesday morning, filled with the daily chores when I got the call. I was so engrossed in my cooking that I didn't recognise the voice, it had been close to thirty years since I’d heard it.
'Nisha? Goodness, it's been so long, how are you?' I shouted onto the phone.
I could hear the same old giggling of my friend, ‘Thank God! At least you could know it was me! I thought you would've forgotten who I was. By the way, are you coming?’
‘Coming? Where?’, setting aside the half peeled carrot, I tried to remember if there were any upcoming events I’d agreed to participate in .
‘Are you kidding? Nobody telephoned you?! Am I the first person out of all the friends to inform you? Well, they may not have your contact number, I guess.’
‘Nisha! Please, don't confuse me. What information? You mean our classmates? No, no one called me. You are the first one.’
She said excitedly, ‘Archana, our school friends are going to arrange a get together, only for our batch mates. Are you coming or not? I am so excited to meet all of them after fifty four long years! I can't believe it. It would be so much fun, you know! Ha, ha - the get-together of sweet sixty plus ladies!!’
‘What? Well, this is rather out of the blue!”
Nisha just laughed lightly and explained how the get together was a result of her accidentally meeting some other classmates at the city fair, ’They were planning this get together for a long time now but didn’t know how to contact us, rather lucky I bumped into them, eh?’
I worried silently over how this get together would affect my tight schedule, my family would fall apart if I left them alone even for an hour. Who would do the chores? The housework was far too overwhelming for me to simply just leave!
‘Hey Archana! I can practically hear the way you're worrying yourself to death, relax, you can leave for a couple of days, nothing would happen. Don't forget the date: 5th February. It was nice talking to you, see you soon.’
Nisha hung up before I could get a word in edgewise.
Opting not to disturb her again, I engaged myself in my work. When I told my children about this get-together, they became so happy, and urged me to not miss out on this once in a lifetime chance to meet faces I haven’t seen for more than fifty years.
I heard my children’s excitement, but honestly I was in a double mind. ‘Why should I spend so much money in air fare? For whom? I don't know, if they would recognise me or not! It's not like five, ten years. After fifty four years! Everyone must have changed a lot! We are all old ladies now! What fun we could have?’
***********
However, my visit to Odisha was fixed for 2nd Feb. I boarded an evening flight to Bhubaneswar. After finishing the formalities in the airport, I took my window seat, and settled down. I don't know, why like a naive teenager, I got busy thinking about my old pals, whom I had never met after leaving the school. Resting my head on the back of the seat, I closed my eyes. My mind was totally occupied with so many absurd thoughts. ‘What will I do when I see them? Hug them? No, no! Shake hands? No, bad idea. Scream loudly out of joy?’ ‘Oops! I am thinking too much,’ I told myself. But, one thing I marked, unconsciously my lips were widened into a smile while I was dreaming all those stuff.
My husband was already in Bhubaneswar for a short visit and so I accompanied him to our place of stay. Nisha was delighted to know that I had kept my word and came over from Mumbai.
***********
5th February, the day of our fest! It had been unanimously decided that the venue would be at Cuttack instead of Bhubaneswar. I was accompanied by Nisha as per our plan. In fact, what I had seen of my birth place Cuttack in my childhood, had changed a lot. I had hardly seen the new constructions, particularly the side lanes, new buildings and market place. Nisha and the other friends too lived in Cuttack. We hired a rickshaw and headed towards the venue. Perhaps, after thirty years, I met Nisha. She was exactly what she was during our school days. Only gained some weight, otherwise she retained her talkative nature. I felt so happy seeing her after so many days!
‘Hey, Archana! You know what? From our group, most of them are coming. They have already Samli’s house, waiting for us.’
I nodded, looking at the road. Even though that place was once well known to me, I felt as if I was in a wonderland. That was because of the huge change in buildings and additional extension of the markets. Once again, Nisha's phone rang.
‘Hey, where are you both? Let me know, so that I would give you the instructions where to turn,’ said Samli. It was her place where the fest was arranged.
After two three turns, the rickshaw stopped. Shamli was standing on a side lane. Nn need to say, all our faces changed with a loud screaming ‘Hey’ Nisha and I jumped from the rickshaw, hugged Samli, forgetting we were on the street! And that we were not kids any more! The passers by were watching us with a strange look. Eventually, she led us to her house.
I didn't know what happened to me, when I entered her house. My mouth fell open and eyes grew as big as dinner plates! ‘Am I in a dream or all of you are real?’ I shouted aloud tightly hugging each of the girls I hadn't seen for half a century. We started our never ending gossip so happily that time passed like sand through our fingers.
We were immersed in our memory, teasing each other, laughing like teenagers and recalling the sweet moments of our school days. How we were quarrelling for small things like pickles , toffees, and even sharing tiffins. While we were busy, one of my friends told me that she had brought a surprise for me. With a smile, I told her, ‘ Oh, really? Whatever could it be?’ Everybody’s eyes were fixed on her. Slowly, she opened her bag and took out a folded paper. When she unfolded it, my mouth fell open a second time.
I gaped at the painting I had made for her back in the tenth grade. Apart from the slightly yellow touch of time, the painting looked just as it had the day I made it. Apparently, she kept it even after marriage and carried it wherever she went. I was spell-bound for a moment. Her smile could battle a thousand suns. I was really stunned, I had no words to express my joy at having a simple drawing kept so dearly.
‘How come you kept such a small thing for so long?’, my voice was choked with emotion. I admired her patience and love.
She chuckled and said, ‘You know how much I love your paintings. How can I ignore it? From that day onward I kept this drawing as a memento!’
I was completely lost in my emotions. I never expected that we would behave exactly the same way as we were 54 years back, forgetting that we had aged so much! That get together is an experience I treasured. I am truly thankful to all my dear friends! Perhaps, I can never forget them till my death. I am eagerly waiting for a second chance for meeting them. That was how unforgettable it was!
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.
SILVER THREADS
Padmapriya Karthik
Pinned onto the wide blue carpet,
The flame once brimming in hues bright sans fuel,
Shrinks to a pale glow, melts to mellow hue, gradually folds.
Dollops of white soft quilt gallops not,
Gradually unfolds into velvetty grey toting blobs,
Gently sails with graphite hue guided by winds whisper.
Zigzag arrows flicker from almighty's quiver
Violent reverberating sound escorts the flash,
Darkness thickens, excitement throngs.
Silver threads cascade from the grey bundle
Sewing many hearts with soothing happiness.
Arid land sponges in countless threads, weaves a blanket of moist.
Leaves soakup nectar threads, knit a cloak of brighter shades with energised breath.
Tinytots drench, bounce like a ball in strips of silvery delight.
Rivers gush in joy like a child gifted with favorite new toy.
Silver threads fall, weaving green bounty everywhere
Their journey commenced in dark,though.
Do not they reflect the profound truth
That initial darkness eventually lights up the path evergreen?
As rhythmic cool threads fall,
Refreshing cool thoughts crawl,
Enlightening the drab mind.
Ms. Padmapriya Karthik is an enthusiastic story writer for children and a poet. She has secured eighth place in Rabindranth Tagore International Poetry contest 2020.Her works have been featured in various anthologies published by 'The Impish Lass Publishing House’. She contributes poems to Efflorescence anthology, Muse India an online journal.
Her children's stories have found place in The PCM, Children's Magazine. She has won 5th place in the National story writing contest 2019 conducted by The PCM, Children's Magazine.
I met a very interesting person at the marriage I attended last evening, I told my husband.
Doesn't he have a name, he said.
Aye, what makes you think the person is a he? I said.
Perhaps it's the adjective before the noun, he said.
You would be saying the same thing, I suppose, when you meet women, I teased, stressing on ‘women’.
O K, forget about what we would say. Tell me who this guy is, he said.
I can’t remember his name but do remember his mannerisms and the way he was conversing, I said.
Then he must have been a peculiar creature, to have attracted the attention of someone like you, he said.
Aye, you are not being very complimentary, I said, annoyed.
What did he look like? Was he like a Mills and Boon hero? he said.
You know I care two hoots for so-called good looking men, I’d prefer the company of quick-witted men who always make your brains work overtime, I said.
You have still not told me who this guy is, he asked impatiently.
I would have told you if I knew him myself.
But I thought you said you met him, he said.
Not exactly, I only heard him talking with someone seated next to me. I was caught in the middle of these two jabber mouths who seemed to have a common subject and target, which was to nitpick their boss. It was amusing to watch their conversation and language, though both were talking in English. One was using extremely formal language, absolutely prim and proper like Mr. Darcy in Georgette Heyer’s novel whereas the other was outright blunt and almost blasphemous .I could make out from their conversation the extent of dislike they had for their boss whom they loved to hate.
Could you get any hint as to where these two were employed? asked my husband.
None at all. For all I know they might be employed in some multinational. Wait, I think it was…I said and was surprised that my memory hadn’t played truant for once.
I am surprised that you haven’t introduced yourself to your neighbours, after eavesdropping so unabashedly, said my husband. I noticed the glint in his eye.
How could I? For once I was on my guard, I said, inwardly congratulating myself on my wisdom. I very well knew the PERSON they were talking or cursing!
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.
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
Nilambar woke up from the dream screaming.
That was the most colourful dream he had for a long time.
In fact it was a series of dreams.
Somehow every time he woke up and went back to sleep a new dream came up, more colourful than before.
And it was all in red. Red dreams!
It all started when he was shutting the window of his first floor bedroom before retiring for the night. Just outside the gate of his compound under the street light he saw a big patch of red and wondered what it was. The patch was quite big, almost the size of the manhole cover nearby. Was it something a passerby spilt from his bag? A broken Ketchup bottle? A watermelon gone bust? A bottle of red wine spilt over? Or a pool of blood? So much blood! Where did it come from?
It was too late to go down and check.
Nilambar switched off the light and went to sleep. Ranjana, his wife was already asleep and snoring.
Late into the night the dreams came in waves, one after another, like disobedient school boys attacking a docile mango orchard.
- Nilambar has gone to the beach, with Ranjana and the kids. Far away against the horizon, boats are plying on the ocean, boatmen rowing away, singing songs, catching fish, throwing the small ones back to the sea. They beckon Nilamabar and the family to come to the boats. But the boatmen are so far! They gesture, just come swimming, we are here, nothing to worry. Nilamabar looks at the blue ocean, somehow the waves are placid, there is no ripple on the water, the calm, still sea smiles at him, silently asking him to get into the water. He holds the hands of Ranjana and the kids and they walk into the sea. In a moment the ocean turns red! It is red everywhere, all around, the white boats have turned red, the boatmen are dressed in red, the fish are all red coloured! In the sky above the clouds are all red! A cold fear grips Nilamabar, what has he gone into? How can an ocean be so red? And the clouds? Red clouds? He tries to drag Ranjana and the kids back to the shore but they are too far into the sea.
Nilamabar wakes up sweating! Ranjana is sleeping close to him, her hands on his chest. Nilamabar gets up, goes to the table and drinks a glass of water.
He looks at the clock on the wall, it is just past three in the morning.
He goes back to sleep.
- The dream fairies are not done for the night. They come in gentle footsteps and carry him in their arms. To the green lawns of the big park near his house, the famous botanical garden which is a big tourist attraction in the town. Ah, so many flowers, so many colours! Nilamabar starts walking on the grass, so soft, so delicate, like feathers of baby pigeons! He feels like singing. So many years since he sang! He breaks into a song. There is no one in the park. He wishes someone was there, to listen to his song, may be join him in his singing. He suddenly sees a small, beautiful girl bent over a bed of flowers, they are huge marigolds. As he draws near she turns her head, a beautiful, endearing smile spreads over her face. He holds her hand, they start singing together. Ah, such a beautiful divine voice! As her voice rises to a crescendo, the flowers turn pink and then to red. The red colour vibrates on the flowers like rippling waves. It's a vibrant red, the sky turns red with the dawn breaking, the red sun rises on the horizon. Ah, red, the colour of promise! Of love! He grasps the small child to his bosom, she is so soft!
Nilambar wakes up, the soft pillow drops from his chest. He turns and goes back to sleep, a silent glow spreading over his heart, the memory of the small, sweet girl still alive in his mind.
- Nilambar is still in the park, the girl is gone, the songs return. He starts humming them. There is a lake on one side of the park. He is drawn towards it. His heart skips a beat. In the dim light of the dawn he sees two shadows on a far away bench - a young couple! Ah, the perfect company for some interesting chats and sharing some lovely songs! He is drawn towards them. As he comes close, the two figures melt into the soft mist of the dawn. Nilamabar stops, what happened to the couple? Where did they vanish? He walks on, a ghastly sight awaits him on the bench. A black cat has just dragged a big squirrel onto the bench and as the squirrel struggles, he tears it into shreds, blood spilling over everywhere, lots of blood! Nilamabar blinks. When he opens his eyes everything has turned red, the lake, the lawns, the leaves of the trees.....It is as if a red fire has spread everywhere and is raging towards the sky. Nilamabar wants to run away from the park, out unto the streets, to anywhere in the town, but something pulls him back.
Nilambar wakes up. The room is dark, Ranjana has moved away.
- He turns and goes back to sleep. And a new dream comes with stealthy foot steps, entering his subconscious mind and spreading like a gentle whiff of air. Nilambar has to travel somewhere by train, he is late and enters the station running. Breathless, he watches the train, a thing of beauty, painted in red and white. It ambles along, the train is over crowded, there are hundreds of boys and girls waving at those who are waiting to get in. The doors are locked from inside, no one can open them. Nilamabar and a few others keep banging on the doors, appealing to the young boys and girls to open the door. But they just laugh, shaking their head...no place for you uncle, this train is for the young...Nilambar wishes he becomes young again. From somewhere within the train balloons come floating, all red balloons, the colour of freshly plucked red apples, the cheeks of the young boys and girls turn red, their dresses are all red, they are jumping up and down, waving, shaking their heads and inside the train there is a riot of red coloured frenzy. The train starts to leave, it picks up speed, the white strips get blurred, the train moves like a mass of red, Nilambar is sad for missing the train but the colour of the youth, the dance, the claps, the songs and the frenzy make his head swim and he starts walking on the platform seized by an euphoria. The possibility of his getting young again to catch a red coloured train seizes his mind. He walks on, beyond the platform unto the train tracks. Something tells him if he keeps walking on the route the train of the young has taken, he will get there, at his own youth......
- Nilamabar's dream continues. He reaches home in a flash. Ranjana is waiting for him to have lunch. She is surprised that he was planning to go on a train journey. He tells her how he missed the train, how the young boys and girls laughed at the waiting passengers, how he couldn't get into the train because it was meant only for the young. And how he plans to leave on a journey looking to get young again. He asks her whether she wants to come with him. She starts laughing and the door bell rings. Nilambar gets up to open the door. There is a young man standing at the door. From his dirty clothes, unkempt hair and bearded face it's clear he is up to no good. He asks for some money. Nilambar refuses - why should I give you money, am I floating on money? The man whines - thanks to lockdown all businesses have closed, no job, no wages for us, where do we go? At least you have some money, why don't you part with a few hundred rupees? That way i will live, you will also live. Nilamabar shouts at him - go to the government, go to the free food centre and eat there, don't bother me, do you hear, don't bother me, you beggar. The young man gets very angry, his face turns red, he becomes a red figure, incandescent, burning from within. Suddenly he takes out a pistol from his pocket and shoots Nilambar on his tummy. There is a loud bang, he slumps on the floor, blood gushes out from the gunshot wound, red blood, Nilambar sees a round, red patch form on the floor, the size of a manhole cover. He touches his stomach, it's all wet.
Nilambar wakes up screaming - he shot me, he killed me, I am going to die. O my god, he shot me.....
Ranjana comes running from the kitchen,
"What happened? Why are you screaming? And how do you manage to keep sleeping in this heat, when the power is off? Look at the way sweat is pouring from your body, dripping from your chest to your tummy! Now tell me why are you screaming."
Nilambar looked around, the uncouth young man had disappeared, but he remembered the gun shot, he had no doubt the man had shot him, and there was so much blood, he touched his tummy, his hand got wet with the sweat flowing profusely from his body,
"Didn't you hear the gunshot? That ruffian shot at me and the bullet hit me on the tummy.."
Ranjana was puzzled for a moment. Then she understood,
"O, that gunshot sound? Don't you know, that was the newspaper boy throwing the bundle of newspaper and hitting our balcony door with a bang. Now get up, the tea is ready.....God, what a dreamer I have got for a husband!"
WALKING DOWN A LONELY PATH
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
( For a short Anthology of Mrutyunjay Sarangi 's stories, Click http://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/277 )
Little did I know
when I started this journey
with the heavy pack on my back
that I would keep walking
looking down the lonely path,
wondering where I was going.
I kept doubting
if I was on the right track
I kept asking everyone
where was I going,
having crossed the brooding mountains,
the gurgling springs
and the bustling towns.
The path got steeper,
darker it became and lonelier,
I asked the others
in the gliding caravans,
the weary travellers,
the ones relaxing on the wayside
the wise folks and the knowing ones.
I asked for some light
to guide me.
They all smiled.
Why are you worried,
you think you will get lost?
No one gets lost in this path,
though it looks lonely to all.
I looked at them
my sad face getting sadder.
No, I am not worried
that I would get lost.
I am just sad,
you will all forget me,
no one will cry
when I leave
and turn the last bend
down the lonely path,
no one will shed
even the pretence of a tear.
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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